Blood Noir
Author: Laurell K. Hamilton
Date: 2009-05-26 00:00:00+00:00
Description: A favor for a friend puts Anita Blake in the center of a full-blown scandal that threatens master vampire Jean- Claude's reign-and makes her a pawn in an ancient vampire queen's new rise to power.
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Bad Blood

The Cripulet Book One

Ren Hamilton

Bad Blood

Copyright © 2021 by Ren Hamilton

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

1st Edition: May 2021

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Prologue

Alcoholics define rock bottom as that hellish yet divine moment when they can sink no lower into the pit of poisoned madness. Then there are two choices; let the hole collapse and suffocate in the self-dug grave, or begin a painful escalation upward. Charles Duvaine did neither. Though he’d given up the bottle weeks before, he still lingered midway down, wedged between the walls of the pit, daring it one last chance to suck him into the molten core and incinerate him. While free of intoxicants, he was prisoner to his despair, leaving his bed only when his biological functions demanded it.

But rock bottom found Charles despite his indifference, rising to greet him that morning in the form of a tiny clawed foot pressing against his lower lip. As slumber’s grip loosened, he felt the trail of fur on his cheek, a brush of silken pelt. His eyelids fluttered. In a tumble of twisted sheets, he launched himself out of bed, swatting the mouse off his face with a yelp. The creature hit the floor and broke into a panicked scuttle, running in circles until it finally took refuge under a pile of dirty laundry. Charles looked down at the rumpled bed, where tiny black pellets dotted his white sheets. “Oh, that does it,” he said, wincing. “This has got to end today.”

He examined the rest of his bedroom, repulsed. The previously beige carpet was now a blotchy abstract of curious stains. Laundry formed misshapen mountains across the floor, eclipsed only by six months of neglected trash. His eyes were drawn back to the mouse droppings on his sheets and his jaw stiffened. It was bad enough he’d let his once lovely beach house fall to hovel. But now he had mice, the token representatives of degeneracy.

He managed a sleepy grin as he tugged his bathrobe on. Part of him relished the disgust he felt. It was an indication that he was returning to normal. Two weeks ago he would have barely flinched upon waking with a rodent on his head. But he hadn’t been sober then. An army of mice could have marched across his face, waving banners and beating tiny war drums. He either wouldn’t have noticed or wouldn’t have cared.

His bare feet padded the carpet as he moved from his bedroom to the outer hall, dodging empty rum bottles and pyramids of trash along the way. Morning sun streamed through the skylights, serving only to better display the filth he’d created. There was barely a square foot not soiled with some manner of garbage. The beach house had three floors, each with multiple rooms, and he’d succeeded in shitting up all of it. Bravo for consistency.

Clinging to the railing, he moved down the flight of steps that spiraled into the first floor. To his delight, his legs were free of the tremors he’d experienced when he’d first given up the bottle. Pausing, he surveyed the squalor below. The anesthetic shield of drunkenness gone now, he could clearly view the mess he’d made of his house. And his life. He flinched, watching a mouse exit a pizza box. Again, his revulsion comforted him, validating his return to the world of the living. I cringe, therefore I am.

In the kitchen he counted thirteen red lines drawn through the previous days on the calendar. He picked up the marker and made another triumphant slash. He’d been sober for two weeks. It might not sound like much to an outsider, but having been drunk for six months, Charles viewed it as quite an accomplishment. Grabbing his cell phone off the charger, he searched for a cleaning service and found one called ‘Fresh Start’. The name seemed to correlate with his current mission. He wondered if they could get the house back to its original splendor, the way it was before he’d gone into a state of drunken recluse.

Charles hadn’t planned on becoming a drunk, but he supposed no one ever did. He didn’t wake one morning and randomly decide to kill enough brain cells to devolve him on the evolutionary scale. He glanced at the empty rum bottle in the kitchen sink, with its colorful illustration of the virile Captain Morgan. They should change the label, he thought, and replace the jolly pirate with a drawing of Cro-Magnon man. It would more accurately depict the liquor’s effect on modern man. But that wasn’t fair to the rum company—or Cro-Magnons, for that matter. Nobody told Charles to drink a bottle a day for six months. He’d written that prescription himself.

In his defense, his list of gripes was a long one. Tragedy walloped him twice in under a year. They never found the culprit that hit his wife Marie’s car, sending her over a guardrail to her death. An accident, the police had said. He hated the word. Accident. It made it all sound so simple, like spilling a glass of milk.

It was a mere three months later that Jeffrey was speared in the throat on a hunting trip. Mistaken for a deer, the police said to Charles. His vibrant twenty-one-year-old son, mistaken for a piece of venison. Marie’s death had been shattering enough, but hearing the news about his son was like swallowing poison. He knew that once it sank in, it would slowly kill him. And since he’d always felt quicker was better, he determined to help the process along with a little poison of his own. Captain Morgan was glad to oblige.

So Charles became a cliché, crawling inside a bottle to escape the pain. He’d turned easily to the bitterness, like one of those ‘life done me wrong’ characters in a tough guy movie, sitting in the dark with the curtains drawn, brooding with his glass of booze.

During his binge, he’d convinced himself that he must be cursed, though was hard pressed to determine what act could possibly deserve all this horror brought down upon him. He wasn’t a perfect man, but didn’t think he was bad man. He’d made business deals that benefitted him to the detriment of others, but that was just corporate America, nothing a thousand other people didn’t do every day. He’d cheated on a few girlfriends in his youth before marrying Marie. He’d used his privilege to get out of some parking tickets, and perhaps he wasn’t always as patient with his children as he should have been. Maybe karma had come to collect, though the retribution hardly seemed to fit his meagre crimes. If karma actually worked that way, he knew a lot of men who’d done far worse and were living quite well with no trouble sleeping and no dead family members to grieve.

But amid his breakdown, he hadn’t been thinking straight, and it was fear of his imagined curse that prompted his retreat from his oldest son, Joey, his last living child. He’d abandoned Joey, thinking it in his best interest to steer clear of his cursed father, lest he have an accident too. Perhaps ‘abandoned’ was not the right word. Joey was twenty-eight years old, hardly a child. Still, Joey had needed his father and Charles had not been there.

His heart was heavy as he recalled Joey pounding on the beach house door, begging his father to come out of seclusion. Charles would make his amends to Joey, but not until he got himself and his surroundings cleaned up. Joey had been through enough without having to witness the disgrace his father had allowed himself to become.

With this thought, he dialed the number of the cleaning service and spoke with a man who agreed to send someone out for an assessment. Charles imagined their reaction upon entering the house, which looked so well kept from the outside. He’d mentioned the horrendous condition of the rugs, but the man insisted his service could clean any carpet. They probably figured Charles was some uptight cad from the rich neighborhood, belly aching about a little spilled caviar. They were in for a shocker.

A cockroach scuttled into the rum bottle in the sink, reminding Charles he also had to call an exterminator. He was reaching for the phone when the doorbell rang.

The sound startled him. He certainly wasn’t expecting company. Up until two weeks ago the sound of the doorbell meant the booze had arrived. For months he’d survived, if one could call it that, by having sausage pizzas delivered daily, along with a bottle of spiced rum. Rum and pizza. What more could a man want? Quite a bit more, he’d finally decided, which was why he’d cancelled all further deliveries.

The doorbell buzzed again.

“I’ll be right there!” he called out, pulling his filthy bathrobe together to hide his even filthier tee shirt. He stopped at the gold rimmed mirror and gave his hair a futile smoothing. All his life he’d been hearing about how handsome he was. If my friends could see me now! His black hair was arranged in greasy points. The tufts of gray at each temple, which had once given him a distinguished air, now stuck out on either side of his head like a mad scientist. His pale blue eyes had turned an ominous gray, just a shade lighter than the circles beneath them. The doorbell persisted. Charles decided that whatever asshole was at the door deserved to see him looking this way, for showing up at nine in the morning on a Saturday.

When he opened the door, he thought he’d begun hallucinating. The young man on his porch was dressed in a red naval jacket, with gold trim and a double run of gold buttons down the front. He wore a matching red pirate style hat and a large gold hoop in one ear. The hair was definitely a wig. Thick black curls ran down the stranger’s shoulders nearly to his waist. The face makeup was as white as his gloves; he looked ready for a stage performance. The eyes were overdone as well, with thick black liner and lashes that had to be false. Charles blinked, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision. The Captain Hook drag queen was still there.

“May I, um, may I help you?”

The young man smiled. “Mr. Duvaine?”

“Yes, I’m Charles Duvaine. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Kenny from Forest Bluffs Liquors. I have a delivery for you.”

Charles shook his head. “There must be some mistake. I cancelled all deliveries from your store two weeks ago.”

The oddity put one gloved hand to his mouth. “Oh I am so sorry! I don’t know how this could have happened!” His vocal inflection was high-pitched and sing-song, and Charles got the impression he was putting it on for the sake of theatrics.

“That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Why are you dressed like that?”

“Oh this?” He did a little spin. “It’s Forest Bluffs Liquors twentieth anniversary. It was the boss’s idea that we dress up for deliveries. I’m Captain Morgan. Get it?”

Charles forced an awkward smile. “I get it.”

“It is your drink of choice, isn’t it?” The pirate pulled a bottle out of a velvet sack on his waistcoat. Charles stared at the tall thin bottle with its enticing amber liquid and miniature picture of Captain Morgan, which looked eerily like the stranger at his door. He felt his resolve stumble as the liquid in the bottle swished back and forth in the stranger’s gloved hand. A wave of dizziness overtook him and he clung to the door for support.

The pirate’s smile dropped. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, taking Charles’s arm and leading him inside to the nearest chair. Charles put his head between his knees, forcing long full breaths until the tremor passed. He sat up finally, embarrassed. The delivery boy glanced around the room and wrinkled his nose at the trash. He tried to hide the gesture by coughing, but Charles had seen it.

“Thanks. You can go now. I’m fine,” he said.

“Are you sure?” the stranger asked, with concern that seemed genuine.

“I’m sure. I haven’t been feeling well lately, but I’m fine now. Really.”

The Captain Morgan thing nodded. “I understand. I have just the thing.” To Charles’s amazement, the pirate swished over to the dry bar and grabbed a glass from the display. He unscrewed the bottle cap and poured a few inches of the golden liquid. Charles watched stunned as he returned with the glass and knelt down, waving it under his nose. “This is what you need, isn’t it? This will make you feel much better.”

Fumes invaded Charles’s nostrils and his mouth watered. It had to be a bad dream. Was he still sleeping? Asleep or awake, it was time to order Kenny the delivery boy out of his house. “Please go,” Charles said, his voice strained. “I don’t want a drink. I’ve cancelled my orders with your store. Go back and take me out of your computer.”

The pirate stranger remained kneeling, grinning like an overgrown theatre puppet. “But this will make you feel better. Won’t it, Charles?”

Charles couldn’t believe the guy’s brazenness. He lashed out and knocked the glass out of the stranger’s gloved hand. It bounced onto the rug and liquor shot out in a spray of amber. The pirate stared down at the spilled rum, scratching his chin. Black-rimmed eyes looked at Charles with mock concern. “That’s gonna leave a stain.”

Charles leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t hear so well. I asked you to leave. Can’t you see I’m detoxing here? Take your bottle and get out before I call the police.”

The young man stood. He went back across the room and snatched the open bottle off the dry bar. Charles was sure he’d leave immediately, after the way he’d been berated. Instead, he sighed deeply and walked back to the middle of the room. “You’re not being very cooperative, Charles. After all, I’ve come to give you what you want.”

Charles stared at the costumed stranger, the first shivers of fear tightening his stance as he realized something was very wrong here. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I don’t even know you. How the hell would you know what I want?”

“Well it’s obvious isn’t it? Just look at this place.” He did a little twirl, gesturing at the mess. “You’ve been holed up here for months, Charles. You quit your job. You’ve cut yourself off from your friends,” he hesitated, “from your son.”

The words slapped Charles. “How do you know about my son? Who are you?”

The stranger took a step closer. The painted face had gone blank. “You want to disappear. I’m here to help you do that. That is what you want, isn’t it? To disappear?”

He continued toward Charles, swinging the bottle rhythmically from side to side. Instinct told Charles to run for the door, but he didn’t trust his trembling legs. The stranger stopped before the chair and offered the bottle. Charles glared at him, waiting for his strength to return so he could beat the little son of a bitch to a pulp.

Closing the distance, the pirate pushed the rum bottle nearer until it was mere inches from Charles’s lips.

“I quit drinking,” Charles said through clenched teeth.

Captain Morgan shook his head. “Not today.”

“Get the hell out of my house.”

The young man studied him a moment, then turned away, circling the room. “Okay, Charles. Enough with the pleasantries. You’ve been an enormous pain in the ass to me. Do you know that? I’ve had to readjust my entire schedule to accommodate your little whims.”

“What? I don’t even know you. What the hell do you want from me?”

He shrugged. “What do I want? Well, that’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details. Actually, that’s a lie. The truth is I don’t want to bore myself telling you the details. So I’ll put it to you frankly. I need your blood, Charles. Your blood. Trust me when I say it’s very important.”

Charles frowned, confused despite his fear. “You want to kill me? Why?”

The pirate raised an eyebrow. “Kill you? You see, that’s interesting. The thing is you were supposed to kill yourself, Charles. It would have been so easy. One of those drunken nights, I could have slit your wrists with your own razor while you were passed out. Nobody would have known the difference. They all would have assumed you did it to yourself, what with your being a basket case and all. But no. You had to quit drinking and fuck it all up!” The painted face flared with anger for an instant, then the maddened smile returned.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t you get it, Charles? Nobody’s going to believe you killed yourself if you’re suddenly stone cold sober and calling cleaning services to come to your house. So now I’m forced to improvise. I’m a patient man, but your little recovery has thrown quite a monkey wrench into my plans. So take the bottle, and drink the damn rum.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “No.”

The painted mouth went stiff. “Fine. If you won’t take your medicine like a big boy, I’ll have to force it on you.” With one gloved hand, the costumed stranger dragged him from the chair. Charles fought wildly but the assailant ultimately toppled him to the floor and pinned his shoulders down with his knees. Charles worked to twist himself free but the sinewy youth had surprising strength, and held him firm. With a curl of his lip, he forced the bottle into Charles’s mouth. “Drink it, damn you!”

Charles clenched his teeth, stopping the bottle’s penetration just before his tongue. The mystery assailant grabbed his chin, and with a grimace of rage, squeezed his jawbone until sharp waves of pain forced his mouth open. He jammed the bottle into his mouth and down his throat, taking part of a tooth along with it. Charles tasted blood, warm and metallic on his tongue.

At first the rum trickled into his lungs and he choked. He tried spitting it out as quickly as it filled, but eventually had to swallow to keep from drowning. When the bottle was empty save for an ounce or two, the painted stranger pulled it back and rolled off. Charles turned onto his side and coughed up the burning rum. When he could breathe again, he looked up at his attacker. “Who are you?”

“I’m the one who’s going to put you out of your misery.”

Charles jerked back guardedly. The pirate put his hands to his cheeks in an exaggerated gesture of despair. “Don’t look so disappointed! You do want to see your wife again, don’t you?”

The comment incensed Charles, and he lunged at the stranger, taking him by surprise. He had his hands gripped tightly around the pirate’s neck when a pain ripped through his chest. His lungs seemed to freeze, unable to take in breath. He released his assailant and fell to the floor, gasping, clutching his left arm as agony shot through it in electric waves. Kenny, if that was his real name, stared down at him with a frown.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me. Are you having a heart attack?”

Through his pain and fear, Charles managed to stick his middle finger up.

The pirate thing put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “No! You can’t have a heart attack! Damn it, Charles. Is there no end to your insistence on screwing up my plans?”

Charles gasped as invisible cotton stuffed his lungs. In his blurring vision, he saw the visitor in the big red hat lean down to take hold of him. The stranger lifted him to his feet, and Charles hung like a rag doll. “I need your blood, Charles. I thought we established that. Can’t make it look like an accident if you die of a fucking heart attack.” He studied his surroundings then began dragging Charles toward the adjoining sitting room. “Improvisation. It’s what I excel at. Here we go.”

The murderous Captain Morgan mumbled to himself as he made his way. He seemed panicked now, which was odd since Charles was the one who was dying. By the time the assailant got Charles into the sitting room, his chest felt like it had a giant fireball burning inside.

The pirate bumped into an overstuffed chair, grunting as he maneuvered Charles’s limp form toward the glass coffee table. Charles knew what was coming, but hadn’t the strength or inclination to fight it. His enemy turned him so they faced each other, so close Charles could feel his breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Duvaine,” he said, the phony sing-song accent gone suddenly. He looked almost sad. “You’re going to a better place. I promise. I’m doing you a favor.”

That voice, Charles thought deliriously. Something familiar about the voice. Charles knew that voice. But from where? A haze was forming before his eyes and it was getting harder to think.

The young man shoved him. His back shattered the glass table as he plummeted through it. A thousand points of pain lit up on his flesh as he hit the floor, crunching the broken glass beneath him. He’d bought that table in Paris. Strange thoughts to have upon dying. He’d been on vacation with Marie at the time. Marie had loved Paris.

His killer leaned over him, pulling a quart-sized container out of his jacket. Charles couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with that. Take his blood? What on earth for? He would never know. He felt the life draining out of him, spilling onto the floor along with his poorly pumping blood. His killer knelt down, moving in close. Charles forced himself to look up into those painted eyes. Just for an instant, he thought he recognized those eyes. Then, as the stranger moved even closer, he was sure that he did.

“You!” Charles gasped.

“Goodbye, Charles.” He took the ridiculous hat off in a gesture of respect.

“You!” Charles whispered again. Then the haze thickened, blotting out all light, and Charles was gone.

Chapter One

The locals called it Death Row. The street ran through one of those cityside neighborhoods that insisted on calling itself a suburb despite the silhouettes of the downtown buildings on the horizon. Trees caged in iron baskets sprouted from the sidewalk every five feet. Elderly women shuffled into antique shops, their brittle arms linked for support. All in all, Death Row wasn’t a bad street. The unflattering nickname was derived from the glut of funeral homes that clogged the string of cafés and quaint specialty stores.

At the end of the road atop a rolling hill of manmade lawn, loomed the Shady Rest funeral home, where the wealthy serviced their dead. Like a palace in a village of huts, the polished Victorian looked grossly out of place and contradictory to its purpose. With its neon green lawn, white flagstone paths and fancy trim work, Shady Rest looked nothing at all like a funeral home, which was probably the idea. Silly really. No patron was going to forget why they were there, no matter how welcoming the place looked from the outside.

Out behind the Shady Rest, well hidden by a lilac bush, Patrick Obrien fell to his knees and lost his breakfast all over the neatly groomed lawn. His friend Shep stood over him. “Jesus Obrien,” he said, his face pulled into a sour grimace. “Are you okay?” Shep’s tone tried for concern but was closer to disgust. Patrick lifted his head just enough to sneer over his shoulder.

“I just vomited behind a funeral home, Shepherd. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Again,” Shep corrected. “You just vomited behind a funeral home again. This is the third time this year, pal.”

Patrick could have done without the reminder. His unnatural dread of funeral homes was not his proudest attribute. A towering redhead with an athletic build, he rather enjoyed the tough guy image his appearance evoked. Six foot three and full of muscles, yet he was reduced to a sick, quivering mess before every wake. As an Irish Catholic, he understood the need for a church ceremony, but the purpose of the wake was beyond him. He’d never understood how displaying the cold, shriveled remains of a loved one should assist the grieving process. His stomach lurched at the thought of going inside, where death waited, spread out on a bed of satin.

“Get up, Obrien. You’re ruining your suit,” Shep said. Patrick wasn’t used to looking up at Shep, who was a good five inches shorter than he was. Contrary to Patrick, Shep was lean and wiry, with smooth boyish features that made him look far younger than his twenty-eight years. With his sandy, chin-length curls, and a strand of beads around his neck in lieu of a tie, one would never guess that Shep was independently wealthy. Patrick wondered fleetingly if he himself would look more like Shep if he didn’t have to work in an office. Not likely. The hippie surfer thing just didn’t look right on men Patrick’s size.

Patrick shook his head, still fighting the nausea. “I’m not going inside. I can’t.”

“You have to,” Shep said.

“I can’t, Shepherd! Look at me. I can’t even stand up. Go on without me. I’ll meet you outside after the service.”

Shep frowned down at him. “Don’t be a tool, Obrien. Joey’s our best friend. Don’t you want to pay your respects to his dead father?”

“Can’t I pay my respects from out here?” he asked hopefully.

“You have to go in and kneel before the coffin. You know the drill.” Shep’s mention of the coffin sent a toxic shudder through Patrick and he doubled over, gagging. “Here, smoke this.” Shep handed him a thin white cigarette shaped like a broken finger.

Patrick looked up at him. “You want me to smoke pot before going into Joey’s father’s wake? Are you nuts?”

“It will soothe your stomach and it will relax you.”

Patrick shook his head. “No way.”

With hands on his hips, Shep scowled down at him. He was trying to look forceful, but with his cherubic curls and boyish face, it wasn’t a look he could pull off easily. Only Shep’s true friends knew the weight behind his seemingly innocent gaze. Shep’s docile appearance was a guise for the ruthlessly manipulative little bastard he could be. “Obrien, it’s a proven fact that marijuana cures nausea. A couple hits of this and your gut will feel good as new.”

Patrick gaped. “Sure, good as new. I’ll also be stoned at a damned wake! You know I have a phobia. The weed will only intensify it.” Another cramp groped him and he doubled over, holding his gut.

Kneeling down, Shep rubbed Patrick’s back, waving the joint under his nose. “Joey needs us. We have to go inside. We’re all he has left now.” Patrick looked miserably at Shep. “We have to go inside,” he said again.

Patrick nodded grudgingly. Unfortunately, Shep was right. Their friend Joey had hit a patch of bad luck. His father, Charles Duvaine, was the third and final family member to croak on him in under a year. Some whispered of a curse, as they always did when multiple tragedies struck one family. Joey seemed to be handling the deaths well, however. Too well, in Patrick’s opinion. His demeanor, when not cold and robotic, was light and cheerful. Patrick supposed it was a defense of some sort, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew nothing about death personally. All of his grandparents were still alive and he’d never even lost a pet. Still, there was something inordinately peculiar about Joey’s lack of emotion in the face of all this death.

Patrick remembered studying Joey at his mother’s funeral, then at his brother’s funeral three months later. It was the same show at both, Joey standing with his hands linked at his waist, smiling easily as if attending a garden party. Three dead in a year and Patrick had yet to see him shed a tear.

Peculiar or not, Joey was his friend, and Patrick needed to be there for him. Damn it. He loved Joey, but sincerely wished his family members would stop dropping like flies in a freezer. He found the wakes excruciating, physically and mentally. But he supposed that was what true friendship was all about, the willingness to suffer for the other’s comfort.

Screw it. He took the joint from Shep and lit it, inhaling the sweet, skunky aroma. With the second hit, his stomach was instantaneously soothed. A dreamy relaxation spread through his limbs and the morning sun seemed a tad brighter, the grass a shade greener. Shep stood patiently behind him, a satisfied smile edging his lips.

Patrick was eventually able to stand, pleased that he could once again look down at Shep. Shep smirked up at him, a hint of restrained mischief in his wide green eyes. Shep tried to be a good friend, but he had an obsessive inclination to taunt Patrick at any given opportunity. It was part of his personality, one of the many things that made Patrick want to strangle him. “Just promise you won’t mess with my mind when we get inside,” he said. “Promise me, Shep, or I’m not going in.”

“Obrien, you wound me. I would never do such a thing.”

Patrick was tempted to reiterate, but he knew it would make no difference. If Shep decided to play on his hindered mental condition, then nothing Patrick could say now would stop it. It was a gamble either way. Shep had a disturbing ability to talk Patrick into things that under normal circumstances he’d never agree to. In his private mind, he called it ‘The Shep Factor’. If Shep jumped off of a bridge, would Patrick follow? He supposed it would depend on how skillfully Shep argued in favor of the act.

The wake was in one of the larger viewing rooms, which pleased Patrick since he didn’t have to walk past the corpse right away. He and Shep mixed themselves in with the suits and black dresses that formed a slow parade toward the coffin. His eyes were drawn to the cocoon of flowers at the rear of the room, and he glimpsed a well-dressed cadaver resembling the late Charles Duvaine. He averted his eyes.

Joey stood to the right of the coffin, greeting the line of mourners as they came. He looked spectacular in a tailored suit, his short black hair slicked back, accentuating his pointed cheek bones and ice blue eyes, a brilliant contrast to the dark lashes and tanned skin. Joey Duvaine was the best-looking man Patrick had ever seen, and it played on his tender ego despite their ten-year friendship. The jealousy was unwarranted and unprovoked, but his mind concocted it against his will. Joey was perhaps the least vain person Patrick knew, which made it tough to justify the childish thoughts. Especially now that the poor sap had lost his entire family.

He watched his tragic friend shake hands with each new mourner that came down the line. Just before Joey’s mother Marie died, the first in this series of horrors, Patrick had secretly wished something bad would happen to Joey. He hadn’t had anything so grim in mind as the elimination of Joey’s entire family. He was thinking more along the lines of Joey’s wise mouth finally getting his ass kicked at the bar, or perhaps getting reprimanded at work for showing up late every morning. But that would never happen, he knew. Joey was special. And Patrick was not. It was something he’d learned to live with. For the most part.

“Oh man. He’s all alone,” Shep said, following Patrick’s gaze. The mourners approached Joey, whispering tearful condolences in his ear. He received them alone, a family of one. He had a couple of aunts and a cousin left in his dwindling family, but they were nowhere in sight. “Come on, Obrien,” Shep said. “Let’s go up there.”

Joey’s fake smile widened and became genuine when he saw his two friends walking toward him. “I’m so glad you guys are here,” he said. “This is about as much fun as a rectal probe.”

“How are you holding up?” Shep asked.

Joey shrugged. “I’ll be better when my father is in the ground and my ass is on a bar stool.”

“Do you want us to stand up here with you?” Shep asked, smoothing a misplaced lock of Joey’s hair, a mothering gesture.

“No way. I wouldn’t wish this duty on my worst enemy. I’m not about to rope my best friends into it. You guys go on. I’ll catch up to you at the reception at my Aunt’s house. You guys will be there, right?”

Damn. Patrick had planned on skipping the reception. He looked into Joey’s eyes and they were uncharacteristically sad. Patrick felt a stab of guilt for passing judgment on him. “We’ll be there. I promise,” he said before he and Shep moved on, following the line of mourners in a slow shuffle toward the casket.

The people gathered in the room wore matching, pinched expressions. They were waiting for it to be over so they could go get a vodka tonic, or some other denial-inducing drug. Speaking of denial, Patrick glanced back at Joey, who was telling an off-color joke to a man in a plaid suit. The man threw his head back and laughed.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Shep asked, following Patrick’s gaze.

“He seems a little too okay if you ask me.”

“Well that’s a shit thing to say! Joey handles grief in his own way, so lay off him.”

“Is his own way not to handle it at all? Look at him, Shep. The man is an iceberg.”

Shep’s lips tightened. Joey’s family had taken Shep in as a foster child at age fifteen, saving him from years spent in a hellish social service system. In Shep’s eyes, Joey could do no wrong. He leaned into Patrick. “Who are you to judge? Huh? If your entire fucking family died, you’d get a little cold hearted too.”

“He’s not right, Shep. You know he’s not.”

“Joey is fine. You’re always looking for the downside of things.”

“Oh really? So what’s the upside to all of this? That Joey has a nice short Christmas list this year?”

Their whispers were elevating, and a few people glanced their way. Shep pulled Patrick closer and lowered his voice. “Why do you keep harping on this? Would you rather see Joey snap?”

Patrick tugged his arm back. “Maybe I wish he would snap. I’m more afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t. He’s bottling everything up, it can’t be good for him.”

“Cut him some slack. This really sucks for him. He’s just not showy about it.”

Patrick wanted to cut Joey some slack, but Shep hadn’t been with them yesterday when he drove Joey out to his father’s beach house in Forest Bluffs to help pack the place up. Charles had made the beach house his permanent home after he “went off the deep end” as Joey put it. It was roughly a year ago that Joey’s mother was killed in a hit and run accident. For a time, it seemed Charles would carry on bravely.

Then Joey’s brother Jeffrey was speared in the neck by a rogue arrow from some unknown hunter’s bow in the deep woods of Maine. His young friends discovered him a half-hour later, unconscious and nearly bled out. By the time they got him to a hospital, it was too late. Joey tried for months to draw his father out, but the once-dynamic businessman had become a hermit.

Charles ignored the phone and dead bolted the door, refusing to answer even when Joey drove out there from Boston and pounded on it. Some of the neighbors told Joey that his recluse father was having pizza and rum delivered to the house daily, but no one ever saw him in person. No one saw him, that is, until last week when two women from a cleaning service responded to a call Charles had made. When the doorbell brought no response, one of them peered through the front window and saw Charles on the floor.

The autopsy showed he’d had a heart attack, brought on by excessive alcohol abuse most likely. Joey’s aunts blamed the heart attack on the stress of losing his wife and young son so suddenly. Shep, a devout vegetarian, blamed it on the high cholesterol content in the pizzas. Patrick had thought the act of packing up his father’s beach house would be therapeutic for Joey. What a fucking mistake.

The smell hit them as soon as they opened the door. The place was littered with rotting food, pizza boxes, and empty rum bottles. Rodents scurried into corners, their free-for-all interrupted by Patrick and Joey’s intrusion. In a stunned sleepwalk, Joey stepped over debris, with Patrick trailing behind like an overgrown shadow. Joey said nothing. He simply stared at the hovel, his handsome face an expressionless mask save for a small, arrow shaped scowl between his eyebrows.

Patrick had followed as Joey glided into the little sitting den off the front living room. He’d stopped before the destroyed coffee table and stared down at the deep maroon blood stain on the carpet. The police, having seen all the blood, had originally thought Charles was murdered. Ultimately they re-thought this, concluding instead that the wounds on his neck were caused by shards of glass broken away when he fell through the table. Murder or no murder, the stain was the most upsetting thing Patrick had ever seen.

Joey had torn himself away from the sight abruptly and stormed out of the house. On the front steps, he stared at the ground, breathing heavily. Patrick thought this might go on forever, but finally Joey spoke. “Patrick, could you take care of this for me? I mean calling an exterminator and a cleaning service? I’d do it myself but I have the funeral shit to deal with.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Patrick said. “I’ll have his things packed up for you too.”

“No!” Joey had shouted, making Patrick jump. “I want it all tossed. Clothes, furniture, everything. I want the carpets ripped up, and I want to be able to eat off the fucking bathroom floor.”

With this said, he’d bolted for the car. He was halfway down the driveway when Patrick called after him. “Joey, wait a minute! Don’t you want to keep something that belonged to your father? A watch? A necktie? Anything?”

Joey stopped and turned back, his face blank once more. “What for?” he said. “The man was a fucking pig.”

Patrick had let it drop. He was beyond forcing Joey to express feelings that either weren’t there or were buried too deep to be summoned. But he still didn’t share Shep’s assessment that Joey was perfectly fine.

Shep tugged on his sleeve, startling him out of his memory. “Come on, Obrien. It’s our turn.” Oh yes. The wake. He’d been off on a mental tangent, which reminded him that he was completely stoned on pot. And now he had to go look at the dead body. What fun.

They knelt side by side in front of the coffin. Patrick tried to convince himself that he was viewing a wax imitation of Charles Duvaine, but his stomach knew it was a corpse. The marijuana was holding off the morning’s nausea, but the subdued threat of sickness was still evident. He forced himself to look at Joey’s father, and sadness welled inside of him. Charles had always been kind to him. He’d been a handsome man but it was apparent that he’d let himself go, even with the mortician’s makeup. Also, the hair was all wrong. Charles Duvaine never wore a side part. Apparently Joey hadn’t even given the funeral home a picture to work from.

“Do you think they really sew the lips closed with thread?” Shep asked.

“Shut up, Shepherd. You’re supposed to be praying.”

“But I’m not religious.”

“Well I am, so try to show some respect.”

Shep scoffed. “Yeah, right. You’re religious. That’s why you’re at my house every Sunday morning eating donuts and watching Three Stooges reruns.”

“You don’t have to go to church to be religious, Shep.”

“Whatever. I know nothing about that shit. Hey, I bet his skin feels cold. I dare you to touch it.”

Patrick’s stomach gurgled unpleasantly. “Damn it, you promised you wouldn’t do this.”

Shep smiled slyly. “I think I saw his finger move. Did you see it?”

“You bastard.” Patrick blessed himself and darted from the room. Shep had just destroyed what little control he’d had over his phobia, and he was about to be sick again. He stumbled down a crowded hallway toward the bathroom. He was vaguely aware of pushing a young woman out of the way as he dove through the bathroom door. He caught a glimpse of her startled blue eyes and a wisp of long dark hair against a navy dress.

He knew the people in the hall could hear him getting sick, and wished he could crawl out of the tiny window above the toilet. Running cold water, he splashed his face, wincing at his reflection, his usual healthy flushed cheeks gone chalk white. His features were unmistakably Irish, from his fair skin to his crop of wavy reddish blond hair, eyes like blueberries, a prominent chin.

A stunner he was not, but he was pleasant enough to look at, and with his muscular build, women usually found him attractive—if Joey wasn’t around. It seemed that next to Joey, he looked like an old shoe. Even Shep had better luck with women than Patrick did. Some women were attracted to chaos, and Shep was like a bottled cyclone. Patrick couldn’t compete with that either.

Relieved to find the hallway empty, he headed straight for the front door. He’d paid his respects. Now he would wait on the front steps until Shep came out. They’d been through this routine before. It had been worse at Jeffrey’s funeral. Patrick had nearly fainted on the coffin, and Shep had to all but carry him outside.

Seated on the steps, he took in a lungful of cool spring air. A musky perfume caressed the breeze, an artificial pleasure mingling with the earthy scent of new grass and lilacs. He turned to see a young woman with long chestnut hair moving toward him down the steps. She sat down beside him. “Hey, are you all right?”

To his horror he realized it was the pretty brunette he’d pushed out of the way on his mission to the bathroom. He wanted the steps to open up and swallow him. “I’m much better, thank you. If you could just shoot me now, I’d appreciate it.”

She laughed, revealing a dazzling smile. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and fell straight and sleek past her shoulders to her waist. Plump lips, a look that made plastic surgeons rich, but hers were clearly a gift from God. Blue eyes with little downward points at the corners, like she was a bit sleepy. She was adorable. And he’d shoved her into a wall.

“I’m really sorry about pushing you back there,” he said. “I feel like an idiot.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “Don’t worry about it. I hate these things too. I didn’t even go to the last two wakes. I was feeling guilty about it, so I forced myself to come to this one. It’s such a tragedy.” Her face grew solemn and she looked down at her knees. Her navy dress was short and silky, and he tried not to stare at her shapely legs.

“Are you a relative?” he asked, eager to discover her identity.

“No. I’m just a friend of the family.”

“Me too,” he said. She smiled at him and he was mesmerized. A car horn blew, and she stood.

“Oh, that’s my ride. I have to go. It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, same here.” He was about to ask her name when she turned and ran toward the parking lot. He made a mental note to ask Joey about her. Would that be inappropriate? Asking Joey about women at his father’s funeral? He recalled Joey’s comment about wanting his father in the ground and his ass on a barstool. His inquiry about the girl would be mild by comparison.

****

While Patrick took in the air outside, Shep still lingered by the coffin, waiting for his chance to get Joey alone. The opportunity came as the last group of mourners cleared away to go acknowledge the deceased. Shep moved in and slung an arm around Joey, turning the two of them away from the eyes of the crowd. “Hey zombie boy. We need to talk. Get it the fuck together, man.”

Joey scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

Shep gripped his elbow and leaned in close. “You need to start showing a little emotion there, genius. Obrien is getting freaked out.”

Joey yanked his arm back. “Get out of my face. You reek of pot.”

“Do you think this is a joke? What are you trying to do? Ruin everything we’ve worked for?”

“Give me break, Shep. What am I supposed to do? Stand up here and cry? I don’t feel anything. You know that better than anyone.”

“So fake it then! I know you can do that much. Obrien needs to think you’re beside yourself with grief. He won’t comply otherwise.”

Joey raised his hands defensively. “Back off. I know what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”

There was a long silence, before Shep finally said, “See that you do.” He stepped gingerly back through the crowd of mourners, and went outside to find Patrick.

Chapter Two

It was the funeral party. That’s how Shep kept referring to it on the drive over. When Patrick suggested it might be more appropriate to call it a reception, Shep laughed at him, insisting if there was beer and food and people mingling, it was a party, regardless of the occasion.

Joey’s Aunt Betsy had a spacious ranch style house with a decent yard, just minutes from the Lady of Grace cemetery. She had therefore earned the gruesome task of hosting every post-wake gathering. Patrick had grown fond of Betsy over the years. She was Charles Duvaine’s youngest sister, just turned forty. Betsy was normally adorned with beaded jewelry and outrageous clothing. This day she wore a modest black suit, which would have given her a conservative air if not for the yellow-tipped crew cut and multiple hoops that ran up the side of her ear like a zipper. Her home was a hodgepodge of candles and mystical looking crystals. Joey said she claimed to be a psychic, but Patrick had never seen any evidence of this.

Across the crowded kitchen, he caught sight of Joey, who remained magnetically handsome as he stuffed a seafood salad finger sandwich into his mouth. Shep had disappeared, and Patrick set off to find him and talk him into heading out to the nearest pub, where people wore colors other than black. Traveling from room to room, he scanned the crowd for his friend’s familiar mop of dirty blond curls, but he was nowhere in sight.

Laughter erupted from somewhere outside. Patrick followed the sound, knowing instinctively that it would lead him to his friend. If anyone was the source of giggles at a funeral party, it was Shep. He found him in Betsy’s back yard with a couple of girls and an old man. They were drinking beer out of Shep’s enormous cooler and they all had cigars. “Obrien! Join us,” Shep said.

The old man introduced himself as Joey’s granduncle on his mother’s side. Deep lines carved his face like one of those shrunken apple heads Patrick made as a kid. “Care for a cigar?” the man asked. Patrick fought not to sneer at his filmy yellow fingernails.

“Oh, no thanks. I’ll take one of those beers though.”

Shep handed him a beer from the cooler, then turned to the blonde at his left. “Do you want another one, Robin?”

Joey’s cousin Robin stood next to Shep, pretty as ever. Robin and Shep had been dating on and off for six years, but Shep insisted the relationship was not serious. This baffled Patrick. But that was Shep’s business, a fact he reminded Patrick of whenever he dared comment on the subject.

“Slow down, Shepherd! You’ve had four beers in a half hour.” Robin kicked the cooler shut with her fancy black shoe. Patrick flinched. Robin Duvaine made him uneasy, always had. She was a beauty who shared her cousin Joey’s extraordinary blue eyes, but unlike Joey’s black hair, Robin had honey-blonde locks brushing her shoulders. As fetching as she was, Patrick swore she could spit fire if she wanted to. Like Shep, deceptively cute with a volatile demeanor. That Shep had chosen a woman who was oddly similar to him was unsurprising given his considerable ego.

“Robin, you know Obrien,” Shep said. “Don’t be rude, say hello.”

Robin turned to Patrick. “Yes, I know Obrien. He doesn’t like me.”

“That’s not true!” Patrick said, shocked that she’d pegged his thoughts. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you always look at me like I’m some sort of fungus with legs.”

A hot flush stung his cheeks. He turned away and found himself looking into a pair of lovely almond shaped eyes. It was the brunette he’d met at the funeral home, the one he’d inadvertently pushed into a wall.

“Oh, yeah. This is Kelinda,” Shep said, “Robin’s friend, just moved back from Colorado.”

The girl stuck her hand out and Patrick shook it. “We’ve met,” was all he managed to say. His eyes didn’t want to leave her face. Afraid she’d think him creepy, he forced himself to drop her hand and turn his attention to Shep. “Are you about ready to get out of here?”

“I’m way ahead of you buddy. These two lovely ladies have agreed to accompany us to the fine drinking establishment known as Monty’s Bar and Grill.”

Patrick grinned. Monty’s was their favorite watering hole in Boston. He, Shep, and Joey did happy hours there at least twice a month. He glanced at Kelinda, pleased with this turn of events. It had been a long time since he’d been out with a beautiful woman. It had been a long time since he’d been out with any woman.

They bid goodbye to the granduncle with the shrunken apple face, and went inside to find Joey. He was near the front door, holding onto his Aunt Carol, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Carol was Robin’s mother, a cute chubby woman with a curly crop of short blonde hair, and Patrick’s heart broke seeing her so distraught. At least someone in this family has feelings, he thought cynically.

“Oh, jeez. My mother’s hysterical. Hang back a minute so Joey can get rid of her,” Robin said.

Patrick frowned at her. When Joey had effectively gotten rid of his aunt, he walked over to them and slung an arm around Patrick’s wide shoulders. “How you doing, Obrien? Had enough, I see.”

Patrick forced an awkward smile. It was no secret that he found these functions unbearable. “We’re going down to Monty’s. Do you want to meet us there?”

Joey nodded. “Absolutely. Give me a half hour. I have to say goodbye to a few more people, and then I have to swing by the funeral home to give the guy a check. Hey, don’t you think I should get a discount this time? My family has given them a lot of business after all.”

Patrick and Shep chuckled, accustomed to Joey’s dark humor. Kelinda looked appalled though, and that was a good thing. If Kelinda thought Joey was a cold-hearted freak, maybe she wouldn’t find him attractive. Every woman Patrick ever dated had been secretly in love with Joey. It wasn’t paranoia, it was a simple fact. Joey never said anything, but he knew. He went out of his way to avoid Patrick’s girlfriends, but his patronizing nobility was equally enraging.

Shep and the girls went out ahead of him, but Joey’s other aunt caught Patrick’s arm before he could exit. “Hey, tough guy. Can’t you say goodbye to your hostess?”

Patrick smiled and rubbed a hand over her yellow-tipped crew cut. “You should come to the bar with us, Betsy. They’d love you at Monty’s.”

“You vex me, Patrick. Thanks anyway. I don’t think they could handle the hair.”

“Oh you’d be surprised what they can handle at Monty’s.”

Betsy’s smile slid away and she leaned in close. “Take care of my nephew for me, Patrick. Watch him, will you?”

He was surprised to see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about Joey, Betsy. I’ll take care of him.”

She grasped his shoulders, eyeing him with urgency. “Watch him, Patrick. Watch him real close. Especially when he’s with…”

Betsy stopped talking when Shep appeared in the doorway. “Obrien, are you coming or what?” Betsy shot Shep a scathing look, and Shep glared hatefully back at her. Patrick looked back and forth between them, confused.

“Goodbye Patrick,” Betsy said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Remember what I said.”

Outside, Shep threw Patrick the keys and hopped into the passenger side of his Jeep. Patrick didn’t question the driving arrangements. He’d had only one beer to Shep’s five. They headed downtown with the girls following behind in Robin’s red Mustang. “Hey, what was that dirty look you just got from Betsy?”

Shep made a sour face. “She doesn’t like me. It goes way back to when Joey and I were in high school. She thinks I’m a bad influence. She needs to get over it, the bald bitch.”

Patrick didn’t push the matter, but he thought Betsy was an absolute doll, so wondered what Shep could have done to draw her ire. Of course, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine someone disliking Shep. Patrick had ten years of history with him and still could only take him in small doses. He and Shep were good for about three hours, then they would start nipping at each other. It was rare the two of them spent time together without Joey there to serve as a buffer.

While the three of them were close, too close some had implied, Patrick was inarguably the odd man out in this little triangle. Logically, it should have been him and Joey who were more alike. They were both short-haired corporate types with similar backgrounds. They even worked for the same investment company. Patrick got Joey the job, and then Joey had proceeded to be better at it, but that was another story. But for whatever reason, Joey and Shep were the soulmates of the group. They seemed to share a secret view of the world that Patrick would never quite understand.

Shep reached behind him and pulled a duffle out of the back seat. He unzipped it and pulled out a tie dye tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Tearing off his suit jacket, he began to change.

“You brought a change of clothes?”

“Never hurts to be prepared.”

Patrick laughed. “You packed an overnight bag because you knew you’d run into Robin today.”

Shep pulled the tee shirt over his head, and smirked at Patrick as he wiggled into the sleeves. “You’re just mad you didn’t think to pack a slut bag, and now you might need one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Miss Kelinda. She’s just your type, Obrien.”

“Oh, is that right? And what exactly is my type?”

Shep stretched back in his seat and pulled on his jeans. “You know. She’s got that fresh as a daisy, pure as the driven snow thing you like so much. She’s certainly not my type. She looks like a cartoon.”

“Kelinda has natural beauty, she does not look like a cartoon!”

Shep cackled. “She does! It’s the pouty lips and the dreamy blue eyes. She looks like a Disney chick. She should be out in the woods singing to squirrels or something.”

“Well I think she’s gorgeous.”

Shep finished dressing and patted Patrick on the shoulder. “Good. I’m glad you like her. Oh, and by the way, you’re welcome.”

Patrick glanced over at him, frowning. “For what?”

“For the set up, you idiot! I was thinking of you when I asked the girls to go to Monty’s with us. Weren’t you just bitching to me the other day that you hadn’t had a date in…oh, what was it? Six to eight months?”

“Thanks for remembering so accurately.”

Shep gave him an exaggerated smile. “And you think I don’t listen.”

A thought nagged Patrick, a thought better left silent. “What about Joey?”

“Huh?”

“You set us up on kind of a double date. Did you forget Joey is meeting us at the bar?”

Shep laughed loudly, and dismissed Patrick with a wave. “Please, Obrien. Joey can find his own girls.”

Monty’s Bar and Grill was a sprawling, dimly lit room with dark wood walls and a shiny oak bar that ran the length of the building. A smoldering fireplace in the corner gave the space a cozy, rustic look. Tables and chairs took up one side of the room, while pool tables and other games like darts and foosball occupied the rest of the area. Musicians unpacked equipment on the ramshackle stage in the corner. A mix of young collegiate types and bikers with interesting facial hair dominated the pool tables.

“Obrien, if it’s not a personal question, what is your first name?” Kelinda asked once they’d settled at a table.

He and Shep looked at each other, and Shep laughed like a hyena. “Oh, man. What a couple of rude bastards, huh Obrien? We never even told Kelinda your name.”

Patrick offered her his hand. “My name is Patrick. It’s nice to formally meet you.”

She took his hand and laughed, a wonderful sound, like bells tinkling. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Patrick.”

“Can you believe that’s his name?” Shep said to Kelinda. “I mean, look at him. Patrick Obrien. Could he get any more Irish? He’s like a caricature of himself.”

Patrick shook his head. “I can’t believe after ten years you’re still making fun of my name.”

“That’s how Patrick and I met,” he explained to Kelinda. “It was freshman economics class, back in college. I saw Patrick walk in, this brawny redhead with his lacrosse stick slung over his back. He looked like a Celtic warrior.”

“Oh please,” Patrick said.

“He did. He sat down right next to me, and when the teacher got to his name on the roster—”

“I hear this punk next to me laughing,” Patrick cut in. “I couldn’t believe this hippie scrub had the audacity to laugh at me.”

“You should have seen his face. I couldn’t stop laughing, and he was turning colors he was so mad.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “But then I got my chance to laugh when the teacher got to his name on the roster. Go ahead, Shep. Tell Kelinda what your full name is.”

Robin snickered.

Shep jumped to his feet and puffed out his chest. “I was born Melvin Eugene Shepherd.” He took a little bow and sat down. Robin and Patrick clapped.

Kelinda smiled at Shep. “Melvin Eugene?”

“Ultimate nerd name,” Patrick said.

“Fuck off,” Shep said and downed his beer.

“I thought I was done with Melvin Eugene Shepherd after that, but fate had other plans, unfortunately.”

They were all busy chatting and laughing so raucously that no one noticed Joey standing beside the table until he spoke. “Well, that’s a welcome sound. I haven’t heard anyone laugh all day.” The four of them looked up, and shifted in their seats, guilty that Joey had found them whooping it up right after his father’s funeral.

“Pull up a chair. I’ll get you a beer.” Shep bounded up to the bar. Joey dragged a chair over and sat.

Patrick frowned. Something was wrong. Joey looked awful. And Joey never looked awful, even when he tried to. His pale blue eyes flicked back and forth like he was seeing things that weren’t there. His black hair had come unslicked, and a few rogue strands hung in spikes over his left eye. He was still in his black suit, but it seemed he’d pulled the jacket on upside down. His arms were in the sleeves, but the collar was down at his waist. A trail of mustard smeared his cheek, and his white dress shirt had come un-tucked on one side. He seemed heedless of his condition, staring at his fingers as though they held some fascination.

Patrick turned to Kelinda. “Why don’t you girls go start a dart game. We’ll join you in a minute.”

She nodded. As the girls left the table, Joey’s cousin Robin leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Patrick saw his own concern mirrored in her eyes. Shep returned with Joey’s beer in a frosted mug, and placed it in front of him. Joey immediately drank half of it down, then he looked at his two friends.

“You okay, buddy?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

Patrick’s attention was diverted by the sight of a short, stout bald man entering the bar. It was Henry Donnelly, Joey and Patrick’s boss at Parker Investments. “Holy shit. Is that Donnelly?”

Joey glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah. He showed up at my Aunt Betsy’s house. He was talking my ear off and I was dying to get out of there, so I told him he could meet us down here if he wanted to. I was just kissing ass. I didn’t think he’d really come.”

Patrick’s mood sank. They could feign cordiality, but Henry Donnelly was still their boss, no matter how many beers he drank with them. Joey and Patrick’s eyes followed as their boss ordered a drink at the bar. “Should we wave him over?” Patrick asked.

Joey laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. He’ll find us. He was like a leech on me at Betsy’s, chewing my ear about work bullshit. The guy is shit faced. That’s got to be like his fourth Manhattan. And you know what else? He never even said he was sorry for my loss.”

“You’re kidding me!” Shep said.

“Nope. The guy is such a pecker.”

Patrick sneered, lifting his glass to his lips. “Unfortunately, we work for that pecker.”

Their little bald boss had found them. He pulled up a chair without being invited. “Hey Henry,” Joey said. “Shepherd, this is Henry Donnelly. Henry, this is our friend Shep.”

Henry shook hands with Shep and slapped Patrick hard on the back. “Mr. Obrien!” He was visibly drunk. He pulled his chair in and focused all of his attention on Joey, his own personal little cash cow. Patrick glanced over at the dartboard. Robin was shooting. Kelinda caught his eye and waved. He wanted to go over there, but he couldn’t leave Joey alone with Henry Donnelly. Unfortunately.

Henry babbled in Joey’s ear about the stock market. “Let me tell you something, Duvaine,” he slurred. “You kids today don’t think about the future. You’re all going to be left out in the cold, my boy. Out in the cold.” He took a hearty swill of his Manhattan. Patrick could smell his liquor breath from across the table. It had to be just about killing Joey.

But Joey didn’t seem bothered. He calmly sipped his beer, nodding occasionally as Donnelly blew his toxic breath into his face. Patrick was amazed by Joey’s control. Joey Duvaine, man of steel.

He’d barely completed the thought when all hell broke loose. Joey slammed his beer mug onto the table with a resounding crash, causing the entire bar to go quiet for several seconds. The band stopped tuning their instruments to peer toward the sound. Shards of broken glass went everywhere and cold beer ran off the table onto Patrick’s lap. Henry Donnelly’s mouth was frozen into a perfect circle of surprise. “Shut up!” Joey screamed into Donnelly’s face. “Shut up, shut up, just shut-the-fuck-up!”

Joey’s voice bellowed through the bar. Patrick caught a glimpse of Robin’s dart go too far to the right and bounce off the wall as she looked over her shoulder. A smile formed at the edges of Shep’s lips. “Here we go,” he whispered to Patrick.

Joey stood and grabbed his boss by the collar, lifting him until he was on the tips of his shoes. Sweat ran in streams down the drunk man’s bright red face. “Joey, what are you doing?” Henry squeaked.

“Think about the future?” Joey screamed in his face. “I’ll tell you about the future. Thirty years! That’s how long my dad worked his ass off. Thirty goddamned years. He planned for the future. Do you know what it got him, Henry? Dead! That’s what it got him. Dead!”

With this said, Joey dragged his boss across the dirty floor. Donnelly was like a giant sweaty rag doll in Joey’s arms. His shirt came un-tucked, exposing his white belly. People cleared a path as Joey maneuvered his flopping body around bar stools and tables, finally stopping just inside the front door. He hoisted the frightened man up to his face, and looked him in the eye. “My father is dead. You never said you were sorry.”

In a quivering voice, Henry said, “I’m sorry, Joey.”

Joey smiled pleasantly. “You should be,” he said, then promptly kicked open the door and tossed Henry Donnelly out onto the sidewalk. The door swung shut with an echoing bang, followed by an unnatural silence in the crowded bar.

After a moment of staring at the closed door, Joey turned and shuffled back toward their table. When he’d nearly reached the pool tables, he stopped, running a hand across the top of his head in a clumsy attempt to smooth his fallen hair back. He took off his jacket, pulled off his tie, and tossed them both to the floor like they were so much trash. He walked a few more steps then stopped again. He unbuttoned his white dress shirt, removed it, and threw that on the floor as well, leaving him naked from the waist up.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Patrick asked, panicked.

Shep sat back smiling with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I believe he is snapping, Obrien. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Patrick looked on, astounded. Shirtless now, Joey walked a few more feet and stopped just short of the last pool table. Two large bikers with full beards had stopped their game. They stared at Joey curiously. Joey looked at each one of them, then dropped his pants, kicking them off along with his black tasseled shoes. Dressed only in white briefs and black socks, Joey tried to proceed on. One of the bikers blocked his path.

Patrick felt himself rise from the table. He looked down, somewhat surprised to see that he was standing. It seemed his loyalty to Joey outweighed his desire to see him in a fight. Joey was acting like a fruitcake, but he was their own fruitcake, and nobody was going to lay a hand on him as long as Patrick was around. He started to move when Shep grabbed his wrist.

“Hang back, Obrien. I think he’s got this one.” Shep sat back relaxing with a beer as though this sort of thing happened every day. It did not.

“Those guys are gonna kill him!”

Shep pulled Patrick into his seat. “Let him be. If he gets into trouble, you can jump in.”

Joey faced the considerably larger man, his perfectly sculpted naked torso glistening in the hue of a giant Budweiser light. The biker shook his head. “I just gotta ask. What in the hell you think you’re doin?”

“Yeah boy,” the other biker said. “What in the hell are you standing there naked for?”

“You want to know what I’m doing?” Joey asked sweetly. The bikers nodded. Joey jumped up onto the pool table, scattering the bikers’ game balls in all directions. Some fell into the pockets, while others rolled off the table onto the floor.

“Oh, Christ,” Patrick said, and stood again.

Standing in the center of the pool table, Joey had the full attention of the bar patrons. He looked around the room, pointing a finger at the curious crowd. “Do you all want to know what in the hell I think I’m doing?”

“Tell us!” came the shouts from the crowd.

Joey held his hands up to quiet them, a half-naked politician giving a speech.

When the bar volume dropped to near silence, he screamed, “I just quit my job! And I’m never wearing a suit again! I’m never wearing a suit again! I’m never wearing a fucking suit again!”

The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering for Joey, who walked a circle atop the pool table with hands clasped above him like a prize fighter. Patrick looked at the two bikers, and to his shock, they were cheering and clapping with the rest of the crowd. He glanced at Shep, who gave him a shrug. “Anyone else would have gotten their ass kicked,” Patrick said.

“Sit down, Obrien. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m making you nervous? Joey just stripped in the middle of Monty’s.”

The band chose that moment to spring to life, and Joey jumped from the pool table to dance in front of the stage. Patrick stared at him, shaking his head. Joey thrashed about like an underwear-clad maniac. Around the bar, a number of businessmen were ceremoniously stripping out of their own suits. The act was contagious. Everywhere, patrons were removing their clothing. At the pool table, the two bikers resumed their game clad only in leather boots and underwear. One of them was wearing boxer shorts with little cartoon pigs all over them.

Taken up by the moment, Shep tore his shirt off and ran out to dance with Robin, who’d joined Joey on the suddenly crowded dance floor. Patrick spotted Kelinda ordering a drink at the bar, and went to join her. Like him, she had chosen to remain dressed. He wasn’t sure if that pleased him or not.

They stood alongside each other, watching the lunatics dance. Kelinda’s smile dropped suddenly, and she looked up at Patrick. “My God,” she said. “What happened to Shep’s back?”

Patrick glanced at the dance floor where Shep danced shirtless under the blue lights. Patrick was so used to Shep’s enormous scar that he barely noticed it anymore. The terrible scar on Shep’s upper back had been a gift from his birth father, whose name he’d inherited along with several million dollars when the bastard finally died. Shep was eight years old when his mother left his father, a wealthy landowner in Texas. The man became bitter and hostile after his wife left him alone with their eight-year-old son, a child he never wanted in the first place.

According to Shep, his father beat him regularly for being ‘bad luck’. He would tell Shep that his very existence was bad luck, and that since he’d been born, bad things had happened, including his mother’s desertion. The final act came when his father tied him to a pole in the stable and branded his back with a red-hot horseshoe. He made sure the horseshoe was upside down so that “everyone would know the kid was bad luck.”

Clearly not too bright, he sent little Shep to school the next day with his bleeding wound still oozing through the back of his shirt. Shep’s teacher spotted the wound and sent him to the school nurse, who promptly called the authorities. Shep spent the next seven years in what he called ‘foster home hell’ until the Duvaines took him in at age fifteen. He still wore the horrible scar between his shoulder blades, a puffy, discolored mound of flesh in the shape of an upside-down horseshoe.

Patrick explained all of this to Kelinda, urging her to be discreet and never bring it up to Shep.

“That is so sad,” she said, her blue eyes solemn. “Robin never mentioned that.”

“Yes, well, he doesn’t like people talking about it, as you can imagine.” Kelinda nodded and leaned into him a little closer. Her hair smelled like musk, and Patrick found himself wishing he’d brought his own car. He was about to say something grossly unoriginal, like ‘can I take you to dinner sometime’ when Robin came out of nowhere and shoved him into the bar.

Patrick gave her a dismayed scowl. She glared back at him like a blonde pixie from hell, her tiny nostrils flared with anger. “Hey!” he shouted. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Why didn’t you stop him, Obrien? You shouldn’t have let Joey do that to Henry Donnelly. He’ll be lucky if getting fired is all that happens to him!”

“I wanted to stop him but Shep held me back. Why aren’t you giving him hell?”

“Because Shep’s an idiot. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

“Don’t worry about it, Robin. Joey’s fine.”

“Joey is not fine,” she said. “I wish everyone would stop saying that. Joey is all fucked up. And now he’s probably going to have assault charges filed against him. Come on Kelinda. Let’s go.”

Robin stormed off toward the door, stopping to speak briefly with Shep. Kelinda looked at Patrick, her eyebrows raised. “I guess I have to leave.”

“I guess so. Can I call you?” To his delight, she wrote her number on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him. He watched her walk away, admiring the way her long brown hair swung back and forth with each stride.

At the pool table, Shep was kneeling before Robin in a humorous attempt at begging her to stay. It didn’t work. She walked out the door with Kelinda in tow. Patrick grinned as he watched Shep pretend to stab himself in the heart with a pool stick, making the bikers laugh.

It looked like Shep wouldn’t be needing that bag he packed after all.

Chapter Three

In spite of its notorious pollution content, the Charles River was a vision at night with the city lights dancing on its glassy surface. Cambridge twinkled on the horizon, a hook of luminosity staring them down from across the watery lane. They sat out under the stars on Joey’s balcony, sipping a disgusting concoction Shep whipped up as a nightcap; Patrick thought it was a mix of vodka and red wine, but he wasn’t sure. It was Joey’s idea that they all stay the night at his apartment, since nobody was getting laid, and none of them were in any condition to drive. Patrick suspected he didn’t want to be alone.

“I have no family,” Joey said after a long silence. “That is so messed up.” He swirled his nasty nightcap like it was fine cognac.

Shep leaned over Patrick to look at Joey. “That’s not true. You do have family. You have us.”

Joey stared down at the river, looking like he wanted to jump into it and drown himself. “No, you’re just sugarcoating it. I appreciate all you guys have done for me, but you’re not family. My family is dead.”

Patrick thought then that perhaps he preferred the vacant, unfeeling Joey to this new voice of doom version.

“I am not sugarcoating it!” Shep said. “We’re your family now. Isn’t that right, Obrien?”

It was one o’clock in the morning. Patrick wasn’t sure he was up to playing nursemaid, but he tried. “He’s right, Joey. It might sound corny, but we’re your family.”

Joey looked messy and waif-like in the oversized sweatshirt. When it came time to leave the bar, he’d refused to put his suit back on, holding fast to his proclamation that he would never wear one again. Patrick begged Trent the bartender to give them something out of his gym bag for Joey to wear. Trent didn’t mind. He knew he’d see them again. “I appreciate the thought, guys,” Joey said, “but things are bound to change between us. The beauty of family is they have to stay in touch no matter how much you piss them off.”

“You piss us off all the time,” Patrick said. “We’re still here.”

“Yeah. That doesn’t give us much credit,” Shep said.

Joey sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to be optimistic when you have nothing going for you.”

He’s got to be kidding, Patrick thought. “Joey, you’re insane if that’s what you think. Just look at what you did tonight. You had that whole bar following your lead like you were the Pied Piper or something.”

“A naked Pied Piper,” Shep said.

“Right. But that’s not the only time I’ve seen you do that. You’ve always been able to influence people. It’s like magic for you. That’s why you’re so much better at finance and marketing than I am, and don’t think it pleases me any to say it.”

Joey raised a finger. “Hey, wait a minute, Obrien,” he slurred. “I said I was never—”

“I know. You’re never wearing a suit again. We all heard you, Joey. My point is you can do whatever you want.”

“He’s right, Joey,” Shep said, draining the last of his glass as he stood up. “You’ve got influence. People listen to you.”

Joey sighed. “People. Not family.”

Shep crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave Joey a dark stare. He walked over and snatched Joey’s drink out of his hand, dumping its contents onto the cement floor of the balcony. Joey looked up at him, his jaw slack in surprise. “What the—”

“Stop wallowing in self-pity, it’s pathetic!” Shep said.

Joey scowled up at him. “Have I done something to offend you, Shepherd?”

“Yes! Yes, you selfish, arrogant little prick.”

Patrick felt as though his universe had just taken an unexpected hard left turn. Shep never so much as breathed wrong around Joey. Joey and Shep weren’t supposed to fight. Sure, Patrick and Shep fought all the time. That was expected. Patrick had even fought with Joey a few times. But Joey and Shep never fought with each other. It just wasn’t done.

“You think you have no family left?” Shep screamed. “You think nobody’s going to be there for you? Well fuck you, Joey. Fuck you!”

Patrick had been concerned earlier about the lack of sentiment being displayed by his friends. Now everyone around him was falling apart. His cup runneth over. Joey sat motionless, his fingers still curved around the glass that was no longer there. Shep turned his back to them, mumbling. When he whirled back around, his eyes glistened with tears.

“How can you say that to me, Joey? How can you say that to me of all people? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to feel orphaned? Do you think I know nothing about pain? Well, let me tell you something. If I ever forget, I have this to remind me.” Shep tore his tee shirt off and tossed it aside. He gave them his bare back, displaying the horseshoe scar between his shoulder blades.

“Take a good look. This scar is what family used to mean to me.” He faced them again. “That all changed when your family took me in. You gave me a home. You treated me like a brother. I felt safe for the first time in my life. And now you look at me with those sad blue eyes and tell me you’ve got no family left? Well fuck you, Joey Duvaine!”

A knot formed in Patrick’s stomach. Shep had never voluntarily brought up his past, and he’d never spoken of it without jokes before. Joey stood. He moved toward Shep, and Patrick was sure he was about to hug him. Instead, he wound up and punched Shep square in the jaw.

The blow sent Shep stumbling backward. He caught himself by grabbing the railing. Patrick gasped. They were on the third floor, and if Shep had gone over…well, he’d be roadkill. “How dare you speak to me like that after what I’ve been through!” Joey shouted. “You can’t allow me five goddamned minutes of self-pity? So you had a hard life. Well, guess what? We all have hard lives, so get over it, Melvin!”

Patrick gasped again. You could get away with a lot with Shep, but calling him Melvin was off limits. “You son of a bitch!” Shep launched himself at Joey and they went down, sending chairs flying as they tore at each other in a wild rage. The situation was so foreign to Patrick that for a moment he was frozen, a child caught between his warring parents. Shep was on his way to winning the scrap and pinning Joey’s arms down with his knees. Shep’s wiry build had always been a deceiver of his strength. The little bastard was strong as an ox.

Finally finding the will to move, Patrick jumped from his chair, and with considerable effort, tore Shep off of Joey. “Both of you stop it! This is insane!”

They scrambled to their feet, glaring at each other through labored breathing. Joey’s cheeks were smeared with dirt and Shep’s lip was bleeding. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the sticky red stain. “So it’s blood you want. Huh, Joey?”

Joey shook his head. “Let it go, Shep.”

Shep looked crazed in the dampened moonlight. Tiny chips of cement clung to his sandy curls. “I understand now,” he said. “Blood is family. Family is blood.”

With this statement Shep turned and disappeared through the doorway into Joey’s apartment. Moments later he stepped back onto the balcony with a short dagger. Patrick gaped. “Shep, what the hell are you doing with that knife?”

“I’m going to give Joey my blood,” he said, and promptly sliced a half moon cut just above his wrist. Blood seeped sluggishly into the wound.

“Has everyone lost their minds?” Patrick shouted.

Shep gave him an innocent stare. “Joey obviously doesn’t consider someone to be family unless they share his blood. So I’m going to share my blood with him.”

“Shepherd, give me that knife.”

“No, give me the knife,” Joey said.

Patrick caught Joey’s wrist as he reached for the dagger. “No offense, Joey, but you’re not in any condition to be handling cutlery.”

“It’s his choice, Obrien,” Shep said.

Patrick studied his two friends, covered in sweat and blood, eyes wide and feral. “Fine,” he said. “Take the knife, Joey. Kill each other for all I care. I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.” Patrick stepped into Joey’s apartment, determined to pass out on the couch regardless of the consequences. His friends seemed to have gone stark raving mad in a matter of hours, but he was too tired and fed up to care. He was heading toward the bathroom when he realized Shep was trailing him.

“Can I do something for you, Shepherd?”

“You have to come back outside. You need to be a part of this.”

“A part of what?”

“Making a pact. Don’t you see? Joey is feeling orphaned. He wants family. He wants blood. It’s symbolic.”

“You…don’t mean cutting ourselves and rubbing our blood together.”

Shep held up his arm, still bleeding from the cut he made. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Patrick laughed. “Well for starters, this isn’t summer camp, and we’re not in the third grade. There is of course the lunacy issue, and don’t even get me started on sanitation.”

“I really think this will help Joey. You saw him. He’s all messed up. He’s totally depressed. God knows what he might do. I know this sounds crazy, but if it will help Joey, I think it’s worth trying.”

“This is beyond crazy, Shep. Do not ask me to do this.”

“Please? You have to trust me on this. I know what I’m doing.”

Famous last words. Patrick had heard them more times than he could count. Shep looked up at him, his green eyes wide and pleading. Patrick huffed. “Don’t pout and bat your lashes. That shit doesn’t work on me, I know you too well.”

“I’m not batting my lashes. I’m genuinely upset. And scared. I don’t want Joey to…do anything stupid, you know? I’ve known him since we were fifteen and I’ve never seen him like this. Please, Obrien.”

Patrick felt his resolve weakening. The Shep Factor was kicking in. He was about to jump off another bridge after Shep. “Can’t we just spit shake or something?”

Shep stepped closer. “You’re the responsible one. If you do this, he’ll follow along.”

“Fine. But I’m warning you, Shepherd. This is absolutely the last stupid thing I’ll do in the name of friendship. I’m drawing the line after this. Are we clear?”

A smile warmed Shep’s face. “This is the last thing I’ll ever need you to do for me. I promise.”

He grabbed Patrick by the elbow and led him back onto the balcony, where Joey leaned against the railing, staring sadly out at the river. Shep handed Joey the knife. Without a word, Joey made a slice above his wrist, identical to Shep’s. This is so unsanitary, Patrick thought, and winced at Joey’s freshly carved wound. Joey held the knife out to Patrick, who took it apprehensively. It was slick with Joey’s blood.

He gripped the knife, hesitating. Mixing his blood with Joey and Shep’s was about dead last on his list of things to do. They’d both slept around a lot. He tried to push that thought away. Looking at Joey’s somber face, he saw the importance of this childish act reflected in his pale blue eyes. Holding in a deep breath, he made the cut on his own arm.

His skin burned with a stinging pain as the blood welled. He’d never felt more foolish. He was twenty-eight years old, standing outside at one in the morning carving himself up with a knife. Shep grabbed it from Patrick and placed it on the balcony floor. He seemed driven by an uncharacteristic urgency. “Form a circle around the blade,” Shep said. Patrick complied, silently amused by the theatrics.

The three of them surrounded the knife, then Shep closed his eyes and began to whisper. The words were unrecognizable, so Patrick surmised he was making them up. “Esk ul kalde ich hlada ich dar.”

Patrick smirked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a phrase spoken by the ancients to bond them together before battle,” Shep said.

“Oh, I see. Are we going into battle then?” Shep shot him a scathing look. Patrick couldn’t hold in his giggles. “Sorry. What ancients, exactly?”

Shep glared at him. “Just…ancients.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What do the words mean?” Joey asked. Patrick stopped laughing and stared at Joey. He was wide-eyed and serious, like he was really buying it. Patrick wondered if this might be a good time to sell Joey some swamp land, or a slab of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“It means unity and brotherhood,” Shep answered. “It will bind us together.”

Patrick bit down hard on his tongue to keep from laughing. “Hold out your arms,” Shep said. Patrick stopped laughing. He didn’t want to do this part. He said a silent prayer that Joey and Shep had no communicable diseases.

Shep placed his own arm over Joey’s first and held it there, letting the blood mingle. He recited more gibberish. Then he removed his arm, and led Joey’s over to Patrick’s. Placing Joey’s bloody wound directly onto Patrick’s, he sandwiched their arms together.

Patrick flinched as Shep pressed Joey’s arm down on his fresh knife wound. Holding their arms firm, Shep closed his eyes and uttered the strange words again. “Esk ul kalde ich hlada ich dar.”

A tingling sensation started at Patrick’s fingertips, then a painful jolt coursed through his arm, like a powerful electric shock. He jerked his arm back. “Ouch! Holy shit. Did you feel that?”

Joey shrugged. “Feel what?”

Patrick stepped back, rubbing his throbbing arm. “What the hell!” he said. “I just…felt something. It was…it hurt.”

“Probably just hit a nerve,” Shep said. “From the cut.”

Shep didn’t attempt to put his arm on Patrick’s, so apparently they were done. Patrick had a sudden, inexplicable urge to get the hell away from Joey and Shep. If it weren’t so late, he’d have left right then and gone to his own apartment. His arm was still pulsing uncomfortably. Shep stared at Patrick’s wound, then met his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s all go get some sleep.”

****

Shep stretched out on the twin bed in Joey’s spare bedroom and invited sleep to enter his body. He was just on the cusp when he heard the bedroom door creak open. He lifted his heavy eyelids, but he already knew it was Robin. He’d smelled her as soon as she entered the apartment. “What are you doing here? I told you I’d come over later and you told me to fuck off,” he mumbled.

She moved to the edge of the bed, her blonde hair luminous in the window’s moonbeam. “I changed my mind,” she whispered, and slid her dress over her head. She wore a matching set of black lace bra and panties.

“Very snappy outfit, but you’re too late. I’m exhausted now.”

She slid her hand over him and found him erect. He silently cursed. He loathed not having control over everything in his life, the way he had with Obrien tonight. He smiled at the thought of that victory. Robin assumed the smile was for her, and she climbed on top of him. “You don’t feel too tired.”

“Fine,” he said. “But get a condom first.”

She frowned at him, the way she always did when this came up. “I’m not ready for a condom yet. Just relax.” She pulled off his shorts and explored his body with her tongue, circling his hip bones and teasing around his upper thigh. When she slid his length into her mouth, he gently eased her head back.

“Get a condom, Robin. In my bag over there.”

“I’m on the pill, and I can’t get pregnant in my mouth, in case you didn’t realize. What the fuck, Shep, do you think I’m diseased or something?”

He was too tired to have this argument again. They’d had it a hundred times at least. “It’s not you I’m worried about. We’ve been through this. It’s late, and I’m tired. If you want to do this, then get a damned condom.”

“Fine.” She crossed the room and dug through his bag, returning with the little packet. “Okay, Mr. Safety. I have a condom.”

“Put it on me.”

“Not yet.” She placed it on the bedside table. “I’m not done playing.” She climbed on top of him again. They kissed deeply for a time, their bodies gliding together like an old familiar dance. She was nuzzling the edge of his collar bone, making her way down when she bolted upright. “What…is that blood on your arm? Did you cut yourself?”

She held his wounded wrist up. It was stupid of him not to bandage the cut before bed, but he was too tired. “Oh, yeah. Joey broke a glass,” he lied.

She wrinkled her nose. “Another one?”

“I guess he was on a roll. I’ll go bandage it up.”

“No! Not yet. I’m not afraid of a little blood.”

“Robin…”

“No!” She pushed him onto his back. “You’re so damned uptight lately. Just relax.”

He spotted a sticky red blotch on the white skin of Robin’s lower arm. He sat up, with her still straddling him. “Oh, shit! You’ve got my blood on you.”

She looked at her arm, and a sly grin edged her lips. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I bet your blood tastes good.”

She started to bring her arm to her lips. “No!” he yelled, grabbing her wrist and twisting it away from her mouth.

“Ouch! What’s wrong with you? Let go!”

He dragged her out of the bed, his heart racing. She struggled against him as he pulled her down the hallway toward the bathroom. “Let go of me! What are you doing?” She winced as he gripped her wrist tighter.

Inside the bathroom, he turned the water on and forced her arm under the faucet. A pump bottle of liquid soap sat on the back of the sink. He squeezed a large dollop onto Robin’s arm and worked it into a sudsy lather. Then he grabbed a sponge and she cried out and tried to pull away as he scrubbed her skin feverishly with the rough side. Watery blood ran down the white porcelain into the drain. He continued to scrub until the stream of water was clear, then he let her go.

She backed away, glaring at him like he was a stranger. “Would you mind telling me what your problem is?”

He gave her his back, pulling out the first aid kit and tending to his own wound. “I just don’t like blood.”

Robin studied him a moment longer, then made out of the room. “I’m going home. Call me when you’ve decided to behave like a human, if that’s possible. Fucking psycho.”

When she was gone, he frowned at the mirror. He’d almost infected her. It was careless. All Joey had ever asked of him was that he never infect Robin with his fluids. He’d given Joey his promise, and he’d nearly blown it. He had no way of knowing what an uncontrolled contamination would do. One way or another, it would have changed her. And he didn’t want to change Robin. He liked her the way she was. She was one of the only people he could stand to spend extended periods of time with. Obrien always said it was because the two of them were so much alike. Shep always laughed silently at this. If Obrien only knew. Nobody was like Shep. Nobody.

His lips pursed at the thought of Patrick Obrien. There had been a few tense moments when it seemed Patrick might not agree to the blood ceremony. Joey hadn’t believed they could talk him into it at all. But Shep was never really worried. Obrien was a born follower. That’s why Shep had chosen him all those years ago. And now it was done. With the blood ceremony completed, he could finally set his concentrations on the execution of the plan. There was much to be done, but it was now a matter of letting the events he’d planned so carefully fall into place. He let his frown turn upward to a smile. It was his time to take control. His time to shine. And soon, all the world would know it. All the world, and then some.

Chapter Four

Patrick had a spring in his step as he strolled with his briefcase toward the Parker building. He liked his job and enjoyed having structure in his life. All he wanted was some stability. But with Joey and Shep around that was nearly impossible. With them he could count on craziness and eccentricity at every turn. He couldn’t keep up anymore. He’d had enough of the non-stop chaos. He only hoped now that Joey’s Friday night antics hadn’t gotten his own ass fired as well, just for being friends with him. Patrick wasn’t the one who’d assaulted their boss, but he hadn’t stopped it either.

He paused to study the puffy, half-moon scar above his wrist. It was smooth and shiny, more like a burn than a cut. He’d been worried about the strange way it was healing, but he supposed it would hurt if it was infected, and it didn’t hurt. It did tingle every now and then, as though seeking acknowledgment.

He gave the scar a final musing then moved on down the sidewalk. Blood pacts and barroom brawls. It might not be a bad idea to put some distance between himself and his friends, he thought as he stepped into the office building. It might not be a bad idea at all.

He took the back elevator to the side entrance to avoid the Monday morning coffee crew that congregated in the front offices. He did not want to chat about his weekend, and he especially did not want to run into Henry Donnelly. Keyboards tapped their familiar beat as he passed the financial offices with his head down. He was trying to go unnoticed, which was quite a task for a six-foot-three redhead. He rounded the second corner, expecting to be welcomed by an empty corridor. Henry Donnelly stood midway down the hall, speaking closely with Jerry Schweitzer, the vice president. Patrick’s gut jumped at the sight of Henry’s bald head. The two men stopped speaking and turned to look as Patrick passed by.

“Good morning, Mr. Obrien,” Jerry Schweitzer said.

“Good morning,” he said and scooted past, but not without seeing the large purple bruise on Donnelly’s temple.

He spent the morning tackling projects that weren’t due for months. He avoided leaving his office, even skipping his second cup of coffee so he wouldn’t have to use the bathroom. At around ten o’clock a cleaning crew went into the office across the hall, the office that had been Joey’s. They packed everything into boxes, stripping the room down to the plant hangers. Then they took the plant hangers too.

Calvin White appeared in his doorway. “Hey buddy. How’s it going?”

Calvin was a computer programmer with wispy brown hair that always looked like it needed to be brushed. He had skin so white it was nearly translucent, and teeth that were too big for his face. Patrick and Joey loved him. When they did midweek happy hour, Calvin was usually with them. Patrick smiled at Calvin, who leaned against the doorway wearing a crooked grin.

“Hey, Cal. How was your weekend?”

Calvin stepped inside. “How was my weekend? My weekend was uneventful compared to yours. At least that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning.”

Patrick got up and closed the door. When he sat back down, Calvin followed, planting his butt on the edge of the desk. “So? Spill the tea. Is it true what I’ve been hearing about Joey?”

Patrick shrugged. “I guess that depends on what you’ve heard. Although I can’t imagine the rumor being much worse than the truth.”

Calvin’s grinned widened. “No shit? Okay, tell me if this is accurate. The word is that you guys went to Monty’s after Joey’s father’s funeral. Sources claim that Joey tried to strangle Donnelly, then tossed him out onto the street. Thereafter, it is rumored that Joey got all Jim Morrison and dropped his pants in the bar.”

Patrick scratched his chin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it, barring a few unsightly details.”

Calvin slapped his thigh and laughed. “No way! I thought for sure it was an exaggeration!”

“I wish it was, Cal. I’m worried about Joey. He’s losing it.”

“Losing it? I’d say lost it.”

The door opened and Henry Donnelly stepped inside. “Excuse me, Calvin. I need to speak with Patrick privately.”

Calvin jumped off Patrick’s desk. “Patrick, I’ll get those reports to you this afternoon,” he said, trying to play it off like they were discussing work. Patrick was sure Donnelly knew exactly what they’d been discussing. Calvin left and Donnelly closed the door behind him. Here it comes, Patrick thought. I’m going to be unemployed and going on job interviews. God, he hated job interviews.

“Would you like to sit down?” He offered Donnelly his chair.

Donnelly’s face was unreadable. He paced before the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “No, Patrick. I’ll stand. What I have to say won’t take long.” The puffy bruise on his temple seemed to scream at Patrick, Look at me! You are so fired! “I want you to take over Joey Duvaine’s client list. That is if you don’t think it’s too much for you to handle.”

A surge of emotions fought for dominance. There was relief, surprise, and of course, guilt. But hell, Joey didn’t want the job anyway. He’d said so himself. “I’d be happy to.”

“Good. That’s good to hear,” Donnelly said as he picked up a photograph on Patrick’s desk.

The picture was taken on a hiking trip in Vermont. He, Joey, and Shep stood on the peak of Mount Mansfield with their arms around each other. Donnelly frowned at the photo, then carefully replaced it. “Joey Duvaine is a lunatic. The problem is that the clients love him. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he hypnotizes them.” Donnelly gave his head a quick shake. “At any rate, I’ll be telling the clients that Joey left of his own accord. To tell them otherwise would be to ruin the credibility of Parker Investments. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.” Normally he’d be falling over himself to defend Joey. But Joey had made his choices. And Patrick needed this job. He had no trust funds or dead relatives to live off of.

“Your friend is violent and unstable, Mr. Obrien. I will not have our clients knowing that Parker Investments entrusted their money to someone like that.”

“He was just having a bad night.”

Donnelly glared. “We all have bad nights. Adults deal with bad nights without becoming violent. His behavior was unacceptable. You disagree?”

“No. It was unacceptable. I concur.”

Donnelly picked up another photo, this one of a white water rafting trip he’d taken with Joey and Shep. In a disquieting moment, it dawned on Patrick that he had no pictures of a wife or children on his desk, as the other men at Parker did. He had only Joey and Shep. It was embarrassing, now that he thought about it. How had he not seen it before? The three of them were far too codependent for grown men. It couldn’t be healthy.

Donnelly continued to scowl at the picture, making Patrick uneasy. “Was there something else?”

His boss replaced the photo. “I can’t tell you who to socialize with outside the office. Let me be quite clear, however. I do not want the name Joey Duvaine associated with this company in any way. He is not to visit you at work, and he is not to call. Is that clear?”

Patrick tried not to stare at the bruise. “Absolutely.”

“And that goes for the other one, too.”

Patrick frowned. “The other one?”

“You know who I mean.” He gestured toward the photos on Patrick’s desk. “The one with the wavy hair and the big eyes.”

“Shep.”

“Right. Shep. He gives me the creeps. Just keep them both away from here. You got that?”

Patrick nodded. “Got it.”

Donnelly stared into his eyes suspiciously. Patrick held a poker face. Finally, his boss nodded. “Carry on then.”

****

Patrick managed to avoid contact with Joey and Shep for an entire week. It wasn’t as easy as he expected—he missed the bastards. But each time the little scar on his wrist tingled he was brought back to the strange feeling of dread he’d experienced on the balcony that night. This sensation kept him from calling or texting when his fingers itched to do so. It was difficult. He loved his friends even though they drove him bonkers, and he was used to seeing them all the time. It didn’t feel right not talking to them.

Shep caved first. It was the following Saturday he texted Patrick, requesting he stop by Joey’s apartment ‘as soon as possible’. Patrick couldn’t imagine what was so damned urgent. Neither of them had jobs now. But he ultimately decided to swing by Joey’s, mainly because the gossip monger inside him was screaming to get out. He just had to tell Joey what Henry Donnelly said about him. It was too good.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the apartment door. Silence answered. Finding the door unlocked, he stepped inside, helping himself to a beer in the fridge. He didn’t feel at all intrusive by doing this. There’d been many nights when he’d come home to his own place to find Joey sitting in front of his television eating his food. “Hello? Are you idiots here?”

He moved into the empty living room where Joey’s laptop was open on the coffee table, frozen on a YouTube video titled ‘Sermons of Reverend Thomas Kemp’. Odd choice of viewing material. Kemp was a crazy church leader who’d been in the gossip news last year for using church funds to support a mistress with a cocaine habit. Patrick hit play and Reverend Kemp’s plastic looking head appeared onscreen, screaming about sinners and premarital sex like an evangelistic pro-wrestler.

He shut it off. What the hell was Joey watching this shit for? He moved into the kitchen where a stack of books sat on the table. Patrick set his beer down and sifted through them. The first book on the stack was titled, Don’t Know Much about The Holy Bible. He tore through the rest of the stack and sneered. Prophecies of the End Times, Leading your Flock, Tough Love in the Time of Sinners.

He was beginning to think Joey had suffered a religious awakening, when he picked up the final book in the stack, The Reverend Jim Jones, Profile of a Cult Leader. Patrick smelled a Shep scheme cooking and he didn’t like the ingredients. He nearly dropped the book, startled by the crash of the downstairs door slamming against the wall as someone shoved it open. Shep’s hyena laugh echoed in the stairwell as feet trampled up the steps. Joey and Shep burst into the kitchen, carrying small white bags and paper coffee cups.

“Obrien!” Shep said, looking surprised. “You should have told us what time you were coming. We would have gotten you a cappuccino.”

Patrick did a double take at Shep’s outfit, a red and white tie-dyed tee shirt, black and white striped shorts, with a pair of black and white checkered shoes with unicorns on them. It was amazing what the wealthy could get away with. Joey sat down at the table and pulled a giant chocolate cookie out of his paper bag.

“What the hell is this?” Patrick held up the book on Jonestown. “Are you guys planning to poison someone’s Kool-Aid?”

Shep glanced at the book, then shrugged. “That’s what we wanted to tell you about. It’s research material. For Joey’s new career.”

Patrick set the book down, smirking. “Okay. I’ll play along. Just what exactly is Joey’s new career?”

Joey took a sip of his coffee, leaving a whipped cream moustache. “I’m starting my own church. It’s gonna be cool.” Patrick looked over at Shep, who wore a devious smile as he chewed his muffin. “Shep thinks I’ll be good at it,” Joey continued. “Major tax breaks if you can pull it off, and the donations alone can bring a small fortune. You want in?”

Patrick laughed. “Well. This is by far the most asinine idea I’ve ever heard from you two, and I’ve heard a lot of them.”

“Why?” Shep said. “Church leaders can make a lot of money if they know how to work the system. I know you always hear about them embezzling money and going to jail, but those guys are stupid.”

“So?”

“So, Joey’s not stupid. He’s a financial genius. Joey understands the Internal Revenue Service better than they understand themselves. There’s been an upsurge in religious fervor and fanaticism lately, we can exploit that.”

Joey nodded. “It’s just supply and demand, Obrien. Bitches be aching to worship false prophets right now. But there aren’t enough to go around, so they pick the worst ones by default. There’s a hole in the holy market! And we can fill it. Scoop em all up into one big basket of cash money, baby.”

“Please stop talking like that,” Patrick said, rubbing his temples.

“Like what?”

“Cash money and ‘bitches be aching’ and whatever. You’re from Cape Cod, you can’t pull it off.”

“Fine,” Joey said. “It’s still a good plan.”

“Joey’s a genius, Obrien, his plan can work.”

“Somehow I doubt this is Joey’s plan,” Patrick said. “And he’s not that much of a genius, he just got fired from his job.”

“So what? Best thing that could have happened to him. Anyway, have you taken a look at this country the past few years? If there were ever a time to take advantage of all the dumb people stumbling around looking to be led, it’s now.”

Patrick scowled. “You think Joey should be leading people. Joey. Leading them where? The pub? The strip club? If being crafty with money was an indicator of good leadership skills our country wouldn’t keep falling into financial ruin every time some billionaire runs for office. And a religious leader? He ain’t exactly a shining beacon of morality. No offense, Joey.”

“None taken.”

“It’s not just that,” Shep said. “Joey’s prettier than all those other guys selling tickets to heaven. Have you ever seen a pretty evangelist? Most of them look like cancerous toads. Like it or not, society wants to look at attractive people. They want to listen to attractive people. Joey’s got it all. He’s smart, he’s gorgeous, and he’s a genius at marketing.”

“Don’t even think about getting serious about this,” Patrick said.

“Too late. It’s already in the works. You should be thanking me. I found a job he can do without wearing a suit. What have you done besides taking over Joey’s accounts at work?”

Patrick was about to ask how Shep knew about him taking over Joey’s client list, when Joey spoke up. “What’s the problem, Obrien? You seem upset.”

“What’s the problem? You as a church leader! You’re not even remotely religious. Do you even believe in God?”

Joey took a bite of his cookie. “I dunno.”

Patrick turned to Shep. “Did you hear that? Joey doesn’t even know if he believes in God. Can’t you see it would be unethical for him to pursue this?”

Shep laughed. “Ethics? Is it ethical for a priest to rape an altar boy? Is it ethical for a so-called minister of God to take money from the poor and then spend it on hookers and drugs? With all these corrupt church leaders out there, I say we could do a lot worse than Joey. Why should those assholes get all that money?”

Patrick sighed. “This is like making him race cars for a living when he doesn’t know how to drive.”

“So what? Why are you so pious all of a sudden? Do you believe in God, Obrien?”

“Of course I believe in God.”

“I don’t think you do. You just want your name in that hat in case you find it’s all true when you die. You think you’re contributing to some divine 401K plan.”

Patrick laughed. “You don’t just start a church, Shep. What’s Joey going to do? Put an ad in the paper? ‘Aspiring church leader seeks small cult of followers for possible tax evasion’. You’re wasting your time. Even the cheesiest of ministers have to work for years to gather up a following. And I know you assholes aren’t that patient.”

His friends went silent, and Patrick smiled smugly. He had them there. They hadn’t thought this nonsense through. And he suspected they weren’t fully committed to it anyway. Shep had cooked up various schemes over the years, but always with a direct path to personal gain. This one wasn’t guaranteed to bring any positive outcome; there was little surety donation money would amount to anything, and even the prospect of dodging taxes was questionable at best.

Finally, Shep nodded. “You’re right, Obrien. You’re absolutely right. It would be impossible to gain a following overnight. It would take a miracle.”

Joey’s mouth sprayed coffee all over the table as he fell into giggles. Shep laughed with him. Patrick looked back and forth between them. “Oh no. What are you guys planning?”

“Just a little divine intervention. To get the ball rolling,” Shep said.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of divine intervention?”

Joey smiled up at him, his chin painted with chocolate. “A miracle’s going to happen. It’s gonna be cool.”

That was the second time in minutes Joey had used that phrase. It’s gonna be cool. Two days in Shep’s world and he already sounded dumber. Patrick shook his head. “What are you guys telling me here? That you’re going to fake a miracle?”

There was a long pause. Joey and Shep looked at each other. Then Joey looked up. “Uh-huh.”

Shep nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Patrick opened his mouth to berate them, but then he paused, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What? Like a burning bush or something?”

“Something like that,” Shep said, and drained his coffee. “I already spoke with Russell and Craig. They’ve agreed to help us.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Russell and Craig? Oh no. Shep, don’t tell me you’re funding those guys.”

Shep shrugged, but said nothing.

Russell and Craig were a couple of video technicians they’d met in college. They were twin brothers, one gay, the other straight. Craig was the straight one, and he was an uptight pain in the ass. Russell was the gay one, and he was nice as pie, though it wasn’t clear if this was a fabricated personality exhibited for Shep’s sake. Russell seemed to think Shep was some kind of hero. Patrick always thought the twins looked like the defective clones of Buddy Holly, with their thick black glasses and wiry dark hair. Patrick hadn’t known them all that well but Shep still kept in touch. They’d developed a sort of Mickey Mouse special effects company, an expensive hobby mostly.

Most of their energy was spent faking bullshit U.F.O. sightings for the pure thrill of fooling people. Joey had fondly dubbed them ‘The Hoax Patrol’. The goon platoon was more like it. Russell and Craig’s services, however pointless, did not come cheap. So Shep was already dumping cash into this. Patrick asked himself why. There had to be more to it, something he was missing. Shep did enjoy wasting his time when fun was involved. But he’d never go to these lengths for something without a definitive gain in sight, a clear path to some reward.

Some piece of the puzzle eluded Patrick. Or was being kept from him.

“Russell has the design worked out already. We’re meeting at my house tomorrow to set it up. Are you in, Obrien?” Shep looked at him hopefully.

“No I am not in! This is a monumental waste of time, childish, and doomed to fail, not that that’s ever concerned you.”

“He may be right, Shep.” Joey was flipping through one of the books on the table. “I never paid attention in church and stopped going when I was like nine. How do you expect me to learn all this crap?”

“You don’t have to learn it all,” Shep said. “Just enough to convince people that she spoke to you if it comes to it.”

Patrick stiffened. “Convince people that who spoke to him?”

Shep eyed him innocently. “The apparition. Possibly the Virgin Mary, but we’re leaving it open to interpretation. I figure any glowing woman can be linked to similar icons within the various religious communities. Doesn’t matter what faith it is, everyone’s got a goddess somewhere in their scriptures.”

Patrick’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“We’re gonna target Christians mainly of course. A ton of them have gone batshit crazy lately anyway, it’s the perfect pool to fish in. But like I said, we’re not targeting strictly Christians. We’ll keep the miracle vague enough to cross religious borders, keep the lines blurry so we can cast a wide net.”

“Oh, no. You guys can’t do that. The Virgin Mary? That’s sacrilege, man.” Patrick fingered the small gold cross that hung from his neck, a confirmation gift from his mother.

“Obrien is right,” Joey said. “Look at me. Nobody is going to take spiritual advice from some former corporate nobody. I’ll be lucky if I can scare up even the smallest cult, and that’s not worth the energy.”

“No, Joey. You’re wrong. Don’t you get it? That’s exactly why they will listen to you! You’re the average Joe, like them. You’re not like those phonies who try preaching to them.”

Patrick laughed. “He’s not?”

“Think about it. Whenever there’s a U.F.O. sighting or something of that nature, it’s always some toothless yahoo standing in a cornfield that reports it. Everyone figures the damn hick’s been hitting the moonshine. And supposed religious apparitions only happen in postage stamp sized countries halfway across the world, and the only witnesses are a bunch of hooded peasants. This will be a whole new arena with a whole new audience.”

Patrick cleared his throat deliberately. “Cairo.”

Shep frowned. “What?”

“Cairo, Egypt. The Virgin Mary appeared on top of a church there. I think it was back in the nineteen seventies. Hundreds of people witnessed it, and it was recorded on film. Cairo isn’t exactly a one-horse town, Shepherd.”

Shep narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, Obrien. I know where fucking Cairo is. My point is that Joey is an intelligent urban professional, and he has all of his teeth to boot. This is Boston, a cultural modern city. This is the hub, man! It will be a whole different reaction if something like that happens here.”

Patrick took a seat at the table and sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s say Russell and Craig create a masterpiece apparition. What makes you think people in this so-called modern cultural city would even care? Why would people in the information age give a shit about miracle apparitions?”

“Because, Obrien, people will always fear death, no matter how many computer chips we manufacture. It’s human nature. That’s why there’s been an uptick in religious fervor, because shit in the world has been scarier than usual lately. And as long as people fear death, they’ll keep an eye out for that small flicker of proof that there’s something more to this dismal existence.”

“But Shepherd—”

“People want this, Obrien. Not all of them, sure, but enough. They’re tired of health crises and economic recessions and war. They want fantasy. They want magic. And we’re going to give it to them.”

Patrick shook his head. “Most people want reality, not magic.”

“And we’re gonna get those people onboard too!” Shep said. “At least some of them. Because we’re going to make Joey as real as it gets. He’s going to be Mr. John Q. Public. He could be your neighbor, your brother, your friend, or your son.”

“So then what? You think people are just going to believe him because he looks wholesome and used to work a dull office job?”

“No. People are going to believe him because he’s going to refuse to talk about the incident after.”

Joey looked up from his coffee cup. “Why do I refuse to talk?”

“Because after the apparition appears to you, everyone is going to assume it’s a hoax. They’ll be just waiting for you to start exploiting it. Instead, you behave as if the whole thing freaked you out and you don’t want to talk about it,” Shep said.

“Therefore he becomes more credible,” Patrick said softly, nodding. His stomach turned cold as Shep’s logic started to make a twisted sort of sense. “He doesn’t try to capitalize on it, so people start to wonder if maybe the apparition was genuine.”

Shep pointed a finger at Patrick. “Right! So what happens next? The local media gets hungry, the way they always do when someone shuts them out. Their only recourse is to dig up Joey’s past and try to put together some sort of story. And what do they discover about this mystery man? Joey Duvaine was recently fired from his job right after his father’s funeral. Joey Duvaine has recently lost his entire family to untimely tragedy. Downtrodden and kicked around harder than Job himself, Joey Duvaine…” Shep did a drum roll on the table with his fingers. “…is a man who has lost his faith in life.”

Patrick buried his head in his hands. “Oh, God.” He tried to imagine Shep’s brilliant insanity working alongside Joey’s power to influence people. Pepper that with Joey’s financial wizardry and Shep’s endless supply of cash…. “So what you’re telling me, is that you’re going to exploit the recent misery of your best friend.”

Shep grinned. “We’re gonna exploit the shit out of him.”

Patrick stood. “I’m going home now, boys. Good luck with your miracle.”

“Obrien, wait! I need you to be part of this,” Shep said.

“You’re insane, Shep.”

“That’s beside the point. I want you to be in on this. If it works out, we could all get rich.”

“You’re already rich! So is Joey! And if you’re so concerned about my financial state, then why don’t you just support me?”

“I have enough cash to support one irresponsible lifestyle, and that’s my own. Besides. Joey is losing the beach house.”

This got Patrick’s attention. “Joey? Is that true?”

Joey nodded. “I guess old pops made some bad financial decisions while he was on the sauce. I have to sell the Forest Bluffs house just to pay off his debts.”

“You are not losing that beach house, Joey!” Shep said. “This plan is going to work, and none of us will have to worry about things like money and taxes.”

Patrick looked at him, incredulous. “Why is it so important to you that we all become just like you, Shepherd? That we all adopt your lifestyle? I mean, why is that?”

Shep cast his eyes downward, his long blond lashes brushing his cheekbones. “I hate it when you guys go to work,” he said. “I get bored.”

Patrick stared at his friend. “That is touching, Shep, but I have no intention on putting my reputation and my future career prospects on the line simply because you get bored sometimes. I’m out of here.”

Again Patrick started for the door and again Shep jumped in front of him. “Come to my house tomorrow. You don’t have to commit, just watch. Russell and Craig are coming over with the equipment.”

“Tomorrow? Easter Sunday. Even your timing is inappropriate.”

“Come on, Obrien. Just come over to watch. Joey said he won’t come unless you do.”

Patrick glanced over at Joey, who smiled at him. His impossibly handsome face was completely covered with chocolate.

“Look at him, Obrien. He’s pathetic. He needs you.”

“I am pathetic,” Joey added humorously.

Patrick felt the Shep Factor kicking in again. Reluctantly, he agreed to meet them at Shep’s house the following morning. He was willing to watch the comedy unfold, as long as the outcome was failure. If at some future date this contrivance of theirs actually succeeded, then he was out. That nagging instinct to start distancing himself from these two was niggling at him again. Maybe it was just that Patrick was growing up, and Joey and Shep were determined not to. Or maybe it was more complicated than that. Either way, they were both beginning to weird him out.

He was heading for the door when he paused and turned back. “Hey Joey. Why can’t you just go into politics? You can still use your power to influence people. You can embezzle money, and you can lie your ass off. In politics, people expect that sort of corruption.”

Joey frowned at him. “Obrien, be serious. I’d have to wear a suit.”

Patrick decided to skip telling Joey what Henry Donnelly said about him. Clearly, he had moved on.

Chapter Five

Boston liked to deem itself a modern, booming metropolis, but a space shortage kept it confined in layered clusters, having to raise bridges and dig tunnels rather than expanding outward. Some of the wealthiest neighborhoods sat just a block or two from the poorest. The elite would have had it otherwise if they could, but there was only so much Boston to go around.

Shep lived in one of the older affluent neighborhoods, where eighteenth century brick held stubborn ground. A stone fortress with stained glass windows, Shep’s home stood high on a cul-de-sac at the end of a private way. One wouldn’t associate the house with someone like Shep, if one were inclined to judge by appearances, as most of Shep’s neighbors were.

Shep was a gossip target amongst the residents sharing the posh lane. They were terminally curious as to where this raggedy character got his money. Shep enjoyed letting them wonder. They’d stare out their windows as he mowed his lawn, shirtless, stopping periodically to swill a beer. Shep would catch them peeking and wave enthusiastically. They’d offer him a curt nod, then run for cover, lest they be forced to converse with this strange inhabitant, who mowed his own lawn instead of hiring a landscaper like the rest of the civilized world.

The neighbors would be at their windows today, Patrick thought as he pulled into the driveway behind Russell and Craig’s big white box truck. He got out of his car and headed toward the back yard. A spindly man with short black hair appeared from around back and bounded down the driveway with a cable wire in his hand, black frames supporting thick eyeglass lenses. Patrick watched as he cranked open the rear door of the box truck then rummaged around, re-emerging with a longer snake of cable. He looked up as Patrick approached. It was one of the Buddy Holly clones, but Patrick wasn’t sure which one. The clone smiled. “How ya doing, Patrick? Long time no see.”

Definitely Russell. Craig would not have said hello. “Hey, Russell, good to see you.”

“You look good. Barely aged a day since college.”

“Thanks, you too.”

Russell nodded, then sprinted off past the garage, disappearing behind the house where the cellar entrance was. No time for chit chat, the great Melvin Eugene Shepherd required his assistance.

Patrick lifted the bulkhead door and made his way down into Shep’s gigantic basement. While he was expecting some sort of mayhem, he was overwhelmed by the commotion in the space below. Huge adjustable lights ran along the perimeter of the floor, illuminating the barrage of electronic equipment in the center. Patrick saw computer monitors, cameras, metal standing boards covered with impressive looking switches, and something that looked like a laser.

Craig, the nastier twin, was hovering over one of these boards. His hair had grown since Patrick last saw him, the short style given over to an unruly mess of shoulder-length black waves, and unlike Russell, Craig no longer wore glasses. At least now Patrick could tell them apart. Patrick supposed that Russell was the prettier twin, but they were nearly identical.

Joey sat in the corner of the basement on an electric heater, reading The Holy Bible. It was a curious image, Joey in his Brooks Brothers sweater and Rolex watch, puffing on a joint while trying to absorb a millennium of Christianity in Shep’s dusty basement.

Shep stood behind Craig, watching him fuss with the equipment. He spotted Patrick and waved him over. “Obrien! You made it. Good. We’re almost ready. Come here for a minute. You have got to see this stuff.”

Patrick moved reluctantly toward the cluster of electronics, nearly tripping over Russell, who crawled along the floor in a tangle of wires. Craig looked up as Patrick approached, his usual sour expression pinching his face. “Shepherd, I thought this was a confidential project. How many more people did you invite?”

“He’s the last one, Craig. And if you weren’t such a rude prick, you’d remember that you know Obrien from college, and he’s one of my best friends.”

Craig made a fake smile on one side of his mouth, then dropped it. “Hello, Obrien.”

Patrick nodded.

Shep was on to showing Patrick the electronics, huge green eyes lit with excitement. “Do you see this stuff? This is state of the art! Craig says nobody in New England has equipment like this. Isn’t that right, Craig?”

“That’s right, Shepherd. Now, could you please ask your large friend not to lean on the beam splitter? It’s worth more than his life.”

Patrick looked down and realized he had his hand rested on some piece of high-tech looking equipment. “Oh. Sorry.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“These guys have quite the operation. Here, watch this.” Shep reached for one of the switches but Craig caught his wrist.

“Please don’t touch that, Shepherd. It is not a toy.”

“Okay, then you show him,” Shep snapped, rubbing his wrist. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him and it showed.

Craig turned away, giving Shep his back. “I’m trying to work here. Your insistence on playing with everything is wasting time.”

Shep grabbed Craig’s arm. “I’m paying you a lot of money for your time, Craig, and if I want to waste it, I will. Do we understand each other?”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Sure. You’re the boss.”

Shep smiled. “Okay then. Now show my friend Patrick the cool little floating thing, before I get pissed off and pull my money from the project.”

Craig sighed, then flipped a couple of switches while he played with a black dial on the standing board. A round, three-dimensional object materialized in the corner of the basement. The image stretched from ceiling to floor, and was saucer shaped. Craig made a few adjustments, and the saucer shrank to the size of a Frisbee. It hovered above the floor, swaying rhythmically from side to side, then it disappeared. “It will only hold stable for a short time,” Craig said.

“Who cares, it’s so cool!” Shep jumped up and down, clapping. “Did you see it, Obrien? Instant UFO!”

Patrick was impressed, but reluctant to give Craig the satisfaction. “It would never fool anyone,” he said with a shrug.

Craig sneered at Patrick. “Oh really? It fooled close to three hundred people in a small town in Maine last year. Even got a write up in one of the national papers.” Patrick frowned, and Craig turned away before he could say anything further. Joey mumbled in the corner, his nose still buried in the bible. The sight of him sitting on the electric heater like some misfit theology student was disorienting. In fact this was all disorienting. Joey, the twins, flying saucers and bibles. Shep and Joey had always been eccentric, it was part of their charm. But now they just seemed nuts, and it was getting less cute with each passing day.

As if in support of this madness, Kelinda appeared at the foot of the stairs. She wore a silky white nightgown that fell to her ankles. Patrick gasped when he saw her. The nightgown was sheer, showing a perfect outline of her slim form. Her chestnut hair tumbled like silk onto her bare arms. “No, Kelinda!” Shep yelled from across the room. “I told you, I need you to be naked! Craig is going to white out your privates.”

Kelinda put her hands on her hips. “And I told you, Shepherd, that I’m not going to do this naked. If Craig can white out my privates, then he can white out the nightgown.”

Patrick stared at Shep. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Shep pointed his thumb at Craig. “Craig refused to provide the model for the apparition. We had to come up with a Virgin Mary practically overnight.”

Craig sighed. “As I told Shepherd, this is a confidential project. If I provide the model for the goddess, and she squawks about it at a later date, then I become liable for ruining the project. This way, Shep is liable if she talks.”

Patrick didn’t know Kelinda well yet, but had it been his choice, he wouldn’t have involved her. He looked at Shep. “Why Kelinda?”

Shep shrugged. “Kelinda looks young, innocent, beautiful, and she has the right hair.”

“You said she looks like a cartoon.”

“I never said it was a bad thing, Obrien. She’s a very pretty cartoon.”

“I think she’s amazing.” Craig stared dreamily across the room at Kelinda.

Joey grumbled in the corner, then tossed the bible onto the floor. “I can’t read any more of this shit! There’s too many begats. Who gives a fuck who begat who? And why are there so many goats?”

Patrick felt like he was suffocating, about to have an anxiety attack or something. “Shep, could I see you outside please?”

Shep seemed to see the desperation in his eyes. “Sure, Obrien. Outside.” He turned to the twins. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Be ready. We’re going to do this.”

They passed Kelinda on their way out. She smiled. “Hi, Patrick.”

“Hi, Kelinda.” His eyes flicked to her breasts, plainly visible under the flimsy silk nightgown. In her hand she held a white veil. He forced his eyes to look away, and followed Shep up the bulkhead steps.

He and Shep stepped outside and stood on the driveway beside the garage doors. Patrick took deep breaths, regaining his calm, while Shep paced impatiently, then finally threw his hands up. “What?”

“Just tell me why you wanted me here. And don’t say Joey needs me. Joey hasn’t even noticed I’m here.”

“Fine. I need you to stand guard outside while we do the filming. Make sure nobody comes in.”

“I see. I’m the bouncer at this little circus.”

“Well you can’t be inside because you get all freaked out about the religion thing.”

“Why are you wasting your time with this? Nobody reasonable is gonna fall for it.”

“Who said we were targeting reasonable people? Fraud is easy if you can manipulate the human beings willing to be manipulated. And trust me, that’s my area of expertise.”

“Joey doesn’t even want to do this, I can tell. He’s already annoyed down there, and he’s barely had to do anything yet. And what about the people you want to con with this thing? Old people? Naïve people? You want to take their money; that’s what this is all about, after all. Do you care about anyone but yourself?”

“I care about you and Joey! I love you guys.”

“And I love you, but come on, Shep. Don’t you care about other people at all?”

“Strangers? No. Fuck em if they’re stupid enough to fall for a con. Buyer beware. I’m doing this to make life better for the three of us. You could be getting so much more out of life, you’re just too stupid to realize it.”

Angry blood stung Patrick’s cheeks at the ‘stupid’ comment. It bothered him that Joey and Shep were smarter than he was, and Shep knew it. In college, Patrick had to struggle, studying late into the night just to pull off decent grades. Joey and Shep would smoke pot and watch cartoons all morning, then go ace their chemistry tests in the afternoon.

He almost took the bait, but forced himself to calm. Shep was merely trying to enrage him so they could get off the subject. “That’s crap,” he said. “You’re taking advantage of Joey at a bad time. I think maybe your money is running out. You’re going to put Joey in the public eye like some puppet on your knee while you suck up the proceeds. You’re going to pimp out your best friend, who’s grieving right now.”

“Don’t be jealous. I would have pimped you out, but you’re not as pretty as Joey. Face it, Obrien. I’m the brains, Joey is the beauty, and you’re the brawn.”

Patrick flushed. “You little prick! You think you’re the only one with intelligence around here.”

“No, I’m just the only one with balls enough to use it.”

“You call this balls? I call this cowardice. I call it immaturity. Why don’t you get a job, Shep? You talk about my life? You’re so bored with yours that you have to invent these elaborate schemes to make yourself feel useful.”

Shep’s smirk dropped, and was replaced by something cold. Patrick’s instinct was to take a step back, but he held his ground. “You don’t understand me at all,” Shep said through gritted teeth. “Don’t insult me by presuming you do.”

“Bullshit, I’ve known you for ten years. We see each other almost every day.”

“You don’t understand what I had to overcome long before we met. You couldn’t possibly understand. I need this. You don’t seem to need a damn thing. You’re just happy with your boring life and your boring job and all your…simplicity.”

Patrick felt his anger rising, reaching the point where he should shut his mouth before he said something he regretted. But before he knew it, he was doing just that. “Oh, so sorry to bore you, Shep. Sorry I had a normal childhood, God forbid. Maybe if I’d been abused or if my entire family died I’d be able to relate to you guys. Maybe if my daddy branded me with a horseshoe I’d have earned the right to act like a fucking lunatic all the time!”

As soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. He was about to apologize, but it was too late. Shep came at Patrick like a streak of tie-dyed lightning and shoved him. Patrick flew backward, slamming down hard onto the driveway. Shep jumped on top of him and soon they were rolling around, trying to kill each other. The sound of footsteps clomped on the cellar stairs, and then Joey was there, tearing them off of each other, pleading with them to stop. They disengaged, panting and flushed with blood. “I’m sorry, Shep,” Patrick said first. “I was way out of line. I didn’t mean it.”

Breathing heavily, Shep looked at him for a long time. Finally, he walked over and took Patrick’s hand, holding it tight. “Yes, you were out of line. But I was baiting you, and I’m sorry too.” Shep backed away and cocked his head, looking serious. “I know what I’m doing here. I do. You have to trust me. Okay?”

It was not okay, but Patrick nodded anyway. He was still feeling bad about the horseshoe comment.

Shep gave him a simple set of instructions. Guard the door, and don’t let anyone into the basement. Patrick asked if there were any exceptions, like if Robin stopped by, for instance. “Robin is not involved,” Shep said. “It’s nothing personal. The fewer people that know about this, the better, that’s all. Kelinda has been sworn to secrecy, and I trust the twins. Nobody gets to that cellar door. Okay?”

Patrick agreed, and Shep sprinted off to finish his project. When he was gone, Joey turned to Patrick. “Are you okay, Obrien? I don’t want to do this if it bothers you that much.”

He looked into Joey’s wolfen eyes, seeing sincerity in them. Joey seemed genuinely concerned about Patrick’s feelings, so maybe this was the moment to get through to him, while Shep wasn’t around to jump in and control the conversation. Patrick wondered if Joey was seeing things straight right now or if his mind was mixed up by grief. Despite a few eccentricities, Joey had always had a fairly rational outlook. Of course, Joey had exhibited evidence that he’d become a bit unhinged lately.

“Joey, do you want to be known as some religious con? Because if this gets public attention, that’s what you’ll be known as. Forever.”

Joey looked down at his feet. “What have I got to lose? My reputation? That went out the door at Monty’s when I attacked my boss, and it’ll come up any time I try to get a job reference. Plus, I hate my profession. I hated working at Parker Investments. Sorry, I know you like it, but I don’t. Problem is I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You can do anything you want, Joey.”

Joey looked up at him and smiled. “So you keep telling me. I only wish I had the same faith in myself that you have.”

Patrick stepped forward. “Promise me you won’t go through with it.”

Joey blinked. “What do you mean? The twins are already here. And you saw Shep. He’s wild.”

“I don’t mean today. Finish this fiasco if you must. I mean when the time comes, if the time comes, to actually use this apparition thing. To put you in the spotlight. Tell Shep you won’t do it. Let him do it himself if he’s so gung-ho to start a church. You don’t need to be his front man.”

Joey looked down and sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I don’t like to disappoint Shep. I know how that sounds. But you don’t understand. Shep would give his life for me. As twisted as this is, he really thinks he’s helping me. If I shoot him down, he’ll be crushed.”

“Joey, listen to me. I know you’ve lost a lot. I can’t imagine what that’s been like. But if you hand over your dignity, then you’ve truly lost everything.”

It was a tad dramatic, but at the moment it seemed the right thing to say. If he had to go a little overboard to sway Joey’s logic, so be it. It seemed to have the desired effect, as Joey looked conflicted by the statement. He chewed on his lower lip, kicking the ground. “Okay. When it comes time to stage the miracle, I won’t go through with it. I’ll tell Shep no.”

Patrick let out a sigh of relief. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Joey laughed. “Shep’s gonna be pretty pissed off.”

“He’ll get over it,” Patrick said.

“Yes, I suppose he will. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to watch the making of a miracle.”

Patrick relaxed outside, leaning against the garage while the others were doing God knew what in the basement. He hadn’t been filled in, but assumed they were making a holographic image of Kelinda. Where and how Shep planned to use the image, Patrick didn’t know. If Joey kept his word, they wouldn’t be using it at all.

He reminded himself that he’d sworn not to be involved in this. Yet here he was, standing guard like some hired gorilla. He recalled the words he’d spoken to Shep less than two weeks ago, just before the blood-sharing pact. This is absolutely the last stupid thing I’ll do in the name of friendship. Or so he kept telling himself.

As if in response to his thoughts, the little scar above his wrist tingled.

Chapter Six

The blue and white striped shirt made Patrick look like a sailor on steroids, so he took it off. He stood in front of the closet trying to decide on an outfit, telling himself that a real man wouldn’t fret about what to wear on a date. He snatched up a black ribbed shirt from his dresser drawer and pulled it over his head. It accentuated his large shoulders, well-muscled chest, and smaller waist. It made his body look great. Perhaps too much so. He didn’t want Kelinda to think he was narcissistically showing off his physique. He frowned at his reflection and tore the black shirt off, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

He was about to dump the entire drawer onto the bed when his phone rang. He ran shirtless into the kitchen where he’d left it on the table, his insecurities assuring him it was Kelinda calling to cancel the date. It was not Kelinda on the phone, however. It was Shep, and he sounded hysterical.

“Obrien. Please. You’ve gotta help me.”

Patrick stiffened. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Joey. He took off. I wanted to stage the miracle, and he told me he didn’t want to do it anymore. I started screaming at him. Obrien…I lost my temper. Really lost it. I said awful…awful things, and now…” Shep paused, letting out a shivering breath.

So Joey had kept his word. Patrick was relieved, and more than a little surprised. He knew how hard it was to say no to Shep. “Calm down, Shep. Just tell me what happened.”

“You know how I am when I lose my temper. I didn’t mean it! I didn’t.”

“I know, and so does Joey. Whatever you said, he’ll forgive you. Just tell me what happened.”

“You were right. Joey’s still too vulnerable for the shit I was laying on him. He flipped out. Said he was going to be with his family and not to bother looking for him.”

“Going to be with his family? His family’s dead.”

“I know his fucking family’s dead! I’m just telling you what he said!”

Patrick had to pull the phone away from his head to avoid an eardrum puncture from Shep’s voice. His heart thudded, prepping for panic. “Maybe he meant Robin, or one of the aunts.”

“I checked. I even called Aunt Betsy, who hates me. They haven’t seen him. They’re not the family he meant. He meant his dead family. Fuck!”

“You’re not saying he’s going to do something stupid. You don’t think he meant suicide?”

He heard sniffing sounds, like Shep might be crying. “I’m not sure. I went to his apartment but he’s not there. I’m freaked, Obrien. I don’t know what to do.”

Patrick’s mind churned, then an idea surfaced. “Wait a minute. Going to be with his family? Maybe he meant he was going down to the cemetery.”

Shep sniffed. “Do you think so? You think that’s where he went?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Patrick said. “I’m closer to the Lady of Grace cemetery, so I’ll take a ride down there. You don’t sound too calm right now, so you stay put. I’ll have my phone with me. Call me if you hear from him first.”

“Okay. Thanks, Obrien.”

After pulling on a dingy gray tee shirt, he called Kelinda and explained the situation. He was thankful that Kelinda knew Joey. Any other girl wouldn’t have bought the old ‘My friend is really upset and I have to go save him’ excuse. He promised to call her later with an update on the ongoing saga of Joey losing his mind.

****

The sun had set, but the sky maintained a dampened twilight. Patrick tugged on the cemetery gates and found them locked. Determining that the falling darkness was on his side, he glanced around, then hoisted himself up over the gate, landing with a thud on the gravel path inside. There was an instant where he pondered the spookiness of being in a graveyard after dark, but he brushed the thought away. It was corpses he was afraid of, not tombstones. As long as the bodies were covered with six feet of dirt and a big rock, he was okay.

He walked among the rows of stones, disoriented and having trouble locating the Duvaine grave, which was pathetic since he’d been to it three times in under a year. Using Saint Mary’s church next door as a landmark, he faced the road and got his bearings, then headed down an aisle that felt familiar.

Using his phone’s flashlight, he dropped to one knee and read one of the headstones. It was not the Duvaine grave. Then something caught his eye in the next row over, a splash of red at the base of a stone. He scrambled over and picked up Joey’s red windbreaker, left lying at the head of the Duvaine grave. Decaying flowers littered the grass, and the scent of freshly dug earth still lingered in the cool night air.

Patrick unzipped the front pocket and found Joey’s keys and wallet. He’d been here. He had to still be here somewhere. “Joey!” he called out, but only crickets answered. He replaced the wallet and keys, and ran down the aisle of stones with Joey’s jacket in hand.

“Joey! This isn’t funny. Call out if you hear me!”

He headed for the gate, intending to search the nearby road for Joey’s car. As he swung his body over the top of the gate, he caught sight of something on top of Saint Mary’s church next door. It was Joey. He was sitting on the edge of the roof with his legs dangling over. Patrick gasped and landed off balance on the other side of the fence. “Shit!”

He broke into a sprint. The new moon cast a soft glow on Joey’s silhouette. As Patrick reached the church lawn, he saw a small huddle of spectators. They craned their necks upward. “Is he going to jump?” he heard one of them say. The words sent Patrick into an adrenaline-driven frenzy, and he raced for the front doors.

“Don’t move, Joey!” he screamed. “I’m coming to get you!”

Joey didn’t seem to hear him. His head hung limp on his neck. Only his feet moved, dangling gently in the open air. Patrick tried the front doors and found them locked. He ran to check the other doors, guessing that Joey had gotten up there from somewhere inside the church. The side doors were locked as well, so he moved around to the rear of the building. He tugged on the locked back door, growling in frustration. Behind him was a tiny house connected to the church by an awning, but its windows were dark and lifeless. Patrick ran back and pounded on the little door anyway. “Help me!” he yelled. “I need to get inside the church!”

Getting no response, he ran back around front to make sure Joey hadn’t gone plummeting to his death. Joey hadn’t moved, but the crowd on the lawn was gaining in size. Patrick examined the front of the building, where statues of angels and saints and olive leaves interrupted the thick gray stones. The decorative architecture stretched upward to the roof, where a band of cherubs blew horns across the front. Patrick grabbed onto an olive branch and began to climb.

He stepped on the cherubs’ heads, clung to their horns, pulling himself upward toward the waiting rooftop. He said a prayer that the flimsy architecture would be good enough to hold his weight. The voices of the crowd below escalated, thrilled anew by Patrick’s daring climb. He was barely aware of them. His only focus was on saving Joey. He felt no fear, which was odd since he was usually terrified of heights.

Finally reaching the top, he rolled himself onto the roof. Joey sat on the ledge a few yards away, gazing trance-like at the ground below. “Joey?” he said softly, wary of startling him. Joey didn’t move. Patrick hunched down on all fours and crawled toward him, figuring he could sneak up behind and pull him to safety. He’d worry about Joey’s mental state later. It was his physical state that was in danger at the moment.

A flash of white light exploded onto the roof, momentarily blinding him. Patrick’s first thought was that it must be a spotlight from a police helicopter. But no sound accompanied the brightness. He shielded his eyes and tried to focus. When his vision cleared, he saw Joey standing safely inside the ledge, one arm thrown somewhat dramatically over his eyes. The light was concentrated in a beam at the corner of the roof, and there was something visible within the beam. To his horror, Patrick realized what he was seeing.

There was a woman in that beam of light, three-dimensional yet transparent. Light shot out of her as if she’d swallowed the sun. The flowing gown and veil disappeared into a shimmering haze at her waist. And her face. Her sweet face was Kelinda’s. It was Shep’s miracle, projected onto the rooftop somehow.

“Son of a bitch!” Patrick gaped at the luminous being. Then the apparition was gone, disappeared, as though it had never been. He heard a unified “ooh!” from the crowd below.

Joey collapsed onto the rooftop.

* * * *

Copie couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the guy sitting on the roof of the church. He’d been wandering the streets all day with two cameras, snapping photos of bullshit because he couldn’t find anything decent. His photography teacher had given them the mundane assignment of finding something “real” to take pictures of. Copie already knew what his creatively challenged colleagues would come back with. There would be elderly couples feeding pigeons in the park, mothers pushing strollers, and of course a few shots from the hood.

Being black himself, Copie found it grievous that so many white students thought pictures of inner-city black people walking to the market were somehow “gritty”. He supposed the shots of homeless white drunks lying on the sidewalk were no better, but they seemed to like those as well. Copie wanted to find something that would outshine the crap his fellow photography students would come to class with. He looked up as the apparition materialized in a luminous flash. Oh yes. This would outshine them all right.

He snapped a picture, and heard the familiar whizzing that said he was out of film. “Damn it!”

One shot of this thing was not enough. Snatching the second camera, he fired shot after shot of the glowing woman. The apparition disappeared quickly, but not quick enough. Success! Copie grinned. Including the one he took with the first camera, he’d gotten at least six shots of the thing.

He chuckled as he picked his backpack up off the ground. The apparition was clearly some sort of hoax. But it didn’t matter. Copie was in the right place at the right time, and it was interesting and unique. It was a hell of a lot better than old people feeding pigeons in the park, so it had better earn him a top grade.

Somebody took hold of his arm with a steel grip. Copie spun around and looked into the cold eyes of a stranger. He was of medium height with chin length curly hair the color of sand. His face was young, but the wide green eyes looked older. Copie tried to pull away, but the stranger held his arm firm. “Hey, what the—”

“Give me that,” the stranger said, and yanked Copie’s camera from his hand. He let go of Copie’s arm and headed off toward the street. Copie ran after him.

“Hey, Asshole! That’s my camera!”

The stranger shoved Copie hard, sending him back onto his ass. When Copie recovered himself, the thief was gone. “Shit!” He rubbed his elbow, then climbed to his feet and retrieved his backpack, feeling the weight of his other camera as he lifted it. Remembering that he’d gotten off that first shot of the apparition before running out of film, he smiled. The loss of the other camera hurt, but the one in his bag was his favorite anyway, an oldie but a goodie he’d inherited from his uncle when he died. And one picture was better than no pictures.

At least he had his homework done. He only prayed the picture would come out good. The camera had a nice big zoom lens, and the shot had looked tight and clear to Copie’s eyes, so fingers crossed.

“Excuse me, kid.” A squirrelly man with a cheesy moustache appeared at his side. Copie jumped, thinking his assailant was back to take the other camera. “Take it easy, I’m Kevin Wright with the Globe.” He flashed Copie a press pass. “I saw that nice camera you were snapping pictures with when I pulled up. Are you with the press?”

“No,” Copie said, brushing himself off. “I’m a student.” He turned his back and started to walk away.

“Hey, hold on a minute! Did you get any shots of the apparition?”

Copie stopped and turned back. The reporter had that hungry look, like he’d happily torture you to death if it got him the story. Copie was too tired for this shit right now. He’d been walking around for hours, and just wanted to go home and relax with a beer. “Ask someone else, man, there was a crowd by the church.”

“I already did. Everyone with cell phones got the same image, just a big blob of light. Couldn’t make out detail. I was hoping maybe yours came out better, since it looked like you were using film.”

“I don’t know.”

The reporter pulled out his wallet. “I’ll pay you for that camera. And the film you took.” He held out three twenties.

“Sorry, the camera is a family heirloom. Not for sale.”

The guy added another twenty to the pile, giving Copie a smug smile, like he was some big spender. “Just the film then?”

If Copie really did have the only clear photo of the apparition, it might be worth far more than this twitchy asshole was offering. “Actually, I didn’t get any shots of it,” he lied. “I’ve been taking pictures all day and had run out of film.”

The phony pleasant smile dropped from the reporter’s face. Copie had just become useless to him. “Damn it! Is the jumper still on the roof?”

“You’re too late. His buddy climbed up there to get him. It’s over.”

The reporter looked up at the rooftop, pulling his own camera out of a shoulder pouch. “Maybe I can catch them coming out. Thanks kid.” He took off toward the church and Copie gave him the finger behind his back. He didn’t like being referred to as “kid”. Whistling, he moved off and headed toward the bus stop.

* * * *

Joey was slumped on the rooftop a few feet away. Patrick ran over, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking. Joey’s head wobbled on his neck, his eyes two slivers of white beneath parted lids. It was an act. Had to be. Enraged, Patrick slapped him hard on the face. Joey didn’t react. “Get up you son of a bitch! I know you hear me, Joey. Get up!”

Joey’s eyes focused for a moment. He looked at Patrick, mumbled something incoherent, then seemingly passed out. Patrick shook him again, but it was like manhandling a rag doll. He supposed he could give Joey the benefit of the doubt. Joey could be a victim, a pawn in Shep’s game. But no. Even Shep wouldn’t take advantage of Joey while he was suicidal. The whole thing was a premeditated dramatization. And Patrick had played his part well. But those thoughts would have to wait. He had to get them out of there before the police showed up for real.

“Okay, Joey, I’ll get you out of here. But I know you’re faking, and fuck you. Do you hear me? Fuck you!” Joey didn’t respond. Patrick hoisted him up and swung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He headed toward a set of cement stairs visible in the corner. “I cancelled a date for this shit, Joey. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a date? You damn well better be unconscious.”

He had to stop halfway down the stairwell to slide Joey off his cramping shoulder. After a minute’s rest, he picked Joey up like a baby and carried him the rest of the way. The stairs led to a narrow hallway at the rear of the church, which led to a back exit. Patrick flicked the lock with his thumb and stepped out into the church parking lot. He spotted his car parked next to the gate alongside the graveyard, and he prayed his throbbing legs could carry Joey that far.

A flash of light hit him. He expected to see yet another of Russell and Craig’s blasphemous apparitions, but it was only a camera flash. A reporter. Patrick supposed he should be thankful there was only one of them. He could see by the crowd out front that Joey had gathered a lot of attention in a short time. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?” the man asked.

“No.” Patrick shoved past him. He ran for his car, quadriceps screaming as he struggled with Joey’s dead weight. He could hear the footfalls of the reporter behind him. He was actually chasing them.

“Hey!” the guy screamed. “Was he trying to kill himself? Did the apparition save him? Just tell me who he is! A name!”

Patrick picked up his pace, finally outrunning the little man even with Joey in tow. Tossing Joey into the back seat, he climbed behind the wheel, started the car, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. His tires sprayed gravel as he tore down the dirt road. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The reporter was standing in the center of the road, a sly, satisfied smile curling his lips. In one hand, he held Joey’s red windbreaker. In the other, Joey’s wallet. Patrick cursed loudly. He couldn’t go back now. Anyway, it was too late. The press had Joey’s name. It had begun.

Chapter Seven

Flames crackled in Shep’s huge stone fireplace and a bottle of champagne chilled in a metal bucket. Shep walked into the front room just as Patrick was dumping Joey onto the wooden floor. Joey sat up. “Jesus, Obrien! You could be a little gentler. Oh, and thanks for smacking me in the face. That really hurt.”

Patrick stood still as stone. “Fuck you, Joey.”

Shep tried handing Patrick a glass of champagne. He stood motionless, refusing to accept it.

“He’s pissed, Shepherd,” Joey said. “I told you he would be.”

Shep smiled sweetly at Patrick. “Come on, Obrien. Surely you can see why we had to keep you in the dark.”

“No, Shepherd. Surely I cannot.”

“It had to be believable! It had to look real! Obrien, you were so convincing. The way you climbed up the side of the church...pure genius.”

“He’s right, Obrien. You were incredible. You even got us out of there before the cops came. It was perfect.”

Patrick stared at them. “Perfect? Perfect. I could have been killed! I climbed that church because I thought Joey’s life was in danger!”

“But Obrien—’’

“Shut up, Shepherd! Just shut up!” Patrick took a deep breath, then pointed. “I have no words to describe the contempt I feel for the two of you right now. You have crossed the line of our friendship. You want to stage a freak show? Do it yourselves. You’re on your own. You’re on your own from now on.” Patrick left, slamming the door on his way out.

Shep sat down on his leather couch and took a sip of champagne. Joey stared at him, concern pinching his brows. “What are we gonna do?”

“Obrien will come around.”

Joey looked at the floor, then back up at Shep. “We need him.”

“I know that, Joey! I said he’d come around!” Shep stood and paced the room. “Damn it!” He hurled his glass into the fireplace where it smashed onto the bricks. They were both silent for a moment. Shep walked over to the window and watched Patrick’s car back out of the driveway, then tear down the street.

“How can you be sure he’ll come around?” Joey asked.

Shep whirled around. “Because he doesn’t have a choice! Does he, Joey?”

Joey ran a finger across the half-moon scar just above his wrist. “No. I guess he doesn’t.”

Chapter Eight

Somebody smelled really bad. Not that this was a novel occurrence on the public transit system. Patrick had experienced it enough times to turn it into a little game: locate the stinky passenger before the next stop. It passed the time. He was eager to keep his mind occupied this morning so he wouldn’t have to entertain unpleasant concepts, like translucent women glowing on top of churches.

He’d stopped by Kelinda’s place after leaving Shep’s the night before, still reeling from the incident. It took some doing for Kelinda to convince him she hadn’t been involved in the night’s theatrics. After the scorching betrayal by his two closest friends, he wasn’t sure what to believe. He’d also asked Kelinda point blank if she’d ever been in love with Joey. He’d been on a roll and too worked up to hold back.

She’d responded that she had in fact been in love with Joey once. When she was ten years old. The feeling had apparently dissipated when she saw him eat worms for money one day on the playground. Patrick told himself that he believed Kelinda, mainly because she kissed him while they were sitting on her couch. But the truth was he didn’t know who he trusted anymore.

Damn, somebody really stunk. A tangible layer of dirt mixed in with the standard waft of body odor. Patrick scanned the passengers. He studied a freshly scrubbed woman seated across the aisle, then let his eyes drift right to an old man wearing a rumpled sweater. His gray hair was clean and fluffy, his fingernails manicured. Not him. He glanced over at a set of teenagers with multiple body piercings. They looked strange, but they were all drinking Evian. People who drank designer water usually did not forget to bathe.

He turned his head to the left and found the culprit sitting on one of the individual chairs diagonally across the aisle. Oh yes. This was his man. He was young, perhaps in his twenties, and that was surprising. The stinkers were usually middle aged or older. The guy was visibly covered with dirt. A black greasy substance smeared his face, and his teeth were decorated with what looked like remnants of Oreo cookies. Curly black hair fell to his chin, split in an uneven part down the middle.

The hair looks like Shep’s. In fact, despite the dark hair color and disgusting hygiene, the guy looked a lot like Shep. They could have been brothers. This was unusual, since Shep had a unique look. It was also impossible, since Shep was an only child. The resemblance was uncanny, though. Underneath the grime, Patrick could see the large green eyes, long fringed lashes, and that perfect red bow of a pouty mouth that gave Shep his deceptive air of innocence.

The stranger looked up at Patrick, his big round eyes a shade darker than Shep’s, like emeralds against the greasy camouflage of filth. Patrick sucked his breath in. The facial structure was slightly different from Shep’s, but the entire package was strikingly similar.

Having been caught staring, Patrick lowered his gaze to the floor. He opted to dismiss the matter of the vagrant. The guy probably didn’t look that much like Shep after all. Patrick was merely preoccupied with thoughts of his friends. Was he going to start seeing Joey and Shep behind every tree now? A therapist would have a field day with this.

Still, he had an overwhelming urge to steal another glance. Keeping his head low, he lifted his eyes. The vagrant wasn’t looking at him this time. He was scribbling furiously into an open notebook. Something about the image didn’t jibe right. Patrick squinted at the small notebook, with its shiny green cardboard cover. Except for a scribbling of words in the upper left corner, the cover looked clean and untouched, like something newly purchased. The stranger’s dirty fingers curled around a gold pen as he wrote. Why would this filthy vagrant, who looked too poor to pay attention, be carrying a brand new notebook with a gold pen? He promptly reminded himself that it was none of his damned business.

The train slowed for the next stop and the dirty stranger stood, along with six other passengers. The train’s movement ceased with its usual lurch and the vagrant went stumbling forward, body-slamming the man in front of him. The man looked over his shoulder and sneered. The vagrant grabbed the hold bar and found his footing, but did not acknowledge the man glowering at him. Patrick watched the black-haired Shep-alike pass by. Afraid he’d be caught staring again, he dropped his eyes.

On the aisle floor was the vagrant’s green notebook. It must have fallen out of his jacket when he stumbled. Patrick grabbed it, then reached out and tugged on his dusty coat. “Hey, you dropped your notebook.”

The stranger turned to Patrick, looking startled. When he saw the notebook in Patrick’s hand, his eyes widened. He looked guilty, like he’d been caught doing something illegal. As he handed over the notebook, Patrick read the two words scribbled on the cover. The words were his name, Patrick Obrien.

Patrick froze, feeling the blood rush to his face.

The young man met his eyes and for a moment they stared at each other. Then, snatching the notebook, the vagrant jumped over the back of a chair and vaulted up onto the row of booth seats, cutting the line of departing passengers. A few voices cried out in alarm. When the stranger reached the double doors, he grabbed the hold bar and swung like a monkey out onto the sidewalk.

Patrick ran to the opposite window, scanning the street for the stranger, but he was gone. The other passengers stepped off and the double doors closed as the train moved on. Befuddled, Patrick fell back into his seat. Coincidence. Surely he wasn’t the only man with the name Patrick Obrien, especially in Boston. How very odd, though. He gave his head a shake, determined to dismiss the incident. He had enough to be paranoid about without worrying that Boston’s homeless were conspiring to spy on him.

Patrick was fumed to find his office door open, the light on, when he got to work. He dealt with highly confidential files and nobody was supposed to be in his office when he wasn’t there. He stepped in and put his briefcase down. Nothing looked amiss, save for an open newspaper spread out on his desk. He snatched the newspaper up, about to toss it in the trash when he saw the photograph. His coffee cup slipped from his fingers.

On page three was a picture of Patrick carrying Joey like a sleeping child out of Saint Mary’s Church. His own strained features grimaced into the camera. Beneath the photo was a caption reading “Prophecy or Prank?” Patrick placed a hand on the desk to steady himself. He tore off the yellow Post-it someone had attached. Patrick, come to my office when you get in. It was Henry Donnelly’s handwriting. “Oh God,” he whispered, and eased himself into the chair.

He skimmed the article. It told of an alleged apparition on top of Saint Mary’s church the night before. Witnesses interviewed claimed to have been cured of a variety of ailments, from arthritis to migraine headaches. Patrick shook his head, unable to muster the humor to laugh. The article went on to name Joseph Pierre Duvaine of Boston as the man thought to be planning a jump to his death just before the image of what some claimed was the Virgin Mary appeared. Patrick did laugh then as he read the start of the next paragraph. Joseph Duvaine, the man God would not allow to die, was said to have…

But it was the last two lines of the article that turned Patrick’s blood cold, as they identified Patrick by name, stating that both he and Joey were employees of Parker Investments, a financial organization located in downtown Boston. “Son of a bitch!” he whispered. He looked down at the yellow Post-it in his hand. Donnelly wanted to see him. He didn’t have to guess why. All Donnelly had asked was that he not associate Joey’s name with Parker Investments. Oops.

“I am so fucking fired.”

When he reached Donnelly’s office, Matthew told him to go right in, that he was expected. The nervous looking assistant chewed his thumbnail, gawking at Patrick like he had a bullseye tattooed on his forehead.

Donnelly was at the back wall, staring out the window. “Sit down please,” he said. Patrick sat. Donnelly turned away from the window and took his chair across the desk. From a drawer, he drew out another copy of the newspaper and slid it over to Patrick. Patrick’s own tortured face stared up at him. “Out of sheer, nagging curiosity, I’m going to allow you the luxury of explaining this…incident, Patrick. If you can, that is.”

Donnelly’s lips pursed tight. He was clearly furious, but keeping it in check for the time, relishing the moment when he could drop the hammer.

“Are you planning to fire me?”

“I’m offering you the opportunity to explain yourself, Patrick. It ought to prove most entertaining, I suspect.”

“Mr. Donnelly, frankly I’d appreciate it if you’d just get to the point.”

Donnelly paused, then he slammed a fist down on the desk. “The point? You want me to get to the point? How about the clients calling all morning to say they’re taking their business elsewhere? How about the press calling looking for information about Joey? The press! Your little stunt has ruined the reputation of this organization! That is the point, Mr. Obrien.”

“Am I fired?”

Donnelly leaned forward, purple faced. “Of course you’re fired you fucking moron!”

Patrick stood. “I’ll go clean out my office.”

He tore through his office in a rage, tossing personal items into a cardboard box. The photographs of his friends went directly into the trashcan. Calvin White stepped in just as he was ceremoniously smashing the picture from the hiking trip. He looked up, surprised to see Calvin. The rest of his co-workers were avoiding him, as though unemployment was a contagious disease.

“Obrien?” Calvin hesitated, like he thought Patrick was going to throw something at him.

“Oh, hey Calvin.”

Calvin stepped inside. “I heard what happened. I came to see if you needed any help.”

There was genuine concern in the programmer’s eyes, and Patrick was quietly grateful. “I don’t have that much stuff, but thanks anyway Cal.”

Calvin walked over to the desk. “Is Joey all right?”

Patrick laughed, and it sounded maniacal, even to him. “Oh, Joey’s just fine. Joey is always fine. It’s the rest of us that are out of step, right?”

Calvin studied Patrick with a furrowed brow. “What about you?”

After all he’d endured, Calvin’s concern warmed him almost to tears. “I’ll be okay, Cal. Eventually. Thanks for asking.”

Calvin grabbed another box and helped him pack. Patrick found it comforting, simply to have another heartbeat nearby. When the office was cleared, they each took a box and headed toward the stairway that led to the outer parking lot. Patrick had left his car at the Parker building earlier in the week. He was thankful for it now. It would have been humiliating to walk to the train stop with a box full of office supplies. He may as well have worn a big sign that read I JUST GOT CANNED.

Co-workers they passed in the hall pretended that Patrick was invisible. People he’d worked with for five years avoided his eyes. “Is your car here?” Calvin asked as they reached the exit.

“I’m parked out in the back lot. I can take it from here. Thanks, Cal.”

“Shut up, Obrien. I’m walking you to your car. I’m not one of those assholes we passed in the hall. I’m a friend.”

Tears threatened, and Patrick bit his lip. “Thanks Cal.”

“And stop thanking me. You’d do the same for me. Now let’s just get you the hell out of here.”

They walked side by side to the back lot, and were halfway to Patrick’s car when Calvin held an arm out, stopping him. “Hold on, Obrien.” Calvin frowned and pointed to Patrick’s Honda parked six rows up. News reporters huddled around it like flies swarming a piece of fruit. Patrick thought he would finally cry then, but Calvin grabbed his elbow and tugged him to the side. “Come on. My car’s parked over there. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Patrick climbed into the front seat. “I have to say it again. Thank you, Calvin. You didn’t have to do this.”

Calvin grinned, exposing his extra large teeth. “Actually, I have an ulterior motive. Can I have your autograph? Sign my newspaper?”

Patrick laughed at the joke and Calvin laughed with him. He found that he couldn’t stop laughing, but he didn’t care. They laughed for a good five minutes and it was a welcome release.

After that they drove in silence, until just before reaching Patrick’s apartment building. “Shit,” Calvin cursed. “Looks like we’ve got more trouble.”

Five or six stragglers from the press were camped out front with cameras. “You gotta be kidding me. Calvin, don’t stop. Keep driving!” Calvin gunned it and they sped by the apartment house. “Damn it!” Patrick shouted, his voice cracking. “Damn them both! Fucking lunatics have ruined my life.” He dropped his face in his hands and wept, unable to help himself. “Supposed to be my best friends. What a fucking joke.” His breath hitched as the tears spilled. “But they’re both rich, what the fuck do they care? Fuck!”

Calvin let him cry without judgment. When he’d calmed, Calvin put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, Obrien. It doesn’t seem like it now, but this too shall pass. I don’t know exactly what Joey and Shep did to you, but I do know this. The press gets tired of a story if nobody talks to them. This will blow over. I give it two days at the most. Remember that wood stain on the church door that was supposedly in the shape of the Virgin Mary? It even slipped into the national news. But it only lasted a couple days. No one wants religious stories shoved down their throat. It’ll die out.”

Patrick wiped his eyes. “This wasn’t a wood stain. It was a holographic image designed by special effects professionals. People are claiming to have been healed by the fucking thing.”

“I’d say you could tell the press just that, but you’d be acknowledging that you knew about it beforehand, and no one would believe you weren’t involved. You weren’t, were you?”

“No. I knew they wanted to do it, but I opted out. They tricked me.”

“Then I’d say keep quiet. If you talk, it will probably keep the story going, and keep your handsome mug in the news.”

Feeling sick at the thought, he shook his head. “No. I’m not talking to anyone. I just want it to go away.”

“Is there somewhere you can stay until this blows over? I’d offer you my couch but my roommates would freak. But I suggest someone besides family members. The press might have their addresses too.”

“Oh God,” Patrick said. “I feel sick. My parents are super Catholic. My mom’s going to freak.”

“Calm down,” Cal said. “It doesn’t seem like it to you I’m sure, but this is a small story. A small human interest piece in a local paper, a blip. Most people probably didn’t even see it. No one reads newspapers anymore.”

“My parents do. And my boss sure fucking saw it.”

Cal gave him a sympathetic smile. “Anywhere else you can stay for a few days?”

Patrick rolled down the window, letting the spring air dry his tears. He thought for a moment, then pulled out his phone.

* * * *

Kelinda agreed to let him crash on her couch for the night. What else could she do? Patrick didn’t want to seem callous, but she kind of owed him her support. She was part of this whole thing, whether she claimed to regret it or not.

Calvin dropped him in front of Kelinda’s house, making him promise to call if he needed anything. Patrick thanked him again, grabbed his boxes and sprinted to the door. No one was hiding in the shrubs to ambush him. He was safe for the time being.

When he got inside, he listened to the many voicemails on his phone. There were several from local news mediums requesting interviews. Then came his mother’s voice, frantic and demanding to know what happened. Great. Just what he needed, another reason for his parents to think him a Godless heathen. They were already on his case for skipping church so much.

There were no calls from Joey or Shep, and this pleased him. As long as they left him alone, he’d work through this mess somehow. Kelinda’s doorbell rang and they both jumped. She ran to the window and peered through the blinds. “Is it a reporter?” Patrick asked, panicked.

“No,” she said. “It’s a florist.” She turned and faced him. “You didn’t by any chance send me flowers, did you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She glanced out the window again, then turned to him. “Just to be safe, you go hide in the bedroom.” The doorbell rang again. “Go on. If it’s a reporter in disguise or something I’ll get rid of them. Okay?”

Patrick hurried off to her bedroom, feeling silly and paranoid. He stared at the frilly pillows piled high on Kelinda’s bed, and listened to her chatting with the delivery man. After hearing the door close, he went back into the living room where Kelinda carried a colossal bouquet of red roses over to the coffee table. She opened the card and read it silently, then looked at him with raised eyebrows. “These are for you.”

“For me? How do you know?”

She handed him the card. “Because my name isn’t Obrien.”

He took the card and read it. Obrien, sorry about your job. Now you have nothing to lose. Join us. It was signed, ‘J & S’. Patrick threw the card down on the table. “They’ve got to be kidding. After everything that’s happened they actually expect me to join them?”

“How the hell did they know you were here so fast? Or that you lost your job?”

“I don’t know. None of this makes sense. They’ve gotten what they wanted. Why don’t they just leave me out of it?”

Kelinda sat on the couch and shrugged. “Maybe they don’t feel justified without your approval. Robin said you’re the responsible one of the group.”

Patrick scoffed. “Well in this little triangle, that isn’t saying much.” He paced the room.

“At least they contacted you,” Kelinda said.

Patrick stopped and turned to her. “What?”

“I haven’t gotten so much as a phone call since I did the filming.”

“Kelinda, they’re nuts. Trust me, you’re the lucky one.”

“I suppose, but it would have been nice to get a thank you after what I did for him.”

He moved in close and studied her. “After what you did for him? Who? Joey?”

She looked up at him and flushed. “I said what I did for them.”

Patrick shook his head and pointed. “No. No, I heard you clearly. You said ‘him’. What’s the deal, Kelinda? Did you do it all for Joey? You have a thing for him? Tell me the truth.”

Kelinda glared. “You already asked me that question once, Patrick, and the answer is still no.”

“But—”

“Jealousy is a turnoff, okay? Knock it off.”

She walked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Patrick stared at the closed door. Great. He’d been there all of five minutes and she’d locked herself in her room. This was shaping up to be a hell of a day.

He went to the window and tugged open the blinds. The flower delivery truck was pulling away from the curb. As the truck moved on, Patrick caught sight of something that made his breath catch. Across the street, scribbling into his notebook, was the dusty black-haired stranger he’d seen on the train, the one who looked like Shep. The vagrant looked up and stared directly back at Patrick. In a whirl of billowing coat, he turned and sprinted down the street, leaving Patrick to stare dumbfounded after him.

Chapter Nine

Patrick got his wish, as the press gave up on him within a day. But Calvin had been wrong about the story dying out completely. They’d turned all of their focus to Joey, who was being elusive and closed mouthed, just as Shep had instructed. To Patrick’s dismay, the tactic was having the desired effect. Local journalists raced to be the first to locate Joey, who seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. The level of coverage was ridiculous, but he supposed people were fed up with politics and bad news, and this was a sufficient distraction.

Calvin White phoned early that morning to apprise Patrick of the results of his social media scrolling. It seemed that ever since a local news blog posted a stunning, smiling photo of Joey, dozens of websites had cropped up in his honor, and the hashtag #SexyProphet was trending on twitter.

Patrick cringed at the idea that Shep may have been right about things. He refused to believe that the human element was that naïve. He was forced to re-think this conclusion later that evening, however, when he drove by Saint Mary’s church. Groups of religious hopefuls lined the street, leaving bouquets of flowers and kneeling on the ground, hoping for yet another spontaneous apparition.

The Boston talk radio programs had volatile call-in shows regarding the authenticity of the miracle and the integrity of Joey himself. The DJs let the callers argue, relishing in the controversy and subsequent ratings hike it provided. Joey’s miracle spawned shouting matches between liberals and conservatives, the believers accusing the skeptics of being hateful toward religion in general, same old fire, blazing anew with this latest accelerant.

Patrick hated the charade, but lacked the courage to step forward. His loyalty, however misguided, would not allow him to be the one to expose Joey and Shep. But he needed this to end before it grew any bigger. So, he made a perfectly cowardly decision. He’d get someone else to do it.

He couldn’t involve Kelinda. Her father was a church deacon and she was already overly paranoid about getting caught. He’d clued Calvin in, but he had the same reservations as Patrick, and didn’t want the responsibility. That left only Russell and Craig, the Hoax Patrol. He found Craig’s name and address online. He’d been searching for Russell, but he wasn’t listed. It seemed that Craig the cantankerous twin was his only choice.

Craig showed not the slightest recognition when he opened the door. “May I help you?” he asked with token impatience.

“Craig, it’s me, Patrick.” Craig stared at him blankly. “Patrick Obrien. From college? I’m Shep’s friend. Don’t you remember me? I just saw you a few weeks ago. In Shep’s basement.”

Craig looked annoyed. “Oh yes, of course. What do you want?”

“I was wondering if I could speak to you for a couple minutes.”

Craig looked him up and down. “All right. But make it quick. I’m especially busy today.”

He followed him into his apartment, where boxes stacked high on the otherwise empty floor. “Are you moving?”

“Yes. I’m going out to Los Angeles. I leave in the morning.”

Patrick’s heart sank. “Is your brother moving too?” he asked, already working on a plan B.

Craig taped up boxes, keeping his back to Patrick. “No, Russell is staying in Boston. He got a job working nights at one of the local television stations. It seems everyone else is moving though, huh? I’m sure you heard Shep and Joey moved out to Forest Bluffs.”

Patrick frowned at the back of Craig’s head. “Excuse me? They moved out to…what, the beach house?”

Craig chuckled. “Beach house? That’s a quaint way of putting it. I’ve seen pictures of the place. It’s enormous. It used to belong to Joey’s dad or something. It sits on like a bazillion acres of land.”

“Yes, I’ve been there,” Patrick said. “Are you sure they moved out there? Joey said he had to sell that place because of his father’s debts. Said he didn’t have the money to keep it up.”

Craig glanced over his shoulder. “Really? Well he got the money somewhere. He got all new furniture, and even renovated the guest house out in the back field. I saw Shep a few days ago and he was showing me pictures on his phone, seemed all excited about it.”

Patrick stared at the floor, trying to make sense of things. Joey and Shep moved down to Forest Bluffs? Why would Joey lie to him about losing the place to his father’s debt? But then Joey had lied to him before, quite recently in fact.

“Are you here to ask me about the Saint Mary’s project?” Craig asked.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I came to talk about.”

Craig picked up another box and sealed it with packing tape. “It came out great, don’t you think? The apparition? People are really buying it. It’s always more of a rush when people believe it. I saw a bunch of them last night kneeling in front of the church.” Craig laughed and shook his head. “Priceless.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here,” Patrick said. “People are believing it, and I think it’s wrong.”

Craig stopped what he was doing and turned around. “You think it’s wrong?”

“Yes. I think it’s wrong. I think you should come clean and admit it was a hoax. I think you should tell the local press that you created it.”

Craig stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” Patrick met his eyes, unflinching. Craig’s smile dropped. “Oh. You’re not kidding. Look, Patrick, take it up with Shepherd. I’m done with the hoax business. That’s why I’m moving to California. I’m going to try to get a legitimate job in the special effects industry. The Saint Mary’s job gave me enough money to leave town. I’m not about to tarnish my reputation before I even get to California.”

“I’ll go to the press myself,” Patrick threatened, knowing full well that he didn’t have the guts. “I’ll tell them about you and your brother. I’ll tell them everything.”

Craig laughed. “I’ll deny it. All of the evidence has been destroyed.”

“Maybe your brother will feel differently. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Who, Russell? Are you kidding? Russell is completely in love with your buddy Shep. He’ll refuse to turn Shep in just on the off chance Shep’ll let him suck his cock one day. He’s completely obsessed, has been since college.”

“But Shep is straight. Doesn’t Russell know that?”

Chuckling, Craig picked up another box. “Shep isn’t too straight to lead Russell on with all the attention he gives him. It pisses me off, quite frankly. It’s unfair, telling Russell he’s bisexual, giving him hope, however small.”

“Shep never said he was bisexual,” Patrick said. “Not to me.”

Craig huffed. “I don’t think he actually is. He just likes having Russell on call as his little minion in case he needs something. Shep uses people. It’s what he does.” He looked directly at Patrick. “You know that, don’t you? That he uses people?”

Patrick shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, he does. Everyone in Shepherd’s orbit is there because he gets something from them, or because he wants something from them.” Craig went back to his packing. “Anyway, it makes no difference if Shep’s straight or not. My brother’s one of those guys that only wants the unattainable. If Russell were a straight man, he’d be going after married women. His crush on Shep has been going strong for years. Good luck with that one, pal.”

Patrick sat on the floor and buried his face in his hands. Craig came over and sat down beside him. “Look, buddy, I am sorry about all of this. To be honest with you, I think it’s wrong too.”

Patrick looked up. “You do?”

“I have my regrets just like you do, but I also honor my agreements. I made a legitimate deal with Shep last year and I don’t go back on my word.”

Last year? The words fell on Patrick like concrete. “What do you mean you made a deal last year? What kind of deal?”

Craig eyed him strangely. “Well, the apparition of course. That’s when Shep first came to me about the project.”

Patrick’s stomach went cold. “That’s impossible. Shep just came up with the idea.”

Craig stared at him like he’d lost his faculties. “I’m beginning to understand now. They really left you in the dark, didn’t they?”

“What do you mean?”

Craig placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Patrick, did you really think we came up with that sophisticated a concept overnight? Do you know how expensive holographic imaging is? Shep funded the entire project. That kind of detail takes time and preparation. I’m good, but I’m not that good. I wish I were.”

Patrick’s head was swimming. “You’re telling me Shep has been planning this since last year?”

Craig looked sympathetic. “Yes. Maybe longer.”

Patrick’s head whirled with new confusion. He stood up and headed for the door. “I need a drink. Thank you for your time, Craig. Good luck in LA.”

Craig followed him out onto the porch. “You’ve always seemed like a nice guy, Patrick. Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Stay away from Shepherd. He’s a slimy bastard. He always has been.”

Patrick turned away. “Thanks Craig, but that information might have been more useful to me ten years ago.”

Chapter Ten

The three brothers sat in awkward positions on the hardwood floor. The expansive room had been a study when Charles Duvaine was alive. It was more of a fancy sitting room now, sparsely furnished with Persian rugs and soft leather chairs and couches. The fireplace was stone, trimmed with the same shiny dark wood as the floor.

The brothers smiled when Shepherd entered the room, exposing dirty teeth inside their otherwise pretty mouths. They were not men. Not really. Being trapped in human form hadn’t exactly been their choice. Shep knew they quietly resented it, and therefore had no respect for the skin they were in. Bathing, grooming, and otherwise tending to their physical form would imply acceptance, something they weren’t ready for.

Staying filthy was a sort of rebellion for them, a silent protest. Shep had allowed it for a time, but now he had news for the little imps. Ready or not, it was time for them to become suitable members of society. Or at least a close facsimile thereof.

Shep stood before them, inspecting their grimy faces and dusty clothing. Their curly, chin length hair was matted and oily, their hands and feet blackened with dirt. Their disgraceful condition was his fault. With all the hoax preparations, he’d been crunched for time and had only been able to meet with them sporadically since their arrivals. Their appearance had grossly deteriorated.

He found them beautiful of course, despite their current state of degeneracy. Juris had hair so blond it was nearly white. Allisto’s hair was black as coal, when it wasn’t covered in dust. Margol was the most different of the three. His curls were the color of fire, a deep flaming orange. They looked up at him with innocent green eyes. The eyes were like Shep’s, though the brothers were not identical to him, or to each other. Each face was slightly different, granting them the gift of individuality.

“All of you listen up,” he said. “The time has come for you three to take a more active role in our project. I have assignments for each of you, but there are some ground rules we need to cover if you’re going to go unnoticed among the masses. You can start by sitting on the furniture.”

They glanced at each other. Juris, the platinum blond, was the sharpest of the three. If anything happened to Shep, Juris would become their leader. It was a frightening thought at the moment. Juris would become stronger with time, both mentally and physically, but like the others, he’d been through a trauma, and right now he could barely lead himself to the toilet. He had, just yesterday, urinated into the kitchen sink, causing Joey to nearly have a stroke.

Juris lifted himself awkwardly off the floor and shuffled over to a nearby armchair, sitting stiffly. He glanced down at Margol and Allisto, and motioned to them with his head. Following Juris’s lead, the other brothers stood and moved reluctantly to the couch.

“There. That’s better,” Shep said. “Now remember. You cannot sit on the floor if you’re in public. It draws attention. Get used to sitting on furniture at all times.”

“Il oblicheklata chask!” Juris spoke desperately in his native tongue. Shep crossed the room and slapped him hard in the face. He cried out, slinking back in the chair. Shep didn’t want to hurt them, but they had to learn and they had to learn fast. Their readjustment period would have to be shortened due to time restrictions.

“Rule number two!” Shep called out, holding up two fingers. “You will speak the languages. You all know the languages. This is English. This is the language that you will use at all times, especially in public.” Shep turned to the blond brother. “Now, Juris. Why don’t you repeat your last statement.”

Juris glared at him through a forest of white curls, green eyes raw with hurt. He rubbed the side of his face where Shep had slapped him. “I said one of us is missing.” Juris forced the words out in a strained fashion, sounding like a toddler just learning to speak.

Shep smiled. “Better, Juris. Much better. To address Juris’s concern, I am obviously aware that we are minus one. I couldn’t get Klee out on the first try. Not to worry. Nobody gets left behind. When the time is right, we will go back for Klee. Then we will be five again. As it should be.”

“We must wait for Klee!” Allisto said, teary eyed.

Allisto’s English was pretty good. Shep had even sent him out on assignments already. His dark black hair made him less noticeable than Margol and Juris, with their conspicuous red and platinum locks. Though a bit youthful looking, Allisto had been able to pass for a city vagrant. Shep felt confident sending Allisto into the city, despite his insistence that Obrien had noticed him on the train. Whether or not Obrien noticed Allisto made no difference. Obrien was too stupid to make any sort of connection.

“No, Allisto. Klee will be with us soon enough, but in the meantime we have work to do. I have no intentions on letting the three of you sit around picking bugs out of each other’s hair until Klee gets here.” Allisto looked about to cry, but he nodded sheepishly and slumped back on the couch.

“Okay then,” Shep said. “I have assignments for all, but we have to make humans out of you first. We’ve established that you will use furniture. You will speak this land’s languages. You will in no way draw attention to the fact that you are different. This means hiding your speed, your strength, and all other extraordinary abilities. You will keep a low profile and try to go unnoticed. And speaking of going unnoticed, there is one more thing…” He’d been dreading this part. He knew it was going to upset them. He stood before them, hands rested on his hips, chin tilted with authority. “You need to clean yourselves up.”

They looked terrified. You’d have thought he’d asked them to castrate themselves. Margol sputtered objections in broken English that Shep couldn’t help but find humorous. “We don’t need care to wash! The flesh keeping not necess…ness…not important!”

Shep laughed and Margol scowled. “Congratulations, Margol. That was almost a sentence. Don’t worry. The language will come back to you. In the meantime, try not to speak too much in public, okay?” Shep patted his head of fiery curls.

Allisto jumped off the couch, backing up frightfully. He grimaced, revealing teeth decorated with chocolate cookies. Juris looked nervous but remained seated, watching the others. “We don’t want the shower!” Allisto said. “We are afraid.”

Shep rolled his eyes, breathing an exasperated sigh. “For the last time, the shower does not hurt. Do you think I would ask you to do something that would hurt you? You all need to just calm down and listen to me. You will take a bath. You will wash your hair. You will brush your teeth. I need to send you all into the city soon and you can’t go looking like pigs. It will draw attention. Do you understand?”

They stared at him but nobody moved. Allisto continued to slowly retreat behind the couch. Margol rocked nervously, cradling his own bare foot. Shep raised his eyebrows at them. “I see. You’d rather I sent you back where you came from?” Their eyes widened in terror, and Shep felt a stabbing pain in his heart. He hated using fear tactics. But if he didn’t toughen them up, they could get hurt. They could all get hurt, including Shep.

Juris jumped out of the chair. “No! We will not go back. We are part of the plan.”

“All right then!” Shep clapped his hands. “Everyone to the Jacuzzi room.”

Shep trotted enthusiastically toward the door but no one followed. He turned back expectantly. The brothers skulked by the couch. “What? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the Jacuzzi too.” They hung their heads. Shep decided that it was time for the positive reinforcement. He pulled three chocolate candy bars out of his shirt pocket. Their eyes lit with excitement. Since their arrival, the brothers found chocolate to be this world’s only redeeming value. Shep waved the candy bars in front of them. “Whoever takes a bath gets a chocolate bar.” They followed Shep to the Jacuzzi room with no further arguments.

Twenty minutes later, Joey walked into the room and was visibly horrified to see the three brothers sitting in the big tub, shampooing their hair. He looked at Shep, who stood to one side of the tub, supervising. “My father’s Jacuzzi!” he wailed.

Shep laughed. “It’s your Jacuzzi now, golden boy.”

Joey stared at the tub, his mouth agape. “My father’s Jacuzzi!” he repeated. “They were filthy! And you put them in my father’s Jacuzzi!”

“Take it easy, Joey. They’re afraid of the shower. I’ll clean the tub up afterward.”

Joey shook his head. “What’s next, Shep? Are you going to let them use my toothbrush?”

“I already did.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding, Joey. They have their own toothbrushes. Hey, lighten up, huh?”

Joey pointed to the dirty bubbling of suds spilling over the edges of the tub. “Oh, man! You’re not supposed to put soap in there!”

Margol flinched at Joey’s angry outburst. Shep glared at him. “Keep your voice down,” he said. “You’re scaring them.”

Joey laughed. “Oh, I’m scaring them, am I? I see. What I sacrificed to get them out of prison wasn’t enough. Now I have to walk on eggshells around them?”

Shep took Joey by the arm and led him out of the room. They stood in the hallway out of the brothers’ sight. “You need to lighten up on them. They’ll get sharper and adapt with time, but they’re very vulnerable right now.”

“I’m sorry, Shepherd, but you have to teach them to clean up after themselves. They’re disgusting! One of them pissed all over the wall in the third floor bathroom. And the blond one, Juris? He spilled chocolate sauce on the rug in the library. That’s an expensive rug, Shep!”

Shep grabbed Joey’s throat and lifted him off the floor, pinning him to the wall. “You’re worried about your rug, Joey? You’re worried about your fucking rug?”

Joey tried to pull loose. Shep slammed him against the wall, making him cry out. Holding Joey’s neck tight with one hand, he pointed toward the Jacuzzi room. “Do you see those three creatures in there? They’ve been locked away in a place that makes your worst nightmares look like Disney Land. They are the superior beings that are going to help us bring our plans to fruition. And furthermore, they are my family. So try and show some respect. Huh, Joey?”

“Yes,” Joey rasped. Shep dropped him.

Joey rubbed his neck, sucking in gulps of air. When he’d recovered, he climbed to his feet and looked Shep in the eye. “I never meant to insult you. Or them. But you’ve got to understand. This is all a little strange for me. You’ve been talking about them for so long, since we were kids. I guess part of me always believed they were fictional.”

Shep’s anger softened. “Well, as you can see, they are quite real.”

Joey nodded, frowning. “Yes. Quite.”

Shep rubbed his eyes then ran his fingers through his sandy curls. “Hey, I’m sorry I lost my temper, Joey. It’s the pressure, you know? Dealing with the brothers and Obrien abandoning us. All of it.”

“Obrien will come around,” Joey said.

Shep nodded. “Yeah. He’ll come around. I’ll go make margaritas. You in?”

“Sounds great. I’ll be right down.” Joey smiled.

Shep trotted down the stairs and Joey’s phony grin turned downward into a frown. He peeked back into the Jacuzzi room. The three brothers were taking the dirty water into their mouths and spitting it at each other playfully. Joey shook his head and walked out. “Superior beings my ass,” he said, and went down to join Shep.

Chapter Eleven

Patrick supposed Calvin thought it was helpful keeping him apprised of Joey’s online popularity. Patrick actually found it unsettling, but he didn’t say so. Cal was the only friend who still kept in touch with him, after all.

“The Pope got wind of the miracle and waved it off as a fake,” Calvin said.

Patrick snickered into the phone. “Well. Points for the Pope. What else?”

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. Oh, here we go. Certain Christian groups are outraged at Joey. They feel that if the Virgin Mary saw fit to give Joey a message, then it’s his responsibility to share that message with the religious community. There’s an angry Reddit thread titled, ‘Tell us What She Said, Mr. Duvaine.’”

“Cute. But the coverage is dying out, right? I mean, people are losing interest in this.” Calvin was silent. Patrick felt his nerves start to dance. “Cal?”

“Yeah. People are losing interest. But I have a feeling that might change after tonight.”

“Why? What’s happening tonight?”

“You’re not going to like this, Obrien.”

“I already don’t like it. What’s up?”

“Spectrum asked Joey to do an interview.”

Patrick laughed. “Spectrum? You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Spectrum was one of those network programs that floated in journalistic limbo between a legitimate news medium and a gossip show. Although they occasionally uncovered a real breaking story, they also covered things like Hollywood actors’ breakups and botched plastic surgeries, so weren’t taken very seriously. How appropriate, Patrick thought, that a tabloid news program would take an interest in Joey. He was still chuckling when Calvin said, “Joey agreed to do it.”

Patrick froze. “What?”

“He’s done the interview. It’s airing tonight at six. I guess Tara Shane went out to Forest Bluffs and everything.”

Patrick went cold. Spectrum was a rag show, but it was national. It was one of those programs people loved to watch, but would never admit it to their friends. The interview would reach a wide audience.

“Patrick? Are you there?”

“Yeah. Are you telling me Joey is going on national television to lie his ass off?”

“I guess. Unless he’s planning to come clean.”

Patrick doubted that was the case. As soon as he hung up with Calvin, Kelinda called, all in a tizzy about the interview, and whether or not Joey planned to expose her. She’d grown increasingly paranoid as Joey’s popularity escalated, fearful that her father, a deacon at her church, would somehow discover her involvement in the hoax. He and Kelinda were officially dating now, and he’d have been thrilled if not for her constant worry about being exposed. He was starting to get irritated with her implications that this was all about her. She seemed to ignore that he was the one who’d gotten his damned picture in the paper and lost his job.

Regardless, he made plans to meet Kelinda at Monty’s Bar and Grill to watch the interview. They’d tossed around the idea of boycotting it, but in the end they both agreed that they had to see it, regardless of how disturbing it was sure to be.

* * * *

They were seated at the bar with a plate of chicken wings in front of them. Patrick had a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, in case he was recognized. So far this hadn’t been a problem. Except for his size, he was pretty much a blender. They ordered beers and Trent the bartender agreed to air the program on the pub’s many big screens.

Patrick drank his beer too fast as he watched the silent intro to the program, the words drowned out by the bar noise. The pretty blonde reporter stood in front of an iron gate with the late Charles Duvaine’s beach house looming in the background. The caption read ‘Forest Bluffs Massachusetts’.

“Trent, this is it,” Patrick yelled. “Turn it up!”

Trent hit the volume and Tara Shane’s voice vibrated into the room. They’d missed most of the introduction, and suddenly Joey was on the screen.

“Oh my God,” Kelinda said. “There he is.”

Patrick’s stomach tightened. Joey looked amazing, even more handsome than usual, maybe aided by makeup and good lighting for the program. Tara Shane had him set up in the cozy dark wood room that had been his father’s study. He sat beside the stone fireplace in a burgundy leather chair like he was about to give a presidential address. Megalomaniac, Patrick thought spitefully. It was always Shep who’d harbored the big ego, with Joey the humbler of the two, but recent events had Patrick rethinking this.

Joey wore wire framed glasses, and Patrick scoffed. Joey didn’t need glasses, had always had perfect eyesight, so they were clearly for theatrical effect. Of course they were flattering, giving him a more serious air.

His hair looked to have grown out a bit since Patrick saw him last, but it was probably because he’d retired his jell slicked businessman coif. The black locks framed his perfect face, curving under his cheekbones. His eyes glowed like pale blue gems against his tanned skin, accentuated by the plain white dress shirt he wore with a pair of faded jeans. The top two buttons of the shirt were left open, exposing a strand of colorful beads, a la Shepherd.

The look was diversity perfected. Joey was every man. He was the scholar, and he was the hippie. He was mature, and he was young. He was gay, and he was straight. Patrick glanced around the bar, seeing all eyes focused on at least one of the screens. Pool games had stopped. Chatting had ceased. Drinks were frozen in hand midway to mouth. Most of the clientele here knew Joey, if not personally, they’d seen him drinking and playing pool.

“Let’s get right to the question on everybody’s mind, Joseph,” the reporter said. “Did the Virgin Mary speak to you?”

Joey’s expression was blank. “Well, Tara, I’m not really comfortable saying it was the Virgin Mary. It was the other witnesses who made that particular claim, which I’m afraid I cannot confirm.”

Brilliant, Patrick thought. The statement implied a skepticism in Joey himself, lending him credibility as a man unwilling to make wild assertions right out of the gate. But not only that. While Christians might claim the apparition as their own since it appeared on one of their churches, Joey’s leaving the identity of the thing wide open invited speculation from other faiths, or non-religious people simply curious about the origin of the apparition. Patrick could almost hear Shep scripting it, molding the narrative to reach the widest possible audience.

“If not the Virgin Mary, then who appeared to you on that rooftop?”

Relaxed and handsome, Joey flashed one of his million-dollar smiles. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch her name. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

The bar crowd at Monty’s chuckled at the comment. “God, he looks good,” Kelinda said. Patrick couldn’t argue. A blind fool could have sensed Joey’s magnetism.

“Was this an elaborate hoax?” the reporter asked bluntly. “Many people believe it was.”

Casting his gaze down, Joey’s dark lashes fluttered. “No,” he said softly, then took a deep breath. “No, I don’t think it was a hoax. I can’t be certain of course. But in my opinion, it was real.” He shuddered for effect. “Sure felt real to me.”

Fuck you, Joey, Patrick thought. Fucking liar. Not only was Joey lying through his perfect teeth, he was damn good at it. It made Patrick wonder how many times Joey had lied to him in the past. Like when he promised he’d refuse Shep and not be part of this. He’d seemed so sincere that afternoon. So believable. Just like he did now, acting all emotional and traumatized by the event.

“All right,” Tara Shane continued. “Tell us this then. Were you planning to take your life that night? Were you going to jump off that roof before the apparition materialized?”

Joey breathed a long sigh, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He stared into the distance, appearing to ponder the question. You could have heard a pin drop in Monty’s bar. The patrons stood like statues in front of the screens. There was something eerie about their stillness. Even through the circuits of television, Joey could command people’s attention.

“To be honest with you, Tara,” Joey said, “I’m not sure what was going through my head that night. I’d been through a lot of shit. Oh, I’m sorry. Can I say that on TV?”

The bar crowd laughed. The station bleeped out the word “shit” but the message had gotten through. Joey was a regular guy. He was completely credible. And Patrick felt like he was going to vomit. The program went to commercial, and he ordered another beer, with a shot of tequila this time. Kelinda used the bathroom. When she returned, Joey was back on.

“What did the vision say, Joseph? Did it speak to you?” The woman was hammering her questions out with force now. “You can at least tell us that. Did this…being give you a message? And if so, what was it?”

Joey appeared to become uncomfortable with the question. “I don’t feel right about discussing that until I’ve figured out for myself who the vision was. And what their message meant. I’m still confused by it, so for me to release any message without fully analyzing its meaning would be irresponsible.”

“So the apparition did speak to you,” Tara Shane said with a smug ‘gotcha’ smirk.

Joey’s cheeks actually flushed. Unbelievable. Shifting in his chair, he chuckled nervously. “Guess I let that one out of the bag. Kind of tricked me with that question.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Certain religious organizations are angered by your silence.”

Joey nodded, looking humble and ashamed. What an actor, Patrick thought. “I know that, Tara, and I plan to address this issue in due time. I’m seeking a small group of knowledgeable, open-minded people to join me on this quest to uncover the truth behind the apparition’s message. The qualifications required for such persons are listed on my website.”

The screen flashed a web address. Patrick and Kelinda looked at each other. “Did he just…” Kelinda started to formulate the question. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Uh…not sure. But I think he just invited every nut job in America to join his loony bin. Have you seen enough?”

“More than enough. This is freaking me out. Let’s get out of here.”

They were climbing off their barstools when they heard the reporter say, “Let’s talk about Patrick Obrien.”

Patrick stilled, glancing up at the screen. “No,” he whispered. “Let’s fucking not.” Kelinda gently squeezed his shoulder.

Joey looked directly at the camera and let his eyes fill with tears. “Patrick Obrien is my best friend. I know the whole thing has been hard on him. He won’t return my calls. I can’t say I blame him. He was trying to help me that night and then…I can’t imagine what he’s feeling about what happened. But I can’t bear thinking I’ve lost his friendship. Dealing with this alone has been hard, and I…I just wish he’d call. It’s killing me, to be honest.”

Joey let tears slip down his cheeks, and Tara Shane handed him a tissue, looking pleased with herself. The screen flashed the image of Patrick carrying Joey out of the church. Patrick felt like he was going to faint.

Kelinda squeezed his arm. “Come on. You look like you need a scorpion bowl. Let’s go get Chinese food.”

“Yeah. Okay. I need to stop home and change my shirt first. I’ve been sweating since we walked through the door.”

“Charming,” Kelinda said, and led him out of the pub.

When they arrived at Patrick’s apartment, his phone pinged with a voicemail. “I’m not getting that,” he said, setting his phone down. “It’s probably my mother calling to tell me what a bad Christian I am. Be right back.”

He went into his bedroom and changed his shirt. When he returned, Kelinda was standing at the kitchen island, staring down at his phone. She looked up quickly. “I wasn’t snooping. But it’s Joey who called. I saw his name pop up.”

Patrick scowled. “He’s got some stones, calling me now.”

“Aren’t you curious what he has to say? I’m curious. You should listen to it.” She twirled a strand of chestnut hair around her finger, giving him a shy smile. “Okay, I’m nosy. Come on, listen to it.”

He returned her smile, warmed by her beauty. “Should I?”

“Only if you put it on speaker so I can hear.”

“Okay. Let’s bite the bullet.”

He played the message, Joey’s disembodied voice making him flinch. “Come on, Obrien. I’m gonna keep calling until you pick up. I know you’re getting my messages. Just call me back!”

Moments later, his phone rang again. “God damn him.”

“You gonna answer?” Kelinda asked.

“Fuck it.” Patrick picked up the phone. “That was a lovely interview, Joey.”

“Do you think so? I thought I looked kind of fat. I guess the camera adds ten pounds.”

“That was the most hypocritical, shameful thing I have ever witnessed.”

“Why?”

“Why? You fucking lied your ass off on national TV! And now gullible people are gonna believe you received some…divine message. Like you’re some kind of prophet. You’re a fucking accountant for fuck’s sake!”

Joey sighed. “You’re right. I should be ashamed of myself. I need guidance. Maybe if you’d consider coming out to Forest Bluffs…”

“Forget it, Joey.”

“I have your room all set up. I know you’re not working right now. We could really use a marketing specialist.”

“I’m not working because of you, Joey. And it looks to me like you’re doing a pretty good job of marketing yourself. Goodbye.” He hung up and circled the room.

“Are you okay?” Kelinda asked.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he said. But he wasn’t. He was angry and conflicted. Ten years of friendship made it difficult to remain stony, especially when he spoke to Joey directly. He had to keep reminding himself that Joey was completely full of shit, and had betrayed him and set him up. Put him in danger, gotten him fired, and shat on his reputation all based on a lie.

A small part of him wanted to forgive Joey, and go running out to Forest Bluffs just so he could hang out with him again. Seeing him on the television had been almost physically painful. In spite of everything, he missed his friends terribly. Or at least he missed who he’d thought they were. It was embarrassing to acknowledge, but over the past decade they’d become his whole life. He wanted that life back.

He wanted to rewind time, and bask once again in the warmth of that friendship. That unconditional support, the knowledge that no matter what happened, he had two people in his life that would always be there for him if he got into trouble. What was he supposed to do now that those two people were the trouble? He felt untethered and completely lost.

It was like a bad breakup. Worse. He’d never experienced loss like this. It was heartache he was feeling, the hurt far stronger than the anger. Joey and Shep were the source of all his problems right now, yet still, he longed to be with them.

But he couldn’t, because his friends had done something appalling. He couldn’t condone it without going against every moral fiber of his being. More importantly, he couldn’t be associated with it. It was bad enough he kept getting dragged into the public eye with Joey. He wasn’t going to do anything to make it worse. Avoidance was the only option. Avoid, and wait for it to blow over. Then find a way to move on with his life. Without them.

“You don’t look fine,” Kelinda said. “Any way you can put it out of your mind tonight?”

“I’ll try but…shit. What if my mother saw that interview? All my relatives? This is so fucked. That fucking picture of me carrying him out of the church with my expression all anguished. That picture alone adds credence to their bullshit, and now I’m a part of it! I just want this to go away.”

“It will.”

“What if it doesn’t? What if I go for a job interview and get recognized? I need a new job. My savings isn’t gonna last forever. I’m gonna have to move to Guam or something. Do they have finance jobs in Guam? Maybe Antarctica. Or the moon.”

“Stop! Just stop, you’re getting all flushed, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. Are you hungry?” Kelinda grabbed her purse off the couch.

“Not really. But I could use a drink.”

“Then I say we go out for Chinese appetizers, get a giant scorpion bowl, and not talk about Joey or Shep for the entire evening.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard in weeks. Let’s go.”

* * * *

They were seated in the restaurant with a giant scorpion bowl and a tray of egg rolls and crab Rangoon between them when Patrick spotted the man at the corner table. He was sitting alone, reading a newspaper. Patrick nearly spit out his egg roll.

“What’s wrong?” Kelinda asked.

He leaned in close. “Do you see that guy with the black hair sitting diagonally behind me? The one sitting alone.”

Kelinda glanced over. “Yeah, I already noticed him. He kind of reminds me of Shep. Except for the hair color.”

“Yes!” Patrick said. “Yes, that’s exactly what I thought when I saw him on the train. He’s not as dirty now, though.” Patrick looked back and watched as a waiter brought the stranger a piece of chocolate cake. “I think he’s following me!” Patrick whispered to Kelinda.

Kelinda wrinkled her nose, her cheeks pink from the booze. “Following you? Come on.”

“I’m serious. He was on the train with me, and then I saw him in front of your house. Now he’s here.”

“Patrick, I know you think you live in the hub of the universe, but Boston can be a very small city. He probably lives in the neighborhood.”

“He was carrying a notebook with my name on it.”

Kelinda spit a spray of scorpion bowl into her napkin as she broke into peals of laughter.

“What are you laughing at? I’m serious.”

“Paranoid much?”

“I swear, I didn’t imagine it. I don’t think.”

She continued to giggle until he had to laugh himself. A notebook with his name on it. It did sound paranoid. “Hey, look!” she said. “Now there are two of them.”

“Yeah, very funny.”

“No, Patrick, I’m not teasing. There really are two of them now. Look.”

Patrick glanced back. Another man had joined the curly haired stranger at the table. He wore the same dusty ankle length coat with jeans. His hair was in chin length curls as well, but his was pale blond, about three shades lighter than Shep’s. The blond looked back at Patrick, saw him staring, and turned to whisper to his companion. The quick glimpse revealed that he had a face very much like the dark haired one. A face very much like Shepherd’s. Patrick’s head swam. He felt like he was losing his mind.

“Huh. That’s weird,” Kelinda said, nibbling on a crab Rangoon. “They must be brothers.”

Patrick looked back at the table. The two men were whispering to each other. The dark haired one caught him looking, and went back to his newspaper. Patrick noticed now that the newspaper was upside down.

“You’re staring, Patrick,” Kelinda said. “Let it go. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“It’s just so strange, though. It’s like Shep is haunting us.”

“Shep can’t be haunting us, because Shep isn’t dead. Here, you need to drink more scorpion bowl.”

Patrick looked down at the bulbous ceramic bowl between them. The orange liquid was nearly gone. He looked at Kelinda. “Did you drink all that?”

She giggled. “Oops. I guess we’d better get another one.” She was drunk, and did not seem accustomed to being so.

“I don’t think we need another one, Kelinda. You’re a mess.”

She leaned across the table. “I may be a mess. But you have people following you.”

Patrick grinned. “How do you know they’re following me? They could be following you.”

Kelinda stood. “I’m gonna ask em. I’m gonna ask em if they’re following you, or if they’re following me.” She giggled and started toward the corner table.

“Kelinda no!” Patrick whispered harshly, but she was gone. She wobbled over to the table where the two men sat huddled over an upside-down newspaper and one piece of chocolate cake. They looked panicked when they saw her approach. She leaned over and spoke to them, but Patrick couldn’t hear the words. In one swift action, the two jumped from their chairs and sprinted out the door of the restaurant.

“Hey!” Kelinda called after them. “You didn’t answer my question!” She giggled, using the table to steady herself.

Patrick retrieved her and led her back to their seats. “Stay here, Kelinda.”

He bolted out the front door after the two strangers. On the sidewalk, pedestrians strode casually up and down the street, but the bizarre Shep-alikes were nowhere in sight. He turned to a young Asian man who leaned against the building with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. Mouth agape, like something had startled him, the young man stared down the road. “Hey, excuse me,” Patrick said. “Did you see two guys with curly hair come running out here?”

The guy nodded. “I saw someone, but they were moving too fast for me to get a good look. Shit! I’ve never seen anyone move that fast!”

An old Chinese man came bounding out of the restaurant looking furious. He pointed to Patrick. “You! Go back inside and pay your bill. Your girlfriend just vomited on the floor! Pay your bill, and then don’t come back here. Ever!”

Patrick followed the man inside, shaking his head. This had turned out to be another lovely evening.

On the drive home, Kelinda threw up all over his leather upholstery. He dropped her at home, tucked her into bed, then went home to clean out his car. When he finally went inside, he bypassed his bathroom duties and went straight to bed, weary and exhausted.

He’d been having nightmares every night since the apparition. Each nightmare involved saving Joey from some terrible fate. The night before, he’d dreamed he was belly-down on the top of Saint Mary’s church, clinging to Joey, who hung off the ledge by his fingertips. Patrick struggled to hold onto his wrists. Joey’s ice blue eyes looked up at him. “You were supposed to protect me, Obrien,” he said, then his hands slipped free. Patrick had watched helpless as Joey tumbled to the ground, cracking his skull on the cement steps of the church.

He’d awoken drenched in sweat, a terrible pain dancing in his temples, the little scar above his wrist throbbing like a newly singed burn. He dreamed again this night. This time Joey was being attacked by hundreds of poisonous snakes. They were all over him, their jaws wide and suctioned onto his skin. Joey screamed for Patrick to help, but when he tried to move, he found his feet and hands were bound with rope.

He awoke with a start, and a headache that felt like it was splitting his skull in two. The headaches he’d found went hand in hand with the dreams about Joey. He’d gone through a half a bottle of pain reliever in a week. He toddled to the bathroom, hunched over from the pain in his head. He dug the bottle of pills out of the cabinet, tossing back three of them, then splashed water on his face and studied his pale reflection.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked the mirror. “I can’t get him out of my head.”

Chapter Twelve

The bartender gave Agent Litner a foul look when he ordered a club soda, like his decision to drink a nonalcoholic beverage was a direct insult. Litner didn’t drink, and wouldn’t even be in the bar if not for his boss’s insistence. Michaels always demanded they meet at some shadowy, rank-smelling pub like this.

“Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asked as he plunked down the drink.

Litner handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “No, just some privacy please. Keep the change.”

Eyebrows raised, the bartender nodded and moved off.

Michaels had soundlessly taken the stool next to him, probably the only six-foot five black man that could slip into a room unnoticed. Litner found it unnerving, but didn’t let on. He had a few tricks of his own, one of which was to maintain a deadpan stare in the face of any situation.

Michaels plucked an olive from the garnish display and popped it in his mouth. “You called this meeting, Litner. Are you going to talk or are you going to stare at my bald head?”

Litner caught himself and dropped his eyes. He wasn’t a vain man, but was pleased that his own head had a full crop of hair at age forty-four. Granted, it was prematurely white, had been since his twenties. Some suggested that Litner dye his hair, but he couldn’t imagine taking vanity to such an extreme.

“You know why we’re here,” Litner muttered, taking a sip of his drink. “Did you look at it?”

“I did.”

“Then you understand why I think an investigation of this Forest Bluffs thing is warranted.”

Michaels slid a flash drive over, and Litner recognized it as his own. “You can have this back. It’s weak. We’re not touching it.”

“Weak? No, surely you can see—”

“Litner!” Michaels interrupted. “Joey Duvaine is clean. Murder was ruled out in all three deaths. He didn’t kill his family. You and Agent Rourke need to let it go.”

“This isn’t about the deaths of the Duvaine family anymore. I found some serious red flags during the investigation.” He held up the flash drive. “Did you even read this?”

“Watch your tone.”

“It’s right there in black and white.”

“It’s a half-assed chart someone made in a spreadsheet. It could be fantasy fiction for all we know. Or just plain bullshit. I think you need a vacation. You’re chasing phantoms.”

Litner’s cheeks flamed, and it was a struggle to maintain his deadpan stare. “My gut tells me it’s not fiction. I believe there’s evidence of a threat. If you’d read my report—”

“I read your report, Litner. You want me to deepen this inquiry because some ninny made a spreadsheet.”

“That ninny is Joey Duvaine’s closest friend, Melvin Shepherd, and the email we intercepted was encrypted. An excessive amount of protection for a file that means nothing.”

Michaels finally turned and met Litner’s eyes directly. “That beach house is private property, and those people are private citizens with no criminal history. If this rich little Duvaine bastard wants to sit out there on his dead daddy’s land and play God, then he’s perfectly entitled to do so. We’ve got our hands full with terrorist threats. We don’t have time to fuck with benign religious cults, if that’s what this is.”

“Did you see Joey Duvaine’s latest purchase? He bought Arcania Foods. And they’ve begun growing some sort of crop in the fields behind that beach house.”

Michaels leaned in close and cracked a wide-mouthed grin. “Maybe it’s a vegetable garden.”

“Must I spell this out for you?”

“I get what you’re insinuating here, your report was about as subtle as a brick to the head. And I didn’t just dismiss it out of hand. I profiled him myself.”

“And?”

Michaels shrugged. “Troubled men try things like this. Men that want. Angry men. Joey Duvaine is a wealthy young man with above average intelligence and no history of mental illness or criminal behavior. No political leanings or protests, no questionable writings in his work or educational history. He’s never even voted. Not because he’s raging against the machine, but because he’s lazy and apathetic. Joey Duvaine doesn’t care about the status quo enough to want to screw with it.”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

Michaels avoided Litner’s eyes. “You have my answer. Let it go.”

“Answer the question, Michaels. Have I ever been wrong?” He glared at the side of Michaels’ head until he was sure he’d bore a hole into it.

Finally, Michaels looked at him. “No. You’ve never been wrong. But there’s always a first time.”

“And if I’m right? A lot of people could die.”

“We don’t know that to be true.”

“We don’t know it’s not true.”

Michaels met his eyes, and Litner saw a flicker of doubt in them. “You basing this all on that spreadsheet or is this one of your feelings?”

Litner smiled on the inside. He knew Michaels wouldn’t brush his theory off so completely. He’d earned the right to have his opinion valued. “Feelings and logic. You know that spreadsheet correlates to other details regarding Duvaine’s behavior as of late. I’m not grasping at straws here. This isn’t just a bad feeling, although you’re right, I do have a bad feeling about it.”

Michaels gave him a resigned wave of his hand. “Okay, let’s hear it. Give me the sales pitch.”

Litner shifted on his stool so he faced his boss, and lowered his voice. “Just for a moment, forget about the email and forget about the purchase Duvaine made. Putting that aside, look at the situation they’ve put themselves in. There’s no motive for what they’ve done.”

Michaels frowned. “Are you referring to that ridiculous apparition business?”

Litner nodded. “Think about it. Joey Duvaine suddenly has hundreds of sites dedicated to him and his so-called miracle. Yet he claims he wants nothing. He’s refused donations. He pays his taxes. He isn’t asking people to give up their possessions. He’s declined further interviews, but he made sure he got his face out there with the one he did. Beyond his call for ‘open minded people to help him find the truth’, he hasn’t asked for anything.”

“What are you getting at?”

“It’s all so…subtle. Careful and calculated. But for what? I can’t find a reason.”

Michaels rolled his eyes. “Nothing. That’s why you can’t find a reason. It’s all for nothing.”

“I don’t believe that. We all know he’s not stupid. His IQ is off the charts. On the surface, the only explanation for his actions is that this guy had a genuine otherworldly experience and wants help figuring out what it meant.”

Michaels’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re not suggesting that something paranormal actually happened to this clown.”

“Of course not. I’m certain the apparition was a hoax. A damn good hoax. But there’s a circus quality to the entire thing. It’s like…he wants anyone in authority who might have taken notice to think he’s a fake. Like he’s purposely trying to get us to laugh and turn away. Pay him no mind whatsoever. But why?”

Michaels moved his stool closer. “Maybe to divert attention from something else. That’s what you’re saying. That this whole apparition, divine truth-seeking bullshit could be a smokescreen.”

“This hoax wasn’t done cheaply. It was a lot of money and trouble for someone to go through for nothing.”

“You’ve failed to consider one motivation, Litner. Sheer, simple, boredom.” Agent Michaels turned away. “The rich are different than us. They’ll go to great lengths to amuse themselves, and to feed their egos.”

“It could mean nothing. But it could be a domestic terrorist plot.”

Michaels huffed and ate another olive. “Domestic terrorism. Such a trendy phrase right now.”

“Because it’s a problem.”

“Duvaine is not political! There’s literally no evidence he gives a fuck about anything enough to want to terrorize it.”

“Do you want to take that chance?”

Chewing, Michaels glanced at him, expression uncertain. “You’re really convinced of this. Aren’t you?”

“Let me do the investigation. Let me be sure. I’ll be discreet.”

Michaels studied Litner. “I’ll need something better than a stolen spreadsheet.”

Litner breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll get it.”

“From where?”

“The Forest Bluffs property.”

Michaels shook his head. “Duvaine’s smart. He’ll know you don’t have the authority without evidence of a crime. And he can afford an army of lawyers.”

“I have a plan. Duvaine stated in his television interview that he’s auditioning to take on a group of consultants.”

Michaels snorted. “Followers, more likely. Like I said. Egos.”

“We can try to slip someone in, but we have no way of guaranteeing that our plant will even be chosen.”

Michaels scratched his chin. “So if they’re not ‘chosen’ what then?”

“I have a plan B. His name is Patrick Obrien.”

“The big redhead from the roof? You barely mention him in your report. How can he help?”

“He’s had a falling out with his friends. We may be able to close in on him and get him to talk.”

“And if he doesn’t know anything?”

“That’s doubtful. He’s an old college buddy of Duvaine’s, and he was there the night of the apparition. But if he doesn’t know anything, he can find out.”

“How?”

“By infiltrating their little beach camp. I want a sample of whatever they’re growing out in those fields. Patrick Obrien can get it. If it’s nothing but a bunch of vegetables, I leave them alone. If it’s something else, then we move forward from there, with solid evidence in hand.”

Michaels stared at him, still looking skeptical. “What if Obrien refuses?”

“He won’t. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

Michaels stared at him, eyes narrowed. Litner had never revealed his persuasion tactics, but his record evidenced they were effective. He suspected Michaels thought him a closet tough guy, making threats against home and hearth to get what he wanted. His tactics were much subtler. For persuasion, he referenced his psychology training, exercising his mind instead of his muscle. Once he got inside someone’s head, he could crack it like a safe. This Obrien character should be a breeze.

“Okay, Litner,” Michaels said. “Here’s my offer, and it is not up for debate. You use your own team on this, no one else. Keep them muzzled, not a word to anyone. You get the crop samples, and get out. If you fuck this up, you’ll be the fall guy. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Outside the bar, Litner started his car and Michaels leaned into the driver’s side window. “I know you have a history with that priest down at Saint Mary’s church. I hope he hasn’t pushed you to take this on for personal reasons. I understand he was pretty pissed off about that phony miracle happening at his church. Can’t say I blame him. The place is like a damned tourist attraction now.”

Litner looked at his boss, his face an expressionless mask. “Father Carbone and I went to school together, and we are friendly, but I haven’t spoken to him about this.”

It was the truth. He hadn’t spoken to Luigi Carbone. Yet.

“Good. The fewer people involved the better. Goodnight.”

Litner drove off, heading toward St. Mary’s church for his meeting with Father Carbone. He respected his boss’s opinions, but ultimately, he always did things his own way. He bent the rules sometimes, but only for a good cause. His instincts had never failed him, so he’d grown to rely on them, and was confident this would not be, as Michaels’ suggested, the first time Litner was wrong. But if it was? He’d be relieved to be wrong. Welcome it, actually.

Some of the bizarre evidence he’d uncovered seemed almost religious in nature, though unfamiliar to anything Litner had knowledge of. Father Carbone was a theologian by degree, so could perhaps help decipher things—if it meant anything at all, that is. It could be mere fantasy fiction, just as Agent Michaels suggested regarding the spreadsheet. But it could be a tragedy in the making, and Litner wasn’t taking any chances.

Chapter Thirteen

Cars lined the lush winding road that led up to the beach house. Benign clouds clung to the stretching blue sky like caps of foam on a calm sea. The sun was still new, casting a dance of early morning shadows around the flowering shrubs and blueberry bushes, like a thousand tiny hands waving. Beyond the locked gates at the end of the driveway, the crowd grew. Perched in clusters at the edge of the road, some with portable lawn chairs, they could have been waiting for a parade to come by. But they were not waiting for a parade.

They were awaiting their chance to be accepted into the gates and to share in the secrets of Joey Duvaine’s miracle. He had, after all, invited them.

“Look at them all.” From a front window, Joey peered through a pair of binoculars. Shep stood at his side, gazing at the crowd with a thoughtful scowl. “How will we choose?”

“We’re going to interview them,” Shep said.

Joey uttered a small laugh. “All of them?”

Shep shrugged. “I guess that would take a while.”

“Well yeah! Look at all of them. Didn’t you think this through, Mr. Plan of The Century?”

Shep chewed his thumbnail. “Not a problem. We let in a hundred and fifty. We choose sixty from that group. That should be enough people to tend to things around here.”

“Who has to interview them?” Joey asked, looking uneasy.

“You do, of course.”

Joey shook his head and drifted over to a nearby chair, sitting stiffly. “I’m not a good judge of character, Shep.”

Shep followed him over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you. I’ve even made up a set list of questions for you to ask. I’ll stand by and judge their reactions, read their auras, that sort of thing. The ideal candidate should be mesmerized by your presence, but not so much that they couldn’t function. I’ll be able to weed out the bad seeds.” Joey sat with his hands wedged between his knees. Shep moved closer, studying him with a tilt of his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for this. I’m feeling a little unsteady. Not myself, you know?”

Shep stiffened. “Did you have more dreams last night?”

Joey barked a laugh. “Dreams? That’s cute. Try nightmares. I have them every night. They’re getting worse. I feel afraid all the time, and I don’t even know what I’m afraid of.”

Shep sat down beside him. “If the dreams are getting worse for you, they’re getting worse for Obrien too. He can’t stay away forever. I’m sorry you have to go through this, but in order to bond Obrien to you, I had to bond you to him as well.”

“Well it really sucks, if you don’t mind my saying so. You didn’t tell me it was going to affect me like this.”

“Yes, well I didn’t think Obrien was going to be this stubborn.”

Joey met his eyes. “You mean you didn’t think he was going to be this strong.”

Shep’s teeth clenched. “He’ll be here.”

“What if it didn’t take? I mean, what if it didn’t work? Maybe we should—”

“Maybe we should what?” Shep yelled and Joey jumped.

“I just think it might not have worked.”

“So what are you suggesting, Joey? Huh? Another blood pact? Give me a break! We barely talked him into the first one!”

Shep stormed over to a nearby desk and dug through a drawer. He tossed a plastic cylinder of pills over to Joey, who caught them. “Those are Valium. They’ll keep you calm, and they’ll help you sleep. Once Obrien gets here, you won’t have to feel any more fear. And he will get here, Joey. I don’t want to hear any more crap about the blood pact not working. You saw him climb the side of that church like he had plutonium in his veins.”

The interviews went on all day and into the night. Juris would bring each of the candidates in and seat them in a chair across the big oak desk from Joey. Shep stood to the side, a silent observer. Some candidates were discarded immediately, like the women who tried to dive over the desk to get at Joey. Shep even uncovered a would-be spy.

The young man in question had stringy, shoulder length red hair with a face full of boyish freckles, and introduced himself as Ronny Slade. Shep was immediately suspicious. The man claimed to be twenty years old, but Shep was sure he was closer to thirty. His strategic dress was a raggedy tie-dyed tee shirt with denim shorts, and a strand of plastic beads around his neck. The beads had the smell and shine of something newly purchased. Shep guessed they were supposed to look like the beads Joey had worn on his television interview.

Shep examined the man’s clean, manicured fingernails as he shook the redhead’s hand. Relying on his extraordinary senses, Shep discreetly sniffed his own hand after seating him. Ronny Slade’s hand had the vague odor lead, with a hint of sulfur. He’d handled a gun recently.

While Joey questioned him, Ronny Slade acted overwhelmed at the opportunity to join Joey in his spiritual quest. His aura, however, remained stable, with just a slight undertone of hostility. Joey’s charm did not affect him at all. Only a person trained in discipline could so coldly resist Joey’s chemical lure.

When the interview was over, Shep walked him to the door. “Juris will show you off the premises, Mr. Slade. You will not be accepted into our group. I’m sorry.”

Anger flared hot in the man’s aura, but he made his face sad. “But I truly think I can help you find the answers. Won’t you reconsider?”

Shep laughed loudly. “Go home, detective. Or is it agent? You must be dying to get out of those ridiculous clothes.”

The man looked too shocked to come up with a clever protest. He stared open-mouthed at Shep for a moment, then he relaxed and smiled. “How did you know?”

“It was a combination of things, but I think it was the Walmart beads around your neck that really coined it.”

The man nodded. “I told them the beads were over the top. Goodbye Mr. Shepherd.”

By midnight, they’d chosen sixty followers; thirty women and thirty men. There were artists, nurses, executives, students, and beach bums. It was a beautiful mix, for now they all held the same goal—to please their leader. Weeding out the rejects had been grueling. The unwanted candidates were led out by the brothers, some quietly, others hysterical, many angry. The new family was set up out in the back fields, in and around the guest house. Tomorrow afternoon, Joey would go out and give his first sermon, then they would be truly his.

Shep sat alone in the sunroom and leisurely smoked a joint. He was pleased with the way things were coming together. There was of course still one soldier out of step. He’d expected Obrien to show up by now. Dear old Patrick was turning out to be more of a challenge than he’d expected. No matter. Patrick would join them eventually. If he wanted to wait until he was writhing in pain before he came back to them, so be it. It was his choice. For now.

Chapter Fourteen

The four pain pills Patrick took upon waking were finally kicking in, the pounding now eased to a dull throb. Last night’s dream had been a corker. Joey was strung up and hanged by an angry mob while Patrick struggled to fight through the crowd to save him. Each time he thought he was getting close to Joey, the crowd would thicken in front of him, preventing his pursuit.

Shuddering at the memory, Patrick adjusted his tie in the bathroom mirror, and smoothed a bit of gel across his hair. His brother Ryan had just had his second child, and today was the baptism. Patrick had stood Godfather to Ryan’s first son, Ryan Jr. who was now three years old. Patrick was looking forward to seeing his little Godson, a quizzical red-haired boy who was certain the world revolved around him.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, double checking the time on the invitation. He was about to put the invitation down when he did a double take. He hadn’t examined it very closely when it arrived. Location: Saint Mary’s Church. It had to be a mistake. His family’s church was Holy Name.

He picked up the phone and called his brother. Ryan sounded pleased to hear from him. Patrick had been fairly neglectful of family issues lately. “Hey, stranger! I was beginning to think I didn’t have a brother anymore. Are we going to see you today?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Hey, why are you having this thing at Saint Mary’s instead of Holy Name?”

Ryan was silent for a moment. “Oh. Yeah. Well, mom insisted. She goes to Saint Mary’s now. Ever since your friend Joey had his little miracle.”

“Oh, Christ. Are you kidding me?”

“I take it you weren’t as impressed with the miracle as Mom was.”

Patrick grew silent, not knowing what to say. He hadn’t spoken to his brother since the whole thing happened.

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to, Patrick. I imagine it’s been a pain in the ass for you.”

“You’ve got that right. I will tell you about it when we have time, Ryan, I promise. All I can tell you right now is the last thing I want to do is set foot on the grounds of Saint Mary’s church. I’ve been going out of my way to distance myself from that mess.”

“A challenge I bet when your pal Joey talked about you on TV.”

“Yeah. He’s a real fucking pal, that one.”

“I always told you that relationship was weird,” Ryan said. “The three of you are too close, and I feel like it’s held you back. You need to make your own life, Patrick. Leave them behind. Especially after this miracle thing, it’s insane.”

“I know, believe me, and I’m trying, Ry. I really am.”

Ryan sighed. “If you want to skip the baptism we totally understand. Hey, little Ryan wants to say hello.”

“Well put him on!”

Patrick could hear the toddler struggling with the phone, and the sound of his breath. “Uncle Patrick?”

Patrick smiled at the sweet, high-pitched voice. “How you doing buddy?”

Another heavy breath. “We have a new baby. Liam. He doesn’t do anything. He just sits on the couch and drinks milk. He cries sometimes too.”

Patrick laughed. “Well, he’ll be old enough to play with you soon.”

“Yeah. Uncle Patrick? Am I still your favorite boy?”

Patrick felt a hard yank at his heartstrings. “You’ll always be my favorite boy, Ryan.”

“So you is coming to the church today?” the little voice asked.

Damn. He’d rather gouge his eyes out than go back to Saint Mary’s. But he couldn’t say no to Ryan, senior or junior. “Of course I’m coming to the church. Tell your daddy I’ll see him there.”

Walking up the church lawn wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. It was a bright sunny day and the church looked different in the morning light. People in colorful outfits poured into the front doors, chatting and laughing. Aside from a few piles of decaying flowers left by hopeful spectators on the lawn, all seemed normal at Saint Mary’s. There were no crowds seeking visions of holiness during the day.

Patrick slid onto the bench alongside his mother, a thin woman with lips perpetually pursed in disapproval, giving her face a birdlike quality. She wore her auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun, and her skin was pale and smooth. She often told Patrick that he should thank her for his lovely skin, and that he hadn’t inherited his father’s rosacea or baldness. His father was only slightly balding, but he harped on it like he was losing a leg instead of a few strands of hair.

The priest trickled water onto the miniature forehead of Patrick’s newest nephew. Awakened from a sound sleep, the baby squealed. Patrick’s brother Ryan and his wife Shay giggled nervously, but the priest was unfazed by the crying. The man didn’t look like a priest. He was a handsome, olive-skinned Italian, perhaps in his mid-forties, with thick dark hair combed back from his forehead. There was an intensity in the young priest’s dark brown eyes that was unlike the usual somber countenance of a clergyman. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness. When he was not smiling, however, he looked a little rough, like he could hold his own in a street fight. It was a strange contrast.

It was time to take communion, and Patrick stood and got in line behind his parents. He was not feeling particularly worthy of receiving the body of Christ, but he had little choice. To sit communion out would be to bear the wrath of his mother, which could be significantly more threatening than God’s. So, with hands clasped at his waist, he shuffled forward and hoped the act would not transport him directly to hell.

With just two people ahead of him now, he could hear the priest’s deep soothing voice. “The body of Christ,” he said to Patrick’s mother.

“Amen,” she said, and the priest placed the wafer on her tongue. Blessing herself, she turned and went back to her seat.

Patrick stood before the priest now. Up close he could see a tuft of gray at each temple of the priest’s black hair. He raised the wafer. “The body of…” The priest looked up at Patrick and hesitated. He held the wafer out in mid-reach, his brown eyes wide and startled. “The body of…” he started to say again, and paused. Patrick was tempted to check his own head to see if he’d sprouted horns on the way to the altar. Finally the priest’s face relaxed and he smiled. The smile was cold, not reaching his eyes. “The body of Christ,” he said, and dropped the wafer into Patrick’s cupped hands.

“Amen,” Patrick said. His legs felt like undercooked noodles as he moved back down the aisle, past his parents, and out the front doors of the church.

On the front steps he sat with his head between his knees. Why had the priest hesitated? The answer came like a dumbbell falling on his head. He didn’t have horns sprouting from his skull. The priest had simply recognized him. He’d probably seen Patrick’s picture in the newspaper. Of course he’d followed the story of the apparition, it happened at his church. Patrick couldn’t believe he was fool enough to come here.

Moments later, the crowd came pouring through the front doors and Patrick was able to blend in. His mother wandered over to him, holding the hand of a squirming Ryan Jr., who looked terribly uncomfortable in his little pin-striped suit. “I want to go home!” the child squealed.

“We’ll go soon honey,” his mother said. “We have to wait for Mommy.”

Patrick grabbed Ryan Jr. and swung him up onto his shoulders, making him shriek with laughter. “What happened to you, Patrick?” his mother asked. “Why did you walk out like that?”

“I wasn’t feeling well. I just needed some air.”

She reached up and grabbed Ryan off of Patrick’s shoulders. “Well don’t hold the children if you’re sick!”

“I’m not sick, mom. I just needed some air. The incense eats up the oxygen. It makes me lightheaded.”

Patrick spotted the Italian priest up on the stairs, speaking into a cell phone. He finished his call and slipped the phone into some unseen pocket beneath his robes, then turned to shake hands with Ryan and Shay as they came out of the church. Patrick was about to sneak away when his mother grabbed his elbow. “Patrick, come meet Father Carbone. He’s been just wonderful to Ryan and Shay.”

Patrick panicked. He didn’t want to go anywhere near that priest. “I think I’m coming down with something after all, Mom. I better go lie down.”

“It will just take a second! Come on, Patrick. I want to introduce you.”

She all but dragged him, leading him up the stairs to where his brother stood with the priest. The priest reached out to her as they approached, warmly taking her hand in his.

“Brigid, it’s so nice to see you.”

“That was just lovely, Father Carbone.”

“Thank you. It’s a lovely occasion.”

“I’d like you to meet my other son,” his mother said, tugging him forward. “Patrick, this is Father Carbone.”

The priest extended his hand and Patrick shook it. “Your son?” he said. “No kidding.”

“Nice to meet you,” Patrick muttered, and tried to slink away.

“Does Uncle Patrick want to hold the baby?” his sister-in-law Shay asked, offering him the frilly-dressed infant.

“No!” his mother snapped. “Patrick is sick. Don’t give him the baby.” Shay retracted the child as though Patrick had the plague.

“You’re sick, Patrick?” Father Carbone asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just a cold or something. I just need to get some rest. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I have just the thing,” Father Carbone called out as Patrick attempted escape. “It’s a very special tea. The recipe was passed down from four generations of monks. Come on around back, Patrick. I have some at the house.”

Generations of monks? What a crock of shit.

“Thank you, Father, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I can brew up a pot in five minutes.”

His mother looked ecstatic at the idea of Patrick sharing tea with a priest, what with his mortal soul in danger from missing church so much. “Don’t be rude, Patrick!” she said. “Father Carbone has offered to make you tea!” Patrick wanted to swat his mother away like a fruit fly.

“That’s very kind, really, but I don’t think so.”

The last thing he wanted to do was be alone with this priest, who looked like a Mafia wise guy. Father Carbone put a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder, his fingers gripping just a bit too tight. “I insist.”

Patrick’s eyes darted from the handsome face to the white collar. He was a priest, for crying out loud. What was he going to do to Patrick? Kill him? Poison his tea? Have him whacked in the parish house?

Patrick’s brother Ryan gave him a warning glance that said he was protesting too much now.

“All right,” Patrick said. “One cup of tea. Thank you, Father.”

Father Carbone smiled. “Good. Let’s go then. Don’t worry, Brigid. I’ll fix him right up.”

I’ll bet you will, Patrick thought. His mind played absurd images of the priest coming at him with a baseball bat as soon as they got inside.

Father Carbone led Patrick around the back of the church to his little apartment, or priest’s house, or whatever it was. Patrick had pounded on that very door the night of the apparition, trying to get someone to let him into the church. Where was Father Carbone that night? Things might have been different had Patrick not been forced to scale the damn building.

“Have a seat. I’ll go make the tea.” The priest gave him a phony smile and disappeared down a hallway. Patrick sat stiffly on a worn-looking chair, examining his surroundings. It was a cozy little space, with paneled walls covered with religious knick-knacks. A set of shelves displayed a variety of books on matters such as immortality and resurrection. Statues of the Virgin Mary graced the end tables, along with a ceramic Jesus or two.

Carbone returned with a large metal tray and set it down on the coffee table. The tray held an elaborate painted tea set that looked like an antique. Patrick was tempted to ask if these mysterious monks had passed that down as well, but decided it was not in his favor to be a wise ass at the moment. “Do you like lemon?” the priest asked, still feigning cordiality.

“No, thank you.”

Father Carbone sat on a small couch across from Patrick and poured his tea for him.

“This ought to fix you right up, Patrick.”

“Thank you, Father.” Patrick decided he could keep up the façade as long as the priest did.

Father Carbone took a sip of his tea and looked at Patrick, smiling that strange smile. “So Patrick, I didn’t realize that you were Catholic.”

“What do you mean, Father? You and I have never met before today.”

The priest nodded. “Right. Right. What I meant was I’ve never seen you in church with your mother.”

“Yes, well, we used to go to a different church. I didn’t know my mother was coming here now.”

The priest took another slow sip of his tea and nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Like so many others, your mother started coming here after that business with the apparition.” Patrick’s stomach jumped. The priest lifted his gaze. “You heard about that, didn’t you, Patrick? The Virgin Mary appeared on the roof of this very church. It was in all the newspapers. I was away on vacation at the time. What luck, huh?”

Patrick pretended to be consumed by his teacup. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard about it.” He drained his cup and stood. “Thank you for the tea, Father Carbone, but I really do have to go now.”

“Why don’t you stick around for a while. I have some people coming by who want to meet you.”

Patrick stared at him, blinking. “I’m sorry?”

“I said stick around. We’re just getting started.”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

“I don’t think so. Sit down.”

Patrick frowned down at the priest. Father Carbone grinned in mock politeness. Patrick laughed, nodding. “Okay, Father Carbone. Enough of this. Why don’t you just tell me what your problem is.”

Father Carbone laughed, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head. “What is my problem, he asks. Hmmm. Let’s see. What is my problem? Do you mean besides the fact that you turned my church into a fucking circus?”

Patrick was shocked by the profanity, but not the accusation. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh! You had nothing to do with it. I suppose you just happened to be in the neighborhood that night.”

“It’s complicated,” Patrick said.

“I have time.”

“Well I don’t.” Patrick started for the door.

“I wouldn’t leave if I were you, Patrick.”

He stopped and looked back. “Oh? And why not?”

Father Carbone leaned forward, forming a steeple with his hands and resting his chin on it. “There are three agents on their way here now. They want to ask you some questions.”

Patrick laughed. “You’re out of your mind. Goodbye, Father Carbone.”

“Go then, Patrick. But I must warn you. This really is the easiest way. If you go to your apartment they will follow you there, and your neighbors will see them escort you out. If you go to the Christening party at your brother Ryan’s house they will follow you, and your family will see them escort you out. I don’t think your mother would take that well. Do you?”

Patrick’s heart thudded. “You’re lying. Why the hell would the cops be interested in me?”

Three hard raps sounded at the door, making Patrick jump. He looked back at Father Carbone, wide-eyed. The priest smiled. “Well. Now you can ask them that question.”

The door opened and three men in dark suits walked in. They looked like the kind of FBI agents Patrick had seen in movies, all but one who had long yellow hair to his shoulders. He looked like a professional wrestler, aside from the dark suit and sunglasses. He and a man with a brown crew cut took up guard positions on either side of the door, expressions placid.

The third man moved with a determined stride directly toward Patrick. He had an unmistakable air of authority, the leader. His short hair was so gray it was nearly white. Patrick would have thought him in his sixties until he removed the sunglasses. His face was smooth and unlined, dark blue eyes wide and clear. He looked far too young to have hair that white, but the lack of warmth in his eyes made it seem appropriate, like his hair had iced over from the coldness within. “Patrick Obrien?” he said, his voice stern.

Patrick nodded, feeling very small. “Uh-huh.”

He held out a badge. “I’m Agent Steven Litner. These are Agents Rourke and Ohare. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Patrick’s legs threatened to buckle, and he moved over to the chair and sat. “May I see that identification please?” he asked.

The agent handed it to Patrick respectfully. Patrick glanced at it and handed it back. It could have come from a Cracker Jack box for all he knew.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No one is accusing you of anything, Mr. Obrien. I just want to ask you some questions.”

Patrick glanced at the men guarding the door. They could have been carved of stone for how still they were. He could see their gun holsters peeking out from under their jackets. He took a deep breath. “What is this about?”

Seating himself next to Father Carbone, the agent pulled a notebook from his jacket. “You might want to get comfortable, Mr. Obrien.”

Patrick looked down and realized he was sitting literally on the edge of his seat. He moved back in the chair but relaxation was out of the question. Litner didn’t beat around the bush. “What is your association with Joseph Pierre Duvaine?”

“Joey and I went to college together,” Patrick said. “We also until recently worked together at Parker Investments.”

“Is that all?” he asked. Patrick was silent. Agent Litner looked up, his navy eyes probing but patient.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asked. “Is what all?”

“Is that the extent of your relationship with this individual?”

“No. Joey’s also my friend.”

Agent Litner nodded and scribbled something on his notepad. Father Carbone made a scoffing sound, and Patrick glanced at him. “Does the priest really have to be here for this?”

“Father Carbone is aiding us in this investigation, but he will control himself and remain silent during this inquiry. Won’t you, Father Carbone?” The priest shrugged, then nodded.

“Investigation? What about?” Patrick asked, although he was pretty sure he knew. Joey and Shep had probably already been laundering donation money or something. If that was the case, then they had cooked their own goose. Patrick was not going down with them.

“Please just try and answer the questions, Mr. Obrien. How long have you known Joseph Duvaine?”

“Ten years.”

“And during that time, have you ever heard him mention such topics as population control, weapons of mass destruction, or anything related to acts of terrorism?”

Patrick blinked at him. “Say what now?”

“Has he ever mentioned or fantasized about creating a national or global catastrophe? Any fascination with genocide?”

Patrick held his hands out in front of him and let out a stifled laugh. “Whoa. Hold on a minute there. I’m afraid you’ve gotten some misinformation. Joey is not a terrorist. He’s a financial planner.”

The priest made another sound of disgust and got up and left the room. Patrick stared after him a moment, then looked across at Agent Litner. “What is this about, really?”

Agent Litner studied him. “Duvaine never spoke of formulating biological weapons of any kind?”

Patrick shook his head, incredulous. “Is this a joke? Joey Duvaine is a decent person. He’s had some emotional problems lately since losing his family, but I assure you he’s not dangerous. Joey wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Father Carbone stepped quietly back into the room, and he and the agent exchanged a glance. Litner went back to his notebook and flipped a few pages, tapping his pen on the table. “What about Melvin Eugene Shepherd?”

Patrick shrugged. “What about him?”

“Do you know this individual?”

“Yes, I know Shep. He’s a friend.”

“Just like Joseph Duvaine is a friend.”

Patrick nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”

“Mr. Obrien, would you say that these two individuals are your good friends?”

“Sure.”

“Would you qualify them as your best friends?”

“I suppose.”

“Why then do you choose to have no involvement in their newly established…activities down in Forest Bluffs?”

“We have conflicting views.”

Agent Litner almost smiled, but it was hard to tell. His facial expressions didn’t change much. “These conflicting views that you have, what do they involve?”

“Just the whole idea. I think it’s ridiculous.”

Litner slid forward in his chair. “What exactly is ridiculous?”

“Just…Joey talked about starting a church. It’s stupid, I know. He’ll get bored with the idea soon enough.”

“Aside from that,” Litner said. “What are they planning?”

Patrick frowned. “They’re not planning anything. Playing, more like it. They’re the least organized people I know. The biggest plan I’ve ever seen them make is deciding what time to meet at the bar for happy hour. Half the time they can’t even get that right.”

Litner cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Obrien, for what reason did your friends orchestrate a hoax that might put Joseph Duvaine in the public spotlight?”

Patrick shook his head and placed his hands on his temples. “Wait a minute. You knew it was a hoax?”

“Of course we knew it was a hoax.”

“Then what is this investigation about?”

The agent tapped his pen on his temple furiously. He looked about to pop a vein. “Mr. Obrien. We don’t care that they created the damn hoax. We want to know the motivation behind it.”

“I told you. To start a church group.”

“For what purpose?”

Patrick snickered. “Come on. You can’t figure it out? It was a money scam! Donations. Tax free dollars. Surely you looked into all of this. Joey was about to lose his father’s beach house. He had a lot of debt to pay off. Are you guys for real? Because so far I’m not impressed.”

Father Carbone cocked his head to one side, studying Patrick. “Either you are one cool cucumber, or you really don’t know jack shit.”

Patrick turned to Agent Litner, who wore the same expression, eyeing Patrick like he was some sort of enigma. “What?” Patrick said. “What is it exactly I’m supposed to know?”

Agent Litner sighed, twirling his pen like a baton. “How well do you know your friends?”

Patrick shrugged. “They’ve been like brothers to me for years. I know everything about them. Why?”

“Patrick, Charles Duvaine was not having any financial problems, and your friend Joey was never in any danger of losing that beach house. The mortgage on the Forest Bluffs house was paid off, as were all the taxes for the next year. Charles Duvaine had millions in the bank and Joey received an enormous inheritance along with a life insurance policy when Charles died. Joey Duvaine is a rich young man and he hasn’t accepted a dime from so called church donations, or any other outside sources. We’ve had him under surveillance for some time now.”

Patrick felt faint. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that whatever reason your friends had for the hoax, for forming this group, it wasn’t for money.”

Patrick shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. Of course it was for money. Shep said so himself. Why else would they do something like this?”

Litner raised his eyebrows. “That is the question I’ve been trying to ask you.”

“If it wasn’t for the money, then I don’t know why they did it. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Agent Litner asked.

“Well, Shep has been known to pull scams just to see if he could.”

Litner scowled. “That’s irrational.”

“Yeah, well you’d have to know Shep. He’s not the most rational person I’ve ever met. But whatever the reason, I can assure you that there’s no conspiracy. I’m sorry to disappoint you but my friends are not terrorists. They’re too stupid.”

Again, Litner and the priest exchanged one of those knowing glances. “Did you just call Joey Duvaine stupid?”

“I did. I mean, he’s smart with numbers I guess, but not a lot of common sense sometimes.”

“Do you even know who he is? Patrick, I have to ask you again. How well do you know your friends?”

“I told you, they’re like brothers to me!”

“Why then did you break off all contact with them? Why have you cut all ties with the two people that you deem to be ‘like brothers’?”

Patrick threw his hands up, exasperated. “The apparition! The phony miracle! And dragging me into it against my will.”

Agent Litner studied him. “Are you telling me the only reason you ended a ten-year friendship is because they staged this apparition?”

“Yes. Well, more so that they dragged me into it without consent. I wanted nothing to do with it. And Shep lied to me about Joey being suicidal. These might be small crimes in your book, but to me that’s nothing to fuck with.”

Agent Litner flipped through his notebook. “Where is Melvin Eugene Shepherd from originally? Do you know?”

“Shep is from Texas. Why do you ask?”

“Because he doesn’t exist.”

“Of course he exists. His father was abusive, so Shep was put into foster homes when he was little. He got shuffled around a lot.”

“Yes, I have heard the sad tale,” Litner said with a heavy note of sarcasm. “But the fact remains that all records verifying his existence stop showing up when traced back more than thirteen years, just before he moved in with the Duvaine family. Even the social worker that placed him with the Duvaines can’t be traced. It’s like your friend Shep just popped up out of thin air.”

Patrick shook his head. “That’s impossible. I know Shep. He talks about his past. Have you checked court documents? Social security numbers and such?”

Agent Litner gave him a look.

“Right. Kind of your job, huh?”

Litner continued. “Regarding Mr. Shepherd. Has he ever expressed any interest in genocide, biological weapons—”

“No!” Patrick said, cutting him off. “For the last time, I am telling you that you have the wrong guys.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because they’re my best friends!” Patrick felt hot tears threatening. He bowed his head and wiped his eyes, feeling foolish and out of control. “I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” he said softly. “I’ve just been under a lot of pressure.”

Litner sighed. “I do not enjoy having to upset you. You say that your friends are not criminals. I hope you’re right. I want you to be right. In fact, I’m going to give you the opportunity to prove you’re right.”

Patrick didn’t like the sound of that. He looked up at the white-haired agent. “What do you mean?”

“Your friends have started growing a field of crops on Joey’s property in Forest Bluffs. Do you know what this crop is?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You received a phone call from Joey Duvaine the night of his television interview. It seems that your friends would like very much for you to join them.”

“You’ve tapped my phone?”

“We need a sample of that crop. Judging from your friends’ desire to have you with them, I’d say you could easily obtain that sample for us.”

Patrick’s jaw dropped. “You want me to spy on my friends? Steal crops? Why can’t you do it yourselves?”

Agent Litner’s gaze lowered. “We tried to infiltrate the group when they were recruiting members. Mr. Shepherd figured out that our decoy was an agent.”

Patrick laughed. “You shouldn’t underestimate Shep.”

“Will you help us, or not?”

Patrick glanced at the statuesque agents guarding the door. His eyes found their gun holsters and he looked back at Agent Litner. “I don’t want Joey and Shep to get hurt,” he said. “They’re not dangerous people. I don’t want them hurt because you’ve got some wrong idea in your head about them.”

“They will not be harmed, Patrick. If this crop proves questionable then we will make inquiries according to the law.”

“And if it’s nothing?”

“We leave them alone.”

“Are you responsible for those curly-haired freaks following me around? Because they’re starting to piss me off.”

“We are not having you followed, Patrick.”

“Yeah. I wonder.”

“You seem to believe in your friends’ integrity. I hope it’s well-founded, I really do. You have a chance to prove me wrong here. I swear to you, I want to be wrong about these suspicions I have. Please, Patrick. Prove me wrong.”

The room grew very still. “Can I think about it?”

“You have forty-eight hours. And you are not to speak to anyone about this conversation, especially your friends. Is that clear?”

“Clear. Two days. I’ll give you my answer. May I go now? It smells like feet in here.”

Agent Litner glanced at the agents by the door. They stepped aside, allowing Patrick to pass. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Obrien,” Litner called after him.

“I’m sure you will,” Patrick said.

He was about to step out the door when Father Carbone called after him. “Patrick, wait. Can I ask you just one question before you leave?”

Patrick turned back. “What is it?”

The priest thumbed through a worn-looking book. “You never did any sort of blood ceremony with your friends, did you?”

Patrick felt the breath leave his body. “A what?”

“Mixing your blood with theirs? A ritual of some sort?” Patrick stared at the priest, unable to speak. Father Carbone interpreted his shocked silence as anger. “I’m sorry, Patrick. Of course you didn’t. Never mind, then. Go on home.”

Chapter Fifteen

Kelinda pushed open the heavy wooden door and hesitated, waiting for the lightning bolt to come down from above and cremate her. When it didn’t, she moved inside the church and let the door swing shut behind her. She could see the statue of the Virgin up by the altar. She turned away, avoiding its eyes.

A recent argument with Patrick repeated in her mind. He’d pointed out that she’d gone against her beliefs, lied to her best friend Robin, and risked her reputation. But for what? He’d wanted to know why she’d agreed to let herself be the model for the apparition. It’s like he had a way of pinpointing and homing in on exactly what she was hiding, and she wondered if he was just incredibly perceptive, or if she was radiating guilt.

Because the answer to Patrick’s question was easy. She’d done it because Joey Duvaine asked her to. What else would she have agreed to that night Joey came to her house, hypnotizing her with those blue eyes, asking her to grant an old friend a favor? Conspiracy? Murder perhaps?

Joey had no idea the influence he had on her. This was no accident. She’d observed him closely over the years. Women who mooned over him too much were immediately discarded. Joey needed to feel like you didn’t want anything from him, or he’d run. He always behaved as if he was already spoken for somehow. So Kelinda had played the game, never lingering her gaze on him too long, never flirting. And now Joey was comfortable around her. Yet he was no more interested in her than he’d ever been.

She knew the obsession was childish, and she’d tried to deal with it as such. She even moved out of state for a while, thinking that would get him out of her system. But she’d wanted Joey for too long. She’d wanted him while she was still too young to know what that wanting meant. She was poisoned with him. And as with any addiction, the only cure was abstinence. Or perhaps substitution?

Patrick was the first man who’d sparked her interest in years, made her turn her head away from her unrequited obsession. So she’d found a nice Irish Catholic boy that her parents would love, and she was actually attracted to him. She only hoped now that the Joey fixation wouldn’t screw it up. Patrick didn’t deserve that on top of all the betrayal he'd endured lately.

She had a grip on the truth now, and the truth was that Joey would never want her. He’d used her for the apparition, nothing more. She’d asked if he wanted to grab a coffee after the filming. Joey said he was too busy, but thanked her profusely, telling her what a good friend she was. A good friend.

And he’d left her in the dust without a word since. Without ever considering that she carried the keys to his destruction. Had he forgotten how easily she could thwart his plan? With a single phone call to the press she could pop Joey Duvaine’s heavenly bubble and watch laughing as he dropped painfully back to earth. But first...confession.

She walked toward the back of the church, determined to emotionally purge herself of Joey once and for all by confessing to God what she had done. Each step she took required determined force. She’d promised Joey she’d say nothing to anyone about the hoax. She’d given her word. Did confessing to a priest count as squealing? To hell with Joey, she thought, and stepped behind the curtain. “Bless me father for I have sinned.”

“Kelinda?” a smooth deep voice behind the curtain said. It was a voice she knew. Damn it. Father Bello was a friend of the family. He played golf with her father. She was hoping to get Father McShawn, who didn’t know her personally. Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled to hear Father Bello’s voice behind that curtain. He was a chipper old priest with a trusting smile and a white Santa Claus beard. But she didn’t want to speak to a friend today. She wanted to speak to a stranger, a tranquil, faceless voice behind a dark curtain.

“I thought Father McShawn was taking confessions today,” she said.

“Father McShawn is down with the flu. Do you have a problem giving your confession to me?”

“No, Father.”

“Good. What is it that weighs so heavy on you?”

“I have blasphemed.”

“Have you taken the Lord’s name in vain?” the voice asked. She nearly laughed. No taking the Lord’s name here. That sort of blasphemy is for sissies. Now holography…

“No, Father.”

“Kelinda, how have you blasphemed?”

“It was the Blessed Virgin,” she said.

“So you have taken Mary’s name in vain then?”

“No Father. I have not.”

“Help me to understand, then. How is it that you have blasphemed the Blessed Virgin?”

She was beginning to sweat, hearing Joey’s words in her mind. I must first have your promise that you’ll never speak about this project. I need you to swear on it, Kelinda. The walls of the tiny cubical seemed to close in around her. She wanted to tell Father Bello everything. It would feel wonderful to let it all pour forth from her, the whole sordid tale. But her throat was constricting. “Father Bello, why don’t you just give me the worst penance you have.”

“Kelinda! I cannot give you penance if I do not know what it is you have done. You must confess your sins to God. These are God’s laws. I cannot bend them at will.”

“I know, Father. I’m sorry.” She tried to say the words. I was the miracle apparition on Saint Mary’s church. But the words wouldn’t pass through her lips. Instead, she said, “What’s the worst sin you’ve ever heard, Father Bello?”

“I suppose murder.”

“What sort of penance would you give for that?”

“My child! Have you committed murder?”

“No! Of course not.”

She heard Father Bello sigh. He was losing patience with her. “Kelinda, whatever this great sin is, you must give it to God. To hold onto this sin is to destroy your spirit.”

Her breathing had become shallow and she felt about to pass out. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her dress. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

She ran out of the back door of the church, sandals slapping on the stone path. She was about to turn up the driveway toward the street when she bumped into someone and nearly fell over. The stranger grasped her arm to steady her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t watching where…” The words caught in her throat as she looked into the large green eyes of the man she’d run into. It was the dark-haired stranger she’d seen at the Chinese restaurant, the one Patrick claimed had been following him. She gasped.

He smiled at her, still holding her elbow. He looked different now, clean and well-dressed in a pair of tan pants with a crisp white tee shirt. He was not wearing any shoes. His black hair was clean and shiny, falling in ringlets to his chin. His skin was slightly sunburned. The reddish-brown tint fell across his nose and cheekbones, exactly the way Shep tanned in the summer. And she realized now that he was attractive in that same unique way Shep was attractive. The resemblance was startling. Robin had always said Shep had no family. But still…those eyes. They could have been plucked right out of Shep’s head save for the black lashes that framed them.

Kelinda took a step back and pulled her arm away. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Did you confess your sins, Kelinda?”

She went cold. “How do you know my name?”

“The chosen one would like to speak with you, Kelinda.” He spoke with a strange accent, like each word was an effort.

Kelinda winkled her nose. “The chosen one? Who is the chosen one?”

“Joey Duvaine is the chosen one.”

She flinched, remembering Patrick’s words at the restaurant. How do you know they’re following me? They could be following you. “How do you know Joey?”

The stranger gave her a quizzical look. “Joey Duvaine is the chosen one,” he said, as if this should explain everything.

Kelinda uttered a short laugh and stepped backward. “Well you tell him I said hello, but this is not a good time. I’ve got to go now.”

She turned and sprinted off through the side yard, determined to get away from the stranger as quickly as possible. She thought she was moving pretty fast until he caught her arm, whirling her about. She glared at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let go of me, you freak!”

The stranger frowned, looking slightly hurt. “I told you. The chosen one wishes to speak with you. You must come with me.”

“I am going nowhere with you. I don’t even know you!”

“But you must. I have orders.”

Kelinda laughed. “Orders? What does that mean?”

“It means that I have no choice. And neither do you.”

Chapter Sixteen

Kelinda sat in silence as Allisto pulled the white van through the front gates and down the long, shrub-lined driveway toward the huge beach house. She was saving her anger for Joey. To release it on this stranger beside her would be a waste of rage. Of course, she was afraid to speak to the stranger now, after what she’d seen him do.

When he initially took hold of her outside the church, trying to drag her toward the van, she’d jammed her heel into his kneecap and sprinted toward the street. He’d cried out in pain, but caught up with her again. This time he gripped her arm and wouldn’t let go.

She’d thought about screaming for help, but before she could execute that plan, he’d clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her back behind the neighboring post office. The windows of the building were dark, the business closed for the evening.

“Please do not fight me,” he’d said. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

She’d looked into his wide green eyes. He seemed distraught, even a little frightened, which was odd since he was the one attacking her. Her feet shuffled and kicked as he dragged her. “I told you, I have orders!” he said, frustration evident as he struggled with her. “If you’d just stop fighting…”

It was then that Kelinda kneed him in the crotch with every ounce of strength she could muster. She saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop as he grunted in agony. She’d expected his grip on her arm to loosen, but he held firm as she tried to twist away. Still holding her elbow, he doubled over, taking deep breaths. When he was able to straighten up again his eyes gleamed with rage, and she felt real fear for the first time.

The stranger extended his arm outward, pushing Kelinda as far away from his body as he could without letting go of her wrist. She stumbled with the action, which was like a poorly executed dance move. Once he’d forced her away from him, he turned his eyes toward a nearby mailbox. Sucking in a deep breath, the stranger let out a shriek that was like the cry of some giant prehistoric bird. With her free hand, she covered her right ear.

The mailbox shattered. Scraps of blue metal propelled through the air. Shredded streamers of white paper fluttered like confetti all around them. Shielding her head with her free arm, Kelinda stared in disbelief at what was left of the mailbox. What hadn’t shattered into the air appeared to be melting, bending like wax as it collapsed into itself. A flat slate of blue metal teeter-tottered over and landed with a metallic clang at her feet.

He’d turned to her then, looking embarrassed as tiny shreds of paper mail fell onto his black curls like snowflakes. “Please, Kelinda,” he said. “Please do not cause me pain or make me angry. I am having trouble…controlling myself. I need more practice. Do you understand?” Kelinda had nodded, though she did not understand, not at all. Regardless, she’d gone peaceably with the stranger after that, handing over her purse and her phone when he asked for them. “My name is Allisto,” he’d said cheerily when they got into the van, like they were going to be good friends now.

The Forest Bluffs house loomed before them like a polished mountain. She thought the acre of manicured lawn in front was impressive until they pulled up alongside the garage and she caught sight of the rolling green fields out back. She spotted a barrage of figures moving around out there, tending some sort of crop.

Allisto led her into the house through an entrance inside the garage, and she found herself walking through the biggest kitchen she’d ever seen. It had a high ceiling and a large tile island in the center. A set of glass sliding doors revealed a giant, wraparound deck. The deck looked out onto the back yard, which extended on to a sprawl of woods on one side, and a stretch of fields on the other. Another smaller house sat midway out alongside the rows of wheat, or whatever it was. Joey’s parents certainly hadn’t been lacking in cash.

“This is home,” Allisto said. “If you will follow me please if I could take you up steps, I am to bring you to the chosen one please.”

Kelinda frowned at the back of Allisto’s head as she trailed him up a spiral staircase. He formed his sentences with great effort, and he walked like he was being held up by strings. Strange duck, whoever he was. Or whatever he was, she thought, remembering the exploding mailbox trick. She’d ordered her rational mind to believe a bomb had destroyed that mailbox, but part of her knew that was bull. She supposed she should be grateful it was the mailbox that got it and not her, as she’d been the true target of his anger.

On the second floor they came to a closed door. Allisto knocked once and opened it, gesturing for her to step inside. “Wait in here please. He will be with you short.”

Kelinda stepped into the room. It looked like a hotel suite, with a stylish sitting area, a vanity table and another small table with a set of chairs. The smaller table was decked out with candles, cloth napkins and silverware. A bottle of wine sat in the center with two glasses. Across the room under a large glass window was a king-sized bed with a canopy and a sheer flowing curtain draped over the sides. It looked like something a medieval queen would sleep on.

“This is my room,” a voice behind her said. She whirled around and inhaled sharply when she saw Joey standing in the doorway. She’d forgotten how painfully stunning he was, and forgave herself for being such a weakling all these years. “I thought we could talk in here if you don’t mind. This is the only place I can get any privacy.”

He stepped inside and closed the door. She stared, unable to move. Her original plan was to promptly punch him in the face, but as he walked toward her in a shifting of blue jeans and tanned flesh, she found that the fight had gone out of her. He was literally glowing. His skin, his eyes, his teeth, all gleamed as if lit from some inner candle. His hair had grown an inch or so since she’d seen him last, and it fell soft and sleek, curling in just above his cheekbones.

Something was very different and it wasn’t just the hair. She could feel his energy from across the room, his chemistry mingling with her own like electric fingers caressing her soul. She could almost taste him. Ashamed by her weakness, she struggled to cling to the anger that had fueled her on the ride over. “Well, well, well,” she said. “If it isn’t the chosen one. I’m looking forward to hearing your excuse for sending that freak of nature to manhandle me.”

Joey stopped, eyeing her thoughtfully, then he moved over to the little table and sat down. “I needed to speak with you,” he said.

“Ever hear of a phone?”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” He pushed the other chair out from the table with his foot.

“Why don’t you kiss my ass,” she said.

She allowed her anger to reign freely now, as it was the only thing combating the lust that threatened to melt her into a puddle of swoon. Joey stood and walked toward her, frowning. He stopped just before reaching her. “You’re upset.”

“What gave you that idea?”

He took another step and she instinctively stepped back. She could smell his spicy scent and it was making her dizzy. He reached out and stroked a strand of her hair. “I’m really sorry about bringing you here against your will. Shep was afraid that if I made direct contact with you, someone might see us and figure out you were the apparition. I wanted to contact you sooner, I swear, but I couldn’t take the chance. I’ve been having you followed, and I’m sorry. I just had to know you were all right.”

Joey made his face look pained, like he was about to cry. She remembered that face from his television interview. He’d used it to express remorse over losing Patrick’s friendship. This display was just as calculated.

“Don’t you mean you wanted to make sure I wouldn’t spill the beans about your phony miracle? Isn’t that why you had me followed, Joey? Isn’t that why you’re having Patrick followed too?”

Joey shook his head. “No. No, you’re wrong. It was only because I care for you.” He closed the gap between them and took her hand in his. “You believe me, don’t you?” He stared into her eyes, his thumb caressing the palm of her hand.

The closest Joey had ever come to touching her was a brotherly pat on the back, or a high five. Now he’d touched her twice in under a minute, intimately, as though it was something he’d always done. She struggled to concentrate on the anger. “You care for me? Is that why you scared the shit out of me by having that freak abduct me? Is that why you’ve been torturing Patrick? Because you care so much for him? Give me a break, Joey. You wanted to make sure we didn’t rat you out.”

Joey dropped her hand. “Do you think Patrick will come looking for you? When he finds out you’re here?” he asked. His tone was hopeful.

“What are you talking about?”

“Obrien,” he said. “He’s grown fond of you. He’d come out here if we had you, wouldn’t he?”

She took a step backward. “Had me? You don’t have me, Joey. You’ll never have me. If you’d please get my phone back from that Shep-looking monster that kidnapped me, I’d like to call for a ride now.”

Joey crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Kelinda, listen to me for a minute.” He took a step toward her and she automatically took a step back. He noticed. He looked down at her feet, then slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers. In mockery, he took another slow step forward. She took a step back. “Why are you doing that?” he asked.

“Doing what?”

“Backing up every time I come near you?”

She didn’t answer. He looked confidently amused as he took another step toward her. She held her ground, refusing to let him see her discomfort. He took a final step and she could feel his breath on her face. For years she’d dreamed of being this close to him, and while her body reacted with excitement, her mind told her to run for the door and keep running. “What kind of game are you playing, Joey?”

He smiled. “What do you mean?”

“That guy Allisto called you the chosen one. Are you starting to believe the crap people are saying about you? That you’re a prophet? Let me refresh your memory, oh great one. The miracle was a fake. You are a fake, Joey.”

“Messiahs are made, not born, Kelinda.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Ah, of course. You’re a nice Catholic girl, aren’t you? A true believer. What did you say to Father Bello? That is the priest you confessed to, isn’t it?”

“So that’s what this is about. You’re afraid I told the priest about you.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

She struggled to sound indifferent, but her heart raced with fear. It was silly to feel threatened, she told herself. This was still Joey after all. It was Joey that she used to play kick ball and steal street signs with. It was Joey that used to eat worms on the playground. But she did feel threatened. What would Joey and Shep do if they thought she’d betrayed them?

“I believe you,” Joey said after a long silence. “I believe you said nothing to the priest.”

Relief washed through her, but she tried not to show it. “I don’t care what you believe. I’m going home now.”

“No you’re not.”

She laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not going home. You’re going to stay here. With me. With us.”

She started to respond when he gripped her around the waist and pulled her into him. When he pressed his mouth against hers, she was overcome with a dizzying euphoria. Tiny specs of light danced across her closed eyelids. With the taste of his tongue came a drug-like rush. He disengaged, and she felt like he was ripping her soul out by breaking the kiss. She looked into his pale blue eyes, felt his breath tickle her lips, and her legs started to give out. “I feel funny,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. You get used to it.” He kissed her again, catching her under her rear before she fell.

Chapter Seventeen

The priest’s words repeated in Patrick’s mind like a taunting mantra. You never did a blood ceremony, did you? He examined the fading scar above his wrist. A ritual of some sort? It meant nothing. The priest was crazy. The FBI agent was crazy. Joey and Shep were crazy. But he knew everyone couldn’t be crazy. Something was going on and it was high time to stop ducking his head in the sand and figure it out.

He was certain his friends weren’t terrorists. Joey and Shep didn’t care about anything enough to terrorize it. And he refused to entertain the idea that they meant to harm anyone. He had to admit that doing Agent Litner’s bidding would one way or another give closure to the situation. He wanted to prove Agent Litner wrong, but that was just the persuasion tactic the guy was using, and Patrick hated to be manipulated. He was trapped.

He’d wanted to discuss the situation with Kelinda but she hadn’t returned his calls in days. At first he’d thought she was trying to ditch him, but ignoring his calls just wasn’t her style. He was reasonably sure that if Kelinda wanted him to take a hike, she would promptly tell him to do so. Now her phone had been disconnected and he was worried.

He finally decided to call Robin. He wasn’t looking forward to the call. He and Robin Duvaine had butted heads since the day they’d met, but at the moment he had nowhere else to turn but the blonde cyclone herself. Robin answered after three rings. “Hello?”

“Robin, hi. It’s Patrick.”

“Who?”

“Patrick. Patrick Obrien. Christ, am I that forgettable?”

“Oh. Obrien. What’s up?” Her usual spitfire tone was missing. She sounded forlorn and defeated.

“Robin, this is awkward, but have you seen Kelinda? I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for days, and now her phone’s been disconnected. Frankly, I’m a little concerned.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Robin, are you still there?”

He heard her sigh. “Yeah. Oh man, I’m sorry Obrien. She didn’t tell you, did she? Unbelievable.”

“She didn’t tell me what? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“No, she’s not in trouble. She moved out to Forest Bluffs. She’s living there now. She’s part of Joey’s stupid church.”

Patrick felt like he’d been punched in the testicles. His mind swam, trying to make sense of the words. “She, um, she what? Is she…is she okay?” He was struggling to keep his cool but he knew Robin could hear his voice shaking.

“She’s okay I guess. I really wouldn’t know, though. They don’t let me talk to her when I call.”

“Oh. I see. Well, um, are you okay Robin? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Not really.” She sighed. “Shep’s been a real prick since this miracle thing. I’m supposed to go out there tomorrow and stay over, but he’s kicking me out the next morning. He says he has work to do. Can you believe that? Work to do. The guy hasn’t had a job since I’ve known him. But I’m going. I want to see what’s going on out there and why they won’t let me talk to Kelinda. When I call, they always tell me she’s at the store or in the shower or something. If it’s any consolation, Obrien, she didn’t tell me she was going either. I had to find out from her parents that she’d moved to Forest Bluffs. The idiots think it’s a real church. Can you imagine?”

Patrick felt nauseous and lowered himself into a chair. Why would Kelinda move to Forest Bluffs? She of all people knew what a scam it was. Hell, she was the scam.

“Robin, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, but if you want me to tell you why she did this, I don’t have the answer. I think she’s a fool to leave you.”

The compliment warmed him. Robin had never spoken kindly to him before. Perhaps he’d never given her the chance. “No, it’s not that, but thanks. I was wondering if Shep ever talked to you about his past. His childhood.”

“Of course. I know all about the abuse, the branding with the horseshoe, foster homes and all that.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. The thoughts formulated in his mind as he spoke them. “Is that all he ever told you? I mean, is that the only story?”

“Well, yeah. Why, isn’t that enough?”

“I guess. I just think it’s strange that we all heard the exact same story, probably word for word. But he never mentioned anything else about his past. I mean, he must have other memories.”

“Oh, Jesus, Obrien. You’re starting to sound like my Aunt Betsy.”

The comment took him by surprise, and he remembered the dirty look Betsy had given Shep after Charles’s funeral. “Why doesn’t Betsy like Shep? She doesn’t like him, does she?”

“Nope. Aunt Betsy has been suspicious of Shep since he and Joey were in high school. She and Uncle Charles got in a big fight over Shep years ago. They didn’t speak for months. You never heard about that?”

“No, but it seems there are many things I’ve never heard about.”

“Yeah, well, don’t give it too much thought. I love Aunt Betsy, but she’s a kook with all her psychic shit. Trust me, Obrien. Shep is not that complicated.”

That’s what I used to think. “Will you give me a call when you get back from Forest Bluffs? I just want to know if Kelinda is okay.”

“Sure, I’ll call you.”

“Do you promise?”

“If I say I’ll call then I’ll fucking call!”

Patrick grinned, finding the familiar crassness comforting. “Okay, Robin. Take care.”

He was not reassured by Robin’s assessment of Shep. Shep was a lot of things, but uncomplicated was not one of them. He made a snap decision. He was going to pay Joey and Robin’s aunt a visit. It was time to get some answers, and Betsy was as good a place as any to start.

When he arrived at Betsy’s house, the front windows glowed with amber candlelight. The house seemed oddly still without funeral guests milling about. As Patrick was getting out of his car, an attractive blond man stepped out of the side door and started down the steps. Betsy came out onto the porch behind him. “Goodbye Seth!” she called out. “I’ll see you next time.”

The young man waved and skipped toward his car. Patrick startled him, and he jumped. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Are you here for Betsy?”

“Well yes, I—”

“Oh, man. You won’t regret it!” he said. “She was right on the spot for me. Have fun.”

The man moved toward his car, whistling. Patrick stared after him with a befuddled frown. “Hey, tough guy!” Betsy called down to him. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Patrick smiled and walked to the door where Betsy caught him in a bear hug. Her crew cut had grown in a bit, and she now had a few inches of yellow hair that stuck straight up. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, not at all. I just finished up with a customer.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “A customer?”

“Yes. I do psychic readings.”

“Oh. That kind of customer.”

Betsy opened the door and led him inside. “Well what did you think? That I’d become a hooker?”

Patrick laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Liar. I should send you away right now, but I’m just too damned nice.” She led him into her familiar living room where candles burned on every shelf and end table. “Let me turn some lights on.” She blew out the candles, flicked on a lamp, and curled up on a chair next to the couch where Patrick had seated himself. She wore a long burgundy velvet dress with black beads across the bodice and matching black beaded slippers. Her face was pretty and delicate, similar to Robin’s.

“Nice outfit,” Patrick said, smirking.

She laughed. “Yeah, well, I have to look the part, you know. If you come out looking like a housewife the customers don’t take you seriously, no matter how gifted you are. It’s the same with the candles and incense. They don’t really do anything except help the customer relax.” Patrick laughed and Betsy laughed with him. Still grinning, she asked “Why are you here, Patrick?”

“I need to talk to you about Shep.”

Her smile dropped. “Oh, shit,” she said. “I was hoping you were having girl trouble or something. Shit. I’d better get some brandy.”

Patrick looked on as she darted off to the kitchen and disappeared. She returned with a bottle of brandy and two snifters, placing the items on the small table between them. She filled the glasses halfway and handed one to Patrick. Tossing hers back, she immediately poured herself another. “Wow,” Patrick said. “I’ve never seen you drink before, Betsy.”

She took a swallow and breathed a long sigh. “Yes, well, you’ve never asked me about Shep before.”

Patrick was silent for a moment, watching her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this would upset you. I’ve heard that you’re not too fond of Shep. I’d like to know why. Will you tell me?”

She pointed at him. “Before I say anything, I need to know why you’re asking. It’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re honest, I can see that in your aura.” Patrick glanced around himself, expecting to see a colorful hue emanating from his body. Betsy continued. “You see, the last time I spoke up about Shep, it nearly started a family feud. Joey and Robin are all I have left now. Oh, beside my sister, but she’s a pain in the ass.”

Patrick leaned closer, looking directly into her eyes. “Betsy, I swear that whatever we say here tonight stays between us. But I’m confused. How did speaking about Shep cause a family feud?”

Betsy poured herself another brandy, avoiding his eyes. “Are you sure you want to open up this can of worms, honey?”

“I need some insight into Shep’s past. It’s important.”

Betsy gazed into the distance, as if seeing something long forgotten. “The last time I spoke up, nobody believed me. Damned fools, God rest their souls. They defended him as if he was their own son. Well, they’re not around to defend him anymore, now are they? Cheers.”

She tossed back another shot while Patrick watched in amazement. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds.

“Betsy, why don’t you ease up on the brandy and tell me the whole story.”

“You first, tough guy. I’d like to know why after all these years you’ve come to question the authenticity of your dear friend, Shepherd.” She said the name with venom.

Patrick started talking, and the tale spilled from him like water through a broken dam. He let fly a stream of babble without pause, telling her about the incident with Joey at Monty’s, the phony miracle, losing his job, and finally losing Kelinda. He left out the part about the FBI and the odd Shep-alikes he’d seen following him around the city. Betsy didn’t interrupt. She nodded, or frowned, or shook her head while he talked. When he described the blood pact, her face flushed.

“So that’s about it,” he said. “That’s everything that’s happened until I showed up here tonight, barring a few minor details.”

Betsy patted his hand. “Oh, believe me, honey. That’s enough.” She turned away, shaking her head. “I knew that little shit would ruin Joey eventually. He’s dangerous, Patrick. But it’s too late for Joey now. It’s too late. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Please, Betsy. You’ve got to tell me something, anything. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Betsy studied him for a moment. “Okay Patrick. I’ll talk about Shep. Under one condition. You let me do a psychic reading on you.”

Patrick leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know. I’m not really comfortable.”

She grinned. “You don’t believe in it. Do you?”

“Sure I do,” he lied.

Betsy’s smile widened. “Don’t lie, Patrick. When you lie your aura gets little green spots.”

Patrick laughed. “That’s just the Irish in me. Those are leprechauns.”

“It’s important that you believe in my ability before I tell you this story. Otherwise, you’ll just think I’m a kook, like everyone else does.”

“I don’t think you’re a kook, Betsy.”

“Then let me do the reading.”

Something went “CLANK” outside and Betsy jumped. “What was that?” she asked, wide-eyed. Patrick went to the window and looked out, but saw nothing. He went out the front door and stepped onto the lawn, scanning the darkness. The air was fragrant with spring smells, including that of a very powerful skunk. He went back inside and bolted the door.

“I think it was a skunk. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but she looked a little jumpy. “So, what about the reading?”

Patrick wasn’t comfortable with Betsy giving him a psychic reading, but she’d always been so kind to him, he couldn’t refuse her. “Will it hurt?” he asked, grinning. Betsy looked pleased that he’d agreed, and went and fetched a candle. She brought it over to the little table next to the couch. She lit the candle and softened the lights in the room.

“Come back and sit down,” she said.

“I thought you said the ambience was bullshit.”

“It is, but you non-believers need all the help you can get. Sit.”

“What, no foreplay?” Patrick joked, taking a seat across from her.

Betsy took his hand in hers. “I want you to think of a blank sheet of paper. Clear your mind.”

Patrick tried to comply, but his mind had become fairly overcrowded as of late. He closed his eyes. The orange candlelight illuminated through his lids. He concentrated on that light, and the softness of Betsy’s tiny hand on his. She squeezed his palm. “Your mother is a redhead too,” she said.

Patrick opened his eyes a slit. “Yes.” He was surprised but far from amazed. It could have been a good guess.

“Her name is Brigid. She makes you tense.”

Patrick opened his eyes. Betsy sat very still with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her tiny fingers dug into his palm. “You’re afraid of boxes,” she said, and he scowled.

“Boxes?”

She shook her head, brows knit. “No. No that’s wrong. Not boxes. Caskets. You’re afraid of caskets. Coffins. Corpses.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Patrick snapped defensively.

“I’m just telling you what I see, Patrick.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You all right?” Her eyes opened. “The images come faster if I know someone personally. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We can stop if you’re too freaked out.”

“I’m okay,” Patrick said.

Betsy nodded and breathed deeply for a time. He watched as her smooth countenance tightened into a frown. “Someone has been following you. Did you know that?”

Patrick nodded, feeling the hairs on his arms stand erect. “Yeah. I knew.”

Betsy closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I definitely see a dark shadow behind you. It’s a male. Are you aware of this person?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I know who you mean.”

“Could you picture his face for me? Picture him in your mind if you can.”

Patrick imagined the dusty stranger he’d spotted so many times. He pictured him sitting with the blond look-alike at the Chinese restaurant. A shiver of fear passed through him. Betsy’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes,” she said. “Two men, one dark, the other light. I see a train.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I saw him on the train.”

Had he known Betsy was legit, he would have fessed up about the strangers following him. He hoped she wouldn’t be angry he hadn’t mentioned it. Betsy was gripping his hand too tightly and Patrick wanted her to stop. He wanted this over. It was starting to frighten him.

“I see the other one,” she said, digging her nails into his flesh. “Pale hair, almost white. Lovely. Different. He’s not like us. Not like us. He is…he is…he is…”

Betsy gasped and pulled her hand back, shaking it out as if she’d touched something hot.

“What? Betsy what is it?”

She shook her head, then got up and turned on the lamp. She stared at him, rubbing her arms. “He is here,” she said.

“What do you mean? Who is here?”

“The man with the pale hair. The one that’s been following you. He’s here.”

Patrick shook his head. “That’s impossible. I’m sure nobody followed me here. Are you sure?”

Betsy nodded. “It wasn’t a random impression. It was too close. He’s here, Patrick. Out back somewhere. Hiding.”

He stared at her, telling himself he didn’t believe her even as goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. “You’re sure about this?”

She nodded adamantly, hugging herself. Patrick grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace and made his way quietly out the side door. “Be careful!” Betsy called after him in a harsh whisper.

A sweat formed on his forehead, though the night was cool and breezy. He crept around the side of the house and headed toward the back yard. Skunk odor lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of new blossoms. Treading softly, he moved in a half crouch until he rounded the back of the house.

As he came upon the bulkhead, he heard a vague crackling behind the adjacent shrubs. He stopped and squatted low to the ground. There it was again, a crackle, then a tearing sound, like paper. It certainly sounded like an animal. There was something in the shrubs, but it was more likely a skunk eating trash than his mysterious follower. Afraid now that a skunk might spray him, he held his breath and proceeded silently.

His heart pumped wildly, sounding in his ears loud enough to wake the neighbors. Paper crinkled. The skunk had likely gotten into the garbage bin. He knew he had to take the last step around the corner to see with his own eyes. With the fireplace poker raised over his head, he rounded the corner and used his right foot to part the shrubs next to the bulkhead.

It was not a skunk. The platinum blond man sat curled up with his knees against his chest. He was surrounded by Hershey’s candy bar wrappers, and his face was smeared with chocolate. He was so engrossed in gnawing on a half-eaten candy bar that he didn’t notice Patrick. Until Patrick gasped.

The stranger’s head whipped up. Seeing Patrick, his eyes widened and he uttered something in a foreign language. Patrick didn’t understand the words, but he was pretty sure it was the equivalent of “Oh Shit”.

The stranger shot up and dove over the shrub, achieving an impossible height before he hit the ground, rolled a summersault and broke into a sprint. Stunned, Patrick stood frozen, watching the stranger dart into the small patch of woods that separated Betsy’s neighborhood from the one beyond. Betsy ran up beside him. “Who was that? It looked like Shep!”

“I know. But it wasn’t Shep. Stay here, Betsy.”

Patrick took off after the stranger, struggling to match his speed. He strained his eyes to keep sight of the halo of bouncing platinum curls. The gap between them widened, and Patrick had all but resigned that he wasn’t going to catch him. Then the stranger tripped on a tree root. He rolled a couple of times, then got up and kept running. The stumble allowed Patrick to nearly close the gap between them. They ran, the stranger swift and agile, Patrick awkward and heavy footed. He was close enough to reach out and grab a handful of blond hair when Patrick tripped and went down himself. In a last desperate attempt, he swung the fireplace poker out. The little hook caught the other man around the ankle and they both hit the ground with a thud.

Patrick scrambled to his feet and stood over the man. The stranger rolled onto his back, holding his ribs and wincing. Patrick held the iron poker threateningly over the blond man’s face. “Don’t move asshole.” It was a tad too Dirty Harry, but in a pinch it would do. The blond smiled up at him, but said nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Patrick asked. “First day with your new feet?”

In strange broken English, he responded, “Actually, it has been a few months with my new feet.” He turned onto this side, giggling at his own comment until tears rolled down his cheeks. If it was a joke, Patrick didn’t get it.

“Why are you following me?” he demanded.

The man looked up at him, grinning. “It seems that you are the one who was just following me. Yes?”

“Cut the crap wise ass. Are you working for the FBI?”

This sent the stranger laughing again, holding his stomach and rolling to one side. Patrick had a momentary chill as the cackle took on a trace of familiarity. It was damn close to Shep’s laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

The stranger looked up at him. “I laugh because I am so happy you ask me this question.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know that you know nothing.”

He was on his feet in a flash with Patrick’s weapon in his hand. Patrick stared dumbfounded at his own empty hand, and at the fireplace poker the blond now held. He’d never seen anyone move so fast. The stranger looked at Patrick with wide green eyes. Like Shep’s, they were a bit too large for his face. He threw the poker into the woods, grabbed Patrick by the shoulders, and shoved him, sending him hurling through the air. Patrick slammed back-first onto the ground, knocking the wind out of him.

For several seconds he couldn’t move, and he was sure his enemy would come to finish him off. But when he was able to sit up, the stranger was gone. He glanced around and realized that he was nearly back to Betsy’s lawn again. The wiry blond man had thrown him an impossible distance. But his back pain testified to it. Once he was able to catch his breath, he made his way gingerly back to the house, wincing in pain.

When Betsy returned from checking the doors and windows, she had a glass of water and two painkillers for Patrick. “Take these. You’re going to be sore tomorrow after that fall you took.”

Patrick stretched back on the couch feeling like a giant bruise. “It wasn’t a fall. I was thrown.”

Betsy frowned. “Patrick, who was that man? What haven’t you told me?”

He told her about the sightings of the curly-haired strangers. He also told her about his visit with Father Carbone and Agent Litner, with all their crazy suggestions and propositions. Betsy stared at him, mouth agape. “Jesus Christ, Patrick.”

“It’s a lot, I know. This is why I’m freaking out. And what led me here, I guess.”

Betsy poured herself another brandy and studied him with pursed lips. “Maybe I ought to tell you my story,” she said. “Then you can decide if you want to go out to Forest Bluffs and bunk down with your old buddy Shepherd.”

“Okay.” Patrick hoped she was about to tell him Shep had banged up the family Volvo or some minor crime like that.

“As you know, at age fifteen Shep came to live with my brother Charlie and his wife Marie, Joey’s parents. He started out as a foster child. Joey’s mom had a big heart. Kids would come and kids would go, but this was different. It became apparent after a very short time that Shep would become a permanent part of the Duvaine family. Marie called him “a keeper”. He and Joey were both freshmen in high school, and they hit it off from the get-go. Joey’s brother Jeffrey was still in grammar school, so it was nice that Joey had someone his own age to spend time with.”

Betsy paused and sipped at her brandy glass. She held it up to the light, as if seeing the past in the golden liquid. “Everyone fell in love with Shep, with his upbeat personality and crazy sense of humor. Everyone thought it was the best thing for Joey. I did too, at first.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I was out of work at the time, so my big brother Charlie hired me to babysit Jeffrey after school every day. Joey was too old for a babysitter, but not quite responsible enough to watch Jeffrey himself.” She shook her head, looking sad. “Poor Jeffrey. He was such a sweet kid.” She wiped a tear away.

“I’m sorry for your loss. For all of your losses lately,” Patrick said.

“Thank you, honey.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “At any rate, I was at the house a lot. Joey started going through changes. It was subtle, but I noticed. He cut himself off from all of his old friends, until it was just Shep in his life. Friends he’d had since early childhood were discarded for no apparent reason. Joey wouldn’t even return their calls. Everyone else in his life was whittled away, until it was just Joey and Shep, in their own private little world. Until you came along, Patrick, I was afraid Joey would never have another good friend. I mentioned the changes to Marie, but she said Joey was happier than he’d ever been, was thriving at school, so why worry?”

Patrick nodded. “So he cut himself off from his friends. What other changes did you see?”

“He stopped acting,” she said.

Patrick sat up, grateful for the painkillers. “Acting?”

“You knew Joey was a child actor, didn’t you?”

“No, but I’m starting to guess there are a lot of things I don’t know about him. What kind of acting? Plays and stuff?”

“More than that. He was in commercials and a couple of television specials. His acting coach said he was a natural. He loved it. We all thought it was his calling. Then he met Shep, and he just stopped. He told his parents he wasn’t interested in it anymore.”

Patrick considered the way Joey had been able to sit in front of a camera and spew bullshit on national television. “Betsy, I have to be honest. Lots of kids go through weird changes at that age. So far you haven’t told me anything that can’t be explained as teen angst or rebellion.”

Betsy smiled sourly. “Yes. So far. Until that afternoon.”

Patrick leaned forward, listening intently.

“At that time, I didn’t blame Shep for the changes in Joey. Shep and I actually got along well. But that week, Joey’s aura started to change. I know everyone thinks I’m a nut, but I really can see auras. Joey’s became clouded with something I couldn’t quite place.” She grimaced, as if tasting something sour.

“I was set to babysit over the weekend so Charlie and Marie could go down to the beach house for their anniversary. I got there a little early on Friday afternoon so I could do some studying for a class I was taking. The house was supposed to be empty, because all the kids were supposed to be in school.” She rubbed her arms.

“What happened?”

“I was settled in at the kitchen table, studying, when I heard a noise coming from below. Joey’s bedroom was down in the finished basement. He kind of had his own little pad down there. I went to the top of the stairs and listened. It sounded like Shep’s voice, but he seemed to be speaking in another language.”

Patrick’s blood chilled, remembering the blond stranger in the shrubs. Was there a connection? Was Betsy completely full of shit? He just didn’t know. “What did you do?”

“I went down there.”

“Were Joey and Shep down there?”

“They were down there all right, and I surprised the hell out of them. I saw that Joey’s bedroom door was closed, but the light was on. Something made me push that door open. To this day, I don’t know why. Normally I’d have knocked, respecting his privacy. But I didn’t. I pushed the door open, and Joey looked up and yelled my name. He said, “Betsy! Get the hell out of here!”

She fell silent, looking off into the distance. “He was shocked as hell to see me. And I was shocked as hell at what I saw. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, both shirtless. There was a plastic tarp underneath them, presumably to save the rug. A dagger sat on the floor, and Shep had bleeding wounds sliced into one of his arms. I told you that Joey yelled my name when I opened the door and startled him. He also spit out the blood he was drinking from one of his mother’s crystal wine glasses.”

Patrick laughed. “Blood? No way. Are you sure?”

Betsy nodded. “Quite sure.”

“But…maybe he was rehearsing for a play or something?”

“No. I snatched the glass from him and sniffed it. It was blood. I think it was Shep’s blood. Joey stared up at me, half-naked with blood dripping down his chin, clearly horrified that I’d walked in on whatever they were doing. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked me. I looked at the glass of blood in my hand, and said, ‘Maybe you should tell me what exactly you are doing here, Joey.”

Betsy’s face flushed pink at the memory. She shook her head, looking down at her lap. “The part that really killed me happened next. Joey turned away from me. My Joey, my nephew whose diapers I used to change. He turned to Shep, like Shep was the all-fucking-mighty and he said, ‘What do we do?’ He asks Shep this! Like I wasn’t even in the room! So Shep stands up and snatches the glass from me. He says ‘Mind your own business,’ and he shoves me out the door and slams it in my face.”

Patrick shook his head. “That’s fucked up. Could they have been going through…I don’t know, a goth phase or something? I know it’s weird as fuck, but a lot of kids our age were into vampires and death in high school.”

Betsy blinked slowly. “You need to let me finish.”

“Okay, sorry. What did you do when he slammed the door on you?”

“I was stunned. I just stared at the closed door, listening to Joey have a panic attack. He kept screaming at Shep, asking him what they were going to do now. Shep kept telling him to calm down, that he would handle it. So I pounded on the door, demanding that Joey come out and talk to me. But it was Shep who finally stepped outside the door. I asked him what the hell was going on in there. He told me that nothing was going on. ‘You didn’t see anything,’ he said to me. Of course I told him to kiss my ass, that I did see something, and that Joey’s parents were going to hear about it. Shep said, ‘Do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to do.’ He started to turn back toward the bedroom when I grabbed his arm. I grabbed the arm with the bleeding cuts. Then something happened.”

Her shoulders trembled, and Patrick took her hand. “It’s okay, Betsy. Tell me.”

“I saw something when I grabbed him. A vision. I can’t even describe how terrifying it was.”

“But I thought you didn’t get random psychic impressions. I thought you had to sit down and concentrate the way you did with me.”

She nodded. “Normally that’s true. I don’t know why it happened. I assume it was because the arm I grabbed had the wounds. I got Shep’s blood all over my hand.”

“So what did you see?”

“It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Everything flashed white, then I was transported to another place. I saw blackness so dark it blotted out all light. It felt…lifeless is the only word I can use to describe it. Like anything living was so far away it was impossible to even fathom its existence. I lost my breath, overwhelmed with the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned, hopeless. I pulled my hand back and the vision ended, but I was left with a feeling of such deep, deep sorrow and desperation, that I almost collapsed. I stared at Shep and he stared back at me. Then he said something I’ll never forget. He waved his finger at me as you would to a naughty child, and he said, ‘You peeked.’” She shook her head, her eyes distant. “You peeked,” she repeated.

“So it was like he knew what you had seen?” Patrick asked.

“I think he definitely knew. I said, ‘If you bring any harm to Joey, I’ll see that you pay.’”

“Did he say anything to that?”

Betsy chuckled. “He smiled. The little bastard actually smiled at me, and he said, ‘Joey doesn’t belong to you anymore. He belongs to me now.’”

Patrick was torn between two emotions. One was the almost irresistible desire to write Betsy off as a nut case. The other was the cold fear that he didn’t know the friends he’d lived side by side with for the past ten years. That he didn’t know them at all. How well do you know your friends? The agent’s words tried to surface but Patrick forced them away. After a few sips of brandy, Betsy continued.

“When Charlie and Marie got home from the beach house on Sunday, I told them all about it. But Shep had gotten to them first, conniving little bastard. He’d called them down at Forest Bluffs and told them this bullshit story about how he and Joey had gone hiking in the woods and gotten scraped up. He said when they got home from their hike, the house was all smoky and it smelled funny like marijuana. He told them I was acting all paranoid and accused him and Joey of devil worship. Of course I denied it, but Joey confirmed the bogus story. Two days later, Marie was cleaning the bedroom I had stayed in. She found a bag of marijuana and a bag of cocaine in the dresser drawer. Shep obviously planted the drugs there, but Charlie and Marie told me I could no longer babysit the children. I was afraid I’d never see the kids again, but eventually it blew over. Shep and I never spoke of the incident. We both just pretend it never happened.”

The room fell silent as Patrick tried to choke down the story. The clock on the mantle chimed. Finally, he stood. “Jesus, Betsy. What did you have to tell me that for?”

She frowned. “You asked me to.”

He ran a hand across his forehead and circled the room. “Jesus, Betsy,” he said again. “I mean, this is too much.”

“It’s the God’s honest truth. I swear it.”

Patrick shook his head. “I lived with those guys in college. I’ve seen at least one of them nearly every day for the past ten years. If they were into any weird ritualistic shit, I would have known. I would have known!”

“Maybe you don’t know your friends as well as you think you do,” Betsy said.

Patrick huffed. “Yeah. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

Betsy stood and went to Patrick, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about at any rate, tough guy. The little psycho seems to actually like you.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Patrick rolled up his sleeve, showing Betsy his newly formed scar. “I let that little psycho do this to me.”

Betsy examined the tiny half-moon scar and ran a finger over it. The scar tingled. She looked up at him. “You have to go see that priest again. You have to ask him what he meant about a blood ceremony.”

Patrick nodded. “I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

“Patrick, if you can get Joey back, I mean…get him away from Shep…”

“I’ll do what I can, Betsy.”

“You’ll go out to Forest Bluffs?”

She looked hopeful. Patrick wanted to do what Betsy asked of him, but the thought of going out to Forest Bluffs still made him want to go hide under a rock. Even more so now that he’d heard Betsy’s macabre tale of Joey and Shep’s happy blood play.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, and wished her goodnight. It was the best answer he could give.

Chapter Eighteen

Copie double-checked the door to the photo lab to make sure it was locked, though the chances of someone coming around this late at night were slim. Most of the other students were home sleeping or out partying, but he took precautions anyway. He’d grown increasingly paranoid since the erupting coverage of the apparition. Given the obvious value of the photo he possessed, he’d chosen not to include it in his portfolio for his final grade. He got a B minus instead of the A he’d wanted, but it was of no concern to him now. He had something that might help launch his career, sitting on a piece of film.

After locking the door, he went back and sat before the image on the computer screen. When he’d first developed the film, the apparition appeared only vaguely within the white light, and he cursed. But it was visible at least, the outline of the girl. So he scanned the image and did his best to clean it up, sharpening it and removing much of the light. He played with the shadows until conjuring a version he was happy with. It wasn’t perfect, but it was there. Or rather, she was there.

It was a woman, her hands clasped just below her chest, her head covered with a glowing drape of veil. The body was indecipherable from the waist down, where it became translucent. A garment was visible, a vague line of fabric just above the chest. Her face was serene, lips curved at the corners in a maternal smile. It was perfect.

Except that it was wrong. He made himself dizzy staring at the photograph, trying to determine what it was that screamed out ‘fake’ to his subconscious mind. Copie liked to think he had a good eye, and he trusted his instincts. Something about the picture told him the apparition was bogus. He examined the photo until his eyes burned. Finally, he had to walk away and clear his head.

He went down the hall and poured himself a cup of coffee. He returned with his mug and locked himself in again. After several minutes of musing he decided that staring at the photo for another hour would make him crazy and probably blind as well. He resigned to give it one more perusal, then put it away for the night. Tomorrow he would call the local news station and let them make of it what they wanted, as long as they gave him the credit. He grinned, imagining the blind envy of his colleagues.

He seated himself in front of the computer screen once more and gazed at the image of the glowing woman. “What are you hiding?” he whispered. As if in answer to his question, his eyes were drawn to something on the apparition’s body, something he hadn’t noticed before. At the top of her breasts, where the scoop of fabric met the flesh, was a tiny, X-shaped blur, right in the center. “Wait a minute. What the hell is that?”

He closed in on the object and magnified it. The image became clearer. He boxed it off and magnified it again. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered. “Or perhaps not.” He printed out a copy of the image. With a pencil he traced the line of the object on the garment. There was no question—It was a decorative bow, the kind one might see on a modern woman’s bra or nightgown.

Copie stood up, grinning at the photo he held. “That’s a pretty fancy nighty for a divine being,” he said to the picture. “Is that Victoria’s Secret?” He laughed, tapping the image with his finger. “I’ve got you. Whoever you are, I’ve got you.”

He picked up the phone and dialed the news station he’d chosen. He was thrilled. This definitely upped the stakes. Not only did he have the only clear photograph taken of Joey Duvaine’s miracle, but he now had proof it was a fake. “I’m going to be famous at the tender age of nineteen,” he said to the empty room.

A male voice answered. “News desk, how may I help you?”

Copie explained his situation to the man on the phone. He described the nature of the photo he possessed, along with his suspicions about the Virgin Mary showing up wearing the latest in fashion sleepwear. The melodious young voice was cooperative and chatty. He asked Copie for his name, address, and personal information, and Copie stated his wishes that he be given full credit for the photograph.

“Not a problem,” the voice said. “In fact, we’d like to do a personal interview, if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh. Um…all right,” Copie agreed, beaming. “Shall I come down to the station tomorrow then?”

“Actually, it would be better if we could send someone over tonight.”

Copie frowned. “Tonight? Isn’t it too late?”

The voice laughed. “We work around the clock here and we don’t want to take the chance of you having a change of heart or deciding to give the story to someone else.”

“Oh. I see. Okay.”

“Are you at home right now?”

“No, I’m at the university film lab. It will take me a while to shut everything down.”

“Just give me the address to the film lab. Do you have all of the photos with you? Print and digital copies?”

A simple question, but Copie felt a cold warning tug at his senses. He dismissed it as excitement. “Yes, all of the photos are with me. I guess I’ll just wait here then.”

After giving the address, he hung up and went into the bathroom. He rinsed his face and wished for a toothbrush. He hadn’t intended on speaking to a journalist with nasty coffee breath. His reflection stared back at him from the dusty mirror over the sink. His tiny braids had gone askew from nervously running his fingers across his head. His eyes were too wide, and his brown skin looked slightly ashen. He supposed he was just tired, but still, something in his mind screamed out danger.

His instincts had always been strong and he’d relied on them. But why were his instincts telling him to run now? Run from what? From success? No way. Not this time. He deserved this success. His instincts could kiss his ass.

* * * *

Now this is the real miracle, Russell thought as he hung up the phone. He’d been covering the news desk nights ever since Craig moved to Los Angeles. Russell would have been perfectly happy working on the projects they’d been doing forever. It was fun, and proved lucrative at times. Shit, especially the last one Shep paid them for. But Craig had dissolved their business, leaving Russell with no direction. Now he had to work the graveyard shift, earning a dog shit salary until he figured out what he wanted to do with his life.

But that wasn’t entirely true. He knew what he wanted to do. Russell had told Shep in no uncertain terms that he’d like to be involved with the Forest Bluffs group. He’d promised to be helpful with whatever Shep asked of him and to stay out of the way when he wasn’t needed. He’d even agreed to call Joey’s new ramshackle sleepover camp ‘a church’ and of course, to never reveal the deception he knew the apparition to be.

Shep told him that once things settled down, he’d see if he could find something for Russell to do. And God knew Russell would do anything for Shep. Shep had everything he wanted, including a seemingly endless supply of cash. Now it was time to prove his loyalty. Russell was about to save the day for Shep. Odd that he would be manning the news desk when the call came in from that photographer. It was like…fate. Shep would be grateful.

One of the weird baby-talking brothers answered the phone and Russell ordered him to fetch Shepherd, saying it was an emergency. The brother tried to argue that Shep was very busy, and had asked not to be disturbed. After some foul language and abusive threats on Russell’s part, Shep was finally summoned to the phone.

“Hey Russell. How’s TV land?”

“The job sucks, but we’ve got bigger problems. You’d better listen to this.” Russell told him about the call from the photographer, claiming to have pictures of the apparition. He’d even boasted proof that it was a hoax, Russell told him. Something about a bow on a nightgown. When Russell finished talking, he was met with silence. “Shep? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Listen, Russell. Does he have all of the pictures with him?”

“He says he does. I got his home address just in case. He’s expecting a reporter to go down to the university to meet with him tonight. I called you right away. Figure you can head down there and pretend to be from the station. See what he’s got. I can erase his call from the station logs.”

“You did the right thing. You’re really saving our asses here. Thanks, man.”

Russell beamed with gratification. “You’re welcome. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”

“Do you have a press pass?”

“I can get one. Are you asking me to go with you?”

“You were the one he spoke to, and you’ve got legit credentials. I don’t want to spook him. He might shut down and hide what he’s got. You can go in ahead of us, feel the situation out, see exactly what he’s got. We’ll wait outside. Are you in?”

“Of course,” Russell said with enthusiasm. “I’d love to help.”

“Russell, do you know what you’re agreeing to?”

Russell paused, uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“We can’t have people going around calling Joey a fake. Not with proof to back them up. We just can’t have that. Do you understand?”

Russell shifted in his seat. “Well, um, you’re just going to steal the pictures, right? I mean…” Russell laughed nervously. “I mean, you don’t intend to hurt the photographer.”

Shep was silent for a moment. “Russell, are you happy working at the television station? Is that your dream life?”

“No! I hate it here. You know I hate it. Why?”

“Because I think it’s time you joined us at Forest Bluffs. You’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

Russell was ecstatic. Whatever uneasiness he’d felt melted away at the prospect of spending every day with Shep. “I’d like that very much, Shepherd. Very much.”

“Then you’ll help us?”

Russell paused. “Whatever you need.”

****

Out at Forest Bluffs, Shep slammed the phone down hard and Kelinda jumped. She was at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of food and trying desperately to get Joey’s attention. Joey was drunk, slumped in his chair with a bottle of rum. Shep stormed over and snatched Kelinda’s plate from the table, smashing it to the floor. Kelinda shrieked as he wound up and kicked the table over.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded.

“I told you,” he said, pointing. “I told you not to wear that fucking nightgown!”

He went downstairs to the den where the brothers were attempting to play pool. Margol had the stick backwards as he shot randomly at the balls. “Let’s go!” he yelled. “We’ve got a situation to take care of.” They brightened. They loved a mission. “Allisto, do you still have the key to the work shed?”

“Yes, brother.”

“Good. We’re going to need some explosives.”

* * * *

The loud knock startled Copie, who had amazingly dozed off. “Be right there!” he yelled, jamming a stick of wintergreen gum into his mouth. He opened the door to a young man with thick glasses and short wavy black hair. He held up a press pass. “Copeland Smith? I’m Russell from the station. We spoke on the phone.”

“Yeah, come on in.” Copie led him into the film lab. “Would you like some coffee or something?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

Russell leaned in and studied Copie now, his brow furrowed. “Jesus. You’re just a kid. How old are you?”

Copie puffed himself up. “I’m old enough,” he said. Russell continued to stare at him, an awkward hesitance in his eyes. Copie frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Fine!” Russell smiled. “Why?”

“Because you’re looking at me like I have a terminal disease or something.” Russell laughed. A throat cleared outside the door and Copie glanced back. “Is somebody out there?”

“Oh, that’s just my cameraman. He’ll be in when he’s ready. Let’s see these photos of yours, shall we?” Russell rubbed his hands in a gesture of excitement.

“Sure. Come on over here.” Copie led Russell to the computer station where the image of the apparition glowed on the screen. Russell gazed at it, a dreamy smile edging his lips. Copie picked up an envelope and dumped out the hard copies. “As you can see here,” Copie leaned in to show Russell, “the decorative bow is clearly visible on the neckline of the garment. In this picture, I’ve outlined it with a pencil.”

Still smiling, Russell took the picture and glanced at it, then his attention was diverted back to the glowing monitor. “May I?” he asked, pointing to the keyboard.

Copie nodded. “Sure. Go nuts.”

Russell sat down and commenced a furious tapping of keys. Copie watched in amazement as the image gained clarity. Russell played around with the lighting and managed to tweak the apparition into a far cleaner image than Copie had been able to achieve. “I’ve got to admit, I was hoping someone would get a picture of this,” he said.

Copie leaned in, grinning at the image, which had un-obscured detail now. “Wow! You’re really good at that.”

Russell examined the paper photos. “It looked real, don’t you think, Copeland? From the ground?”

Copie shrugged. “I suppose it looked as real as any supernatural vision. Bear in mind that I have nothing to compare it to.”

Russell nodded as he spread the pictures out on the desk. “Oh, it looked real all right. I’m a fucking genius. Did you know that, Copeland?”

Copie cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

A young man with sandy curls stepped through the doorway. “Stop feeding your ego, Russell. We have business to attend to.”

A cold sensation grabbed Copie as he looked at the other man’s wide green eyes. He’d seen that face before, but couldn’t place it. Russell held up the pictures. “Hey, Shep! I don’t suppose you’d let me keep one of these as a souvenir. This is some of my best work!”

The other man smiled. “I don’t think so, Russell.”

Copie looked back and forth between them. Three more men stepped through the door, lanky, curly-haired youths that looked like they could have been brothers to the first. None of them had cameras. Copie’s eyes shifted back to the sandy-haired one. He remembered where he knew him from. He was the stranger from the church, the one that had pushed him and stolen his camera.

“Is there another computer file of this image? Or is this the only one?” Russell asked.

Copie backed away, pointing to the four new arrivals. “Wait a minute. Who the hell are they?”

Russell was tipped back in his chair, feet on the computer table. “These are my associates. The handsome guy right there is Shepherd, and the others are, um, oh shit, I can never remember their names.”

The one called Shepherd came forward while the others stood at the door like guards. “All right,” he said. “Let’s stop fucking around, kid.” He grabbed Copie by the throat and forced him into a chair. “Where do you store the computer image, and where are the rest of the pictures?”

Copie couldn’t find his voice, bewitched by the cold green eyes that stared down at him. “You don’t want to talk?” Shepherd said. “Let’s make a deal then.” He grabbed a pen and pressed it hard against the soft flesh beneath Copie’s eye. Copie whimpered. “How about, you tell me where the image is stored, and I don’t gouge out your eye. What do you say?”

“It’s on a flash drive!” Copie called out. “The drive is in there. I swear to God, it’s only on the flash drive. These aren’t even my computers! I’m just a student!”

Still holding the pen to Copie’s eye, Shep gestured to Russell, who popped the drive out of the computer and examined it. He pecked at the computer keyboard, scanning the files. Finally, he turned to Shep. “He’s telling the truth.”

“We can’t take any chances,” Shep said, releasing Copie. “We have to destroy everything here. Margol?”

“Yes, Shepherd,” the redhead answered.

“Check out his apartment just in case. Juris? Bring that other stuff in now. Allisto, help Juris set the charges.”

The blond and brunette left the room and Copie saw a break as they cleared away from the exit. He bolted for the door, thinking he was moving pretty fast until Shepherd grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back. Copie fought, but Shep and Russell ultimately subdued him and tied him to a chair with something that looked like dental floss. “This string will disintegrate in the blast,” Shep told Copie as he wound it around his legs. “When they find your body, it won’t be evident that you were restrained. It will look like an accident.”

His tone was casual, like they were discussing the weather, not the manner in which Copie would be murdered. “Please,” Copie said. “Don’t. I won’t tell.”

“I don’t want you to die, kid. I am sorry about all of this, but what can I say? You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then let me go!” he pleaded. “Just destroy the pictures! I won’t say anything, I swear. And even if I did, I’d have no proof! Nobody would believe me. Please, you don’t have to do this.”

Shep shook his head. “Sorry. This project is too important to leave loose ends.”

Russell joined the others in their preparations. They had set up charges and now the curly haired ones were joyfully dousing the place with gasoline. Shepherd looked over at them and scowled. “Hey! Take it easy on the gas! I said bring one small can, not all of it. We need some for the trip to Pearl Chasm next week. Or have you forgotten that your beloved brother is still in prison?”

The others re-capped the canisters, looking guilty. They gathered their equipment and moved out, leaving Copie tied to a small metal chair. Shep smoothed a strip of duct tape over Copie’s mouth. “Good journey, kid. Happy trails.”

They left him alone. Copie wheeled his chair to the door, but he had no thumbs available to flick the lock. Panic assaulted him as he heard vehicle engines start up from outside somewhere. He was going to fry. He was going to fry for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No! Not like this! He swallowed his fear and forced himself to think, a reckless jumble of survival-driven thoughts. Then his eyes spotted the bathroom door, left open a crack from his last visit. The bathroom had a small window just above the toilet. He shuffled like a mad sand crab over to the door and thrust himself headfirst into the tiny room, using too much momentum, and nearly toppling over.

He put pressure against the string binding his lower legs, urging it to loosen just a bit. He was able to manage a crouching stand, with the chair strapped on his back like a tortoise shell. His arms still wouldn’t budge. He used his chin to drop the toilet seat cover. Resting his knees on the edge, he shuffled himself to the back of the cistern, positioning his head against the wall as he struggled to get up onto his toes. He wobbled unsteadily, becoming too aware that he had nothing to break his fall. One shoe-tip reached the toilet cover, and he groaned, using every bit of strength his foot had to hoist his weight to a standing position. The arch of his foot cramped and he thought he’d pass out from the pain. Then he was there, standing on top of the toilet, with the window in front of him.

He spotted a white van in the far lot, parking lights on. They were waiting to see if the blast was a success, no doubt. With this thought, Copie slammed his head into the glass. It didn’t break. A strangled scream came up from his throat and he slammed his head again. This time a jagged crack spider-webbed across the glass. Four more desperate thrusts and he was through the shattered window. But he was stuck.

The chair did not quite fit, so he was lodged half in and half out, like Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit’s hole after eating too much honey. He cursed against the duct tape and tried wiggling himself forward, but the chair was wedged. From his waist up he was out in the open air, looking down at the grass a foot below. From the waist down, he was still in the bathroom.

An ear shattering explosion tore through the lab as one of the charges ignited. Copie prayed as tears streamed. Another explosion came in a rush of heat. This one blew the bathroom door in off its hinges. The corner of the door struck Copie just below the knees, sending him ripping forth in a rupture of splintered wood and spraying glass. He landed with a thud on the grass outside, his face and legs stinging with cuts. He squinted up at the window and saw thick flames licking into the bathroom.

With his last bit of strength, he forced himself and the chair into a painful roll, turning end over end until he was several yards from the building and could move no more. The final blast came with a belch of scorching heat, and Copie buried his face into the earth. Fragments of flaming debris landed daintily on his skin, burning him. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the sound of the van driving away.

Chapter Nineteen

The train stopped at the end of the line and Patrick got off. The red-haired Shep-alike got off the train too, but he proceeded quickly in the opposite direction. Patrick watched him walk off down the street. His stride was awkward, yet fluid at the same time. He seemed to be walking almost solely on the balls of his feet, as if both ankles were sprained. The other stalkers had moved that same way, like they had two wooden legs.

The redhead looked back over his shoulder, and Patrick froze. He had the large green eyes, straight, sculpted nose, and rosebud mouth. Baby face. Patrick swooned, a surreal disorientation seizing him as he stared at this new stranger. He seemed surprised to see Patrick staring back at him, and he quickly turned away, flipping the collar up on his jacket and quickening his pace. Patrick resisted the urge to chase him down and question him under the threat of death. His sanity was all he had left. He refused to lose it.

Turning his attention away from the departing stranger, he began walking home. He was surprised to see Robin Duvaine sitting on his front porch, waiting. She wore a baby blue tee shirt, white shorts, with a ball cap and sunglasses hiding her face. A few strands of honey blonde hair escaped from under the cap. He’d nearly forgotten her promise to contact him when she returned from Forest Bluffs. He trotted up the steps toward her. “Robin! How did it go? Did they try to poison your Kool-Aid?”

She looked up, and even with the dark glasses hiding her eyes, he could see she was not in a joking mood. “Can we go inside? We need to talk.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, “Come on in.”

He led Robin to the sofa, where she sat, removing her hat and glasses. Her crystal blue eyes looked strained and weary. Wavy blonde locks fell soft and loose around her shoulders, and the baby blue tee shirt matched her eyes. She looked soft and inviting, and Patrick quickly reminded himself that Robin was Shep’s girlfriend. Not his. “So I take it you didn’t have a very good time,” he said, offering her a glass of wine, which she gratefully accepted.

She took a long swallow of the wine. “It was weird, Obrien. It was really, really weird out there.”

“Did you see Kelinda?” he asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.

“No. She wasn’t there. They claimed she went away for the weekend to visit friends. That’s bullshit. I know all her friends.”

Patrick was stunned to see her hands shaking as she brought the wine glass to her lips. It was unsettling to see her so rattled. She was usually such a hard-ass.

“Weird that she wasn’t there if she knew you were coming to visit,” Patrick said.

“They don’t want me to see Kelinda. I don’t know why. But she’s living there all right. I saw her stuff. I saw her cat too.”

“Did you see Shep? And Joey? How were they acting? Are there followers? Do they—”

“Hold on, Obrien.” She held a hand up. “I’ll get to all of that. But there’s something I need to tell you first. It’s about Kelinda.”

“But you said you didn’t see Kelinda.”

“I didn’t. I saw her stuff.”

“You mean her clothes and personal items.”

“Yes.” She took a breath and let it out slowly, as if preparing for something. Patrick’s patience was wearing thin. If she was going to drop a bomb, he’d rather she just let it fly.

“Robin, I don’t know where this is headed, but whatever it is, spit it out.”

“She’s fucking Joey.”

Patrick blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

“I said she’s fucking Joey. Kelinda, I mean.”

Patrick looked off into space, showing no reaction as he struggled to absorb the statement. Robin waved a hand in front of his face. “Obrien? Don’t bug out on me, man. I haven’t even told you the really weird parts yet.”

Patrick looked at Robin. “Kelinda and Joey? Are you sure?”

“Pretty damn sure, yeah. I told Shep I wanted to leave her a note. He said she was staying in the back bedroom on the third floor. So I go up there, and the room is completely empty. Nothing in the closets, nothing in the drawers, nothing that belongs to Kelinda.”

Patrick moved closer to Robin on the sofa, intrigued despite his shock. “So what did you do?”

“Well, by this time I’m getting suspicious, but I’m also a little freaked out because Shep comes up and starts watching me like a hawk. I write a quick note and leave it on the pillow. Later that night, after Shep fell asleep, I went exploring. I went into Joey’s room. Her clothes were in his closets. Her birth control pills on the lamp table next to the bed. Suitcases, cosmetics, even her tampons for Christ sakes.”

Patrick leaned back on the couch, thinking. He didn’t want to believe it of course, but somehow he wasn’t as shocked as he should have been. Somehow, he knew. Somehow, he’d always known. He turned to Robin. “That’s pretty compelling evidence, but are you sure she’s actually sleeping with him, and not just storing her stuff in there?”

“Listen to me Obrien, and trust me. A woman does not leave a box of tampons in a man’s room unless she’s been intimate with him.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

Robin placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. But I thought you should know.”

Patrick waited for the hurt to come, but it didn’t. Perhaps rejection and betrayal were becoming commonplace. Had he finally gone numb? Or were his feelings for Kelinda not what he thought they were? Whatever the reason, he felt nothing, except a befuddled curiosity. The last time he’d seen Kelinda she was fearful that someone might associate her with Joey. Now she was sleeping in his bed.

“So what’s this other weird stuff you have to tell me?” he asked.

Robin wrung her hands. “Okay. There are a group of followers that work in the fields by day and tent out around the guest house by night. They build campfires, play music, and dance like a bunch of gypsies. All in all, they seem to be having a pretty good time.”

Patrick smirked. “Does Joey make them bow down and kiss his feet?”

Robin smiled. “No. None of that. He does go out and give speeches to them. I wasn’t allowed to watch. The followers seem mesmerized by him, but they also seem comfortable around him. Shep said he and Joey have them all up to the big house for barbecues sometimes. That’s what the followers call the beach house. They live in the guest house, but Joey lives in ‘the big house’.”

“How quaint. What else?”

Robin’s face took on that strained look again, and Patrick caught veiled fear in her eyes. She leaned in close to him. “There are these three guys that live in the big house with Joey and Shep. I heard Shep refer to them as ‘the brothers’. They do errands for Shep, and they supervise the gardening out in the fields. They hang on Shep’s every word like he’s the answer to some prayer. He screams and yells at them, bosses them around, but at the same time he seems quite fond of them. He even pets and kisses them sometimes.”

“What?”

Robin nodded. “I know. I told you. It’s really weird out there.”

“So who the hell are these guys? Why do they get to live in the big house? Oh God, now I’m saying it. I mean the beach house.”

“I was introduced, but no explanation was given as to who they were, or what was their function. Shep avoided the subject when I brought it up, and I think he was going out of his way to keep me away from them. But I couldn’t help be curious, especially since they look so much like Shep. It’s creepy. Like they could really be his brothers.”

Patrick’s gut clenched. “They…they look like Shep?”

“Yeah, eerily. What’s wrong?”

Patrick buried his face in his hands. “Was one of them platinum blond, one a redhead, and one a brunette?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know that?”

“I can’t believe this. I think those are the guys that have been following me.”

“They’re following you? What the fuck?”

“It’s been going on for a while now. I’ve seen all three of them. They’re on the train, they’re in the restaurants I go to…I even chased one of them through the woods at Betsy’s house. God, I’ve been so stupid! All this time it was Shep having me followed. I thought it was the FBI.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Robin uttered a small laugh. “You went to Betsy’s? My Aunt Betsy’s? And did you say FBI?”

“Yes, but that’s a whole other story. Did they talk funny? The three guys I mean. Did they have a weird accent?”

“Well yes, but—”

“Damn it!” He slapped his thigh. “It’s got to be the same guys. I can’t believe Shep is having me followed.”

Robin put her hand on his. “Patrick, shut up and listen to me. It gets worse.”

“Worse? How could it get worse?”

“They have the scar.”

Patrick frowned. “Huh?”

“The three guys that live in the house, the ones that look like Shep. They all have the scar.” Her eyes looked haunted.

Patrick shook his head. “What scar?”

“The scar. The one on Shep’s back. The upside-down horseshoe. They all have it.”

“That’s impossible. Why would they have the scar? Shep’s father gave him that scar when he was little. He branded him with a horseshoe because—”

“I know,” Robin cut him off. “Because he was unlucky. I’ve heard the story too, Obrien. But I’m telling you, these guys all have the identical scar.”

“That’s crazy! How do you know this?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. I told you I went exploring when Shep fell asleep. I sneaked downstairs and spied on them. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with my cousin Joey, but he was drunk as a skunk the whole time I was out there. Anyway, they were all in the Jacuzzi room. Joey was tossing bars of soap at them, and telling them to take a bath because they were getting their filth all over his new furniture. So the three brothers stripped out of their clothes and got into the tub. I saw them all naked. I saw their backs, Obrien. They had the scar.”

Patrick shook his head. “But why? Why would they have the scar?” He hadn’t meant to yell, but it came out that way.

Robin’s pretty face scrunched. “I don’t know why they have the damned scar!” she yelled. “I’m just telling you what I saw!”

Patrick stood, holding his arms up in surrender. “Okay, we both need to calm down. There has to be an explanation. What did Shep tell you about the brothers?”

She shrugged. “Not much. When I asked him about the resemblance, he said they liked to imitate his style, but that he wasn’t related to them. He’s completely full of shit, don’t you think? You’ve seen them. There’s no way those guys aren’t related to him.”

Patrick walked to the window and stared out, hands on his hips. “Why would Shep lie? If he had brothers, why didn’t he say so? He always told me he was an only child.”

“Yeah, same here,” Robin said. “No brothers, no sisters, no cousins even.” She walked over to join him. “Hey, Obrien, I’ve told you an awful lot here. I think it’s time you answered one of my questions.”

He glanced at her uneasily, knowing what she was about to ask. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

“Was the miracle a fake?”

He silently cursed Joey and Shep. How was it that he ended up being the one to tell Robin that her boyfriend and her cousin were a couple of sleazy con men? She watched him expectantly. He smiled sadly. “Of course it was a fake.”

She let her breath out. Calmly, she nodded. “I figured as much. I mean, I love Joey, but he’s no saint. Or prophet for that matter. Were you involved? Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

“I knew about it, yes, but I opposed the idea. I begged Joey not to go through with it. He promised he wouldn’t. They tricked me into going to the church that night. Shep told me Joey was contemplating suicide, and that he went to be with his family. They knew I’d deduct that he’d gone to the cemetery. I did. That’s when I spotted Joey on the roof of the church. I thought he was really in trouble. I didn’t realize it was a set up until I got to the roof and that…thing appeared.”

Robin frowned at Patrick. “They really did that to you? Joey and Shep?”

“They claimed that my ignorance made the whole thing more real. That was their excuse for betraying me and risking my life. Good theatre.”

“Wow.” Robin hung her head. “Now I understand why you’re not out at the Bluffs with them. I mean, I thought it was strange, you know? You three have always been so inseparable. Shit. They’ve really gone off the deep end.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “That’s why I’m so shocked that Kelinda would move out there. I mean, she of all people…”

He trailed off, seeing the stunned look on Robin’s face. “Kelinda was involved in this too?”

Patrick felt a stab of guilt for betraying Kelinda’s trust. He imagined her in bed with Joey, and the guilt dissipated. “Kelinda was the model for the apparition.”

Robin turned away from him. Surprisingly, she laughed. “Was it Russell and Craig? The Hoax Patrol?”

“Yes.”

Robin laughed again and leaned against the couch. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. But Kelinda! Her dad’s a deacon for crying out loud. Why would she agree to be involved in something like that?”

She and Patrick looked at each other as the realization hit. “Joey,” they said in unison.

Robin took Patrick’s hand. “Do you think you could talk to Joey? Do you think you could get him out of this stupid church nonsense? He’ll listen to you, Obrien. He looks up to you.”

Patrick doubted that Joey looked up to him in anything other than height. But he did want to try and get Joey out of Forest Bluffs, at least before the Feds got hold of him. Along with Betsy, this was now the second woman from the Duvaine family that had asked him in no uncertain terms to save Joey’s crazy ass. The problem was, he wasn’t sure Joey wanted saving. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore. And the priest’s comment was still echoing in his mind, demanding an explanation he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. You never did a blood ceremony, did you?

He looked at Robin’s pleading face. “I think there’s something you need to hear. But you have to promise not to freak out.”

“Okay. No freak-outs. What is it?”

Patrick told her about the FBI and his visit with Father Carbone. “They want me to infiltrate the group out at Forest Bluffs. For some reason, they’re interested in what they have growing in the fields out behind the house.”

“The fields? Really? It just looked like a bunch of grain to me. Shep said it was some sort of investment project. What does the FBI think it is? Drugs?”

“I’m not sure, but they want to know desperately enough to trust in me. They want me to go out there and pretend to be all cozy with Joey and Shep again. My time is about up. I have to give them my answer.”

Robin gave him somber blue eyes. “I don’t want Joey to get in any trouble,” she said.

“All I have to do is get a sample of the crop, and I’m out of there. If it’s nothing but a bunch of grain as you say, then they leave it alone.”

“And if it’s not?”

Patrick sighed. “If it’s not, I don’t know what they’re going to do. But I’m with you. I don’t want Joey or Shep to get in any trouble, regardless of how pissed I am at them. I figure if I do this, prove they’re not terrorists or drug dealers or whatever, the feds will back off. I kind of don’t have a choice.”

“No, I guess you don’t.” Robin looked thoughtful, tapping her chin with her index finger. “You know, if you wanted to infiltrate, it would be really easy for you. They talk about you all the time out there.”

“Who talks about me?”

“Joey, Shep, hell I even heard some of the followers talking. Joey seems particularly upset that you’re not out there.”

Patrick frowned. This was the part he didn’t get. “What did you hear them say?”

“Just little comments like ‘Obrien will come around’ or ‘things will be better when Obrien gets here’. I even heard Shep tell one of the brothers that Joey would stop drinking so much when you got there.”

Patrick shook his head, scowling. “That is fucking unsettling. I’ve made it clear that I have no intentions on joining them. Why would they think differently? And why does it matter to them if I go out there or not?”

“I can’t answer those questions, Patrick. I’m just saying if you did want to go out there and spy on them or whatever, it would be a breeze. They’d welcome you with open arms.”

“I don’t know,” he said, doubtful. “I think they’d be suspicious. They know me too well. They know I wouldn’t just suddenly have a change of heart.”

Robin shrugged. “From what you’ve told me, they’re trying to break you down, leave you so frustrated with your life that joining them is the only option. They obviously expect you to crack eventually.”

“I have to go see somebody before I make my final decision. I need to ask that Father Carbone about something he said to me.”

“I’m going with you,” she declared.

“No. You’re not.”

“Why? I want to be involved!”

“Sorry, Robin, but no way. You’re too close to the situation. You can’t be objective.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You’re close to the situation yourself. You’ve been Shep’s bitch longer than I have.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. You can’t go. I know you, Robin. You get defensive when it comes to Joey. The priest will say one thing about him and you’ll go valving off at the mouth. If anyone talks about Joey, you rough them up.”

She laughed. “Rough them up? I do not make a habit of manhandling clergymen. You make me sound like a lunatic.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck you, Obrien.”

“I’m only saying, you may hear some unsettling things about Joey and Shep. I’m not going to sit there and listen to lies about them, but I do want to hear what the priest has to say. And I want to know why there’s an investigation in the first place. It they’re going to accuse my friends of terrorism, or whatever the hell this is about, then they’d better have some damn good reasons.”

Robin hung her head. Much to his dismay, she started to sob. It completely disarmed him. “Oh, no. Come on, Robin. Don’t cry!” She continued to weep tiny muffled sounds into her hands. Patrick went to her and pulled her in to his chest. He expected her to pull away but she let him hold her. He lifted her chin and wiped her eyes. She allowed him to do so. He looked into her crystalline blue eyes, just a shade darker than Joey’s but identical in shape. “Your eyes are like Joey’s,” he said, uncomfortable suddenly. He’d never been this close to her.

She sniffled. “So I’ve been told.”

He felt strange and warm with his arms around her. He could smell her soapy scent and feel the bones in her shoulders, and the way her back curved into her tiny waist. He was afraid to hold on to her, but he was afraid that if he let her go too abruptly, she would sense his discomfort.

“Let me go see the priest with you,” she said. “I might be able to help. I know Joey and Shep as well as you do.”

“But how do I know you won’t rough up the priest?” He grinned.

“You’re going to have to trust me.”

“Oh? Why should I put my faith in you? I’ve already got one Duvaine on my shit list.”

She rested her head on his chest. He never imagined there would be any heat between him and Robin, but he felt his heart flutter with the movement. He forced the thoughts out of his mind. Things were complicated enough. Robin unwrapped herself from him. He was relieved, and a little disappointed. “We both got left out in the cold, Obrien. That means they don’t trust either of us. Isn’t that reason enough to bring me into the fold? I mean, who else have you got?”

Patrick laughed. “Nobody, I suppose.”

“So can I go?”

He looked into her blue eyes and felt something tug at his heart. Maybe it was the eyes. He could never say no to those eyes while Joey was wearing them, and being heterosexual, he found Robin far more appealing. “Okay, you can go. But I’m warning you, you have to stay calm. I don’t know this priest very well and he kind of intimidates me.”

Robin raised her eyebrows. “The priest intimidates you.”

He grabbed his keys. “Let’s go. You can judge for yourself.”

Chapter Twenty

Father Carbone came to the door in pajamas, haphazardly pulling on a bathrobe. He squinted through the screen at Patrick and Robin.

“Hello Father Carbone. Do you remember me?”

To his surprise, the priest offered him a warm smile. “Mr. Obrien. You’re a little hard to forget. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I need to speak with you. This is my friend Robin Duvaine. May we come in?”

He opened the door and waved them inside, then shuffled into his living room, indicating that they follow. He was far less intimidating in his blue and green checkered bathrobe. His black hair was pushed up on one side.

“Were you sleeping?” Patrick asked, checking his watch. It was only eight in the evening.

“Yes, I decided to skip the usual wild clergy parties tonight. Are you going to help Agent Litner?” he called back. “Because he’ll tell you everything if you are. You really shouldn’t be coming to me first.”

“I’m here to speak with you right now, not him. Regarding what you said to me as I was leaving yesterday. About…” Patrick glanced at Robin. He hadn’t told her about the blood pact. “You asked me about a ritual.”

Father Carbone stopped, turned around and stared at Patrick, then turned his sleepy gaze to Robin. “Duvaine, huh? Any relation?”

“Yes. Joey is my cousin.”

Carbone raised an eyebrow at Patrick. “I really can’t tell you anything without Litner’s authority, and even if I could, I’m not sure this young lady should be here for this,” he said. “You’ve probably put the investigation in jeopardy by even speaking to her.”

Robin walked over to Father Carbone. “I thought you said this priest could help. It looks to me like he’s pretty useless. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Patrick sighed. “Damn it, Robin. What did we talk about?”

“He doesn’t trust me, what’s the point?”

“You didn’t give him a chance to!”

Carbone held his hands up. “All right, just calm down a minute, people. Take a seat on the couch, would you?” Robin and Patrick remained standing. Carbone widened his eyes. “I said take a seat on the couch.” They both sat. Father Carbone’s thug demeanor was back. “I can fill you in a bit regarding the questions that were thrown into my lap, but you’re going to have to talk to Litner if you want the other facts. That’s my final offer, so don’t bother asking me anything I can’t answer, because my lips are sealed. Got it?” Patrick nodded, happy to be getting any information at all.

The priest looked at Patrick. “Do you want her to hear what I’m going to say, regardless of the consequences?”

“What consequences?”

“It makes no difference if you trust her or not.” Carbone looked solemn. “If you involve her in this, then she too will be under the watchful eye of Agent Litner. This isn’t a game. You’re both basically signing a nondisclosure agreement by even being here.”

“I still want in,” Robin said. “I need the truth. I don’t care what it entails.”

Patrick looked at Robin, and wondered if he should be involving her. She met his eyes, and her thoughts were clear. She didn’t give a shit about being monitored. She only wanted to help Joey. “Me too,” he said. “We’re on the same side of the fence.”

Father Carbone ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t feel right about this.”

“What if I said I was going to help Litner?” Patrick said. “I made my decision. I’ll do it. I’ll go out to Forest Bluffs and get the plants or whatever they’re growing.”

Carbone looked at Patrick and his expression changed. “If you can swear to that, I would be more willing to share what I know.”

“On the level, Father Carbone. I intend to cooperate, but I still haven’t got a clue what’s going on here. I’m the one going out on a limb, so cut me some slack! After all, I’m agreeing to help without any solid information.”

Carbone nodded. “Okay Patrick. We’ll talk, but under certain conditions.”

“Name them.”

“I call Litner first thing in the morning and set up a meeting.”

Patrick stiffened. The spooky white-haired agent made him uneasy. “Fine. We talk to Litner tomorrow. What else?”

Father Carbone pointed a finger at Patrick and Robin. “I want no hostile interruptions from either of you until I’m finished talking.” He looked directly at Robin. “I mean it. I don’t care how much bullshit you decide this all sounds like. You’re not the only ones feeling a little volatile lately if you catch my drift. Now do we have a deal?”

“Agreed,” Patrick said.

Carbone shifted his gaze to Robin. “How about you, Sassy Girl?”

“Agreed. I will keep my sass in check.”

“Good. Now keep in mind, I can only show you the small aspect of this investigation that concerns me. What Litner has, well, you’ll have to wait and hear that from him. Fair enough?”

Patrick nodded. “At this point, I’ll settle for any information you can give.”

“Good then. Stay here. I’ll go get the stuff. Does anyone want tea?”

“Sure,” Robin said. Carbone left the room and Robin leaned into Patrick. “What stuff?” she whispered. Patrick shrugged.

Ten minutes later, the priest returned with the tea set. He set it down and left the room again. He returned right away with a cardboard box, which he placed on the coffee table. “Gather round kiddies, it’s show and tell time.” Carbone pulled out a leather notebook and two envelopes, placing them on the table. They were clasped tight, something bulky inside.

“What’s this?” Patrick asked.

The priest sat. “The contents of these envelopes belong to Melvin Shepherd. Or at least they did before Litner got his hands on them.”

“The feds stole from Shep?” Patrick asked before he could stop himself. “That doesn’t sound legal.”

“Litner had been looking into a potential related crime prior to this. There was cause, I’m told.”

“What crime?” Robin asked. The priest remained silent, and her brow lowered to a scowl. “Not Uncle Charles and the others. They think Shep had something to do with Joey’s family dying?”

Carbone shrugged. “Not my place to discuss.”

“That’s stupid!” she said. “Those were all ruled accidents.”

“Yes, they were. But there was suspicion among law enforcement. Either way, Litner has these items now. You gonna file a complaint?”

Robin sighed, then waved a hand at him.  “No. Just talk.”

“Okay, I’m involved for several reasons. One is that the apparition appeared on my church. Lucky me. The second reason has to do with my having a PHD in theology. I’m an expert on religious texts. And thirdly, I went to high school with Agent Litner. He’s a friend of mine, although I hadn’t seen him for some time before this happened.”

Patrick and Robin stayed silent.

“Agent Litner came to me with this box of goodies to see what I could make of it all. The notebook is handwritten and reads a bit like a bible testament, but a lot weirder.”

“Who wrote it?” Robin asked.

Father Carbone pulled open the leather notebook. “We believe this is done in the handwriting of your friend Shepherd.”

“Let me see that!” Robin demanded. Father Carbone gave her a warning look. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I know Shep’s writing. I’m only trying to help.” Reluctantly, Father Carbone handed her the leather book. “What the hell is this? It’s not even in English.”

“Indeed. Some of it, if you look further in, is in English, but the language shifts in and out. At certain points it becomes German, then Spanish, and see here? This is Latin. Some of the language I don’t recognize at all, so I’m assuming it’s written in code. But the parts that are written in recognizable languages are what boggled my mind the most. It’s as though the author had such a fluent use of all the languages, that he just flowed in and out of them haphazardly.”

“It has pictures,” Patrick noted. “I do think that’s Shep’s handwriting, though.” He glanced at Robin, who nodded.

“All right, good to have confirmation of that,” Carbone said. “The pictures were helpful in interpreting the pages that had indecipherable language. This book is referred to in several places as a “testament”. See here at the top of each page? It’s called ‘The Book of Zirub’. I did some research to find references to that name because it sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I came up with nothing.”

“I can’t believe Shep did any of this,” Patrick said. “I’ve never known him to write stories. Never known him to even read a book since we graduated college.”

Robin snorted. “No shit. Only stories I’ve witnessed Shep consume are the ones in porn movies.”

Patrick chuckled. “To be fair, he does find some creative porn.”

“Okay, moving on.” Father Carbone grabbed the notebook and flipped to the first page. “Fading genius that I am, I had to get some help from former colleagues. We stayed up and studied this book, trying to come up with some semblance of the story it told so we could let Litner know what it meant. Like I said before, the drawings really helped, but bear in mind that this is only one interpretation, and we took liberties in filling in the blanks.” Father Carbone showed them he had a 3" by 5" card inserted between some of the pages.

“Each card describes what’s written or translated, as well as what we think is illustrated.” Carbone looked at Patrick and Robin, his eyes serious. “Are you kids sure you’re ready to hear this?”

“Please,” Patrick said.

The priest turned to the first page, where an amateur drawing showed a man in shadowed silhouette, stepping out of a red circle. “I love a picture book,” Carbone said, “This clearly shows a figure coming through some sort of tunnel. Or portal maybe? I don’t know. It speaks of beings coming through or crossing over from another place. The closest translation we came up with for the caption beneath is, “The trapped ones.”

“Who are they?” Patrick asked.

“I have no idea,” the priest said. “We’re not even sure those are the right words. You’ll have to bear with me. Even the modern language is very vague.”

Father Carbone turned the page, where another card was wedged between the pages, a tiny cheat sheet. The illustration was of a boy, standing in front of a sunset. “This talks about a child being chosen,” Carbone said. “And the trapped ones finding that child.”

Patrick stared at the drawing of the little boy and a shiver went down his spine. Father Carbone looked at Patrick, seeming to sense his unease. “Things get weirder from here. Should I go on?”

Patrick shrugged, trying to look nonchalant for Robin’s sake. “It’s just a bunch of crazy crap Shep wrote. He was probably stoned.”

Carbone nodded. “Next page. There’s no picture here, but we found this one rather interesting. It speaks of removing the child from his earthbound family. This along with the calming of the soul will allow the child to begin to follow his true path.”

“The calming of the soul? What’s that?” Robin asked.

“This one I know.” Carbone looked pleased with himself. “The calming of the soul. It’s been used by various tribes over the years, even by Native Americans as a sort of focusing tool. Some think it’s simply a meditation technique. But others believe that if the soul was put to sleep, or calmed, that the mind could focus without hindrance, without distraction.”

“Without feelings?” Patrick said suddenly. “Without a conscience?”

Robin shook her head. “Patrick…”

“I know you’ve thought it too, Robin. Did Joey cry even once when his family died? And what about that? Being removed from his earthbound family?”

“Stop it!” Robin said. “Joey’s not like that. You’re just looking for things now. We can’t help Joey if you get as crazy as Shep.”

Father Carbone closed the book. “I’ve clearly said too much.”

Patrick and Robin both turned. “No,” Robin said. “I’m sorry for the outburst. I want to see the rest of the book. Please. I’m calm.”

“I don’t believe you can stay objective. Or calm.”

“We will. We promise. Don’t we Patrick?”

Father Carbone eyed them suspiciously, but finally he opened the book again and turned to the next page. He held it up, open for them to see. It was another illustration. This one depicted the boy, now drawn as a teenager, kneeling before the shadow man, who was pouring blood from a wound in his arm into the boy’s open mouth. Patrick recalled his conversation with Aunt Betsy. “Ah, shit,” he said. “Not liking this.”

“Gross!” Robin said. “What are they doing?”

Carbone picked up the index card. “This page speaks of a gift of power transferred from the trapped one—singular here—to the chosen boy. Now see here on the next page…” Father Carbone turned the page to show a more elaborate illustration of the boy, standing before a crowd of people with light shooting out of him. The people in the crowd smiled at the boy with adoration. “It claims the boy will now have the power to enchant. At least we think that word means to enchant. It’s either enchant or hypnotize.”

Patrick and Robin had both grown quiet.

“There are only a few more pages, but I think they are most interesting. As you can see here, the boy is shown carrying a sword. As I turn the page here, it shows the boy standing with a new figure, someone different than the previously seen shadowed figure. See?”

The new picture showed the boy standing next to a tall, shirtless muscular man. He had broad shoulders and a strong square chin. He was holding a large shield. A caption was printed beneath the picture in a language Patrick didn’t know.

“What does that say?” Patrick pointed to the words.

“It says ‘The Sword and The Shield’. Patrick, do you remember when I asked you if you ever did a blood ritual?”

“Yes, I certainly remember that.”

“Well, this is why.” He flipped the page. Patrick inhaled sharply.

Three figures: the shadow man, the boy, and the new muscular figure stood in a circle. The chosen boy had his arm joined at a wound on the wrist with the muscular man. Little droplets of blood were drawn leaking from the two men’s wrists. The shadow figure stood by watching, a bloody dagger in his hand.

“Holy shit!” Patrick said. “Holy fuck!”

Carbone’s brows pinched. “This looks familiar to you?”

“Yes, but not just the picture. Those words right there. What do those words mean?” The caption underneath the picture had printed, ‘Esk ul kalde ich hlada ich dar’. Shep spoke those same words that night on Joey’s balcony when they performed the childish blood pact.

Father Carbone picked up the index card. “I don’t know what those mean, but there’s a caption just beneath it in Spanish, so I’m assuming it means the same thing.”

Patrick swallowed hard. “That doesn’t say ‘unity and brotherhood’ does it?”

Father Carbone’s brown eyes looked sharply over the card. “I’m afraid not. It says, ‘The Shield Protects the Sword.’”

Robin looked at Patrick. “I don’t understand.”

Patrick reluctantly explained the blood pact that the three of them performed the night of Joey’s madness at Monty’s bar, after Charles Duvaine’s funeral. “Shep said it would be good for Joey’s morale. Joey was acting super depressed.”

“Did you stand in a circle?” Father Carbone asked.

Patrick pointed to the picture. “That’s how we stood, out on Joey’s balcony. Exactly like that. This is nuts. That would mean they staged the whole thing. The argument, the fight, everything. Why? How long? How long had they been planning this? It’s crazy!”

“Perfect,” Robin said softly. “I’ve been sleeping with a lunatic.”

Patrick held up a hand. “Wait a minute here. Father Carbone, as sick as this all sounds, does it really make Shep dangerous? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pleased to discover that my friends could win an academy award for their acting, but nobody’s been hurt or threatened by this. Right?”

Carbone sighed. “This isn’t the document that disturbed Agent Litner. He has that one.”

“What does it say?”

“I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to ask him to show it to you tomorrow.”

Patrick rubbed his forehead. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Carbone eyed him seriously. “The journal goes on for a couple more pages about the Shield being bound by blood to protect the chosen child, or ‘The Sword’, at all costs. Then the text just stops.”

Patrick looked down at his arm and rubbed the tiny scar made from Shep’s blade. He noticed the priest watching his movements. “What did they do to me, Father Carbone?”

The priest took his hand and examined the scar, then looked into Patrick’s eyes. “Nothing. They didn’t do a damn thing to you. Joey and Shep are quite simply deranged. As far as this so-called blood pact is concerned, I’d get a tetanus shot if I were you, then I’d stop worrying about it.”

“I guess. It’s just that I’ve been dreaming about Joey every night. In each dream I’m trying to save his life. The dreams are monstrous. They wake me up with headaches.”

“They’re dreams, Patrick. That’s all. It’s your subconscious trying to sort through everything that’s been happening to you. The fact that you’re having bad dreams has nothing to do with yours or anybody else’s blood. The only power anyone has over you is that which you give them.”

Patrick nodded, but he was remembering the strange, painful shock that passed through his arm when Shep said those odd words. He remembered the pressure as Shep sandwiched Joey’s arm to his.

Robin shook her head. “How can you be so sure the characters in this testament are supposed to be Patrick and Joey? I mean, this could all be a coincidence.”

“I was skeptical too, Robin,” the priest said. “Until I saw these.” Father Carbone handed Patrick one of the envelopes. “Look at this one first. These two envelopes were with the notebook among Shepherd’s possessions.”

On the outside of the envelope, were the words ‘The Sword’ written in pen. It was Shep’s handwriting. Patrick pulled the contents out and spread it onto the table. They were photographs, dozens of them, and they were all of Joey. They went in chronological order, starting with pictures of a six-year-old Joey running on the beach. More childhood snapshots followed, all taken from a distance. Some were in the park, some in Joey’s back yard. They advanced to Joey in junior high school, a bevy of different photographs of him performing in school plays: Joey as Macbeth, Joey as Dracula, Joey as the Captain of the H.M.S. Pinafore.

Robin stared at the pictures. “Holy shit.”

Patrick flipped through the rest of the photos. There were a few more of Joey at about fourteen playing street hockey, and then there were no more. “Robin, how old was Joey when Shep moved in?”

“He was fifteen. Why?”

“I don’t know. This is just too weird.”

Father Carbone replaced the pictures and handed Patrick the second packet. “If you think that’s weird, you ought to love this. Brace yourself.” The second envelope had ‘The Shield’ written in the same blue pen on the outside. Patrick hesitated. “Go on, take it,” Father Carbone said.

Patrick’s heart sped as he reached into the envelope and pulled out the contents. It was more pictures, only this time they were all of Patrick. They started with Patrick in junior high school. A twelve-year-old Patrick threw a baseball in the school field. Then there was a slightly older Patrick leaping over hurdles at a track meet. There was Patrick at the high school gym with a crowd of friends. Patrick lifting weights. Patrick playing soccer. “Jesus, that was way back. Some of these are from junior high! Shep didn’t even meet me until we were in college. It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Yes,” Carbone said, “he did not meet you until college, but it appears he may have chosen you long before then.”

Patrick stared at the priest. “That’s crazy. No way.”

“Are you sure?” Father Carbone reached into the pile and handed him the last picture. It was Patrick arriving at college on his first day. He knew it was his first day because his parents were with him in the photo, and he was carrying his minifridge into the dorm.

Patrick stared at the picture. “Why? Why me?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say because of your size and perhaps your athletic ability. Did you do anything extraordinary when you were younger? Something that might have drawn attention to you?”

“Not really. I was a typical jock. You know, high school sports hero, that sort of thing.”

“Were you ever in the newspaper?”

Patrick shrugged. “Yeah, I was in the paper all the time. So were a lot of other athletes.”

“Hmm,” Carbone said. “Would you say you are a loyal person, Patrick?”

“I’m the most loyal guy you could ever meet. What are you getting at?”

“It sounds like you’d make someone a fine bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?”

“You’re big, exceptionally athletic, and loyal. Sounds like a winning combination.”

Something slammed loudly against the front door. The three of them jumped. Father Carbone ran to the kitchen with Patrick and Robin following. Patrick was sure he was going to see one of the curly-topped Shep-alikes creeping around outside. Instead, a very young black man stood swaying on the porch. His face was bleeding along his forehead, and the dripping blood had caked onto the tiny braids that adorned his head. Patches of skin on his arms looked burned and his clothes were nearly shredded. Carbone opened the door.

“Please,” the boy said weakly. “They’re trying to kill me.” He took one step and collapsed on the floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

“He’s hurt bad. Let’s get him to the couch,” Father Carbone said. He and Patrick each grabbed an arm and carried the wounded stranger over to the sofa and lay him down.

“We need to call an ambulance,” Robin said.

The kid twitched and his eyes fluttered open. He grabbed the priest’s arm. “No ambulance! You can’t call anyone. I’m begging you, just let me stay here a while.”

“But son, you have burns on your arms and your face is badly cut. You need medical attention.”

“Please. It looks worse than it is. Please, no ambulance.” The kid’s voice was raspy, his skin wrought with cuts and bruises. “They can’t know I’m alive! They’ll try to kill me again.”

“He’s delirious,” Robin said.

He looked at her. “I’m not delirious,” he said between tears. “I wish I were.”

Father Carbone knelt and took the boy’s hand. “You’re safe here. I want to help you, but I need to know what happened.”

“They blew up the photography lab,” the kid said. “They blew it up with me in it. I got out. I got out just in time. When I got home, my apartment was torn apart. I couldn’t stay there. I didn’t know where to go. I figured this was a good enough place. This is where it all started.”

“Where what started?” Patrick stepped forward. “Who did this to you? Who blew up a lab? Where did this happen?”

The kid looked up, focused on Patrick, and his eyes widened with new terror. He sprang off the couch and crawled backward on the floor, pointing a shaking finger up at Patrick. “I know you. I’ve seen you. You’re one of them!”

“Told you he was delirious,” Robin said.

Patrick took a step back. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”

The boy looked at Father Carbone, still pointing at Patrick. “He’s one of them. I saw him that night! He’s with them!”

Patrick stared at the youth. He couldn’t be much more than eighteen years old. Even through the scrapes and bruises, his brown skin had the taut glow of youth. He was wearing khakis and what was left of a pale pink button-down shirt that screamed of The Gap. His tiny braids, aside from being currently smeared with blood, were neat and silky and looked professionally done. College student, Patrick guessed. The kid may have gotten himself into some trouble, but it was clearly something he was not accustomed to.

Father Carbone got down on the floor and crawled slowly toward the kid. “Nobody here is going to hurt you. This man here is an acquaintance of mine. Why would you think he’d hurt you?”

The kid trembled. “I saw him the night he climbed the church. He knows that Shepherd guy, the one who tried to kill me.”

The room fell into shocked silence. Robin stepped cautiously toward the stranger, who crouched on the floor like a cornered animal. “I’m sorry. Did you say Shepherd?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I thought this church would be safe,” he whispered. “I thought I’d be safe here.”

Robin grabbed him by the collar. “What did you say about Shepherd?” she screamed. “You said he tried to kill you, what did you mean?”

“Robin, stop it!” Patrick tore her off the boy.

“Shep’s not a murderer,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “He’s not!”

Patrick wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in tight. “Take it easy.”

Father Carbone knelt on the floor next to the boy. “Listen to me. Whatever was done to you, I can assure you that nobody in this room was part of it. Now why don’t we get your wounds cleaned up, then we can all sit down and discuss this rationally.”

The kid looked around the room, his gaze lingering on Patrick. “Okay, but none of you better try anything. I escaped death once tonight, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

“What’s your name?” Father Carbone asked gently.

He rose on shaky legs, and moved gingerly back to the couch, wincing and clinging to his ribs. “Copeland Smith. Copie.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The day was a dream of sunshine and spring breezes. Now that the nasty business with the photography student was taken care of, they were all in high spirits. Joey and Shep sipped margaritas on the deck and watched the crowd of followers dancing all over the yard. Some of them congregated on the huge deck, playing hacky sack or making blender drinks at the bar. It was quite a spectacle. Joey adjusted his lawn chair and leaned back, sighing. The music was festive, and the followers were clearly ecstatic to be there.

“It looks like Burning Man,” Shep said. “We should burn something.”

“Please, let’s not. Drunks and fire don’t mix.” Joey scowled. “My followers are all juiced on tequila. Where’s Allisto with those burgers? Didn’t you tell him to make the paddies?”

“Yeah, he’s in the house making them now. The poor thing. I thought he was gonna faint when I handed him the ground beef. Allisto’s not a big fan of cow flesh.”

“Allisto is not a big fan of any flesh. Even his own.”

Shep’s lips tightened. “I know, but he’s come a long way. He’ll get used to it in time. Hey, speaking of flesh, how are things going with Kelinda?”

Joey frowned. “She’s weird. How long do I have to keep being her boyfriend?”

“Why? What’s the problem?”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

Shep laughed loudly. “Oh please. Your biggest problem is that you have to have sex with a beautiful woman.”

“It’s not that. I like the sex, it’s just that it’s gotten…weird.”

Shep raised an eyebrow and sat up. “Weird? Oh do tell. Does she want to call you Daddy or something?”

“Don’t be gross. It’s nothing like that.”

“What then? Why are you being so tight-lipped? This is me you’re talking to.”

Joey shifted in his lounge chair. He glanced around, then leaned in close to Shep. “All right. I don’t think she even likes me anymore. You know what I mean? I feel like she’s going through the motions just so she can get…it.”

Shep shrugged. “So she’s using you for sex. Big deal. You’re using her too.”

Joey shook his head. “I’m not talking about straight sex. We hardly ever do that anymore. She seems to be addicted to...well…it.”

Shep grimaced. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s addicted to what? What it? Sex?”

“No. I mean, she’s addicted to it!” Joey said in a loud whisper.

Shep frowned, then nodded as the realization hit him. “Oh. You mean, it it.”

“Yes. It it.”

“You are talking about your semen, right?”

“Shhh! Yes!”

Shep struggled unsuccessfully to suppress his crooked grin. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“It’s embarrassing!” he hissed in Shep’s ear. “Just forget I told you anything,”

Shep took a long haul off a joint and let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. “Hmm. I don’t know about her being addicted to it. Why do you think that?”

Joey laughed, a sharp breathy sound. “It’s like she’s getting high off my bodily fluids. When I kiss her, she sucks the saliva out of my mouth. I feel like I’m at the dentist every time we make out. The other day, she and I went for a jog around the property. I spit on the ground once, and she gave me a look like I was wasting precious gold. Oh, and after she, you know…”

“Sucks you off?” Shep asked seriously. He leaned forward with hands clasped between his knees like a patient psychiatrist.

Joey’s lip curled. “Yes, after she does that, she lies there with this bizarre expression on her face, like an addict that just got a fix. This lasts for about five minutes, then she gets up and leaps around the room, dancing like she’s on an adrenaline rush. When the little dance thing is over, she just takes off, and I don’t see her again until she wants more. Sometimes I don’t see her for a whole day, and then she’s just there suddenly, climbing all over me. I’m telling you Shep, it’s creepy, man.”

Shep stubbed out the joint on the arm of the lounge chair. “Huh. I always wondered what an unsupervised contamination might do. I never wanted to risk it with Robin. We always used condoms.”

“See, this is what I’m worried about. You gave me your blood for years. Nothing like this ever happened to me.”

Shep laughed. “No, Joey. You never danced merrily about after a blood ritual. Our situation was completely different though. My blood was given to you with the proper ceremony, in a controlled environment. I drew a specific power out in you.”

Joey nodded. “The enchantment thing. I know.”

“Right. It’s the mix of my blood, and your human blood that draws people to you. Human instinct is so deeply buried that they don’t realize they’re sensing your blood. They only know there’s something special about you. They think they’ve made a connection. That’s why these zombies here listen to everything you say. They can’t sense my power, because it’s completely foreign. But when my essence is mixed with your human essence, watch out. It flows out of you. They don’t know what they’re seeing, but they sense it, something more, something beyond this dismal world. And you’re not even fucking any of them.”

“So what you’re saying is, I may have overloaded Kelinda. No pun intended.”

“Precisely. Think about it, Joey. If one speech from you can mesmerize sixty people, what do you think a load of your jizz, directly ingested, is going to do to Kelinda?”

Joey wrinkled his nose. “I preferred it when you were calling it my essence.”

“Your essence then. It transfers elements as well as blood does. However you slice it, it’s going to change her somehow. She’s got something more than human running through her veins now, and part of her probably knows it.” Shep looked concerned then. “She hasn’t exhibited any special abilities, has she?”

Joey squinted as a beam of sunlight fell across his eyes. “Special abilities? What do you mean?”

“Well, technically it is possible for her to take on some of our attributes, even though I haven’t specifically drawn anything out in her. However unsupervised the transfer, she has, after all, been directly infected.”

Joey rubbed his forehead, looking worried. “You know, the followers seem to have become quite fond of Kelinda lately. Do you think there’s a connection?”

Shep squinted at the sunlight. “Do you?”

“Maybe it’s just her beauty,” Joey said. “And that they know she’s close to me.”

“Or, she may be radiating her own essence now. To play it safe, I’ll tell her to stay away from the fields. Let’s keep these house parties to a minimum too. I don’t want anyone controlling these people but you.”

“So what do I do in the meantime?”

“Just keep an eye on her.”

Joey shrugged. “Well it’s not that easy. Granted, she follows me around until she gets what she wants, but then she just disappears. Then she’s just done with me, you know?”

“Oh you poor baby. Do you feel used?”

“Yes I do. I feel like a piece of meat.”

“Speaking of meat, I’m going to see what’s keeping Allisto with those burgers. If these zombies keep drinking on an empty stomach it’ll get ugly.”

Shep stood and headed toward the house. He was almost to the sliding door when he heard a loud pop like a firecracker, then an explosion. The party guests screamed and scrambled in all directions. Shep turned back just in time to see Joey fall off his chair. Blood gushed from his left shoulder, forming a red stain on the pale wood of the deck. Juris and Margol came running out of the house. “Get him inside!” Shep screamed. “Get Joey inside now!”

Chaos. It appeared a bullet had hit Joey’s shoulder and then ricocheted off the gas grill, exploding one of the propane tanks. Luckily nobody was standing near the grill, but the sound of the explosion sent the followers scrambling for cover. Only the brothers remained unruffled. Juris and Margol followed Shep’s instructions and got Joey inside the house. They scooped him off the deck and carried him quickly through the back slider as blood gushed from his shoulder onto their clothes. Shep followed them in. They sat Joey at a kitchen chair. Allisto came running out of the pantry wearing rubber gloves. He had scraps of raw hamburger all over his shirt.

“Go make sure that fire is extinguished!” Shep shouted, and Margol ran outside. Shep wiped away Joey’s blood with a towel and examined the shoulder. “Bullet didn’t go in. It looks like you just got grazed.”

Joey winced as Shep pressed his finger around the puffy wound. “Okay, grazed,” he said, “but was I the target?”

Shep ignored Joey’s question and turned to Juris. “Medical supply cabinet. Clean and dress it, Juris. Use the homemade balm to stop the bleeding. I’ll be back.”

“Shepherd!” Joey demanded. “Was I the fucking target?”

Shep looked at him. “Stay inside.”

He ran down to the basement and got a pistol out of the locked cabinet. He quickly loaded it and holstered it inside his pants, concealing it with the long tee shirt he wore over his jeans. This was bullshit. Obrien should be handling this. He ran back up the stairs and straight out the back door. “Where are you going?” Allisto called after him.

“Watch Joey!” he screamed back.

He stepped out onto the deck, where Margol was spraying the grill with a fire extinguisher. “Is it out?”

“Yes, brother,” Margol said.

Shep turned and stopped short as a few dozen pairs of eyes stared fearfully up at him. He’d forgotten about the followers. It had been Joey’s idea to invite them all up to the big house for a barbecue. Joey wanted them to feel like part of the family. Well, they’d been shot at now. He wondered how they liked the indoctrination. They sat hunched in fearful poses all around the deck and the lawn. Some were still curled up under tables and chairs, but they came out when they saw Shep.

Brin-Marie, a twenty-five-year-old nurse with a particularly obsessive love of Joey, came running toward Shep. Her brown hair was cut short, boyish, and her pretty face glistened with tears. “Is Joey dead? He’s dead isn’t he!” she wailed.

“Joey is fine. Everyone come. Listen up.” They came crawling slowly out of their hiding places. “I’m going to find out who fired that shot. I need you to go back to your camps for your own safety,” he said. They stared at Shep blankly, a montage of newly made followers who’d given up their lives to service Joey Duvaine, the prophet. None of them moved. “Didn’t you hear me? I said go back to your camps where you’ll be safe!”

Their eyes glazed with the intangible spell Joey had cast over them. They knew that Shep was more or less running things at The Bluffs, but it was not Shep who kept them there. It was Joey. The poor dears thought they were still in control of their own thoughts.

“We want to see Joey!” one of the men yelled.

“Yes!” another chimed in. “We want to know if Joey is okay. Have him come out and show us that he’s all right! Then we’ll leave. Not before.”

Shep was losing his patience. Mindless drones, exercising what they thought was their right to question him. They were all too far-gone to realize that they had no rights. They were simply addicts, concerned that their drug of choice had been taken away. He couldn’t control the contempt in his voice when he spoke. “People, let me explain this to you mindless fucks as simply as possible. Joey cannot come outside because somebody might take another shot at him!” He slammed his fist down on the patio table for emphasis. “Now would you morons please do as I say before the shooter gets even farther away than I suspect he already is?”

The crowd’s gaze suddenly shifted to look behind Shep. Their faces lit up with smiles. Shep turned around to see that Kelinda had appeared outside the door. The bright pink hair still surprised him. Shep told Joey to change Kelinda’s appearance if she was going to be seen with him. With the long dark hair, she’d looked too much like the apparition. It was Joey who insisted on the pink hair dye. Kelinda’s new chin length, layered hairdo glowed magenta neon under the sun. Joey had a sadistic sense of humor at times. It was a control thing, Shep supposed.

Joey seemed disappointed that Kelinda not only embraced the pink hair, but had maintained a certain level of self-respect since she’d arrived. As enamored as Kelinda was with him, she still found the audacity to disagree with Joey, even yell at him occasionally. As odd as she’d become since her arrival, she still carried herself with a sort of maniacal dignity.

Kelinda stepped forward and the crowd visibly softened at the sight of her. The pink hair was flattering, accentuating her creamy skin and full pink lips. She wore a long black gauze dress with multiple strands of pink beads around her neck and wrists. The hot pink beads matched her hair exactly. The carefully coordinated outfits were no doubt another way of showing Joey he hadn’t rattled her by making her dye her hair; she was rocking it.

She walked to where Shep was standing, and smiled, calming the crowd as she approached. “Now Shepherd, you’re just upset,” she said. “You didn’t mean to call our wonderful friends morons, did you?”

She gave Shep a warning look. “No. I didn’t mean it,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I’m just worried about Joey.”

“Kelinda! Is Joey all right?” Brin-Marie yelled.

“A bullet grazed Joey’s shoulder,” she said in a soothing tone. “He’ll just need a few stitches. He sends you all his love, but he is concerned for your safety. He wishes for you all to return to your camps for the time being.”

Without further question, they filed off the deck and headed back through the fields toward their camps. As soon as they disappeared into the fields, Kelinda’s sugary smile dropped. She looked at Shep. Lately she looked at him with hatred, not fear as she originally had.

“You can’t talk to them like that!” she said. “They’re very sensitive.”

“Why don’t you go paint your toenails or something. Let me worry about business.”

“Find who did this,” she said sharply, then turned and walked back into the house.

“Yeah, try to refrain from sucking the blood out of Joey’s wound, Vampira!” he yelled after her. She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him.

A big brown house sat up on a hill directly to the left of where Shep stood. The house was the only one visible from Joey’s back yard. Shep squinted up at it. It wasn’t quite as large as the Duvaine home, but it was set high and probably had an extraordinary view of the nearby ocean. And of the Duvaine’s back deck. Shep looked over at the grill, estimating the direction in which the bullet had come. He looked back up at the neighboring house. The bullet had come from that direction. Whoever fired that shot, if they were still there, would be expecting police. They would not be expecting Shep.

* * * *

After a ten-minute trek through a wooded back trail, Shep stood at the edge of a rusty backyard gate surrounding an overgrown garden. The place was still, yet he thought he heard music echoing from somewhere inside. Shep placed his hand on his pistol. If the shooter was lucky, the gun would be the only killing tool he’d use. If they pissed him off, well, there were more creative ways to administer punishment, though he wasn’t privy to wasting his energy on such matters.

He proceeded into the garden, tearing his way through the dead scrub. As he got closer to the house, the music got louder. Shep pushed open the back door and found himself in a simple yet outrageously orderly kitchen. Cups and canisters were lined up with precision along the counters. The place was dark and lifeless. An American flag hung from one of the windowpanes like a shade. With the gun out in front of him, Shep moved carefully into an adjoining room where a glass cabinet displayed shotguns, rifles, and hunting knives, all polished to perfection. On the wall opposite the weapons cabinet hung a mounted moose head, its dead eyes keeping watch on the guns. Next to that was a banner with gold lettering that read, VETERANS OF WAR.

“Great,” Shep whispered. “It’s the fucking Deer Hunter.”

Music traveled down from a carpeted stairwell that Shep found off the next room. He crept up the stairs with his back to the wall, accidentally knocking down a rack of military medals. “Shit!” he muttered. The music was extremely loud, so he doubted the occupant heard the medals fall.

With the gun in front of him, Shep turned the corner into a narrow hallway. The man was so still Shep didn’t even notice him at first. He was seated in front of a window in a small room at the end of the hallway. His back was to Shep as he looked out. On the floor to the man’s left was the boom box responsible for the music. Shep moved slowly down the hall toward the room where the stranger sat looking out at the world. His black hair was streaked with gray, long enough to brush his shoulders. Shep would have thought it was a woman if not for the hairy arm that hung over one side of the chair. A grayish blue tattoo decorated the man’s lower arm, along with a jagged scar across the elbow.

Shep entered, moving closer so he could see over the man’s head to the window, which looked directly out at the back yard of the Duvaine residence. Shep could see the deck, the field of crops, and the follower’s campsites.

The volume of the music dropped. Shep looked down and saw that the man’s thumb was on the button. He went still as death as the room fell silent. Holding the gun steady, he pointed it at the back of the stranger’s head, then took a silent step backward. He didn’t want to get blood and brains all over himself. He was wearing new jeans.

“Are you that much of a pussy that you’d shoot a man in the back?”

Shep flinched. “Turn around then. Let me see your face.”

The man didn’t budge. Shep hated dealing with military men. Many of them had lost their minds and their souls on some grassy battlefield or dusty desert. Men without souls were very difficult to scare. It was distressing. “I said turn around, or I will indeed shoot you in the back.”

The man still didn’t budge. Shep wasn’t about to walk around to face him. He might be holding a gun in his lap. He decided to make one last attempt at deescalating the situation with words. “You must be quite a hero judging from all those medals I saw. It would be a shame after all that bravery and valor to be shot in the back by a pussy like me. Don’t you think?”

“That would be a damn shame, wouldn’t it?” The man swiveled his chair around to face Shep. His face was tanned with leathery lines around the eyes. He was not as old as Shep had assumed. He didn’t look more than fifty, but they were fifty hard years. His upper body was well muscled, with strong legs under desert print camouflage pants. His eyes were cold and dark with the sharpness of life experience. There was humor in those eyes too, but it was a contemptuous humor.

A green bandana swept his hair off his forehead, and a black tee shirt clung to his well-developed chest. White chest hairs stuck out of the top of the shirt near his neck. He grinned, and Shep took a step back. Damn it. He hated when they weren’t scared.

“Did you take a shot at my friend?” Shep demanded. “Did you fire a bullet into a crowd of people, you fucking psycho?”

“Son, do you see a gun in my hands?”

“No but I see a damned arsenal downstairs. I’m going to ask you again. Did you fire a gun at my friend?”

“No sir, I did not.”

With the weapon still pointed, Shep took a step closer to the window and glanced out. “Someone fired a shot from this direction. I come over here, and I find you sitting at your window with a direct view of the patio where the bullet made contact. You’ve got a house full of guns and a bad attitude. Would you say that’s a big coincidence?”

The man shrugged. “I just came up here a few minutes ago. I didn’t fire a weapon, and I didn’t see anyone else fire one. When I sat down, all I saw was those Moonies of yours walking through the field.”

Shep lowered the gun slowly, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to clean up a messy corpse. “This better not happen again. If it does, I’m coming after you.” Shep turned and walked out of the room into the hallway.

“Maybe one of those Moonies tried to kill him. Did you ever think of that?” the man called after him.

Shep stopped and turned around. “They are not Moonies, you fucking cracker jack. And those people worship Joey. None of them want him dead.”

“The rabbits know when there is a snake hiding among them. He can camouflage himself in the tall grass, hidden from their innocent eyes. But they can still sense him there. They can smell him.”

“Yeah, blah blah blah. You’ve been warned, soldier.” Shep trotted back down the stairs and headed out the back door. He tore through the scrubby dead garden to the rusty gate. As he shut the gate behind him, he heard the volume on the stereo in the house crank up again.

Shep cursed as he made his way back through the woods. He should have killed the bastard. Now he’d have to keep Joey inside during the day. What was he thinking? Oh well. He could always kill him later. He shouldn’t have to deal with these distractions. This was supposed to be Obrien’s job. Obrien’s little rebellion was becoming less and less cute as the days went by. Shep had had enough. It was time to get Obrien out here so he could start doing his job.

Shep decided he would have to turn the heat up a little. He’d seen to it that Patrick lost his job, and his girlfriend, but that hadn’t seemed to faze him. Shep would just have to find something that did faze him.

He was fuming when he got back to the house. Having focused all his anger on Obrien, he went for the phone. He was done coddling the man. He’d been doing that for ten years, and it was about enough.

Allisto followed him into the library but said nothing. Allisto followed Shep around a lot, like a toddler, wanting to be with Shep all the time. He sat down on the floor and watched Shep pick up his phone. He got Obrien’s voicemail and seethed while he listened to the message. ‘Hi, this is Patrick. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll call you right back.’

Shep let his rage spew into the phone. “Obrien, you bone-headed piece of shit! I think I’ve been more than patient with you, you self-righteous moron. Do you know what I’m offering you? I’m offering you freedom. You think you’re making a choice by staying put? Well let me tell you something. You’re choosing death, because your boring life is a type of death. You’ve got nothing without me. How have you been sleeping, Obrien? I certainly hope your dreams have been pleasant. Make the choice, Patrick. Stop the pain. Or it will only get worse.”

Shep hung up and felt better. Obrien’s voicemail was a far better listener than Obrien himself. Allisto shifted positions on the floor and Shep jumped, having forgotten that he was in the room. “Well,” Allisto said, twirling a lock of his black hair. “That’ll get him out here for sure.”

Shep grinned. “Sarcasm, Allisto? Did you learn that in the city?”

“No Shepherd. I learned that from you.”

Shep sat down on the floor with him. He took Allisto’s face gently in his hands. “Allisto, I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Of course.”

“Do you blame me? Do you blame me for all that has befallen us? I need to know how you feel. I need to know how all of you feel.”

Allisto reciprocated by reaching out and touching Shep’s face. “We follow you willingly as we always have, as we always will.” He pressed their foreheads together, driving his thoughts into Shep’s mind to prove his sincerity. “You ask if we blame you? Only to blame you for saving us, for tending us, and for keeping every promise you’ve ever made to us. Your hand did not trap us, Shepherd. Your hand freed us.”

Shep nodded as he blinked back tears. “Thank you, Allisto,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

A throat cleared at the doorway and they both looked up to see Joey standing there. “If you two are done making out, I need someone to go to the store for me. We’re out of rum.”

“Feeling better Joey?” Shep asked as he stood, pulling Allisto to his feet.

“Yeah. Just fucking peachy. I love getting shot. Rum?”

“I’ll send Russell.”

“Fine.” Joey left the room.

Shep looked back at Allisto, who hung his head sadly. “What is it, Allisto?”

“It is nothing. Nothing.”

“Allisto, if you have something to say...”

“I am worried about next week’s mission. I miss Klee. I worry that…”

Shep pointed at him. “Don’t say it. Don’t.”

Allisto cast his eyes down. “I am sorry.”

“We will get Klee out, Allisto. No one gets left behind. I keep my promises, you said so yourself. We will get Klee out! Understand?”

“Ylchnec hlaf bis, Zirub.”

Shep smiled. “We’re supposed to be speaking English, Allisto. Remember?”

Allisto shrugged.

“I’m going to let it go just this once. And incidentally, I love you too.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Patrick and Robin knocked on the door of the tiny house behind the church. They’d not succeeded in interrogating young Copie the night before. Robin tried to clean Copie’s burns, but the process brought out the pain and he screamed. Father Carbone, clearly not a physician, decided to remedy the problem by giving Copie codeine he’d had in his medicine cabinet from an old knee injury. Contrary to Patrick’s objections, Carbone administered the drugs to the suffering boy with a chaser of whiskey. Copie passed out cold, leaving the three of them to stare at the unconscious youth and wonder what his involvement in this madness was.

They’d stopped for breakfast on the way over and discovered, much to Patrick’s dismay, that all of his credit cards had been cancelled. Neither he nor Robin voiced what they were thinking—that Shep was responsible somehow. It was far too early for paranoia.

Copie himself answered the door when they arrived, looking well-rested in black pants and a black sweater that presumably belonged to Father Carbone. “Come on in. The priest is making tea,” he said.

Patrick wondered if Father Carbone had a giant crate somewhere filled with nothing but tea. The man pulled the damned tea pot out for everything. Attempted murder? Tea. Terrorist conspiracies? Tea. Armageddon? Tea. Copie whistled as he made his way back to the kitchen table. His facial wounds had been cleaned, and his arms were wrapped in gauze bandages. “You must have gotten out of that lab just in time,” Patrick said, examining Copie’s face.

Copie huffed. “You have no idea.”

Father Carbone entered the kitchen and put the tea set down on the table. His pajamas from the previous night had been replaced with a traditional black shirt and white priest’s collar. Copie looked Father Carbone up and down. “Well. I guess you really are a priest.”

Father Carbone laughed. Copie grabbed a cinnamon roll from the plate of pastries. “You look better than you did last night,” Robin said to Copie.

Copie nodded. “Yeah, well, nobody’s trying to kill me today. That tends to take it out of you.”

Patrick smiled. The kid was certainly high spirited. He did look better. The color had returned to his face. “How old are you, Copie?” Patrick asked.

“I’m nineteen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight. Where do you go to school?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Copie said as he chewed his cinnamon bun.

Patrick’s smile dropped. “Perhaps you haven’t been made aware of the gravity of the situation we’re in here,” Patrick said. “This is serious, kid.”

Copie widened his eyes in exaggerated surprise. “Oh, is it serious? You don’t say! You’d think I would have figured that out when I was almost BURNED ALIVE!”

“Relax Copie,” Father Carbone said. “Does anyone have a picture of Shepherd?”

Patrick frowned. “What for?”

Carbone rolled his eyes. “Am I the only one thinking here? We need to know if the Shepherd that tried to kill Copie last night is the same Shepherd that we know. Or at least you two know.”

Robin grabbed her purse and pulled out a wallet-sized photo of her and Shep at the ocean. He had his arm around her. They both looked tanned and happy and in love. For some reason it was painful for Patrick to look at. Robin handed the picture to Father Carbone. He held it up and looked at it. “So,” he said. “That’s him.”

“That’s him,” Robin said softly. Father Carbone handed the picture over to Copie. Copie took it, glancing warily at Robin. He studied the photo while Robin sat nervously twirling a lock of her blonde hair. Copie’s eyes eventually lifted, and he stared at Robin, but said nothing.

“Well?” she demanded. “Don’t spare my feelings! Is it him or isn’t it?”

Copie handed the picture back. “Yes. I’m sorry. It is the same guy.”

Robin took the picture and stuffed it back into her purse. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Patrick put a hand on her shoulder. “Copie, why would Shep want you dead?”

“Because of the photograph. I told him I’d destroy all the copies, but he wouldn’t let me go. He kept talking about loose ends and how his project was more important than my life.”

Patrick shuddered. He could deal with the truth that Shep was morally void, but murder? His mind refused to accept it. “What photograph? What are you talking about?”

“Copie why don’t you just start at the beginning,” Father Carbone said.

Copie sighed. “The beginning. Let’s see. I’m a photography student. I was on a school assignment the night Patrick played Hercules and scaled the wall of St. Mary’s church. The night the apparition appeared. I had two cameras with me, one in my pack and one in my hand. By the time the apparition appeared, I only had one shot left, so I took it and ran out of film. I chucked that camera in my bag and pulled out the second one. I got about four more pictures of the thing before it faded and disappeared. That’s when that Shepherd guy came along and ripped the camera out of my hands. I went after him, but he pushed me, hard, and I fell. He’s a strong little bastard.”

Patrick and Robin both nodded knowingly.

“Lucky for me, or so I thought at the time, he didn’t know about the other camera. I ended up with one single, very clear shot of the apparition. One that proved it was a fake. You could see the bow on her nightgown. That photo was destroyed last night. I was nearly destroyed along with it.”

Father Carbone looked thoughtful. “How did Shep come to find out that you had this other photograph in your possession?”

“Not sure. I called the local television station. Here I was, thinking I was gonna be this big news hero. The guy at the news desk said he wanted to come down and interview me right away. The next thing I know I’m being ambushed by these guys. That Shepherd guy is a cold motherfucker.” Copie looked at the priest. “Oh, sorry Father.”

“Guys, plural?” Carbone asked. “There were others with him?”

“Yeah. Three of them were foreigners, I could tell by the way they talked. They all had that same bad Shirley Temple hair. They came with that guy from the television station. His name was Randy. No, wait a minute. It wasn’t Randy. Russell.”

“Russell?” Robin said, sounding shocked.

“Yes. It was Russell. I’m sure of it.”

Patrick looked at Robin. “Craig said Russell was working at the television station.”

Carbone cleared his throat. “I’m trying to keep up here guys, but who the hell is Russell?”

“Russell, along with his twin brother Craig, was the technical creator of the translucent apparition that appeared on your church. Man, I knew Russell had a thing for Shep, but I never thought he’d take it so far as to kill for him. What did Russell look like, Copie?”

“Dark hair, big glasses. Kind of a dweeb.”

“Shit!” Robin said.

Father Carbone looked at her. “Same Russell?”

Robin nodded, looking defeated. “I can’t believe this.”

Father Carbone got up and paced the room, rubbing his chin. The rest of them sat silently, waiting for him to speak. Patrick wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it seemed Father Carbone had been made the ringleader. In a very short time, Patrick had gone from disliking the priest to feeling somewhat comforted by his presence.

Carbone finally stopped pacing and came back to the table. “Okay, listen up. This has entered criminal territory now, so it’s good we’ve got that meeting today. Patrick, Robin, and I will go talk to Agent Litner. A secure location has been arranged. I’m sure he can arrange for protective custody for Copie until this thing is resolved. You can stay here for now Copie, just don’t go outside.”

Copie looked from the priest to Patrick, then back again. “Whoa, wait a minute here,” he said. “Agent Litner? What is Agent Litner an agent of exactly?”

“Guess,” Patrick answered. “As I said, we’re knee deep in shit here, Copie. Aren’t you glad you dropped by?”

“Hold on a minute. The law is involved in this, and you guys want to stick me in a closet while you go talk to them? Someone tried to kill me! I want to be involved!”

“Son, there is a lot more going on here than you know about. We can’t risk involving you,” Carbone said, putting a fatherly hand on Copie’s shoulder.

“What do you mean, we can’t risk involving you? So you’re a cop now? You’re a priest! And I gather that Robin used to hook up with Shepherd, but Patrick, why are you so important?”

“They asked me to become involved in this investigation, Copie, not that I have to justify myself to you.”

“Yeah?” Copie said. “Well they’re going to ask me to become involved once they know what I know. I heard those freaks talking while they were rigging the lab. They’re planning something. I know where and when it’s going to happen.”

“They’re planning something? Like what?” Patrick asked.

Copie crossed his arms stubbornly in front of his chest. “That’s between me and the agent,” he said. “I can’t risk involving you.”

Patrick stood up. “You little creep! You have no idea what I’ve been through!”

“Oh, what you’ve been through? Raise your hand if you almost got blown up last night.” Copie raised his hand and looked around the room.

Patrick smiled in spite of himself. Even Robin chuckled. They’d been under so much stress it was good to have someone around with a sense of humor. That had always been Shep’s contribution to the group, and now that it was gone, it was missed.

“All right, Copie,” the priest said. “But you’d better have something valuable to say. Agent Litner can smell a lie better than anyone I know.”

“Hey, I wasn’t bullshitting you,” Copie said. “I really did hear Shepherd say something about an outing next week.”

“Fine,” Father Carbone said, “but it’s ultimately up to Agent Litner whether he wants to involve you or not. Patrick, you said these guys have been following you, so Litner has arranged…Patrick? Are you all right?”

Patrick gripped his shoulder wincing. Robin touched his arm. “Patrick? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Patrick screamed, still gripping his shoulder as he fell to the floor.

Father Carbone ran to him. “Patrick! What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know! I’m getting these pains in my shoulder. It’s like someone’s sticking a hot poker into me!”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Robin yelled.

Patrick stiffened, his eyes rolling back as images flooded his mind. He saw people running and screaming. He saw blood on Joey. He felt fear. He was vaguely aware of Father Carbone’s voice saying, “He’s having a seizure!” Then it all stopped. The pain was suddenly gone, and Patrick was alert and trying to sit up.

“Jesus Christ, Obrien!” Robin helped him sit up. “What the hell was that about?”

Patrick rubbed his shoulder. The pain was gone but he was left with a dull throbbing. “It’s Joey. I saw him in my mind so clearly. Something must have happened.”

They looked at him as though marbles were falling out of his ears. “Excuse me?” Father Carbone said.

“Joey. I’m not sure, but I think he’s been hurt.”

Robin scrunched her face up. “How the hell would you know that?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know what’s happening to me.” Patrick sat on the floor rocking as the pain gradually dissipated. He tried explaining again about the dreams he’d been having. Lately, when the nightmares woke him, he was left with a throbbing pain in his head that took large doses of ibuprofen to dull.

Father Carbone and Robin looked concerned, and Copie looked at him like he was nuts. “You got some weird shit going on here,” Copie stated bluntly. “I’m not sure who’s crazier, you or those freaks that tried to kill me.”

“We could do without the commentary, Copie,” Father Carbone said, as he tried to help Patrick into a chair. Patrick shrugged him off and stood on his own.

“I have to go outside for a minute,” Patrick said.

“What for?” Robin demanded. “Obrien, what just happened! You scared the shit out of me!”

“I have to make a call,” he said, pulling his phone out and heading for the door.

Robin caught up with him. “You’re going to call Forest Bluffs, aren’t you? After everything we just heard, you’re going to call Shep!”

“Robin, I have to make sure Joey’s all right. I don’t want to but it’s like I can’t help myself, and I’m freaked out, so just give me five minutes, okay?” She finally let go of his arm. Patrick stepped out onto the little stoop with his phone, leaving the others bewildered.

Shep answered the call. “Forest Bluffs Ministry,” said the familiar voice. “You sin it, we spin it!”

“I know you know it’s me, Shep, cut the crap.”

“Obrien! Well, this is certainly a surprise. Have you called to tell me you’ve come to your senses?”

“No. I’m calling to see about Joey. Is he all right? Did something…happen to him?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“I care! Now just tell me, Shepherd! Is he all right?”

“Why don’t you come out here and see for yourself?”

“Damn it, Shep. Don’t do this. Just tell me. Please.”

There was silence on the other end. Patrick thought Shep was going to hang up on him, then he heard him sigh. “Some sniper took a shot at Joey. The bullet grazed his shoulder, but he’s all right.”

Patrick let his breath out. “Who the hell was it? Who would do that?”

“Who knows? This wouldn’t have happened if you were here looking out for him. Can’t you just come down for a day or two, just so we can talk about things?”

“If you want to talk about things, Shep, why don’t you come to my apartment? Come back to the city. Then we can talk.”

There was a hesitation. Patrick knew Shep would not agree. For whatever reason, the plan was to get Patrick to Forest Bluffs. “I’d love to, Obrien, but this is a bad week for me. I’m going out of town on Wednesday, and—”

“Goodbye, Shep.”

“Obrien, wait!”

Patrick hung up. He walked back into the little kitchen. “Well it appears Copie was right,” he said. “Shep just told me he’s going out of town on Wednesday.”

“What about the pain in your shoulder?” Robin said. “Nothing’s wrong, right?”

Patrick grew still. “Joey was shot in the shoulder. He’s fine. The bullet just grazed him.” They all stared. Patrick grew uncomfortable under the weight of their eyes.

“Shot? Who the hell shot him?” Robin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How could you have known that?” Copie asked.

“I told you, I don’t know. Joey and I seem to have a link, ever since…”

He didn’t finish the thought. Father Carbone finished it for him. “Ever since the blood pact. That is what you were going to say, isn’t it?”

Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well did you ever have psychic impressions before?” The priest kept his voice calm but he looked rattled.

“No. Never.”

Copie began to pace. “Oh man. This is some creepy shit.”

“Amen,” Father Carbone muttered. “Agent Litner is sending a car for us. Maybe this will make more sense after we talk to him.”

“Maybe it won’t,” Robin said.

* * * *

They rode in near silence for an hour, until finally the car slinked up alongside the darkened double doors of a nightclub called The Caboose. The driver put the car in park and got out. He opened their door and stuck his head in. “Follow me and do exactly as I say.”

They followed the driver into a lobby where a woman stood behind a podium. He spoke to her briefly, turned back to them and said, “Stay here,” then followed the woman into the club and was gone. The four of them stood around the lobby awkwardly. The club looked empty aside from the bartenders and wait staff, who eyeballed them suspiciously from inside the darkened space.

“This is a joke,” Copie said.

“You wanted to come,” Father Carbone reminded him. “You’re still complaining?”

“No, I mean, this is literally a joke. A blonde, an Irishman, a black man, and a priest walk into a bar. We’re a bad punchline waiting to happen.”

They laughed, enjoying the temporary stress release. They were still snickering when Patrick saw Agent Litner standing at the entrance of the adjoining room, watching them. His white hair looked blue under the filtered club lights. “If I’m not interrupting your fun, you can all follow me,” he said.

Father Carbone took the lead and the rest of them followed behind. “So, Carbone,” Agent Litner said, glancing back at Copie and Robin, “you’ve collected quite an entourage since we last spoke.”

“As I told you on the phone, Steven—”

“Save it.”

Litner didn’t sound pleased. Patrick felt responsible for the additions to their group. He was like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, picking up stray characters along the way to aid him on his quest.

The agent led them to a private room where a muscular bearded man with long yellow hair sat waiting at a table. Patrick recognized him from the other day at Father Carbone’s. He was one of the door guards. The man stood when they entered the room, and Patrick felt small for the first time in his life. The guy was a mountain.

“This is Agent Rourke,” Litner said. They all shook hands and joined him at the table. Agent Litner pulled out a folder and got right to business. “Father Carbone has briefed me on the events that have transpired since we last spoke, Mr. Obrien. Am I to assume you have a good reason for betraying my confidence and involving others?”

Patrick was speechless for a moment. This was not getting off to a good start. “Robin and Copie can both help. Robin knows Shep and Joey better than anybody does. Copie has information he acquired during a life-threatening altercation with Shep.”

Agent Litner stared at Copie and narrowed his eyes. “Father Carbone informed me. Is the story you told him the truth?”

“Yeah!” Copie said. “Check yourself, the fire at the lab must be news by now.”

Litner’s expression did not change. “What is this information you have that’s so valuable?”

Copie opened his mouth, but Patrick cut in. “Hold on a minute, Litner. You can start by telling me why the hell you’re investigating Forest Bluffs in the first place. I’ve seen Father Carbone’s little collection of Shep paraphernalia. I doubt you became involved because Shep had some strange photographs and a handwritten fairytale. Carbone said you had something worse.”

Litner glared at Father Carbone, and Patrick was thankful he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. “Oh he did, did he?”

The priest shook his head. “You don’t understand, Steven. I told Patrick I couldn’t give him all the details. That he’d have to ask you what prompted the initial investigation of Forest Bluffs.”

Agent Litner stared at Patrick, his face unchanged. “Are you agreeing to the terms that we discussed?”

“Yes. I’ll go to Forest Bluffs. But I want some answers first.”

“Very well.” Litner pulled a sheet of paper out of his folder and gave it to Patrick. Patrick examined it. It was a spreadsheet of a world population chart, the statistics ranging from the present day to fifty years in the future. The numbers correlating to the number of human beings on the planet decreased at a steady rate as the years went by, with a jagged line drawn to illustrate the digression.

The chart showed the world’s population take a drastic plunge over the next thirty years, then begin to level out again. Patrick shrugged and put the sheet aside. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“Read the caption in the top left corner,” Litner ordered.

Patrick sighed and picked up the spreadsheet. It had a caption printed along the top of the page reading, ‘Population Predictions/After Arcania.’ He looked at Agent Litner. “After Arcania? What the hell is Arcania? I don’t understand. Where did you get this?”

“It was in the possession of Melvin Shepherd,” Litner said. “I assume he created it.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

Litner looked around the table. “Have any of you heard of Arcania?”

Robin shrugged. “Arcania Foods?”

“Yes, exactly,” Litner said.

“I’ve heard of Arcania Foods, but I don’t know anything about them,” Patrick said. “Is that the Arcania referred to on this chart?”

“We think so.”

He did not offer further explanation. Litner’s brief answers were getting tiresome. It seemed they had to coax every last word out of the man. “Agent Litner, you obviously have a theory here. It might help if you actually speak it,” Patrick said with annoyance.

It was Agent Rourke who responded. “Arcania Foods. Their chief product is wheat and grain. They make crackers, cookies, breakfast cereals and whatnot. They own a lot of smaller brand names you’ve probably heard of. They’re not the best quality brands, but they are the most widely distributed grain food products in the world, perhaps because they’re moderately inexpensive. Arcania’s products are exported to almost every country.” Rourke stroked his short beard. He looked like a Viking that someone forced into a suit as a cruel form of torture.

Patrick nodded. “Okay, so what does Arcania have to do with this chart?”

Agent Rourke leaned across the table and pointed a big finger on the paper. “As you can see here, the predicted world population begins a steady drop starting at the end of next year. The page is marked ‘After Arcania’.” Agent Rourke looked at Patrick as though this explained it all.

“What does any of this have to do with my friends?”

Agent Rourke looked to Litner.

“He doesn’t know,” Litner said to Rourke. “Explain it to him.”

Rourke turned back to Patrick. “Charles Duvaine, your friend Joey’s late father, owned quite a bit of stock in Arcania Foods. He had stock in other companies as well, being a successful businessman. When he died, it all went to his only living son, Joseph. Joey has recently sold every bit of stock his father left him. Every bit, except for the Arcania Food stock. Not only did he not sell his shares of Arcania Foods, he used the money he got from selling other stocks and bought more shares of Arcania. A lot more shares.”

“And?”

“Joey Duvaine now owns Arcania Foods,” Litner said.

Robin took a deep breath. “Shit.”

“This in itself is not a crime,” Litner said. “He can buy whatever the hell he wants. What we would like to know is why his sudden purchase of Arcania Foods would cause a potential drop in human population, starting at the end of next year. That is if we are to take this spreadsheet of Shepherd’s seriously.”

Patrick cocked his head. “Are you sure? Joey never mentioned buying a cereal company.”

“Maybe the Virgin Mary told him to do it,” Agent Rourke said, smirking.

Patrick pointed. “You have no idea how not funny that is.”

“We hope against hope that this chart is a joke, or a fiction,” Litner said. “But you can understand our concern. First, Joey buys up Arcania Foods. Then, we find a chart in Shepherd’s computer that predicts a drastic drop in the world population, and I’m quoting, ‘After Arcania’. Joey and Shepherd have cleared land in the back of his late father’s house and are now growing some sort of crop. Do you get me now, Mr. Obrien?”

Now that the picture was clear, Patrick couldn’t find his voice, so he simply nodded.

“It’s a matter that can be resolved simply,” Litner said. “We need to know what Joey is growing out in those fields, and what he intends to do with the crop.”

“But Arcania Foods is huge,” Robin said. “I’m sure they have their own agricultural farms. Why would Joey grow his own grain for distribution? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Indeed it doesn’t,” Litner agreed. “But along the same lines, why would your friend Shepherd create a spreadsheet that shows the world population decreasing over the next thirty years? All statistics indicate that the world population will continue to steadily increase. Only some sort of drastic intervention would cause it to go the other way.”

“No,” Robin said. “You’re suggesting that my cousin Joey is going to poison people, and I don’t believe that. I know him.”

Agent Litner looked slightly pained for a moment, then he made his face blank again. “You cannot share any of this with your cousin. I’m afraid we’ll have to hold you to that. Legally.”

Robin waved a hand. “I know, I get it. I still say you’re wrong, though.”

“We have to investigate all possibilities. We’ve already inspected the product at Arcania’s distribution plants, and that product is clean. Now all we need to do is make sure this crop they’re growing out at Forest Bluffs is biologically sound.”

Robin looked close to tears. “You people are wrong about this. I’ve known Joey all my life. You’re trying to tell me now that he’s cultivating some sort of contaminated food substance? You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”

Agent Litner put a hand on Robin’s arm, the first human gesture Patrick had ever seen him make. “I hope we are, Robin. I’m asking Patrick to help us to disprove this theory. In order to do that, we need to get samples of those crops.”

“What about the brothers?” Patrick asked, anxious to change the subject, if only to wipe the shattered look from Robin’s eyes. “Where do they fit in?”

Agent Litner perked up. “What brothers?”

“Shep was branded with a horseshoe when he was a boy,” Patrick explained. “Robin recently went out to Forest Bluffs to visit Shep. She claims that three of Shep’s house guests have the exact same scar on their backs, and that he calls them the brothers. They’re the same crew that’s been following me around. And they were with Shep when he allegedly tried to kill Copie.”

Copie glared at Patrick. “Allegedly? Allegedly. You think I made this all up? I just burned myself?”

“I’m sorry!” Patrick snapped. “It’s just difficult for me to accept that Shep is capable of murdering a college student. So sue me.”

Copie stood. “Well I hate to burst your bubble Patrick, but your friend is a homicidal maniac!”

“Sit down please.” Litner’s voice was calm but it held enough weight to force Copie to comply. Litner looked at Robin. “What else do you know about these brothers?”

“Well,” Robin said, “they look similar, like they could actually be Shep’s brothers. They walk funny, like they have bad knees or something.”

“And they’re not very discreet,” Patrick said. “Their surveillance tactics are far from subtle, I’ve spotted them everywhere.”

Copie raised his hand. “I know something about the brothers.”

“Oh yes,” Agent Litner said, “Copie?”

Copie looked around the room like he wanted to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows. He leaned closer to Litner and whispered, “Another one is coming!”

Litner gave his head a tilt. “Another what?”

“Another brother. They said so when they were getting ready to roast me.”

“What did they say exactly?”

Copie looked nervous, but he proceeded. “They were dousing the place with gas, and Shepherd said something like, ‘Hey, don’t waste that, we need it for the trip to Pearl Chasm next week.’”

Litner stopped tapping his pen. “Pearl Chasm? That place isn’t even open to the public anymore. Did they say anything else?”

Copie swallowed hard. “He said something like, ‘don’t forget that your brother is still in prison.’”

Litner stared at Copie so hard that Patrick was afraid Copie’s head would explode. Copie ran his hands nervously over his head, sending his tiny braids sticking out in all directions. Finally, Litner spoke. “Are you sure he said prison?”

“Yes. He said their brother was in prison.”

Litner tapped his pen on the table as he thought. “There are no prisons at Pearl Chasm. It’s just a bunch of hiking trails and old caves. It used to be a tourist attraction years ago but the state shut it down after a wall collapsed on a couple exploring the caves. They were both killed. That place has been off limits to hikers for years. Prison, huh?”

Copie nodded again. “That’s what he said.”

“Thank you, Copie. You’ve been helpful.”

“That was helpful?” the priest asked. “How so?”

“We have a source out near Forest Bluffs, an agent on my team,” Litner said. “He feeds us information about the goings on out there. The information he gathers is limited because of location restrictions, but he did report that some activity is going on indicating Shep is planning some sort of trip, packing up vans. One of the supplies he saw being loaded was gasoline cannisters.”

Copie brightened. “Gasoline! You see? I told you I wasn’t bullshitting!”

“Moving on,” Litner interjected, “we now know where they’re going, more or less. What we need to know now is when.”

“Wednesday,” Patrick said. “Shep told me he was going out of town Wednesday.”

Agent Litner turned to Patrick. “Well then. Wednesday it is. Perhaps we shall see what mysteries lurk in the life of Melvin Shepherd after all.” Patrick drummed his fingers on the table. Litner’s blue eyes shifted toward him. “What is it, Patrick?”

“I was just wondering who’s gonna tail Shep out to Pearl Chasm.”

“You needn’t be concerned with that. It will be assigned to agents on my team. They have the appropriate experience.” Patrick drummed his fingers again, shaking his head. Litner scowled. “What is it now?”

“Will these agents of yours be carrying guns?”

“They will be armed. If we’re to believe Copie’s story, Shepherd is dangerous.”

“But…” Patrick sighed. “Shit.”

“If you have an objection,” Litner said, “either state it or shut your mouth. I’m not a mind reader and you’re wasting time.”

Patrick struggled to come up with a diplomatic way to say he didn’t trust law enforcement. “I know you guys can be a little trigger-happy. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. I mean, as far as we know, Joey hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Mr. Obrien, that is enough,” Litner said. “We are not trigger-happy.”

“No, I think Patrick has a point,” Robin interjected. “Joey and Shep tend to be eccentric. What if your guys misinterpret something they see and just open fire? You cops are careless like that.”

Litner glared. “My team is not careless. They are professionals in every way.”

Robin shook her head. “I think someone who knows Joey and Shep should go instead.”

Agent Litner scoffed. “Like who? Patrick? Absolutely not. He has no surveillance experience and he’s a civilian. It’s too dangerous.”

“Why is it dangerous?” Patrick asked. “I’m just going to spy on them! If I get caught, I’ll just say I wanted to talk to Shep, but I was afraid to go to the house, so I followed him.”

Litner chuckled softly. “You make it sound so simple. What if you see something Shepherd doesn’t want you to see? Take a good look at Copie’s face. He saw something Shepherd didn’t want him to see, and he almost lost his life.”

“I don’t think Shep would hurt me,” Patrick said.

“Plus, we won’t get caught,” Robin said.

Agent Litner raised an eyebrow at her. “We?”

“Yes. Patrick and I will go.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not about to start sending civilians to do the work of experienced professionals.”

“If not for we civilians, you’d have nothing,” Patrick said. “You couldn’t even slip an agent past Shep to join his little cult. You asked for our help, so accept our help.”

“I’m sending my team, and that’s the end of it.”

“Fine. If you don’t let us go, I won’t cooperate with this investigation. I won’t go undercover and I won’t get you your crop sample.”

“You little shit!” Agent Litner slammed a fist on the table, his deadpan momentarily twisted in frustration. “You gave me your word!”

“I take it back.”

Litner tossed his pen onto the table. “Can you tell me why you have to be such a pain in the ass about this, Obrien?”

Patrick grew quiet. Then softly, in almost a whisper, he said, “My best friends are trying to destroy my life. I want to know why.”

Litner’s face went placid again. “Yes,” he said. “I want to know why too.”

“Good. Then we agree on something.”

Litner scowled. “I fear this has less to do with curiosity and more to do with you having a soft spot for your estranged friends.”

“That might be part of it,” he said. “My affection for them hasn’t just disappeared, in spite of everything. But they also scare me now. We will not get caught, Agent Litner. You have my word.”

“And now I’m supposed to believe your word, after you just rescinded it minutes ago?”

Patrick shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

* * * *

Dusk had fallen when they stepped into the refreshing night air. Two black cars with tinted windows waited for them. Litner instructed Patrick and Robin to get into the first car, where the driver would take them on a scouting mission up to Pearl Chasm. Patrick assumed this meant they’d be allowed to do the surveillance mission next week, but he didn’t push the issue. He had a feeling he’d pushed Litner as far as he could.

As the car carrying Patrick and Robin drove away, Father Carbone leaned into Agent Litner. “You agreed a bit too easily to let those two go on a surveillance mission, Steven. That doesn’t sound very official to me.”

“It’s complicated,” Litner said without making eye contact.

“You’re not playing this one straight. Why?”

Litner looked at him. “I had to twist arms on this. My boss doesn’t quite believe my fears are founded. But I’m certain they are. And I’m running out of time. I need to get the job done, whatever it takes.”

“But what if those young people, Patrick and Robin, get hurt? What if something happens to them?”

Agent Litner glanced over at the vehicle as it turned out of the parking lot. He walked toward the curb, leaving the priest’s question hanging there. Father Carbone knew better than to ask again. If Steven Litner wanted to answer, he would have.

Agent Rourke started to open the door to the second car when he froze suddenly, staring off into the club parking lot. Father Carbone and Copie followed his gaze. In the corner of the lot was a large blue trash dumpster. In the semi-darkness, the culprit’s platinum curls were his downfall. They shone like a halo as he peeked out from behind the dumpster.

“Patrick was right,” Father Carbone whispered. “These brothers aren’t very good at being discreet.”

“Nobody move,” Agent Rourke said. “Do you see him, Litner?”

“Yes,” Litner said. “Copie, you recognize him?”

“It’s not Shepherd, but it’s definitely one of the brothers,” Copie whispered.

“If he gets away, he’ll warn Shepherd, then it’s over,” Agent Rourke whispered.

Litner turned only his eyes toward Copie and the priest. “You two stay put.”

The curly-topped stranger must have realized he’d been discovered, because he bolted.

“Let’s go!” Rourke yelled, and he and Litner took off after him. Copie and Father Carbone watched in a panic as the two agents caught up with the man at the perimeter of the parking lot. They probably wouldn’t have caught him at all, but the blond stranger seemed unsteady on his feet and nearly tripped twice. This slowed him enough for the agents to tackle him around the ankles.

He didn’t stay down long, however. Soon he was on his feet again, fighting like a wild animal, and screeching like one as well. The platinum blond was not a large man by any means, but it soon became apparent that he was outlandishly strong. He tossed the brawny Agent Rourke off his back with a quick thrust of his shoulders. Agent Rourke’s eyes sprang open in shock as his enormous body went tumbling end over end onto the pavement.

This left Agent Litner clinging to one of the man’s arms. He tossed Litner about erratically, back and forth like a rodeo rider as he struggled desperately to free himself. Agent Rourke got back to his feet and ran to help Litner by grabbing the man’s other arm. With an agent on each arm now, the blond brother went into a spin. The scene was almost comical as the agents became part of a human windmill, spinning uncontrollably as they struggled to take him down.

Father Carbone looked fearfully at Copie. “If he gets away, he’ll tell Shepherd Patrick talked to law enforcement. He’ll also tell Shepherd you’re alive, Copie. No one will be safe.”

“Then hike up your skirt, Father. That freak’s going down.”

Copie and the priest ran across the parking lot. Father Carbone dove and grabbed the man around the knees. The brother stumbled a bit but still did not go down. Copie jumped on his neck and got him into a weak headlock. With the four of them hanging off him, the blond brother finally fell to the ground, writhing and screeching as he continued to attempt escape.

With four pairs of hands holding him down, Litner was able to cuff the man’s wrists behind his back. To everyone’s amazement he snapped the cuffs and was suddenly free again. Agent Rourke was quick though, and soon had the culprit’s hands behind his back again. Litner reapplied another pair, and then wound them with a strand of heavy wire, which seemed to hold him this time. Litner let go of him and stepped back.

No sooner had he done so than the captive flipped onto his back and kicked Agent Rourke in the chest, sending him flying across the pavement for a second time. “Sit on his legs!” Litner screamed. They threw their combined weight on his legs and Litner was able to tie his ankles with the help of Agent Rourke and some reinforcements from the trunk of the nearby car. Once he was restrained, they all stepped back, breathing heavily and staring with amazement at the sneering stranger with his shining white curls. Emerald eyes glared up at them with pure hellish rage.

Someone’s cell phone rang, a tiny, muffled sound. Litner searched the brother and found the ringing phone inside his jacket. With a knee planted firmly on his captive’s chest, Litner accepted the call and brought the phone to his ear. As soon as he did, the blond man screamed out, “Shepherd!”

Agent Litner’s hand came down, landing a vise grip over the man’s mouth. Then, phone to his ear, Agent Litner heard Melvin Eugene Shepherd’s voice for the first time.

“Juris? Hello? Juris what the hell is going on? You were supposed to check in twenty minutes ago.” He paused. Litner said nothing. Juris struggled to bite his hand, so Litner pressed down harder.

“Juris?” the voice said.

Agent Litner hung up and slipped the phone in his pocket, removing his hand from the blond man’s mouth. “So, your name is Juris.”

He spat at Agent Litner.

“Well, my polite friend,” Litner said, wiping the spittle off his jacket, “I believe that was your buddy Shepherd on the phone. It seems you were late checking in. It seems you are going to be very, very late checking in. Now, what do you say we go somewhere and talk?”

Juris spat at him again. Litner looked up at Agent Rourke, who glared at Juris. Rourke wasn’t used to being tossed around by a man half his size. “Put him in the trunk,” Litner said. Rourke happily complied, lifting the shrieking Juris up and hoisting him over his shoulder. Copie backed away as Rourke carried the hysterical restrained man past him.

Agent Litner looked at the priest. “Thanks Luigi. If you and the boy hadn’t helped out, we would have lost him.”

Father Carbone nodded graciously. Copie looked at the priest. “Luigi? Your name is Luigi Carbone? Christ! Did you just fall off the garlic truck?”

Carbone put an arm around Copie. “You’re staying with me, remember? If you don’t like garlic, I’m afraid you’re going to starve in my house.”

“Great,” Copie said. “Patrick and Robin get to go off on missions, while I have to hang out with Father Cannoli over here.”

“At least you’ll be safe,” Litner said. “Now let’s get in the car before another of those freaks comes crawling out of a trash heap.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Father Carbone’s apartment had a basement beneath that stretched underground where it connected to the church through a locked door. It was a long open space, full of dust and old furniture, with a few tiny windows set just above eye level. Old pews sat stacked against one wall. Time worn statues of the Virgin and the infant Christ were scattered here and there like wax phantoms in the shadows. Copie and Father Carbone covered the little windows with black construction paper as Agent Litner instructed, adding to the ominous darkness, leaving one measly overhead bulb.

The prisoner, Juris, hadn’t uttered a word since their arrival. Agent Litner interrogated him for hours, but Juris simply stared at him with feral hatred in his otherwise lovely green eyes. Juris didn’t speak, but he did make noise. He hissed, he shrieked, and he spat. He refused all food. He sat in the dimly lit basement, cuffed and tied to a high back velvet chair that Father Carbone had dragged out of the corner. Whenever Juris caught Carbone staring at him, he’d laugh at him. It was a disturbing cackle, a maniacal sound.

Agent Litner stopped by again the following afternoon and tried to make Juris speak. Copie had stayed upstairs and made tea while Carbone and Litner dealt with things in the basement. The prisoner unnerved him.

Litner came stomping up the stairs and into the kitchen, with the priest right behind him. “He’s as tight-lipped as a snapping turtle,” Father Carbone said.

“And equally pleasant,” Litner added. The agent looked angry and flushed. One side of his white hair was pushed up from running his hands through it, and he had a red blotch on his temple from slapping his pen against it.

“What are you going to do with him?” Copie asked, hoping against all hope that Agent Litner planned to move Juris out of the church basement. Just knowing he was down there made Copie uneasy.

“He’s going to have to stay here for the time being. Patrick and Robin are following Shep out to Pearl Chasm tomorrow. Then Patrick will be sent out to Forest Bluffs to get the crop samples, and we can wrap this up one way or another.”

“So why can’t you hold Juris downtown or something?” Copie asked.

Litner looked at him coldly. “That’s my business, Copie. Please don’t ask me any more questions.” He threw on his jacket. “I have to go prep Patrick and Robin for their trip. Try to get Juris to eat something. Unfortunately, he’s no good to us dead.”

Father Carbone stepped up. “Will you tell Patrick and Robin about our new house guest?”

“No. They don’t need distractions right now. We’ll tell them about Juris when they get back.” Father Carbone wrung his hands. Litner looked up from buttoning his jacket. “Is something bothering you?”

“Well, they’ve surely realized that Juris is missing out at Forest Bluffs. What is the Shepherd going to do when he discovers he’s lost one of his sheep? Will he come looking for him?”

The question made Copie’s eyes widen with new fear. Agent Litner headed for the door. “They won’t look here. They have no reason to. Both of you stop being so afraid. He’s just a man.”

“So why did it take four of us to take him down?” Copie asked. “And how did he break the handcuffs?”

“Adrenaline,” Litner snapped, slamming the door on his way out.

Copie turned to Father Carbone. “Well. Your FBI pal is a tad more agitated than usual.”

Carbone nodded. “He doesn’t like when he can’t figure things out. That’s what Litner does. He figures things out. But I think it’s fair to say we’re dealing with something highly irregular here.”

“Man. If Litner is getting scared, then I might as well hang it up.”

“I didn’t say he was scared. He’s just frustrated. This case is turning out to be…unusual.” The priest looked thoughtful for a moment, staring into his teacup. “I’m tired of tea. What do you say we get rip-roaring drunk? I for one think we’ve earned it.”

Copie smiled widely. “That is the most enlightening thing I’ve heard you say, Father. Let’s turn some holy water into wine!”

“That’s a little out of my league, but I do have some brandy in the cabinet under the sink.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Shep stared at the phone, struggling to retain his mind lock on Juris. He caught the hazy image of a priest’s collar, then nothing. Juris’s energy was silent. “Fuck!” he tossed the phone across the room. It smashed on the wall. Allisto and Russell ran in. They looked at Shep, then at the shattered phone.

“What’s wrong?” Russell asked.

Shep ignored him. He walked to the bottom of the spiral staircase. “Margol! Get your ass down here.” The red-haired brother came stomping down the stairs and joined them in the kitchen. They all looked at Shep hesitantly. “Juris is missing,” he said.

Allisto’s face fell. “What has happened to Juris?”

“I’m not sure. I phoned him. He called my name once, but then there was nothing. I tried to home in on his mind. The only image I got was a priest’s collar. Wherever Juris is, there’s a priest involved.” He turned to Kelinda, who’d stepped cautiously into the room, looking curiously at the broken phone. “I find it coincidental that the last thing Kelinda did before she joined us was to visit a priest and go to confession. Now, oddly, there’s a priest involved in my brother’s abduction!”

“I never told Father Bello anything, I swear,” Kelinda said. “If there is a priest involved, it’s not Father Bello! He’s just an old man. You leave him alone.”

Shep smirked. “You protest too much, princess. Oh Margol?”

“Yes, Shepherd.”

“Do you remember that matter we discussed the other day? About the loose ends?”

“Yes, Shepherd.”

“Now is the time. Take care of it.”

“Yes, Shepherd, but what about Pearl Chasm?”

“You’ll be back in time to go. It should only take you a few hours to take care of Father Bello.”

Kelinda ran from the room, sobbing. Shep watched her go, then turned back to Margol. “Now get going. Find Juris and bring him back. And make sure Father Bello’s holy voice is silenced. Permanently.”

* * * *

Father Bello hummed a hymn while he cleaned up the altar. He enjoyed the church when it was empty, after everyone had cleared out for the night, and it was just him and the scent of incense, the aesthetic light from the evening sun filtering through the stained-glass windows, the flickering glow from the candelabras behind the altar, and the simple well-being that came from conducting a spirited mass. It felt like he was all alone with God in these moments, a truly peaceful time of day.

There had been more children in church lately. He wasn’t fooling himself. He knew the children came to mass because he looked like Santa Claus in his red robe with his white beard. That was fine. Whatever brought the people in was good. They had no miracle apparitions like Father Carbone down at Saint Mary’s. All of the local churches had taken a hit after the image of the Virgin appeared down there.

He placed no blame on Father Carbone, as some of the gossipy priests had done. Some of them were saying that Father Carbone staged the miracle himself to draw more people and money to his church. Father Bello didn’t share this opinion. He knew Carbone and found him to be an honest man. Besides, he’d heard through the grapevine that Luigi himself thought the apparition to be a hoax, and was addled by all of the attention his previously quiet church was receiving.

Father Bello’s deep singing voice echoed acoustically through the empty church as he gathered the holy gifts on a tray and got ready to transport them. “We gather together to share The Lord’s blessing…” He stopped singing as he got the sense that someone was watching him. He spun about face, but the church was empty. Only painted angels and saints stared back at him. He gave his head a shake, then began to hum again.

He stopped as he saw a dark shadow move quickly past the window outside. He stood motionless with the tray in his arms, staring at the stained glass, his voice caught in his throat. Had he seen someone pass by? Perhaps it was someone looking for confession. He put down the tray and walked to the back door, peering through the rectangular windows. He saw no one. He shrugged, and then headed back to the altar, retrieving the tray he’d left there.

The tray slipped from his hands and smashed to the floor as Father Bello turned to walk off of the podium. He hadn’t heard the front doors open, but there was a man standing in front of the altar. “Oh heavens! I didn’t hear you come in. You gave me quite a startle! Look, I’ve dropped everything.”

The beautiful young man stared up at him with no expression. He was so still that it was hard to tell if he was even breathing. His hair was parted down the middle and came to his chin in a wreath of fiery red curls. His eyes were like enormous shining emeralds against slightly sunburned skin. His nose was straight and strong, but his mouth was a tiny red kiss of childlike pout, yet the face held a handsome masculinity just the same. He was like an oversized doll, perfect in every way except for the stare. The look in those eyes made Father Bello’s hair stand on end. “May I help you? Would you like to give confession?”

“You mean the way Kelinda Wade gave you confession?”

Only the stranger’s lips moved. He stood with arms curled at his sides, head bowed so his eyes had to look upward to glare at the priest. It was unnerving.

“Kelinda Wade? Do you know Kelinda?” Father Bello remembered his last meeting with Kelinda, when she’d run out of the confessional refusing to tell her sins to him. “How do you know Kelinda? What is this about?”

“Where is my brother?” the red-haired stranger asked.

“I’m sorry? Do I know your brother? Young man, if we’ve met before, I apologize, but I just don’t remember you.”

“Where are you hiding Juris? I am very angry to not see him here. Where is he?”

Father Bello felt a shiver of fear run through him. He took two steps back. “I assure you, I don’t know anyone by that name. What is your name, son?” Father Bello could see his phone, sitting with his wallet where he’d left them on the front pew bench. He took a slow, careful step to the side.

“That is not important, but my name is Margol.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Margol. That’s an unusual name.”

Margol tilted his head slightly, keeping the priest in his line of sight as he eased his way toward the pew. “I would not touch that phone, Father Bello. That would upset me. Tell me where my brother is.”

Father Bello paused. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. “I swear I don’t know your brother. Now please, Margol, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The red-haired stranger smiled. “You can ask.”

Father Bello made a conscious effort to stay calm. He’d dealt with disturbed parishioners before. This was probably just a cry for help. A plea for comfort. If he could only get through to this young man... “What is it you really want, Margol? Why have you come here? You can tell me the truth, no matter what it is.”

“I have come to find my brother. And to kill you.”

So much for diplomacy. Father Bello sprinted for the phone. Margol turned only his head. The phone flew off the bench and smashed to the floor, as though an invisible hand had swatted it. Father Bello stopped in mid sprint, and stared in disbelief at the shattered pieces of his phone. He lifted his gaze to Margol. “How did you do that?” Father Bello quickly blessed himself. “What are you?”

“I am the Elite Guard. As is my brother, Juris. He is not for you to hold prisoner. He is great. And you are small. Where is he?”

This man was definitely insane. Sure, the trick with the phone was impressive, but what he claimed to be was just not possible. He was mentally ill. Father Bello thought it best to humor him. “Elite Guard, huh? Then you are tasked with protecting the byways between the realms.”

Margol smiled. “Not anymore.” He dove through the air in a flying somersault.

The priest ducked out of the way and ran past the altar and straight for the back door. The stranger chased him and caught his robe, pulling him to the floor. Father Bello cried out as he struggled to crawl, kicking at the strong hands that gripped his legs. “Help! Somebody help me!” Margol turned him over and squeezed the priest’s neck with both hands. Father Bello whimpered.

“I ask you once more. Where is my brother?”

“I swear! I don’t know your brother!” Father Bello squealed.

Margol’s large eyes flicked back and forth, like he was examining the air around Father Bello’s head. His pretty features furrowed into a frown. “Your aura is clear. You are telling the truth. You really do not know where Juris is,” he said with an air of disappointment.

“Yes! I am telling the truth! Please, let me go.”

“I apologize for calling you a liar. But I still have to kill you. I have orders.”

On a desperate whim, Father Bello reached back and pulled down the podium next to the door. The metal bowl clattered to the floor. Father Bello gasped as Margol applied pressure to his neck. The priest’s fingers found the metal bowl and smashed it into his assailant’s face, but it was a weak hit. Margol sputtered as the liquid from the bowl splashed his face. “I am not thirsty, priest!”

So much for holy water having any power here.

Stretching his arm back further, his fingers caught something else, and he tugged, pulling the standing candelabra to the floor. Thanking the heavens that most of the candles remained lit, he gripped the base and jammed the flames directly into his assailant’s face.

Margol’s eyes widened. He let go of Father Bello’s neck and flailed, slapping the flames away and stumbling back, rubbing frantically at the side of his face where his smooth flesh now bloomed with rosy burns.

An ear-piercing howl shrieked from Margol’s parted lips, an inhuman sound that rattled the windows and threatened to break Father Bello’s mind. He gave himself over to hysteria. “I baptize you!” he screamed. “Haha! I baptize you with fire, abomination! I baptize you, Margol!”

Margol stared down at Father Bello, his face a mask of horror, pain, and something like fear. He lurched backward on unsteady feet, then turned and ran stumbling out of the church. The big wooden doors shut with an echoing bang.

Father Bello collapsed onto the floor. Stricken and disheveled, he crawled toward the front pew. He picked up the plastic fragments from the shattered phone, and stared at them. “No.” A sob hiccupped out of him. “It’s too much. God, please, what test is this? I know you’re with me so I’m not supposed to be frightened. But I am, Lord. Oh God, I am. So frightened.” Still clinging to the shards of plastic, he fell to the floor and wept.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Patrick studied Litner uneasily. The agent sat on Patrick’s couch, tapping his pen furiously against his temple. “So Robin and I scouted the location. Everything’s set to go,” he said. The agent looked up, nodded distractedly and went back to his temple thwacking. “Agent Litner, is something bothering you?”

Litner stopped whacking his head. “Why don’t you come sit down, Patrick. There are some things I need to tell you before you take this trip.”

Patrick sat on the other end of the couch. “What’s up?”

“The mission I’m sending you on has not been approved by my superiors. In fact, they know nothing about it.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Why?”

“I’m on a very short leash with this investigation. I’m authorized to get the crop samples but beyond that, I’m on my own. Things have gotten more complex than I’d anticipated. I need to obtain convincing evidence, however, so we must push forward.”

“Convincing? For who? Are you telling me your superiors really aren’t all that interested in Forest Bluffs?”

“Not as interested as they should be in my opinion, and the opinion of my team. But I truly believe there is danger brewing in whatever your friends are doing out there at that beach house.”

Patrick raised his finger. “Okay, but maybe your superiors are right, and it’s nothing. You kept asking me about terrorist plots when we first met, but Joey and Shep aren’t hijacking planes or storming the Capitol building. They’re growing plants.”

“View it as you like, but you will not be under my protection tomorrow when you follow them to Pearl Chasm for this surveillance job, and that worries me. If you insist on surveying Shepherd yourself, you’re gonna be on your own. I’m giving you one more chance to back out and let my team handle this.”

Patrick shook his head. “No way. I need to go, but not for your obsessive curiosity, or to prove something to your bosses. I need to go for my own peace of mind. You say you need answers? You don’t even know Joey and Shep. If anyone needs answers, it’s me.”

“I need to give you something. Here.” Litner handed him a piece of paper with a word scribbled on it. “Don’t say it out loud. Just read it and remember it.”

Patrick looked at the paper. The words ‘Little Buttercup’ were written in pencil. “Cute. What does it mean?”

“It’s for when you ultimately join your friends at Forest Bluffs. I told you I have an agent on stake-out near Joey’s house. I’ll have him contact you if need be. That’s his code name.”

Patrick looked at the paper again. A secret agent with the code name Little Buttercup? “Okay. Whatever.”

“Will you remember the name?” Litner asked harshly.

“Of course. It’s kind of hard to forget.”

“Good. Now give me that back.” Litner snatched the paper from Patrick’s hands. He walked over to the sink and set the paper on fire, letting it burn to a crumpled black ball of ash, then washed it away with the running water.

“Wow. I feel so top secret.”

“This is no joke, Patrick.”

Patrick laughed. “Oh, I forgot. There’s no room for humor with you. You know, you need to relax, Litner. You’re going to snap one of these days. Hey, do you want a beer or something?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course not. What do you do to relax?”

“Games. Computer chess. I solve puzzles.”

“Puzzles? But that’s not a break! That’s too much like what you do for a living!”

“I enjoy it.”

“Well, all right then. It’s your life.”

“I’ve been to see Robin already. She also had no qualms about the trip being unauthorized.”

Patrick laughed. “Robin’s badass. Plus, all she cares about is getting Joey back before Shep drags him into any real trouble. She and I both still think he’s an unknowing pawn. Well, I have my doubts, but I’d like to believe that as much as Robin does.”

Agent Litner grunted. “Right. If you say so.”

“Litner, why do you get that attitude whenever I talk about Joey? Father Carbone does the same thing. There’s something you guys aren’t telling me.”

“It’s not important. We have no proof of anything. Let’s just get some and get you out of there.”

Patrick moved closer to Litner, eyeing him suspiciously. “I want to know why you don’t believe Joey is innocent. You don’t believe it, do you?”

“My personal opinion is not relevant.”

Patrick crossed his arms over his chest. “All right. I’m asking you as a friend then. I’d like your opinion.”

“We are not friends.”

“Fine then, I’m asking you as an interested acquaintance, okay? Litner come on! It’s a little late to be getting tight-lipped. Tell me. Tell me!”

Litner glared at Patrick. “You are annoyingly persistent.”

“Just talk to me. I can handle it.”

“You’re only going to start ranting and raving again about what a wonderfully decent person Joey Duvaine is.”

“So be it. Just talk. Don’t I deserve the information if I’m going to live with him?”

The stoic agent walked across the room and leaned against Patrick’s recliner. His gold pen came out and he twirled it like a baton as he spoke. “The investigation of Joey Duvaine didn’t start with this Forest Bluffs crop. He’d been investigated before, but the case was dropped due to lack of evidence.”

“You’re not going to tell me he killed his family.”

“Let’s just say that the matter of the untimely deaths in Joey’s family was looked into. Of course, there were already files on Joey available, and the evidence—”

“Wait a minute,” Patrick interrupted. “You already files on Joey? Why?”

“Psychological interests.” Litner looked quizzically at him. “From when he was a child. It wasn’t crime related of course, but he drew the interest of certain groups, understandably.”

“Why? What was interesting about Joey as a kid?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

Litner shook his head. “You really don’t know who he is, do you?”

Patrick shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I honestly thought you knew this. Patrick, Joey has the highest I.Q. ever recorded. And that was back when he was six years old.”

Patrick frowned momentarily, then grinned. “Uh-uh. That’s impossible. I mean, Joey’s smart, but he’s an idiot too, you know what I mean?” Litner stared back at him, his face blank. Patrick’s grin disappeared. “You’re serious?” Litner nodded. Patrick blew a puff of air out. “I’ve got to sit back down.” He lowered himself onto the couch then looked up at Litner. “The highest I.Q. ever recorded?”

“Yes.”

“Joey?”

“Joey.”

Patrick shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Does he know?”

“Yes, I believe he does. The medical community, scientists, even the government began testing on him when he was a child, but his mother put a stop to it. She wanted him to be raised like any other child. She was afraid all the attention would hurt him psychologically. So everyone was forbidden from having any contact with the family. I’m sure some were aggressive in their inquiries. This child was, after all, the most intelligent human on the planet. I’m sure Marie Duvaine had good reasons as a mother to shut Joey away from it all.”

Patrick chewed his thumbnail for a moment, then looked up. “What about Albert Einstein? What about his I.Q.?”

“Joey’s is higher.”

“What about—”

“Higher. We could do this all night, Patrick.”

“Why didn’t he ever tell me? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nothing about Joey Duvaine makes sense, which is one of the reasons I’ve had my eye on him for so long. The guy could be heading up NASA. Instead he’s walking around that property in a purple priest’s robe, smoking pot and drinking margaritas.”

Patrick’s nose wrinkled. “A purple priest’s robe? You made that part up, right?”

“I’m afraid not. My…spy gives detailed reports.”

“Jesus.” Patrick gave his head a quick shake. “Okay, but did you ever think that genius or not, maybe Joey is just plain lazy? Did you ever think that maybe he lacks the drive to do anything productive?”

“Within the past two months, Joey Duvaine has bought an international food distribution company, started a sizeable church group, and become a nationally recognized media figure. His social media accounts now have millions of followers and there are hundreds of other various sites online dedicated to him and his so-called vision. I would say something like that takes a bit of drive, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“You still seem of the naïve opinion that this was all some sort of accident, a whim of Joey and Shep’s. I believe it’s blatantly clear now that all of this has been a carefully premeditated plan. A plan you knew nothing about, yet are still somehow a part of.”

Patrick rubbed his temples, trying to absorb that Joey was the world’s smartest human. It would not sink in. He could only picture Joey sitting in front of the television in his underwear, smoking a joint and scratching his balls. “Tell me this then. If Joey is this great genius, why didn’t he go to a better college? I mean, my college wasn’t bad but it wasn’t Harvard either. And why did he work for Parker Investments for that matter?”

Agent Litner’s brows rose. “Perhaps to keep an eye on you.”

Patrick felt goosebumps erupt on his arms. “A guy named Craig, one of the twins that designed the hoax, told me that Shep had been devising plans for the apparition nearly a year before. Do you think…” Patrick stopped talking. He needed to take a breath before he voiced the unsettling thought. “Do you think Shepherd was planning to do this before Joey’s family died?”

Litner sat down in the chair and leaned over with his elbows on his thighs. “I don’t know for sure, Patrick. I can tell you this, though. They began tilling those fields out at Forest Bluffs the day after Charles Duvaine’s funeral. It was as though they were on a tight schedule.”

Patrick hung his head. “They. You keep saying ‘they’. I still can’t believe Joey could be involved.” He lifted his head and met Litner’s eyes. “Tell me about the investigation into his family’s deaths.”

Litner stared back at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want to know. Tell me.”

Litner’s pen tapping went into full swing as he spoke. “Well, they were all ruled accidents. However, Joey’s mother Marie was not killed by the impact of the car crash. She died of blood loss after a shard of glass from her windshield penetrated the carotid artery in her neck.”

“So?”

“Jeffrey Duvaine was killed on a hunting trip. His friends claim that he got separated from them when he insisted he saw a deer that none of them could see. They went their own way, vowing to catch up with him. A supposedly rogue arrow from some other hunter killed Jeffrey. The other hunter was never found. The arrow was a direct hit to Jeffrey’s carotid artery in his neck. Again, he died of blood loss.”

“You can’t prove that someone meant to hit him. It could have been an unlucky accident. Or the culprit could have been drunk. What are you going to tell me next? That someone forced a heart attack on Charles Duvaine? Did Joey walk up to his father and say “boo” really loud so he would have heart failure?”

“No. The heart attack Charles Duvaine suffered was legitimate. He also suffered severe blood loss however.”

“Because he fell through the glass table,” Patrick insisted.

“Yes, fell.” Litner said warily. “A shard of glass from the coffee table miraculously ended up slicing his carotid artery when he…fell. His blood alcohol was so low it was almost unreadable. The alcohol in his stomach had not absorbed into his blood stream yet, indicating that he had consumed it only moments before he died. He also had bruising on the back of his throat, indicating that something, possibly a bottle neck, was violently forced down there.”

“Bullshit,” Patrick said. “I saw the condition of that house after he died. Charles Duvaine didn’t need any help putting a bottle in his mouth.”

“He’d called a cleaning service that morning and scheduled them to come out that afternoon. He had also stopped all deliveries from the liquor store nearly two weeks before.”

Patrick scratched his head. “Do you really think he was murdered?”

“I think that three family members dying from the same neck wound in the same year is suspicious. That is all I’m saying.”

Patrick felt like screaming at Litner, but that was just what Litner had said he’d do, so he restrained himself. “It can’t be murder. It’s a coincidence.”

“Well, I’ll give you this. It’s unlikely that someone would go to such lengths to make these deaths look like an accident. There are much easier ways.”

“Yes! That’s true.” Patrick said, relieved. “Finally, you’re making sense.”

“Unless they needed something from the death scene.”

Patrick was instantly irritated again. “Like what?”

“Blood.”

“Blood?”

Litner nodded. “In each death, a major artery was severed. Have you ever seen how much blood can come out of a human body?”

Patrick grimaced. “I’m happy to say, no, I have not.”

“Well it’s a lot. You’d be amazed.”

“What is your point about the blood exactly?”

“There wasn’t enough of it.”

“Excuse me?”

“There wasn’t enough blood left at the scene of each death. There should have been more. More blood in Marie Duvaine’s car, more on the ground around Jeffrey Duvaine’s fallen body, and there should have been more blood soaked into that rug where they found Charles Duvaine out at Forest Bluffs.”

Patrick unconsciously fingered the little scar above his wrist. “What do you think happened to the blood?”

“I think they took it with them.”

“They?”

“The killer. Whoever committed those murders took a sizeable amount of blood from each victim before leaving the scene.”

Patrick made a sour face. “Why? Why would they take blood?”

“Damned if I know. You asked my opinion, so there it is. I trust you find this information comforting in some way?”

“No sir, I do not.” Patrick was silent for a time. Why would someone want to steal blood? Why not go to a blood bank and steal it?

“I see that look in your eyes Patrick, and I regret telling you any of this. I don’t want you distracted on this mission. Please, bear in mind that these are only opinions and unproven theories. I ask you to please put it out of your mind.”

“But you believe it, don’t you Agent Litner? You believe Joey is connected to the deaths somehow.”

“I’m one man, Patrick. There is always the possibility that I am completely full of shit.”

Patrick smiled at the comment. He knew that the agent did not believe himself to be wrong. Somehow, Patrick didn’t think Agent Litner was wrong very often. However, he did not believe that Joey was capable of the atrocities Litner had mentioned. Joey’s family was killed by a series of accidents. Patrick resigned himself to this, but when he went to sleep that night, his mind kept hearing Shep’s voice as he’d stood with a dagger in his hand on Joey’s balcony that night.

‘Blood is family, and family is blood.’

The memory of the words transformed themselves into a dream, an image of Joey being nailed to a cross by hooded figures somewhere in a dense, dark forest. In the dream, Joey hung limp on the cross as gallons of blood spilled out of the wounds on his hands and feet. As Patrick approached, Joey lifted his head and smiled. Blood gushed through his teeth like a waterfall. “Blood is family, Obrien,” he gurgled.

Patrick awoke screaming in his bed. The headache was worse than it ever had been. After popping three pain pills, he padded into his darkened living room, picked up his phone, and replayed Shep’s most recent voicemail. Shep’s voice was like a screwdriver through his brain. ‘How have you been sleeping, Obrien? I certainly hope your dreams have been pleasant. Make the choice, Patrick. Stop the pain, or it will only get worse.’

Patrick threw the phone across the room, where it landed unharmed on his sofa. It wasn’t very satisfying—he wanted to smash something. He was angry. Frightened, but the anger was beginning to outweigh the fear. It was a fury born of having been somehow violated without consent.

Make the choice, Shep said. Patrick decided right then and there that he would make a choice. As his head hummed with pain, he became startlingly aware of one thing. The blood pact they made was not simply an act of deranged immaturity. Joey and Shep had done something to him that night on the balcony.

They had done something to him, and they were damn well going to un-do it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Agent Litner sensed something was askew as soon as he opened Father Carbone’s screen door and stepped inside. Two empty brandy bottles sat on top of the rubber recycle bin, and the floor was littered with tiny aluminum candy wrappers. Muffled voices emanated from the basement. Litner froze and drew his gun, proceeding silently to the basement door. As he crept down the wooden steps, he heard Copie laugh, then a sound like dice spilling onto a table.

The air in the stairwell was rank with misty smoke. As Litner rounded the bottom step, he could not believe his eyes. Juris was still tied to the chair, but now he had a small fold-out table pulled up in front of him. Copie and the priest were huddled in chairs around the table with Juris. A bottle of brandy sat on the edge, and a stubby cigar dangled from the corner of Juris’s mouth. They had a board game spread out, and Copie shook a pair of dice. Someone had tied Juris’s curls back from his face with a bandana.

“Excuse me? What the hell is going on in here?” Litner replaced his gun as he stepped into the room.

Carbone grabbed the cigar and stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Steven! What a…surprise.”

“The law is here to knock me around some more!” Juris threw his head back and laughed.

“You got him to talk,” Litner said.

“Come join us!” Carbone said. “We’re playing Trivia.”

“No thank you. What the hell’s been happening here?”

Copie tossed something to Litner, which he caught. It was a candy kiss. “Juris likes chocolate,” Copie said. “Juris really, really likes chocolate. Oh, and brandy.”

Juris bent his head down and placed his mouth on the spout of the brandy bottle. Holding it with his teeth, he tipped the bottle back, taking a long swill, then masterfully placed it back on the table without spilling a drop.

“You guys got him drunk? We’re supposed to be getting information from him, not making him incoherent!”

Copie stood up and weaved toward Agent Litner, pointing. “Now wait just a minute! Since you’ve been gone, we’ve discovered that Juris loves chocolate, hates churches, and knows everything there is to know about science and nature. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s exactly three more things than you learned from him.”

Litner looked at the priest. “Luigi?”

Father Carbone nodded. “Juris insists he can’t stay here. He wants to be moved to another location. Says he doesn’t care if we lock him in a wooden shed somewhere, as long as it’s not in the church.”

“Why can’t he stay here?” Litner asked.

“If he stays here, they will find him.” The priest turned his head so Juris couldn’t see, and twirled a finger next to his ear.

“Who are they?”

Carbone shrugged. “That much, he won’t tell us. He merely claims it’s not safe for him here.”

Juris looked up. “Not safe!”

Litner walked over and took Copie’s abandoned seat next to Juris. “Juris, why isn’t it safe for you to stay in the church? What are you afraid of?” Juris spat in Agent Litner’s face. A stream of brandy colored spittle dripped down his cheek. He calmly pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it off. “Well, Carbone. It seems your new friend has yet to learn manners.”

“He doesn’t like you,” Copie said.

“Yes, thank you Copie.”

Father Carbone picked a playing card out of a rectangular box. “Litner, you’ve got to see this.” The priest turned toward the prisoner and read from the card. “Juris, what does the term ‘scientific notation’ mean?”

Juris rolled his eyes and said, “A system in which numbers are expressed as products consisting of a number between one and ten multiplied by an appropriate power of ten. When are you moving me out of this church?”

Ignoring his question, Father Carbone picked up a calculator. “Juris, what is eight thousand, six hundred and fifty-two divided by seven?”

Juris yawned. “One thousand two hundred and thirty-six. When are you moving me from this church?”

Carbone looked up at Litner. “Not sure if he actually knows these answers or if he’s got some psychic ability and is reading them from my perspective as I look at the answer. I suspect it might be the latter, as the trivia answer he gave was word for word from the game card.”

“That’s impressive.” Litner said. “Why don’t you ask Rainman over here something useful, like why his compatriots are on their way out to Pearl Chasm?”

Juris’s head snapped up. His face flushed bright red and his mouth tightened. Litner smiled. “Well, well. It looks like I struck a nerve. Tell me, Juris. What do your friends plan to do out at Pearl Chasm, and why do they need all those supplies?”

Juris screeched like an animal, struggling against the ropes that bound him. “You cannot interfere! You stay away from that cave, pig! You stay away from that cave! I will snap your neck!”

Litner stared placidly at Juris, unfazed by the emotional display. “Cave, did you say? I was not aware they were actually going into a cave. Thank you, Juris, you’ve been most helpful. Copie, get Patrick and Robin on the phone. I have some last-minute information for them.” He wouldn’t really be calling Patrick and Robin. He’d made the statement to vex Juris. It did not have the desired effect.

Juris stopped struggling. He looked at Litner and laughed. The cackle sent a chill down his spine. “You are sending Robin? Shepherd will smell her instantly! He will discover them, and he will kill them.”

Copie wrinkled his nose. “Smell her?”

Juris looked at Copie. “You should not underestimate Shepherd.”

Litner flinched. Patrick spoke those exact words at their first meeting. You should not underestimate Shepherd. Agent Litner had an almost self-destructive desire to meet Melvin Eugene Shepherd face to face. This Shepherd character was as slippery as an eel and his movements as difficult to predict. As mysterious and adept as Shepherd seemed to be, Litner still didn’t buy the bit about him being able to smell Robin. But just in case, he’d tell her to go easy on the perfume.

“What is the matter lawman?” Juris taunted. “Are you worry now that you fuck it all up?”

Litner was brought out of his thoughts by Juris’s grammatically challenged question. He had the strangest speech inflection. Whatever it was, it was clear the hostile blond did not grow up speaking English. Litner crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Where are you from?”

Juris grinned. “Texas.”

Agent Litner laughed, as did Copie and Father Carbone. “That’s funny,” Litner said. “I have a lot of colleagues from Texas. They don’t sound anything like you. What is your last name?”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Lovely. Is that Swedish?”

Juris refused to speak again, sitting with his quiet glare as Litner tried further to extract any meaningful information from him. Eventually he gave up. The three of them went back upstairs, and Father Carbone made tea to counter the effects of the brandy.

A nagging concern plagued Litner’s mind when he thought about Patrick and Robin going on this mission. He liked them. They challenged him, argued with him, and were in no way making his job easier. But he liked them. His gut gnawed with worry for their safety.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Patrick studied Robin as she peered through binoculars at the highway below. They were stationed high on an overpass that looked down over the freeway. Litner had issued them an incognito, beat up gray pick-up truck. They wore moderate disguises, hats and sunglasses. “Is Litner sure they’re taking this road? We should have seen them pass by now.”

Patrick took the binoculars from her. “Maybe they’re running late. I’m sure Litner knows what he’s doing. He’s very efficient.”

Robin examined Patrick with a twisted smirk. “Sounds to me like Patrick has a new best friend.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Litner is very efficient,” she said, mocking him.

Robin seemed determined to taunt him. Patrick didn’t mind. He’d gotten to know her better these past few days. Teasing him was something she did when she was nervous. Since he seemed to have developed a terrible crush on Robin, he was happy to oblige, and let her verbally abuse him whenever she felt the need. “Admit it, Patrick. He’s your hero. You want to be Agent Litner when you grow up. You want him to be your daddy.”

“I’m trying to keep watch for the vans, so could you shut up please? Oh shit! There they go!”

Two white vans traveled at a high speed down the center lane of the highway. He threw the truck in gear and headed down. Robin grabbed the binoculars and leaned into the windshield. “Oh yeah. That’s them. Don’t get too close.”

The ride to Pearl Chasm from Forest Bluffs took an hour and a half. The beach scrub towns gave way to more suburban settlements as they headed west, past the city, where Massachusetts still harbored some unscathed forest and farmland. Patrick did ninety miles an hour down the highway until he spotted the white vans off in the distance, then he let off the gas a little.

“What’s in the bag?” Robin asked.

He grinned, handing her the paper bag at his side. “I got you a Coke. Oh, and a present.”

Robin smiled. “A present? What kind of present?”

“It’s jewelry,” Patrick said. “I hope it’s your style.”

Robin opened the brown bag and her smile widened as she pulled the colorful candy necklace out. “My God! I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid!” She stretched the elastic and pulled it over her head. The pastel chain of circular candies hung decoratively around her neck.

“Do you like it?” Patrick asked, chuckling at the way it clashed with her striped tank top.

“It’s the nicest jewelry I’ve ever received,” she said.

Patrick felt awkward suddenly. Robin looked sincerely touched by the silly gesture. He admonished himself for the excitement he felt being alone with her. She couldn’t possibly share his growing affection. “I’ve seen some of the jewelry Shep’s gotten you,” he said. “I don’t think the candy necklace can compare.”

“Shep bought me some expensive things, yes. But only because he’s incapable of showing his love in other ways.”

Patrick glanced her way. “Do you still love him?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Part of me will always belong to Shep I guess.”

Patrick slammed his hand down on the dashboard, surprising the hell out of Robin, and himself. “Well that’s just great Robin! Just great.”

“What is your problem? Toxic masculinity much?”

“Sorry, but wake up! Shep is not the person you thought he was. You told Litner you didn’t have any reservations about this mission, and I backed you up. Now you’re telling me you still have feelings for that psycho?”

“Enough with the mission there, James Bond. I’m as capable as you are. You were practically Shep’s girlfriend too. And you’re lying if you say you don’t still have feelings for him. Shep is hard to shake. Denial won’t help anything so let’s both just admit it.”

Patrick knew he was being childish and cruel, but his jealousy would not stay his words. “He doesn’t love you, Robin, and you’re an idiot if you think he does.”

He saw anger tighten her shoulders, and knew he was rubbing salt in an old wound, verifying all the doubts she’d held since falling head over heels with Shep years ago. He felt like a shit. What the hell was he doing? But he knew. He was falling for another woman who wanted someone else. He felt the perpetual fool.

“I’ll tell you who’s an idiot. You are, O’Brien. I told you that your supposed girlfriend, Kelinda, was sleeping with Joey. And what did you say? You said ‘oh gosh, oh me oh my. I hope Kelinda is all right! We have to go saaave her’!”

Patrick flushed. “I’m not pining for her. I was just concerned.”

“Sure.” Robin grinned at him. “You’re the sap, Obrien, not me. Shep may be a monster, but at least he still calls me. Kelinda just ghosted you and left you crying in your cornflakes.”

Now she was salting his wounds. Patrick wouldn’t look at her. He stared at the road ahead, a scowl on his face. Finally, he spoke. “You know now that Shep is twisted, Robin. Violent, even. You know that everything you ever thought he was is a lie. Yet somehow you still love him. How pathetic is that?”

“I’d say less pathetic than you knowing Kelinda is up there at Forest Bluffs bonking Joey night after night, yet you want her back.”

Patrick cut the wheel hard and pulled the truck over to the side of the road. He threw it in park and turned to Robin, whose face was frozen in shock. “I don’t care about Kelinda! I care about you. Jesus! You drive me up a wall, but you’re the only woman I think about now.”

Patrick turned away and laid his head on the steering wheel. The words had come out in the heat of argument, and now he wished he could take them back. The silence weighed a ton. “What did you say?” Robin asked softly.

“You heard me.”

“I think I need to hear it again. Or maybe I need to clean my ears out.”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making this trip any more awkward. You don’t have to say anything. I realize you probably don’t share my feelings, and that’s okay. We don’t ever have to talk about it again, but please, please, stop bringing up Kelinda. I don’t love Kelinda. I never did. There was no spark. You? You’re like…an explosion of sparks. I just like being around you. Being with you makes me feel calm and unafraid and excited about things for the first time in…shit, a long time. So let’s get through this, but I don’t want to argue anymore, okay?”

Robin nodded, looking shocked by his honest confession. He took her silence as rejection, and he turned to put the car in gear. Before he could drive off, Robin reached over, grabbed him around the neck and pulled his face to hers, kissing him. He stiffened a little, surprised, then returned the kiss feverishly. When they finally disengaged, he was dizzy with emotion and desire. “Okay,” Robin said.

“Okay what?” he whispered.

“Okay, I won’t mention Kelinda again.”

Patrick grinned. “We have to catch up with the vans. Could we continue this at another time, or was it a moment of weakness?”

Robin leaned in again. They locked onto each other and kissed, insistently, until finally Robin pulled back. “We can continue this another time. Next time it won’t be in a beat up old pickup truck though. Right?”

“I promise,” Patrick said. “Just promise me it’s over between you and Shep.”

She promised him, and seemed to mean it.  He knew, however, that what she’d said held some truth. Part of her would always belong to Shep. Part of Patrick would too.

* * * *

Patrick almost missed the exit to Pearl Chasm. It had certainly been an interesting ride, and he was flying with the knowledge that Robin reciprocated his interest in her. He knew he had to shake the warm fuzzy feeling if he was going to concentrate on the task ahead.

The truck crawled up a narrow gravel road, around the back side of the entrance to the caves, where barbed wire edged the property. ‘No Trespassing’ signs stood firm every ten yards, a stark warning in black and white. They found their hiding spot, chosen by Litner’s henchmen on their prior scouting mission to this place—huddled in the woods up along a ridge that overlooked the caves and climbing trails. Patrick parked the truck behind the trees. They spotted the two white vans down at the bottom of a cliff at the mouth of a narrow rock opening.

“How did they get down there?” Robin asked, peering through the binoculars as she stepped out of the truck.

Patrick got out and quietly closed the door, rounding the front of the vehicle to join her. “I guess the Feds aren’t the only ones that know a secret road in.”

A company of people came out of the opening in the rock and meandered toward the vans. “Get down!” Patrick whispered. They ducked behind a boulder. They were set up above the caves, buried in a tangle of woods and rocks, but it was best to be safe. Although they had no idea what was to ensue down there, they both knew that getting caught would be a very, very bad thing. Patrick didn’t want to admit that he was beginning to fear Shep, but it was so nonetheless.

Patrick grabbed the binoculars from Robin. He saw two of the brothers. One was the redhead he’d only glimpsed once on the train. The other was the more familiar black-haired rogue who’d been tailing him in the city. With them was a petite young woman with very short brown hair. They pulled boxes out of the vans. The young woman grabbed a first aid kit, and followed the two brothers back into the cave.

Robin looked at the surrounding woods, then down at the chasm. “Have I got my bearing straight here? Remember when that agent took us here to scout the location? He pointed out that cave. I think that’s the one that collapsed years back. Where those people were killed inside?”

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. It all looks the same to me.”

The two brothers emerged from the cave again, grabbing a couple small boxes out of the van. “They are definitely setting up for something,” Robin said.

“Oh shit! There he is!” Patrick said.

“Who?”

“Shep. He’s with that shorthaired woman.”

Robin grabbed the binoculars. “Let me see.” Patrick let her have them. “Oh yes. I’ve seen her before, that weekend I visited Shep. She lives out at Forest Bluffs. She’s one of the field people.” From some unseen road below, another car pulled up and parked alongside the vans. “Now who the hell is this?”

It looked like an older model Cadillac. An old man with white hair and a crooked back climbed gingerly out of the car.

Shep walked over to greet him. They spoke briefly, then the old man walked back and opened his trunk. He pulled out a wide, flat case and placed it on the ground. He shut the trunk and picked up the case, carrying it awkwardly toward the opening of the cave. He looked extremely frail, and was clearly having trouble carrying the bulky case. Shep did not offer to assist. He simply locked up the vans, then strode past the old man into the cave. The old man quickened his pace, shuffling with tiny struggling steps until he was out of sight.

Patrick and Robin waited silently for several minutes, but no one else came out.

“I guess they have everything they need. Hey, who was that old man?” Patrick asked.

Robin squinted down at the area below. “I have no idea.”

“I didn’t see Joey.”

“No, I don’t think he’s here. There’s something else weird though. One of them is missing.”

“One of who?”

“The brothers. One of them isn’t here, unless he’s inside the cave. It’s Juris, the platinum blond. Allisto is the brunette, and Margol is the redhead.”

Patrick winced. Part of him had convinced himself the curly-topped stalkers were figments. He hadn’t wanted to know their names. Names made them real.

“We have to get closer,” Robin said. “We can’t see anything from here, and it’s getting dark.”

“Closer?”

“Closer, Patrick. How are we supposed to see what they’re doing if we don’t go down there?”

“Litner said we’re not supposed to go inside the caves,” he responded nervously.

“Litner’s not here. We make our own decisions.” Robin climbed over the boulder and began to shimmy down the rock face.

Reluctantly, Patrick followed, struggling to maneuver the jagged black rocks that plunged out of the earth like miniature hardened volcanoes. As the sun fell lower, shadows enhanced the blackness of the terrain, which felt like they were on some alien planet. Patrick almost lost his footing twice as rock fragments congealed like marbles under his feet.

Pearl Chasm was a network of cliffs and natural caves formed into roughly a square mile of mountainous rock. Some of the terrain was flat, but boulder peaks jutted violently out of the earth throughout. Finally reaching level ground, they stepped behind a rock wall just a few feet from the narrow mouth of the cave. The vans and the old man’s Cadillac were just to their left. The two of them remained silent for a time, afraid of being surprised by the brothers on another trip out to the vans. They stood motionless as late afternoon edged toward evening, the sky growing annoyingly darker. “Why couldn’t they have done this in the morning?” Patrick hissed.

“I don’t know,” Robin said. “Did we bring a flashlight?”

“Shit. I didn’t think we’d need one. We’re not supposed to go in the cave. And Litner said to keep our phones turned off.”

“Yeah, yeah, things change. I don’t think they’re coming back out. At least not for a while. They are still in there, right? I didn’t miss something?”

“I guess but I don’t hear anything,” Patrick whispered.

Robin leaned in to speak directly into his ear. “They must have gone in deeper. We’re going to have to go inside.”

He stepped gingerly around the rock wall for a peek. The mouth of the cave was dark, but an orange hue emanated from somewhere deeper in.

“They must have lanterns or something,” Robin said.

“I don’t want to find out.”

Robin turned to face him. “If we don’t go inside and see what they’re doing then this trip was a waste of time! We insisted Litner let us go. You know his guys would have already gone in. We can’t go back to him with nothing.”

Patrick took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “They’re just a bunch of people with delusions of grandeur, right?”

“That’s right,” she said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re probably in there reading poetry and drinking wine.”

Patrick took Robin’s hand. “We’ll feel the walls for guidance until we find the lighted parts,” he said, trying to sound brave.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

With hands linked, they slid through the moist darkness of the cave entrance. Patrick tried not to think of bats as he felt his way along the cold wall. The cave branched off into a series of narrow corridors that made a gradual descent into the earth. They followed the amber light in the distance. At one point the tunnel opened up where a tiny underground waterfall bubbled soothingly into a pool. The place was amazing. The water had beautifully sculpted the strange underground labyrinth. The orange glow grew brighter, and soon they could hear voices in the distance.

They slid with backs against the wall, stopping just before the corridor gave way to a large open cavern. The tunnel ended here. Patrick and Robin tucked themselves tightly against the darkest part of the wall. They could see the others in the dimly lit cavern ahead, the space aglow with candles along the surrounding walls. Another little arc of candles was set up on the ground beneath the farthest wall, where a black circle the size of a giant beach ball was painted onto the stone.

Shep stood in front of this painted circle, touching parts of it with his fingertips, pulling back his hand, then repeating the act on a different part of the circle. Allisto and Margol stood behind him looking on. The old man knelt on the ground nearby with the big case open before him, checking the contents. Other boxes were stacked in a corner, where the tiny woman with the short hair was setting up medical supplies.

Patrick spotted a rocky ledge on the right wall of the cavern. It jutted up ten feet, leaving a few feet of clearance from its ledge to the cave ceiling. It looked like it had once been part of the wall itself, perhaps fallen victim to the collapse, if indeed this was the same cave. Aside from that, it looked like a great place to hide. Patrick tugged on Robin’s shirt, and pointed to the high ledge of rock. “Look,” he whispered. “Balcony seats.”

She shook her head.

“Why?” he whispered. “It’s dark along that side wall. They won’t see us crawl up there.”

“But they’ll hear us! It’s quiet in there.”

She was right. These rocks were unpredictable, and all it would take was a pebble falling while they climbed to draw Shep’s attention. As if in answer to their prayers, the old man started up some sort of power saw. The sound whirred loudly in the echoing cave, cutting through the calm. Robin tugged at him. “Let’s go!”

With the buzzing of the saw to mask their advance, they stuck to the shadows and scuttled up the ledge, putting themselves onto their stomachs once reaching the top. Here they had a perfect view of the goings on below, but were shielded in darkness on the right side of the cave. The power saw abruptly cut to silence, and the silence was replaced by Shep’s voice, already into the latter half of a sentence. “…until I tell you to turn on the saw! What the hell are you trying to do, Dr. Lichtenstein? Ruin my concentration? I’m working here!” Shep railed at the old man, who stood shakily with the big saw in his frail, bony hands.

“I-I’m sorry, Shepherd. I just wanted to make sure it was working all right. It’s been a while since I’ve used it.”

Shep walked over to the old man. “Don’t worry. This is the last time you’ll ever have to use the saw.”

The old man looked terrified of Shep, but stuck his chin out defiantly. In a quivering voice he said, “You’re damn right this is the last time! I can’t go through this again. I’m an old man! I don’t care what you do to me anymore, or how much you threaten me. My reputation means nothing now. This is the last time. I need to give my conscience some peace before I die!”

Shep sighed impatiently. “This is the last time because Klee is the final member of my family, not because you refuse, you arrogant old bag of guts. Give me that saw.”

The doctor looked uneasy. “What do you want it for?”

Shep circled the doctor. Margol watched as Allisto walked over to the pile of supplies where the young woman was. She handed Allisto a quart sized plastic container. Whatever was about to happen had been pre-arranged. Allisto took the container and walked over to stand patiently by Shep.

The doctor looked at the container Allisto held. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why is the container empty?”

“Hasn’t been filled yet, obviously,” Shep said.

“Why not? Where is the sacrifice? Who had to die today so that your foul kind can live?” The doctor glanced over at the corner. “Is it the woman?”

Shep smiled. “No, Dr. Lichtenstein. Brin-Marie is one of our people. It’s your blood we’ll be using today. You are the sacrifice. Surprise!”

The man trembled. “No!” he whispered. “You can’t kill me. You need me! I’m the only one who can do the amputation. You don’t know how to operate the saw!” He held the power saw to his chest protectively.

Shep laughed. “Come on old man. I’ve seen you do it enough times. Did you think I wasn’t paying attention? I can do the amputation myself.”

“No!” the old man cried, sounding more frustrated than frightened now. “No! I’ve lived in fear for years because of you. At least let me die in peace! I cannot die here, not by your hand. I will not be part of this abomination!”

Shep snatched the saw from the old man with one swift action. The old man took a shaky step backward and stumbled to the ground. He looked up at Shep. “Foul creature! You will burn for all you’ve done.”

“You should be thanking me. All of your sins will be forgiven. I’m giving you a gift. You haven’t exactly been a model citizen, remember? There was a time when you were a very naughty boy, Dr. Lichtenstein.”

The old man made a desperate, futile attempt at escape, but Shep caught him by the collar. “Fine, have it your way, doctor. If you won’t take your medicine like a big boy, I’ll have to force it on you.”

Patrick looked down at Shep, and it was like looking at a stranger that had taken over Shep’s body. But of course, that wasn’t the case at all. This was the real Shep. It was the other Shep, the Shep that Patrick had known for ten years that was the imposter.

Margol held the man while Shep took his hand, pulling his feeble arm out straight. He whimpered. Using the tip of the saw, Shep made a deep slice in the old man’s wrist. Blood seeped in a steady flow from the papery skin. Patrick felt Robin start to shake beside him, and he put an arm on her back. They were seeing something they were never meant to see, and it went beyond the attack on this old man. They were seeing Shep in his true form.

Robin glanced at Patrick, and he shook his head, reading the pleading intention in her eyes. They meant to kill that old man, and Patrick knew that all moral law dictated they should try to stop this from happening. But if they exposed themselves now, Shep might kill him and Robin. As horrified and sad as he was for this poor old doctor, he was not willing to risk his and Robin’s lives for the stranger. So, disgusted, he watched, as the black-haired brother caught the man’s blood in the plastic container.

When that task was complete, the doctor fell to the side. Shep looked down at his unconscious or perhaps dead body. “Now he’s in the way,” Shep said with annoyance. He picked the man’s limp form up and tossed him across the cave, where he landed on his back at the bottom of the ledge where Patrick and Robin were. Patrick looked down at the man. His eyes were slightly parted, and he was breathing. Alive.

The doctor’s eyes opened a bit wider. Patrick couldn’t imagine that he was seeing them. He shouldn’t even be awake after losing that much blood, and he was still bleeding. But he was definitely conscious. He clung to his wrist in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding. Patrick glanced over at the rest of the company. Shep was back to touching and poking the painted circle on the wall, as though he expected it to change somehow.

Looking back down at the old man, Patrick saw a weak smile edge his pale lips. Robin was waving her fingers. Patrick grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?” he mouthed. She pointed to the old man. With a crooked finger, the doctor waved up at them. A weak smile played at the corner of his lips. He saw them. He then took that crooked finger and placed it to his mouth, a silencing gesture. The man dropped his hand, turned slowly to his side, and began to write something in the dirt. It seemed an incredible effort to perform the task. When he’d finished, he looked up at them, and pointed to the message. They couldn’t read it from where they lay. He pointed again, then his hand dropped, and he let out a long sigh as his eyes glazed over.

Robin looked about to cry. Patrick put his hand over her mouth and shook his head. She nodded, but she was shaking again. She dropped her head and buried her face in her arm. Patrick hoped Shep’s little ceremony was almost over. Poetry and wine indeed. This was a horror show.

His eyes drifted back to the stony room below, where Shep ran his hands along the wall. He looked over his shoulder to where the Allisto squatted on the floor with the container. “Bring me the blood,” he said. Allisto stood but did not move. He looked uneasy. “Allisto! Did you hear me?”

“Are you sure it is time, Shepherd?”

Shep stormed over. “Do you doubt me, Allisto? Huh?”

The black-haired brother flinched. “I think maybe it is too soon.”

Shep glared at him. “I got you out, didn’t I, you little shit?”

Allisto’s shoulders trembled. “I know, but when Margol came through, the circle was different, it was—”

“It is never easy, Allisto, and it is never exactly the same. I got Margol through, didn’t I? I got you through, and Juris too!”

“Yes. You did. I am sorry.”

Shep looked over at Margol, who stood stoically with his hands clasped in front of him. “How about you, carrot top? Is your confidence in me as weak as your brother’s?”

“No. You know what is best. Allisto, give Shepherd the blood.”

Allisto hesitantly handed the container to Shep. Shep took it carefully. “Brin-Marie?”

The little woman with the pixie haircut looked up from her first aid supplies. “Yes?”

“Could you check on the doctor for me? Just make sure he’s dead.”

“Yes, Shepherd.” Brin-Marie walked over to where the old man’s body lay and placed a finger on his neck. She leaned in and listened to his chest. Patrick pulled his head back into the shadows as she stood. “He’s dead, Shepherd.”

“Good. The blood of the newly departed doesn’t exactly work unless the bloke is actually departed, now does it?” Shep looked around, grinning as if this was supposed to elicit a laugh. When no one laughed, he shrugged.

Walking back over to the wall, he opened the container, smearing blood along the rim of the painted circle. It dawned on Patrick then that the big circle on the wall had never been painted at all. It was merely stained with blood, presumably from other such ceremonies in the past. When the container was empty, Shep ran his hands through the blood on the wall in a circular motion. He chanted softly, the language unknown.

Allisto and Margol came up behind him and joined in whispering the strange words. The circle began to steam.

Steam? Patrick leaned farther over the ledge and squinted to see better. A steam was rising off the wall, like the blood Shep had smeared on it was cooking. A stagnant, metallic odor filled the air. Shep took a step back then placed his hands directly onto the center of the circle. He pushed against the wall until his forearms shook. This went on for nearly a minute until finally, he stepped back. “Damn it!” he screamed.

Allisto and Margol looked terrified, shifting side to side, wringing their hands. Shep turned, examining their faces. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll just try again.” He laughed nervously. “Don’t worry! Margol, it took three tries to get you out! Remember, Allisto?”

“Maybe we need more blood,” Allisto said.

Shep’s expression darkened, and Patrick wondered why the brunette brother hadn’t yet learned to keep his mouth shut when Shep was on a tear. Even Patrick knew that from years of dealing with Shep’s mood swings, although he’d never witnessed one of Shep’s tantrums post-murder before.

“You want more blood, Allisto? Fine.” Shep stormed over to the dead doctor. Patrick shuddered at how close Shep was. He could have reached down and touched his sandy curls. Shep picked the body up, threw it over his shoulder, then trudged back to where the others stood. “Let’s give it some more blood then, shall we?” Shep reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. Swinging the doctor’s body off of his shoulder, he made a deep cut across the dead man’s neck. Grabbing the old man’s hair, he pulled his head back until the wound gaped open, then walked the body over and panned it back and forth in front of the wall, trickling the sluggish stream of blood across the painted circle.

When the charade was over, he once again tossed the body across the cave. Patrick was thankful Shep had thrown him in the other direction this time. He didn’t think he could handle the dead man staring up at him with a gaping neck wound.

“There! Happy now, Allisto?”

Allisto looked about to cry. “Please Shepherd. Please. Just try again.” Allisto’s shoulders trembled.

Shep grabbed Allisto and kissed him on the mouth. “I’m sorry.” Holding Allisto’s face in his hands, he said, “Don’t be scared. I love you Allisto, my brother. Don’t worry. It’s going to work this time. You’re going to help me. Both of you.”

Shep’s own hands were shaking and tears wet his cheeks. Whatever endeavor they were attempting, it had them all in an emotional uproar. Margol came over and embraced the two of them. They all chanted and wept together. Robin lifted her head at this, and looked on with amazement at the emotional display. Abruptly, the three disengaged.

“Let’s do it,” Shep said, rubbing his palms together. He and the two brothers stood before the bloody circle. Side by side, they pressed their palms against the wall, each making a series of circular motions, as though searching for an opening. There was a tangible anticipation in the cave that Patrick felt with each shallow breath he took. Steam began to rise from the circle again, and soon the air was rank with the smell of blood. Patrick had to cover his nose to keep from gagging.

Hazy smoke began to fill the cave as the bloody circle seemed to be heating up, glowing from some unseen fire beyond the rock wall. The brothers chanted, loud and insistent. The chanting abruptly ceased as Shep called out “I’m in!”

The statement was followed by a whirl of activity. Patrick was having trouble seeing through the haze of smoke, but it looked like Shep’s hands were submerged in the wall, from his elbows down, as though the stone in the center had melted. Brin-Marie came rushing forward to watch. The brothers braced themselves on either side of Shep, each holding one of his shoulders. “Easy, easy,” Shep yelled out. “Okay! PULL!”

The brothers strained, pulling on Shep, but his arms appeared to be stuck in the wall now. This did not deter them. They pulled on him with all of their might. “I have contact!” Shep shouted. “PULL! Pull hard now!”

They pulled. The haze of smoke grew thicker before Patrick’s eyes, and he was thankful for it, because what happened next defied explanation.

Something, or someone, came through the wall and landed with a splat on the cave floor, taking Shep down with it. Patrick rubbed his eyes and stared at the smoking circle, which was once again nothing more than a solid mass of rock. But something had just shot out of that circle in the wall, like an oversized infant from a stony womb.

With the crowd of people that now scurried around the thing, Patrick could not see what it was. What he could see were another pair of hands still clasped to Shep’s. Shep released the hands and stood, shouting instructions. “Get him up! Get him up! Is he breathing? Slap his cheek!”

A loud screech echoed like a giant bird’s call through the cave. After the screech came sobbing, like an infant’s cry, only much deeper. The sound was heart breaking, full of pain and anguish. Shep, the two brothers, and Brin-Marie were now huddled around the crying thing on the ground. Patrick glanced at Robin, who at some point had buried her face in her forearm again. He wondered how much she’d missed.

“Bring me the saw. It’s best to do this right away,” Shep said, sounding eerily calm, back in control.

The power saw sprang to life, and the loud whirring was second only to the tortured screams that could be heard over it. The saw buzzed for roughly ten minutes, then fell silent. More anguished howls followed, labored breaths sucked deep, released in a wail of pain. After five or six more horrifying screams, they tapered off to quiet whimpering.

Patrick was suddenly aware of how close he was to Shep and the others. They’d dragged the thing toward the center of the cave, and now stood closer to Patrick and Robin’s hiding place. “I’ll get the gauze,” the woman said. “We need to stitch that up.”

“No!” Shep’s voice called out. “Do not stitch the wound. Put that cream I gave you on it. It will disinfect it and restrict the capillaries.”

“But we have to stop the bleeding!” Brin-Marie said, raising her voice for the first time.

“This is no ordinary balm, Brin-Marie. It will stop the bleeding. Trust me on this. Now do as I say.”

Patrick was frozen, afraid to peek over the ledge and view the scene he was hearing. They were so damned close. Robin was like a frozen statue beside him. At least she’d stopped shaking. He’d been afraid Shep would hear her bones rattling.

“Is that blanket ready?” Shep’s voice again.

“Ready,” said one of the brothers.

“Bring it here.”

The whimpering started again, and Patrick could no longer resist the urge to look. He lifted his head just enough to view the scene below. He almost wet himself when he saw exactly how close they were. He could have spit on their heads. Brin-Marie walked over to the supplies and returned with a large needle and syringe. A wet, naked man lay on a blanket, on his side, curled up into a ball and shaking. He was glistening with a slick shiny substance and he was covered with blood. The tiny wet ringlets of his hair were platinum. The rest of the group knelt around him. Margol blotted the naked man with a towel, cleaning the blood gently off his shoulders and neck.

Shep looked up at Brin-Marie, whose gloved hands held a syringe. “No. Take that away. No drugs. Not yet.”

Brin-Marie looked upset. “But he’s in such pain.”

“I need to make sure he has his mind before you go drugging him up. Wait.”

The naked man wept. His hands covered his face as he lay on his side crying. Although his face was covered, Patrick could clearly see one thing. He was one of them. He was a brother. Even wet, his hair hung in the chin-length ringlets they all shared. But who the hell was he? How had he gotten into the cave? Robin lifted her head, and was looking down at the naked man as well. Patrick leaned into her. “Is that Juris?” he whispered.

Shep lifted the naked man’s chin. Blood streaked his pale face like war paint. His eyes were closed, lids swollen as an infant just come through the womb. “Open your eyes,” Shep said in a soft, loving tone. The swollen eyelids fluttered, then opened as tears streamed. The eyes were beautiful, large and aquamarine. Though his face was covered with blood, Patrick could see before Robin told him that this was a completely new individual.

“Not Juris,” she whispered in his ear.

This man, even wet and bloody, was clearly the fairest of them all. His beauty was striking even with the messy gore that covered him, hair white like Juris’s, but his face was much softer. His look was slightly less masculine than the others, with rounded, doll-like cheeks. He could have been carved of porcelain for how perfect his skin was. His nude body was thin and wiry, yet sculpted with muscle tone, just as Shep’s was. He blinked, looking at Shep with confusion and fear.

Shep knelt on the floor with the new arrival. “Can you hear me?” he asked softly.

The naked man pushed himself up on wobbly arms. He blinked several times, focusing on Shep. Then he lifted a shaking hand, holding it before his eyes. He grimaced at it, as though it was not a hand, but a tumor that had just sprouted from his wrist. He opened and closed his fist, then let out a sob.

Shep took his hand and gently lowered it. “Klee, can you hear me? Do you recognize me? It’s me. It’s Zirub.”

Robin and Patrick exchanged a glance.

Allisto stroked the man’s wet hair. He spoke to him in soothing tones, but it was not English. The young man turned to Allisto, seeming to respond to the words. He held his hand up to Allisto, showing it to him. “Plefarr!” he whispered to Allisto. “Plefarr!”

Allisto nodded, looking sad. “I know.”

The man screamed then, holding his hand over his head for all to see. “Plefarr!”

Shep grasped the man’s face and turned it to meet his eyes. “Look at me, Klee. Focus. Look in my eyes. It has been a long time, but you must try to remember. You chose this. You chose this.”

The blond stared back at Shep, still grimacing. “Plefarr.” He sobbed.

“I know, Klee,” Shep said soothingly. “Do you remember the languages? This is English. Plefarr. Say it in English, Klee.”

The bloody man looked at Shep, and his eyes showed a flicker of understanding. “Say it?”

Shep looked delighted. “Yes! Say it, Klee! Say it!”

The bloody stranger straightened up and tried to stand, but he fell to the ground like his legs were made of rubber. Shep caught him and helped him into a kneel. “Don’t try to use your legs yet. Speak, Klee. Speak again. Let me hear your voice.”

The blond held both hands out in front of him, like a surgeon ready for gloves. He looked down at the rest of his body. “Plefarr,” he said softly. His eyes lifted to Shep and he began to whimper again.

“Say it in English, Klee,” Shep urged.

“Give him a break. He doesn’t remember yet,” Margol said.

Shep reached out and smacked Margol sharply across the face. “You went through this too, Margol! Try to have a little patience!” Shep turned his attention back to the one called Klee. “He remembers. Don’t you Klee?” Shep smiled at him.

The bloody stranger looked around the cave, seeming to become aware of his surroundings for the first time. Letting out another sob, he studied his own hands, then looked at Shep. “Flesh.”

Shep nodded slowly. “Yes, Klee. Flesh. Plefarr.”

Klee’s chin trembled. “No.” He shook his head. “No plefarr. No flesh! No flesh!” Klee turned his head and caught sight of Margol standing next to him. He held his hands up to Margol. “Margol, flesh!”

Margol and Allisto both beamed. “He said my name.” Margol’s voice choked with emotion. “He remembers. He said my name.”

Shep smiled. “That he did, Margol. Brin, you can give him that shot now.”

“Huh?” Brin-Marie looked stunned and shaken.

“The shot, Brin-Marie. Give Klee the shot. Now I know he’s all right, I don’t want him in pain.”

“Oh. Right. The shot.” Brin-Marie gave Klee a shot in the buttocks while Margol wiped his back with a cloth. She rubbed ointment across the section of his back that Margol had cleaned.

Shep ordered Allisto to begin packing up the vans. There was a flood of commotion while they all struggled to do their jobs, and to keep from pissing off Shep.

“Come on,” Shep said, slinging one of Klee’s arms over his shoulder. “Come on up. You’re okay.”

As Shep turned Klee around, Patrick and Robin got a clear view of the naked man’s back. Between his shoulder blades was a shockingly deep wound, clearly visible now that the blood had been cleaned away. It was red, and shaped like an upside-down horseshoe.

Robin sucked her breath in. Patrick reached out to cover her mouth, but it was too late. Shep froze. “Everybody shut up!” he ordered. “I just heard something.” Margol and Brin-Marie stopped moving.

Allisto came strolling back into the cave from being outside loading up the van. He stopped short when he saw Shep and the others. “What is wrong?” he whispered.

Shep looked around the room. “I’m not sure. I thought I heard something.” Patrick felt Robin begin to shake violently next to him. The movement caused tiny flecks of rock to scatter, making small sounds. Patrick rolled on top of her, suppressing her tremors with his weight. It had the desired effect, and the cave fell silent once more. Shep was still on alert. “Nobody move a muscle. I smell something in here.”

He lowered Klee onto the blanket, then walked around the cave, stopping to sniff the air every few feet like a dog. He came back around and stopped directly beneath the ledge where Patrick lay on top of Robin. Patrick tried desperately not to breathe. He could still feel Robin shaking against his body. Shep sniffed loudly. “I definitely smell something. It’s familiar.”

Patrick held tighter to Robin, wrapping both his arms around her to help control the shaking.

“It’s definitely a sugar substance.” Shep sniffed the air again.

Fee Fi Fo Fum, Patrick thought as he struggled to remain motionless. His own arms were beginning to ache. It was so damned quiet in the cave with all of them standing still! If someone didn’t move soon, he was sure he’d give them away. To make matters worse, he had a terrible itch building above his left eyebrow, and he thought he might sneeze from all of the residual smoke in the air.

“It’s candy,” Shep announced suddenly. “I smell candy.”

Patrick looked down at Robin and the candy necklace she still wore. Oh shit. He looked down at Shep and wondered if he’d be able to harm him if forced into an altercation. Whether or not it had been deception, he’d thought of Shep as his friend for ten years. Those feelings didn’t just disappear. As with a jilted lover, pain and anger replace the affection, but only time can truly dissolve the love.

Shep turned to the brothers. “Which one of you cheese-heads brought candy into this sacred place?” he asked angrily. “Both of you come here. Empty your pockets!”

Please God, Patrick thought, let one of those curly-headed scrubs have a piece of candy in his pocket.

“I don’t have any candy,” Margol said choppily, with assurance.

“Me neither,” Allisto said, coming forward. “You can check my pockets.”

Patrick watched Shep rummaging through the pockets of his two look-alike cronies. Neither of them had any candy.

“Is this what you’re smelling?” Brin-Marie asked.

Shep walked over and took something from her hand. “What is this? Bubble gum?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. It was in my pocket. I didn’t know it was forbidden. I meant no disrespect.”

Shep examined the gum and took a long whiff. “All right. That must be it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Patrick let out a quiet sigh of relief as the activity ensued below and the noise level in the cave elevated once more. They watched as the rest of the boxes were hauled out. Shep and Brin-Marie brought the bloody naked man to his feet again. They wrapped a blanket around him and began walking him out of the cave, each with an arm slung over their shoulder. His weak legs bent in all directions.

“Candles?” Brin-Marie inquired.

“Leave them,” Shep said. “They’ll burn themselves out.”

After several trips in and out, Patrick and Robin were finally left alone in the cave. They lay silently, staring at the candles down below, not daring to move. The walls and the floor of the cave were covered in blood and the air stunk with that rank metallic odor. Dr. Lichtenstein’s mutilated body had been rolled in a sheet and taken out with the boxes like an inanimate piece of cargo. Now the only sounds were of their own breathing, and the distant bubbling of the tiny waterfall in the exterior corridor.

After a patient ten-minute wait, they agreed to climb down from their hiding spot. When they got to the ground, Patrick hugged Robin. “Are you all right?”

“Let’s not talk about it until we get out of here, okay? I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

Patrick agreed. He wanted to run screaming from the cave as well, but not before he looked at what the doctor had written in the dirt. He led Robin over, and the two of them hunched over the faint scribbling. “It’s a name,” Robin said.

“Yes, I can see that. The question is, who the hell is Wesley J. Shepherd?”

“Well that last name is certainly familiar. Do you think it’s a relative of Shep’s?”

Patrick shook his head. “Who knows. We’ll talk to Litner about it. Maybe he can trace the name.”

“Can we go now? This place is making me sick. All I can smell is blood and I need fresh air.” Patrick happily agreed.

They headed toward the cavern opening, dodging the blood stains where they could. Two of the candles had already burned out and it was getting harder to see. Robin grabbed Patrick’s hand as they headed toward the exit tunnel. She tripped suddenly and tumbled to the ground, taking Patrick down. “Oh shit!” he said rubbing his elbow. “Are you okay?”

Robin sat up. “I’m fine. I tripped over something.” She lifted her legs and sprung backward. “Oh gross!”

Patrick leaned over and examined the object, an animal carcass of some sort. There were long white feathers stained with fresh blood. “It looks like a bird.”

Robin wrinkled her nose. “Why would they kill a bird?” She got up on her knees and leaned in more closely, poking the large white object with her finger. “It’s big.”

“Pick it up,” Patrick said.

“No way! It’s dead. You pick it up.”

Patrick lifted the bloody thing off the ground and spread it out. Its wingspan was longer than his body. “Holy shit.”

“Patrick,” Robin said in a shaky whisper. “Turn it around. Look at the other side.”

Patrick turned it over and lifted it up again, spanning the wings outward. There was no bird in the center of those wings, only a thick piece of bloody cartilage and a few broken bone fragments connecting them. It hit him then, and he gasped, dropping the thing. “What the chicken fried fuck?”

“I know,” Robin said, rubbing her arms.

The cartilage connecting the wings had a distinct shape, like an upside-down horseshoe. Patrick looked at Robin, wide eyed. “What the fuck, Robin? What the fuck!”

“Look.” Robin pointed to the ground a few feet away. The power saw lay abandoned or forgotten in the dirt. The blade was red with blood, and a few gruesome chunks of flesh clung to its circular blade. Patrick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He shook his head.

He didn’t have time to formulate the thought because they both heard Shep’s voice suddenly. He was coming up the tunnel, screaming at somebody. Robin grabbed Patrick’s arm. “They’re back! Come on we have to hide!”

They scrambled quickly back up to the ledge and ducked themselves down just before Shep and Margol entered the cave. Shep was angrily ranting at Margol, who carried a canister of gasoline. “I give you one simple task, Margol. One simple job to do and you fuck it up. Do I have to do everything myself?”

“You distracted me!” Margol said. “You were checking me for candy and you were rushing me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just do it and let’s get out of here. Oh, and look! You left the saw here too. Very nice, Margol. Real swift work.”

Shep picked the saw up and shook it off. Margol opened the gas can and doused the bloody white wings. He emptied the canister, completely saturating them, then lit a match and dropped it. The wings made a ‘woof’ sound as they burst into flames. Shep and Margol stood by, watching the wings burn for several minutes. Their eyes were blank, looking strangely sad as they concentrated on the flames.

“I hate this part,” Margol said.

Shep wrapped an arm around his brother. “I know.”

They watched the wings burn for a while longer. Shep wiped tears from his eyes, then said finally, “That’s good. Let’s go.”

Margol put the cap back on the canister, and the two of them walked quickly out of the cave.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nobody spoke. Nobody even moved. The three of them stared over the coffee table at Robin and Patrick where they sat on the love seat. “Well? Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” Patrick asked. They continued to stare, looking dumbfounded. Except for Agent Litner of course. His face was always a blank slate. Patrick squirmed as the silence continued.

It had taken twenty minutes to fully report everything that happened down at Pearl Chasm the night before. And they had reported all of it, holding nothing back. Now Patrick wondered if they should have edited the recalling of the story. Clearly, the little group was not swallowing it.

“Wings, did you say?” Father Carbone asked, wincing.

“Yes, that’s right. Wings,” Patrick answered.

The clock ticked on the wall. Patrick had never heard Father Carbone’s house so quiet. Finally, Copie stood up and did a quick pace of the room. He returned and sat back down, looking quizzically at Patrick, one finger tapping his chin.

Patrick sighed. “Okay Copie. You obviously have something to say, so let’s have it.”

“All right. Did you take any hallucinogenic drugs before you went into that cave?”

“Hey fuck you, you weren’t there!”

“Angels, Patrick? Are we talking about angels here?”

“I never said anything about angels,” he snapped. “I’m merely reporting what we saw.”

“But that’s what you’re implying, right? That we have blood-crazed angels running around?”

Patrick clenched his teeth. “I don’t know what they are, Copie. I’m just telling you what happened.”

“Take is easy, Patrick,” Father Carbone said. “Let’s all calm down here. Now I have to say, Copie has a good point. If not angels, then what are you two suggesting here?”

Patrick shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Robin and I were discussing it, and we were wondering if maybe it could be some sort of…genetic mutation.”

Father Carbone raised his eyebrows. “A genetic mutation? This isn’t like a sixth toe, Patrick. You’re talking about wings here.”

“I’m aware!”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, but you said yourself that neither one of you actually saw these wings…attached to a person. I mean, this naked person, this Klee…he wasn’t actually wearing them?”

“No, Father Carbone. Nobody was wearing them when we found them. I’ve given you the facts of what happened. So, tell me, what would be your explanation for this, oh holy one?”

Father Carbone drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, the two of you witnessed something horrible. Under the stress of seeing someone killed, and the strangeness of the ritual, perhaps you let your imaginations run away with you.”

“I agree,” Copie said. “I mean, you find part of a bird carcass on the ground and you just assume the wings were on this bloody guy’s back?”

“How do you explain the power saw and the wound?” Patrick asked him.

“They’re crazy, man! They obviously marked this guy with that saw as part of some sick ritual they have. And as far as people spitting out of rock walls like a fetus, well, I think the priest is right. You were under stress. The cave was full of smoke. Your mind started playing tricks on you.”

Agent Litner got up and walked out of the room. Robin had been sitting silently next to Patrick, but now she spoke up. “The wings were real, I touched them myself. And I do believe they were on the guy’s back. Does that make him an angel? Fucked if I know, but that shit happened. You weren’t there, Copie! You didn’t risk your life. All you’ve done is sit on your ass and whine.”

“And almost get burned alive by your wingless boyfriend.”

“It’s getting old, Copie,” Patrick said.

“Not to me.”

Father Carbone buried his face in his hands and sighed. Patrick looked at him expectantly, but the priest remained silent. Copie continued to taunt. “So in a nutshell, Patrick, no pun intended, this thing comes through the wall from God knows where, no pun intended again. They take a hack saw—”

“Power saw,” Patrick corrected him. “I think it was an orthopedic saw.”

“Excuse me, they take a power saw, cut off its wings, give it a Band-Aid and they’re good to go?”

Patrick ignored Copie. His focus was on Father Carbone whose face was still buried in his hands. “You believe me. Don’t you, Father Carbone?”

Father Carbone lifted his head. “I believe you’re telling the truth about what you saw.”

“And? How would you interpret it?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t believe in angels, I can tell you that.”

“But you’re a priest! How can you not believe in angels?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t. I had to do very discerning studies of religious texts on the way to earning my degree, and angels just never seemed credible to me. The priesthood was a personal choice I made, but it doesn’t mean I no longer think critically.”

“Great. You don’t believe the hype you feed to your flock every Sunday in church. So who told the Virgin Mary she was pregnant with the son of God? Elvis?”

“I agree with Father Carbone,” Copie said. “Angels are bullshit, not to mention way too trendy. My mother collects little figurines, they’re all over the house. The things are definitely over-exposed. They’re on mugs, bumper stickers, they’re just tacky.”

Patrick stood. “I don’t give a shit if there are too many angels on fucking coffee mugs. And I’m not suggesting what we saw was related to anything biblical. These winged beings of mythology might have been aliens or cryptids or some shit all along. Trust me, there is nothing divine about these creatures.”

Robin groaned. “I’m already trying to accept that I was dating a murderer, now I have to chew on this? That I’ve been fucking an alien for six years?”

“I’m just speculating, I don’t know,” Patrick said.

Agent Litner came back into the room, executing his usual habit of tapping his temple with a pen. He’d been so quiet that Patrick had nearly forgotten he was there. “So Patrick, we need to discuss your upcoming infiltration of Forest Bluffs.”

Patrick studied Litner. “What?”

“We have to review our plan. We need to send you out there right away.”

“Are you nuts, Litner? You still want me to go out there and live in that house with those…people? Have you heard a word I’ve said? Those house guests of Joey’s, Shep included, are not exactly normal.”

“I don’t care,” Agent Litner said.

“You don’t care?”

“No. I don’t care. I don’t care if they’re evil fairies or little green men from outer space. It’s still a matter of national security, and I still need those crop samples. We had a deal, Obrien, and I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

Patrick couldn’t believe his ears. At this point, he’d rather gnaw his own arm off than go anywhere near Shepherd, never mind live in the same house with him. “Are you truly a heartless robot, Litner? You weren’t there! You didn’t see it. It was carnage! It was the stuff of nightmares! Just look what it’s doing to Robin.”

Robin rocked back and forth, her eyes distant. Agent Litner leaned against the doorway twirling his pen like a baton. “What’s wrong with her?”

Patrick sneered. “What’s wrong with her? Do you mean beside the fact that she’s just witnessed a murder? Go arrest someone! Arrest Shep.”

“Shep’s crimes will be dealt with, it’s already under investigation. But we get the crop samples before any action is taken. If we grab Shep now, Joey could continue his plan. You said Joey was not there last night. He probably has an alibi and could deny all involvement.”

“But Shep is a killer, I don’t want to have a sleepover with him.” Patrick shook his head. “Or should I say Zirub is a killer.”

Father Carbone narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“Zirub. That’s the name Shep used to refer to himself in the cave when he was speaking to Klee.”

“That name’s in that crazy little journal he wrote. It still rings a bell with me. It did when I first read it. I know I’ve heard that name in the past.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick asked hopefully. “If you can get any details on the name, I’d like to know. It’s fucked up not knowing who your former best friend actually is.”

“Again,” Robin said. “I win that contest. Had his penis in me. Many times.”

Carbone nodded. “I need to make a call. I have a colleague over at Saint Christopher’s who studies the celestial hierarchy. He may be able to sort some of this out.”

“But you said the angel…angle…the angel angle is bullshit,” Robin said.

“I know, but my field of study is theology. If I read that name somewhere, chances are it was in some form of religious text, whether Catholic or otherwise. It’s just a hunch. I’ll look into it and see what plays out.”

“Hey, I have an idea!” Copie said, bright eyed. “Let’s ask him!” Copie pointed to the floor.

Agent Litner cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Patrick looked suspiciously at Litner, then at Copie. “Let’s ask who?” Copie avoided Patrick’s eyes. “Copie?”

Copie cringed, glancing uneasily at Agent Litner. “Well, um, you know those guys we’ve been calling the brothers? The ones with the curly hair?”

“I spent last night in a cave watching them play with blood. What is your point?”

“Well…” he glanced at Agent Litner, then at Father Carbone.

Carbone nodded. “You might as well tell him, Copie. He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

“Tell me what?” Patrick demanded.

Copie shrugged. “We caught one of them.”

Patrick frowned. “You caught one of them?”

“Yeah. We caught one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have Juris. Don’t you?” Robin said. “It’s Juris. Isn’t it?”

Father Carbone walked toward her. “Yes. How did you know his name?”

“I spent a weekend at Forest Bluffs. I met him. I noticed he wasn’t in the cave with the others last night.”

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Patrick demanded.

Agent Litner sighed. “It was a necessary precaution, Patrick. We found Juris spying on us outside the club the night of our meeting. He must have been following you. Had we let him go, he’d have warned Shepherd and the others about our collaboration. So we had to…detain him.”

“Where is he?” Patrick demanded. “I want to talk to him.”

“Patrick, I want you to stay calm,” Litner said.

“Where is he?”

“He’s in the basement,” Father Carbone said softly.

Patrick looked at the priest. “In the basement.”

“Yes.”

“What? Here?”

“He’s tied to a chair,” Copie said.

Patrick and Robin looked at each other, then they both ran for the basement door. The other three followed. “Please, Patrick, wait!” Father Carbone called after him. “Try not to upset him. He has a hangover!”

****

Patrick flipped the cellar light on and trampled down the stairs with the others following. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he stepped into the spacious basement. It was the blond stalker all right. Even with his head hung down to his chest, he looked strikingly like a brother to Shep. His body was wrapped with wire. It was a sad sight, sort of like viewing a lovely but dangerous animal cruelly caged up.

Robin stepped up alongside Patrick. Juris did not look up when they entered the room. He appeared to be sleeping. The only sign of life was when his long white curls moved up and down slightly with each breath he took.

“Jesus,” Robin said. “Has he been tied to that chair since the meeting?”

Litner nodded. “He’s extremely strong, and prone to violent behavior.”

“Have you been feeding him?” Robin asked.

“Of course,” Father Carbone said. “But he won’t eat anything but chocolate and he won’t drink anything but water and brandy.”

“It appears he has unusual body chemistry,” Litner said. “He seems able to slow down his own metabolism, as though he is literally saving his strength. He’s exhibited few normal bodily functions since his arrival.”

Patrick scowled at the brother, a chill shivering down his back. “Has he said anything?”

“Och fee!” Juris exclaimed, and they all jumped. He lifted his head and glared at Patrick. “Och fee!” he repeated, disgust in his narrowed green eyes.

Patrick matched his stare. “Well, well. Look who’s up. What is och fee?”

Juris’s face tightened. “Betrayer!” he hissed. “You are a filthy betrayer!”

Patrick laughed, a high-pitched guffaw that edged on madness. “I’m the betrayer? That’s certainly an interesting perspective. Do you even know what your precious Shepherd has done to betray me?”

Juris spit at him, just missing Patrick’s face as he ducked to the right. Patrick grimaced and took a step back.

“He does that a lot,” Father Carbone said.

Patrick looked at the priest. “I want to see his back,” he said. “Robin said they all have the scar. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

Juris grinned at Robin. “It’s lovely to see you again, Robin. You are also a betrayer, but more pleasant to look at than the pig Obrien. Why don’t you run along back to my brother? I’m sure he must be missing you by now.”

“Don’t speak to her!” Patrick growled.

This only made Juris’s smile widen. “She does not belong to you, Obrien. She belongs to Shepherd. I have more right to speak to her than you.”

Robin’s face flushed with anger, and she approached Juris. “You listen to me, Goldilocks. I don’t belong to anyone! And if I were going to belong to someone, it sure as shit wouldn’t be that murdering freak you call your brother! You can tell him that.”

Juris glanced over at Litner. “I would love to, Robin. But I don’t think I will be telling Shepherd anything anytime soon. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a bind.”

“I need to see his back,” Patrick repeated.

“We can’t risk untying him,” Carbone said. “I’ll get you a pair of scissors. You can cut his shirt if you want.”

The priest clomped up the wooden stairs and returned momentarily with a pair of kitchen shears, which he handed to Patrick. Juris simply stared. Patrick rounded the back of the chair and held Juris’s shoulders while Robin cut down the back of his shirt, skillfully avoiding the steel ropes. She dropped the scissors and tore the shirt open, exposing his bare back. Patrick gasped. The scar was there. It was nearly identical to Shep’s, if not a bit fresher looking.

“My God,” Patrick said.

“I told you,” Robin said. “They all have them.”

Patrick moved around the chair to face Juris. “Where did you get the scar?”

“Fuck you.”

Patrick turned away. “Fine,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Then I guess you don’t want to hear about what happened to Klee.”

Juris looked like he’d been punched. “You-you have seen my brother Klee?”

“Maybe,” Patrick taunted.

Rage flashed in his green eyes and Juris trembled. “You tell me! Damn you! If you have seen Klee you must tell me. Is he alive?”

“Where did you get the scar, Juris? And don’t tell me your daddy branded you with a horseshoe. That one’s been used.”

“Fuck you! Dirty betrayer!”

Patrick moved in closer and leaned over so he was face to face. “Have it your way. If you won’t tell me anything, then I won’t tell you anything.”

“He’s a good interrogator,” Copie whispered to Agent Litner. “He’s much better than you were.” Litner gave Copie a scowl.

Father Carbone strung a crucifix around the prisoner’s neck. Juris grinned. “Do you think I am a vampire?”

“I don’t know what you are, Juris. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Why don’t you bite me?”

Robin grabbed a handful of Juris’s hair and tugged his head back. “What the hell are you?”

Juris smiled up at her sweetly. “Oh, just a regular guy.”

“Who is Wesley J. Shepherd?” Patrick asked, remembering the name the old doctor wrote in the dirt.

Juris whipped his head around and stared at Patrick with open shock. “What did you say?”

“I said who is Wesley J. Shepherd?”

Juris looked at Patrick as though he’d performed a magic trick. “Where did you hear that name?”

“From a dead man. Do you know the name?”

Juris shook his head. “He does not exist.”

“If you don’t know the name, then how do you know he doesn’t exist?”

“Do not play mind games with me, Obrien. You will lose. Tell me where you heard that name.”

“Shep told me all about him. I just wanted to see if you knew.”

“You lie poorly. I know it was not from Shepherd.”

“How?”

“Because Shepherd will not speak that name aloud. Shepherd will never speak that name again.”

“Why? Who is Wesley and what is his connection to Shep?”

Juris sat tight-lipped. Patrick had filled Agent Litner in about the name. Litner assured him that if Wesley J. Shepherd existed, either now or anytime in the past, Litner would find him. Patrick was beyond curiosity about the name now, especially in light of Juris’s reaction.

“I’d like some chocolate please,” Juris said.

“No. You get no chocolate until you answer one of our questions.” Father Carbone crouched down on one knee in front of Juris. “You’re quite beautiful, Juris. That worries me.”

“Why is that, priest? Are you afraid I’m going to steal one of your little boyfriends?”

Robin and Patrick exchanged a smirk. Juris shared Shep’s ruthlessly keen ability to vex and taunt. He was, in fact, so like Shepherd, that Patrick was finding it increasingly difficult to despise him. He feared him much more than he hated him. His speech seemed to have improved tremendously in a short time. When Patrick encountered him at Betsy’s, he spoke with a much slower and more broken inflection. It was as though his total verbal capacity had accelerated over the short time since he’d seen him.

Father Carbone continued. “It is said a demon is never more dangerous than when disguised as an angel of light.”

“I see. First you think I am a vampire, now I am a demon? You amuse me. So…arrogant. You know nothing. You speak of demons, and angels. You do not even know what such creatures are. You do not even know what you are.”

“And you do?”

Juris chuckled, but didn’t answer.

“Have you fallen, Juris? Are you a fallen one?”

Juris spit at him. Litner casually strolled over and handed the priest a handkerchief, which he used to wipe the spittle off of his cheek. “There is no such thing as a fallen one,” Juris said with contempt. “Your dumb brain believes everything you read in your dumb books. You are a dumb priest. A dumb man. Someone bring me some brandy. I grow bored of talking with this dumb man.”

“Where did you get the scar?” Carbone pressed on.

“Give me some chocolate and I will tell you.”

“Tell me and I will give you some chocolate.”

Juris remained silent. Father Carbone stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “You mock my beliefs, yet you say it’s not safe for you in this church. Why is that?”

“For reasons your dumb brain could not possibly understand.”

“Try me.”

“It has nothing to do with your dumb religion. Bring me chocolate. I grow bored of the questions!”

“Why is it not safe for you here? Answer me!” the priest yelled.

Juris cringed and his eyes darted around the room.

“You said if you stay here, they will find you. Who are they? Huh? Tell me!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why should I keep my voice down? Who are you afraid is going to hear me?” Father Carbone yelled up to the ceiling. “Hey! Everyone! There is a fallen one in my basement!”

“Stop that!” Juris struggled against the ropes.

“Hey!” Father Carbone screamed again. “If there is anyone listening, I have Juris in my basement! I don’t think he’s supposed to be here!”

Juris threw his head back and let out a sound that left them all covering their ears. It was a wild, inhuman screech, like some prehistoric creature from a monster movie. Patrick and Robin had heard a similar screech come from Klee in the cave at Pearl Chasm. Juris’s scream finally ceased and the windows in the basement rattled until one of them cracked. The room fell silent. They all uncovered their ears. Juris glared at Father Carbone, panting.

Carbone walked over to the window, and with a trembling hand, peeled back the paper that covered it. The glass had a jagged crack down the center, like a fine spider web.

“Juris,” Litner said calmly. “Please don’t do that again.”

“Tell the priest to stop shouting then.”

“Answer our questions, and he will.”

“Fine.” Juris slowly turned his head to glare at Father Carbone. “Have I fallen, you ask me? You’d fall too, if someone cut your fucking wings off.”

No one spoke. They were all stunned. Juris turned to Patrick. “You asked me where I got the scar. I just answered you. Tell me about Klee,” he said with desperation.

Patrick glanced at Robin. She nodded. No one wanted to hear that scream again. “Your brother Klee is very much alive. The last time I saw him, he was wrapped in a blanket and leaving the cave with Shep.”

Juris’s face lost a bit of its anguish, but he still looked suspicious. “Describe Klee to me. Tell me what he looks like.”

Patrick crouched in front of Juris. “He looks like the rest of you freaks.”

Juris sneered. “You could have speculated that through deductive reasoning. Give me details.”

“His hair was your color. He looks more like you than he does the others, but his features are more delicate. Baby face.”

Juris appeared to be considering this, but he still didn’t look convinced. Robin spoke up. “He was yelling something in another language. Shep made him say it in English, then they gave him a pain killer.”

Juris’s eyes widened. “What was he yelling?”

“Flesh,” Robin answered. “Plefura or something like that.”

Juris let out a long breath and nodded. “Plefarr.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Juris looked at Robin and nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly as fat tears streamed down his face. “Thank you.”

Robin’s face softened as Juris wept, and it made Patrick want to scream. He got off of the floor and approached her. “Don’t be fooled by the sentiment, Robin. It doesn’t redeem him. The only thing these freaks care about is each other. Everyone else, including the lot of us, they’d kill in an instant without remorse.”

Robin shrugged. “At least they care about something.”

“I want to be moved out of this church,” Juris demanded, his tone vile again.

“Sorry. No can do,” Litner said.

Juris stared at them all for a long time. His gaze lingered on Copie. “Fine. May I at least have some chocolate now, young one?”

Copie looked at Father Carbone, who nodded his approval. Copie grabbed the bag of Kisses and approached Juris unabashedly. He’d spent a good deal of time with the prisoner now, and he was no longer afraid. He unwrapped two kisses and held them out in front of Juris’s mouth. “Open up.”

In one fluid motion, Juris hunched his body down then pressed his knees out, snapping the steel ropes that held him below the waist. His upper body was still secured to the chair, but he was able to thrust his legs upward and catch Copie around the neck, holding him in a scissor lock between his knees.

Patrick went diving forward to help Copie. Juris twisted his knees a little and Copie whimpered. “I wouldn’t, Obrien. Come any closer and I snap his neck.” Copie groaned as Juris squeezed his legs tighter.

Agent Litner had drawn his gun and was pointing it at Juris. “Let him go, Juris.”

“You can shoot me, lawman, but not before I snap his neck. Untie me and take the cuffs off.”

“I can’t do that, Juris. Just let him go.”

“Not until you make a concession. I want to be moved out of this church. I want to be held elsewhere.”

“Fine. I can have you moved to a new location within twenty-four hours.”

“You have two hours. And I want more chocolate and brandy.”

“Well,” Litner said, stony as ever, “that’s a bit out of my job description, but I’m sure the priest can accommodate you. Now let Copie go.”

“You best keep your word.” He unlocked his knees and Copie dropped to the floor.

Robin ran to Copie, who was shaken but not harmed. Litner quickly re-tied Juris’s legs, doubling up the steel ropes. Juris did not fight him. “Copie, all right?” Litner asked.

“He is alive,” Juris said. “I kept my part of the bargain. Do you keep your promises?”

Litner finished securing the ropes and stepped back. “All right, Juris. I can’t say you’ve been a treat, but you’ve been more cooperative than usual today. I’ll have you moved to a new location as soon as possible. Father Carbone will get you your chocolate and brandy.”

Father Carbone crossed his arms stubbornly. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“Get the man, or whatever he is, his brandy, Father Carbone. Patrick, you need to come with me. We have a mission to prepare you for.” Litner headed for the stairs. The rest of the company followed closely behind him. They had all had enough of the basement, and of Juris.

“Let’s go, Patrick,” Litner demanded when they got up to the kitchen.

Patrick looked at Robin. He wanted to say so much to her, but he wasn’t sure where they stood. So much had happened, and he was afraid she might be regretting the kiss they shared on the way to Pearl Chasm. Much to his delight, she ran to him and they fell into a deep passionate kiss. They broke the kiss and he hugged her. “Be careful,” she said. “You owe me a real date.”

“I’ll come back in one piece. I promise,” he said, clinging to her, not wanting to let go.

The rest of them looked on sheepishly. Father Carbone grinned. Even Litner raised a quizzical eyebrow. “When did you two start sucking face?” Copie asked bluntly.

“So you know, Robin,” Litner said, “I’m going to have Patrick tell Shep that he has to come back to Boston once a week for a consulting job. This may not be necessary if he can get the crop sample the first week, but we just can’t be sure. We’ll use that time for briefings, since we can’t risk contacting him by phone once he’s moved out there. Patrick, let’s get moving. I want to get this damn thing figured out and have it over with.”

Father Carbone walked Litner and Patrick outside and watched them drive off. He gazed at the passing traffic for several minutes after they’d gone. He was not anxious to go back inside, where something inhuman sat quietly hostile in his basement.

Chapter Thirty

“I want to go out! Are you listening to me?” Joey threw another hunk of cheese. Shep continued to tap away at the computer as the cheese bounced off his shoulder and joined the other pieces on the floor around his chair. Joey’s tirade had been going on for nearly an hour, and Shep’s patience was wearing thin.

“For the last time Joey, you cannot leave the house. It’s too risky. Oh, and please stop pelting me with cheese. You’re being immature.”

“I am going to lose my shit if I don’t get out of this house, Shepherd.”

Shep sighed and turned to Joey, who sat sideways in a leather recliner. He picked up another piece of cheese from the tray and tossed it across the room where it bounced off of Shep’s temple. “I want to go out!”

“Did you or did you not get shot last week? Have you forgotten so soon? Do you know what I’ve been doing for the last two hours?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me, and I’m sure it’s going to be very boring.”

“Let me enlighten you,” Shep said. “I’ve been scouring social media and the hundreds of websites and articles that have cropped up in your honor. Aside from the ones calling for your death, you also have stalkers now, most of them women who are intent on finding you so that they may bear your children. If we go out in public you could cause a riot, get killed, or both.”

Joey pouted and kicked the tray of hors d’oeuvres off the end table with a loud clang, making a catastrophic mess on the floor. Shep could scarcely blame him for going stir crazy. He’d kept him completely under guard since the shooting. He’d even had the followers come inside the house to hear Joey’s sermons in the library. He knew his measures were extreme, but these were extreme times, and if something happened to Joey, Shep’s entire purpose would be defeated. He would not let that happen.

“I can’t stay in this house forever, Shep. Why can’t we go out and have a couple of drinks? God, what I wouldn’t give for a night at Monty’s.”

“Do you want to ruin all we’ve worked for so you can have a couple tequila slammers?”

Joey crossed his arms in defiance. “I don’t care about the booze. I can drink here if I want. I need to see people. Real People! Not these zombies we’ve got living out in the fields. I need socialization and live music. And women! I need to see lots of women!”

Shep logged out of the computer and stood up. “Listen, boy wonder, you have to be patient. This is a very critical time. Once the crop is harvested and the product is dispersed, we can all relax. Eventually Obrien will be here, and you’ll be able to roam around as you please. And if it’s women you want, Kelinda is naked in the Jacuzzi as we speak.”

Joey made a sour face. “I don’t want her. She’s changed. She’s just another zombie now.”

“She’s a zombie because of you, you idiot. May I remind you that we could have avoided all this if you’d just let me kill her? You pleaded for her life.”

“You can kill her now if you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Well it’s too late now! Her parents know she’s out here!” Shep shook his head. “This is all irrelevant.”

Years of planning, and Joey chose now to fall apart on him. It was bad enough that Obrien hadn’t come through yet. He could not lose control of Joey too. Part of Joey’s behavior was due to the fact that Shep kept him drunk nearly twenty-four hours a day, but that couldn’t be helped. Alcohol was the only thing that calmed the fear in his blood. Except for Obrien of course, but the stupid prick was still holding out on them.

As though reading his thoughts, Joey said, “I miss Obrien.” His face was sad and wistful.

Shep stormed over. “Oh stop that! You do not miss Obrien. Your blood misses him, that’s all.”

Joey shook his head. “It’s not just that. I think I actually miss him, Shep. Obrien listened to me, you know? He laughed at my jokes. He didn’t treat me like a hand puppet, the way you do.”

“Oh boo hoo. Your ego misses Obrien, that’s all.”

“You don’t miss him? Not even a little?”

Shep was silent for a moment. “Enough, Joey. Are you forgetting that I put your soul to sleep? You don’t have any feelings, therefore you cannot possibly miss Obrien.”

“That’s why I’m asking. If a deadhead like me can miss our friend, then you must feel at least something about it.”

“I feel annoyance. But he will be here, mark my words. He will come not because of any love for you or me. But because the blood running through his veins instructs him to.”

Joey stood. “Oh really? Then why isn’t he here? Huh? Why isn’t it working, Mr. Plan-of-the-Century?”

“Obrien will come around! It’s just taking a little longer than I anticipated. He will be here soon, and he’ll be behaving like a trained dog!”

Joey yawned deliberately.

“Joseph Pierre Duvaine, are you listening to me?”

“I want to go out, Shep.”

“Oh, mother of mercy.” Shep threw his hands in the air, walking away.

“I’ll wear a disguise. Please? You can get the brothers to protect me. And Russell.”

Shep shook his head.

“Why not?” Joey pushed, whining like a toddler.

“Because Juris is missing, Klee is too weak yet, and Margol has welts all over one side of his face. He looks like he won third place in an acid fight.”

“What? Why?”

“Long story.”

“And what about geek boy?”

“Russell is staying in and cleaning the basement tonight. He’s being punished for trying to peek at me while I was in the shower.”

A grin spread across Joey’s face, and he bit his lower lip to stifle his laughter.

“Yes, yes. Very funny,” Shep said. “We had to have a little talk about consent.”

Joey shook his head. “Man, you are so mean to that guy. You should really back off. I’ve seen the look in his eye lately. The guy is going to snap.”

“And why is this relevant?”

“I like Russell.” Joey shrugged. “He’s the only one who will play video games with me.”

“I like Russell too. But everyone living in this house needs to understand that I’m in charge, and my word is the last word. He doesn’t like it? He can leave.”

“He’s not gonna leave. He’s in love with you.”

“Then he’ll abide by the rules here.”

Joey got up and circled the room, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. Suddenly he brightened, and turned to Shep. “Hey! What about the followers? We can get some of the followers in the field to come with us! God knows they’ll do whatever we say, and some of those guys are huge! We can take Devin and Carlos. Come on Shep. Cut me some slack. I’m dying here.”

Shep was too exasperated to stay angry. He supposed he would have to agree to this, if only to maintain Joey’s sanity, and his own if Joey kept riding him. Joey was right about Devin and Carlos. They were big guys. They’d both been high school football players, and worked as athletic trainers before joining the church. And they were ominous looking. They’d recently shaved their hair into Mohawks and died them bright pink, seemingly as a tribute to Kelinda, who they viewed as some sort of goddess. Regardless of their reasons, the result was two large, fairly scary looking men. They would make formidable bodyguards.

“Fine,” Shep said finally.

Joey did a double take. “Really? Do you mean it?’

“We can go out for a little while Joey, but I make the arrangements. I say where, I say how, and when I say it’s time to go home, I don’t want to hear any arguing.”

Joey squealed with delight and danced about. “I’m going out! I’m going out! I’m going out!”

“Call out to the guest house and get Devin and Carlos over here. I’ll round up Margol and Allisto. We’ll need their strength if things get out of hand. By the way, you’re looking a little ripe, boy wonder. I’d hit the shower if I were you. I know you’re out of touch, but I’m fairly sure women still prefer men who bathe.”

Joey ran his fingers through his disheveled black hair. “I was going for that Jesus of Nazareth look. I hear the messiahs only bathed once a month, baptisms aside.”

“Oh, you’re a fucking riot, Joey.”

Joey took off down the hall. Shep went to find the brothers, shaking his head and muttering. “The things you have to put up with when you’re trying to take over the world.”

****

Shep gathered Allisto and Margol in the downstairs den. They were quickly joined by Joey and the two followers, Carlos and Devin, who immediately professed what a great honor it was to be chosen as Joey’s protection. Their hot pink Mohawks stuck up like frightened feather dusters atop their otherwise bald heads. Shep wondered if they might ironically serve to draw more attention to the group instead of deterring it. But he supposed as long as people were gawking at them and not Joey, it was all right.

Shep called ahead to a bar called The Island Hut and spoke with the owner, who was most cooperative. He promised Shep security and crowd control, and Shep promised him a ‘contribution’ for his efforts. Joey smiled when he saw Allisto and Margol, who’d vigorously cleaned themselves up. Their heads were a mass of rebel curls, but they were clean and sharply dressed. “Hey! You guys look great!” Joey’s smile dropped when Margol tuned to face him.

At Shep’s instruction, Margol had put flesh colored ointment on the bulbous candle burns that covered one side of his face, but the ointment did not serve well to hide the angry-looking welts he’d received in his altercation with Father Bello.

“Holy shit!” Joey said, staring at Margol without a bit of candor. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Got baptized by fire,” Margol answered sheepishly.

Joey shook his head. “Bummer, man.”

Shep clapped his hands to get the small crowd’s attention. “Okay, listen up people. We’re going out tonight, and I need you to act as bodyguards. I realize this is not what you signed on for, but due to circumstances beyond my control, this is the way it has to be.”

“We don’t mind at all, Shepherd!” Devin exclaimed. Carlos was quick to add his agreement. Shep thanked them. He was secretly repulsed by their incessant zombie ass kissing, but if their ass kissing would help keep Joey safe, so be it.

“Margol and Allisto, the same rules apply tonight as whenever you go out in public. Don’t do anything to draw attention. Try to be as human as possible, okay?”

“Where are we going?” Allisto asked.

“To a beach club to see a band.”

Margol raised his hand, but Shep immediately cut him off. “Please don’t ask me why, just do as I say.” Margol put his hand down. Shep continued. “The bar is within walking distance from the house. I want Devin to walk on Joey’s right, and Carlos and Allisto to walk on Joey’s left. I’ll take up the front, and Margol will cover the rear. We’ll cut through the back woods to avoid the main center of town. This should bring us out by the gazebo, leaving thirty feet or so to actually walk along the sidewalk. We should be fine. But that doesn’t mean we can relax. I want you all on full alert. No one gets near Joey. Understood?”

They all nodded.

“Here, put this on.” Shep tossed Joey a long black cape with a hood.

Joey caught it and held it up, sneering. “I’m not wearing this. I thought we were supposed to be laying low tonight.”

“The hood will mask your face. Just put it on, Joey.”

Joey took a long swig off the rum bottle he’d been carrying around. “Okay. Whatever.” He threw the black cape over his shoulders. It looked stunning on him. He was freshly showered and his black hair fell soft and sleek around his cheekbones. The cape emphasized the stark whiteness of his silk shirt, which he wore with dark jeans and black boots. Joey’s wolf blue eyes darted around the room when he realized that everyone was staring at him. “What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

Joey’s magnetism was emphasized by the unnatural blood, but his beauty was all his own. Even Shep had to stop and stare. The brothers, who rarely noticed anything, particularly fashion, gazed at Joey with open awe. “May we wear capes also?” Allisto asked.

Shep shrugged. “Sure. But you’re not going to look like that in them.” Shep worried as he studied Joey in all his enchanting splendor. He had the distinct feeling this was not going to be an uneventful night. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

* * * *

Patrick peered through the binoculars, squinting to see in the foggy darkness. He squatted behind a rock, intent on spying until he formulated a plan. He couldn’t exactly walk up to the door, ring the bell and say, “Hi honey, I’m home.” He had a perfect view of the back deck but could see nothing of the goings on inside the house. Shep and his matching creatures were nowhere in sight. Then suddenly his luck changed.

The back slider opened and five figures stepped out onto the deck. Patrick adjusted his binoculars. He immediately saw Margol and Allisto. They were wearing long black capes. He panned the binoculars, his sight falling on two men he didn’t know. They wore Mohawks, bright pink. He panned a little to the right and his sight landed on Shep, who was pushing the others into a line. To his dismay, Patrick felt a stab of affection at the sight of his former friend. Of course, he wasn’t trapped in a cave now watching Shep slaughter old men.

The slider opened again and another figure stepped out, swaying and carrying a bottle. He stood taller than the rest. It took Patrick a moment to realize this was Joey. As the others, he was wearing a black cape, with the hood drawn casually back around his shoulders. He looked like some sparkling prince from a fairytale. Patrick’s binoculars fogged up and he had to wipe them with his shirt. He refocused, only to see that the deck was now empty.

“What the…” He scanned the surrounding area, finally locating the company of six making their way through the back yard into the woods. They’d put their hoods on and Patrick could only identify Joey because he stood taller than the rest. They had him wedged between them as they proceeded on like a band of Grim Reapers.

Patrick lowered the binoculars as he realized they were headed straight for him. He pressed behind his concealing rock. Shep’s voice could be picked out as the company moved closer. It was an eerie sight, the six of them moving up the hill through the fog. Patrick’s temples began to throb violently and he had to drop the binoculars and rub them. The company passed within ten feet of the boulder where Patrick hid. His head swam with dizziness and he had to cling to the rock for support. A cool sweat broke out on his forehead.

He peered over the top of the boulder, just in time to see Joey stop short. Whoever it was that was walking behind him slammed right into Joey’s back, uttering an “ugh!”

Shep turned around at the sound. “Joey!” he hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joey pulled his hood back and shook his head. He stood swaying. “I don’t know. I feel funny. I’m kind of dizzy all of a sudden.” Joey placed his hands on his head, just as Patrick’s temples began to throb furiously. He held his breath and struggled to make himself invisible. He could hear Shep’s frustrated sigh.

“You feel funny because you drank half a bottle of rum, you hamster brain. You wanted to go out, and you nagged me for an hour! Don’t tell me you want to turn back now!”

“No, no. I guess I’ll be all right. Let’s just keep moving.”

Patrick heard the pairs of feet continue on, snapping twigs along the way. The farther on they moved, the more his dizziness subsided. When he was sure they were out of range, he lifted his head and looked on after them. He pondered Joey’s reaction to coming within close range of him. With all of the strange dreams and psychic impressions he’d been getting of Joey, it had never occurred to him that Joey may be experiencing the same things. The thought made Patrick’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. What the hell had Shep done to him? What had he done to all of them?

Perhaps Joey could still be saved from whatever unsavory fate Shep had cut out for him. Then there was the matter of the crops, and his promise to Agent Litner. Get the crop sample, and get the hell out. How hard could that be? He could fake a friendship for a couple of days. After all, Shep had done it for ten years. He took a deep breath and made his way quietly on through the woods.

****

The night air came off the water in gentle gusts, transforming the sticky heat to a slightly cooler temperature. The dense fog moved in like a herd of scattered ghosts. Forest Bluffs had its wealth like other coastal towns, but closer to the end of the peninsula the atmosphere began to change. The scrubbed landscape and churches gave way to a honky-tonk section of town, dawning amusement parks, water slides, clam shacks, and video arcades. Pedestrians were freer with their dress, and their attitude. Live music spilled out onto the street from the bevy of clubs and restaurants.

Perhaps it was this liberal décor, or perhaps it was the fog, that allowed six figures clad in black hooded cloaks to drift virtually unnoticed up the crowded street. Unnoticed that is, until they were within three feet of reaching the Island Hut’s front door. A random gust of wind blew Joey’s hood back, exposing his face to a young couple passing along the sidewalk. The woman recognized him. Much to her male companion’s fury, she flung herself at Joey. “Joey! Joey, touch me!” she screamed. “Put your hands on me!”

“Michelle! Stop it! What are you doing?” her confused boyfriend pleaded. The brothers stepped in and blocked her path to Joey as best they could. Carlos and Devin seemed too stunned to move. It took Allisto and Margol’s action to snap them into shape, and they followed by pulling the woman back away from Joey. Drunk and awkward, Joey fumbled to replace his hood.

The woman broke free of Devin’s grip and managed to de-cloak Joey once again, taking a few strands of hair off his head this time. “Joey!” she screeched.

Her screaming drew attention from the street and the word spread in seconds. Joey Duvaine, the reluctant prophet, was on the street. They came running from all sides. Some came out of curiosity to see this new celebrity. Others were simply drawn in by the sight of him. A dozen voices shouted, and Shep felt the swell of panic oozing its way up his tightened throat.

“Joey, what did the apparition say?” someone yelled.

“Joey, when will the world end?”

“Joey, let me touch you!”

“Touch my baby.”

Not all of the shouts were of a friendly nature. He also heard a male voice scream out, “You bunch of fucking freaks!” and another female voice screech, “Burn in hell, you Godless phony!” Oh well, Shep thought amidst his brewing panic. Can’t win em all. Didn’t need em all. Forty percent would do.

The wind kicked up off the water bringing the first peltings of rain, making it difficult for them to hear each other. Shep raised his voice over the crowd and the wind, directing his cohorts and waving his arms. “Inside!” he yelled. “Get him inside, damn it!” They struggled to do just that but every time they attempted to shove Joey toward the front doors of the Island Hut, another three people would jump in front of him, asking to be touched, enlightened, or in a couple of cases, fucked.

Suddenly the doors to the Island Hut swung outward and two muscular men broke through the crowd. One of them looked directly at Shep. “You Shepherd?”

“Yes,” he yelled to be heard over the rain.

“I’m Sully. We spoke on the phone. You need some help here?”

“Yes! Yes! Help us get him inside!”

The two burly men ran to the aid of the others. They boxed Joey in and pushed him through the crowd like a tank. Once they were all inside, they shoved out the arms and legs that threatened to break through from the street crowd, and slammed the doors closed. The one called Sully threw the dead bolt.

Shep removed his hood and gave Joey a toxic stare. “Should I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?”

Joey shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse.”

“Oh, yes. It could have been worse if one of them popped a couple of slugs into you, Joey. I ought to—” Shep had forgotten that Sully and the other brawny man were still standing there, staring at them. Shep smiled at them. “How you doing? My name’s Shepherd.”

Sully stuck his hand out and Shep shook it. “Yes Mr. Shepherd, we spoke on the phone. I own this place. This is Stu,” he said, pointing to the other man, who was a pile of swollen muscles with a head. “Come in. Please,” Sully said. “Make yourself at home. It’s mostly locals here tonight. And don’t worry. We won’t let anyone hurt him in here. We’re honored that you all wanted to come down and hear the band.”

Shep thanked Sully, but he was a bit put off by his comments. Won’t let anyone hurt him? Shep was aware that his own methods were overly cautious, but he didn’t truly believe that any significant number of people were out to get Joey. Most of the voices on social media sang his praises.

The place was in full swing but nobody inside seemed to have noticed them yet. Stu strongly suggested that they leave their ‘coats’ in the coatroom. They all handed him their capes, which he examined with raised eyebrows, then disappeared to hang them. Unlike Sully who was all open arms and friendly smiles, the muscle-bound Stu seemed uneasy. He stole sideways glances at Joey, who narcissistically smoothed the sleeves of his silk shirt.

The band was playing a jumpy dance number as they proceeded into the main section of the nightclub. It was a large open space with a stage to the front and a circular bar set up in the center. The high wood ceiling was strung with tiny white lights, giving place a warm cozy glow. A crowd of people danced merrily in front of the stage.

They all found stools at the bar, and soon Shep saw the familiar looks of awe and fascination on the faces of the patrons as they saw Joey. They seemed to catch a whiff of Joey first, pausing before their eyes followed the scent and finally fell upon him.

To Shep’s surprise and relief, none of the patrons approached them. When he mentioned this to Joey, a young man sitting next to them overheard. He explained to Shep that Sully had made an announcement at the bar earlier that Joey Duvaine was coming down. He warned that anyone who bothered Joey or his companions would be tossed headfirst out of the bar, regardless of age or gender. Shep was beginning to like Sully.

Shep watched the patrons huddle at the bar to stare at Joey. Oh come let us adore him, Shep thought, and smiled. He was pleased with the results of his creation.

He was still on alert, but soon even he began to feel at ease. The conversations did not cease because Joey was there, nor did the music and the dancing stop. People kept a respectable distance. The brothers were sitting at the bar, laughing and joking with Devin and Carlos, all of them drinking chocolate liqueur like it was water. Shep warned them to slow down, but they didn’t listen. He was worried about their ability to protect Joey, should the need arise. Margol and Allisto had the strength of ten men, but a strong drunk was a drunk nonetheless.

Joey took Shep’s arm suddenly. “Hey, look at that guy over there,” he said. Shep followed Joey’s pointed finger and gasped when he saw the man sitting alone at the tiny table five feet from the bar. “Isn’t that the hermit who lives in the house up on the hill next door to us?” Joey asked.

Shep glared toward the table. It was the veteran with the long graying hair and the cold leathery face. The man slid his glance their way. He was dressed in desert print fatigues with a white tank top, a brown bandana tying back his salt and pepper hair. Deep lines surrounded the coldest eyes Shep had ever seen on a human. The man’s eyes tightened when he looked at Joey, and Shep saw a seething hatred behind them.

“Holy crap,” Joey whispered. “I think he hates me!”

“Don’t go near that guy. Don’t even look at him,” Shep warned. “I think he’s the one that shot you.”

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m not certain.”

“He’s looking at me like I’m the plague or something.”

“Just stay away from him. He’s dangerous.”

Joey continued to stare at the man. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “He’s completely unaffected by me.”

“I know,” Shep said.

Joey looked quizzically at Shep. “Why doesn’t the blood work on him?”

“He’s a veteran of war,” Shep said, taking a long sip of his beer. “War changes people. It rips their souls out.”

Shep glanced over at the empty stools where the brothers had been sitting with Carlos and Devin. They were gone. Great. Just when he might need them, they disappear. He caught sight of the bright pink Mohawks bouncing around up on the dance floor, along with Margol and Allisto’s jostling curls. “Useless!” Shep hissed. He was about to go drag them off the dance floor and reprimand them, but when he turned to tell Joey, Joey wasn’t there.

Shep was horrified to see that Joey had taken a seat across the table from their gray-haired neighbor. Shep darted to the table and grabbed Joey by the shoulder. “Joey! What are you doing? Come back to the bar. Now.”

Joey pushed Shep’s hand off his shoulder. “So as I was saying, I think we’re neighbors. I’m from the Forest Bluffs Church, right down the hill from you.”

“Joey, let’s go,” Shep warned. “I mean it, leave it alone.”

“I know who you are,” the man said with a gravelly snarl.

“Sir, your eyes speak a thousand curses when you look at me,” Joey said, using his practiced sermon voice. “May I ask why?”

The man chuckled coldly. Shep tried to make eye contact with the brothers, but they were fully engrossed in their simulated dance thrashings. He looked around for Sully and Stu, but Stu was busy behind the bar and Sully was nowhere in sight. His only choice was to disarm the situation himself. He grabbed Joey by the arm. “We were just leaving,” Shep said to the vet.

“I don’t mind telling him what I think of him,” the veteran said, his black eyes pinned to Joey’s pale ones. “As long as you asked, you make me sick.”

Joey shook Shep’s arm off. He was obsessed with wooing this man, who he seemed to view as some sort of personal challenge. Shep was ready to kill Joey himself. He leaned in close. “Joseph, I am not going to fight this gorilla for you. Back off, and let’s go back up to the bar.”

Joey defiantly ignored him. “So I make you sick,” he said to the man across the table. “Fair enough. But tell me this, my brother. Why, exactly, do I make you sick?”

The man leaned closer, placing his palms on the table. “I am not your brother.”

“Still,” Joey pressed on, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the side of his chin, “that doesn’t explain your ill feelings toward me. Is it because I’ve been chosen by God?”

The man laughed loudly, throwing his head back and slamming a fist on the table. “I fought for my country, boy. I put my very life on the line. I have seen horrors that your stunted little mind can’t even imagine.”

“That doesn’t explain why you hate me,” Joey said with a coldness of his own. They looked across the table at each other, and Shep felt the calm before the storm. “I’m just another American citizen,” Joey said, “trying to spread spiritual awareness. I’m trying to contribute some good to society.”

Shep almost laughed at the prophetic bullshit Joey was spewing. Their neighbor remained still. “Son, you have about as much spiritual awareness as Adolph Hitler, with only half the balls.”

“So you think I’m a madman?” Joey asked, twitching his eyebrows in an effort to look maniacal.

The neighbor leaned forward. “No, I think you’re a pretentious little prep school faggot, sitting out there on your dead daddy’s land, planting seeds and playing with your little faggot friends. You concocted this church so you could drop out of productive society, not so you could contribute to it. You are a cowardly, deceitful, unproductive waste of air that needs a few dozen mindless morons stroking your dick every day just so you can feel good about yourself. When I was in the wars, I saw men so afraid that they would freeze up and shit themselves right there on the battlefield. But in my entire life, I have never seen a man as scared, and pathetic, as you.”

No one spoke for several seconds. Joey pursed his lips, and nodded. He looked up at Shep. “That probably would have hurt my feelings if I had any. Huh Shep?”

Shep stifled a grin. “Definitely.”

Joey looked back at the man and smiled. Shep saw blind rage pass through the veteran’s eyes. He grabbed Joey’s wrist, pinning it to the table. With his other hand he pulled a dagger from out of his boot and held it up. “You want to feel something, pretty boy? I’ll help you feel something! Die, false prophet!” he screamed and brought the knife down swiftly toward Joey’s chest.

Shep was about to stop the blade with his hand when a large arm shot out and grabbed the neighbor’s wrist. Shep looked up at its owner, and his jaw dropped with surprise. The muscular redhead pulled the veteran up out of his seat, twisting his wrist until the knife clattered to the floor. The man struggled as Patrick forced him into an iron headlock. “Are you okay?” Patrick asked, looking down at Joey.

Joey was too stunned to speak, rubbing the place on his chest where the knife would have gone in. Sully and Stu, now seeing the commotion, ran over.

“What happened?” Sully asked.

“This piece of shit tried to stab Joey,” Patrick answered.

“I’ll call the police,” Stu said.

“No!” Shepherd stood. “No police. Please. We’ll just leave.”

Stu looked confused, but he nodded. “All right. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. No police.”

Patrick gave the neighbor to Sully and Stu, who ceremoniously tossed him out the back door of the club. Patrick turned to Shep. “Are you crazy bringing Joey here? What were you thinking? Come on. We have to get him out of here.”

A sly, satisfied grin curved Shep’s lips. “Nice to see you, Obrien.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Another hairline scratch appeared on Juris’s cheek and began to bleed. He shrieked wildly, ducking his head to dodge his unseen attacker. Father Carbone looked on helplessly, shifting from one foot to the other in a nervous jig. “Please, Juris! Whatever is happening, tell me how to stop it!”

Juris persisted in behaving as though he was under attack from some invisible force, and his distress seemed genuine. Carbone winced at the razor thin cuts that now decorated Juris’s fair skin. It looked like a cat scratched his cheeks, yet the priest saw nothing visible strike him, and his hands were still restrained with wire. Yet the cuts continued to appear like magic. Father Carbone knew it was not unheard of for wounds to mysteriously appear on untouched skin. That was most likely a psychological affliction though. This was something completely different…he knew because he could feel it himself.

For the second time, Carbone experienced a gust of air blasting by him. The strange breeze continued past Carbone and swept Juris’s hair up, and he screeched as a new mark appeared. Father Carbone could sense an energy in the dusty basement. Something was down there with them, and it was hell bent on hurting Juris. Luigi Carbone was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life.

“Juris, tell me how help you!”

Juris writhed and struggled against the steel ropes. “You can help by getting me out of this church as promised!”

Moving to the bottom of the stairs, Carbone yelled up to Copie. “Did you get a hold of him yet?”

“I’m trying!” Copie yelled back.

Upstairs, a shaken Copie was frantically trying to get Agent Litner on the phone. A nasal-sounding woman answered his private line. “Steven Litner’s office.”

“Yeah. This is Copeland Smith. I need to speak with Litner right away.”

“He is unavailable,” the woman said politely. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Copie’s voice elevated to a frantic squeak. “This is an emergency! I need to speak with Litner now! There must be some way you can get a hold of him.”

“All right, Mr. Smith, calm down. I will contact him for you, but I need to know the nature of the emergency.”

“Just tell him it’s Copie and that there’s a problem with the house guest.”

“The house guest?”

“Yes! Damn it! Just get him on the phone!”

“Please hold.”

Copie listened to hold music while Juris continued to screech down below. It was a high-pitched, echoing cry, the likes of which Copie wished he’d never heard. He’d hear that sound in his nightmares. There was a clicking sound and Agent Litner was on the line. “Copie, it’s Litner. What’s going on?”

“Agent Litner! You’ve got to come out here and move Juris, man! There’s some creepy shit going on and I for one am ready to bolt!”

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“It started about an hour ago. Father Carbone was over at the church giving mass, so I was all alone in the house when I heard Juris screaming. I ran down to the cellar and he was completely freaking out. He had two bleeding scratches on his face, and he kept saying that ‘they’ had found him.”

“Scratches? Are his hands still cuffed?”

“He’s still restrained. Then right before my eyes another scratch appeared. I felt the air move. I felt it, Litner. It was like something passed by me really fast, but there was nothing there! I’m scared! You have to come right now. Juris is losing his mind down there!”

As if in support of this, Juris screamed loudly. “I can hear him,” Litner said calmly.

“He’s been calling for you, and he’s begging to be moved!”

“All right, stay calm. I’m about an hour away, but I’ll leave right now. I have the new location ready and we can move him as soon as I get there.”

“An hour? A fucking hour? That’s not good enough! He’s got scratches all over his face. He’ll look like shredded beef by the time you get here!”

“I’m sorry, Copie. That’s the best I can do. Try wrapping his face in gauze bandages. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Copie forced himself to take another breath. “Okay. But if his head starts spinning around, I’m out of here. I don’t care how many people want me dead.” Copie hung up and ran down the stairs to join Father Carbone. “Litner will be here in an hour to move him.”

“An hour?” the priest cried in disbelief.

Copie relayed his conversation with Litner. Carbone found a first aid kit and the two of them wrapped Juris’s head with bandages, leaving only his eyes, mouth and nostrils exposed. He looked like something from an old mummy movie. Soon, tiny spots of blood began to seep through the bandages. Father Carbone looked at Copie. “Are you sure he said an hour?”

“It’s the best he can do. How’s he doing?” Copie asked.

“Whatever it was seems to have stopped for the time being,” Carbone said. “Maybe it’s gone.”

“It’s still here, priest. Can’t you see it?” Juris hissed. “I told you it wasn’t safe! You should have listened to me!”

Carbone approached him. “Juris, we see nothing. You must explain this to me so I can help you.”

Juris chuckled through his bandages. “I had forgotten about your limited perception. My enemy hovers in that corner by the window.” Juris nodded his head toward the upper corner of the basement ceiling, where the tiny window met the wall.

Copie pointed. In a shaky whisper, he said, “Up there?”

“Yes. Do you see that the curtain moves though there is no source of breeze in this stagnant space?”

Copie and the priest both looked up at the window. A dusty, floral-patterned valance hung above it, moving up and down as though a gentle breeze was blowing it. Copie gaped at the curtain but Father Carbone was skeptical. “I’m sorry Juris, I don’t see anything. You’ll just have to wait until Agent Litner gets here. I can’t move you without his authorization.”

Juris writhed, gasping as though he was in the presence of a noxious gas. After several seconds of this he calmed and turned his bandaged head toward Father Carbone. His eyes shone out of the white cotton mask like reflective marbles. “I’ll make deal with you. If I can prove to you there is something in here, something you can see with your own eyes, will you move me outside? Will you take me off the property?”

The priest frowned. “Just how exactly would you do that?”

“I will tell you how, but you must promise to move me off of church property. I’m not asking you to untie me. You can put me in the graveyard next door until your lawman friend comes.”

Carbone looked at the blowing curtain, then at Copie, whose eyes were big as saucers. “Father Carbone,” Copie said, “It wouldn’t hurt to move him next door. I know I’d like to get him out of here, and I suspect you feel the same.”

The priest paced the room. “Okay Juris. Show me.”

Juris breathed a quick sigh of relief, then began to give instructions. He told Carbone to get a spray bottle, the kind used to mist plants, and mix a multitude of ingredients together, including water, wine, clover leaves, sage, and salt. He told him that once he had these items together, to bring the spray bottle downstairs to him, and he would add one last ingredient.

Father Carbone went upstairs and did what Juris asked. He had a moment of panic when he thought he was out of sage, but then he found an old container in the rear of his spice cabinet. He was able to find clover leaves outside, but he had no wine in the house. He walked over to the church and slid quietly through the side door. Jimmy the altar boy gave him an odd look as he poured some ceremonial wine into the yellow, plastic spray bottle. Father Carbone smiled and nodded at Jimmy as though this was perfectly normal.

He hurried back across the lawn and into his house, taking the steps down to the basement two at a time. “I’ve got it,” he announced and accidentally bumped into Copie at the bottom of the stairs.

“Bring it here,” Juris commanded. Father Carbone approached him. “The final ingredient is my blood,” Juris said. “You have to cut me.”

Father Carbone stopped short. “I am not cutting you, Juris.”

“You must. You need only make a small slice in my thumb. You can do it. Just don’t get any of my blood on your skin. You, young one, go and fetch the priest a knife.”

Copie looked uncertain but he bounded up the stairs and returned with a steak knife. Reluctantly, Father Carbone took it. “Hold the bottle underneath my hand. Make a small cut in my thumb and squeeze at least five drops into the mixture,” Juris said.

Father Carbone hesitated, grimacing.

“Do it!” Juris snapped. Father Carbone walked around behind him and knelt down, holding the bottle just below Juris’s cuffed hands. He made a thin slice along the prisoner’s thumb and the blood seeped. He squeezed six drops into the bottle, then replaced the lid pump.

“Okay Juris. It’s done, but this is starting to feel like bullshit,” Carbone said.

“Give it a mix,” Juris said. Father Carbone shook the bottle, then looked to Juris expectantly. “Good. Now go over to the corner and mist the air just under that window.”

Father Carbone looked to Copie for reassurance. “Go ahead!” Copie urged. “What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, very brave you are Copie,” the priest snapped. “Would you prefer to do the honors?”

Copie backed away. “No sir. You’re the witch doctor. You do it.”

“Stop bickering! Do it now!” Juris screamed.

Father Carbone walked cautiously over to the corner near the window, and sprayed a pink mist into the air. Nothing happened. “Spray it again,” Juris ordered.

He did. A pink mist came out, hung in the air, and dissipated. Carbone looked over his shoulder at Juris. “Nothing happened.”

“Again!” Juris yelled. “Keep spraying! Don’t be shy with it!”

Father Carbone sighed and began to saturate the air in front of him with repeated sprays of the strange concoction. A minty herbal scent filled the air, but otherwise, nothing happened. He turned around to yell at Juris, “I told you, there’s nothing—”

“Look!” Copie screamed.

Carbone turned around and stumbled back, tripping over a mop bucket as the translucent image took partial form. “What?” he said, gaping up from the floor. He struggled to his feet. “What is that?”

There were three feet of what looked like a feathered wing, the translucent image of a body, and half a face. The form was not solid, but more like seeing a film projection.

“Spray it again!” Juris yelled.

Carbone stepped forward and pumped the bottle directly at the fading image, and the form became whole. “My God,” he whispered.

The silky white wings moved rhythmically like waves on a calm sea. The body was now materialized enough to see detail. Its hair was like pure light, curling softly around a smooth, placid face. Only the huge gold eyes seemed to have life, and they were set in a concentrated stare on Juris. Father Carbone let out sigh of awe. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He sprayed another quick mist at the thing…then suddenly it turned on him and he dropped the bottle.

Its lovely face distorted, lip curled up, bearing a menacing set of fangs. It made a guttural sound like a wild dog about to strike. Father Carbone stumbled back to where Copie stood. “Shit!” he squeaked. “It growled at me.”

The creature tucked its glorious wings behind it and dove like a fighter jet across the room. Juris screamed as the thing circled over his head. The ghostly image ran a glowing hand across Juris’s face and clawed off one of the bandages.

“Get me out of here!” Juris screamed.

Copie bolted up the stairs and was gone. Carbone screamed up after him. “Copie! Damn you! Get back down here. I need your help!”

Noises were coming out of the disembodied creature, a muffled sound, like the words were being transported into the room from some far away place. It sounded like the distant voices sometimes heard as background noise when between radio stations. The golden creature circled Juris, speaking choppy, vaguely syllabic sounds. Juris ducked and squirmed as it circled over his head.

Father Carbone heard a metallic clank come from behind him, and saw Copie. He’d gone outside and was opening the bulkhead door. Carbone ran to the bulkhead and helped him push it open from the inside. A flood of warm air blasted his face. “I thought you’d run home to mommy.”

“Tempting, but no. Drag Juris over here and I’ll help you get him outside.”

“Got ya.”

The priest walked cautiously back to where Juris sat. The creature’s image was beginning to fade. Suddenly, the thought of not being able to see the thing and knowing it was there was more frightening than actually seeing it. He grabbed the spray bottle off the floor, gave it a good shake, and pumped a couple of rounds of the mixture at the back of the circling enigma. He immediately regretted doing so.

The translucent creature turned in a lightning-fast swoosh and came at Father Carbone. It stopped an inch from his face, large glowing eyes matched up directly with his. Then it bared fangs and roared like a tiger, setting the windows to rattle.

To see something so beautiful instantly become so terrifying was almost unbearable. Father Carbone felt his bodily functions turn tail, and warmth spread over his legs as he wet his trousers. The thing quickly retreated and turned its attention back to Juris, leaving the priest to stand shaking and paralyzed with fear.

“Do not fret,” Juris yelled. “It cannot hurt you. It thinks it is protecting this place from me. Now get me out of here!”

Father Carbone still couldn’t move. Then Copie was there, shaking him. “Carbone! Carbone! I realize this is probably the highlight of your religious career and all, but can we please grab Juris and get the fuck out of here?”

Father Carbone shook himself. “Right. Let’s do it.”

They each took hold of one side of the chair, tipped it, and dragged Juris across the basement floor toward the waiting bulkhead. The translucent creature gazed at them for a moment, placid and beautiful once more, then faded completely.

They were both sweating and panting by the time they got Juris and his chair out of the basement and over to the front gates of the cemetery. They were not far from the church, but they were off the property, and this was as far as Juris was going until Agent Litner got there. They sat down with their backs against the fence, breathing heavily and waiting for their nerves to calm. When Copie got his breath back he looked at the priest and wrinkled his nose. Looking down he said, “Did you…”

“Yes, Copie, I wet myself. You can tease me about it at a later date. Right now, I just don’t care.”

Copie nodded. “How’s our boy?” He stood and walked over to Juris, who gazed up at him through a half tattered, bloody bandage. Copie unraveled the bandage and examined Juris’s face. It was a map of red, razor-thin gashes. “Wow. Are you going to be all right?”

“Such concern,” Juris said coldly. “I will heal.”

Copie shivered and rubbed his arms. “Juris, I know we’re not friends, but please tell me. What the fuck was that thing? And what did you do to piss it off?”

“Good question.” Father Carbone stood and joined Copie. “You must be damned indeed. I’ve never read about an angel growling and bearing fangs like that.”

Juris rolled his eyes. “That was not an angel, you dumb man.”

“It had wings!”

“So do birds, bats, houseflies, and certain tropical fish. Not everything with wings is an angel. That was a Schlarr.”

Carbone frowned. “A Schlarr?”

“Or what your dumb religion calls a Principality. And incidentally, it is not unusual for an angel to hiss and growl.”

“Well I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Cope nudged the priest. “You said you didn’t believe in angels anyway.”

“Yeah, well a lot’s happened since then, hasn’t it?”

Juris scoffed. “They are not what you read of in your dumb books, dumb man. Angels are despicable creatures. Not as deplorable as the Schlarr, but annoying. Angels are useless pests. Apt that you should worship them so. You are—”

“I’m a dumb man,” Carbone said. “I got it, Juris, the first twenty times you called me dumb.” The priest cocked his head to the side. “So what are you then?”

Juris’s grinned. “I am something else. Your lawman is here. I’ll be leaving you now.”

Father Carbone and Copie gazed up the empty road. Thirty seconds later, Agent Litner’s black car rolled down the street and pulled up in front of the church. Copie called out, and waved him over.

“Goodbye,” Juris said. “We shall meet again.”

“Only in my nightmares,” Copie said.

Agent Litner had brought Agent Rourke with him, and they loaded Juris into the car. Rourke seemed to take particular pleasure in roughly tossing Juris into the back seat. He’d clearly not forgotten being thrown across the parking lot at the nightclub.

Father Carbone gave Litner a compact version of what had happened. Before he got into the car, Litner turned back to Father Carbone, his expression unsettled. “Didn’t you say you had a friend that was well versed in these matters?”

“I called Father Bello yesterday, but I got his voicemail.”

Litner’s eyes narrowed. “Call him again. I’ll be back.”

“Be careful, Steven.”

Agent Litner got in the car as Father Carbone pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. As the car pulled away he saw Juris’s head of curls in the back window. Juris gave him a sly wink. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who was on his way to yet another prison. The priest furrowed his brow suspiciously.

The phone in Father Carbone’s hand popped free and shattered, exploding in a shower of plastic and electronics all over the church lawn. The priest yelped and shook his hand as he stared in disbelief at what was left of his phone. He looked up and caught sight of Juris laughing as the car turned the corner out of sight.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It took Patrick several seconds of disorientation before he remembered why he was not in his own bed. He stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling beams, watching the tree shadows dancing in the morning sunlight. Birds formed a chorus outside and somewhere a dog barked. All seemed peaceful. Normal. He sat up and glanced at the clock on the unfamiliar dresser. It was 6:00 a.m., and the enormous house was still and quiet. My God, I’m here. I’m actually here.

He could feel Joey’s presence like an extra heartbeat in his chest, and knew that he was asleep in his bedroom down the hall. Patrick’s own room was a small, clean guestroom. Shep hadn’t questioned why Patrick was suddenly there. He’d simply shown him to his room. In fact, they’d said very little to each other after leaving the bar. Joey’s only comment had been, “Hey Obrien, I got shot, you know,” as though it was some sort of honor.

The re-infiltration had been so easy. All Shep asked was if he planned to stay. Patrick had told him yes, and explained that he had to return to the city once a week for his consulting job. “Whatever you want, Obrien,” Shep said. “You’re a guest here, not a prisoner.”

He got out of bed and padded over to the dresser with its gorgeous antique mirror. It must have cost Joey a fortune to refurnish this house. A fortune he claimed not to have only recently. Patrick had a moment of panic as he looked in the mirror at his own frowning, expressive face. He would never pull it off. He couldn’t fool these people. They knew him better than he knew himself. “No,” he whispered. “I have to.”

He stifled the panic that threatened to rise up and overtake him like an army of fears. He would have to fool them. This time, he was the actor. This time, he was the spy. He thought of Robin and the way she’d kissed him before he left. He wanted to get back to her. He wanted his life back. At least what was left of it.

He left his room, making his way down two flights of stairs until he reached the first floor. The house looked a far sight different than the last time he’d been here. Sun streamed through the enormous windows, spotlighting the gorgeous furniture and shiny wood floors. The place was clean and tastefully decorated. Patrick wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find at Forest Bluffs, but this wasn’t it. He’d imagined a fraternity house hovel, complete with beer lights and girly posters, not a photo set for Better Homes and Gardens. Whatever the boys were up to out here, they were living well while they were at it. Extremely well, he thought as he padded across the Persian rugs.

Patrick seemed to be the only one up. He was glad. This would give him time to look around, and perhaps even go for a walk outside. The sooner he got those crop samples, the sooner he could go back to the city, and to Robin. He stopped short upon entering the giant kitchen. Platinum blond curls adorned a head bent over a bowl of cereal at the breakfast nook. At first Patrick thought it was Juris, and he gasped. The stranger turned his head at the sound. Much to Patrick’s relief, it was not Juris.

It was Klee, the new arrival he’d seen naked and sobbing in the cave that dreadful night. He was significantly fresher looking, and quite attractive without blood and soot all over him. Bright, aquamarine eyes gazed at Patrick with innocent trust. He had a handsome, sculpted nose and lush pink mouth, which he held his spoon in, frozen in mid-bite. His skin was like porcelain with a healthy dust of rose across each cheek. Of all of the brothers, Patrick thought this creature looked the most inhuman, only because he was so impossibly perfect. But then again, perhaps they all started out this way, fresh, innocent, and childlike. Like something newly born.

The pause had gone on far too long, each of them frozen, staring at the other. Finally, Patrick stepped into the kitchen and approached the breakfast nook. “Hello there. I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Patrick.”

The blond man popped the spoon out of his mouth. “I…I know. They have been waiting. Waiting for Patrick. My name is Klee.” His voice was husky, like he had a sore throat, but pleasant sounding nonetheless, even as he formed his words with a robotic strain. He sounded very much like a toddler just learning to speak. “Do you want to desire have some Cocoa Puffs, Patrick?” Klee offered him the spoon.

Patrick smiled. “No, thank you.” He pulled out a stool and sat down across from Klee at the breakfast nook. There was something different about this one, Patrick thought. He was missing that behind the eye glare the other three brothers had. They always looked like they were quietly planning someone’s demise. Patrick sensed an overwhelming innocence in this creature that sat before him crunching his cereal. Milk dripped down his chin and he wiped it with his arm. He wore a tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both of which Patrick recognized as Shep’s.

“Klee, I didn’t see you out last night. Were you at the bar with the others?”

Klee shook his head of platinum spring curls. “No. I could not go. I hurt my back.” Patrick shuddered, remembering the gaping wound he’d seen on Klee’s naked back at the cave. He glanced up at Patrick over his spoon. His eyes were even larger than Shep’s, nearly translucent lashes reaching his white eyebrows when they were fully open. “You are to stay with us here from now on. Yes?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yes Klee. I’ll be staying here.”

Klee went back to his Cocoa Puffs. “Good. You will like it here.”

Patrick smiled at the friendly blond creature, who shoveled cereal into his mouth with great enthusiasm. “Do you like it here, Klee?” Patrick asked. He found himself speaking to him in soft careful tones, as though Klee was a small child. He was not. His body was that of a man aged somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five.

“Oh yes!” he answered. “I like it very much. So much better here.”

“Oh? Where were you before?” Patrick asked, sensing he was about to get some information of value.

“I was nowhere,” Klee said casually.

“Nowhere? Oh, I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me where you’re from if you don’t want to.”

Klee looked at him, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. “But I just did.”

“Okay, Klee.” Patrick jumped at the sound of Shep’s voice. “Breakfast is over. Go on upstairs and get in the tub.” Klee dropped his spoon and picked the cereal bowl up to his mouth, drinking the chocolate milk residue until the bowl was drained. He scooted off his stool and obediently placed his bowl in the sink, then ran heavy-footed out of the kitchen. As Patrick watched him round the corner, he caught sight of the back of Klee’s tee shirt, which was stained with flecks of dried blood. Patrick immediately cast his eyes down.

“You’re up early,” Shep said, and sat in Klee’s spot across from Patrick.

“Yeah,” was all Patrick could think to say.

He looked across the counter at Shep, who kept his eyes downward as he spun a quarter on the nook. He was fidgeting. He’s as nervous as I am. This was an awkward moment for both. Patrick took the opportunity to study his friend. The curly locks that Patrick used to think of as blond, now seemed darker after looking at Klee and Juris. He took in all of the details of Shep, examining him as he never had before. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He’d gazed upon Shep a thousand times. Perhaps he was looking for a sign, something that he’d missed back in college, and all of these years since. Something to signify he wasn’t human.

Shep continued to spin the coin with his eyes cast down, his long eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. Patrick studied the suntanned, youthful skin, the fleshy softness of his eyelids, the way his bottom lip curved over his chin a little too far, giving him a permanent pout. He looked at the bones of his hands, the curve of his wrist, and the veins that ran through the indent at the bend of his inner arm. There was nothing unusual that he could see. It was still just Shep.

A flood of emotions overcame him. Patrick had the urge to grab Shep and shake him, shake him until he broke apart. In the next instance he wanted to hug Shep and beg him to confess the truth, no matter how horrible. What he wanted more than anything was to ask him why. Why had he, Patrick Obrien, been left in the dark, while others like Joey were brought into the fold? Why was he lied to, betrayed, used. But he said none of these things. He sat there in the early morning light, sharing an awkward silence with Shep, who seemed too uncomfortable to even look at him.

“So,” Patrick said, desperate to break the silence. “The house looks nice.”

Shep looked up at him with a sheepish smirk. “You think so?”

“Yeah. I like what Joey’s done with the place. Who would have guessed there were hardwood floors under that old rug, huh?”

Shep snickered. Looking down at his fingers, he said, “You know, Obrien, I imagined this a million times. You and I sitting across from each other, face to face at last. I thought of a thousand things you might ask me, a thousand possible ways the conversation would go. But never in my wildest imaginings, did I think that our first conversation would be about decorating.”

Patrick had to laugh, and it felt good. He did not let the laughter linger as he was afraid it would turn to tears. He didn’t want this to feel good. Sitting here sharing a laugh with Shep like this felt all too familiar, and it was breaking his heart. “So are you saying that you will answer my questions now?” Patrick asked carefully.

Shep looked him in the eye. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I want to start things out on the right foot this time. I know you think I treated you badly. If I had to do things over, I’d do them differently, but I can’t change that now.”

Patrick held his gaze. “Who are they, Shep?”

Shep held his stare for several seconds, then looked down and began spinning the coin again. “They’re my brothers,” he said, and looked at Patrick for a reaction.

“Your brothers?” Patrick struggled to appear shocked.

“Yes. I lied when I said I was an only child.”

“Well, that explains the resemblance. But why, Shep? If you had brothers, why did you lie about it?”

Shep then spun an elaborate combination of lies and half-truths, peppered with what sounded like some genuine emotion. “My father abused us all. When social services took us out of the house, we got separated. I only just recently found them. I always said I was an only child because it was too painful to talk about them.” Shep pulled on a lock of his hair, a familiar gesture that told Patrick he was fabricating. Then, his face changed and became sincere, more sincere than Patrick had ever seen. “I have them all back now, and I’m never going to lose them again.”

Shep’s chin quivered momentarily. He seemed to catch himself, and made his face pleasant again. “Anyway Obrien, you know by now that I was having you followed.”

“Of course. No offense, but your brothers aren’t exactly discreet.”

Shep nodded humbly. “I am sorry about that. But we needed to keep tabs on you. You understand, don’t you?”

“You should have known that I’d never rat you out, no matter how pissed I was at you.” Again Shep nodded. He seemed to be winning Shep’s trust back. He struggled to make his face as dumb and innocent as possible. “I’m not saying I’m not hurt, or pissed as hell at you, because I am. But I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you, or Joey.”

“I know that now. You think you can forgive me?”

Patrick paused. Lie to him. You can do it. “Of course I forgive you. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Shep sighed and ran a hand across his sandy curls. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

“What is it?”

Shep’s face became conflicted. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “I have another brother. You’ve seen him, I know you have. His name is Juris. I believe you chased him in the woods out at Betsy’s house?”

Patrick flinched at the mention of Juris, but managed to hold a poker face. “Yes, I remember him. He wasn’t at the bar last night, was he?”

Shep stared at him hard and Patrick could feel his suspicion. “No. He wasn’t at the bar last night. He’s missing. I sent him to Boston to follow you and I haven’t seen him since. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Shep’s docile demeanor had in an instant changed to hard and accusing. Patrick felt his heart quicken. He pretended to think. “He’s the other blond one, right?”

“Yes.” Shep eyed him intently, as if trying to read a message printed on his face.

“Actually,” Patrick said, “the last time I saw him was at Betsy’s. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since.”

Patrick made his face blank as he looked back at Shep, careful not to avoid his eyes or make any shifty movements that might indicate he was lying. In his own mind, he convinced himself he was telling the truth—a little trick Litner taught him before he left. Pretend you’ve been asked a different question and answered it truthfully. Shep kept staring at him, and Patrick was afraid he would start to sweat like a criminal under a hot light.

Finally Shep sighed and leaned back in the stool, linking his hands behind his neck. The disappointment was obvious as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I’m worried sick. If anything happens to Juris it will be my fault.”

“I’m sorry Shep. I wish I could help.”

Shep shrugged mournfully. “Well, if you didn’t see him, you didn’t see him.”

Patrick actually felt sorry for Shep for a moment. Then he forced himself to think of Copie when he’d first come to Saint Mary’s with his cuts and burns, a look of terror in his eyes. His sympathy faded. Another image flashed in his mind—Shep slicing the wrist of the old doctor in the cave, despite his pleas and protests. He had to keep summoning these images, because it was so hard to look at Shep and not think of him with affection as he always had. He must keep reminding himself that this thing that sat in front of him was not his friend, but some murdering, scheming, otherworldly being.

But as he watched Shep rub sleep out of his eyes, his resolve crumbled. This was the Shep who’d taught him to guzzle a full beer in one go. It was the Shep who helped him get through chemistry class by showing him simple ways to look at the formulas. It was the Shep who used to lounge around getting high and watching The Three Stooges with him every Sunday morning.

It was the Shep who smeared a dead man’s blood all over a cave wall after slicing his throat with a saw blade.

Oh yeah. There was that too. It was only seven o’clock in the morning and already this visit was turning out to be harder than he expected.

Part of him longed to just tell Litner to go fuck himself, and then grab a straitjacket and dive into the lunatic soup with the rest of them. That tiny, gutless part of him wanted to give himself over to the horror, and beg Shep to put his soul to sleep, as he had done to Joey. After all, life would certainly be easier without remorse. Of all the conflicts he felt, he defied this one with the most vehemence.

A sleep rumpled Russell came bounding into the kitchen. He stopped short so suddenly that Patrick could almost hear the skid marks being laid. His thick black glasses flew off his face and landed, unbroken, on the floor. Russell quickly retrieved them and placed them back on his nose, blinking through them at Patrick. “Obrien?”

“Hello, Russell,” Patrick said contemptuously. He wanted to dive over the breakfast nook and throttle Russell to a pulp for trying to kill Copie. It appeared he did not have the same reservations about hating Russell as he did toward Shep.

“Obrien! Wow. I guess I really did miss something by staying in last night.”

“Russell, could you give us some privacy please?” Shep said. “We have some things we need to discuss.”

Russell looked mortally wounded. “You’re not going to be staying here permanently, are you Obrien?” Russell cast dark eyes on Patrick.

“Russell!” Shep shouted, making Patrick jump. “Your jealousy is getting tedious. I’m trying to be patient with you, but you just keep pushing me. Now could you please fuck off before I get angry?” Russell stormed out of the kitchen. Shep looked back at Patrick. “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

Patrick forced a half smile. Man, this place was nuttier than he thought. Shep jumped off the stool. “I’m going to grab a shower. Joey has to speak in the fields at eleven, but you and I can take a walk first so I can show you everything. Why don’t you get cleaned up and meet me in the sunroom for coffee and pastry in, say an hour?”

“Sure,” Patrick agreed, and watched Shep bounce out of the room. Coffee and pastry in the sunroom? This was certainly a well-funded cult. Wasn’t it just like Joey and Shep. They wanted to play David Koresh but they didn’t want to be uncomfortable at all while doing it.

Patrick heard Joey’s voice muttering on the staircase as Shep met him half-way up. “Don’t you have a hangover?” he heard Shep ask him.

“Yeah, but it’s my last one. I won’t need the booze now.”

“How do you feel?” They’d lowered their voices and Patrick had to strain to hear the answer.

“Safe,” Joey whispered.

Moments later Joey shuffled into the kitchen. After downing two full glasses of water, he came and sat down. Patrick smiled at him, unable to help himself. He was glad to see him. Joey looked great, healthy despite the hangover, skin tanned and glowing. He frowned at Patrick, looking wary. “Wow. I forgot how big you are.”

“Huh?”

“Your muscles, Obrien. I’d forgotten what great shape you were in.”

“Your point?”

Joey grew very still, biting his lip. “Do you want to beat me up a little?”

Patrick shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Because if you want to knock me around a little, I’d rather get it over with now. Just don’t mark up my face, okay?”

“Joey enough of this. Why would I want to beat you up?”

Joey cast his eyes downward then looked warily up at Patrick. “You know about me and Kelinda. Right?”

Ah. So that was it. Joey was afraid Patrick was still pining over losing the queen of the manor. Patrick had scarcely thought about the fact that Kelinda was with Joey now. Sure, he was rather not looking forward to seeing her, but in the larger scheme of things, it didn’t matter at all. “Yes, Joey. I know about you and Kelinda.”

“And you’re not mad?”

Patrick sighed and pretended to mull it over, enjoying that Joey was experiencing some discomfort over it. Finally, he shrugged. “No.”

Joey looked relieved. “No?”

“No. I’m not mad. Not at all.”

Joey collapsed with a sigh. “Oh thank God.” Patrick couldn’t hold in his laughter. Joey looked serious again. “Obrien,” he said, putting a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Me too Joey,” he lied.

As if summoned, Kelinda came flowing into the kitchen wearing a black Lycra jumpsuit with hot pink butterflies on it. She went to the refrigerator and didn’t seem to notice Patrick. She stood with her back to them, fumbling around with a carton of yogurt. Her once long silken hair was a festival of hot pink spikes. Patrick couldn’t believe the change in her.

Joey glanced back, watching Kelinda struggle with the lid of her yogurt. “Kelinda?”

“What the fuck do you want, Joey?” she said without turning around.

Joey grinned at Patrick and winked. “Oh Kelinda, pumpkin? Look who’s here, sweetie.”

Kelinda turned to him with a tired sneer. Her jaw dropped when she saw Patrick, as well as the yogurt she was holding. It fell to the floor with a splat, thick gobs of blueberry goop shooting out in sticky streaks all over the tile.

Patrick offered her a mechanical wave. “Hi.”

Her eyes turned to Joey. “What’s he doing here?”

“Visiting. Aren’t you happy to see him? Pumpkin?”

Kelinda sighed, shaking her head at Patrick. “You should have stayed away,” she said, looking strangely sad. Her gaze shifted to Joey. “I hate you.”

“I know you do,” Joey said, yawning.

Kelinda abruptly left the room. Patrick heard the front door slam as she went outside.

Joey smiled at Patrick. “She’s overcome with emotion.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Shep took Patrick out through the back yard and into the fields with the purpose of familiarizing him with operations. They hadn’t gotten twenty yards and Patrick was already awestruck. Everything was different. He’d spent time on this property years ago while Joey’s parents were still alive. Charles and Marie Duvaine had allowed Joey to spend weekends in the guesthouse with his friends. Now that same guesthouse was surrounded by a herd of tents and a flurry of activity as people went in and out, hauling supplies.

They busied themselves like ants, crawling here and there across what was once an empty stretch of rolling green fields. Patrick remembered looking out onto those same fields when he was still a student and thinking how lucky Joey’s family was to have such an abundance of untouched land and natural forest. The fields were no longer vacant. Stalks of tall plants the color of red clay swayed gracefully in the breeze, bending rows of bushy heads as far as the eye could see. He gazed ahead at the sea of plants, trying to see something ominous in them.

He walked alongside Shep, taking in the spring air, which held an unusual scent. It was the plants. They smelled vaguely like burning rubber. Shep’s curls blew wildly in the wind, whipping against his suntanned skin as he led Patrick over to the guesthouse. Patrick wanted to ask him about the plants and a thousand other things, but he was on sensory overload. His head twisted in all directions as he took in the sights.

There were strangers everywhere. They greeted Shep enthusiastically as he came upon each section. Shep exchanged witty repartee or gave instructions as he went. Patrick couldn’t count how many people there were. Shep had said there were under a hundred, but they were so spread out it seemed like more. Looking off into the distant expanse of crop fields, Patrick saw silhouettes of bodies moving amongst the rows.

They stopped in at the guesthouse, which looked nothing like the cozy cottage style flop Patrick remembered from his early twenties. All the furniture had been cleared out, replaced with rows of bunk beds. Aside from the fleet of beds, there didn’t seem to be much of anything but boxes of food supplies and farming equipment. They left the guesthouse and continued their stroll, making their way farther back into the fields.

A stretch of open lawn past the guesthouse was being utilized as a makeshift parking lot, where a fleet of large white box trucks sat in rows. They each had the words “Arcania Quality” printed along the side in dark green lettering, with a little drawing of a sprout as a logo. Patrick felt his stomach tighten, remembering his conversations with Agent Litner.

The crops were divided into sections that were manned by a group of six followers. Of this group, four people scurried around within the rows of crop, prodding the earth or examining the bushy heads of the plants with gloved hands. The other two of the company stood guard, one on either side of the field. These people were armed, wearing menacing looking guns in shoulder holsters over their light clothing. Patrick could hold his tongue no longer. He turned to Shep, who was busy pulling his windblown curls back into a red bandana. “Shep, what the hell is this stuff, and why are you growing so much of it?”

“It’s grain, part of an investment project Joey’s entered.”

“What kind of investment?” Patrick asked.

“Have you heard of a company called Arcania Foods? They distribute wheat and grain products to food manufacturers.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Patrick said cautiously.

“Well, Joey owns the company now. It had proven extremely lucrative for Charles, so Joey thought it would be a good investment. They used to be a fairly small distributor, but their client list has grown considerably in the past five years. They have clients all around the world now.”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at the fleet of white trucks growing smaller the farther out they trekked. What didn’t make sense was why Joey would go to the trouble to actually grow crops on his own land for this company. “But, Arcania has been around for a while, Shep. Don’t they have their own grain farms?”

“Oh, sure they do. All this product is supplemental.”

“Supplemental for what?” Patrick asked.

“The crop you see here is going to provide a surplus for Arcania. This is all for charity.”

Patrick did a double take at Shep, who was smiling and waving at the field workers as they passed. “Charity? You? Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I kid you not. It was Joey’s idea. Hell, combined, we’ve got more money than God now. We wanted to do some good. Give back. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Patrick said.

Shep stopped dead and stared at Patrick. He looked genuinely hurt. “We’re not the monsters you think we are.”

Patrick glanced over at one of the young men who wore a gun strapped to his body. The security measures seemed awfully tight for a crop of grain that was not even going to fetch a price, and he said so to Shepherd.

“The guns aren’t to protect the plants!” Shep said. “They’re to protect Joey! Someone tried to shoot him recently. If you were a sniper and you wanted to sneak onto the property, what would be the best way to hide yourself?”

Patrick saw what he was getting at. “In the crop fields.”

“Exactly. We need to protect Joey and ourselves from any and all potential threats. There are a lot of weirdoes out there, Obrien. You can’t be too careful.”

Yes, Patrick thought. There are also a lot of weirdoes in here. Patrick’s fingers reached out to brush the head of one of the plants. Shep grabbed his hand roughly before it made contact. “Don’t touch that please. The oils in your hand could contaminate it.”

Patrick pulled his hand back and glanced again at the gun-toting follower who stood guard. The man gazed at Patrick suspiciously, then saw that he was with Shep and turned away. Getting a sample of this stuff wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought.

Shep periodically stopped along their surveillance walk to chat with followers and introduce them to Patrick. After each encounter, Shep would give Patrick a short profile of the person he’d just met, including what they’d done for a career before joining Forest Bluffs. To Patrick’s amazement, there were doctors, artists, mechanics, and a wide variety of other intelligent, seemingly normal folk. They did not appear to be missing their former lives. They’d given themselves over to a hippie style, wearing mostly loose cotton clothing with a lot of tie-dye. It was like living in Shepville.

A little pixie of a brunette with a head of short brown hair came leaping forward to greet Shep. Patrick went cold. It was the girl from the cave, the one who’d administered painkillers to the wounded Klee. “Shepherd! I solved the water problem in the third sector, and I found that box of supplies you were looking for last week.”

“Thank you, love. Patrick, this is Brin-Marie. Brin has been quite an asset to our little group out here.” The girl beamed proudly at the compliment. She looked like she was waiting for a puppy treat. “Brin-Marie used to work as a nurse,” Shep added.

Well, that made sense. Shep was using her medical skills to his own advantage. Patrick wondered if Brin-Marie ever imagined while she was back in nursing school that she’d be treating a wing amputation one day. Judging by her behavior, she didn’t seem to mind.

“Pleased to meet you,” Patrick said, and offered her his hand. She pulled the rubber glove off her right hand and gave Patrick a quick, indifferent shake.

“Brin, did you hear me? This is Patrick,” Shep said to the girl. When she didn’t react, Shep gave her a knowing look. “Patrick Obrien,” he added.

Realization flashed across her obedient face, and she turned to Patrick. “Oh! Oh my. Welcome Patrick! We’re so happy to have you here!”

“As you can see,” Shep said to her, “I’ve solved a few problems of my own.”

“I guess you have,” she said, smiling at Patrick like he was the answer to some prayer.

* * * *

Patrick’s unease spread as other people made his acquaintance in the same enthusiastic fashion, as though they’d all been waiting for him. Strange behavior aside, the followers were conscientious workers, and none seemed to question for a moment what their purpose was in the little camp. Each section of fields was run in an almost military fashion, with each member of the group carrying out a specific task without question. Shep was in control of these people. He could see it in their eyes. They agreed with every statement he made, laughed too loudly at his jokes, and followed his orders to the letter.

Efficient as they seemed, the image of normalcy shattered later that morning when Joey came out to give his sermon. At the first sight of Joey, they morphed into something weird and mindless.

The followers had organized themselves into a crowd at the center of the open field, waiting. They stood rapt watching as Joey approached with his entourage: Russell, Kelinda, Allisto, Margol, and Klee. Joey wore a long white priest’s robe, and Patrick had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Joey turned and beckoned Patrick with his arm to join his little fiefdom. Patrick reluctantly followed, feeling like he should be playing a flute or waving a banner. In his mind he heard drums beating, and baroque music announcing the arrival of the king.

The three brothers immediately took up posts along the sides of the fields, relieving the guards so that all of the followers could attend the sermon. There was an eerie silence among the crowd. They stared at Joey, their faces dazed and dreamlike. It was almost a sexual gaze, mixed with a blankness that looked drug induced. Patrick felt embarrassed for the followers, and for himself. He tried to slink back a little, but Shep immediately noticed and pulled him forward. “Stay right with Joey,” he said softly.

Patrick gave Shep a wary look, which he ignored. Apparently, the fact that Patrick was Joey’s official protector was now out in the open. Patrick stepped up alongside Joey, feeling like the biggest ass in the world. Kelinda stood on the other side of Joey like a delicate pink queen. Shep was off to one side with Russell, both of them silent with heads bowed. They remained like that for what seemed like ten minutes, the crowd of five facing the crowd of sixty.

The followers waited patiently, eyes focused on Joey with a combination of awe and something like hunger. Finally, Joey lifted his arms, and Patrick saw a visible change come over him. He made his face serious, his eyes scanning the crowd purposefully, as though he’d look each one of them in the eye. “Let us pray,” he said finally, and lowered his arms. The followers bowed their heads in response.

“My friends. My wonderful, wonderful friends. You don’t know what it means to see you all here. It humbles me, and yet sets me ablaze with a fiery hope!”

Patrick stared at Joey. He’s acting. He’d never seen him execute such a presence as this. It was mesmerizing and weird and cringey, and Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off him. In an instant, Joey had become a different person.

“We come together once again to thank the fate that brought us here, to the minds that ask the questions, and to the hope that seeks the answers.” The young men and women smiled up at him as though he was showering them with pearls of wisdom. “And now that we are charged with the tasks that lead us into the searching, we shall be assured that all debts will be paid, and the faithful will be born unto the sanctity of the land!”

The crowd broke into cheers and a chorus of amens and hallelujahs. Patrick had another moment where he was so afraid he was going to laugh that he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. To distract himself he looked off into the distance where Allisto, Margol and Klee were supposedly guarding the perimeters of the fields. They were engrossed in a friendly competition of who could spin their gun into the air and catch it with the most accuracy.

Klee was amusing to watch, as his walk was the most awkward. He moved with a kind of half skip, like he was walking across hot coals. He was definitely a favorite, a baby sibling. The other brothers seemed overjoyed to be with Klee, tousling his white curls playfully and laughing loudly as they watched him try to catch his gun after tossing it too high in the air.

Patrick was startled out of his observations of the brothers by sudden applause from the crowd. He looked up and found that the entire crowd was focused on him. Joey was looking at him too. Patrick panicked, confused. Joey leaned in and whispered, “Obrien! I just introduced you, you space shot! Wave or something!”

Patrick forced a smile and waved uncomfortably at the crowd. After Patrick’s introduction, the followers formed a single file line and came forward, one by one. Joey placed a hand on each one of their heads and murmured “Bless you.” After which they went on to resume their work in the fields.

The brothers came back across the field to join them as King Joey and his court walked back up to the main house. Russell trailed behind Shep like a puppy. When they got out of range of the crops, Joey let out a loud hoot. “Man I feel good today!” he yelled, and tossed himself into a summersault. He circled back and wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Obrien, my man. I feel so much better now that you’re back with us. So much better. I’m not even drunk!” With this, Joey took off in a sprint up to the house. All the better. Patrick had no idea what to say back to him aside from ‘Hey buddy, nice cult you’ve got here’.

What a bunch of fruitcakes. He wanted desperately to voice this opinion, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be faking enthusiasm. He thought about the strange red field of swaying plants and wondered how the hell he was going to get his hands on them.

“Party tonight, Obrien,” Shep said. “In your honor. What are you drinking these days?”

“Oh, no. Don’t have a party on my account,” Patrick said. He’d been hoping he could lock himself in his room until the rest of them went to sleep, then sneak out and grab a sprig of that crop. Shep would hear none of it.

“We are having a party tonight, Obrien, and you will be there. You’re the guest of honor. Don’t be a wimp. It’s good for morale.”

“Oh yeah? Whose morale?”

“Everyone’s!” Shep said and darted off after Joey.

Patrick sighed and made his way reluctantly up to the big house. He moved slowly, letting them all get up ahead of him. “This was a bad idea,” he muttered.

“What was a bad idea?” a voice behind him asked. Patrick spun around. It was Klee. He’d trailed behind the others, unable to keep up with their quicker pace. Patrick looked into his questioning, innocent eyes.

“Oh, um, these pants. It was a bad idea to wear these pants. They’re all dirty now,” Patrick lied, brushing imaginary dirt off his khakis. Klee frowned, his plump mouth forming a perfect pout. Patrick swallowed hard. Klee wasn’t buying it. Perhaps he was not so innocent after all. “What’s the matter, Klee?”

“Your aura is angry, Patrick.”

“What?”

“Your aura is angry. You are frustrated and unhappy.”

Patrick was so stunned by the comment that he couldn’t think of a response. Apparently, Klee had some special abilities, and if Klee had them, Shep might have them too. Patrick would have to watch his emotional levels from now on.

“Don’t you like us, Patrick?” the curly-topped blond asked with heartbreaking sincerity.

“Oh, Klee. I like you very much. Really.” He wasn’t lying. He did like Klee. He was telling the truth, and he let Klee see it in his eyes.

Klee frowned at him a moment longer, then the frown became a smile. Patrick smiled too and patted him on the back. Klee jumped and cried out. “Ahh! Please, don’t touch the back! Painful.”

Patrick yanked his hand back, realizing what he’d done. “Oh, sorry Klee. I’d forgotten that you…hurt your back.”

Klee ran pell-mell up to the house, tee shirt dotted with blood from his oozing back wound. A chill ran down Patrick’s spine, and he looked warily down at the hand he’d patted Klee with. “I’ve got to get the fuck out of here,” he said, and made his way up to the house.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Father Carbone set the tea tray down a little too hard, feeling irritable. Robin and Copie had been bickering since her arrival a half-hour before. Now that Copie had his own unbelievable tale of supernatural proportions, Robin couldn’t resist the urge to challenge him with doubts as he’d done to her and Patrick after their night in the cave. Agent Litner appeared to be relaxing casually in one of the kitchen chairs, but he was going to town on his temple with a pen, a clear sign the bickering was getting to him as well.

“I can’t believe you of all people doubt our story, Robin! We didn’t laugh when you came back from Pearl Chasm with tales of discarded wings,” Copie said.

“Ha! You so did. And at least those wings were solid. You’re talking about transparent beings flying through the air and scratching people.”

Father Carbone slapped a hand on the table. “Enough! I didn’t call you all over here to argue about whose story is bullshit and whose story is true. I finally got hold of my colleague, Father Bello last night. We had a rather interesting discussion. He’s on his way over to speak with us. He has some things to share about his studies of the celestial hierarchy. He’s an expert so hopefully he can shed some light on all of this…craziness.”

Agent Litner scooted his chair in. “What do you mean by expert?”

“It’s a hobby, but he’s been doing research on the subject for thirty years. But more importantly, he has some information regarding a mythical being by the name of Zirub.”

Robin stiffened. “What information?”

“He’d prefer to share it in person. There was something else however, something you should all know.”

“What is it?” Litner asked.

“Father Bello had a visitor who tried to strangle him. He described him as a young, green-eyed man with red curly hair. He confessed his name to be Margol.”

Copie and Robin both gasped. “Where does Father Bello preach?” Copie asked.

“Saint Christopher’s, in the North End.”

“So why did Margol visit him? What’s the connection?” Robin asked.

Carbone’s brows pinched. “He told Father Bello that he was looking for his brother. He was looking for Juris.”

“Shit,” Copie whispered, and the priest nodded.

“Somehow he’d gotten the idea that Juris was being held by a priest. He simply had the wrong church. A series of coincidences and misinformation led him to Father Bello, but I’d say that’s a little too close for comfort. I for one am glad Juris has been moved out of my basement.”

“What do they want?” Litner demanded suddenly, cutting into the pondering silence.

“Who? Duvaine and Shepherd?”

“Not just them. These angels. There, I said it. What the hell do they want?”

“They are not angels,” a voice outside the front door said.

They all turned to see a chubby face adorned with a white beard, peering in through the screen. Father Carbone leapt from his chair to open the door.

“Father Bello! Please, come in. It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, Luigi.”

The man stepped through the door, exuding a presence of kindness and warmth. He wore the classic black ensemble with white collar, black shirt stretched a little too tight around his belly. He seemed uncomfortable in the evening heat, face flushed pink. He smiled at the group, giving a courteous nod. “Hello. I’m Father Bello.”

They made introductions, and Father Bello was given a seat as Carbone poured him a cup of tea. Litner looked impatient with the pleasantries. “Father Bello, what can you tell us about these oddities we’ve been encountering? Something of value, I hope. I have a civilian planted in their nest out at Forest Bluffs, so I’d like to know exactly what we’re dealing with, for his safety’s sake.” The bearded priest ignored Litner. “Father Bello? Did you hear me?”

“I did.” Father Bello took a sip of tea, clearly not intimidated by Litner’s pushy demeanor. He replaced the teacup, then reached to the floor, retrieving a bag he’d brought with him. Slowly, he pulled books out and placed them in a careful order on the table before him. Agent Litner sighed but kept silent.

When Father Bello had finished, there were several books on the table. Some were old, with weakened bindings and tattered covers, others bright and colorful children’s books with decorative fairies, elves, and apron-wearing kittens dancing across the cover. He made minor adjustments, moving a book a quarter inch to the right, smoothing their covers. He seemed deeply enthralled in the organization of it all, when he looked up suddenly, taking in the impatient eyes around him. He nodded. “Right. Let’s get to it then.”

Agent Litner jumped in at the prompt. “You said when you arrived that they are not angels.”

“That is correct. They are not angels. They are Powers.”

“What are Powers?”

Father Bello leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “There are nine orders of rank in the celestial hierarchy. From lowest to highest, they are Angels, Archangels, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Dominations, Thrones, Cherubim, and Seraphim. Seraphim are the highest on the totem pole, and angels are actually the lowest. That is if you can call a celestial being low! They’re still a far sight higher on the food chain than we are!” Father Bello laughed heartily. The others did not. Catching their seriousness, he cleared his throat. “So, anyway, calling these Powers ‘angels’ is actually an insult to them. They are three levels further up in rank.”

“In rank?” Robin asked. “Like the Army or something?”

“Sure, I suppose. They each have designated ranks, and with each rank comes specific tasks and duties. For instance, actual angels are the closest to the material world, serving as messengers for humans, while the higher ranked bodies like Dominations and Thrones rarely if ever see the material world. Are you following me?”

“Barely,” Litner said. “How can you be sure that Shep and the brothers are Powers, and not something else?”

“Well for starters, Margol told me he was the ‘elite guard’, code for a Power. I assume he felt it safe to reveal this, thinking I would soon be dead by his hand.”

Copie nodded. “Yes, they tend to spill their guts when they’re about to kill you.”

Father Bello patted Copie’s hand. “I heard of your close call, son. Your strength of spirit is impressive.”

“Could we get back to business please?” Agent Litner said.

Father Bello turned his warm smile to Litner. “Ah, yes. Steven Litner. You have strength as well. Yours, however, I sense is born of restraining your own happiness.”

Agent Litner gave him a sarcastic smile. “Well, Santa, maybe you could bring me a pony for Christmas. Now, tell me about the Powers. What is their designation and what the hell are they doing here on earth?”

“Hang on,” Robin said. “We’re supposed to learn Shep’s motivations based on some old books? I’m not trying to be difficult, but I feel the need to point out not everyone here shares your beliefs, Father Bello. And Father Carbone.”

Litner shrugged. “I don’t share their beliefs either, but we’re trying to gather information, and Father Bello has some. Let’s keep a rein on the cynicism and maintain an open mind.”

Carbone held a hand up. “No one’s trying to bully you into sharing our faith, Robin. But the fact remains that whatever the source, details of these beings match some of the writings in our possession. Eerily so. Think of it as nothing more than a criminal investigation if you must but let us show Father Bello our respect for his time.”

She sighed. “Fine. Sorry. Go on.”

Bello opened one of the older looking books but did not read from it as he spoke. Instead, he looked around the table at all of them. “Powers have the most dangerous job in the hierarchy. They are responsible for maintaining the borders between the realms. They are the first line of guard between the material and the immaterial worlds. What does this mean? Well on a lighter note, they are responsible for ensuring that souls that leave the mortal world get to heaven safely. Sounds like a fairly cushy job, right? But guarding the celestial byways between the realms is not always so easy. They are constantly guarding against demonic attack and serve as a major battle line against all manner of unwanted entities. They are a most valuable order.”

Robin drummed her fingers on her teacup. “So they’re like the border patrol.”

He nodded. “A most responsible job. Unfortunately, more celestials from the rank of ‘Power’ are listed as fallen from grace than any other member of the hierarchy. Some consider this to be due to their close proximity to the nether regions.”

“They have a tendency to get too involved with their work?” Carbone asked.

Father Bello smiled, but the sparkle had left his eyes. “The temptation to travel to other realms must be overwhelming. They’re constantly at watch of creatures who are spiritually lesser than they are. They guide angels on their way out of the region and help chart their course to the material worlds. Powers themselves, however, are forbidden to travel to any other regions, any of the other worlds, including earth.”

Litner cocked an eyebrow. “There are…other worlds? You believe that as a priest?”

Bello chuckled. “Well, that’s a quagmire, isn’t it? Much of my readings concerning Powers claim so. Of course, most of our colleagues in the church believe ours is God’s only creation, so I’ll leave it there.”

“Why?” Father Carbone asked. “Why can’t they travel to other regions when the other celestials can?”

“The Elite Guard need to be incredibly strong to do their jobs. Warriors. This is how they were made. They’re far too powerful to become material,” Father Bello said. “The lower beings, such as angels, archangels, and principalities, can slip through and remain masked to human eyes, appearing only when they deem it necessary, to pass a message along or meddle in human affairs or whatnot.”

“So the lower beings have a cloaking device,” Copie said.

Father Bello chuckled. “Something like that. For the Powers to go to earth, however, they’d have to be made flesh, and this is unacceptable.”

“Why?” Litner asked.

The priest frowned. “It is feared that Powers would not be able to conceal whatever gifts they brought with them.”

Copie shook his head. “Gifts?”

“Gifts, advanced abilities, magic, call it what you like. Whether you want to look at this from a religious standpoint or a scientific one, the fact remains that these beings are a far more sophisticated lifeform than we are. If the Powers entered a lower realm, bringing their exceptional gifts into a place that possessed none, it could create a dangerous shift in balance. They’d possess abilities, and knowledge, not yet discovered by the lower beings.”

“And who made it that way? Who makes these rules?” Robin asked.

Bello eyed her cautiously. “God does.”

She huffed. “God doesn’t allow these Powers to go to earth. Why would any of them defy God? If God is supposedly so all-knowing and wonderful, why would any being go against his wishes?”

“That’s a good question, Robin, and I think I can answer it. You’ve got to understand something,” Father Bello said. “Only the highest of the celestial ranks take orders directly from the creator. These creatures we’re dealing with, these Powers, take orders from their superiors, other members of the hierarchy. As I said, they have the most responsible job, but they’re also outsiders in a sense. The Powers, unlike higher ranked members of the hierarchy, have never actually seen God. They’re required to stay in the borders, just outside the kingdom. This always seemed disturbingly cruel to me, as it is written that they can feel the light of their creator, feel the warmth of the paradise they guard, but they’re never invited in, because of the duties they hold.”

“Damn,” Copie said. “That is cold.”

Father Bello nodded. “You see, lower creatures in the hierarchy are not so different from you and me. They’re required to have faith that their commands are coming from on high. Most people assume that all celestial beings just hang out with God all day. This is not so. Many of them question his existence just as humans do.”

They were all silent for several minutes, absorbing the information. Robin aired the question on everyone’s mind. “What does this have to do with Shepherd and his brothers? You believe them to have once been Powers, I got that much. But what are they doing here?”

“Ah yes,” Father Bello said. “This brings us to the story of Zirub.” He closed the book in front of him and picked up one of the colorful picture books.

“What is that?” Agent Litner asked. “A children’s book?”

“It is.” The ruddy priest chuckled. “There are very few writings about celestial beings that have any consistency in determining what is factual, or even common. The stories are all over the place, often presenting conflicting details. Even the Bible refers to them with some rarity. When Father Carbone called me with the name Zirub, I too found it familiar. I knew I’d encountered it briefly in the past, probably from readings I’d done, but for the life of me I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it in any religious text, that is. When I finally located it, it was in an unexpected category. Folklore.”

“You mean it’s a fairytale?” Copie asked.

“Indeed. This is a collection of stories printed about a hundred years ago, but their origins are impossible to date. The one I found is simply called ‘The Story of Zirub’. It reads like a bedtime story, but I wouldn’t read it to children unless I wanted to give them nightmares. I’ll give you the condensed version, as some of it can get rather wordy.” He opened the book.

“Basically, it talks about a band of five angels. They refer to them as angels here, most likely because that’s what people understand, but I still hold fast to my theory that they are actually Powers. Anyway, most people think of a band as a musical reference, being that angels are often depicted carrying trumpets and harps and such. But in this case, it seems to refer to a small group or a collective.”

“Like a gang?” Copie asked.

“More like a pack of wolves. Or a family. There’s a definite familial element to it. So this band is led by a celestial named Zirub, who wanted very much to be allowed to go to earth.”

“Does it say why?” Agent Litner asked.

Father Carbone rolled his eyes. “Litner needs his ‘why’ at all costs, Father Bello.”

“Actually,” Father Bello said, “Agent Litner makes a good point. I too was bothered by the fact that this story did not explain the motive behind Zirub’s urgency to reach the mortal world. The only remote clue I found is the timing; a little over two-thousand years ago is when he allegedly broke through. Around the time of the crucifixion.”

Robin shook her head. “Nah. Shep thinks the Jesus story is bullshit, he says so all the time.”

“Oh, now we’re going to believe Shepherd?” Carbone said. “After all his lies?”

Robin shot him a look. “Thought we were having open minds, Father Carbone? Or does that only apply to things you believe in?”

“All right, let’s not get touchy here,” Bello said. “The important thing is, there had to be a damn good reason why they made the trip to the material realm. According to my research, the process for a Power to break through as flesh is not a simple matter at all, or a pleasant one. It is a violent, dangerous transition that could result in his destruction. He must have had a motivation. It just doesn’t list it here.”

Robin shuddered. “Violent, yeah. If that’s what Patrick and I were witnessing in that cave…one of them breaking through as flesh, it was violent. And bloody.”

Agent Litner nodded. “Please Father Bello, continue.”

“Yes. So Zirub put in an urgent request to go to earth. It’s written here as a proposal. He was denied of course, being a Power, a being forbidden to enter the mortal world.”

“Let me guess,” Robin said. “He went anyway.”

“Of course. Otherwise, I doubt we’d be having this conversation.” Father Bello pulled out a tiny pair of wire-framed reading glasses and placed them on his nose, adding to the Santa Claus image. Looking down at the colorful book, he continued. “Against the better judgment of his superiors, Zirub talked the rest of his band into joining him and made the journey. It says here that he found a back door. It makes sense, knowing that Powers chart the material journeys of the lower beings. They know all the back roads, so to speak. At any rate, the band was discovered gone before they reached their final destination. Earth.”

Father Bello paused. Copie stared at him, wide-eyed. “Then the shit hit the fan, am I right?”

Father Carbone gave Copie a nudge, but Bello ignored the profanity. “It hit the fan all right, Copie. Zirub’s band abandoned their guard to go seek earth, leaving their posts wide open. A demonic tribe entered the kingdom of heaven. A battle ensued, and luckily the tribe was driven out by Powers from another sector. His superiors, angered by the lapse in security, shut both Zirub’s entrance to earth, as well as his entrance back to the heavenly byways, leaving him unable to proceed, and unable to retreat. They could not go forward to earth, and they could not go back where they came from. They were stuck, trapped in the void for all time.”

“What is the void exactly?” Agent Litner asked.

Father Bello took a deep breath and read from the page in front of him. “The void is described as the vast nothingness. It is the darkness and the nowhere that was before God created the Heavens and the Earth.”

Father Carbone shivered. Robin and Copie both rubbed their arms. It was as if on some primitive level, they all knew what the void was, and feared it above all things. The idea of nothingness was a concept the human mind could not quite wrap itself around. “How does it end?’ Copie asked, his voice lowered to a whisper.

Father Bello turned a couple of pages. He spoke slowly now, his jovial demeanor given over to a solemn countenance. “In the nothingness, the other members of the band began to go insane. All except for Zirub, their leader, for he was stronger than the rest. He felt responsible for their fate, having talked them into taking the journey with him. Rather than watch his beloved band lose their minds in the darkness, he put them all to sleep, where they would remain in a sort of stasis until he woke them. He would spend eternity in the void, searching the darkness for a Cripulet.”

“A Cripulet?” Agent Litner perked up.

Father Bello nodded. “A Cripulet is a thing of myth and legend. Some believe that there are areas of the fiber between the realms that have worn thin in places, leaving a soft spot. These soft spots are called Cripulets. It is believed that beings from other realms have occasionally passed through these Cripulets and into our world, either by accident or otherwise. Cripulets are said to be found mainly in deep ocean or mountainous caverns, places that have done a lot of geological shifting. Some believe that the myths of such creatures as the mountain Sasquatch and the Loch Ness monster are actually creatures from another realm that inadvertently slipped into our world via a Cripulet. It’s like an inter-dimensional doorway. Just as there are Cripulets to other worlds, there are supposedly Cripulets that lead to the void, and from the void, back into our world.”

Father Carbone looked at Agent Litner, who seemed rattled by this latest information. “Steven, you look like you know something. Have you heard of these Cripulets before?”

Agent Litner was silent for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “No. No, I’ve never heard of a Cripulet. It’s just intriguing, that’s all.”

Father Carbone nodded, but his gaze lingered on his friend. Litner seemed to be lying. Carbone let it go, knowing that secrets were part of being a government agent. It was probably the old If I told you, I’d have to kill you scenario. If Litner knew something about Cripulets, it was something he was not willing to share.

Robin mentioned the way Shep had that one section of rock marked off with a circle of blood on the cave wall. “Could that have been one of these Cripulets you’re referring to?”

“Yes, Robin, Father Carbone told me about what you witnessed in the cave,” Father Bello said. “Pearl Chasm is thought to have formed near the end of the last ice age, approximately fourteen thousand years ago. The chasm may have been formed by the sudden release of dammed up glacial melt water. It is a prime location for a Cripulet, assuming that such things actually exist.”

“Pretty creepy bedtime story,” Copie said. “Is that the end of it?”

Father Bello flipped through the pages. “Just about. There’s a bunch of malarkey at the end about thunder being caused by Zirub trying to break his way through to earth, and so on. Things to scare kids. Oh, and there’s a scripture quotation at the very end, from The Epistle of Jude. Would you like me to read it?”

Litner shrugged. “You might as well.”

Father Bello cleared his throat. “And the angels who did not keep their proper domain, but left their own abode, He has reserved in everlasting chains under darkness for the judgment of the great day.”

Copie snorted. “Well. I guess ‘He’ had better get some stronger chains, because the suckers got out early.”

“Can I ask a practical question?” Robin said. “If we’re going to assume this story has some basis in truth, and that these things did happen, then who wrote it all down? How did we come to know about it in the first place?”

“I thought of that as well,” Father Bello said. “Throughout history, there have been accounts of actual messenger angels appearing before humans and telling them tales. It’s all through the bible, as if this happened regularly. Perhaps this tale was passed on in such a manner. Why they’d feel the need to tell the tale of Zirub, I do not know. Perhaps as a cautionary tale, wanting us to know that even they are not above God’s law. Or maybe they just like to gossip.”

“So should we proceed under the assumption that Melvin Eugene Shepherd is in fact this mythical Zirub?” Father Carbone asked.

Robin blew out a long slow breath. “It’s hard enough to accept that Shep’s a closet maniac. To believe he’s some sort of mythical character is nearly impossible. Although this Zirub does sound like kind of an idiot.” She met Father Bello’s eyes. “What are our other options?”

He shrugged. “Well, the way I see it, there is only one other feasible explanation. That would be that Shepherd is a scholar of ancient folklore. In so thinking, for whatever reason, he has read the story of Zirub, and has gone to great lengths to performatively parallel it to his own life. Personally, I’m not buying that. Everyone in this room has witnessed things that go beyond a natural explanation. Oh, except for Agent Litner. Am I right?”

All eyes turned to Litner, who held his usual blank expression. “That is correct. Aside from witnessing a rather unsavory scream from Juris that caused several windows to crack, I’ve not personally witnessed any of these unexplainable events. I have only the testimony of the others to go by.”

Robin looked hopeful for a moment. “If you have a more logical explanation, I’d be thrilled to hear it, Agent Litner.”

“I believe it,” Litner said. “I think Shepherd is Zirub.”

Robin’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“You, Steven?” Carbone said. “You believe it?”

“Yes, Luigi.”

“But you’re the rational one,” Copie said. “And you haven’t even seen any of the really weird shit!”

Father Bello grinned. He seemed highly amused that Agent Litner should be the first to profess his belief in the boogie man.

“You can all stop looking at me like that,” Litner said. “It’s a simple matter of logic and reasoning.”

Father Carbone narrowed his eyes. “I know you, Steven. You’re playing some sort of head game with yourself.”

Litner shrugged. “The worst mistake I’ve seen colleagues make is underestimating their opponent. Sometimes, the truth about someone is so horrifying that we just can’t believe it. This leaves us at a disadvantage if the opponent truly is the horror we suspect. For instance, a cornered bank robber is holding a baby hostage to negotiate his escape. You must always assume that he will indeed kill that baby if you don’t stop him. I’ve learned it’s wise to go into a situation under the assumption that the worst-case scenario is true. If we imagine the worst, then there are no surprises. Therefore, in this case, the worst possible scenario is that Melvin Eugene Shepherd is not of this world. Nor are his brothers.”

Father Carbone tilted his head. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Hell no. But I’ve been underestimating this Shepherd character all along. If I tell myself that he’s some crazed other worldly being, I can’t possibly underestimate him again.”

Father Carbone shook his head, then looked at Father Bello. “I can understand that celestial beings are not perfect, but this band, these brothers, how did they get so…evil?”

“They are not evil,” Father Bello answered.

“With all due respect Father Bello, I had one living in my basement until recently. They tried to kill Copie, and Robin and Patrick saw them kill an old man with their own eyes. Christ, one of them tried to kill you! If not evil, then what?”

“They were following orders, Luigi. It’s what they do. They don’t know from morality. They come from a place where all commands are divine.”

“Do you mean they truly don’t know the difference between right and wrong?”

“Where they come from, there is no wrong. They don’t question the commands that their leader gives them. Right and wrong are not concepts they understand. Don’t you see? This is one of the reasons they’re forbidden to cross the realms! They are not prepared to live in this world.” Father Bello lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re not supposed to be here!”

“What about Shep?” Robin interjected. “Does the leader know the difference between right and wrong?”

“Ah, yes,” Father Bello said, leaning back. “I suspect he does, though that’s clearly not staying his hand any. Shepherd is more adapted to the human realm, and probably of a higher intelligence than the others.”

Father Carbone whistled. “Well, considering how smart we found Juris to be, that’s rather frightening.”

Father Bello glanced around at them all, looking serious. “If the dating alleged in this story of Zirub is even close to being correct, we’re talking about a being that stayed awake for over two thousand years looking for a way out of his confinement. Persistent little bugger to say the least.”

“So we’re dealing with a creature who outsmarted God somehow.” Carbone rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah. I think we can take him. Piece of cake.”

“Man!” Copie gasped. “How do you stop someone like that?”

Father Bello shrugged. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

This got Agent Litner’s attention, and he glared at Father Bello. “Excuse me?”

The Priest held up his hands as if to ward off the heat of Litner’s gaze. “I’m just saying, hypothetically speaking, we can’t be sure that this isn’t all part of God’s plan.”

“Oh come on!” Litner snapped. “I find it hard to believe that if there is a God, they’d put any portion of their so-called plan into the hands of a lunatic like Shepherd.”

“I’m just speculating,” Father Bello said. “I mean, who says it’s our place to interfere?”

“The security of this country says it’s my place to interfere,” Agent Litner said. “No offense to the clergymen in the room, but I don’t answer to God. I answer to my boss, a human man with a bad attitude, and he is awaiting my interference as we speak.”

Father Bello looked solemn. “I know that, Agent Litner. And I can’t stop you from doing your job. But I pray you be careful dealing with Shepherd. You need to be ready for anything. I don’t know what a couple thousand years of nothing can do to one of these creatures, but I’m betting he’s not just a little insane.”

“Shep has to have a weakness. He must,” Litner said determinedly. “Everyone does.  Melvin Eugene Shepherd has a weakness. We just need to find it.”

“What about the brothers?” Robin said. “He clearly loves them.”

Litner shook his head. “We took one of his brothers away and he’s still functioning quite nicely. I’m talking about something that gets to him. Something that could throw him off his guard.”

“Wesley J. Shepherd,” Robin said. “The name Dr. Lichtenstein wrote in the dirt. Juris recognized it as soon as we said it, remember? He said Shep refuses to speak that name aloud.”

Litner pursed his lips. “I haven’t had a chance to profile the name yet. I’ll get to that later tonight.”

Robin smiled at him. “You must be losing your edge.”

“Yes, well, I’ve had a lot on my mind.” Robin’s smile dropped to a concerned frown as she watched him begin beating his temple with his pen again.

Father Carbone perked up suddenly. “Hey, speaking of Juris, what about the other thing in the basement? The apparition that made me wet my pants. What the hell was that?”

Father Bello consulted his books. “You said Juris called it a Principality?”

“Well, yes and no. He called it a Schlarr. He said that our ‘dumb religion’ calls it a Principality.”

Father Bello scanned the page. “Principalities are just below Powers on the list of ranks, I know that much,” he mumbled. “Not sure why one would come here, though.”

“It’s lower in rank? Really?” Copie said. “Because it sure didn’t seem intimidated by Juris.”

Bello nodded. “Remember though, Juris is flesh now, not in his primary form. He may be seen as an abomination by these other celestials. An out-of-place threat.”

“What does it say about the Schlarr in your books?” Litner asked.

“One of their main duties is given to the protection of religion. Not just Catholicism, but any gathering place that maintains a devotion to the spiritual realm. Ancient Pagan tribes apparently summoned such creatures for protection when performing rituals or during harvest festival celebrations, when enemies were prone to attack. It says here that a group gathered together in unified focus on something higher than themselves, will create a coveted energy source that is directly syphoned by the light.” He glanced up. “Odd wording, but I’d interpret ‘the light’ as referring to God.”

“That makes a sort of sense,” Father Carbone said. “While the thing was…growling at me, Juris made a comment. He said something like ‘It can’t hurt you, it thinks it’s protecting this place from me’.”

“It says here that various demons try to steal from the energy being syphoned by the light during a gathering.” Father Bello frowned. “These Principalities normally ward demons off when this happens in the material realm and warn Powers about an impending attack in the spiritual realm. But clearly, this being saw Juris as a threat.”

“I’ve got Juris under a twenty-four-hour watch,” Litner said. “I’ve warned the guards to be on alert. I also had them reinforce his restraints. As Father Bello said, we need to be ready for anything.” Agent Litner pulled his phone out, and they all heard his last sentence on audio playback. “Okay, this was productive. But I’ve got to get going.”

“You recorded all of this?” Father Bello asked.

“Patrick will be in the city mid-week for a briefing. He needs to be informed of this new information.”

“I’m not a betting man,” Copie said, “but I predict this information won’t make Patrick feel any safer out there at Camp Crazy.”

“The information might not be settling, but I know Patrick will want to have it. He’s had enough deception for one lifetime.”

“Which brings up another point,” Robin said. “What about the hoax? How does my cousin Joey fit into the whole Zirub scenario?”

“We definitely don’t have all the pieces to this puzzle,” Father Carbone said, “but we know that whatever Shep is planning to do here, he can’t do it alone. You saw those scriptures he wrote. Joey is the Sword, and Patrick is the Shield. He had to get Joey into a position of prominence somehow, like a false prophet. He’s going to use him for something. He has a plan in the works, and he’s had to use earthly resources to bring it about.”

“So what we may have here,” Father Bello said, “is a genuine celestial being, using false prophecy and false miracles, to create a real catastrophe.”

Robin began to pack her things up.

“I want pizza,” Copie said. “What are your plans tonight, Robin?”

“To try and save my cousin.”

“How?” Litner demanded. “Where are going?”

Robin glanced at the two priests. “To see a witch.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kelinda rocked slowly and sensuously on top of him. The room was filled with the golden half-light of candles, the hue flickering outside the sheer canopy of Joey’s enormous bed. She had the whole scene set before he walked through the door, waiting. Once he arrived, she’d wasted no time.

Her breathing quickened as she slid her naked body up and down his, their hot skin gliding like velvet. She was so beautiful, he thought. But he did not love her, and he knew that she did not love him. At least not anymore. She feigned affection for him now, while once it was genuine. It didn’t bother him. It was merely an unexpected change. He also got the sense that she was hiding something from him, something dark and sinister behind the sweetness of her rich, full-lipped smile.

Her sexual desire was real enough. She truly could not get enough of him. But it wasn’t about him anymore. It wasn’t about Joey Duvaine, boy wonder. It was his fluids she wanted. This bothered him once, but now he didn’t care. Shep was the one behind all the mystical crap, and Shep could be the one to worry about it.

Kelinda delved her tongue into his mouth as though she’d eat him alive. At the same time she expertly moved her hips with him inside her, careful not to go too fast lest he waste his precious explosion before she was ready. His arousal, combined with the scent of the candles made his head spin wildly. His orgasm started with a shudder in his abdomen, causing him to inhale sharply. This was the signal she’d been waiting for. In one fluid motion, she dismounted and dropped down, sliding her lips onto him a mere second before ejaculation. It was precise timing—practiced.

Joey’s back arched, ecstasy pulsing in waves as he surrendered his fluids to her welcoming mouth. As always, she didn’t want to let go, coaxing every drop from him with a suctioning force.

“Enough,” he said. She did not retreat. He grabbed her head and painfully pulled her from him. “I said enough!”

She stretched her back, cheeks flushed, then fell back onto the bed, smiling and running hands down her neck, over her breasts and ribs. He’d seen the ritual before. She was like a junky after a fix. Finally, she got up and slinked over to her closet, slipping into a sheer black dress. She spun and the bottom of the dress flared out like a bell. Crossing the floor, she danced gracefully, a macabre ballerina.

Joey watched her from the bed. “Why do you always wear black now?” he mumbled.

Kelinda went over to the vanity mirror and picked up a brush. “Because black looks good with this outrageous hair color you picked out for me. Besides, I look good in black, don’t you think?”

“You’d look good in anything,” he said without a hint of emotion.

“My my, Joey,” she said. “Was that a compliment from the man without a heart?”

“I have a heart. It’s just different than yours.”

“Not so different anymore.” She applied hot pink lipstick, then a sheer gloss over her full lips.

“Where are you going?”

“Just out to the fields,” she answered curtly.

“You know Shep doesn’t want you going out to the fields, Kelinda. Not without one of us.”

She turned from the mirror. “Shep doesn’t let me do anything. Those people are the only friends I have now.”

“They’re a bunch of zombies,” he said, voice muffled through the side of the pillow.

“You really shouldn’t talk like that. After all, they are your followers. They worship you.” Joey remained silent. “So? Are you going to tell?”

He was on the cusp of sleep. “What?”

“Are you going to tell Shep if I go out to the fields?”

Joey turned over and pulled the covers over his head. “I don’t care what you do.”

****

Patrick sat in the dark outside on the deck, his back leaning against the house. He was hiding from the brothers, who couldn’t seem to give him a moment’s peace. His ‘party’ ended up being a small affair, consisting only of himself, the brothers, Joey and Shep, Kelinda, Russell, and one or two of the followers. Apparently Shep stopped having full-scale parties after the last one, where Joey was nearly taken out by sniper fire. Go figure.

It was a mad house, this place. The Forest Bluffs Home for Wandering Lunatics. To make matters worse, the brothers, who’d spent weeks stalking him from darkened corners of the city, now viewed him as their buddy. It was so strange. Due to the simple fact that Shep said so, Patrick was now a member of the family. They had transformed him from prey into pal overnight because that was what they were instructed to do. Had they no opinions of their own?

Patrick supposed he should have been relieved that his undercover performance was going so well, but it was a bit of overkill. The brothers smothered him, treating him like an interesting new toy.

He heard the blender whirring inside and smiled. He’d finally managed to pry the brothers off of him by introducing them to the wonderful world of frozen chocolate mudslides. He’d shown them how to mix the ingredients together, using the blender to whip the creamy concoction. When they tasted the frozen chocolate drink, you’d have thought Patrick invented the wheel.

On first try, Margol forgot to put the cover on the blender and frozen mudslide sprayed in an explosion all over the room. The brothers thought this was hilarious and tried to repeat the performance, until Patrick convinced them the results were much more practical if they blended the drinks with the cover on. They’d been at it ever since, giving Patrick the golden opportunity to sneak out for a breath of fresh air.

The music was still too loud inside, but he could hardly complain about that. He was the one who’d turned it up in order to drown out the sounds of Kelinda and Joey having sex one floor up. He’d come to terms with the fact that Kelinda and Joey had a sexual relationship, but hell, he didn’t need to listen to it.

The blender whirred again, and he heard the raucous giggling of the brothers as they mixed up yet another batch. Strange creatures. He’d taken a chance and asked Shep earlier in the evening why the brothers acted so weird. “Something happened to them,” was all Shep would say.

The screen door slid open to his left, and Patrick pressed back into the shadow, fearing it was Allisto or Margol coming to retrieve him. It was Kelinda, and she did not see him sitting there. She was radiant in a sheer black dress with a long strand of black pearls around her neck. He watched her step off the deck and walk into the night, the strange dress flowing behind her like a dark ghost. She did a little dance move, then a spin, before she quickened her stride and headed out toward the fields.

He watched her drift off into the moonlight, this woman he’d once viewed as his dream girl, the sweet, honest type who would always be faithful. He thought about the extent to which he’d been wrong about people and decided this was not the time or the place to be exploring that particular failure.

A beam of moonlight shone through Kelinda’s dress as she leapt like a dancer into the woods. Patrick was curious as to where the hell she was going at this time of night half-naked and prancing like some hippie wood nymph. He stood up and looked around, then moved off the deck and followed Kelinda into the woods. He stayed a close distance behind, but not so close that she would hear his footfalls. The moon was so full and bright that it almost appeared to be daylight. White birch trees glowed bright amidst their darker cousins. Patrick caught a glimpse of Kelinda’s pink head as she sprinted toward the open fields.

He found that he was panting, struggling to keep up with her as she leapt gracefully through the thick woods like an exotic deer. Patrick wondered if Kelinda had always had such stamina, or if he was getting out of shape. The woods gave way to the clearing, and she skipped across the grass, waving her hands in the air as she hummed some indecipherable tune.

As the woods broke into the open field, Patrick saw the dark red heads of the crops swaying gently in the night air. There were no armed guards at watch now. His nose caught the plants’ burned rubber scent and his spirits lifted as he thought about snatching one of them, here in the cover of the night. The followers’ campfires formed orange dots in the distance, and the moon cast a glow on the fields. Kelinda spun and leapt, laughing as she made her way toward the campfires.

Coming upon the first section of crops, Patrick dropped to his knees and crawled toward them. He reached out, meaning to snap one of the plants off at the stalk, when a pain shot through his arm, sending him reeling back onto the earth. He stifled a cry and rubbed his tingling arm until the pain let go to a numbing throb. He looked back at the crops and saw a series of metallic boxes thrust into the earth every few yards.

Some kind of invisible electric fence. Based on the jolt he got it was probably strong enough to put a damn cow down. Sure, Patrick thought, just growing a few extra fields of grain for charity’s sake. No big deal, they just needed armed guards and electric fences to protect it. He’d need to come up with a new plan to get a sample. Lifting himself off the ground, he took off after Kelinda.

Kelinda’s pink head led him closer to the camps, and he heard the first tinklings of music. It was rhythmic, insistent, tribal sounding. He saw the followers gathered in the center of the open field alongside the rows of crops, where they mingled around a large fire. The music came from a band of six set up before a cluster of tents. The crowd danced to the hypnotic beat, moving like phantoms around the glow of the bonfire. They were having a party of their own. Full carafes of red wine sat out on picnic tables and benches.

Patrick crouched behind a tractor where he could watch the scene undetected. Kelinda glided into the crowd, turning and swaying seductively in the firelight, her lithe, naked form clearly apparent under the flimsy black dress. The followers became aware of Kelinda’s presence gradually, and hands reached out to touch her as she passed. They did not cling, but simply brushed her arm or stroked her hair, then went back to their dancing.

It seemed they were accustomed to Kelinda joining their parties. A man took her by the waist and they danced, moving rhythmically, their bodies almost touching, but not quite. Kelinda threw her arms over her head and the man twirled her off to the waiting arms of another man, who danced with her briefly, then passed her along to a woman, who in turn passed her to another man. This went on for a time, Kelinda taking turns dancing with the different followers, until finally she broke off and made her way to the perimeter, where a dozen or so people were chatting in a group. They seemed in awe of Kelinda as she approached.

Patrick crawled across the ground like a soldier and settled in behind another tractor, five feet from where Kelinda and the others stood. One of the women she was talking to was Brin-Marie, Shep’s little foot soldier with the boyish haircut. Gone was the dutiful soldier routine. She seemed relaxed, and smiled openly, smoking a cigarette.

“Is he really better, Kelinda?” a young man asked.

Kelinda smiled. “Oh, he’s better all right,” she said. Two women crowded around her, giggling.

“You’re killing us,” Brin-Marie said, running a finger along Kelinda’s cheek. “Your face is hot. Did you get it or not?”

“You tell me.” Kelinda pulled Brin-Marie’s face to hers, kissing her long and deep on the mouth. Patrick was surprised to discover he could still be shocked by something. Kelinda let her loose and Brin-Marie reeled back as though she’d faint. One of the young men caught her. She opened her eyes and smiled at the man, who looked at her expectantly.

“Well?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “She got it.”

Brin-Marie’s statement seemed to make the little company happy, as they cheered and hooted. Kelinda skipped over to an empty bench, climbing up onto it. The wind whipped her sheer black dress, and her pink hair glowed in the firelight as she raised her arms and looked down over the crowd. The music stopped and the followers shuffled over, forming a crowd around her. Patrick felt his heart rate escalate.

“Come!” she shouted. “And let me share his essence!”

The statement caused a series of tasks to be performed. A portion of the crowd went back to the tables and picked up carafes of wine. They formed a line in front of Kelinda. Another woman stayed behind at one of the tables and set out dozens of tiny plastic cups.

A red-haired boy who looked no older than sixteen walked up and handed Kelinda a blade. She took it and made a cut along the tip of her thumb, then held the thumb up for all of them to see. “A drop for each bottle!” she yelled, and the crowd broke into cheers. The wine carriers came forward one at a time, as Kelinda squeezed a drop of her blood into each carafe. Once the blood had been added, they systematically brought each bottle of wine over to the table. The woman who stood behind it stirred each carafe with a straw, then poured a shot sized amount of the red liquid into the little white cups.

This went on until all cups were filled. Kelinda licked her thumb, then jumped down off the bench to join the crowd. They all pushed forward and took a cup of the wine, immediately tossing it back into their mouths. Patrick watched in amazement as they ran their tongues along the inside of the cups to sop up every last drop. The woman who’d set up the cups finished her shot, then sucked the remaining wine eagerly out of the stirring straw.

Breaking the eerie silence, the music kicked up again and the insistent drumbeat echoed out into the night, vibrating through Patrick’s body with each rhythmic pulse. The crowd began to dance again, spinning and leaping around the fire as though they were made of air. They thrashed about in seeming ecstasy, turning and flickering, like part of the fire themselves. Patrick risked one last glance at Kelinda, who danced alone under the moon, her arms raised to the sky. Then he crawled like a frightened spider across the ground until he reached the edge of the woods.

In the shield of the forest, he broke into a sprint, desperate to get as far away from the fields as he could. He tripped over a root once and smacked his head hard on the ground. He did not stop. The pain could wait. He kept running until the woods gave way to Joey’s back yard, then he slowed, making his way carefully back up to the deck.

He found the house pretty much the way he’d left it. No one seemed to have missed him. Shep was tapping away on his laptop upstairs, and Joey slept like the dead. The brothers, having discovered the agony of an ice-cream headache, had given up their mudslides and were now warming themselves in the Jacuzzi.

Patrick crept off to his assigned bedroom and locked the door. He lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep as he tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. Why was Kelinda feeding the followers her blood? What was it with these people and blood? Between Joey, Shep, and now Kelinda, Patrick would never look at a damned papercut the same again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Hello Aunt Betsy.”

Betsy peered through the door at Robin, alarm settling on her face. “Oh no. Who’s dead? Is it your mother? It can’t be your mother. I spoke with her this morning.”

Robin laughed. “Nobody’s dead this time. I just want to talk to you.”

Betsy’s shoulders dropped. “Oh, thank God. I don’t think I could do another funeral. No offense to your mom.”

“None taken.”

Betsy held the door open. “Come on in, honey. Can I get you something? I was about to have some tea.”

Robin almost gagged after all of the tea she’d had at Father Carbone’s over the past week. “No thanks. I’m fine.” She followed Betsy into her spacious kitchen and took one of the stools that surrounded the island, watching her young aunt as she prepared her tea by the stove. Her crewcut was growing in, and now her yellow hair had become a short pixie.

Betsy carried her tea to the island and smiled at Robin. She put her tea down, then reached out and touched Robin’s temple. “Well, someone’s life has been eventful lately. Your aura is all lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Robin shrugged away. “Come on, Betsy. You know I hate it when you do that creepy psychic shit.”

“Tell me why you’re here then.”

“I need your help with some of that creepy psychic shit.”

Betsy laughed. “Hypocrite!”

“Yes, that I am. I want to show you something.” Robin reached into her bag and pulled out the tattered journal, Shep’s hand-written supplement, ‘The Book of Zirub’. She slid it across the counter. Betsy ran her finger slowly across the cover.

“My word. This looks interesting. Where did you get it?”

“I stole it from a priest. He’s going to kill me if I don’t get it back before he notices it missing.”

“You stole it from a priest?” Betsy looked shocked.

“Relax, Aunt Betsy. He’s a friend of mine.”

Betsy raised an eyebrow. “Well, as long as you only steal from your friends. What is this?” She opened the book and scanned a few pages. “These drawings. Very strange.”

“I think this book might have something to do with Joey,” Robin said. “Oh, and, um, Shepherd.”

Betsy flinched at the mention of Shep’s name. She looked down at the book like it was a filthy thing, then back up at Robin.

“I need your help, Betsy. I think Joey is in trouble.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m certain he is.”

“You knew?”

“I don’t know all the details, but I know Joey isn’t Joey anymore.”

“Then you have to help. I want you to look at this book. I think Shep did something to Joey, something involving his blood. You know about this stuff.”

Betsy pointed a finger in Robin’s face. “What is he? Shepherd. What the hell is he?”

Robin was shocked. The very question indicated that Betsy knew somehow that Shep might not be human. Betsy had always been mistrusting of Shep, but until now, Robin assumed it was a vague impression she got from him. She stared back at Betsy and lied. “I don’t know.”

Betsy narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying. You know what he is, don’t you? Tell me. I’ve been waiting a long time to have confirmation of this. Tell me what he is, Robin.”

“I’m not sure exactly. That’s the truth.” Robin’s lip quivered. “I just know I can’t give up on Joey.”

Betsy reached out and stroked Robin’s hair, shaking her head. “Joey’s gone, honey.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true! And if you have eyes in your head, you see it too. Joey is gone. Shep took him from us. He’s been gone for a long time.”

Betsy walked into the next room. Robin yelled after her. “Damn it Betsy! I know you know about stuff like this! If it’s a spell then it can probably be reversed.” She trailed Betsy into the living room.

“A spell?” Betsy turned to face her.

“Yeah. Or…whatever. Shep bespelled Joey with his blood, somehow.”

“Robin, I give psychic readings. I’m not a witch, or a fucking magician for that matter. Even if whatever Shep did could be broken, what makes you think I could even begin to know how to do that?”

Robin walked past her on to the large oak bookshelf that ran along the wall. She pulled books from the shelf, reading their titles as she tossed them to the floor. “Ancient Rituals, Blood Rites, The Power Within…”

“Those are books I read out of personal interest, and for entertainment. I don’t ride around on a broom or boil bat wings and eyeballs in a cauldron when you’re not around.”

“Okay, fine.” Robin frowned. “So you haven’t ever heard of something called the calming of the soul.”

Betsy shook her head and turned away. “I don’t know…the calming of the…what did you say?”

“The calming of the soul,” Robin repeated. “I have reason to believe Shep used this ritual on Joey. That weird book the priest showed me references it. And the priest said it’s not an unknown thing. He said different tribes practiced it like forever and modern people use it for meditation and such. Albeit without Shep’s blood involved.”

A flicker of recognition passed across Betsy’s face, and she went to sit on the couch, opening her laptop. “I know I’ve seen that somewhere,” she said as she typed.

Robin felt a flicker of hope. “You know it?”

Betsy scowled at the screen. “I do remember reading about this. The calming of the soul.” She looked up at Robin. “Son of a bitch! Is that what Shep did to Joey?”

“You found it?”

“Like you said, it’s not an unknown theory. Plenty of information about historical practices. All this time I figured it was some sophisticated, otherworldly thing beyond my understanding. Because I knew Shep wasn’t…normal. I knew he fucked with Joey, and I knew it involved blood. But I had no idea what he’d done.”

“Well, it still could be beyond our understanding considering Shep’s involved,” Robin said. “But do you think maybe you can find a way to reverse it?”

Betsy looked at her seriously. “I’ll make you a deal, Robin, and this is not up for debate. You tell me everything you know about Shep, and I do mean everything, and I’ll try to find a way to get Joey back.”

“But I don’t know where to start,” she said.

“Sit down.” Betsy patted the cushion beside her. “And start at the beginning.”

Robin joined her on the couch. She wasn’t sure what the beginning was as far as Shep was concerned. She thought back to the words spoken by Father Bello, shortly before she left Carbone’s kitchen. She leaned in close to Betsy and whispered, “He’s not supposed to be here!”

Betsy nodded. “Yeah. That much I figured out on my own.”

****

Hours later, Robin was in her car heading back home. She wondered what would happen if she were to be pulled over by the police and searched. She could only imagine their reaction to finding the small glass bottle in her purse. No officer, no booze or drugs, just a bottle of ceremonial blood. It’s a family thing. She felt better about things, but still had her doubts. It didn’t help her faith when Betsy kept saying, ‘this probably won’t work’ as they were concocting the potion. Betsy kept insisting that she didn’t know what she was doing. She eventually came up with something, however. Now they’d just have to wait and see how things panned out.

The blood had to be administered all at once, and words had to be spoken, so slipping it into Joey’s coffee was out of the question. It also had to be administered by a blood relative, puns aside, so giving the blood to Patrick to administer would be futile. As far as Robin going back out to Forest Bluffs, she’d rather chew on broken glass. She’d have to think on it.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Agent Litner listened intently as Robin described the unexpected phone call she received from Shep the night before, after returning from Aunt Betsy’s. She was shocked he’d called, having not heard from him for so long—and based on what she now knew of every other damn thing going on in his weird, scary world.

Shep claimed that he could sense something had changed, and he wanted to know why she’d stopped calling and pursuing him. His tone was suspicious, and she had trouble hiding her fear. Shep ended the conversation by saying wanted her to move to Forest Bluffs where he could ‘keep an eye on her.’

The conversation left her sleepless, in a state of panic. “He wants me to move out to Forest Bluffs. Can you believe it? He knows I have a job in the city. He said I should quit and ‘he’ll take care of me’. What the fuck? This is completely out of character for him. Do you think he suspects something? I mean beyond suspecting I’m just not that into him anymore?”

“Unlikely. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”

Just hearing Litner say the words made her feel better. He had that deep authoritative tone. She felt safe when Litner was around, as though everything would ultimately be all right. It was probably a comfortable illusion, but after hearing Shep’s angry voice, she’d take it. Litner tapped his pen on Robin’s glass coffee table. She was tempted to ask him to stop, but he had that distant look he got when he was in deep thought.

He slipped the pen behind his ear and leaned forward. “You said it was out of character for Shep to demand to see you. Is it also out of character for you to refuse to see him?”

Robin looked at him carefully. Her brow creased. “Perhaps it is a bit out of character, but a lot of things have changed.”

“Would you have gone out there if you knew nothing of this investigation?”

“Yes, I suppose I would have. I did love him.”

“Have you ever refused him before, Robin? Ever?”

“No, Agent Litner. I’ve never refused Shep before, and thanks for embarrassing me by making me admit it.” She pointed at him. “But I hope you’re not about to suggest that I go out there! I won’t do it.”

“Patrick will be getting those samples this week if all goes well. If he doesn’t get them, we may have to contend with Shep a while longer. I don’t want to rouse any of his suspicions before we get what we need.”

Robin shook her head. “Do you know what it would mean if I went out there? Shep would expect me to sleep with him. Aside from the fact that I’m with Patrick now, I don’t want Shep touching me! I know what he is now. I’d give that away. He can read me, Litner. He’d know. I’m better off at a safe distance, limiting my contact to the phone. Trust me.”

Litner rubbed his forehead. “If you’ve never rejected him before, we have no way of knowing how he will react to your rejection.”

“Well, we’re just going to have to find out. I watched Shep kill somebody last week. You can’t ask this of me, Litner. It’s too much.”

Litner studied her face, and she thought she saw a flicker of compassion. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right. I have no right to ask that. But speaking of watching Shep kill somebody, I found Dr. Lichtenstein, the old doctor from the cave. The one you said served as a human sacrifice.”

Robin perked up. “You did?”

Agent Litner pulled a folder out of his briefcase and opened it. “A Dr. Simon Lichtenstein was reported missing by his wife last week. His age and photograph match the description of the old man you saw killed in the cave. He was a retired orthopedic surgeon. Experienced with…amputations.”

Robin shook her head. “Why would he ever have agreed to become involved with Shep?”

Litner remained placid, but she could see by the almost-smile that he had it all figured out. “I don’t believe the doctor’s involvement was voluntary. There is a record of disciplinary action against him, which somehow never panned out. There were allegations that he had inappropriate contact with his patients. He was charged, but then suddenly the charges were dropped.”

“Inappropriate how?” Robin asked.

“They were unconscious.”

“Eww! Yeesh. That is disgusting.” Robin got a disturbing mental image of the old doctor pawing at some poor unconscious lump of flesh on a sterile table. “Why wasn’t he ever convicted?”

“All allegations were dismissed due to lack of evidence, according to police files. The evidence they’d obtained mysteriously disappeared. There was a video tape, you see. A camera had been set up in one of the operating rooms by a class of medical students for educational purposes. Dr. Lichtenstein was unaware of the camera and was caught on tape doing whatever it was he did to his unconscious patients. Then, the video tape simply disappeared out of the police evidence room. This happened decades ago, mind you.”

Robin looked into Litner’s eyes. “So what happened to the evidence?”

“After what you heard from the doctor’s mouth out at Pearl Chasm, I’d say someone was blackmailing him with it.”

“Shepherd,” she said with conviction. “But how many years ago was this? Shep would have been a child at the time.”

“Assuming Shep ever was a child.”

Robin waved her hands in front of her face. “Let’s not go there, okay?” She wasn’t sure if the knowledge that Dr. Lichtenstein was a criminal pervert made her feel better about his death or not. “What was Shep blackmailing him to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He needed someone who knew how to do amputations. Clearly he chose someone who had a great deal to lose. I’m sure the amputation was a grizzly task, even for a professional. Not to mention what it would do to a sane person’s mind.”

“I suppose it would take such a desperate person. After all, if some freak wanted to hire you to cut wings off of…oh Christ. It all sounds so crazy.”

“It’s actually sounding less and less crazy to me,” Litner said.

Robin studied him with interest. He was an odd duck, Litner. He was clearly thrilled that the pieces of this puzzle were beginning to fit together, yet he paid no heed to the fact that there were otherworldly elements at work. She didn’t want to test her imagination and guess about the things Litner had seen in his line of work. If he viewed beings with wings as small potatoes, then she probably didn’t want to know.

Another thought came to her then, and she perked up. “Hey, what about Wesley J. Shepherd? Did you find him yet?”

Litner frowned, looking disappointed. “Ah. The elusive name in the dirt. I’ve been doing a search. The problem isn’t finding a match to the name Wesley J. Shepherd. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of them. I’m still in the process of narrowing it down. I’m cross-referencing the name with anything and everything that might have a connection to this investigation. I hope to turn up something by this evening.”

“So what do we do about Shep?”

“We have to come up with a damn good reason as to why you are suddenly so disenchanted with him.”

“Why not tell him the truth?”

Litner looked surprised. “The truth?”

“I don’t mean to tell him that I’ve discovered he used to resemble a seagull. I’ll tell him the partial truth, that I’m sick of his shit. He doesn’t call me for weeks at a time. Won’t say he loves me after six goddamn years. I’m tired of the games. I’ll tell him that I’m finally ready to move on. I’ve grown. I’m not about to go running back to him just so he can break my heart again. How does that sound?”

Litner smiled. “Very convincing.”

“Yeah, well I’ve wanted to say those things to him for a long time. I was just too much of a pansy to do it before.”

Agent Litner lifted her cell phone off the coffee table and handed it to her. “Do it.”

She grimaced at the phone. “What? Now? But he gave me three days.”

“I don’t want to wait three days to see what Shepherd’s reaction is going to be. If this is going to cause us a problem, I want to know about it now.”

Robin hesitated, but finally took the phone from him. She swallowed hard, and dialed Shep.

* * * *

Russell stopped in the doorway when he spotted Shep. Morning sun streamed in through the enormous sky light, casting an ethereal glow on him where he stood cradling the phone to his ear. He was a vision of sexy sweetness in the sunlight, a phenomenon marred only by the stream of raging obscenities that spewed from his perfect mouth like a prayer. “God damned stupid bitch! What do you mean no? You can’t tell me no, you fucking bitch, whore mother-fucking…”

Russell seethed as he listened to the one-sided conversation. It was the skanky blonde Duvaine bitch. From the sounds of it, she was dumping Shep. Shep was shouting at her one moment, and emphatically begging the next. He was actually begging her to come out to the Bluffs! It was pathetic, a trait Russell had never seen Shep exhibit before. Shep was supposed to be the one in control all the time. It was one of the things that made him Shep. Russell felt his anger and jealousy rise to new heights as he listened to the words Shep spoke.

“Robin, please. Just come out for a week and give me a chance to change your mind.” He paused, listening to the response, then his face tightened again. “What the fuck is your problem, Robin? I swear to God, you’d better reconsider this!”

Russell shook his head. The stupid bitch was actually rejecting Shep. Didn’t she know how lucky she was that Shep wanted her? Russell would have given anything to hear Shep speak to him like that. On a whim, Russell walked over, reached out, and touched Shep’s shoulder. “Hey, just hang up the phone, man. If she doesn’t want to come out, then to hell with her.”

Shep turned to Russell, his cheeks flushed with fury. He put the phone to his chest, eyes like cold green steel. “Get away from me you fucking parasite!” Shep turned his back to him and brought the phone to his ear. “Sorry Robin. I just had to pull Russell out of my ass. Now what were you saying?”

Rejection swam through Russell’s veins, turning to a cold hatred that sucked the very breath out of him. For a moment he couldn’t move. He simply stared at the back of Shep’s head, at his lovely sand-colored curls, and wanted to rip them out one by one. He wanted to choke him. He wanted to kill him.

Instead, he stormed out of the room before Shep could see the tears of rage stinging his eyes. Shep would only take pleasure in seeing him cry, and Russell did not want to give him any today.

His body trembled as he trailed up the spiral staircase to the second floor. He needed to calm down. If he flared off at Shep now, Shep might send him away. As much as he wanted to hurt Shep, he didn’t want to be sent away. He stormed down the hallway toward his room, determined to lock himself in and play a few hours of Doom. The violent video game was a quiet therapy. He’d pretend that every well-armed monster that jumped out was Shep and would blow its animated brains out accordingly.

Something caught his eye as he passed the Jacuzzi room, something that made him stop in his tracks. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes fell upon such a vision that he had to adjust his glasses to make sure it was real. Klee stood before the Jacuzzi wearing nothing but a pair of white briefs, his back to the door, so he didn’t see Russell watching him. Russell gazed at the platinum blond brother who’d only recently arrived. He was built so similar to Shep, right down to the brutal scar that marred his perfect back. Like Shep, his body was thin, yet perfectly sculpted, narrowing at the waist with rounded buttocks.

Klee’s scar was a darker color than Shep’s. It looked fresh. Shep offered little explanations about the brothers. Russell pretended to accept Shep’s explanation that a Norwegian family had adopted them all as children, though he knew this was probably bullshit. He’d heard Shep tell four different versions of that same story to other people.

Russell watched Klee test the bubbling water with his fingers. He told himself to move on, to go to his room and commence his video murder rampage. He wasn’t some pervert who spied on half naked men, regardless of how hot they were. Shep had accused him of trying to peek at him in the shower, which pissed him off. He’d simply knocked lightly and pushed the door open to ask Shep a question. He’d never have done so if it wasn’t urgent. Joey was trying to get Russell to take him out to the pub while Shep was otherwise occupied, and there was no way he’d do so without Shep’s permission. He knew Joey was just trying to break the rules and using Russell as a scapegoat.

It hurt his feelings when Shep accused him of spying, then refused to listen to his explanation. Is that what Shep really thought of him? That he was some peeping Tom?

But you are. You’re peeping at Klee right now.

This wasn’t like him, and he knew the only reason he remained frozen there, staring, was the resemblance to Shep. Looking at Klee in this moment of quiet pleasure was like a stolen moment with Shep, if he were a softer, gentler man. But it wasn’t Shep. And Russell had stared long enough.

He was about to move on, his heart heavy and wounded. Then Klee stepped out of his briefs, and Russell was grounded where he stood. The skylight lit his pale blond curls as he lowered himself into the steaming water, his magnificent body disappearing into the bubbles. Klee sighed and leaned his head back, an arm resting on either side of the tub.

Russell drifted into the room as if in a dream. Klee’s eyes were closed, making him nonetheless beautiful with his long lashes. A light mist of water was forming above his pink lips, and Russell felt a stirring deep within him. Klee was like a sweet, golden version of Shep, only he was pure and untouched by Shep’s rage and cynicism. His mouth was even more sensual than Shep’s. Russell had seen Klee’s eyes, and they were as wide and beautiful, more aquamarine than Shep’s emerald orbs. He wondered what it would be like to press his mouth against those lips, to look into those eyes, as he’d always longed to do with Shep. Of course, this was not Shep; it was Klee.

Russell realized that Shep’s cynicism and nastiness was part of what attracted him, but Klee had an inherent kindness that he also found appealing. It had been so long since someone had treated him with kindness; the very thought of it made him want to weep. Like a man in a trance, Russell moved toward the tub. Klee’s eyes opened and he smiled. “Russell!” he said cheerily. “Won’t you join me?”

Russell swallowed hard. He looked back at the open door, knowing he should go walk through it, and move on down the hall. Instead, he walked over and shut it.

“Yes. I believe I will join you,” he said. To hell with Shep. He’d consistently treated Russell like dog shit. Now, to make matters worse, he was trying to get that whore to come live with them. Well, two could play at that game. Russell placed his glasses on one of the plant tables, and stripped out of his clothes.

He stepped into the tub and felt the gooseflesh rise as he lowered himself into the steaming bubbles. Klee had his arms resting back behind his head. Russell stared, and thought for the first time that Klee was perhaps more beautiful than Shep. He was, quite possibly, the most beautiful creature Russell had ever seen. He wasn’t surprised to find himself fully erect. What he was going to do about it was another matter. He studied Klee, wondering how old he was. He certainly looked legal. “You know, you have really beautiful eyes,” Russell said.

Klee’s eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at Russell. “Thank you for say so. You also have beautiful eyes, Russell. Very bright and golden brown, like volcano.”

Russell chuckled and moved closer. “That’s a first. Klee, if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“I am older than recorded time,” Klee answered quite seriously. Russell broke into laughter at the comment, and Klee laughed in response. His smile was so open and friendly, so unlike Shep’s.

“Good answer, Klee. How about another question.” Russell moved in closer until he was right beside him. Klee did not move away. Either he didn’t mind or was completely unaware of the come-on. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

First thing’s first. If Klee wasn’t at least bisexual, well, he’d learned from Shep that conversion was futile. Of course, Russell wouldn’t have wasted so much time and lust if Shep hadn’t hinted he was bisexual. Many times, Russell asked if he was interested in men, and Shep would give him that sly smile, and say, “I rule nothing out in this world, Russell.” But now, years later, Russell realized that Shep had probably lied about that. Or more likely, Shep simply had no interest in Russell himself. That hurt more. He could accept that Shep wasn’t actually bisexual as he claimed, but the thought of Shep being interested in another man one day left him shattered, so he chose to believe he was a liar, and was in fact completely heterosexual.

Klee’s perfect brow furrowed in confusion at Russell’s question. Then he relaxed and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been with a woman. I ate cereal with Kelinda this morning.”

Russell smiled. “No, Klee. I’m not talking about eating cereal. What I meant was have you ever had sex with a woman?”

A flicker of understanding passed over Klee’s expression. “Oh. The sex. No. I don’t do the sex. Margol said chocolate is better. Shepherd does the sex. Shepherd is more human than we are.”

Russell slid his hand onto Klee’s thigh. “Oh, I don’t know, Klee. You can be as human as you want to be.”

Klee seemed unfazed by the hand on his thigh. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Shep wants me to become more human,” he said, as though it was some big secret. He leaned in close to Russell’s ear. “He says I have to learn, but I don’t think I know how to yet.”

Russell slid closer to Klee and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I can teach you to be more human,” he said. He expected Klee to pull away. Klee did not, but he did not seem at all impassioned by the kiss either. Instead, he looked quizzically at Russell.

“That was a kiss. Kelinda kisses Joey.”

Russell laughed. “Kelinda does a lot more than that to Joey.”

“What else does she do?” Klee asked.

Russell almost got up and left. This felt wrong. Something about Klee wasn’t quite…normal. He knew he wasn’t mentally challenged, because he’d been watching him. Klee had trounced Joey at chess and other games, which seemed to make Duvaine furious. And earlier in the week Russell had wandered into the den to find Klee watching a documentary on the solar system. Klee had casually detailed to Russell the various aspects of the documentary that were off base, and proceeded to share his knowledge of black holes in a way that made Russell’s eyes glaze over and tied his brain in a knot.

But even so, Klee didn’t quite seem…all there. He should leave him be. But then he thought of Shep’s comment. Get away from me you fucking parasite! Rage burned inside him anew. So instead of leaving, Russell moved his hand up Klee’s thigh and slid his fingers onto the soft flesh of his penis, fondling him gently.

To his surprise and delight, Klee immediately began to stiffen under his touch. He didn’t seem accustomed to the sensation. He gasped and a look of panic fell over his face. Was it possible that Klee had never been touched? “What is this?” Klee said, panting. “What do you do to me?”

“I’m showing you how to be more human,” Russell said. He ran his free hand through Klee’s curls, a gesture he had so longed to do to Shep. On one hand, Russell felt that he was doing something wrong. Klee seemed so genuinely innocent. But this was no child, after all. They were two consenting adults. Even if this was a sexual awakening, it was Klee’s choice. “Do you like it?” Russell asked, as he made his movements more rhythmic. “I’ll stop if you want me to. Just say the word. It’s your choice.”

Klee gasped again. “No. Yes. I do not know. This is human?”

“Yes,” Russell whispered in his ear, taking in the fragrant aroma of his hair.

Klee’s lashes fluttered. “This is…I do not hate this.”

“I can do something for you Klee. Something that’s even better than this. But you have to come to my room, and you can’t tell Shep about it.”

Klee pushed Russell’s hand away. “That is not possible. I have to tell Shepherd everything.”

Panic rose in Russell’s gut. Would Klee tell Shep about this? “Klee, you can’t tell him. Don’t you see? Shep will be angry if he knows that I’m the one who taught you. Do you understand?”

Klee shook his head. “No, Russell. You must never lie to Shepherd.”

“We’re not lying, Klee. We’re just not volunteering information. Do you see the difference?”

Before Klee could answer, the door swung open and Patrick Obrien stepped into the room, wearing shorts and a tee shirt, a towel draped over his shoulder. He stopped dead when he saw the tub was occupied, then his eyes narrowed as his gaze fell upon Russell.

Russell quickly moved away from Klee. Patrick glared at him. Russell had thought that perhaps he didn’t like Patrick, but now he was sure of it. The big Irish lug had but two expressions—he either looked pissed off or confused. Right now, he looked pissed off. He walked over to the tub and grabbed Russell by the arm, pulling him out and tossing him onto the floor. “Get the fuck away from him, Russell!”

Russell struggled to pull on his discarded underwear. “Obrien, it’s not what you think.”

Patrick loomed over him like a big red ball of fury, his well-formed biceps bulging. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s time you got a boyfriend and stopped wasting your time on people who don’t want you.”

“How do you know who wants me and who doesn’t?”

“I know your brother Craig said you only want what’s unattainable. But this?” He pointed to Klee. “Stay the fuck away from him!”

Klee huddled in the corner of the tub, looking frightened and slightly ashamed.

“Why?” Russell demanded, his anger taking over. “Because I’m gay? Is that it? Are you homophobic, Obrien?”

“Oh please. Don’t pull that shit on me. This isn’t about sexual orientation and you know it. If it were Kelinda in that tub groping him I’d have done the same thing to her. He doesn’t understand this!” Patrick said, gesturing to Russell’s scantily clad body. “He’s in no condition to give informed consent. A moron could see that, and you’re no moron, Russell.”

Russell was about to argue, then thought better of it. Klee’s naivety was startlingly obvious, and he’d been wrong to pursue him. However, Obrien was still all red and scary looking, so Russell went another route. “I never touched him! Klee, tell him. I never touched you, right?”

Patrick knelt down next to Klee. Klee looked terrified. “It’s all right Klee, it doesn’t matter what happened. No one is mad at you.” Patrick glared back at Russell. “Stay away from him Russell, or you’ll have to answer to me.”

Russell grabbed his clothes and sprinted out of the room. Patrick followed him out.

After Russell and Patrick had gone, Klee sat alone in the tub. He was afraid to get up. His penis was swollen and filled with a most unusual aching. It hurt, but it felt good. He wanted it to stop, but he wanted it to continue. There was a slight dizziness in his head. He waited several minutes and finally the swelling went down. He hurried and got dressed. He had to join the others out in the field. He hoped that Shepherd would not try to read his thoughts today.

****

It was midnight. Russell sat in front of the glowing computer screen playing a Star Trek simulation game. He’d been in his room for hours, not wanting to come across Shep, for fear he’d see in his eyes what he had done and surely torture him to death. He had helped out in the fields all day and was relieved as hell to discover that Patrick had opted not to tell Shep about finding him in the tub with Klee. He was so grateful, that after dinner he approached Obrien, and thanked him for his candor. Patrick had responded by threatening to remove Russell’s kneecaps if he ever went near Klee again. Having grown rather attached to his kneecaps, Russell agreed.

There was a soft tap on his door. Russell’s stomach dropped. The knock came again. Who would be knocking on his door at midnight? He was sure that Obrien had changed his mind and ratted him out. It was probably Shep at the door, come to kill him in many intricate fashions.

Russell opened the door a crack. Klee stood there, wide-eyed in a pair of faded blue jeans with no shirt or shoes. His fair skin had acquired a golden color from the day’s field work. Russell’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the perfect creature before him, his otherworldly beauty. God was surely tempting him. And it was unfair. He really liked his kneecaps. “Klee, what are you doing here? Go on. Take off. You have to get out of here!” Russell waved his hand to shoo him away.

Klee glared at Russell. He was trembling.

“Klee, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Klee shoved him and Russell stumbled back. Klee shut the door behind him and pointed a shaky finger at Russell. “You did this to me!” he hissed.

Russell shook his head, frightened by the angry look on Klee’s usually placid, boyish face. “Klee, what are you talking about?”

Klee reached down and unzipped his jeans. He was not wearing any underwear, and his erection was enormous. “You did this to me!” Klee said again. “Now it keeps happening!”

Russell didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Fix it!” Klee demanded.

“Huh?”

“Fix it, Russell. You put it there, now you make it go away!”

Russell looked at the ceiling and raised his hands up. “This is not a fair test! God, give me a break!”

Klee scowled. “The light is not listening to you, Russell.”

Russell thought it an odd thing to say, but he forgot as soon as his eyes fell upon Klee again, with his beautiful, slightly tanned body. He stood before Russell with his jeans undone, a creature of such sensual beauty that it hurt to look at him. And he was asking Russell to help him remove his erection. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, Klee.”

“You can,” Klee said. “I see lies in your aura. You know how to fix this. Do it!”

Russell thought about Obrien, and Shep. He thought about his kneecaps. “Are you going to tell Shep if I help you?”

Klee shook his head. “I won’t tell anyone. Just do it. Make it stop. I need…I need…”

“Release,” Russell said.

A hard breath leaked out of Klee. “Release. Yes.”

Russell locked the door and threw Klee down on the bed, covering his mouth with his own. He went to work on his body, trailing down his chest, his stomach, his ribs, lingering on his hips, circling the sharp bone with his tongue. Klee began to make sounds, and they grew louder until Russell had to cover Klee’s mouth with his hand.

Klee ejaculated almost immediately after Russell slid him into his mouth. He bit down on Russell’s hand hard enough to leave marks, but Russell didn’t mind. The pain was delicious. He normally didn’t like to swallow, but this was different. He wanted to absorb every part of this amazing creature. As he let the hot liquid slide down his throat, Klee bit down on his hand even harder.

Without even touching himself, Russell came in his shorts, releasing his own ecstasy as he swallowed Klee’s.

Moments later, Russell sat up on the edge of the bed, trying to shake a dizzy spell. His glasses had fallen to the floor in the throes of passion. He picked them up and walked across the room to place them on his dresser. On his way back, another dizzy spell hit and he had to grab the bed for support. He eased down and sat on the mattress, glancing at Klee, who stretched back with his eye’s closed, breathing more slowly now. Russell examined the tooth marks on the side of his hand and smiled. “So, was that better than chocolate?”

Before Klee could answer, Russell heard a sound from somewhere down the hall. He panicked. “Get up Klee. Get dressed. You have to get out of here.”

Klee didn’t argue. He seemed barely aware of Russell as he pulled his jeans up and zipped them. Without even a glance back, he was out the door and gone.

Russell stared at the closed door, frowning. “Well, I know I’m not the love of his life, but he could have at least said goodbye.” He fell back on the bed, woozy and disoriented. “I feel funny,” he said to the empty room. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He was surprised when he awoke to see the next day’s light coming in through the blinds, accompanied by a chirping chorus of birds. He’d slept right through the night. He looked down at himself. He was still in his shorts from the previous night. He must have been out cold as soon as Klee left the room. He wondered for a moment if he’d dreamed the whole thing, but then he felt the sticky residue beneath his shorts. “Christ!” he said, pulling his shorts back, disgusted with himself. He’d never been too tired to shower and change after sex.

He sat up and looked around the room. His heart pounded as uneasiness brewed inside. Something was different. He rubbed his eyes and gave his head a quick shake. Everything in the room looked strange. He stared at the lamp in the corner, then at the chair, and the objects on the desk. Everything looked smaller somehow, more defined. What the hell was going on?

He glanced over at the dresser where his glasses sat, then looked to the left of the glasses at a box of nasal spray he’d left out. He could read every tiny word printed on that box. He gasped.

The things in the room weren’t smaller. He was just seeing them clearly. Without his glasses. But that was impossible. He was nearly blind without his glasses. But here he was, reading the tiny letters on the small green and white box on the other side of the room. It couldn’t be.

He closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, and then looked across the room at the dresser again. He saw his glasses. Fearfully, he let his gaze slide toward the tiny box of nasal spray and tried to read the words printed on it. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this product. Consult a physician if symptoms persist beyond five days. Russell’s stomach trembled. “Holy shit,” he said. “I can see.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Patrick took the boat over to Boston, relishing in the freedom of the surrounding ocean and open sky. It felt like heaven. He’d never imagined how claustrophobic he could feel in a place as big as the Forest Bluffs property. Regardless of its spaciousness, the subtle madness imminent within Joey’s little coven was suffocating. The rusty old ferry was a welcome change.

He was not surprised when he saw the wisps of curly black hair peeking out from behind a newspaper on the other side of the boat. It was Allisto, using the ever so handy ‘hide behind the paper’ tactic. Patrick smirked. Shep obviously did not trust him yet, despite his show of indifference regarding Patrick’s “job” in the city once a week. Patrick studied the figure behind the newspaper. He was wearing a pair of Shep’s baggy jeans, and the long gray coat Patrick saw him in that first time on the train. Patrick decided it was time to have a little fun with Shep’s incompetent surveillance team.

He bought two coffees at the snack counter and went and sat right next to his would-be spy. Allisto lowered the paper and turned to see Patrick sitting directly beside him. His startled eyes were a darker color than the other brothers’, or perhaps it was the contrast of his black hair that made them appear a deeper green. They were pretty, the way dangerous toxic waste floating atop a calm river can be pretty. “I got you a coffee,” Patrick said. “It’s chocolate mocha, your favorite.” He offered the Styrofoam cup to Allisto, who reluctantly took it, looking like a trapped rat.

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes darting around the moving boat as though looking for a means of escape.

“So, Allisto, do you have business in the city today?” Patrick asked pleasantly.

Allisto shifted on his bench seat. Patrick could almost hear his inhuman brain straining to formulate a lie. “Yes. Yes. I um, yes. I need to collect some supplies for Shepherd.”

“Great!” Patrick said. “You could come down to my office this afternoon. We can have lunch together!” Patrick patted Allisto’s shoulder affectionately. Allisto looked panicked. He shook his head.

“No. I am sorry, Obrien. That is not to be possible. I must return home after I get the…supplies.”

Patrick nodded. “Oh. I see. You’re a busy man, Allisto. I’ll leave you to your newspaper.”

“Thank you,” Allisto said, sounding relieved.

Patrick stood and made as if to leave, then turned around again. “Oh, Allisto, just one more thing. You can tell Shepherd that if he has me followed again, I will leave Forest Bluffs and I will never return. Enjoy your day.” He walked off whistling, leaving Allisto to stare dumbly after him.

The glass doors read ‘Baytown Financial Consulting’. Patrick walked through them and said hello to his phony receptionist, as Agent Litner had instructed. He walked down a narrow hallway and stepped into his phony office, closing the door behind him. Once inside, he opened the closet door, revealing the hidden room. He felt silly. Patrick Obrien, secret agent man. Oh well. Who was he to question Litner’s tactics? The man was a professional paranoid.

Agent Litner sat at a desk with Robin perched in a chair across from him. Robin ran to Patrick. She was wearing a short black sundress that accentuated her lovely blond hair. He held her as she clung to him. “We weren’t sure if you’d be here,” she said. He gave Robin a kiss. He wanted to send Litner out of the room and throw her down on the desk. Instead, he withdrew from the kiss and took the other chair.

Litner eyed him impatiently. “Tell me you have crop samples.”

“I couldn’t get near the crops alone. They have the entire field under armed guard during the day, and at night they have electric fences set up. Nearly fried my hand off trying. God knows what other precautions I haven’t discovered yet. It’s nuts. I’ll need more time. Unfortunately.”

“Damn. We have to get our hands on that stuff. Do you think you can work something out?”

“I’ll find a fucking way, trust me. I don’t want to stay out there any longer than I have to. Oh, and by the way, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

Litner’s lips curled into a very slight smile. “I’m sorry. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Fill me in,” Patrick said.

Litner told him about the meeting with Father Bello and let him listen to the recording. Patrick’s ruddy cheeks paled at the references to Zirub and the Cripulet. Litner also told him about his discoveries regarding Dr. Lichtenstein, and his suspicions that Shepherd was blackmailing the old man to get him to perform surgical tasks for him. Litner never once said the word wings. He kept it rational, like it was any other investigation. Patrick was silently grateful for that.

He also told Patrick about Shep’s phone calls to Robin, which sent a deep cold rage through him. It was an unfamiliar sensation. He was used to being jealous of Joey, not Shep. When all was said and done, Litner looked Patrick in the eye and said, “So, that’s what’s been happening here. How are you doing out there, really Patrick?”

Patrick grabbed Robin’s hand. “So far I’m safe, and they’ve been treating me like part of the crew, though they still seem suspicious of me. I plan to get those crop samples this week Litner, and I’m not saying that to please you. I want out of that God-forsaken funny farm.”

“Do you really think you’ll be able to pull it off?” Litner asked hopefully.

Patrick nodded. “The crops are guarded, but they’re not impenetrable. Shep and Joey may be a tad suspicious of me, but the followers aren’t. They think I’m terribly important. After all, I live in the big house. I’m royalty as far as they’re concerned.”

Litner scowled. “Royalty?”

Patrick tried to explain the hierarchical madness that was the Forest Bluffs church. “You see, Joey is treated as a god, and the other occupants of the house are demi-gods. This includes Shepherd, Russell, Kelinda, and of course the brothers. And now I’ve been included in this little court. I was introduced to the crowd during a sermon. I guess it was my coming out party.”

“Kelinda’s one of the revered now?” Robin asked, looking surprised.

Patrick laughed. “She’s like the fucking Queen of Sheba out there.”

Robin shook her head. “She used to be so practical. I still can’t believe she’s involved with this madness. It’s like she’s completely changed.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Patrick said, thinking of the little blood and wine party he’d witnessed.

Litner’s pen tapping had moved from his temple to the top of his desk. The speed of the tapping seemed to increase with his anxiety level. “Who’s in charge out there? Is it Joey Duvaine?”

“No. Joey is just the front man. Shep is the one running things. Joey is the great and powerful Wizard of Oz, but Shep is definitely the man behind the curtain.”

“I knew it!” Robin said.

“I didn’t say Joey was innocent, Robin. He may not be running the show, but he is the star player.”

Robin looked disappointed. “So, did you see the new guy? The one from the cave?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, yes. Klee’s very sweet, but his back was still bleeding. I could see it oozing through his shirt for Christ sakes.”

Litner actually shuddered. “Is there anything else I should know before we move on to new information?”

Patrick thought. So much had happened in the past week. “Oh, as you’d guess, they realize that Juris is missing, and Shep’s not happy about it. He told me Juris was on my watch when he disappeared. I played dumb, but they’re not going to stop looking for him. It’s one of the things they’re most adamant about. All five brothers need to be together. Nobody gets left behind. They talk like that all the time. It’s touching in a creepy dysfunctional family sort of way.”

“Juris has been moved to a classified location. It was part of the deal we made with him for not snapping Copie’s neck.” Litner paused, shaking his head. “I swear that kid Copie has nine lives. Anyway, the odds of them finding Juris is unlikely, but we still have to move fast. Get me those samples, Obrien. I don’t care if you have to dance a jig and sing Praise the Lord. Just get the samples and get out of there.”

“I’ll have them by next week’s meeting. I assure you. So what’s this new information you have?”

Agent Litner’s dark blue eyes flickered with a smile as he pulled an orange folder out of his desk drawer. “I have a surprise for the two of you. I found Wesley J. Shepherd, your elusive name in the dirt.”

“What?” Robin and Patrick said the word simultaneously. Litner looked pleased with himself, like the only kid in class who had the answer to a complicated math problem.

“Who is he?” Patrick demanded. “Is he related to Shep somehow? Is he connected to the doctor? Is he—”

“Slow down.” Litner held a hand up. “For starters, Wesley Jackson Shepherd is a man who does not want to be found. I consider myself damn good at finding people, and I had a bitch of a time tracking him. I came up with a lot of Wesley Shepherds that just weren’t the right one. Our Wesley has changed his name seven times in the past thirty years. He now goes by the name Jonathan Jones.”

“How inventive,” Patrick said. “So how did you determine that this particular Wesley is the one we’re looking for?”

Litner blinked slowly. “Because this Wesley J. Shepherd is the surviving son of a couple that was killed in a cave collapse at Pearl Chasm fifty-two years ago.”

He let them absorb the information. “Wow,” Patrick said softly. “That’s…a strange coincidence.”

Litner remained stone-faced, but his pen tapping had ceased. He was back in control.

“So there’s our connection to Pearl Chasm,” Robin said, “But what do we have besides the last name that connects him to Shep, or the dead doctor for that matter?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the doctor, but I believe I know where our old buddy Zirub got his fake name from. It was Wesley’s parents, the ones that died in the cave.” Litner pulled a photocopy of a newspaper article from the folder and handed it to them. “Look at the first names of the deceased.”

Patrick and Robin scanned the article.

A young Massachusetts couple died on Saturday after a cave collapsed at the popular Pearl Chasm Park in Western Massachusetts, leaving orphaned their only child, ten-year-old Wesley. The recreational park has been closed indefinitely pending an evaluation of the caves and hiking trails. Services for Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd will be held on Wednesday.

Robin gasped. Patrick looked up at Agent Litner. “Do those names sound familiar?” Litner asked.

Patrick nodded. “Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd. Melvin Eugene Shepherd. I don’t suppose this is a coincidence.”

“There are too many coincidences,” Litner said. “This is our man. Shep knows this Wesley character somehow. More than knows him. He took his dead parents’ names as his own.”

“Why would Zirub take this couple’s names as his own?” Robin said. “What’s the connection?”

Litner drummed his hands on the desk. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask Wesley J. Shepherd?”

“Where is he?” Patrick asked.

“That’s the best part,” Litner said. “Wesley J. Shepherd, also known as Jonathan Jones, is alive and well, and living in Layton, New Hampshire.”

“Are you shitting me? That’s only—”

“Just over an hour away,” Litner said. “Wesley was ten years old when his parents died, and that was fifty-two years ago. That would make him sixty-two years old now. I say we pay the man a visit.”

Patrick looked at Robin and then back at Litner. “Today?”

“Yes, today. You don’t have to catch the boat back to Forest Bluffs until five o’clock. We have plenty of time to make the drive, ask the man some questions, and have you back in time to catch the boat. What do you say?”

Patrick smiled. “I say you’re a genius, Litner.”

“Well, I do what I can. Did anyone follow you today?”

Patrick remembered Allisto, and his heart sank. “Yes. Allisto followed me. I’m sure he’s lurking right outside the building somewhere.”

Agent Litner grinned. “I figured as much.” He picked up the phone. “Yeah, it’s me. Could you send Frankie in now? Thanks.” Litner hung up and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head.

“Who’s Frankie?”

“You’ll see.”

The door opened and a large man walked through it. He was about six foot three, muscular with short wavy reddish blond hair. His physical appearance was nearly identical to Patrick’s. Robin laughed. “Holy shit! Patrick it’s you!”

Patrick stared in disbelief at this man who looked more like him than his own brother. Frankie smiled. “You must be Patrick.”

Patrick stood and shook the man’s hand. “Frankie?”

The big man looked to Litner for instructions. Agent Litner stood and walked out from behind his desk. “Robin and I will step out for a moment. I want the two of you to change clothes. We’re going to send Frankie out the front doors in the hopes that Allisto will take the bait and follow him. Make it quick. Time is a luxury we don’t have today.”

“I’d stay and watch the two of you change, but it would just be too weird,” Robin joked.

Robin and Litner left the room. Once they were gone, Patrick and Frankie changed clothes wordlessly. Patrick wondered if Frankie worked for Litner. He was in far better shape than Patrick was. Frankie’s stomach was a flat rippling mass of toned abdominal muscles. Patrick’s own gut needed some work. He hadn’t exactly had time to get to the gym lately.

Minutes later, Patrick, Robin and Agent Litner watched a monitor that showed a surveillance camera’s view of the front steps of the building and the surrounding street. They watched as Frankie, dressed now in Patrick’s Boston Celtics tee shirt and jeans, trotted casually down the front steps and walked off down the city sidewalk. Thirty seconds later, Allisto’s head of black curls appeared from behind a hotdog stand, and he shuffled down the street after Frankie. Litner nodded his satisfaction as he watched Allisto trail the phony Patrick. “These brothers may be shrouded in the mysteries of another world, but in this world, they’re predictable as hell.”

****

They were getting close to something. Patrick felt it like maniacal butterflies doing a frenzied ballet in his stomach. His temples pulsed slightly and the scar on his wrist tingled. He was no longer in denial about his perceptions; his senses had been heightened somehow with the transmission of Joey’s blood. He was unsure why the tingling was happening now though. He couldn’t sense Joey at the moment, but maybe he was freaking out back at Forest Bluffs over something and it was affecting the blood bond.

Agent Litner drove, with Patrick beside him and Robin in the back. The gold pen was out and the temple beating was in full swing, growing more rapid as they passed each sign that read “Layton”. Robin leaned forward between the two front seats. “Would you stop that pen tapping please? Christ, Litner! You’re going to give yourself a brain hemorrhage.”

Litner gave her a befuddled glance. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You’re constantly beating yourself on the side of the head with that pen. It’s making me nuts!”

Litner stopped tapping and examined the pen curiously. “Huh. I never noticed.”

Patrick turned to Litner. “You never noticed that you were maiming yourself with your pen every time you got anxious?”

“I was not aware.” He looked at Patrick. “I really do that?”

Patrick pointed to Litner’s temple, where a red splotch was already forming. “It’s right here, and it’s all the time.”

Litner glanced in the rearview mirror. He rubbed the spot on his temple. “Well. That explains why I’m always sore there.”

Patrick looked back at Robin. “He’s a genius, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

The landscape became more rural and the trees crowded around them until there was only a narrow winding road surrounded by plush forest. They passed a metal sign that read ENTERING LAYTON. The last semblance of the civilized world disappeared when the asphalt gave way to gravel that kicked up under the tires, making pinging sounds. The day darkened around them as the forest shrouded the land from sunlight. “Are we still going the right way?” Patrick asked, peering out his window at the nothing.

“This leads to the road Jonathan Jones lives on,” Litner answered.

Robin rolled down her window and a pine-scented breeze filled the vehicle. “Wow, this is beautiful. Talk about off the beaten path.”

Litner turned the big black car left onto an even narrower gravel road that went into a steep climb. The car’s engine hummed as it climbed the shadowy road. They passed at least six signs that told them they were on a private way, and that trespassers would be prosecuted. The towering trees bowed over, forming a canopy above the road. At the top of the hill, the road leveled out, then it just stopped, becoming a small clearing that led to a driveway.

At the end of the driveway was a picturesque log cabin, sized more like a permanent home. Litner eased the car up the driveway and killed the engine. The sounds of birds and other woodland creatures bombarded them, mingling with a soothing trickle made by a stream that separated the side yard from the woods.

A large golden retriever came bounding toward the car to greet them with teeth bared and an alarmed, incessant bark. Robin rolled her window up quickly. Patrick was still looking at the surrounding landscape. “Wow. This guy is a real loner. There is absolutely nothing up here.”

“Nothing but this dog that looks about to eat us,” Robin said. The dog had jumped up onto the side of the car and was barking directly at Robin through her closed window.

“What is he hiding from up here?” Patrick asked.

Agent Litner looked at him pointedly. “You should never go into a situation with preconceived notions. It alters your judgment. If you assume the man we’re about to meet is hiding something, then you’re going to look for things that may not be there. For all we know, this guy knows absolutely nothing about Shep.”

“Hey, I hate to interrupt Tough Guy 101 class, but is anyone else worried about this dog?” Robin leaned back from the window. “Old Yeller here doesn’t seem happy to see us.”

Litner got out of the car and shut the door. Robin and Patrick stayed in their seats, watching. The dog immediately went at Litner, barking furiously with its snout wrinkled. “Stop it,” he said with authority. The dog’s nose smoothed and the barking ceased. It whimpered once then turned and slinked away toward the side yard.

Patrick and Robin exchanged a glance. “He’s such a freak,” Robin whispered. “Agent Beastmaster.”

“He should have a pet hawk,” Patrick said.

“A talking pet hawk,” Robin added.

Litner peered through the car window. “Are you coming?”

They made their way up a flagstone walkway that led to the front door of the log home. Somewhere a woodpecker hammered away. Squirrels made daring jumps across the endless treetops that surrounded the solitary house. Litner led the way with Patrick and Robin trailing nervously behind, both holding back their steps a bit. No one knew what they would find here. If it had something to do with Shep’s past, Patrick was betting it would be something weird.

Agent Litner gave three hard raps on the door. The dog watched them from the side of a shed several yards away. The door swung inward, and a young man of about twenty-one eyed them warily. He had short yellow hair with fringy bangs, pale blue eyes and flawless skin. His eyes were accentuated by the baby blue button-down he wore with a pair of tan shorts. The first thing Patrick thought was that he had eyes like Joey’s, so light blue that they were almost white.

“May I help you?” he asked, his tone cautious but cordial.

“We’re sorry to intrude on you like this,” Litner said with a smile. “We’re looking for Jonathan Jones. Does he live here?”

Patrick noticed for the first time that Litner was not wearing his usual black suit. He’d given it over for a pair of brown dress slacks and a white polo shirt. The smile and relaxed demeanor were also unfamiliar. Litner was acting, playing a character.

“Jonathan Jones is my father,” the kid said. “He is here, but I’m afraid he’s quite ill. May I ask what this is about?”

“I am terribly sorry,” Litner said. “Nobody told us your father was ill. My name is Morgan, Roger Morgan. These are my associates, Patrick and Robin. We’re from the Massachusetts Historical Society. We just wanted to ask your father a few questions for a research project we’re doing. May we come in for a moment? We’ve driven quite a long way, and I’m afraid the lady has to use the bathroom.”

The yellow haired boy looked over Litner’s shoulder at Robin and Patrick. He smiled sheepishly, but Patrick saw something in his eyes. He had the look of a cornered animal. He was terrified of something. Of them? “Sure. Sure, come on in. You’ll have to forgive me if I seemed a bit rude. You see we don’t get many visitors up here, and the knock on the door took me by surprise.”

“Not at all,” Litner said. “I know I should have called first but the Historical Society didn’t have a number associated with your father.”

“Of course. It’s no trouble. Come in, please.”

Patrick wanted to laugh at all the cordiality going on, none of it genuine.

They followed the young man inside to a wide stone foyer. The house was deceivingly smaller looking on the outside. Inside, it was enormous. There was no second floor, and the ceilings were high, cathedral style. The place had a huge stone fireplace and wooded beams that ran midway along every wall. Plastic duck decoys decorated the mantle of the fireplace, with lots of pictures of hunting dogs and deer sipping at streams.

“It’s just down the hall to the left,” their host said to Robin.

“Excuse me?” Robin said.

“Didn’t you have to use the rest room?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

As Robin passed, the kid offered his hand. “I’m Jon Jr. by the way. Nice to meet you.” Robin shook it, then proceeded down the hallway. Jon Jr. offered his hand to Agent Litner, and then to Patrick. His handshake was firm and his smile was warm, but he still looked spooked.

Robin returned and Jon led them into a large open sitting room with another fireplace. A genuine bear skin rug lay on the floor like a giant piece of roadkill.

Jon urged them all to sit. “I’m afraid my father has cancer of the pancreas,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” Litner said humbly.

Jon nodded. “Thank you. He is dying. I’ve been up here caring for him for months now. Once the doctors told him there was no hope for recovery, he wanted to leave the hospital immediately. I knew he’d want to die up here. He loves this place.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Robin said.

“Thank you.”

No one spoke for several seconds. Jon looked awkwardly at them as he sat with one buttock leaned against the arm of a chair, drumming fingers on his thigh. “So, Mr. uh, Morgan is it?”

“Roger Morgan,” Litner said, and flashed another happy guy smile.

“Perhaps you should tell me what this is about. My father may be too weak to speak with you. He has good days and bad days. I’d be happy to answer whatever questions I can. Why is the historical society interested in my father?”

Patrick’s eyes were drawn to a closed door just outside the room they were in. Was Wesley J. Shepherd, a.k.a. Jonathan Jones in there, withering away like an autumn flower? He pictured a sixty-two-year-old man lying in a bed, shrunken by the cancer that conquered his body. It made him sad and ashamed at their deception. They shouldn’t be here, intruding on this family.

“I know this must be a terrible time for you, Jon, and I appreciate your cooperation,” Litner said. “I’ll get right to the point. We’re doing a piece for a New England news program about natural caves in the area, and Pearl Chasm in particular.”

The young man nodded casually, but his face flushed. “I see.”

Litner pretended not to notice Jon’s sudden discomfort. “Tell me, Jon. Is your father’s birth name not in fact Wesley Jackson Shepherd?”

Jon flinched. He took a breath. After another awkward silence, he forced a strained smile. “Well. You are a resourceful bunch, aren’t you? The answer to your question is yes. My father was indeed born Wesley Jackson Shepherd. How did you know that?”

Litner pressed on, ignoring the question. “Is your father also the same Wesley J. Shepherd, only child of Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd, who lost their lives in a caving accident at Pearl Chasm fifty-two years ago this fall?”

Jon’s face went stiff. He wrung his hands and let out a nervous laugh as he hopped of the chair. “Yes. My grandparents were Melvin and Eugenia Shepherd. And yes, they died in that accident. I was never able to meet them, obviously. Your talents are wasted on the historical society, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you,” Litner said.

“You see, the thing is Roger, what you’re referring to is a deeply personal account,” the boy said. “I’ll have to check with my father to see if he’s feeling well enough to speak with you himself. I’m not sure he’d be comfortable with my discussing this particular topic with you. It is a very painful memory for him, even all these years later.”

“We don’t want to be any trouble,” Agent Litner said with a look of compassion.

“Oh don’t worry. My father is a very spirited man, even now. If he doesn’t want to talk with you, he will plainly tell me so. But, after all, it doesn’t hurt to ask. You did drive all the way from...where are you from?”

“Boston,” Litner said.

“Ah, yes. Boston. If you’ll all just wait here, I’ll go in and check on Dad. Excuse me.”

Jon left the room. Patrick watched him walk through the closed door outside the sitting room and shut it behind him.

“He’s weird!” Robin whispered.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.

“Did you see what he’s wearing? Who wears clothes that fussy just to hang around the house? He looks like he’s going to a country club for brunch.”

“Well, we can’t all be as stylish as you Robin.” Patrick smiled as he looked down at her short black sundress.

“Yeah, well maybe if Mr. Mysterious over here had told us what our mission for the day was, I would have dressed the part,” she pointed a thumb toward Agent Litner. “Which reminds me. How come Patrick and I didn’t get fake names, Roger?”

Agent Litner stared at the closed door. He got up and walked toward it, listening just outside.

“Do you think the old man will talk to us?” Patrick asked. Agent Litner didn’t answer. He was scowling at the closed door, his head cocked to one side.

Robin looked at Patrick. “Oh-oh. Secret Agent Man is thinking again. What’s wrong Litner?”

He continued to stare at the door, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” He tapped on it. “Jon?” He was answered with silence. He tapped again, a little harder this time. “Jon, it’s Roger. Is everything all right?”

No response. Litner looked back at Patrick and Robin. Patrick shrugged. He knocked a third time, with his full fist. “Jon, do you need some help in there?” Again, there was no answer. Agent Litner turned the knob, finding it locked. He jiggled it a few times, then pushed his weight against it in a quick, solid motion, and the door swung inward.

“Litner!” Patrick hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

Litner disappeared into the room. Patrick and Robin stood, watching with matching expressions of confusion. Then Agent Litner’s voice called out. “Son of a bitch!”

They ran into the room. It was a quaint, country style bedroom. The bed was made up with multi-patchwork quilts and ruffled pillow shams. But the bed was empty, as was the room. Litner stood in front of an open window looking out onto the stretch of yard in the back, which blended into thick woods. “He took off,” Litner said. “He went through the window.”

“With his old man?” Patrick asked.

Litner lifted his leg, hoisting himself over the window ledge. “There is no old man,” he said, and dropped out of the window onto the grass.

Patrick and Robin went to the window in time to see Litner sprinting off into the woods. “What the hell is going on?” Robin asked.

Patrick shook his head. “You’ve got me.”

They both leaned over the windowsill, straining to see into the woods where Litner had disappeared.

Several minutes later someone screamed. It was a cry of pain, and it sounded like the young man Jon’s voice. Robin and Patrick looked at each other. “Should I go help Litner?” Patrick asked.

“No! We don’t know who this Jon guy is. He could have a gun or be a serial killer!”

“A serial killer wearing Ralph Lauren?”

“They don’t all look like Manson. Besides, Litner knows what he’s doing. Need I remind you that you are an accountant, not a cop?”

“Sure. Rub it in. Hey! I see them!”

Agent Litner’s snow-white hair and Jon’s wispy yellow locks were easy to spot coming out of a clearing in the woods. Jon had one arm slung over Litner’s shoulder, favoring his right leg. Patrick ran out of the bedroom in search of a back door. Robin followed. They found a back door and ran to Litner, who half-carried the young man across the lawn. Jon’s handsome face was twisted in pain. “What the hell did you do to him?” Robin asked.

“I didn’t do anything to him. He tripped over a log while trying to outrun me.”

The blond man grunted. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

“Let’s get you inside,” Litner said. “Patrick, help me out here.”

Patrick grabbed Jon’s other arm and they carried him back into the house. They set him down on his leather couch. Litner propped his leg up onto a pillow and examined the ankle, which was already swollen and beginning to turn colors. “This is going to need some ice. Patrick, could you get some ice?”

“No, Patrick. Do not get me any ice,” Jon said sharply. He glared at the three of them, all pretense of pleasantry gone. “Who are you people?”

“Why did you run like that?” Patrick asked.

Jon hoisted himself up. “I don’t have to answer that. I don’t have to answer anything. This is my house! You’re not from the historical society. Who are you people, and what do you really want?”

Patrick felt nervousness rise inside of him. Litner remained calm. “Where is your father?” he asked.

“My father is dead.”

Litner shook his head. “No death certificate has been registered for Wesley Jackson Shepherd, or any of his other chosen names.”

Jon slid backward a bit, wincing as his foot fell off the pillow. “If I say my father is dead, then he is dead. I’d like you to leave.”

“If he is dead, then why did you say he was in the other room?” Litner asked. The agent had a knack for ignoring the statements he didn’t choose to address, like Jon’s ordering them out.

Jon flushed red. “Look,” he said, “tell me what you people want, or get the hell out of my house. You are trespassing. I’m going to call the police.”

“You don’t seem to have a phone,” Litner said. “At least not nearby. If it was in your pocket, I suspect you’d already have it in hand. I find that odd. Living all the way out here with no phone? Why is that?”

Jon’s eyes widened, and there was no mistaking the fear in them. He stood. “Okay. That’s it. Get out.”

Patrick’s panic escalated as Jon hobbled backward away from them. Things were getting out of hand, though you couldn’t tell by looking at Litner. He sat calmly on the couch, tapping his pen on his thigh. Patrick stepped forward. “Agent Litner, maybe we should go,” he said in a panicked whisper.

It wasn’t until Litner turned to Patrick with a death stare that he realized he’d used Litner’s real name. And his title. Oops.

Jon’s face fell. “Agent? Agent of what? Who sent you?”

“Where is Wesley J. Shepherd?” Litner pressed.

“Tell me why you want to know!” Jon shouted.

“Now take it easy, Jon. We just want to ask him some questions,” Litner said, standing.

The young blond man shuffled back until he was leaning against a wooden table with drawers, hands behind him. Even Litner didn’t seem to expect the gun when Jon pulled it out and aimed it at them. “If you come near me, I will shoot you!”

Litner held his hands up. “Take it easy. Nobody is here to hurt you.”

Jon trembled, holding the black handgun in front of him menacingly. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.”

“We mean you no harm, Jon,” Litner said. “You misunderstand our motives. If you’d just let us explain—”

“You don’t need to explain. I know who really sent you. So my time is up then, is it? Well. I’ll kill myself before I give him the satisfaction!” Jon turned the gun and pressed it to his own temple.

“No!” Patrick screamed and lunged toward Jon.

Jon turned to him, keeping the gun pointed at his own head. “Don’t come any closer Patrick, if that’s your real name.”

“Patrick, please step back and let me handle this,” Litner said calmly.

Patrick looked at Litner. “No. No I won’t. You are not handling this well.”

Litner’s face stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“He has a gun to his head! I wouldn’t say it’s going well, would you?”

“Patrick,” Litner said with an unspoken warning. “Let me handle this.”

Patrick did not want to see any more blood this month. If this kid blew his brains out, that would be it. Patrick’s mind would snap like the worn-out twig it was. “Please, Litner. Just tell him the truth!”

Jon’s face was still fearful, but he looked at Patrick curiously now. “You,” he said, pointing the gun at Patrick. “You tell me why you’re here.”

Patrick glanced at Litner, who waved his arm in a resigning gesture.

“An old man was murdered recently,” Patrick said. “A doctor. He was killed in a cave out at Pearl Chasm.”

Jon flinched and brought the gun down a couple inches. “What?”

Patrick held his hands up. “Before this old man died, he wrote the name Wesley J. Shepherd in the dirt. Agent Litner traced the name to this address. So you see we don’t want to hurt anybody. We just need to ask your father some questions.”

Jon looked distant for a moment. He still held the gun but it was lowered mainly to the floor now, a flood of emotions crossing his handsome face. “Was it…Dr. Lichtenstein?”

Patrick nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes. Yes! Dr. Lichtenstein. Did you know him?”

Jon took a step toward Patrick. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

Jon took another step, gazing at Patrick like he suddenly held some fascination. “Then how are you involved in this…murder case?”

Patrick swallowed hard. Jon’s presence was making him feel funny the closer he got. “Personal reasons.”

Jon tentatively reached out and touched the side of Patrick’s neck. Patrick flinched but didn’t move. Trailing a finger along Patrick’s temple, the young blond man moved even closer and stared deeply into Patrick’s eyes. The room fell still. Patrick’s heart beat furiously as he waited to see what Jon was going to do next.

A look of stunned realization widened Jon’s eyes and he gasped, taking a step back. “My God!” he said. “You’re the Shield, aren’t you?”

Patrick’s head spun. “What did you say?”

“He is the Sword, and you are the Shield. Do you know what I speak of?”

Patrick’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”

Jon licked his lips, eyes still frozen on Patrick’s. “Then it has begun again,” he said, then looked down, rubbing his forehead. “Shit. It’s begun again.”

“How do you know about that?” Patrick whispered. “How can you possibly know about that?”

Jon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “How do I know? By the shattered look in your eyes. And the smell of his blood in your veins.”

Patrick shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked the blond stranger.

“I am Wesley Jackson Shepherd. I’m the one you are looking for.”

You? But you’re—’’

“I’m sixty-two years old.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Wesley J. Shepherd put his gun back in the drawer, then opened a bottle of wine and sat across from them in his puffy leather chair. Taking a delicate swallow, he swirled the red liquid with an air of sophistication that did not match his youth. “So,” he said, “who wants to start?”

“Why don’t you start, Jon? Or is it Wesley now?” Patrick asked.

“Wesley is fine. I’ve been hiding behind other names for years. It’s refreshing to use my own. But you’re the guest, Patrick. You speak first.” Patrick stared back at him and said nothing. Wesley chuckled. “I see how difficult this is going to be. You want information from me, but don’t trust me enough to give information in return. I am willing to give you information, but I do not completely trust you either.”

“Do you really claim to be sixty-two years old?” Robin asked.

“I don’t just claim it. I am it.”

Patrick could hold his tongue no longer. “How do you know Shep? You do know him, don’t you?”

Wesley flinched, his shoulders tightening. “Shep. He’s still calling himself that, is he?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “He is…still calling himself that.”

Wesley looked at Patrick, brow creasing in a puzzled frown. “How is it that you can leave your Sword?”

The question caught Patrick by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You are the Shield, am I right?”

“I suppose.”

“Then you must have a Sword. How is it that you can be away from your Sword?”

“Do you mean Joey?”

Wesley looked off into the distance. “Joey,” he whispered. “How were you able to leave your…Joey?”

“I just did.”

“Do you live with him?”

“Yes. But I’ve only been living with him for a short time.”

“Wow. You must be very strong.”

“Why?”

“Do you get headaches? If you’re away from him, I mean.”

Robin’s head swiveled back and forth between them. “What’s he talking about, Patrick?”

Sighing, Patrick nodded. “Headaches, yeah. That’s putting it mildly.”

“And do you dream of him?” Wesley asked.

Patrick stood. “Okay look, you seem to know more about what’s been happening to me than I do.”

Wesley smiled sadly. “He chose to keep you rather less informed this time. At least he’s learned something.”

“What is your connection to Shep?” Robin asked. “Who exactly are you?”

“Who am I?” He stood and took a bow. “I am the Sword. The chosen one.”

“You?” Patrick said. “I don’t understand.”

“I am the original. Do you see the life your friend Joey is living? Well, that was supposed to be me. I was the first. I’m the one your pal Shep made all his mistakes on. I, my good people, am Zirub’s self-proclaimed fuck up. Cheers.” He sat down and tossed back his wine.

“Zirub,” Patrick whispered and took his seat again. “So you really do know Shep.”

“Know him? Oh yes. Better than I care to. I swore I’d never speak of these things. Under threat of death. And other unsavory things.”

“Please,” Patrick urged. “We think Shep may be planning something horrible.”

“Oh, you can bet on it.”

This got Litner’s attention. “Do you know what he’s planning?”

“I know some of it, but not his endgame.”

“What do you know?” Litner asked. “Anything might be helpful.”

“What I do know likely can’t help you. I was given his motivations, but we never got that far beyond the initial stages of my…messiah training to discuss final goals in detail. He’d feed me information as we went, but only what he thought I could handle. I think he was waiting for me to mature fully before he shared everything. I was only ten years old when I first encountered him.”

“What?” Robin said. “Are you trying to say that Shep is sixty-two years old as well?”

“Fifty-two actually. Fifty-two earth years anyway.”

“Get out of here!” Patrick said.

Wesley shrugged. “Just giving you the facts.”

Robin hung her head, releasing a shivering breath.

“You all right?” Patrick squeezed her shoulder.

“This is all difficult for me to accept.” She glanced at Wesley. “Shep and I were...involved.”

Wesley looked alarmed. “Did you use condoms?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. It’s important.”

Flushing, she glared. “Yes. We used condoms.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always. Why? Does he have a disease or something?”

“No. He doesn’t have a disease. He does have…something, however.”

“You’re losing me,” Litner said. “Please, Wesley, just tell us what you do know about Shepherd.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Have you heard of a mythical being called Zirub?”

“A priest showed us the story,” Litner said. “But I assumed, perhaps wrongly, that it was not a widely known tale.”

“It’s not. But it’s sure as hell known to me.” Wesley limped over to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel. “This band of five Powers went against the orders of their superiors and crossed the byways, with all intentions of making it to earth. Their entrance was blocked as their plan was discovered before they reached their destination. When they tried to retreat back from whence they came, that entrance was blocked as well. They were trapped in the shapeless void. And so on. I know this tale well,” he said bitterly. “Zirub himself told it to me.”

“So the story is true then?” Patrick asked skeptically. “Zirub and his band were trapped for two thousand years in the darkness?” He was still wary to believe his longtime pot-head friend was some sort of mythical character.

“Two thousand, four hundred and sixty-one years, to be exact. If you’ve read the folklore, you know the rest. The others in the band began to go mad in the void. Zirub felt responsible for their plight. He put them to sleep, vowing to find a way out, or in, whichever came first. He spent all those years alone, testing the space around him for one of the soft spots that exist between the realms.”

“A Cripulet,” Litner said.

“Yes. A Cripulet. Zirub found his Cripulet, finally. The ironic thing was he wasn’t really looking for it at the time. Zirub’s emergence into this world was an accident. It happened the day my parents died.” Wesley paused. “Even he didn’t know how it had transpired, at first. One moment he was trapped, the next he was free, flesh and blood, lying on the floor of a collapsed cave in western Massachusetts. There was a low-grade tremor that day. Pearl Chasm sits on a fault line because of the way it was formed. That place never should have been made into a state park. At any rate, the wall did collapse, and my parents, Melvin and Eugenia, were killed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Litner said.

Wesley nodded. “I had to go live with my Aunt Roberta. I was only ten years old, but I was the smartest kid in school, and independent to the point of being considered strange. My aunt, however, saw only a vulnerable little boy who had just suffered a terrible tragedy. She wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral for fear it would traumatize me. That ate away at me. They told me my parents were dead and I believed them, but I had no closure. I needed to see where it happened. So one day, I skipped school and took a taxi to Pearl Chasm.”

Patrick thought about Joey and his alleged genius. The similarities between Wesley and Joey became more apparent by the minute. “Please, go on,” Patrick said, overjoyed to be finally getting some sort of answers, however bizarre.

“I found the cave right away,” Wesley said. “It was still surrounded by yellow caution tape. The cave had been bulldozed and cleared of rubble. So, I went inside.” His eyes misted. “Their blood stained the stone parts of the ground. My mom and dad. Nothing but a stain on a sheet of rock. I fell to my knees and cried, wanting to sink into the ground and die with them. I don’t know how long I stayed in that cave, kneeling in my own tears and my dead parents’ blood.”

“I’m sorry,” Robin said. “That must have been terrible.”

Wesley glanced up. “When I finally left the cave, the light outside was fading. I remember how frightening the chasm looked as I stood alone in that eerie evening light, amidst the black rocks and tunnels. I started to follow the trail out through the woods. That’s when I saw him.”

“Who?” Robin whispered.

“Zirub.” Wesley glanced Robin’s way. “The one you know as Shep. He was standing up on a cliff, watching me. I’ll never forget the sight of him looking down on me like that. He was like another jutting rock, a phantom, still as stone, watching me with those enormous eyes. If not for his hair and the way it blew in the wind, I’d have thought he was a statue. I ran. The stranger on the cliff did not follow me. Not that day, anyway.”

“And this was fifty-two years ago,” Litner said with a tone of disbelief.

“Yes. This was fifty-two years ago.”

“And you’re certain this stranger was the same man that Patrick and Robin know.”

“If it is Zirub who has become your friend…” He glanced at Robin. “And your lover, I have something that may help convince you.”

Wesley hobbled over to a wooden box on a corner table. He pulled on the bottom and slid something out, then handed it to Patrick. “This is the only one I kept. I don’t know why I even kept this. I must be out of my mind.”

Patrick stared at the photograph. “Mother of God,” he whispered, and Robin snatched it from him.

They both studied the faded black and white. It was Shep, no question about it. He stood in front of a basketball hoop, spinning a ball on his finger. He was not looking at the camera. His sandy curls were tied back in a ponytail, his face quite visible. The picture was faded and worn, but Shep looked unchanged.

Patrick examined the photo. It had a date on the corner of the white border. According to the date, the picture was taken forty-five years before. Patrick thought about his friend, and how he stayed looking so young. Sure, Shep was a vegetarian, but only because meat disgusted him. He was no health nut. He drank like a fish and smoked pot like a fiend. Was it possible? Clearly the answer was yes. Shep did not age normally. Patrick’s head was spinning.

Robin took over the questioning, seeming to sense that Patrick needed a moment to absorb what the photograph meant. “Okay Wesley,” she said. “I guess we’ll have to believe you. But what is it all about? What’s all this with the chosen one and the plan and the church? Why is Joey going on news programs and trying to get more attention?”

“I know nothing about a church, or this Joey person. I’ve been shut away here for many years. I have no phone and I have no television. I can only tell you my own experiences.”

“What’s he trying to do?” Patrick asked. “What does Shep want?”

Wesley’s expression darkened. “Everything. He wants everything.”

“Explain.”

Wesley looked terrified, his eyes darting around like he expected Shep to burst into the house at any moment. “Zirub approached me as I was leaving school two weeks later. I immediately recognized him from Pearl Chasm. He was so striking. I couldn’t have forgotten him, though I’d only seen him fleetingly. He asked me to come with him. He said he had things to show me. Now as I said, I was not a stupid child. I knew about perverts, and there was no way I was taking off with some hippie looking stalker who wanted to show me things. Besides, he talked funny and he walked like he had a rod up his ass. Pardon my language.”

Patrick and Robin exchanged a glance. “Like the brothers!” she said.

“It’s hard to believe Shep was ever…like them,” Patrick said.

They turned to Wesley when they heard his wine glass shatter onto the floor.

“You all right?” Litner asked, rising to his feet.

Wesley paled. “I’m sorry about that. But did you say…the brothers?”

Agent Litner walked over and began to clean up the shards of glass. “That’s what they said.”

Wesley put a hand to his forehead. “Then he…he’s gotten them out? The brothers?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes, Wesley. He’s gotten them out. All four of them.”

Wesley stumbled, pressing a hand to the wall as if he’d collapse otherwise.

“Hey, you okay there?” Robin went to his side.

“I apologize, I just wasn’t expecting to hear that.” Wesley looked at them, expression pained. “What are they like?”

“The brothers?” Patrick asked. Wesley nodded. “Well, they look like Shep. Not exactly like him, but similar. They’re odd. Clearly intelligent, but no common sense, you know? They speak with an accent, as if they’ve just learned the language.”

Wesley scowled. “Bright eyes, baby talk, seemingly harmless, right? Walk like they’re breaking in a new set of legs?”

“Yes,” Robin said. “Exactly.”

“Well they don’t stay that way!” Wesley said sharply. “Make no mistake. They are extremely dangerous. They only appear innocent because they’re still adjusting to life in the flesh. Shep was the same way once, all stumbling and stuttering and seemingly naïve. Trust me, it doesn’t last. In time they will be as clever and diabolical as he is.”

Patrick thought of Klee crunching on a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and couldn’t imagine he had a diabolical bone in his body. Wesley limped over and locked the front door, flipping the deadbolt. “Did you lock the back door after we came back inside, Agent Litner?”

“Yes.” Litner walked over and handed Wesley a fresh glass of wine. “Who are you afraid is going to come here?”

Wesley returned to the living room. “Who do you think?”

“Shepherd knows you’re here?”

Without answering, Wesley went to a window at the rear of the room and stared out into the back yard. He seemed terribly nervous. “Wesley, you obviously had some relationship with Shep at one time,” Patrick said. “He must have won you over eventually when you were a kid.”

Wesley laughed bitterly and turned to face them. “At first he told me he was an angel sent by my parents to take care of me. I laughed. I told him that only a moron would tell such a tale and expect anyone to believe it. He didn’t like being spoken to that way. Apparently, God called him a moron once. Or something equivalent in God speak, which is what started this whole series of events.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “God?”

Wesley waved him off. “I know, I know. Let’s just call it Zirub’s big boss for now, that’s a more complex conversation. Regardless, my particular insult hit home and he didn’t like it. So he melted my shoes. While they were still on my feet.”

“He melted your shoes?” Robin said. “How?”

“By looking at them.” The three of them must have appeared flabbergasted because Wesley laughed. “That’s right folks. It was the beginning of a long relationship of abuse and physical coercion by a being far more powerful than me. Look here.” Wesley removed one of his boat shoes and showed them his foot. It was covered with puffy white burn scars.

Patrick stared at the scars. He couldn’t believe Shep had physically harmed a ten-year-old boy. “That’s awful,” Patrick said. “Disgustingly awful.”

“Yes, that was Zirub, sadistic from the start. He tended to my wounded feet by making some sort of herb mixture, but he’d waited too long sulking before doing so, so it didn’t take care of all the damage. Said he was sorry.”

“He melted your feet and then kissed the boo-boo,” Patrick said. “That’s the Shep I know. He’ll verbally degrade you until you’re nearly in tears, then pat you on the back and offer to buy you beers all night.”

Wesley nodded. “Then you know him well.”

“Not that well. I thought he was human. Silly me.”

“Well, he practically is human now,” Wesley said. “He’s had fifty-two years of practice. Anyhow, he brought me back to the cave and we dug up the charred remains of his wings. He showed me the wound on his back. I must say I was overwhelmed. I was a clever kid, but I was not beyond my childhood longings. I’d just lost my parents. I was looking for answers, guidance, magic. Zirub gave me those things. He told me the truth. He said that somehow my parents’ accident in the cave had set him free. He said that I need not worry about my life any longer. He would watch over me. I was the chosen one.”

“Why you?” Robin said.

“My parents’ death brought about his life in this world. It was meant to be, he told me. That’s why he took their names. Melvin Eugene Shepherd, after my parents, and his, he said. He said he knew when he saw me walk out of that cave, that I was the one he had come to find.”

“That’s all very prophetic, but what the hell did he want you for?” Litner asked.

Wesley smirked. “How open are your minds?”

Patrick shrugged. “My mind’s been forced open lately.”

“Well, my mind was not open when I met Zirub. I thought simple science could explain all things. How I miss that blessed ignorance. Do you know why he made that fateful trek to the material world?”

“No!” Litner said a bit too loud. He looked around as if someone else had said it. “No,” he repeated more softly. “That’s the one thing that wasn’t in the book Father Bello had. Why did Zirub decide to leave his post and go to earth? What was the urgency?”

Wesley hobbled over and sat on the floor in front of them. “Let me start by telling you, the man you know as Shepherd is insane.”

“Duh,” Robin said.

Wesley held up a hand for patience. “Let me also tell you that Zirub, who is one and the same, is also insane. I think perhaps he always was, even in his previous life. Delusions of grandeur doesn’t even cover it. It is his intention to manipulate, and on some level control, the entire world.”

“What for?” Patrick asked.

“Initially, it was to help sustain the realm from which he came. But now? After all that time trapped in the void?” Wesley raised his eyebrows. “Now his motivation is primarily spite.”

“Spite!” Robin scowled. “Against whom? Don’t say God. I mean it.”

“Yes, but not primarily. There are others he hates more.”

“I asked you not to say that.”

“I understand,” Wesley said. “I’m using the term ‘God’ but this is not the being imagined by humanity in their various religions.”

“What then?” Patrick asked.

“Zirub…I mean Shep, refers to it as The Light, and to the best of my understanding, this is an entity older and more intelligent than we can conceive of. Divine by our standards. It is an actual creator, that’s the truth. But it is still a life form. Just as Shep was still a life form, even in his prior existence. Hence the wings. Where he came from has a different atmosphere. Wings are much less functional in this world. More of an effort to use. Plus, obviously, he had to remove them to blend in.”

“Wait.” Patrick gave his head a shake. “God, you mean the God that people write about and worship, is alive. Like biologically, the way we’re alive.”

“Alive, but not like us at all. A being so far beyond us in power and sophistication that we can’t comprehend it. But yes, it is a life form. One we are intimately connected to. In fact, according to Shep, we wouldn’t thrive without it. It is simultaneously the source of our life force, yet also dependent on our life force for its own rejuvenation.”

Patrick’s brow lowered. “So this thing needs us?”

Wesley nodded. “It gives us life, then thrives on a certain energy we provide while living. This gives it fuel to make more life once ours burns out and dies. A constant cycle. A symbiotic relationship.”

“Great,” Litner said snidely. “God is an ancient cosmic energy vampire. Shep pissed it off and it retaliated. Now Shep wants to retaliate back.”

“Well that’s partially debatable,” Wesley said. “Shep claims he doesn’t know if it was The Light itself that locked him in the darkness, or his superiors. He could only rely on their word that they’d brought his grand ideas to the big boss to begin with, as Zirub was not allowed to do so himself.”

“I don’t care who or what locked him away,” Litner said. “What I need to know is, exactly how does his plan to retaliate affect humanity?”

“All I know is,” Wesley said, “Shep claims he’s going to control the flow.”

“The flow of what?” Litner demanded.

“When humans gather with group focus, not just for religious services or prayer, but any event where the group intention is singular and positive, a specific energy coveted by The Light manifests. Shep claims this is why The Light gave music, art, creativity to the world. These things, as well as any skilled orator, can draw a crowd and create group think, group delight. The Light syphons this energy back into itself. This energy is what Shepherd seeks to control.”

Patrick huffed. “The Light…this thing, whatever it is, eats the group energy.”

“That’s more or less how Shepherd described it,” Wesley said. “This is where the big emphasis on good and evil comes in. It’s not just a morality lesson for the sake of it. This being, this Light Shep speaks of? It can’t feed off negative energy. So war, battlefields, people brought together in violence or hatred? Spoils the meat.”

“Shit,” Robin said. “And we don’t always feed it properly to say the least.”

“Exactly.” Wesley pointed at her. “But we’re not the only world this ancient being has cultivated, it has others. Plus, according to Zirub, there’s usually enough good juice on earth to go around, even with all the bad happening. So his valiant mission to help increase sustenance for The Light was not only arrogant, but highly unnecessary, or so it seems to me. But he thought he could improve things. He always thinks he’s the only one with the answers. Control freak to say the least.”

“Increase sustenance?” Patrick let out a hard breath. “How exactly did Shep think he could do that? And why did he think it was necessary?”

Wesley took a gulp of wine. “Shortly before Zirub made his plan to come here, The Light was experiencing a dip in the spiritual energy it had been feeding off since cultivating this planet. Climate problems and wars and inequity were killing off a lot of the population. Fewer group events happening due to poverty and strife and the hoarding of wealth by a select few. Natural disasters. Not exactly a festival atmosphere.”

“So Shep was worried about The Light not getting enough food,” Litner said.

“If things kept going the way they were, yes,” Wesley said. “Shep wanted very much to please The Light, but he couldn’t travel to the nether worlds himself, so he would instruct lower angels to whisper divine secrets in the ears of humanity. To create messiahs, if you will, with knowledge beyond the average human. Teachers. Leaders. To turn things around and gather masses of people in positive messaging.”

Robin cocked an eyebrow. “Did it work?”

“For a time,” Wesley said. “But there were problems. His various messiahs were only human, and quite vulnerable. They kept getting killed. Often by their own followers. Mobs of joy transformed into mobs of violence and darkness.”

“Like Jesus?” Patrick said. “The crucifixion?”

“Shep never mentioned that or any other name,” Wesley said. “But we have to assume that and others like it is a story concept trickled down from activity happening at the time. The assassination of leaders is not new of course, and it’s not just ancient history. Shep says it’s a quirk in humanity’s design. Rock stars, politicians, celebrities. Messiahs and gods? We have a tendency to raise something up, above ourselves, so we can feel awe. Then we get pissed off that we’re so far below it, and try to tear it down again.”

“Fuck, that makes sense,” Patrick said. “I guess humanity does do that. Didn’t think it was inherent though.”

“Zirub claims it is,” Wesley said, “much to his annoyance. Why do you think he designed a Shield? Protection for his messiah, his Sword, is of paramount importance.”

Patrick swallowed hard.

“This is why, instead of simply mentoring human messiahs from afar via messengers, he decided to head to the nether realms and do it himself. He would create his own, special, upgraded version of a messiah, imbued with divine gifts and incredible strengths. Oh, and to solve the issue of messiahs’ tendency to get murdered, he also created for them an unconditional protection system.” Wesley glanced at Patrick.

“A Shield.” Patrick wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “The protection is my job now.”

Wesley nodded. “That’s why you weren’t given a choice. He’s doing things by force more than ever now. This time, he plans to gather all that energy focus onto himself and his hand-crafted messiah. Hold it hostage from The Light. He’s going to make people of this world dependent on his messiah for their livelihood, so he becomes the primary, controlling source of such energy.”

Litner bristled. “How?”

Shaking his head, Wesley looked sad. “I don’t know how he plans to achieve that, Agent Litner. We parted ways during the build-up stage of his plan. If I knew the finale, I would tell you. I promise.”

“There are only about sixty followers out at Shep’s little messiah camp right now though,” Patrick said. “Granted, they’re all googly eyed followers, but that’s hardly taking over the world energy.”

“I assure you,” Wesley said, “that’s only a control group. He’s probably just using them as test subjects. He’ll find a way to go big eventually.”

“So that was his reasoning for breaking the rules and coming here?” Robin said. “That he’s the only one who can do things right? Fucking egomaniac, I swear.”

“Well, he didn’t want break the rules at first,” Wesley said. “He intended to go through proper channels and ask permission. He initially presented this idea to his superiors, who begrudgingly brought it to The Light, or so they claimed.” Wesley looked around the room at each of them. “Shep’s superiors told him The Light thought his idea was stupid and risky, and ordered him to stay at his guard post and stop getting big ideas above his station. Leave the humanity planning to the higher ups. They told Zirub that The Light basically called him a moron. Naturally, he set out to prove them all wrong.”

Robin sighed. “Shep does always think he knows best. And he’s never liked being told no.”

“Or being condescended,” Patrick added. “He won’t tolerate it.”

“So there’s your answer, Agent Litner, to the best of my knowledge,” Wesley said. “Shep made the journey here to prove a point. That his plan could work. And that he wasn’t the idiot they claimed. That plan of course became twisted once he got locked away.”

“Yeah.” Patrick chuckled. “All he ended up proving was that he could get his ass thrown into the realm of darkness for over two thousand years. Get himself trapped.”

Wesley turned to Patrick. “Yes. But he’s out now. Isn’t he?”

Patrick’s smile dropped. “Right.”

“So his messiah was supposed to be you,” Robin said. “What went wrong?”

Wesley looked at the floor. “A lot of things went wrong.”

“Thank you for these insights, now I’ll ask you for one more,” Litner interrupted. “Do you think Shep is capable of mass murder?”

Wesley stilled. “Why do you ask this?”

Litner stood and paced the room. “Shep is growing some sort of crop. I’m concerned about its contents and potential distribution. So I’ll ask you again. Do you believe Shep is capable of mass murder?”

Wesley went quiet for a long moment.

Litner stared at him. “Well?”

Wesley met his eyes. “He is certainly capable of murder. Sadly, I know this firsthand. Murder without remorse.” He shivered. “But mass murder? I…” Wesley’s features twisted in a grimace. “I never witnessed anything to that degree.”

“You’ve known him the longest. I need you to be straight with me.” Litner crouched down before Wesley. “Is it possible, in your opinion, that Melvin Shepherd might create a catastrophic event, the outcome of which would significantly lower the current human population? Or, in your opinion, is that out of the question?”

Swallowing hard, Wesley shook his head. “No. I don’t believe that’s out of the question at all.”

****

“We have to go.” Agent Litner got up and walked to the front door.

“Wait!” Patrick said, following. “Not yet, Litner.”

“Did you hear what he said?” Litner spun around, pointing a finger in Patrick’s face. “You need to be on that ferry back to Forest Bluffs, and you need to get me that crop sample, now. We can’t afford to wait.”

“We can stay another half hour and still make the ferry. Litner, look at him!” Patrick said in a harsh whisper. “That guy is sixty-two and he looks twenty-two. I need to know what Shep did to him, so I can figure out what Shep did to me. That guy in there is a freak of nature. I’m not leaving without knowing how he got that way. And…and whether I’m a freak of nature now too.”

Litner’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure you’re fine.”

“No. You’re not sure of that. Neither am I. And I need to know.”

Wesley cleared his throat loudly in the other room. “Um, guys? While I take no offense at being called a freak of nature, you should know that I also have enhanced hearing.”

Litner’s blue eyes narrowed, then he sighed. In a rare show of humanity, he placed a hand gently on Patrick’s shoulder. “Thirty minutes. No more.”

“Thank you.”

When they returned to the living room, Wesley was pouring Robin a glass of wine. She looked up and smiled. “What? I’m not driving.”

Patrick walked over and gave her a soft kiss on the lips, needing to just feel something normal for a moment. Something real. She stroked his cheek. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I almost believe that when you say it.” He turned to Wesley. “Well, you heard my concerns when I was talking to Agent Litner.”

Wesley nodded. “I understand. I believe my suspended aging is due to all the changes made to my body.” He moved to his chair and sat. “Shep started giving me his blood when I was fifteen.”

“To what end?” Litner asked.

“Zirub needed to put part of himself into me. To enhance me. To create his own messiah. Closely monitored, carefully controlled, and one hundred percent guaranteed.”

“Yeah.” Robin sat on the couch. “So glad Shep insisted on condoms.”

“What would giving you his blood do, exactly?” Patrick asked.

Wesley frowned. “Shep carried part of what he used to be into his mortal body when he crossed over. He is flesh and blood, but he’s not like us. His mind has power. His blood has power. His bodily fluids, when transferred into a human with the right rituals, can create the power to enchant.”

“Why didn’t he just become the messiah himself?” Robin asked.

“He can’t,” Wesley answered. “He has extraordinary abilities, but he doesn’t possess the power to enchant, not by himself. Only when his essence is mixed with a human’s will it be recognized by other humans. Only then will the enchantment be effective.”

“So he spent a lot of time and effort making you his messiah. But clearly something went very wrong.” Litner’s brows rose. “One of the brothers, Juris, claims Shep won’t even speak your name aloud.”

Wesley looked deeply hurt by the comment. “Juris said that?”

They all nodded.

“Still,” Wesley whispered. “He still won’t speak my name.”

Patrick frowned at Wesley. It was almost as if he still cared what Shep thought of him.

Wesley sighed. “Anyway, I drank his blood.”

Robin’s nose wrinkled. “Drank it?” Wesley nodded. Robin looked at Patrick. “You didn’t—”

“No,” Patrick said. “I didn’t drink Shep’s blood, we just rubbed together an open wound with Joey. Joey drank his blood, though, according to your Aunt Betsy. She caught them, years ago.”

“Yes,” Wesley said. “He would have been giving your friend Joey his blood for some time now, as he once did to me. By the time I was twenty years old, the power in me was already apparent. I could hold a room full of people captive for hours just by telling them about my trip to the dry cleaners. They would stare at me and compete for my attention. Everyone wanted to be near me. I’d been given the power to enchant. I must admit, at first, I liked it. I liked it a lot. And I liked him. Shep had been with me since I was ten years old, teaching me, molding me, caring for me. He was my family. I…loved him. I worshipped him. He was mine. Or so I thought. What I didn’t realize then was that he was not mine at all. I, in fact, was his.”

Wesley paused and chuckled bitterly. “By the time I should have been old enough to come to my senses, it was too late. When I reached adulthood, we posed as friends, as we now appeared to be the same age. Finally, he could begin showing up at my Aunt Roberta’s house for visits. It was wonderful. It was like having an imaginary friend that had suddenly come to life and everyone else could see him too. I was…happy. But then one day, he told me that the time had come to get the brothers out.”

“He tried back then to get them out?” Patrick asked.

“Oh yes.” Wesley’s eyes darkened. “We went to the cave night after night. It was grueling. He struggled to re-create the circumstances that existed when he was brought through the Cripulet the day my parents were killed. We set charges in an attempt to simulate the tremor. Nothing happened. The Cripulet simply would not open.”

Looking up at all of them, his blue eyes rimmed with tears. “Then he discovered the horrible, wonderful truth. That it must have been the presence of blood that opened the Cripulet. We tried everything. We used my blood. We used his blood. We even stole blood from blood banks. He came up with special formulas and rituals, but nothing worked. He marked the spot where the Cripulet was with a circle of blood, so that he wouldn’t forget, but each time he tried to reproduce the effects of the accident that brought him through, he was met with defeat.”

Patrick shuddered, recalling his own visit to the cave.

Wesley glanced at Patrick. “It was this time that I met Dr. Lichtenstein. When Shep first came to this world, the doctor was all over the news for molesting his patients. Shep got hold of the incriminating evidence and paid a visit to the doctor. Shep promised he could make it go away in exchange for the doctor’s services and his silence. I can’t imagine what Dr. Lichtenstein’s first reaction to seeing a man with wings was. But he did perform the procedure on Shep, and was there every time with us in the cave, waiting with his saw in case one of the brothers made it through.”

“But they didn’t make it through,” Robin said.

“No. They did not. Much to Zirub’s considerable heartbreak. There was no living with him after one of those failed attempts. It was devastating.”

“What ultimately caused you to part ways with Shep?” Patrick asked.

“The parting of the ways,” Wesley said, and hung his head, fringy blond bangs covering his eyes. “It started with Rollie.”

“Who?”

“He was our…friend. One afternoon Rollie and I were hanging out and Shep came bursting in. He was off the wall! I’d never seen him so excited. He said he’d finally figured it all out.”

Robin rubbed her arms. “You mean how to open the Cripulet?”

Wesley nodded. “Shep sent Rollie out of the room so he could speak to me alone. So Shep tells me that the missing ingredient was what my parents had provided. The blood had to be from the newly departed. In other words, someone who had just died. Something about a transitioning soul imprinted on the blood is what opened the portal. He said we needed a human sacrifice. He told me he wanted to use my Aunt Roberta.”

Robin blew out a breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wesley.”

“I told him no, of course. I said he’d gone too far, and that he could not kill my aunt, the woman who raised me. He got very angry. Told me I should be willing to make this sacrifice for the brothers, and that Roberta would be better off in the next world. I refused. We argued. We came to blows.” He hesitated again, looking uneasily at Patrick.

“He hit you?”

“We hit each other. Ultimately we calmed down and Shep insisted on performing another procedure on me. He called it calming the soul. It was supposed to put my soul to sleep, in effect, sedate my conscience. Without my conscience I wouldn’t care who he killed. It didn’t work. He would have had to perform the ritual before he made all of the changes in me. It was something he’d overlooked, apparently. He grew more frustrated. Then one day he called and asked me to meet him at the cave.”

Wesley hung his head and tears streamed down his face. Robin went to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Tell us what happened.”

“When I got to the cave, he’d already killed Aunt Roberta,” Wesley said between heartbreaking sobs. “She was dead in the corner.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “He’d cut her throat and filled jars full of her blood. Dr. Lichtenstein was waiting with the saw, looking horrified.”

“Jesus Christ,” Patrick said, his stomach churning.

Wesley sniffled and left the room briefly. They heard him blowing his nose, then he returned. “I was beyond upset,” he said. “I started thrashing Zirub with my fists, but I couldn’t hurt him, he was too strong. He told me I was a disappointment, and that I would just have to learn to deal with unpleasantness if I wanted to be his messiah. I sat by sobbing as he rubbed Aunt Roberta’s blood in a circle along the rim of the Cripulet.”

Patrick shook his head. “He obviously didn’t get any of the brothers out back then, because you were so surprised to hear about them today. Did something go wrong?”

“Yes,” he rasped, his hand shaking as he picked up his wine glass. “Something went wrong.”

“Please,” Litner said. “Go on.”

Wesley’s face was twisted in pain. “I looked at the wall and the Cripulet was…smoking. I stopped crying and walked over because I was so amazed. It was finally happening. The Cripulet was opening. As much as I hated Shep at that moment, I couldn’t help but marvel. Shep stood before the smoking circle, elated, as the very stone began to melt and soften before my eyes. Shep must have taken my presence there as cooperation, because he turned to me and said, ‘Be ready to help me when I say.’ He placed his hands on the center of the Cripulet, and the most amazing thing happened. His hands sank into the stone wall. When he was nearly up to his elbows, he yelled out, ‘I have something! Grab on to me and pull!’”

Patrick and Robin exchanged a glance, recalling what they witnessed the night of Klee’s birth.

“Grab on to me and pull,” Wesley repeated softly. “I got behind Shep and grabbed onto his shoulders. Instead of pulling him back as he’d asked me to do, I pushed. I pushed him forward. I pushed him as hard as I could. I tried to push him right through the wall, right back where he came from. His body started to slip into the wall.”

Robin gasped.

Wesley looked around the room. “This is why Shep will not speak my name. I did the worst thing imaginable. I tried to push him back into the void.”

Patrick and Robin exchanged a stunned stare. Agent Litner was blank faced. With his pen tapping his temple, he said, “I take it you did not succeed.”

“Clearly.” Wesley huffed. “I’ve never seen such a look of horror as the one on Shep’s face in that moment, when he realized what I was trying to do. But he was stronger than I was. He broke his contact with the Cripulet. He pulled himself out, and the circle stopped smoking. The stone hardened almost immediately. He turned on me then, and I’ll never forget his expression. It was beyond anger. It was beyond hatred. It was beyond pain. He wept, and he kept screaming, ‘How could you? How could you?’ And in that moment, even with my aunt’s corpse lying a few yards away, I was sorry. I was sorry for having hurt him so deeply. And I repeated those words to myself. How could I? How could I?” Wesley wiped tears from his eyes.

They sat silently, taking in the emotional weight of the story. So Wesley had tried to send Shep back into the realm of darkness. Yes, Patrick thought, that would explain why Shep was significantly pissed off at his original golden boy.

Litner stood. He started to tap his pen on his head, then stopped, as if realizing. He looked at the pen and put it in his pocket. He paced the room, stopping in front of Wesley. “How did you ultimately get away from him?”

Wesley looked embarrassed. “I begged for his forgiveness. Can you believe that? He beat me to a bloody pulp. I didn’t even fight back. Dr. Lichtenstein tried to stop him, to no avail. All the while he was beating me, I kept telling him that I was sorry. I must have been truly pathetic in my apologies, because by the end of the day he’d forgiven me. But the truce did not last. The last straw for me came the next day. You heard me speak about Rollie before.” He looked at Patrick. “Rollie was my Shield.”

Patrick blinked slowly. “Like me.”

“Yes. Rollie was the Shield to me, just as you are the Shield to this Joey person.”

Patrick shook his head. “And the years of grooming me? Why can’t he just hire a bunch of bodyguards to protect Joey?”

“It is beyond human capability to sacrifice one’s own life for another, Shep said. The survival instinct is too strong. And if Shep’s new improved messiah was hurt or killed, it would defeat his whole purpose. So he made sure that was never going to happen. He created a human shield. A man bonded by blood to protect the chosen one at all times, at all costs. That was Rollie. And now, Patrick, that is you.”

“So, he wants one person, preferably someone with feelings of friendship toward the messiah. He wants me around Joey all the time, and that’s why they’ve been bugging me to move to Forest Bluffs. I get it.”

Wesley gazed at Patrick for a long time. “No, Patrick. I don’t believe that you do get it. You are bound by blood to protect Joey. Do you know what that means?”

“I know we’re connected now, since the blood ritual. I can feel it if he gets hurt sometimes.”

Wesley shook his head. “That’s only part of it. Whether you realize it or not, Patrick, you are no longer in control. Protecting Joey is not a choice for you now. Your body will react if he’s in danger. Your body will protect him, with or without your consent. You will throw yourself into oncoming traffic if that’s what it takes.”

Feeling the blood drain from his face, Patrick shook his head. “Nah. I’m still in control of my own body. It can’t be that bad.”

“It is that bad,” Wesley said. “I wouldn’t tell you this flippantly. What I’m telling you is true. You just haven’t been tested yet.”

Patrick recalled the night he’d stopped the man in the bar from stabbing Joey. He’d seen the knife from across the room but feared he probably wouldn’t get to Joey in time. Then somehow, he had. He remembered the rush of adrenaline, and how strong he’d felt as he wrestled the man into a headlock. His reaction had been automatic. But did that mean he was not in control? He didn’t think so. It did get him to thinking about his blood, however. He stared at Wesley’s youthful face.

“What about my blood, Wesley? What are the side effects of being the Shield? Will I…am I going to have abnormal aging?”

“I wish I could answer that Patrick, but I just don’t know. You see, my Shield is dead.”

Patrick went cold. “How? What happened?”

“You’ve probably been wondering why you were left out of the loop. You want to know why your friends didn’t just tell you about the project. Am I right?”

Patrick nodded. “They kept everything from me.”

“There is a reason for that,” he said. “Shep made his mistakes on Rollie as well. We spent years getting to know him, drawing him into our circle. He was strong and agile and fiercely loyal. I used my enchantment and Shep used his guile and humor. Probably much the way your friends courted you. The difference was, once Rollie was part of our little group, Shep came clean and told him everything.”

“How did Rollie react to that?” Robin asked.

Wesley chuckled softly. “Rollie didn’t really believe any of it. He was used to Shep and me getting weird and eccentric at times. He went along with the blood pact, but only because he didn’t really think it would do anything. When he found out it was all true, well, it was just too much for Rollie. He couldn’t handle it.”

“How did he find out?” Patrick asked.

“It was the day Shep came and told me he wanted to use my aunt as a human sacrifice. I told you he sent Rollie out of the room for the conversation. When Shep and I came to blows, Rollie came back in. Shep was about to throw a heavy iron lamp at me. He has such a temper.”

Patrick nodded knowingly.

“Rollie was on the other side of the room. Shep let the lamp fly, and at the same time, Rollie let himself fly. He dove through the air and deflected the lamp with his body. He didn’t get hurt. Not physically anyway. I remember when it was over, Rollie stood up and just looked at us. Then he looked down at himself, as though his body did not belong to him. The move he’d made, diving across the room to protect me, it wasn’t voluntary. He knew it. He’d felt it. I’ll never forget the way he looked at us. Like we were monsters.”

Wesley glanced at Patrick, and something passed between them. Mouth gone dry, Patrick couldn’t bring himself to speak, so Robin asked the next question. “What did Rollie do?”

Wesley winced and turned away from Patrick, as though the sight of him was painful. “Rollie took a ride down to the Cape. It must have been dreadfully painful for him to drive that far away from me. He got terrible headaches if we were too far apart. But he took the drive nonetheless, loaded up on strong painkillers. He pulled his car over, got out, and threw himself off the Bourne Bridge.”

There was a long silence, and then finally Patrick stood up. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. “So this is it? Shep fucked up on you and this Rollie guy so he just starts over? He starts over with Joey? And me?”

Wesley nodded. “Looks that way, yes. I left him no choice. I did not have the luxury of having my conscience removed. I cared for Rollie. He was my best friend. When Rollie killed himself, I’d had enough. I told Shep I was leaving him, leaving him for real this time. He did everything in his power to persuade me to change my mind. But I stood firm. I told him he would have to kill me. I was actually quite sure that he would kill me.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t, after all we’ve learned about him,” Litner said. “He’s clearly not bothered by murder. Do you think he’d grown too fond of you?”

“Not fondness.” Wesley shook his head. “You forget, he actually knows what’s on the other side, a place of utopia. He said I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve the peace of death. I had betrayed him like no other. He let me live on the condition that I retreat from society and never speak of him to anyone. He said that if I chose not to live with him, then I would be forced to live the rest of my days alone.”

“And you agreed to this?” Litner asked.

“I had no choice,” Wesley said. “He can find me no matter where I go, because of the blood. He ordered that I change my name every few years, just to confuse my paper trail, as eventually I’d…outlive most people. And he set me up here. He wanted me in a state of purgatory, alone forever. I’ve been living here ever since.”

Patrick’s brows shot up. “Shep set you up here? In this house?”

Wesley nodded. “Now you know why I’m so nervous about having you all here. Who do you think owns this house? I certainly don’t have any money. Shep pays for everything. I have no contact with the outside world. I’m permitted no television, no radio, no newspapers, and certainly no internet. My groceries get delivered anonymously. Twice a year a box of books arrives on my doorstep, so he at least gives me that, along with some fairly expensive wine. But that is the extent of my life, and he chooses what I’m allowed to read. That dog you see outside was a stray I found in the woods. When it dies, I’ll be alone again. I realize it could be worse. But the loneliness…it can be crushing at times.”

“When did you last you hear from Shep?” Litner asked.

“It was about twenty years ago. He just showed up at my door one day. I nearly fell over I was so surprised. He’d come to show off, to gloat. He’d found a replacement for me, he said. A boy genius with eyes as blue as the summer sky. A magnetic child actor. He said he’d seen him on the television, and of course, it was fate.”

“Oh God,” Robin said. “You’re talking about Joey.”

“Shep never told me his name, but I assume this was your friend Joey, when Shep first discovered him.”

Patrick scowled. “So he just finds another extraordinary kid, and boom? Instant messiah?”

Wesley sighed. “Pretty much. He swore he would not make the same mistakes that he had with me. He would calm the boy’s soul first, so he’d have no subordination problems. Then, when the time was right, they would find a Shield, free the brothers, and resume the execution of his plan.”

“Why did he bother to tell you any of this?” Patrick asked.

“He wanted me to know that I had not stopped him. He wanted me to hurt. The look in his eyes…it was as if I’d just betrayed him the day before. He was still wounded by what I’d done to him. I guess he always will be. That’s the last time I saw him.”

“Holy shit,” Robin whispered, her fair skin paler than usual.

Wesley looked expectantly at them. “So. May I presume that my dear, dear Zirub has been busy these past twenty years?”

With the help of Robin, and occasionally Agent Litner, Patrick gave Wesley a condensed version of all that had befallen him, starting with the apparition of on Saint Mary’s church, and ending with Patrick’s undercover quest to steal the crop samples. Wesley absorbed the information as a starving dog would a feast of scraps.

When it was finished, he reclined back and set his sprained ankle up on a pillow. “Thank you for filling me in. At the very least, I can now assume Zirub will be too busy to bother with the likes of me. A selfish blessing.”

Agent Litner checked his watch. “We have to go now, Wesley. I’d like to come back and speak with you again if need be. You could still be helpful to this investigation.”

“No,” Wesley said. “This has been most enlightening, but I’m afraid this is our last meeting.”

Litner looked angry. “You said yourself that Shep is planning something horrible. Have you no interest? No regard for lives that may be lost?”

“I can’t be involved. He’ll know.” The fear was back in Wesley’s eyes now.

“I guess there’s my answer,” Litner said snidely. “You don’t care.”

“How dare you!” Wesley pointed a shaking finger. “You have no idea what kind of creature you’re up against! No idea. He is like a dangerously insane child. And you want to walk in there and take his candy away. How do you think he’s going to react when he discovers he’s been betrayed a second time? First by me, his Sword.” Wesley looked at Patrick. “And now by his Shield.”

Patrick’s stomach went cold with fear. What would Shep do if he discovered Patrick’s betrayal?

“Thanks for your help,” Litner said sarcastically.

The company of three headed for the front door. “Patrick?” Wesley called after him.

Patrick stopped and turned back. “Yes?”

“I can sense your fear,” Wesley said. “One of my enhanced gifts. Don’t let Shep see it. Hide it best you can when he’s around. He can read your emotions.”

Patrick’s fear only escalated, pulse drumming in his ears. Litner took his arm and led him out the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They were running late and he had a boat to catch.

Chapter Forty

Patrick tried for three days to get near the plants, to no avail. It wasn’t as though the followers weren’t willing to let him in. They flocked around him like he was Sir Galahad every time he went out to the fields. They offered him wine and food. Strangers whose faces he didn’t know walked alongside him, chatting him up as though they were old friends. Some of them even offered to sleep with him. Aside from an occasional sandwich, he declined all their offers.

So, he had access to the inner sanctum of the crops. The problem was he was never alone. One of the brothers was always at his side. On this particular morning it was Allisto. The brothers tried to play it off like they really wanted to hang out with Patrick, but he wasn’t buying it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Shep still didn’t trust him to wander the property on his own.

Poor Klee was the worst of the lot. His lying skills were not yet up to par, and he’d clearly been warned not to reveal too much information to Patrick. Just the day before, Klee had ‘volunteered’ to accompany him on his walk. When they were out of anyone’s earshot, Patrick tried asking him again where he was from. Klee looked panic-stricken when he responded “Texas.”

Later that night, Patrick had strolled into one of the sitting rooms where Klee was playing a video game. Before Patrick uttered a word, Klee stood up, yelled “Texas!” then ran out of the room, heavy-footed, like a toddler.

When Klee would leave, Margol would appear. They were so obviously on shifts, taking turns keeping watch over Patrick. It was insultingly obvious. Shep either thought Patrick was a total idiot, or he didn’t care that he knew he was being monitored. As the week drew closer to his second meeting with Litner, Patrick grew frustrated and began to panic, thinking that he might not be able to get the crop sample in time. But he had to get it. That sample was his ticket out of Forest Bluffs. And he did so want to be out of Forest Bluffs. The more time he spent there, the stranger things he saw.

Earlier that day he’d encountered Margol sitting on the back deck with a dead bird in his lap. He was picking it apart, either out of curiosity or for amusement. Patrick later learned that Shep had given Margol permission to dissect woodland creatures after he’d caught him in the fruit cellar cutting up a corpse stolen from the City Hospital morgue. While Allisto, the black-haired brother, despised the human body, Margol, the redhead, was apparently fascinated with it.

So now Margol’s fetish was restricted to animals. When Patrick walked out onto the deck, Margol had a wing ripped off, one clawed foot in his hand, and was using his other hand to pry off the beak. He’d looked up briefly when Patrick stepped out, then gave his attention back to dismembering the feathered corpse. Patrick had nodded, smiled, then turned right back around and gone inside.

He finally came up with an idea as he passed Kelinda on the way in. He’d seen her coming and going as she pleased around the property, and not even thought twice about it. Until now. Kelinda did not know it, but she was about to do Patrick a very big favor.

He found her around dinner time, in the bedroom she shared with Joey, seated before her vanity mirror. Patrick watched her silently as she applied pink lipstick with a tiny brush. She was dressed in a black gauze jumpsuit and bejeweled as though she was about to attend some grand affair. Patrick had a feeling he knew where she was off to. Another little wine tasting seminar, perhaps?

“What do you want?” she snapped.

Patrick stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “That’s a fine greeting for an old friend.”

“Cut the crap, Patrick. I know you must hate me, so why don’t you just tell me what you want.”

Patrick moved to stand behind her. She stopped with the make-up and looked up at his reflection. “I need a favor.”

“You don’t say.”

“I need to get a sample of that crop out there. The problem is I can’t seem to get a moment alone with the brothers up my ass all day. I’ve watched you go in and out of there like you own the place. I want you to take this baggy, and fill it up for me. Make sure no one sees you.”

Patrick held the zip-lock bag out in front of her. She turned away from the mirror to face him. “Are you crazy? I’m not risking my neck for you. I’ve seen what Shep does to his own flesh and blood when he’s angry. Sorry sweetie, but you’re not worth it.”

“You will do this for me Kelinda.”

She stood up defiantly and came around from behind the chair. “Fuck off,” she said. She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way. She glared up at him. “Get the hell out of my way, Patrick. I will not help you betray Joey.”

“You dare talk to me about betrayal?”

“You can intimidate me all you want. I won’t do it. Do you know what Shep will do to me if he finds out?”

“Now you listen to me, Kelinda. If you refuse to do this, I might just have to tell Shep what you’ve been doing out in those fields at night.” Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. “That’s right,” he said. “I think he’d find your taste in wine rather interesting.”

“You bastard. You followed me! What are you, some kind of stalker?”

“That’s right Kelinda. I’m a stalker. I’m a mad stalker, and I’ve been following you. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is I know you’ve been sharing more than smiles with those zombies out there. Get me the sample or I’ll tell Shep.”

“You have no proof,” she said. “I’ll deny it. Give it up, Patrick. You can’t win here.”

“Okay, Kelinda. Let’s go.” He opened the door and began dragging her out into the hallway.

She fought against him. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going to see Shep. We’re going to see right now who he believes, me or you.”

“You’re crazy! I’ll expose you! I’ll tell him you want the crop!”

He pulled on her arm, dragging her slowly down the hallway. “Guess what, Kelinda? I am crazy. I don’t fucking care anymore. You can tell Shep whatever you want. But if I go down, you’re going down with me.”

“Okay! Stop!” she shouted.

He paused. “Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll help you. Now let go of my arm you fucking orangutan.”

He let her go and they walked calmly back to Joey’s room. She straightened her jumpsuit, smoothed her hair, and sat back down at the vanity. “How much do you need?”

Patrick gave her the baggy. “Clip off about five sprigs and put them in here.”

She looked up at him and snatched the bag. “I guess you haven’t been outside in a while. There are no more sprigs. They’ve been chopping it down all afternoon. It’s harvest time. They started grinding it. Gonna be loading it into drums tonight.”

Patrick ran to the window. Sure enough, the plants were being cut to the ground and hauled over to the guesthouse. He looked back at her. “Then you’ll just have to do it tonight.”

“Fine,” she said, and tucked the baggy into her pocket.

“Kelinda, what is it for? The crop?”

“How should I know?”

“I think you know a lot of what goes on around here.”

“True, but I don’t know what the crops are for. They’re grinding it up and putting it in storage drums in the guest house. They’ve got trucks they’re eventually going to load the stuff on. I don’t know where it’s going after that, so manhandling me won’t do you any good. Fucking bully.”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile. “I am sorry about that.”

She smiled back at him, though she was clearly trying not to. He felt a terrible pain stab his soul. He had cared about Kelinda. He still did, even if the romance was gone. Somehow, he still felt that none of this had been her choice. She tried to act as though she was perfectly fine with her current situation, but he saw the pain and fear in her eyes.

“Kelinda, I’m getting out of here soon. Why don’t you come along? You don’t belong out here. You must miss your family. Don’t you want to get away from all of this craziness?”

“My family is here now.”

“I don’t believe that. I think you’re scared, and I can understand that. But this is not the only way. There are people that can protect you.”

She stood and faced him. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You don’t get it. I can run from here, but I can’t run from what I’ve become. They’re monsters. And now, I’m a monster too.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Look at me! Can’t you see it? Can’t you see what he’s done to me?”

“Who?”

“Joey! I loved him, you know. You were right about that. I’m sorry Patrick, but I did. I loved him since I was twelve. I loved him while I was with you. But not anymore. He used it against me. He thinks he’s smarter than I am.” She pointed a finger to her temple and giggled. “But I’ll be getting the last laugh. You see, I don’t care what happens to him anymore. Isn’t that strange?” Her eyes looked distant, trance-like. “In fact, I don’t care about much of anything anymore. So you see I’m not so different from him now. A monster.”

“Come on Kelinda. You’re not a monster. You haven’t changed so much.”

“Oh, really?” She walked over to the fireplace and picked up one of the iron pokers, tossing it to Patrick.

He caught the heavy rod. “What?”

She took it back from him and held it up. She stared at it for a moment, then with one swift movement, her tiny white hands bent the iron poker and tied into a knot like a pretzel. “Still think I haven’t changed so much?”

Patrick stared with open shock. “How did you…’’

“It’s Joey’s fluids. I’ve inherited Shep’s strength from Joey. I’m infected with him.”

Patrick stared at her, not knowing how to respond.

“It all comes from Shep, you know,” she said. “I heard them talking about it when they thought no one was around. It alters everyone differently, they said. They don’t know just how much it’s affected me. I don’t want them to. I hate it, Patrick. The only thing that helps is when I give it away. Those people living out in the field are like drug addicts. They get a little bit high every time Joey talks to them, but he doesn’t talk to them nearly enough. He doesn’t visit them like I do. He leaves them hungry, longing, craving more. So I give it to them. I share with them the little piece of Joey that I have inside me now.”

“Kelinda, this is insane. We’ve got to get you some help.”

“Help?” she laughed. “You still don’t get it, do you? I need him too. I’m an addict, Patrick. But at least now I’m not the only one. Every one of those followers is just a little bit more special now than they were when they got here. Joey took my control away from me. But now I have control over his followers. At least I can take that from him. Call it poetic justice.”

The irony smacked Patrick in the face that Shep was here trying to take control away from his divine superiors, while unbeknownst to him, he’d lost control of his underlings, who were in turn trying to wrest control from each other.

“My God, Kelinda. Please consider leaving here. There’s a way out of this. There has to be. Please.”

She tossed the twisted iron poker onto the floor with a loud clang. “I’ll get you your crop samples, Patrick, because I don’t give a shit what happens to Shep or his stupid plans. But don’t fuck with me. And don’t tell Shep what I’ve been doing or I’ll break you in half.” She walked out, leaving Patrick in shock.

Later that night, Patrick answered a light tapping on his door. Kelinda thrust the baggy at him. It was filled with a grainy reddish substance. “Thank you,” he said. She left without speaking. She was probably a lost cause after all, he decided. But when he looked at the crop sample in his hand, he was too elated to care. Tomorrow was his day to go to Boston and meet with Litner. This time, he would not be coming back to Forest Bluffs. He’d done his part. He was going home.

****

Kelinda jumped when she walked into the bedroom and saw Joey standing there, waiting for her. “Joey! I thought you were downstairs.”

He held up the fireplace poker she’d tied into a knot. “Did you do this?”

She looked into his pale eyes and saw horror and fear there. She enjoyed that look in Joey’s eyes. She wanted to see more of it. He deserved to be horrified. “Yes,” she said. “I did that.”

“How?”

She made her eyes wide and innocent. “With my bare hands.”

Joey looked at the twisted piece of metal, then back at Kelinda. “I don’t think you should sleep in here anymore,” he said. “I’ve moved your things to one of the guest rooms down the hall.”

She was shocked, then furious. Who was he to put her out after all he’d done to her? But she wouldn’t let him see her upset. When she ultimately got her revenge on him, she wanted it to come as a surprise. So she forced a grin. “Whatever you say, Joey. You’re the messiah.”

Chapter Forty-One

It started out as a normal day for Patrick, if there was such a thing as normal at the Forest Bluffs home for unhinged motherfuckers. Shep emotionally abused those closest to him. Margol dissected tiny animal corpses. And Joey played God with the blood-crazed zombies in the field. All families had their issues, he supposed, but he was done being the redheaded stepchild in this one. Blessedly, he’d soon be leaving their ranks.

He was eager to get to the city and deliver the crop sample to Agent Litner, and even more eager to see Robin. He’d found one of her pale blonde hairs on his tee shirt before bed last night and nearly swooned, but then, fearful Shep would smell it or something creepy like that, put caution first and flushed the hair down the toilet. The paranoia was getting ridiculous—another reason he was ecstatic to be leaving today.

Dressing in jeans and a navy tee shirt he hoped Robin would think looked good on him, he reached under the mattress, pulling out the baggy of grainy red substance. Quickly, he stuffed it deep into his front pocket.

Grabbing his wallet, keys, phone, and a few possessions that could fit in his briefcase, he left his duffle bag on the bed with some clothes in it so Shep wouldn’t guess he wasn’t returning. Then he went off in search of the man himself…or whatever he was.

Shep is not a man. The knowledge still wouldn’t sink in.

The house had so many damn rooms. He expected to find Shep in the library, but he wasn’t in there. Instead, he found Margol and Allisto seated at the computers, fingers tapping furiously at the keys. They’d certainly come a long way from the dirty stumbling stalkers he’d first encountered.

He moved out of the library and continued his search for Shep, finally finding him in the sunroom off the huge kitchen. Patrick paused at the doorway without entering. Shep and Klee sat cross-legged directly across from one another, both in boxer shorts, shirtless and barefoot.

“Okay Klee. Try it again,” Shep said softly.

They seemed unaware of Patrick standing in the doorway. A painted vase sat on the rug directly between them. Klee stared at it intently. He closed his eyes and brought his fingers to his temples. What happened next left Patrick baffled, holding his breath as he watched. Liquid began to drip down the sides of the vase and onto the rug. Patrick wanted to get a closer look, but stayed frozen in the doorway. Something told him he was not supposed to be seeing this. The liquid, he realized, was paint from decorative exterior of the vase. The streams thickened, first red, then blue, then mixed colors swirled into the little waterfall until it was a rainbow oozing down the sides.

The long neck and spout shriveled and made a slow sideways bend as the vase melted and collapsed like it was made of Play-Doh. Klee opened his eyes and threw his arms over his head in a ‘tah-dah’ pose. He smiled at Shep. “I destroy it. Yes?”

Shep shook his head. “You melted it, Klee. You were supposed to shatter it.”

Klee looked at the remains of the vase and his smile slid away. “I melt it?”

“Yes, Klee.”

Klee’s lip curled into a pout and he looked about to cry. Shep crawled around the melted vase and stroked his hair lovingly. Patrick was always floored by these displays of affection. As Shep petted him, Klee gave in to the tears. “Don’t cry, Klee. It’s all right. Even Juris had trouble with this at first.”

“I lose my concentration,” Klee said, his voice wet with tears.

Shep rubbed his shoulders. “Okay, that’s a start. What made you lose your concentration?”

Klee wiped his nose with his wrist and pointed to the doorway. “I smelled Patrick.”

Shep’s head spun like a boomerang, his eyes wild when he saw Patrick standing in the doorway. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” Patrick said. Fear gripped his gut.

Shep stood and shoveled the damaged remains of the vase into a barrel. “That’s enough for now, Klee.”

Klee got up and trotted out of the room like he hadn’t a care in the world. Shep finished cleaning the mess then glanced up. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

Patrick didn’t like his tone. He reminded himself not to show his fear, as Wesley had advised him. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading out. I’ll see you later on tonight.”

“Heading out where?”

Patrick scowled. “Well, to my consulting job of course. To Boston. I go once a week. Remember?”

“No,” Shep said, shaking his head firmly.

“No, you can’t remember? Shepherd, I just went last week.”

Shep shook his head again, fussing with the rug and avoiding Patrick’s eyes. “I don’t mean, no, I can’t remember. I mean no, you can’t go.”

Great. Patrick didn’t need this now. The bulge of the plastic baggy felt hard and heavy in his pocket. He was too close to wrapping this bogus assignment up to have things stopped on a whim because Shep was in a bad mood. “What do you mean I can’t go?”

“You can’t go, Obrien. Joey will freak out. He gets scared when you’re not around, and I can’t coddle him all day. I’m having problems with Robin and I have a lot on my mind.”

Patrick stiffened. Problems with Robin? Robin was not Shep’s to have problems with. She was Patrick’s Robin, damn it. “What kind of problems?” he asked a bit too sharply.

Shep looked up. “That’s none of your business.”

Oh, you have no idea how much of my business it is. Shep did seem overly agitated. The young man that Patrick used to think of as the most laid-back person in the world was wound so tightly he looked about to snap. Since Patrick’s arrival Shep had been going out of his way to give Patrick the impression he was still the same old happy-go-lucky Shepherd. Now it seemed he hadn’t the energy to keep up the facade. Something was really bothering him. Could it really be Robin’s rejection? If that was the case, Shep had just better get over it. Robin was not coming back to him. Not now. Not ever.

“I didn’t realize you were still seeing Robin. I’ve noticed she hasn’t been around.”

Shep straightened up. “You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if Robin and I don’t speak for weeks at a time. We’ll always be together. She loves me. She’s just being stubborn. She’ll come crawling back. You’ll see.”

“I ran into her in Boston and she seems happy. Maybe she’s just finished with you.”

“Finished with me?” Shep took a step closer to Patrick. “Is that what she’s telling people? That she’s finished with me?”

“Well, she said something to that effect.” Patrick was being spiteful, and he knew Litner would kill him if he heard him taunting Shep on this matter. But he just couldn’t help himself.

“Finished with me,” Shep repeated the words to himself, looking enraged.

“Why don’t you just let it go? The relationship is over. It happens.”

Shep glared at him. “Never. I will never let it go. While there is breath in my body, that girl will belong to me. She’s mine.”

Okay, drama queen. Patrick wanted to strangle him, but forced himself to let the matter drop. He couldn’t let his feelings for Robin lead him into an emotional confrontation. He had another matter to contend with now, and that was Shep telling him he couldn’t leave. “I have to go to Boston now. The consulting firm is expecting me. I can’t just blow it off.”

He was sure Shep would just wave him off at that point. Instead, he stared at Patrick, hands on his hips. “I said no.”

A strange heat passed through the room, Shep’s eyes extra bright against his tanned face. They were not the placid, kind eyes he’d been showing Patrick the past two weeks. The shields were down, and there was something else in those eyes now. Patrick flinched as he felt that heavy warmth blow past again, like a wave of power—just as Shep’s green eyes appeared to gleam like a cat’s before returning to normal.

I’m imagining it. I’m imagining things because of what I’ve learned about him. He struggled to hide his growing fear, taking a deep, slow breath. “Shep, be serious. You can’t tell me not to go to work.”

“Obrien, listen to me. You don’t need that consulting job.”

“I have to keep my skills sharp.” His own voice sounded small him, so he tried to speak more forcefully. “I can’t have gaps in my resume. It won’t look good.”

“What do you care for? Your future? I give you everything you need right here. I cannot risk losing you. Joey can’t handle it. You’ll stay here.”

Patrick’s heart beat like a drum in his chest. He forced himself to take a defiant step forward, though the last thing he wanted to do was get closer to Shep. His skin prickled with an unseen energy. It seemed to be coming off Shep in waves. “I am not one of your lackeys, Shep. You don’t tell me what to do. You can’t make me stay here.”

Shep sighed. “I can make you stay here. I’d rather it didn’t come to that. I’d like you to stay voluntarily.”

They stood face to face, mere inches between them. Patrick looked down at his smaller friend. Their size differential was no comfort. It never had been. But now there was real fear. It was easy to whisper about blood rites and wings while seated at the cozy table in Carbone’s kitchen. To confront such matters with Shep himself was something he wasn’t mentally prepared for. “You don’t control me,” Patrick said. “Stop being weird.”

“I control everything in this house and on this land, Obrien. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“You’re getting delusional. I’m worried about you.”

“Call me whatever names you want. You’re still not leaving this property.”

“Really? We’ll see about that.”

Patrick turned to leave the room. The door slammed shut in front of him. Stunned, he looked over his shoulder. “It must have been the wind,” Shep said.

Patrick shuddered, a pearl of sweat dripping down his back. This was not good. No, Shep, don’t do this. Do not come clean with me now. Please. I can’t handle it.

His sanity needed Shep to keep pretending, just a little longer. Pretending he was simply Patrick’s eccentric old college buddy. For weeks he’d wished Shep would share his secrets, but Patrick did not want this confrontation now. He just wanted to get out of this nut house and to the safety of Agent Litner’s office. He was so close. He shouldn’t have bothered to say goodbye to Shep at all.

Patrick went for the door. Shep grabbed him by the back of his tee shirt. Before he knew what was happening, Shep flipped him and he was flat on his back. Shep’s curls hung in his face as he looked down at Patrick. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Obrien. Please trust me. This is for your own good.”

Patrick glared up at him. “You don’t want me to get hurt? Then why did you just throw me to the floor, you crazy fuck!”

“The pain will be much worse for you if you try to leave now. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Why? Because you’ve always been so trustworthy?” Patrick lunged at him, grabbing one arm and tossing Shep over his head.

Shep landed hard, but then scrambled to his feet with lightning speed and blocked Patrick’s path to the door. Patrick dove at him, meaning to toss him out of the way again, when Shep did something terrifying. He held his hand up as if to ward Patrick off. Shep’s hand never made contact, yet Patrick’s body was hurled to the side of the room with a force that knocked the wind out of him.

Shep walked over and looked down at him as he gasped for breath. “Please don’t continue this. I don’t want to hurt you. I just can’t let you go. I care about you. I really, really don’t want you in pain.”

Patrick stared up with open shock. He was afraid of Shep’s power, but he was more frightened that Shep was no longer hiding it.

“Don’t fight me, Obrien. I don’t want things to be like this. I want us to work together.”

“Yes, work together. I want that too!” Patrick lied, hoping to sweet talk his way out of the room. He sat up, then climbed unsteadily to his feet. “We can discuss that when I get back. After I go to the city, we can sit down and talk about working together more.”

“You lie. I can always tell. Your aura gets little green spots.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told. I’m leaving, Shep. You’re going to have to kill me to keep me here.”

“Shit. I hate this.” Shep scowled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Okay, here it is. The truth is, Obrien, you really can’t leave. The blood won’t let you.”

“That’s funny, I could have sworn it was you who wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m trying to save you some pain. I figured if you thought it was me keeping you here, you wouldn’t go. You’ve been here two weeks now. You’ve spent too much consecutive time with Joey. The bond has solidified. The blood will stop you. Please don’t try it, Patrick. I care about you. I really don’t want to see you in pain.”

Shep’s eyes were sincere and pleading. And he’d used Patrick’s first name, which meant he was deadly serious. And Patrick felt like vomiting he was so frightened. He had no doubt Shep could sense his fear now, so he tried to roll with it.

“You’re scaring me,” he whispered. “I mean it, Shep. You’re acting really crazy.”

“You don’t have to be afraid. You’re part of it now. Can’t you feel it? Didn’t you feel it when you threw me? It went through you!”

“What went through me?”

“Power. Energy. Blood.”

Patrick pointed at Shep. “Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.”

“Have it your way. I won’t try to stop you. And I do care about you, regardless of what you think. But you can’t hide from it. It’s inside you. We’re all tied together now. You, Joey, and me. Bonded forever.”

“Lucky me,” Patrick said and went for the door. Sweating profusely, he grabbed the knob and was happy to find that it opened.

Margol was outside waiting for him. Hadn’t he been in the library? Damn they were fast. “Where are you going, Patrick?”

“Anywhere but here, Margol.”

Margol looked over Patrick’s shoulder at Shep, waiting for instructions.

“Let him go,” Shep said. Margol stepped aside and Patrick went out the door. He walked past Joey and Kelinda in the kitchen, and both gave him an odd look. They’d probably heard the noise from his physical altercation with Shep.

He kept walking right out the front door and proceeded down the driveway. The front gates opened for him as he approached, and he stepped out onto the street. He felt better already. Nobody came after him, and nobody tried to stop him. He walked up Ocean Way, letting the sea breeze lick his face. He was going home. He was going home if he had to walk, swim, or crawl all the way. He’d nearly made it to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill when the first pain ripped through his head.

He fell into the scrubby blueberry bushes that ran along the side of the road. It felt like someone had stuck a hot poker into his ear and through his brain. He hung his head for a moment and the pain dulled to a light throbbing. He was all right again. No big deal, he told himself. People get headaches, right? He started to walk when the second pain hit him and he stopped in his tracks, gasping. He forced his feet to keep moving. The pain intensified, becoming a flash of white across his eyes.

Collapsing onto the road, a montage of images played in his mind. He saw Joey falling from the church roof. Joey getting stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Joey getting shot. With each new image, another shudder of white-hot pain shot through Patrick’s skull and down his spine.

As he crawled backwards a few feet, crab-style, the images faded slightly, dulling the pain. Still sliding on his rear end, he went back up the hill, back toward the house, sweating and panting. A few more feet and the images stopped altogether. The pain subsided, but his body was shocked and trembling uncontrollably.

He may have passed out, as some time later he became aware again and found himself lying on his side, shivering. A chipmunk ran out of the bushes then retreated back. A motorcycle rumbled by. Its driver gave Patrick a double glance before he sped off down the road. Patrick stood up slowly, feeling better. He took a cautious step down the hill and the searing pain started to return. Defeated, he turned and headed back toward Joey’s house. It was only when the salty wetness leaked onto his lips that he realized he was crying. This was bad. This was beyond bad. He couldn’t leave Forest Bluffs. He was in a world of trouble.

****

The front gates at the driveway remained opened when he returned, like a giant pair of jaws welcoming him back into the belly of the beast. He walked through them and up the front lawn but did not go back into the house. He was too frightened to face anyone. Instead, he walked around the side of the house and meandered through the back yard and into the woods. Nobody stopped him. Clearly, they knew now that he could not leave, so there was no need to monitor him anymore. Joey’s blood had taken over the watch.

He walked off into the thick woods until he was a good distance from the house, then sat down on a large flat boulder. He was flanked on all sides by trees, the chirping sounds of the forest engulfing him. Lying back on the rock, he watched beams of sunlight cut through the trees above. He sobbed. What was he going to do? This changed everything. If he couldn’t leave Joey, then he couldn’t leave Forest Bluffs. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t get the sample to Litner. He couldn’t go back to Robin.

Looking up above him at the treetops, he prayed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed, but he asked God to please help him out of this mess. He added that God was, after all, indirectly responsible for this. Had he kept a better watch over his minions, Shepherd would not be walking the earth in the first place. He wasn’t sure if blaming God was a good idea, but he finished the prayer with an Amen, and closed his eyes.

A hand pressed down on his mouth. Patrick’s scream was stifled as he tried to jump up, the strong hand holding his head firm to the stone. He hadn’t heard anyone approach.

Patrick tried a second time to sit up when the cold butt of a gun pressed against his temple. “Don’t make a sound,” an unfamiliar voice said. The stranger removed his hand from Patrick’s mouth, but kept the gun to his head.

Patrick raised his hands over his head. “I’m not moving. You don’t need the gun.”

His assailant removed the gun from his temple. Patrick sat up and turned around, inhaling sharply at the sight of his assailant. It was the crazy long-haired man that tried to knife Joey in the bar. His salt and pepper hair hung in a scraggly mess to his shoulders. He wore camo pants with a black tank top, arms tattooed and well-muscled. When he holstered the gun, Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. “You! What are you doing here?”

“Keep your voice down,” the man said.

“I don’t want any trouble. Just walk away. I won’t tell them I saw you.”

“Why were you crying?” Patrick didn’t answer. The guy took a step closer. Patrick shimmied backward on the rock. The man held his hands up, showing his palms. “Whoa. Take it easy there, Little Buttercup. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Patrick blinked at him. “What did you say?”

“I said relax, Little Buttercup.”

An alarm went off in Patrick’s subconscious. Little Buttercup. The code name Agent Litner had given him. This man was not deranged at all. He was Agent Litner’s scout.

“You’re Litner’s spy!” Patrick said excitedly.

The man’s hand went over Patrick’s mouth again and he froze. Leaning in close, he whispered, “It kind of defeats the purpose of using a code name if you’re going to be yelling things like that out. Now doesn’t it?”

He removed his hand. Patrick sighed. “Sorry. I’m just…surprised.”

“Save it, Obrien. We don’t have much time. Why were you crying?”

“I can’t leave!” Patrick said, and the tears came again.

“I saw you go out the front gates. You came back. Why?”

“They’ve done something to me. Physically. I can’t leave.” Patrick explained the pain he experienced as he tried to move away from the property. The man scowled as he listened.

“Do you have the samples?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Give them to me. I’ll get them to Litner.”

Patrick pulled the baggy out of his jeans and handed it over. Examining the bag, the guy quickly stuffed it into a pocket. “What about me?” Patrick asked. “What do I do?”

“Take it easy, Obrien. We’ll figure something out. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Patrick hung his head in despair. Litner’s spy leaned over. “Hey! Look at me.” Patrick did. “My name is Walsh. I’m a member of Litner’s team, and I keep my promises. We all do. If we have to strap Joey Duvaine to your back like a fucking papoose, we’ll get you out. Okay?”

Patrick smiled in spite of himself. “Okay.”

Walsh scanned the woods around them, then looked back at Patrick. “I’ll get this to Litner and I’ll tell him what’s happened. Sit tight and don’t make waves. Don’t do anything until I contact you.”

“How will you contact me?”

“I’ll leave you a sign on the back deck. When you find it, come out to this rock again. You’ve done your part. We’ll take it from here. Trust us.”

Patrick prayed he could trust the man’s word. Litner’s team was his only hope now. The knowledge of that was far from comforting.

Chapter Forty-Two

Robin had the most unsettling feeling that Litner was losing control of this investigation. Patrick was stuck at Forest Bluffs, yet another ‘unexpected hindrance’. The stony agent had damn well better come up with a solid plan soon, because she was losing faith rapidly, and losing her mind at the thought of Patrick stuck out there at Camp Blood. She pulled into her driveway and turned the car off. Slinging her heavy gym bag over her right shoulder, she climbed the long stairwell up to her apartment.

She saw Shep as soon as she opened the door and stepped inside. He sat in her favorite living room chair, arms rested casually on his lap. Robin let out a yelp and dropped the bag.

“Hello Robin.”

Her first instinct was to run. If she’d had time to think about it, she would not have done so. To run meant she feared him, and she didn’t want him to know that she did. Unfortunately, her instincts were not in the mood to reason things out, so she turned and darted back out the door.

Margol and Allisto came out of nowhere. They must have been hiding somewhere in the outer hallway. Each grabbing an arm, they shoved her back into her apartment, closing the door. Margol used extreme force, either accidentally or on purpose, and she stumbled and fell. Shep remained seated during the whole ordeal, watching calmly. A pain shot through her knee as she hit the floor.

Pain always angered her, and anger made her forget her fear. She glared up at the one who was responsible for her pain, Margol, with his red curls and face full of welts from his altercation with Father Bello’s candelabra. “Well,” she said. “Don’t you look pretty. Push me again, freak, and I’ll carve up the other side of your face to match.”

The comment seemed to upset Margol. His brother Allisto reached out and gently touched the marks along Margol’s cheek. “I will heal!” Margol said, slapping Allisto’s hand away.

Robin stood and brushed herself off, then turned slowly to face Shep. “You have got some fucking nerve.”

“Did I scare you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Really? Sure seemed like it. I’ve seen you pissed off, Robin, but you’ve never literally run from me before.”

“You surprised me, that’s all. Like finding a spider on my pillow. Now get the fuck out of my home.”

“You seem upset, Robin. Have I been neglecting you again?”

“I prefer it if you neglect me.”

“Since when?”

“How many times do I have to go through this with you? We discussed this on the phone.” She stood before him where he sat like a judge, and she the defendant thrown before the court. “I’m done with your shitty treatment of me. It’s over. Get it through your head.”

“Shitty treatment? What exactly have I done lately that’s so bad? I’ve stopped calling you for up to three months in the past, and you always came back to me.”

“I was a lot younger then.”

“It was last year, Robin.”

“Yeah, well I was a lot younger last year. What makes you think you can just come into my apartment whenever you please?”

Shep drummed his fingers on his knees. “You gave me a key, remember? You never took it back. You never said I wasn’t welcome.”

“How about the part when I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore? Didn’t that maybe give you the slight impression that you were no longer welcome to just stroll into my home?”

Shep stood and walked toward her. Tapping a finger on his chin, he said, “Yeah, about that not wanting to see me anymore thing. I’d like to discuss that.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Really? Nothing at all?”

He was too close suddenly, and she could smell his familiar scent. Furious with herself, she still felt that old pull of attraction, the sexual fascination she’d always had for him. But it made no difference. Her body might want Shep, but that didn’t mean she was about to run back into his murdering arms. She was stronger than that now.

“I think there’s plenty to discuss,” he said. “For instance, your behavioral changes as of late. Your attitude toward me has been out of character to say the least. That got me thinking.” Shep pulled something out of his pocket and twirled it playfully around his fingers. “Maybe there’s more to your sudden change of heart than saving your self-respect from my less than adequate dating practices. I’m not buying it. I know you too well.”

“People change, Shep.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh do they? Do people change, Robin?” He twirled the thing in front of her face and she finally recognized it. It was the candy necklace Patrick had given her the day they rode out to the caves. It had been hanging ceremoniously on her bedroom mirror. Shep thrust it in Robin’s face. “What is this…thing?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“That is a candy necklace. Haven’t you ever seen one? Oh that’s right. You had a deprived childhood.”

She realized after she said it that cracks about Shep’s childhood no longer held any weight. Shep had, after all, fabricated his childhood. The whole abusive father story had been an elaborate fiction designed to ward off questions about his true past, and the real reason his back was so brutally scarred.

“I know it’s a candy necklace you wiseass bitch. Where did you get it?”

He couldn’t possibly know the origin of the necklace or he wouldn’t be asking. She decided to stall, to find out how much he knew. This was an old familiar practice between them. He’d always known how to read her, but she’d always excelled at annoying him into saying more than he’d intended. This gave her a better idea of where she stood.

“What difference does it make where I got it?”

Shep’s round eyes narrowed. “It makes a difference to me.”

“Why? It’s just a candy necklace. What is the problem?”

“You had it hanging on your bedroom mirror.”

“Is that a crime?”

“I know you, Robin. You forget that, I think. You don’t hang things on your mirror unless they mean something to you. Now, seeing that this is a cheap dirty piece of shit necklace made of sugar, what value could it possibly hold? What could make this necklace so important that it would earn a coveted spot on your mirror? Hmmm?”

He pulled the colorful strand of candy loops over his own head. She wanted to rip it off him. Apparently, it showed on her face. “What’s wrong? Does it make you angry to see me wearing this? Why would you care? It’s just a piece of costume jewelry. It’s made of fucking sugar!”

His anger flared in his eyes and she took a step back, fear beginning to bloom. “What is your point? Enough with the candy necklace already! Christ on a crutch!”

“Who gave this to you?”

“I bought it for myself. Nostalgia purchase.”

“Bullshit. You’ve always been a bad liar. Who is he?”

“Who is who?”

“You know who. The guy who gave you this stupid necklace.”

“What guy?”

He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t do it, Robin. Don’t drag me into one of these Abbott and Costello circuitous arguments. Just answer the damn question.”

She remained stoically silent. Keeping his eyes on her, he removed the necklace and held it before his nose, breathing deeply. “Did I ever mention that I have an extraordinarily keen sense of smell?”

“No.”

“Well, I do. Do you know what I smell when I bring this necklace to my face?”

“Sugar?” she said snidely.

“I smell you. Not your perfume, not your soap or your shampoo, but you. I smell your sweat. And it smells like passion. It smells like desire. You see, these are the subtle changes in your scent that only I can detect.”

“You’re crazy. No one can smell desire.”

“Oh really? Animals can.”

“Well, that makes sense. You are an animal.”

“So are you! So is everyone!”

She walked toward her bedroom. “I’m not in the mood for one of your nature of the beast lectures.”

He grabbed her arm and tugged her back. She gasped. He’d never hurt her before. She looked into his eyes and was frightened by what she saw. She couldn’t place it, but his eyes looked different. It was as though the shields were down and she could see his rage swirling in the reflective green around his pupils. “Let go of me, Shep.”

“I’ll find out who he is. You know I can. It would be a lot easier if you just tell me.” She said nothing. “Fine,” he said. “It makes no difference now. You won’t be seeing him anymore. You’re coming with me.”

“The hell I am.” She stood defiantly. She was only five foot four, so she had to look up at Shep, who was five foot ten. They’d been so perfect for each other physically, bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. She forced those thoughts out of her head, reminding herself he’d said he was gonna kidnap her. “I want you all to leave now,” she said. “If you don’t, I’m calling the police.”

“That’s going to be a bit difficult with no phone,” Shep said, casually examining his fingernails.

She glanced over at her gym bag. Allisto stood in front of it, arms crossed over his chest.

“You always keep your phone in your purse, and your purse in your gym bag when you come home,” Shep said. “Go ahead. Try and grab it. I’ll wait.”

She turned and glared at him. “You’re insane! You can’t hold me against my will. You willing to risk prison, Shep? You won’t feel so tough living in a cage.”

He chuckled. “I won’t be living in a cage. I’ll be living in your cousin Joey’s great big beach house. And starting tonight, so will you.”

Real fear gripping her now, she ran for the door, pushing Margol and Allisto out of the way. She got the door open, and thought she’d caught them off guard, until she felt herself being lifted off her feet. Margol held her in a bear hug, one hand clasped over her mouth.

Shep shook his head. “I was hoping it wouldn’t go down like this, but you’ve left me no choice. You’ll thank me for this eventually. It’s what you really want.”

She struggled against Margol, trying with all her might to bite his hand so she could tell Shep to fuck off one more time, but he held her with an iron grip. “Get her things together as planned,” Shep said. “Meet me in the van. Don’t take too long.”

Robin’s eyes darted to the window. The light had faded to darkness during this altercation. He must have planned it. It was far easier to kidnap someone in the dark.

“Keep her from leaving but do not hurt her, or I’ll hurt both of you.” Shep strolled casually out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Margol dragged her into the bedroom, with Allisto following behind. Once they got her inside, Margol stepped aside and Allisto stood in front of the door. “Pack,” he said, pointing to her bed where someone had left her suitcase open.

She glared at the two of them. Angels, demons, whatever they were didn’t matter. They were hired muscle. They were servants, and they had but one master. They looked so like Shep with their curls and wide eyes. Those beautiful faces that masked what they were.

She picked up the suitcase and threw it to the floor. “Fuck you!”

Allisto grabbed her. She thrashed and fought against his iron grip as he pulled something down over her head, a sack or hood. She sucked soft cloth into her mouth and panic set in. She fought like a wild animal but was no match for the strength of the hands that held her. Then the sack was removed, leaving her gasping and gulping in air. “Don’t fucking do that again! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Margol moved in on her, pushing her up against the wall, continuing her sense of being closed in. “We don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “You have choices here. You can come with us carrying none of your possessions, with a bag tied over your head, or you can pack up your personal belongings and walk out that door with us in a civilized fashion. Either way you’re coming with us. We have orders.”

She glared at him, but said nothing, momentarily stunned by how different he sounded since she’d last seen him, his grasp of the language and vocal inflection far more sophisticated. He must have interpreted her silence as submission, because he loosened his grip on her shoulders and stepped back. She tilted her head back and brought it forward, head-butting Margol square above the eyes.

He staggered, bringing his hands to his face, then grunted as she jammed her heel into his knee. Robin dove for the door, but Allisto was ready, grabbing her elbow, squeezing just hard enough to show his unnatural strength. She looked into his cold green eyes and saw the truth in them. She wouldn’t be escaping. They’d do their duty for Shep. They’d do anything for Shep.

He let her go, then stared silently as she tore through her dresser and threw some clothes into the suitcase. She spotted the little vial of blood she’d concocted with Aunt Betsy. It sat in the corner of her underwear drawer. She stuffed it into a pair of socks and packed that too. After grabbing a few pairs of shoes from her closet, she zipped up the suitcase and glared at her captors. Allisto held his hand toward the door in an “after you” gesture.

She went with them, comforted that she may have the weapon to their destruction tucked neatly in a pair of socks in her suitcase.

Chapter Forty-Three

Dr. Juliet Wang was the only woman Steven Litner had ever been in love with. At least it was the closest thing to love he’d experienced. The affair had been short but intense, and he honestly thought things would work out between them. They’d seemed so well-suited. She was brilliant, serious, and regimented, with a self-discipline that matched his own. She, in turn, claimed to appreciate these traits in him.

Unfortunately, like most women, she soon discovered there wasn’t much else to Litner’s life beyond his job. He didn’t let the regimentation go at the end of the day, as she did. With him it was a personality trait, not a work ethic. He tried to be more lighthearted and spontaneous, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t change who he was. Much to his disappointment, even Juliet Wang, the most serious of women, desired a certain amount of intimacy from him.

After the breakup he swore to himself that he’d spend more time on hobbies and cultivating friendships outside of work. And yet, the closest interaction he had with civilian life these days was when he profiled some monster with a terror scheme. Of course, until now, all of those monsters had been human.

Father Carbone was right to suspect Litner had prior knowledge of Cripulets. A team of scientists had accidentally opened one in India years before, and a bipedal reptilian figure had come through, looking startled. They reported that it looked vaguely humanoid, with sharp intelligent eyes. Seemingly aware of its mistake, the creature darted back through the Cripulet, which closed immediately after. Agencies had been researching Cripulets ever since. While Litner had accepted the truth of the report back when he first learned of it, never did he think that one day his own job would bring him face to face with one of the mysterious portals.

He liked to think he’d changed as a person since his mind had been opened by such things, made less closed-off. But it would do him no good with Dr. Juliet Wang. She’d married someone else. They remained friends and colleagues, as Juliet still did a fair share of work for him. But it was purely professional now. Litner, however, still felt the flutter of anxiety as he stepped into Juliet’s laboratory. He thought the butterflies would have quieted by now, but as he came through the double doors and saw her standing in front of a microscope, they were active as ever.

She glanced up at him through a pair of safety goggles, her eyes smiling as they fell upon him. “Hello Dr. Wang,” he said stoically.

“Hello Agent Litner,” she said, emphasizing the ‘Agent’ to mock his formality. He felt uncomfortable calling her by her first name. It conjured up too many intimate memories. She removed the safety goggles and walked around the long table to greet him. “Have a seat.” She signaled to a chair alongside the desk.

He slid stiffly into the chair. “What have you got for me?”

Juliet slid in behind the desk and opened a folder. He tried not to stare at her big dark eyes. Instead, he watched her lips as she chewed the end of her pen, then forced his eyes to fall to the folder she held. “Well, it’s not poison,” she said.

Litner straightened in his chair. This was not the answer he was expecting. “It’s not poison? Are you sure?”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “At least it’s not showing up as a toxin on the test chart. We also tested it on some of the lab animals. Aside from a little digestive discomfort in the rats, it seems to be a harmless substance. It’s very unusual, but harmless.”

Litner felt his world falling apart around him. He’d been so sure the crop was toxic. This ruined his entire theory, and left him questioning his own judgment. Also, his boss Michaels would no longer trust his instincts that there was an active threat centered around Joey Duvaine. Without the crop, he had nothing. “Okay, so it’s not poison. What do you mean it’s unusual? Unusual how?”

She flipped through her folder. “You’ve heard of Triticale?”

“It’s genetically engineered grain.”

She smiled. “Very good. Crossbred to make the seed hardier. The stuff can grow in the oddest of climates. It can even grow in the winter.”

“So this is Triticale?” Litner asked.

She shook her head. “No, but it’s like Triticale in the sense that it’s a manmade cross-breed. Seeing a genetically modified seed is not the unusual part. Hell, most crops out there have some genetic alterations. But this is something truly unique.”

“So exactly what is this stuff?”

“That’s the unusual part. Donald says he’s never seen anything quite like it. There seems to be some of your average wheat in there, and a generic form of grain, but there’s another substance we just can’t identify. There’s a strand running throughout the mix that doesn’t come up on any known charts. See this?”

She held up a diagram, a bunch of letters connected by straight lines. It looked like a puzzle. “What am I looking at?” Litner asked.

“This is the chemical structure for the unknown substance. We can break it down to its base elements. We simply can’t identify it. As far as our agricultural expert is concerned, it’s an unknown. Who’s growing this stuff anyway?”

“I’m sorry. That’s classified, Dr. Wang.”

She smiled. “Of course. But please Steven, call me Juliet. We are friends, aren’t we?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Of course we’re friends Dr…Juliet. These tests you conducted on the lab animals…are the results indicative of the effect the substance would have on humans?”

“Not necessarily. I would say it is more than likely that if the substance does not harm animals, then it won’t harm humans. As far as being one hundred percent sure, I can’t say. There are, after all, diseases and viruses that we contract that animals cannot, and vice versa. But still, a toxin would have shown up in the original reading.”

“Then we need to test it on humans,” Litner said with resolve.

She looked up at him, her face blank for a moment, then she sighed and rubbed her eyes. “You know I can’t do that, Steven.”

“It’s important,” he said. “You’ve done human testing before.”

“Not with such little data. If you can give us some time—”

“Time I don’t have. We’ll need to test it now.”

“Steven, this is an unknown substance. I personally don’t believe it to be harmful, but it’s still an unknown. I can’t test it on humans now. I won’t. Even if we could get approval, which we won’t, I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting people at risk.”

“I’ll volunteer,” he said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We’d never get approval for it and you know it.”

“Fuck the approval!”

Juliet looked up at him with open shock. He hadn’t realized how loose his emotions…and his words had become since he’d been working on this investigation. The personalities of Patrick and the others were rubbing off on him. He was immediately embarrassed by the uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m sorry, Juliet.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before, Steven,” Juliet said with a smirk.

“No one needs to know about this test. Just us.”

“Steven, that’s crazy. You don’t know what this crop is! I’m not going to be responsible for harming you. I can’t live with that.”

“If you get caught, you can just say—”

“It’s not my career I’m concerned about, Steven, you idiot. It’s you. You’ve never taken risks like this before. Why now?”

“Please Juliet. Please. It’s important. Big picture important.” He looked at her and tried very hard to let her see his sincerity. It was difficult, since his normal expression was deadpan. He’d spent years perfecting the vacant stare.

“Big picture how? Do you mean life or death important?”

“It could be,” he said honestly. “I have to be sure, Juliet. This is one of those times that I need that hundred percent.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“Please. You just said you don’t personally think it’s harmful. I take full responsibility for any outcome.”

Pointing at him with her pen, she narrowed her eyes. “I’ll give you the absolute smallest dose of the substance possible. You’re going to have to undergo a complete physical exam, before, during, and after you ingest the substance. I do mean complete, Steven. It is not going to be pleasant.”

He sighed his relief. “Thank you.”

“You won’t be thanking me soon. We will extract every fluid you have, as well as some you didn’t know you had. You’re going to feel like a human pin cushion. And that’s only the safe part. Still want to do this?”

He smiled. “You’re not actually trying to frighten me, are you?”

Her smile matched his. “Oh, I forgot. The big bad agent isn’t going to be afraid of a few needles.”

“Will you hold my hand?”

Juliet’s brows shot up. “Wow. A sense of humor. When did you develop that?” She’d meant the statement as a joke, but he flinched, and she saw it. The words cut deep. His rigid personality had been the major cause of their breakup. “I’m sorry, Steven. I didn’t mean that. It was cruel.”

“No,” he said, “it was deserved.” He stood and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She looked surprised and a little bit sad. “I do appreciate this, Juliet,” he said. “Now, where do I go to register as a lab rat?”

Chapter Forty-Four

Patrick sat alone on the big back deck, peering out at the fields, bathed pink with the falling sun. He could see the shadowy figures of the followers loading barrels of the red grain into the guest house, and some into the backs of the Arcania Food trucks. It made him nervous. Something was going to happen very soon. Patrick tried not to let his doubts consume him. Agent Buttercup, or Walsh, or whatever his real name was had promised to get him out safely. He was trying to maintain hope.

Robin still hadn’t arrived. When Klee let slip that Shep had gone to the city to collect her, Patrick wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Now all he could do was wait, beside himself with worry for her safety. He heard noises in the kitchen and turned to look, but it was only Joey and Russell. The sliding door opened and Joey pushed Russell out onto the deck. “Go get some air!”

Russell walked slowly onto the deck and weaved over to a nearby lounge chair, falling into it. He looked dazed, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. His short black hair was pushed flat in the back as though it hadn’t been brushed. Patrick glanced at Joey, who stood just outside the door, gazing thoughtfully at Russell. “Obrien, could you keep an eye on Russell for a while?”

Joey wore an old tee shirt with a baseball cap. He looked like the old Joey, the one that worked in a financial office and played pool on the weekends, not the enchanting false prophet of Forest Bluffs. Patrick felt a twinge of affection at the sight of him. He wished they could all go back in time. “Watch Russell?” Patrick asked, confused. “He’s a grown man, last I checked.”

Joey nodded. “Please. I think he dropped acid or something. He’s all fucked up and I can’t watch him. I have to make dinner for Klee.”

Patrick glanced at Russell, puzzled. “Sure. I’ll watch him. I guess.”

“Thanks, Obrien.”

Klee peered out from behind Joey’s shoulder and stole a glance over at Russell. He looked concerned and a little bit guilty. He saw Patrick watching him and ran back into the house. Joey went in after him and shut the door.

Patrick dragged his chair over to sit near Russell, who seemed to be watching things that weren’t there. “Hey Russell. Why aren’t you wearing your glasses? Get contacts?”

“No.”

“Are you all right?”

Russell lifted his head until his eyes focused on Patrick. A flicker of awareness passed over his face. “Obrien.”

Patrick chuckled. “Yes, Russell, that’s my name.”

“If you grew your hair long, you’d make a great Viking.”

“Did you take something? Are you on something right now?”

Russell looked down at his fingers. “Sort of.”

“What? Mushrooms? Or was it just Shep’s turbo weed? I know from experience that shit’s pretty strong.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

Patrick leaned in closer. Russell’s pupils did seem a bit dilated. “Russell, come on. Tell me what’s going on. You don’t look right.”

“I can’t tell you. You won’t believe me. And if you do believe me, you’ll hurt me.”

“What the fuck? Why would I hurt you? I’m trying to help you.”

“Yeah, right. You despise me.”

“Look I know we haven’t exactly gotten along lately, but I don’t despise you. I’ve been too high before in the past, I might be able to help you come down. Have you had enough water today?”

Russell’s face twisted into a grimace. “There’s something going on, Obrien. It’s the brothers. There’s something weird about them. They’re not normal!”

“Oh.” Patrick sighed. “Yeah. The brothers’ weirdness is not in question. Tell me what’s got you so spooked, exactly.”

Russell winced. “You said you’d break my kneecaps if I ever went near him again.”

“Break your kneecaps. Are you talking about Klee?” Russell sat tight-lipped. “Russell, tell me! Does this have something to do with Klee?”

Russell’s haunted eyes met Patrick’s. He looked different without his glasses on. In fact, he looked different period. Despite his obvious terror, his face had a healthy glow, contrary to his usual pallor.

“Russell?”

“He came to me. It wasn’t my fault. He came to me.”

“Who came to you? Klee?”

Russell began to shake so violently that Patrick was afraid he was going into some sort of fit. He knelt down and held Russell’s arms. “Russell, my God! What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.” He jerked his head up and looked into the night sky. His eyes darted around as though watching things move.

Patrick looked up but saw nothing. “What are you seeing?”

“Bugs. Birds. Bats. Stars. Satellites. You name it, I can see it.” Russell met his eyes. “I see too much!”

“But your glasses—”

“I don’t need them anymore.”

Patrick stood up and walked all the way over to the other side of the deck. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he called over to Russell as he held up four fingers.

“Four,” Russell said without hesitation.

Climbing off the deck, Patrick walked backwards ten feet on the lawn. He adjusted his hand so that only his index finger stood up. “Now how many?’’

“One.”

Stepping back onto the deck, he walked slowly over to Russell. “You are wearing contacts. You could never see that far before without your glasses.”

“Not even close. But I’m not wearing contacts. I swear.”

“I remember back in college your glasses broke that time, and you accidentally walked into the girls’ bathroom after class. No one believed you didn’t do it on purpose. But it was because you couldn’t see.”

Russell snorted.  “I remember. That’s when I came out as gay, long before I was ready to. Was the only way I could convince everyone I wasn’t trying to perve on the girls.”

Leaning over, Patrick examined Russell’s eyes. “You’re not wearing contacts.”

“I told you that!”

“So you really can see. My God, Russell. How did this happen?”

Russell huffed, rubbing his eyes. “It wasn’t a miracle of God. I can tell you that.”

“What then?”

“Klee. It was Klee. He did something to me. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure he did this to me. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I did something to him. But he asked me to. He asked me to!”

Patrick took the seat next to Russell. “Are you talking about sex?”

Russell flinched and slid his chair back, away from Patrick. “Not exactly.”

“Oral sex then?”

“Are you going to hit me?”

“No, Jesus! I’m sorry I threatened you. I’m not actually a violent person. Just answer the question, Russell. Did you…?”

“Yes. I did.” Russell flinched as if expecting a punch.

Patrick just stared at him. Anyone else would have thought Russell’s claim crazy, but Patrick knew to some degree what it meant to get fluids from one of these creatures. He thought about Kelinda, infected by sex with Joey. And now here was Russell, with a similar claim. Except Kelinda’s was second-hand, with Joey’s blood altered by Shep. Russell, however, had possibly been contaminated by a purer source.

He doubted Shep had a clue just how much of this precious celestial essence was being haphazardly shared all around him. The stuff was being passed around like Coca Cola and Shep had no idea. He thought he was in control. Patrick was uncomfortable discussing sex in general, so this was almost painfully embarrassing. But he had to know how much of the old angel cocktail Russell had been exposed to.

“Russell, when you were with Klee, did he…um…”

“Yes, Obrien. He came.”

“And did you...uh…”

“Swallow?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Yeah. I took it all. Every drop.”

Patrick sat back and pondered the situation. Russell squirmed, watching him think. “What is it, Obrien? Why are you asking me all these questions? Do you know something about this?”

Patrick couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t make Russell more of a basket case than he already was.

“Obrien, tell me! You know something about this, don’t you? What’s happening to me? Tell me!” he screamed.

Patrick grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back on the chair. “Stop shouting. I do know one thing. Whatever’s happening to you, you have to keep it quiet. Do you understand me? You have to hide it.”

“Why?”

“Because you dipped your hand in the wrong cookie jar. You shouldn’t have done it, Russell. Not with Klee. Not with any of the brothers.”

Russell wiped his eyes as tears came. “I know.”

“I’m sure you do. You’re not stupid. Klee was a bad choice. Really, really bad.”

“I only did it to get back at Shep. He was on the phone begging Robin to come back to him. I know it’s immature and pathetic but I just got so jealous! I…I’m such an idiot, Obrien. I’ve wasted years obsessing over Shep.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve seen you date other people. You’re not that pathetic.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I knew he’d never feel that way about me. I think I just liked knowing I could feel something this strong. I liked the feeling when he was around. That longing. Makes you feel alive.”

“I can see that,” Patrick said. “I’m straight, but Shep’s got a way of making you feel high. Like everything’s one big adventure.”

Russell huffed. “Yeah. That adventure’s gotten pretty dark lately.”

“I hear that.”

Russell froze, then looked quickly behind him.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” Russell whispered. “Did the wind just pick up?”

Patrick looked out at the woods, the treetops swaying slightly. “A bit. Why?”

Russell wiped his eyes. “Even the wind feels different now. Like I keep feeling something touching me. Maybe they’re demons come to take me to Hell, where I belong.”

“Russell, come on. I was raised Catholic and even I don’t really believe in Hell anymore. But even if it is real, you don’t belong in Hell for giving a blowjob, for crying out loud. Klee was a bad choice, but not that bad. Not Hell bad.”

Silent for a moment, Russell stared at his shoes. “Not the blowjob,” he whispered. “I belong in Hell for something else.”

“What?”

“Love’s supposed to make you better. But loving Shep has made me a bad person. You wouldn’t understand. You’ve probably never done one wrong thing in your life. I’m not that strong. I did something unthinkable. A young man is dead because I couldn’t say no to Shep.” Russell fell apart then, sobbing into his hands.

Patrick realized this great crime Russell was referring to was about Copie. They all still thought Copie was killed in the lab explosion. He watched Russell weep and tremble. At least the son of a bitch had the decency to feel bad about it. Shep certainly didn’t seem to have lost any sleep.

He wanted to tell Russell that Copie was alive, and that Russell had no murder on his conscience. But he couldn’t. The compassionate person inside wanted to ease Russell’s pain, but Patrick was not about to blow his cover just because Russell was having a bad cum trip.

“Russell, listen to me. You’re not being touched by demons or anything else. You’ve just been exposed to something…foreign, and your body is still adjusting to the changes.”

Russell looked up and blinked twice. “Foreign?”

“Yes.”

Russell nodded slowly. “Changes in my body. Yes. I can smell things more strongly, and I can hear things. If I try, I can listen to conversations going on down the street. I can even hear things people think sometimes. You’ve gotta help me, Obrien! If you know what this is, you have to tell me!”

“My telling you what I know won’t do you any good, trust me. I can tell you this though. If you keep acting like this, Shep is going to figure out what you did. Do you hear me? He’ll know. And he’ll possibly kill you, Russell. Because you’ll be an outlier. A loose thread.”

Russell frowned at Patrick. “That’s what he called the kid who… A loose thread. Before he…oh God.” He buried his face in his hands again. “Oh, God, you’re right. Shep will kill me.”

“You have to get a grip on yourself.”

“What if I can’t?” Russell looked up at Patrick. “I’m scared. I mean really scared.”

Patrick gave him a meaningful look. “We’re all scared, Russell. But at least you can leave. I think you should. While you still can. There’s nothing stopping you. And there’s nothing here for you.”

A long breath shivered out of Russell, and some of the anguish left his face. “Leave. Right. I can leave.”

“I’d do it now. Tonight. Don’t say goodbye to anyone, especially Shep. Just slip out. I doubt he’ll notice.”

Russell chuckled. “No, he rarely notices me anyway. Not that it matters. I still can’t shake him. Just thinking about leaving him gives me a heartache. Regardless of how bad he treats me.”

“I understand. But you have to get over him. For your own safety. Leave here and live your life. Learn to deal with this. And never talk to anyone about it. It’s the only way you’ll be safe. Can you do that?”

Nodding slowly, Russell said, “Yeah. I can. Things aren’t the same anyway. Being around Shep used to make me happy. Just…absorbing his vibe, you know? But now all I feel is sadness. And fear. This is no way to live.”

“Then go. As far as you can get. Go stay with your brother in California.”

Russell’s shoulders relaxed. “I can leave. Shit, you’re right.” He looked up. “Thanks, Obrien. I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean it. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. To anyone. Just pack your bags and get the fuck out. Tonight.”

Something made a loud crash inside the kitchen and they both looked up. Patrick could see Shep’s sandy curls through the slider, and his heart leapt. This meant they were back, and more than likely Robin was in the house somewhere.

Then he saw Joey push Shep. Shep went right back at him and then the two of them stood chest to chest, screaming at each other. They looked like two puffed up roosters about to start pecking at each other. Patrick could see their mouths moving and strained facial expressions but couldn’t hear the words through the closed glass door. “Christ, what now?” he muttered.

Russell looked up. “Shep and the others just got home. Robin is with them. Joey didn’t know she was coming. He’s upset.”

Patrick stared at Russell. “You heard that through the closed door?”

“Yeah. I told you I wasn’t right.” He leaned forward in his chair, listening. “Joey says that Shep made a promise to him and that now he’s broken it.” Russell turned to Patrick. “What kind of promise did Shep made to Joey?”

Patrick stood, his eyes locked on Shep’s image through the glass. “He promised never to involve Robin.”

“Involve her in what?”

Patrick gave Russell a quick sideways glance, then headed for the doors.

“Obrien! I don’t understand what’s going on.”

Patrick turned around. “Believe me. It’s better that way.”

Russell frowned. “You know, they think you’re the stupid one.”

Patrick smiled. “I know.”

“They’ve underestimated you, haven’t they?”

“I certainly hope so, Russell.”

* * * *

Shep and Joey ceased their argument as soon as Patrick stepped inside, both giving him innocent eyes. “What’s going on guys?” Patrick asked.

Joey smiled like a movie star. “Nothing. Just talking.”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine,” Shep added.

“Oh cut the bullshit.” Their fake smiles wilted a bit. “Why is Robin here?”

Shep flinched. “How did you know?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I could hear you screaming at each other.”

Shep glanced at the closed glass door. He looked back at Patrick, making his face pleasant and docile again. “Robin came out for a visit.”

“Is she all right?” The question left Patrick’s lips before he could stop it.

“Well of course she’s all right!” Shep shouted. “What kind of a question is that?”

Margol and Allisto rounded the bottom of the staircase and strode into the kitchen with their new, less robotic swaggers. “She is all settled in,” Allisto said.

“Thank you, Allisto. See that she gets whatever she needs.”

The fury returned to Joey’s eyes and he whirled on Shep, forgetting Patrick for the moment. “Why won’t she come downstairs, Shep? What the hell did you do to her?”

Shep grabbed Joey’s collar and pulled him in. “She’s tired, Joey. Nothing more. If you want to go talk to her yourself, go ahead, but get the fuck out of my face!” With that, he shoved Joey hard. Joey stumbled but caught himself. Klee began whimpering in the corner, hiding his face. Shep pointed toward the cowering blond. “Now you made Klee cry. Come here Klee.”

“He’s always fucking crying,” Joey muttered. “I’m going to talk to my cousin.”

“I’d like to see her first, if you don’t mind,” Patrick piped up. Joey stopped in his tracks. Shep looked up at him as well. Even Klee gave him an odd frown.

“You?” Joey said. “You don’t even like my cousin. Why the hell do you want to talk to her?”

“Yeah,” Shep added. “Why do you want to talk to Robin?”

“I’ve been looking at nothing but your ugly faces for the past two weeks. I’m unable to leave here, and it would be nice to have a conversation with someone else for a change.” They stared at him. He threw his hands in the air dramatically. “What? Okay, fine. I’ll just go talk to myself. Or shoot myself. Christ! Do you know how fucking boring it is around here?”

Shep waved his hand. “Okay, okay. Go talk to Robin, Obrien, if it will make you shut up and stop whining. She’s in the room across from yours. I am so sick of playing nursemaid to everyone around here. And what the hell is wrong with Russell?” Shep signaled toward the deck, where Russell sat alone on a lounge chair, staring at his own hand.

Klee’s face turned a deep shade of crimson.

“Russell got too high,” Patrick said. “You should stay away from him for tonight.”

Shep snorted. “Well that’s no problem. Half the time I forget he’s even here.”

Patrick glanced out the back door and Russell caught his eye. “Go,” Patrick mouthed. Russell nodded and stood, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Maybe Russell didn’t deserve redemption after participating in the attempt on Copie’s life. But Patrick wanted to save him just the same. He knew if Russell stayed around he’d snap and reveal his secret eventually, and Shep would probably kill him. Patrick didn’t want to see that happen, and not just because he didn’t want to see any more violence and death. Someone around here had to have a little empathy to make up for what was lacking in the occupants of this house. Besides, Russell was still a human being. They were outnumbered here, and needed to stick together.

With that thought, he headed upstairs to find Robin.

* * * *

Patrick tapped lightly on Robin’s door.

“Fuck off you fucking freaks!”

“It’s Patrick.”

The door swung open. She’d been crying. Patrick felt his fists clench. “Did they hurt you? I’ll kill them.”

She pulled him inside and shut the door. He wrapped his arms around her and she melted into him. “We have to stay cool,” she said. “I’m really scared. Shep suspects something.”

They sat together on the bed and exchanged brief accounts of what had befallen each of them since they last spoke. When Robin told Patrick about her abduction, the veins popped out in his neck. “Don’t do anything, Patrick. These guys are truly nuts, and they’re incredibly strong.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. I watched Allisto, by himself, carry a full-sized refrigerator out to the guest house the other day. I think their strength grows over time. Even Klee seems to be getting stronger.”

Robin’s pretty blue eyes widened. “Shit. Does that mean Juris is getting stronger too, wherever they’re keeping him? Litner said he’s guarded, but…”

“If he gets out, we’re screwed. I mean, more so than we already are.”

“We have to get a message to Litner to beef up security on Juris.”

“Leave that to me. Why does Shep want you out here so bad? You know he didn’t even tell Joey about this. Joey’s pissed.”

“Shep doesn’t believe that I just happened to stop loving him. He thinks he can change my mind.”

“Change your mind? How so?” Patrick asked, a jealous edge to his voice.

“I’m not sure. He claims he can make me love him again.”

Patrick shuddered. “Normally that would just sound like the desperate ramblings of a jilted lover. But in Shep’s case, it makes me a little wary.”

“You’re not suggesting he can bespell me somehow. I’m not one of his zombies, Patrick.”

“Have you seen Kelinda yet?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ll let you form your own opinion about that one. Just remember, when you see her, that she’s been infected.”

Robin wrinkled her nose. “Infected?”

“Yeah. Things are weirder than you think around here. Let’s just say that the stock has sailed on bodily fluids.”

“Charming. Oh, Shep found the candy necklace you gave me and flipped. He knows there’s someone else. I just hope he doesn’t know who.”

Patrick shook his head. “He’d never suspect me. He doesn’t give me that much credit. I’m sure it’s unfathomable to him that I could score a goddess like you.”

Robin smirked, then chuckled. “Thanks for that. Making me laugh. I needed it.”

“Anytime. We’ll get through this, okay?”

They were interrupted by Kelinda’s voice, shouting from down the hall. “Margol, get your ass back here! I’m talking to you. Stop trying to lure my cat out onto the deck! She doesn’t have any claws.”

Robin cocked an eyebrow at Patrick.

“Oh, yes,” Patrick said. “Stock has sailed on bodily fluids, and animal corpses. Margol’s probably trying to lure Kelinda’s cat outside for…nefarious purposes.”

Robin shook her head. “I don’t want to know. But that reminds me.” She dug something out of her bag and held it up to Patrick. “It’s blood.”

“Oh Christ, Robin. The last thing I want to see right now is more blood. What the hell is this?”

“It’s the vial we made at Betsy’s. It’s supposed to restore Joey’s conscience. I figured it might break his bond with you as well.” She shrugged. “That is if it works.”

“That would be great. But hell, does it always have to be blood with these guys? Be nice if we could just give him a special tea or something.”

Robin hid it in her bag again. “Hey, might as well fight fire with fire. Or blood with blood as the case may be. You never know. It’s worth a try.”

“I find it hard to believe one vial of blood will counteract whatever Shep did to Joey. It sounds too easy. We’re talking about some strong stuff here. Everyone has a different reaction to being infected with Shep’s blood. Kelinda, Russell—”

“Russell? What happened to Russell?”

“Never mind that for now. The point is everyone who’s gotten infected without Shep’s knowledge is losing their mind. For real.”

“Of course they are!” Robin said. “It’s like Father Bello said. Shep and the brothers are not supposed to be here in the first place. They’re certainly not supposed to be sharing their bodily essence with us lowly humans.”

The sound of approaching footsteps startled them. “Someone’s coming,” Robin said. “Kiss me.”

He gave her a deep kiss that wanted to linger. The knock on the door stopped it. The door swung open just as Patrick moved off the bed. He was expecting Joey, but Shep stepped inside.

Robin retracted like a threatened cat at the sight of him. “Joey wants to see Robin now. That is if you’re all through chatting.” Shep spoke to Patrick, but his eyes were fixed on Robin.

“Sure,” Patrick said. “He could have come up himself.”

“It seems he didn’t like the way you looked at us in the kitchen. He was afraid you might hit him.”

“Hit him? I couldn’t hit Joey if I tried. Literally.”

Shep chuckled. “That’s true.” He seemed to catch himself. “I mean because Joey’s your best friend.”

“Right.” Patrick walked out of the room. “Me and Joey. Besties for life.”

Shep followed him down the hallway. “Why the sarcasm? You don’t love Joey anymore? He loves you.”

Patrick turned and faced Shep, unable to stop the laughter that bubbled out of him. “Joey loves me, huh?”

“Of course. We both do. Why do you think we went to such great lengths to bring you here?”

“To use me,” Patrick said. “To take my choice away. Just like you did to Robin. Coercion isn’t love, Shep. It’s abuse.”

Shep opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, scowling. For once he didn’t seem to have a clever retort.

Patrick walked away. It was doubtful his words had any impact on Shep. He kept acting like the friendship was still important to him. Maybe it was. Shep was supposed to be this higher being, yet he didn’t seem to recognize the conflict between ‘I love you, buddy’ and ‘Hey, you’re a prisoner now, we cool?’

He couldn’t imagine Shep was surprised by Patrick’s resistance to all this. Or that Shep was genuinely missing the close friendship they once shared. But maybe he did. Maybe Shep, for all his evolutionary superiority, was just that fucked up. If so, there was one upside to it.

Maybe Shep wouldn’t kill him if he discovered Patrick stole his girlfriend.

Chapter Forty-Five

Patrick’s eyes sprang open in the dark. He knew something woke him but wasn’t sure what. His heart thudded, making swishing sounds in the drums of his ears as he listened intently to the silence. Then came the familiar tingling sensation and the dull throbbing at his temples. Joey.

Whatever was happening, it wasn’t life threatening. There were varying degrees to the physical reactions he experienced when Joey’s well-being was threatened. The current reaction wasn’t as strong as when Joey was shot, for instance. That experience had been like a severe blow to the head. This was more a slight tugging at his senses. Joey probably just stubbed his toe or something. This blood bond was swiftly becoming a pain in the ass.

The mental tugging pulled him up and out of the bed before he made the conviction to do so. He stood in the dark, looking down at his body disparagingly. He was aggravated by whatever was forcing his body to do things without his consent. He would have gotten up to check things out anyway. He didn’t need to be pushed. Then he heard Joey scream.

The cry held more anger than pain. Nonetheless, Patrick leapt for the door before his mind told it to do so. He stepped out, peering down the long, darkened hallway. A dim light from the top of the stairs brightened the hall enough so that Patrick saw two shadowy figures. He flipped a switch and the hallway lit up. Kelinda was curled up on the floor, inching backwards away from Joey. She was wearing a short black lace negligee, her chin wet with what looked like blood.

At first Patrick thought Joey must have hit her. Then he saw the blade still gripped in her hand. Joey stood over her, his face twisted in rage. “You crazy bitch!” he cried out as he gripped his arm. Blood seeped slowly through his fingers. “You crazy bitch!”

“Joey?” Patrick called out. “You okay? What happened?”

Joey glanced back at Patrick. “This crazy bitch!”

He seemed at a loss for any other words. Patrick assumed the cut wasn’t deep, and that the danger was minimal, because he no longer felt compelled to run to Joey’s side. He simply watched, scowling. Had Kelinda actually cut Joey?

Robin’s door opened. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Patrick whispered.

They both watched the bizarre scene taking place in the center of the long hallway. Kelinda slunk back against the wall in a defensive posture. She had the look of a child who’d been caught doing something wrong and was about to get a spanking. Another light went on and Shep came bounding up from the second floor. Allisto and Klee followed. Shep stopped short, taking in the scene. “What the fuck is going on, Joey?”

“I was sleeping and she came into my room and cut me! She cut me with that knife. She was trying to drink my blood! Crazy bitch!” With his good hand Joey made a fist and pounded the wall. It was clear he was showing restraint by hitting the wall and not Kelinda. “Crazy bitch, crazy bitch, crazy bitch!”

Margol came leaping down the hall looking like a ghoul in a long black robe, his sleep-ruffled curls sprouting like orange horns about his head. Shep, dressed only in a pair of boxers, walked determinedly over to Kelinda, where she hunched in near fetal position on the floor. She looked up at him, her eyes full of hate. “Kelinda, what did you do?”

She wiped the blood off her chin with the back of her hand but said nothing.

Shep grabbed the knife from her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I’m done, Shep,” Joey ranted, holding his hands up. “I’m all done with her. This is the last straw. Keep her away from me!” Joey stormed off down the stairs. “Crazy bitch!” he called back over his shoulder.

Shep gave the brothers a serious look. They seemed to read his mind because Margol and Allisto immediately went to Kelinda, each grabbing one of her arms and hoisting her to her feet. She shrieked, kicking and fighting like an animal. “Lock her in the den downstairs,” Shep said, yawning as if this were all routine.

Allisto and Margol carried her down the hallway toward the stairs and she continued to scream and growl, sounding deranged. Patrick winced. It was disturbing to watch.

Robin leaned into Patrick. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“Welcome to Forest Bluffs,” he said.

With Kelinda gone, this left only Shep and Klee standing in the hallway. Shep turned his attention to Klee, who was staring, wide-eyed down the hall at Patrick and Robin. “Klee, go back to bed,” he ordered.

Klee continued to stare. It took Patrick a moment to realize that it was not they he was staring at. It was she. Klee gazed at Robin with what could only be described as a dopey grin. If he were a cartoon, he would have had little hearts floating around his head. “Is that her?” Klee asked softly.

Shep glanced back down the hall at Robin. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“She is so beautiful,” Klee said dreamily.

“Enough, Klee. Go back to bed now.”

Klee turned and ran back down the hall, disappearing at the stairs. Shep walked toward Patrick and Robin, his jaw set stiff. He stopped before them, his sandy curls askew from sleeping. “Is there a problem here?”

Robin laughed openly. “Yes, actually,” she said. “There is a problem, Shep. Nobody told me it was crazy bitch night. I would have brought my propeller hat.”

Shep’s eyes narrowed. Patrick could stifle his own laughter no longer. As if in response to Robin’s comment, Joey could be heard down in the kitchen yelling “Crazy bitch!” and then something crashed to the floor.

Robin looked at Patrick. “Patrick? Did you know it was crazy bitch night? Because I wasn’t told.”

“There was a memo,” Patrick said. “You didn’t get it?”

“No, but then again, I’m new here. Nice little sleep-away camp you’ve got here, Shepherd. Top notch.” She gave him a double thumbs up.

Shep stood there a moment longer, glaring at them, then he walked briskly away, disappearing around the corner.

“That was fun,” Patrick said. “Try to get some more sleep, okay?”

“Yeah. This place is a laugh a minute. See you in the morning.”

Patrick felt better about things as he went back to sleep. It had been so long since he’d been able to look at Shep without fear. Robin had enabled him to do so, if only for a moment. He knew that he was still knee deep in shit, but at least he wasn’t standing in it alone anymore.

Chapter Forty-Six

Agent Steven Litner sat in the small, clean waiting room, perusing the files in his briefcase, making phone calls, doing whatever he could to look like he wasn’t as nervous as he felt. Dr. Wang…Juliet, had called him in that morning to discuss the results of the grueling tests he’d been undergoing since the ingestion of what they now termed ‘Substance X’. Actually, she hadn’t called him at all. She’d had an associate call for her, the first indication that something was wrong. Whatever she had to tell him, she wanted to do it in person. He took a deep breath and tried to force his eyes to concentrate on the case file in his hands.

He hadn’t had any adverse physical reactions to the substance, at least none that he knew of. He felt as healthy as ever. Besides, she had only given him a pinch of the stuff. What harm could it possibly do him? It had barely given the rats a stomachache.

He fingered through Melvin Eugene Shepherd’s file. Shep to his friends. Shep to his enemies. Zirub to his family. Even with the newly acquired knowledge regarding Shep’s supposed origins, he still baffled Litner. He had managed to literally pop up out of thin air, producing legal documents verifying his existence, and legal documents verifying his lack of existence in the past. His past records had been officially lost, including those of his supposed family, leaving a perfectly untraceable, yet legally unquestionable trail.

Computer technology was clearly child’s play to this man, or whatever he was. If he was capable of this, then logic would dictate that Shep could easily hack into any system he pleased, secure or not. So why hadn’t he? If his goal was indeed to destroy life, then why hadn’t he just tapped into a nuclear arsenal somewhere? Litner was of course glad that Shep had not chosen this route. The problem was he couldn’t understand why. Why, why, why?

Juliet came through the double doors and Litner jumped, spilling the contents of the file onto the bench beside him. So much for looking calm. He finished shuffling the papers back into his briefcase before he dared meet her eyes. Finally, he looked up at her. Her shoulder length hair was down today, so black it had a blue sheen, beautiful dark eyes studying him warily. Folder in one hand and a pen in the other, she nervously clicked the end with her thumb. Litner forced a smile. She smiled back but he didn’t like the look on her face. Her lips were pursed too tightly.

Clapping his hands together once, he leaned forward. “So Doc, what’s the damage? Am I going to make it?”

She sat down beside him, placing the folder on her lap with her hands resting on top of it. “Well Steven, as they say, I have good news and bad news.”

His heart galloped at the threat of the bad news. “Let’s hear the good news,” he said, struggling to make his face blank.

“All right,” she said, speaking softly as people do when they’re about to drop a bomb on your head. “As I suspected, this substance is not poisonous. Blood and urine came back normal. There are no visible toxins in your readings. So as far as I can tell, whatever this substance is, it won’t kill you or make you sick.”

“So I’ll live,” he said, unable to mask the relief he felt.

She nodded, smiling slightly. “You’ll live.”

He let out a brief sigh. “Okay Juliet. Let’s have the bad news.”

She looked down at her lap, appearing to gather her courage. “The test results did show one fluctuation. I still can’t figure out why it happened, but we’ve re-tested three times and the results are accurate.”

“What is it Juliet? Please, just tell me.”

She paused. “There was a drop in your sperm count.”

“My sperm count?”

“Yes. There was an abrupt drop after the second set of tests. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He shrugged. “What did it drop to?”

“Zero. You’re sterile, Steven.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

The kitchen at the Duvaine’s Forest Bluffs summer home had always been a point of awe for Patrick. It was enormously spacious, with a plethora of pane glass windows running along the upper wall facing the back yard. The early morning light streamed into the kitchen in soft beams of gold, eliciting a sense of well-being and comfort. He and Robin were prisoners, but even knowing this, it was a hard pill to swallow. Their confines hardly looked like a prison, with its hardwood floors, expensive rugs and private bedrooms. They were free to live like royalty in this glorious place, having everything they could possibly desire. Everything but freedom.

The two of them sat at the tile breakfast nook and sipped gourmet coffee. Robin turned toward the sound of shattering glass that echoed repeatedly from behind the closed sunroom door. It was the room Patrick had stumbled upon Shep and Klee’s “training” session. By the sounds of it, Klee was no longer melting things all over the floor.

“Now what the hell is that sound?” Robin asked, grimacing as she strained to hear.

“I believe that is Klee, learning to shatter things with his mind.”

“Charming.”

“Yes. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Joey came trouncing into the kitchen wearing one of his ridiculous ceremonial robes. This time it was a flowing purple number with a black satin trim. Robin’s eyes widened when she saw him. She claimed that she and Joey shared a nice chat the night before, telling Patrick she was convinced Joey could be redeemed from the influence of Shep. Patrick wondered if she’d feel the same way after hearing one of his sermons.

“Nice outfit, Joey,” she said, biting her lip to stifle a laugh.

Joey stumbled for the coffee. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I have to go out and have a little chat with my so-called followers. Kelinda is missing.”

“Missing? I thought you guys locked her in the den,” Robin said. “Listen to me. I’ve been here one night and already I sound as loony as the rest of you.”

Joey gave Robin a sideways glance that said he didn’t appreciate the comment. “Someone busted through the window last night,” Joey explained. “It was broken from the outside. Shep thinks the followers are hiding her somewhere.”

“Would they do that without consulting you?” Patrick asked. “You must be losing your edge.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Obrien.” He disappeared out the back sliding door. He was a strange sight indeed, a startlingly handsome young man in a purple priest’s robe with a backwards baseball cap and sneakers. The white coffee mug he carried was decorated with pink roses that spelled out the word ‘mother’.

“Hey, can we go outside? I never thought I could feel so restricted in a house this size,” Robin said.

“I hear you. Let’s go out on the deck.”

The spring air was fragrant and warm, but as always, it had an odd underlying scent. It was the smell of the crop. The strange burning rubber odor filled the air, even more now that the plants had been cut. Robin pulled the end of a lounge chair around, then stopped as a flurry of petals fell off the seat. “What the...” They both stared. The chair was completely covered with tiny yellow flowers, fresh, as though they’d been just picked. “What’s this all about?” Robin asked as the pile of flowers spilled onto the deck.

“It looks like Margol’s handy work,” Patrick said.

“Margol likes flowers?”

“No. Margol likes dead things. He dissects things and then leaves them on the deck to decay. We’re usually talking about woodland creatures. I’d be thrilled if he’s turned his attention to flowers.”

“I just can’t imagine the red-haired freak out picking buttercups.”

Patrick startled. “What did you say?”

“I said Margol is a freak.”

“No, what kind of flowers?”

Robin picked one up and twirled it between her index finger and her thumb. “Why they’re buttercups of course!” She held it under Patrick’s chin. “Do you like butter?”

He grabbed her hand. “Come on. We have to go for a walk in the woods.”

Robin let him drag her off the deck. “What’s wrong?”

“Margol didn’t leave those flowers. It’s a message. Litner’s scout has a code name. It’s Little Buttercup. Something must be up.”

Robin followed Patrick into the trees. “Well. It’s a good thing I was here, then. You’d have never gotten your message. You really didn’t know those were buttercups?”

“No, Robin, I don’t know my flowers. Does this mean it’s over between us?”

“I’ll let it slide if you get us the hell out of here soon.”

“I’m working on it. Come on. Follow me.”

Walsh stepped out from behind a tree, and Patrick had to cover Robin’s mouth to keep her from screaming. He’d forgotten to warn her about Walsh’s appearance. Walsh wore his token camo pants with a black tank top, long graying hair tied back into a braid. He smiled at Robin’s reaction.

“It’s all right Miss Duvaine,” he said. “I’m one of the good guys. Agent Walsh.”

Patrick let go of Robin’s mouth and she breathed a long sigh, placing her hand to her chest. “Robin. Nice to meet you.”

“Litner wants me to deliver this message in person. Come with me, both of you,” Walsh said.

Neither questioned him, they simply followed along a semi-beaten path. The mention of Agent Litner’s name had left them stoically silent.

Walsh stopped alongside a pile of brush and sticks. He kicked at the twigs and leaves on the ground, spreading them out to reveal a metal lever attached to a flattened wooden door. Walsh pulled up on the lever and a beam of dusty daylight shone down, revealing a set of wooden steps leading into the earth. “Wow. What the hell is this?” Patrick asked.

“I think it used to be a bomb shelter,” Walsh said. “I just discovered it was here early this morning. Two of those curly-headed clowns went down here to check it out. They were looking for that girl with the pink hair. She ain’t down there though.”

Robin looked at Walsh. “Do you know where Kelinda is?”

“I saw them last night,” Walsh said, scratching the back of his head as his eyes darted at the trees around them. “They came out of the fields, five of em. They broke a window downstairs and pulled the girl out. They’ve got her hidden somewhere beyond the property line.”

“Do you ever sleep?” Patrick asked.

“Don’t have time to sleep. Come on. Follow me.” Agent Walsh stepped down into the hole in the earth and they followed. Patrick lowered the door down on top of him and it was pitch black. Agent Walsh pulled a flimsy string attached to an overhead bulb and the place flooded with a dull light. They came to the bottom of the dusty wooden steps into a storage area. The floor was earthen.

Walsh turned to faced them, the lines around his eyes softer in the dim light. “I heard from Litner. He’s gotten the results of the crop analysis. We’re pulling you out. It’s going to happen fast. Before the end of the week.”

Patrick let out a sigh of relief, then the apprehension returned. “What did they find in the crop?”

“Let’s just say if that crop reaches its destination, the global population is going to drop dramatically in the very near future.”

“Are you saying it’ll kill people?” Robin asked softly.

“No,” Walsh said. “Prevent them from ever being born.”

Patrick gasped. “Sterilization?”

Walsh nodded. “If we don’t stop its distribution. Litner’s organized a team and a plan is in the works. We’ll confiscate the drums of crop and get you two out at the same time. I’m going to send a signal to you on the night of the siege. Be ready.”

“What kind of signal?” Patrick asked.

“Gun shots. Coming from the direction of that old brown house next door. Shep will think it’s me, his old buddy the veteran come back to cause trouble. With any luck, he’ll go over to check it out. He wants me dead something awful and his anger will win out over his caution. I’m aware of his unusual strength, so don’t think I’m going to try wrestling him. I’ll get him locked in.”

“He’s really strong,” Patrick said.

“I’m aware. But at the very least, a trap will give him a challenge, give us time. That’s when we get you two out. You’ve got to find a way to get Joey Duvaine out to the guest house with you. As soon as you hear the shots, that’s where you head, to the guest house. Litner will be there waiting for you. Do you understand?”

“How are we going to get Joey to come with us?” Robin asked.

“I’m afraid that’s up to you. You all know him better than I do. Can you do it?”

“Well find a way,” Patrick said. “We’ll figure something out.” He’d drag Joey by the hair if he had to. “What happens next?”

“If all goes as planned, our team takes control of the guest house and the trucks, confiscates the crop, and gets the hell out before Shep knows what hit him.”

“What’s going to happen to Shep and the brothers?” Robin asked. “Are you gonna arrest them?”

“Litner doesn’t want to risk it until the crop is safely away. The plan is to take Joey Duvaine only, avoiding a direct confrontation with Shepherd until we get what we want.”

“Did you shoot Joey?” Patrick asked suddenly.

Walsh met his eyes. “Pardon?”

“Joey got shot in the shoulder at a barbecue. Shep said the crazy vet did it. Is it true? Did you take a sniper shot at him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To keep him on the property. They had him going out to the store and the beach and whatnot before that happened. I needed to scare the sons of bitches so they would keep Joey on the land where I could watch him. It worked. He only left the property once after that to go to that nightclub, and I was there, as you recall.”

“But you shot him!” Patrick said. “You could have missed and hit his head, or a vital organ!”

“No, I couldn’t have,” he said.

“You’re telling me that there’s no chance whatsoever that you could have accidentally aimed just an inch to the left and killed him?”

“No chance.”

“You’re that good a shot, are you?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

Patrick was out of comebacks. “Well…don’t do it again. I feel everything that happens to Joey, and that really hurt.” Walsh just nodded. Patrick breathed deeply and coughed. “Okay Walsh, what’s the bottom line? I need to get out of this cellar. I have claustrophobia and the dust is making me sick.”

“The siege will happen some evening this week. I wish I could be more specific but I just can’t. There are still a few details to be worked out, and I have to do some sneaking around tonight to set up for Litner’s plan B.”

“His plan B? You mean if the shit hits the fan while you all try to take the crops?”

“Exactly. Litner is aware that a thousand things could go wrong. The prime directive is to make sure those crops don’t leave the property unless it’s under our control. We hope to take the product with us, but if that’s not possible then the crop must be destroyed, right then and there.”

Robin winced. “Destroyed? You’re going to blow shit up, aren’t you?”

“We are going to destroy the product, yes, but only if there is no other choice.”

“So you might have to blow shit up,” Patrick added.

Agent Walsh shrugged. “Yes. We may end up...blowing shit up.”

Patrick was wary. It didn’t sound solid. Aside from Shep and the brothers, they also had sixty Joey-loving zombies whose sole purpose, aside from worshiping Joey, was to guard those crops. No, this was not going to be easy at all.

Later that night, Patrick tossed and turned in his bed. Part of his sleeplessness was caused by his subconscious waiting for the sound of gunshots, but part of it was a nagging question. How would his own conscience handle deceiving Shep on a larger scale, like this potential raid? Or more viscerally, Shep’s potential capture—even if it was just to delay him, as Walsh suggested.

After everything, Patrick was amazed to feel a twinge of guilt at the prospect. More than a twinge, if he was being honest. He knew what was at stake, knew what the crop could do. And yet, a part of him wanted to stop the raid from happening, to warn Shep and beg him to call everything off.

Beg him to just try to live as a normal person, with no ancient vendettas. To just be Shep, Patrick’s friend again. Pathetic. I’m pathetic. No wonder he chose me. I’m a damn chump, gullible to the core. Or was it the blood? He’d always been loyal to his friends, but that was before he knew they’d done horrible shit. That loyalty should not still be intact, so maybe the bonding had something to do with it. Or maybe he was trying to justify his emotional weakness.

Patrick’s ambivalence was likely not helped by spending time with Shep earlier that evening—a bad idea if ever he’d made one. Shep asked him to play pool in the game room, and Patrick acquiesced, mainly out of boredom. Shep made margaritas, and Joey joined them. Before he knew it, he was laughing, enjoying their company, their crass humor. It was comfortable, familiar, and it made Patrick want to weep. Even as he knew he was being manipulated, he fell too easily into the old banter, the camaraderie, and the feeling of unconditional acceptance the friendship used to evoke.

Passing around a joint in the game room, smelling the familiar coconut scent of Shep’s shampoo as he leaned in to share a joke, it was disturbingly easy to forget Shep was a murderer, an abomination, and that he was going to get what was coming to him. He’d brought this on himself. Patrick had simply helped the process along by agreeing to work with the FBI. He was doing the right thing. So why did he feel like a shit? He wished his affection for Shep and Joey would hurry up and dissipate. It would be nice to have it gone before he betrayed them.

Giving in to the insomnia, he left his bed and made his way down to the kitchen for water. He was about to round the bottom of the darkened staircase when someone grabbed his arm. “Obrien.”

He spun about, stumbling, and looked into Margol’s cold green eyes. “Margol?”

As far as he could remember, Margol had never initiated a conversation with him. Hell, the creepy redhead rarely spoke at all. Now he looked at Patrick directly, and Patrick saw that rare yet unmistakable shine in those eyes. It was the same shine he’d seen in Juris’s eyes as he sat tied to a chair in Carbone’s basement—intelligence. A quality they all had, yet masked so well that it was easy to overlook. Patrick’s blood chilled. It was like finding out a pet could talk.

“What is it, Margol?”

Margol pushed him gently and Patrick had to walk backwards. Before he knew it, they were standing in the dining room to the right of the front door, away from prying eyes. “You may have Shepherd fooled, but you can’t fool me.”

“Margol what is this? What are you talking about?”

“Shep doesn’t see it because he doesn’t want to see it. But I see it. And I smell it. You stink, Obrien.”

“I stink?”

Margol’s eyes were fierce and angry, his voice a deep throaty whisper. “You stink of deception.”

Patrick went cold. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can I go back to bed now?”

Margol circled him like a cat. “I see you, Obrien. I see the lie. It radiates from you like a vapor.”

Fear tightened his throat, but he tried to keep his voice steady. “Margol, cut the crap, I’m not in the mood to play.”

“I’m watching you, Obrien. And the girl too. If you think she’s going to leave Shepherd and be with you, you’re fooling yourself.”

Patrick struggled to mask his shock. It wasn’t easy. He forced out a phony, high pitched laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous! Robin and I are friends. Why would I want her to leave Shep?”

Margol grinned like a mad doll. He took a step forward, forcing Patrick further into the darkened dining room. “Poor Patrick Obrien. You just can’t seem to hold on to a woman. Kelinda. Robin. They’d all rather be with your friends. They’d all rather be with somebody better. Somebody smarter. Somebody more interesting than you. You bore the women you love. You bore your friends. You even bore me.”

“Get away from me.” His voice sounded small and breathy with fear. “Step back, Margol, I mean it.”

“I am smaller in size, yet I frighten you. Why is that? Tell me, Obrien. Do you know what we are?”

Patrick stared at him, saying nothing.

“Ah,” Margol hissed venomously. “You do know. Then it is as I thought. What a burden that knowledge must be. How frightened you must feel.” Margol reached out and stroked Patrick’s cheek.

Patrick jumped back as if he’d been stung. “Don’t touch me!”

Margol laughed. “Do not worry. It is not a contagious condition.”

“If you’re so convinced I’m this traitor why wouldn’t you tell Shep?”

“Because I love my brother. For whatever unfathomable reason, he wants you to be part of our family. Shepherd is all that matters to me, and I will do my best to shield him from such unpleasantness as this. I’d rather take care of this problem myself, so that he may concentrate on more important things. So let me warn you.” Margol grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him in close. “If either one of you, you or the girl, do anything to hurt my brother…I’m going to tear you open and pull your intestines out. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

He let go of Patrick, giving him a shove. Patrick spilled backward and landed on his back underneath the shiny oak table. By the time he’d crawled out and gotten to his feet, Margol was gone.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The two guards sat playing cards at a fold-out table in the dank little room. Juris stared at them from his place in the corner. He’d have thought Litner underestimated him, leaving him under the guard of these two clowns, if not for the multiple layers of thick shackles that had been added to his wrists and ankles. Of course, he had other talents they didn’t know about, talents no chains could restrict.

He was still tied to the same chair from Father Carbone’s place. The lawmen had been afraid to risk untying him. He wondered what Litner told them. The two rejects guarding him now clearly had no idea who he even was. They’d been hired to babysit, and they were not taking the job seriously.

He glared at them from his corner of the room, knowing his gaze was unnerving. The little one kept stealing wary glances at him. He had thick black hair with a bushy unkempt mustache beneath a stumpy little nose. His eyes were beady and seemed to suck back into his face. Juris found him repulsive. He could tell by the smell of the man that he ate mostly meat. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when the little man’s beady eyes fell upon him.

“Hey, what are you looking at, freak?”

“A dead man,” Juris answered.

The two guards laughed and continued their card game. The second was a tall, thick blond of about thirty-five. He laughed at all the little one’s nasty jokes, but his eyes were kind and soft, unlike his cohort, who looked like he wanted to punish someone just for the fun of it. Juris could not believe the lawmen had left these two incompetents to guard him. But they relied on the power of their iron chains and steel wire to keep him subdued.

Everything was physical to humans. It was all about the body. Little did they know that their bodies were the weakest part of them, an afterthought to house their true essence, an essence they ignored. They’d rather chomp on dismembered cows and pull on their own sexual organs than explore the power of their mind and spirit.

Juris’s strength was slowly increasing as time passed. He could feel it, but he hadn’t been able to test it. He wasn’t sure that he could break through the thick linked chains before the idiot guards could get to him. It would be another couple of days before he could be confident that he had enough physical strength.

But he didn’t have a couple of days. He’d heard the whispers of the lawmen who’d come to reinforce his restraints. They were planning a siege on Forest Bluffs. He needed to get out of there now so he could warn Shepherd. And he would get out. Tonight. All he needed was to get close enough to incapacitate one of them. The other he could deal with alone.

Since he was himself incapacitated, he would need one of the guards to come to him. All he had to do was get one of them to stand up and walk across the room, within ten feet. He chose the little one. He was obviously a loose cannon with an inferiority complex. Juris was sure he could taunt him to the point of fury. He stared hard at the side of the man’s head, sending out tiny electric pulses, just enough to make him uneasy and feel Juris’s stare. It worked. The guard turned to look at Juris again. “Hey, Blondie! I asked you stop staring at me!”

“Why don’t you come and make me,” Juris answered calmly.

The smaller guard looked at his partner, pointing a thumb in Juris’s direction. “Get a load of this guy. Hey, you talk pretty tough for a guy in shackles.”

“And you talk pretty tough for a short, impotent cocksucker,” Juris responded.

He had heard that particular insult on a television program that Shep made him watch during his training. Shep wanted them to get used to the language and phraseology of the Americans. If it had the desired effect, the little man should be significantly insulted.

It seemed to have worked. The short man with the mustache stood from the card table and started toward Juris. “Let it go, Stanley. It ain’t worth it,” the big blond one said. The little man stopped, then returned to his seat grumbling. Juris was disappointed.

As he sat down, the guard pointed at Juris. “You’d better keep your mouth shut, Goldilocks! I don’t know why the feds think you’re so dangerous, but I’ll tell you what. I’m not scared of you, so watch your mouth!”

Stanley the guard went back to his card game, thinking he’d gotten the better of Juris. Juris racked his brain for an insult potent enough to force the guard to approach him. He was not as practiced at this sort of thing as his brother. Shepherd was proficient at colorful insults. Juris tried to recall things he’d heard Shep say that had set off people’s anger. It needed to be something offensive enough to warrant a beating. Finally, he thought he had it.

“Hey Stanley, what is that thing on your face?” Juris asked.

The guard sneered at him, then looked at his big blond partner. “Hey Chuck, the freak sounds like a foreigner, don’t he? Where you from, freak?”

Juris repeated the question. “What is that thing on your face, under your nose?”

The little man threw his cards angrily down on the table. “It’s a mustache, you idiot! Haven’t you ever seen a mustache before?”

“Yes,” Juris said. “I saw one of those on your mother the other night, but she was putting pants over it.”

The big blond guard spit his coffee out as he broke into peals of laughter. Stanley looked at his friend furiously. “Yeah, real funny Chuck. Real funny. Encourage the freak why don’t you.”

Chuck continued to laugh. “I’m sorry Stanley. It was funny!”

Stanley stood again and pointed a stubby finger at Juris. “You’d better shut your mouth!”

“Sit down Stanley,” Chuck said, still laughing. “The guy’s just baiting you.”

“Yes, Stanley,” Juris said. “Listen to your boyfriend over there. I’m just baiting you.”

Chuck’s smile dropped at the boyfriend comment. Nothing like questioning the sexuality of a heterosexual man to get a reaction. “Gag him,” the big blond said coldly. “I’ve heard enough of his voice too.”

“My pleasure!” Stanley grabbed a roll of duct tape from a shelf near the wall.

Bingo. Come to me, Juris thought. Come to me.

Stanley walked slowly across the room toward Juris. Juris quieted his mind and felt the tingling as he summoned his energy. He focused all of it on a tiny point in the center of the little man’s forehead, trying to remember everything Shep taught him in their training sessions.

Stanley was grinning as he strode forward, twirling a roll of duct tape around his index finger. Juris waited, silently urging him to come closer. The guard was about nine feet away when Juris released his mind and sent a wave of pure energy crashing at Stanley’s forehead. Stanley stopped walking and dropped the tape. His eyes widened and he placed both hands on his head. “Ah!” was all he managed to say.

He was still standing when his skull exploded, sending splatters of blood, brain, and shattered bone fragments across the floor and on to the walls. With nothing but a few strands of gore and a piece of spine sticking out of his neck, Stanley’s body dropped to the floor.

The blond guard was still seated at the little fold out table. A fan of playing cards fell elegantly from his hand onto the floor as his mouth opened to a perfect circle. A tiny whimpering sound was coming from somewhere deep within him, like a scream trapped in a closet. He appeared too shocked to move, fingers still curled in the card-holding position.

“Chuck? I would like you to stand up and come unlock these chains,” Juris ordered. Chuck didn’t move. His eyes were glued to what was left of Stanley’s ruptured head. “Oh, Chucky? Did you not hear me?”

The big man looked at Juris with blind terror. He blessed himself and scrambled out of the chair with all intentions of bolting for the door. Juris felt his inner power awakened now, pulsing beneath his flesh, waiting for another outlet. He waited until Chuck had his hand on the doorknob, then mentally threw himself against it. The knob slipped from Chuck’s hand as the door slammed shut in front of him. The big guard wiggled the knob desperately, making high pitched sounds. Finally accepting that the door was not going to open, he went still. Slowly, he turned around and looked at Juris, face tight in a grimace of fear. His hand started to trail to his hip.

“I wouldn’t touch that gun if I were you, Chuck. That would upset me.”

“Please,” the guard said in a shaking voice. “Please don’t kill me. I have a child.”

“I have no desire to kill you, Chuck. I simply desire to be free of these restraints. So come on over here and unlock these shackles, or I’ll be forced to do to you what I did to Stanley here.”

Chuck’s eyes flicked to Stanley’s decapitated form. The seepage of blood nearly covered the entire floor. He walked forward slowly, trying to step around the blood, which was nearly impossible. He tiptoed daintily along the edge of the wall where the blood had not yet reached. In a whisper, he prayed as he approached, “Blessed art though amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

He got within a foot of Juris and stopped. He was trembling, his pink face a sheen of sweat. “The handcuffs first,” Juris said. Chuck pulled a ring of keys off his belt and began fumbling through them with shaking hands. He dropped them once, but finally found what he was looking for. He moved behind Juris and unlocked the cuffs, then the shackles that bound his wrists, then unwound the connecting chain. It dropped to the floor with a loud clank. Juris flexed his wrists. He looked down. “The ankles now.”

Chuck did not hesitate. He came quickly around front and unlocked Juris’s ankles, removing that chain as well. He looked at the steel ropes that still bound Juris’s legs. “I’ll need to go get the wire cutters for these,” he said.

Juris smiled. “That won’t be necessary.” He flattened his arms to his sides, took a deep breath, and snapped the wires. He did the same with his legs, and the wires broke with a ping and fell to the floor. He was free. He stood from the chair and stretched his back.

Chuck gaped at him. “What the hell are you?”

Juris smiled. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

“Does this mean that you…you…won’t kill me?”

Juris thought about this as he bent his neck and cracked his knuckles. “No, I’m not going to kill you, Chuck. We had an agreement. I keep my word. I will have to knock you unconscious, however.”

Chuck swallowed hard. “Fair enough.”

Juris swung a fist at Chuck, connecting with his cheekbone. Chuck dropped to the floor like a sack. Juris felt around on his neck for a pulse. The guard was still alive. That was fine. He had no apprehensions about leaving Chuck alive. By the time someone found him, Juris would be long gone. Besides, Chuck had laughed at his joke.

Juris stepped around the carnage as he made his way to the door of the dusty little room. He was expecting more guards to be standing just outside, but when he opened the door, there was no one. He was in some sort of empty warehouse. He crept quietly through the place until he found an exit. Running a hand over his head, he felt wetness, and realized his hair was sprinkled with flecks of Stanley’s blood. He turned to examine a pile of junk left on a rickety set of shelves, grabbing a discarded baseball cap. Pulling the cap onto his head, he opened the door, stepping out into the early evening air.

He breathed deeply. He had to get to Shep, but first, he had a quick bit of unfinished business of his own. It would only take a moment’s detour. He did not like being held captive. In fact, it was his least favorite thing. He had been imprisoned once before, and it had lasted for over two thousand years. Somebody was going to pay for putting him through it again.

Tucking his tell-tale platinum curls up under the baseball cap, he made his way down the city street, blending in with the pedestrians, scowling as he read the signs. He was not within walking distance of his destination, so he hailed a cab, something he’d never done before. The driver smelled like onions, and Juris realized that he was hungry. His stomach could wait.

“Where to?” the driver asked him.

“Saint Mary’s Church,” he said. “Drive fast.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Copie cut the vegetables on a wooden carving board while Father Carbone cranked the handle of his pasta-making machine. Tiny tubes of linguini oozed through the holes. The priest glanced over at Copie. “You have to dice those onions very fine, Copie.”

“Yes, I know how to dice onions, your holiness. I may not be an Italian goomba like you, but I have done some cooking in my time.”

Carbone raised his hands. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. I didn’t know if you’d made sauce before.”

“You think I don’t know how to make sauce because I’m black. Is that it?”

“Yes, Copie. You figured me out. I believe you to be culinarily challenged due to your racial origins.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Their spirits were up for the first time in weeks. The meal was in celebration of a call they received from Agent Litner. If Litner’s predictions were correct, then they would all have their lives back soon. Though they were still worried about Patrick and Robin, they had faith in Litner’s abilities to get them out safely. Or rather, Father Carbone had faith. Copie merely took the priest’s word for it.

A metal clanging sound echoed from somewhere outside, like a barrel knocked over. The two looked at each other. “What the hell was that?” Copie asked, wide-eyed.

Father Carbone put down the scissors. “It’s probably a raccoon. Tis the season.”

“I just put those veal scraps out in the barrel,” Copie said. “Maybe they’re after those.”

“Did you wrap them in plastic like I asked you to?” Copie looked down, whistling. “Copie!” Carbone snapped.

“Well, I might have forgotten to wrap them up.”

Carbone shook his head. “I’d better go clean up the mess and chase away the varmints. There’s probably trash all over the lawn by now.”

Father Carbone grabbed a broom and a rubber glove and disappeared out the screen door. Copie hopped off his stool and danced around the kitchen to the Italian music playing on the stereo. He sang, inventing his own words. “Chela luna cacciatore Goomba uses too much garlic…la la la la la la la la he’s a chasin a raccoon!” The phone rang. It was the secured burner phone Agent Litner had left them. Copie jumped for it enthusiastically. It didn’t sound like much, but when you were supposed to be dead, any contact with the outside world was a treat. Even if it was the FBI.

“Hello? Carbone’s kitchen.”

“Copie, it’s Litner. Listen to me very carefully. I want you and Father Carbone to stay inside the house with the doors locked. I’m coming by to pick you up.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Juris has escaped.”

Copie’s hands went numb and he almost dropped the phone. “Es-escaped?” he whispered.

“Yes, and he has some sort of weapon. I’ve got one dead guard and another who took a blow to the head. Now don’t panic, Copie. I honestly don’t believe he would risk going back to Saint Mary’s, but we can’t be sure. Where’s Carbone? Put him on the phone.”

“Father Carbone just went outside to chase a raccoon…oh shit!”

“Call him back inside!” Litner yelled. “Call him back in the house now. If he doesn’t answer you after a couple of calls, close the door and lock it. Do you hear me, Copie?”

Copie dropped the phone and ran to the door in a panic. “Carbone!” he yelled out through the screen. He paused then shouted again. “Father Carbone! Where are you?” Still no response.

His eyes scanned the yard fearfully. It wasn’t full dark yet. He should have been able to see the priest. He glanced over at the trash barrels. They were upright and covered as he’d left them. Father Carbone was nowhere in sight. Copie closed the door and locked it. He ran and picked up the phone. “Litner?”

“Copie what’s going on?”

“Carbone’s not answering. He’s not answering, man! Where the hell did he go? You’ve got to come over, Litner! I’m scared!”

“Take it easy. Just stay put. Do not answer the door and stay away from the windows. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Litner hung up on him and Copie let the phone drop. He backed up into the center of the kitchen, his eyes darting around at the windows. “Sure. I’ll just stay put,” he said, trying desperately to calm himself. “Just stay put. Yeah. Litner will be here in ten. Everything’s fine. It’s cool.”

The front door burst inward in an explosion of wood and glass, as though it had been hit with an atomic battering ram. Copie dropped to the floor and covered his head. When the debris stopped falling, he looked up through a haze of dust.

Juris stood in the shattered hole where the door had been. He looked surreal as a wind whipped at his hair and clothing while he remained perfectly still. His platinum curls were dotted with tiny red flecks that looked like blood. Copie swallowed hard, frozen where he crouched.

Juris grinned down at him. “Hello young one. How have you been?”

Copie grimaced as he forced out a squeaky answer. “Fine. You?”

“Never better. What do you say we go for a little ride? We have some…catching up to do.”

Chapter Fifty

It was the evening sermon. Robin looked on in horror at the slack faces of the star-struck followers as Joey spewed his emphatic ramblings of meaningless rhetoric. Patrick watched her, silently amused as her eyes darted from Joey’s face to the crowd huddled before him in awe. Joey was a priest, a rock star, a teacher, and a god. He was the king of bullshit.

“And now the time has come, that the words which have fallen on us alone will be made to pass. You, children of the time to come and the passing of the old world, will see from thy hands the storm that passes like a wind of truth.”

The followers shouted “Amen.”

Robin leaned into Patrick. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“Nobody knows. Not even him. Amusing, isn’t it?”

“Not the word I’d use. Is he sleeping with all of them? I mean, I’d heard my cousin was good in bed, but…”

“Not sex. It’s the power to enchant. Like Wesley said.”

Robin looked at Patrick. “That shit is for real?”

“Just look at them.” Some of the followers had tears in their eyes. “What do you think?”

“I think I have seriously underestimated just how badly Shep has fucked Joey up,” she whispered.

Shep looked over at them from where he stood on the right side of Joey. Robin leaned back away from Patrick, but Shep’s suspicious gaze lingered on them. Shep’s gaze didn’t rattle Patrick as it had when he’d first arrived. In fact, he’d gotten used to a lot of things out here at the Forest Bluffs home for wandering lunatics. But now he had a new fear.

Margol scared the living shit out of him. Margol knew too much. So on top of everything, Patrick had to worry about getting his intestines pulled out. He had a flash image in his mind of Margol sitting comfortably on a deck chair while he delicately picked apart Patrick’s corpse.

And there was an added tension evident in him and Robin now, an extra stiffness to their shoulders. They were waiting for the signal. The sound of Agent Walsh’s gunshots.

They’d come up with a half-assed plan to get Joey out to the guest house when the time came. It was not a good plan, but neither of them could think of a better one. When the gunshots sounded, Patrick would tell Joey he’d only be safe in the guest house. He would behave desperately, be persistent and incorrigible, acting pained as though the blood pact was guiding his decision. Joey would have no choice but to take Patrick’s word for it.

The followers formed their now familiar line and came forth to have Joey touch each of their heads. Regardless of Kelinda’s suspected coup, the followers did not seem any less enchanted with Joey than they ever had. Patrick was just glad the sermon was over. With luck it would be the last one he’d ever have to witness.

A shiver of fear and apprehension gripped him. He held Litner in high regard, to the point of near worship in his admiration of the seemingly unstoppable tough guy. Yet he was still skeptical as to whether or not the stoic agent could outsmart Shep. And if someone as smart as Agent Litner couldn’t outsmart Shep, what chance did Patrick have?

With the sermon ended, the small company walked back up to the house. Klee had missed the sermon, Shep having ordered him to stay behind and ‘practice his strengths’ while they were gone. Russell had also missed the sermon, and no one mentioned his absence. Patrick knew it was because Russell had taken his advice and split town. He wondered how long it would take Shep to notice Russell was gone, or if he ever would. Patrick envied Russell. He wished he could just walk out of here and not be missed.

It was almost full night, but the brightness still clung to the earth in a blue twilight. As they were nearing the house, Klee came bounding out the back door, sprinting like a crippled deer toward the group, his white hair a beacon in the falling darkness. “Zirub! I mean Shepherd!” he screamed across the field.

Patrick and Robin risked a glance at each other.

“Shepherd!” Klee’s voice was a high-pitched squeal edged with laughter. He was clearly delighted about something as he came stumbling up, stopping in front of them and doubling over with his hands on his knees.

Margol held Klee’s arm as he struggled to catch his breath. “What’s wrong, little brother?”

“What is it Klee?” Shep asked.

Still panting, Klee smiled up at Shep, his boyish face lit with joy. “It is Juris. He is back. My brother Juris is back!”

Icy fear weakened Patrick’s legs then spread to his entire body. Robin went very still beside him.

“What?” Shep beamed, then began running toward the house. “Juris!”

Allisto and Margol followed behind him. “Juris!” Allisto screamed in delight as they chased Shep up to the house.

Klee turned to Patrick and Robin. “Come Patrick! Come Robin! You will meet my brother Juris. You will love my brother Juris!” Klee took off, leaving Patrick and Robin cemented in their tracks.

“Oh, joy,” Joey said sarcastically, then moved off more slowly toward the house, leaving the two of them finally alone.

Robin grabbed Patrick’s arm. “We have to get out of here. We have to run! Now!”

Patrick took her by the shoulders. “I can’t leave, Robin. It’s physically impossible for me to leave without Joey. You go. Find Litner and tell him what’s happened.”

“No! I’m not going by myself. They’ll kill you!”

“Robin, I can’t leave. Find Agent Litner. Tell him Juris escaped.”

She shook her head adamantly. “If Juris escaped then Litner already knows. He’ll come for us! He’ll come for us right away, won’t he?”

Patrick looked into her terrified blue eyes and knew he’d give his life to keep her from harm. The thought quieted the fear for his own safety, and a calm fell over him. “You have to go Robin. I’ll be fine.”

“I won’t leave you. We’re in this together.”

“Juris is going to tell Shep about us. He’s going to tell Shep everything.”

Robin took a deep breath. “Then I suppose we’d better go face the music.”

“Robin please!”

“We can stall, Patrick. You know Shep. It will take him a while to digest the information. Then he’ll spend hours trying to figure out what to do with us. It will buy us time. Agent Litner will come for us. He promised to get us out of here! You heard Agent Walsh. He promised.”

“That was before this, Robin. I’m sure they didn’t figure on this. Juris being free means Litner’s team no longer has the element of surprise. Their plans may have changed.”

“Not about rescuing us! That hasn’t changed, I’m sure of it. I have faith in Agent Litner. And I won’t leave without you.”

Patrick did not share that faith, not fully, but he could see that it was all she was clinging to. “Okay. Let’s go. We stay strong, yeah? Bluff if we can. If not, say as little as possible.”

Robin glanced up at the house. “I usually have better luck arguing with Shep if I keep asking questions until he loses his temper.”

“Not this time,” Patrick said. “This is bigger than both of us. The only thing we know for certain is Shep’s going to lose his shit on us. We stay strong. We stay in control. And we wait for Walsh’s signal.”

A shudder ran through Robin’s body, but she nodded. “The signal will still come, right?”

“I’m sure it will,” he lied. “Let’s go.”

It was a crazy scene in the kitchen when Patrick and Robin walked through the back door. All of the brothers, Shep included, were huddled in a sort of pig pile on the kitchen floor, hugging, squealing, and crying. All Patrick could see was a montage of limbs, tie-dyed shirts, and different colored curls.

Joey watched the spectacle with crossed arms, looking bored. Finally, the huddle started to break apart and Patrick spotted Juris in the mass. Klee clung to him, a clone with his matching platinum hair. “Now we are five!” Klee said.

“As it should be,” Juris answered, taking Klee’s head in his hands lovingly. He kissed the tears on Klee’s cheeks.

Having regained his composure, Shep brushed himself off and backed away from the huddle. Juris stood straight and approached Shep, standing at attention before him like a loyal soldier awaiting a command. He was clearly subordinate to Shep, yet Juris had a confidence that surpassed the other brothers. Patrick understood something then that he hadn’t before. Juris was second in command. If Shep were to ever remove himself from this little group, Juris would surely be the boss.

But right now, he faced Shep with open respect and humility. “Where were you, Juris?” Shep asked.

“I see that you got Klee through unharmed,” Juris said. “My compliments. I’ve been so worried.”

“Klee is fine. Where were you, Juris?”

Juris didn’t seem at all pressured to answer Shep’s question until he was damn good and ready. He looked away from Shep and his green eyes scanned the company of the room, finally coming to rest on Patrick and Robin. He smiled coldly. “Well. Hail, Hail. The gang’s all here,” he said. Patrick’s stomach did a flip.

Frustrated, Shep took Juris by the shoulders. “Answer me when I ask a question! Have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten your place?” Shep leaned his forehead against Juris’s. It was an odd gesture that Patrick had seen the brothers do often, as though they were directly driving their thoughts into the other’s skull. Shep’s dirty blond curls looked nearly brown next to Juris’s white ones.

Juris pushed Shep off of him. Patrick was shocked, having never seen one of the brothers dare to even look at Shep with defiance. Shep did not react. Apparently, Juris was allowed such luxuries. “You know not what I have been through! I was a prisoner! I was held captive! I was restrained and kept from my freedom!”

Shep’s face softened. “Oh my poor dear.” He reached out and Juris flinched, perhaps thinking Shep was going to strike him. Instead, Shep took Juris’s face in his hands and gently cradled it. “My poor, poor dear.” Shep leaned in and kissed Juris on the mouth. Tears streamed down Juris’s cheeks as he kissed Shep back. There was nothing sexual about this kiss, but there was such love and feeling behind it that the room went still.

Shep took a step back then, his face serious. “Who did this to you, and please tell me that they no longer breathe this earth’s air.”

“It was a priest,” Juris said.

“I knew it!” Shep said. “I saw it in a vision. Tell me, who was this priest? Was it Father Bello of Saint Christopher’s?”

Juris shook his head. “No, not him.” He walked over to Margol and reached out, brushing a strand of red hair back from his face. “I felt it when he hurt you. I felt it, Margol, but I could offer you no help. I was trapped.” Margol nodded, falling back into his trademark silence. Juris turned back to Shepherd. “It was Father Carbone of Saint Mary’s. The one you said was so harmless when we began this. The one whose church you chose for the project.”

Shep stepped forward. “Father Carbone? That little Italian fireplug? You’ve got to be kidding me! Is he dead? Please tell me he’s dead.”

Patrick heard Robin inhale sharply. Juris heard it too. He looked directly at Robin and said, “No, he is not dead. He is in the basement. His freedoms are restrained. I wish for him to experience what I did.”

Shep’s jaw dropped and he shoved Juris. Juris slammed against the back wall of the kitchen. “You brought a priest into this house? Have you gone mad, Juris? It could bring the Schlarr or worse! Idiot!”

Juris glared. “The priest needs to be punished! At my will!”

Shep stormed toward Juris, who flinched but did not turn his head as Shep slapped him hard across the face. Klee ran to the corner and began to cry. “Have you lost your mind?” Shep asked through clenched teeth. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Allisto piped up now. “You know better than to bring a priest here, brother!”

Juris threw his head back. Placing his hands on the sides of his face, he shrieked that animalistic sound that made Patrick’s flesh crawl. Turning on Allisto now, Juris jabbed a finger into his chest. “They held me captive under a church, Allisto! A Schlarr came for me! A Schlarr came!”

There was a group gasp among the brothers, Shep included. Juris nodded. “That’s right. A Schlarr came. It attacked me. It scratched my face.” Juris trailed his fingers along a thin, fading mark along his cheek.

“You brain dead fuck,” Shep said. “A Schlarr came to his church. And knowing this, you bring him here, into this house? You threaten us all! I want you to get that priest out of here right now! Kill him if you have to, but get rid of him.”

Patrick took a step forward but Robin grabbed his forearm, holding him back. Juris turned and looked at Patrick. “We have much more to discuss, Zirub.”

Shep’s jaw dropped. “Do not call me by that name. Have you lost all your senses?”

“The boy is alive,” Juris said, turning back to Shep.

Shep froze. “What boy?”

“The boy who had the photographs.”

Patrick felt a tangible energy building in the kitchen. Juris was taking his time exposing them, savoring the moment, toying with them. Patrick could feel the chaos getting ready to erupt like a volcano, and he was right in the line of fire.

Shep grabbed Juris by the wrist. “Be quiet now. Stop talking. Obrien, could you and Robin go upstairs? My brother Juris is confused about things. I need to speak to him in private.”

Juris began to laugh. He turned his steely gaze onto Patrick, pure hatred in his eyes. The moment had come. “You need not send these two away, brother, and you need not censor your conversation for their sake,” Juris said. “Patrick and Robin know everything.”

Shep shook his head, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Pointing a long finger at Patrick, Juris shouted, “Here are your betrayers, Zirub! They mean to destroy you! They plot against you as we speak!”

Shep turned and stared at Patrick, then at Robin. His face was a combination of surprise and disbelief. He laughed and looked back at Juris. “Not possible.” Juris just nodded. Shep turned back and stared at Robin, his mouth curving into a frown. “That’s not possible,” he repeated.

Robin laughed forcefully. “Shepherd, what the hell is he talking about?”

Patrick caught her vibe. Maybe, just maybe, they could convince Shep that Juris was delusional, straight off his rocker. Could Powers become insane? Sure they could. Just look at Shep. Juris continued to point and scream. “These two are your enemies, Zirub! Your lover and your best friend! They were at the church where I was held. They have spoken with the lawmen! They were even in the cave the night the Klee was born.”

Allisto looked shocked while Margol smiled smugly. The room fell silent. Shep drifted over to Patrick, his face a mask of uncertainty. “Obrien? Is Juris telling me the truth?”

His voice cracked at the end, and Patrick’s heart sank. He’d expected rage, not tears. Trying with all his might to make his mind go blank, he answered, “I don’t know what he’s talking about, Shep. Your brother Juris is quite obviously insane.”

Shep’s eyes narrowed and shifted back and forth rapidly, like he was reading a message printed on Patrick’s face. He took a step closer, staring into Patrick’s eyes with intense concentration. Then Shep’s expression flickered with some awareness, like he’d gotten the answer he was looking for. His mouth opened and he gasped, stumbling as his knees gave out.

He almost fell, but Margol came forward and steadied him. Shep let out a short laugh, a shocked, angry sound, then he shook his head. “Do you know what, Obrien?” he asked, his voice choked with sadness.

“What’s that, Shep?”

“When you lie, your aura gets little green spots.”

Patrick said nothing. He’d never seen a look quite like the one Shep now wore, and it simultaneously frightened him and broke his heart. Shep shook his head, then quickly shook it again, as though he could make it all go away. “How could you?” he asked, meeting Patrick’s eyes again. “How the hell could you?”

Then Patrick understood how Wesley could have begged for Shep’s forgiveness even after Shep murdered his aunt. Shep’s shattered expression was almost more than he could bear. Patrick did not beg for forgiveness, however. He looked directly at Shep, and found his voice. “You didn’t leave me any choice.”

He was waiting for Shep’s anger, but it didn’t come. He was waiting for a blow, but it didn’t come either. A tear ran down Shep’s cheek, then his eyes went hard—so hard that Patrick took a frightened step back. That one tear fell from Shep’s chin and shattered onto the floor, like the final drop of friendship left between them.

Then the sadness was gone from Shep’s eyes, replaced with a hatred that chilled Patrick’s soul. “No choice? I gave you choices you could never have dreamed of without me. And you spit on them.” Shep’s fists clenched at his sides. “Och fee!”

“Och fee!” Juris parroted. “Filthy betrayer.”

Patrick flinched.

Shep tore his horrible gaze away from Patrick and walked over to Robin. He leaned in and sniffed her hair. She flinched, and he leaned back and stared at her, then glanced over at Patrick as a light of realization flickered in his stony green eyes. “I see. I see what’s going on here now. You really can’t find your own girls, can you Obrien?” Shep turned back to Robin. He gripped her face between his fingers. “This is what you have forsaken me for? Obrien? This is what turned your heart cold toward me?”

“No.” She slapped his hand away. “You turned my heart cold! All on your own.”

Shep’s lips curled back from his gums, making him look feral. “I was going to offer you eternity! I was going to offer you immortality, when the time was right. Now! In this lifetime! But you’d rather fuck this stray dog.” He pointed to Patrick. “My own dog!”

Robin flinched and covered her ears, tears springing free and rolling down her cheeks. “Stop it, you’re scaring me. Just stop it, Shep.”

Patrick understood why she cracked. He’d never heard Shep’s voice sound that way, vibrating at an unnatural volume that echoed over the walls of the spacious kitchen and caused the windows to tremble. Even Joey scowled and rubbed his arms.

“I knew I smelled something in that cave,” Shep said with disgust, his voice back to a normal timbre. He turned to Juris. “Get them out of my sight. I need time to think.”

Juris, with Margol alongside him, closed in on Patrick and Robin. Joey jumped in front of Robin. “Wait a minute! What are you doing? Robin hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Step aside, Joseph,” Shep said. His voice was perfectly calm, as if all emotion had been drained from him and he now felt nothing.

“You’re not touching my cousin,” Joey persisted. “You’re the one who broke your promise by involving her! I’ll throw in the towel, Shep. I’ll blow the whole thing.”

Shep grabbed Joey by the arm. “She is trying to destroy us! Don’t you get it? Haven’t you been listening?”

He released Joey. Joey looked at Robin, his brow furrowed. “That’s not true. You don’t want to stop us. Do you, Robin?” Robin dropped her gaze to the floor, and Joey’s face fell. “Oh, no. Robin, why?”

“Jesus, Joey. How can you even ask me that?”

“Take them downstairs!” Shep yelled. “Get them out of my sight before I fucking snap!”

Margol and Juris approached them as Allisto went to console Klee, who was curled up in the corner like a frightened animal. Patrick and Robin went with Margol and Juris willingly. They knew the brothers could break them in half if they resisted. They were led toward the basement, stopping only once at a closet for rope. Juris tied their hands behind their backs as Margol stood by like a bodyguard. When Juris finished binding their arms, Margol shoved Patrick. “Down the stairs.”

Patrick complied, remembering Margol’s threat to remove his intestines. He hoped the brother didn’t offer that up to Shep as a suggestion for their punishment.

****

The basement was enormous, but Father Carbone and Copie were huddled close, beside each other against a wall, each with hands tied behind their backs. They had been listening to the sound of yelling and commotion coming through the floor above. “Well,” Carbone said. “I believe that would be the shit hitting the fan. I hope Patrick and Robin are all right.”

Copie shivered. “Do you think Litner knows we’re here?”

Father Carbone desperately wanted to tell Copie what he wanted to hear. The problem was his faith that everything was going to be all right had all but disappeared. His head still throbbed from the blow Juris had given him when he’d gone outside to check on the trash barrels. He’d never seen it coming.

Next thing he knew he was waking up next to Copie in the back of a taxicab. Juris was driving. He’d stolen Carbone’s CD of Italian songs from the kitchen and popped it into the taxi’s cheap stereo. Juris sang joyously in perfect Italian as he drove, and the priest wondered what had happened to the driver, hoping Juris had simply stolen the cab and not killed anyone. Frankly, he was surprised Juris hadn’t killed them.

Father Carbone had thought so much about these brothers, rejected from a higher realm and left in stasis indefinitely. He stayed awake many a night trying to imagine what it had been like for them. He’d pictured them floating in a watery darkness, the brothers curled up asleep in fetal position while Shep searched the darkness for what must have felt like infinity. “Copie, you had a direct confrontation with him. What is he like?”

Copie frowned at him. “Who?”

“Shepherd. Zirub. What is he like?”

“Shep was trying to kill me at the time. We didn’t sit down and have tea together.”

“Is he like Juris?”

“Sort of. He’s more civilized though. I mean, he doesn’t spit or anything.”

The door opened at the top of the basement stairs. Their eyes turned in frightened anticipation. The first thing they saw was Patrick and Robin, their wrists bound behind their backs. Soon after came Juris and a man that looked very much like him despite a fiery red cascade of curls. They led Patrick and Robin down into the basement and sat them along the wall next to Copie and Carbone. Robin gave Carbone a small smile and he nodded.

Juris stepped back and looked at them all. “Well. This party is almost complete. All we need now is your lawman. He should be arriving soon. Don’t you think?”

Patrick huffed. “Don’t be so smug, Juris. Litner wouldn’t waste his time coming here to rescue us.”

“Of course not. He doesn’t care about you. He wants the crop.” Juris grinned at him. “Yes, I know the plan. Your lawman is coming with a company of soldiers.”

Patrick flinched.

“Oh come now, Obrien. Did you really think you could outsmart us? Outsmart Shepherd? Don’t make me laugh.” Juris leaned into Father Carbone and touched his face. “Why, you look pale, Father. Don’t you like being held captive? I know what you need. Some chocolate!”

Juris pulled a bag of chocolate Kisses out of his pocket and began whipping the tiny candies at Father Carbone. “Here you go priest! Have some chocolate! All better? Have some chocolate!” Father Carbone ducked his head, trying to dodge the incoming candies.

“Stop it Juris!” Patrick screamed. “You’re being a baby!”

Margol gave Patrick a kick and Patrick doubled over in pain. “You mind your business.”

Father Carbone looked up as a third set of footsteps came down the stairs. Yet another curly-topped stranger rounded the corner. This one had platinum curls and looked nearly identical to Juris, despite a smaller frame and a few minor discrepancies in his facial features. He looked frightened and unsure of himself. “Juris?” he called out softly.

Juris stopped pelting Father Carbone with candy and turned around. “What is it Klee?”

“Shepherd wants you upstairs.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“He said now, Juris.”

This one had soft, innocent eyes and a babyish chub to his cheeks and mouth. He looked like a true angel, Carbone thought. As if feeling the weight of his stare, Klee looked over at Father Carbone. The pretty young man-thing winced at the sight of him, as though the priest was some sort of threat.

Juris threw the entire bag of candy at Father Carbone. “Fine. I’m going.” He stormed up the stairs with Margol following behind. Klee stood where he was, staring at the captives who sat with their backs against the wall. He stepped forward and knelt in front of Patrick, his cute face drawn into an angry pout. “How could you betray us, Patrick? Juris says there is going to be a war. You were supposed to be Shepherd’s friend.”

Patrick leaned forward. “And you were supposed to keep away from Russell, weren’t you, Klee?” Klee drew back like he’d been slapped. Patrick winked at him. Klee turned and ran up the cellar stairs, slamming it shut behind him.

“Why are you taunting them?” Carbone asked.

“Because it’s fun.” Patrick was aware that he was beginning to lose it. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

“Priorities, Patrick,” Father Carbone said. “We need to stay alive long enough to get out of here. Purposely angering our captors is not going to help.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so sick of them though! And where the hell is Litner anyway? He said he was going get us out of here. Look at us now!”

Robin leaned in close to him. “We are going to get out of here. You just have to hold it together a little bit longer. Okay?”

“Okay. What the hell. There isn’t much left, but whatever’s there, I’ll hold together.” He looked over at Father Carbone. “Shouldn’t you be praying or something?”

Father Carbone looked down. “Yes, Patrick. I suppose I should be. I’ll get right on that.”

“See that you do.”

Chapter Fifty-One

The sliding door opened and Allisto stepped onto the deck. “Joey, you be all right, good?”

“Yes, Allisto. I’m good. Like the last three times you asked me. Please fuck off back inside and don’t come out here again.”

Scowling, Allisto shouted, “I am doing my duty for Shepherd! He said I am to keep you watched while Obrien is detained.”

Joey leaned back in his chair and glanced over his shoulder at the black-haired brother. “I don’t need watching. What I do need is some peace and quiet, and not to see your goddamn ugly face again tonight. Got it?”

Allisto sneered, then retreated inside, slamming the door with a hard bang that made Joey jump.

“That’s right, throw a tantrum,” Joey muttered under his breath. “Not so different from your big brother after all.”

Inhaling deeply, he hoped to be left alone now to enjoy the cool spring night. He just wanted some goddamn solitude. Why could no one give him that? He’d thought he might have some peace now that Kelinda fucked off to wherever she went. Russell had left them too, though Joey wasn’t sure why. He’d enjoyed Russell’s company, but honestly it was nice having fewer people in the house. He was so fucking tired of people.

It was grueling having to smile and perform like a dancing monkey for those sixty drones in the field every day. Then listen to Shep order him around and snap at him all the time, not to mention making the brothers check on him nonstop. Someone was always hovering, and Joey needed a damn break.

And he sure as hell didn’t give a fuck about Juris’s homecoming. It was bad enough with three of them around, now he had to deal with four. Ever since the first one popped out of that cave wall, Shep’s attention had been divided, and Joey’s quality of life had gone rapidly downhill. That’s what pissed him off the most. He knew the brothers were important to Shep, but he hadn’t expected their presence to be so all encompassing. Everything had changed, and as excited as he was to see Shep’s plans falling into place, Joey longed for the old days, when it was just them.

What Joey and Shep had went beyond simple concepts like friendship. It was a true partnership, sealed in blood, and elevated above any human commitment. But lately, Joey missed just having a plain, simple, best friend again. He missed hanging out with Shep and going to pubs and laughing at the absurdity of life with his favorite person by his side. These days, Shep rarely laughed at all. He was consistently paranoid and pissed off about some snag or other.

Life with Shep used to be so fulfilling and…fun. Joey wanted the fun back. Hopefully, once the crop was on its way to the targeted warehouses, things would quiet down a bit. And Joey would have his friend back.

Though the ritual Shep performed on him sedated most emotions, Joey wondered why certain ones still lingered. He felt no guilt or remorse, no love or empathy, which was helpful, if not outright necessary to his role in things. But he did still feel protective of Robin, who he’d grown up with. And unexpectedly, he could still experience envy. But only with regards to Shep. He missed having Shep all to himself, and resented the attention lavished on the brothers. Perhaps it was not natural, human envy he felt, but some side-effect of years being physically and supernaturally bonded to Shep.

That had to be it. It was the blood bond causing him to misinterpret things. Jealousy was such a petty, human emotion, and Joey didn’t like to think of himself that way.

Setting his drink down on the deck beside him, he squinted as something caught his eye at the edge of the dark woods, a flash of pink. At first he thought it was Kelinda, then the figure stepped out into the clearing and he saw it was Carlos, his pink Mohawk shining in the moonlight as he slowly approached.

Joey stood. “Carlos? What are you doing up here? You’re supposed to be guarding the crops.”

Carlos approached the deck. “Hello Joey.”

Joey gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, hello Carlos. Maybe you didn’t hear me. Shep wants all of you guarding the guest house and the perimeters. Did you forget?”

He shook his pink head. “I didn’t forget. But I’ve found something. You need to come see.”

Joey walked toward Carlos. “What is it?”

Carlos smiled. “It’s amazing. You have to see it for yourself.”

“Just tell me.”

“That will ruin it. Trust me, Joey. You want to see this for yourself. You won’t regret it.”

“Fine. I’ll come with you for a minute. But this better be good. Shep has us on high alert right now and he’d be none too pleased if he knew you left your post.”

“Come quickly!”

Joey glanced back at the house. He didn’t see Allisto hovering anywhere, so he hopped off the deck and followed Carlos into the woods.

At first he was happy to be away from the house, thinking it would be a refreshing night walk. But Carlos led him away from the main trail and off the beaten path, and it soon became thorny and buggy. He was wearing shorts, and branches snapped against his bare legs painfully. “How far is it?”

“Almost there.”

They walked for another ten minutes and Joey was getting annoyed. They’d nearly reached the end of the property when Carlos stopped and turned to face him.

“Well?” Joey threw his arms up. “What is it? What did you find?”

“I found Kelinda,” Carlos said.

“Kelinda?” Joey wrinkled his nose. “Where is that crazy bitch?”

Kelinda stepped out from behind a tree, along with eight of the male followers. “The crazy bitch is right here, Joey,” she said.

Joey looked at the followers that flanked Kelinda. They gazed at him with a mixture of adoration and hunger. “What the hell do you guys want?”

“You need to come with us,” Carlos said.

Joey laughed. “I don’t think so. I need to get back to the house and you guys need to get back to your posts. This has gone far enough.”

Kelinda stepped forward. She wore the black lace nighty from the night she disappeared, and walked toward him seductively, her pink hair a disarray of menacing spikes framing her pretty face. She looked crazier than usual, and considering she’d cut him with a knife and tried to drink his blood last time he saw her, that was saying something.

Joey took a step back. Kelinda noticed, and a grin spread across her face. “What’s the matter Joey? Do I make you nervous?”

“Nervous, no. Repulsed is more like it. You look like shit, Kelinda. When’s the last time you showered?”

She glanced at the two men to either side of her. “Grab him.”

They each took one of Joey’s arms. He struggled against them. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? You don’t listen to her! You listen to me! I am your messiah!”

Kelinda grabbed his face in one hand. “That’s right, Gorgeous. You are our messiah.” The others formed a circle around him.

“Don’t touch me!” He jerked his head back. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“You see, Joey, we’ve been thinking. Jesus gave his body and blood for his followers.” She smiled sweetly. “We expect no less of you.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

They all grew frustrated as an hour passed and there was no sign of Agent Litner. There were no gunshot sounds from the house next door, and no dramatic rescue attempts. Just the four of them, tied up and helpless, left alone to contemplate their fate. Patrick wondered exactly how much Juris was telling Shep up there. But more urgently, he wondered what exactly Shep was going to do about it.

“Maybe we can just get up and sneak out the front door while Shep’s distracted,” Copie said. “I escaped a burning lab while tied to a chair, I think I can work a doorknob with my hands behind my back.”

Carbone nodded. “I like that idea. Beats sitting here waiting for…whatever.”

“I can’t leave,” Patrick said. “Stupid blood bond. But you guys try it if you want. I don’t think the basement door locks.”

The door opened at the top of the stairs with a crash, and they all jumped.

“So much for that,” Carbone muttered.

Shep’s feet appeared, then his legs, then he himself rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs. He was freshly showered, dressed in faded jeans with a purple and white tie-dye tank top, his sandy curls still slightly damp. He looked handsome and normal, harmless as a kitten. He looked human, deceptively so. Father Carbone’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Do you know how much time I wasted?” Shep said, standing directly in front of Patrick. “Years. Years listening to your boring stories. Helping your dumb ass through classes in college. Kissing your boo boos and salving your many insecurities. Years having to pose as your supportive friend. Shit man, I’m having trouble coming up with one thing I do like about you. You’ve even got shitty taste in music.”

Patrick said nothing, but his cheeks burned hot. After everything, the words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.

“Years, Obrien,” Shep continued. “Years spent cultivating you to be the protector of my Sword, my messiah, my most sacred vessel. And what do you do instead? You lead danger to his door. You lead it right to his fucking door!” he screamed into Patrick’s face.

His voice bellowed through the empty basement and Patrick began to shake. Shep was radiating the same energy he’d exhibited the day he told Patrick he couldn’t leave the property, like an electric current charging the air. And to make matters worse, Patrick was beginning to feel the tingling in his temples that told him Joey might be in trouble. This was probably a bad time to bring it up.

“Please, Shep, be reasonable,” Patrick said. “None of this was ever going to work. Joey’s not a sacred vessel. He’s some kid you chose off the street and brainwashed with your blood. He’s no messiah.”

Shep’s eyes blazed yellow for an instant, then he punched Patrick in the face so hard he saw stars. “Joey is whatever I say he is.”

“Shep stop it!” Robin screamed. “Patrick, you all right?”

Patrick swooned from the pain as he struggled to keep consciousness. In all the years Patrick had known him, Shep never hit him. Sure, they’d fought before, but they were silly scuffles that usual involved wrestling in the dirt. And Shep had never, ever used his full strength. This time he had, or at least some of it. Patrick heard a ringing in his ear, and he was fairly sure his cheekbone was fractured. His terror mounted, overwhelming even the pain in his face. Whatever ambivalence he’d been feeling toward Shep dissipated in a heartbeat.

This man was not his friend. This was a monster.

Shep shook out the hand he’d used to administer the punch, gave Patrick one more sneer, then moved on down the line. He tossed his hair back almost seductively, and knelt before Copie, whose skin instantly paled. “So,” Shep said. “You’re alive.”

“It would seem so,” Copie whispered.

“And the photographs?”

“Destroyed in the fire.”

Shep nodded, and stood. “Well, at least we accomplished that much.”

Father Carbone had his head bowed, whispering softly in prayer. Shep reached out and waved his hand in front of Carbone’s face, snapping his fingers. The priest looked up. “Could you stop that please, Father Carbone? Thanks.”

Carbone stared up at Shep with something like awe. It worried Patrick. He hoped Carbone wasn’t about to go soft on him.

Shep paced back in forth in front of them. “Where is Steven Litner, and when is he going to try to steal my crop?” The room remained silent. Shep looked over at them. He placed a hand to his ear. “Huh? I can’t hear you! Where is Steven Litner, and when is he going to try to steal my crop?”

Again, none of them spoke. Shep strode casually down to Father Carbone and knelt in front of him. “You’re Litner’s buddy, aren’t you? According to my research, which I admit was a rush job, you and Litner went to school together.”

Carbone nodded. “That’s correct.”

“When is your friend coming to pay us a visit, Carbone? Will it be tonight? Tomorrow? The next day?”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” the priest answered sharply.

Shep moved in very close to him and Carbone pushed himself back against the wall.

“Leave him alone, Shep!” Robin said.

“You shut up.” Shep pointed a finger at her. “You don’t exist to me anymore, so I don’t want to hear your voice.” He turned his attention back to Father Carbone. With eyes still on the priest, he reached over and trailed a finger down Copie’s cheek. Copie whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. “Are you fond of this child, Father Carbone?”

“Leave the boy alone. You almost killed him once, isn’t that enough?”

“Obviously not. He’s still here, isn’t he?” Shep smiled at Copie. “Have you risen from the dead, boy? Perhaps I should have chosen you as my messiah. Shall we see if you can do it twice?”

“Leave him be!” the priest hissed.

“Then tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know where Agent Litner is, and I don’t know exactly when he is coming,” Carbone said. “That’s the truth.”

Shep stood and brushed his jeans off. “It doesn’t matter. When your hero Litner comes, we’ll be ready for him.”

A pain ripped through Patrick’s head, small enough to hide, but sharp enough to make him wince. Joey was definitely in some sort of discomfort. He only hoped it didn’t escalate too quickly. If there was a positive side to his bond with Joey, it was that it enhanced his physical strength when Joey was in crisis. If Patrick could hide the reaction until Shep left the room, he was sure he could bust out of the ropes. He might even be able to do it now, but he wouldn’t risk it. One punch from Shep convinced him he could never win in a physical altercation.

Shep, however, did not seem to be planning on leaving them anytime soon. He sat down in front of them and pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on his arm. “Do they know what it does?” he asked Father Carbone.

“Excuse me?”

“My crop. Do your lawmen know what it does?”

“No,” Father Carbone said.

Shep turned to Patrick. “Obrien, I’ll ask you, since you can’t lie to me. At least not very well. Do the lawmen know what the crop does?”

Patrick sighed. It was futile to lie to Shep, so he told him what he knew. “They believe you intend to use it for human sterilization.”

Shep looked surprised, then angry. “How did the stupid sons of bitches figure it out?”

“Agent Litner tested it on himself,” Father Carbone answered.

Shep shook his head. “Slippery bastard.”

“That’s just what he says about you,” Carbone said. Shep raised his eyebrows and nodded, looking somewhat intrigued.

“Why are you doing it, Shep? I mean, you can’t possibly sterilize everyone,” Patrick said.

“I don’t want to sterilize everyone. What the hell do you think? That I’m out to eliminate human life?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No, you dumb fuck.”

“But why, Shep? Why are you doing this at all?”

Shep shifted onto his knees and glared at him. “You might want to stop worrying about the little details so much. You’re going to be dead soon.”

“Why? Because I betrayed you?”

“Yes!” Shep bellowed and the basement windows rattled.

Patrick felt terror, but it was laced with frustration and anger. “How the hell can you sit there and scream about my betrayal after everything you’ve done to me?” he shouted back. “You used me, Shep! You used me for ten fucking years!”

“Oh, you’re breaking my heart.”

Patrick stared at Shep and wanted to cry. After all that had happened, Patrick was still hurt. “You know something? When I found out the truth about you, I wished you would have told me yourself, a long time ago. I could have helped you deal with things in a different way. I would have accepted anything about you.”

“Obrien, with all due respect to that touching rhetoric, this is not a minor character flaw I have here. I’m from another realm. The two of us don’t exactly have a lot in common. I have existed for longer than humanity. I’m one of your prototypes. Do you understand that?”

“I think so, yes.”

“No! No you don’t!” Shep yelled.

“I think I know something about it,” Carbone said.

Shep’s brows shot up and he turned to the priest. “Oh, do you, now?”

“You had no control in your old life. You were a grunt worker in the other realm, with no real power. So you came here. To be a big fish in a small pond.”

Shep went very still. “I beg your pardon?”

“Zirub,” Father Carbone said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Shep nodded. “Oh, I see. You’ve learned Rumpelstiltskin’s name. Is that it? Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You went against the wishes of your superiors and made an emergency pilgrimage to earth, taking the other four members of your band with you. Before you reached your destination, your exit path was blocked. You could neither proceed to earth, nor return from whence you came. You were trapped.”

Shep fiddled with the lace of his sneaker. He no longer looked amused. He looked shattered, staring at the floor with his brows pinched tight.

“Is that a correct interpretation of your plight, or has history muddied the facts?”

A soft breath left Shep’s lips. “Close. Pretty damn close.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what the priest was trying to achieve. Perhaps he was stalling, keeping Shep distracted. It wasn’t a bad plan. If they could keep Shep from murdering them before the cavalry came, that’d be great.

Shep blinked slowly and took a deep breath. His expression remained anguished, as though just hearing the tale repeated had awoken something deep inside of him. It was only a slight waver in his resolve, but it was there. Carbone must have seen it too, as he pressed on.

“The book I read said Powers aren’t allowed to see the creator. Is that true? You never actually saw God?”

“God?” Shep let out a high-pitched cackle. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. It’s adorable.”

Father Carbone shrugged. “I haven’t seen God either, so I reckon we’re on equal footing.”

“Oh, sure,” Shep said, voice laden with sarcasm. “You and me, Carbone. Same-same.”

Carbone grinned slightly. “You say I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I have spent many years studying spirituality. I didn’t just decide to slap on a white collar for the free wine and wafers. I’ve gained knowledge; I’m not flying blind here.”

Shep laughed hard. “You’ve got delusions of grandeur. Like all who appoint themselves guardians of the truth, yet know nothing. You think I had no power in my prior life? I had the most important fucking job there is. Do you have any idea what the celestial byways are?”

“Not exactly,” Carbone admitted.

“They exist in between.”

“In between what?”

“In between everything. Worlds, dimensions, universes. Things come for The Light because it shines, it soothes, it makes warmth, and radiates ecstasy. Everyone and everything wants to grab a piece. I’ve seen things crawl out of other realms that would make your mind snap in seconds. We banish them, and others take their place. They keep coming forever. And we keep fighting them off forever. So yes, Father Carbone, I know quite a bit more than you do. I’ve guarded that creator essence up close.”

“And now you’ve tried to recreate that essence in Joey?” Carbone shook his head. “You think that frat boy upstairs is divine now?”

“Yes.”

Carbone sputtered, clearly not expecting that answer. “How on earth can you think such a thing?”

“The Light is addictive. I’ve made Joey addictive as well.”

“But surely not in the same way!” Carbone said. “You’ve merely found a way to use whatever power still resides within you to morph Joey into some twisted…warped version.”

“Yeah, I did.” Shep grinned. “And eventually all of humanity will flock to him. They’ll be drawn to his essence first, before they even learn how much they need him.”

“Need him for what?” Robin asked. “Advice on how to do tequila shots?”

Shep turned to Robin. “Do you know what’s going to go through the minds of everyone on earth when the babies stop coming?”

Robin shivered, but said nothing.

“There’s nothing like the smell of extinction to get the masses looking for miracles,” Shep said. “Of course, the human race won’t really be becoming extinct. They’ll just think they are because of the sudden widespread fertility problems. They’ll go into a panic. They’ll think the human race is being gradually snuffed out. The beginning of the end. They’ll be begging for answers. And Joey will have those answers.”

Carbone’s face hardened. “What answers?”

“The cure, Father Carbone. Cast your mind, many years into the future. You all remember Joey Duvaine, the reluctant prophet who refused to divulge secrets given to him by an apparition on a church roof? Well folks, Joey’s back. You see, it seems that this little extinction problem was exactly what the apparition spoke to Joey about on that fateful night. And how to resolve it when the time came.”

“That’s fucked up,” Patrick said. “You’re going to solve a problem you yourself created.”

Shep smiled at him. “The apparition predicted the fertility problems, and blessed Joey with the knowledge that when the time came, he would be the one to save the human race.”

“The apparition predicted nothing because it was a fucking hoax!” Patrick said.

Shrugging, Shep said, “But there’s no proof it was a hoax. People will have no choice but to believe. And if the masses follow Joey, worship Joey, and listen to his truths, he’ll give them the formula for the cure. That is what we will tell them, and that is what they will believe.”

“Why would anyone believe that without proof?” Robin said. “If you’ve already got the cure, people will just assume Joey’s a genius, which he actually is. They’ll assume he figured it out with science, and be grateful. No one’s gonna fucking worship him, Shep.”

Shep chuckled, green eyes gleaming. “Of course they will. When they witness with their own eyes something unexplainable by science. Something divine. Something…miraculous.”

Robin scowled. “Like what?”

“Yes,” Carbone said. “Like what?”

“Oh.” Shep’s brows rose as he looked at the priest. “Don’t have all the answers after all, your holiness?”

Patrick swallowed hard. He thought of Wesley Shepherd, and took a guess. “People will believe he’s divine because he’ll have stopped aging.”

Shep’s head whipped around and he frowned deeply at Patrick, his cheeks flushing bright red. “How…how did you guess that?”

A pain poked at Patrick’s temple. “Where’s Joey now?”

“How did you guess that, Obrien?”

“I feel Joey right now. Shep I swear I feel…something. He might have hurt himself.”

“Bullshit. He’s drinking on the deck. He probably passed out and fell over. I asked you a question, Obrien. How did you guess about the aging?”

Patrick regretted speaking up. His head felt woozy from Shep’s punch, and he wasn’t thinking straight. He should have kept his mouth shut. There was only one way he’d have learned of such things, and he didn’t want to throw Wesley J. Shepherd under the bus. He still recalled the terror in the young blond man’s eyes. Or rather, the young appearing blond man’s eyes. No one was more frightened of Shep than Wesley, and Patrick had to assume he had good reason to be. He mustn’t point Shep’s brain in that direction.

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “I just guessed. Joey’s been treating his body like a sewer since the apparition hoax. He’s drunk every day, but he still looks great. Better than ever, like he’s got a glow. I’ve known him for ten years and seen how pale and pasty he gets when he’s hungover. But now he’s all rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, even after chugging rum like water. It just seemed…off.”

Shep frowned at him, and Patrick prayed he was buying it. He still looked suspicious. “Joey doesn’t look that different. He’s only twenty-eight, and he’s always looked good. That’s quite a leap, Obrien.”

Patrick leaned forward, giving Shep a smarmy grin even though it caused his bruised cheek some pain. “Well maybe you gave me a little psychic ability when we became blood brothers, Shepherd. Maybe I can read your mind now.”

“You wish. Your skull’s too thick for telepathy. And you’re too stupid to have figured things out on your own, so I must surmise it was, in fact, just a good guess.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Robin muttered. “Patrick’s not stupid.”

Shep glared at her. “I’ve been best friends with him for ten years. You just rode his cock a few times. Trust me, he’s stupid. And so are you.”

“Fuck you,” Robin said.

“No thanks. After you fucked Obrien? You couldn’t pay me to put my dick in you again.”

“Hey, hey,” Carbone said. “Before you start losing your temper and get off track, tell me, what do you get out of all of this? I’m curious. What’s the payoff for you, Shepherd?”

Patrick was silently grateful to the priest, who stepped in to distract Shep each time his anger began to rise.

Shep scowled at Robin a moment longer, then slowly turned to Carbone. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“The infertility and being the only one with the magical cure and all that. Joey gets to play God, something I’m sure he enjoys. But what do you get out of it, personally?”

Shep’s chin lifted. “Focused positive energy in large groupings creates something very valuable to The Light. Essential. With my universally adored messiah as the focal point of humanity’s very survival, all that precious, essential energy The Light depends on, will now be under my control.”

“Sounds like a hostage situation,” Carbone said.

Shep smiled. “Yes it does, doesn’t it?”

“This is all about proving you can take control, then. That you’re so crafty you can even take The Light’s essential energy sources and direct them however you want.”

Cracking his knuckles, Shep looked pleased with himself. “They all thought I wasn’t adept enough to control things on this planet. Well, now the creator itself is gonna have to knock on my door if it wants a juice box. Guess I’ve got the last laugh.”

“Jesus, Shep,” Patrick said, his wounded cheekbone throbbing. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always taken things way too far.”

“Too far? My superiors fucked me over. They twisted my ideas and made me look like an idiot to The Light. I’m defending my name here.”

“Did it never occur to you to just let this…ancient grudge go?” Patrick said. “Count your blessings that you’ve got a life at all? That you’re free from imprisonment now?”

“Fuck no,” Shep said. “This wasn’t some minor infraction, Obrien. My superiors didn’t call me bad names or forget my birthday. They plotted to have me tossed in the void of nothingness for all time.”

Patrick started a retort, then went silent. Shep did have a point.

“Do you get that? They wanted me and my beloved brothers trapped forever. I ain’t letting that shit go. Those bitches are about to find out.”

“Will they retaliate against you?” Patrick asked. “Your superiors?”

“They wouldn’t dare. I’ll be holding all the cards.”

“Won’t The Light itself stop you?” Carbone asked. “If you try to limit and control its energy source?”

“The Light?” Shep laughed. “Stop me?”

“Well, yes. The Light will certainly notice what you’ve done. Won’t there be more punishment? Like Patrick suggested, perhaps you should just cut your losses, if the last reprimand you received is any indicator.”

“The Light will notice, sure.” Shep rolled his eyes. “Because I will have proven that my idea about controlling the flow via personally crafting leaders was workable. I will have far exceeded what anyone thought I could achieve. Succeeded where they told me I would fail. The Light will see that I knew best all along. The Light will want to take me back.”

The room fell completely silent. It was such a simple, borderline childish statement. And yet, Shep seemed one hundred percent, assuredly serious about it.

“Take you back?” Patrick said.

Shep nodded.

“Hang on, did I hear you right?” Father Carbone let out a shocked laugh. “Take you back? You want to blackmail The Light into…taking you back?”

“Not blackmail!” Shep frowned at the priest. “The Light will ask me to return out of admiration, upon my inarguable success.”

Carbone stared at him. “And you’re convinced this will happen. That The Light will want you to take you back.”

“Of course. Once I get its attention.” He snorted a laugh. “Which I will, obviously. The Light will see that I have succeeded in spite of unfathomable hardship. I’m the most valuable player on the team. The Light will want me back in.”

All four of them seated against the wall simply stared at Shep. Patrick was waiting for him to laugh, and say ‘Gotcha!’ or crack a joke. But no. Shep was being serious. He truly believed what he was saying. It was frightening, and more than a little sad.

Father Carbone shook his head. “Um, Shepherd, or Zirub, or whatever you like to be called…”

“Shepherd is fine.”

“Okay, Shepherd then. Do you honestly think that The Light is going to take you back after all you’ve done? You’ve committed multiple murders! You’ve committed atrocious sins!”

“So?”

“So? You’ve caused pain and suffering to innocent people. The Light will not take you back.”

Shep pointed at Father Carbone, his eyes ablaze. “The Light will take me back, or I’ll take this world and I will crush it!”

“So you do want to eliminate humanity after all.” Robin yawned like she was bored. “Burn it all down because you can’t have your way. Like a scorned lover shouting ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ Pretty basic of you, really.”

“Maybe,” Shep said. “Or maybe I’ll just eliminate humanity because it’s a damn cesspool.” He grinned. “I’ll be doing the planet a favor.”

“You are completely full of shit,” Patrick said, wincing as face was still throbbing from Shep’s punch.

Shep looked confused, like he must have heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon, Obrien?”

“I said you are completely full of shit. You’ve sure stayed a long time in a place you claim to hate.”

Shep scoffed. “I had to stay here for the brothers. They were still trapped. And now, once my plan is—”

“Blah blah blah, I hate humanity, this life sucks. Bullshit! I’ve known you for ten goddamned years. Don’t try to tell me there’s nothing on this earth you like.”

“Fuck off, Obrien. There isn’t a damn thing I would classify as a world redeeming quality.”

“Chickpeas,” Patrick said.

Shep scratched his head and walked over to stand in front of Patrick. “Chickpeas?”

“Yes, Shep. You like chickpeas. When we were in college, you’d go to the salad bar every day for lunch. You always put three huge scoops of chickpeas on your salad. You’d eat every last one of them, even if you had to dig through the forest of lettuce and shredded carrots to get at the last chickpea.”

“I’m a vegetarian, Obrien. I eat chickpeas for protein, nothing more. Besides, I wouldn’t call chickpeas a world redeeming value.”

“I’m not finished yet,” Patrick said. “You like tie-dye tee shirts. You have like thirty of them in all different colors. You like to smoke weed. You like driving off road in your Jeep. You like having a fireplace in your house. You start lighting it in late September, as soon as the temperature drops a little. You like listening to opera at an obscene volume while you’re cooking. You like sex. You like really bad thunderstorms. You like Robin.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Robin said.

“You like Robin,” Patrick repeated. “Like her so much you wouldn’t let her go, even after she gave you a clean break. So much that you fucking kidnapped her. Tell me what purpose that served in your great plan.”

Shep rolled his eyes. “Is this coming close to a point any time soon? Because if I have to listen to much more, I’m going to crawl back into the void.”

“My point is Shep, that there is no single redeeming quality to this world. There are lots of little ones. Alone, they’re just chickpeas, but when you put them all together, you get—”

“Hummus?” Shep grinned. “I do like hummus.”

“You get life, Shep. And you like life. You enjoy it. I don’t think you want to go back to The Light at all. I think you just feel like you should want to, so you’ve created this elaborate bullshit plan so it looks like you’re still fighting back. When in truth, you really just want to stay here. But admitting that would make you feel weak. Small. Human.”

“I’ve been crawling around in human skin far longer than you have Obrien, and I certainly don’t need to listen to you lecture me on what I do and do not like. In fact, I don’t need to listen to you at all. Shut your dumb fucking face.”

Patrick opened his mouth to taunt Shep further, but the breath left him as another pain came, worse this time. A sweat broke out on his forehead and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“What’s wrong with you?” Robin asked.

“Joey’s in pain.”

Shep studied Patrick, eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. Allisto was assigned to watch him, he’s fine.”

“I’m not lying, I can feel it! You can tell if I’m lying to you, asshole! Please untie me. I need to check on Joey.”

Shep pulled out his cell phone and brought it to his ear. “Allisto, where’s Joey?” There was a long pause, then Shep’s jaw stiffened. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?”

Two consecutive gunshots rang out from somewhere outside. Shep turned toward the stairs. Oh thank God, Patrick thought. He never thought he’d be so happy to hear gunshots.

Margol came stomping down the stairs. “Shot’s fired!”

“I heard it. Is it on the property?” Shep asked.

“No. It’s coming from that house next door.”

“Where’s Joey?”

“I saw him go for a walk with Carlos, he’s probably out in the field.”

Shep let out a relieved sounding breath. “Are you sure the gunshots came from next door?”

“Yes, the direction of the brown house,” Margol said. “There are lights on in the windows. Somebody is over there.”

Shep chuckled. “Yeah and I’ll bet I can guess who it is. That crazy redneck is back, and this time he won’t be leaving again.”

“Do you want me to go?” Margol asked. “Take care of it?”

“No,” Shep said. “I want to take care of this myself.”

Patrick’s body jerked and he cried out in pain. In his mind he had a clear image of Joey’s head being slammed against a tree. Shep glanced over at him, then looked back at Margol. “Go find Joey. Immediately.”

Margol nodded. “Yes, Shepherd.” He darted up the stairs.

“Untie me Shep! Damn it! I need to go check on Joey.”

“Margol is checking on him.” Shep smiled at Patrick. “Sorry, Obrien. I promised Juris I’d keep you all tied up down here. Payback for keeping him prisoner. Be thankful that’s all I promised him. You should have heard what he wanted me to do with you.” Shep headed for the stairs. “I’ll be back,” he said to the group. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Yes, go, Patrick thought. Go check out the house next door and walk into Agent Walsh’s trap. As soon as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, Patrick screamed, arching his back.

“Patrick!” Robin gasped. “Tell me how to help!”

“It must be the blood bond,” Father Carbone said. “Something must really be happening to Joey.”

“Are you serious?” Copie said. “I thought he was faking that shit to get Shep to untie him.”

“Not…faking,” Patrick squeaked out, then he threw himself onto the floor and strained against the ropes until his face flushed with blood. The ropes popped and he was free.

“Holy shit!” Copie said.

Patrick threw the ropes off and stood. “I have to go to Joey. I don’t fucking want to, but I have no choice. And I need to get him to the guest house, like Walsh told us to do.”

“Untie us first!” Copie yelled.

Still pumped with whatever odd power was pulsing through him, Patrick tore at their ropes until they were all free. “That gunshot was a signal that Agent Litner is here. It’s likely about to get messy out there. You all might be safer staying here.”

“Fuck that,” Father Carbone said, shaking off his ropes. The rest of them stared. “What? You actually expect us to stay in this house with the insane murdering angels? I’ll take the messy outside crap, thank you very fucking much.”

Patrick smiled in spite of the pain in his face, and in his head. “Okay, Father Carbone. It’s your choice.”

“You’re fucking right. Now show us the way out of this loony bin.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Shep decided to enter the big brown house through the front this time. There were too many places to hide back in that overgrown garden, and he wasn’t about to let himself be ambushed by Captain Trigger-happy.

He looked up at the second-floor windows, brightly lit from inside. A figure walked past the window, and it was so unexpected that Shep actually jumped. He took a step back and waited. Then he saw him again, the kook with the long gray hair. He walked past the second window, in plain sight. Then he stopped and looked down. He seemed to be looking directly at Shep, then he turned and disappeared from view.

Waiting for me. The thought came to Shep as clear as if he’d read it on a page.  Training with Klee the past few days had amplified Shep’s own abilities, as he’d had to lead by example in order to get his brother to trust his own power in his new, physical form. Now Shep was like a raw nerve, his mental perception at peak. He urged his mind to enter the house and find the veteran, who skulked about upstairs, seeming to…

Waiting for me.

The thought came again and Shep winced. Something was not right here. He had the distinct sense that he was being lured in. But for what reason? Waiting for me. Waiting to trap me. The thought began to gain more substance as Shep concentrated on the windows above. He calmed himself and focused. He needed to see the man again. He needed to look into his eyes, even if it was from a distance. His heart pounded with the threat of danger, a natural warning urging him to flee. But he did not flee. He watched the windows.

Finally, the man with the long gray hair passed the window again. He turned his head for a moment and looked down. For that brief moment, Shep locked onto his energy, then the man moved out of sight again. At this distance, he was only able to receive a jumbling of impressions, but he did pick up one crucial piece of the puzzle. He gasped, taking a step back.

FBI.

Waiting for me.

The FBI is waiting for me.

“Shit!” Shep said aloud.

Of course. It made perfect sense now. This was no half-wit redneck. This guy was a federal agent. He’d probably been spying on them since they’d moved to Forest Bluffs.

“Shit!” Shep said again, angered by his own stupidity. He should have known. He should have figured it out sooner. Then a grin spread across his face. They were expecting him to enter the house. They were trying to lure him away from the crop. Well, he would just have to give them a little surprise of his own.

He scurried back through the woods to the storage bunker, examining the explosive devices stacked along the shelves. After filling a sack with the appropriate items, he returned to the big brown house. First, he looked to see if the stranger was still inside, and soon saw his silhouette, purposely walking in front of the upstairs windows. Shep doused the exterior with gasoline. He stayed close to the house, flattened up against it so the agent lurking above would not see him.

When he’d saturated the perimeter, he opened a rear window and tossed the gas container in. It landed on its side just in front of the stairs and the remaining gas spilled onto the floor. It also triggered some sort of booby trap—a heavy netted cage shaped like a bell fell from the ceiling onto the floor with a resounding clunk. Shep grinned at what was to be his prison. Then he tossed the explosive device through the rear window. Scrambling around to the front, he tossed the second device in through the front door, then made for the woods.

He was whistling when he pressed the detonator and heard the first explosion.

“Ashes to ashes.” He looked back over his shoulder and saw the flames shoot up the back of the house with a loud whoof. He pressed the second detonator. “And dust to dust.” The front of the house exploded. “Fuck with me, will you? Think you’re so smart. Look at you now.”

Satisfied, he turned toward home.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Joey was tied to a tree. He had ropes around his chest, waist, and ankles. His arms were free but the tree trunk was so thick he couldn’t reach back to where the ropes were knotted. His lip hurt, the taste of blood tainting his mouth. He’d fought so hard one of the followers had to punch him in the face, knocking him unconscious. He remembered as the darkness fell, the young man gripping his shoulders and pleading for forgiveness.

His entire following seemed to have gone stark raving mad. He looked over at the bonfire that blazed in the center of the field. Music tinkled. A few shadowy bodies danced around the fire, while the rest made some sort of preparations. Two of the women were busy uncorking wine bottles. Joey squinted as he tried to make sense of things, his head still woozy from the blow.

Had he heard an explosion in the distance? And as he was waking from unconsciousness, he swore he spotted Margol standing in the woods along the tree line, watching him. Joey had called out to him, but his voice was weak. When he looked again, Margol was gone.

Was Margol not going to help him? What the hell was happening? Maybe he should have been nicer to Shep’s freakish brothers. He knew they didn’t like him. Margol probably wanted him gone. Joey imagined the creepy redhead convincing Shep to wipe the slate clean and start fresh with a new messiah. The thought brought a deep ache inside, the first hint of real emotional pain he’d felt in years, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. But it quickly dissipated. What a foolish thought to have. Shep would never leave Joey. Never. Of this he was certain.

Then Kelinda was there suddenly, standing before him. Her pink hair shone from the firelight, giving it an orange halo, and her beautiful blue eyes twinkled with hostility.

“Kelinda what’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?”

She reached up and ran a finger along his lip. The finger came away with blood and she put it in her mouth, sucking contentedly before popping it out. “We’re having a little party tonight. You’re the guest of honor.”

“That’s nice of you, but I’m very busy. Maybe you could just cut me down and we could make it another night.”

“There’s a power in you,” she said, ignoring his plea. “You’ve given a portion of it to me, but of course, you already know that. I heard you and Shep talking about it one night. About how you could always kill me if I got out of hand. Do you remember? Well, Joey, I think I may have gotten out of hand.”

Joey swallowed hard, his tongue like sandpaper. “Kelinda, wait. I never meant—”

“You gave me so much of your wonderful essence that I decided to share it. Why be selfish, right? Now the followers share in my essence. But it’s not enough. My source is not pure and I can only give them so much. They want more.”

“What are you saying?”

She smiled. “You’re going to sacrifice yourself like a good little messiah. We will drink of your blood and be healed.”

“The fuck you will! Get me down from here!” Joey struggled against the ropes.

“Don’t bother fighting, Joey. It’s your destiny.”

Joey realized the strange jingling music had stopped. He looked up to see the followers forming a line in front of him. They each held an open bottle of wine. Kelinda pulled a glittering silver knife out from under her nightdress. She held it up to the sky as if in ceremony, then brought it down and sliced Joey’s palm. He screamed, but his voice seemed to get lost in the trees.

Lifting his hand, she showed the wound to the followers. Sounds of awe ran through the crowd. “This is his body!” she called out. “Which will be given up for you!”

The crowd cheered. All of those eyes were focused on Joey, their usual looks of adoration replaced with a maniacal hunger. Kelinda licked the blood off his palm. The followers quieted, waiting anxiously behind her with the wine bottles. “You know what’s ironic, Joey?” she whispered. “I never wanted to share you before. I guess I’ve grown more secure in our relationship.”

“You’re a crazy bitch.”

“Yes, Joey. I am crazy. And who made me that way?”

He couldn’t argue. It was he who had done this to her. There was no denying it. “Shep ordered me to seduce you. He was worried you’d talk. About the apparition. He wanted you close. You didn’t deserve it. But it wasn’t my idea, and I’m sorry, Kelinda. I am.”

“Not half as sorry as you’re gonna be,” she whispered. Turning to the crowd, she raised her arms over her head. “Bring forth the wine!”

“Great party. Mind if I crash?”

Kelinda spun furiously around to see Patrick standing there. Robin stood behind him with a frightened looking young man and a priest. “Patrick, get the fuck out of here! You don’t belong here.”

Joey experienced a quick flood of relief, his senses calming as the blood bond he had with Patrick tingled in acknowledgment. It should have given him absolute certainty that he was saved, considering Patrick was his Shield. But his old friend hadn’t been handling the betrayal well, so he wasn’t completely sure. “Obrien! Hey! Buddy! Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about that whole lying to you for ten years thing. No hard feelings, right?”

“Don’t worry, Joey. I’m still bound to your lying ass. Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better.”

Kelinda moved toward Patrick, waving the knife. “Don’t challenge me, Patrick. I have not yet shown you my full strength.”

Patrick took a step toward her. “And I have not yet shown you mine.”

Kelinda lunged at him. He ducked to the side and she stumbled, dropping the knife. Patrick stepped on the knife and she hit him in the chest with startling force. He was thrown backward. She dove for him and he caught her by the arm, hurling her over his head. She hit the ground with a thud, but was on her feet again and facing him within seconds.

Patrick began to charge her when six of the followers were on him. He fought them furiously. He tossed one aside and punched another in the face. Kelinda looked nervous for a moment, but then more followers came. They kept coming. Even with Patrick’s heightened strength, he couldn’t hold all of them off.

As Joey watched his Shield taken down by the crowd, he wondered if he was going to die tonight. He tried to make himself care, but with the changes Shep had made to his body, it was impossible. There was no fear, only annoyance. There was no sadness to be summoned. Only regret that he couldn’t see Shep one last time, and thank him for putting his soul to sleep. In this moment, he realized the gravity of what Shep had done to him.

And that it was the most glorious gift.

****

With Kelinda distracted watching the struggle, Robin hurried over to the tree where Joey was. He blinked slowly, licking his dry lips. “Robin. Get me down.”

“I will. First drink this.” She held the tiny vial up to his mouth.

“What is that?”

“It’s blood. The blood of your true family. The blood of those who love you for yourself, not for spells or trickery or because of some phony miracle, Joey.”

Joey sneered at the vial. “You want me to drink blood?”

Always the actor, she thought. “Give me a break, dearest cousin. It’s not like it’s something you’ve never done before. I know about you and Shep.”

He stared at her a moment, then dropped the phony disgust. “What will it do?”

“It will free you.”

“Free me from what?”

“Take a look around, Joey!”

A pained expression pinched his brows. “There’s no going back for me.”

“There is if you drink this. At least it’s a start. It’ll free you of the bonds so you can make your own choices again.”

Something flickered in his eyes, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll have full control back? No bonds?”

“That’s the idea. Do you want that?”

He glanced over at Kelinda, who was shouting orders at the followers who struggled to restrain Patrick. “Will it break the bond Kelinda feels for me? Will she be free?”

Robin’s brows rose. “Is that guilt I’m hearing? I thought you had no conscience.”

“Not guilt,” he said. “But I’d really like it if she’d stop trying to drink me to death.”

“Fair point.” Robin lifted the vial to his lips. “Ready?”

“Are you sure it’ll work?”

“No,” she said honestly. “There’s a good chance it will do nothing.”

He looked wary, but finally he nodded and opened his mouth. Robin poured the blood in, making sure it went down his throat. She spoke the simple, somewhat hokey words Aunt Betsy had given her. “Dissolve this bind and make you whole, by heart and blood I call your soul.”

Joey finished swallowing. He smiled at Robin, and she returned it. “Feel okay?”

“No different, but I feel fine.”

“Shit,” she said. “Guess it was worth a try.”

“Listen Robin, thanks for caring enough to—” Joey gasped. His eyes rolled back and he began to convulse.

“Oh shit! Joey!” Robin cried. “What’s wrong?”

Joey thrashed, all the muscles in his body simultaneously contracting. A strand of drool ran down his chin and Robin was afraid he was dying. “Joey! Oh God, what have I done,” she cried. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Please don’t die. Please. I love you so much. I’m sorry!”

Slowly, Joey stopped twitching. His head hung limply. He appeared to be sleeping. Robin leaned in and touched him. He was breathing. It was shallow, but he was alive, and breathing. “Thank God,” Robin whispered, stroking his cheek. “You’re gonna be okay, you hear me? I’m gonna get you down from here now, and we’ll get you checked out at a hospital.”

Two of the followers grabbed her and pulled her back. Kelinda stood before her. “Keep your hands off him, Robin!”

“Kelinda, please. Joey’s sick, and you need help too. Just forget all this and help me cut him down. We’ll get you both to a hospital.”

“No! You back off, Robin. Joey is ours. We’re going to absorb him.”

Robin up at Joey. His head still hung limply but she could see the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes blinked occasionally. Kelinda took a step toward him.

“Touch him and I’ll kill you,” Robin said.

Kelinda laughed. “It doesn’t look like any of you are in a position to stop me,” she said. Robin followed Kelinda’s gaze, where no less than twelve men had Patrick pinned to the ground. Copie and the priest had also been restrained. Kelinda walked over to Joey and lifted his bloody hand. “Bring the wine!” she ordered. The followers retrieved their bottles and lined up again.

Kelinda took the bottle from the first in line. She held it under Joey’s bleeding hand and squeezed droplets in. As she turned to give the bottle back to the follower, she stopped suddenly. Sniffing the bottle, she looked quickly up at Joey. Grabbing his hand, she sniffed his palm, then her head jerked back as though she’d smelled something foul. Running a finger across the wound on his palm, she touched the blood to her tongue. Confusion twisted her expression, then she licked the entire palm.

Pausing, she turned and spit the blood out onto the ground. The followers simultaneously gasped. “What is wrong?” one of them called out.

Kelinda spun around, her faced contorted with rage, and pointed a blood-stained finger at Robin. “What did you do?”

Robin froze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sniffing the bottle again, Kelinda threw it against a neighboring tree. It shattered and red wine spilled down the bark. “His power is gone! I can’t taste it anymore!” She took a step toward Robin. “It was you,” she hissed. “You took it out of him, didn’t you? You took it out of him, you bitch. I’ll kill you!”

She ran at Robin in a blind rage. Confused, the two men holding Robin’s arms let go, allowing her to drop just as Kelinda reached her. Rolling onto her back, she kicked Kelinda hard in the stomach with both feet.

Kelinda rolled to the side, landing hard on the ground. Climbing gingerly to her feet, she appeared to be in pain, her strength waning, but she made to attack Robin again. Robin readied herself, but then Kelinda paused and looked around. Several of the followers were walking away. “Hey! Where are you going?” she shouted. “We’ll get it back! Why are you leaving?” They ignored her as they meandered off in all directions. “No! Don’t leave!”

Several of the followers dropped their wine bottles and shuffled off like zombies. Kelinda fell to the ground. She sobbed into the earth, clawing at the grass and mumbling.

The followers that had Patrick pinned down let go of him. Slowly, they walked toward Joey where he hung on the tree, sniffing his palm and sniffing the wine stains splattered on the neighboring tree. Others retreated into the woods. Some cried.

Patrick pushed his way through the shambling crowd. He and Father Carbone worked to untie the ropes that held Joey. Robin found the knife Kelinda dropped and handed it to Patrick, who sawed the ropes until finally they let go. They eased Joey to the ground. He immediately curled up into fetal position and wept. Robin knelt at his side, stroking his back. “Joey? Can you hear me?”

Joey looked up at her with a grimace. “What did you do to me, Robin?”

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said.

“Pain!” he screamed. “I feel pain, and guilt! Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong. Shepherd! Shepherd, help me!” he screamed into the night.

Patrick put a hand on his arm. “Easy, Joey. Just take it easy.”

“Shepherd!” he screamed again. “Help me!”

“Stop it Joey. Just calm down,” Patrick urged. “I’m here. You don’t need Shep.”

“I do. Oh God, please. I need him. Please find him. I need help.”

“You don’t need him,” Robin said. “We’ve got you.”

“I want to die. Please let me die.” He curled into a ball again.

“Joey, you’re safe now,” Patrick said. “It’s going to be all right.”

Joey trembled, weeping. “It’s not all right,” he said. “Not all right. Not all right. Not all right,” he chanted as he rocked back and forth.

Patrick looked at Robin. “I want you to take him up to the house. Take Father Carbone and Copie with you. I’ll be there shortly.”

“What if Shep and the brothers are up there?” Copie asked fearfully.

“I don’t believe they are. I’d guess they’ve gone over to the guest house by now to try and protect the crop. I’m going to find Agent Litner, that is if it’s not too late. I think something has gone terribly wrong here.”

“Why?” Copie asked.

Patrick looked off in the distance and the rest of them followed his gaze. “Because burning that house down was not part of the plan.” They all stared at the blazing house up on the hill.

“Shepherd!” Joey called out again.

Robin stroked his hair. “Forget about Shep for now, Joey.”

Joey’s breath stuttered, like he was starting to hyperventilate. “Oh no. Oh no. He killed them. Shep killed them.”

A chill ran through Patrick’s body. “Who did Shep kill?”

Joey looked up at Patrick, his eyes wet with tears. “My family. My mother. My father. Jeffrey. He killed them all. He needed their blood to get the brothers out. It’s my fault! Oh God, it’s my fault.” Joey sobbed loudly.

Patrick and Robin exchanged a quick shattered stare. Robin looked down at the sobbing Joey, then leaned in and hugged him. “It wasn’t your fault, Joey. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, then moaned, a horrible grief-stricken sound. “I gave him permission, Robin. He killed my family, and I gave him permission. I gave him permission!” Joey pressed his face into the grass, whimpering. “You don’t know what he is,” he said softly.

Father Carbone placed a hand on Joey’s shoulder. “We do know what he is, Joey.” Carbone looked at Patrick. “We’ll take care of him. You go ahead and find Litner. Be careful, Patrick.”

They carried Joey off to the house. Patrick watched them grow smaller with distance until he saw them climb up onto the back deck and go into the house through the sliding door.

Two gunshots rang out in the night, only this time they were close by. Patrick turned with a start. The few remaining followers in the field went scrambling off in all directions. Another shot rang out. The shots were coming from the direction of the guesthouse. Patrick took a deep breath and headed across the field.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Three of Agent Litner’s men were wounded and they’d barely seen what attacked them. A glimpse of blond curls here, a fleeting shape there. The brothers were hidden in the trees somewhere. They were all around them, circling like phantom wolves, taking little bites out of the team, wearing them down gradually.

Litner looked down at the three melted guns on the ground, then over at the three agents sitting on the edge of the truck with their bandaged hands, all of them wincing in pain. One of the men saw something in the trees, so Litner sent them to check it out. When they returned, they were screaming.

Agent Rourke came scurrying over now. The big blond was dressed in full fatigues with a variety of weapons strapped to his body. “We finished setting the charges. All of the trucks are wired, along with the rest of the barrels inside the guesthouse. The detonator is here.”

Litner took the small flat device from Agent Rourke. He surveyed the area. The few followers still hanging around had given up the guesthouse without a fight. Most of them didn’t even seem to care that the raid was happening.

His team had begun loading the crop into their own trucks, but with the brothers stalking them, the task had nearly come to a stop. They’d only succeeded in transporting about a quarter of the stuff. The rest was still in the guest house and locked in the Arcania Foods trucks. He hoped they wouldn’t have to blow the lot of it, but things weren’t looking good. He stuffed the detonator into his coat pocket.

He and the remaining unharmed agents sat huddled, boxed in alongside the guesthouse, surrounded by their own trucks. Litner looked back at Agent Coleman, who was trying hard not to cry despite the pain in his burned hands. They’d had to peel the melted metal off where it had fused to his skin, and Litner wanted to scream. He knew it was possible some of his team members would be harmed, but this? This was madness.

He looked again at the ruined weapons, each melted like wax until it was nothing more than a distorted glob. If this continued, Litner wouldn’t have enough men functioning to transport the crop once they finished loading it. He supposed that was the whole idea.

Crouched down on one knee, he scanned the perimeter with his gun out. Half the team stood guard with him, while the other half resumed loading the crop as fast as they could. He glanced over at the blazing house up on the hill next door. So Shep had outsmarted him again. Litner only hoped Walsh hadn’t gotten trapped inside the burning house. Walsh had not returned, or texted, so chances were the worst had happened. He couldn’t dwell on that now. “Where are those night vision goggles?” Litner asked Rourke.

Rourke handed them over and Litner put them on and scanned the edge of the woods and the surrounding fields. “Why can’t I see them?”

“I don’t know, but we haven’t even made a dent in the guest house supply. I’m a little skeptical we’re gonna get this stuff out of here before they attack again. Our guys are good, but they’re not superhuman.”

“No,” Litner said. “Only our opponents are superhuman.”

A twig snapped behind him and he and Rourke both spun around with weapons up. Patrick Obrien stood there with his hands over his head. “Don’t shoot. It’s me.”

Litner let out a sigh and lowered his gun. “How did you get out here?”

“I walked. Why?”

Litner waved him over. “Come on. Come in close to me and stay down. Did you see Father Carbone and Copie? Are they dead? Did Juris kill them?”

Patrick walked over and crouched down alongside Litner. “No, I was just with them. They’re okay. Nice goggles.”

“This is no time for jokes. We’re under attack.”

Patrick looked over at the agents systematically loading barrels of crop into two black trucks. His eyes caught the agents with the bandaged hands, and he frowned. “What happened?”

Litner gave him a humorless smile. “Tell me something, Patrick. Shep’s brothers, can they also…melt objects with their minds?”

Patrick shifted uneasily. “Well, um, maybe. I guess. Wesley said Shep melted his shoes when he was a kid, remember? Why?”

“Because they’re melting our fucking guns!” In a rare show of emotion, Litner kicked the pile of melted guns on the ground.

“Whoa, take it easy.”

“Take it easy? I’m down to thirteen men. Agent Walsh has probably been barbecued, and our weapons…” Litner picked up one of the melted guns, then dropped it at Patrick’s feet. “Our weapons are apparently useless!”

“Excuse me please? Hello?”

At the sound of the voice, Litner and Rourke whirled around, guns out. Patrick’s eyes widened when he saw Klee standing there. “Wait, don’t shoot!” Patrick said, placing a hand on Litner’s arm.

“Why the fuck not?” Litner said.

“It’s one of them,” Rourke said.

“Do not shoot me, I need help, please,” Klee said, his platinum curls blowing in the breeze. His lower lip curled into a pout, and tears filled his eyes. “I do not want to be in war. I am frightened. Take me with you, please?”

“Get down on the ground,” Litner shouted. “Hands on your head.”

Klee lowered himself to one knee and raised his hands. Patrick saw the change come over him in an instant, his wide eyes narrowing in concentration, the façade of innocence switching to an expression of pure malice. “Klee, wait, don’t!” Patrick shouted.

Agent Rourke’s forehead exploded in a spray of blood, and the big blond man dropped to the ground.

Litner fired his gun but was not quick enough, as Klee dove through the air, soared fifteen feet then hit the ground in a summersault. When Litner shifted to fire again, Klee was gone, sprinted lightning-fast off into the darkness.

“Fuck!” Litner yelled, tossing his goggles onto the ground. He leaned down and examined Agent Rourke’s body, grimacing at his ruined head, a mess of gore within his long yellow hair.

Patrick turned away, dizziness making him stumble. He took deep breaths so he wouldn’t vomit. “I’m sorry, Litner. Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“You made me hesitate,” Litner said through clenched teeth.

“I know.” Patrick stifled a sob. “I’m sorry about Rourke. I’m sorry.”

“Have you ever fired a gun before?”

Patrick turned to Litner. “Back in high school at a shooting range.”

“Good.” Litner ripped the gun out of Agent Rourke’s dead hands and thrust it at Patrick. Patrick took it reluctantly. “What size jacket do you wear?”

Patrick looked down. “I, uh, I’m not sure.”

“Extra-large? I just happen to have something in your size.” Litner maneuvered Agent Rourke’s body, pulling the camouflage jacket off his dead bulk. He brushed a couple flecks of blood off the jacket and handed it to Patrick. “Put this on.”

Patrick complied, though he was reasonably sure Litner was losing his mind. But Patrick was riddled with guilt and horror. He knew that Agent Rourke’s death was his fault for telling them not to shoot Klee. Whatever Litner asked of him now, he would do without question. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re not going to sit here and wait for another attack. We’re going out into those woods and we’re going to find those freaks. When we find them, we’re going to kill them. All of them, including Shep. Do you have a problem with that, Obrien?”

“But—”

“But what? What now? Don’t want to kill Klee because he’s cute?” Litner looked down at Rourke’s body. “Did you know that Agent Rourke has a three-year-old daughter? She’s cute too.”

“I’m sorry. Tell me what to do.”

Litner got down on his elbows and began to crawl outside the line of trucks, into the shadows, heading toward the woods. “Stay low and keep to the shadows. Head for the tree line. Let’s go.”

Patrick crouched down and followed, trying to imitate Litner’s motions. It was awkward with the gun. “This is a bad idea,” Patrick whispered.

They’d only crawled twenty yards across the field when Shep came walking out of the woods with his hands over his head, like a phantom in the moonlight. Wind whipped his curls and tugged at his clothing. No. This is too easy. Shep give himself up? Never.

Litner stopped crawling and stood up. Pointing the gun at Shep, he yelled, “Stop where you are!”

Shep stopped walking. Patrick stood and poised his weapon. He felt like puking. The shock of watching Rourke die, and now pointing a gun at his former best friend…it was too much and he had to fight a dizzy spell, fearing he’d pass out. Litner inched slowly forward and Patrick followed. Shep smiled, hands over his head in a surrender that they all knew was false. Patrick looked around uneasily at the empty darkness.

“Where are the rest of them?” Litner asked.

“The rest of who?”

“You know damn well who. Your brothers. Where are they?”

Shep shrugged. “Gee, I just don’t know. I must have gotten separated from them.”

Patrick scoffed. “Sort of the way Jeffrey Duvaine got separated from his friends on that hunting trip?”

Shep’s brow furrowed in exaggerated confusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah right.”

“Turn around slowly,” Litner said. “Give me your back, hands on your head.”

Shep complied, giving his back to Litner. Litner moved in and frisked him, patting down his jeans and up under his arms. He pulled the purple tie-dye tank top out and his eyes lingered on Shep’s horseshoe scar.

“So, this is Agent Steven Litner,” Shep said. “Your record is quite impressive. Obrien, you didn’t tell me he was so handsome.”

Litner froze, then released Shep’s tee shirt. It seemed now that he had him, he wasn’t sure what to do with him. Or maybe he was simply overwhelmed. Litner seemed unbreakable to Patrick, but then he'd just witnessed his close friend’s head explode. Patrick hoped he wasn’t in shock.

“Maybe you should handcuff him,” Patrick said, trying to shake Litner out of it.

Litner nodded. “Right.”

Shep held his hands out behind his back politely, and Litner cuffed his wrists. “Okay, turn around. Walk back toward the trucks. Slowly.”

“Whatever you say, Steven.” Shep headed toward the guesthouse. “You’re in charge.”

“I mean it,” Litner said as he walked behind Shep. “I’ve got a gun to the back of your head and I won’t mind killing you.”

“I’ll give you no trouble,” Shep said. “Even I know when I’m beaten, Agent Litner.”

Patrick could sense something was wrong as soon as they rounded the side of the guesthouse. It was too quiet. Then he saw why. Nearby sat the rest of Litner’s team members, twelve men. They were tied together, back-to-back in a human circle, and they’d all been gagged.

Litner stared at them, jaw tightening. Then he and Patrick felt guns against their backs.

“Put your weapons down please.” It was Margol’s voice. Litner lowered his weapon and Juris snatched it out of his hand.

It was Klee who took Patrick’s. “I do not want to hurt you, Patrick.”

Patrick looked at him. Klee’s pretty, innocent eyes had turned cold. “But you will. Won’t you Klee?”

“Yes. If I have to.”

Shep came around and stood before Litner. He turned his back for Litner to see, then snapped the cuffs apart effortlessly. Doing a little spin, he grinned. “Now I get to frisk you, Steven. What fun.”

Scowling deeply, Litner held his hands over his head while Shep went through his pockets and felt up along his pant legs. Patrick looked on, amazed as Shep pulled out weapon after weapon. Patrick couldn’t believe the amount of hardware Litner had concealed on his body. There were three more guns, four knives, and a grenade. The last thing Shep pulled out was a small black square, half the size of a cellphone. “Well. What do we have here?”

In a swift movement, Agent Litner kicked his leg out and his foot connected with the device Shep held. It flew through the air, back over his head and Patrick caught it. He almost dropped it, until Litner yelled, “Patrick, it’s the detonator! Don’t let them take it!”

Shep looked over at Margol. “Kill this meddling fuck.”

“I wouldn’t do that Shep,” Patrick said, waving the little device.

“Hold on, Margol,” Shep said. “Obrien, hand it over.”

“Blow it, Patrick!” Litner yelled. Margol gut-punched Agent Litner and he fell to the ground.

Shep grabbed Litner’s handgun off the ground and approached Patrick, his lips pursed in angry determination. He pointed the gun at his forehead. “Give me that detonator.”

Patrick held it over his head. “No, stay back or I’ll blow up the crop.”

“Not before I shoot you.”

“You can shoot me, Shep. But not before I can blow up the crop.”

Shep braced the gun firmly with his second hand. “I mean it, Obrien. I will shoot you.”

“Go ahead. Do it.”

Patrick wasn’t feeling brave exactly. He was feeling exhausted. Wrung out. It wasn’t that he was sure Shep wouldn’t kill him—he wasn’t. But if he could stop Shep’s plan, or at the very least delay it, then all this bullshit and death would at least count for something. And there was a certain, prideful element to it as well. Shep had made Patrick his biggest fool, and it wasn’t easy acknowledging that ten full years of his life had been, to a large degree, not real. Perhaps he himself was in shock, having lost his sense of self-preservation. But at least he could stand up to Shep now, in the end, and show him he was no longer his puppet.

“Give it to me, Obrien. I know you want to live, so just stop fucking around. You’re no hero. You’re a born follower, and you’re weak. So give me the detonator and maybe I’ll let you live.”

“Kiss my ass!” Patrick pressed the only button his thumb could find on the device he held. He was only half sure it would actually do anything, but the explosion knocked them all off their feet as the hub of the guesthouse and fleet of Arcania trucks shared a simultaneous explosion.

Oh, fuck.

There were minutes of panicked confusion, then the smoke and dust began to clear. Tiny flakes of ash fell from the sky like a delicate black snow flurry.

Shep got up first, still clinging to the gun, and gaped at the flames that engulfed the guesthouse and the white box trucks. The roof of the guesthouse was already starting to give way under the heat.

Klee began to cry, high, squeaky sobs. “Zirub!” He ran to Shep, stumbling as Shep caught his arm. “Zirub, the crops are burning! What are we to do? Why is everything go wrong? What—”

Shep punched Klee hard in the face.

Klee dropped to the ground, unconscious. The other brothers looked at Shep with disbelief. “Relax, my brothers,” Shep said. “Klee doesn’t need to see any more of this. He’s too new, he can’t handle it. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.” Shep turned the gun on Patrick. “But you won’t.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” Patrick said. He marveled at how numb he’d become. It was most likely trauma overload.

“That’s right, Obrien. You’ve just ruined fifteen years of planning, you dumb fuck! You were a mistake from the beginning. Now you’re going to die.”

“So kill me already!” Patrick said. “Please, just shut up and kill me. I am so tired of listening to your bullshit, Shep. I’ve been listening to your crap for ten years. Please, spare me from having to hear another word!”

“Patrick.” Litner gave him a warning look from where he sat on the ground. Juris had a gun pressed against Litner’s temple.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Shep said through clenched teeth. “You’ve got your wish. You won’t have to listen to me anymore, Obrien. Ever.” Shep sounded serious enough but there was hesitation in his eyes. A gust of heat blew through the air from the direction of the burning guesthouse. They were all sweating now.

“What are you waiting for then? Come on Shep! I mean nothing to you! I’m just the Shield, remember? You can make another one. I’m nothing. You don’t care about me. So shoot me! What are you waiting for?” Patrick’s voice had elevated to a hysterical scream.

Margol looked over at the wall of flames that engulfed the guesthouse, then back at Shep. “Shepherd!” he said. “What are you waiting for? Kill him already!”

“Oh, I will, Margol,” Shep said. “I will.” But he didn’t. He just stood there, his face a tortured mask of indecision.

“I’ll do it then.” Margol pointed his own gun at Patrick. Shep spun and pointed his weapon at Margol. Margol froze, looking shocked and hurt. “Zirub?”

“No, Margol,” Shep said. “Put it down.”

Margol lowered his weapon.

Shep gathered himself and turned his gun on Patrick again. “It has to be me. I have to be the one to kill Obrien. No one else.”

“Yes, Dr. Frankenstein,” Patrick said. “You created me, so you must destroy me, right?”

“Oh, I’m going to destroy you.”

“You keep saying that. Pull the trigger!” Patrick screamed. He paused, panting as he waited for death to come.

Everything around him seemed to go still. Litner looked up from where he sat on the ground, gun to his head. Margol gaped at Shep with a combination of surprise and disappointment. Allisto watched patiently. Klee rested on the ground like a sleeping child.

Shep’s face twisted in frustration, and Patrick saw the conflict behind his green eyes. It was surprising. He hadn’t really expected Shep to have much trouble killing him. He certainly didn’t have any trouble killing anyone else.

“Do it!” Margol urged. “Get rid of him.”

Shep nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it. Here we go.”

“Put the gun down, Zirub!” a voice called out from the darkness.

All eyes turned to the right, where a thin young man with short, pale blond hair was walking toward them, seemingly out of the flames. As he got closer, his features became clear.

Wesley! Patrick could hardly believe his eyes.

Shep’s lips parted in surprise as he watched the handsome, youthful blond approach. Even in the dim firelight, Patrick could see the color drain from Shep’s face. Wesley stopped when he reached them, and stood alongside Patrick, directly in front of Shep.

“You,” Shep hissed, and that one word held more hatred than Patrick had ever heard.

“Still won’t say my name, huh Zirub?” Wesley said sadly.

“What are you doing here? This does not concern you! Go back to your mountain home or I promise you there will be hell to pay!”

Each of Shep’s words he spat out like hot flames. Even Patrick and Robin’s betrayal did not elicit this much anger. He trembled with it, a rage so intense his lips curled back from his teeth, eyes blazed gold and brimmed with hot tears as he glared at Wesley.

“Oh, Zirub,” Wesley said, his voice a soft quiver. “There already has been hell to pay. Still trying to take over the world I see. You’d think you’d get the point by now. It’s not going to happen.”

“You know nothing about this!” Tears slipped down Shep’s cheeks. “I don’t need you this time! I’ve formed a new plan and it doesn’t concern you. How dare you come to me like this? How dare you show your face here?”

Wesley was an odd sight amongst this crowd of sweaty, soot covered men, a contrast in his clean yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts. He looked over at the burning guesthouse and trucks. He glanced at Rourke’s dead body, then back at Shep. “Oh yes, Zirub,” he said. “I can see that your plan is working out far better this time. Things have gone off without a hitch, have they? Drop the gun, and let Patrick go.”

Shep turned and stared at Patrick, his mouth agape. “How does he know your name?” Patrick felt a little rush of the hate in Shep’s eyes. It was scalding. He didn’t dare answer. Shep turned to Wesley and screamed, “How the fuck do you know his name?”

“Patrick is an acquaintance of mine,” Wesley said.

Patrick winced and blinked slowly. This was going to be bad.

Shep shook his head frantically. “No! No! Liar. You cannot possibly know him. Patrick is my Shield! He’s mine!”

“Yes,” Wesley said, “And I can see that you’re looking out for his well-being, just as you did with Rollie.”

Shep bared teeth at Wesley and uttered what sounded like a tiger’s growl deep in his throat. It scared Patrick more than the gun. Wesley jumped a little, but stood his ground. He was shaking, clearly terrified, but he stiffened his jaw and met Shep’s gaze. “I am so tired of being afraid of you.”

Shep’s eyes gleamed yellow. “How dare you bring up Rollie? That wasn’t my fault. Rollie was weak. He made a terrible Shield. I’ve created a better one. Patrick is far stronger and more effective than Rollie ever was!”

“Really?” Wesley said. “Then why are you about to put a bullet in him?”

Shep glanced at Patrick. He looked back at Wesley. Then he closed his eyes, slapping his palm to his forehead repeatedly. “Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can’t think!”

“Let this end, Zirub. This is twice your plan has been foiled. Can’t you read the signs? Your plan is not meant to be!”

Shep pointed the gun at Wesley’s face. “You are not meant to be. You do not exist.”

Wesley swallowed hard and took a daring step toward Shep. “You can pretend I don’t exist all you want. I even tried to pretend I didn’t exist. For forty years I’ve hidden myself away from the world, and before that, I lived only for you.” His breath shivered, and he hiccupped a half-sob. “Only for you, Zirub. I’m sixty-two years old and I haven’t even lived yet. I want my freedom. I want to be free of you, and free of my fear.”

“No!” Shep said. “You will never be free. You tried to push me back into the void!”

“Because you murdered my aunt!”

“I don’t care! You tried to push me back into the nothingness! And as punishment you will live with nothing. You will live as nothing until you die. You have two choices. Kill yourself, or go back to your mountain home and live as I instructed you to live!”

Wesley’s eyes leaked tears now. He shook his head. “I’m leaving that house, Zirub. And I’m leaving this property. But I’m taking Patrick with me.”

Shep pointed the gun at Patrick again. “You can take him, but you won’t take him alive.” Shep’s arm trembled as he tried to steady the weapon.

Patrick held his breath and waited for death to come. But again, there was only the stillness of anticipation.

Finally, Shep grunted angrily and lowered the gun. “Damn it!” he screamed. “It seems I can’t kill you, Obrien.”

He said the words with disappointment. He looked confused, like he couldn’t comprehend his own failure to kill Patrick. Patrick didn’t know quite what to say to Shep’s announcement that he could not murder him in cold blood. He didn’t think ‘thanks’ would be appropriate.

He was shocked out of his pondering when Shep suddenly turned the gun on Wesley. “But YOU! You I can kill…Wesley Jackson Shepherd.”

Patrick had a microsecond to think, Hey, he finally said his name! Then Shep pulled the trigger. In that instant before he was absolutely sure that Shep was going to do it, Patrick made a decision. It was not a decision born of blood or bonding rituals. It was a decision made of his own free will.

Patrick dove in front of Wesley and caught the bullet in his side, just below his chest. He actually felt one of his ribs shatter, then the side of his body exploded with the worst pain he’d ever felt. As he fell to the ground, his only thought was, this hurts a lot more than it looks like in the movies.

Someone was screaming, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Shep. He was vaguely aware of Litner shouting, trying to get to Patrick. Wesley knelt down and grabbed Patrick’s shoulders. “Patrick! Patrick can you hear me?”

Patrick nodded.

Wesley looked at him through glassy tears. “Why did you do that? Why, Patrick? You are not my Shield. You’re not bound to me.”

Patrick winced, overwhelmed with pain. “Wanted to,” he squeaked out. “You haven’t lived yet. You said it yourself. You can’t die here. Not like this.”

“Neither can you! I’m going to get you help.” Wesley lifted his hands from Patrick’s body, and they were covered with blood. Patrick dared a glance down and saw the thick dark blood seeping out of his rib area. Then a hand came in and shoved Wesley roughly aside. It was Shep.

“Get away from him!” Shep hissed. Wesley tumbled over in surprise. “Obrien, you dumb fuck! What the hell were you thinking?” Shep opened Patrick’s jacket and lifted his tee shirt up, examining the wound.

Margol came forward. “What are you doing, Shepherd? Just let him die! He betrayed us!”

Without looking up, Shep said, “Get away from me Margol, or I’m going to get angry.”

Margol retreated. Shep examined Patrick’s wound, his brows knitted in confusion. “This isn’t right. You’re supposed to be healing.” He pushed his hands down on the wound and Patrick winced. “It doesn’t make sense. Heal damn it!” he yelled. “Heal!”

“What do you mean he’s supposed to be healing?” Wesley asked.

Shep gave Wesley a dirty look, but then he answered. “There was an attachment I added to his blood bond with Joey. I gave him extraordinary healing power when I made him The Shield, so he could take hits for Joey and still live. The bleeding should have stopped by now.”

Patrick remembered now that Robin had administered the blood to Joey. Aunt Betsy’s formula to return his conscience and sever his bonds. It seemed to have succeeded.

“Not the Shield,” Patrick said, his voice laced with pain.

“What did you say?” Shep asked.

“I’m not the Shield anymore. Bond has been broken.”

“What?” Shep leaned in close to Patrick, running his hands over his body without touching him. He pulled abruptly back and stared with shock. “How the hell did you manage that, you shady fucker? Shit!” Shep turned around and looked at Agent Litner. “Hey, Agent Fuckhead, get over here.”

Agent Litner looked up at Juris, who waved him on. Litner scurried over to where Patrick lay. “I need to get him to a hospital.”

“I know,” Shep said. “But if we don’t do something first, he’ll bleed to death on the way there.”

Litner gave Shep a wary look. “What are you suggesting?”

Shep used the bottom of his tank top to wipe the blood away from Patrick’s wound. “Call it a Band-Aid.”

“A Band-Aid?”

“Give me your hand,” Shep said.

Litner shook his head. “No.”

“He’s going to die, Agent Litner.”

Patrick laughed, delirious with pain and blood loss. “You were wrong, Shep. You don’t control everything.”

“Obrien, shut the fuck up so I can save your life.” Shep looked at Litner. “Do you care about him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you care about Patrick?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Then give me your goddamned hand, you mindless fuck!”

Litner offered his hand to Shep, palm up. He met Patrick’s eyes. “Is he always this charming?”

Patrick winced. “Pretty much.”

Shep asked Allisto to bring him a blade, then made a slice in Agent Litner’s hand. He led it over Patrick’s wound, letting the blood drip. He released Litner, then made a cut in his own hand, and went to do the same.

Litner grabbed Shep’s wrist. “No. Not your blood.”

“I can stop the bleeding for at least an hour this way,” Shep said.

Reluctantly, Litner let go of Shep’s wrist. Shep dribbled some of his own blood over Patrick’s wound, and closed his eyes. He whispered. “Uhl jetra plefarr, uhl jetra ongs.” Shep repeated the phrase several times, smearing the blood across the wound, mingling it with Patrick’s. Then he took a deep breath and pulled his hands back.

Litner’s eyes widened as he examined Patrick’s wound. “The bleeding has stopped. That’s amazing.”

Shep stood and wiped his bloody hands on his jeans. “Yeah, well it won’t be so amazing in an hour. He’ll start to bleed again, just like before, so you’d better get him to a hospital. You can take my car.”

Litner frowned. “Your car? Why?”

“Because I will be taking your government issue trucks over there, Steven. You know, the ones that are filled with what’s left of my crop?”

Litner’s expression tightened, and he looked crestfallen.

Shep laughed. “Oh, I see. You thought I didn’t know about them. My goodness Agent Litner, you continue to underestimate me.”

“Yes, I do,” Litner said.

The flames engulfing the guesthouse had all but died down, but suddenly they shot upward as though doused with a giant canister of lighter fluid. All eyes turned to look. The flames died back down gradually, and everyone looked away, until one of the restrained agents screamed through his gag.

Patrick was able to sit up with Wesley’s help, and he looked over at the cluster of agents who sat tied together a few yards away.

“Uhhnk!” One of them was trying to yell through the gag. “Uhhnk! Uhhnk!” The gagged agent was motioning his head toward the flaming guesthouse. Everyone turned and looked.

Patrick sucked his breath in so hard his gunshot wound stung with fresh pain. In the center of the wall of flame was an egg-shaped glow where the color had gone pure white. And in that white circle was a figure. Patrick blinked at the apparition several times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

It was huge, the size of four men. It did seem to have legs and human hands, but that’s where the human ended. It had four heads, one on top of the other. Two of them looked vaguely human, but the other two were beast-like. One of the bestial heads resembled a lion, the other some sort of bird. It had four large wings, two on either side of its torso, and each wing was covered with eyes. The eyes turned together in whatever direction the heads did. It glowed with soft white flame that seemed to pulse and move through its form.

“What in the name of hell is that thing?” Patrick asked softly.

“Impossible,” Wesley said. “It can’t be.” His blue eyes gazed at the freakish vision. “Cherubim!”

“Cherubim?” Patrick said. “I thought cherubs were fat little toddler-looking things with butterfly wings.”

Wesley shook his head. “Common misconception, skewed interpretations of popular artists. That thing right there is what a cherubim is really supposed to look like. Four heads, human hands, four wings with eyes on them.”

“Well, shit!” Patrick said. “That’s a pretty big misconception!”

“Who’s doing that?” Litner asked, looking back toward the house as though expecting to see someone projecting the apparition from elsewhere. “It’s another hoax, right? Is Russell doing it?”

Patrick shook his head. “Russell isn’t here. I fear that’s no hoax.”

The thing hung there, translucent yet solid, like a watery photograph within the flames. Patrick looked up at Shep, and the fear in his expression told him this was very, very real.

Juris’s lip quivered. “This is my fault? Because I brought the Schlarr when I was captive?”

“I don’t know,” Shep said. “A Schlarr is one thing. But they’ve never interfered before.”

Patrick tugged on Wesley’s arm. “Do you know why it’s here?”

“No.” Wesley crouched down and leaned in close, keeping his voice low. “Cherubim are very high up. Supposedly, they carry the light of the creator within them. They never visit the material world. This is highly unusual.”

The apparition turned slightly, and all of its eyes, including the multitude on its wings, focused on something to its right. Tiny bolts of electricity, like heat lightning sparked out from the white fire that encircled it, like it was charging energy.

Then a larger bolt shot out from the fiery circle and crashed into the first black FBI truck. The bolt went right through and connected with the second truck. It remained there, feeling around like a fiery tentacle. Then it pulled back suddenly, and both trucks exploded in a ball of fire.

Well, Patrick thought. There goes the last of the crop.

Apparently, the Feds weren’t the only ones who didn’t like Shep’s little sterilization plan. Shep turned to the brothers. “We have to get out of here. Now. Go. All of you. Go to the safe place we talked about. I have to get Klee. I’ll catch up with you. Go to the safe place. Go now!”

Margol and Juris sprinted off toward the road, faster than any human would have been able to run. “Allisto, we have to go,” Shep shouted. “Allisto!”

Allisto was walking toward the apparition. All four faces of the thing watched his approach.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Patrick whispered.

“Allisto no!” Shep ran for him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back. Allisto tried tugging free but Shep held tight. “Allisto, we have to leave!”

Allisto turned to Shep, a dreamy smile on his face. “Did you feel it, Zirub? It has The Light inside! Did you feel it?”

“The Light is not for us anymore, Allisto.”

Allisto’s face twisted in anger. “Speak for yourself!” He shoved Shep away and began walking toward the fire again. The being still hung in the flames, motionless except for the gentle pulsing of its four wings. Shep grabbed Allisto again, and Allisto turned on him. “It has The Light, Zirub! The Light.”

“You can’t go to it, Allisto. It’s dangerous! That is one of the enemies that got us trapped in the void. Now get out of here, go to the safe place and wait with your brothers.”

“No!” Allisto shouted, his voice laced with tears. “I don’t want to stay here anymore. I want to go back!”

Shep slapped him hard across the face. “Get a hold of yourself. You can’t go back!”

“I never wanted flesh, Zirub. It’s disgusting! I want my wings back!”

Shep grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. “You agreed to this, Allisto. Remember? You consented to come here with me.”

“I agreed to come here. I never agreed to staaaaaay!” he shrieked.

Shep looked gutted, his lip trembling. “You said you didn’t blame me,” he whispered. “You swore it.”

“We shouldn’t have left our posts. I told you. Do you remember? I told you it was a bad idea. We shouldn’t have left our posts!”

“You blame me!” Shep said, his voice as anguished as Allisto’s now. “All these years, you’ve blamed me for what became of us!”

“I don’t blame you, Zirub. I just want my wings back. That’s all. I just want my wings back.” Allisto broke free of Shep and darted full speed toward the apparition. “Hey!” he squealed in a maddened fury. “I want my wings back!”

“God damnit,” Shep said. “Allisto!”

Fifteen pairs of eyes shifted eerily and focused on the figure of Allisto running toward it. Allisto looked vulnerable in its shadow, a tiny form with dark bouncing curls, running toward the mountain of fire like a lost child. “I want my wings back, I want my wings back, I want my fucking wings back!”

“Allisto no!” Shep screamed in horror. “Stop right now!”

All four mouths of the being opened, and a sound came out that was a combination of shrieking bird and lion’s roar. A white light shot out and bathed Allisto in a glowing beam. Allisto fell to his knees as if he’d been struck down. He climbed clumsily to his feet, then his head and arms whipped back and he howled in pain.

Something was happening to him. Patrick, Wesley, and Agent Litner all froze, unable to believe what they were seeing. Out of the scar on Allisto’s back sprouted two black lumps, pulsing like living things. They began to grow and change. His tank top tore free and fell in shreds off his arms.

Allisto shrieked and fell to his hands and knees as the things on his back unraveled from him until they were complete. Spread out behind him were a pair of black leathery wings. They looked vulgar and reptilian sprouting from Allisto’s smooth flesh.

Standing on shaky legs, Allisto looked behind him. He fanned the wings twice, then gazed up at the apparition. “These are not my wings,” he shouted. His confusion switched to rage, and he charged at the thing. “These are not my wings!”

Shep went sprinting after him, diving forward and taking Allisto down by tackling him around the ankles. “Get away from it, Allisto!”

Allisto fell to his belly and clawed at the earth, still trying to get at the apparition. “These are not my wings! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” he screamed as the bizarre being loomed over them.

Shep struggled with all his might to pull Allisto back away from the apparition and out of the beam of light, but Allisto kicked and fought. The beam of light that engulfed Allisto fell onto Shep now, as he was practically on top of his brother. Shep’s tank top split open and a pair of black leathery wings, identical to Allisto’s, sprouted grotesquely from the scar on Shep’s back.

Undeterred, Shep continued to struggle to retrieve Allisto, even as the reptilian wings grew and spread. A trail of blood ran down Shep’s back, making a red stain at the top of his jeans. He managed to drag Allisto back several yards, but then Allisto caught Shep square in the nose with the heel of his shoe, a solid kick to the face.

Shep let go of Allisto for only a second, and Allisto was out of his grasp and sprinting full speed toward the apparition, vowing to kill it. When he finally made contact, his body exploded in the flames and a shower of sparks puffed out into the air like fairy dust.

Then Allisto was gone.

The human faces on the Cherubim frowned. The lion head roared, and the sound was somehow sad.

Shep remained there on the ground, face down on his hands and knees. The horrible black wings seemed to undulate on his back, and that was when Patrick realized Shep was sobbing. Raising himself to his knees, Shep took in a deep breath, then let out an echoing howl. “Allistooo!”

It was the most heartbreaking sound Patrick had ever heard, and his own eyes filled with tears.

“Allistooo!” Shep cried out again, then dropped his head into his hands and wept with unspeakable sorrow.

“I have to go get him.” Patrick tried to get up and found that his ribs would not hear of it. He winced painfully and looked at Agent Litner. “He’s still too close to that thing. You saw what it did to Allisto. You have to go get him.”

“Me?” Litner shook his head. “Are you out of your mind? No way.”

“He saved my life.”

“He’s the one who shot you!” Litner snapped. “It was the least he could do! And he killed Agent Rourke!”

“Klee killed Rourke.”

“Under Shep’s command!” Litner screamed. “It’s the same difference!”

“I’ll go,” Wesley said.

****

Both Patrick and Litner gaped at Wesley, shocked. After all, Shep had just attempted to kill him.

“You?” Patrick said. “You’ll help him?”

Nodding once, Wesley jogged out into the field toward Shep.

“Jesus Christ,” Litner said. “That kid is brave.”

“He’s not a kid, remember? He’s sixty-two.”

Litner gave Patrick a sharp look. “Don’t fuck with my head. Not now.”

Wesley had reached Shep. He glanced briefly up at the fiery apparition, then leaned down, reaching around Shep’s new black wing to take his arm.

Shep did not fight Wesley as he lifted him up and swung an arm over his shoulder. Shep’s head hung miserably as Wesley led him back to the shadows where the rest of them waited.

The apparition lifted its wings up high, clasped its human hands to its chest, and faded until it was gone. The white fire faded too, and now there was only a slowly burning guesthouse again. Patrick breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was over. Except that Shep now had some interesting new appendages.

Wesley eased Shep to the ground where he hunched over with his face pressed to the earth, weeping sorrowfully into the grass. No one dared speak. Patrick glanced over at the cluster of agents still tied together. They looked like they were going to need some serious therapy, their eyes huge and haunted.

Agent Litner grabbed a knife off the ground and went over to cut their ropes, untying them all and removing the gags from their mouths. None of them moved, though they were free of restraints now. They just sat there, all eyes all turned toward Shep, mouths slack as they gazed at this strange, weeping creature with the black wings.

Klee began to stir on the ground, coming out of his unconsciousness. This got Shep’s attention, and he lifted his head. His green eyes were swollen and bloodshot. He wiped his tears and assumed a responsible air. Like a grieving parent who’d lost one child, yet still had another to look after, he stood up, brushed himself off and regained his composure. Ignoring the rest of the company, he walked over and knelt down to Klee, easing his hands beneath his body and lifting him up like a baby in his arms.

Klee hung there, his legs dangling, and looked up at Shep. “Zirub. Are we all right?”

“Yes, Klee. Everything’s fine.”

“My head hurts. Why are you wearing those wings?”

“We have to go now, Klee. We can talk later.”

Klee seemed to accept this, and closed his eyes. Shep turned around with Klee in his arms, then stopped dead when he saw the rest of them staring, seeming to have forgotten they were there. He looked directly at Patrick, his expression one of vague embarrassment. “My other wings were much nicer.”

A breath shivered out of Patrick, and he nodded. “I’m sure they were beautiful.”

Shep smiled sadly and started to turn away, then he looked back. “Obrien, you were right, you know.”

“About what?”

“The chickpeas. I love those fuckin things.”

Shep turned away then and the ugly black wings spread out. Still holding Klee like a child in his arms, he took flight, a staggering, off balance affair at first, then smoothing out to a rhythmic glide as he lifted higher off the ground into the night sky.

It was the most disturbing sight any of them had ever witnessed. People weren’t supposed to fly, and it grated against all that their minds were willing to accept. Patrick watched him until he was far off in the distance, indistinguishable from a bird.

Then a gunshot rang out, and Shep’s distant form went spiraling downward like a damaged fighter jet. Patrick screamed as Shep’s winged silhouette fell earthward and disappeared somewhere over the bluffs.

He turned around and saw Agent Walsh standing behind him with a shotgun. Walsh limped forward on what looked like a broken leg. Half of his long gray hair had been singed off, and blistering burned patches covered his body. He stumbled, then fell to the ground. Litner ran to him.

Patrick felt the wound on his side burst open, and warm blood spread across the front of his tee shirt. Wesley saw it too, and ran to him. Patrick heard somebody screaming for an ambulance, then he passed out.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Patrick drifted in and out of a haze of painkillers. During his brief bouts of consciousness, he was aware that he was in the hospital, and that he was alive, but that’s about as far as his thoughts progressed. There were swimming images of Robin there sometimes, the smell of her hair as she kissed his cheek, the softness of her hand on his. A couple of times he awoke to see Father Carbone praying at the edge of his bed, and where he should have been comforted, he found it unsettling. Nurses came in and out, changing his bandages and checking his blood pressure.

He awoke again and Agent Litner was sitting silently next to him, tapping his gold pen to his temple. He leaned forward when Patrick opened his eyes. “How do you feel?”

Patrick scratched his face. “Drunk.”

“They have you pretty doped up. What do you remember?” Patrick shook his head and tried to scratch an itchy spot on his abdomen. Agent Litner stopped his hand. “You had surgery to get the bullet out. You’re going to be fine but you’re still healing.”

A rush of memories came charging into Patrick’s mind like an army of panicked horses. He sat up and grabbed Litner’s arm. “Is he dead?”

Litner tried to ease Patrick back down on the bed. “Patrick, there’s plenty of time for talk after you’ve fully recovered.”

Patrick grasped weakly at Agent Litner’s collar. “Litner, is he dead? Tell me, damn it!”

Litner sighed and Patrick fell back, too weak to hold the threatening pose. “All right. We think Agent Walsh’s shot caught Shep just as he was heading out over the ocean cliffs near the bluffs. We found some blood on one of the rocks, as well as a lock of blond hair, and um...a piece of wing. We assume he and Klee smashed into the cliff and then tumbled into the ocean. Their bodies were not recovered, but they are both presumed dead.” Patrick rolled over onto his side, giving his back to Litner. “Patrick?”

“I need to be alone.”

The next time he saw Litner he was in less of a haze. He’d lost track of time but guessed it had been three days. The doctor informed him that they had lowered his pain meds and that he was recovering nicely.

As the doctor opened the door to leave, Litner came in carrying a basket of flowers. “Now that is a rare sight,” Patrick said.

Litner smiled. “Ah, you’re feeling better. These are from Wesley.”

“Wesley? Is he here?”

“No. He’s not quite ready for civilization yet, but he’s working his way out of hermit-dom, slowly. I’ve been spending time with him. Took him into Boston the other day.”

“You’re kidding me!”

Litner placed the flowers near the window and took the seat next to the bed. “Wesley and I went to the museum, then we drove around. The crowds started to freak him out, so I took him back home. It’s a start though. He’s agreed to actually read a newspaper this weekend.”

“Imagine that,” Patrick said. “And Agent Walsh?”

Litner sighed. “He’s still in the burn unit but he’s making progress. He was lucky to get out of that house. The last thing he remembers is jumping out of the second floor window. He has no recollection of making his way back over to us. Or of…” Litner paused.

“Shooting Shep out of the sky like a Christmas goose?” Patrick said.

“Patrick, I am sorry. I know grief has no logic, and you’re mourning Shep.”

“Don’t sweat it, Litner. It hurts, but I’m certainly not blaming anyone. Shep was the bad guy. I get it.”

Litner nodded, his lip tightening. “Joey isn’t doing so well.”

Patrick flinched. He’d been dreading this conversation. “I can’t feel him anymore.”

“He said the same thing about you. I guess that bond is really broken.”

“Is he still crying a lot?”

“Only when he’s awake,” Litner said, and Patrick laughed. “He is doing better than he was. He’s been able to talk to us and his appetite has increased a bit. The other day he even asked if anyone had any marijuana.”

Patrick laughed. “I guess he is feeling better.” There was an awkward silence. Patrick adjusted his bed so that he was in a sitting position. “They’re going to prosecute him. Aren’t they?”

Agent Litner brought the pen to his temple and began to tap. “Patrick, when Joey was going through his emotional awakening, he spilled his guts to anyone that would listen, including several of my superiors. Even if I wanted to help him, I’m not sure that I could at this point. He has admitted being an accessory to three murders. He knew that Shep was going to kill his family, and he didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“But you know that’s not fair. You know there are special circumstances.”

“So what do you suggest? That we start talking to a judge about magical blood? I had a hard enough time covering up what happened at Forest Bluffs.”

“Joey cannot go to jail. You know it wasn’t his fault. Shep did something to him!”

“Yes, he calmed his soul. I’m aware, Patrick, but last I heard the ‘I had no soul’ defense did not hold up in a court of law.”

Patrick pointed at him. “You are a very resourceful person, Litner. I know there’s something you can do.”

“Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m just not sure I’m ready to jump on this, ‘Joey is innocent’ bandwagon. I profile people for a living. I don’t get a good feeling about Joey. Even now that he has his…soul back.”

Patrick sighed. “Of course he doesn’t seem right you. He’s like Wesley; half his life was stolen from him.”

“And I believe Joey gave that up to Shep willingly.”

“Litner, you don’t get it. When I was under the spell of that blood bond, I did things that I would never have done, could never have done under normal circumstances. I know the power that Shep had, and I’ll say it again. It was not Joey’s fault. You saw those photos from Shep’s house, the ones Carbone showed me. Joey was a little boy when Shep first targeted him, a child. He was groomed by a supernatural being who fucked with his body chemistry. You have to get them to understand and let him go.”

Litner shook his head. “I don’t know, Patrick.”

“You owe me one,” Patrick said.

“Excuse me?”

“If I hadn’t jumped in front of that bullet, Shep wouldn’t have needed you. He would have let Juris kill you eventually. In fact, I stopped Margol from killing you before that by waving the detonator, so in effect, you owe me two.” He grinned smugly.

Litner scowled. “I liked you better when you were on morphine.”

“I’m vouching for his character, Litner. I’m begging you.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Patrick. I’m not promising anything.”

****

Joey was being held at a special government ward so he could be watched closely, yet kept hidden at the same time. He rested in a secured room behind a thick wall of glass, curled up on his side. He seemed to be asleep, but his lips continued to mutter and he cried out occasionally. Litner glanced at the two bullish guards at the door and flipped his identification at them. They stepped out of the way and let him in the room.

He was surprised to see his boss, Agent Michaels, seated in the chair near the bed, sipping coffee and staring at the sleeping Joey. “Litner. Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

“How is he?”

Michaels glanced up. “Weird.”

Joey’s black hair had been cut shorter, and he was clean shaven. Litner studied the perfect bone structure, the tanned skin, long black lashes. He could have been a model or a movie star. Perhaps he would have been, had Shep not interceded and tried to make him his pet god.

Joey’s perfect face grimaced and he cried out incoherently in his sleep. His shoulders trembled. Whatever good fortune had graced this young man in the past, he was miserable now. Michaels stood up and stared at Joey. “I ask him the simplest questions, like where he went to high school, and he starts to cry.”

“Well, he’s been through quite an ordeal,” Litner said.

Michaels stared at Joey a moment longer. “Come on, Litner. We need to talk.”

When they got to Agent Michaels’ office, he told his secretary to hold his calls. After they both sat down, Michaels drummed his fingers on the desk and looked him in the eye. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, Litner?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t give me that ‘who me’ look. This report you gave me is so full of holes I can’t believe you expected me to buy it.”

“If you have further questions, I’d be happy to try and answer them.”

“Really. Well, I do have further questions. I want to know why nine agents came back from that siege requesting leaves of absence for personal reasons. All of them suddenly need time off. I know for a fact plenty of them have been through worse. At least worse than what your report tells me. So what are you hiding?”

Litner left the metaphysical stuff out of his report purposely. He knew Michaels was familiar with some unexplainable phenomena, so it wasn’t that he was afraid his boss wouldn’t buy it. But his team members begged him not to reveal the entire truth of what happened. Everyone was worried about their jobs, their reputations, and their sanity. And what could it possibly add to the outcome? The crops were destroyed. Shepherd was dead. Joey was broken. It was over.

“It was a violent altercation. We lost a man, others were wounded. It’s understandable they’d need time off.”

“These are trained professionals, Litner.”

“There was a lot of—”

“A lot of confusion,” Michaels finished his sentence. “Yes, you said that in your report. It must have been damn confusing out there. You’re all hiding something. Tell me the truth.”

“I want you to cut Duvaine loose,” Litner said, using the shock value of the statement to distract. It worked.

“What did you say?”

“I said I want you to cut Duvaine loose. I believe he was under a type of mind control during the time his family was murdered. That is, if they were murdered. There is still no proof of that.”

Michaels was literally thrown by the statement, and he tilted back in his chair, nearly tipping over. “No proof? How about a full confession from Duvaine himself? Is that not proof enough for you?”

“As I said, I believe Duvaine was not in his right mind.”

“Hold on Litner. Just hold on a minute. All I’ve heard from you and Agent Rourke, God rest his soul, for the past year, is that Joey Duvaine was involved with his family’s deaths. You insisted on it. You argued about it. You begged me not to close the case. So now Duvaine has confessed to having prior knowledge of these murders, and you want to cut him loose?”

“But—’’

“Have you heard some of the things he’s confessed to? Dressing his friend Shepherd up as Captain Morgan before sending him off to murder his father. You know, Captain Morgan from the rum bottle? In order to, and I’m quoting here, ‘mess with his father’s mind’ before Shep killed him. Should I go on, or is that disturbing enough for you?”

“As I explained, I believe there were extenuating circumstances.”

“See, that’s just the thing, Litner. You’ve explained shit. Duvaine is gonna fry. End of story.”

Litner drummed his temple with his pen. “What if I were to offer you something in return for Duvaine’s freedom?”

“You haven’t got anything that good.”

“What if, for arguments sake, I did have something that good?”

He could see that he’d sparked his boss’s interest, though he struggled to make his face blank. Michaels said, “If you did in fact have a piece of information that valuable, then yes, I would consider it.”

“I know where there’s a Cripulet.”

Michaels stilled. “Yeah, I do too. Two in fact. One’s in India, one’s in Spain. Both sitting underground in the bowels of the earth, inactive.”

Litner shook his head. “I’m not talking about those. I’m talking about a Cripulet we have right here.”

Michaels shrugged casually, but Litner saw a flicker of excitement in his eyes. “Here? In the United States?”

“Here, in Massachusetts.”

Michaels stared at him for a long moment. “Bullshit. Don’t fuck with me, Litner. There is no damn Cripulet in Massachusetts.”

“I swear on my mother’s life.”

Michaels leaned forward. “Are you shitting me?”

“Sincerely. Oh, and it’s active.”

Michaels almost fell out of his chair again, only this time from leaning too far forward. “How active?”

“It was just opened last month. I’m certain if you test the rock, you’ll find the same compounds they discovered in India and Spain.”

According to the data, Cripulets activated even once left a unique residue signature in the material that underwent the shifting process. The results had been identical in the Cripulets discovered and tested in the past. Michaels would be able to confirm that the one in the cave at Pearl Chasm was legitimate.

Fortunately, there was no standard procedure for getting one of them to actually open. Otherwise he wouldn’t be telling Michaels about it at all. And he sure wasn’t about to share what he did know—that the Cripulet at Pearl Chasm could be opened using the blood of the newly departed. He knew Michaels to be a good, ethical man. But with what Litner knew about who and what had come through the Pearl Chasm Cripulet, he wasn’t about to trust anyone with the knowledge of how to open that thing again.

But still, it was a real Cripulet, one that he could now use as a real bargaining chip. “There’s even a circle painted on stone to mark the exact spot. You’ll be able to find it easily.”

Michaels swallowed hard and his voice dropped to a whisper. “You know this for certain? That it was activated?”

“I do. But I can’t tell you how I know.”

“Why? You work for me, remember?”

“It’s something I discovered on my personal time. You’re going to have to trust me. I have eyewitness accounts that I know to be true, but they’ve asked not to be exposed. Michaels, I know for certain there’s a Cripulet, and I know where. Do you want the location or not?”

“Why do you want Duvaine this badly, Litner?”

“Because I owe Patrick big time, and he’s convinced me Joey can be redeemed. Hell, you’ve seen him, talked to him. If anything, the guy needs a shrink. Not prison.”

“Court mandated therapy?”

“I can make that happen.”

Agent Michaels got very quiet then. He stood up and locked his door, then returned to his seat. “Where is it?”

“You give me Joey Duvaine, and I’ll give you the location of the Cripulet.”

“Take the murdering little bastard. He’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Tell me.”

“Do you know where Pearl Chasm is?”

Agent Michaels smiled.

****

Litner swung by Joey Duvaine’s room again on his way out. Robin was there now, sitting by his side, reading. She looked up and waved at him through the glass. Joey was still sleeping. They had him on large doses of sedatives. They were the only things that seemed to calm him. Litner stared at the sleeping man, the would-be god. “I hope you’re worth it, kid,” he muttered and walked by the room, giving Robin a final wave as he left.

Inside the room, Joey opened his eyes. “Robin.”

She put her book down. “You’re awake. Are you feeling better today?”

His pale blue eyes stared at her intently. “I am not feeling better today. I was not feeling better yesterday. And I will not be feeling better tomorrow. Kill me.”

Robin sighed. “Oh please, Joey. Not this again.”

“I’m miserable.”

“You’re free. The pain will lessen over time. Give it time, Joey.”

“And just how much time would it take you to live down fact that you’d allowed the murder of your entire family?”

Robin rubbed her eyes. Between worrying about Joey and Patrick and grieving Shep’s death, she hadn’t slept in days. “Joey, you can’t possibly prefer to be what you were. Do you want to live your life without feeling? Do you want to go back to that...madness?”

Joey studied her a moment longer, then his lip quivered. “I’m sorry, Robin.”

“Oh, no,” Robin said. “Don’t start crying again, Joey. I can’t take it.”

He buried his face in the pillow and wept. Robin frowned. The door opened and one of the guards came in. “Joseph Duvaine?”

Joey did not lift his head. Robin answered for him. “Yes, this is Joey Duvaine. What is it?”

“Agent Michaels wants to see him.”

Robin scowled. She knew they wanted to put Joey in jail. “Tell him that he’s upset right now. What the hell does Michaels want now?”

“He wants to discuss his release.”

Robin blinked. “His release?”

“Yes. Joey’s free to go. When he’s feeling better, that is.”

Joey sat up abruptly. He wiped his tears and looked at the guard. “I’ve never felt better. I’d like to go home now, please.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Three weeks later.

Patrick sat on the train, trying to figure out who smelled so bad. All he really knew was that it wasn’t him. He was wearing a new suit and some very expensive cologne.

His first day on the new job had been tough. The job itself wasn’t tough, it was just hard getting back into the swing of things. As much as he’d loved the routine of working for a living, he felt differently now. He was not that same guy he’d been before. But since Litner had gone out of his way to find Patrick the job, he pushed through and hoped it would get better. That he’d feel better. Eventually.

At times it felt like it had all been a bad dream. Except that Shep was no longer with them, a reality that wouldn’t go away. He hadn’t been prepared for how hard that would hit him. He’d spent a couple days at his brother Ryan’s house when he got out of the hospital. Ryan had comforted him, listened to him, and let him cry.

Copie had gone to work as well, as a photographer for a fairly popular online magazine. It wasn’t fame and fortune, but it was a start. Copie said he was just happy to be alive, physically and legally, and anything else was just gravy.

Patrick had heard through the grapevine that Father Carbone was leaving Saint Mary’s and going to serve at Saint Christopher’s church with Father Bello. It seemed the two scholars had a new common interest: celestial folklore.

The train stopped and Patrick got off. It was odd walking up the familiar street toward Joey’s apartment. He would miss Joey terribly, but he understood why he needed to get away for a while. Joey’s family had originally come from Montreal, so he was packing his bags and going to spend a few months up in Canada, where he claimed with dark humor that there may still be a few Duvaines left that he hadn’t killed.

The two of them had gone out for beers at Monty’s earlier in the week with Calvin White as a bon voyage party for what Calvin called Joey’s ‘temporary leave of his senses’. It had been strange being back at the bar as though nothing had happened. It would have been all too familiar, but again, there was no Shep. He left a large and obvious hole. The other thorn in the side of normalcy was that Joey was still a celebrity of sorts, and he still got a lot of attention regardless of his attempts to quietly enjoy a beer with friends.

Patrick had bid Joey farewell that night, but he couldn’t resist stopping by the apartment one last time. When he rounded the corner, he saw the new minivan sitting outside. He’d never imagined Joey to drive a minivan, but again, a lot of things had changed. Patrick grinned at the van, pleased that Joey was home. He had to at least have one last beer with him. It might be months before they saw each other again.

Joey had the door open at the top of the stairs and was peeking out before Patrick got half-way up. “Obrien! You didn’t have to come by again.”

“I wanted to. Are you all packed?”

“Pretty much. Come on in.”

Patrick followed Joey into the apartment just as Joey’s cellphone rang. “Oh, I have to get this, it’s Aunt Betsy. She’s supposed to give me a list of relatives to look up when I get to Montreal. Grab a beer, I’ll be right out.”

Joey went down the hallway to his bedroom, while Patrick wandered into the familiar living room and looked around with nostalgia, remembering all the Saturday mornings he’d spent here. He glanced over at the suitcases piled up on the couch and felt a pang of sadness. Moving into the kitchen, he grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Stuck to the door was a scrap of paper with the name and number of a mental health center nearby. Patrick had the same number at his apartment.

It was the place where Kelinda was currently residing. They’d tried to get in to visit her earlier in the week, but she refused to see them. Her mother was there, and proceeded to inform them that if either one of them ever went near her daughter again, she would remove their testicles.

The new, emotional Joey had been particularly disturbed by Kelinda’s mother’s comments, and Patrick had to calm his sobbing on the way home. Patrick heard Joey’s laughter from down in his bedroom, and he smiled. It had been a long time since he’d heard Joey laugh.

He meandered back into the living room and plunked down on the recliner, taking a long swill of his beer. The apartment had a funny smell. At first Patrick assumed it was because the place had been shut up all spring. But there was something familiar about the smell. It smelled like, well…Forest Bluffs. Like burned rubber. Patrick looked down at the chair he sat in. It was Joey’s favorite recliner, the one he’d brought out to Forest Bluffs with him. The smell was probably coming from the chair.

Patrick stood and walked around the room. The smell was stronger near the couch. He shook his head and started to walk back to the chair when something caught his eye. There was a clump of material rolled up and tossed off in the corner of the room. Patrick took a few steps toward it then stopped dead. It was a tie-dye tee shirt.

Eerie to see it, knowing that it must have been Shep’s. Patrick picked up the shirt. He recognized it. It was a turquoise and orange one with tiny dancing bears that spiraled into a point at the center. He could even smell Shep’s coconut shampoo as he shook it out, and he found that his heart was breaking. “Damn it, Shep,” he whispered, fighting back tears. “I miss you, you crazy fuck.”

He was about to drop the shirt when he saw it. The shirt had blood on it. He froze, his stomach turning to ice. He hadn’t noticed it at first because of the colorful tie-dye pattern. But the fabric was definitely dotted with blood.

Somewhere down the hall, Joey cackled on the phone. Patrick slowly turned the shirt around. The back was soaked with blood. The stain had a slight curve to it, like an upside-down horseshoe.

Patrick dropped the tee shirt and stumbled backwards, his mind spinning. He felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He stopped moving when he bumped into the couch and fell backward onto Joey’s suitcases. He paused, listening for Joey’s voice. After a few seconds, he heard it. Joey was still on the phone.

On a whim he opened one of the suitcases. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. When he lifted the lid, the smell wafted up—burned rubber. He looked down at the contents. “No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no.”

There in the suitcase were dozens of clear plastic zip bags full of reddish-brown seeds. They had the smell of the crop. He grabbed another suitcase and unzipped it. More seeds. He tore through the suitcases piled up on the couch. Patrick opened every one of them, and every one of them was full of seeds.

He put his hands to his head. Words he’d said to Wesley echoed in his mind. “So that’s it? He screws up with you and this Rollie guy, and he just starts over again?”

He heard the floor creak behind him and spun around. Joey stood on the other side of the couch, pointing a small black gun. “Step away from the seeds, Obrien.”

Patrick stayed frozen in place. “Joey, what are you doing?”

“I said, step away from the seeds.”

Patrick put his hands up and took two steps back from the couch. “So,” he said, his voice trembling. “Who did he get to cut his wings off this time? I know it wasn’t Dr. Lichtenstein.”

“I cut his wings off. That’s what friends do.”

Patrick shook his head. “I vouched for you with Agent Litner.  I’m so fucking stupid. I don’t know you at all, do I?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course you know me.”

“No. I know a character played by an actor named Joey Duvaine. Have I ever really known you?”

Joey smiled, but his eyes were cold. “No. I suppose not. No sense lying about it now, I guess.”

“And Shep?”

Joey flinched ever so slightly, and the smile slipped away. “He told me what happened that night. About how he couldn’t kill you. It’s ironic, really. All these years he was afraid I would be the one to get attached to you. The way Wesley got attached to Rollie. But that never happened to me. I never gave a shit about you. I would have shot you without hesitation.”

Patrick’s stomach shuddered “So that’s it? This is who you are? Some…sociopath I didn’t catch even a glimpse of for ten years? I don’t believe it. This isn’t you.”

“Oh please, Obrien. You’ve gotten so dramatic lately. I liked you better before. You were so…simple. That’s why we picked you. You ask me who I am. Well let me tell you who I’m not. I am not Wesley Shepherd. I don’t intend to hide away for the rest of my life in some log cabin, shivering with guilt and self-loathing.”

“When did Shep get to you?”

Joey laughed. “Get to me? He didn’t get to me. I sought him out. I went looking for him. I know you want to place all the blame on Shep. You need to believe that he’s the one who corrupts and controls me. But that’s not the way it is. It never has been.”

Patrick shook his head. “Shep calmed your soul. He made it so you couldn’t feel remorse.”

“Yes. If it makes you feel better, that blood Robin gave me really did break the bonds I had with you and Shep. Kudos to Aunt Betsy, that fruity fucking witch. I didn’t think she had it in her.”

“So the pain you were experiencing was real. The remorse was real. Then why are you doing this now?”

“I don’t want to feel the pain!” he shouted, and Patrick jumped. “I don’t want to, as the therapist said, ‘explore my feelings’. I can’t live with that kind of guilt. Why would I want to? So I found Shep. I knew he was alive, I could feel it. I found him and I had him do me again. I had him give me his blood and calm my soul. It wasn’t as easy this time. He’s in pretty rough shape after that fall he took. He was barely able to save Klee from drowning. I still can’t believe you brought the FBI to our door, Obrien. I’ve been wanting so badly to tell you that you make me sick, you piece of shit. You make me sick for what you did to us.”

“No. You don’t know what you’re saying, Joey. We can fix this. Please, come with me. We’ll go see Aunt Betsy.”

“I don’t want to go see fucking Aunt Betsy! Don’t you get it? I am not a victim here! I volunteered to this when I was fifteen, and I volunteered to it again this time. This was my choice!”

“I don’t believe you. You were an innocent boy back then. Shep took advantage of you. He manipulated you. You didn’t know what you were getting into.”

“You’re wrong. Shep told me everything before he ever calmed my soul. I know you don’t want to believe that. You want to make him the bad guy, but you don’t understand. All those years ago, he gave me a choice. I could have said no and he would have walked away and found somebody else.”

Patrick shook his head. “My God, Joey. Why? Why would you choose this?”

Joey laughed. “You mean why didn’t I want to be normal? Let me tell you something, Obrien. I was never normal. Do you have any idea what my I.Q. is?”

“I’ve heard it’s quite high.”

Joey threw his head back and cackled. “Yes, Obrien. It’s quite high. That’s putting it mildly. It’s the highest I.Q. ever recorded. You want to know who Joey Duvaine is? Joey Duvaine is a fucking freak. He always has been. My life was hell before I met Shep.”

Patrick scoffed. “Oh yes. I’m sure it’s been rough on you, being a drop-dead gorgeous genius and all.”

“It has!” Joey screamed so loud that his cheeks flushed red. Patrick was startled by the reaction. Joey stepped closer, the weapon still pointed at Patrick.

“Take it easy, Joey.”

“You have no idea. You think everything is peaches and cream for a kid that smart? When everyone around you has average intelligence? It’s a nightmare. I felt like a fucking alien most of my life. Nobody could relate to me. I needed more sensory input than my so-called normal life could offer. And when the teachers wanted to move me up grades in school, my mother declined. She wanted me to be with the morons my own age.”

“I…I’m sure she was trying not to damage you, emotionally.”

“The damage was done the minute I was born, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I was trapped, in a world without stimulation. I died of boredom every day. All of my relationships seemed shallow and false, even those with my family. And I had these thoughts. These brilliant thoughts that nobody else could understand! I had ideas, and nobody to discuss them with. My own thoughts bombarded me until I felt like I was going insane. I was the most depressed nine-year-old you ever saw.”

Patrick swallowed, his eyes on Joey’s gun. “So you were an unhappy child.”

“Unhappy? By age ten I was contemplating suicide. By age eleven, I’d attempted it twice.”

Patrick was shocked, and it must have shown on his face.

“That’s right, Obrien. My perfect loving parents swept that little tidbit under the rug. We can’t have the neighbors knowing the great Charles Duvaine has a nutcase for a son. The first time, I jumped off the roof of the house. Unfortunately, I only broke my leg. The second time, my mother found me in the bathroom with a razor blade in my hand. I’d started to slice one of my wrists.”

Patrick gasped. “Joey…I didn’t know.”

“They never even got me a doctor. They never even got me professional help. They decided they could deal with me themselves. They were ashamed of me. They didn’t want anyone, even a doctor, to know what a freak I was.”

Patrick stood in shocked silence.

“Is it beginning to make sense to you now, Obrien?” Patrick nodded. “I became an actor, because I could at least pretend to be someone else for that short time I was on the stage or in front of the camera. I could be someone else, someone without my problems. The downside was that it always ended. Then I’d have to go back to being me again. The real world was slow and stagnant. It was like a vacant repressed hell. I hated my life. I hated the world. I wanted to leave it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick said. “I had no idea. You always seemed to have it so together.”

“Because by the time I met you, I did have it together.” Joey’s pale eyes looked off into the distance, then his face warmed, his lips tilted to a grin. “One day, it all changed. Someone came along who offered me the role of a lifetime. He offered to make me someone else for as long as I lived. He offered to give me an extraordinary life, where the rules did not apply and I’d be free to explore stimuli and power that went beyond the eternal dulling numbness of this world.”

“Shepherd,” Patrick said softly.

“The one and only. He was amazing. His intelligence exceeded my own, tenfold. You can imagine how thrilled I was to have met him, to have someone so above average to converse with. He offered me a life beyond the mundane confines of this world. Do you see now? He really did give me life. I’d be dead now if it weren’t for him, I’m sure of it. He is my best friend. He is my brother. He is my everything.”

“But Joey, he’s not right. He’s mentally unstable. He’s hell-bent on revenge and control of something he will never have! Did he tell you about that thing that appeared the night Allisto was killed? The way it blew up the trucks holding the crops?”

“Of course.”

“Well for Christ sakes, Joey! Doesn’t that give you pause? He’s pissing into the wind. His plan was never gonna work.”

“You don’t know anything about it, Obrien.”

“The fucking…creator of the world is his enemy, Joey. Divinity itself scorns Shep.”

Joey howled with laughter. “The Light is a force of nature, not divinity, and it doesn’t give a shit about Shep. It never did. You really think that four-headed monster was sent from the top? Down to fucking Forest Bluffs, Massachusetts to destroy a few trucks of grain? That cherubic freak you saw was there of its own free will. That and things like it have been stalking Shep for years. For their own reasons.”

“Why? For what reason?”

“To sabotage Shep’s plan! That was one of his so-called superiors. They twisted Shep’s plan from the beginning and kept him from executing it, because they didn’t want an underling getting all that credit. If Shep executes his plan now and succeeds, he makes them look bad. That, Obrien, is why that thing showed its ugly faces and destroyed those crops. It’s part of an age-old pissing contest. Everything that crawls out of that realm is not on a holy mission.”

Patrick shook his head. “You’re as crazy as he is. You actually buy into all his paranoid bullshit. Holy shit, Joey. You really do worship him.”

“Of course I worship him! Shep gave me life. Don’t you understand that? I am nothing without him. He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known. How could you have possibly thought that I would give him up? You should have joined us, Obrien. You could have been part of it. But it’s too late for that now.”

Joey lifted the gun, and Patrick didn’t like the hostility in his eyes. “You know, Joey, I’ve had a lot of guns pointed at me lately. It’s getting tiresome.”

“I’m not going to kill you. That would displease Shep, although I can’t quite understand why. But he’s still heartbroken about losing Allisto and I don’t want to add any pain to that. I’ll have to subdue you until I’m safely out of here. Then I’ll send someone to free you.”

“Subdue me?” Patrick said warily.

Joey moved toward him, and Patrick backed up defensively. When he was backed against the wall, Joey holstered the gun in his jeans, then grabbed Patrick under his arms and lifted him up over his head. Feet dangling, Patrick looked down in shock. “Oh, right,” Joey said. “I forgot to tell you. Since you’re not the Shield anymore, Shep gave me your strength. I hope you don’t mind. After all, you weren’t using it.”

Joey slammed Patrick’s head into the wall and everything went dark.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Robin still wasn’t sleeping. Sure, Patrick was better, and Joey seemed to be getting back to normal, but she still couldn’t seem to get through a night without waking every two hours with nightmares. If she didn’t get some uninterrupted sleep soon, she’d lose her mind. She’d already started hallucinating a bit in the car, imagining a bug crawling up her arm, only to jump and discover there was nothing there. That’s when she decided that sleeping pills were in order.

It was only six in the evening when she put on her nightshirt, swallowed the two pills and settled on the couch. She was drawn down into a deep sleep almost immediately. It was not even full dark yet when she stirred and opened her eyes a crack sometime later. “I’m not done sleeping yet,” she said groggily to whoever had touched her face.

Her eyelids felt like they had weights tied to them, but she forced them to open fully, sensing she was not alone. She glanced at her phone, which read 7:15. She’d only been asleep an hour. Lifting her heavy head, she glanced around the room. The apartment was quiet and empty. She decided she must have been dreaming. Curling up onto her side, she started to drift into sleep again.

That’s when she felt the weight shift on the couch and the soft curls fall onto her face as Shep kissed her. It had to be Shep. No one else smelled like that. I’m dreaming, she thought. “You’re dead,” she whispered through the haze of sleep.

“I’m not dead. I’m right here,” the familiar voice said.

She started to cry. “No. Not this. I can’t take anymore. I just can’t.”

He stroked her face. “Shhh. It’s all right.” She felt his weight lean over on her, and smelled his skin as he trailed his lips along her cheek. “Do you love Patrick?” he asked.

“Yes,” she slurred.

“Does he love you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “He loves me.”

There was a long pause and she thought Shep’s voice was going to go away and let her sleep. “Do you love me?” the voice asked after a long silence.

She didn’t answer. She was beginning to come awake now and fear was rising in her heart. Shep in her apartment? Shep on the couch with her? Impossible. Shep was dead.

“Robin?” Her body jerked at the sound of her name. “Do you love me?”

She felt his hair brush her face, felt his weight pressing against her side, and she wanted him there. Of course, he was only a dream. “Yes,” she whispered, even softer this time. “I’ll always love you.”

“Then you’ll come with me.” It was a statement, not a question. His voice had stopped being soft and dream-like. It was loud and commanding. “You’ll come with me, if you love me.”

She came fully awake and sat up. Shep was there on the couch. She gasped when she saw him, and the condition he was in. This was no dream. “Shep!”

He had cuts and horrible bruises all over his face. Broken blood vessels trailed like purple spider webs down the right side of his cheek. His left eye was swollen completely shut, and one of his wrists had a cast on it.

“Stay calm,” he said, taking her hand.

“You’re alive. Jesus Christ. What is happening?”

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, touching her hair. She couldn’t stop looking at his swollen eye. “Do you love me, Robin?”

Mouth agape, she took in his entire appearance. He wore gray sweatpants with a black hooded sweatshirt. In his right hand, he held a pair of dark sunglasses. On the coffee table next to him was a black baseball cap. He looked at her pleadingly, waiting for her to respond to his request that she go with him. Go with him where? She knew she should be running for the door but she was still pleasantly hazy from the sleeping pills.

“I’ll always love you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re alive. But I can’t go with you.”

He looked down, nodding.

“You understand. Don’t you?” she asked.

He sighed deeply, fiddling with the bottom of his wrist cast. He looked at her with one green eye, the other swollen shut. “No,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

He covered her mouth and nose with a wet rag. She tried to pull away but he pressed it down harder, forcing her to breathe through it. It smelled like the gas she’d gotten at the dentist’s office as a child. She tried to scream, to speak, to strike out, but then the euphoria came over her and she fell back onto the couch. She was vaguely aware of Shep carrying her toward the door, then there was nothing.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Someone was pounding on the door and calling his name. Patrick awoke and found that he could not move. His head was throbbing. He looked around in confusion. He was in Joey’s apartment. The events preceding his blackout came back to him. He looked down at himself. He was on the recliner, bound with bungee cords. He looked over at the couch. Joey’s bags were gone, and so was Joey.

“Patrick! Are you in there?”

It was Agent Litner’s voice. “I’m in here!” His voice cracked. “I’m in here, Litner!”

“Can you open the door?”

“No.”

There were a couple of thuds, and then the door flew open. Litner came storming into the apartment with his gun drawn. He stopped dead when he saw Patrick tied to the chair. “Oh no,” he said, holstering his gun. “What now? What is this?”

Patrick winced. “Could you untie me please?”

Litner went to him and began to struggle with the bungee cords. “Who did this to you?”

“Joey did.” Litner stopped moving and looked at Patrick. Patrick shook his head. “Don’t say it. I know you told me so. How did you know I was here?”

Litner sighed and finished untying Patrick. “Joey left me a message. He said that you were at his apartment and you needed my help. What the hell happened here?”

“Shep is alive,” Patrick said.

Litner went rigid. “What?”

Patrick moved from the recliner to the couch, which still smelled like Forest Bluffs. He told Litner about what happened. Litner sat down on the recliner. “So we really have no proof that Shep is alive, then.”

Patrick looked him in the eye. “He’s alive, Litner.”

“Are you sure? Did you see him with your own eyes?”

“Joey said—’’

“You just told me that Joey is a lunatic. But you’re going to take his word that Shep is alive? Did it ever occur to you that Joey could have bloodied that shirt?”

Patrick sat silently, rubbing the back of his head where a nice egg was forming. Litner stood up. “What’s wrong with Robin anyway?”

Patrick perked up. “Robin? What do you mean?”

“Well, on Joey’s message, he told me to make sure we stopped by Robin’s place.”

Patrick stood up. “Shit.”

Litner had Patrick drive the car so that he could use his computer. He sat in the passenger seat tapping away at the keys while Patrick hammered the car up the narrow streets toward Robin’s apartment. Litner shook his head. “Son of a bitch,” he said, staring at the screen.

“What is it?”

“Shep is alive.”

Patrick glanced at him. “How do you know for sure?”

Litner sighed. “Because Joey’s file has been wiped clean. Also, he left me a…greeting.”

“A greeting?”

Litner turned the computer toward Patrick. “My screen name has been changed to Agent Fuckhead.”

They reached Robin’s apartment. Patrick had a key now, which he dropped twice upon storming up the narrow stairway. Finally, they reached the door and the two of them stepped inside. The apartment was empty. Patrick raced through the place calling Robin’s name, to no avail.

Litner stepped into the bedroom behind him. “I’ve found something,” he said. Patrick turned and saw the candy necklace he’d given Robin, dangling from Litner’s fingers. There was an envelope pinned to it. “It’s addressed to you.”

Patrick sat down on the bed, his legs shaky. “You read it. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Litner opened the envelope, pulling out a piece of lined paper. “It’s the same handwriting from Shep’s journal. Yes?” He turned the page around to show Patrick.

“Yeah,” Patrick rasped. “That’s Shep’s writing.”

After a moment’s pause, Litner read from the page. “Dear Obrien, although I still think you are a…” Litner paused, frowning. He cleared his throat and continued. “Although I still think you are a stupid fucking scumbag for what you did to me, I guess I can understand why you did the things you did. I tried to do my best with you, and believe it or not, everything I did was for your own safety. Now I need to go away and re-think things. Please don’t try to find us, because it won’t do you any good. We will succeed. We will endure. You merely slowed us down a bit. Forget about us. Be ordinary, Patrick. It’s what you always wanted. It’s what you always were. Good luck with your life. I’m sure you’ll meet a nice, ordinary woman and raise a bunch of little potato eating Irish kids. P.S….”

Litner paused and looked warily at Patrick. “What is it Litner? Damn it, just tell me!”

Litner resumed reading. “P.S. I’m sorry that I had to take Robin away from you, but let’s face it. She was never really yours to begin with.”

Patrick stood up and snatched the candy necklace from Litner’s hand, seething. Litner handed him the letter as well. He took it and crumpled it into a ball. “He’s kidnapped her.”

“There is no evidence that Robin has been kidnapped. She could have gone of her own free will.”

Patrick glared at him. “How can you say that? Or do you think I’m too ordinary for her?”

“Let me do some checking. I want you to stay out of things this time.”

“Stay out of things? No way! I love Robin, and I’m going to find her.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. And neither do you, deep down inside.”

Patrick studied Litner. “Don’t try to mind-fuck me. If you have something to say, just say it.”

Litner frowned. “All right. I saw what Shep did the night of the siege. In the midst of a killing spree, he stopped everything to save your life, Patrick. There are only two types of people to Shep, people he loves, and people that are dispensable. You are obviously one of the people he loves, something that came as a surprise even to him. And for the people he loves, he will go to the greatest lengths to keep them with him. Just look what he did for the brothers. Staying awake in the void for all that time just to get them out? Do you really think he’s going to just let you walk away?”

“I’m not one of the brothers,” Patrick said.

“No, but in some ways you are equally important to him. I saw the look in his eyes when he thought you were going to die. His claims of wanting you to go off and live an ordinary life are bullshit. That letter, and taking Robin, are part of his plan to get you back.”

“So he’s a lunatic,” Patrick said. “Not exactly a revelation. Can we go find Robin now?”

“He is a lunatic. But now let’s talk about you.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yes, you, Patrick. In the midst of trying to disassociate yourself from your friends, you chose to fall in love with, of all people, Shep’s girlfriend. You’ve clung to Robin like a lifeline ever since you’ve been out of the hospital.”

“Because I love her.”

“Perhaps. Or is it because you still thought Shep was alive? Just as Shep knows that holding on to Robin will lead you to him, so you knew that holding on to Robin would bring him to you.”

Patrick stood. “Oh, I see. The neurotic pen tapper is going to psychoanalyze me. The big bad criminal profiler. I should feel flattered. I suppose you’ve developed a profile of me after all this time we’ve spent together.”

“It’s nothing personal. I’m trying to help you see things clearly.”

“Oh! Now I’m not seeing things clearly?”

“Please, Patrick.”

Patrick spread his arms wide. “Go ahead, Litner. Take your best shot. I can handle it. Tell me about myself. Enlighten me.”

Litner walked over to the window, giving Patrick his back. “All right. You, Patrick Obrien, are a good man who wants to do good things. However, you are also one of the most insecure people I have ever met.” He turned to face him. “I don’t know enough about your childhood to lay blame, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say you have a disapproving mother who demeaned you a lot. Your father most likely pretended to be the strong silent type, but you always knew he just didn’t want to take on any of the responsibility of raising you, so he hid behind his silence. Should I go on?”

Patrick felt like he was standing there naked. He refused to let Litner see his discomfort. “Go on, Litner. Why stop now?”

Litner shuffled over to the bed and sat. “You grew up thinking you had to give something of yourself away in trade in order to be liked. There was no unconditional love from your parents. You had to earn their approval at every turn. This spilled over into your social life. That’s where the sports hero thing came from. You’re athletic and well-built. It was the most obvious route. And with the sports came instant friendships. Friendships with popular people. But to maintain those friendships, you had to look like them, act like them, and perform for them. That’s why you clung so hard to Joey and Shep. Joey and Shep gave you something unique. They gave you something that in hindsight, you must know does not really exist.”

Patrick scowled. “And what’s that, Dick Tracy?”

“Unconditional love. Unconditional friendship. No matter what you did, they were there. No matter how you acted, they were there. It didn’t matter how smart or popular you were. You could have done anything to them and they still would have been there, loving and supporting you. It was the answer to your dysfunctional childhood prayers. The only problem, Patrick, is that it wasn’t real. And that is something I’m afraid you still don’t understand.”

“Bullshit. That’s crap. I know it wasn’t real. I know they never cared for me.”

“Then why do you still seek them?”

“I don’t!”

“I saw you that night in the field. You can verbally condemn Shep all you want, but when you thought you were really going to lose him, to lose that unconditional friendship for good, you lost your mind. You screamed for me to save him. Just minutes after he’d ordered the death of Agent Rourke. Just minutes after he shot you. You pleaded for someone to save him. Of course, it was Wesley who did so, but I won’t even start to tap into his issues. The point is that you haven’t gone out that door to find Robin yet, because you’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“You’re afraid of yourself. You know Shep is going to leave you a trail of breadcrumbs. You know that if you go after Robin, you’re going to find the rest of them. Only this time, you’re afraid that you won’t stop them. You’re afraid you’ll join them.”

“Fuck off!”

Litner shrugged, twirling his pen like a baton. “Think about it. You weren’t just fighting Joey and Shep when you went undercover. You were fighting yourself. Part of you agreed to go undercover at Forest Bluffs, not because you wanted to stop them, but because you wanted to be with them.”

Patrick sat perfectly still as the breath leaked out of his lungs. What Litner said stung. He had had feelings of wanting to throw in the towel, to throw himself onto the mercy of Joey’s court. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t, damn it. With all of the conflicting emotions and twisted loyalties he had to endure, he had done the right thing. He had stopped them.

Or had he? He began to second-guess himself. Had he indeed done the best job he could? Or had he been subconsciously hoping Shep would escape? He remembered his desperate call to save Shep. Patrick had been terrified that Shep would be destroyed, just as Allisto was. The feeling he’d had at that moment was one of sheer panic. All he could think was, what would he do without Shep?

But just because he didn’t want to see Shep killed, didn’t mean he was about to up and join the little imp in his quest to take over the world. “You’re wrong,” he said.

Litner stared at him, looking pained. “Don’t go after her. It will only lead you to Shep.”

“You think I’m so weak as to join him?”

Litner said nothing, but his expression spoke the truth. That was exactly what he thought.

Patrick stood. “I see. Thank you, Litner for all your help. Thank you for finding me a job, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take a leave of absence. I’m going to find my girlfriend. Because I love her. Then I am coming home with her, and we are going to live an ordinary life together. Without Shep. And that is all that is going to happen.”

Litner stood too. “Patrick please. I’m begging you.”

“You’ve underestimated my strength, Agent Litner. Goodbye.”

Patrick stormed out of the apartment. Litner heard the door slam. Sighing, he lay back on Robin’s bed and began to tap his pen against his temple. “I haven’t underestimated your strength, Patrick,” he said. “I’ve overestimated it.”

Chapter Sixty

Joey and Shep sat in the front seats of the wholesome-looking minivan, letting the fresh mountain air cleanse their senses as they cruised up interstate 89 toward Vermont. The brothers were already up north getting the new property ready. Robin lay in the back seat, snoring. She’d begun an angry rant, promising to kill both Shep and Joey. Shep for abducting her yet a second time, and Joey for recklessly squandering the soul she’d worked so hard to get for him.

Apparently, she hadn’t slept in a few days, because in the middle of the rant she just ran out of steam and lay down on the seat. She was asleep within seconds.

Shep looked out the passenger side window at the plush green mountains that surrounded them like a trusted guardian. The giant yellow moon shone down like a beacon, leading the way. Shep took a long swallow of the beer he held. Joey glanced over at him. “Hey Popeye, give me a sip of that.”

Shep handed him the beer. “Enough with the Popeye jokes already. My face will heal.”

Joey laughed. “Sorry. I’m just not used to seeing you all banged up. Why didn’t you just whip up some of that balm and heal yourself?”

Shep looked at him, smirking. “I did.”

Joey cackled. “Holy shit! What did you look like before you healed yourself?”

“I slammed into the rock face of a cliff, Joey. You don’t want to know what I looked like before.”

“You’re probably right.” He took a sip of the beer and handed it back to Shep. “That’s the best beer,” Joey said. “We need to make ours at least this good.”

“Yes, well we’ll do the best we can. We have to add certain ingredients as a prerequisite to mask the crop. The substance must be undetectable. As far as anyone will know, it’s just going to be another microbrew to storm the market.”

“Yeah. Except contrary to the other microbrews, ours will be able to sterilize a suds-swilling college student with one sip. Will we be able to get enough of it out there to do the deed?”

Shep smiled at him. “Have you ever seen college students turn down free beer? It just doesn’t happen.”

“It’s going to be beautiful,” Joey said. “This time it’s going to work. This time, everything will go as planned.”

They were silent for several moments, with only the soft whir of the engine and the whistle of the night wind as it passed through the open windows. Then Joey glanced over at Shep. “What about Obrien?” he asked. “You’re sure you want him back.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not gonna argue, but I can’t imagine he’ll even want to.”

“He will.” Shep took a sip of beer. “Obrien will come around.”

Joey nodded. “Yeah. Okay. If that’s what you want.” After another extended silence, Joey looked back at Shep. “How can you be sure he’ll come around?”

Shep glanced over his shoulder at Robin, where she lay slumbering in the back seat. “Because he doesn’t have a choice. Does he, Joey?”

Joey chewed on his lower lip, then he nodded. “I guess he doesn’t.”

The End

About the Author

Ren Hamilton writes mysteries with a supernatural edge and enjoys exploring the emotional depths of colorfully flawed characters. The books will keep coming until there is no life left in the author, or the characters, whichever comes first.

Connect with Ren Hamilton at:

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/ren.hamilton.7/

Twitter https://twitter.com/hamilton_ren

Email RHamauthor@gmail.com

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Table of Contents

- Copyright © 2021 by Ren Hamilton
- Prologue
- 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
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
- Chapter Forty-Four
- Chapter Forty-Five
- Chapter Forty-Six
- Chapter Forty-Seven
- Chapter Forty-Eight
- Chapter Forty-Nine
- Chapter Fifty
- Chapter Fifty-One
- Chapter Fifty-Two
- Chapter Fifty-Three
- Chapter Fifty-Four
- Chapter Fifty-Five
- Chapter Fifty-Six
- Chapter Fifty-Seven
- Chapter Fifty-Eight
- Chapter Fifty-Nine
- Chapter Sixty
- About the Author
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