The Savage Circle cli

C. N. EAGLE

THE SAVAGE CIRCLE

Copyright 2007 C.N. Eagle. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, excepting of course Elizabeth Bathory, who was a very real person.

Title Design by Ned Bowlin Jr. & Ronald E. Maynard Cover Design by Ronald E. Maynard [email protected] Dialogue from Big Jake courtesy of Paramount Pictures 1971. Screenplay by Harry Julian Fink & Rita Fink.

ISBN: 978-1-4120-7704-0 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4251-9841-1 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 11/29/2019

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Contents

1983

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

“It is, I think, going to be a very harsh and unpleasant kind of business—and will, I think, require an extremely harsh and unpleasant kind of man to see to it.” Maureen O’Hara, Big Jake

“Sshhh. Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting wabbit.” John Bath

1983

He easily scaled the eleven-foot wrought-iron fence then lay unmoving in the dew-soaked grass. The well-cultivated expanse of lawn was sparsely dotted with luxuriant shade trees. Lights were located close to the mansion and surrounding the pool, on the far corner of the house. The lone guard standing on the patio was plainly illuminated, leaning against an umbrella table and enjoying a cigarette. Frank allowed himself an inward grin on the foolish sentry’s behalf as his eyes scanned the darker areas of the lawn for surprises, ears alert for nearby hums or any other sound that might signal the presence of electronic surveillance among the trees. He’d spent the past three days carefully examining video of the old man’s estate, recorded off the evening news shows. The nightly newscasts updates on the trial provided detailed helicopter shots of the mansion and grounds which were even more useful when scrutinized in conjunction with the freeze-frame button on the Betamax back in Frank’s government-paid hotel room. The only problem lay in examining the images without his babysitters catching on. From the videos he’d memorized the positioning of the guard shack fronting the winding driveway and the pens housing the dogs patrolling the estate. He had minutely examined the roof tops, windows, and corners of the luxurious house for evidence of mounted cameras observing the grounds and found none. Max was never one to immerse himself in a lot of high-tech gadgetry that might befit a man worth several fortunes, but with the trial Frank considered it possible that the millionaire’s personal security had been upgraded. That did not appear to be the case, a decision the old man would likely correct if he lived to see the sunrise. The Marine rank and uniform were long behind him. The deadly predator’s patience that served him so well in Vietnam were still with him however, honed to a fine edge over the intervening twelve years. Quickly he scoped out his surroundings, assessing threat and opportunity, and quickly he moved. On his feet and moving soundlessly across the grounds, eyes open for the dogs and any undiscovered guards. He paused behind each tree in his path to

reconnoiter, still alert for surveillance. The guard was leaving the pool area, following the cobbled walkway leading around the far corner of the house where he would be out of sight. The fool’s cigarette was like a beacon even in the spotlights, a point of red bobbing at his side. A man to be avoided—Frank’s aim was entry and exit tonight, without discovery. The barking began as he spotted them, three black projectiles cutting across the grass like sleek ebony torpedoes. Dobermans, fast and dangerous. They had his scent and were coming straight at him. He slipped one hand into the zippered satchel beneath his arm and rested his fingers on the butt of the silenced .22 caliber pistol nestled among the bag’s other contents. He was confident that he would not have to use it. The tops of both his shoes and lower pants legs were smeared with the remains of his supper that evening—T-bone steak with fried potatoes and greens, topped off with apple pie and ice cream. He’d raked the leavings of the meal into a single plate and mixed it up good before mopping the soup up with paper towels and sealing it all in a baggie. Cox and Mays, his babysitting lawmen, made snickering comments that his dishes were so licked clean they would not need washing. When the time came later, Frank used the coagulated paper towels to coat his shoes and pants legs, really slathering it on, before going over the fence. So the dogs had snoots full of the irresistible scents of meat, buttered veggies, melted ice cream and sweet pie filling, and they quickly forgot about barking at an intruder and now were trying to outrace each other to the source of those wonderful aromas. . He removed foil-wrapped bundles from the satchel as the dogs paid adoring attention to his shoes with excited huffing and puffing. Carnage was the last thing on their brains. Frank kept an eye on the house, expecting sentries to appear to investigate the barking, as he unwrapped the four large T-bones, each with plenty of meat hanging from them. He waved one in front of a dog to fully get its attention, and then gave it a Frisbee-type heave in the direction of the iron fence far behind him. The other scraps followed and the dogs disappeared into the night after the prizes. Frank snorted to himself, thinking not for the first time of Federal Marshal Danny Cox, a pretty sharp tack, who nonetheless failed four nights in a row to notice that the bones from his evening meals had disappeared before the dishes were retrieved by housekeeping.

He reached the house quickly now, still expectant of a suspicious sentry looking for the canines. He sidled up against the recessed patio doors in the shadows behind the pool as he heard the approach of a guard. Here was patience invaluable. During the war Frank had been known to lie prone and unmoving for hours if necessary in the grass, in a tree, behind a rock, while persons right on top of his position failed to detect him. He was unrivaled in his ability to camouflage himself, to wait, to observe, until the proper time came to strike. The guard was not the same man as before; he came from the corner of the house nearest Frank, following the cobbled path encircling the property. He was probably thirty, clean-shaven with receding fair hair, and a square jaw that matched his thick neck and heavy upper-body physique. The unmistakable bulge of a holstered pistol was evident beneath his jacket. Frank crouched behind a potted palm with a small knife in a gloved hand. His muscles were coiled like a spring ready to deal with the guard if required. The watchman whistled into the darkness after the dogs, heard some distance away. He held up a cumbersome two-way radio and keyed the microphone, speaking Russian into it. Frank sensed his feeling that the dogs had gone after a rabbit or a squirrel.. The guard paused not five feet away with his back to the unseen treser, scanning the darkness beyond the patio lights and perhaps wondering what the dogs were up to out there. Frank was able and willing to kill him if necessary. But the man with the radio did not detect his presence. Within a couple of minutes he was moving again, leaving Frank in the shadows. The guard would be in some hot water come morning. Frank left the protection of the palm tree, moving in grace and silence while keeping an eye on the departing guard. He disregarded the glass entry doors, darted up the short landing to the elevated patio and found a set of decorative French doors that he also ignored. He intended to go up a wall to the roof. He could hide in a shadow here and there against the house but otherwise the area was well-lit. He had no time to look for a place to ascend. His examination of the videos, as well as his own personal experience from the three times he was a guest, had left him with a pretty good mental map of the mansion’s layout.

He reached the edge of the higher patio and after a quick look around slipped the knife back into his belt and climbed onto the stained wooden railing. He grasped the rain gutter over his head with both hands and, finding it sturdy, pulled himself onto the roof. The move was effortless; years of vertical rock climbing left him with a prodigious physical strength belied by his average size. He walked carefully but quickly up the sloping roof, wary of slipping in his grease-stained shoes. Past a couple of canopied windows, the rooms within dark, and now he was beyond the reach of the property security lights. He stopped at a skylight very near the peak of the roof and kneeled to examine it. The light inside was subdued. The house appeared to be sleeping. The skylight was about twelve feet above the floor, a landing between a staircase and a hallway. With a careful examination Frank determined that the window frame had no telltale wires indicating they were connected to an alarm—the old man would rue his dependence on slipshod security personnel. He simply used the point of his knife to separate the glass from the caulking and carefully lifted the first of the four panes in the window. He laid this on the roof where it was ed by another, and then pulled out the frame that connected the two. The splintering wood was too slight a sound to be overheard except in close quarters. He now had an opening that would allow him entry. To minimize the drop he lowered himself until he was hanging from the window frame by his hands like a dangling ape. He let go and landed softly with both feet on the polished hallway floor. He paused in a coiled crouch, alert for anyone having seen him. The house remained silent and undisturbed. Furtive, he moved the length of the hallway, noting the four ornate doors leading to what he knew were guest bedrooms. The expansive mansion had seventeen such rooms counting the opposite wing, each with its own bath facilities and nearly half with outside porch balconies. Frank had good information that the family bedrooms, with these luxuries as well as wet bars, were on the third floor below. Before invading the privacy of the old man and his grandson however, he had other fish to fry. He made the staircase at the far end of the hallway and started to descend. He hoped Kovo, his target, was up and about. Frank had no idea where the old man’s good right arm kept his private room, though he supposed it too was on the third floor, close to the boss. But finding him in the dark would eat up

precious time. And Frank had an idea that Kovo, devoted and fanatically disciplined in his duties, would be up into the wee hours insuring his employer’s security and comfort. Kovovitch was good. He was a carnivore, like Frank—only without the moral boundaries. He handled the old man’s dirty work—the story was he’d spent some of his younger years with the secret police in the U.S.S.R. and was used to getting his hands bloody. No doubt putting out a contract on Frank’s wife and baby girl were Max’s idea, but the actual planning and implementation of the deed would be up to Kovo. Frank intended to neutralize that threat and to kill two birds with one stone, he would demonstrate to Max the insane folly of continuing any plot to harm Marie and Gwen. He paused on the second-floor landing, detected no one about, and continued downward. He heard voices and hugged the wall, taking the stairs slowly now. He could glean conversation and movement from a study off the entry hall on the first floor. He left the staircase and crept through the cavernous foyer, sparing an appreciative glance at the huge crystal chandelier hanging overhead. He leaned into a shadow near the study’s entrance and paused to eavesdrop on the conversation within. As he did so he forced himself to relax, steadying his breathing, focusing his thoughts. He noted the two very expensive oil art works on the wall opposite him, each in the glow of an overhead lamp. One, a landscape, had not been present when he had last been in the house with Randy. At least three men were in the study, speaking over a television with the volume set on low. As the men discussed the pro football season just past the repeat of a late-night news program remarked on President Reagan’s startling quick recovery following the assassination attempt of over a year ago. One voice Frank did not know. Another he recognized as a veteran hood named Johnny Ganza, a Chicago boy born and bred and one of the few non-Russians high in Max’s organization. The third individual was Grigori Kovovitch. Maximillian’s lieutenant was speaking on a telephone which, judging by what Frank heard , was a direct line to the guard shack outside the property. Meanwhile Ganza was having a bit of fun tormenting the owner of the first voice, a much younger Russian, concerning his own superior knowledge of the American sport of football and his having personally met on two occasions the new Chicago Bears coach Mike Ditka.

Apparently Kovovitch was aware of the barking guard dogs and was scolding the uniformed security people positioned at the driveway entrance. Frank heard him next speaking directly to one of the men on the grounds outside the house, apparently on his own radio. He was speaking now in Russian. “This will never catch on,” Ganza predicted, apparently speaking of something on the television. They were watching the new music video channel Frank had heard about. The talk trailed off when Kovovitch ended the communication with the guard. “Heard from a little bird this evening. We may soon be getting rid of our problem in a day, maybe two.” Frank’s eyes narrowed to grim slits, taking a personal interest in the conversation. “No kidding?” The pregnant pause after Ganza’s response signified the gravity of this subject. “So, maybe soon,” Ganza remarked. Frank could imagine his head bobbing on his thick neck, approving. “Soon,” Kovo growled in his thick Slav. Kovo was about to retire and in an instant Frank was up the staircase to the third floor. He felt strongly he’d just heard his own murder being hinted at. But it was not worth much consideration—after tonight, it would not matter one way or the other. Just off the landing Frank let himself into a closet door. Leaving it cracked to better hear Kovo’s approach, he set the satchel at his feet and worked in the dark, removing the prepared syringe that a had arranged to be left at a dropoff, along with the pistol and the other things. He straightened, eyeing the dimly lit hallway through the crack. Kovo was climbing the opposite stairs, at the hall’s far end. His footsteps were leisurely, those of a man at the end of a long day. Frank removed the cap from the syringe and held it at throat level, waiting. If Kovo’s room was at the far end of the hall it would be impossible to surprise him without a scuffle. Frank would let him enter the room, then gain access himself and deal with his target once they were both inside. No other way. There

was the pistol in the bag. He did not want to use it in the hallway—walls and floor sprayed with blood might seem a sign of trouble to any late-night ersby. He waited unmoving with the hypo still in his hand and watched Kovo enter the bedroom just one closer from the end of the hall. That far one would likely be the old man’s; Max trusted his lieutenant to sleep closer to him than anyone else, even family. Also on the floor would be Randy’s room, and one for the grandkid. Of course Randy was not at home—he was spending a few days at the Gray Bar Hotel. No bail set. You asked for it, buddy. Frank watched closely and noted that Kovovitch did not unlock the door before entering and he did not hear it locked afterwards. No one familiar with the occupants in this house would dare to enter these rooms without waiting to be itted, so why lock it? Frank had no intention of knocking. He drew the small handgun, flipped off the safety and tucked it into his waistband. He still hoped to use the syringe. He was going to get bloody tonight regardless, but he wanted to retain as much control over the situation as possible and the gun would be messy. A small-caliber bullet, even used with Frank’s expertise, was no guarantee of instantly stopping a strong individual. What Frank had loaded in the needle, jabbed in Kovo’s ass or jugular, along with a good choke-hold for extra insurance would put him down, he was sure. Leaving the satchel in the closet and the door ajar, he moved. He held his breath for a moment and with the hypo held high let himself into Kovo’s room and found it softly lit by a desk lamp against the far wall. He was prepared to face his quarry but the outer room was empty and he was relieved to see the curtains drawn against the patio doors overlooking the pool. Wouldn’t do for a guard outside taking a leak against a tree to see Frank in the bedroom. The quarters were luxuriously ed, the furniture heavy oak, the walls lined with oils of American Western landscapes. An antique hunting rifle was mounted over the huge bed. Earth colors everywhere, the desk area adorned with maritime objects. A Man’s Man. Kovo could be heard through the open door to the ading bath. His tie and jacket were thrown across the back of a chair. Frank tensed cat-like as the big Russian appeared and they faced each other. Kovo, wide-eyed, was still ing the intruder—Frank was a nightmare in

the flesh, all in black, knit cap over his head, features part of the shadows and his eyes narrow slits—and Frank was on him, a steel hand going for the big Russian’s windpipe, the other plunging the hypo through the tros and into Kovo’s thigh, and the fight was on. A huge paw found Frank’s throat and clamped like a vise. Frank managed to get the other hand with a wrist-lock, Kovo used the throat-hold to whirl Frank to his left and backwards into the wall, the impact great enough to knock a framed painting to the floor, and the whole time Frank clawed the bigger man’s bull neck, cutting off his air and preventing him from making a sound other than a guttural strangling gurgle which Frank nearly imitated. The two men stared into each other’s bulging eyes from only inches apart, a contest of who could keep his hands locked the longest without losing consciousness—and desperate, Frank tried another tack, he let go of the wrist-hold and tried to reach the pistol, intending to empty it point-blank into the other’s belly, and Kovo struggled to grab the hand, sensing he was going for a weapon. With their bodies too near, Frank could not reach it. Veins pounding in their foreheads, the two men smelled the sweat, felt the savagery of humans seeking to destroy each other. Frank saw capillaries burst in the eyeballs of the big Russian. Then the eyes seemed to go dull at the same instant Frank’s hand found the butt of the pistol—but by then it was no longer needed, Kovo’s knees were turning wobbly, the strength leaving his hands. The bloody eyes began to close and Frank caught him under the armpits as he crumpled. Frank steered him toward the bed and lowered him onto his back with both heels on the floor. Without pausing Frank put the pistol down and pulling down the edge of a glove held the heel of his palm against the Russian’s throat. Alert for sounds of anyone approaching, he held it there until he felt the man’s pulse slow and finally stop. The lethal drug dose only took a couple of minutes. He felt no twinge of conscience. Kovo’s hemorrhaged eyeballs were glazed like glass beneath halflowered lids. Frank pulled his collar from around his bruised throat and massaged the tender skin, coughing. Steadying himself he listened again for anyone in the house attracted by the noise. The walls were thick. No one was coming. He inspected the closets and then the bath—it could accommodate a couple of Marines doing grass drills. All chrome and marble and mirrors. He was relieved to find no one else present—it was common knowledge that Kovo enjoyed entertaining college-age girls as his weekend houseguests. Frank left the bedroom and returned with the satchel.

He wrestled the heavy body into a better position on the bed and took his tools from the bag. Briefly he considered utilizing the bath’s huge Jacuzzi—but no. The blood-soaked bed would leave a more lasting impression. It was butcher’s work Kovovitch would no doubt be familiar with. Frank had never regarded himself as such a man, even during the war. But these people were threatening his family.

A visit to the grandson’s room, and then it would be Max’s turn. The soundly sleeping kid was twelve or thirteen, and small for his age. The glow in Frank’s penlight found posters of Madonna and Sylvester Stallone and Jim McMahon lining the walls along with banners from a variety of professional sports teams. Shelves contained trophies, awards from school, plastic model kits, and, he saw, an autographed photo of TV actress Heather Thomas in a killer pink bikini along with other knick-knacks. Jeans and other clothing items were scattered on the floor and over the furniture just like the bedroom of any boy that age. A perfectly normal environment for a normal kid. You might never guess he was heir to a far-reaching criminal empire built on decades of threats, extortion, and murder. Taking what he needed, Frank went to see the old man. The personal quarters of Radu Maximillian. The softly-lit bedroom was fairly low-key for a man of such wealth. Dark thick carpeting, light-colored wood ing, brass light fixtures. The millionaire’s desk was a mammoth block of polished oak, squatting in the dark corner like a fortress. Over the expansive four-poster bed hung a portrait of the old man’s late wife—Frank recognized the artist of several likenesses of U.S. Presidents. The bedside nightstand ed a simple but attractive reading lamp and radio/alarm clock, a pitcher of ice water, several bottles of prescription medicines on a silver tray, a dog-eared paperback novel, a couple of folded newspapers, and Max’s stylish silver-framed glasses. There was also a speaker-type thing Frank realized was a baby monitor used to listen to sleeping newborns; he relaxed. It was not active. With the old man snoring peacefully, Frank helped himself to one of the newspapers and read the banner headline: Depreo turns state’s evidence

Next to the headline was a grainy photograph of Randy Maximillian, curly dark hair mussed by the downtown wind, expression hidden behind expensive sunglasses. The photo was taken as he was being escorted into the Cook County Courthouse, surrounded by police and lawyers and journalists. The shot was from the chest up and you could not see the handcuffs. The other periodical was a local tabloid with the usual crap on the cover page surrounding two photographs, one of the younger Maximillian, taken at a party wearing a big million-dollar smile with a two-million dollar blonde on his arm, and the other a mock-up photo of a man with the face cut out and a big Question Mark in its place, two headlines dominating the page: RANDY GETS HIS! And: IS DEPREO “THE MAGICIAN”? Funny, Frank thought to himself, that every rag in the country was asking that very same question, and yet it was the one question his Federal interviewers had adamantly avoided putting to him. Perhaps they did not want to give that particular legend—the soulless killer capable of getting anywhere, to anyone, and disappearing leaving only corpses in his wake—more press than absolutely necessary. Max was dead to the world. Frank hoped he would be able to sleep so peacefully at that age. He took a second syringe from his bag, the duct tape, a couple pairs of handcuffs, and a vial of smelling salts, and put all this stuff on the nightstand table.

Max regained consciousness with a muffled groan of pain, molten fire emanating from both shoulders. This was the advanced arthritis, protesting the spreadeagled position his arms had been forced into. He coughed and choked with an irritating acrid stench in his nose. His eyes clamped shut he groaned again and realized something was across his mouth, holding it tightly closed. As panic began to set in his breathing got noisy, unhealthy sinuses restricting his airways, whistling. He tried to move and gritted his teeth in agony, his old shoulders stabbing him in gleeful reprisal. Again the burning smell, so pungent it made his

eyes water but actually clearing his sinuses a bit. He opened his eyes, blinking against the hateful lamplight. His head pounded like after an all-night bender. He saw his own room, which seemed normal enough. He again tried, stubbornly, to move his arms and shrieked in pain and fury beneath the tape across his mouth. He promised himself not to do that again. He felt metal around his wrists —was he handcuffed? In his own goddamn bedroom? Breathing through the nose his eyes began to adjust and he saw the man standing over him, arms folded patiently. The face was familiar beneath the greasepaint but at first Max could not place it. He grunted an unintelligible Slavic curse into the duct tape as it dawned on him whose face those dark intense eyes belonged to. “Relax. You’re not imagining me,” Frank assured in a quiet voice. Radu rolled his eyes towards the baby monitor in reflex: he was used to help being a door away when needed. Where was Kovovitch? Where the hell were his men? He ed he had not been turning the monitor on, and rolled his eyes in anger and frustration. He affixed Depreo with a murderous stare, mumbling profanities into the restraining tape. “Save your breath, Max, I’ll do the talking,” Frank told him. He sat on the edge of the bed, making eye . “I know you’re not too happy right now but you need to calm down and listen. Are you listening?” Dead. Max just kept repeating it to himself. The word sounded like a throaty grunt in the room. The insanity of the situation boggled. How could he die in such a miserable fashion, bound and tortured? Dead. Still he muttered it, a good impression of the sound a rooting pig makes. “Calm down or I’ll drug you again,” Frank warned, and held up the syringe. Only with the greatest of effort, Max began to calm himself. What choice did he have? Why didn’t the bastard just kill him and be done with it? What was he waiting for? As if reading the old man’s thoughts, Frank said, “You have to listen to me, Max.

We don’t have all night.” His heavy breathing began to slow. His heart rumbled in his bony chest. His hands, above his head, were shaking and numb, the pain in his shoulders excruciating. He felt exposed and helpless. He almost wished his heart would just give out, explode in his breast and cheat this gloating prick out of his victory. Frank stared into the man’s hate-filled eyes. “Now. Can you hear me?” When the gaze was fully and alertly returned, he uncrossed his arms and moved closer. Max’s eyes widened in involuntary alarm. Frank spoke in a conspiratorial tone: “The fact of me being here proves that nothing you can do will stop me if I want to come after you. I’ll get to you,” he promised, letting that sink in. Frank continued, calmly explaining the facts. “I’ve heard that you’ve given orders to attack my family. That would be the most terrible mistake you could ever make, Max.” His gaze locked on Max’s, he gave that too time to . He could see the old man was listening intently. “You’re perfectly welcome to come after me. Gun me down, blow me to bits if you can,” Frank challenged him. “The fact is I’m testifying against your son and he will go to prison, and you’ll live longer by accepting that. But at least Randy will be alive.” Frank raised his hand and with a finger pushed a lock of thin gray hair from Max’s eye. The old man’s breath quickened in his chest, seeing that the black glove appeared sticky with blood. “But,” Frank continued, “if you do anything, anything against my wife and daughter—I’ll come after your own family, Max.” Frank waited for the old man to realize the import of these words. “Your daughter lives in Salt Lake. I’ll gut her like a fish. I’ll keep her alive long enough to watch me butcher her kids, her husband. Then I’ll send her head to you, packed in dry ice like that caviar you love. Randy? He’s a sitting duck in prison. You, my friend, I’ll leave alive. To think about what you made me do.”

Frank stared at him and Max stared back, so quiet now that he seemed not to be breathing. He touched the old crime boss’s stubbly cheek, leaving a scarlet smear. Once again Max’s round eyes shifted to the bloody glove. “This is between you and Randy and me. Don’t make it something more, or you’ll be sorry. Nothing you can do will stop me. Think about it.” Frank stood, looking down at him. Max was not a man easily frightened but there was genuine blood-curdling terror in his face now. And it was time to leave him with a last grisly impression, so he would be sure to never forget this encounter. The old man panicked a bit, eyes bulging, when Frank bent for the satchel. He lifted the pillowcase with the severed head heavy inside, the silk dark with gore. He laid it on Max’s thin chest, adjusting it so it would not roll off. The shape of the object in the bag was unmistakable, as was the fact that Max recognized the pillowcase as coming from his grandson’s bedroom. He was making a dreadful mewling sound as Frank laid the hacksaw, still slick with blood, across his tailored pajama shirt. “I ducked into Rudy’s room for a quick visit,” Frank commented as an afterthought. He did not elaborate—he didn’t have to. Max lost it then. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks. Frank thought that kind of weeping would loosen the tape over his mouth pretty quick—time to go. He gave the grisly bag another little adjustment—Max’s chest was hitching quite violently, and it would probably be knocked onto the floor. Well. Kovovitch was beyond caring. He paused for a last look at Max. The old man was shaking like a leaf in a freezing wind. The sounds behind the tape were almost painful to listen to.

CHAPTER ONE

Dayton, Ohio. The Birthplace of Aviation, home of the Wright Brothers. The city’s main claim to fame was emblazoned at various points throughout the airport, and there was a replica of the Wright “B” Flier which hung on wires inside the terminal’s main entrance. An American history buff, Cox took his time examining a collection of Wright memorabilia on display, including models and colorful murals celebrating a century of aviation, before seeing to his rental car. Danny Cox had visited Dayton once before. Since retiring from the Treasury Department he sometimes took work as an investigator for a Chicago attorney and five years ago had traveled to Ohio to collect depositions in Cincinnati. While in the area he took a detour north to look up an acquaintance from the old days. But his trip was wasted—Frank Moore was not in town. At that time that Rolling Stone writer was doing his book about famous organized crime families, and was after Cox for an interview concerning the Maximillian organization and, of course, the case of Frank Depreo and whether or not he was in fact the legendary Magician. Cox agreed to the interview (one that ultimately disappointed the writer—the only information Cox was willing to disclose was already public record) and Danny recalled thinking that he was glad he’d not seen Frank. That made it easier to give detached answers and to keep very personal memories at a very professional distance. Things like friendship, however guarded, and pain, no matter how deep, tended to grow indistinct and fuzzy with the age of the years, becoming almost events in the lives of other people. His warm relationship with Depreo, only intensified after the Chicago shooting, resulted in his being involved with the relocation process to a degree rightfully discouraged by the Justice Department. The Federal Witness Protection Program was a tricky enough affair without personal attachments complicating matters. Several coincidental factors combined to give Danny Cox discretion denied to others: the decorations following his injury in the line of duty, his subsequent years with the Secret Service, and the importance Depreo represented as a government witness, chief among them.

Personal meetings between a Marshal and a Witness were strictly forbidden. But over the years Cox had defied that order no less than four times, above and beyond the numerous instances he’d acted as liaison between Depreo and his former wife and daughter, relocated elsewhere. Cox did all those things gladly. Regardless of the reasons, he considered Depreo, a confessed contract killer of chilling repute with fifteen confirmed cold-blooded murders under his belt (and countless others rumored), a valued acquaintance and yes, even a friend, though one seen very rarely. Theirs was a bond that only comes to men who have been under fire together. Which made this trip all the more personal, and all the more painful. Cox dreaded the meeting, the first time in eight years he’d seen Moore face-to-face. He looked ruefully down at the envelope and folded newspaper beside him on the rental car’s seat. He would not have this sad news delivered by a stranger with a Federal badge. He managed to get himself lost and had to stop at a convenience store to ask for directions. The clerk knew exactly where the place was—it was, he said, a beer t where many of the area cops spent down time. The irony of this revelation was not lost on Danny. The north end of Dayton bordering Trotwood had been extensively redeveloped —small wonder Cox had lost his way. He pulled off the main thoroughfare into a business center spanning an appliance store, a pet supplies warehouse and an athletic facility back towards the end of the parking area. The Last Chance Lounge was somewhere in the middle with no windows to peek in and a single unadorned entry door below the neon sign advertising its presence. Danny winced as he got out of the car. His back still troubled him, a reminder of the old days. He left the late afternoon sunshine and paused to let his eyes adjust in the dimlylit bar. Directly opposite the door a wide-screen television sat canted in the corner with a constant feed of cable sports. Between it and the doorway the black hood of a NASCAR racer hung on the wall emblazoned with the Number 3, over which had been adorned a banner with the popular image of the same Number 3 morphing into the wings of a dove. The bar stretched away from the door the length of the room, mirrors and electronic dart machines lining the wall to the left with tables here and there. Towards the back was the jukebox, a couple of pool tables, a small dance floor with a mirrored ball overhead, and beyond

that a hallway with restrooms, a payphone, and a combination office-storage room. A couple of working stiff-types who looked like regulars sat at the end of the bar nursing beers and Danny took a stool near them. He caught his reflection in the dark mirror over the bottles of spirits behind the bar and wondered how much he’d changed since last seeing Frank. He was happy to the woman greeting him with a pleasant smile. Lori Johns. Petite and blonde, brown eyes with beautiful long lashes, in her 40s. Danny was apt to think of the word ravishing, but in a girl-next-door way. He stole a glimpse at her hand, seeing no wedding ring, wondering if Frank was ever going to make it official. “Hey, you. Danny, right?” “How you doing, Lori? You have a good memory.” “Well, he said you were droppin’ in—but I would’ve ed anyway,” she assured him, and he believed her. She had a Southern twang in her voice and an irresistible charm in her smile. How much had Frank told her? “Want a Bud?” “Bud Light,” he replied, chuckling. “Want a glass?” “Naw.” “Frank’ll be out in a minute.” “Be better if I could see him alone,” Danny volunteered. “I’ll tell him,” she said after popping a can and serving it on a napkin. She asked the regulars if they were okay and disappeared into the back. Danny watched the news on a television overhead. The latest firefights between U.S. soldiers and insurgent groups in the Middle East. The two bar patrons were having a heated discussion about the Cincinnati Bengals season. His mind drifted to other things—like the tragic reason for his visit—and he was startled when the man nearest him stuck out his hand.

“How you doing? I’m Rob.” Danny pumped the offered hand. “This is Lou.” “Danny Cox. Pleased to meet you.” Rob could’ve been upper management—in his 30s, neat haircut, he’d removed his tie and loosened the collar of his shirt. Lou was older and looked like he had a lot of time on his hands, out of work, perhaps retired. “You’re not from around here.” “Chicago,” Danny told him. “I knew it. I could hear the accent,” Lou said. “Just ing through?” “Stopped to say hi to Frank. It’s been a few years.” “Oh yeah? How’d you and Frank meet?” Lou asked, making no attempt to hide his curiosity. Danny was formulating an answer that would not contradict what Frank might have told them of his past when he was saved by Lori. “C’mon,” she smiled, picking up his beer and napkin. “Nice meeting you,” Rob said as he followed her past the jukebox to Frank’s office. “Hey, buddy,” Frank greeted him, hanging up the desk phone as Danny entered. Standing, he offered a hand and they shook warmly. Lori put his beer on the desk and pushed an overstuffed vinyl chair close for him to sit. Danny felt himself blushing from all her attention. Frank was past 50 now but looked ten years younger. The thick wavy hair was not quite so jet-black, but the jaw was still chiseled. Some extra lines around his mouth and eyes. Danny’s trained threat-assessment eye noted lean solid muscle rippling beneath a soft green t-shirt. Cox found himself halfway envious. “Is she this nice to everybody?” “Yeah, but she’s just faking it,” Frank answered, earning a playful snort from

her. She left, shutting the door behind her. Danny scanned the small office. The desk was battered, the chair beginning to give at the seams. There was a new computer and flat screen on the desktop which was cluttered with invoices, coffee mugs, ink pens and other items required to run a small business. The walls were hung with operating licenses and beverage ments, the famous poster from Attack of the 50 Foot Woman alongside an autographed photo of Danica Patrick, a NASCAR calendar, a newspaper article in a frame—something sponsoring a Little League team— photos of friends and family. On a file cabinet holding a coffee maker and condiments Danny saw a framed photo of Gwen, in a high school cheerleading uniform with pom-poms. “You ever remarry, Danny?” Frank noticed him looking at the photograph. “Nah, not me.” Cox knew Frank partly blamed himself for much of the misfortune he’d known following the shooting, including the divorce from his wife Gail. But Danny had simply been doing his job and there was no blame to be had. In hindsight, he was glad Gail left when she did. If she couldn’t stick it out through the Worse, then the Better was just a joke, and in a way her bailing on him during his painful recuperation just made him all the more determined to get through it. “Kids okay?” “They’re fine,” Danny replied brightly. “Michelle just had another little girl. Her fourth.” “Congratulations. Girls must run in the family.” “Yeah. They do that.” He ed why he was here and looked away from his friend without meaning to. “Lighten up, Marine,” Frank chided him. Danny realized Frank had to be thinking of his own daughter. Time to get to it. Frank said nothing, his posture tensing as alarm bells suddenly went off. Danny laid the folded newspaper and the envelope accompanying it on the desk and slid them towards him. “No easy way to tell you this,” he warned. “I’m sorry, Frank.”

Frank forced himself to pick the paper up and saw it was a New England periodical with yesterday’s date. He found the paragraph down the right side of the page Danny had circled with a yellow highlighter. The headline said: 2 die in crash As he read Danny watched deep pouches form beneath the blue eyes. He aged ten years in only seconds. Frank cleared his throat and laid the paper down. He was blinking his eyes as if recovering from a physical blow. Danny waited and waited and was about to break the silence when Frank said, “Look, can you give me a minute?” without looking up. “Sure.” Cox was standing outside the office at the pay phone when Lori walked over and asked if everything was okay. Danny nodded meekly, unwilling to meet her eyes, and she asked pointedly, “What is it?” Danny gave her a guilty look. “I had to give Frank some real bad news,” he finally itted. “What?” she asked, nearly demanding. Danny didn’t know what to tell her. “You better ask him,” he suggested gently. Frightened, she tapped the office door and itted herself upon receiving no response. She found Frank standing with his back to her, hands in the pockets of his jeans, paying close attention to a framed liquor license on the wall. He did not turn to acknowledge her. “Frank?” “Yeah.” There was something in his voice she’d never heard before. Something weary, weather-worn—but immovable, like stone. Not for the first time, she had an insight that her mate was actually two different men. And this was the one he hid from her. “You’re not gonna talk to me, honey?” she asked in a half-whisper. She was deeply frightened. Whatever had happened, it was very bad.

She saw the newspaper and splayed her fingers across it, turning it so she could read the highlighted article. Immediately her other hand went to her mouth. 2 die in crash HAVEN___A local grade school teacher and her husband were found dead following a crash on Wednesday. Raymond McVie, 25, and his wife of 17 months, Gwendolyn, 24, were found in their car after it had apparently gone off the shoulder only two miles from the couple’s Rune Road home. Raymond was employed by NE Power. Gwendolyn was teacher of the 2nd Grade class at Haven Elementary. School officials will have counselors present to speak with her students on Friday , and a memorial service will be held at the school that afternoon. The McVies were from Augusta,

Georgia, and will be transported home for burial by their families on Saturday.

“Oh honey.” She took his hand and kissed his fingers and he reached for her. She put her arms around him and they hugged tight with her head over his heart. She felt his chest hitch as he suppressed a wave of emotion he could not surrender to. He buried his fingers in her hair and she wept for them both. She forced herself to leave him—she did not know why it was Cox to deliver this news, but Frank needed to talk to him—and she gave Danny’s arm a reassuring squeeze in the hall outside the office. Danny waited a couple of more minutes and then knocked on the door. “Come on in,” Frank called from inside. As Danny sat Frank came out of the storage cooler with two bottles of beer and repeated, “Okay. Okay,” to himself. Sitting across from Danny, he took a long swig from the beer and Cox did the same from his own. Frank swallowed noisily, leaned back in his swivel chair and seemed unsure of what to do next. “I’m sorry,” Danny told him for the second time. Frank nodded, steeling himself to hear the details. “Tell me what happened.” “It’s what the newspaper said.” Danny indicated the manila envelope on the desk. “I’ve still got s with the Justice Department. They’re quietly looking into it. Marie and Gwen have been in the program twenty years so of course they’ll give it a hard look. But so far it’s a straight car accident.” “They made Kovovitch look like a car accident, too,” Frank observed grimly, scanning the police forms. That struck Danny speechless. The sudden death of Radu Maximillian’s righthand man twenty years before—as a matter of fact, that happened only two days before the shooting, he recalled—had been suspicious as hell, and Cox always

considered it a mob hit glossed over for some unknown reason by the old man’s money and influence. He tried to recall the exact details, wondering what Frank knew that he didn’t. “Kovovitch hadn’t been under Federal relocation, Frank. If anything stinks about this, DOJ will find out.” “These Haven cops know what they’re doing?” “Laid back, but they’re okay. We’re double-checking what they have.” “What are Randy and Rudy up to these days?” Frank asked bluntly, his eyes narrow and mean. Danny took another drink of beer and replied, “The family doesn’t have the muscle they once did. Randy’s been out of jail for years. Rudy changed his name, he’s a doctor in Chicago.” “A doctor,” Frank said, musing aloud. “You know the old man’s been dead years. He never really got it back together after Kovovitch—” Danny didn’t finish the sentence, torn by his desire to know all of Frank’s secrets, and his fear of knowing them. “Is Marie covered?” “Absolutely. She and her husband. She’s fine, Frank.” For an instant Frank’s expression broke, giving in to a grimace of bitterness. “But she’s being watched,” he insisted. “I said yes—our guys will be on her all through this. Like I said—the Maximillians don’t have the stones for this anymore. I’m sure it’s nothing—” “My little girl’s dead.” “I know. I didn’t mean it that way.” Frank took a drink. He appeared to set himself and sighed. “Well. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll have to go.” Danny didn’t bother to object. “You’ll need to be careful. I didn’t say they’ve all

forgotten. Randy spent twelve years in prison because of you.” “He sticks his head out, I’ll nail him,” Frank vowed through a mirthless smile that never touched his eyes—a shark’s grin, carved from granite, Cox decided. This was the man they used to talk about in hushed whispers, the soulless killer with the power to overcome any security, reach any target, and escape as if by magic. Not for the first time, Danny Cox knew that the Magician was not just an underworld legend. “I’ll get an early-morning flight to Augusta. I need to find out where the services are—” He was back to being just Frank again—heartbroken now, and laser-sighted on a new goal, but just Frank. “That’s in the envelope, too,” Cox said. “The families are having the one service for the kids.” “It’s a Catholic ceremony,” Frank observed, noting the name of the church. Marie, his ex-wife, had been a devout parishioner despite a first husband who was less than spiritual. That might have become a big point of contention in their relationship, had they been together long enough. He grew contemplative, his large eyes turning even more sad. Cox said, “You did what you had to, Frank. You did what Marie asked you to. It was the right decision at the time.” “I know,” his friend agreed.

“Some of what I’m about to tell you could be dangerous for you if it got out,” Frank began, by way of explanation for the fact that he had never told her the entire truth before now. “Tell me,” Lori said, unflinching. They stood at the kitchen sink with only that light on and the scent of the mint she kept in the windowsill pleasant over the aromas of the finished meal and the lemony dish soap. She wiped a plate clean and ed it off to Frank to be rinsed and dried. As they worked and talked they sipped bottles of cold beer. Jake lay under the table with head between his paws, eyes large, sensing the somber

mood. Danny had left for a motel despite their pleas to stay in the guest room. He’d taken a tour of the house and after a dinner of Lori’s special stir-fry sat with them for a couple of beers before leaving. He sensed they needed some time alone. The quiet dinner conversation had centered on the intervening years— Danny told a few non-classified tales about his time as the head of President Bush’s Secret Service detail— his family, and theirs—Lori had two daughters from her ex-husband who were grown with husbands of their own. Understandably Frank had little to say. “When I came back from the war I played around with the idea of becoming a cop,” Frank explained now. “I actually enrolled and started the academy in Chicago, but it wasn’t for me.” She listened attentively. She knew he was raised in orphanages and had enlisted in the Marines on his eighteenth birthday. Many of these details were new to her. “Believe it or not, it was a cop who encouraged me to apply, a robbery detective named Ed Eckert. I was taking a little business school during the day and working third shift in a convenience store at night. In the three months I was there, we must’ve been robbed about a dozen times and I got to know a lot of the city cops. Eckert thought I handled myself well, and with my war record he figured policeman was the job for me.” Lori had no doubt of that. She knew of course of Frank’s interest in martial arts, and about the boxing when he was younger. He was the real deal. A few years ago, they were participating in a dart league match at a bar across town, when a pair of armed robbers hit the place. Everything was cool until the hoods got violent with a barmaid. Frank intervened. Bare-handed he disarmed both hold-up men, using extreme force. They had to be transported to a hospital by ambulance. His friendships among the Dayton and Trotwood cops kept his name out of the papers. “So what happened in the academy?” Frank took a deep drink from his beer, shaking his head ruefully. “I thought it was exciting; I knew my way around the police headquarters, looking at mug books, talking to prosecutors. More than half the thieves—there was a teenaged girl once too, she claimed somebody forced her to do it—but I helped catch more than half of them. I was good at descriptions, I’d go out of my way to get a

look at a car or a license plate. The store chain paid me rewards more than once. But in the academy, it was nothing but rules. You’d think after two tours in the Marines I’d be okay at wearing uniforms, taking orders, doing everything by the book, but it drove me crazy. I think maybe I was a bit of a nut job.” “Why do you say that?” she asked. She had wasted more than a few years with a screwed-up man, her former husband. Frank was the most well put-together she had ever known. “It was the danger, Lori. I craved it, craved the excitement. After a long time I realized I was expecting trouble, hoping for it. Waiting for someone to force me to do something.” He eyed her speculatively, satisfied that she was listening to what he said and, more importantly, hearing him. “Well it didn’t take long to know police work wasn’t for me. I dropped out, and I kicked the college loose too. Whoosh!” Jokingly he ed an open palm across the top of his head like he had dodged a bullet. “Don’t know what I was thinking there!” This forced a girlish giggle from her, in turn earning a subdued smile from Frank. “I was young, I could handle myself. I wanted excitement. So I got myself a very well-paying job at a strip club in the city—as a bouncer.” “Let me guess,” she interrupted. “It was the worst dive in town.” “No, not at all. It was a well-run place in downtown Chicago, high-class, no drugs and no prostitution. Never trouble with the cops. Alec and Bruno, the other two bouncers, taught me that handling yourself took more than steel balls and quick fists—it took a certain amount of diplomacy. Without that, Alec said, no tough guy in the world would end up anywhere but the jail or the graveyard. Diplomacy. And patience. And I already had that—from the Recon.” “Semper Fi,” Lori responded with a knowing nod. Over the years she learned slowly about his war service, and learned not to bring it up. It was not a secret— it was just something that was not discussed. “You got it.” In the Marines, Frank was a sharpshooter, a supremely gifted marksman hunting upper-echelon Viet Cong and North Vietnamese officers. “Alec and Bruno made the introductions to a lot of the town’s heaviest hitters,

including quite a few, what you might call, shady types. Eventually I found myself working as a driver and a bodyguard for a rich corporate raider named Randy Maximillian. Recognize the name?” She bit her lower lip with her brow furrowing: “Yeah, I’ve heard the name— used to make movies or something—?” “That was his old man, Radu. Old mobster, used to give a lot of Hollywood parties in the ‘50s and ‘60s, produced a few movies. He liked hanging out with movie stars. When I met his son Randy was being groomed to take over the family operations. The truth was, Randy could be more blood-thirsty than his pop ever thought about.” “Did you know what they were into?” Lori asked directly. “Sure. I knew. But I wasn’t involved in that end of the business. At first.” “What did you do?” “At first, his driver, his bodyguard. Then I could speak for him. Basically I had a talent for cowing people through force of my personality, and he utilized it.” “He used you?” She was offering him an out he realized, an excuse. But Frank looked her right in the eye and gave his head a single shake. “No,” he said firmly. “No one used me. I wouldn’t allow that. I was young but I knew what I was doing. I had a talent, I made a lot of money.” He did not venture to add that talent was killing people. The first time had been all on Frank. A street gang on Chicago’s south side blamed the Maximillians for their lagging drug transactions. This led them to do a very stupid thing. The failed hit left Randy wounded—Max’s son at that time had very little to do with the family business, but he was the easier target—and one of his bodyguards dead. Frank, off duty that day, took the murder attempt very personally. It took him two weeks. He tracked down the gang’s headquarters and went in at night. For a white man in that part of town, it was enemy territory. He got into the house and, quietly and methodically, left two young men cold to the touch in his wake. Others in the house Frank considered non-combatants. It was the

beginning of the Magician’s legend. But the targets were young, little more than teenagers. He did that out of anger, a desire for retribution. It was an act that left his stomach in knots, when he dared to think about it. But, at that time, he regarded Randy as his friend as well as his employer. “The only time I considered getting out was when Marie threatened to leave me,” Frank continued, letting the rinse water out of the sink. “The club’s owner sometimes had us, Alec and Bruno and me, running errands for his elderly mother. Mrs. Carpella was like everybody’s mom. I’d take her to the market, drive her and her friends to evening Mass, go back and pick her up. She liked to cook Italian dishes and she’d usually send us home with a meal. She also tried at one time or another to fix us up with the daughters of her friends. With me, it took. “I it it, I wasn’t just taken—I was nuked,” Frank said emphatically. With a wistful smile he continued: “Marie wasn’t even interested at first. I wasn’t either, even though I marveled at how beautiful she was. She wasn’t my type. She came from a good family—something I knew nothing about. The first date was just to please our elders. We had dinner, a movie, and went late-night bowling. And I fell hard. So did she. I was old enough to know better, but we were married six months later and a month after that Gwen was on the way. And the whole time I think we knew it wasn’t going to last.” Lori had heard some of this before, but without the details concerning his employment. She now realized what a skilled manipulator he was. He had actually been quite vague about his past in the years she’d been with him and not only had she not dug for more details, she had not even been curious. That’s how —diplomatic he was. “By the time Marie realized how much my job scared her, I was in pretty deep. We tried to make it work for Gwen, but there was just no way. I couldn’t be the kind of man she wanted, and I didn’t want her to be the kind of girl who’d settle —the truth was, I think each of us would not have changed one single thing about the other. I know I wouldn’t have. We ended up getting a special annulment through the church. It was for the best. Marie and I loved each other dearly. But it takes more than that, sometimes.” He looked at Lori and shrugged, accepting.

“A year after we split, I ended up testifying against Randy Maximillian. I was given immunity from prosecution and, my testimony making me a target for a lot of dangerous people, I was relocated, given a new name and identity. Marie and Gwen were also forced into the program. It broke Marie’s heart. Given no choice but to have her home and family ripped away to save their lives—I don’t think she ever forgave me.” “Were you arrested?” Lori asked in a shocked voice. “How did they force you to testify?” “No, I volunteered to testify against Randy, and several others. It’s true what they say, Lori—there’s no honor among thieves. I had been picked up for questioning a few times, but they never had a thing on me. Randy was the one who screwed up. Somehow, either through his own paranoia or from rumors circulated by the cops, he began to think he couldn’t trust me.” The actual story was a bit more detailed. Some people do change, and it was Randy who changed from a man Frank could respect and call friend into an enemy, in only a few years. Frank was perfectly willing to take the lives of other killers, but he flatly refused to do anything endangering the lives of innocents, particularly women and children. Things like placing bombs, or setting fires. Randy had no such restraints and expected his people to feel likewise. Frank refused to even be associated with those willing to go to such extremes and this began to be a problem. Frank killed one of Randy’s own men—Randy successfully convinced him that the enforcer had gone rogue, menacing the family of a city prosecutor against orders. It all came to a head when Frank realized that Randy was planning to have his ex-wife, Lydia, murdered in retaliation for starting a fresh round of custody battles over their son. Frank intervened, first with Randy, which provoked a major disagreement to say the least. Next he talked to Lydia. He’d met the woman casually—she knew he was rumored to be Randy’s primary enforcer. But he just talked to her. Calmly. Logically. He convinced her that she absolutely had to drop the custody suit. She had no choice in the matter. He simply told his employer that the woman was not to be harmed, just as calmly and logically. Randy did not take it well at all—but according to the occasional society page blurb, the former Mrs., long since remarried to a Broadway producer, was alive and enjoying the company of her grandchildren to this day.

“Finally an associate told me that Randy was out to get me. I called him for a meeting, but he was unavailable. He was ducking me. I considered my options. I knew I could be in some trouble if Randy went off the deep end, which is exactly what he did. “He flew in a couple of shooters from New York City. They tried to cap me in my apartment as I got home with a bag of Chinese take-out.” Lori’s eyes were like saucers. “I’m still here, Lori, and they are not. Before he died one of the shooters told me it was a man of Randy’s hired them. I called my old buddy Ed Eckert, and turned state’s evidence.” “Concerning what exactly?” Lori pried, clearly terrified of the answer. Frank held her in an iron gaze. “I don’t want to get any more detailed,” he said to her. “I testified. Randy went to prison for twelve years, along with some of his cronies. I had to—for Gwen and Marie. Randy was out of control.” She was flabbergasted that the man she’d spent the last twelve years sleeping with was a former—what? Gangster? No. That simple title did not apply. As if reading her mind, Frank said, “I won’t deny I’ve done some things, but I never crossed my own line. Everything I did was against people who had it coming. I’ve never harmed a single innocent soul, or let one come to harm. Do you believe me?” “Of course I believe you,” she whispered. They sat now at the kitchen table, holding hands, nursing their beers under the single overhead lamp. She collected her thoughts for a second, and asked, “Marie and Gwen? Were they safe?” “No one went after them. As far as I know,” Frank amended. He’d stopped that quick. It was Marie who’d first alerted him to the new danger—she had this thing she could do. He knew it wasn’t Randy—he was safely in jail and besides, once he had time to think, he knew better than to threaten Frank’s family. After Marie’s phone call he’d given Cox the third degree and the lawman itted that they’d increased security around Marie and Gwen following a warning from an

informant. “Do you think Gwen was killed?” Lori hated giving voice to the words. Frank looked down at his beer and gave a thoughtful sigh. “I let you assume that Danny was wounded while we were together in Vietnam. I apologize—the truth is, we were both over there, but we’d never met. He was a Federal marshal in charge of my guard detail during the beginning of Randy’s trial, and he ended up taking a bullet for me, one paid for by Radu Maximillian. We’ve kept in touch ever since—” “Oh my God,” Lori gasped, a hand going to her mouth. The shooting happened on the steps of the Cook County Courthouse, just two days after Frank visited the mansion. The gunman was an unemployed auto worker from Detroit. It was unbelievably sloppy. In a packed crowd, three shots from a handgun—one blew off the toe of a photographer (who went right on snapping pictures), one went wild, but the first caught Danny Cox low in the belly, slipping in just below his protective vest. Even wounded he still was able to tackle the gunman. Two days later, the failed killer hanged himself in his cell. Frank decided Kovovitch had the hit planned before meeting his own end. “Danny is convinced Gwen is an accident,” Frank continued. “But I have to know for sure. I have to go and check it out, Lori.” “What will you do?” Frank knew exactly what she was asking. But one thing at a time. He said, “Tomorrow I’m going to my daughter’s funeral. Then we’ll see what happens.” Lori was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She sipped her own beer, trying to not let her worry show. “You okay with all this?” he asked. She finished the bottle and got up from the table. She held out her hand. “What was your name before?” “Francis Michael Depreo,” he said in way of introduction. He shrugged at her look. “The name Moore? My mother was Irish-American.”

Lori decided on the spot, telling herself she would learn to live with the butterflies in her belly. She forced a grin to quiet any reservations. “Well c’mon, Francis Michael,” she said, clasping his hand in her own, “and let me take you to bed.”

CHAPTER TWO

Daddy! Daddy’s home! The little girl came running at him, black hair flying, and laughing he scooped her up There she is! How’s my little Guinevere today? I’m juss fine! He blew noisy raspberries against her neck coaxing screams of delight Momma Momma he’s tickilin me! Daddy’s tickilin me!

Frank awoke from the dream in a cold sweat, hating to face what was now and what was past, stirred by the airliner’s change in attitude as the pilot banked the craft for the approach to Atlanta. He adjusted his sunglasses, and glanced down at Brandon, the chubby seven-year-old in the neighboring seat. The kid had his face glued to the window. A pretty redheaded flight attendant said, “Excuse me,” with a smile and leaned across Frank to help the boy with his seat belt. “Time to buckle up, big guy,” she told the kid. Frank caught the pleasing scent of her perfume. “We almost there?” the child asked. “Almost. That goes for you too, sleepyhead,” she reminded Frank. “Bran? You being good?” This from Brandon’s mother, seated on the window behind her son. “Yeah, Mom,” came the kid’s long-suffering reply. His little brother, who was only four, sat behind Frank. The mother and boys were on their way to visit the grandparents.

“Mom, can you see anything?” Brandon called out, craning his neck to see out the thick glass. The plane was descending through cloud cover and Frank’s ears started to pop. He asked the boy, “Want to see a magic trick?” Brandon turned his head around and blinked at him. “Yeah,” he said emphatically. Frank offered his right hand, palm up. He wiggled his fingers to show he was hiding nothing, then ed his left hand over it once, and turning the palm down closed his fist. With the boy watching intently he turned his hand back and opened it to reveal two sticks of chewing gum, one of which he slid toward the boy with a card-shark’s thumb movement. Brandon’s mouth spread into a wide grin as he took it. He unwrapped the foil and shoved the Juicy Fruit into his mouth. His jaw worked energetically, his hands over his ears like he’d seen adults do. “Thanks, man.” He eyed Frank, obviously wanting to know the trick’s secret. “Brandon,” came his mother’s immediate warning. “Thank you, sir,” the boy amended contritely. Frank lifted his sunglasses and rolled his eyes in sympathy with the kid, who nodded with knowing agreement. Moms. Frank smiled, leaned back with his hands folded across his belly and shut his eyes behind the dark lenses. He thought about his daughter.

He boarded a connecting charter to Augusta and his waiting rental car. He’d once visited the city for a bar owner’s convention and been a couple of times besides, though his former family was unaware. He was never in the habit of ing his ex and daughter though he knew they lived there. He used a map to find his hotel, checked in and went up to his room. He took a hot shower and dressed for the funeral. Not unexpectedly, a sense of deep depression and dread was creeping over him. A numb state of shock was giving way to the inevitable sorrow of losing a loved one. He wondered what

poor Marie was going through—Gwen was her life. He was groggy with nearexhaustion as well, having had a fitful sleep that night. He felt awful. He began to ask himself how he was going to get through this—an attitude unfamiliar to him. Fully dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and matching silk tie, he sat on the bed and eyed himself in the dresser mirror. He thought he looked at least ten years older than he had only twenty-four hours ago. He wanted to talk to Lori. He picked up the phone and dialed her at their home, told her he just wanted to let her know he was there. Checking in, another habit he was unaccustomed to. She told him she loved him, what he needed, and to call her after. For just an instant, he considered leaving the hotel, hopping a plane, and returning to Dayton. It made no difference if he was here, Gwen was gone and beyond caring about this or anything else. He had no faith in an afterlife whatsoever. Believing in such a thing led to inescapable questions concerning sin and redemption, matters he preferred not to think about. Later, when was able to bear it, he could visit Gwen’s grave and then go on with the life he’d made with Lori. It was a good life. To hell with the Maximillians, even if Randy was responsible, and Frank made him answer for it, it wouldn’t change a damned thing. He told himself this almost desperately in hope of finding a legitimate reason not to go through with this horrible day, told himself it was all the hard truth—but he couldn’t buy it. He could no more let this go than he could cut off his own arm. Driving to the funeral home, he began to ask himself, When was the time he had given up on ever having Gwen in his life again? He’d been a doting father at one time—hadn’t he? What would Marie’s opinion be? It had been her to encourage him to break off all with them. She’d felt very strongly that he had to— and Marie’s feelings had a way of being prescient. He learned to not take them lightly. After that Danny Cox had been the go-between, until Gwen was a little older. Past dangers relaxed over time. Frank and Gwen exchanged letters, pictures. Surreptitiously he’d made her graduation from high school and then from college, but ed on her wedding. He didn’t trust himself to keep a distance at that event. All those years ago he’d consoled himself that his wife and daughter would have an easier life without him. How could he have been so stupid?

He was ashamed of himself. That was a bitter fact. He never felt the need most other men came by naturally, the desire to be a parent and to guide offspring into adulthood. Maybe that ingredient was left out of the mix when they’d thrown him together. No one noticed anything was missing, including himself—that space was filled by a propensity for the taking of human life. That’s what he was. A Taker, not a Giver. At least, he told himself, he had no desire to excuse himself through the discovery of the truth about Gwen’s death, if there was a truth. No. There was no excuse for him, and he had to live with that. His motive was pure and primal: Revenge. God, if He even existed, was beyond Frank’s reach should Gwen’s death be an accident. But if any outside party had a hand in this, that person had no right to go on living and Frank would not stop until that injustice was corrected. Either way, he would have to find a way to make peace with himself over the terrible mistakes he’d made. All those years, just pissed away, he thought bitterly; all those years, when he could have been her father.

He did not sign the guest book. He saw a guy looked like a cop in a dark suit and shades in the funeral home lobby. Frank could feel the man giving him the eye as well. He’d spotted two Federal types in an unmarked car outside; maybe FBI, their haircuts were too neat for marshals. He followed a little placard on a stand that said Raymond & Gwendolyn McVie. His heart was thudding painfully. The entry to the parlor was on the right. Lots of people, standing around in groups dressed in their best. A double funeral brings out twice as many mourners. Frank tried to keep his face away from others without seeming too obvious about it. It had been twenty years and he was wearing sunglasses, but Danny warned that Marie had resumed with her immediate family and they would certainly be here. The caskets were side-by-side, highly polished like cars in a showroom, surrounded by garlands and sweet-smelling flower arrangements. They were closed. Frank expected this, even hoped for it—but another side of him wanted, needed,

to see his baby’s face a last time. It was a natural part of the grieving process, and necessary for closure. There were photos on stands on either side of the caskets. The young man, the young woman, as they had been in life. Smiling for the camera, happy and healthy. Their whole futures ahead of them. Gwen’s hair was as black as when she was a child. Frank’s heart lurched at the image of her. The stately widow’s peak she definitely got from her mother, but the high forehead and the features below, he hated to it, most resembled her father’s. However the same characteristics making him rugged, chiseled, magically transformed in his daughter to form delicate Old World beauty. He wondered if Marie was reminded of her old sweetheart whenever she looked at their daughter. Better if she was not. Momma! Daddy’s tickilin me! He put his fingers on the cool metal skin of the casket and, head bowed, closed his eyes against his own reflection, ing the giggling black-haired girl running to him, always delighted to see him, always. He daubed his eyes beneath the glasses with his fingers. “My little Guinevere,” he murmured only to himself. The hospital waiting room, the night she was born. His first sight of her, face purple, trembling with rage, howling her little head off. What lungs she had! She was born with a thick mat of black hair. His heart melted, and never fully recovered, when he held her the first time, and only then had she stopped wailing. And later, looking up at him, seeming not to see, her dark eyes impossibly wide and filled with mysteries known only to newborns. He felt a pang of guilt for his cowardly thoughts from earlier, thoughts of not coming to the funeral and how his daughter was beyond caring one way or the other—had he actually told himself that? And suddenly a strange sensation came over him, one he could not begin to understand or explain. It was the feeling of having someone standing near to him, very close, though there was no one. It was strangely comforting and at the same time he noticed a faint, sweet fragrance he detected over the scents of the flowers though it was completely pleasant and not at all overpowering. It was—strawberries, he decided. So tenuous he almost thought he was imagining it. A woman’s sobbing snapped him out of it—the scent forgotten, he turned, heart pounding, both afraid and hopeful of seeing Marie. A middle-aged woman sat in the first row, consoled by a man and two younger women. Raymond’s family,

perhaps his mother and siblings. He spent a few minutes examining the funeral arrangements, his eyes returning time and again to the casket holding his daughter. The room was overflowing with flowers and plant bouquets. He saw cards from Gwen’s students in New England and from the Haven School Board, and from Raymond’s coworkers. A lovely potted plant had been delivered from a Mrs. Valerie Newcombe, the Book Cellar, Haven. The accompanying card had a warmth indicating personal attachment and Frank filed away the name mentally for future reference People were beginning to find seats and Frank took a place in the back where he might not be noticed. The seating arrangement had the husband’s family and friends on the right of the room, Gwen’s on the left. The front rows of his daughter’s were empty and he did not recognize anyone seated further back. As the room became more settled he came to worry that Marie might not even be able to attend the service. She had to be devastated. He regretted not calling her. She would be sorry later if she was not here. Several people entered the room and sat in the second and third rows and Frank recognized two of Marie’s sisters, both with men who were presumably their own husbands, and one of his ex-wife’s aunts and an uncle. Then Marie came in, walking carefully as if on slippery ice. She was accompanied by a man Frank’s age who held her arm firmly in both his hands, with two young men not yet thirty trailing who resembled the husband. She wore a black dress and stockings. In her late 40s and still slim and straightbacked despite the oppressive grief. At first he did not see her face clearly. Her head hung slightly and her hair, brushed over one shoulder and shiny black with only a hint of a regal gray, hid her features from his angle. Nonetheless his heart quickened at the sight of her, and he began to relax. It seemed better now that she was here. Even a room apart, he was not alone in this. Suddenly she paused, her husband stopping with her, and she turned to scan the seated mourners. Her cheekbones were still sharp, the firm chin and beautiful mouth, and the widow’s peak, all nearly the same, but her pallor was evident. She looked right at him and he stared back, stunned. She wore sunglasses as did he, but he felt their gazes locked, and he was relieved to see not the slightest bit of surprise on her features. She knew he’d be here. Then the moment was gone and she was escorted to her seat.

His mind drifted and he paid no attention to the eulogies or even noted who gave them. He endured those and the words of the priest in a daze, watching Marie’s back both figuratively and literally. She sat up straight during the ceremony with her husband’s arm around her. He was the one showing the weight—his head kept bowing, his shoulders sagging. In no time it seemed people were standing and filing past the caskets, saying their personal Goodbyes, offering their condolences to the families. Frank stood to do likewise. He shook the hand of Marie’s husband with both his own. The man seemed crushed. He would be a prince, and would’ve doted on Gwen; Marie would not have accepted less. He found her looking up at him over the rims of her dark glasses, her eyes swollen and red. She took his hands in hers and pulled him down to her and they embraced. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair with tears in his eyes. They said nothing.

The day was overcast but Frank kept the glasses on. He considered having a word with the two Feds outside but decided against it. They would be highly reluctant to open up to him, even if they had an idea who he was from Danny or some other. He knew he would be visiting New England, but wasn’t sure of his next move. He thought it would be a good idea to see Marie, find out what he could about Gwen’s life in Haven. He was not looking forward to it. The brief moment inside the funeral home was a sad one. But sweet as well, and he did not want to risk spoiling the memory of it. He was deciding to go back to the hotel and get out of the suit when someone approached from behind. Frank tensed, wary. He turned to see Marie’s husband offering his hand. “Excuse me. I’m Cliff Tibbets.” “Frank Moore.” “Of course,” Tibbets responded. He continued without one of those pregnant pauses, for which Frank silently thanked him. “Marie asked me to apologize for not coming out to speak to you. She’s been in a pretty bad way.”

“I understand completely,” Frank assured him. Tibbets didn’t look too on top of things himself. “She and I both feel it’s important for us to talk,” the other explained. “She just can’t handle all this socializing right now. How long are you in town?” “As long as you need,” Frank said. He gave him the name and room number of his hotel. “Marie is assuming you’re going to Haven,” Tibbets remarked, watching Frank’s reaction. “I am.” “Well I’ll call you this evening. Look, you’re welcome to be with the family tonight. Everyone will be at the house, though I’m not sure Marie will be doing much more than trying to sleep.” “Thanks for the offer,” Frank replied earnestly, “but the hotel’s fine.” “Okay. Well I’m glad to have met you, Frank. I’ll call tonight, or Marie will, we need to get together.” “Call as late as you like,” Frank reminded him. Tibbets was Frank’s age, handsome, with a high forehead and receding blond hair turning gray. He was Frank’s height but with a little more middle-aged padding on his frame. He had the look of a self-made executive who took pretty good care of himself. Frank recalled he’d owned a string of dry cleaners or something when they’d gotten married—what, fifteen years ago? But now he was tired and shell-shocked, the look of a man with his world torn from under him. Frank had no idea how successful this Federal Witness Protection stuff was; after so many years did subjects tend to resume with family they were separated from? Marie’s relatives were at the funeral. How many subjects in relocation ended up dead years later because of a failure to stay in hiding? He would have to ask Cox. He was now worried that Gwen may have been tracked down and targeted through Marie’s family. But if that was the case, why hadn’t Marie been hit first? Maybe Marie was in danger this very minute. Frank looked

around and spotted the Federal men in the unmarked car. He found the cop from inside hovering around the front doors, scanning the crowd. He had a hand up to his ear, no doubt listening to a hidden microphone like the Secret Service, but he seemed relaxed if vigilant. Frank followed his line of sight and saw two men he had not noticed before, parked a block down the street. Looked like his ex was well-protected. He returned to the hotel with a six-pack from a convenience store which he intended to last a while; he wanted to stay sharp. You could never tell when it might be the wrong moment to let your guard down, so better not to let it down at all. Vaguely he became aware that he was taking on habits, an attitude, long since almost completely forgotten. Almost. He called Lori, told her about the service, that he had seen Marie and her husband. No, he decided not to go to the cathedral or the cemetery. He had chosen to stay in Augusta at least until tomorrow. Lori said Anna and Leslie, her own daughters, were spending the night and they had rented a couple of Patrick Swayze movies. Tenderly, Lori asked, “Were there closed caskets?” “Yeah,” Frank sighed. Now there was a pause, and Frank silently thanked whatever powers that be for her. “I sorta wish I’d come with you,” she said after a moment. “I sorta wish you had, too,” he itted, “but better you didn’t. There’s too much baggage here.” “Were there photos?” “Yeah. It was nice.” “How did she look, honey?” Frank tried to answer and an unexpected wave of emotion left him unable to speak for a moment. He swallowed audibly, and breathed, “She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He got it together, and added, “Ray was a goodlooking kid. The grandchildren would’ve been gorgeous.” He said this with no problem. It was just a statement of fact. And the idea was a happy one.

“Anyway, I just bought some beer and I’m gonna watch some TV. Maybe I’ll see Marie later if they call.” “Call me if you need to,” she reminded him. “I promise—same goes for you, hon.” She told him she loved him and they hung up. He took everything off but his slacks, socks and undershirt and lay on the bed with the pillows propping him up. He nursed a can of beer and channel-surfed until he found a ball game. The Braves and the White Sox—but it didn’t matter who was playing, he couldn’t concentrate on the game anyway. After a while and realizing he had not even noticed who was winning, he put down the still-unfinished beer and stood at the windows, peering through a slit in the curtains. The sun was going down. He scanned the parking lot three stories below, looking for anything suspicious. He was fully back in danger mode. It had been a long time.

In his dream Gwen was grown-up, running ahead of him through the forest, jumping over fallen logs and dodging low branches. She was barefoot because she was dead, like Paul on the cover of Abbey Road. She kept looking back at him, moving ahead, wordlessly urging him to keep up. It all seemed to be in slow motion, and it was fuzzy and indistinct, like in a mist. And no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t catch up to her. The phone’s ringing woke him. He snapped up, alert instantly like in the old days. “Frank? It’s Cliff Tibbets.” The room was dark except for the television. After nine by his watch—he had been asleep for hours. “Cliff,” he said in response. “I’m downstairs in the bar,” Tibbets told him. “Can you come down?” “Sure. Is Marie with you?” There was a pause and the other man said, “No. She isn’t. I’m sorry, I’ll explain when we talk.”

“I’ll be right down.” He put on a pair of jeans, a pocket T and some sneakers, and took his cell phone along inside his jacket. He was a little disappointed that Marie did not come. He was worried about her. He wanted to see for himself she was going to get through this.

The bar was called Spanky’s, it was dark and plush and without much personality like all hotel saloons. A jukebox was softly playing the Dixie Chicks and the place was quiet for a Saturday night. The bar itself was huge and trimmed in chrome which reflected the neon light adornments. The bartender was a frosted blonde 30-something with bright red lipstick. Tibbets met Frank with a bottle of beer and led him to a table against the wall where they could speak privately. “Frank, Marie is a mess,” he said with a rueful shake of the head. “I don’t know what to do. She goes between these highs and lows and she won’t talk to anyone about what she’s feeling.” To Frank it seemed Tibbets wanted his help, or at least his advice, but he didn’t think it proper to offer. He took a drink of his beer and said nothing. “When Marie’s mom died two years ago, it was bad,” Cliff explained, “but this is much worse. She held together then. Now she’s not.” Frank wondered again about Marie ing her family, breaking cover. “Marie is tough,” he pointed out, speaking from personal experience. “I’m sure she’ll pull out of this.” Cliff sipped his own beer and leaned on his elbows and Frank saw how terribly tired the man appeared. “I guess a lot of it is me,” he confided, his brows knitting with misery. “It’s been rough on me too. I mean, a wife and husband are supposed to prop each other up when they lose a child, and I really need her now, but she’s just not—Frank, I’m sorry, I know she was your kid—” “Don’t be. I’m glad Gwen had a dad in her life,” Frank assured him. He noted that this guy definitely had no problem showing his feelings. But he was

thankful. His daughter had been raised in a warm and loving environment. Tibbets said, “Frank, you don’t need to worry. I know that Marie would tell you not to beat yourself up over not being in Gwen’s life. She was a happy kid and, believe me, she knew her dad loved her. She really did.” “I appreciate you saying that.” Frank felt a touch of annoyance. Tibbets no doubt meant well. But he talked too much. “You know, I have two older boys from before I met Marie. I’m close to both of them. But Gwen—Gwen was so special, to all of us. I wish you could’ve seen the way her big brothers doted on her, fussed over her. And she looked after them too, like a lioness with her cubs.” Tears in his eyes, he gave Frank a sorrowful smile. “Their hearts are broken over this, boy.” Frank said nothing, envying the man. For the years with Gwen. Tibbets sniffed and stammered, “That girl was the luh-light of my life—” and a hand went for his handkerchief. Frank went after a fresh pair of beers and to let the man compose himself. He didn’t like being here. Didn’t the man have friends or family he could talk to? He, Frank, was suffering, too—and giving Tibbets a shoulder to cry on didn’t help one bit. He wished Lori were here with him, she was better in these situations. Then he scolded himself, for his sense of detachment. When he came back and sat down Cliff told him thanks for the beer and for giving him a moment. “So. Did you know she was a teacher?” Frank nodded. “She wrote sometimes.” He was unable and unwilling to explain further—like why he’d let it go at that. Fortunately Tibbets did not pry. “She graduated a year early and went straight into Georgia State,” he explained. “She got her Bachelors and married Ray right after. She said Ray was love at first sight.” “Why move to New England?” “We took vacations there years ago. Marie just loved the place, and Gwen fell for it too. When she started dating Ray he was a convert, and then they had

friends from college living up there. But Marie raised hell when they decided to live there. Absolute hell.” He eyed Frank and asked, “You know about Marie? About her intuitions, her dreams?” “Oh, yeah,” Frank breathed. “At the time, it seemed like a mother unwilling to cut the apron strings. But now, I wonder.” Frank recalled Marie’s talent at cards. The times she knew exactly what he was thinking, or what he was going to say, or who was on the ringing telephone. Countless smaller things. And more. The nightmares she had for three nights straight before the death of her father. Normally Marie laughed about it; she said the women in her family had always possessed a little something extra. Twenty years before it had been she who called Frank with the conviction that she and Gwen were in dire peril—causing him in turn to bring the matter up with Danny Cox, who itted that, yes, the Feds were aware of Kovovitch’s attempts to track Frank’s family down and security had been increased as a result. But Frank would not leave it at that. Kovovitch had to pay for daring to threaten Frank’s wife and daughter, and Max needed the fear of God put into him. Frank took care of both those matters. He did it right under the noses of his Federal babysitters, climbing down the side of his hotel like a human fly, and back up again afterwards. Tibbets leaned forward and spoke confidentially. “Frank, she’s absolutely convinced that Gwen’s death is no accident.” Frank’s eyes narrowed to cold-blooded slits. Cliff saw the look, held up his hand: “No— not in the way you think. Marie doesn’t know herself, but she is convinced that the truth is something a hundred times worse than anything we might’ve thought. And I can’t help but believe her.” Frank gave him a grim nod. “Me too.” Just on her word, if nothing else. “You are going to Haven,” Cliff said, not a question. From his jacket he produced a thick manila envelope and pushed it across the table. “What’s this?”

“It’s from us, Marie and I. Frank, all through this, she’s been beside herself, grief-stricken, but also deathly afraid.” “For herself? For both of you?” “She doesn’t know. Even before the crash, she was distracted, worried. She knew something bad was about to happen. I think Gwen did, too.” “Gwen?” Frank gasped, horrified. Cliff nodded grimly. “For several months, Gwen’s letters and phone calls have been full of worries, anxieties. It was getting worse and worse, like she was turning paranoid. If it had been anyone but her—Ray was scared, too. Whatever it was, she had him convinced. Two weeks ago they decided to sell the house and leave Haven.” It stabbed Frank through his heart to think of his little girl frightened, helpless against some calamity or threat bearing down on her. “What the hell was going on?” he hissed. Tibbets shook his head miserably. “Her letters are in there,” he said, indicating the envelope. “She doesn’t go into specifics, but she knew more than she was letting on. She was into something. Something she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, let go of. Something so bad she refused to give it a name.” Frank looked into the envelope. There was a bundle of hand-addressed letters, a list of names he could in Haven (including Valerie Newcombe, the Book Cellar lady), addresses he would need. And a smaller envelope, stuffed with cash. He gave Tibbets a hostile stare and handed the money back. “Keep it,” he said, a bit more sharply than intended. But it burned him—he was no hired gun. This was his daughter. Tibbets knew instantly that the money was a dreadful mistake and took it back like it was never there. The notion was his—he’d not told Marie of it. Marie was right. A certain kind of man could back you down with a glance, a tone of voice. He had no need for a weapon or for muscles like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tragedy and pain would befall the fool ignoring that little voice inside saying, Cool it now. This guy is bad news. Do not proceed further unless you want to regret it. This man, Frank Moore, was such an individual.

Following Gwen’s death, Marie was a woman he did not recognize. Beneath the terrible grief was something he’d never known in the always-smiling giggler he’d married: a kind of desperate fury. A hunger for vengeance. And all she kept saying was, Frank would come, he would fix it. Like her ex was her own Sword of Retribution. And right then at that moment, Tibbets believed it. Knew it down to his testicles. “Their lawyer is on that list. Their former lawyer too—but Gwen didn’t trust him. They went with a woman out of town. Also the codes for their personal computer—Gwen wouldn’t send email for weeks. She felt someone was hacking into her system.” Frank paused with a stunned expression at this revelation as he replaced the stuff into the envelope. “Frank, I apologize for the money. I just wanted to help pay for the expenses. Our part. She was our kid, too.” Frank considered that and let his jaw relax. He nodded and said, “It’s forgotten.” “Thanks. Marie and I don’t have anyone but you in this with us. We have to depend on each other.” Frank nodded his agreement, but he didn’t like that last statement, either. Did Tibbets think he had to be talked into this or something? The man didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. “This lawyer will be expecting you. You can stay at the kids’ house as long as you like. They have a small guest house. We’ll sell when this is all wrapped up —my sons are going up with Ray’s brothers later to pack everything up.” “I’ll call you when I leave for New England,” Frank said. He stood and offered his hand. He needed a couple of days at home to get ready. Marie could be wrong, but he wanted to be prepared for the worst. And in that event, he had personal matters to see to as well. Just in case.

Back in his room, he decided to hell with it, emptying one can and popping

another in quick succession. There was a fire burning in him now that the warm beer could not put out. He was itching to get going. After his fourth beer he began to weep. Quietly and for his own benefit, knuckling the tears from his eyes. The last time he had wept—he hadn’t thought of it in years and the memory broke his heart. Marie was leaving for a new life in Georgia and Frank had Gwen for a weekend visit. He was driving her back to her mother, who was waiting at a small airport outside Chicago with Danny Cox. The day was warm and they had a big lunch and Gwen was asleep in the front seat with her head resting under his arm. Some Elvis tune was playing on the car radio—Frank could not which song but he was never able to listen to the King again without a wave of sadness washing over him. He had an elbow crooked in the open window. He thought of his life, his family, how much he loved them both, how he had come to this moment. Suddenly it all crashed in on him, what he was about to do. He was saying goodbye to his daughter. Not forever of course, which he’d taken great pains to explain to her over the last two days. That he would always be her daddy, always love her, and always be around when she needed him. He just wouldn’t be living close by any more. She seemed to understand and accept it with only occasional tears. He and Marie were separated several months by that time and he kidded himself into thinking their daughter was adjusting well. Years later, helping to raise Anna and Leslie he would that day in the car, and shudder at how so little of the affairs of adults really went unnoticed by small children. He was suddenly bawling and with a tissue that was quickly drenched he wiped the tears from his cheeks while keeping an arm curled around his daughter. He wept quietly and miserably, careful to not wake the four-year-old who, he thought, was sound asleep. Abruptly he realized she was awake and he composed himself but was not quick enough. She unhooked her safety belt and kneeled in the seat to hug him and he had to pull the car over to the side of the highway. “Don’t cry, Daddy,” she begged him Her little arms were tight around his neck and she pressed her face against his and said, sobbing, over and over again as if to assure him: “I love you, Daddy. I

love you.”

“You had a couple,” Lori chided him when she called. “You okay?” “Yeah. Everything okay there?” Wiping his nose with a tissue, he kept his emotional state from showing in his voice. But his shoulders sagged with relief. He’d never been so glad to hear that Kentucky twang. “Most certainly not. I miss my boyfriend.” “I miss you, too.” “Are the pillows soft?” “Not as soft as you. Yours?” “I can smell you on them. Makes it hard to sleep.” “Okay. Just cut that out,” he warned, chuckling. “What?” was her completely innocent reply. “You know what. The come hither purr in your voice. Now is not the time for self-abuse.” She giggled. “Why don’t you hop a plane? Then I’ll hop you.” “First thing in the morning,” he promised. “So what’s next?” she asked, her tone serious now. “I’m going to New England. We’ll talk about it.” “Can I go?” “We’ll talk. There’s something strange going on. Not what I was expecting, maybe. But something.” He purposely soft-soaped it. He didn’t feel like discussing it now.

She knew him well enough to let the matter drop. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll come hither.” “Promises, promises. Love you.” “Love you.” He put the phone down and opened his last can of beer, took more than half in three continuous gulps. He wanted to go to sleep drunk. He had to get up early for his flight, but a hangover wouldn’t be a problem. In fact he was considering going out after another six-pack, when there was a knock at the door. He checked his watch as he got up; it was late. He paused, wary, at the door, which had no peep hole. It could only be Tibbets—why hadn’t he called ahead? He opened the door. Stared. “Marie.” She looked at him, forcing a smile through her tears. She stepped into the room and put her arms around him. He held her hair and sobbed into it and, wounded, they just held each other.

Later they lay on the bed and he cradled her head on his chest, his shirt wet against her cheeks. She’d kicked off her shoes and he held her hand. “I should have called you,” she murmured without opening her eyes. It was the first either of them had spoken. He could feel no anger towards her, though it might be expected. Their daughter had been in peril, he might have been able to help, to avert this somehow. But no one involved him and he did not question why. He supposed he’d been out of their lives for too long. He had no one to blame but himself. “I don’t know why I didn’t,” she continued as if addressing his thoughts. “The whole thing seemed out of my control, Frank. Like we were in the grip of something, Gwen and I.” He kept silent. Marie was always a big believer in destiny, the Lord’s plan, all that. He was not able to share her faith, and after their daughter’s death, he now refused to. No God could be that cruel.

“I’m so sorry.” “We have enough to be sorry about,” he told her. He couldn’t believe how lovely she was, after all these years. The widow’s peak and cheekbones were those of a Roman noblewoman. Her heavy lids opened and she saw him watching her. “Just a little grayer every year,” she said. “And I thought you could read minds,” he teased her. She rolled towards him, got up on her own elbow to look him in the eye. “Listen to me, Francis Michael.” She was deadly serious. With a finger he pushed aside a strand of silken hair, stuck to her cheek in drying tears. Her eyes were lined with pain and fatigue. “There’s something bad in that town, Frank. Gwen took it on, she made that decision. I am telling you the truth now.” “I know.” “You don’t believe in evil, not real evil,” she reminded him. “There’s something much worse in Haven and she tried to stop it. And whatever is in that town is still there. It thinks it’s safe now.” “I’ll be careful, Marie.” “I’m not even sure what I’m talking about, you know. I haven’t slept in three days. I have these nightmares.” He took her face in his hand, and she put her fingers over his own, pressing them against her cheek. She closed her eyes with tears streaming. “You have to find your way through this,” he whispered. “Your family needs you.” She sobbed and shook her head. “I wish they didn’t,” she itted bitterly. “I wish I didn’t have anyone. I don’t have the heart left for them. I wish I could die, it would be better than this.”

Frank gasped and pulled her to him, horrified by what he’d just heard. “Marie.” “I can’t believe I can hurt this bad and still buh-breathe,” she stuttered against his shoulder. He told himself, he would call Tibbets, tell him to get his wife under a doctor’s care immediately. She was not in her right mind. It curdled his blood to consider the possibility of Marie harming herself. Whispering, his voice desperate against her ear, he vowed, “I’ll find out what happened to Gwen, and anyone responsible will answer for it, to me, I swear. But Marie, you have to go on living. Just like you’d want her to do. Hear me?” “It’s not right, to bury your baby,” she murmured. “No it isn’t.” “I’m hurt so bad. If only I’d called you. I just don’t know—” He took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. The tears came even harder, and he shook her until she returned his gaze. “I want you to swear to me now, Marie. Swear to me you’ll get through this. Swear on Gwen’s grave.” That brought terrible sobs. Her shoulders quaked. He held her face firmly, and then painfully, and at last he felt her resistance begin to weaken. “I swear, I do.” She crumpled in his arms and he held her body shaking against him. They stayed that way seemingly forever and by the time she was quieting down he was emotionally and physically exhausted. He had been through Marine obstacle courses, with live fire over his head, and not been this hammered. Strangely, he had the feeling that he’d helped her. That somehow he had exorcised a demon from her. She’d known he would do it, had needed him to. Marie had always been so strong. To see her like this rattled him. She was always smiling, and loved to laugh. After Gwen was born he told her she would have to give up that giggling some day—that grandmothers did not giggle. She would tell him, Dream on. He was afraid that she would never laugh again.

“I’m calling your husband to come after you,” he told her after a while. She was silent now, and breathing easily with her head on his shoulder. “No, my car’s here,” she murmured. She appeared almost in a drugged state. But it wasn’t shock this time. She was spent physically, completely exhausted. She didn’t even try to lift her head. Tibbets thanked him for calling and arrived in twenty minutes with one of his sons in tow to drive her car back. She put her arms around her husband’s neck, weeping, but she sounded different, as if, now, she was expelling all that poison inside of her, hacking it up, going through a cathartic experience long in coming. Maybe this was her turn-around, Frank thought hopefully. Before they left she embraced Frank. He held her close, meaning it, taking what strength he could from her as well. He felt her mouth close to his ear, wet with tears and snot. And he heard, “Burn them,” her whisper harsh and guttural and desperate and completely unlike the woman he’d once known. It was Hate he heard in her voice. Outliving their daughter had taught her something new. When they were gone he leaned against the door, his head bowed, before falling into bed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He wished Lori were there, just to hold him. Never had he been so tired, so beaten up. He felt like an old man. In the dark he knuckled his eyes burning from exhaustion till he saw stars behind his lids, thinking of this long horrible day and what Marie had said, and that he would likely never get to sleep, and sure if he did the nightmares would be terrible. But sleep he did, and deep, and his dreams were of Gwen, when she was little and they were something resembling a happy family. He never saw Marie again after that night.

CHAPTER THREE

Frank leveled the weapon at his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. The deafening blast frightened birds from nearby trees, the shotgun bucking violently against him like a horse’s kick. He’d opted for the heaviest ammunition this model could handle. He flinched without taking his eyes from the target and was rewarded with the sight of the tree branch blown in half, jumping from the water and then falling, in splinters, back to the pond’s surface. He paused a moment to savor his marksmanship. He pumped another round into the chamber, ka-CHINK, and sighted and fired more quickly, this time prepared for the aggressive kick. The largest chunk of wood spun violently in the water and disappeared from view for an instant, as if ducking for cover, before bobbing back to the surface. Swiftly he pumped in a third round and fired. The explosion, the kick, the expanding cloud of blue smoke. The timber was destroyed this time. Frank adjusted his aim, pumping the shotgun again. BAM! The roiling water turned placid as he paused to reload. He blinked his stinging eyes in the gun-smoke. Ka-CHINK, BAM! Three more shots followed, quick, devastating, earpounding. He threw more branches into the pond to use as floating targets. He and Lori owned licensed .380 handguns and came out here on occasion to shoot. They had hips at a gun range but preferred the remote property owned by a farmer who was a regular at the bar. They usually made a picnic of it. They looked forward to their outings in the country and she enjoyed shooting as much as he did. She grew up on a Kentucky farm and appreciated fine weapons. More importantly, she knew how to handle them. She’d have loved firing this heavy artillery. Frank knew he’d be feeling it, come morning. The butt of the weapon was really istering a beating to his shoulder. The shotgun was a twelve-gauge Remington 870 Express, eighteen-inch barrel, all-over finished in zero-glare flat black and with custom sling attachments for a

variety of carrying styles. The wood-grip .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson Special, loaded and ready for practice, sat on the hood of the black Chevy Blazer at the pond’s edge. The weapons and the vehicle were purchased by Frank early that morning along with a few other things he needed for New England. The guns were illegal, sold by a fellow Frank knew to traffic in such items, with no traceable serial numbers. As Frank continued his practice shooting, quickly regaining his old proficiency, he silently berated himself for the lies he was forced to tell concerning his trip, and his preparations for it. It couldn’t be helped. Lori knew his purpose for going was potentially dangerous; she didn’t like it, but he could not be dissuaded and she did not try. But some things he kept from her, details learned from Marie and her husband, about Gwen’s fears and the peril she felt the last few weeks. He was a believer in being prepared and she knew he was taking along his .380. But he was also loading for bear—the extra firearms were just in case he ran into the most unexpected of situations and he was not willing to deal with her misgivings should she find out. And definitely he was not prepared to cope with her reaction were he to it the slightest possibility that he might never return to Ohio—which he would have to divulge if she knew about his other emergency contingencies. That morning he met with his lawyer, Bill Sells, who knew more about his past than most. He put several things in motion. The house and the bar he was having put fully in Lori’s name—Frank didn’t want her to have trouble in the event he found himself arrested. Also he activated the Cayman Islands bank , untouched in twenty years. After interest it came to a little over a million dollars. It was blood money, payment for services rendered in his former life, and he was uncomfortable with it. Especially now. What if there was some truth to the belief of karma in the universe? What if that small fortune, amassed on the graves of murdered men, had in some way been a nail in Gwen’s coffin all these years later? Had the sins of the father come back on the daughter? He hated every penny of it. But now he would put that dirty money to use. He opened a bank which he could access any way he wanted. Stinking of acrid gun smoke, shoulder and arm throbbing, he laid the empty

shotgun down after two more reloads and hefted the Magnum. At six and one-half inches the barrel on Frank’s model was shorter than the one used in the Dirty Harry films. Frank preferred it to the more modern, and more powerful, pistols currently on the market. Like the shotgun he had not handled one for years, but he possessed an innate familiarity with firearms of all types. The hog-leg’s recoil tormented the same arm earlier abused by the shotgun. His shots were on the mark, the powerful loads kicking chunks of floating branches off the surface of the pond, the weapon’s angry retort splitting the warm noontime air. He switched hands a couple of times, firing such a ponderous weapon more difficult left-handed, but even then he was a better than average shot. In the classic policeman’s stance, left hand cupping the right as it gripped the weapon, he was death on foot. He practiced hurried under-fire replenishing of ammo, both with and without the quick-loaders. Satisfied that he was expert with the Magnum, he flexed his bruised shoulder and decided to call it a day, the air heavy with oily smoke. He felt pretty confidant. He could not imagine running into anything he couldn’t handle. He sat on a fallen tree with his cleaning kits on a blanket across the grass, and disassembled and thoroughly cleaned and oiled each weapon. He also checked out the .38 snub-nose revolver, thrown in with the Chevy as a freebie. The Blazer was legally bought from the same dealer supplying the weapons. But it had a few extras not in the owner’s manual, mainly being secret compartments in which could be hidden illegal contraband of a wide variety. The former owner was likely a drug dealer, or a gun smuggler. It had come to Frank’s friend by way of an estate auction. To the casual eye it was an average family automobile, black with factory wheels and CD stereo system. The only other alteration was a built-in holster concealed at the steering column’s base in which the .38 could be hidden within arm’s reach of the driver. Frank lifted the rear compartment door and tucked the Magnum and the shotgun, both fully loaded, into the secret place beneath the spare tire, hidden by a carpet flap matching the truck’s upholstery. He stowed the gun kits in a satchel along with the ammo and the pistol’s belt holster and shut the door. He was armed to the teeth. After cleaning up the expended shells and any other litter he’d created he was

back on the country roads headed for their home north of Dayton. It was a beautiful mid-summer day. The truck ran smoothly and quietly. Frank drove with the window open, AC/DC blasting from the jacked-up stereo. The loud angry music diverted his thoughts, but he was in a Blues state of mind. He’d brought a few CDs with him after stopping by the house to show Lori the new vehicle—he replaced the hard rock with a homemade collection of Thelonius Monk and John Lee Hooker. This was what he enjoyed on the streets of Chicago as a kid. The strains of piano and blues guitar were sad, grieving, mournful. He thought about Gwen and wallowed in it. The flat Ohio farmlands ed quickly and became neatly trimmed suburbs and then winding roads through tall trees. Also that morning, he visited a local biker bar for a back-room appointment with a man whose name was ed along by an ex-cop Frank knew. This man was an expert in the crafting of phony identification cards and related material for anyone with the money to pay. Frank made arrangements to buy two sets of New England driver’s licenses, a couple of charge cards for each false identity, and a set of licenses to carry a concealed weapon under the name of Frank Moore, also issued by New England states. The man in the bar photographed Frank with different hair styles and advised him that the documents would be ready in twenty-four hours. Frank intended to operate in Haven under his own name—at least, the one he had used for the last twenty years—but should the need arise for him to hide his identity, he would use the bogus personas as necessary, You could never tell. It was now pushing 4 in the afternoon. He was ready for a quick shower—he reeked of gun smoke. Lori was at the bar but would probably be home soon when Jennifer, one of their four employees, showed up to relieve her. She came into the house and found him sitting on the sofa wearing only jeans with both feet on a stool, drinking iced tea and listening to Bob Seger on the music system. She bent to kiss him on the forehead—his freshly washed hair was still damp and pushed carelessly from his brow, a rugged look she found irresistible, and under normal circumstances she would coax him into the bedroom for a late-afternoon romp—then she saw his purpling shoulder. “Ouch, what happened there?”

“I did some target shooting this morning,” he explained, rubbing his sore bicep. His policy was to tell as much of the truth as possible. “Rifle?” she inquired, concerned. They owned only handguns. “Shotgun,” he said simply. He caught her eye before sipping his drink. She wanted to pursue the subject but something stopped her. She no longer felt like seducing him. She was annoyed, and frightened, and she didn’t even know why. Gwen’s death—she tried to keep in mind that it could be suspicious, that Frank was determined to find out and he could be heading into serious trouble— but that stuff only happened in the movies. Didn’t it? Suddenly there was all this area that was off-limits between them, and it had never been that way before. She was not used to being unable to approach him; she was not used to being in dread. She kicked off her shoes and changed from slacks and blouse into a T-shirt and a comfortable pair of jeans. She sat on the over-stuffed bed layered with pillows feeling a little depressed and Jake, who tolerated Frank but absolutely doted on Lori, wagged his tail, delighted, as she scratched his ears. She looked around their bedroom. One wall was completely taken up by a bookshelf holding her neatly arranged hardback novels: steamy romance epics, courtroom thrillers, Stephen King and Andrew Vachss. Frank’s tastes ran more to nonfiction: biographies, military history, a bit of psychology and philosophy. And of course his Houdini books. Other walls held pictures of Lori’s family, her parents, now deceased, her daughters. There were a few, but not many, framed photos of Gwen. Frank was not a picture kind of guy. She smiled sadly to herself when Frank called from the other room, “You okay hon?” He knew she was bothered. He’d mentioned on occasion how his ex, Marie, seemed to exhibit a kind of sixth sense, but it appeared often to Lori that Frank was the one who could read minds. “I’m just being lazy,” she said as she ed him in the living room, the devoted mutt following. She poured herself some tea and collapsed onto the sofa pillows beside him, propping her bare feet onto the stool beside his own. They sipped their tea, the ice cubes tinkling in the glasses. “Jen’s PO’d at Bobby again,” she informed him, referring to the young employee at the bar.

“Terrific,” Frank chuckled. “Those two need hosed down.” “You said it.” She leaned over and kissed his bruised shoulder. “Wanna go shoot some guns?” she grinned. He grinned back. She could make the most innocuous question seem provocative. He asked, “You want dinner?” “Let’s wait an hour or two. Unless you’re starving?” “We can wait.” He’d forced himself to eat a sandwich after his shower. Since hearing about Gwen he had no appetite. “Let’s order a pizza.” “Fine—I’ll make salads.” She put her glass down and reclined, her head on his flat stomach. She turned her face to inhale the scent of his scrubbed skin and tried not to think about his leaving tomorrow. “Love you,” he reminded her. Reading her mind again. She responded with a throaty Mmmm and kissed his belly. He put his drink down and framed her face in his hands and she returned the kiss hungrily. He drew back, smiling, and she said, “You wanna fool around?” “Oh yeah,” he growled with an eager nod, and covered her mouth with his own. He had no appetite for food but his need for her was stronger than ever it seemed. It was comforting. Even defiant. Spitting in the face of Death. Sometime later with the sunset visible through the living room curtains she sighed, content for now, against his chest and said, “Someone should hose us down.”

They picked at a large pizza with extra sauce and drank wine and stayed up to watch Letterman. They chatted about the route he would take on his trip, browsed through a stack of state brochures she brought home. She urged him to call every day but they settled on two or three times a week. A whole week, maybe even longer, she reminded herself. She supposed if she had the slightest common sense she’d be going out of her mind. He as much as said that he did not believe his daughter’s death was an accident, and that he was out to see anyone responsible answer for it. God only knew what might happen—she knew Frank to be a man of actions, not words. Definitely not the sort to wait around for the justice system to grind into motion in defense of his loved ones. She had known that long before learning the truth about his past. She truly believed he was the most capable man she’d ever known, that he could overcome any obstacle. And it wasn’t just the fight training. She’d seen him in action—she knew how dangerous he was—he’d even taught her a few simple self-defense tricks, but he always reminded her, martial arts didn’t make him or anyone else invincible. It merely gave one an advantage. What made Frank so formidable was something else, something much closer to the core of him. And it had always been there, since birth. A hardness. A steel in his belly. But he might very well find his life in danger, if his suspicions proved correct. What if he never returned to her? She didn’t want to even consider such a possibility, but how could she not? Her life seemed not to exist beyond such an eventuality, akin to looking over a great chasm and finding only black emptiness below. The idea inspired irrational panic within her. Desperate to take her mind off it, she pulled her T-shirt over her head and rolled onto him, obscuring the television to no one’s complaint. She enveloped him with her strong slim body, devouring him like an addict would a drug and he kept right up with her. She drove herself against him until they were too exhausted and too satisfied to think of anything else but sleep.

In the morning she stepped into the shower with him and met his surprised expression with a hungry lick of her lips. “One more for the road?” she offered,

voice husky, and it was more than the hot water steaming up the mirrors. She fixed his favorites for breakfast and even treated Jake to scrambled eggs and cheese, probably blowing the dog’s mind—table food was a rarity. She forced a laugh, watching her delighted pet’s tail swish. “I think we’re being fattened up, buddy,” Frank told the dog, who was too busy eating to notice. He forced himself to eat though he had little appetite. Aware of his mood she kissed him while he was chewing and slid her hands under the buttons of his shirt, down his chest and belly. He groaned with pleasure into her mouth. Then they heard the front door thrown open and Anna’s announcement: “We’re here, folks!” Grudgingly Lori tore her hands from him and she went back to the stove all grins as her two daughters, Anna and Leslie and their husbands, Jeremy and Rick, entered the kitchen. They were here to see Frank off. They exchanged greetings and Leslie went to the stove to help her mother make more food, but Anna knew instantly they had interrupted something and could not resist drawing everyone’s attention to that fact: “Boy, you two sure have a bloom on your cheeks! What the heck have you been doing?”

All through breakfast Frank was consumed with the desire to ask Lori to marry him. The notion first occurred to him on the way back to the house the previous day, and later as he sat sipping tea alone except for the dog. He was relaxing, safe and secure in the home they’d built together, where he’d helped to raise her kids (and done not a bad job, not bad at all), where over time they’d come to take their futures a little for granted. The idea grew during the pizza and the lovemaking, and had nearly spilled out as they were in the shower together that morning. His not remarrying had been on purpose, Gwen far away in years as well as miles, but never in his heart. In some little-understood way he saw another marriage as a final letting-go of his daughter. He could not explain why the two were connected in such a way—they just were. Now Gwen was gone forever, and possibly it was even more of a betrayal to both she and Lori, to only now

think of marriage. He felt guilty about it—but for the first time, it seemed right, and long overdue. He had always loved Lori, had always been totally comfortable with her. He felt the need to do something about it. The proposal was right on his tongue when the kids came in. He even thought she had seen it in his eyes, as they kissed over breakfast. She knew something had shifted in him. He almost said it, right in front of the kids: Hey, what do you guys think of your Mom and I getting married? Why hadn’t he? Because. He felt he was going off to war. He was afraid he might never come back, either because of what he might have to do, or worse. Soldiers had done the very thing through every war in the history of man—married their sweethearts before shipping out. But Frank could never see the logic of such a thing. What made a girl want to commit to someone she may never see again? What made a boy ask her to do so? He supposed it all came down to hanging on to life with every instrument at one’s disposal, things like faith, and love. But Frank couldn’t do it to Lori. He wanted to. And he was now more determined than ever, to come back to her, if he could. The boys clapped him on the back. Anna kissed him on the cheek, cautioned him, “Get back soon.” Surely Lori had not told them everything, but they knew about Gwen, and Leslie, the baby, youngest and most sensitive, was weeping as she embraced him. “Love you, Frank,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry about Gwen.” “Thanks, Les,” he responded with a bear hug. Drawing back he saw that Anna now was crying. Anna was the firecracker of the two. It was she who’d given them the most trouble as a teen, the most worry, hell-bent on doing as she pleased and willing to butt heads over the smallest matter, and it was she with the most strength, the most fight in her. She was the type that, when she finally eased into well-adjusted adulthood, you breathed a sigh of relief and wondered how you ever pulled it off. He’d known her happy and depressed, in love and pissed off, and absolute hell to live with, he’d seen her more than once strawberry-cheeked shedding tears in a fit of rage—but to see her now gently weeping left him startled, and deeply touched. “Don’t cry, girls.” “I can’t speak for Leslie,” Anna said with a grin, “but I just really love that truck.

Let us borrow it when you get back?” “Yeah, sure,” Frank replied with a laugh. “Cool. Beer at the drive-in, Les!” She chucked her sister on the arm. Frank checked his watch and the boys put his bags in the Chevy. He had to meet his document before leaving town. He put his hands on Lori’s shoulders and drank her in with his eyes. He hoped he would see her again. She framed his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were bright and shiny. “You get back soon,” she commanded in a stern tone, her Southern twang showing more than usual.. “Then we’ll talk about what you were goin’ to say inside.” “Absolutely,” he promised. “I mean it, honey. You keep your head down or your ass in gear or whatever it is you gung-ho types have to do—got it? I love you dearly.” “I love you, too.” He kissed her and turned to get into the Blazer. Leslie shut the door for him. He started it up and his eyes lingered on them waving in the rear view mirror as he pulled onto the road and away from their house. Half an hour later he was on the highway with Dayton’s skyline retreating behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Leonard Rippy parked in his reserved space and saw Val Newcombe across the street in the door of her bookshop. She was sweeping the sidewalk—lately, he knew, she had a lot of time to kill—and he raised his hand for a wave, trying to catch her eye. She plainly saw him, but turned away and entered the store without returning the greeting. He felt his spirits sink. However it was a gorgeous summer day without a cloud in the sky, and Leonard was not the gloomy sort. Forcing away his mood he went into the Haven City Courthouse. The building was known to locals as the Old Church and was the center of the town, dwarfing the businesses along Main Street with peaked gabled roofs and a beautiful clock tower, the illuminated face at night bathing Haven’s busiest street in its serene golden glow. Rippy loved the venerable building, loved the fact that it housed his office. The original structure was nearly three hundred years old and did begin life as a place of worship, then following a fire in the late 1880s was almost completely rebuilt to become a town hall. Over the next hundred years Haven grew very slowly around it while it was added on to in bits and pieces until it was the building you see today. It was the only man-made object rising above the beautiful white pines and maples lining the town’s picturesque streets. The clock tower with the White Mountain peaks rising to the north was a favorite and wellknown vista on postcards and in photographs. The Old Church was Haven’s heart, both literally and figuratively. The first floor housed the Sheriff’s Department and jail, the city offices responsible for taxes and licenses, and of course the two courtrooms and offices for attorney and jury use, and behind those, the chambers of Judge Lee. The second floor was occupied by the offices of Mayor Cushing, the City School Board, and the City Manager. The third floor was entirely the office (and unofficial residence) of Doctor John Bath. Rippy stuck his head into the Sheriff’s offices and called Good Morning to the

two deputies on duty, and did the same across the hall where the various city clerks and their assistants worked. Then he turned right and started up the polished oak staircase and peeked through the door of the office of the Haven City Manager. “Morning, Leonard,” the Manager’s assistant greeted him. My assistant, Rippy reminded himself proudly, as always amazed at the fact. “Morning, Shan,” he returned with a smile and a nod. Shan Eisenstern was commonly believed to be the most beautiful woman in town, if not all of New England. Men were all grins around her, including Rippy. “Good Morning Mister Rippy!” seven little girls chanted in unison—they were seated out of his line of sight along the wall behind the door and he jumped in exaggerated surprise, and then made a show of straightening his tie and eyeglasses while they giggled at him. He put his hands on his hips in a mock scolding gesture. “Girls!” he exclaimed, and they giggled all the harder. “What in the world are you all doing here?” They wore their green and brown Little Woodchuck uniforms and berets adorned with unit badges. Natalie Watts, the girls’ troop leader, stood, smiling (a smile especially for him) and said, “They’re here for breakfast with the Mayor and Doctor Bath.” She gave his hand a squeeze with both her own, a sign of affection and even intimacy, disguised well as a handshake. Of course Leonard knew the reason they were here but he continued the show of being caught off-guard to amuse the little ones. “Oh no, no—was that today, girls?” “Yes Mister Rippy!” “Are you absolutely sure?” “YES!” Exploding in giggles as he clownishly slapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation. “Well, okay then—Shan! You get His Honor the Mayor and Doctor Bath on the phone right now—tell ‘em to drop whatever they’re doing and get over here right this instant to meet with these girls! Chop-chop!” And he clapped his hands

together to show he meant business. Playing along, Shan snatched up the phone but before punching in numbers she jumped to her feet: “But Mr. Rippy! What if they aren’t dressed? What if they’re still in the shower? What if—?” “No what-ifs, woman! I don’t care if they get here in bath towels—well, okay. Girls, can you wait till they get dressed?” “YES!” “You’re goofy, Mr. Rippy,” little Tanya Wilshire informed him. Rippy cupped the little girl’s chin in his hand and wrinkled his nose at her, and she returned the gesture, her face like a baby rabbit with big china-blue eyes. “Okay. Let’s get on this, Shan.” “Yes sir.” Shan got on the phone and pretended to be making calls for the children’s benefit. Besides Tanya, Leonard recognized them all—he made a point of getting to know every face in Haven, even the youngest ones—there was Angie Gilmore, Bess Harmon., sca Tilton, Carrie-Ann Painter, and the Walter twins. The Painter girl was from one of the oldest families in the town, granddaughter of the Haven City Attorney in fact. Not one of the girls was more than seven years old. The troop won a morning with Mayor Cushing and Doctor Bath by collecting for a food drive. “Well you all look great in those uniforms,” he told them. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many pretty girls in one place before!” he exclaimed, giving Troop Leader Natalie a flirtatious wink. The young woman’s cheeks bloomed with the attention. “Hey, do you kids like movies?” he inquired of the group. They all responded in the enthusiastic affirmative—Trudy and Ashley Walter jumped up and down with excitement. Rippy eyed the sisters casually, looking for a sign of what had been causing Nat to worry. “Shan, did you get those es to the Genie I asked about?” “Right here,” his pretty assistant answered.

“Great.” He gave the envelope to Natalie and allowed her the fun of handing the es out to the children, earning oohhs of delight. “If I’m not mistaken, that new Disney film starts in a day or two—am I right, Shan?” “You are right, Boss.” “So you kids all go and have a good time—have a popcorn for me, all right? But Tanya, since you think I’m so goofy—” And the little girl giggled bashfully, covering her eyes, “—you can be the one to tell me all about the movie. Okay, girls?” “Thank you Mister Rippy!” they chanted at Natalie’s urging. Leonard spent another five or six minutes charming his future constituents, making sure to address each of them by name and inquiring about their families, how they were doing in school, and who their favorite teachers were. Ascending the stairs to the Doctor’s office he was grinning with satisfaction. Doctor Bath never tired of reminding him how important the children were, that it was imperative to look out for them, nurture them, help them grow. The children are our future, Leonard, he would say. Second only to the children, were the teachers and mentors in their young lives, even as crucial as the parents, in Doctor Bath’s learned opinion. We must closely shepherd those who shepherd the children, Leonard. It was largely at the Doctor’s suggestion that Rippy initiated a personal relationship with Natalie Watts. He made a right at the top of the stairs and let himself into the dark varnished door with Doctor John Bath stenciled in black gold-trimmed letters on frosted glass.

Valerie Newcombe peeked from the corner of her window and saw the tall shadow behind the blinds in the window across the street. John Bath, looking down on all he surveyed like a feudal lord during the Middle Ages. Looking down on her, she thought—literally and figuratively. Greta Hirsch strolled by, every hair cemented in place, her pointy-rimmed sunglasses, prim handbag and starched dress relics of the Kennedy era. Odd as the woman was, Val always liked her, and thought herself liked in return. But not

lately. Greta ed the window without so much as a nod to acknowledge Val’s attention, and Val did nothing to invite another snub. She saw Stephen Wilkes approaching on the sidewalk and walked around the counter to open the door for him. “Hi, Val. How are you feeling?” “Just peachy, thanks.” She tried not to make a production of holding the door— Stephen was fiercely independent. And the truth was he could get by entirely on his own, whether it was driving his car or negotiating sidewalks and narrow store entrances. He’d had plenty of practice. He pushed his wheelchair past her and through the swing-gate to her computer desk at the far end of the counter. He peered at her over the lenses of his glasses and asked, “Did you eat breakfast?” She watched him lift himself from his wheelchair and onto the taller stool at her desk, using his braked chair and the sturdy desk as leverage for his powerful arms. She smiled at his concern for her. He knew that, often, when her aches and pains were getting the better of her, she did not have the appetite to eat. “Yup. Quit worrying over me, Papa.” He laughed, starting the computer and putting in the they’d agreed upon. “But you’re feeling okay?” He was also well aware of the loss of her friend, Gwen. Even now, Val knew, the young teacher and her husband were being transported back home to Augusta, for burial on Saturday. Val was coping well enough. She’d seen the ing of many loved ones in her life—as a child she lost family in the camps in Europe— but the loss of a friend so young left her shaken. “My hands are hurting a little,” she itted. “I took some aspirin. So what’s up for today? Looks like you’re all ready to get started.” “You betcher life,” he agreed. Stephen was a regular in the store since before the accident that landed him in his wheelchair. The Book Cellar dealt in old books and magazines, antiques and collectibles mainly, but in the late 1970s after more than twenty years of operation Val and her husband, Artie, began dabbling in the comic book market as well and ten years later that ed for nearly half of their sales. Val was always amazed at this, unable to muster up much respect for what she called

funny books (despite being well-acquainted, through Artie, with many of the industry’s heavy hitters, people like Frank Miller and John Byrne). Eventually the store began to stock rare and collectable record LPs and 45s in addition and the little shop did quite well with the diversification. Word of mouth spread and buyers often came from all over the United States and Canada. Sales rose steadily, that is, until only two years ago. At that time, the bottom had fallen out. Val and her husband had seen many good years and a few bad and ridden them out, but more than two years of declining sales dealt a blow difficult to recover from. Recently she had to let Ruby Arlington go—their sole paid employee of the last fifteen years—and now Val was barely getting by. She feared that in a few months time she would have to close up shop, permanently. And Artie God bless him, only four years gone. But Stephen, a longtime customer and friend as well as a self-made man in his own right, had taken to helping out around the store some time back, happy to do it for free, though she insisted on paying him a little when she could. At one time she considered offering to sell him the store and retiring (everyone in town knew the young man was raking in a pile of money on the Internet), but that was when the shop was making a profit. She would not sell it now, especially to a friend. She would let it go under first. Stephen liked to clean and loved organizing the shelves and the inventory—the comics in particular—and he talked her into buying a second-hand computer for the store, overcoming her reluctance with the assurance that the expense was a business deduction. He helped her put the shop’s inventory on disc and was showing her how to do the books—not that there was much activity in that department lately. Also he was setting up an online sales website for her. She wondered what she’d ever done without him—both his business sense, and his friendship. Of course he was fully aware of her financial problems, and she dreaded the day coming when he offered to help—because she knew she would likely accept it, and then the warm relationship would be forever altered into something different. And she would so miss it. She was depressed more and more—lately she was missing Artie badly. Having always been in good health, it was disheartening now to wake up every day sickly and sore, and feeling every minute of her seventy-five years. And people in Haven she’d known for half a century were no longer friendly to her, and just like her business downturn, she pretty well knew where the blame for that belonged. And then Gwen was killed.

Stephen, it seemed, was the sole bright spot in her life right now. She was amazed the young man did not have a girlfriend—there were other black families in town, and anyway, no one really gave interracial dating that much weight in this day and age, did they?—and, she had to it, dreaded the day when some female realized what a catch he was. His nimble fingers dancing across the keyboard, Stephen grinned like a kid on Christmas morning and explained that he’d been in with someone on the Internet interested in purchasing the store’s entire collection of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine. She was thunderstruck. Artie paid peanuts at a garage sale for the complete original run of the horror movie periodical the year before he died, some of the older ones slightly yellowed but otherwise in great condition, and when Stephen found out he took extreme pleasure in sitting down with Artie and carefully re-bagging each issue with a sheet of sturdy cardboard for the best preservation. He said some of them dated back fifty years—and the entire set sat in a four-door filing cabinet in the rear storeroom. “How much are those things worth?” she asked, incredulous. Stephen chuckled with that familiar confident grin. “Well, it depends,” he allowed. “On what?” “On finding someone willing to pay what they’re worth.” Seeing the flicker of hope in her eyes, he continued to say, “It won’t be a fortune. But it’ll be some serious cash.” She shook her head, flustered: “Stephen—I just appreciate your help—you didn’t have to—” “Oh, c’mon,” he said. “I love this place. It’s an overgrown kid’s dream.” “I’ll have to give you a finder’s fee, or something—” “Hey,” he interjected, turning away from the monitor to catch her eye, “if I wanted the money, I’d charge you twenty-five per cent, off the top. Let’s just hook the fish first, okay?” “Okay.” Without bending or making too much of it, she wrapped one arm around

him, and gave his shoulder a little squeeze. He returned the gesture with an affectionate elbow-nudge, thumbed his glasses back onto his nose, and returned to the monitor, reminding her, “You don’t realize, Val, you’ve got treasures here in this little store. It’s just a matter of finding the person who wants to buy them. That’s where your computer is going to come in handy.” “Okay. You’ve convinced me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Mallory Abshire hit the alarm buzzer, rolled over, and groaned her displeasure. Another day begins, she thought, blinking at her bedroom ceiling. She was at the point now where she actually dreaded going to work. The central problem, she could not quite put her finger on. The Sheriff was occasionally an ass—but as supervisors go he was far from unbearable. Syd Warburton, on the other hand, was a slick spindly weasel with no redeeming values whatsoever— he should be ducking the cops, rather than getting paid as one. But she could handle him easily enough. Of course she loved working with Toby Vint, perhaps a little too much. But even he seemed a part of what bothered her, as well as Mary, the dispatcher. Her unease came from the fact that she alone of the little Sheriff’s department just could not seem to break her way into The Club. True, she was the only woman in the department (Mary Orin was technically a civilian) but other than the jerk, Warburton, no one regarded her as anything but one of the deputies. She just had the nagging conviction that they were in on something as a group that she was not. That buzzing in her head telling her she wasn’t getting the joke annoyed her so much that Toby Vint, normally the picture of aloof, had asked her only yesterday, What’s eating you? Toby let the matter go—no doubt Syd Warburton would explain her attitude away under the blanket term The Monthlies. That was Syd’s label for any female behavior he did not understand—and Mallory was absolutely convinced that irrational female behavior was something he was well acquainted with, prone as he was to being the cause of it. She considered tendering her notice and returning to work as a paramedic. Her parents were fully behind the idea—they even invited her to move back home. They never liked her being a cop, even in the eerily crime-free community of Haven. And police work was not her career goal anyway. At twenty-five she still had not found her niche, but since ing the department she was looking into college courses for a law degree. Mallory was bright, aggressive, and ambitious. She needed something that would challenge her mind and spirit.

Much as she hated to it it, working in the old home town wasn’t doing it for her. There was something about Haven that rubbed her the wrong way—the place was just a little too perfect to suit her. The crime rate was non-existent. The town had two drinking establishments, (three if you count Clinton Dean’s place, which no one in Haven would claim) but very little trouble to go with them. What was that? There was an elementary and a high school—but if any teenagers were getting into mischief, they were going to someone else’s community to do it. Once again, that’s with the exception of Cooper Banks, Dean’s stepson, local juvenile delinquent in charge of playing hooky and occasional shoplifting. Coop in Mallory’s opinion wasn’t a bad kid, but his terrible home environment was steering him down the wrong path. Four armed cops, with cars and radios and all the latest hardware, but no paramedics, or even a hospital? But it seemed like medical emergencies were almost as scarce as incidents of crime. A 911 call certainly wouldn’t have helped the two fatalities in that recent car accident. Mallory seldom gave these thoughts a voice, except for the occasional grumblings to Toby Vint. They sounded terrible, even to herself, and Toby enjoyed joking about her surly attitude, which really irked her—darn it, she used to be happy. Her mother would call her a Fussbudget, like Lucy from Peanuts. But she really wasn’t. It was the job environment. An added incentive for different employment, and a thought she’d so far kept strictly to herself, was that if she quit the Sheriff’s department there would be no reason to keep from pursuing her interest in Toby Vint. She would insist she was by no means in love with the oversized cop, but ittedly had been infatuated for quite some time. How could she not be? The man was gorgeous. Dark. Sensuous eyes that peered through you, beneath long curling eyelashes. That body—his loose-fitting uniform shirts hung on his frame as if draped over a bronze sculpture. His torso was a muscled monolith with broad shoulders, long powerful arms and huge chiseled hands. But with all that size and power, he was the most gentle man she’d ever known, quick with a smile and possessed of a quiet easy disposition. Mallory had no romantic notions towards him, at least, that’s what she told herself. He was an extraordinary physical specimen— objectifying him was another way of keeping any fanciful feelings in check—

and she was simply distracted by the idea of what he must be like in bed. It was little more than fantasy really. She enjoyed a warm friendship with her fellow deputy, or as warm as possible considering his stoic nature. He had a very definite dry sense of humor, he enjoyed teasing her and even seemed to derive some amusement from the barbs she directed at Warburton, but there was something beneath his manner she couldn’t quite categorize. Something mysterious. Maybe even a little sad. Definitely alluring. To have something develop with him past their professional friendship took a leap of the imagination to even consider—but it was a pleasant leap, she had to it. So here she was dissatisfied with work and with love, her whole life ahead of her, and feeling unhappy as hell. She was too young to be in such a rut. Something had to give.

All this was in her thoughts as she showered, ate breakfast, prepared for work, and drove to the Old Church—and of course by the time she walked in the door of the Sheriff’s office she had pretty much relegated any intent to act to the back burner of her agenda. Quitting was a major step and she just was not disgusted enough yet. Her Dad always said, When you’ve had a gut full that’ll be it, and nobody can decide when that moment comes except you. Syd Warburton was waiting to get off shift and greeted her with the grin which never actually became anything but a leer. Syd was Mallory’s age, but eventually would make a great Dirty Old Man. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he sang. In no mood to fake it, she shot him with a tight smile meant to discourage further comments. But since when did Syd need encouragement? “Aw, someone’s up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Up and at ‘em, babycakes.” Mallory felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck. “Shouldn’t you be running along?” “Hey, I’m in no hurry,” he informed her. Still leering. She could feel his eyes crawling over her. “Besides, Toby’s not here yet.” “You have my permission to exit the premises,” she said, hoping he would hear

the corrosive dripping from her words. But Warburton was acid-proof. “I’ll stick around, cutie.” Terrific, Mallory breathed to herself. She sat down at her desk—actually there were only two desks and she normally made use of the one Syd’s ass was parked behind at the moment, but she was not interested in the verbal interaction required to remind him of that fact—and took a deep calming breath. She had a headache and hadn’t been in the office two minutes. There was a stack of missing persons notices on the desk—HAVE YOU SEEN ME? with photograph on slick paper—that had not been there yesterday. She assumed Warburton was responsible for unpacking them, why had he not put them up? Because he’s a pain. “Did you go through these fliers?” “Those are just updates—they need tacked up.” He did not look up from a car magazine. Syd was into souped-up cars, like the sixteen-year-old he yearned to be. Mallory wondered what else he did with himself all night. Maybe it was better not to know. The notices regarded mostly preteens, girls mainly. She noted a lot of them were faces already on their bulletin board from six months ago, but some of the photos were updated. None of these kids were from Haven though— missing kids were another problem didn’t happen around here. “I’ll put them up,” she sighed mostly to herself. Syd happily did not respond. Then: “Tall dark and handsome!” Syd exclaimed as Toby Vint arrived for the day. Mallory curled her lip with annoyance. “Morning,” the big deputy greeted with a nod, hanging his cap on a hook. Mallory favored him with a smile from the bulletin board, and was pleased to see him crack one back at her. His eyes were sleepy, with a touch of baggage beneath them. Toby usually looked as if he had not slept. Syd at last announced he was calling it a day and she felt her spine relax immediately. Why did the guy grate on her so? He was like salt on an open wound. As her coworkers exchanged a few words before the change of shift, she mentally came up with two more Barney Fife jokes at Warburton’s expense. Other than being reed-thin the fair-haired gangly cop bore little resemblance to Don Knotts’s classic character—actually he might more closely remind one of

Eb on Green Acres—but stick a self-important twerp behind a small-town badge and comparisons to Sheriff Taylor’s over-eager deputy were unavoidable, like old age. However, Syd had a petty mean streak that was all his own. He was out the door finally and Toby gave her a lop-sided grin from the other desk, knowing what was coming. “The man is a cold sore,” Mallory announced. “He carries a firearm, I wouldn’t trust him with a TV remote. And creepy. He’s like that stuff you find between your toes when you peel off your shoes and socks after mowing grass all day.” She spoke in a low tone, with Mary apt to enter the office at any minute. City employees dumping on each other would probably be a major no-no, but she had to vent. “I could grab him by his Adam’s apple—it’s such an irresistible target—and shake him till his teeth clack against his skull. Why are you civil to him? Cause he carries a gun?” “That might be it,” Toby allowed. “Sometimes I think, once more, just once with the babycakes crap—I could kick his ass. I could do it.” “I have no doubt,” Toby agreed. “And what does he do in here all night, anyway?” she asked, continuing her rant. “Mark my words, my friend—” She jabbed a slender finger at him for emphasis. “Somewhere in this office is a stash of smut books that would make Larry Flynt proud. It’ll be a major scandal, when it all comes out. And some of it’s gonna stick to you, and to the Sheriff. Not me though. They’ll say all the men knew what was going on.” “I think you should just get it over with,” Toby volunteered. “Get what over with? Calling 60 Minutes? Get Ed Bradley in here to catch Syd with his pants down, so to speak—?” “I think you should ask Syd for a date,” Toby told her. To her jaw-dropped reaction, he responded, “Do it. Just get it out of your system. You know you

want to.” “Yeah, right. You’re absolutely right. I’d like to have bleeding ulcers too, by the way.” “Well I’ve never heard you spend so much time talking about anyone else,” Toby pointed out. “This isn’t talking, it’s ranting. Venting my spleen.” “Whatever, you know you want him. Just picture that skinny ass of his—” “Ugh. I think I just turned lesbian.” Leonard Rippy stuck his head through the office door, greeted the two deputies with his usual “Good morning!” and then headed for the offices across the hall before continuing upstairs. Mallory’s thoughts went to her friend, Natalie. She was dating Leonard Rippy and until recently had been divulging every juicy detail of their love life. Mallory found it troubling that Nat seemed to have grown past their friendship. It seemed like everyone was doing something, except her. Even that idiot Syd had a girlfriend—and she was a former beauty queen!—Lord knows how. Then again, she had only a vague idea about Toby Vint’s situation. He never talked about dating, or anything personal at all really. At the softball game following the town’s Memorial Day Parade he played the outfield—he could clobber a ball like Mark McGwire, but not much else (Mallory played First Base—wearing shorts, she was damn near certain she’d caught him ogling her on at least one occasion). Some of the small children cheered him on when he was at bat—the guy was so big and broad-shouldered, he looked like Hercules or something up there—but no adults offered their vocal . Mallory ed wondering about that at the time. He seemed to have no friends. Toby’s family was supposedly from Haven, but he had no living relatives. He’d been with the Sheriff’s department for ten years as far as Mallory knew. People said he’d lived in Canada before that—she’d never heard Toby mention it. He appeared to be of mixed heritage, Native American perhaps, or an exotic blending of several different bloodlines. His bronze skin, dusky black hair and deep green eyes were unlike anyone she’d ever seen.

She wondered how he’d take it, if she just asked him out. The town had no rules about city employees dating, although she figured someone would get around to making them sooner or later. No doubt fraternizing with a coworker was a recipe for trouble. But she was leaning more and more towards leaving the job anyway. And she really liked Toby, beyond the intense physical attraction. Even as she sat daydreaming, drumming a pencil on her chin, he startled her by placing two shiny red apples on her desk. She couldn’t help but blush under his easy smile.

Later she drove Sheriff Hopewell over to Haven Elementary. The victims in the car accident were a fifth-grade teacher and her husband. Counselors were dispatched to the school for the youngsters’ benefit, but the of the school board were still concerned about the children and anxious to see them through this difficult time. The Sheriff was slated to have a talk with them about safety, and mainly just see how they were coming along. While the Sheriff was busy Mallory had nothing to do except cool her jets in the Principal’s office like she was ten years old again. And that would probably be the day’s high point, she thought morosely. The bell for class change rang as they were entering the building and the children in the halls greeted the two law officers, many calling them by name. This was life in a small town, and one of the job perks Mallory actually enjoyed. The Sheriff went off to his group of youngsters while Mallory recalled being a pony-tailed nine-year-old, in this same office, awaiting judgment for making jokes at the expense of Mrs. Tinninger, her teacher—who was still haunting these hallways better than fifteen years later. Even back then Mallory was what her mother called a bit of a handful. As well as a Fussbudget. She was sitting with a newspaper hoping her path did not cross Mrs. Tinninger’s when she was snapped out of it by a woman’s voice: “Not going to say hi, Mal?” Startled, she looked up into the blue eyes and wide smile of Stacey Nelligan, a classmate from Haven High. She stood and the two old friends hugged with the usual surprised Hi! How are you? It’s been so long! “So I heard you were a cop now,” Stacey told her. “We know Syd—my husband, Nick, Nick Walter— him, from school?—he and Syd ran together

back then.” Mallory must have let something show on her face because Stacey snickered and gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Oh believe me, I know—that Syd, he’s some smoothie isn’t he?” “You said it,” Mallory replied, relieved. “You teach here now?” She knew Stacey had been in college in another state, but lost track of her after that. “No, I’m the Principal’s assistant. Ms. Carlson—Old Man Barman retired last year—finally,” she added with a whispered giggle. Mallory laughed. “Boy it’s good to see you. I was sitting here scared I’d see some of my old teachers.” “Most of ‘em are still around—I can take you around to meet a few, if you like,” Stacey offered with eyebrows arched, daring. Mallory held up her hands in mock horror. “Just a few more years, for the emotional scars to heal,” she pleaded. Stacey gave up that same old infectious laugh, with her arms crossed under her breasts and her head tilted back. Mallory saw a lot of the teenager she once knew still there. “The old place hasn’t changed much. Not at all, really.” “We hired a new teacher from out of state last year—she was younger than we are now,” Stacey related. “I thought all the teachers here had to be at least ten years past Social Security, or else former Marine drill instructors,” Mallory joked. “Oh, not anymore. Now we’re the ones getting older.” “Oh, yeah, now you’re breaking my heart,” Mallory chuckled. She meant it— Stacey looked terrific. Her figure was better now than in school, more buxom. “That young teacher though, Ms. McVie, she—well, you know all about it.“

Mallory nodded in sympathy. You didn’t have to be a Haven deputy to know all about the terrible accident. It was small town life. “You have kids?” “Two,” Stacey emphasized, anticipating her friend’s shocked reaction. “Twins.” And Mallory’s eyes grew wider yet. Stacey tugged on her arm, laughing. Mallory followed her to the desk of the Principal’s assistant—Stacey even had her own name plate—and was shown framed photographs of the little girls. “Trudy and Ashley. They are spoiled absolutely rotten,” their mother proclaimed proudly. Mallory shook her head slowly, amazed. “Twins. I don’t believe it. They’re gorgeous.” “Yes they are. Twins run in Nick’s family. How about you?” “No way. I’m still pretty spoiled myself.” “No ring on your finger—? Well, you’ve got to have a boyfriend. You’re a knockout.” “I think guys are afraid of my sidearm,” the deputy allowed. “Well unless you’ve been pointing it at them, that’s no reason,” laughed Stacey. “We’ve got to fix that, Mal—let’s see. Who can I get you together with?” Mallory shook her head firmly, quashing that idea before it could get much further. “At least come spend some time with us tonight,” Stacey urged her. “We go to a bar off the state line on Friday nights. Unwind, have some fun. Mudslinger’s— have you been there?” Mallory had heard of the place. “But I really can’t—I appreciate the offer,” she said, genuinely sorry to decline. “Won’t take No for an answer,” Stacey countered smoothly. “Come on now—I guarantee a good time. We’ll get a little drunk—just a little, Nick will drive.

Leave the gun at home.” Mallory tried again to get out of it, but her resistance melted quickly. Was she clinically stupid? She was ticked all morning over her lack of a social life, and here she was being a pain when an opportunity dropped into her lap. She relented and Stacey got her address and set a time to pick her up. “And —leave the gun at home.”

So she spent the rest of the day trying to decide if she should ask Toby Vint to go for a beer with them, make it a foursome. The possibility of actually doing that made her heart pound a little, even gave her butterflies—exciting and nostalgic sensations she did not feel nearly often enough lately. Did that mean she was really getting old? She ed when she thought twenty-five was ancient. It hadn’t been that long ago. She was off the next day and Toby was not, which presented a problem. Were she to ask him he might beg off because it was a work night, and she would not know for sure if his reason might actually be a reluctance to spend off-duty time with her. Mallory would not be happy with a situation in limbo. She liked things straight-up. Of course he might just come right out and say it: “Thanks for the offer, Mal—but I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to socialize. Since we work together.” Yeah, she could definitely imagine those words coming out of Toby. She was also quite certain that, were he to be so bluntly honest, her reaction might give him a new and profound respect for the term bitch. Which itself might mean that her little self-evaluation concerning her mainly physical interest in him bore a closer looking at. She see-sawed between asking him or not all afternoon, but as it turned out the subject never came up. When she returned to the office with the Sheriff Toby was gone, off on business for Doctor Bath—a great deal of the time, it seemed that Vint worked exclusively for John Bath, rather than the taxpayers. She waited all day for him to return and even got a bit worried—Toby was a notoriously bad driver—and finally at precisely five o’clock the deputy called the office and let her know he was going straight home, told her to have a nice night, and he would see her in a day or two. She never broached the subject of them getting together. But she felt relieved afterward, if a bit disappointed.

She wore white sneakers, jeans, and a T-shirt from a Brooks and Dunn concert. She took it easy with the makeup, ran a brush through her short hair, then gave it a little tousle as a finishing touch, and decided she was thoroughly pleased with what she saw in her full-length mirror’s reflection. She was looking forward to this. She left her service pistol in its holster in a bedroom drawer.

Mudslinger’s was a sandwich-and-beer sports bar on the outskirts of Whitestone, close to the state line. It was a good forty-five minute drive and they all used the time to catch up on each other. Family, school, and old friends were all topics of conversation. It was a nice place—the lighting was dim, the air cool, the crowd not too loud. The patrons were mainly late 20s-early 30s singles, working types who could only stay late on weekends, but the establishment was more than relaxed enough for married couples as well, like Stacey and Nick. They arrived just before dark. The bar itself ran across the back of the room. Inside the front door were many tables and chairs, a couple of booths set into the wall, three pool tables, and a pretty good-sized dance floor. Dart machines lined a wall. The juke was an oldfashioned one with neon lights and real bubbles. The look was purely cosmetic —the thing was stocked with CDs. Nick asked what Mallory liked to drink and headed for the bar while she and Stacey claimed a little table. Several other people had followed them in and within minutes the volume of the chatter was rising. Mallory mentioned they seemed to have brought the crowd in with them. Stacey laughed, flashing that smile, and said, “We get here, they know this must be the place!” Mallory laughed too. She was going to have fun tonight. Nick brought back three beers—Stacey arched her eyebrows at him, it was his duty to drive and besides, they were with a cop. “I ordered a pizza,” he said in defense. “You hungry, Mallory?” “I could eat.” “I still think I should’ve gotten you a date,” Stacey said, scanning the crowd,

talking loud over an old Van Halen tune on the juke. “I can get my own dates,” Mallory assured her—At least, she thought, I think I can. “Who’s watching the girls, anyway?” “Nick’s mom—she’s an angel,” Stacey exclaimed. She leaned over and added, “She’s got them till morning. Me and Nick are having Romper Room tonight!” “Okay, okay,” Nick said, trying to calm his spouse. Mallory rolled her eyes and tipped her beer, embarrassed. Before she’d put the bottle down some fellow appeared from nowhere and put his arms around both she and Stacey, exclaiming, “Evening, girls!” “Unhand me, sir,” Stacey directed him with mock gravity. “This clown answers to Bozo, or Dave,” Nick said by way of introduction. “Dave, this is Mallory.” “Pleased ta meet ya,” Dave said, taking his hand from Stacey’s shoulder and offering it in greeting. Mallory’s eye caught what looked like a small tattoo between his thumb and forefinger—a star in a circle? Then he howled “Pizza!” as a girl arrived with their pie. “Have a slice by all means,” Stacey said—too late, he was already maneuvering a wedge into his mouth. Mallory found the guy pretty amusing. “You from around here?” Dave paused to chew and swallow, earning points for manners. “Whitestone. How ‘bout you?” “Mallory’s a cop,” Stacey told him. “Has a gun and everything. You better watch yourself.” “Whoa,” the newcomer responded, impressed. Then, suddenly inspired, he leaned towards Mallory and confided, “Hey, I got a gun, too. Wanna see?” Mallory snorted, pointed a finger at his groin, and said, “I have a weapon, you have a gun—mine is for killing, yours is for fun.”

“HAH!” Dave hooted. He clapped Mallory on the back. “Love this girl! Love her!” He smooched her on the cheek—she jumped, surprised, but it was okay. He was a careful charmer—a little over the top, but avoiding Complete Jerk territory. “I’m gonna come back and sweep you off your feet,” he promised Mallory. “Just need a lot more beer, first.” And then he was off to his own table where a group of friends greeted his return. He wasn’t bad looking. Blond and lean, with big blue eyes. “What’s his story?” Mallory asked Stacey. “He’s a horndawg, but he’s all right. He’s here every Friday—probably every other night too, for all I know. He used to live in Haven.” Mallory announced, “I’m hitting the jukebox,” and Stacey got up to go with her. They lined up Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Janet Jackson, and some George Jones. Stacey punched in a song by Willie and Merle—Pancho & Lefty—for Nick. “That song is a downer,” she warned. “We’ll get booed out of here.” “We’ll come back and put on some hard stuff,” Mallory replied. “We’ll be loaded by then.” “Gotcha.” They munched on pizza and drank their beers while their songs played. Nick and Stacey discussed the day’s events at their respective jobs, taking care to keep Mallory in the conversation. Nick was a maintenance supervisor for the School Board. They heard Dave at the neighboring table howl with laughter not once, but twice. Then he was back, his arms around the women. “Let’s dance, Marshal,” he bid Mallory, taking her fingers in his own and urging her up from the table. He slow-danced okay with a hand on the small of her back. He hummed along to the music with his mouth close to her ear and the sensation was not unpleasant. He smelled good, too. The Possum was done singing and he led her back to the table with the same

gentleman’s touch on her fingers, and thanked her for the dance. By her third beer she was feeling it in spite of the pizza. Nick fetched a basket of chicken wings, reminding them grease was good for soaking up alcohol. He was still on his first beer. On her fourth bottle Mallory was wishing Dave would come back over. She felt like another dance. Stacey somehow had gotten to talking about the school teacher that was killed. “Where was she from? Georgia?” Mallory asked, not crazy about the subject. That had been her day off. Toby and Syd were first at the accident scene and by the time Mallory heard and arrived just for curiosity’s sake, an ambulance from Whitestone had transported the victims. But naturally Syd Warburton spent two days relating all the gory details to anyone who would listen. “Yeah. At least they had no kids. It’s so awful.” “Hey, look who’s over there,” Nick pointed out. “You can never tell,” Mallory commiserated, not hearing him over their conversation. “Isn’t that one of your coworkers?” Nick asked. Mallory finally realized he was talking to her. “What?” “At the bar? You work with him.” With dawning horror she forced herself to turn and look over her shoulder, convinced it was Syd Warburton, dispatched as if by Fate to crap all over her evening. Her eyes widened in disbelief. He sat at the end of the bar farthest from them, nearly a head taller than anyone sitting near him, shoulders taking space enough for two people. Toby. He saw her attention and raised a hand in a casual wave. ‘That’s Toby Vint,” she said, amazed and delighted. She waved him over, then again more urgently. He still appeared reluctant,

hesitating. “Get over here!” she snapped playfully, trying to keep her voice from startling everyone in the place. Finally he rose from the bar stool and approached, huge hands swaying. “Are you with somebody?” Mallory said without getting up. He towered over them—his head seemed close to the ceiling. “Well pull up a chair,” Mallory commanded, leaving no room for argument. A glance at her friends, and something odd—she could’ve sworn she saw Stacey shoot a look of disapproval at her husband. Then it was gone, but she had not imagined it. Toby was back with his drink from the bar, lowering himself into a chair. “Do you know each other?” Mallory asked her companions. “Sure, we know Toby,” Stacey said. She was old Stacey now, all smiles. “How you doing, man,” Nick nodded. “Whachoo drinkin, buddy?” Mallory inquired, eyeing his shot glass. She was so glad to see him she thought she might bust. “Whiskey for me.” “Whoa.” She wondered how she had missed him coming in. He was hard to overlook. He wore jeans and a dark button-up shirt, loose-fitting like his uniforms. He startled her by saying, “You look nice, Mal.” She barely suppressed a girlish giggle, and felt her cheeks flush. She said, Gee, thanks, or something like that, and lightly brushed her fingers across his thigh under the table—that was not the beer taking charge either, she wasn’t that drunk. She was feeling unusually aggressive and knew exactly what she was doing. “I darn near asked you to come with us. Do you come here?” “Now and then,” he allowed. He was just looking at her, the bare hint of a smile on his lips. “We’ve never seen you here,” Stacey commented. His intoxicating green eyes—for the first time in the odd bar light she thought she detected hints of gold flecks in them— shifted towards the speaker, then back to Mallory. His head never moved. He seemed well-rested and wide-awake

for the first time she could . God. Those eyelashes. “You always alone? Where are your friends?” “Right here at this table,” Toby said, his eyes shifting again, momentarily, to Stacey and Nick—almost as if he dared anyone to contradict him. Again Mallory sensed something odd in the air—something involving Toby and Stacey and Nick. But not her. Ahh, that had to be the beer, she told herself. She leaned on an elbow in his direction, not caring if she looked sappy to the others. She wanted to eat him up. Two people from the bar came over and engaged Stacey and Nick in a conversation about local public schools. Before you knew it a middle-aged gentleman ed the group and while attempting to draw both Mallory and Toby into the discussion casually let his arm drop around her shoulders in a familiar way. She rolled her eyes in mock astonishment at Toby, who just shrugged, amused. The stranger lost interest and drifted off, and she used it as an excuse to push her chair closer to him. “Put your arm around me,” she said. That raised his eyebrows. “What?” Leaning to hear over the loud music. “Put your arm around me,” she insisted again. And he did, without comment. She sort of unobtrusively nestled into the protective hollow next to his ribs, liking it. She hoped a big goofy grin was not plastered all over her face. The two acquaintances left and she and Toby chatted with Stacey and her husband. Mallory’s familiarity with the big deputy had to be obvious. But she didn’t care. She didn’t want anyone hitting on her and she sure as hell didn’t want anyone hitting on him; with the two of them making like a couple, that wouldn’t happen. Only that wasn’t as far as she was going to let it go, and she knew it. Not tonight. When she noticed the jukebox was silent, she got up to put in more quarters. She left Toby at the table and leaned over the machine, either consciously or unconsciously letting her hips sway in rhythm to the first song she played—Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?—with the idea that he might be noticing her.

“Who you playing?” he asked, suddenly next to her. “Rod Stewart.” His silence seemed to be a comment. “Hey, you pick then.” “Any Dusty Springfield?” he asked. “Hmmm—no. Don’t think so,” she said, flipping the selection menu. “There’s Tom Jones,” he said, pointing. She punched in a song, and then a second Rod Stewart. “Hey, Rod is the man,” she insisted. “No argument there,” he agreed. “Girls fall in love dancing to Rod Stewart,” she informed him. “Women throw underwear at Tom Jones,” he countered. Mallory leaned back and took a good look at him with eyebrows arched in surprise, but the remark seemed to be without guile. From any other man than him the comment would come off as suggestive. He failed to even notice her reaction, and earned a playful elbow in the ribs because of it. “Hey. Watch yourself there,” he warned. “So what’s up with you and Stacey?” Mallory inquired, back to flipping the music menu. Toby just grunted. “Seems like you guys have a history or something,” she added. “Not hardly,” Toby snorted, showing little interest. “Hey, Buddy Holly. I know him.” “Peggy Sue, how do you do,” Mallory chimed, putting in the last two selections. They returned to their table. He did not put his arm back around her but she made sure she was sitting close. Dave went by and waggled two fingers in her direction until she smiled at him. Nick said he wanted to dance with his wife and they drifted away in each other’s arms. She wondered if he might’ve been trying to get something started with that crack about underwear. “So tell me about Tom Jones.” If so, she might like having the

conversation steered back in that direction. “Nothing to tell,” Toby shrugged. “I like his music.” “Ahh. With lady friends I suppose.” “No—actually—” She watched his lower lip stick out like it did when he was thinking. “No, I’ve never listened to Tom with a woman. I’m almost sure. You’re the first.” She was pleased to realize he was marking this occasion. “Ooohh. Be gentle,” she purred, and became embarrassed. That was the beer talking. “So. Do you dance?” “Oh no, no way. I’m just here to drink.” “Okay. How do you know, about the panty-throwing? You see Tom in concert?” “No, I heard it somewhere. I’ve never been to a live concert.” She gaped at him. “You’re kidding. Never? I mean—never?” “Nope.” Mallory stared at him. It was difficult for her to believe. Had he been living in a monastery all his life? Instantly she was thinking of dragging him to the first live show she could get tickets for. He gave out the most conflicting signals. The way he looked at her, right into her eyes like he wanted to consume her, body and soul, and then unabashed giving her the quick up-and-down—and yet he did not respond to any of the come-ons she was offering in return. It was like he honestly did not know how to approach her. Playing the mating game, or any other game for that matter, was just not in him. “Well, let’s go dance.” She was convinced she could break this ice, if she got him dancing. Pulverize it. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, brushing the idea aside like it had not been seriously offered in the first place.

“I’m not a girl used to hearing the word No from men. You’re gonna scar me for life.” “Better that than the numerous contusions and broken bones resulting from being on a dance floor next to me,” he warned. “Okay, now you’ve talked me into it.” “Forget it. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got at least two-and-a-half left feet.” “You know what the women all say? It’s not the size of a man’s feet that matters, it’s how he uses them.” Once again, he just looked at her without responding to the provocative joke. She was beginning to wonder if he really was Clark Kent beneath that Superman exterior. She rose form the table, taking his big hand by the fingers. “Come on, up, up. You can do it big fella!” “No, I can’t. Really.” “Oh yes you can. I’m gonna teach you. Come along with Mallory.” Then she was leading his hulking frame out onto the floor, still protesting but offering no physical resistance whatsoever. Shania Twain was playing—The Woman In Me. Her arms went up around his neck—she could very nearly lace her fingers and hang from him like a doll with her feet brushing the floor. He was no Fred Astaire but she forgot all about coaching. He held her waist in his hands and they swayed together with the love song. She put her cheek against his chest and listened to his heart in time with the music. His heartbeat was powerful, like a big hot predatory animal. The idea of unbuttoning his shirt and pressing her lips to his chest came to her. She was pretty drunk. Lifting her face, she rested her mouth against his throat—stretching to reach him —and without parting her lips made soft murmuring sounds against his skin. No cologne—only a pine soap and the manly scent of his body. It was wonderful— she nuzzled the hollow of his neck, groaning. She felt the touch of his hands

change, almost imperceptibly. She was shaking his cage all right. Languidly she turned in his hands, took them both and drew his arms protectively around her beneath her breasts, spooning, the whole time still moving to the music. His body language was hesitant now, unsure of what she was doing, just following her. Swaying sensuously she arched her back and nestled her head under his chin, moving in that slow nuzzling way, stimulating him with the feel of her hair, filling his senses with the scent of her perfume. And now not-so-subtly grinding her bottom against his pelvis—she was barely tall enough to reach him—and rewarded with the unmistakable pressure of his desire against her down there. She drew his powerful arms around her yet more tightly, their bodies swaying as one. The song drifted away too soon and turning towards him finally she put a hand to his cheek, letting her touch linger just an instant longer than necessary. He had no expression and only his wrinkled forehead was a clue to what he was feeling. He seemed embarrassed about looking her in the eye. He’s strong, she marveled. In her experience most men would turn to jelly after a performance like that. Or just stubborn—or scared? He touched her hair, halting, his eyes narrow and serious, the eyes of a man facing a daunting challenge. “I need a whiskey,” he said and fled to the bar. She had just an instant of indecision—was she ruining their friendship over nothing more than the heat of the moment?—but forced it away. She liked him. She wanted him. She refused to find a down side to it. Other than his physical desire she had no idea what he was experiencing—but she was definitely in a state. She palmed a thin film of sweat from her forehead. Her thighs felt hot and slippery as she walked back to the table—she could swear her knees were wobbling. She stopped short before sitting. “What?” Stacey and Nick were staring at her with eyes wide. Nick shook his head and said, “Whew. I think I need a cigarette.”

He flinched as his wife gave him an elbow in the ribs. “You have something going with him, Mal?” “Not yet,” she answered Stacey, her gaze level, with a cocked eyebrow. “Honey? How drunk are you?” Stacey asked with concern. “I’m drunk,” she itted, “but I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry.” “How can I not worry? That’s a big man you’re fooling with, Mal. And he carries a gun. Are you sure you’re okay?” Stacey leaned over, stared into Mallory’s eyes, and put an open palm against her friend’s forehead as she might do a child with a fever. “That was better than a lot of porn flicks I’ve seen,” Nick allowed. “Hey, Stace —what do you say we head for home—ouch,” he blurted, half-laughing, with another elbow in his side. “Toby and I are pretty tight,” Mallory said, trying to allay her friend’s fears. “I’m realizing I like him more than that.” “This affects your job, too,” Stacey reminded her. “And how will you feel if he doesn’t see it your way?” “Like crap,” Mallory had to it. “As far as the job, I’ve been unhappy with it. I’ve been thinking about a change.” Stacey stared at her, saw she was determined, and put her hands in the air helplessly. “I feel like we brought this on,” she sputtered at her husband. “Stacey.” Mallory turned her head, wondering where Toby was at—seemed like he was taking an extra long time at the bar. “This has been coming for weeks. I promise.” “Shush,” Stacey said, straightening, as Toby returned. Mallory looked up, realized what had taken him so long, and almost regretted what she had done. He was holding a whiskey shot in one hand while the other was shoved deep into his front jeans pocket and he lost no time sitting down. He was clearly embarrassed. Once again, with any other man the moment would be comical, a group laugh. Mallory decided she was hitting him with a little too much all at one time. Toby

was definitely not your average bear. She sat close, but made sure not to crowd him. Also as a gesture of affection as well as subtle apology, she rested her fingers lightly on his thigh under the table. “So Mallory what do you do on your free time?” Stacey asked. “Hobbies?” “I watch a lot of movies. I hang out with Natalie Watts. We play golf at one of the mountain resorts on weekends sometimes. I take her to the gun range with me every once in a while.” Not lately, though, she amended herself. “We know Natalie. The twins are in her Groundhog troop,” Nick said. “That’s Woodchucks, dear,” Stacey corrected with a brittle smile. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Mallory laughed—Toby even loosed a chuckle. “How about you guys?” “We do the PTA thing, church. You go to church?” “I can’t say I do,” Mallory said. “Maybe you’ll go with us sometime. You meet—” Stacey did not finish— Mallory thought she was about to mention the single men in the congregation. “Anyway, Reverend Trent is great. Think about it.” “Sometimes I go with Mom and Dad to Haven Presbyterian, on special occasions,” Mallory said. Haven had no less than three churches. “Not really my thing though. You go, Toby?” She was trying to keep Toby from feeling left out of the conversation. “When I was a kid,” Toby said very simply. Discussing religion in a bar was really not at the top of Mallory’s list and she was grateful when the couple from earlier dragged Nick and Stacey away for a few minutes. It was getting close to Midnight. Mallory asked how Toby had gotten there. “I drove.”

“I’ve seen you down at least four shots. You’re not going to try to drive home.” “I’m not drunk.” “I it you don’t look it, but no way I’m letting you drive.” She did not mention that it was common knowledge he was a terrible driver. He walked just about everywhere he went when not on duty, and every driver in Haven knew to exercise extra caution when they saw Toby behind the wheel in their vicinity. “Well what do you suggest? You’re more drunk than I am.” “You need to ride home with us. You can come back after your car tomorrow.” “Mallory, I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine. I have to shave and everything lately, I’m all grown up.” “Oh yeah?” She eyed him from beneath half-lowered lashes. “Wanna prove it?” “What did you have in mind?” he asked, the smile just touching the corners of his mouth. “Gee, let me think,” she mused aloud, turning her head to insure no one was picking up on what she was doing. He did not bat an eye as she moved her hand up his thigh and touched with her palm the hardness that was still there. His eyes shifted, shyly, as she caressed him, but he did nothing to discourage her. At that point she knew two things: First that he was definitely interested, and Second that he had no intention of acting on that interest, at least not tonight. She brushed her fingertips across him—enjoying the feel of him—for a brief moment more before taking her hand away. Smiling, trying to figure him out, she said, “So, I guess you’re not into gun-toting ladies hitting on you.” “Actually, no, that doesn’t bother me a bit,” he said. He shifted his gold-green eyes away for a moment, and then back to her, and she saw the ghost of something soft and tender in his face for just an instant. “Well I’m going to be hitting on you again,” she promised, lost in his eyes. “I can’t say you’re not wasting your time,” he warned. “Because we work together?”

“Oh, no, ma chere’,” he insisted with a smile. “That doesn’t bother me, either.” The French endearment surprised her because it was spoken so perfectly and so easily. Well, she’d heard he was from Canada. “Okay then. In my own defense, I can say that I myself am extremely lowmaintenance. All I need is a little TLC.” “That’s a definite plus,” he acknowledged. “I have a feeling it wouldn’t take much to make you happy, either.” “J’ai besoin seulment de vous, mon coeur,” he purred. Her mouth dropped open with delight. “Oh my God—do that some more.” “Queest-que voulez-vous que je dise?” Mallory laughed, thrilled, and aroused—that husky voice, those rich words were verbal foreplay. She ed just enough of High School French to get the meaning of that last question. “Mmmm—say something nice about me,” she bid him, batting her lashes, flirting. Toby laughed and said, “Sur le jour que vous étiez né que les anges ont rencontré et ont décidé de créer un rêve s’est réalisé.” Mallory tilted her head back, laughing, and then impulsively kissed him on the mouth. “What was that? Sounded like poetry.” “I stole it. From the Carpenters.” “Baby,” she said with a shake of her head. “You could so have your way with me tonight.”

They finally compromised on Toby driving himself, but Nick would follow and make sure he got home in one piece. Before letting himself into the rented garage apartment Toby walked over to the car to say goodnight. “I had a nice time. Thanks for including me.”

“You’re going to have a bad head come morning,” Mallory predicted. “I’ll be fine. Nick, Stacey. See you in a day or two, Mal.” Mallory asked Nick to wait until Toby got inside and she saw the lights go on. She was thinking her bed was going to feel more lonely than usual tonight. But she was energized. She’d really put herself out there, but she wasn’t sorry in the least—not even for feeling him up. There was definitely something going on here, and it was going to be great. Toby would require a lot of care and feeding —but he would be worth the effort. She knew it.

“Well, this was a disaster,” Stacey said beneath her smile as she waved a goodnight to Mallory. “Seeya, Mal—let’s stay in touch,” she called from the car window. They watched as the deputy let herself into the house and Nick backed out of the driveway. Always the one to look for the positive, he reminded her, “We had fun though,” as he turned off Mallory’s street for their own home. “Toby Vint. Give me a break,” Stacey muttered with a shake of her head. “What’s up with him? Does he want to screw her?” “Big handsome guy,” Nick pointed out. “Mallory likes him.” “Strange, the way he showed up. I’ve never seen him in that place before. God knows I’d him.” “You have a point there,” her husband itted. His mind was on other things than his wife’s dashed plans. With one hand on the wheel he moved the other up her inner thigh. She parted her knees and he slowly massaged her through her jeans while she returned the favor with her own hand at his crotch. “I could kill Dave,” she mentioned before moving her lips to his ear. Her husband groaned his pleasure and he depressed the gas pedal, eager to get home.

He tried to put Mallory from his thoughts—no easy task, that—and to clear his

mind and let his senses take over. The yard behind his apartment was quiet, not even an insect to be heard. Toby threw back his head and with his eyes closed breathed in the night wind coming off the mountains above the town, his nostrils flaring. He could sense something else out there, in the distance. He turned, sniffing the air, trying to get its bearings. It wasn’t quite scent he used, or intuition. More a combination of the two. He’d felt this, since the teacher’s death. Tonight the perception was stronger than ever. Something was in motion and whatever it was, it was aware of Haven now. There was a firestorm coming and he was the only one who knew. He did not think Bath was aware of it and if not asked directly, Toby felt no need to inform the Doctor. His blood was inflamed, partly from wanting Mallory, partly by what he sensed coming, and partly from the need that was always with him in the night—but mostly from Mallory. It was possible there would be repercussions from his showing at the bar tonight, from his subtle interference. But he was willing to risk that. He didn’t think Mallory was a priority—to anyone but him, or maybe the Walters. Naked to the waist and barefoot he put the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the grass and stretched out on his weight bench. He knocked out multiple reps of ten, two hundred and fifty pounds on the bar. He pumped without slowing and quickly his muscles burned, the veins in his arms bulging with engorged blood. It took a while but finally, shiny with sweat and huffing, his mind cleared and his erection went away. Mechanically now he pressed the steel watching the starlit sky through the branches of the tree over his head, but still he waited in vain for the night to release him.

CHAPTER SIX

Frank arrived in Haven shortly before noon on Thursday. Leigh Edmundson, the McVies’ attorney from Whitestone, had agreed to meet him at lunchtime in front of the town courthouse. He paused to ire the view from Main Street of the White Mountains high above the town. He put change in the meter, and stood for a moment taking in the community his daughter called home. The Courthouse itself, at the exact center of town, was an obvious historical landmark and exquisitely maintained. It was a monolithic rose sandstone building with new white paint on the double doors, window shutters, and looming clock tower. A perfectly manicured park and picnic area was left of the building, with winding stone walkways and lovely old playground equipment shaded by swaying trees. The town was laid out around it in a grid of crisscrossing streets. Opposite the Courthouse and on either side up and down the block were numerous small businesses. Frank could see a couple of diners with tables on the sidewalk, a barbershop, a shoe store, an old-fashioned Five-and-Dime drugstore, a picturesque cinema complete with overhead marquee and sidewalk poster display out front, at least three antique shops with front windows crammed with knick-knacks, and a book shop—The Book Cellar. The name was stenciled across the large bay window and he ed it from the plant arrangement sent to Gwen’s funeral. Farther up the street he spotted a service station, and a couple of new buildings, one a bank and the other a public library. It was all right out of The Andy Griffith Show. Homey, clean, quiet. And Frank recognized high property values when he saw them. The people on the streets were mainly tourists and visitors in sunglasses and belly packs, many with heavy shopping bags. It was mid-week and the majority of the town’s citizens would be at work or at school. The town seemed at first glance a wonderful place to live and to raise a family, and Frank had a tinge of regret concerning his preconceptions. No matter how picturesque, Haven would forever be the place his daughter had died. The attorney had not yet arrived and on the spur of the moment Frank decided to

step into the Book Cellar. He crossed the street with his hands in his pockets, nodding at ersby who returned pleasant smiles. A bell over the door announced his entrance. “Hello,” an elderly lady greeted him from behind the counter—Mrs. Newcombe, presumably. “Hi,” Frank replied. “Can I help you?” she asked warmly. She did not approach, but showered him with a genuine smile, not at all pushy. Frank disliked salespersons descending on a prospective buyer like vultures on a dying water buffalo the moment you entered their store. “I’m just looking,” he said lightly. He would want to talk to Mrs. Newcombe, after he got situated. “Just call if you need anything.” “I will.” The room was lined with dark wood shelves filled with attractively bound old volumes. The shop was organized and cleanly, and lighting from numerous desk and floor lamps gave the place a homey lived-in feel absent from large chain stores. High up on the walls were framed editions of classic movie posters. Frank saw a beautiful vertical print for Casablanca in sepia tones. There was a room addition in the back. He did not venture into it but he could see racks holding bagged comic books and magazines and selections of vinyl records. The counter was long and low and had a swinging banister-gate. Towards the room addition it had a higher level and there was the cash and assorted knick-knacks for sale, and behind that was a desk with a personal computer setup. Frank browsed, seeing aged first editions of classic literature in leather bindings. Some of the pricier items were behind locked glass doors—intended, Frank suspected, to deter unnecessary handling rather than theft. He had a feeling crime wasn’t a big problem in this town. Just from his general inspection, it looked like a considerable amount of money was in the inventory.

“Ahhh,” he breathed with delight, finding an item of personal interest. The woman approached from behind and asked, “You’re a fan of Houdini?” He looked up from the volume he was poring over—The Life and Times of Harry Houdini—and gave her a smile, his first real one in days. “From way back.” She offered her hand. “That’s a first edition of Karl W. Rosenfeldt’s biography from 1939. I’m Valerie Newcombe. Call me Val.” “Frank Moore.” He was careful not to squeeze her hand in his own. “My husband Artie was a fan, too—he loved all that old Vaudeville stuff.” “I grew up in orphanages,” Frank volunteered. “I got interested in Houdini and taught myself to do escape tricks and magic to impress the other kids—sleightof-hand stuff, you know. My friends were always dreaming up new ways to tie me down.” Val laughed. “But you always got loose?” “Well, nearly always. But I impressed my friends. Bunch of little kids, what do they know?” he chuckled with an eye-roll. “Where are you from? Not New England?” Suddenly it occurred to Frank that he’d just revealed much to this woman friends of many years did not know. “Ohio. Dayton, Ohio.” “ing through?” Her eyes were bright and curious—and intelligent. She gave the sense she was thinking about each word that came her way. “I have business in town. I’ll be here a few days.” “Well, pleased to meet you, Frank. Please stop in again—and I hope you enjoy your visit.” She was sharp—a woman was getting out of a Toyota across the street that matched the description of Leigh Edmundson’s car and Val immediately picked

up on his body language. He put the book back into its rack, promising, “I definitely will. I love your shop.” “Thank you. I’m pretty proud of it. Come back by.” Smiling he gave her offered hand another gentle squeeze. He liked her. He was quite sure Gwen had as well. Leigh was a black lady in her late 50s. She was likely a grandmother, but the expensive clothes and hairstyle were more befitting an executive of a fast-track company. Frank knew she ran her own small law firm in a market not yet totally over-run with attorneys. She took his hand and introduced herself, and he asked her to call him Frank. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” “Not at all. I was checking out a bookstore.” “The shops here are amazing,” she said. “People come from miles around.” He followed her across the sidewalk and up the cobbled steps to the double white doors of the Courthouse. “How are Gwen’s folks? They holding up?” “Her mother’s in pretty bad shape. But Marie’s tough.” Tibbets left it up to him if he wanted to reveal his connection to Gwen. Leigh had been told he was a family friend. “And Raymond’s family?” “I’ve not really met the McVies. Hopefully they’re all coping.” He held the door as they entered, as men of his generation did. They made a direct right off the hallway within and were in the Sheriff’s office. It was large and brightly washed with mid-day sunshine through the window blinds. There was a highly polished counter where a visitor could speak to whomever was on duty, with a swinging gate to it you into the inner office (another touch from Andy Griffith, Frank thought). Directly behind the counter a middle-aged woman sat at a desk with a fully computerized dispatch set-up. There were a couple of desks for the deputies, one of them occupied by a

uniformed cop, and past those was the doorway stenciled with Sheriff Alan Hopewell beneath a gold star decal. Other rooms were for storage or conferencing, and there was a nook in one corner made into a coffee area. The walls were lined with plaques, posters, photographs, and a bulletin board was crowded with notices and informational fliers. Two secured gun racks, overkill for such a small community—but this Sheriff’s Department had the money for all the bells and whistles obviously. Against one wall a large collection of computer and copying equipment stood grouped together. Frank saw immediately what a portion of the local high taxes was going for. At the end of the hallway on this side of the counter, Frank could see the doors of a couple of jail cells. “Leigh Edmundson and Frank Moore. I called about speaking to Sheriff Hopewell,” Frank’s companion explained to the matronly dispatcher. “Sure—just a sec,” the woman answered amiably. She tapped an intercom speaker button on her desk. “Sheriff? Ms. Edmundson is here to see you.” “I’ll be right out, Mare,” the top cop’s reply came back. Presently the Sheriff’s door opened and he walked towards them, adjusting his tie. In uniform gray, he was over six feet, past 50, solidly built with a bulging middle-aged belly. “Hi. Alan Hopewell.” They shook hands over the counter top. Leigh took care of the introductions, saying Frank was a close friend of Gwen McVie’s family and was here to see to the couple’s affairs and find out the accident’s particulars. “Well, tell both families we’re all real sorry,” Hopewell bid Frank. “I didn’t know the McVies, but everyone I’ve talked to thought highly of them both.” “I appreciate that, Sheriff.” “Please, call me Alan.” “Frank was hoping to see the accident scene,” Leigh said. “No problem,” the Sheriff assured her. “I can send a deputy out with you.” “I’d also like a copy of the accident report,” Frank said. “And the autopsies, if possible.”

“Mary will get you the accident. We’ll have to get with the coroner in Whitestone for the other, but it’s no trouble. Be a day or two.” “Frank did you want to have lunch first? You’ve been driving all morning.” “It’s up to you,” he answered Leigh. Actually eating was the last thing he wanted. The prospect of being so close to the site of Gwen’s death had his stomach in knots and he wanted to get as much of this as possible over with. But he also wanted to spend a little time with the attorney. He had a lot of questions for her. “If you’re hungry, we can do that first.” “Sheriff, how about doing the accident scene now? Get that out of the way.” “Syd? This is Syd Warburton, you can follow him out to where it happened.” “Sheriff?” The deputy was tall and gangly with narrow shoulders and a bobbing Adam’s apple. A cocksure arrogance came off him in waves, a cowboy, complete with a slouch in the hips and a smug grin. He was chewing gum. Hopewell covered what the visitors needed just in case Warburton had missed anything. The woman Mary gave Frank a form copy in a paper clipped folder. He just looked at it, reluctant. He carried it like it was a breakable object as they followed the deputy outside, who cocked his uniform cap way back on his head. Frank noted he walked with a swagger, one hand on the butt of his sidearm. His jaunty demeanor did not sit well with Frank. He disliked trusting first impressions, but his own were usually accurate, and his instincts were warning him this guy was an asshole. Leigh drove her own car. As Frank got in she said, “I guess we won’t have much of an appetite, after this trip.”

They followed Warburton’s shiny new squad car up Main Street and out of town, heading east towards Maine. The suburbs ended quickly, turning into densely wooded hills broken only by the occasional residential drive or off-road. During the ride Frank resisted looking at the accident report; he wanted to be alone when he read it. The road crested and the landscape to the right fell away into deep gullies. The

incline was gradual but continuously downward. Frank stared through the car window with nothing to say. His insides were clenched—other than that, he felt indescribably sad. Warburton pulled to the gravel shoulder atop an embankment. Frank got out, and walked over to the damaged steel railing and looked down. “This is the place,” the deputy announced with a levity that understandably rankled both visitors. “I guess the car hit the guardrail at an angle that caused it to flip, and it just rolled down the hill. It was some mess, I’ll tell you.” The slope was rocky and overgrown with weeds, at an angle so severe that climbing it would have been difficult. Frank could see stones and underbrush ravaged by the tumbling automobile. The drop ended about seventy-five yards below in a creek bed that ed beneath the road. Frank saw signs of the crash from this distance, bits of glass and metal, paint scraped off on the mouth of a concrete drainage pipe below. “That’s where we found them. Car had to be winched out with a special tow truck. It was some work, getting the man and woman back up this hill, too.” “Were they strapped in?” Frank asked. “Oh yeah—if not, we’d have had to pick them up with eye droppers or something.” This was said with a snicker. Wordlessly Frank turned his head and affixed the deputy’s eyes with a deadly cobra stare that caused Warburton’s jaws to clench, then he gulped nervously (nearly swallowing his gum) and looked away in a hurry, mute. Leigh witnessed this and was thankful the cop knew when to shut up. Immediately she decided Frank Moore was not a man to fool with. She suspected that anyone with testicles found them turned to raisins quick when Moore shot that icy look. To break the deep-freeze in the air, she said, “It was a neighbor called in the accident. An elderly couple lives up that slope.” Frank appeared to dismiss the deputy and asked, “Did they see the crash?”

That was a very good question and Leigh fervently wished she had the answer; she didn’t want to risk Moore butting heads with Warburton further. “I don’t really know,” she itted. Warburton was reluctant to re-enter the conversation and kept silent until Frank skewered him with that stare again. “Uh, no, they didn’t see the crash. Heard it—they heard it, called the office.” Quickly dismissing him again—dwelling on the creep tempted Frank to throw his ass down the ravine—he asked Leigh, “The kids’ house, it’s near here?” “Just a mile, back towards town. It’s up off the road a ways.” Frank left the embankment’s edge and saw tire marks on the pavement, evidence of locked brakes stretching far back up the curve, the path of the skid indicating that the car had fishtailed violently, leading to the angled impact with the guardrail. He was thinking of Gwen, lying down in that ditch. Needing to ask a question he was afraid to know the answer to. Leigh would not know, probably. And he had no desire for further conversation with Warburton. Hearing a slowing vehicle, he turned as a second police car pulled in nearby. The engine stopped and the door opened, and a tall broad-shouldered cop in a Haven uniform got out. The man was at least six foot seven, every inch muscle. His solid frame was evident even beneath the loose uniform shirt. His hands were large enough that they likely looked comical, like an adult with a cap pistol, when holding his sidearm—not that a guy that big would have to draw it often. He was maybe 30 years old. His skin was deep bronze—perhaps Native American, although unlike any racial makeup Frank had ever seen. He gave Frank a stoic, but not unfriendly, nod as he approached, offering a big sculpted hand. “Hello. I’m Toby Vint, Deputy Sheriff.” Frank shook the hand, unwilling to be overly amicable. Warburton had soured him on the local cops for the moment. “Frank Moore.” “Leigh Edmundson,” the attorney introduced herself. Deputy Vint took off his cap and ran his fingers through forelocks of black hair.

“I heard you were here and just wanted to stop and let you know, anything you need, just call. We’re at your disposal.” “We appreciate that, Deputy,” Leigh said, looking to Frank for agreement—he just looked at them, saying nothing. Warburton had edged around and was standing behind the bigger cop. This seemed to make him a little braver—he was slouching and chewing his gum again. But he wisely kept his mouth shut. “I also wanted to offer my condolences, about Mister and Mrs. McVie. I know it’s a terrible loss.” Frank softened a bit and nodded his thanks. “Syd, you might want to go back to the office,” Vint offered. “I’ll be along soon.” Warburton turned to go with no further words. Frank delivered a hostile glare to hurry him on his way. “I think we’re about done here,” Leigh said. “Deputy, can you recommend a good place to eat?” “I suggest the Golden Tavern—it’s a quiet place, give you room to talk. It’s on the corner of Main and First, right there before you get back to the Old Church. Need to follow me back?” Leigh said they could find it all right. “Then I’ll be going. Again, you need anything, just ask for Toby. Nice meeting you—sorry it’s not under better circumstances.” Before leaving, Frank again noted the car’s skid marks. They’d been heading away from home, away from Haven—and in a hurry about it. Where had they been going? He stared out the car window at the twisted guardrail, thinking. His daughter, buckled into that mangled car, dead or dying. He hoped she had not suffered.

“So who was that?” Frank asked after the waiter left. On their way into the restaurant they’d ed a well-dressed elderly gentleman and Leigh stopped to exchange a few words. He was friendly but seemed on his way to an appointment and she had no time to make introductions. “That,” she said, “was William Bailey Painter, Esquire. Famous attorney. Ray and Gwen were his clients before.” Frank’s eyebrows arched, wishing he’d looked more closely at the man. “Didn’t Doug Tibbets say something about them no longer trusting him—?” “Yes, that’s true. But to tell the truth, they’d gotten to where there weren’t many here they did trust.” The Golden Tavern could’ve been a tintype photograph from a hundred years before. An old wood-side building, two stories, it looked as if it might’ve been a boarding house or small hotel in another era. The furnishings and woodwork had the feel of displays from a museum. The lobby featured framed newspaper frontpages heralding visits by four sitting Presidents dating back to Lincoln. A wagon wheel was mounted over the huge stone hearth. The booths and tables were heavy dark wood, oak or mahogany. Frank and Leigh were seated at one such as they spoke. He looked at her speculatively. “Is it possible,” he began, “that Gwen had some sort of anxiety problem—?” “If it had been her alone, I might’ve said yes,” Leigh itted. “She was in such a state. She was convinced someone was after them. She told me she believed people had been in her house. Raymond thought the same thing. Not two weeks ago, Gwen told me she thought her life was in danger. At that time she was horribly afraid—she said Ray was in danger, too, and it was because of her.” “What for?” Frank demanded, astonished. Leigh shook her head. “All Gwen would tell me was that she’d found out something that would send a lot of people to jail, when she had proof. I insisted that she call the police, and she refused—don’t ask me why. They told me they’d

decided to put the house up for sale. She said they were giving their notices at their jobs, leaving Haven. This was a week before the accident.” “If it was an accident,” Frank said grimly. “People in her house? Did she give any names?” “None. When I pried for information, she told me it was dangerous for me to know.” “This sounds like the plot of a Hitchcock movie,” Frank said bitterly. “I know.” The waiter appeared with their food—salads for them both. Rune Road really had killed their appetites. They picked at the meal as they continued talking. “Tell me about Haven.” “One of the oldest towns in New Hampshire. I think it was built around a settlement on the Chatham River. As late as the ‘60s New Hampshire and Maine were still dickering over which state the town belonged to—long story. Haven has no cottage industry, other than the tourists. But the people here are doing well, even with out-of-town careers. Someone tried to buy land for a saw mill a few years ago, but John Bath stopped that in its tracks.” “John Bath?” “Haven’s powerful protector and benefactor. He’s been here since the time of the dinosaurs. I joke, but actually Doctor Bath is no laughing matter. Most people credit Haven’s success, and the town’s continuing easy lifestyle, directly to him. Anyone who’s anyone in this town, including William B. Painter, owes that in one way or another to Dr. Bath.” “He’s a doctor?” “He may have a medical degree, but to my knowledge he doesn’t practice. I’m not sure he ever did.”

“Is he the Mayor or something?” “No, he’s head of the City Council, and he started a very influential outfit called the Commerce Board, which pulls strings all over the state. You can’t sweep up the sidewalk without his okay. Haven is his baby. All the construction down the highway? He saw to the building of a huge hotel-casino resort for the tourists, very lucrative. And safely away from town—they say Bath is nuts for keeping the small-town ambience.” “Am I going to have to go through him to find out the truth about Gwen?” “I hope not,” Leigh replied. “John Bath never has an unkind word said about him —but I wouldn’t want him mad at me.” Frank picked morosely at his food. That town, Marie had said. Haven seemed very nice on the surface. But she’d seemed convinced that it was a bad place— very bad. Evil. Was she speaking of John Bath? “How about the police?” “Well, you’ve met most of them. Pretty average. Small Sheriff’s department— there’s never any trouble around here.” “So where does Rune Road go, headed east?” “It meets 302, heads down through Whitestone and into Maine. Some of Haven’s newer homes are up there, including Ray and Gwen’s.” “Why would they head for Whitestone? To see you?” “I don’t know. They didn’t call.” “The neighbors? They reported the accident?” “Lessner, I think.” She took a notepad from her jacket and copied the Lessners’ address onto a slip of paper, along with her own cell phone number, and gave it to Frank with her business card. “Had Gwen mentioned anything about strangers in town—anyone who seemed to be checking them out?”

“They didn’t mention any strangers to me. They kept referring to people around here.” Frank let that digest. He was trying to get out of the mindset that Gwen’s death might be connected to his own past. That did not seem to be the case, and dwelling on it obscured other facts if he wasn’t careful. “I’m asking these things because of Gwen’s background,” he told Leigh, seeing the concern in her expression. “It’s a complicated family history.” “No need to explain,” she said. She could tell this man was in some pain—he had to be more than just a family friend. She took a sip of her iced tea and then: “Look. There’s absolutely nothing unusual about the car accident that I’m aware of. If not for what the McVies had been going through—I would just write it off to very bad luck. I had only known them for a couple of months. I just had the feeling that, whatever Gwen was afraid of, it wasn’t her imagination. And I’ll tell you something else. That girl didn’t scare easily.” “What about this other attorney—Painter?” “He was a criminal attorney here in Haven, moved to New York City when he was young and started his own firm. Sold it a few years ago and came back to Haven a millionaire. Started a small practice, now he does everything—probate, real estate, divorce. Probably run for Judge in a few years, and he’ll win. The resort and highway expansion is a prize every town in the state fought over. Haven seems to have a rosy future laid out.” She hushed abruptly, selfconscious; the McVies had no future at all, she reminded herself. “What did they have against Painter?” “They never went into it. He handles Haven’s legal affairs, maybe he was just too closely associated with the town to suit them. It was just a feeling Gwen had, seemed like.” A feeling again, Frank thought. Like mother, like daughter? Leigh took a manila envelope from her briefcase and said, “These are the spare keys to the house and the guest house. There are names and addresses of

coworkers, should you need them. Can you think of anything else?” “I’ll call if I do,” Frank told her. “You have my card—the Tibbets’s have retained me until everything is wrapped up, so feel free.” Frank slipped the packet into his jacket pocket. He finished off the last of his iced tea and they rose from the table with their lunches only half-eaten. Outside he gripped the attorney’s hand and thanked her for her help. “I hope you find nothing,” she told him bluntly. “This is quite bad enough, isn’t it?” “Yeah,” he replied with a miserable nod.

Frank took the same route out of town as before, and nearly to the accident site on Rune Road found the address on a simple metal mailbox mounted on a post. He took a left on an unfinished gravel road winding up between stands of pine and maple trees. This was Gwen and Ray’s driveway. The house was well out of sight of the road, sitting on about two acres of cleared forest. It was a new two-story, white vinyl siding and double-hung windows with dark green shutters, far different from the older homes he’d seen surrounding the center of town. The drive was paved close to the house and he parked in front of the connected two-car garage. He paused and reflected a moment on the basketball hoop mounted over the garage door, feeling sad. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he inserted the key into the heavy brass lock and let himself in. “Guinevere,” he whispered to himself, and again the barest scent of strawberries touched his nose, and then was gone, exactly the way it had been standing at Gwen’s coffin. He knew the human mind had strange ways of dealing with trauma, perhaps his was imagining the smell of strawberries. He liked them as a food of course, but they had no particular importance to him. Maybe he was recalling something from Gwen’s childhood, a memory he was not consciously

aware of. He knew the scent seemed to comfort him in some strange way. He paused in the two-story foyer, looking around. There was some money in this house, more than a schoolteacher and an electrical engineer just starting out could afford. Hadn’t Tibbets mentioned that Ray’s family was well off? The house was warm, the air conditioning not having been on in a week. Leigh had seen to the doors and windows being secured after the deaths. The walls were white, matching the off-white hues of the carpeting and vinyl flooring, and even the woodwork and ed doors. This excluded the oak stairway leading upstairs from the foyer. His hands in his pockets Frank wandered into the living room, feeling as if he was in a museum. He was reluctant to disturb a single thing. The sinking sun was washing the house in light from the rear bay window and patio doors. The furniture was oak and overstuffed leather. Everything still had a new look to it. Numerous photos of the couple and their extended families were everywhere, in frames on the end tables and on the mantle over the hearth and on the walls. Frank did not dwell on them. The kitchen was immaculate but lived-in. He sensed immediately that the couple spent much of their time here. The large dining table no doubt foresaw additions to the family. The counter area was full with racks and condiment containers and all things domestic. From the amount of kitchen accouterments Frank guessed Gwen and her husband enjoyed cooking. He saw a banana tree (the fruit turning brown after a week in the warm air) and a cookie jar shaped like a teddy bear. Post-it notes on the refrigerator. He examined them, not so much for the messages they contained but for his daughter’s graceful handwriting. The fridge was festooned with colorful magnets holding shopping lists and coupons and newspaper ads. Hands still in his pockets, Frank went upstairs and found two secondary furnished bedrooms and a third devoid of furniture (a future nursery, he was willing to bet), a bright and shiny full bath, and the cathedral master bedroom and ading bath. The couple’s bedroom was difficult to enter; he felt strange and guilty to be there, an intruder. The bed was unmade, quite tossed in fact—odd, considering the neatness in all other areas of the house. He realized he did not know what

time the accident happened, or if that might be important. He gave the trinkets atop the mirrored dressing table a perusal, seeking a link to his daughter’s personality. Makeup, perfumes, combs and hairbrushes. A frame containing a photo of Gwen and Ray with Marie’s arms around them both. He blinked at the photograph, drinking in Gwen’s smiling image. Downstairs the couple’s personal computer sat in an alcove before the bay window looking out onto the rear deck and back yard. Frank lowered himself into the chair and switched it on, taking in the knick-knacks decorating the monitor and desktop as it warmed up. Small photos, one an aged picture of a dog with its tongue lolling, a pet of Gwen’s when she was young? A cubbyhole over the monitor held a rectangular photograph from the wedding, Gwen in flowing white, the couple surrounded by friends and family, beaming on a glorious sunny day. He slid open a couple of desk drawers, noting the usual household items, stacks of bills, stationary. He then found two things that surprised and disturbed him. The first was a strip of clear cellophane tape on the edge of a drawer, stuck across the drawer’s edge and the desk. It was an old trick; if you suspect someone might be going through your personal belongings, you take a piece of tape or even a hair dampened by saliva and stick it where it won’t be noticed on a door frame or a drawer. If you find the tape is gone or loose, it’s a good bet your private area had been violated by someone who had no business doing so. The strip was loosened. Gwen and her husband were indeed convinced they were being watched. But by whom? Another drawer was ajar, unlocked. Frank checked the keys from Leigh’s packet —none went to the lock—after finding inside a carrying case made for a handgun, which was not present. There were also a few rounds of unspent ninemillimeter ammunition, and a bill of sale and copy of a firearm registration, which Frank thought was odd in the haphazard way they were in the drawer. All of the couple’s other important paperwork—automobile registrations, income tax information, financial records, insurance policies, health care packets—were neatly filed away in another cabinet. Frank also noted the sale receipt for the missing pistol was only two weeks old. He resolved to ask Leigh Edmundson if

she knew about the handgun or its whereabouts. Bugged by the missing weapon, Frank turned his attention to the computer. The was logged in and he signed on. He clicked through the couple’s personal documents—photographs, lesson plans for Gwen’s class, income tax stuff, personal and professional correspondence. He browsed favorite sites— sports, entertainment, games, online shopping. Their address book contained numerous entries—family, friends, employers and coworkers. He saw that Valerie Newcombe’s business computer was included. His own addresses were not there—he’d never supplied them. onishing himself, he was next surprised to learn that there were very few recent emails received, mostly ads and automatic mailings, and none at all sent. Hadn’t both Tibbets and Edmundson said Gwen no longer trusted the security of her computer? Frank went back to logged sites and saw the only ones visited in recent weeks were newspapers, missing persons (children, Frank saw) and a few devoted to European history. No browsing, no web surfing. But missing children? Frank sat back and considered all this. He was no detective. The tape on the drawer told him nothing he didn’t know already—but the missing gun might mean something. The stuff on the computer? He didn’t know. And he had no idea where to find out. He eyed the telephone and the attached digital answering system. The message light was blinking repeatedly. He almost reached for it, and decided to wait. Perhaps Gwen’s finger was the last to touch that button. He was reluctant to disturb it. As he sat thinking the sun sank low. There was a candle in a heavy glass jar on the desktop. It was deep red in color and he picked it up. His brow arched when he inhaled the fragrance. Strawberries. Goosebumps crawled up the back of his neck. Now that is weird.

The little guesthouse was located out past the garage with its own parking area.

It had two bedrooms, a complete kitchen and bath and living room complete with entertainment center. He unpacked his bags, making use of the closets and dresser drawers, and sat down and ate a couple of the bananas rescued from the main house with iced water from the fridge. He called Lori to let her know he’d arrived in one piece. “What’s it like there?” she asked. He told her the truth, it was a beautiful little town, his comparison to Mayberry making her laugh. He related that Leigh Edmundson was very helpful, and that he met the bookstore lady and really liked her. He also mentioned the big deputy, Toby Vint, and said he seemed like a good guy—but on the other hand, he recounted his first impression of the other deputy and how that first impression had proven quickly correct, and asserted that if he never laid eyes on Syd Warburton again, it would be too soon. “Well, don’t you get yourself arrested,” Lori warned, chuckling. “I’ll try not to. Hopefully he’ll stay out of my way. Things okay there?” “Just fine. I reckon Leslie and Rick are having a few problems.” “Really? What kind of problems?” Frank responded. He’d only been gone two days for Pete’s sake. Frank initially had misgivings about Leslie’s husband, but he convinced himself he was just being overprotective of their youngest. “Oh, you know, newlyweds. On the up side, Jennifer says Bobby proposed again and she’s all smiles.” “What’s that? The third time?” “Well, maybe three’s the charm,” Lori allowed. “I’ll call you in a couple of days. Or if anything interesting crops up,” he promised. “Okay. Love you—Jake, say bye. Say bye!” Somehow she got the dog to bark over the phone. “Love you, too. See you,” he said and hung up.

He found some hamburger and buns in the freezer and made cheeseburgers on the George Foreman grill for supper, washing them down with Pepsi. He wasn’t hungry, but felt the need to eat. He left the TV off and listened to a jazz station on the stereo. Then he took a look at the accident report provided by the Sheriff. Police responded to the crash scene at 9:57 AM on Wednesday morning. Both victims were deceased. The witnesses ed, Henry and Dora Lessner, reported hearing a single car leave the road below their home. No other vehicles seen at the site. The county coroner was ed at 10:22. The report was signed by Deputies Toby Vint and Syd Warburton. Nothing about a gun in the car. Afterwards Frank went outside and stood on the front porch in the dark, listening to the woods and feeling depressed at the sight of Gwen’s home, the windows black, the house silent and lonely. Ten o’clock on a weekday morning. Why had Gwen and Ray not been at work already? Had they taken the day off for some reason? And what was with the mussed bedclothes? The rest of the house was immaculate—he didn’t believe his daughter would leave a bed unmade. Maybe he was seeing things where nothing was there. He strolled around the guesthouse mainly to get his mind off the empty home. On the opposite side the ground was clear for maybe two hundred yards—the old Marine in him still regarded this as a good field of fire, a must in a bad situation—the trees were at first sparse, and then quite dense as the distance from the houses increased. The landscape sloped upward from the house. The woods were black and mostly quiet except for the occasional hoot of an owl or the ing of some other nocturnal animal. The moon was in three-quarter phase, and bright. He looked up at it, thinking about life and death and whether anything might lie beyond that. He should have bought some beer in town. He was willing to bet Ray and Gwen had beer inside the main house, but he lacked the heart to find out for himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It took only one day for Frank to find himself at odds with the Haven Sheriff’s Department. His first morning in the guesthouse started off well enough, however. The alarm clock woke him at seven and he was up quickly. He took a shower and shaved and threw on a pair of jeans, making a breakfast of toast and coffee. He listened to one of the television morning shows while going through Gwen’s personal correspondence supplied by Tibbets. He’d examined the letters more than once already and enjoyed the experience no more now than the very first time. His daughter’s handwriting was light, graceful, easy to read. Her letters caused him to feel morose—not their content, but just the fact that she would never write another.

“Dear Mom and All

Just a few lines right now—we’re so busy getting settled in. Raymond met with the new company today and I have a meeting with the people at the school tomorrow. The house is so wonderful!—Can’t wait for you to visit! The town is beautiful. It’s full of children. We miss you all so much! Tell Dad Ray wants him to see the garage— he has his own little machine shop in there, it’s like a playroom for guys. This place is so quiet at night. It’ll take

some getting used to. Everyone we’ve met is terrific. I think fitting in won’t be a problem. Well, I’ll write again tomorrow after the school meeting. We’re both so excited —we can’t even sleep! Miss you all! Love, Gwen and Raymond”

The first letter from New Hampshire was the most painful for Frank. So happy, so full of hope and excitement about the future—so young. And, Frank itted to himself, that wasn’t the only reason—her reference to Dad. It stung him. No reason at all for his feelings—he had twenty years to change that situation, hadn’t he? The following letters for several months were more of the same, telling of jobs and people becoming friends. There were numerous mentions of Mike and Trina, apparently known from college. Gwen mentioned Val from the bookstore, and even the Lessners, the elderly neighbors up the road. Frank practically knew the contents of the letters by heart now. It was more than six months following the move to New Hampshire that Gwen’s outlook took a serious turn. It was brought on by the disappearance of their friend, Mike. Apparently the man had just up and vanished. Gwen inferred that there were things involving his last few weeks—his project, were her words—that may have to do with his disappearance, but she did not go into detail. Following this she spoke of Mike very little, only a line here and there about how Trina and the daughter were coping. Then a mention of Mike’s funeral service—perhaps some of these goings-on went back and forth between Gwen and her mother over the phone, because the inference was that this Mike did have a funeral several months after his disappearance. Following that, no further mention of him at all. And the cheery disposition of Gwen’s earlier letters was gone. She still spoke of their work, their house, their lives, but it was forced somehow, as if other, more important matters were on her mind even as she penned these pages.

One made a reference to an unknown subject of some importance before going on about the usual things, and was signed Love you, Gwen. Frank couldn’t help but notice that it was addressed to her mother alone, and signed off by Gwen herself, rather than Gwen and Ray. Like she wanted no one else implicated in this communication. The next letters were quick in coming, dated only a couple of days later.

“Dear Mom

Thanks so much for your phone call, but please don’t worry. I wish I could tell you more but it’s a feeling I have that I shouldn’t discuss what I’ve been doing, at least not yet. You know what you always told me, about feelings? Please don’t worry. Ray is here to look after me. He sends his love, and also says to not worry . I should forget about all this anyway, there’s nothing I can do and it really doesn’t concern me. I’m sorry I troubled you with it. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Love you, Gwen”

“Dear Mom and All,

Everything’s much better here. Please, Mom, don’t bother yourself with what I was saying before. It’s all silly and not our problem. I’m so sorry I got you stirred up over nothing.”

The next few letters were this way, Gwen trying to diffuse the importance of whatever it was she had alluded to. Frank could tell by the one-sided correspondence that it was now her mother who wouldn’t let the subject drop. Gwen was equally determined to divert the issue any way she could, going back to her ruse of happy-talking about their lives in Haven and how there were no problems at all and the anxiety before had been brought about by not getting enough sleep. The note following this made Frank smile: two whole paragraphs spent by Gwen in an attempt to explain her sleeping difficulties, and he was pretty sure they were in response to Marie’s Well, then why aren’t you sleeping? Marie was a pit bull. Always had been, when her back was up. Frank did not have her side of the correspondence—likely they were put away somewhere in Gwen’s home, if he cared to look for them—but it was obvious that his ex-wife had picked up the scent of something rotten and refused to let it go out of concern for her kid. From anyone else it could seem intrusiveness from a buttinski parent, but not Marie. She definitely had a sense of trouble coming, and was hell bent on getting her only child out of its way. Later on the letters took a bad turn again, and Gwen even itted that Ray was worried too, but she still would not discuss the particulars. Why? Taking all the letters into , Frank could come to only one conclusion: she was protecting her mother, or believed she was, by not telling her. The daughter looking out for the parent. The mother frustrated, helpless. Frank wondered, had Gwen never thought of calling her birth father? Marie knew he could handle trouble. Even with what Marie had said to him, had neither of them considered asking for his help? The fact they had not done so tore at his heart.

Gwen’s last letters were clear about one thing: she and Ray had involved themselves in something they could not let go, something so bad that despite the danger they felt they were in, turning their backs on it was not an option. Frank folded her final letter, written only days before her death, and slipped it into the envelope thinking he would pay Val Newcombe a visit at the Book Cellar, and suddenly paused. He was detecting a faint scent, sweet and pleasant, from the letter. He took it out again and inhaled the fragrance, surprised he’d not noticed it before now. He realized all the mail had the same scent, so faint his conscious mind was unaware of it. Goosebumps rose on his arms. But he couldn’t say he was surprised, only mystified. The perfume on the letters smelled like strawberries.

“Frank. Good to see you,” Mrs. Newcombe greeted him as the bell over the door chimed. “Where’s all your customers?” Frank asked good-naturedly. They were the only two in the place. “You know, that’s a good question,” the lady itted with a comically arched brow. “So. What do you think of Haven?” “Beautiful little town. It’s like a picture postcard—from about forty years ago.” She laughed and nodded in agreement. “We sort of like it that way,” she told him. “I don’t blame you.” “I heard you met a couple of our local John Laws,” she related cheerfully. Stephen Wilkes had, in fact, also told her the reason Frank was in town. News traveled fast in small communities. She had her own ideas about Frank’s relationship with Gwen McVie, but she did not share them with Stephen or anyone else. “Deputy Vint—what did they feed that guy when he was a kid?”

“He’s a big one. What did you think of our Deputy Warburton?” she asked, her grin indicating she already knew his answer. “The less said, the better,” Frank said with a curled lip. “You’re probably right. So what can I do for you?” He crossed his arms casually. “You said I can call you Val.” “Please do, Frank.” “Val. I’m here on behalf of Gwen McVie’s family. I’ve read Gwen’s letters, and I know she was very fond of you. I was hoping you could tell me about her.” “I see,” she said, with a nod. This man Frank got right to the point—she liked that. She liked him—she decided that upon their first meeting. “I’ll tell you anything I can.” “Well, I know she and Ray were having problems for weeks before the accident. Do you know what that was all about?” “I just know she was upset,” Val itted. “She wouldn’t tell me what was troubling her. But I had a few notions.” “Notions? What do you mean?” Val came from behind her counter and ed Frank to look out the front window, seeming casual about it. “Frank, I have to tell you that sometimes small towns like Haven, they don’t always welcome newcomers with open arms. Haven is more friendly than most, don’t get me wrong. I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t believe anyone here would’ve hurt Gwen. However this fellow a few months ago was asking questions that rankled many people around here, and Gwen was his friend. And she was still new to the town. Because of that, she might’ve been getting a bit of pressure from certain parties.” She said all this as if explaining a cooking recipe, her small hands animated— Frank’s mind was whirling. What parties? Even as she told him this—to convince him, or herself?—Val turned her head and looked up through the glass, and darned if a tall figure wasn’t standing

behind the blinds in the window of John Bath’s Courthouse office! Did the man never rest? “What were you saying, Val?” She turned back to him and he was surprised to see her cheeks flushed with anger or something close. She beckoned with a hand and he followed her deeper into the store, away from prying eyes. “Gwen was my friend,” she confided. “She made me feel like family.” “She felt the same way about you,” Frank assured her, disliking her evasive attitude. Was she intending to stonewall him? What was going on in this town? “That’s why I’d like to tell you everything I can, piddling that it is,” she said. “But not here. Why don’t you come to my house? Tonight maybe?” Frank felt himself relax. His warm smile returned. “Sure. That would be fine.” “Frank, can I be honest with you? I don’t want to offend—don’t want to intrude.” “Of course.” She returned his smile, sad and comforting all at the same time now, and said, “Frank. This is just between you and me. I know Gwen is your daughter.” Eyes widening, his mouth opened to say How? “Gwen told me about her father—her real father. When I met you, I noticed the resemblance, and then I knew when I heard what you were doing in Haven. She was her father’s daughter, Frank. The resemblance is unmistakable.” “Well I hope this face looked better on her than it does me,” he said with a heartbroken levity. His eyes were shiny and sad. Val laughed softly and said, “She was a lovely girl, Frank. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” “I would prefer to keep it between us,” Frank agreed. “Do you know about Gwen and her mother—about them leaving Chicago—?”

“She told me you were all relocated.” “I’ve been afraid—the accident might be connected to all that. To the old days. Have you noticed any strangers in Haven? Anyone suspicious?” Seeing the dread in his expression, Val shook her head emphatically. “No, no. Visitors stick out like sore thumbs around here. We get a lot of tourists here, shoppers, but there has been no one just hanging around. I’m sure.” Frank was leaning more and more towards someone in Haven being the cause of Gwen’s fears—he supposed he had ever since Marie’s visit in Augusta. How could he find out the truth? It was such a small community. Even Val, seemingly around long enough to know everything about everyone, believed that Gwen’s death was only the accident it appeared. But Gwen and Ray had been afraid of something. What was it? How had they gotten caught up in it? “You mentioned pressure, Val—what did you mean?” “I spoke out of turn,” she said, backtracking. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze as she turned him towards the door. “I’ve been having my own problems, Frank, and—well, I guess I’m not too happy with a few folks around here myself lately. But we’ll talk about Gwen tonight. Can you come around six? I’ll fix dinner.” “That’s not necessary, Val—” “I’d appreciate the company, please.” “Fine—I’ll be there.” “I’m looking forward to it. Frank—” She faced him, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t have much to tell you, you know. I believe poor Gwen and Ray met with a terrible, terrible accident.” “I hope you’re right,” he said.

He decided to stop in at the Sheriff’s office after pocketing Val’s address and

directions to her home. The dispatcher-slash-receptionist—Mary?—met him at the counter with a polite smile. “How are you?” “Pretty good. Is Deputy Vint around?” “No, he’s on shift tonight. Sheriff Hopewell isn’t here, either—would you like to speak to another one of the deputies?” “Well—” Frank had no desire to cross paths with Syd Warburton again, if he could help it. He was going to say he’d stop by another time, but the woman jumped the gun, turning from the counter and calling, “Mallory? You back there?” “Yeah, Mare,” a female voice came from an open door. “This is Mallory Abshire—she’ll help you.” Frank was surprised by the very attractive young woman entering the office with a cup of coffee in hand. It was a combination of her uncommon good looks, fitness, and obvious professionalism. No slouching, no gunfighter attitude, not with this cop. Her uniform was crisply starched, leather gear oiled and shiny, badges and weapon gleaming. “Hi—Deputy Abshire,” she introduced herself. “Frank Moore.” Frank was a bit distracted—he was not one swayed by a beautiful woman, but the shock of finding here in Mayberry a young female law officer wearing a pistol on her hip like it belonged there after yesterday’s encounters with Central Casting was like having a rubber band snapped into his ear. He immediately regretted his preconceptions, about small towns and about stereotypes. “You’re here about Gwen and Raymond McVie. Toby told me.” “First, I was wondering if those autopsy reports from Whitestone had arrived.” “Toby told me about that, too, but they haven’t gotten here yet. Mr. Moore, are you a cop? Just asking.” Mallory evidenced the barest smile, not wanting to appear to be giving a visitor a hard time. But it wasn’t everyday normal civilians asked for autopsies—she figured Moore must be a PI or something of that

nature. “No,” he replied amicably. “Okay. I’ll leave a message on the Sheriff’s desk that you were in, sir.” “Thanks.” He wanted to ask Vint if that missing gun was found in the car. “I meant to ask, what happened to the McVies’ car?” “Probably taken over to Kanaly’s wreck yard—is that right, Mare?” Frank looked at the dispatcher and saw her eyes go wide like she was searching for the proper reply. Wouldn’t she be the one to know for sure? “Could I get that address and phone number?” Once again Mary appeared at a loss for words. Abshire took up the slack, said, “Sure, hold on,” after giving the woman an exasperated look A moment later she returned from a desk with the information jotted down on one of her business cards. Mary interjected, “George probably got rid of the wreck by now. I hear there wasn’t much left of it.” Frank did not respond to this comment, but made a mental note of it. Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age. But he didn’t like the way she was acting. Deputy Abshire was giving him directions to the wreck yard before Frank realized he was not listening. She knew it at the same instant, and politely repeated the directions, amusement touching the corners of her mouth. Frank thought she must figure him partially senile. “Thanks, I’ll be back.” “No problem,” the lady cop said with a nod. On his way out of the building he ed a young man in an expensive suit and haircut who shifted his eyes behind his glasses at the sight of Frank. No words were spoken between them, but Frank took note of the fellow, intending to ask Val about him.

After a mercifully brief meeting with the Lessners, Gwen’s neighbors, Frank stopped at the Golden Tavern for lunch. He ordered a cheese sandwich and a beer. Mr. and Mrs. Lessner were less than helpful. The couple were in their 80s. He sat with them on the knick-knack cluttered front porch of their home. The wife was thoughtful and bright, the husband unfortunately quite a bit confused concerning his memories of that morning. He had not even been sure that the accident had indeed happened in the morning. At first he talked about it being well past dark, until his wife corrected him. Around 10 AM—that jibed with the police report. But little else did. The old man recounted that he had been sitting on the porch and had seen the crash on the road below—but his wife reminded him, No, Henry, there was no way to see the crash. The trees were too thick. The old man insisted, said he saw the headlights of the car, and she had to correct him, again, that it was daylight. She said they had both heard the accident, not seen it. She described the sound of the car’s engine, the squealing tires, the terrible tearing of metal and exploding glass as the automobile rolled down the steep slope. He told of calling the police and she said, Henry, I was the one called them. “He gets confused with what he sees on TV,” she confided to Frank in a hush-hush tone. She was completely at ease with all this, apparently used to it. She told Frank how sorry they were about the McVies, and the old man agreed, saying, Yep, Jen would be missed. “Gwen, Henry,” his wife insisted gently. “Gwen and Ray.” “That’s right,” her husband said, nodding. But the Lessners troubled Frank. Their little give-and-take seemed a little too Norman Rockwell for him. Or maybe he really was seeing shadows behind every tree. The old man’s faulty memory seemed pretty convincing, if it was an act. His appetite seemed to be returning. The waiter talked him into having apple pie and ice cream for dessert, and in the middle of polishing that off he suddenly was reminded of smearing that stuff on his shoes and pantslegs to distract the

dogs all those years before. Why had he thought of that? Certainly he’d eaten apple pie ala mode dozens, if not hundreds, of times since that bloody night. It came to him: That was the last time he killed a man.

Kanaly’s Wrecking Yard was located fifteen miles down 302, nearly at the county line. It was a small auto salvage business, the property surrounded by a tall fence of iron sheeting, rusted by the elements. The office was cluttered but clean, a surprise so far out in the boondocks. Kanaly was a tall amicable fellow in overalls with a heavy paunch and predictably grimy hands. “I , no problem,” the man responded to Frank’s inquiry. “Don’t get too many fatal crashes around here.” “So I’ve heard,” Frank said as the owner led him out into the yard. “You’re lucky, I was s’posed to have had this one compacted two days ago. Had the flu.” “I’m sorry.” “Sad—such a young couple. No children?” “None.” “Awful sad,” Kanaly repeated, shaking his head. Frank heard the approach of what could only be a canine and turned warily, mindful of stories of the legendary junkyard dog. The mutt that came to greet them had no dangerous intentions; it sniffed Frank’s shoes and then approached its master, panting happily as it trotted alongside. “Beat it, Jimbo,” Kanaly dismissed it, aiming a casual kick. The dog huffed and disappeared into the stacks of junked automobiles. “He’s no guard dog,” Kanaly confided to Frank. “Don’t need one anyway, out

here, and a good thing too—that dog’s too friendly-dumb to protect much of anything, even his food dish. Here we go, right here.” He sniffed, still stopped up from his recent ailment. And with a gesture presented to Frank the automobile in which his daughter had died. It was almost unrecognizable now, but had once been a burgundy-colored latemodel Chevrolet. All but one tire was flat and ruined, wheels canted at impossible angles on broken axles. The sides of the car were smashed and twisted to the point it was difficult to tell if there were four doors or only two. The trunk lid was hanging and the hood over the engine was crumpled like a sheet of tin foil. All the glass was smashed out. The roof had been cut and peeled back like a cereal box-top. Frank visually inspected the interior, the bits of glass, twisted steering wheel, the bucket seats lying broken and loose. He noted both seat belts were cut away, trying not to let his eyes linger on anything that might be blood stains. “Had to haul it in here on a truck bed,” Kanaly was saying, unnecessarily. “Not enough left of it to tow. These new cars they make today, they’re s’posed to be safer, but I don’t know. They sure can’t take a hit like they used to, you ask me.” With a start Frank realized he was smelling strawberries and his head whirled around to find Kanaly turning up a freshly opened bottle of fruit-flavored soda pop produced from one of his pockets. He smacked his lips and became aware of Frank’s interest. Mystified for a moment, he gestured with the drink and asked, “You want one? Got some more in the office.” Frank shook his head sullenly. He approached the destroyed car again and circled it slowly, examining it for anything pointing to the cause of the crash. It didn’t take long to find something. “Look at this,” he called to Kanaly. “What you got there?” The other man bent over Frank, hands on his knees. Frank got an extra whiff of the strawberry soda. “Is this paint?” “Yeah. It sure is.” Streaks of bright yellow paint were visible on mangled metal on the driver’s side of the car. The color was most prevalent towards the front, but also along the enger compartment—the doors—and to the back bumper.

“Maybe it was the guard rail,” Kanaly allowed. “Don’t they paint those things yellow?” “Yeah—they do.” In fact, Frank could the damaged rail at the accident site—had ed it on the drive out here—and it was indeed trimmed in yellow. But. In the direction the car was traveling, it would have impacted the railing with the enger side. The tire marks on the road at the scene bore this out as well. He walked around the car, Kanaly following with interest, to get a good look at the enger side. “That’s where they hit the rail.” This paint was yellow, but reflective, not automotive body paint. “This looks like another car hit them,” Kanaly declared, surprised. “I thought it was a one-car accident.” “That’s the story,” Frank said grimly, eyes narrowed to cruel slits. “Do me a favor. Call Sheriff Hopewell, ask him to meet me here.”

“Well. I don’t think this is what it looks like,” Hopewell pronounced upon seeing what Frank had found. Frank looked at him, already angry. “Well, tell me what it looks like to you,” he prompted. The Sheriff put a hand on his hip, tilting back his Stetson with the other. “I it it looks like another car was involved. But that’s not what happened.” “And why is that?” “Because the witnesses to the crash—Hank and Dora Lessner—said there was only one car.” “I talked to the Lessners,” Frank told him. “They’re pretty confused about the details.” “How do you mean?” Frank felt his cheeks flush with anger—this guy was questioning him now? He restrained his rising temper. He needed these people to help him, no matter how incompetent they seemed. At least Deputy Abshire was staying out of the discussion. She seemed all right, but Frank was finding it more and more difficult to be civil. “The old man kept saying he saw the crash. His wife says they only heard it. They couldn’t agree on what time of day or night it was. They couldn’t even decide on who called the police.” “Dora called. Hank Lessner was town Sheriff years ago, but he’s a little addled,” Hopewell pointed out with a crooked grin—rankling Frank even further. “Did he say he saw two cars?” “No.” “Listen to his missus, not him. He might’ve told you anything.” “What about this paint?”

“Mister, that paint could’ve been there before. Part of the rail tore loose, it could’ve rolled down the hill with the car, scraped it. Anything could’ve happened.” “Including collision with another car, forcing this girl and her husband off the embankment.,” Frank shot back. “And like I said, these are two different types of paint here, Sheriff. They didn’t both come from the rail.” “That’s true, Sheriff,” Kanaly put in. Hopewell turned on him red-faced. “Damn it, George, you just butt the hell out of this. Get back to your office.” Kanaly was shocked at this. “Well screw you,” he spat and stalked off quickly, grumbling. Frank affixed Hopewell with his laser gaze and was rewarded with the sight of sweat on the other man’s cheeks. “Look. I understand your concerns. But the witnesses reported a single-car crash. We saw no evidence of anything other than that.” “Then what do you call this paint?” “I call it non-related. I don’t think—” “You don’t think?” Frank cut him off. “Are you a Sheriff or a playground monitor? There should have been an investigation here. Two people died. Two people—” Frank stopped himself. He was dangerously close to losing his temper —and he never lost his temper. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. Then he started over again. “Okay. Your witnesses. If they didn’t see the crash, how can they be sure it was only one car?” “By the sound,” Hopewell insisted. “They only heard one car.” “I don’t buy it. Did anyone even think of looking closely at this crash?” Frank shot a look at the female deputy. She did not respond—but at least she didn’t look away.

“Look closely? How?” “By noticing this paint, for starters. Maybe by looking at the area body shops, seeing if any cars with this yellow paint had come in for repairs—or if any with this paint were even ed in the county. That’s what a regular police department would do.” Now Hopewell lost his own temper. “Are you a cop? Have you ever been a cop?” he demanded. Frank nearly told him, I did go to the Academy once, back when cops knew what they were doing, and after that I spent a few years running circles around some of the smartest ones you could find—but he kept silent. He had no intention of comparing dicks with this guy, not over Gwen’s grave. Apparently feeling the argument was over, the Sheriff turned and started for his car, saying, “Let’s get, Mallory.” The deputy eyed Frank pensively for a moment before turning to her boss. “I’m not letting this go,” Frank warned. Hopewell slammed the car door so hard the automobile rocked and stalked back, furious. He stood in Frank’s face, maybe five inches taller and imposing with his belly and his Stetson, but Frank did not bat an eye. “Who are you anyway? What’s your involvement with this?” the cop demanded. “I’m just a man hired by the family,” Frank said, his voice and eyes like ice. The Sheriff glared at him, huffing, nose-to-nose, then turned and strode off with his face purple. “Let’s go!” he snapped at the deputy. Frank looked grimly at the smashed automobile as the police car’s tires sprayed gravel behind Hopewell’s angry departure. Frank shook his head, sad, angry, determined. The Sheriff was either stupid or hiding something—maybe both. But there was definitely a truth hidden here, and Frank meant to uncover it. He would not leave until he did just that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Leonard? Sheriff to see you.” “Send him in, Shan.” Rippy leaned back and laced his fingers over his belly. Hopewell entered the office with his hat in his hand, his cheeks flushed. He was obviously upset. “Leonard.” “Have a seat, Alan.” “That new fellow in town is getting pretty pushy, Leonard. He thinks he can do my job better than I can—I’m telling you, he’s trouble with a capital T.” “Relax—” “He’s over at George Kanaly’s in my business, telling me how I screwed up—in front of my deputy! George didn’t get rid of the wreck. This Moore thinks he’s got something—I don’t think he’s going to give it up, either.” “Alan? Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous.” His tone was forceful enough now that the Sheriff realized he was pacing frenetically. He sat on the sofa, still clutching the brim of the Stetson in both hands like a life preserver. He took a deep breath and started again. “We handled that teacher badly,” he said, diplomatically including himself in his declaration. “I’m afraid it’s gonna come back on us.” “How could that happen?” Rippy asked with an air of amusement. “Moore thinks he’s found evidence to start an investigation. Henry and Dora didn’t convince him.” “What about the wreck? Didn’t you tell George to get rid of it?” “Hell yes I told him, but he didn’t do it. I—I should’ve made sure, let him know I meant business.” Hopewell gave Rippy a look of dread, stricken for his part in

this oversight. Rippy said, “No, you did the right thing. Too much interest and George might have thought it was strange. Kanaly made a mistake.” He said this last with an intense and ominous tone of voice. “You know, I wanted Toby to handle this, all along. He would’ve fixed it right.” Rippy shot the Sheriff a reproachful stare and said, firmly, “Toby is not the hired help, Alan.” Aware he should not have broached the subject, Hopewell became flustered and then said, “Well the Hendersons then. They took care of that last problem.” “That was a special case. We can’t afford to have a pattern someone might pick up on.” “Leonard, we have to do something. If you’d seen this guy Moore. I’m not kidding. He’s taking this personal. There’s something in his eyes—” His voice trailed off. “That’s enough, Alan,” Rippy silenced him. “There is no problem here—are you listening?” “Yeah.” “Moore can nose around all he wants, he’ll find nothing he can prove. Let him beat his head against the wall till he gets the message. Who cares? There’s absolutely nothing pointing to anyone in Haven.” Rippy stood and came around the desk and led the Sheriff to the door. “In the meantime, check Moore out if you want. Give him a hard time if necessary. We don’t have to tiptoe around him, or anyone else. Just don’t break any laws, got it?” This was said with a hand on Hopewell’s shoulder and a bright smile indicating that Rippy knew, as did Hopewell, others could handle those areas. “Sure.” He did feel better. If Rippy was not worried, it meant that no one else was, either. “Thanks, Leonard.”

“Relax, Alan. Have a cup of Shan’s coffee. Leave the office early, go home to Kate.” “Yeah. Maybe I will.” Rippy held the door and squeezed his arm to get his attention back. “But keep me informed as well. You did the right thing, coming to see me.” “You got it, Leonard.” Afterwards Rippy reclined in his comfortable chair with his hands behind his head. What Hopewell said about the stranger’s eyes got his attention, because Leonard saw them as well. That very morning, as he ed Moore outside. The man’s eyes were hard. Taking in everything and giving away little. The eyes of a predatory hunter. A wolf’s eyes. He had Shan connect him with Dora Lessner. Dora had been around a long time and did not get flustered like the Sheriff—she gave an accurate retelling of the conversation with Moore, and how Henry’s failing faculties had perhaps aroused the man’s suspicions. Rippy assured her that they could handle it. He went to the window. He looked over a tall potted plant and parted the blinds and examined Val’s shop across the street. He knew Moore had been in to see her, at least twice. The old lady had nothing to tell him, but it still bothered Rippy, Val talking to a nosy stranger. As if his mind had been read, he heard the intercom and Shan: “Leonard? Dr. Bath wants to see you.”

Val had not made a single sale in three days. She was feeling better today, though. And tonight she had some company to look forward to. She turned off the lights in the back and prepared to call it a day. The phone rang and she answered quickly, knowing it was Stephen. “You locking up?” “Getting to it. How are you?” His voice was hoarse. “Not bad, sorry I haven’t been in.”

“Oh, don’t bother yourself.” She was struck by the idea that her conversations with Stephen were sounding more and more like two people who might be a couple—at least, the way a couple might have sounded in her day. “I’ve had one of those killer summer colds. I didn’t want to give it to someone else.” “Oh, no—can I make you a bowl of soup? You’ll feel better.” “No, I’m already snapping back. Mom’s taking good care of me. She lives for this stuff.” Val chuckled. “Okay then.” “I’m still getting that Famous Monsters sale together. I talked to Forrest J. Ackerman on the phone this morning—you don’t know who he is.” “Not a clue,” Val itted, sensing Stephen’s grin on the other end of the line. “I’ll fill you in. Turns out, our buyer is a close friend of Mr. Ackerman’s—I’ll tell you about it. I may have some good news, tomorrow or the next day.” “I could use a little of that. I’m having a guest over for supper tonight.” “Val! You been holding out on me?” “Yeah, you found me out. It’s Frank Moore.” “Is he pumping you for gossip?” “A little bit. But he’s a good man.” “If you need a chaperone, call. I promise not to cough on anybody.” “Don’t worry, I think I can hold this young fellow off.” The bell over the door jangled and she looked up to see Leonard Rippy greet her with a smile and a nod. “A last-minute customer—bitchin,” Stephen said, hearing the bell on his end. “Not really—you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be tip-top by tomorrow. You have a nice night.” “You too, Stephen. Thanks for calling.” She hung up and gave Rippy an adversarial glower. “Val. How are you?” “Lenny.” She was probably the only person in town who addressed the City Manager this way. She delighted in reminding him that she knew him when he was still in short pants. “Clo?” “What do you need, Lenny? I’m sorry, I’m all out of handbooks on Shavetail 101.” Leonard nodded in honest appreciation of the insult. “Good. That was a good one.” “So what’s the occasion? I’m on my way home.” “Dr. Bath asked me to come by.” She waited, her arms crossed. Her opinion was that Lenny Rippy could not decide on which socks to wear without John Bath’s input, and he knew it—she was never shy about reminding him of that, either. “Dr. Bath wants you to know that he and I are both troubled by your association with Frank Moore.” Val’s mouth dropped open. “What can you possibly have against him?” “Absolutely nothing,” Rippy insisted. “He’s the one. Seems like he wants to splash mud on the Sheriff. The Sheriff is one of us, Val. Despite our problems, you’re one of us. Moore isn’t.” “He wants to find out what happened to Gwen McVie, is all,” Val pointed out, daring him to call her friend an out-of-towner. Rippy did not let her change the subject. “He gave Sheriff Hopewell quite a hard

time today.” “Is that a fact?” “Oh yes. He wants to blame someone for an accident where no one else is at fault. And he doesn’t care if he embarrasses Alan Hopewell to do it, a solid citizen who has given this town more than twenty years of public service. Why does he deserve that, can you tell me?” “Well Gwen McVie was a young school teacher, of little children, and look what she got. So why ask me who deserves what?” Val retorted. Rippy shook his head with that condescending smile. “Val. It’s not the same thing. The woman and her husband, they worked here, lived here. What, two years? That’s not like being born and raised here. You don’t want to hear this, but it’s true. No matter how much you liked them.” Val felt her lip tremble, she was so angry. Had she been physically able, she’d have picked Rippy up and tossed him out the door by the seat of his very expensive pants, just as she’d done more than once when he was a youngster annoying her. “Well last time I checked,” she said as she calmed her temper, “this was still America. Bath hasn’t turned Haven into his own little banana republic, not yet—even though he’s already set up as Top Banana.” The disrespectful tone towards John Bath actually made Rippy flinch as if slapped. Then there was an almost imperceptible roll of the eyes seemingly in anticipation of a bolt from the blue to incinerate the building in which they stood for her transgression. Val had to squeeze her middle to suppress an involuntary chuckle, realizing she had not imagined Rippy’s reaction. She said, “I can talk to whomever I like.” Rippy stared at her and his eyes narrowed and he responded with, “You’re risking more than just your business now, Val,” in a tone denoting friendly concern. But she took note more of the words than the tone. Nearly speechless, she demanded, “Are you threatening me, Lenny?” He blinked, shocked, and took his glasses off to look her eye-to-eye. “No, Val—

no. We will not put up with someone tarnishing our image. That’s all. You the cold reception that reporter got last year, and he was born here—” Now Val’s mouth was agape. First he seemingly threatens her—and next he brings up a man whom, Gwen said, had been threatened? A man who then disappeared under suspicious circumstances? In scarcely more than a few heartbeats she had gone from believing she was being forced out as a businessowner refusing to fall in line with the town’s bureaucracy—to now thinking of matters much more serious than a closed-border mentality in a small community. Could something more insidious be going on? Conspiracy—murder? Her mind was whirling. She just stared at Rippy, at a loss for words. And then for just the barest instant, an expression of dismay crossed Rippy’s tanned features. He put his glasses on, adjusting them, which Val took as an effort to cover up his discomfort. He knows he said something he shouldn’t have. He said, “Val, Haven is the most successful small community in New England. We’ve had a lot of blessings here, each and every one of us. That brings with it a responsibility. A need for family loyalty.” Watching him, Val said, “You act like you’ve made a deal with the devil, Lenny.” “Don’t be silly,” Rippy replied with a false smile, his eyes crafty now. Not for the first time, Val wondered how Bath ever got his hooks into Rippy to begin with, and what was the hold he had on him. Whatever it was, Leonard certainly seemed the willing lackey. “If I wasn’t sure before, I am now,” she informed him. “I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling. And I’ll talk to whomever I like.” She refused to look away, so he at last was forced to, hiding his retreat once again behind an adjustment of his glasses. “Well. Good night then, Val.” She replied with a stony nod and watched as he turned to let himself out, his movements measured, careful. Like a man who just had a close call and was unnerved by the experience. He should not have threatened her, and he should not have mentioned the

reporter—and he knew it. She supposed he was off to confess his error to Bath. On his knees, perhaps. When the door closed behind him she realized she’d practically been holding her breath. She clutched her chest, her heart pounding from fright. Could her life be in danger? She could scarcely grasp the concept. She tried to every word of the conversation, and asked herself if she was imagining things. Haven had been her home her entire adult life, she’d at all times felt safe and secure here, even when Artie ed away. That meant a great deal, to a person who survived the death camps in Europe during World War II, who had lost most of her family to the Auschwitz gas chambers. She knew fear intimately—numbing, paralyzing fear. No, she had imagined nothing. Rippy was indeed threatening her. Because she was talking to Frank. What kind of reason was that? What did she know that could hurt someone? Oh, how she wished Artie were here.

It was a good many years since Frank Moore had known this kind of anger—a fury that sought any available target to work itself out on. As a youngster in the orphanages of Chicago he found himself a victim for any kid bigger and more aggressive than he, leading him to immerse himself in physical fitness and selfdefense regimens, finding his inspiration again in magician Harry Houdini. He started out with boxing and running. Then weight training. While in the Marines he’d taken up martial arts, which he still practiced in Dayton with an acquaintance, a Lieutenant-Colonel at nearby Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, and after the war came enthusiastic rock climbing. Frank became a tough and skillful fighter while still quite young, but had chosen the opposite path to so many boys he knew who let their violent and aggressive natures lead them to lives of crime and incarceration. Frank instead controlled his anger through the same physical exertion that would eventually make him so formidable. He knew this was a form of sublimation, the diversion of negative energy into something more acceptable. But it had been a very long time since he needed a physical workout to dispel his anger. After his clash with Hopewell, he needed to hit something. Anything.

Repeatedly. He returned to the guest house tense, fuming. He paced back and forth for a while like a caged animal, receiving no satisfaction from the music on the sound system or the beer he brought back with him. He couldn’t even focus his thoughts on what he needed to do next. He actually considered calling Val Newcombe and canceling his visit, he was not in the mood. He decided to give Gwen’s home a second look. Maybe being in his daughter’s place would calm him. If not he would put on some sweats and go for a good long run. He thought he might examine her computer again, but wandered into the garage and was surprised and delighted by what he found. In the empty parking space alongside the couple’s second car a practically new 60-pound Everlast punching bag hung from a chain attached to the reinforced rafters. On a workbench were two pairs of also-new boxing gloves, but Frank was a bare-fisted hitter, when not in the ring. He immediately stripped down to his jeans and proceeded to deliver an awesome beating. While in the Marines he became interested in the Korean martial art, Tang Soo Do, and later Tae Kwan Do. Over the years those styles and other Asian disciplines combined with his boxing skills to create a formidable fighting technique all his own. The bag was not broken-in. As a result it gave as good as it got and he thoroughly wore himself out in just a few minutes of brutal punches and kicks. By the time he stopped he was pouring a healthy sweat, gasping for breath, his calloused knuckles and the sides of his bare feet red and raw. The bag swung back and forth, the rafter beam above it creaking from the barrage. He felt tremendously better. He used his shirt to mop sweat from his face and inspected the roomy garage, still panting. Recalling Gwen’s first letter, the place was indeed a playground for big boys. Raymond had thousands of dollars in tools, all categorized and resting either in a large cabinet or on pegs over the work bench. There was also a wood lathe, drill press, and circular saw. The garage was large enough for all this, the heavy bag, and the one car. Frank knew now that the house itself was a wedding gift from Ray’s family—no doubt allowing the young couple to afford all these niceties.

Besides the boxing gloves—one small pair, one larger—Frank found a slab of cherry wood with decorative shapes carved to form teddy bears and balloons, and unopened cans of paint and varnishing supplies; there was also a diagram of a baby bed on a folded sheet of paper. Ray and Gwen were not only an extremely active couple, they were do-it-yourselfers. He ed the empty room on the floor upstairs, waiting to hold the hopes and dreams of a family starting out. Leigh said she saw the autopsies, and had not mentioned the presence of a pregnancy. He hoped that was the case. Frank wasn’t sure he could bear that final insult. He left the house with his clothing and shoes balled up under one arm, wishing he’d met his son-in-law.

Val lived in an old cottage-style house only a few miles closer to the town. The home was small and rustic, but the property on which it sat was expansive and bordered by tall shade trees. She met him at the door with a smile but could not hide the worry haunting her features. “Bad day?” he asked, concerned. She shrugged and said, “Sort of.” “You want to put this off for another night?” “Absolutely not. We need to talk,” she told him. “You look a little done under yourself.” “I knocked heads with your Sheriff today,” he explained. “So I heard. But let me show you the house—I don’t get many visitors.”

“This is my Artie—he was on the beach at Normandy,” she said, displaying with glowing pride a black-and-white photograph of a very young man in uniform. It sat proudly on an end table next to an antique humidor and a brass ash tray both of which had not been used for many years.

She showed him photographs on the walls, most of them very old. He didn’t need to ask whether they had children. The house was warm, the color schemes and the shaded lighting from old-fashioned lamps bathing each room in soft earth-tones. The scent of cooking beef filled the home. Showing off a couple of framed Superman comics hanging on a wall safely away from direct sunlight, she explained that Artie often said the only thing that got him home from the Pacific was his love of comic books. “We still have some he kept from the 1940s,” she said. “Did you meet in Europe?” Frank had detected the barest hint of an accent— German? “Oh no—I was just a little girl then. We married in 1956. I came here to live with relatives after the war. My family is from Poland. Nearly all of them died in the camps.” “I’m sorry.” Frank was abashed. Until Gwen, he’d never really lost anyone, not counting men he served with. He felt embarrassed by the fact, in the presence of this woman who had lost so much. “Past history,” she shrugged. “We were Jewish, and my father was from a long line of teachers, scholars—we caught it from both ends I guess. Are you a veteran, Frank?” “The Marines.” He never mentioned his war service to his friends in Dayton— eventually such talk would get him into areas he would be forced to lie about, which he didn’t have the heart for. Besides, officially Frank Moore had never been in the military. Only Lori knew. And now Val. “Ah. I thought so.” But that toughness she sensed in him was not derived solely from the military, she told herself. Dinner was simple, meat and potatoes with carrots and onions—but delicious. During the meal he told her he believed Raymond and Gwen had been forced off the road, possibly with intent, and told her about the evidence he’d seen and the confrontation with Hopewell. She was thunderstruck. “Who told you I had words with him?” “Lenny Rippy. Haven’s City Manager. We had quite a visit.”

“Lenny Rippy? Any relation to Howdy Doody?” He said it without thinking, spurred by the growing resentment he was feeling for this town, but she tilted her head back and guffawed and seemed unable to stop herself, even grasping his wrist in her thin fingers as if for . Still she laughed and Frank became a bit concerned that she was going to hit the floor from a lack of oxygen. “I’m sorry,” she said after finally composing herself, seeing the worry on his face. “I needed a laugh.” Her eyes were twinkling, her cheeks bright. “No problem,” Frank said, refilling her iced tea from a heavy glass pitcher. “Would he by any chance be this well-groomed young guy with a sunlamp tan and an expensive suit—stylish reading glasses?” “That’s the one.” “Yeah, he looks like a Lenny Rippy all right. Gave me a funny look outside the Courthouse this morning—like I’d asked him for a date or something.” She slapped his hand, laughing again. “Frank! You’re a card.” “You got me started. I still love an audience, I guess.” He could see the demure beauty she’d been in her youth—she must have had suitors waiting in line. “It’s the old Vaudevillian in you,” she pointed out. “You might be right.” He dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin and leaned back from his empty plate. “I wonder if Hopewell went straight to him crying about me? If he did, I rattled him more than I thought.” “You think he’s hiding something.” “It’s possible. I don’t know, might be an insecure cop embarrassed over lousy police work. If he is hiding something, he’ll be sorry he ever met me.” “I think he’s probably sorry already. Let me tell you what Lenny had to say.” She spent the next ten minutes serving carrot cake and coffee while she told him about Lenny’s not-so-subtle threats and how for the first time she linked strange

goings-on in Haven that beforehand she would never have imagined were connected. Frank shook his head, grim. “Val, I may have put you in some kind of danger,” he said with evident worry. “No, not you. I basically told Lenny to get himself stuffed. It’s my decision, Frank. I won’t be ordered around by him or John Bath or anyone else. But I it it—I had a few moments of real fright there in the store. It reminded me of the camps.” Frank’s expression was grave. The lady had no one to look after her—of course she was afraid. She was in this position because of him, though that was not his intent. The question now was, How could he fix it? “Do you have anywhere you could go? Until I’m out of here?” She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home. Here with the lights on, I find it hard to get too worked up over it—don’t get me wrong, I’m quite sure I’ll be jumping at every sound for the next few nights. But I can handle it, Frank. I’ve been through worse.” Frank resisted the urge to ask her to let him stay here with her—or else talk her into coming to Gwen’s house. But the fact was, he had things to do and he couldn’t protect her while he did them. Anyway, was she actually in peril? No way to be sure. A senior citizen with a small business. Would someone really want to hurt her just for talking to him? “I suppose getting help from the Sheriff will be like pulling teeth, after today,” she pointed out. “Yeah—he was getting me copies of the autopsies, but I’m not sure I needed them, anyway. You said you could tell me some things about Gwen—and tell me about the reporter.” “Well, I was going to mention it, even before Lenny advised me to back off— because Gwen knew Albanese.” She stood to clear off the dessert dishes and he helped her stack. They both sat down over fresh coffee. “Spring of last year a newspaper reporter from Maine named Mike Albanese was in Haven researching a story concerning missing children—”

“Children?” Frank interjected. “It seems New England has an awful lot of missing children—runaways, disappearances. Much higher than the national average, is what Gwen told me. Albanese was born in Haven, moved to Maine when he was still a kid—he went to college in Atlanta—” “That’s where he met Gwen.” “Gwen and Ray, yes. He came to town because there had been no such cases here.” “Not here. How big a thing was this?” “I’m not sure—it was enough to get his attention, and he got Gwen interested. I only talked to the man once myself. He was asking questions all over town, the Sheriff, people at the schools. He even addressed parents at a meeting of the PTA. He wanted to know what they were doing to make Haven’s kids safe and secure. But then Albanese just up and disappeared. When that happened, he seemed to have shifted his interest from missing children—to John Bath.” “You’re kidding. Right in the middle of researching his story?” Val nodded. “This is what Gwen told me. Before you ask, if she, or the reporter, saw any connection between the first story and Bath, she didn’t let me in on it. I’m quite sure no one would’ve dreamed of such a thing. Bath wasn’t born here, but he’s been in Haven as long as I have, he’s never had a hint of scandal attached to his name.” Frank, ever suspicious, wondered if a missing reporter might be a clue as to why. “All I know is, Albanese started asking questions about John Bath before he vanished. And he didn’t mind ruffling a few feathers around here, either. Gwen said he was trying to get an interview with Bath, but that wasn’t coming to anything. And then he was gone.” Frank’s attention was grabbed by what she said next: “After seven or eight months, Albanese turned up—or at least, his bones did. His remains were found scattered across a nature reserve, just across the state line in

Maine. They’d been there for months—and between the animals and the weather, a cause of death was never decided on. It was thought he may have been hiking, maybe fell and broke his leg. But his car was never found. Gwen took his missing hard. When he turned up dead, she was crushed.” Frank was going from A to Z in his mind. Old friend shows up, comes over for dinner, talks about a story he’s researching, maybe stays at the house while he’s in town. Gwen taught kids, she would be interested, maybe even helped with research or talking to the townspeople. When his attention shifted to Bath, did he tell Gwen why? I bet he did, Frank decided grimly. Then he disappears for months. Gwen was already hooked, though, and now something’s stinking out loud—she was her mother’s daughter, , maybe she has a bit of Marie’s weird intuition, and probably her stubborn streak as well. She wouldn’t quit, even when she began to get scared. She was onto something. And it was bad. “Did Gwen give you any idea, any at all, why she felt she was in trouble? Is it possible Rippy, or Hopewell, was threatening her?” “Knowing Gwen, if it was that up-front, she’d have left someone spitting teeth. If not her, then Ray. Have you been in their garage?” “Yeah,” Frank smiled. “Gwen was no wallflower, Frank. If someone was after her, they weren’t coming head-on. But after Albanese disappeared, she started to keep things from me. She wouldn’t discuss it any more. I think she was protecting me.” “I think so, too,” Frank said. “One of the last things she mentioned before he vanished was a former cop in Haven named—Miller? Greg Miller, I think. From years ago.” “What about him?” “She didn’t say—just that Albanese was onto the name.” “Albanese had a family.” “A wife, yes. I believe they lived in Bridgton.”

I’ll be looking her up, Frank promised himself. He had a prickly sensation up the back of his neck. It was like what he felt in the old days. When he had a target in his sights. Something really had happened here. Gwen’s death was no accident. “I wish she’d called me,” he thought aloud. Val touched his hand. “I do too, Frank.” A dead reporter. A young couple, also dead. Missing kids. John Bath, patriarch of Haven. Frank repeated the name to himself, making a mantra of it. John Bath. Doctor John Bath. He was going to have to find a way to get into Dr. Bath’s personal business. Like she heard what he was thinking, Val told him about Bath’s vaunted Commerce Board. “The committee took a small percentage of what each business took in when they signed on. In return there were tax breaks, special insurance rates and the like. To me though, it was a form of protection money. And it was the fact that it was Bath’s I think. Artie fully ed the Haven Chamber of Commerce. But when Bath turned it into the Commerce Board— like he had to change the name, just so everyone would know it belonged to him now. It was a petty thing.” “And you wouldn’t sign up.” “Bath already had his fingers into everything in town—and not just Haven. It’s said he has influence over more than a few big shots in Washington. Every business in Haven is making money hand over fist, and part of every transaction goes right back into the town. The people here have the highest property taxes around, but no one complains because everyone’s doing well it seems like just for living here. You’d be surprised how many wealthy people reside here. Born and raised. We’ve got the best school system in the state, to boot.” “But those are all good things, aren’t they?” “You’d think so. As long as you tow the line.” Val shook her head with a rueful laugh. “But two years ago Lenny Rippy got highly annoyed, and quit asking me

to the Board. And my business has been going downhill ever since. Don’t ask me how they’re causing it. You know what I keep thinking—I hated to it it out loud, until today, with Lenny.” “What?” “I kept thinking of the Nazis. All that trouble—all that horror—and it was all the product basically of a single man. I hate to say it, I really do—but the biggest difference I see between Hitler when he was starting out and John Bath, is that Bath insists on staying behind the scenes.” Something Frank once read came to his mind: They come for the teachers first. Gwen was a teacher. So was Val’s father. “It was a while before I connected my business problems to John Bath and his Board,” Val went on. “But it just made me more stubborn. I’ll give up the store before I let someone force me to sign—I’ll give it up.”

Before leaving for the evening Frank made an attempt to get her to take a pistol from him. He wanted to give her the .380. He assured her he could teach her how to use it. But she wanted no part of it. “Thanks, but no. Artie’s got a couple of squirrel rifles around here someplace—but they wouldn’t be of any use to me, and neither would your gun. But thanks for worrying about me, Frank.” “Something does happen to you, it’s on my head,” he warned her. “I wish you wouldn’t feel that way. I’ll watch myself—and truthfully, why would anyone want to do me harm? For not selling out? For talking to you? It’s ridiculous.” He thought, this whole thing is ridiculous. “In the meantime, Frank, you be careful, too. Mike Albanese.” “No need to tell me that,” he promised. “One last time. There’s no way I can talk you into a nice vacation to the Bahamas? You can lay on the beach and drink gin

and read romance novels all day.” He said this completely serious. “Absolutely not,” she said, also serious. She held the door and he stepped out onto the porch. But he paused, scanning the surrounding trees, the bright moon low over the forest. He looked at her and asked, “Do you get over a loss, Val? Does it get easier?” His eyes were those of a wounded man. She took a breath before answering. “I don’t think you ever forget—I haven’t,” she told him. “But after a while you can the good things again. And you begin to sleep easier. It takes time, Frank.” He nodded with a sad smile. Then he was in his car and gone.

When she was alone she found her bravery replaced by a jittery case of nerves completely out of character for her. She checked the door and window locks no less than three times. And she took a good sharp carving knife to bed with her, placing it on the nightstand within easy reach. She lay in the dark with a quilt around her chin and tried not to jump at every sound from the night outside her bedroom. Ever since her childhood in the camps, her greatest fear was of dying alone, with no one to hold her hand or even mourn her. It had taken many years in Artie’s big arms for that terror to recede to where she hardly was aware of it—but it was always with her. And now she was alone again, and perhaps had a reason to be frightened, and all the old feelings were returning. Missing Artie she blinked back tears and hugged herself. Always the picture of health and vitality, her husband came down off the roof one hot day four summers back looking ashen. Insisting he was fine, he helped himself to a glass of Val’s iced tea, before deciding the pain in his chest was serious and asking her to drive him to the office of their local GP. He spent the short trip trying to allay her worries and even urged Doctor Trotter to reassure her as he was being hooked up to a heart monitor machine. Moments later he quietly lost consciousness while holding his wife’s hand. Val was made to leave the room while R was performed. Artie was gone fifteen minutes after their arrival at the office. He died as peacefully as any man could hope to.

She closed her eyes and waited for sleep. Trying to be brave.

CHAPTER NINE

Toby left a note on Rippy’s secretary’s desk as instructed, confirming that Frank Moore had indeed been seen at Val Newcombe’s house the previous evening. Toby figured the visitor to Haven was about to find himself feeling pretty unpopular pretty quickly. Downstairs he bid Warburton a nice day and after clocking out left the office. His garage apartment was only a few blocks from the Old Church and he enjoyed his early morning walks home after a night shift. The air was heavy with dew, unusual for this time of summer. The streets were quiet except for the singing of a bird here and there. A peaceful small-town morning. He heard an automobile approaching from behind and smiled, sensing Mallory. He feigned surprise when she beeped her horn to get his attention. Making a show of using one hand to shield his eyes against the morning sun, he bent and peered through the windshield at the car’s driver. She laughed through the open window. “Hi.” “Mallory.” He walked across the street, grinning. “I almost drew down on you. What are you doing up so early? You getting too much time off?” “I’m here to see you.” “Really?” Eyes wide, astonished. She laughed. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.” “Well—if you put it that way—” He walked around and slid into the enger’s seat, adjusting it for his long legs and buckling up. “Don’t you ever drive to work?” she asked, making a turn. “I like to walk. It’s good exercise.” “Yeah, and you need it, too,” she chuckled. “I guess Deputy Fife got to work

okay.” “On the dot.” “I’m going to ask him to sing Juanita. when Sheriff Taylor caught Barney singing to Juanita over the phone?” Toby cackled and slapped his knee, sarcastically. “It was funny, let me assure you,” she onished him. As she drove Toby fiddled with the stereo dial and she sensed immediately that he was nervous about what she was going to say. With butterflies in her own belly, she took a breath and let it out: “I want you to know, I don’t make a habit of groping men under tables and letting them speak French on our first date. Sorry if I gave you that impression.” Since their night at the bar they met largely in ing, exchanging a warm greeting or knowing glances. But to Mallory at least, it was not uncomfortable. She still intended to pursue him. The only thing worrying her was the image she might have left. “Look, I’ve been attracted to you for a long time. I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other. Or as much as I can, anyway, considering you don’t have a lot to say. It wasn’t the beer, I never let myself get out of control. And I’m not feeling suddenly insecure—I know you like me, too—you know, you can stop me at any time, I seem to be babbling here.” Confronted now with a pause that seemed to demand he speak, he lifted his head and with a shy grin asked, “So that was our first date?” She drew back, uncertain whether he was joking or being flirtatious or just naïve. She nodded, her brows raised. “Uh, yeah.” Toby smiled and met her eyes, knowing she wanted a response. “Okay, cool,” he said. But privately he was hesitant. His motive for going to the bar was to head off the plans being made for her. He’d not meant to get something started, despite how he felt about her. Or maybe he had—he was in a quandary. He had never been in this position before.

Surprised but satisfied that was all she was going to get, she broached the subject of Hopewell’s altercation with Frank Moore the day before. To her Moore was anything but addled—she recognized a man on top of his game, and she suspected he was going to ruffle some feathers before going home. She hinted that the Sheriff had let Moore make him lose his professional demeanor, thereby getting the better of him. Mallory carefully skirted the issue of how the accident report was handled—Toby was first at the scene, and she didn’t want to offend him. He offered no opinion on what happened. She pulled into his driveway. “Come here.” She pulled him close by the collar and kissed him, hard, her lips parting just slightly against his.

Val Newcombe prepared a breakfast of toast and juice. She felt terrible. There were no disturbances in the night, no mysterious noises at the window or creaking on the porch, but she had not been able to quiet her worried mind. She’d gotten very little sleep. She considered leaving the store closed today, a Saturday, but made herself get out of bed and dress for work. The first time she gave in to the urge to stay home, then the second time would be even more difficult to ignore. And then you find yourself giving up, and you might as well lie down and wait to die. Before leaving the house she took some pain medication for her arthritis, and called her lawyer. She knew Gwen McVie had taken a dislike to Bill Painter, and with everything else going on Val had to it that her friend’s reasons might have been valid. But the man had been the Newcombe’s attorney off and on for forty years and that had to count for something. She told Painter what she’d been thinking. He was a bit shocked. “This is sudden, Val. Are you all right?” He was worried, she knew, that her doctor had given her some sort of bad news. “I’m fine. It’s nothing like that, Bill.” “What about Artie’s cousin, in New York?” “The only reason we chose him was that he was all the family we had—I want to do this. Stephen’s the closest family I have now.”

“Well, all right. Certainly it’s no problem. I’ll have Ruth draw up the papers this morning.” “Thanks, Bill. I’ll see you this afternoon. Tell Pat hello.” She hung up feeling good about her decision. Stephen loved the store, she knew that. In the event he wouldn’t or couldn’t run it (or if it was so deeply in the red that he wanted no part of it), he should be able to liquidate it pretty easily. She felt better about life in general, knowing for sure that part of her would be left behind in case she was gone. Even if Stephen didn’t want the store, she knew the gesture would mean a lot to him.

Frank sipped his morning coffee and stared out the front room window, eyeing his daughter’s house, silent as if waiting for its owners to return home. He needed to get in there and do a good job of snooping, find whatever he could about what was going on in this town. But he dreaded the prospect. First of all he had no idea where to start. And second, the idea of invading the dead couple’s privacy further was distasteful. He checked his watch and decided it was late enough in the morning to make the call. He dialed long distance, the number in Maine for Trina Albanese. He found it in Gwen’s address book. No answer. He left a message with his name and cell number. Then he called Val at the Book Cellar.

“Nice to see you, Frank.” “You too. Any trouble last night?” Smiling, Frank took a good look through the store window at the Sheriff’s office across the street. He’d byed it, deciding he was not in the mood to deal with Haven’s cops at this time. “None,” Val said, returning his smile. She followed his gaze, knowing what he was looking at. “Didn’t sleep well, though.” Frank turned his attention back to her, concerned. “Oh? You sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine,” she promised. “Just jittery. Old age. You know.” “Yeah,” he commiserated. “So. You ready for lunch?” “I’m locking up,” she told him. “Haven’t had a customer all morning. I’m gonna take the rest of the day off.” “Good for you.” “But I need to stop by my lawyer’s office and sign some papers. It’s just down the street. Then we can go eat.” “No problem. Let’s skidaddle.” She laughed at the phrase, shouldering her handbag. He waited and held the door for her as she turned out the lights.

“I think Bill was just too close to Haven,” she replied later to Frank’s question. “I’m afraid Gwen was put off by everything about this place.” Frank nodded. Leigh Edmundson said much the same thing about the attorney. They’d had a nice lunch at the Golden Tavern, eating on the patio outside. It was a beautiful sunny day. Beneath the awning they ate salads and soup with hot chicken sandwiches. Afterwards Val asked him to drive her out to Haven Memorial Gardens, the town’s largest cemetery. She wanted to show him her

husband’s resting place. It was located on the outskirts north of town, affording a wonderful view of the White Mountains. The property was adorned with rambling stone walls on which you could sit in repose beneath shade trees or out in the sun. Here and there people were doing just that, sometimes reading a book or newspaper, or sitting with a companion in low conversation, relaxed in the cemetery’s peace and quiet. The gravestones were varied and impressive. There was everything from the familiar polished slabs of marble, mainly over newer graves, to white stone crosses and Stars of David, to mausoleums and beautiful statuary. In places the markers were so old that the inscriptions were long since gone, erased by the elements. “How long has this place been around?” Frank asked, following Val along a winding stone walkway. “Oh, I don’t know. Some of these graves have been around forever though. Two, three hundred years.” Frank grunted, impressed. He eyed a mausoleum of marble and green bronze, the latticed door topped by a grinning face that seemed more demonic than angelic. “You’ll see a bit of everything here,” Val said, noticing his attention. “Here we are,” she said, a bit out of breath. She bent and brushed some wind-blown twigs from her husband’s headstone. It was dark gray marble, polished like a mirror, straddling two grave plots, Artie’s (Stuart Aaron was his name) and the other reserved for Val. A small American flag hung from a staff attached to the tombstone. “Artie always displayed Old Glory on the front of the house,” Val said, proudly. “After 9/11 happened, I started leaving a flag here with him.” “This is a nice place, Val.” “I wish you could’ve met him, Frank. He would’ve liked you. You remind me of him.”

“Well don’t get any ideas, I’m spoken for,” Frank cautioned, and was rewarded with her infectious laugh. “His parents and grandparents are up the path there. His whole family is here. Our family.” She looked at him and smiled, wanting to show him her words were not coming from sadness. “It’s a great comfort to me, this place.” Frank nodded, returning her smile. He watched her fuss over the stone, adjusting the little flag, marveling at her genuinely happy demeanor. “Artie. Big ol’ bear,” she said as if her husband was right there with them. Frank thought of the grave down in Georgia and mentally kicked himself for not having already visited it. Maybe it would comfort him like this cemetery did for Val. But the hope was faint. “I believe our loved ones are always with us, Frank. Not exactly the way I was brought up, but—” She shrugged, grinning, squinting one eye against the sunlight. “When Artie ed his family, and mine too, were there waiting for him. When it’s my time, he’ll be there for me too.” She watched Frank for his reaction to what she’d just said. “Was Gwen a spiritual person?” he asked, uncomfortable that he didn’t know. “She and Ray were good Catholics. They went to Mass in Whitestone.” “I’m afraid I’m not,” Frank itted. “Well, you’re not the only one,” Val said with a little laugh. She stood with Frank assisting by touching her elbow. “But don’t you worry, Frank. Gwen is just fine now. And a part of her will always be with us.” He did not comment, but took solace in the fact that Val, and hopefully Gwen’s mother, found comfort in their faiths. Frank only had faith in what he could hold in his two hands. He supposed he was the loser in that regard. Val led him back down the path to the car. As they walked, enjoying the statuary and the sunshine, she said, “I’ve had a thought. Do you have to be anywhere?”

“Not in particular,” he said, thinking of his cell phone. Trina Albanese had not yet returned his call. He wanted to visit Kanaly’s wreck yard again and take another look at the car. The visit to Gwen’s school would have to wait until Monday. “Let’s head back to town,” Val suggested.

Frank gazed transfixed as his daughter laughed, dark eyes twinkling, put her smooth hands together in a round of applause, and turned her head to speak to a friend. She was happy. She was alive. “I thought you’d like this,” Val said from the seat next to him. He said nothing, a sad smile touching the corners of his mouth. They were in the Haven Public Library, only a couple of blocks from the Old Church. Most of the facility was new, having been built onto the original structure only five years before. The Library housed not only books, but updated personal computers for the use of the patrons as well as newspapers and periodicals on disc. There was a special section filled with catalogued collections of video recordings taken by Haven’s Historical Society, along with personal home video and even television news reports all documenting public events in the town. This too had been transferred to disc and all it required was the help of a Library volunteer to access the correct directory and choose a video clip. That’s how Frank came to be watching a recording of a talent show at Haven Elementary from the year before in which Gwen was in attendance to watch her students. Val told him Gwen once brought her to see the recording and show the kids off. “The twin girls are Ashley and Trudy Walter. Gwen doted on them,” Val pointed out. The girls were maybe seven, in little yellow raincoats with hats and umbrellas, dancing to a PA system recording of Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head while lighting tricks created the illusion of a thunder shower on stage. The roving videographer let his lens play over the crowd in attendance all during the performance, and that’s when Gwen could be seen. Sitting in the front row with

her friend. The microphone even picked up her laugh more than once. “Gwen,” Frank murmured. He looked over at Val, his eyes large, grateful. His daughter applauded energetically, rising to her feet, again turning her face to speak to her companion. “That woman? Do you know her?” “Gwen mentioned her, but I don’t recall the name. They were friends.” “Was she a teacher too?” “I think so. I know she worked for the school, anyway.” After a couple more performances and the bestowing of awards, the tape was over and Frank asked to watch it again.

“They’re here now. No, they’re just watching tapes,” Clay Hardy replied to the speaker on the other end of the phone. “Well, I’m glad you called. Let me know if they do anything else.” “No problem, Leonard.” “See you, Clayton. Say hello to Mattie.” “I will, thanks.” Hardy replaced the receiver and cleaned his glasses with a napkin, then peered at the two visitors sitting at the computer. He’d known Val Newcombe for four decades, she and Artie had donated books and money to the library in years past. Of course he’d not spoken a polite word to her in over a year, but that was her fault. And now here she was, showing this nosy stranger around town like he was family. Hardy tried to occupy himself with replacing returned books. It was slow today and he had little to do, and the presence of Val and her companion annoyed him greatly. He was tempted to purposely interrupt the two of them—perhaps claim he had to close early—but he resisted the urge. Nothing was to be gained by antagonizing the stranger further, much as he wanted to.

“Val, I don’t know what to say.“ “I’m glad I thought of it.” She could tell he was very moved by the experience. She promised him that she would see he got a copy of the recording. “You’re right. She was beautiful,” Frank said, nodding to himself. “She was a knock-out.” “Well.” He downed the last of his tea, the ice cubes tinkling, and gave the glass back. He held the door for her as she carried the serving tray into the house. He leaned on the porch rail and turned his face into the breeze, his eyes closed, ing his daughter’s face. It was early evening. The sun’s rays could still be seen on the tops of the mountains over the town. Val stepped back out onto the porch and ed him. “It was a nice day.” “It was. But I’m still worried, Val. Parading me around town like that, that’s just rubbing it in their faces.” She pulled her sweater around her, shaking her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Nothing happened last night.” “I wish you’d let me buy you a ticket out of here for a while.” “Thanks, but no thanks. What’s on the agenda for you now?” “I’m going by Kanaly’s, I just want one more look at that car,” he told her. “I want a paint scraping, just to make sure in case something happens to it.” He also wanted to look for any sign of a handgun having been in the vehicle—his initial viewing of the car was so emotional for him that he had forgotten. “And then?” “Well, tomorrow’s Sunday so I guess I’ll take a day off. Monday I’m going to the school. I wanted to talk to some of Gwen’s co-workers. And now I’d like to see her friend from the video, too.”

“You need to call your girl too, Frank. Lori, is it?” He laughed, nodding, guiltily. “Yeah, I will.” “Well don’t forget.” “I guess I’d better get along then.” Hands on his hips, he looked at his new friend and once again searched for words to thank her. “No need,” she said, smiling, dismissing with a wave of her hand. “It’s not just for today, Val. It’s for being there for Gwen.” She considered her words for a moment and said, “Frank, I hope you know that Gwen never had any regrets about her life. When she spoke of you, it was as if she was still a little girl, and you were her daddy, tall and strong, both of you frozen in her memory.” “I should’ve found a way to be there,” he said. But it wasn’t guilt that gnawed at him. Just a sense of lost opportunity. “I suppose I thought there was time.” He shook his head, amazed at his own foolishness. “She was a happy woman,” Val assured him. Meeting his eyes, she promised, “Gwen did not feel abandoned by her father. You were her hero. To her, you did what you had to do to see that she was safe and happy. She knew you loved her.” I hope you’re right, he told himself.

He thought it was too late in the day to catch George Kanaly at his wreck yard and was surprised to see a light on in the office as he pulled up. The CLOSED sign was in the window, though an automobile was parked out front. He knocked on the door twice and got no answer. Troubled but not knowing why, he walked past the office to the sliding chain link gate that itted into the wreck yard and found it padlocked. “Hello? Can I help you?” Startled that someone was behind him, he turned in a hurry. A man was standing at the corner of the building, watching him. “Oh, hi. I was hoping to catch Mister Kanaly in.” “I’m Drew Pernell, his son-in-law. He’s not here.” “Will he be in tomorrow?” Frank asked. Something about the man’s demeanor was strange. “No, he won’t. What was your name?” “Frank. I was hoping to get a look at a wrecked car he has. I was here yesterday.” Pernell seemed to size Frank up for a moment. Then he relaxed, his shoulders drooping. “Okay. Look, George had a stroke last night. He’s in the hospital.” Frank’s mouth opened, surprised. “I’m sorry. Is it bad?” “I’m afraid it is. If you’re here for the car that couple died in, it’s gone. They hauled it off yesterday afternoon.” Now Frank wasn’t just surprised, he was shocked. And mad. “They? Who did?” “I don’t know—my wife said George was complaining about it. Some other wrecking company I guess. Look, I have to go. I just came by for some insurance records.” “Sure.” Frank stood silent as the man locked up the office and left in his car

without another word or a glance. Then Frank took a flashlight from his truck and turned back towards the locked gate. It was getting dark. Kanaly dropping from a stroke was rotten luck, but the car being taken away was definitely suspicious—reeking suspicious. Frank felt like he’d taken a punch in the gut. His brow knitted as he inspected the heavy lock, and then jimmied it open in the space of a second with a flat customized multi-tool on his keychain. Old habits died hard and he was always prepared. He pulled the chain from the gate and went inside. Maybe the car was still there. Maybe it was a lie. Or maybe something was left behind, something he could use. Leaving the glow of the security lamps he clicked on the flashlight and followed the gravel path with the bright beam. The hulks of stacked automobiles and other junk rose around him like twisted rock formations in the dark. He heard a noise and turned the beam to his right to see the dog from the day before. Its eyes reflected the light and it stared a moment before wagging its tail expectantly. “Jimbo. How you doing, boy?” After deciding the dog meant him no harm, Frank forgot about it and moved on. Retracing his steps from memory, he came to the place where Gwen’s smashed car had been, but now there was only a bare spot of gravel and dirt and bits of broken automotive glass. Frank swore bitterly to himself, sinking to one knee. He tried to suppress the murderous rage that threatened to engulf him. Who’d taken it? Hopewell? No, but he’d probably seen to it. Or someone above the Sheriff. He scooped up a fistful of oily dirt and looked at it in the light beam, letting it spill through his fingers, consciously controlling his breathing and his anger. A timid whimper from close by. Frank reached out and stroked the dog’s neck, thinking of the mutt’s fallen owner and feeling sorry for it. The canine’s presence helped to cool him off. “There, there, Jimbo. It’s okay, buddy.” The dog licked his chin, tail wagging.

Frank hoped Kanaly’s family wouldn’t forget about it.

He got in that night and ed to check his voicemail. Mike Albanese’s wife had not returned his call. He would try the woman again in the morning. He checked in with Lori. The phone call troubled her—he was sullen and uncommunicative, still thinking of the damned car and the bastards who’d taken it. He didn’t go into details with her but the brief conversation made him feel a little better, even though the same effect was not had on her. After the call he paced for a while and drank a beer. He was by nature a careful man, not one to act out of anger, and right now, he was plenty angry. He kept telling himself that conspiracies really only happened in paperback novels and he needed to clear his head, he couldn’t think properly when he was in this state. But sure as hell it looked as if Gwen’s death had been the result of some kind of plot, or at least the circumstances were being covered up, and it seemed several people had to be in on it. The car, being spirited away like that right after he saw it—that couldn’t be a fluke. Something was going on. A good hot shower and he finally lay down, beginning to relax at last. He put a forearm over his eyes, and began to drift off. His dreams were of Gwen, her smiling face from the school video.

The next morning he was up early and ravenous, having skipped supper the previous evening. After a breakfast of eggs with toast and bacon, he sipped coffee and tried Trina Albanese again. No answer, but this time he left more than his name and number. “Mrs. Albanese, this is Frank Moore again. I’d like to talk to you about your husband, I’m a friend of Ray and Gwen McVie’s, I’m in Haven. Please call me back.” He left the number of the guest house. No sooner had he hung up the receiver than the phone rang. “Yeah.” “Frank Moore? It’s Trina Albanese—Mike’s wife?”

“Oh, Mrs. Albanese. I’m sorry.” The woman sounded young and timid—Frank could hear the ragged nerves in her voice. She was probably still getting over the loss of her husband. “Thanks for calling back.” “I’m sorry, I’m careful about screening my calls. You’re a friend of Ray and Gwen’s?” “Well, actually I’m a friend of the family’s. I’m looking into the crash, and your husband’s name came up—” “Crash? What crash?” Her voice had risen and Frank realized she didn’t know. “What happened?” Stark panic in her voice now. Frank sighed, to calm both of them. “I’m sorry, I thought you must already know. There was a car accident last week. They both died.” “Oh, God—Ray and Gwen? Oh, no—God—” The woman was unable to speak for the next several seconds. Frank heard her stifle painful sobs. It sounded as if her heart was being pulled from her chest. “Mrs. Albanese—I’m sorry to dump that on you. I assumed you knew.” “It’s—okay—just a minute, please.” Feeling terrible, he heard her lay the receiver down and then there was the voice of a small child, probably a little girl, alarmed, and the woman was consoling her, telling her everything was all right. After almost two minutes she was back on the line. “I’m okay now,” she said, sniffling. “Look, I’m sorry. Why don’t I call you back in a while?” he suggested. “No, I’m okay. And call me Trina. Who are you, Frank?” “Gwen’s family sent me to find out what happened.” “What did happen? I haven’t been paying much attention to the papers.”

He gave her a brief description of the accident, leaving out all the painful details he’d discovered. She took the ball from him immediately. “You think this might have something to do with Mike?” Her directness caught him by surprise. “Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out.” “Is there anything suspicious about the crash?” she asked bluntly. “There are some things I have questions about.” “Where are you from, Frank?” He wondered what that mattered. “Ohio.” He almost unthinkingly answered Chicago. “Can you come to Bridgton? I don’t want to talk on the phone.” He told her Absolutely, took down her address. She said she would be home all day and would be expecting him. “Did you know Gwen?” she asked. “Not since she was a little girl,” he said. “God!” she blurted with a sudden sob. A moment followed before she could speak. “They were so good to me, after Mike. I can’t believe this is happening.” Frank said again how sorry he was for telling her like this, assured her he was on his way and hung up. He made a call to Val to check in, fished one of Lori’s state road maps out of the Chevy’s glove compartment, and headed out.

CHAPTER TEN

Stephen’s computer woke him at seven as always. He maneuvered himself into his wheelchair and from there into his bathroom, where he undressed and mounted the stool built into the shower. Breakfast was waiting for him at the kitchen table. “Thanks, Mom.” Elaine Wilkes was a devoted mother to three doting children. “Feeling better?” she asked, cleaning toast crumbs from the counter top. “Your soup did the trick,” he answered after a drink of cold orange juice to wash down his vitamins. “You should stay in today.” “Well, I was going to spend some time at the store, do a little work for Val. But I may stay in. I’ve got some things to do.” This, his family knew, meant things on the computer. Stephen was running a thriving Internet business and he enjoyed the time he devoted to it. “Let me know if you do need to go out, I’ll drive you.” “Okay.” Stephen owned an SUV specially equipped for his driving needs, but he didn’t mind hitching a ride, especially with his mother. “How’s Dad feeling?” The previous night, his father had mentioned a tickle in his throat that sounded to Stephen like the first stages of his own malady—probably, he’d ed it on to his dad. “He’s fine—he’s always been a hypochondriac, you know that.” Stephen stopped by Donnie’s room and knocked lightly on the door. His older sibling worked the third shift in a department store warehouse in Whitestone and often slept till noon or later. His brother did not stir and Stephen went on to his own room.

He levered himself from his wheelchair onto the work stool he used at his computer desk. It was specially made with a flip-down rail and rollers giving him mobility and reach for his work area, as well as easy access to the model train set which took up an entire third of his room. His network was up and waiting for him. He accessed the primary system and checked his new website for hits, pleased by what he found—and it wasn’t even 8 in the morning. YourBiggestFan.com was his third site, the second dealing with Hollywood and entertainment news. His first site started out two years before as a pop culture chat room and took off quickly. If his newest attracted browsers and rs like his previous projects, he was expecting to be fairly wealthy in the next couple of years. He checked in with his correspondents. He was in with five regular suppliers of reliable entertainment news for his sites, two in New York City, two in Los Angeles, and one, an aggressive young lady who was a fangeek just like him, in London, England. He’d never met any of his people—that’s how he referred to them in his own mind, they were well paid and he wouldn’t be surprised if they thought of themselves that way as well—but he knew their faces (their photos accompanied their bylines). Vera, the Brit, was even now supplying him with a steady stream of information on George Lucas’s newest project now filming on a soundstage in London. That girl had a knack for getting where no one else was allowed, and managing to do it while remaining in good standing with those she reported on. That was important to Stephen—he refused to run a tabloid gossip rag. These people were celebrities and their lives were public fodder, but Stephen believed you could draw more flies with honey than vinegar. It was a balancing act, reporting this stuff and attracting an audience without stooping to the lowest level, but he managed to do it by being honest, keeping his word and his confidences at all times, and trying very hard to be positive. Even when ing on the most glaring celebrity faux pas—the young star busted yet again for drug possession perhaps—he always ran a complimentary piece about that same celeb’s charity involvement, or the remarkable body of work compiled. These strict guidelines caused his enterprises to have sluggish if steady returns—as a rule, stargazers were more interested in sludge than sterling—but once his name got around, things began to take off. His web sites also allowed him to make incredible acquaintances. For a couple of years now he had enjoyed a casual friendship with his idol, actor Sidney

Poitier. And that led just recently to an email correspondence with Clint Eastwood, who was preparing to direct Kurt Russell and Mr. Poitier in a sequel to The Outlaw Josey Wales. After setting up the latest newsflash from London for the site, he checked his email and sent a brief message to FJAbuddy, the online shopper he believed was going to buy Val’s magazine collection, and a note to the agent of legendary biker-actor William Smith, who was slated for an interview. He also sent a reply to a New England security company seeking him as a White Hat computer consultant. He told them he would consider their offer but it would be at least a week—it had been a while since he’d done that kind of work but it was interesting, and it was good money. He then took time out to give Val a call and say hello, while he looked in on Wall Street to see how his investments were doing.

Leonard Rippy seldom took even Sundays off, enjoying his work more than anything else in his life (including his time with Natalie), but this morning he had relented and come to work in casual shirt and slacks, no tie. He sipped coffee in his office going through his email and found a message from Shan: Kanaly in the hospital. Outlook dim. He ed that on to Sheriff Hopewell, then composed a short message for Miller, asking that an update be sent to him by the end of the day. Leonard was feeling energetic. He’d thrown himself on his sword for the Doctor over his slip of the tongue with Val Newcombe and was relieved that it was considered a small matter. Even this troublemaker, Moore, seemed paltry in the Doctor’s view. Hopewell was still having a hard time relaxing over the unwelcome visitor, though. Val Newcombe—Doctor Bath’s orders were to simply keep an eye on her. Doctor Bath was always completely in control. Even Rippy panicked when that reporter was snooping around—all he could think of was how it was all going to come crashing down, everything they worked so hard to build. But Albanese dropped from the stage without so much as a ripple in the water. Even when they found his body. Rippy knew, he was just a worry-wart, probably even more than Hopewell.

Frank had no trouble finding Trina Albanese’s house from her directions. There was no peeling paint or broken shutters, but the place just appeared—dreary, Frank thought. Depressed. The fenced-in yard didn’t help, it was ragged, needed mowing and a little care, splotchy with weeds. The whole scene was an unhappy one. Mrs. Albanese was maybe 25 (Gwen’s age, Frank told himself with a pang), but looked ten years older. She had strawberry-blonde hair that was almost certainly beautiful when she took care of it. She seemed used up. The lines around her blue eyes spoke volumes. She was a wife too young to be a widow. She met him as warmly as she was able, holding the screen door for him to enter. The house was cluttered with children’s toys but it was clean. The interior like the outside, even the furniture and the walls themselves, spoke of sadness and grief. After the uncomfortable introductions he sat on the sofa, wondering where the little girl was. The woman sat in an overstuffed recliner across the coffee table from him, drawing her bare feet beneath her. She seemed a person who’d survived a terrible beating. Her body language was defensive, even when she asked if he’d like something to drink. He politely declined. She began by asking him to confirm that there was something suspicious about the crash, watching his eyes with an almost dread. He told her that he believed so and she went on without prying for details. “I only met Gwen and Ray a couple of times while Mike was alive, but he talked to them a lot,” she explained. “He met them in college, in Georgia—Mike was there on a scholarship.” “Did you go there?” Frank asked. She shook her head with a sad smile and a loop of hair came loose from her pony tail, falling over one eye. “No, Mike and I were sweethearts when we were kids here in Bridgton. He stole my heart with his sense of humor. He was the funniest man I’ve ever met.” She was smiling, sad, her eyes wistful. Frank knew recent events had taken a toll on her, it was obvious. He ired a

portrait of the little family on the end table beneath a lamp: the young blond husband, the little girl just beginning to sit up with her father’s eyes and hair, the wife and mother, happy, glowing. A far cry from the tired shell-shocked woman sitting across from him now. “That was taken not long before Mike disappeared,” Trina explained. “After, Gwen and Ray and I got close. They gave me shoulders to cry on, and I did plenty. I feel a little guilty. I was jealous of them.” “No need to feel guilty,” Frank told her. “You were going through a bad time.” “When he was found and we had the funeral, Gwen invited me to bring Karen and stay a few days. I didn’t, at first—I thought I needed to get used to being here without Mike. But later we did go, for Karen. I wasn’t adjusting too well. Karen had a great time. Ray and Gwen, they would’ve made great—” She stopped abruptly. Maybe she saw something, a flinch, in his eyes, he thought. He just waited until she continued, after chewing on her lower lip reflectively. “The last few weeks, Gwen, especially, wasn’t acting right. She wouldn’t go into details, but I knew there was something going on with her. I had a bad feeling maybe it had to do with Mike.” “She wasn’t telling anyone anything,” Frank explained. “Maybe she thought it was dangerous.” “Yep. That was Gwen,” Trina said, her eyes misty. “Can’t believe they’re gone. “Mike was antsy, too, the last few days before he went missing. I’d never seen him act like that. One night I jumped his case, accused him of having a girlfriend —I made a kind of joke of it, but part of me was afraid it might be true.” She shook her head miserably, looking away. “Sure wish I hadn’t done that.” She glanced back and answered Frank’s unspoken question. “No, I never for a second thought he’d left us for another woman. That wasn’t in Mike, if you’d seen how he was with Karen—and with me. I knew he was dead. I just did.” “They thought he might have gone hiking?” She snorted. “They just threw that out there for an excuse. He did like to run and hike, but they couldn’t figure out what happened. And his car was never found.

The police have told me the case is still open, officially. And he’d never been up in that reserve, never far as I knew.” She paused again, watching him closely, and said, “I don’t want to mention any names, Mr. Moore—” “Frank.” “No names, Frank. It seems to me that people who drop certain names don’t live very long.” Frank nodded, stunned, wondering what she knew that he didn’t. “It’s not myself I’m afraid for. I have a child.” “Don’t worry about it,” he insisted, thinking of his own daughter. She took a breath, appeared to steel herself, and began. “Mike was interested in the disappearances of children in the New England area, he began to research it for a story, and found Haven wasn’t part of the statistics. He wanted to see what they were doing different—but I think that actually he spotted a pattern and suspected some kind of serial-kidnapper was operating out of Haven going after kids in surrounding towns.” “He didn’t actually tell you this?” “Oh, no. But every once in a while I got a look at his research when he left it lying around—I could tell he was making lists, lists of missing kids, of common clues. Mike was very big on statistics. He made a lot of use of his computer. I think he went to Haven on the trail of something.” Frank made a mental note about those common clues. “It was when he got to Haven, that he found something—someone—much more interesting.” Frank nodded, watching her intently, letting her know he was following her. “He made no bones about his new interest,” she said. “The man was a public figure. As far as I know, if Mike found any connection at all between his original

story and—this new one, he kept it to himself. Except for maybe Gwen and Ray. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn’t. I think they suspected. And there was another man, a retired cop named Harry Cistern, here in Bridgton. Harry was a kind of private dick. Mike used him sometimes. Harry disappeared about the same time as Mike. They never have found him. I heard from the police his secretary won’t even talk about him.” Frank took this bit of news without comment, memorizing the name. “I didn’t find out till he was gone that Mike’s editor, Mel Spritzer, was getting a lot of pressure from half-a-dozen different directions to make Mike stop what he was doing—this was after he’d switched what he was asking about, you know. Mel Spritzer was like a news legend—a bare-knuckle son-of-a-bitch, that’s what Mike called him more than once. No more than two days after Mike went missing, Mel dropped dead of a sudden heart attack.” She paused to let that sink in, and went on. “Soon as the new editor—I won’t mention his name—took over, practically with Mel’s body not even cold, I start getting calls from the paper to turn over Mike’s research, his files, everything he worked on. When I didn’t do that quick enough—I was trying to find a way to tell them Hell no—that editor calls me personally and threatens me with legal action if I don’t turn it all over immediately. He told me Mike was an employee of the paper, everything he worked on belonged to them. Well, Frank, it wasn’t just the threats—even though I didn’t have a dime to hire a lawyer, Mike was only missing at the time, all I had was our savings—but the whole thing, it was scary, the way they came after me. I gave it all to them. “After, Mel’s long-time secretary gave me a call and filled me in. She said the pressure on Mel to stop Mike, even to fire him, came close to threats of violence. This was coming from the paper’s owner, and from a couple of bigwigs in the state capitol and even Washington D.C. She said the more harassment Mel got the more pissed he was, and the more he told Mike to dig in. Mel told them all to go get screwed—his words, the woman said—he was the editor, Mike worked for him, and he dared them to do something about it. But then Mike was gone. And Mel was dead.” “And the new editor was doing what he was told,” Frank finished. He couldn’t believe the way bodies were piling up. And he couldn’t help but think of George Kanaly.

“This Mel Spritzer, his death wasn’t suspicious?” “Just one of those things,” Trina said with a helpless shrug, the worry on her face indicating anything but. “Out of the blue.” Frank lowered his head, thinking. He’d have given anything for a look at Mike Albanese’s research. Gwen’s computer—was she savvy enough to have hidden something important there? If so, how could he find it? His own computer skills were just ing. “The funny thing is, “ Trina continued, though her listener seemed to be barely paying attention, “I never did find Mike’s notebook, the one for his last story. He kept notebooks crammed with notations, references, all in shorthand. He would use that to write his stories on computer disc.” Frank’s head snapped up, sensing she was about to give him something. “I turned everything else over to the paper, and they left me alone. Maybe no one else knew about his notebook.” “Except you,” Frank said. “That’s right,” she said, with a somber nod. “It wasn’t in the house. Maybe he had it with him when—whatever happened, happened. But after he disappeared, a couple of days—this came in the mail.” She leaned forward and put a small silver key on the coffee table. She’d been clutching it in her fist the whole time. Frank stared at it. “It’s the key to a bus station locker.” Frank picked it up. The metal was warm, almost hot, from her hand. “Mike and Harry, they had this system, for emergencies. They used a locker at the bus depot to information. Mike called it a dead drop.” Smart. Smart man, Frank thought to himself. He eyed the key, noting its number: 42. “The envelope was addressed in Mike’s handwriting. No note. I think he sent it to himself. I’ve been afraid to fool with it. If you find anything I should have, I’d appreciate you getting it to me,” she was saying. “If it’s his notes—use them, Frank.”

“You can count on it,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I want you and your baby out of town.” “No—” she began to protest., but he was ready. “No arguments. Is there a place you can go?” “I have a brother, in Connecticut.” “That should do, for starters. I’ll get you enough cash to get you far away from here. I’m doing this to protect your lives, and my peace of mind,” he cautioned her. “Go to your brother, then all of you go on a vacation—Disneyland or whatever, I don’t care. Just disappear. I’m afraid one person may already be in some kind of danger from my digging around, I don’t want another. You’ll have my number if you need me.” He stood, grasping the precious key firmly in his fist. “How long? How long is this going to be?” she asked, eyes wide like saucers. “I can’t say. I think the bad guys are going to have their hands full with me—but I’ve got a lot more to learn, before I can end this.” She stared hard at her visitor, awe-struck. His words were chilling, spoken thoughts actually, a declaration to himself. His mouth was a grim line, but with the hint of amusement at one corner—and his eyes were icy blue slits. End it? she asked herself. There was no mistaking his meaning. And then he did smile—a cold, mirthless smile. “There’s trouble coming,” he told her, looking at her, but still talking as if to himself. “These guys must play rough. But I can do that too.”

He wanted to know first who was involved with what. Everyone and anyone responsible for Gwen was worm-food, he promised himself. But there was something much bigger, and much more terrible, going on. He wanted to find out everything he could, and then bring it all down. He was going to burn them, just as Marie said. Burn them all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’ve been up by the house twice. He’s been gone all day,” Syd Warburton said, chewing his gum. “He’s not been in town,” Hopewell added. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” Rippy said, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. “Where could he be?” “What’s the big deal?” Warburton asked with a shrug. “He hasn’t left. His stuff’s still in the guest house. He’ll be back.” “Is Doctor Bath worried about him?” Hopewell asked, his mouth turned down with concern. Realizing his attitude was affecting his men—and wondering where his carefree mood from earlier in the day had gone—Rippy gave the Sheriff a confident grin. “Doctor Bath doesn’t worry,” he said, “I do it for him. This Moore is just a minor pain-in-the-neck, nothing more. But we don’t want this getting out of control, with the Solstice coming up. We’ve got more important fish to fry.” “What do you want to do?” the Sheriff asked him. “What I’d very much like is for this man to go home to Ohio. But I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Alan. Have the Hendersons come see me tonight. Doctor Bath is sending them on a little excursion.” “Victor too.” “Victor too, yes. We’ll just let Moore know his presence is being noticed. Maybe he’ll take the hint.” “About time,” Hopewell breathed. “Want me to mess with him? When he shows up in town?” Warburton inquired.

Rippy was not the sort, or he’d have laughed in the gangly deputy’s face. “If you see him, call me. We’ll see. Listen, all of you—don’t lose your cool with Moore. The situation hasn’t gotten to the point yet that we can’t save it without a major blow-up.” Later, Rippy would regret not being a bit more specific with Warburton. But Syd wasn’t up to facing Moore, at least not while employing any finesse, and he assumed that the deputy was aware, deep down, of his own limitations as well. “Toby, you have anything to add?” Leonard felt uncomfortable in Vint’s presence. He was unable to fully trust him as the Doctor did. Rippy knew the big deputy had perceptions, intuition, that could be invaluable when utilized properly—the trick was getting the man to divulge what he knew. Toby just shook his head wordlessly and Rippy shifted his attention back to Hopewell. “Once again, you’ve found nothing of interest?” “We’ve gone back ten years, and zip,” the Sheriff said. “Moore owns a bar with his girlfriend in Dayton, has a lot of cops for buddies, and that’s about it. He has no kids—hers are grown. If there’s a connection between either of them and the school teacher and her husband, I can’t find it.” “Well he sure seems determined on this,” Rippy pointed out, looking to them all for an explanation. They just looked away, except for Vint, who still said nothing. “You’re telling me?” Hopewell sputtered defensively. “Over at George’s, he was giving me this look like it was his own children dead.” The notion formed in Rippy, spurred by Hopewell’s comment—maybe it was the McVies, not Moore, bearing a much closer look. But before he could give voice to the idea, Warburton interrupted his chain of thought by saying, “Moore thinks he’s a tough guy. Give him an inch, and he’ll take enough to get himself arrested, or even worse—I guarantee it.” Leonard was impressed. A good observation, from an individual to whom they were rare indeed. And get Moore caged—if they could do that without a fuss, they could get rid of him. Quietly. If they had to. “That’s a thought, Syd. We need to keep that in mind,” he told the Sheriff.

“You want to do anything about Newcombe?” Warburton asked—encouraged perhaps by his flash of insight. “Val is harmless enough. We leave her alone, for now,” Rippy replied. With nothing more to be said, he dismissed them. Rippy gave Vint a curt nod and got one in return. The tall deputy had not said a single word the entire meeting. Not for the first time, Rippy wondered what he was good for. Besides intimidation purposes. Oh, Toby could be hell on wheels at that.

“Hey, sweet thang,” Syd Warburton purred as he leaned low over Shan’s desk. “Syd. How ya doin?” Rippy’s beautiful assistant straightened in her chair—her blouse was habitually buttoned to the neck but Warburton had this way about him. Mister Busy-Eyes. “I’d be better, you’d meet me tonight. How about it? Golden Tavern—seventhirty?” “I don’t know. A little late for supper, don’t you think? I’m a working woman. And it’s past my bed time—I’m no spring chicken like you are.” Shan was not only considered the most beautiful woman in town, but the most mysterious. Anywhere between 40 and 50 years old, tall and slim, olive-skinned, with exotic violet eyes and flowing honey-colored hair, she favored starched pantsuits or ankle-length skirts with high-heeled boots accentuating her height. She kept her cuffs and collars buttoned, adding to her allure. As far as anyone other than Rippy knew, she did not socialize. “I’ll have you tucked in by ten, and that’s a promise.” Syd heard something sounding like a snicker and turned abruptly—Toby Vint was standing behind him with his face in an issue of National Geographic. He put a hand to his mouth to cover a low cough and looked at Syd apologetically. “Tickle in my throat,” he said. Syd Warburton had never known Toby Vint to laugh, much less snicker. He dismissed the towering deputy and turned his attention back to Shan, who knew a snicker when she heard one and was forced to suppress one of her own.

“You almost had her that time, Syd,” Toby commented as he accompanied his fellow deputy down from Rippy’s office. Syd shot the bigger man a suspicious look, thinking only for an instant that he detected sarcasm. He put it out of his mind. “I’m tenderizing her,” he assured his coworker. “Only a matter of time.” But then he caught Toby hiding a grin, and became angry. “I don’t see any ladies chasing you,” he said with a glower. “I’m saving myself for marriage.” “Sheeut. Good luck. You’ll need it, you—” Syd was suddenly conscious of the other’s greater size and obvious physical strength and the words died in his throat. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” Toby replied without inflection. Toby Vint was big and scary enough that Syd went to great lengths to keep on his good side. To smooth over his earlier tone, he said, “We ought to go on a double. Melissa probably has a friend.” “Well, I bet she appreciates your confidence in her. But no thanks.” “I offered. Hey, I was asking for Melissa too. We go out with Nick Walter and his wife sometimes, in fact, they’re gonna try to fix old Mallory up tonight. Not careful you’ll be the only one going stag.” This was meant to be a dig. “Your concern touches me.” Toby’s mind was suddenly on other things. “Hey, I don’t care. I like having Melissa all to myself,” Syd answered with a smirk. Toby grunted, thinking about Stacey Walter’s plans for Mallory. Warburton mistook his distraction for amusement: “What’s the joke?” he demanded, his temper blinding him to his fear of Vint.

Toby dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I was thinking of something else.” “Since when do you even have a sense of humor?” Warburton responded, not bothering to linger for an answer. He stepped aside to let the bigger man enter the Sheriff’s office first. The question caused Toby to pause. For the first time it dawned on him that he was changing. Warburton had to point it out to him, but it was true. Just the last few weeks. For the first time—in his life, actually. Why was that? He could think of only one answer. There was only one thing, one person in his life different, new. This—was a revelation. This was something important. There really was something in the wind. Mallory was on her way out when Stacey called and asked if she would like to come over to their house and have dinner. Jay Painter, the attorney’s son whom Mallory had dated in school, was going to be there. Mallory declined the offer, explaining she already had other plans. Stacey was disappointed—almost to the point of being annoyed—and pried for details but Mallory avoided explaining. There was some kind of energy going on between Toby and the Walters and she didn’t want to get into it. Stacey finally relented. “Okay then, another time?” She stopped on the way to Toby’s and bought a six-pack of beer and a twin bag of chips and took that and all her cheeseburger fixings into Toby’s place in a cardboard box. His converted garage-apartment was small and Spartanly simple. There was a comfy futon and a couple of beanbag chairs on a thick carpet in front of a small television on a stand. No VCR or DVD machine, only a boom box CD player. No family photographs anywhere. An oil painting of a flaming bird awash in bright tongues of orange and yellow and red hung on the wall. Over the futon was a huge tapestry of Paris, the Eiffel Tower glowing in a moonless sky. His kitchen consisted of a sink and counter top, a microwave, a tiny refrigerator and an old gas stove. He had no dining table. “I have TV trays,” he grinned at her. “Bathroom?” she asked.

He pointed towards the back. She found the small bath and shower spotless like the rest of the apartment, a definite plus. Every girl appreciates a clean bathroom. She snooped without a hint of guilt, inspecting his medicine cabinet, finding no drugs of any kind, the usual men’s toiletry and shaving items, some mouthwash. No condoms in sight. She once had dated (only once!) a college kid who left condoms in the open medicine cabinet, as if to announce his intentions. Toby had no bedroom to speak of, only a large closet housing his clothes and a dresser. Through the door out back she saw a weight bench and an intimidating set of barbells beneath a tree in moon shadow. There was a large CD collection. Lots of stuff from the ‘70s she saw—feel-good pop artists and a few rock legends, including Bob Seger, Heart, and Led Zeppelin. “Want the TV on?” he asked. He had set up the two TV trays at the futon with plastic plates and cutlery and was serving her cheeseburgers, open-faced, with a separate plate laden with sliced tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and condiments. “Just put on some music,” she said, sitting. His invitation had been sudden but she was pleased to be there. Actually, even if she agreed to the dinner date with Stacey first, had Toby asked she probably would have begged off to be with him. He opened cans of beer and found a pop music station. He adjusted the volume to a comfortable level. Then he lit two candles with a match and turned off the lights in the room. And they ate in the flickering light, listening to soft music. “Good burgers. My compliments to the chef.” “Ah revere, or whatever.” “Au revoir—but that’s not what it means,” he laughed. “Well, pomme frittes, then.” “That’s better.” She couldn’t absolutely swear to it—but Mallory was pretty certain her time spent with Toby was the best she’d ever spent with a member of the opposite sex —at least, with her clothes on. “So, have you been to or something?” she

asked, eyeing the colorful tapestry over her shoulder. “For a while, when I was real young. My uncle who raised me moved us there. He was a World War One veteran and said Europe reminded him of the old days. We ended up living in Canada—but I loved Paris.” She took this interesting history in, thinking something about it struck her as odd —World War One? That uncle must have been old like Methusaleh, Toby was only about 30—but she dismissed it, instead realizing that she had never heard so many words out of his mouth at one time. Also she thought that he probably was not Native American, after all. Where was he born—? She was about to find out when he said: “Mallory. I really like you, you know?” She grinned at him, sucking grease and mayonnaise from her thumb. “Well, I guess you’re okay, too.”” He chewed, swallowed. “This thing. Us. I’m just not sure where this is heading.” “Well, I told you, sort of. A romance.” With a napkin she daubed grease from his chin, leaning close, and caught that golden sparkle his eyes had in the candlelight. She kept her manner light, but she was anxious about what he was trying to say. If he let on that he was not after a relationship, that he just wanted sex—she was going to lose it. Her own attitude towards him had changed radically in the last couple of days. . “I don’t know if I’d be any good in that department,” he itted, his eyes downcast. Oh God. He better not be throwing cold water on this, she told herself. “Why not? From what I’ve seen, your equipment seems in pretty good working order.” She looked at him, waiting for more. Finally she put down the burger she was working on, licked her fingers, and without warning jabbed an elbow into his ribs, making him jump. “Hey,” he complained, jokingly. “Come on. Spill it. I made you dance. You better not mess with me.” “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t make me get rough.” The last of a second loaded burger disappeared into his mouth and he swallowed and licked off his own fingers. “It’s like this,” he told her. She waited, expectantly. “I’ve never had a girl before. Never.” She looked at him, reassuring herself as to his meaning. She said, “Big goodlookin guy like you? Never?” “Nope. I’ve never even properly kissed.” That she did find difficult to believe. “Why not?” she asked, waiting for his answer. He looked a bit uncomfortable. He shrugged. “I don’t know—” “Sure you do. Are you religious? Are you afraid of girls? Are they afraid of you?” “I can’t explain it.” “Well try. Look, I’ve suspected something like this. It really doesn’t surprise me. I just want to know why.” He leaned back, considering his answer, rolling his tongue around inside his cheek. She watched him intently, feeling like she could look at him for hours. His face and hands were bronze in the flickering light. He was absolutely the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. At last he said this: “I guess I’ve never met the right person. And, I have this feeling—once I find a mate, she would be it. For life.” He looked her in the eye as he said the words. Mallory was surprised, relieved, and a bundle of nerves, all at the same time. “I’ve never heard a man use the term mate before.” “Do you not like that?” he asked.

She considered her reply before answering. “No, it sounds okay to me.” “Okay.” “So you’re telling me—you find a girl, you’ll have her forever. She’s yours forever.” Alarm bells should be screaming in my ears, she told herself. Why weren’t they? But he said, “No,” with a shake of his head. “It’s the other way around, Mal. I’d be hers forever.” They just looked at each other. Then by mutual unspoken agreement, they went back to their food and considered everything that had been said as they ate.

Toby thought about what he’d just said. His stomach was jumping around like there were crickets inside and he could scarcely believe he was able to eat. What was he doing? His intense attraction to her was making him irrational, obviously. A romance between them could lead nowhere. But he wanted her so bad. “This is the life, isn’t it?” he broke the silence, downing his third cheeseburger. “You said it.” “Dusty Springfield? Do you like her?” he asked when the conversation had lulled. He stood to select a CD from a stack on a shelf. Mallory spent many hours as a child watching old TV sitcoms with her father— in fact she suspected her namesake was a character from one—but her exposure to classic pop music was not as thorough. “Son of A Preacher Man, right?” She knew that song from the movie Pulp Fiction. “You got it.” Toby inserted a disc and chose a song, and reed her on the futon with fresh beers. Mallory focused. It wasn’t hard to do—she was familiar with the tune. It was one of those songs you’ve heard so many times on the radio you don’t even

notice it, except you might change the station for something newer, fresher. For the first time she listened, drawn in by Toby and by that whiskey-angel voice. His whisper was far away, dreamy. “Listen to how smooth she is.” She looked at him and his eyes were closed. “You’ve got it bad,” she pointed out. The corners of his mouth turned up. “She ed away a couple of years ago. I lit a candle for her.” “Really?” “Breast cancer. She hadn’t been in the public eye really for a long time. Listen.” Mallory let her own eyes close. Dusty Springfield was not familiar to her—but in her mind she saw a young woman, long black eyelashes and platinum-blonde hair with bangs. “She’s like a butterfly frozen in amber,” Toby whispered. “Forever young and beautiful.” The velvet voice floated as a soft caress sweetly seducing them both. Mallory could actually picture the singer in her mind. Her makeup and flesh tone lipstick, jewelry and ‘60s-fashion multi-colored gossamer blouse, was so real Mallory asked herself where this image came from, perhaps from watching an old performance clip with her dad? Or was it Toby, somehow sharing his thoughts with her? The singing was intoxicating. Her voice was throaty and strangely erotic. That along with Toby sitting so close caused a flutter in Mal’s belly, a warmth between her thighs. She shifted her weight on the cushion, surprised at herself, wondering Was he getting a dose of this too? She was captivated and swept along and was not immediately aware that the song had ended. Toby turned the radio on again and she snapped out of it somewhat. The magical moment ed. Toby produced a package of icy strawberries and served them on shortcake with whipped cream. Stuffed full they reclined on the

futon holding their bellies, Mallory with her head on his shoulder. A Springsteen tune from the ‘80s was on the radio. She felt like she was 15 years old again.

It was well after dark when Frank got home. It had been a long day. While Trina Albanese made arrangements for plane tickets he visited several ATMs and used his charge s to get a sufficient amount of money to get her started. He would drive the two of them to the airport, and wire her more funds first thing in the morning. When he returned the little girl was home from the neighbor’s. Trina got a car from her own auto and Frank helped her strap the child into the back seat of his Blazer. The toddler gazed at him with curious green eyes. “You’re Frank?” “You got it. And your name is—Karrie? Kristie?” “No—Karen. Karen Lou Albanese,” she insisted. “Ah, Karen. That was it. You like to take rides, Karen?” “I guess so. Where are we going?” “Goin’ on an airplane, baby,” Trina called getting into the front seat. “Airplane? We’re gonna fly?” Karen’s eyes were huge. “Way up high,” her mother promised. Once on the road Frank tried to find something on the FM, scanning the stations, and suddenly Karen clapped her hands from the back and squealed, “Play that! Play that, Frank!” “Whoa,” Frank said, reversing the tuner. The song was Wild Thing. “She loves this,” Trina laughed. “I’ve heard this. Karen, you know who sings this?” “Tone Loc!” the girl exclaimed.

“Her dad listened to this,” Trina said. “I used to listen to this with my step-daughter, Leslie, when she was little—I teased her they should have named him Tone Deaf,” Frank recounted. Trina laughed and her little girl ed in, though she was likely too young to get the joke. “You’re silly, Frank,” she said—maybe she did get it. “That’s what Leslie used to say, too,” Frank itted. Trina looked over at him iringly, this much older man so full of authority and confidence. She had placed the lives of her daughter and herself in his hands willingly, almost eagerly, and yet she didn’t even know him. “You’re married, Frank?” “Well, more or less.” Trina thought his woman was lucky to have him. He was a man’s man. A defender, and a guardian. He seemed fearless, and invulnerable, and being with him made her feel safe for the first time in a very long time. At the airport he took charge of getting their few bags checked in and saw them to the gate. Karen impulsively gave him a hug and a goodbye kiss on the cheek, surprising Trina and almost bringing her to tears—since losing her daddy the little girl had been reluctant to show affection to anyone but her mother. She shook Frank’s hand, finding herself unwilling to part with him. She tried to tell him thanks, but couldn’t get the words out. She embraced him with tears in her eyes. “Be careful.” “Don’t worry,” he urged her. “In a few days this should be over.” “How will I know?” she asked. He met her eyes and said, “You’ll know. Now git.” And she really believed him—but at that time, neither of them could have imagined what he would be facing.

After leaving the airport he stopped by the town bus depot and found Locker #42. It did indeed yield the reporter’s notebook—it was ragged and stuffed with newspaper clippings, computer printouts, anything Albanese considered relevant to his investigation, all bound with a thick rubber band. He was surprised to also find an unlabeled computer disc in a sturdy plastic case. These items were now secured in a satchel which he threw over his shoulder. Walking to the guesthouse his mind was on the information waiting to be discovered, until he heard a strange noise in the woods closest to the main house —some animal moving around in the trees. What was strange, besides the utter lack of normal forest sounds, was the size of the animal, judging by the noise— he heard what sounded like a good-sized branch, breaking under the weight of whatever had stepped on it. Frank froze, touched by the instinctual fear of the dark that had followed mankind for all its existence. His mind always on suspicious alert, he considered the possibility that a stalker might be in the woods, perhaps aiming a rifle with a night-sight at him as he himself had done so many times years past. But no. Whatever it was in the forest, it was definitely not a human being. It was a wild beast, a big one and not making much effort to be quiet. His pistol was in the house. He stood there, and was surprised that it was the first thing he thought of. He wouldn’t need a weapon—how many wild-animal attacks happened these days? He didn’t think there were even any large animals in these parts anymore. What could there be that might pose a threat? A breeze blew by him and he realized a cold sweat was coating his forehead, and that he had not moved a muscle in more than a minute. This wasn’t like him. He had spent too many nights as a predator in the dark himself to be intimidated by noises and shadows. Maybe he was getting old. Still listening to the movement in the trees, he heard another sound and jerked his head around to locate its position. This was from the trees on the opposite side of the driveway, to his left. Stealthy movement, brush rustling—was that the heavy respiration of some animal? It was. From this side, the breeze carried the sound to him more easily. And a scent. Hot and musky, unpleasant. Faint but definitely there. Irrational or not, he was certain he was being flanked. And the old soldier in him

took instant umbrage. Whatever the stalkers were, the tree line was well away from the driveway. He would have plenty of warning, visually as well as audibly, if he were rushed. The sounds on both sides indicated that his unseen watchers were moving with him, shadowing him. Did wild animals flank their prey, work out strategies? He didn’t think so. But he was a city boy. The closest he had been to a wolf or a bear were visits to the zoo. He moved the satchel from under his arm to across his chest for defense purposes, should something charge him. He gained the porch, not feeling much safer in the glow of the overhead lamp, and let himself in after a quick look at his perimeter—because that’s what it was now, a defensive perimeter. The hair on the back of his neck was literally standing up. He had a sense of immediate danger. He locked the door behind him, leaving the lights off. He dropped the bag and drew the .380 from its holster hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. Now he felt safer. He stood at the end of the sofa and peeked out from behind the blinds. This side of the house the tree line was far away—that field of fire—but the light from the porch did not reach. All he had was moonlight to see by. But it was enough. There was nothing out there. He started to turn away, to check a window at the front of the house—what was that? He heard something, and there was a flash of movement. It was down below the windowsill, against the house. But something definitely ed underneath his position. There was nothing now, so he stepped around the sofa and moved in the same direction, peeking out the farther window in the dining area. Nothing out there. He went into the bedroom, craned his neck to see out the small windows high over the bed. There! He saw something broad and low, not much more than a black mass in the dark, as it melted away around the corner of the house. There were no windows on that side. Goosebumps rising on his arms, he left the bedroom, glancing left and right, towards the kitchen and dining room area respectively, half-expecting to see

something peering in at him. He went for the front window, adjacent to the door. And stopped in his tracks. Breathing. He could hear it low on the other side of the front door. Heavy, wet. Like something breathing through bared teeth. The author must be holding its snout right up against the doorframe’s edge, from the sound. It wasn’t panting, like a dog. Just very heavy respiration. The animal was big. Was it purposely trying to intimidate him? Once in basic training, he was alone in a radio hut at three in the morning on a field exercise when a small animal had brought out goose pimples on him by simply walking up the sloping roof of the tent. He could see the four small feet, clearly indenting the heavy canvas as it made its way up the incline. The feet looked exactly like tiny hands—it must have been a raccoon. Even back then he did not scare easily, it was a totally irrational fear, and he laughed it off later as a city boy’s encounter with nature in the middle of the night. It was one of his most vivid memories in a life filled with dangerous situations. Thirty years later he was grown, armed, capable of handling just about anything you could throw at him. And he was shaken. In a cold sweat. Listening to the purposeful breathing, he flicked the pistol’s safety off and jacked a round into the firing chamber.

They started with lips brushing softly, gentle hands and muted oohhs of pleasure. Soon they were necking with some ion. Mallory kept it at that for as long as she could bear before consciously deciding to go a step further. He smelled so good, he tasted so good. His tongue languidly explored her eager mouth, as if he dwelled on each new sensation their kisses produced. And he was hot. Physically. Unlike him she’d been kissed a time or two and knew enough to tell the difference. And, by God, he’s been properly kissed now. She tore herself away with great effort and grinning impishly, straddled his huge frame and pulled his shirt up. She was not even aware that she was grinding herself against him as he gave her a lop-sided smile of surrender and raised both arms so she could pull the shirt over his head. He stretched out with her on top openly iring the view of his sculpted torso in the candlelight. She was surprised to see four close parallel scars across the left side of his chest, from the muscled shoulder down at an angle. The scars were old, but at one time they must have been serious injuries. They looked like claw marks. But now was not the time or place. “Oh—good. You look good,” she breathed. It was true. The scars were not so much disfiguring as interesting. She unbuttoned her jeans to loosen her clothing (and for his benefit) and lowered her mouth to him. After a girlish giggle and some nibbling on his ear, she moved to his throat, her tongue tracing a wet trail down his chest. She ignored the slightly discolored scars and lingered on a nipple, coaxing a shudder of pleasure, and continued down over his belly, amazed at those rock-hard abdominal muscles—My God I could bounce golf-balls off him—kissing him all over down there. His hands were up her back, under the t-shirt, then moving down, his touch searching. She extended her curious tongue and ran it beneath his belt line, feeling his belly twitch. Drunk on the musky smell of his skin, she squeezed the hard shaft beneath his fly and tugged at the clasp of his jeans taking great pleasure in his lack of resistance— And she shot bolt upright as if electrified. “What is that?” she exclaimed. She’d heard similar sounds before—but never like this. It was howling—of the coyotes, she had always supposed. But tonight it was

different, like a warning, a threat, terrifying. It emanated from the air itself. It seemed close to rattling the windows. “Coyotes,” Toby murmured. He too was surprised. “No way, man. If there are coyotes around here, they’re headed for the hills after hearing that.” The sound went on forever, unceasing. When one died down, another took up the slack. There seemed to be several going on at the same time. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened and goose pimples crawled up her arms. “Jesus. Is it going to stop?” He moved to get up and she rolled off him, suddenly disappointed—their time had been ruined as if by design. “Toby, I’m sorry, c’mere,” she said, tugging at his arm. “Sorry for what? Don’t be silly.” He went for the front door, leading her by the hand. They stood in the open door in the cool night air with her shrunk up against him, inundated by the unearthly dirge. The howling went on and on, bouncing off the moon and back down to earth and surely even stirring the dead in their graves. Mallory thought it fear of the dark itself—primitive humans must have cowered in their caves and hoped their hearts would not burst from terror upon hearing it. Such a sound was responsible for the creation of all of man’s myths, and all his nightmares. She was shivering like a leaf. “Can you stay tonight?” Toby asked, surprising her. She looked at him. “Sure. But I don’t know how much fun I’ll be, with that going on.” Truthfully, only minutes before she had every intent of ripping off his clothes and doing whatever she could dream up—she had even purchased condoms for this eventuality, which were in her pocket book—but now it was the farthest thing from her mind. That ungodly sound made you want nothing more than to turn on all the lights and hide under a blanket. With a shotgun. Toby responded with a reassuring smile. “Just sleep here with me,” he urged her. “I’ll feel better with you here tonight.”

“I’ll feel better with me here, too,” she itted, shivering. Toby curled an arm around her tight and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Unseen by her and with the moonlight on his face he bared his teeth in a feral silent snarl. His nostrils flared as he tasted the night air, and the scent of the hunters it carried to him.

Trudy was the braver of the Walter twins. She stared out from beneath the cover of her blanket, paralyzed. On the other side of the table and lamp her sister Ashley was a shivering lump in the shadows. The sound went on and on. It seemed to be coming from the back yard, right under their bedroom window. And from all over town, from all around the house. It permeated every room. “Mommy!” Ashley wailed when the howling seemed louder and closer than ever. Trudy shushed her. “Mommy! Daddy!” she screamed, bawling now. “Ash! Hush up!” Trudy hissed. “I want Mommy, Tru!” “Mommy won’t come! Be quiet!” Ashley buried her head under the pillows of her bed, and then pulled the blanket up. “I don’t like that noise! I don’t like that! I wish Ms. McVie was here!” “I know! Now hush up!” The fresh wound of their teacher’s loss caused tears to sting Trudy’s cheeks. Stabbed by a bolt of panic, she threw off her covers and dashed from her own bed to her sister’s, moving like the danger was right there in the formerly safe confines of their room. “It’s me!” she cried at her sister’s yelp, and ed Ashley under the bedclothes. The two little girls clung to each other and Trudy tried to share her quaking courage with her sibling. Ashley kept crying, Mommy, Daddy. It had never sounded like this, this loud, this close, but Trudy knew from experience that their parents would not come. And she knew not to go to the window, not to look through the glass. She never in her life wanted to witness

what she’d seen once before. She desperately wanted to tell someone—she couldn’t tell her sister, Ash was too frightened already. Their loving grandmother could do nothing and would likely not understand the fears of little children, real or imagined. Natalie Watts, their troop leader—Nat was nice and seemed to care, but there was something about her, just something that kept Trudy from fully trusting her. There was Cooper Banks. But the older boy would probably just laugh at her. Cooper Banks was not frightened of anything. Ms. McVie was the one, the only one. Ashley with her child’s instincts knew immediately that she could be depended on, when no one else could, even their parents, and that faith convinced Trudy. The young teacher seemed to have an inkling that the girls were troubled, needed to talk. But she never forced the issue. Trudy sensed that she was waiting for the sisters to come to her. All the while watching them, watching over them. Letting them know she was a friend if they needed her. And Trudy had decided to tell her, to get her alone, just the two of them, and describe what she had witnessed: How she’d seen them crouched on the wooden picnic table in the back yard, heads thrown back, howling at the moon. And they’d seen her. Two pairs of terrible red eyes had fixed on her own, and she knew the huge hairy wolfmonsters recognized the little girl spying from the window. Matted blue-gray fur in the moonlight—evil pointed ears—long sharp teeth that gleamed and leaked spit as they smiled for her benefit. Daytime wasn’t so bad—but at night the images of what she’d seen, and how they looked at her, kept her from sleeping and brought on nightmares once she finally closed her eyes. But now Ms. McVie was gone and there was no one to go to. And the monsters were still here. Still waiting in the back yard, as if daring the girls to look.

Frank held the pistol up beside his cheek in a two-handed grip, his back flat to the wall. And listened. The breathing had stopped at the door, he heard the animal move off, and a few seconds later, it started. The howling came from at least three sides of the house.

He looked out the windows, but could not see the authors of the terrible sound. It went on and on, ear-splitting, almost hypnotic, the creatures seemingly intent on drowning out one another. He felt as if the true intent was to drive him from the house, or frighten him to death. Rattled he was, but undaunted. He wasn’t budging. And anything coming in after him would get its brains blown out. In the dark he scanned the room, alert for any sounds of entry. The howling pounded his ears so that he could not tell when one chorus ended and another began. Suddenly in the window next to him a tall shadow made him jump as if burned. He backed away with both hands up and holding the pistol in a policeman’s stance, centered on the target. The animal stood facing him, front paws against the window glass. He did not think it could see him, in the dark through the lowered blinds. It was definitely some type of wolf, but the shadow was distorted and resulted in a demonic caricature of a lupine silhouette, the head broad and flat, the ears almost horn-like, the face framed by a thick mane of hair reaching to its shoulders, which themselves seemed unnaturally broad more fitting a human than a canine-type creature. Keeping the pistol targeted with one hand, Frank used the other to grasp the control rod for the blinds and lift them. Slowly, so as not to startle the thing. He wanted a look at what he was facing. The creature stood there as if wanting a look at him, too. The rising blinds revealed the face, what could be seen in the moonlight, and Frank saw a visage completely alien to anything he had ever seen on The Discovery Channel. The monster—that’s exactly what it was—stood nearly as tall as a man, and with a posture suggesting it could do so naturally, without the forepaws ing it against the window glass. Indeed the front legs were freakishly large and defined, more arms than legs actually, the maned neck powerful and bowed forward from a humped back as if to give the jaws more striking force. The head was flat, the ears long and pointed with tufts of wild fur on the ends, and lying

back as the creature snarled, the short snout quivering with fury. The eyes and jaws were almost completely in shadow, but Frank had the impression of hatefilled smoky red jewels and long exposed fangs. Even as he took in the reality of this beast, he thought, this is impossible, such a creature could not possibly exist, and as he repeated this to himself like a mantra he reached towards the light switch on the wall, slowly, slowly—it was a trick, a special effect, had to be, and once he threw a light on the damned thing— And then it dropped and disappeared from the window. The howling from outside became broken and erratic as he moved to the window and saw the creature down on all fours, legs pounding as it streaked towards the far tree line. Two other similar shapes ed it and the three melted into the darkness. From there the howling resumed again and lasted for several more minutes. Only then did Frank realize that the sounds were coming from everywhere, echoing among the trees from the direction of town. And then it was over. Fighting to control his breathing, infuriated and fully aware that the creatures, whatever they were, could smell the fear on him like a sickness, he went to the other windows to make sure nothing was still out there, and sank onto the sofa, wiping a clammy sweat from his forehead with the back of his gun hand. He was deeply shaken. Bad enough to be stalked by a pack of wild animals—but these things were unlike anything he had ever heard of, outside of old horror movies. What was he in the middle of? Somebody around here had bred super-wolves or something, sending them out to terrify busybodies. He thought of Albanese—his remains scattered by animal predation? Could he have been killed by these same monsters? Why hadn’t they attacked him? Were they smart enough to know he was armed? Had they been sent only to scare him? Fine. He was plenty frightened. And plenty pissed off. He let his breathing calm, sweat trickling down the center of his back. Already his confidence was returning, as if the last forty-some minutes had been only a bad dream, a hallucination. But he knew it was real. And he had a sense his

visitors were real as well, impossible as that was to believe. He would get little sleep tonight, but not from fear of the dark. He didn’t like someone trying to scare him. It was akin to being bullied, which he would not tolerate. Whoever thought up this little stunt was going to discover how badly a plan could backfire.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Hi. I’m Frank Moore. I was wondering if I could speak to the Principal.” The young woman looked at him with raised eyebrows over her glasses. “May I tell her what this involves?” Standing over her, it was her seated position, her attitude, and the eyeglasses that prevented him from recognizing her immediately. “It’s about Gwen McVie.” She was not in the least surprised at his reply and he ed where he knew her face as she hit the intercom button on her desk. “Yes?” a woman’s voice responded. Frank checked out the desk nameplate: MS. WALTER. “Ms. Carlson, Frank Moore is here to speak to you about Gwen McVie.” There were lots of knick-knacks on her desk—including a photo of her kids. Twin girls, rosy-cheeked, beaming. “Send him in, Stace.” “Just follow me,” the assistant instructed curtly. She left her reading glasses on the desk when she rose. Frank sensed word was already getting around concerning him. But it threw him a bit, her obvious hostility. He was a man used to positive interaction from women of all ages. “Excuse me. You were a good friend of Gwen’s, weren’t you?” She turned back towards him at the door to her superior’s office, her cheeks coloring. “I knew her,” she answered, clearly put off by the question. “I thought someone said you were pretty friendly,” Frank said, watching her closely. “Well maybe someone should stick to peddling old books,” the woman

answered. She turned again and then stopped with one hand on the door handle, waiting for his response. “So you’re telling me you and Gwen weren’t close?” Frank was thunderstruck. The denial of the relationship was bad enough—the reference to Val was downright disturbing. Anyway it was the camaraderie evident between this Walter woman and Gwen on the school video, that proved the lie. And the little girls—Val said they were Gwen’s favorites, and this woman was their mother? Maybe he’d not paid enough attention to the video—but he did not recall her seeming particularly involved during the twins’ performance. Gwen certainly had been—but why had she not mentioned to Val that her friend was mother to the girls on the video? “We were just coworkers,” she told him, with a tone daring him to say otherwise. He let the matter go. But it preyed on his mind as he was itted to the principal’s inner office. The stout woman within did not rise to greet him, and in fact did not even crack a polite smile as she nodded that he sit. The office was not unique, blinds on the windows behind potted plants, books on the shelves, walls and desk lined with framed certificates and mementos, the state flag and the Stars and Stripes on crossed poles behind the Principal’s chair. A small bronze plaque said MS. CARLSON—from the vibe she was giving, it could as easily have said BALL BUSTER. “My name is Frank Moore. I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about Gwen McVie.” Principal Carlson sat solidly in her chair, hands on the desk with fingers clasped to form a steeple. Shiny auburn hair was piled atop her head with a lock on either side curling around her face but failing utterly to soften her demeanor. “Well, Mr. Moore. I can only tell you that we were all very fond of Gwen and were sorry to lose her. She was a very good teacher.” After the night he had, Frank was inclined to reply with, That’s very nice Ms. Carlson, but I’m really not here for a job reference. Instead he said, “Do you know of any problems she was having in the days leading up to the accident?” He sensed this visit was going to yield nothing. “No, I can’t say I do.”

Frank suppressed a sarcastic grin. “Is there anyone here who knew her well? Someone who might be able to tell me more about her?” Giving it a last stab. “No, I can’t say there is,” she replied, stone-faced. “I see.” Frank just looked her dead in the eye for a moment, then stood. “Well, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure,” he remarked without inflection. “But, thanks for your time. Oh, don’t bother getting up.” This last was completely unnecessary— he offered it as an acknowledgement of the message being received. He gave the pretty assistant a tight smile as he left. She did not respond. He’d gone to the school half-certain nothing much would come of it. He had intended to ask why Gwen was not in her classroom the day of the accident. Knowing now that the message on Gwen’s answering machine was from Trina Albanese, he wondered, if Gwen was supposed to be at work that day, why had no one from the school called to check on her absence? Or from Ray’s job? He’d also hoped to speak to some of Gwen’s students—maybe the twins—but that was only for his own curiosity. The trip had gotten him much more than he expected. Judging from his growing popularity, he was on the right track—of something, at least.

“There’s Frank,” Val remarked, seeing him pull up across the street from the store. Stephen craned his neck to watch the visitor get out of his vehicle. “So that’s your rabble-ro.” “That’s him.” “Looks like he might’ve been a leg-breaker when he was younger.” “Could be. He was a Marine,” Val said, nodding. “Jarhead,” Stephen teased.

“Sorry, those haven’t gotten here yet,” Syd Warburton told Frank. He spoke from his desk, which suited Frank just fine. “Do you know if the Sheriff asked for them?” Frank inquired, sorry he had to converse with this clown. “Search me. If not, he’ll get around to it.” “I’m sure,” Frank agreed, refusing to be riled. It was no big deal, he thought he could get them himself. He was sure autopsy reports were public records. “So what do you think of Haven?” Warburton asked with a smirk. He was pretty brave from behind his desk and Frank gave him a brief look without responding. He thought the Sheriff was likely part of whatever was going on in this town, but Warburton was too stupid to be in on it, surely. Deputy Abshire returned from the supply room and Frank favored her with a smile, saying, “Morning,” though it was approaching noon. “Morning,” she replied with a nod, going to a desk. Frank was undecided about her, and about Vint. But he was getting to the point where it would be hard to surprise him, and no one was above suspicion. Not knowing when enough was enough, Warburton asked, “Get much sleep last night? You look whipped.” Frank stabbed him with his most menacing stare and the deputy shut his mouth, the cocky grin freezing in place. The silence caused Mallory to look up from her paperwork. Her curiosity overcoming her pleasure at Warburton’s discomfiture, she asked, “Are you talking about all that racket last night?” The question was directed at the other deputy, but Frank dared him to speak with a glower, and then replied himself: “Yeah—you heard it, too?” “Who didn’t? It was like it came from all over town.” “You have wolves around here?” Frank asked her. He did not expect a satisfying

explanation. That wasn’t the way these things worked, after all. “Maybe years ago. We have coyotes—they’ll howl at night, sometimes it’s quite a ruckus. But I’ve never heard them like last night.” “It was a first for me, too,” Frank said, sullen. Mallory looked from Frank to Warburton and back again, wondering what was going on between them. This had to be a record, even for Syd—Moore had only been in town three or four days. “Well, see you, Deputy,” Frank said, turning to go. “Have a nice day.” After he was gone, she asked Syd, “What’s up with him? Looked like he wanted to get in your ass.” “Thinks he’s so tough,” Warburton said with a sneer. “Well I wouldn’t give him an excuse to back it up,” she advised him. “He wouldn’t try it.” “Yeah, you’re right—you being so big and tough and all,” she agreed. “He don’t know who he’s fooling with,” Syd revealed. He seemed perfectly serious. “O-kay.” “I mean it. I can handle guys like him.” “You’re preaching to the choir.” Mallory straightened the paperwork on her desk and began whistling the theme to The Andy Griffith Show. After a few bars, Warburton ed in and she gave it up, annoyed that he never sensed he was being mocked. He kept whistling as he wandered over to the window, lingered for a minute, and then stopped to use the phone on Mary’s desk. He spoke in low tones, obviously not wanting Mallory to hear. She supposed he was talking to his girlfriend Melissa, and was glad not to be included.

“Hi, Frank,” Val greeted as he went in. “Hi. You had any more trouble?” Stephen looked up from the computer. “What kind of trouble?” “It’s nothing,” Val told him. “Frank, this is my friend, Stephen.” “Hello.” Frank reached across the counter to shake hands. “Are you okay, Frank?” “Rough night. Can you tell me, are there some kind of large predators around here? Any kind of strange animals?” Stephen looked up again, showing an interest. “Strange? Like Bigfoot or something?” “No. Like—wolves?” “I don’t think so,” Val said, concern on her face. “You’re talking about that din last night.” “Coyotes,” Stephen put in. “We have coyotes.” Frank’s expression was dubious. “Moose, from the mountains. We see a bear every once in a while,” Stephen added. “What’s wrong, Frank?” Val asked. He eyed them both, and decided to speak freely. He trusted Val’s judgment as far as the kid in the wheelchair was concerned. “Last night,” he said, “the house was surrounded by three big animals. They were wolves, I think—but they weren’t like any wolves I’ve ever heard of.” “How big? Was it them howling last night?” Stephen asked.

“Big. As heavy as a man.” “You must have seen them wrong, in the dark.” “I got a pretty good look at one of them.” “I it, I’ve never heard howling like last night,” Val said. “It was everywhere. It was like they were after something.” Me, maybe, Frank said to himself. “Timber wolves get pretty big, but no way one’s as heavy as a man,” Stephen said. “And I’ve never heard of any around here.” “We had some animal attacks years ago,” Val said. “That could’ve been wolves.” “Really? When?” Stephen asked. “It’s been a long time. Thirty years, maybe.” “Are there any military bases, or medical labs or whatever around here?” Frank asked them. He was really reaching, he knew—but he also knew last night had not been imagined. A book by Dean Koontz was sticking in his mind—was the title Watchers? Lori had talked about it. Crazy idea, he realized. “Ooohh—this is X-Files type stuff,” Stephen said eagerly. Frank quieted him with a stern look. His experience last night was no laughing matter, not even in the daytime. “You absolutely saw what you saw?” Stephen asked. “Maybe it was a bear.” “I’m telling you what I saw,” Frank insisted. “I went out this morning and found paw prints beneath a window—” He held up a hand and curled the first two knuckles of each finger, and the thumb, into his palm. “They were this big. Like a man’s fist. They weren’t bear tracks. But they were big.” They all just looked at each other while digesting this information. Finally Stephen said: “Okay, no one else wants to bring it up, so I guess I will. Are you talking werewolves?”

“Stephen,” Val scolded him. “What? Someone tell me we weren’t all thinking it.” “You believe in vampires, too?” Frank asked, sarcastic. “You’re the one thinking military experiments. Is that any crazier?” “Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.” “Mutant wolves are a big jump from cloned mice,” Stephen insisted. “But people changing into monsters under the full moon—that’s perfectly reasonable,” Frank countered. “I didn’t say it’s reasonable. I know there’s no such thing, I’m not an idiot.” “But?” “But—I keep an open mind,” Stephen told him. “Anyway. It was a quarter moon last night.” Frank sighed and nodded his head, hands on his hips. “To tell the truth, last night, when it was happening—the first thing that flashed into my mind was every old monster movie I ever saw. Lon Chaney—” “There’s always been stories, about monsters in the woods around town,” Stephen remarked, speaking to Val. “It’s true. Tall tales, all the kids have heard them, it’s why no one keeps pets outside, dogs and cats disappear. But I never knew there were real animal attacks.” “That was a long time ago,” Val reminded him. “Well, what could those things have been?” Frank asked them both. “If we know werewolves don’t exist—and we don’t buy the idea of some kind of scientific experiment gone haywire—then what’s left?” “A hoax,” Stephen answered. “Someone’s tricking you, trying to run you out of town. They’re trying to scare you.” “I already thought of that,” Frank muttered. “One hell of a way to do it.”

“It’s the only possible explanation. Somebody’s pulling a fast one.” “I’d like to believe that’s true. I really would.” “The real question is—what are you doing that would make someone go to those extremes?” Stephen probed. Val stayed silent, her arms crossed. Stephen knew nothing of the suspicious deaths or Leonard Rippy’s veiled threats. Frank shot her with a glance. “What about you? Anything going on with you?” “Nothing. I’m snug as a bug.” “I saw Mike Albanese’s widow yesterday—I think it would be a good idea for you to take a vacation,” Frank insisted. “No, but thanks.” “I mean it, Val. I didn’t like what this woman had to say.” Stephen looked from one of them to the other. “You talking about that reporter?” “I’ll tell you something else—you and I are the talk of the town.” “So are the dainties on Greta Hirsch’s clothesline,” Val shot back, a little too quickly. She reiterated, “I’m not leaving,” but her voice had become high and nervous, afraid of what Frank had heard. “I’ll lend you the money, you can pay it back. I want you gone.” “No, no—” “What are you guys talking about?” Stephen interjected. “Val? What’s going on?” She looked away from Frank’s unforgiving gaze, grateful for the distraction. “Lenny was in shooting off his mouth Friday night,” she said. “About what?” “It’s nothing. He’s just trying to push me around.”

“The little creep threatened her,” Frank said, earning a murderous look. “Because she’s been talking to me.” “Leonard Rippy, threatening? You’ve got to be kidding.” “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Stephen peered at Frank, and the amusement fled his face. “No.” “Val, quit being stubborn. Just hop a plane and disappear for a few days, and all this will be over soon.” “No.” “Why not? I can do what I have to do a lot easier if I don’t have you to worry about. Do us both a favor.” “No. No. If I leave, I’ll never be brave again, Frank. I can’t be run out of my own home, not now, not ever.” Her words came in a rush, as if to convince herself as well. “Scared as I may be, it would be a hundred times worse in a strange place.” “Scared? You’re actually scared?” Stephen said, amazed. Frank glared at her. He had cowed larger men than himself with that withering stare, but she refused to back down from him. “Well, somebody needs to fill me in,” Stephen declared. “Ask her,” Frank told him. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.” “Frank, wait—take this.” Val handed over a manila envelope from her desk. “It’s the autopsies.” His jaw dropped. “How did you—?” “Stephen got it.” “Off the Internet,” Stephen added. Frank’s eyebrows arched: Someone else involved. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.” He steeled himself and opened the envelope. He scanned the information on the first page, Raymond’s report, and went to the second, hoping Gwen’s death was at least quick. He was crushed by what he read in the examining coroner’s handwritten notes. Val watched the grief settle over her new friend. “Stephen said it was quick, Frank. Because of the head injuries.” Stephen said nothing, lacking the heart to do so. Frank read like massive trauma—internal hemorrhaging. The seatbelts made little difference—had she been thrown from the tumbling wreck, the results would likely have been the same. Val held her hand over her mouth, trying to imagine herself in his place. It was difficult to comprehend from a parent’s viewpoint, even for her, who had known both grief and horror. Frank had to keep his lips from trembling as he slipped the sheets back into the envelope. “Thanks again,” he said without looking up. Then he completely composed himself, all at once. He shot Stephen a look and pointed a finger at Val, saying, “Talk to her, will you?” as he turned for the door. Quickly he was outside, and Val flinched. “Oh!” “What is it?” Stephen asked. “Across the street—it’s Keller Henderson. And his brother.” Stephen moved his wheelchair to get a better look. Sure enough, the two young men were hanging out near the front of Frank’s truck—Kel was sitting on it! His customized van was parked a couple of spaces away. “This is trouble,” Val said. “I wouldn’t worry.” “Why not?”

“I think your friend can handle himself—besides, he’s packing heat. He’s wearing a gun.” “How do you know that?” Val demanded, open-mouthed. “I saw the bulge, under his shirt.” “I didn’t see it.” “Comes from years of watching action flicks,” Stephen declared.

Frank shoved the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, his face out of the sun which was directly overhead by now. He thought he might stop by the house, have a beer, sulk a while. He felt too morose even to vent himself on the workout bag. He would call Lori— He looked up to see a young man with his ass parked on the hood of his truck. The kid (he was actually in his mid-20s) had curly blond hair too long for the times. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt beneath a tattered denim vest. Frank saw a tattooed heart with an arrow through it and the word Mother—no, Mutha— decorating his left bicep. He also saw a wallet chain dangling from a back pocket, and a thick belt which was probably the only thing holding up a pair of cargo pants two-sizes-too-big like the young men favored these days. The chain was now trapped between the guy’s left buttock and the truck’s hood, and no doubt giving the paint a good permanent raking. The kid was engaged in conversation with another a year or two younger. Also dressed like a juvenile-delinquent-wannabe-ass-kicker.in sagging jeans and name-brand sports shoes, leaning on a parking meter. Nearby was a flashy custom Chevy van decorated with one of those all-over murals and tinted bubble windows, a throwback to the 70s—the art was forested mountains bathed in moonlight. Neither of the young men gave Frank the slightest notice even after he stood there, eyeing them. “Excuse me,” he said finally. The guy on the hood looked over his shoulder, making a show of being surprised. “Oh! How you doing?” He had a few tawny whiskers on an otherwise smooth chin.

“Just fine.” Frank waited for a reply and got none, and sensed this was all calculated to provoke a response. More of Haven’s Welcome Wagon. They just grinned at him, as if wondering what he wanted. Finally he growled, “Would you mind getting your ass off my car?” He said it with only the slightest annoyance —he knew he was being manipulated, but he was not in the mood. The kid cocked his head back and laughed, and the other ed in. No faking it, though. They were having a good time. They were both pretty beefy, a couple of brain-dead bar brawlers, probably as used to taking it as giving it. Frank realized he was about to have a problem. And right in front of the police station. Chin Whiskers pushed himself off the truck—Frank didn’t bother to see if the black paint was scratched. No way for it not to be. The kid made sure of it. He got right up to Frank, a big cocky grin on his face. He had all his teeth, and they were in pretty good shape. Maybe he was a decent fighter after all. Wasn’t a badlooking kid. One thing for sure, he was a parent’s worst nightmare. Frank knew from experience, having lived with two teenaged stepdaughters. Sure enough, the waistline of his pants hung around his crotch, the belt barely holding them up. “What’s your name?” the kid asked, his face close to Frank’s. Yeah. This is a problem. The boy smelled like old cigarette smoke. He wasn’t chewing tobacco—Frank looked for that first thing. A good dirty fighter will use anything, including spitting tobacco juice into an opponent’s eyes. . “Mine’s Kel,” said Chin Whiskers. Frank said nothing, analyzing the situation. Kel snickered, and the other boy ed in. That kid was not as good looking, a bit rubbery-faced, probably just shaving, but plenty of hard grown-up muscle on him. There was enough resemblance between him and Kel to peg them as brothers. Kel brushed by Frank, making an intimidating with his shoulder, like a bully in a schoolyard. Frank’s eyes shifted. People were walking by on both sides of the street, just regular citizens, here and there. Those coming down the sidewalk were beginning to give them plenty of room, recognizing the situation. None looked ready to involve themselves.

Again with the bumped shoulders: “What’s your name, Grandpa? Huh?” Frank had no intention of dickering with these dipshits. He took a step away from the Blazer, giving himself a bit of room, just in case. He wasn’t worried. He was already in a bad mood, but he wasn’t about to just haul off and hit someone over nothing. Besides, he was of the opinion that grown men didn’t get in fights. Sooner or later someone was bound to break this up, likely one of Haven’s Finest. This was broad daylight, after all. People watching. Kel bumped him again, then again. Frank just followed him with his eyes. “Old man ain’t got no name,” the other kid snickered. “Must not,” Kel agreed. “He’s in town after that whore schoolteacher. , Jan? Pulled a train on that bitch and she begged for more.” “Yeah, we tapped that ass,” Jan recalled with a sneer directed at Frank. “What was she to you, anyway?” The corners of Frank’s mouth turned up in an almost imperceptible smile. He knew now he was being set up—for arrest, probably. They were trying to piss him off into throwing the first punch, and he was tempted. “She got herself killed, Grandpa. We can tell you all about her, though.” “Yeah. Blow-by-blow !” Jan laughed. “Her and that sissy old man of hers. He couldn’t keep her happy, so we stepped up.” “It was our civic duty!”

Stephen was riveted. Val paced back and forth in the open doorway, unsure of what to do. “Man, I can’t believe they’re picking a fight right in front of the police station,” Stephen said. “Should we call? Why isn’t somebody coming out?”

“I bet they already know,” Val muttered.

Kel was describing their three-way with the teacher, and Jan went on embellishing the story, even providing a bit of physical comedy by stumbling and nearly falling on his ass while demonstrating his doggie-style technique. “Boy, you don’t rile easy, do you?” Kel noted. “Maybe you’re just yellow. Must be three times our age—” “Methuselah,” Jan piped up. Frank kept an eye on his surroundings. People were beginning to slow, turn their heads over their shoulders, to see what was going to happen. He knew if this kept going a crowd would gather. The thought of defending himself in front of an audience was not an attractive one—strange, considering he at one time had enjoyed doing just that. With age must come a certain amount of humility, he thought. He considered just turning away from Kel and getting in his truck, but he sensed his way would definitely be blocked, resulting in a troublesome shoving match. He preferred to avoid anything that might be considered provocation. Nearly everyone of import was out to get him in this town—he didn’t mind that, it meant he was ruffling all the right feathers—but he resented making it easy for them. Kel said something blisteringly filthy about Gwen and made Frank realize there was a child being led away quickly by his mother. So he finally spoke, prodded by the horrified look on the young parent’s face that her son should overhear such talk. Kel was poking two fingers into Frank’s chest, like a thug in a gangster movie. “Don’t touch me,” he warned quietly. The barest hint of humor lay in his eyes. “Whoa. What was that?” Kel asked, right in his face. “I said, keep your hands off and your mouth shut.” Frank’s tone, and the steel in his gaze, left little room for argument.

Kel seemed off-balance now and Frank actually thought he might get out of this with no further trouble. Glaring the kid down he reached past and pulled open the driver’s side door. Kel let himself be nudged aside. Frank saw his eyes shift towards his brother and there was an almost-invisible nod. Frank tensed up. He was ready when Jan suddenly stepped forward, a shoe coming up to kick the door out of Frank’s hand. It slammed shut. With the reflexes of a viper Frank bent enough to hook the kid’s foot in the crook of his arm. He grabbed the shoe and lifted, forcing Jan off-balance with his arms windmilling. Frank threw up his foot so quickly and violently that Jan had a choice of either risking serious injury to his thigh muscle, or falling. He fell, slamming flat on his ass with enough impact to knock the wind out of him and uttered an audible hunnhh. Kell wanted Jan to distract Frank so that he could hit him from behind, but Frank was anticipating that, too. He turned in time to intercept Kel’s punch. He seized his arm, ducked and pivoted, and with an unintelligible curse Kel found himself thrown onto the hood of the Blazer with his elbow twisted behind his back. He attempted to struggle only once, Frank’s tightening of the armlock bringing a scream of rage and pain. Securing Kel with one hand, Frank pointed a finger at Jan and said, “Don’t try it.” The younger brother was just beginning to get up off the sidewalk. He froze in place. “Yeowtch. You see that?” Stephen exclaimed.

Kel’s face was crimson. Realizing he was helpless, he snarled, “Jan! Kick his ass!” Jan made as if to get up, but again Frank twisted and again Kel shouted in pain. Frank was meeting Jan with a taunting grin. With his free hand he grabbed the dangling wallet chain and gave it a powerful jerk. Kel went, “Hunngghh!” from the belt pulled against his belly and then had to gasp for breath.

Frank heard the unmistakable sound a semi-automatic pistol makes when a round is fed into the firing chamber, from directly behind him, accompanied by the word “Freeze!” Without moving any other part of his body, he swiveled his head and saw Deputy Syd Warburton, legs splayed in the classic policeman’s stance, his weapon aimed with both hands at Frank’s head from a distance of only eight or nine feet. “Careful, Deputy,” Frank warned.

“That has to be embarrassing,” Stephen marveled from the shop door, referring to Kel’s predicament. “And now Syd puts in an appearance!” Val sputtered, headed across the sidewalk. “What are you doing?” Stephen called after her. “He’s arresting Frank!”

“Let him go!” “Relax—” “Let him go I said! Now!” Instead of just releasing him, Frank went the extra mile by actually changing his grip and with little effort yanking Kel bodily off the vehicle. He left him on his feet, unsteadily. Kel took two steps back before his pants dropped to his ankles, dragged down by pockets weighted with wallet, keys, a cell phone, and change including a ten-dollar roll of quarters he kept for emergencies. Kel stood in baggy boxers, unaware of the deft hand movement with which Frank had loosened his belt buckle as he let him go. A ripple of laughter came from onlookers across the street. “Hands on the car! Hands on the car! Spread your legs!” Syd ordered as Kel finally bent to pull his pants up.

Frank did so. Knowing he was about to be searched, he considered telling Warburton that he was armed—he’d decided to wear the .380 under his shirt, after last night. He chose to let the deputy find it on his own. At least then Warburton would be closer, and if he acted like he was going to do something stupid, Frank would have a chance at disarming him first. Warburton approached him like a bomb about to go off. Frank couldn’t believe this guy was allowed to carry a firearm. “Right hand! Behind you, now!” His voice threatened to rise to ear-splitting decibels—insanely, Frank had a memory of Barney Fife, shrieking Nip it! NIP IT IN THE BUD! “Left hand!” Frank relaxed a bit when Warburton had him cuffed, since the deputy calmed down somewhat as well. Now came the pat-down—Warburton seemed to halfway know what he was doing—and the pistol was found immediately. “GUN!” he shrilled—a gawker gasped and a couple more took an extra step backwards. Frank amended his earlier assessment—the only thing Warburton knew about police work was what he’d seen on Cops. “There’s a permit for that in my wallet,” Frank said. “Syd, why are you handcuffing him?” Frank saw the inquisitor was Val. He gave her a dirty look, not wanting her any more deeply involved with him, but was ignored. “This man is under arrest,” Warburton declared. “For what? He defended himself, we all watched it.” “He’s in jail! Now just drop it!” NIP IT! Frank thought, rolling his eyes. NIP IT IN THE BUD! With a hand on his shoulder, the cop guided him towards the front steps. “I’ll be right over, Frank,” Val called after him.

Mallory had been in the restroom and then was using a copier in the back of the office and so heard nothing of what went on outside. Her mind was wandering— to the short conversation about all the racket from overnight. Hadn’t her father mentioned something to her about an animal attack in the 1970s, a mystery that was never fully solved? The story even had a name—the Beast of Haven? That led her to thinking of Toby, replaying their night together. In her mind the memory was dream-like, in soft focus. Once the howling had stopped anyway. They lay in the fresh sheets of the fold-out, the breeze rustling the window curtains. The night was peacefully silent. They whispered in the dark, growing sleepy, their words low murmurs. She was curled around him, head on his shoulder, one leg thrown across his. She wore one of his pajama tops and very little else. He’d put on a t-shirt with the PJ bottoms. His arousal was obvious and she even remarked on him being hard as a rock and that something should be done about it. He responded with only a chuckle. It would’ve been so easy—and they’d been close, so close, only a little while before. So why didn’t they? Maybe because it was so nice, just lying in the cool sheets and listening to the sounds of their breathing. And the tease, the anticipation, of finally giving in, whenever and wherever—it was exciting. Part of her enjoyed that. But she wanted him so bad. Even so she found herself growing drowsy almost immediately. As if a spell had come over her. The utter contentment, the comfort of lying against him. With her eyes drooping she heard him grunt and realized he was suppressing a laugh. “What, hmm?” she whispered. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Go to sleep.” “Tell me,” she insisted, smiling to herself with eyes still closed. “I was just thinking, I can’t wait to tell Syd about this.” She gasped in horror and giggling pinched his ribs until he grasped her wrists. At last she fell asleep while he whispered poetry into her ear. In the French.

She was daydreaming, smiling and wistful, when she ed something very odd. As they drifted off to sleep she had a hand under his shirt, her fingers entwined in a thick patch of chest hair. But she was certain that hair was not there earlier. Before the racket started she had kissed and licked his bare chest and belly, arousing them both—his muscular torso was smooth like polished oak. No way she was mistaken, the taste and feel of him was enshrined in her memory forever. Were her brain cells suffering a mass die-off or something? Her thoughts were interrupted by Frank Moore entering the office, hands cuffed from behind, with Syd guiding him down along the counter to the cellblock. “Syd! What the heck?” “Troublemaker here,” the deputy said with voice trembling, urging Frank forward. “What did he do?” Mallory demanded. “Assault and battery. And attempted robbery.” “Bullshit,” Frank spat. “Shut up! Move it, gunslinger!” He gave Frank a rough shove, was shocked at his prisoner’s resistance, and then found himself under Frank’s baleful stare. “I wouldn’t do that again,” he warned. Warburton was forced to look away. “Into the cell,” he ordered. “Who did he assault?” Mallory demanded from the cellblock door. “Kel and Jan Henderson, that’s who.” He swung the door shut with a reverberating CLANG! Rattled by his coworker’s grilling, he’d forgotten to remove Frank’s cuffs, and distracted, made no notice of the fact when Frank handed them loose through the cell bars. Mallory waited until she and Syd were out of earshot of the prisoner before asking, “Are you nuts? Nobody picks fights with those nimrods.” The deputy paused, mouth open, staring at the manacles in his hand. Something

strange had just happened— “Syd? Are you asleep?” “He had this,” Syd smirked, slamming Frank’s handgun down onto a desk. Mallory jumped—she didn’t trust Syd to unload a firearm before banging it around that way. “So what? Does he have a permit?” Syd pretended not to hear the question, giving her the answer. “You didn’t even process him, you just threw him in jail. Have you finally lost it?” “You do it,” the other snapped. “I need to take down the Hendersons’ report.” “You can start by taking mine,” Val told him as she barreled in. She jabbed an angry finger at Warburton. “You know darn well you can’t arrest him! You don’t want a ton of trouble, you’d best let him go right now.” “Stay out of this, Val. I’m not fooling around with you.” “I’m calling the Sheriff, Syd,” Mallory warned. “Go right ahead,” he challenged her. “Oh, you are gonna get it,” Val sputtered. “Call the Sheriff!” Syd exclaimed. “Call the National Guard! I don’t have to take this crap! I’m outta here!” And turning, red-faced, he stormed out the door. Mallory shook her head helplessly and found Val staring at her. “I’ll call the Sheriff,” she promised. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this straightened out.” “You can’t just let him go?” “Not without the Sheriff’s okay—don’t worry, I’m on it.” “Tell him I’ll be back.” “I will.” It had started out to be such a great day, Mallory thought bitterly.

She was up early enough to head home and get ready for her shift, leaning over to kiss Toby goodbye while he lay still half-asleep. The good karma he fostered in her lasted well into the morning, and likely would have kept her going all day. Had it not been for Deputy Syd Warburton, apparently feeling he had to come to the defense of the Hendersons, if you can believe that. And she was sure he’d been expecting the incident, maybe even had a hand in instigating it. After Moore left the office, he’d taken to hanging around the front window—no, first he made that phone call—then he drifted back and forth, to the window, looking out at Main Street. Finally he just stood there. She looked up from her desk and asked if something was going on outside. “Nah,” he’d said. “Just enjoying the sunshine.” Asshole. She stepped into the back, next thing she knew, he was busting the door down with Moore in cuffs. She emptied Moore’s pistol—at least the safety was on!—put it into a locked drawer and left a message on the Sheriff’s beeper. Hopewell had what you might call a relaxed schedule and there was no telling when he might return the call. She got a look outside the window and saw several townspeople standing around in little groups, no doubt rehashing the incident. She also saw Moore’s Blazer parked a couple of spaces from the Hendersons’ van. Syd had the driver’s door open and was rummaging around in the front seat. Kel and Jan stood nearby— Kel looked pretty surly and Jan not a whole lot better. Mallory wished she’d seen the fight or whatever it was. The Hendersons were no slouches in the brawling department. What in the world was going on with them and Warburton? She was so tired of this crap. She shook her head at Deputy Syd Warburton’s sideshow and headed back to the cellblock, taking the keys with her. She wondered about the chances of Frank Moore owning Haven lock, stock, and all the barrels before this little fustercluck was over.

Frank had been sitting on the bunk in the immaculate little cell with his elbows on his knees after pocketing the lock pick. He’d secreted it between two fingers when he realized he was going to be cuffed. That morning he’d begun slipping

completely into defensive mode. He was a bit paranoid he knew, but better to be prepared. He was in enemy territory here. And the enemy was out to get him. Brazenly handing the deputy his own cuffs was a stupid move, though. Frank did it for his own amusement. He couldn’t afford that. The lock on the cell door was at least a hundred years old. He figured he could overcome it in about a half-second with one of his lock picks. In his youth he hungrily studied everything he could find on locks, safes, anything that could be secured actually. He was familiar with the manufacturer, a company out of Boston. Deputy Abshire appeared and unlocked the cell door. “Come on, Big Al.” “Is this my one phone call?” “You can make it in the office. I need to process you.” She looked at him. “I trust I don’t need the cuffs?” “I don’t think so.” “Good. Let’s go.” She sat him at her desk and found a sheet of arrest paperwork—didn’t use this stuff much. In fact she never had. She was pretty certain Warburton didn’t even know how. She should be doing it on computer—but she had a feeling Moore wouldn’t be in custody very long. She wanted to be able to just tear the paperwork up, if necessary. Technically this was illegal, but Syd had ignored just about every technicality she could think of in bringing Moore in, never mind the fact that the arrest was probably illegal to begin with. But Moore had to be officially processed into custody. The charges could be disposed of later—if there was a God in Heaven, she hoped. Frank watched with interest as she aligned all the necessary paperwork on her desk. “Can I ask you something?” She pushed the phone towards him. “Your phone call.” “What are you doing in this place?” She looked at him. “Why do you ask that?”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re the only genuine cop in this town. What’s the deal?” She wasn’t going to argue that point over Warburton, or even Hopewell. But she felt defensive over Toby. “What about Deputy Vint?” “I don’t know about him. He’s a great poster boy. A police officer? I think not.” “Well, you’re wrong. Toby is a good deputy.” “I’ll take your word for it. But I’ve known quite a few cops in my time. Good ones.” She put the form into her typewriter. “You want that phone call?” “I’ll make it later—if that’s okay.” He, too, had an idea he might not be here very long. Before calling Leigh Edmundson he’d wait a while and see what happens. He owed Syd Warburton. If not for that man’s stupidity, he, Frank, might have been surprised by a much more effective ploy. But now he knew they were coming at him. He was on his guard. The gloves were truly off. “Full name?” Abshire asked.

Victor Carter took a swig from his beer and raised the axe in his opposite hand. He froze with it poised over his right shoulder, eyeing the target, then exhaled, and let it fly. The weapon spun a distance of about twenty feet, silver blade flashing, hit with a heavy thunk and stuck solidly in a section of tree stump. It was leaned against the side of the building and painted with a bright red bullseye. Dierdre, his roommate, clapped her hands and Sylvie, his other roommate, cooed, “Good one, baby.” Dee ed him the second axe and he spun the handle expertly in his fingers like a gunfighter would a six-shooter, earning appreciative oohhs for his skill. He took another swallow of beer and raised the weapon. The RipRoar, owned by Victor’s business partner Clinton Dean, was located on the far outskirts of Haven and served as the headquarters for their illegal activities. The saloon was a favorite hangout for motorcycle gangs and criminal

elements from the surrounding counties. Haven’s more respectable citizens would not be caught dead in the place. Hopewell and his cops knew to steer clear. Besides the illegal activities which he shared with Dean, Victor and his cousins also owned a legitimate tow service that fronted a chop shop. He recognized the sound of Kel’s van and did not divide his attention but heard a second vehicle also coming across the gravel parking lot. He hurled the axe and was unsurprised to see it hit dead center in the stump, right next to its twin. Dee went to retrieve the weapons. Leonard Rippy was getting out of his BMW, smiling, adjusting his glasses. Kel and Jan appeared none too happy and Victor knew immediately something was wrong. “Slumming, Leonard?” “How’s business?” Rippy asked, raising a hand to acknowledge Dean, who was standing in the door of the bar after hearing the arrival of the visitor. “Cut the B.S.,” Victor suggested with a critical grin. He shot his cousins a questioning look. “What’s going on?” Leonard gave Victor’s girlfriends his best smile. “Better give us a minute, ladies,” Victor prompted them. Exotic dancers from Whitestone, the bikinitopped beauties were completely aware of the males’ riveted attention as they sashayed past Dean and into the bar. They took the axes with them. “Spit it out, Leonard.” Victor Carter had rightly earned a dangerous reputation and he looked the part. Thirty-five years old, he took exquisite care of his body with diet and exercise including a rigid weightlifting regimen. He was an outdoorsman and hunting enthusiast with particular interest in bladed weapons and archery. He considered himself a Renaissance Man. Physically he was alluring to women and intimidating to men. Sculpted, powerful, skin bronzed by long road trips on his Harley-Davidson. He was ittedly vain and liked to dress to show himself off, usually in tank-tops and skin-tight jeans. Leonard Rippy’s position was such that no one intimidated him, not even Carter. “Well, we had a little trouble in town,” he began, his tone amicable. “The

brothers here, they tried picking a fight with Moore, didn’t come off so well.” Victor’s eyes narrowed towards his cousin. “Did Moore do that?” Kel’s hand went self-consciously to his cheek, where the red imprint of a hand was still visible. “Uhh—” “Kel used some inappropriate language in front of the Doctor,” Leonard put in. “The G.D. word.” Victor’s jaw muscles worked with anger. He said nothing, his eyes saying it all. “To be fair, it was Syd’s idea,” Leonard explained. “He got Jan in on it and Kel tagged along.” Victor glared at his cousins. Jan’s friendship with Syd Warburton had long been a bone of contention. “Keller, I expected better from you,” he said with a shake of his head. Kel took the onishment seriously. “I’m sorry. I thought it’d be a breeze, run this old guy out of town. I sure didn’t think he’d fight.” “It was a fight?” Victor demanded, disbelieving. Usually when his cousins had been in an altercation the evidence was obvious. They were bar fighters and broken furniture, skinned knuckles, would be the least of it. Their pride looked wounded but other than that seemed none the worse—except for Doctor Bath’s handprint on Kel’s cheek. “Wasn’t exactly a fight,” Jan said, looking to his brother for assistance. “It was— well—” “He just got the better of us,” Kel put in. “Maybe he got lucky. I don’t know,” he shrugged miserably under Victor’s demanding stare. “Moore embarrassed them pretty good,” Leonard detailed, seeming to take some pleasure from the brothers’ discomfort. “Can’t say they didn’t have it coming, trying to start a brawl right in the center of town. All the business owners are raising the roof over it. How does it look to the tourists, something like that?” “I trust you’re spanking Warburton,” Victor shot at him.

“Syd’s talked to,” Rippy promised. “Victor, you know the rules. You keep your business out of Haven, and we don’t interfere. But—” “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Victor agreed irritably, raising a hand. “Okay, message delivered. Is that it?” Leonard kept his easy smile, but he was thinking it was not often someone dared to cut him off. Doctor Bath was right—Victor was becoming a pill. “Not actually,” Rippy replied. “We’ve decided, since this thing has started, you might as well finish it.” Victor waited a pregnant beat before prodding him with, “Like how?” “Get Moore. Teach him a lesson. Point him out of Haven. Clear enough?” “That’s clear,” Victor itted. “Look, I told you this guy doesn’t scare. I told you he was armed, too. He won’t be as easy as that school teacher, or her reporter buddy.” “He’s not armed now. The police took his gun.” “He had the gun on him?” Victor spat, staring down his cousins. “You half-wits —he could’ve shot you both.” Kel and Jan looked down at their feet and said nothing. “Don’t kill him,” Rippy advised. “Just kick his ass and send him packing. This has gone on long enough.” “Don’t kill him. Okay. You got it,” Victor growled, clearly unhappy with this tack. “And for Pete’s sake, catch him away from town.” “I said we’ll handle it.”

It was none other than Toby Vint who unlocked the cell door the second time. “Come on,” he said simply.

It had been about an hour. Frank had actually been dozing on the bunk. “What’s up?” “Somebody saw it your way. Sorry for the mix-up.” Frank left the cellblock, followed by the towering deputy. Mallory Abshire was waiting at the counter with his personal belongings—keys, wallet, cell phone, and the envelope with the autopsies. “My weapon?” “We’ll have to keep that—you can pick it up when you leave for Ohio,” Vint explained, no doubt voicing the hope of many. “I have a CCW,” Frank pointed out, pulling the forged permit from his wallet. Vint nodded, but held up a hand. “Sorry—local restrictions.” Frank shrugged. “Okay.” He pocketed his belongings. “Is that it?” “Yep.” “Sign here,” Mallory said, sliding a form over to him. “What’s this? Not a confession, I hope,” he said with a grin. She suppressed her amusement. “It’s just a form releasing you. There’s been no charges. It doesn’t bar you from legal action against the Sheriff’s Office, if that’s what you choose to do. You can read it.” Frank skimmed it and scrawled his signature. “What if I wanted to press charges? Those guys damaged my Blazer.” He looked up at Toby Vint and saw the deputy’s pained sucking-on-a-lemon expression. “Do you really want to do that?” he asked. “Really? Isn’t there a more productive use of your time, and ours?” Mallory hid her reaction. That was an odd thing to say, she thought. She was even more surprised when Moore bought it. “I guess you’re right,” he said. She was partially disappointed—it would be some fun, arresting Kel Henderson.

“That’s the spirit,” Toby said. “I’ll have a talk with Kel. Maybe he’ll come across with some reimbursement for the truck.” “I confess, it’s not too high on my list,” Frank said. “Well, Deputy Abshire, I can say it to you—it has been sort of a pleasure. My second one today.” The first had been roughing up those two clowns. And it had taken his mind off Gwen, temporarily. “Likewise,” she assured him.

Frank found the truck had been searched, in a highly inept fashion. Warburton, no doubt. Everything had been pulled from the glove compartment, and from under the seats, but the snub-nosed .38 was still in its hidden holster beneath the steering column. Frank did not bother worrying about the rear compartment. If the deputy had found the secret s hiding his very illegal firearms, he’d know it. He crossed the street and entered the Book Cellar. “Hey, what kind of bird doesn’t fly?” “Stephen,” Val scolded. Frank laughed. “It’s all right. Did you get me out?” “I told them what happened. The Sheriff wouldn’t put in an appearance. I talked to Toby—he comes in here often, just to read.” “Wish you hadn’t done that, Val,” Frank said, his expression souring. “If it hadn’t been me, someone else would have. Twenty people saw that little show.” “Then you should’ve left it to someone else. Damn.” He shook his head, frustrated, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to convince her to leave town. With iration, Stephen said, “I’ve never seen the Hendersons get it like that. Those guys are the terror of three counties.”

“Most people are afraid of them, and their cousin Victor,” Val said. “Watch out for him,” Stephen cautioned. “He’s mean, and dangerous. He’ll get your guard down—then he’ll kick your kneecap off. I know of a guy he crippled for life.” “And they don’t forget, Frank. You look out for the three of them.” “Right now, I’ve got my hands full worrying about you,” Frank told her. She was visibly moved by his concern. But still she said, “I can’t, Frank. I just can’t.” “Damn,” Frank said again. “I’ve got a bad feeling.” “I’m sorry.” Frank sighed, deep in thought. He had no idea how he could change her mind. “Trina Albanese believes her husband was murdered,” he told her. “So do I. And he’s not the only one. All of them connected to Albanese, just like Gwen and Ray.” “But I have nothing to do with him,” Val protested. “No, but you’ve sided with me, can’t you see that? And it’s going to get worse. I’m getting ready to make some real trouble around here.” “How?” Frank paused before answering. “I don’t know yet. I’ve got some things to find out about first.” He looked at her and knew he had to give up, for now. He asked Stephen, “You’re good with computers?” “A little bit,” the other grinned. “I maybe could use your help—he’s okay, right, Val?” After much thought, Frank had decided not to use Gwen’s PC to open Albanese’s disc. Someone could be spying on her computer. This was too important to take any chances.

“He’s okay. But, Stephen, this might be risky. It’s the reason Frank’s so worried —” “No problem. Count me in,” Stephen said. “You might want to think about it,” Frank cautioned him. “Let Val explain it to you. Those dopes were trying to run me out of town for a reason.” “No need. If she’s in it, so am I.” Frank thought Stephen might be safe—he just happened to be here. If he helped Frank, it would just be between the three of them. He didn’t think he could stand having yet another life to worry about.

“It was Syd’s idea,” Jan volunteered. “That’s even worse,” Victor snapped. “What have I always told you about Syd Warburton?” “That he’s a numbnuts?” Jan offered. He was sitting in the back of the van, leaning up between them, his brother behind the wheel. “Exactly, that’s it. If he tells you what day it is, get a second opinion. If not for Hopewell and Bath, the stupid asshole would be washing dishes for a living, and he’d screw that up.” His cousins did not respond. Victor’s recent habit of omitting Doctor Bath’s title made them both uncomfortable. His hatred for Warburton went back more than ten years. It involved one Halloween night and the egging of Victor’s 1969 Shelby Cobra, while Carter was crui Rune Road past the old cemetery with Angel Crowder, his girlfriend of the moment, who never wore a bra, and whose blouse was ruined. It was quickly around town that Syd, then 15 years old, was the egg thrower, but when interrogated he managed to convince Victor that he was in fact innocent. It was years later that a drunken Jan let slip that not only was Syd the one, but that he, Jan, was with him when the incident occurred. So not only had Victor been offended, but he was fooled to boot, and with his cousin’s involvement he’d

never gotten around to setting matters right. It burned in him like an acid from that time on. “That’s okay,” Victor said, his eyes narrow with cruel intent. Jan chuckled, recognizing that tone, but Kel kept silent. The skill with which Moore had overcome him left him uncertain about the kind of man they were dealing with. He looked at his cousin and saw only deadly determination in the older man’s expression. Kel and Jan lost their parents when they were very young, and Victor’s own mother and father raised them. Truthfully he treated them more as trusted lieutenants than family, but he relied on them more than anyone, even Dean. Disrespecting them was the same as disrespecting him and Frank Moore just made a very bad mistake. This was personal now. He pointed. “There he is. He’s leaving.” Kel started the engine. They were parked a couple of blocks down from the Old Church and Moore crossed the street from the bookstore in their direct line of sight. “Give him some room,” Victor cautioned. “We know where he’s staying,” Kel reminded him. “Yeah, but I’m itching to get this done. It’s sticking in my craw.”

Val’s back was turned and she did not see the van soon after Frank was gone. Stephen took no note: the distinctive vehicle was a common sight around town as were the Hendersons themselves. They were moving at a casual speed and no one would’ve guessed they were actually following anyone. Certainly Stephen would not have dreamed that Kel and Jan would want another meeting with Frank Moore so soon after their public humiliation. Val started off into the back sales room, still talking about the day’s events, and Stephen happened to see Leonard Rippy in the window over the Courthouse

steps, staring down. Stephen moved closer to the store window for a better look, and there, on the floor above Rippy’s, just the hint of a shadow could be seen, also looking through the glass down on them all. Stephen frowned. Why were Rippy and Bath doing that? Just staring at Val’s store?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You sleep okay?” “Perfect,” Mallory said, returning Toby’s coy smile. “You?” “Like a baby.” Actually Toby had been restless. She’d stirred more than once to hear him murmuring in his sleep. No wonder he looked tired all the time. “Sorry you had to come in early.” “Don’t be, I was looking forward to seeing you. I had a nice time last night.” “So did I.” Syd Warburton came into the office and gave them both a quick glower before going straight to the time clock and stamping out, and left without a word. “Syd’s on the Sheriff’s list,” Toby said, blowing on a steaming cup of coffee. Mallory raised her eyebrows. “The Sheriff’s?” Vint did not rise to the bait. Mallory sighed, wondering what was going on. Syd Warburton and the Hendersons—there was a combination fraught with potential disaster, if ever there was one. The Sheriff had finally shown, entering the building through the back and having a meeting upstairs to which Toby was included but Syd was not. Then the Sheriff left and Syd was clocking out early. Mallory was beginning to feel like she was working for the Gestapo. “Idiot,” she muttered, hoping to get Toby talking. Toby just shrugged. “He is excitable,” he itted. She grinned at him. “That’s it? After everything that went on today?” “What else is there?” he asked. “Syd screwed up, it’s all over with.”

Mallory sat down behind the other desk. She decided to just come out with it. “I think I’m about done around here,” she said, eyeing him for his reaction. His eyes widened. “Are you serious? You’re not, are you?” She nodded, with regret. “Yeah. I’m not happy here, you know that. You’ve listened to me complain enough.” Toby’s surprise changed to a sad smile. “I’d miss you.” “I’m not moving to Japan, Toby. As a matter of fact—a friend of mine invited me to a birthday party, a dinner date. How about going with me?” He arched an eyebrow. “You mean the Walters?” “No, a friend from Maine,” she assured him, smiling teasingly, but wondering again what was up between them. “Get you out of town for a night, do you some good. What do you say?” “Well. Maybe,” he allowed, sounding none too enthused about the idea. He looked around the office, thoughtful. Trying to imagine the place without her. Touched upon seeing that he really would miss her, she got up from her own desk and leaned against his, giving his shoulder a playful nudge. “You want to know what I could use?” She glanced around to insure no one was coming in— Mary had taken the day off—leaned over, and kissed him softly on the mouth. He returned it, but did not move towards her—they were on duty, after all. She licked her lips, letting him see her do it, and turned to go back to her desk. “But, failing that, a change of jobs will have to do. It’s the right thing.” “If that’s what you want. I wish you’d think about it.” “I have been—take my word for it.”

Frank needed to buy a good laptop computer, but he was headed home. Amazingly, he felt better than he had at the beginning of the morning. He was even coping with the results of the autopsies. He was still worried about Val, but

she wasn’t giving him much choice in the matter. He thought about Albanese’s computer disc. If everything went well, he would get with Stephen tomorrow. He needed someone who could not only access that information, but do it safely and in complete secret. He was looking forward to digging into the notebook tonight— Was that the van belonging to the Hendersons? He spotted it in the rear view mirror. It was far behind his vehicle. Hadn’t he seen it on the street down past the Courthouse? Had to be a coincidence. Surely those two didn’t have the stones to follow him. No. They couldn’t be that dumb. Just in case, when he came to the turn-off onto Gwen’s driveway, he kept going instead. They couldn’t be following him. But better safe than sorry. If he did have trouble coming, he wanted it to be on his own . And he wanted a little time to think about it. He ed the scene of the crash and only gave the damaged guard rail a glance. The van was still behind him.

“There’s where the car went off the road. Dang, where’s he going?” Jan groused. “Just stay on him,” Victor instructed. “The county line’s this way,” Jan reminded them. “Doesn’t matter,” Victor said. “Something happens, Hopewell’ll smooth it over with the county cops.” Victor had been this route before. At a hangout in Whitestone he’d once roughed up two off-duty state troopers whose female companions had shown him a bit too much attention. Hopewell and Bath made it go away.

Frank turned up the stereo, but was not listening. He was thinking. Five or six miles past the Lessners’ was a four-way intersection with no stop sign on Frank’s route. As he approached he decided what to do. He signaled right and came to a complete stop at the turn. In the mirror he watched the van slow behind him. They were unsure what he was up to.

“Dang! Where’s he headed?” Jan exclaimed.

He made the turn, and hit the gas. The van followed and raced to catch up. Frank slowed again. Now the van was right on his ass, both of them still moving at a pretty good clip down straight roadway. Without warning he spun the wheel and floored it, the Blazer fishtailing in a wide U-turn and spitting gravel from the shoulder. Kel was glaring through the van’s window with his mouth a round O of surprise, and Frank gave him a wave as he shot past in the opposite direction.

“Bitch!” Kel spat. “He saw us,” Jan complained. “Don’t worry about it,” Victor said. He was grinning, enjoying this. “Turn around and get behind him again. This isn’t over.” “What if he takes off?” “We can find him. But I don’t think he’ll take off. He’s not running, he just likes the game.” Victor was correct. Frank had turned right at the stop sign and was heading in the same direction as before, at a leisurely speed.

They had a third guy with them—must be Victor, the cousin. What were they planning? Frank was concerned they might have firearms. The .38 was loaded and within easy reach under the dash. But he had a lot of work to do. It would be difficult to finish his business while he was the target of a murder investigation. Had he known the area better, he could kill them and stash the bodies where they wouldn’t be found for a few days. This was not only desirable, but sensible—he had a strong feeling that the Hendersons were going to continue to be a thorn in his side. There was only one thing to do. Let them make the choice. He considered calling the Haven cops and dismissed the idea just as quickly. Abshire would be okay, maybe even Vint, but if he got Warburton or Hopewell on the line it would just complicate matters. He was already into the next county. Okay. He needed an impartial witness. Hopefully they were far enough from Haven to find one. Five minutes later he pulled into a filling station.

It was a small convenience store. He used his credit card and got the gas pump going. The van was approaching, taking its time. Frank went up to the outside service window. “Hey,” he greeted the kid on the other side of the glass. “Afternoon,” was the reply. The clerk was barely a teenager. He could tell Frank wasn’t just after fuel. “Who do you call when you need a cop?” The kid snapped up, suddenly alert. “County sheriffs.”

“How about giving them a call? Just tell them you have three guys from Haven trying to pick a fight.” “A fight—?” Frank nodded over his shoulder at the van coming to a stop and the clerk nodded back, nervous now, picking up a telephone receiver. “Thanks,” Frank said. He pointed a finger and said, “Keep your eyes open. I may need a witness.” The clerk nodded his assent. “Yeah, it’s those Henderson guys,” Frank heard him say into the phone. Frank replaced the pump and the gas cap as Victor Carter approached with his cousins trailing him on either side. Frank watched them casually, noting their hands were empty. They were advancing from the front of his truck. Victor and Kel came more or less facing Frank, while Jan went around Frank’s vehicle on his far left. Frank took the receipt from the pump and put it in his wallet, which went back into his pocket. “You guys looking for a rematch?” he inquired of Kel, who eyed him intently. Frank shrugged. “No trash talk this time, huh?” He kept the two brothers in his view. “I’m Victor Carter.” Frank looked him up and down. He was no taller than his cousins, but more massive. A definite body builder—he wore a sleeveless Hawaiian shirt over a tight T, exposing arms layered with hard muscle. Atop an equally thick neck, his jaw was lantern-shaped. A pirate’s angular moustache and Ray Charles soul patch framed his mouth, and the broad shoulders were touched by dark wavy hair. His grin was cruel, his eyes piercing and dangerous. A single gold earring completed the buccaneer’s look. “Frank Moore.” “I know who you are. You gave my cousins some trouble.” “Well, I didn’t really have any choice,” Frank said, sparing the two boys glances —Jan a slightly harder one. He was attempting to get around behind him and Frank let him know that he knew it. “You mess with my family, and you mess with me,” Victor told him, obviously

expecting that declaration to carry some weight. “I see,” Frank acknowledged. He stood casually, shoulders slanted, hands on his hips. “My cousins and me, we have a reputation around town,” Victor pointed out. “One we have to protect. You know what that means?” “What?” “It means, you learn a lesson. It’s either that—or you can leave town. Now. Don’t go back to pack. So which is it going to be?” Frank appeared to consider this choice before answering, “I guess I could leave.” Victor’s mouth cracked a humorless smile, his eyes unmoving. “Yeah, but you’re not going to, are you?” “No, I’m not.” “I didn’t think you would,” Victor said. A grin touched one corner of Frank’s mouth. “Would you?” “No way,” Victor itted with conviction.

He stared like a hawk watching a mouse, taking Frank’s measure. Finally his powerful shoulders dropped, seeming to relax. But his eyes stayed crafty. “Someone’s about to take a beat-down then,” he predicted. “Looks that way,” Frank agreed. “From what I heard, you can handle yourself okay,” Victor told him. “I get by.” “Of course, you had the element of surprise back in town. You realize that.” “I was counting on it.”

The cousins made no comment. Kel just watched and he assumed Jan was doing the same—the younger Henderson had succeeded in moving to where Frank would have to look over his left shoulder to see him. But Frank was fully aware of his proximity at all times. An automobile pulled up to the other side of the pump island with a middle-aged couple in the front seat. Before turning the engine off the man recognized what was happening and drove away. “Okay, then,” Victor said, nodding as if to himself. “Well. Whatever happens—I have to it, you’re a stand-up kind of guy, Frank. I like that.” Relaxed but wary, he approached Frank, then offered a hand. “No hard feelings, afterwards?” “Not on my part,” Frank answered. Carter held his weight on his left foot. He was already setting himself up to deliver the kick, just waiting for Frank to make the mistake of taking his hand. Victor’s eyes gleamed like those of a rattler about to strike. Frank after a moment of decision took a half-step forward as if to accept the handshake. He kept his hands on his hips, but angled his right shoulder a bit ahead, signaling false intentions. Then Carter’s right foot at last moved. It got only halfway off the asphalt. Frank’s hand shot out. He seized Victor’s paw in a vise and yanked him forward. Frank met him with a jaw-rattling left cross that produced a thock! sound. The maned head rocked sideways and Frank was aware, and surprised, that the jaw had not broken. Victor went limp like a stuffed doll and pitched into a wire motor oil display on the pump island. He and the plastic containers of lubricant crashed across the cement in a tangle. For a microsecond the brothers just stared, dumbstruck. To their credit, they recovered and acted quickly. Jan reached Frank first—his brother had to negotiate around their fallen cousin and the scattered quarts of oil. He tried to grab Frank from behind, before he could lock his hands one was seized, twisted almost in the same motion, and Frank stepped in and turned, jerking the arm out straight and up high. Jan barely ed what happened. There was a stabbing pain in his shoulder and then the world spun around him, his feet flying into the air. He was dropped onto the asphalt on his back, the breath leaving him with a huff. The back of his head hit hard enough to split the

scalp and draw blood. Barely conscious, his arm flopped dead to the ground when Frank released him. Then Kel was up. He swung a furious right roundhouse and Frank saw something in his fist—the roll of quarters he carried for emergencies. But it never reached its target. Frank caught his fist on the fly, and twisted his arm down while delivering a kick to the balls—the blow caused Kel to rise on the toes of his shoes, a hiss of agony forced between clenched teeth. But he didn’t fall. Frank stepped back and jabbed a high snap-kick into the side of Kel’s jaw. Two more of the same and he crashed into a heap beside his brother. He recovered only enough to roll onto his side, curl into a fetal position, let go of the quarters and cup his assaulted manhood vomiting onto the blacktop. To the teenager watching from the cash window all this happened in one continuous motion in little over a minute. Before the police arrived he would think to remove the VHS tape from the store’s video surveillance of the pump islands, and to claim nothing had been recording. This likely saved Frank some unnecessary legal hassles, but actually the boy’s intent was to keep the tape for himself and his cronies to enjoy. Within a week the encounter would be ed thousands of times off the Internet, with Frank’s features and vehicle tags blurred courtesy of one of the clerk’s buddies, a young computer wizard. Frank assured himself that the brothers had no fight left in them. Victor was trying to get up on his elbows. Only slightly out of breath, Frank shook his left fist off as he bent over him—he had to it, hitting Carter was like hitting a tree trunk. He grabbed a handful of hair and shook the other man. “Hey, listen. You hear me?” Victor’s jaw was slack, gums bloody, eyes cloudy. He blinked and focused but was unable to form words. “Uhnn,” he groaned. “I don’t want to see you assholes again,” Frank warned. He gave him another shake. “Understand? Got it?” He made sure their eyes met and said: “Tell whoever put you on me, they’re next. This is just a taste,” he promised, cocking a thumb back towards the brothers. Confident that Carter heard and understood, Frank punctuated the

conversation’s end with a fist jabbed into Victor’s mouth. Just hard enough to cement the warning in his memory. “Urrhh,” Victor grunted, closing his eyes. Frank let him go. He turned to approach the clerk, wondering if the kid would see it his way. “What did you make of that?” he asked, pulling his wallet. “They were gonna mess you up,” the kid assured him. His eyes were round like saucers. “Jesus, I thought you were dead. Those guys are some bad-asses.” That opinion causing an eyebrow to arch, Frank drew two twenty-dollar bills from the wallet and pushed them under the window. “For the mess.” “You don’t have to—” “Take it. You called the Sheriff? Tell them what happened. I’m gone.” “Well they probably won’t arrest them unless you press charges.” “That’s fine.” Frank was not sticking around. It was three against one, and the kid was his witness—but in his experience, it was often the guy who came out on top of a street fight that got jammed up. He kicked a few oil containers out from under the wheels of the Blazer so they wouldn’t be crushed, and got in to leave. He shook his left hand and flexed the fingers. Then he started the truck and pulled out of the lot.

“Come on, Val. Call it a day.” “I’m coming.” She turned the last of the lights off and he waited as she locked the door behind her. Stephen’s mother was waiting at the corner in the van. “Why don’t you let us see you home?” She spent most of the afternoon filling him in on what she and Frank knew—leaving out Frank’s personal relationship with Gwen McVie—and now he was concerned about her as well. “There’s no need. What am I, a Mafia informant in need of protection? Relax.”

“No way. This is serious, Val.” “Don’t make me regret telling you,” she warned him. “I’m glad you told me everything. I think Moore is on the money, Val. There’s something creepy and dangerous going on. I hope you’ll watch yourself.” “I promised I would. Now get. Hello, Elaine!” “Hi, Val.” She waved through the van’s window. “He giving you a lot of trouble?” “Like always.” “Stephen! What have I told you about that?” “You listen to your mother,” Val scolded him. Stephen rolled his eyes, helpless. “Jeez—I’m outta here.” Elaine folded his wheelchair and stowed it in the back. They said their pleasant goodbyes and she watched as they drove away before going to her own car. They would speak that night on the telephone, but she would never see her friend again.

“Hi, it’s me.” “Well it’s about time. I was gonna send out the Marines,” Lori told him. “How are things?” Frank asked. He knew she could tell from his tone there were things on his mind. “Just fine.” “Leslie okay?” “They’re all fine. How are you honey?” “Not bad.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. You sure you’re okay?” “Yeah.” He had no intention of telling her everything he’d learned, everything that was happening. “I’m not sleeping well. Too much nature up here.” “Aww. I’m tempted to come up there.” “I’m tempted to let you.” They chatted about nothing in particular. Frank noticed she made a point of not asking too many questions concerning his activities. Perceptive woman, Lori. They did not talk long. He was nearly overcome by emotion when she told him she loved him. He was suddenly afraid he would not live to see her again. “I love you too.” They said goodnight. He knew now that she was worried. It couldn’t be helped. He sipped his beer. For the third time he checked the Magnum, rotated the heavy cylinder, worked the action on the hammer. It clicked and clacked with the crisp precision of a finely-maintained weapon. It was nearly dark. If he had visitors tonight, he was prepared. He felt antsy. His hands were a bit sore. He flexed his fingers. It had been a few years since he’d hit anything harder than a punching bag. He called Val.

“I’m dandy. How about you? Expecting company tonight?” “If I have any, they’d best mind their manners,” he told her. “I’ve got something for them they won’t like.” “Well try to get some sleep. You looked beat today.” That caused a funny remark about the Hendersons to come to Frank. Instead he said, “I was.” He’d tell her about his run-in with them tomorrow. He wondered where they were. Jail? Probably not. Emergency room—maybe. He wished he’d

taken time to make sure. “Did you have supper?” “I ate. You?” “Yep. Maybe I’ll have you over again tomorrow night.” “I never turn down a meal.” “Well, then.” “Well. I’ll let you go. You call if you need anything. Be careful.” “I will, Frank. You too. See you tomorrow.” He checked all the doors and windows with the big revolver in his hand. He decided that tomorrow he would go somewhere and buy a couple of very highintensity battery-powered emergency lamps. If he had nighttime visitors again, he could hit them in the face with one of those. Get a little light on the subject and see what happens.

Val checked her locks as well. This was not a habitual chore—Haven was not that kind of town. She found the back door to the kitchen unlocked, though she was sure she’d secured it. But she dismissed it as faulty memory. Before bed she sat with a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk watching Wheel of Fortune beneath the living room lamp. Twice she heard—or thought she heard —sounds in the house but dismissed them as well, refusing to give in to nameless fears. Her home was safe. The aging house tended to settle, resulting in unexplained noises. The phone rang and she answered it without leaving her chair—this was the call from Stephen.

She turned off the TV and the lamp and stood, her knees protesting. She took her

sandwich plate and glass into the kitchen to put in the sink—and paused, suddenly frightened. The oven door was open. It yawned at her, as if challenging her to do something about it. She was not in the habit of leaving things open or lying about. Something was very wrong. With the dishes still in her hands she stood there and her eyes darted about her surroundings, the living room and kitchen she’d known her entire adult life suddenly becoming dark and threatening, with an unseen danger lurking in every corner and shadow. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and still it was long moments before she dared to move her head. The kitchen actually had two entries—she eyed the far one, considering the possibility of an intruder opening the oven door and then heading that way to hide, in the dining room. But why would anyone be inspecting her oven? Was this like that old movie, Gaslight? Was someone trying to frighten her, force her to doubt her own mental state? She swallowed and moved at last, attempting to be very quiet so she could hear any strange sounds, and put the dishes on the counter next to the sink. She opened a drawer and drew out a long meat-cutting knife, wishing she’d gotten one of Artie’s guns from the closet in the bedroom. With the knife gripped in both hands she turned and her back to the counter scanned the kitchen and what she could see of the darkened living room and dining area. There were no sounds other than her own frightened breathing. Then there was movement—she heard rather than saw it. It sounded like cloth brushing cloth—the sibilant sound made by a person’s wardrobe, pants legs or sleeves, in the course of normal activity. It would not have been noticeable but for the silence in the house. It came from the living room, though she saw nothing. Terrified now, she moved against the wall next to the refrigerator, pressing herself to it, and with the knife held up defensively used her free hand to grab the phone and punch in Frank’s number with her thumb. She held the phone to her ear and, frustrated, punched in the number again more carefully, before realizing that the line was dead. She stared at the receiver, her eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. That soft rustling of cloth—again from the living room. But very near, perhaps

just on the other side of the entry. She stood for only a few seconds, undecided, before replacing the useless phone and taking the knife again in both hands. She was utterly terrified. She could barely breathe from the fright. But just standing there was not an option. She forced herself to move, sheer force of will overcoming her fear. She stepped into the entry between the living room and kitchen and realized something strange was under her feet, on the kitchen tile. Looking down, she saw that she was standing within a ring of dirt that was inscribed halfway on the tiles and on the carpet in the TV room. The dirt or dust was pale gray in the light from over the sink. It was this fine soil she’d stepped on. Again forgetting to breathe, she was too frozen to even jump when the lamp over her chair suddenly clicked on and a man was standing there where she’d just been sitting. She stared, petrified. He was stripped to the waist, his lean frame unearthly pale and his torso decorated with strange markings drawn in black. It took her a moment to realize the man’s pallor came from a chalky body makeup covering him forehead to beltline. Next she recognized Leonard Rippy. She stared at him, her mouth working several seconds before she could force any words to come out. “Wh-what do you think you’re doing in here?” she stammered, more out of anger and shock than fear. Now furious, she stabbed a finger towards the door. “Get out!” Rippy just stared, his expression unreadable. Circles were drawn in black around his eyes giving his face a grotesque skull-like appearance. “I said out!” she cried, voice rising, gesturing with the knife. Still he said nothing. Val steeled herself and made to go for the door, and collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. She crashed to the floor in a heap, knife lost, driving the breath from her lungs with a grunt. And then she convulsed. Her wits left her entirely and she lay there with every muscle and nerve in her body turning on her. Never had she known such agony. Her lips drew back from her teeth in a rigor of pain and she gasped like a tortured animal. Her soul was on fire. Rippy approached and crouched, watching her intently. He was amused, thinking the circle of ash resembled a trap from the Bugs Bunny or Road Runner cartoons

so loved by Doctor Bath. Val was quite unaware of his interest—she was oblivious to everything except the shriveling pain attacking her mind and body. At last Rippy could stand the drooling strangling gasps of the woman no longer. He bent and got his hands under her arms and struggled to move her. His touch on her burning skin would have provoked screams, had she the breath to spare. Slumping, twitching helplessly in his arms, she was moved back within the circle she’d seen on the floor. Once within the dust barrier, she began to come out of her spell. She lay with her head on the tiles, gasping, ropy spittle leaking from the corner of her mouth. “Stay in the circle, Val,” Rippy cautioned. Bending low, he mouthed strange words in the Old Tongue as he used his hands to shape the circle of ash, reforming what she disturbed in falling. She was groaning now and was recognizing him again. He left her to recover and went the long way through the dining area and into the kitchen, resuming his examination of the old gas oven. Grunting with the effort, Val raised herself on one arm with her knees folded beneath her. She did not have the strength to attempt to stand. Her vision was clearing. She clutched her chest, afraid for her drumming heart. What had happened? What was Rippy doing? She looked around her, disoriented still. Rippy blew out the pilot light and turned the gas control to the maximum open position. Hearing the sibilant hiss signifying the escape of the invisible killer, he went back to the living room, again avoiding the ring holding Val. She looked up and blinked, her head wobbly. Rippy stood with a handkerchief over his mouth. She coughed, already getting a whiff of the gas. “Lenny—what —?” “I tried to warn you, more than once,” he said. “What are you doing?” “Interfering with Moore today was the straw that broke the camel’s back, Val. I’m genuinely sorry to do this. The Master is sorry, too.”

She coughed, choked. “Just lie down and go to sleep. It won’t take long.” She stared at him with burning eyes, hacking, the hissing filling her ears. Trembling with dread, she looked at the circle of dirt surrounding her—actually it was more like fine ash she saw, scooped from a hearth— and jabbed a hand over it—it was like putting her fingers into a white-hot flame. Jerking her hand back as if stung she stared at her untouched fingertips, uncomprehending. She blinked back tears, choking again. “Now, now—it’s all right. Just go to sleep,” Lenny urged her. She wept and coughed painfully. She stared at him through stinging tears, unable to beg for mercy, but terrified of dying. Desperate she finally began to whisper a prayer from her childhood, from Poland. Leonard heard and snorted with disgust. Praying, she watched him stand and go to the front door. He put a pouch bound with leather string into his pants pocket. From another pocket he produced a cigarette and a book of matches. Val began to sob, hacking horribly now. But her mind was becoming drowsy. The gas was having its deadly effect on her. The fear of dying alone clutched at her. It was really going to happen, just the way she’d always dreaded. She wept and tried to think of God and prayed for strength. Again, desperately, she tried to reach past the circle and jerked her hand back as if shocked by electricity. “That will just hurt,” Leonard reminded her. “Close your eyes and lie down, will you? It’ll be quick.” He opened the door and went out onto the porch, lighting the cigarette in the night air. He took a long drag to get it started, coughed—he was not a smoker. Coughing and choking, Val bowed her head. Tears fell onto the tile. But after a moment her throat and chest began to clear, as a pacific calm settled over her. She supposed it was her mind going, but it seemed so real. The hateful strangling

gas gradually was gone, replaced by the faint scent of strawberries. The fragrance was familiar—it reminded her of someone, though she could not say whom, or why. But it was comforting. She knuckled tears from her eyes, but did not open them. She was now certain she was being held, held close and warm and she did not want to see and make the illusion go away. She knew she had to be hallucinating—didn’t the gas make them all do that before they convulsed and lay down to die, her family and all those others? The strawberries—actually it was shampoo, or perfume. Scented perfume. It was so pleasant, reminding her of happier times. It told her she wasn’t alone, not anymore. “Thank you,” she sobbed, unsure to whom she was speaking. But there was someone. Rippy frowned in at her. Was the old woman talking to herself? He opened the book of matches on the shelf near a framed photo of Val and Artie soon after their wedding so many years before. Rippy lay the cigarette across the matches and watched for a second to make sure it would continue burning. By the time it reached the exposed matches, the house would be filled with gas. Ka-blooey. “Goodbye, Val,” he called to the old lady. He shut the door behind him and retrieved his shirt from the porch rail, slipping it on and starting down the street towards his car. Val did not hear him. She did not hear the gas. She was no longer afraid. She was happy, happier than she’d been in many years. Now in addition to the strawberry scent, she could smell familiar aftershave and old cigars. And warm bread, just from her mother’s oven, one of her few clear memories of childhood. She felt safe and at peace, beyond pain and fear. She was lying with her head on the floor, actually smiling, when the house exploded around her. There was the tremendous roar and splintering wood and shattering glass, and then the fireball. At opposite ends of the town Stephen Wilkes sat bolt upright in his bed and Frank Moore went to his window and saw the distant glow from the explosion. The destruction was heard the county over.

But Val did not hear a thing. At that moment she was safe with her friends and family, just as she’d always hoped to be.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Chris Jergens walked home from school with her two best friends, Deb Mathers and Amber Kelly. They lost themselves in the things young girls are apt to talk about: Classes. Teachers. Boys. Extra-curricular activities. They were not even aware of Val Newcombe or that she had died the day before. They lived two counties and eighty-five miles from Haven and had no connection to the town or anyone living there that they were aware of. They ed Deb’s home and Chris and Amber spent a few minutes on the Mathers’s porch before leaving the girl to continue on their way. A few steps on and Amber was next to say Seeya. Chris made the rest of the short walk alone, swinging her book bag. A boy named Blake Dillin ed on his bicycle and called out a greeting which she returned with a friendly wave. Chris was willowy and cute with blue eyes and red hair inherited from her father. She was bright and very popular among her classmates. “Hi,” she called out with a wave to Mrs. Laitz, the elderly lady next door who often was sitting on the porch as Chris reached home. “Hello, Red,” the woman waved back. From three blocks away two men watched intently, but being casual about it, not wanting to attract attention. They sat parked in a ten-year old sunshine-yellow Ford pickup truck, with flared fenders and custom wheels. The flashy vehicle would make it difficult to remain unnoticed, one might have thought. But they were not overtly worried about it. They drank sodas and saw to it the red-haired girl made it safely across the lawn and through her front door. Only when the door was closed behind her did the driver start up the Ford and they left the neighborhood. Chris dropped her bag on the living room sofa and checked the mail for anything of interest to her, leaving it on the kitchen counter. She found a note from her mom telling her a sandwich was in the refrigerator, she would be home at five. Chris decided to save the snack for Ellen DeGeneres which was on in about an hour. She poured herself a glass of milk and sat at the kitchen table with her

earphones on to get a jump on her homework before her program. Her parents were dubious of Avril Lavigne, Chris’s favorite pop singer, but they had a great deal of trust in their daughter. For a 13-year old she had a maturity and common sense affording her some latitude in her choices of entertainment. She nearly had her homework finished by the time the show came on. She got the egg salad and tomato sandwich out of the fridge and sat down at a TV tray with a fresh glass of milk. Ellen was having Justin Timberlake on and Chris and her friends had looked forward to it all day. It was well worth the wait. Afterwards she grabbed the phone and called first Deb and then Amber to compare notes. That done, she turned off the tube and went back to her homework and Avril. Her mom got home from work and scolded her gently for waiting so late to eat her snack—it would ruin her supper. Chris told her not to worry, that she had only eaten a banana for lunch and would be sure to have an appetite, and Mrs. Jergens worried about that, too. Chris changed the subject by asking her mother about her day and then went upstairs to get on her computer. She checked her email and sent messages to each of her friends with some more thoughts about Justin’s new song, just performed on Ellen. She logged onto HeavenAbove.com, a Bible student web site frequented by many of Chris’s friends at church. Visiting the chat line, she was pleased to see that her online friend, Diane, was logged on. Where have u been? she asked and waited for the reply. Diane was an elderly grandmother and great-grandmother (she liked to remind Chris, Grannies are getting younger all the time) living on a pension in Kansas City. She didn’t get around so well anymore and could not always make it to church on Sundays, and enjoyed discussing the Bible online with people of similar interests. She and Chris hit it off immediately. They’d never met but Diane emailed a photo of herself. Chris did not reciprocate, heeding her parents’ warnings about exposing herself online to people she did not know. But she had been corresponding with Diane three months now and felt the woman was safe. Apologizing, Diane explained that her aging tomcat, Noodles, had been at the animal hospital and she was too depressed without her pet to get online or do much of anything else. Alarmed, Chris sent back, Is Noodles OK?

Oh, the pesky cat is fine, Leonard Rippy typed into his keyboard. He added, I thought Noodles had distemper but it was just a stomach problem. Ole Noodles, he’s getting on you know, ha-ha. He hit SEND. After a moment, he saw, CHRIS Glad Noodles OK! Glad ur OK missed u don’t stay gone so long next time worry bout u. The girl was a much quicker typist than Diane; Rippy’s online persona spent too much time on grammar and spelling, elderly person that she was, and new to this high-tech computerized world. Smiling to himself over the girl’s concern, Rippy paused to formulate his reply, imagining the pre-teen’s freckled smile as he typed the letters in. Though she knew nothing about who he really was (the photo he’d scanned and emailed was from a magazine, complete with cat) he knew practically everything there was to know about her, and even had copies of her most recent school pictures.

The day before Val’s funeral Frank lay in bed with the Magnum on the night table beside him, going through Albanese’s pages of shorthand. He wanted to memorize every scrap of information he could to have it ready when needed. The news about Val had nearly caused him to do something foolish. The evening following the destruction of her home he’d gone scouting for high ground above Haven from which he could watch the comings and goings at the Old Church. He intended to return with a high-powered rifle and state-of-the-art scope, and lie in wait. He would kill Leonard Rippy with a single shot through the head, and then do likewise for John Bath, once he found out what the man looked like. He made these plans in the heat of a fury and a grief that added to what he was feeling for Gwen and with no thought of what would happen after his act. Thankfully his common sense returned. It wasn’t just Bath and Rippy he had to kill. He wanted to finish everyone involved in this, and to expose them as well, if possible. The local news broadcasts conjectured that the elderly business owner had killed herself, perhaps over financial setbacks or failing health. This soiling of his friend’s character brought Frank’s rage to a simmering boil each time it was repeated. He’d spoken to her barely three-quarters of an hour before her death

and knew perfectly well suicide was not possible. They’d murdered her, just like Gwen and Ray, and the newspaperman, and who knew how many others. Among everything else he was regretting barreling into town in such a damnthe-torpedoes fashion, broadcasting his purpose to everyone who would listen. Not only had it cost Val her life very probably, but now the guilty parties would have their guards up. Had he been more subtle it would’ve taken longer to get results, but perhaps the cost would not have been so great. Now he was afraid the rats might run for cover. He was absolutely determined that not one guilty person escape him. After his head had cleared, he’d almost gone to the authorities with everything he knew. Certainly it was enough to start an investigation. A real one, by the right people. But he’d dismissed the idea. Such an endeavor would take time, and law enforcement officials had to obey the very law they sought to uphold. In the meantime Bath’s web of lies and influence would be barring the doors, and leaving people like Trina and Karen Albanese in danger for their lives. Anyway, no punishment by judge and jury could be equal to what Bath and his conspirators surely had coming. No, only Frank could mete that out to them. But now he had to change his tactics. A low profile was called for, he should have seen that from the beginning. But how could he have known? One idea was to snatch Leonard Rippy and make him tell all he knew. Frank sensed that would be considerable. He was John Bath’s second-in-command, the one who relayed the orders. Frank saw the same operations many times back when he was involved with the Chicago underworld. And he knew he could force Rippy to talk. No doubt about that. But there was a conspiracy going on, not just involving murder, but kidnappings as well. Albanese had pieced together cases of missing children, girls, dating back almost fifteen years. There was no smoking gun in the pages of notes, and little connection to Haven. But what was there pointed to something longreaching, something of intricate planning and cold-blooded execution.

And it had gotten a lot of people killed. And the connection to Bath? It was not in the notebook. There were no missing children from the town. The sole link to Haven seemed to be Greg Miller, a deputy sheriff under Hopewell a decade before. Albanese had dug Miller up on old records of Haven’s town employees. The man had not lived in Haven for years. He was unmarried, with no children. Albanese had Miller’s occupation and had even compiled a list of motor vehicles owned by the man over the last fifteen years. Why was that important? Frank did not yet know. The missing kids. Albanese had gone back more than a decade, amassing a list of unsolved disappearances and ferreting out those with any possible similarities. This common-denominator resulted in a roll call of twenty-five children, all girls, between the ages of eleven and fourteen, from all over New England. Twenty-five—Frank shook his head at the number. All came from stable families and good schools, with above-average grades. All were involved in church and extra-curricular activities. It was doubtful these kids were runaways. Albanese noted seven separate cases of girls or their families who’d reported strangers, men seen in the vicinity before disappearances. Albanese left dates, and descriptions, everything in shorthand which had taken Frank some time to decipher. But these were all pretty average. There was nothing definite. Frank left the missing kids cases behind and went to Albanese’s notes on John Bath. Once again there were places and dates in the reporter’s shorthand, but nothing much of interest that Frank could see. He had a feeling he was seeing the same thing Albanese had, but failing to realize its importance. He was frustrated: He wasn’t a detective. The Doctor had emigrated from Europe after the Second World War, worked in New York City for some years, before settling in Haven. His profession was listed in the notes by Albanese as “speculator.” What did that mean? Wasn’t it something to do with Wall Street? Bath was indeed a doctor, or at least had been at one time; it was noted that he had graduated from medical school in Munich, . On the edge of one page, aside from the other scribbled lines, Albanese had

scrawled and underlined this: BATHORY A name? Perhaps Bath had shortened his name before emigrating to the U.S.; many did. Radu Maximillian had legally changed his. Repeating the name, Bathory, in his head, Frank got out of bed when he heard a news report on the living room television. A cute blonde reporter was standing with microphone in hand, the burned ruins of what was once Val Newcombe’s home in the background. Frank stared dully at the screen, having had a friendly supper in the house only a few nights ago. “—still have not given a reason why this elderly bookstore owner may have taken her own life. Her neighbors in Haven have told this reporter that Mrs. Newcombe may have been depressed over a business decline. All in the small town agree that Val, as she was known to her friends, will be missed—” Frank turned away in disgust, his fists knotting. Blaming himself didn’t accomplish much. Through no fault of his own he’d put her in danger, but the responsibility for Val, and all the others, ultimately lay with the person or persons deciding that human lives had no value. Those were the ones Frank was going to exact retribution upon. But he wanted to know for sure who he was after, and almost as important, why, and he wanted to know the details behind Gwen’s death, painful as that would be.

“Stephen? Are you all right?” He looked up listlessly from his barely-touched supper, stung by the report they’d just heard on the television in the living room. “I’m okay, Mom.” Richard and Elaine Wilkes exchanged worried glances for their son. He was well into his 20s, smart, capable, self-sufficient. The disability, sustained in a swimming accident at the age of eleven, had never held him down or caused him to be sorry for himself. But both his parents still regarded him as their baby, the youngest of three, and they were protective of him more perhaps than his siblings. Their hearts were breaking for him now. Reg herself that he was not going to eat, Elaine took Stephen’s plate. “I’ll put this in the fridge for you.” “Thanks,” he murmured. His gaze was far away. Trying to come up with a way to get his normally outgoing son to communicate what he was going through, Richard cleared his throat and asked, “So what did Bill Painter have to say?” The attorney paid Stephen a visit earlier that afternoon, the two of them speaking in the den. Stephen shifted his eyes towards his father, who immediately regretted asking. He swallowed almost painfully before replying, and Richard knew he was fighting conflicting emotions that were hurting him deeply. And there was something else—Anger. Just a flash of it, crossing his features before he spoke. “He told me Val left the store and property to me,” he said quietly. Richard suppressed with difficulty his reflexive response. His eyes wide, he said, “Stephen. She must have thought so much of you to do that.” His son nodded with a sad smile. “Yeah. She just signed the papers this week. The house—well he said he knows the insurance agent, the shop is free and clear. It’s almost—” His voice trailed off. He was about to say, It’s almost creepy.

Elaine listened from the kitchen and came back to the table to find her son with his head bowed, too strong to weep in front of his parents. But she didn’t mind doing that for him, for all of them. Sniffing, she embraced his wide shoulders. Richard reached across the table and squeezed his son’s hand. Stephen looked at his father with large haunted eyes. He knew how it looked, the accident so soon after she amended her will. “She couldn’t have done that, Dad. She wouldn’t have.” “We know, baby,” Elaine said. “It had to be an accident.” “Those—bastards—” This with such vehemence in his voice that both his mother and father were at first shocked by the tone. This was not just anger—it was hatred. Richard gave his hand a good squeeze. “They didn’t know Val. They’re just getting their ratings,” he said, unaware whom Stephen was thinking of. “But you knew her, Stephen. You did,” Elaine encouraged. Stephen looked up at them both and for the first time his mind began to clear away the fog of misery and anger that had shrouded it since the awful news. His mom was right. No one knew Val like he did. If anyone got to the truth behind her death, it would have to be him. He thought about Frank Moore. Val had trusted the man, befriended him despite those in town warning her, no, threatening her, against it. Was that why they’d killed her? What had she done that could be so important? Frank would help him, Stephen told himself. Together, they would find out the truth.

Frank was completely unaware that he had a new ally. Since Val’s death he’d completely put Stephen Wilkes out of his mind. It was too dangerous to get anyone else in on this. He was determined to see it through on his own. But, true to his fears, Albanese’s CD-Rom stopped him cold with a request for a numerical encryption code when Frank tried to open it on his new laptop. He

was at a loss. Trina had already told him she knew nothing about any codes or s Unsure of where to go from there, he went back to the notebook and found himself looking at a Xerox of a three-year-old police report describing a black muscle-car with two men inside which was seen at the elementary school of a girl in the days before her disappearance. Detectives had followed this thin lead but it amounted to nothing. That led him to Albanese’s compiled list—several made mention of a black muscle car. One witness described it as a Barracuda or a Camaro. Investigators had even gone to the trouble of tracking down every late-model black Barracuda in the state in which that particular child had come up missing. Once again, nothing. A yellow truck. The notation leapt out at him—the paint left on Gwen’s wrecked car was always in the back of his mind. Several of the disappearances made similar mention of a yellow pick-up truck, probably a Ford. Genuinely interested now, Frank found the list of vehicles owned by Greg Miller, a restorer of classic cars. He was ed as owning a Ford pick-up truck the last four years. And automobiles prior to that included a ’69 Barracuda, a ’68 and ’69 Camaro, and a ’69 Dodge Charger. Miller owned other vehicles, but he had a ion for muscle cars. Those were pretty distinctive wheels. Why the hell would any kidnapper in his right mind want to attract such attention? The search for black ‘Cudas had taken place in Maine. Miller at that time was living in New Hampshire. But he had owned the car that year. This was something. Frank’s heart was pounding. Of course it couldn’t be this easy. Surely he couldn’t already have in his sights the owner of the vehicle responsible for running Gwen and Ray off the embankment to their deaths?

“Doctor Bath is in a good mood today,” Shan remarked, putting a cup of coffee on Rippy’s desk. “Thanks—yes, he’s pleased how things turned out with Val’s business and Stephen Wilkes. The store has been in Haven a long time, we’re all glad it’s

going to stay in the community.” Rippy pushed himself away from his computer and sipped the coffee—it was a gourmet blend made with Shan’s own special additions. Doctor Bath would touch no other. “Stephen being black helps, too,” Rippy added. “It just reflects well on the town, projects a better image. Doctor Bath never wanted the Commerce Board to be a bunch of old white guys. Doesn’t look friendly.” “He’s always thinking,” Shan itted. “It’ll take some time—he and Val were very close—but Stephen will come around I’m sure, and the Board eventually.” Things were going well. ittedly Moore was a bump in the road, and Val had been swimming against the current for far too long. But with her gone hopefully Moore’s information source would dry up and he’d lose interest. If not, well— Moore was a tough nut, he proved that against Victor and his cousins. But Doctor Bath seemed confidant he could be controlled, or made to disappear if necessary. In fact the Doctor seemed to almost relish a bit of excitement. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and he got little of that in Haven. Maybe this contest against Moore would actually do him some good, pep him up. Syd Warburton’s stumble could have been disastrous, and he’d been plenty dressed down for it. But it also had its upside. By challenging Moore the Hendersons had forced him to show his abilities. Obviously he wasn’t shy around guns, and even bare-handed he was a dangerous man not to be taken lightly. Tasting her own steaming cup, Shan asked about Natalie. “She’s fine,” Leonard smiled. “Doctor Bath is talking to her personally now, getting her ready for the final ritual. She’s going to be a good fit.” “A nice tight little fit for you, too,” Shan commented, her eyes teasing. “Shanna Mae,” Rippy said, his tone mock-scolding. Privately, Shan could be pretty wicked. She sometimes asked for detailed descriptions of his trysts. It pleased Rippy that she was so comfortable around him. “But she’s a good catch.”

“I gather Deputy Abshire hasn’t been so easy?” Leonard shrugged. “She was Stacey Walters’ idea, but she’s not that important.” He didn’t add that Vint seemed to be the one throwing a wrench in that plan— which the Doctor as well did not think worth pursuing “And everything’s on track for the Offering.” “Oh yes. I spoke to her on the chat line just today, and then Miller checked in. They should take her Friday if everything goes as expected.” Shan nodded, noting the casual reference to a meticulously planned operation. But Rippy was correct—you could never predict the unpredictable, and that’s why he had backup on top of backup just in case. His handling of Val Newcombe was impressive as well, and the Master was fully aware of such. Rippy was strictly upper management and it was unusual for him to get his hands dirty, or to even want to. But he had very much wanted to deal with Val personally. “I’m looking forward to the Gathering,” she said, favoring Leonard with a muchdeserved look of iration. “So are we all. The Solstice can’t come soon enough this year.”

Kyle Jergens stuck his head in his daughter’s door to say good night before bed. He found her propped on her pillows, reading a new Harry Potter. “G’night, hon.” “Night, Dad.” “You get to sleep soon.” “I will. G’night.” Kyle walked down the carpeted hall to his wife, as he had done hundreds of times before without a thought towards the happy routine of his life and that of his little family. Completely ignorant of what the future held, and how in a few

short days he would never dare to take that routine for granted again.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Frank.” He gave Stephen a polite nod and shook his hand. “Steve. How are you?” “Fine.” The kid didn’t look fine. His face was ash-colored and he had a set of luggage under his eyes. “Nice service,” Frank noted. “Yeah.” Val had not been to Temple in years. The funeral service was presided over by a Rabbi from Whitestone. Frank stood beside the younger man’s wheelchair, thinking he’d been at this gravesite only a few days before, and here he was again saying goodbye. The day was sunny and warm. Groups of mourners dispersed and drifted away, conversations hushed. Frank saw that aside from Stephen and his parents all of Val’s friends and acquaintances were seniors like herself. Frank wondered how many of these people had been shunning her in town. And there was Toby Vint, his towering frame clad in a crisp suit and tie. His head was bowed, hands clasped, lingering near the flower-adorned casket. Just as Frank was about to excuse himself, Stephen said bluntly, “We need to talk.” Without giving Frank time to reply, he called out to his parents, who were some distance away speaking to another couple: “Mom, Dad? I’ll see you at the car, okay?” Elaine nodded, giving the man with her son a careful look. Frank noted in ing that Stephen’s mother and father were in conversation with the attorney, William Painter, and a woman who was most likely his wife.

He tried to put aside his feelings. He was suspicious of the lawyer without having a good reason to be. Actually he’d grown suspicious of just about everyone in Haven. Without being asked he got behind Stephen’s wheelchair and pushed him across the grass and onto the cobblestone walkway to the parking area. “You still need that computer help,” Stephen said—it was not a question. “No, I don’t, after all,” Frank told him. Stephen locked the wheels and twisted to stab him with angry eyes. “What?” “I’ve got it covered,” Frank said, in a tone meant to discourage conversation. “Crap. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I want in on this.” Frank resumed pushing the wheelchair. “No, I don’t think so.” “Wait a minute—I said, wait a minute,” Stephen shot back angrily. He spun the chair forcefully from Frank’s grip, turning to face him. “I said no,” Frank told him, a bit surprised. He wasn’t used to such attitude, especially from kids in wheelchairs. “No? You said no? Who the heck are you?” “I’m the guy telling you to forget it,” Frank said sharply. “Are you forgetting it?” “Yeah. It’s over,” Frank lied. “You think Val killed herself?” “That’s what they’re saying.” Frank at this point would agree to anything to shut Stephen up and let him get out of there. He was regretting coming to the service. “It was an accident,” he added. Stephen stared at him, his eyes piercing like twin daggers. As if examining a bug under a microscope, he leaned forward for yet a closer look. Then his eyes

narrowed with accusation. “Crap,” he spat. “You’re not giving this up. What, are you trying to protect me? I don’t need your protection.” “Go roll yourself,” Frank threw over his shoulder as he turned to go. This was pointless. And he just didn’t have the heart for it, not here, not now— “Hey. I said hey!” Stephen stopped him with a bellow that turned the heads of the stragglers who’d not yet left. Very conscious of who might be hearing this, Frank glanced around, looking for Vint in particular. The deputy was still at the grave. He did not look up. Stephen wheeled forward and spoke so only Frank could hear. “I was up half the night, digging up stuff on the computer pertaining to B—you know. If you won’t let me help, I can’t force you. But I’ll do it on my own.” Frank glared at him, unsure of how to respond. The kid meant business. “We’d be better off working together.” Stephen saw something change in Frank’s demeanor. His shoulders didn’t slump, his gaze certainly didn’t soften. But there was something. “Oh, and by the way,” he added, “my name’s not Steve. And it’s not Kid, and it’s not Junior. Don’t even think about calling me Boy. Deal?”

“Okay, Steve. Tell me what you’ve got.” Stephen let the dig go with only a glower. He’d given Frank directions to the house and told him to come to the back door, the private entrance to Stephen’s room. It was remodeled from a garage addition and also served as his office. His setup was impressive to say the least. Frank could barely tell one end of a computer from another, but he could spot top of the line equipment when he saw it. Stephen built his network from the ground up. The various components occupied an entire wall and a quarter of another of his room. Besides his bed, desk, his own bath and a customized workout machine, there were shelves of reference books, movie posters and memorabilia, and taking up the entire far end

of the room was a lovingly crafted electric train set complete with tunnels, landscaping and miniature buildings and bridges over painted rivers. It was constructed on a customized stage with removable sections, allowing Stephen easy access. Everything but the kitchen sink, is what Frank thought. And a young man enjoying his toys, maybe a little too much. Stephen switched on one of three monitors, interrupting an amusing cartoonanimated screensaver of robots Ultima Futura and C-3PO twirling across a polished dance floor to soft music supplied by R2-D2 wrangling a violin. The computer—or part of it—then spoke in a velvet-soft feminine voice which appeared as a dancing electrical arc on the screen: “Secret , sir?” “It’s me, sweetie pea,” Stephen answered, positioning himself at a keyboard. “Thank you, Stephen,” the electronic lady responded. Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t have a ?” he queried. Stephen smiled, touched a mouse, g off. “Sure I do.” Another touch, and the monitor was on again. “Secret , sir?” Stephen nodded at Frank. “It’s me, sweetie pea,” Frank said, using the phrase from before. “Buzz off, clown,” the woman’s voice rebuffed sharp as a knife. Frank had to suppress a chuckle. “I’m here, babydoll,” Stephen said, unable to hide his smirk. “Thank you, Stephen.” “I’ve got state-of-the-art voice recognition software here,” Stephen announced. “If you’re trying to show off, fine—I’m impressed,” Frank surrendered. Stephen drew his hands from the keyboard and turned to look him in the eye. “I am showing off. Understand—I don’t tolerate anyone talking down to me.” Frank met his gaze. He nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s call a truce. Show me what

you’ve got, Stephen.” “For the time I put in, it’s not much,” the other said, turning back to the keyboard. “I’m hoping you can get me turned in a more promising direction.” A few keystrokes took the screen to ed news features. Frank bent over the young man’s shoulder for a better look. “So one of these guys is John Bath?” A still news photo showed several suited men clustered around an area bordered by yellow tape imprinted with the word CONSTRUCTION. Five well-dressed gentlemen were putting chrome-plated shovels into the earth, big smiles, posing for the camera on a cloudless day. Excepting the man on the far end, around whom Stephen had drawn a bright yellow circle with an electric stylus. “From the left, that’s Doctor Bath, Leonard Rippy, Judge Lee, Mr. Barman—he was the elementary school principal till last year, and the Mayor. This is from a couple of years ago, they were starting an addition onto the school.” While the other four were smiling into the camera, Bath’s face was angled away. You got the feeling he was turning away from the photographer mid-flash. Bath appeared to be a tall man in his mid-70s, in good health. His cheeks and forehead were high, completely-white hair combed neatly back from his skull. “He doesn’t look special. What is he, camera-shy?” “I think maybe so. This is the only picture I could find. He likes to stay in the background. I don’t think he’s been seen in public for a while.” “I wonder why?” Frank thought aloud. Using the mouse Stephen clicked through several screens of little interest until a photocopied document appeared. “Bath’s college records,” Stephen said. “Yeah—Munich, ,” Frank read, recalling the school mentioned in Albanese’s notes. He was looking at photocopied originals—everything was online these days. “Check out the date,” Stephen prompted. Frank squinted at the screen and his eyebrows jumped. He looked harder, sure he’d read it wrong. “1920? Are you kidding me?”

He raised his head and gave Stephen a disbelieving stare. “College grad, 1920? Are you telling me this guy’s been creeping around for over a hundred years?” “According to this,” Stephen said with a helpless shake of his head. “Have you found a birth date on him?” No way Bath was that old. A fraud was being perpetrated here. Bath was using someone else’s identity, who knows why. “No birth certificate. I found emigration records from Romania to , dated 1912, listing his date of birth as March, 1893.” “Bullshit!” Frank sputtered with a reflexive laugh. “His port records list the same date,” Stephen insisted. Frank shook his head. “He can’t be that old. This is a con.” “Well, it’s a good one. I haven’t found anything in his background to contradict it.” “Someone that old, are they still on their feet?” Frank said. “Anything can be faked. But why would he? What else?” “He’s worth millions. He owns real estate all over the U.S., and Canada and Europe.” “There’s your motive. He found some old fossil and stole the guy’s fortune. Maybe he even killed the man for the money.” “I don’t know,” Stephen commented, clearly dubious. “Why not?” “It’s just that identity theft is so easy these days. His age is shocking, but it’s out there, in the public domain. And it’s gone on for decades, why would he have stuck to it for so long?” “For the bucks. Cause no one’s called him on it. Who knows? You find any connections to organized crime?” Frank asked the question, but no longer gave his old ties much consideration. He’d about written all that off as a factor in

Gwen’s death. “Nothing like that. He’s got connections galore to millionaires, politicians, people in power. Some of his business ties look funny to me, though.” “Like what?” “Like this thing in Canada. He owns property that’s nothing but wilderness, miles from nowhere. The only thing there is a small medical research clinic, it seems completely legit, except when you see the money he’s spending on it. And as far as I can tell it’s not producing anything. What’s all this money going into?” “Is that all?” “The clinic is buried under tons of trusts and subsidiaries, like he didn’t want it noticed. Some of his overseas stuff too. If I had time—” “Any family? Ex-wives, kids?” “Never been married that I can find out about. No links with women at all, even when he was young.” Frank was beginning to wonder: had the man ever been young? “That’s about it for me,” Stephen said. “Makes for interesting reading, but people being killed for it? I can’t see the reason. Maybe the reporter was just intrigued that Bath had been around for so long. Maybe we’re off on the wrong track.” “No way. He stumbled onto something Bath, or someone around Bath, didn’t want to get out. Val’s just the latest casualty.” “So you don’t think she killed herself.” “Hell, no,” Frank spat. “Absolutely not. I have to say, though—I’d have thought you’d be more broken up about her. No offense.” “I’ve done my crying,” Stephen said with iron in his voice. “Now I want answers.”

“Whatever they are, it’s not in this public-domain stuff,” Frank said. From his shirt pocket he drew out the cassette holding Albanese’s computer disc. “Ahh,” Stephen said and inserted the CD-Rom into a console. “It’s encrypted,” Frank said. “His wife doesn’t know anything about it.” “Most people use codes any moron can figure out with a little time,” Stephen explained, pecking away at the keyboard. The disc repeatedly refused him access. He paused, thinking. “I suppose a trained news reporter might be a little cagier than most. I need some personal information on Albanese.” Frank started to comment but Stephen immediately slid his chair to a second monitor and went to work on that keyboard. Frank tried to follow without much success. He saw a newspaper obituary and website—employee records? Then insurance data files, hospital records, copies of birth certificates. This was all accomplished in two or three minutes, Stephen’s nimble fingers a blur over the keys as he saved and filed information he would need for later. “I’ve created a file for Albanese and his wife and daughter,” Stephen said. “We’ll start with them.” After another minute he pushed himself away from the keyboard. The computer kept working. To Frank it looked like it was running sequences of numbers as if trying to crack the combination of a safe. “What are you doing?” “I’ve got my network using every possible combination of Albanese’s DOB to unlock his disc. After that I’ll try the same for his little girl and his wife. Odds are the code is in there somewhere. Most people aren’t too clever.” “What have you got, three different computers here?” “I’ve got three monitors on a network—more than three computers.” “You task satellites with all this hardware?” “No, but I can listen to a few of them.” “So what now?” “We wait,” Stephen said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“What if this date of birth tack doesn’t work?” “I’ll try Social Security numbers. His code’s accessible, whether he told it to anyone else or not. I’ve just got to find it.” “Is this equipment secure?” Stephen gave him an amused and confident grin. “This is a very profitable business you see here. When I started my second web site it kept getting pirated by hackers wanting inside info for their own sites. I learned in a hurry how important security is. Don’t worry. Nobody spies on me.” Frank took him at his word, appreciating the younger man’s self-confidence. “I noticed Gwen McVie had visited a couple of your sites on her computer. Did you know her?” “Never met. Val probably mentioned me to her. Did you have another run-in with the Hendersons? They look like a building fell on them.” “We had words,” Frank allowed. “Next time give me some advance notice. I’d like to watch.” “You got it.” They waited, the monitor communicating that the computer was SEARCHING…. Stephen left the room and came back with cans of soda and sandwiches in a tray balanced across his lap. “Compliments of my mom,” he beamed. “I’ll bet she’s not too happy with me hanging around,” Frank ventured. “Any friend of mine is okay with her,” Stephen assured him. Frank wondered if that was true. Again, the inherent distrust of anyone in Haven he was not personally acquainted with—and many he was. He popped open a can of root beer and took a large bite of chicken on rye. His appetite had not been right but at that moment he was suddenly famished. He thought of Val, of the second supper engagement they’d never had. He caught

Stephen’s eye and sensed he was thinking of her as well. SEARCHING…. “I guess this might take a while,” Stephen itted. “But don’t worry, I’ll get it. You headed out?” The delicious meal finished, Frank was standing as if to leave. “I’ve got some things to do.” “Such as?” “Might be better you not know, for now. I’ll get back with you if things turn out. Here’s my cell number.” He wrote on a piece of paper from his pocket. “Also a couple of names from Albanese’s notes. Maybe you could research them, see what you come up with.” Stephen frowned at the paper. “Bathory?” “It may not even be a name. I’m not sure.” “Bath may have shortened it when he emigrated.” “That was my thought.” “Seems familiar though—” “Stephen.” Frank wanted his undivided attention. When he had it, he said, “We might make a team. But you be careful. Val—” Their eyes met. “Val shook me up.” “Me, too,” the other agreed with a sad nod.

That night Toby Vint cruised in his radio car with the window down, his nostrils flared as he took in a collection of interesting scents. The town was quiet. Even the residences at the far ends of town were dark. His rounds were routine and uneventful as always. Until he made his second through Main Street, only a block from the Old Church. He rolled to a stop at the intersection of First Street, his head swiveling into the

light evening breeze. He was downwind from the Old Church and what he detected. The scent, or feeling, was familiar to him. The building was dark as was most of Main Street. It was a moonless night and only the decorative street lamps cast their pale glow at regular intervals. He could see nothing and there were no sounds other than the soft rustling of the leaves in the park trees. His eyes were preternaturally sharp, but the man had blended into the night and shadows too effectively even for him. He sat with the engine idling and considered the best course of action. With his own unique insight he knew that destiny was preparing to crash down on them all, and therefore he was the only one who could possibly divert it. But should he? Even he could not see the future, but he sensed oncoming events as one might feel the vibrations of an approaching train on the tracks long before it was within sight. There were premonitions of violence, pain. Even death. He knew the instigator. And here was the opportunity to stop him cold. No. He would not act. He would wait and let fate take its course. He owed Bath nothing other than unflinching obedience. Loyalty was another thing entirely. Toby allowed himself a grim smile, taking guilty pleasure in his own small rebellion. He took his foot off the brake and continued on his rounds as if he’d detected nothing at all.

Frank waited until the taillights from the deputy’s car had disappeared before daring to breathe a sigh of relief. For long moments he was certain Vint had somehow spotted him. He left the cover of the shrubbery flanking the building and hugged the wall, sidling up to the main entrance. As he thought, it was connected to an alarm. He knew how to subvert it, but he preferred to find another way in if possible. He skirted the corner of the Old Church, moving like a cat in black jeans and a pullover. No windows on this side of the building. The rear exit facing an expansive parking lot was locked with an alarm as was the front. A drainage spout came down the corner, not sturdy enough to climb. But on the opposite back corner, he found electrical conduit piping up to the task. He grasped it in both gloved fists and went up the wall with his feet bracing the bricks like a

lumberjack. He was panting heavily by the time he reached the roof. He wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. On the steeply angled roof tiles he first examined the clock tower, looking for any way of entry, and found only locked windows. He peered over the front of the building, the window leading into Bath’s office directly below him. He drew a length of strong but light rope from his satchel and knotted the end around a plumbing spout. In minutes he was rappelling down the face of the Old Church. He steadied himself on the office windowsill, surprised and pleased to find the window cracked. Bath must like his fresh air. Carefully he examined the frame for signs of wires leading to an alarm, then peered through the glass to inspect the ceiling within and the room’s corners for anything that might be motion detectors or video surveillance. The office was mostly in shadow but he saw nothing suspicious. Cautiously, he reached an arm in and simply slid the window far enough to allow him to enter. Bath, the old buzzard, had let his guard down. They probably didn’t get too many cat burglars in these parts. Bath’s office. Frank left the rope hanging for his exit and produced a penlight. He let his eyes adjust to the dark and took a careful look around. He had every reason to believe Bath himself was still here, hopefully in the back bedroom, counting sheep. Frank decided he was alone and turned the penlight on, keeping the beam away from the windows. It had been a simple matter to find, on the Internet, plans for the Old Church on the state’s Historical Society website. Those diagrams included blueprints for the aged building’s newer renovations, the offices of the city employees among them. John Bath’s office in particular was spacious and laid out in such a way that it was obvious he made his home here. There was a bedroom, a full shower, even a small kitchen. Maybe the good Doctor had a home elsewhere in Haven— but maybe not. With the flash of murderous fury following Val’s death, Frank had sought out a

vantage point above the town with the intent of killing Rippy and his boss using a sniper rifle. Eventually his common sense prevailed, but he used the spot he’d found to watch the Courthouse anyway, looking for his quarry’s comings and goings. He’d waited there in the top of an old ranger tower with binoculars in the early morning and the late afternoon for two days. Rippy, the Sheriff and his deputies, other city employees, he’d seen them all report for work and leave at the end of the day. But no one of John Bath’s age and description had appeared. Not once. Frank became convinced that Bath lived there in the Courthouse. It seemed logical. Bath was a king overlooking his kingdom. And that was why he now slid the small but deadly knife into the palm of his glove. If Bath had the bad luck of waking and coming out of the bedroom, Frank would kill him. He was not yet one hundred per cent sure that it was he behind Gwen’s death, but he would have no qualms if forced to make a decision. Huge desk, adorned with knick-knacks and a PC. Thick carpeting. Potted ferns here and there. Wall behind the desk covered with framed photographs. Wet-bar in one corner, another dominated by a floor-to-ceiling antique cabinet. In a third corner, a huge double-edged broadsword from medieval times stood in an ornate glass case. The remainder of the room had a long meeting table and wide-screen television and entertainment center with casual leather furniture. A shelf next to the television was full of DVDs in alphabetical order. Frank noticed most appeared to be old Warner Bros. cartoons—Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck. Frank himself was a fan. He took a walk around the room, looking again for any alarm devices. He paused at the gilded door leading into Bath’s private quarters and put his ear against it. He heard nothing. Bath must be a quiet sleeper. Frank had no intention of entering the old man’s bedroom, unless he had to. He moved behind the desk. With the penlight in his teeth he examined the drawers. He used a lock pick to gain access but found little he was interested in. Stacks of official papers, correspondence. In the bottom drawer was a length of rusted iron chain with manacles—strange. He felt around for any notes taped to the undersides of the drawers. Bath had a fancy computer setup and Frank knew s and the like were often hidden in such places. But he found nothing.

Relocking the cabinets, he noticed for the first time the beautiful polished veneer of the huge desk. It was obviously a valuable antique. The wood was almost black, with a shine so deep it seemed liquid, as if you could dip your hand in it. The desk top was full of aged relics too, he saw—among other things was a Colonial cap-and-ball pistol in a glass case. Bath liked old things. Big surprise there. There was also a small crystal ball on an ornate bronze base. Frank stood and perused the collection of photographs on the wall behind and to the right of the desk. Mostly of scenes and events from Haven, some quite old. Nothing too interesting. Frank noted that Bath himself seemed not to be front and center in any of them. He gave the broadsword a look, wondering if the thing could be genuine. The Middle Ages? The double blade had little chinks along both edges. He had a sudden thought and went back to the photograph collection: something had struck him as odd. There. It looked like a rally for some local politician; the photo was taken right in front of the Courthouse. Several people stood on a red-white-and-blue bedecked grandstand, overlooking a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd filling Main Street. A banner proclaimed ELECTION ’76. Thirty years ago. And yet there to the right of the grandstand, one head stood above the rest of the crowd. Looming, broad-shouldered, the man appeared to be Toby Vint. Impossible of course. The deputy was likely not a day over thirty. But there he was. The hair was longer, but his face—his size. In a classic 70s wide-collared suit. The person in the photo had to be Vint’s father, or some other look-alike relative. But it was strange. It certainly seemed to be the deputy. In conjunction with the revelations concerning Bath’s freakishly advanced years, it was yet another piece to the puzzle that was Haven. Frank approached the cabinet. Taller than he was, it looked to weigh at least a ton. He wondered how they’d ever gotten it up three flights of stairs. The wood appeared to be blood-red, and like the desk, polished so dark and deep you’d almost swear you could see shapes, half-formed swirls of color and mass, far beneath the cabinet surface. The lock was a heavy brass thing with the horned countenance of a demon adorning it. Frank overcame it in a second with

one of his tools. The well-oiled doors opened without a sound and Frank peered within, the light again between his teeth, a musky smell touching his nostrils. What he saw was both unexpected and yet, somehow, perfectly apt.

The interior of the cabinet was lined in black silk. Three shelves, each with its own little collection of oddities, every item placed with exacting care. The top shelf held a bundle wrapped in red silk, looped with a black ribbon. Next to this was a silver necklace from which hung a single pendant. Frank did not touch the jewelry but on a notepad from his satchel he scrawled a sketch. It was an inverted five-pointed star in a circle. A pentagram. Second shelf. A collection of thick mal-formed candles. One black, one white, one red. Each was splattered with what appeared to Frank to be dried blood. And a book. Frank lifted it—it was big and heavy, the pages stuffed with notes, slips of paper, crinkled and yellow with age. It was bound in thick waxy leather—at least, Frank hoped it was leather. It was unlike any he’d ever seen before. It was cracked and warped with age and on the front was again the sign of the pentagram, seemingly burned into the surface as if from a hot brand. A silver chain prevented the book from being opened, a chain linked all the way around both horizontally and vertically, with no lock or clasping device. The third shelf bore a folded black silk robe, and some sort of nightmarish mask fashioned of wood and adorned with teeth and hair from an animal. Frank could not help but think of his late-night visitor at the living room window—but whatever he’d seen that night, this mask was not it. Along with this was a long wooden case stretching the length of the shelf. Suspecting its contents by the case’s shape, Frank was not surprised upon opening the lid and finding a collection of bladed weapons on a bed of red velvet. Besides several ritualistic daggers of different size and shape, there was also a sword like none he’d ever seen before, the blade long and smooth, more narrow than a Samurai, lethally sharp. Its handle was wood carved into the shape of a cloven hoof. The dark surface of the handle was stained with what again might have been blood. The heavy doors of the cabinet were also shelved, and crowded with dust-laden jars sealed with wax paper and corks, containing dry substances and ominous

cloudy liquids. He was thinking he should set fire to this damned place and get out of there. But instead he took the bundle of red silk down from the top shelf for inspection. Instantly he disliked the feel of the object in the soft fabric. It felt stiff, bony inside, like an oversized rabbit’s foot on a key chain. He put it on Bath’s desk and untied the ribbon, taking care to memorize how it was bound so he could redo it exactly. Cautiously he laid aside the neat layers of silk. He stared, not breathing, at what lay in the beam of the penlight. It was a human hand.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“The hand is a talisman,” Stephen confirmed. “A charm of power, luck, whatever. I wonder what would have come of you just taking it?” “It never entered my mind,” Frank declared. “I can still barely believe I saw it. Who could it have belonged to?” “You said it looked like a woman’s hand.” “Yeah.” Frank felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen as he recalled the awful sight of the thing. He’d seen enough in his life to be far from squeamish, but the hand in the cabinet had been grisly in a way he’d never experienced. For the better part of an hour he had recounted his excursion of the previous evening, parking the Blazer in a secluded spot two miles out of town and jogging to the Old Church, his avoidance of the deputy, the search of the office. “This is a pentagram. It was inverted, like this?” “Yeah, just like on the book.” “Hmm. the movie, The Wolf Man?” “That’s how I knew what it was.” He knew Stephen was thinking the same thing he was—yet another coincidence pointing to werewolves. He recounted the robe, the knives, the candles, the book, and the grotesque mask. And finally he described the hand as Stephen listened, awestruck. It did seem to be a woman’s hand, the fingers long, even delicate, the nails trimmed to nearly resemble talons, but unmistakably feminine. The skin was gray and stiff, a little wrinkled around the nails and knuckles, whether from the preserving process or how it was in life impossible to tell. It was severed a couple of inches above the right wrist, the skin pulled down and sewn shut to enclose the bone nub. The leather bindings had long since turned black with

time. The relic smelled faintly of sawdust and alcohol and something as unpleasant as it was impossible to identify. “I think we’ve got some kind of coven or cult of devil worshippers here. An honest-to-God one,” Stephen volunteered. Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “As opposed to one that’s just kidding around, you mean?” “I mean to me, at least, that kind of thing is just an urban legend. You hear rumors of it. A few doped-up teenagers fooling around with it on a lark, leaving skinned cats behind or some stupid thing. Something like the Manson murders, there’s talk of devil worship. I’ve heard of child pornography rings using it to control and terrify small children. But that’s just a tool used by criminals. This can’t be organized Satanism.” “Organized?” Frank was thinking of what Stephen had just said, about pornography rings. All those missing girls. “It is an underground religion. But this is different. Way different.” “I didn’t see any upside-down crucifixes or references to The Bible.” “Exactly. And the other stuff you’ve dug up—the missing kids—I don’t even like thinking about this. Jesus.” Frank shivered in spite of himself and rubbed his arms. “You said the hand is a talisman of power. You think these people are witches, warlocks? They have real magic backing them up?” Stephen’s eyes widened. Horror and sci-fi geek that he was, he was still shocked that anyone could believe in the supernatural. He wondered if Frank was teasing him. He said, “Witchcraft, Wicca, is also an underground religion, but it’s legitimate. And it’s based in nature, not Satanism.” “So what did you mean? About power?” “Do I think these people are using black magic or sorcery? No.” Stephen jabbed a finger at him. “Let’s both start off on the right foot now. I don’t believe in the supernatural. I don’t believe in werewolves. Are we straight on that?”

“Yeah.” But Frank felt himself holding back. He had witnessed things he could not explain. Marie and her strange intuitions. The three wolf-things visiting the guest house. As much as he’d like to, Frank could not believe they were a hoax. They were too real. “Okay, that’s cleared up,” Stephen declared, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “Now. The talisman, the hand. Bath and his friends may not cast spells or ride on broomsticks, but what they believe is quite another thing. If they have faith in their talisman, to them it’s a powerful thing. We know—at least we think we know, murders have been committed.” “I’m pretty damned sure,” Frank growled. “Right, so am I. This group is willing to murder to protect themselves. Someone is trying to get you to leave town, either by intimidation or force. We know Bath is awfully long-lived, and rich—” “Again, something sure seems to be giving these freaks a lot of success in life.” “I’m just saying, these are the facts as I see them,” Stephen insisted. He snapped his fingers. “I found something on that name, Bathory.” He turned to the keyboard. “What?” “You ever read Fangoria, the horror movie magazine?” Stephen asked. Frank’s mouth was open. “No.” “I’ve written a couple of pieces for it. I had the feeling that name was in a movie I’d seen, or something—” He nodded at the screen closest to Frank. There was a photograph of a beautiful woman in a low-cut sleeping gown, her lips parted to expose long vampire fangs. Stephen said, “That’s Ingrid Pitt, sexy scream queen from the ‘70s. She made a movie called Countess Dracula.” While Frank wondered what was the point being made, Stephen typed some more. Frank saw a site for a national bookstore chain on the monitor. He was about to interject a question when Stephen pushed away from the desk, and said, “Look.” Frank saw a list of book titles, some complete with photos of lurid cover art:

The Bloody Countess: The Life and Times of Elizabeth Bathory Dracula Was A Woman: In Search of The Blood Countess of Transylvania The Crimes of Elizabeth Bathory

Each title was followed by the author’s name and the book’s publisher, price, and shipping schedule.for online purchase. “Check this out,” Stephen said from behind. Frank turned to see him lifting a stack of books into his lap from a tall shelf. He reed Frank and ed each one to him for his perusal. There was a glossy cover that said Hammer Films and a battered old newsprint volume titled Monsters and Men. Stephen opened a dictionary-thick tome called The Vampire Gallery: A Who’s Who of the Undead. “Countess Dracula was about a noblewoman who murdered girls and used their blood to remain young and beautiful. The character was based on Bathory— Elizabeth Bathory. The Net is full of websites devoted to her.” “You’re going a little fast for me,” Frank protested. “Bathory is a movie vampire?” “Not just that. She’s in that other book, too, about infamous killers like Jack the Ripper—Elizabeth Bathory was a real person, a true-life mass murderer from five hundred years ago.” “Please tell me you’re joking,” Frank half-groaned. “Here.” Stephen held the thick vampire book open and read from its pages “Historically, Bathory was a noblewoman who had brain seizures as a child. She married young and began a career of torturing and killing young girls. It says here she was tried and convicted and a list of her victims numbered over six hundred-fifty. She died imprisoned in her castle in 1614. Get this—all this happened in what was then Transylvania. That’s a province of Romania, Frank.” “Bath’s home turf.”

“Right. This says, Elizabeth has been portrayed in movies and fiction as a vampire, but at her trial it was proven that she liked to bite her victims, resulting in her name having a true-life link to lycanthropy—” Frank knew that word. “Werewolves,” he murmured.

Mallory was pleased to no end that Syd Warburton had pretty much stayed out of her way since the arrest fiasco. That plus the fact that her love life appeared to be looking up she took as signs that it was time to make a change. So that very morning she asked for a private meeting with Sheriff Hopewell in which she tendered her two-weeks notice. The Sheriff made a brave attempt to talk her out of her decision. But human relations were not his strong suit and she stuck to her guns without much trouble. She felt liberated once it was done. The previous night she’d ed her supervisor at her previous job and he said the only full time paramedic position open was on second shift, but that was acceptable to her. He assured her he’d be happy to rehire her. She couldn’t wait. She didn’t want it spread around that she was leaving—Mary was a horrible gossip and made public news of the smallest thing—and she wished she’d asked Hopewell to keep it close. Especially when Syd Warburton was once again paying her more attention than she liked, following her around the room with his eyes and such. First he caught her in the cell block. Once a week she went back there to do housekeeping tasks, sweep, dust. She just hated the cells looking like they were never used. She was on her knees sweeping a dust bunny from under a bunk. She looked up and there was Warburton standing in the open cell door, a thumb hooked in his gun belt. She gave him a stern look to communicate she knew he was there, and otherwise ignored him. But it rankled her like nails across a blackboard, the dweeb just standing there, watching her. She went by him and emptied the dustpan into a garbage pail. He said, “Hey, Mallory.”

“Hey,” she grunted, hoping to discourage interaction. By now she sensed that he was aware she was leaving. With her back to him she rolled her eyes and mouthed a silent prayer that he stay away from her. Thankfully he said nothing further. But she suspected he was still percolating. She wished she could think of a reason to get out of the office for the day. Maybe today will be the first time in living memory someone would take it upon themselves to rob Haven’s one bank. Nah. She wasn’t that lucky. She sat at her desk going over paperwork—a never-ending chore she would not miss one bit. Why did cops who never make arrests have so much paperwork? On her desk a single red carnation on a long stem poked from a delicate flute brought from home that morning. She found it tucked under her windshield wiper blade upon leaving for work, no note, but she knew it was from Toby, who was on rounds the previous night. It melted her heart. It also told her he was all right—he’d been friendly with Val Newcombe. The woman’s terrible death was a shock to everyone. She was not going to move back to Maine. Between the commute and the pay cut she would have to endure, things might be tight for a while, but she wanted to stay right here in Haven, near Toby. She had no idea what the future might hold for them both, and didn’t care. She just knew she was crazy about him. And she thought he felt the same about her. Her nose in her paperwork, she did not look up when Syd hovered over her for a moment on the pretext of borrowing a pencil with an eraser. In the past he was fond of making an annoying joke of his quest—My stub! Has anyone seen my stub?—but this time he spared her. She ignored him and he was gone after fishing one from her pencil holder. No Babycakes in three days, and no lame stub joke. Maybe she was getting lucky. Tempting fate was a mistake, as she was about to find out. She dismissed him from her radar after a few minutes. Her mind drifted to the story her dad had related, about the animal attacks from years before. She needed to give him a call… “Hey, Mallory. Take a gander.” She did not look up. She didn’t need to. He put a Xeroxed sheet of paper on her desk blotter, actually having the stones to cover up the paperwork she was reading, and leaned over her waiting for her reaction.

It was a collection of riddles or something, off the Internet, but she paid no attention. Suddenly she was aware of him—acutely aware, of the faint smell of excited sweat on top of cheap aftershave, of the way he was breathing hard through his nose. Her lip curled with disgust at the realization he was aroused like a hormonal school kid—then she was busy wondering what he was doing with his hand. He leaned low over her, one hand holding the sheet of jokes, the other casually resting on her back (of course there was nothing casual about him in her view). Before she knew it the hand was on her shoulder. Then it began to inch off her shoulder and down her chest. She followed it with her eyes as if it was a strange insect crawling around on her uniform, telling herself this was not imagination, it was really happening. There could only be one of two things he was doing, and she didn’t think his intent was to steal her deputy badge. Of course the alternative said as little for his common sense. Bulletproof vests were not a part of the Sheriff’s office required uniform. She waited, as if mesmerized, until his fingers had actually begun to cup her left breast before she snatched his hand. “Hold it right there.” “Wha—OWW! Jeezus!” he yelped, prodded by her twisting his thumb and fingers as she stood and faced him The pain actually forced him to bend at the knees and waist and she was now standing above him. Syd had waited to make his move while Mary was in the back using the copier. Hearing the howl of pain, she was quick to reappear. “What’s going on?” she cried, her eyes wide. Syd danced backwards with Mallory still controlling him by the hand, refusing to let go. “Who do you think you are, trying to feel me up?” she demanded.

“So we’ve got to figure this woman is Bath’s ancestor,” Frank allowed. “That hand. I’ll bet it’s hers. Talismans usually have some personal meaning to the owner.” “We’ve got werewolves—okay, supposed werewolves—all this devil worship stuff, disappearing girls, and a connection to a real-life mass murderer. What

gives? They’re carrying on the family tradition, all these generations later?” “Who knows how it started?” Stephen responded. “Does it matter? I think we can safely say these people are killing folks for their own ends. Okay. Who’s in on it then?” He tapped a few keys and came up with a diagram not unlike those Frank had seen in trials of organized crime figures: a single block on top branching down and out into others like an inverted family tree. “Bath. We know for certain about him, do we not? Rippy. He threatened Val.” He placed the name BATH in the top block, RIPPY directly below, and colored both blocks red. Frank became alarmed, with the names there, incriminating. “Are you sure no one can get into this?” “Positive. Now who else?” “That we’re sure about? I don’t think anyone.” “In order of the power structure then, just so we have all our ducks in a row.” “Hopewell. He’s rotten, but is he a member of the cult or just a hired stooge? No way to tell.” “But suspicious,” Stephen added. He put the Sheriff’s name below Rippy’s, but did not color it in. “Vint?” “I’d have said he’s not a bad guy, until I saw that picture in Bath’s office. That was weird.” “Okay. Suspicious.” “No self-respecting minion of hell would have an asshole like Warburton on the team, but he definitely had an agenda with me the other day. Suspicious.” “Got him. The sexy deputy—what’s her name—?” “Abshire. I’d bet she’s not in on this.” “I hope you’re not a sucker for a pretty face,” Stephen commented. “Those are the ones I distrust the most,” Frank assured him.

“We’ve got most of the Sheriff’s office here,” Stephen said, silently praying their omission of the female deputy wouldn’t bite them later on. “Add the dispatcher, I didn’t like her answer when I asked about Gwen’s car,” Frank said. “Mary. She’s rotten.” “It’s good to be thorough,” Stephen agreed. “Painter. The attorney.” “He talked to me about Val,” Stephen told him. “Got anything on him? I don’t.” Neither did Frank, other than the fact that Gwen had not trusted him. “The principal at Gwen’s school. What was her name—?” “Search me,” Stephen shrugged. “Carlson. She was hostile as hell.” “Yeah, but does that make her one of the rats? , this is a small town. Very insular. Morons, to the outside world.” Frank uttered a rueful laugh. “Speaking of morons. The Hendersons.” “Might be hired punks. But definitely on the highly suspicious list.” “Well everybody except for Bath and his right-hand man could just be underlings. But it makes no difference. The outlaws that ride together, hang together,” Frank said. “Could ask around town,” Stephen thought aloud. “Val said that Rippy acted like Bath was the Lord on high, like he could throw a thunderbolt if you dared to mock him in jest.” “No joking matter,” came Frank’s sharp warning. “People are dead now. Don’t even think it, Stephen. And I don’t want you doing a thing, unless you run it by me first.” “You’re right,” Stephen said. He looked at the monitor, at the names he’d put there.

“Stephen? Hey?” Frank actually had to prod the younger man from his own thoughts. “Yeah—yeah, let’s go on.”

Deputy Syd Warburton won the heart of his girlfriend, Melissa, through an attempted date-rape, which perhaps is why in his twisted thinking a sexual advance on Mallory Abshire actually had a chance of yielding positive results. It had slipped his mind completely that it had taken more—much more—for his seduction of Melissa to succeed. “Don’t get excited,” he said. He had that stupid smug grin on his face, infuriating Mallory all the more. He was busy rubbing his bruised hand. “It takes more than you, loser.” She was furious, but in control. She stood with her arms crossed, the easier to resist the impulse to smash him in the face. “Tell her what you did,” she ordered. She knew Mary would spread this all over town, and she wanted no confusion concerning the situation. “You’re nuts, sweetie,” Warburton said with a nervous chuckle. He backed away and sat down behind a desk, trying hard to seem without a worry in the world. Mallory pointed. “Into Hopewell’s office. Now.” “Forget it.” “Fine.” She turned and went to the Sheriff’s door and knocked, glaring Syd down the whole time. “Syd just tried to cop a feel,” she announced. Immediately upon getting the words out she nearly burst into laughter—it was true, some jokes wrote themselves. “Are you kidding me?” Hopewell demanded, too shocked to make the same connection she had. He slammed the newspaper he was reading onto his desk. “I’m dead serious. And I want something done about it.”

The Sheriff ripped off his reading glasses and slammed them down next to the newspaper. “Syd! In here!” Warburton’s confident smirk was gone when he entered, replaced by that trembling nervous grin with the bobbing Adam’s apple in full attendance. “Syd! What the hell!” “What?” he said, almost stammering. “She says—Mallory, tell him.” “I don’t have to tell him, he knows damned well what he did,” she threw back. “She’s crazy, I didn’t do anything, she’s got the Monthlies—” “Syd! Shut your hole!” Hopewell thundered, rising from his chair so quickly it nearly was knocked over. Syd jumped back as if shot and Mallory was unable to suppress a snorting laugh. The Sheriff shot her a glower. “I didn’t lay a finger on her,” Syd insisted. “Well how do you know what she told me then?” the Sheriff asked, giving him a murderous look. He stared morosely at his desktop and took a long deep breath, calming down. “Aw jeez. Mallory, give us a minute? Close the door.” “Sure.” When she turned she surprised Mary, none too subtle about hovering near the half-open door in order to hear every word. A last look towards Warburton assured her that the gangly deputy was expecting the worst. His eyes were round with dread. At her desk she heard Hopewell’s voice raised in fury, but only snippets of what was said: “You damned dummy,” and, “—enough trouble, do I need this?” and, “—don’t care if you are my wife’s cousin!” The office grew relatively quiet and Syd came out with shoulders slumped. He skulked over and took his hat from the rack before appearing at Mallory’s desk. “I have to go home,” he muttered, for all the world looking like a little boy

exiled by his mother to the corner. “I’m docked two days pay cause of you.” “Don’t blame me. You shot yourself in the foot, as usual.” Fuming, he turned to go, but as an afterthought looked over his shoulder and said through clenched teeth, “Oh, yeah. I apologize, Deputy Abshire.” It came off his tongue like his mouth was stuffed with peanut butter. “Apology accepted,” she smiled back. She was thinking, how had something like this not happened a lot sooner? Someone like him had no business in a police uniform, to say nothing of carrying a loaded firearm. She had no idea that she was in fact witnessing the beginning of the end for Syd Warburton. He mumbled a goodbye to Mary who just nodded. To Mallory the woman looked as if she was about to burst with the need to tell this tale to someone, anyone. Mallory stood and went into Hopewell’s office. The Sheriff sat with his elbows on his desk. He had the look of someone who’d had a bad week and expected it to get worse. “He itted doing it. Syd’s no good at lying, or much of anything else. It’s up to you, but I would rather we hear the end of this right now. Did he apologize?” “Yeah. I’m good,” Mallory said. “Are you sure? I’ve got other problems right now.” “It’s over as far as I’m concerned.” “I appreciate it, Mallory.”

“Okay, still nothing on the coded disc,” Stephen said. “I got Greg Miller’s address, though.” “Maybe the disc isn’t all that important,” Frank surmised, pocketing Stephen’s

print-out.. “I’ll check out Miller tomorrow. I’ve got a bad feeling about that guy.” “I’ll occupy myself with the disc while you’re gone. Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” “The main thing is to be careful, Stephen. These are bad people we’re messing with.” “As far as I’m concerned, they messed with us first. They’ve got trouble now.” “I hope so.” “Frank, what are you going to do, anyway? If we get something solid on these people? Do we give it to the police?” Frank stood to leave, reluctant to tell Stephen his full intent, but unsure of how to get around the subject. “The murders, the missing girls?” Stephen continued, looking at him. “When we have evidence, what then?” Stephen was surprised he was even asking. Frank was that kind of guy. He thrashed the Hendersons—he carried a gun. Stephen had to ask himself—what exactly was he really capable of? “I know you’re not considering fighting them yourself,” he opined. Frank’s mouth tightened into a grim line, even his eyes becoming unreadable. He said, “I’m not going to fight them.” He did not add: I’m going to kill them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Richard and Elaine Wilkes were cautiously hopeful. Their youngest son seemed to have bounced back from the shock and grief of Val’s death with remarkable speed. In only a couple of days he was back to his old self—well, not quite. He no longer seemed so anxious to talk about his Internet businesses. And he had a newfound sense of direction, and a sharper focus, than before, although he did not elaborate on what exactly was demanding all his attention. Stephen asked his contributor in London to take over the web sites for a few days. She was more than happy to oblige, confessing that she had been intending to ask him for a more hands-on role in his company, perhaps as a designer. Stephen now could concentrate all his energies towards exposing whatever was happening in Haven. That evening his parents were delighted when Stephen asked if they could all have a nice supper with his brother and sister. Richard and Stephen both helped with the meal preparations and Stephen’s sister Erica called and promised to be there, though she would not be able to bring along the rest of the family. Stephen’s nieces and nephew had school projects demanding their attention. He was secretly relieved that it would be only his immediate family in attendance. He kept telling himself it would be fine and that his loved ones were absolutely all that they seemed. He had no idea what he was going to do exactly, he only knew that he had to be sure. He not for a moment believed that any of his relatives might be involved in the cult. But John Bath threw a wide net. How many people could have connections to him, even seemingly innocent ones on the surface, while having no clue as to the man’s nefarious activities? Stephen just wanted a heads-up concerning his family’s links to John Bath, or even Leonard Rippy. His sister he was not overly worried about. Erica married a fellow student she met in medical school and moved from Haven to start her own family and a pediatrics position at a large hospital. Stephen’s father, Richard, had a dentistry practice in Whitestone. To his knowledge neither his parents nor brother had any

connections to Dr. Bath or the Commerce Board. Erica arrived as the table was being set and kisses were exchanged all around. As they sat Stephen was nearly overcome with an unexpected wave of emotion. It was all from being there, safe with his family, while his view of the world outside their door had been rocked and pummeled the past few days. If everything was well with his loved ones at the end of that evening, he silently resolved never to take one minute with them for granted again in his life. The talk around the table gravitated to Erica’s young ones, the Wilkes’s grandchildren. How they were doing in school and their interests. Erica confessed it was good to have some time with her parents and brothers. “So how are you, Stevie?” His sister alone was permitted to call him that. When he first came home from the hospital she dubbed him Stevie and it stuck. “Pretty good. It’s nice to have us all together.” “Yeah, you had a good idea—for once,” Donnie itted. “I was due,” Stephen agreed, ing a bowl of mashed potatoes. Erica watched her brother thoughtfully, aware of the recent loss of his friend, and squeezed his hand, deciding he would be all right. “How about you, Donnie? Everything okay?” “Actually, I’ve been thinking about enrolling in that course you suggested. The creative writing.” “Oh!” Elaine exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “It’s about time.” Richard laughed and gave his middle son a pat on the shoulder. “I’m so glad.” Donnie alone of the Wilkes children had until now shied away from the subject of college, despite having been offered football scholarships from several different universities. Even Stephen attended, for only a couple of years, before he decided he’d learned all he needed and left without his degree. “Okay, everybody calm down,” Erica cautioned them all. “I distinctly heard the words thinking about in there somewhere.”

Donnie was abruptly close-mouthed and they all looked towards him, expectant. Then his face split into an embarrassed grin: “Okay—I already signed up. Last week.” There were laughs all around. Elaine got up and went around the table to embrace her son. She was nearly weeping. Having encouraged him and fussed over his short stories since he was small, her conviction that she was the mother of the next great black writer of American literature was at last validated, as she always knew it would be. “Don’t worry, I’m doing it,” he promised, Elaine’s arms around his neck. “You’d better,” Erica said, mock-warning with a pointed finger. Stephen held out his hand and Donnie pumped it around his mother. “I’m glad too.” “Thanks,” Donnie grinned. Elaine drew back with tears on her cheeks and took them all in. “Rich, can you believe these kids?” Stephen wondered what he’d been worried about. He had no need to ask any leading questions, there were no minefields here. Not in this family. If he was sure of nothing else on earth, he was sure of that. They’d all been born in Haven, grew up here. It was a very small town and the population was fairly stable. Sure, there could be some connections to John Bath or to those in his inner circle. It didn’t matter. They weren’t part of the Doctor’s secrets and that was all that was important. That night he would sleep a bit more soundly. Just a bit.

Frank sat in the dark with a bowl of frosted flakes, the stereo playing softly. The battery-powered emergency lamp was within arm’s reach, as was the .44 Magnum. He made sure to keep the windows shaded at night now. He wanted no one—or nothing—seeing him if he could not see them back.

Again he cast a glance at the big pistol, oiled and shiny on the table at his elbow. His reflexes were quick. He wasn’t worried about being taken by surprise. Anyone seeking to ambush him would pay dearly for the gamble. He had called Lori to let her know he was fine, and was relieved when she did not pick up. What he had seen, what he knew in his heart, could not be disguised by a cheerful tone and now he dreaded talking to her. He left a message on her voicemail that he was okay, he would be out tonight so don’t bother to try and call, he would get back with her in a couple of days. She would sense that something was up. She would be worried. But he knew she wouldn’t call. Outside his windows, the night was a quiet one.

Mallory opened the door and found it filled with the shoulders of Toby Vint. “Howdy.” “C’mon in. All ready for this thing?” “Is it too late to back out?” “Relax. It’s gonna be fun.” “You really think?” “Of course—you’re with me, aren’t you?” she challenged with a smirk. She sat him down and got him a beer from the fridge. “We’ve got a few minutes.” She muted the television and sat down to put on her shoes. Toby watched her, fascinated, his eyes lingering on her bare foot as she slipped on a sock. Long toes. Nails painted pink. A slim silver chain looped around her ankle She realized he was looking at her, gazing actually, with the eyes of a lover. She could not quash the grin spreading across her face, or the blush on her cheeks. He roused himself and mentioned the incident with Syd. “What could he have been thinking?” he ventured. But actually Toby had a pretty good idea. Criminal behavior initiated Warburton’s romantic relationship with Melissa Lewis, hometown beauty queen

and the object of his desire since high school. His gambit succeeded only with the use of an unfair advantage, and the entire town considered it very strange that she’d taken up with the gangly deputy. “He got fresh with me,” Mallory declared. “He’s lucky both his elbows are working.” “I heard you made him say Uncle.” “Not exactly. It was funny really.” “Hmm, what I heard is that you twisted his arm behind his back.” “Yeah, the Mary Orrin hot line,” Mallory said with an eye-roll. “By tomorrow she’ll have me drop-kicking him over a desk.” “But you were mad.” “Surprised—not real mad. Anyway I got over it quick. Syd offered a very nice apology.” “Oh, really.” “Sure. He was even smiling when he said it. Or else that’s just the expression he wears when Hopewell’s shoe is up his ass, I’m not sure which.” Toby laughed, slapping his knee. “That Syd. He’s something.” “He is that,” Mallory said, giving his knee her own little pat. The phone rang and she let the machine pick up, lost in his gold-flecked eyes. “Hi, if this is a bill collector, I’ve moved. Otherwise, leave a message.” Beep. “Mal? This is Mom. Pick up, Goofy.” “Answer it,” Toby suggested. “Anything to delay this social event.” She gave him a teasing nudge and grabbed the phone. “Hi, Mom. I’m fine, how are you? Dad doing okay?” Smiling wistfully, Toby leaned on an elbow and let his eyes wander. Across the

room he saw printouts on her computer desk. Getting a closer look, he realized they were old newspaper articles, copied from a website.

Syd Warburton stopped his car at the corner, two blocks from Mallory Abshire’s residence. He went no further after spotting Toby Vint’s car at the curb outside her home. Syd didn’t want trouble with him. But what the hell was Toby doing with her anyway? Were they hanging out? Since when? And what did she see in that freak? Instead of going through the intersection, Warburton backed his car up the street, away from Mallory’s place. He’d intended to do a drive-by, then come back later, after dark. Maybe try to get a look in her windows, see what she was up to. But Vint being with her, that put a serious wrench in his plans. Syd was upset and livid with jealousy. He would have to see about this.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got it all planned out, it’ll be fine. Sure.” Toby stood with arms crossed. All of the articles concerned the 1975 animal attacks. “Okay. Tell Dad hi for me. G’night.” He turned and reed her on the sofa. “What are you researching there?” “Ancient history,” she shrugged. “That howling from the other night. Did you ever hear about those people that were killed in the 1970s?” Her tone was casual, but it was obvious that she had not intended for him to see the articles. “Why are you interested in that?” he asked, trying to appear amused. “Somebody was talking about that howling the other night,” she said, again with a shrug. But she was watching him intently while trying to look like she wasn’t. He returned her shrug with one of his own and sipped his beer. He felt a sense of

dread creeping over him, and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hoped she did not notice the perspiration suddenly breaking out on his forehead. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, he told himself. Mallory felt there was something here, something she needed to know. It troubled her that he didn’t want to reveal it to her. But her common sense told her: It’s a sore spot. Leave it alone. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. And: Why did I leave that stuff out? As if sensing what she was thinking, he said, “That was a long time ago,” his voice trailing off. He could not meet her eyes. He knew she could feel things in him, as he could in her. And right at that moment, he was very much regretting having pursued this relationship. “Okay then. Give me a kiss.” She leaned forward, with that inviting smile. He touched her lips with his own but for the first time her kiss did not cause his mind to blank, his eyes to flutter. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest, for reasons other than her close presence.

“Nervous about tomorrow?” Leonard asked, giving her hand a little squeeze. Natalie smiled, blushing, and moved against him. “Not too much.” “Well don’t worry. It will all be just fine.” They were next at the ticket booth and Rippy offered their es. They’d driven to Bridgeton to attend a performance of Phantom. Before dating Leonard Natalie’s tastes ran more to sporting events and Brad Pitt movies. He’d gotten her interested in Broadway, opera, and sailing. Among other things. Nat’s parents didn’t know about that of course, but they still seemed ill at ease with their daughter’s new romance. It was nothing they could put their finger on, and in fact took great pains to hide their feelings—after all, Rippy was the second most powerful man in town, even above the Mayor. He was some catch. But Natalie knew her parents well and could sense their misgivings. Maybe it was because of her own doubts. She couldn’t help it. Her religious views were not strict to say the least. As a teenager she’d gone to church for the social opportunities. But she did believe in God and tried to lead a morally correct life. Until recently. What Leonard offered was a different path. And over the course of many months he used perfectly logical arguments to win her over. His beliefs, and his practices, were revealed to her carefully, only a bit at a time. He successfully appealed to her sense of duty, and to her mothering instinct, which was very strong. It was all about the children, he’d said. “Here we go,” he smiled, offering her a glass of wine before the performance. “Mmm. Good,” she decided with her first sip. Leonard was into wine tasting as well. She could hardly tell the difference, but he wouldn’t let her touch it before his personal .

They needed her, he’d told her. Nothing was more important than the kids. Haven’s kids. Which she supposed was meant to prepare her for what they were doing to other children, beyond Haven’s borders. To make it go down a little easier. “Nat, you’ll be fine,” he assured her, still sensing that she was troubled. “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’ve just got some things on my mind.” “Come on, I know what you’re feeling. I felt the same way. We all did. But after tomorrow night a whole new world will be yours. You’ll see. And all your friends will be there.” But not you, she thought. Leonard said he could not be there, that for the initiation to proceed properly, it was necessary that she be without him, her closest personal relationship. The fact that he would be absent made her think of her other closest friend. She hardly saw Mallory Abshire anymore. But she rarely missed her now—which also bothered her. “I’m just nervous I guess,” she itted. “I’ll be okay.” “Of course you will. Doctor Bath is very proud of you. He’s so happy you’re going to be one of us.” Doctor Bath. That man could charm venom from a cobra, Natalie said to herself —and immediately felt a stab of guilt for the thought. John Bath had never been anything but doting towards her. Along with Leonard’s calm and logical arguments—and his lovemaking, that counted too—the two of them had little trouble winning her over. Her brain asked her, What was it about you, Nat, that made you so ready a convert for them? But she managed to quiet that little voice inside, at least most of the time. And it was pretty well too late to turn back now, wasn’t it? Leonard’s cell buzzed and he made a face, having forgotten to turn it off. He gave Nat an apologetic grin as he answered. “Hello?” “Leonard? Syd Warburton.” “I’m busy, Syd.” He wondered how the deputy had gotten his number.

“This is important. Do you know where Toby is right now?” “That’s important? Call me later.” Rippy tried not to let his annoyance show and ruin his evening. Where was Hopewell? Wasn’t dealing with Warburton his job? “This can’t wait. Toby has been hanging out with a lady. Guess who?” Irritated now, Leonard held a finger up for Natalie to give him a minute and put some distance between them. Other theatergoers were clustered in little groups. The conversation would mask his words from her. “Mallory Abshire?” he said, his voice low. There was a shocked silence before Syd replied, “How did you know?” “Have you had a head injury?” Leonard snapped. “Who cares what Toby is doing, or who he does it with?” He glanced back at Nat. She was sipping her wine, looking around the crowded lobby. “I thought he was around to take orders? What gives here?” “Syd—” Rippy had to make a conscious effort to lower his voice. He took a deep breath. “Listen, Syd, I don’t know what’s eating you. But pull your head out of your ass and cool it. And don’t call me again. You’re already in dutch. Do you hear?” There was no answer, just quickened breathing. “Do you hear me?” Rippy repeated angrily. “Sure. I hear you. Look, I’m sorry—” Leonard broke the connection and returned to his date. He tugged at his collar and adjusted his glasses, deciding to tell Hopewell to have a sit-down with Syd Warburton, a nice serious one. “Now. Where were we?” “Trouble?”

“Nothing much. How’s the wine? Would you like some cheese and crackers?” “No, I’m fine.” He drank his own wine, watching her. She was beautiful. He’d bought her a new dress and shoes for the occasion and her strawberry-blonde hair was up in a French curl. She looked radiant. He knew they made a handsome couple to say the least. “So I hear the weather will be clear tomorrow night,” he commented. “I have it on good authority.” This evening it looked like rain. It was an instant before she knew what he referred to. She blushed and he chuckled, giving her a quick look up and down. Picturing her nude body as it would be in the moonlight. “I can tell what you’re thinking,” she said, liking the attention. “You’re going to be wonderful.” He had an erection. He almost wished they didn’t have box seats. At that moment he would’ve liked to take her home. “I am nervous about it.” “Don’t be. You’re beautiful. You’ll be the envy of everyone there.” Natalie sipped her wine, returning his smile, but for an instant it was only a mask. The nudity, for her, was secondary. It was the other thing. The blood. And where it came from.

The RipRoar was barely in code for a business license. The painted windows were cracked and fly-specked, the floor perpetually grimy. Dusty cobwebs hung from the ceiling fans and the booths, chairs, and bar were all skinned and scratched from years of abuse. Patrons did not come to socialize and only falling-down drunks were foolhardy enough to brave greasy cheeseburgers or freezer-burned pizza ing across old Luther’s back-room grill. Victor’s eyes were on a basketball game on the battered television over the bar.

Dean was behind the counter and Mark Court was a couple of stools away, also watching the game. Victor was carefully munching peanuts. He grimaced and put a finger inside his jaw, probing the three teeth loosened by Frank Moore’s fists. Dean watched this with some amusement. “So what are you going to do about it?” he asked, turning back to the game. “Moore’s off limits till further notice,” Victor announced, mimicking Leonard Rippy’s businesslike tone. He touched his jaw again. “It’s only a matter of time. No one else can handle this guy.” Dean took that in. He thought that, so far, it appeared that Moore was too much for anyone to handle. But he knew what Victor meant. “I underestimated him,” Victor itted. His attitude was light. “Kel said that Billy Jack karate shit came out of nowhere,” Dean commented. Victor uttered a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “I wasn’t listening to my instincts. I knew he was trouble.” Dean grunted in some iration of his friend and business partner. Carter, the most dangerous man he’d ever met, was able to respect strength, even in an enemy he intended to destroy. “ Trent Feore?” Mark Court interjected. “He was a bad-ass.” Dean hoped this subject would not be pursued. Feore died defying Doctor Bath and Victor was prone recently to bringing up the man’s name, for exactly that reason. It verged on disloyalty and such talk was making Dean more and more nervous. “You knew him, din’cha, Dean?” Court persisted. “My old man ran with him,” he itted. “Trent Feore. Toughest shit-kicker in town,” Mark said, putting down his empty bottle with a clink on the bar. .

Dean felt he should say something to deflate the legend, for Victor’s benefit. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Feore got the living shit beat out of him at least once, that I know of.” He suspected Victor was not aware of this tale, but it was Court who commented, “I don’t recall hearing that.” “There was someone in Haven tougher than Trent,” Dean pointed out with conviction. “Artie Newcombe.” Now Victor perked up. “What? Old Man Newcombe?” Clinton was pushing 50—more than twenty years senior to his wife—and his bar patrons enjoyed his stories of the town’s history, even when it was obvious that he was making them up. But this tale was a true one. “Him and Trent, they circled each other for years,” he explained. “Newcombe ed the Army a skinny kid and came back from the Pacific a fucking bruiser. Must’ve been the late-‘60s—when they finally tangled, he put Feore in the hospital for two weeks.” “What was the fight about?” Court demanded. Clearly he did not believe this story. “Hell if I know,” Dean said. “Like I said, there was old friction.” Victor was paying attention. “Bath didn’t have something to say about it?” Victor’s omission of the Doctor’s title—another habit that was becoming more and more frequent—caused Dean to shoot him a critical grimace that did not go unnoticed. He said, “I don’t know about that. Maybe Newcombe made a deal to smooth it over.” “Well his wife sure didn’t,” Court snorted, and then uttered a mean laugh. Dean ed a beer down the bar to Court, hopeful it would shut him up, and opened fresh ones for himself and Victor. Victor was annoyed over the look Dean had given him. He said, “We should have dealt with that teacher like we did her reporter friend. Moore would be bored and headed home by now. Instead he’s still here, stirring things up.”

Dean made a sound under his breath. He was not comfortable with this conversation. Even Court had enough sense to stay silent. Carter for some time had been chafing at Doctor Bath’s bit. He wanted to expand his enterprises beyond New England, maybe, eventually, even get out on his own. Dean had no sympathy for him—they were already on their way to becoming pretty wealthy. Why rock the boat? Besides, Clinton had tried to tell him—here, in Haven, they enjoyed the protection of the Doctor’s many s. But Victor kept on. “Things are changing around here,” he insisted. “Bath has had a strangle-hold on this town, what, fifty years? Nothing lasts forever. You ask me it’s a good idea to have some other irons in the fire.” Dean almost walked away from the discussion with that one. This was some dangerous talk Carter was spouting. Was the man suicidal? Against his better instincts, he countered, “You didn’t have that attitude when you first got on board, Victor.” “I’m tired of doing his dirty work. I’m bored with it.” “I thought you liked dirty work,” Dean said. “I do, when it’s for my own profit. Just like Trent. He was his own man, you can say that for him.” “And he’s dead as a motherfucking doorknob, too,” Dean shot back. Victor replied with a hard stare and Dean let the matter drop. He had a personal interest in Carter’s welfare. Victor and his cousins were his backup and Clinton had no illusions about his own capabilities. He had the brains, they were the muscle. But he was afraid trouble, bad trouble, was on the horizon. The ringing telephone behind the bar demanded his attention. He checked his watch as he answered it, noting the caller I.D. “Yeah, you’re two minutes late,” he warned his wife. “We’ll talk about it when I get home. You have supper ready. Don’t matter, it might be ten minutes, or ten hours, and it better be steaming. You’re already in shit with me.” He slammed the phone down, fuming. His wife, Gloria. Lately she’d been impossible. She had a strict schedule of check-in times and the last few days she had a habit of being late. Good for her

that she was where she was supposed to be when he called her. But she was asking for it. He would not, could not, tolerate the slightest lax behavior from his wife. Her son, Cooper, was bad enough. She was always whining about the kid. Dean thought an accident needed to befall Cooper. The little shit, living in his house, eating his food. And Victor thought he had problems.

Mallory worked as a paramedic in Bridgton previous to becoming a deputy sheriff, and became friends with Tammy Farmer, the fire station’s dispatcher. They worked together for almost two years and Mal was a bridesmaid at the nuptials between Tammy and Lane, who was a firefighter. She filled Toby in on her friends during the drive to Bridgton. He seemed unusually quiet but she ed it off as nerves over the social event. It was nearly dark by the time they arrived. Two other couples were present and Tammy made the introductions and gave Mal and Toby a tour of their new split-level home. Mal suspected a bedroom being renovated was going to be a nursery but kept her questions to herself. Supper was wonderful. Salads, pans of overstuffed beef and chicken enchiladas, wine. Tammy drank mineral water, delighting her friends with news of her first pregnancy. After the meal she unwrapped the birthday gifts. One thing led to another and Sean and Lucy decided to show off some retro dance moves. Toby helped move furniture in the family room and the couple gave lessons dancing The Hustle off the sound system. Mallory even managed to get Toby to in. They worked up quite a sweat and afterwards relaxed with chilled wine. Sean Hatcher was a balding but pony-tailed college professor, at 49 he was 17 years senior to his wife, Tammy’s sister Lucy. The ‘70s dance music got them all talking about novelty musical tastes of decades past. “I always liked Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron,” Sean declared.

“Sweet!” Lucy agreed. “And Monster Mash.” “Bobby Picket and the Crypt-Kickers,” Mal put in, earning an impressed nod from Sean. “Tell them Bobby sent you,” she intoned in a able Boris Karloff. “Toby? What’s your taste in music?” Lane asked. “I’m embarrassed to say,” he answered, completely serious, and getting laughs. “Toby likes Tom Jones,” Mallory revealed. She felt Toby’s attention on her. She kept Dusty Springfield between the two of them. “Tom Jones rocks,” Lucy agreed. “And he likes ABBA,” Mallory added, teasing. The other couples laughed. “And the Partridge Family,” Toby declared, earning more laughter. “Didn’t Elvis shoot a television that was showing Tom Jones?” This came from Terry Campton. He and his wife Bibi knew Tammy from college. “Or was that Jerry Lee Lewis?” Sean got up to refill glasses. Lane went after a fresh bottle of water from the kitchen for Tammy. “So you two are police officers in Haven? How do you like it?” he asked. “It has its ups and downs,” Mallory replied. “Toby?” “What she said,” Toby answered with a chuckle. Mallory moved over beside him, sitting on a footstool to nurse her wine. “See much trouble there?” “Not much,” Mallory itted. “A tad boring actually. Don’t get me started.” “Haven’s a great place to live, though,” Bibi said. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Very small-towny.”

“Is the Sheriff’s office still in the Old Church?” Mallory was surprised at Sean’s question. “Yeah—you’re familiar with the Courthouse?” “I’ve read a little about it.” To all the dinner companions, he said, “I may teach economics, but I really have a Jones for history.” Now it was Toby who surprised Mal. He said, “Mallory has been researching those animal attacks, from the 1970s? Do you know anything about them?” She turned to look at him, mystified. He appeared not to notice her reaction. “The Beast of Haven,” Sean said. “Sure. A colleague of mine wrote a book with a couple chapters on Haven, ten, fifteen years ago.” “The Beast of Haven,” Terry repeated. “Sounds like an old monster movie. What happened?” “Several people were killed, I think it was 1975,” Sean explained. He was talking for the benefit of them all, but speaking directly to Mal. “Yeah, it was the summer Jaws came out. Time even had a little article, on the coincidence of the movie and the Haven killings. It was pretty grisly. They never caught the animal. It was assumed it was wounded and skulked off to die in the woods.” “I found some articles online about it,” Mallory said. “They’re pretty general.” “Haven had a weekly newspaper back then. Maybe you could find it archived somewhere. It was mentioned in the book.” “What was this book?” Terry asked. “It was about New England oddities. It had chapters on the Salem witch trials, stuff like that. Even talked about the horror writers that have come out of the region—Poe, King. Along with the Beast story, there was also a true history of the Old Church.” “Really? What about it?” Mal wanted to know. “Pretty scandalous—there were several murders committed there over the years. And the hangings.”

Everyone’s eyes grew wide. “Hangings?” Sean was grinning like a carnival barker, eating this up. “Public executions. They were still being held there into the early 20th Century. There were even some old photos.” Mallory gawked at Toby, her jaw hanging open. He surprised her again by commenting, “Haven’s bigwigs sure don’t like bad press. He’s lucky that book got published.” He had barely uttered three sentences the entire evening. “Funny you should say that,” Sean replied, with even more interest. Watching Toby for his reaction, he went on, “The town tried a lawsuit to stop the book.” Mallory again turned to Toby, who just shrugged and sipped his wine.

“He’s a hunk. But he sure don’t say much,” Tammy whispered in her ear as they hugged goodnight. Earlier Mallory confided in the kitchen that Toby might have the accidental death of his friend Val Newcombe on his mind. But she wasn’t so sure that was it. He certainly wasn’t himself. She hated to think he was so averse to socializing. They all said their goodbyes, and Toby made sure to thank the Farmers for a wonderful evening. He was unusually quiet on the trip home, to the point that it bothered her. “I guess party animal ain’t your thing,” she remarked to draw him out. “I apologize. I really did have a good time.” “Nothing to apologize for. Not everyone is as outgoing as I am.” “I may never be,” he said, sounding like he was warning her of trouble ahead. She let that hang between them for a moment, wondering what he was thinking. “You know, it’s no big deal,” she assured him. “You made the effort.”

But she was afraid that she was the cause. Those damned animal attacks. Something very bad had happened to him, something that affected him to this day, and she just had to leave those articles out. But Toby wasn’t thinking of that, at least not directly. He was punishing himself for getting involved with her. There was no way it could work, not with his past, his life. Her interest in the Beast put everything in perspective. What had he been thinking? That was the problem, he hadn’t been. He’d let his emotions, his longing, lead him around. And now there was no way to get out of it, without both their hearts breaking. “Nice night,” Mallory pointed out, tilting her head to peer through the open sun roof. “Beautiful moon, no clouds. You want to pull over and make out?” That got not so much as a chuckle out of him. For the first time she felt a stab of panic in her chest. That wasn’t her—she didn’t panic over love affairs. What was going on here? A flash of anger now—Why does it always have to be like this? Why do relationships always have to get bogged down in mindgames and BS? And also, a sad, sinking feeling. Because she believed this one was so different. She let her breath out, reg herself, and let the matter drop. She put her hand over his and he clasped her fingers. And that was the way they drove home.

In the driveway, shyly, she asked if he’d like to stay the night, terrified of the answer, and hating herself for it. “Not tonight,” came the very reply she dreaded. Before getting in his own car to leave, he touched her chin and turned her face up for a kiss. It wasn’t much and she did nothing to encourage more. “It’s a bad idea, leaving mad,” she warned. “Anything could happen. A car accident. A rock slide.” “I’m not mad,” he promised. He was smiling, but Mallory knew it was forced. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.” She leaned on the fender of her car, arms crossed, as he backed out and drove away without another word. She just stood in the dark, feeling lonely and pissed off and completely, yes, in the dark. She tilted her head and examined the stars bright above her. What had just happened? What the heck had just happened?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Motown helped Stephen to think. He played it loud and let it wash everything from his radar except the problem at hand. Whether it was finding the proper angle for a celebrity piece or playing one of his PC games or working on his model train, Marvin, Smokey, or the Supremes blasting on his earphones helped put his thoughts in the proper order. The rain fell steadily outside his window as he worked at the keyboard. He was bothered by the fact that after two days he still had not cracked Albanese’s disc. itting defeat was not his habit, but he never had a problem take this long to solve. He now had his system running random number combinations against the disc. He’d just about exhausted every other possible numerical sequence he could find pertaining to the reporter. While that was going on Stephen busied himself with Doctor John Bath’s financials. The man’s credit report was easy enough to procure—actual bank statements were a little more difficult. Stephen was no financial expert, but he was sure anyone with as many fingers in as many pies as Bath was sure to be doing something the IRS or the FBI or someone would love to know about. He just had to find it. Bath’s finances were closely tied to those of the town itself. This led Stephen to discover that several people formerly on the town’s payroll were collecting pretty heavy pensions, including former Sheriff Henry Lessner, whom Frank had mentioned in one of their conversations. Greg Miller had been a deputy and the intermediate Sheriff for a time afterwards. He too was collecting a pension check. Haven’s public servants really made out. Stephen couldn’t find anything saying it was illegal. But it seemed to reek, at least on the surface. Previously he spent some time researching black magic and cult activity. Finding plenty of Net resources he disregarded anything having to do with Wicca,

convinced that was not what they were dealing with. And likewise, he found nothing connected to organized Satan worship that was in common with what they knew about John Bath. Just as Stephen told Frank, images of men and women dancing naked in front of bonfires and sacrificing virgins were products of mass hysteria and Hollywood. He could find no factual records of such events. Dozens, if not hundreds, of sites on the Net pertained to Elizabeth Bathory. The 16th Century murderess was involved with witchcraft and devil worship, and rumored to be a vampire and a werewolf. By many s she devised imaginative tortures and killed hundreds of peasant and servant girls, even collecting their blood into a special vat. Due to her noble birth her life was spared for imprisonment in a “death-room” in her castle, while many of her coconspirators (themselves said to be witches) were executed. It was believed that Bram Stoker’s visit to the ruins of Bathory’s own castle in the Slovak Republic inspired certain scenes in Dracula. Indeed, some researchers had written on the possibility of Bathory herself being the model for the Count. The 1692 Witch Trials in Salem, Massachusetts, were not so very far from Haven, but those were only the tragic results of an ignorant and paranoid populace turning on their own due to whispered lies and irrational fear. He was shocked to discover that Haven had its own incident of witch hysteria one hundred years after the events in Salem. According to a website he found, a 13year-old girl named Annabelle Morgen was hanged from a tree behind the Old Church, accused of having relations with the Devil. Following this the child’s entire family was attacked and murdered by an angry mob after similar accusations. Later it was revealed that the church pastor, Reverend Thomas Frye, concocted the whole thing when the girl spurned his romantic advances. The Reverend himself was eventually hanged, from that very same tree. Browsing through old photo archives of the town, Stephen found a portrait of the Old Church dated 1931 with a quartet of stone gargoyles evident standing guard at each corner of the clock tower. He was aware, as was every kid who’d grown up in Haven, that there were four stone figures abandoned in the weeds and underbrush surrounding the old cemetery up on Rune Road—coincidentally, also the resting places of the murdered Morgen family. The brass bell which was replaced by the building’s clock face around the turn of the century now resided in the Haven Historical

Museum at Radcliff House. The stone gargoyles appeared to have been discarded rather callously. He made a mental note to look into that. It was probably nothing, but it stuck in his mind. Gargoyles throughout history were erected on structures, often churches, to ward off evil spirits. Why were they removed? A lot of stuff he knew about witches came from his lifelong love of horror films. They were believed to have Familiars, animals usually, who spied for them, and were closely involved in their arcane activities. Rats, bats, ravens, black cats— and wolves. Some legends purported that witches and warlocks at times transformed themselves into animals, including wolves. This was not the more popular image of the werewolf, which was the spirit of a wolf interlocked with the body of a human—or visa-versa. Wolves had certainly gotten a bum rap through the ages. Fairy tales, nursery rhymes—Little Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Pigs—even the ancient myths demonized wolves. Around the beginning of the 20th Century they were hunted nearly to extinction in North America. The expanding West and its growing livestock industry had no patience for natural predators, and wolves were at the top of the food chain next to humans. They were painted as vermin and even accused of killing and eating children. Of course a cow or a sheep could be killed by a hungry wolf pack, but no human had ever been fatally injured by an attack from a healthy wolf. Wild wolves avoided human populations, at least, as best they could. Stephen supposed it all had to do with the fact that primitive humans found themselves in direct competition with wolves for their major food sources. But it was too bad these ancient resentments lived into the present day. Wolves were fascinating creatures—he’d watched enough nature documentaries to know. They lived in close family units, presided over by a pair of alphas who usually mated for life. They raised their pups and taught them how to survive before sending them off to establish their own packs. The intricate mix of personalities in wolf pack societies could be as engrossing as any well-written family drama. Attempting to drive Frank away with faux monsters—it would be laughable were it not so deadly serious. And Frank did not seem to be convinced that it

was a con, which bothered Stephen. He could not seriously lend the paranormal much consideration, and wondered how Frank could not be of the same mind. He researched the 1975 animal attacks and found them luridly interesting, but they offered no insight into what he and Frank were investigating. There were names both new and familiar to him in the old stories, victims and background players. The idea of a rogue wolf pack was considered at the time, but not very seriously, and Stephen could not believe that a healthy animal of any kind could be responsible for such violence, never mind a whole group of them. He noted that a child, an infant, had turned up missing weeks before the attacks began, with no resolution despite the FBI’s involvement. His rational mind could see no connection between the incidents, though, he itted, a fiction writer with a good imagination and a love of horror stories might be able to dream up something pretty riveting from the existing facts. Of course there were the things Frank saw in Bath’s office. Stephen read that when the five-sided star was depicted in a circle the technical term was pentacle. They were used in many of the world’s religions, including Satanism, Wicca, and Paganism. Most Christian believers assigned evil connotations to the symbols, especially the inverted ones like Frank had seen. As far as Stephen could tell, their sole link to werewolves was a Hollywood invention, originally in Curt Siodmak’s 1941 screenplay for The Wolf Man. More intriguing were descriptions of a book, possibly just a legend, that was sometimes said to bear an inverted pentacle on its cover. It was called by many names, some writers even connecting its legend to the work of early-20th Century writer H. P. Lovecraft, considered the father of modern horror fiction. . It was said to be hundreds of years old and its prevailing title was the Book of Shadows. It was described as being bound in the skin of an unborn lamb, or that of a human being, depending on which you found. This book was filled with arcane ages and hand-drawn portraits of demons and other figures of evil. Its writings were in the world’s most ancient languages, and some of its pages were inked in blood. There were stories of men and women put to death for merely studying the book. If legend was to be believed, Countess Elizabeth Bathory and her companion Darvulia, a known witch, were once in possession of it, along with other historical occult figures. Stephen wondered, could that really be the volume Frank had seen in John

Bath’s office? While examining web site photos of the ruins of Elizabeth Bathory’s castle an idea occurred to him, as they often did, when he was lulled by Motown tunes and dwelling on other matters. Holding his breath he clicked on the database he’d built for John Bath. Of course it couldn’t be this easy. He interrupted the sequencing on his second monitor, and typed in the new sixdigit number. The result was immediate. ACCEPTED. Stephen laughed with disbelief. John Bath’s own birth date was the disc’s encryption code!

Frank peered through the windshield wipers, searching for the address Stephen had given him. He was in an upper-middle-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Harriston, Maine. Miller, Haven’s former deputy sheriff, had his address listed here. The Magnum had been returned to its hiding place in the back of the Blazer. He didn’t want to get caught with the illegal weapon in the event he was pulled over, and in a crunch he still had the snub-nosed .38 underneath the steering wheel. Miller was a few years older and ten years off the job, Frank had no doubt he could handle him if it came to that. At any rate this was just a recon mission. He wanted to track Miller down, unearth his connection to Bath if possible, and as necessary he would discover what the man had to do with Gwen’s death. How Frank intended to do that was not yet clear to him—he would just play the hand he was dealt. He knew the time was coming when he would be faced with killing someone, but he had very little concern over it. Killing had always come as easily as breathing to him, it was just something inside him—or perhaps more accurately, missing inside him. It had been many years but he knew the willingness was still there—he’d felt it when confronting the Hendersons. Not to say Frank had no conscience, or morals—he did. But in his view some people were predators, and others were their prey. Frank, himself a predator, had no problem relieving certain individuals of their lives. Some people—victimizers—had it coming and

deserved no jury or lawyer, or rights. They deserved no more than what they’d shown their victims. And Frank had a feeling, a very strong one, that Greg Miller was one of these. Somehow in the summer downpour he overlooked Miller’s address and he turned around in an intersection to backtrack. That was when he saw a yellow Ford pickup truck backing out of a garage and onto the street ahead, the garage door automatically closing behind. Frank eased up and squinted at the curbside mailbox: the home was Miller’s. He followed the truck at a distance, his heart quickening. In the shower it was somewhat easier to go unnoticed, but he took care. Miller was a former cop, which could make him extra watchful for a tail. In a residential neighborhood, middle of the day, without much traffic, it would be easy to give himself away. He wished he had a less obtrusive vehicle than the Blazer. The pickup left the suburbs and took an on-ramp onto 302 headed north towards Waterford. They only traveled a few miles before leaving the highway and Frank watched the Ford enter a sprawling mod-art apartment complex. Frank put some distance between them now, grateful for the rain. The truck ahead went around a corner and stopped and after a few minutes a man in jeans and a sweatshirt came out, holding a newspaper over his head, and got into the enger side.

“What a crummy day!” Farley said, shaking rainwater from his thick curly hair. “Cool it, man,” Miller protested as flecks of water sprayed the interior of the truck. “Jesus, you must be part cocker spaniel.” “Is it gonna ruin tonight?” “It’s s’posed to clear up—Doctor Bath has a knack for weather predictions.” “I didn’t eat—you hungry?” “We have time,” Miller allowed, checking his watch.

Hedging his bets, Frank let the truck turn yet another corner before following, allowing them plenty of distance as they left the complex.

What Stephen saw was a collection of digital photographs. The photographer had been staking out the subject of the snapshots and taking them from hiding, usually from an automobile. The first showed two men getting into a souped-up black Camaro, probably one of those 1969 SS models. The driver was tall, heavy-set with broad shoulders and a big belly, maybe in his 50s. The second man was muscular and wore tight clothes to show off his physique. He was younger, tanned, unshaven, with curly dark hair. Someone had drawn a yellow circle around the car’s rear license plate—the photograph was obviously meant for identification purposes. Stephen almost called Frank, to tell him he’d broken the code and was looking at pictures. He decided to first see what else there was to offer.

Frank sat in the Blazer with his knuckles white around the steering wheel, his red-rimmed eyes flicking from time to time towards the hiding place of the loaded pistol beneath the column, and then to the yellow pickup truck across the parking lot. He was desperately fighting the urge to take the pistol into the restaurant and empty it into Greg Miller. From his vantage point he clearly saw the enger side of the parked Ford. The right front fender had been replaced with one from another vehicle. The fender was still painted glossy white. The door and rear s on that side were sanded and covered with primer, waiting for a fresh coat of yellow paint. Frank sat and seethed silently. A cold speechless rage had descended over him and he did not trust himself to act at that moment. So he sat and squeezed the steering wheel, while the man who’d forced his daughter to her death took a break for a bite to eat.

Miller ordered fish and a salad. He was trying to lay off the fried foods. Besides, there was no telling what he might find to eat tonight.

Jerry was almost twenty years younger and practically swallowed whole his cheeseburger while grease leaked onto his plate, and then started on his fries. Miller shook his head. Scarfing down the last bite, Jerry licked salt from his fingers and sat back with a contented sigh. “Late night,” he told his partner by way of apology. “Slept through breakfast this morning.” “Hot date?” Miller asked with a lopsided smirk. “Sizzling,” grinned the other. “Sent her home walking bowlegged, man.” “Terrific, I’m so happy for you,” Miller grumbled. “Hey, buddy—you don’t have to sit home every night.” “Watching you makes me too tired for anything more.” “Life’s for living, man. Gotta inhale it.” “Yeah, like you inhaled that burger.”

Miller, the pickup’s driver, was a few years older than Frank and taller, with a lot of upper-body strength, but much of his muscle had turned to a big beer-belly hanging over his belt buckle. His younger friend was quite a specimen, trim and broad-shouldered, powerful shoulders and biceps. Frank wondered if the partner was in on Miller’s murderous activities. He noted with a killer’s eye that neither man appeared to be armed as they returned to their vehicle. It would be so easy—

There was a photo of the older man in a yellow pickup, also with the plate highlighted. And the man with Leonard Rippy, an unfamiliar shopping center in the background. Later on, Rippy, getting into his own car, once again, the license plate encircled. These photos were meant to be used as evidence. But evidence of what?

Now photographs taken at night, of the same two men as in the first picture, with shovels in a field. The first was from a distance, the second much closer, perhaps taken with a good zoom function. They were digging a hole in the glow of a powerful electric lantern. “Hello,” Stephen said to himself, surprised—and almost afraid of what was coming next. The picture was quite crisp and clear and Stephen wondered who’d taken it— Albanese, or someone else? He examined the image carefully. He immediately labeled the two men Burke and Hare, after the Victorian England grave robbers arrested and executed for their career choices. He was convinced however that Burke was in fact Greg Miller. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the graveyard scenes from old Universal horror films. There was a bundle wrapped in a sheet or something on the ground nearby, half-hidden by tall grass. It was quite shapeless—surely this wasn’t what it appeared. Stephen actually had to force himself to go to the next photograph, unwilling to be a witness to what seemed to be unfolding before him. When he did he felt the blood drain from his face.

They were in the truck again, headed north. The rain was letting up, the sun already peeking through the late-afternoon clouds. Frank was itching to take Miller right now, wring the confession from him, and he restrained himself with effort. He had no idea who the other man was or if he was involved. He could afford to be patient, he knew where Miller lived, but for once his patience was failing him. He desperately wanted this bastard dead. Where were they going?

Miller turned up the country station on the radio, yawned, and said, “I’ll be glad when this one’s over.” He had the feeling that something had changed, or was about to. Maybe it was the sense that Rippy was distracted by other matters. Maybe his own nerves. He was getting too old for this.

“You don’t act like yourself,” Jerry pointed out. “Another couple of days, the hard part’s over.” “Not too soon for me.” “You got a few good ones left in you yet, buddy,” Jerry said, as if reading his thoughts. “I just don’t feel it this time, Jer. Don’t know what it is.” “Aww, c’mon. The rain’s got you in a funk. Hey, after tonight, you’ll get your piss and vinegar back, count on it.”

Stephen backed up to his door and turned the lock. He did not want his mother walking in on this. Hare had lifted the bundle off the ground and now the fabric unmistakably held the shape of a small human figure, the head, torso, and limbs limp in the man’s arms. Horrified, Stephen clicked for the next photograph. Burke now had the bundle and was handing it to Hare, who was standing in the open grave. They seemed careful, almost respectful in their work—they could’ve just pitched the body into the hole. And a body it was. The sheet had loosened in this image and Hare was reaching up, trying to replace the cloth as his partner held it. Stephen clicked again, his breath hitching in his throat. Now the zoom function drew the scene even closer, onto the limp bundle itself, and on the small, pale, hand and forearm which hung loosely from a fold in the sheet. The fingers slack, lifeless, were once again hidden in the next photo, and then Hare was bending, placing the body into the shallow grave. As he looked at the two men using their shovels to fill the hole in, Stephen picked up the telephone, his fingers numb.

The pickup truck stopped next to a payphone in a convenience store parking lot, but neither man made use of it. Watching from four blocks away, Frank recognized a stake out when he saw one. It was a residential street in a suburb of Waterford. There were a few businesses on either side of the store, a doughnut shop, a service station, and a hair salon. Otherwise there were houses with vinyl siding and well kept lawns, the grass thick and green after the rain. A couple of blocks on there was the brick facade of a school.

Miller and Farley sipped coffees and watched as yellow school buses lined up outside the elementary school across the street. The smell of iron was in the air as the sun dried the rain from the sidewalks. The two men were not within earshot of the bell signaling the end of the school day, but presently the children began coming out. After a while the first bus closed its doors and pulled out into traffic. Farley looked at his partner. “Where’s our girl?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed to mean slits when he realized Miller and his companion were staking out the elementary school. Even as the answer came to him, his cellphone buzzed. “Yeah?” “Ernie? This is Bert.” Frank drew the phone from his ear as if it was emitting noxious fumes. “Stephen? What the hell?” “No names, Ern—cells are easy to monitor.” Frank was annoyed by Stephen’s penchant for the theatrical—but the kid was right. “I hope this is important,” he warned. “Where are you—no, don’t tell me. You where you said you were going?”

“Yeah.” “Have you seen Lizzy?” Hoping he was following Stephen’s code, and wondering what the hell was bringing this on, he answered, “Right now.” “Hmm. Does she have a friend with her maybe?” “Yeah.” “Stacked, curly black hair?” “On the money,” Frank said, keeping his voice neutral, his thoughts anything but. “When you coming home? We need to talk.” “I can’t say—I’m in the middle of something. What is it?” “This little photo album you left me—it’s bad, buddy.” Frank could hear something he definitely did not like in Stephen’s tone. The pickup truck was leaving the parking lot. Frank started up the Blazer to follow.

“There’s Red’s two buddies,” Jerry pointed out. “No redhead.” “Don’t panic, it’s no big deal,” Miller assured him, amused at the younger man’s alarm. Rippy was always prepared, any eventuality was considered well in advance. Driving with one hand, he used his cell with the other.

Frank had no idea who they were watching. The buses were gone now but several little groups of kids were drifting away in every conceivable direction. “I’ll have to call you,” he told Stephen. “I have to see this though right now—I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“This is pretty bad,” the other said again. “It’s time to call in the Marines.” “No way,” Frank retorted. “Not till I say.” “It’s bad,” Stephen insisted. “I’m afraid it may get worse, we don’t do something to stop it.” “Well I’m doing that now,” Frank said, but inside he was terrified that Stephen could be right. “You’re telling me not to make that call?” Stephen questioned. Clearly he did not agree. “I’m telling you.” “I’ve got some hard evidence here—very hard. I’m breaking the law, keeping it to myself.” “I need you to trust me on this.” “What if someone else ends up—hurt? What then? And we had the chance to stop it?” Frank didn’t know what to say to that. His thoughts were whirling. What did Stephen have? “I need to handle this. Go with me on this.” “You sure about it?” Stephen asked after a worried silence. “It’s getting to where I’m not too sure of anything,” Frank itted, bitter and frustrated. Damn it—if they called the police now, things might be worse than before. This mess was so far-reaching. And besides—Frank’s thoughts trailed off. The fact was, he wanted Miller himself. He wanted Bath. He wanted all of them. The court system wasn’t equipped to do what needed to be done. But what of Stephen’s life? Trina Albanese and her daughter? The little girl Miller was trailing? What if Frank’s decision caused another death? He put the Blazer in gear and signaled to move out into traffic—ahead, Miller

was doing the same. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I need to go. I’ll call you, Ernie.” “No—I’m Bert, you’re Ernie.” “Just testing you. Call if anything else comes up,” Frank told him, and disconnected. He took a deep breath. He wondered if Stephen would ignore him and call the authorities anyway. Part of him almost wished he would.

Leonard felt his pager buzz and cut short his chat with his cousin Bess, who’d caught him in the Courthouse hall. She was from Leonard’s father’s side of the family. She was getting her driver’s license renewed and stopped to exchange a few words about her kids, ask how Leonard was doing. When was Leonard going to start his own family? The interruption was just in the nick. “Call waiting in your office,” Shan told him as he entered. “Leonard here,” he said, sitting after punching the speaker button. Shan would not have paged him had it not been important. “Leonard, it’s me,” Miller said. “Our girl’s not leaving school on time today.” “Really.” Without missing a beat Leonard swiveled his chair and signed onto his computer. He had previously hacked into the istration office of Chris Jergens’s school, the better to keep tabs on the kid, and in seconds he was looking at that day’s attendance record. “She had a scheduled dentist’s appointment today,” he said so Miller could hear. “I figured it was something like that. Can you tell if she’s scheduled out tomorrow?” “No—tomorrow still looks good,” Rippy said. “Okay—later then.”

“You got it.”

“What if this had happened tomorrow?” Jerry inquired. This almost-glitch was a first for him. Except for the time he injured one of the kids. Miller knew the hell he caught over that was why he was so jumpy now. “We’d have adjusted,” Miller said with an easy chuckle. “Relax, man. We don’t zip our zippers without a backup around here.”

Frank followed them back up onto the highway, wishing he knew whom they had been stalking. They had another kid in their sights, another kid who would come up missing, he told himself. What should he do about it?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cooper Banks opened his bedroom window and slid out making no sound. The house was quiet—unusual, when his mom’s old man was home. Cooper refused to call Clinton Dean my stepfather. Fucking bastard, sperm donor, shit-stain from hell—but never stepfather. For an 11-year old Cooper had the most colorful vocabulary of anyone in his peer group, resulting in the fact that many of his friends were no longer allowed to hang out with him. He learned it all at home. He also regularly cut school, and smoked, and drank when he could get it. He’d never been in serious trouble with the law, at least not yet. But he figured that would change. He got his bicycle from behind the garage—his bike was nothing special, Dean would not let his mother spend money on a new one—but it was a sport model and Cooper kept it well-maintained with the money from his paper route and it would go like the wind. He started down his street towards the center of town. The old cemetery up off Rune Road was where he often met his friends. The place was ancient and forgotten, the inscriptions on the tombstones faded from the elements, the grass long and untended, but Coop loved it. He’d even named the four old stone gargoyles that were left in the weeds towards the back of the property; John, Paul, George, and Ringo. His dad had loved the Beatles, and Cooper swore that Ringo even looked a bit like his namesake. The stone effigies were each about four feet tall. George was the only one standing, and that at a severe angle, but the figures each weighed hundreds of pounds and Cooper and his friends would never be able to right them, even if they managed to dig them out of the earth. The boys liked to concoct stories about where the gargoyles came from, and how they’d ended up abandoned. Regardless of the truth, Cooper liked to think they were meant to watch over the cemetery and the souls resting there. He made his small circle of friends be careful, to be sure and not throw their butts or leave any trash behind. People are buried here, he would tell them. Maybe even decent people. The wind in his hair, Cooper thought about his situation. Dean loved to tell him how he would end up in prison—You’ll be getting your asshole stretched for

sure, shrimp, was how he liked to put it, laughing—and lately he thought Dean was right, and that the reason would be that Cooper had killed his mother’s husband, probably with one of Dean’s own firearms. He considered Dean a coward—he often wondered who Dean would bully if not for his wife and her kid. Cooper liked to fantasize about being big enough to give Dean what he had coming, that is, if Cooper didn’t end up killing the prick and going off to Death Row for it before he even had a good growth of pubic hair. Now Toby Vint, there was a big guy. On occasion one of the neighbors would phone the police when the violence in Clinton Dean’s home spilled out into the street, and Cooper always hoped that Vint would answer the call and maybe find reason to split Dean’s skull open with that shiny black billy club he carried—but it never happened. It was always Vint or that skinny deputy who came, and all they would do is take Dean outside to calm him down. Of course, Coop’s mom would never press charges. It’s not Clint’s fault, baby, I always start it. Yeah, Mom, okay. Whatever. There was no one at the cemetery. Cooper sat on a headstone for a while and smoked a Marlboro. He knew a clerk at Haven’s sole convenience store who didn’t care if Cooper swiped a pack or two off the front counter display. Shoplifting was Cooper’s main public offense and he had not yet been prosecuted for it. Afterwards he got back on his bike and pedaled back towards town. He’d been in trouble once or twice for skipping school, and had even received a talking-to a couple of times from that Sheriff. It went in one ear and out the other. The female deputy, Mallory, dealt with him once. Coop wasn’t yet appreciating girls like some of his more developed buddies, but he knew enough that when he did, Deputy Mallory was the type of girl he’d notice. She just had that look about her, all starched and polished. He heard similar thoughts put much more crudely at home. Dean enjoyed talking about other women, especially in front of his wife. But Deputy Mallory seemed all right. She asked the same questions, made the same comments, as all the other adults who wanted to make a connection or show they cared, but Mallory looked at you, her eyes intense, like she was really trying to read you. Cooper liked her. He wished she’d answer the police calls sometime—Coop bet she’d lay Dean out, no prob.

Cooper sat on a bench in the park next to the Old Church, putting plenty of distance between himself and the street, and lit another cigarette. The shops along Main were closing and tourists were thinning, drifting away. There were a few mothers in the park with their kids but they didn’t bother Cooper and he didn’t bother them. Dean never touched Cooper physically, and he wasn’t sure why. There was no shortage of hatred between them, and neither of them was shy about showing it. Dean seemed to be buddy-buddy with the cops. So what was the deal? Not that Dean didn’t terrify Cooper—he did. Once when Coop was smaller he’d been in bed reading after lights out (he read voraciously). The Prick must’ve seen the light under the door or something. He said nothing though. He just barreled in the door like one of those axe-murderers in the movies, grabbed Coop’s reading lamp in both hands—Cooper had a lamp set his mom bought him, they were cheap plastic things with square shades made to look like a pair of dice, with black dots and everything—and Dean just smashed it into the wall over the boy’s bed, and then a second time, and Cooper had to put his arms up to protect himself from shards of plastic and broken light bulb. And then Dean just left, closing the door behind him, leaving a 9-year old in the dark wetting his pajamas from sheer terror. Cooper was afraid of the man. He was even more afraid that he always would be, unable to get over it no matter how big he got or how feeble with age Dean became. That morning something pretty unusual happened. Clinton Dean had been sitting at the kitchen table while Coop’s mom was at the sink. “What’s with these eggs? This ain’t the way I like them.” When Cooper heard this comment he braced for what was coming. He was watching television, a crappy Japanese morning cartoon, before heading off to school. What he heard next, coming from his mother, was so shocking and unexpected that he sat bolt-upright on the sofa: She said, “Well fix them yourself then.” Cooper’s breath stopped in his chest, his head turned towards the kitchen. He thought sure his mother was about to die. He wondered what he could do. He could not see his mom or the Asshole from where he was sitting. He just listened.

He heard a metal fork dropped into a plate. Then: “What? What did you just say?” Dean’s voice, hoarse with astonishment. Cooper looked at the phone. He wondered if he could call the cops before something actually happened. What could he tell them? Would they even come? He heard the sound of a plate being picked up. Then his mom again: “I’ll fix them.” But with no apology in her tone, no groveling. This was a mother unknown to him. She might curse Dean out, and even throw an ineffective punch, when they were drunk on weekends, and only then. But there was never backtalk like this. He heard nothing else except the work on the stove and Dean rustling the pages of his paper, but still Cooper was afraid of making a sound, lest Dean’s realization that this little rebellion had a witness force him to punish his wife. And Cooper went to school still convinced that he would come home that afternoon to find his mom dead, or missing without a trace. But he got home and everything was as it had been. So he sat in the park as the sun went down and wondered. What had Dean done, finally, to make his mother get her back up? And why hadn’t Dean retaliated— he certainly showed no hesitation over hitting her before now. He couldn’t help but think it: Something’s different.

Once Frank fully got his mind around it, he began to fashion a plan. The sun was sinking from a still-cloudy sky as he sat in the Blazer, his eyes on Miller’s pick-up which was parked in the lot of a neon-lit sports bar on the outskirts of Whitestone. Miller and his partner had been inside for more than an hour, giving Frank plenty of time to think. Calling the police as Stephen wanted was the logical thing to do, but Frank believed now it was not necessarily the right thing. Miller obviously had another kid staked out. What if the kidnappers were picked up, but the child, or some other youngster, remained at risk? In the Marines, even as a mob hitter, Frank had always planned for the unexpected. He was sure Bath, Rippy, or whoever was in control of this sick operation had likewise made alternative plans. Frank

intended to watch Miller, tail him, wait until he made his move. And then he would nail the bastard. Doing it this way was playing it unbelievably tight, and Frank knew he was leaving an innocent child in harm’s way. He’d already lost his own daughter, and someone else’s little girl could end up dead, if he screwed this up. For the first time, he was worried about his own capabilities. Too much was riding on him this time. But he saw no other choice. Time was critical. The two had done nothing today, but tomorrow, a Friday, could be Game Day. You couldn’t expect to stake out a school for any length of time without someone pretty quickly asking you what the hell you were up to. Whatever they were planning, it had to happen soon, Frank was certain of that. The police. According to Stephen he had enough to call in the authorities. But the cops were constrained by the same laws they meant to protect. Frank had no such limitations. And Miller had Gwen to answer for. Of course the truck’s body damage could be just a coincidence—and if trucks had wings, they could fly. Frank was sure Miller had forced Gwen and Ray off the road, to their deaths. The motive and the circumstances Frank still hoped to uncover, but everything he’d seen and knew pointed to that one unalterable fact. It was dangerous. Irresponsible. Some child was out there right now, safe in her home, completely unaware that her life now was in the hands of a man who was an unrepentant killer himself. Frank was not a praying man. But now he implored a God he did not fully believe in, and asked for the strength, and the wisdom, and the luck to carry out this task before him.

The damning photographs were dated just two days before Mike Albanese had turned up missing. Stephen wondered what that meant. Why had the reporter not gone immediately to the police? Surely he was not more concerned with finishing a bombshell story than with finding justice for a child in an unmarked grave? Perhaps Albanese didn’t know right away what was on the disc. Frank said a PI associate of the reporter’s was also missing. Perhaps it was he who took the photographs —got them to Albanese, somehow—maybe he knew someone was after him, without knowing what he had. He locked the evidence up, mailed the key to

himself—to Stephen that indicated desperate measures. Had the man known his life was in danger? The killers must have known the PI was onto them, and he led them to Albanese. Stephen supposed they would never know exactly what had happened. And now here he was, in possession of the same disturbing photographs, and keeping them to himself. Trusting Frank. Did he have the right to do that? So many people were dead already.

Miller was on the highway again with Frank in distant pursuit. It was nearly dark. The pickup byed the exit for Haven, headed north into the mountains. Frank had the radio off, occupied with his own thoughts. He went over his vague plan and then went over it again, considering his options should the unexpected occur. Only a few miles past Haven, Miller took an exit to the east. There was nothing but wilderness that direction for at least fifty miles. Frank wondered again where they were going. He had the headlights on now and he kept some distance between them. The highway was flanked on both sides by thick forests, black even in the moonlight. The air outside the truck was unusually cool, and he could see banks of mist forming in the depressions among the trees. The red pinpricks of Miller’s taillights ahead disappeared and Frank slowed, suspicious. Then he spotted them, headed down a small access road. Frank slowed even more, letting Miller get far ahead, and then followed. There were no lights of any kind other than those of his quarry. He turned his headlights off and drove slowly, letting his eyes adjust. The pickup turned off the road and headed directly into the forest. Frank pulled onto the dirt track, his own vehicle all but invisible in the dark. He could see the taillights of the pickup bounce and lurch on the pitted overgrown path. He let it gain more lead. The track was headed up the side of the mountain.

After three or four miles Frank spotted the glow of a large bonfire very far ahead and decided to continue on foot. When a break in the trees appeared he pulled off the track, putting the Blazer in four-wheel drive and parking as far from the path as possible. Wary of the surrounding forest alive with night sounds, he opened the back and produced the Magnum and its holster. With the heavy pistol nestled against his ribs he felt much better as he ventured up the dirt track, hugging the forest’s edge. Twice vehicles came up behind him and ed while he hid behind trees. He moved quickly but soundlessly. He heard no engine sounds but the light from the bonfire grew larger as he continued. The flames came fully into view and he left the path and found himself at the edge of a very large clearing, ringed by parked vehicles. He did not bother trying to pick out Miller’s truck—other things were far more interesting. The fire was built on logs, the flames reaching far above the heads of the twenty or thirty people standing in a perfect circle around a raised wooden deck just this side of the blaze. Keeping just inside the forest’s edge, Frank sought a better vantage point, taking care to look for any sentries. He came upon a pile of fallen timbers and climbing five or six feet found a place to observe with no danger of being seen himself. Again, just as when he had opened the cabinet in Bath’s office, the scene before him was shocking but not unexpected.

They were no more than one hundred and fifty yards from Frank’s position. Every member of the group was covered from head to foot in black robes. On the deck a man stood addressing the onlookers, gesticulating with his hands. Frank saw that the speaker had a gaudy silver pendant on a chain hanging around his neck: it appeared to be the pentagram from Bath’s office. And the man’s face was mostly covered with the grotesque mask Frank had seen. At this distance, against the firelight, he seemed half-man, half-animal, with only his chin and mouth exposed beneath the nightmarish carved wooden face and adornments of teeth and hair. This man had to be John Bath.

His voice was like that of an operatic performer; it reminded Frank of the oldtime movie actor, John Carradine, booming out over the heads of his listeners as if from a megaphone, his manner part politician, part revivalist preacher. What was being said seemed to be a language mostly unknown to Frank, with perhaps some English and Latin thrown in. Bath never stood still, turning from one side of the platform to another in order to address every member of the surrounding circle. He stopped and held out one hand to the crowd and another person appeared, mounting the steps to him. Frank could tell from the way the individual moved that it was a woman. She took the offered hand and was led to stand before Bath. The masked master of ceremonies now spoke again, voice still booming. The woman drew down her hood, revealing long strawberry-blonde locks, in the style of a younger female. Bath touched something at the young woman’s throat, and the robe dropped to her feet, leaving her nude against the firelight. Frank’s eyes narrowed, disbelieving, as next every member of the circle doffed their own robes and stood naked. It seemed like a very bad drive-in movie—except it was real. He saw Hopewell, belly and breasts sagging, alongside the colorless and bonyassed Syd Warburton. There were the Lessners—Carlson, the school principal, hand-in-hand with a man, her husband? And even the pretty secretary who’d denied Gwen, presumably with her own mate. The Hendersons were there, Victor Carter’s powerful frame gleaming like a Greek sculpture in the bonfire’s reflection. Miller with his gut bulging, his buff traveling companion alongside. Frank saw other faces familiar and not so familiar, men and women of all ages. He tried and failed to spot Toby Vint among them, sure that if the deputy was there he would tower above the others. Only Bath remained clothed. He had produced a silver bowl. The younger girl knelt before Bath and Frank tensed, his breath catching in his chest. He touched the butt of the Magnum—expecting these maniacs to cut the girl’s throat. But she stood after receiving, head bowed, some kind of invocation from Bath. He carefully ed the bowl to the girl. She turned, holding it against her chest, and Frank saw her features for the first time. Pretty girl, a young woman you’d

notice on the street, maybe in her mid-20s. Her supple body was decorated with strange symbols and writings in black across her breasts and belly. The circle of onlookers waited expectantly, as did Frank. He was not surprised when she raised the bowl to her lips. She began to consume the liquid within. She made an almost-gagging gesture, but kept swallowing in great gulps, her eyes closing almost in rapture, as the contents of the bowl spilled down her chin and over her breasts in rivers of scarlet-black. A murmur went through the crowd. She tipped the bowl further, getting it all down.

Frank watched, too stunned to move, only thinking he’d like to call in an air strike and flash-fry this whole pack of murderous animals, sending them to the hell they so richly deserved. It was hard to have any illusions about the contents of that bowl, or, considering what he knew, where those contents might have come from. He wondered if he would wake in the morning convinced this had all been a twisted nightmare. Okay, I’m outta here, he decided and, holstering the sixgun, climbed down from the tree fall. He was leaving. A mob of naked nutcases in the woods chanting into a fire and drinking blood—he had an idea what was coming next and was certain he did not have the stomach to watch. He knew where to find Miller tomorrow. He had things to do before then. He thought he’d be having nightmares for years over what he’d seen tonight. But at least now he knew whom he wanted in his crosshairs.

Doctor Bath took the dripping bowl from Nat. The blood on her skin glistened slick and wet as she stood naked before the disciples. She licked her bloody lips and watched the circle watch her, their bodies flickering in the fire’s glow, and she tried not to let her eyes linger on the erections sported by the men, even the older ones. Briefly she again wished Rippy was present. But the growing tingling in her belly demanded her attention. Bath was speaking Old Tongue in those awesome tones, his words literally a

physical sensation playing against her skin. The circle of onlookers began to chant—whispering at first, then, their voices growing more strident. She felt her head begin to spin, her vision doing funny things. It was beginning. She began to mouth the Changing Words, matching the cadence of the circle. They helped her to concentrate, focus her mind. The sensations within her were becoming so strong. There was a fire in her belly, like a sexual arousal, but more intense than any she had ever known. It radiated outward, first to her breasts, then to every other part of her body. Her toes and fingers tingled. Then they began to burn. She groaned, her eyes rolling up into her head, with pleasure or with pain she could not have said. Perhaps both. She dropped to her knees with her head lolling drunkenly. Her throat burned with the coppery taste of the blood she’d consumed. Her muscles began to spasm and she thrust her hips high into the air, back arching. Her bladder released in a sputtering spray. Tears rolled down her cheeks from the pleasure-pain. When the change began, it felt like what she’d always imagined childbirth to be—a straining desperate pushing-out and letting-go that stretched her lips across her teeth in a trembling leer and dragged a guttural scream from her throat, agonizing and relieving, and once started, impossible to stop. Her excited heartbeat was like a hammer in her skull. Blood-engorged muscles ripped and changed shape and added an extra twenty per cent to her body mass. A deafening ice-cracking in her ears—the sounds of her own skeletal structure transforming, the bones breaking apart and rearranging. Her skin felt like it was on fire. She lifted her head and her scream changed into the howl of the werewolf. She opened her eyes and saw the moon through the smoky red gaze of the werewolf. The scent of the others drew her attention. The of the circle reveled in their own transformations. Some engaged in furious sexual acts. Some snarled and snapped at one another. Others disappeared into the trees after the scent of prey. She rose on her hind legs and leapt from the platform into the circle. With their Master looking down on them all they howled and coupled in grunting ferocious displays of heat and lust.

When Frank heard the first howl, the normal night sounds of the forest suddenly went silent, as if every living thing in the woods suddenly sought safety. Then more howls—dozens—and he felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. Chilled to the bone, he searched the surrounding trees for any movement. Amazingly, the forest around him was being shrouded by tendrils of gray mist which almost faintly glowed. It seemed the natural world itself was desperately trying to mask something very unnatural working within it And the howls were so close. But they were not the intimidating din heard at the guest house. These were frenzied, even sexual. He kept one hand on the butt of the Magnum and lost no time making his way down the dirt track, the Blazer bouncing violently in the potholes. He did not feel safe until he was back on the highway with the headlights on, and the hellish laughter-like howling was far behind him.

Cooper Banks sat on the grass and cracked one of the two beers he’d stolen from the convenience store. He’d watched the place for several minutes until a crowd of late-night customers entered. Then he’d gone in while the clerk was otherwise engaged and pocketed a couple of cans of brew. It was late and the town was more dead than usual. He liked the park late at night. He usually had it to himself and there in the dark, unseen, he often could watch as people took late-night walks through the center of town. Once a couple of teenagers had hushed sex only a few feet from him, completely unaware that he was there. Cooper was no more voyeuristic than the next person, but it seemed ingrained in the human condition. He wasn’t hurting anyone. It wasn’t like he was peeking in windows or anything. “Hey, buddy.” Coop nearly jumped out of his skin—in fact he had such a start he spilled some beer on his shirt. “Shit.” He turned and looked, and his eyes traveled up, and up, until he recognized the cop’s uniform and saw Toby Vint’s face way above him. “Shit,” he repeated, this time with more feeling.

Toby sat down beside him, propping his elbows on his knees. Cooper knew he was busted; Dean would love this. “What’s up?” Toby inquired. Cooper just looked at him, the beer frozen in his hand. After realizing the deputy was actually waiting for a reply, he shrugged, sullen. “Park’s pretty quiet, late at night,” Vint pointed out. He could have almost been talking to himself. Then he appeared to Cooper was present. “Hey, you ever see any ghosts in here?” His question seemed perfectly serious. Cooper wondered why adults played these games with little kids. It was like a cat batting around a terrified mouse, he thought. Just before it ate the mouse. “No,” he answered, his opinion of the question evident in his tone. “Really? Never?” Vint looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Then he shrugged. Cooper was about to tell him, Look, if you’re gonna bust me, bust me. Don’t bore me with bullshit though, okay? The deputy sighed and Cooper waited for what was coming. But Vint just rested his elbows across his knees and watched the quiet town, just as Cooper was doing before his visitor arrived. Cooper finally forced his arm to bend and took a long swig of the beer. He was unably frightened and annoyed by that fact. Sitting there in the dark he told himself it was silly, there was nothing much supernatural in Haven—well, if you don’t count the strange lights coming from those office windows over the Old Church sometimes. And there was that time. One morning last summer, it must have been about 4am, he’d left early to have some time to waste before picking up the papers at Mr. Greel’s house and was just enjoying the exertion and the speeding bicycle and the warm night air. He heard a sound and looked around to see a huge animal which he thought was a dog bolting across a field towards him. It was a dark night and the thing was, Cooper could have sworn, the dog was running on its hind legs at first. The sight made him do a double take, before Cooper realized the animal or dog or

whatever was after him and furiously he began pumping the peddles to find more speed. He looked over his shoulder, and now there was not one but two creatures chasing him. They were on the road directly behind. He couldn’t tell what they looked like but they were big. They did not bark or growl but he clearly heard the sound of their panting as they pursued him. They were desperate to catch up to him. At least they were on all fours like normal killer animals. Fear and adrenaline gave him an extra burst of speed. He began to put some distance between them. At last he looked, still pumping, and saw the animals drawing away and turning to go back to wherever they came from. The experience left him rattled. He began taking a flashlight and a knife out on his paper route, and it was quite a while before he went out on his bike just for his own enjoyment in the wee hours of the night. “Hey, you got another one of those?” Toby asked. Thinking nothing of a cop asking an 11-year old boy for a beer, Cooper just fished the can from his pocket. Toby popped the lid and took a long drink. “Ahh. Still cold,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Frank woke up that morning with his plan in mind. He needed a place he could spend some secluded time, without fear of interruption. He thought he knew such a place, he’d seen it from a distance on his way into town that first day. He was using a car he rented from the airport in Bridgton. He’d used a false ID and a bank card with the same name. He needed a less conspicuous vehicle than the Blazer, and something with a trunk big enough to accommodate a large man. He visited a thrift store where he bought work shoes, jeans, a tee and a nondescript flannel shirt that could hide the Magnum in its holster. And a black ball cap with a yellow happy face over its brim. Frank learned long ago that if you give witnesses something obvious to look at they usually miss other details —like a man’s face. If things worked out he would have Miller for interrogation purposes and take the heat off the kid they were stalking. He would kill Miller’s companion outright—Frank learned from Stephen the man was probably Jerry Farley, an unemployed roofer from Harriston. Last night he’d talked to Stephen from a pay phone and heard of the awful photographs. Stephen had hacked into Miller’s financials and found payments to Farley in the records—large payments. For more than just handy work around the house. Stephen argued again about giving this whole mess over to law enforcement, but Frank was adamant. He’d brought up Val—did Stephen want to see her murderers relaxing in a hotel-jail while the justice system ground to a halt under appeals and savvy defense lawyers and liberal judges? Reluctantly, Stephen backed off. Frank did a good job of hiding his own self-doubts. But Farley was going to die. Maybe he’d even been there when Miller went after Gwen. It made no difference—the photographs were enough to earn the man a bullet. The highway expansion and resort project took up several square miles surrounding the lake. Driving into town Frank had noticed the construction site, and across the lake what appeared to be deserted campgrounds. Sure enough,

approaching the entrance he found a chain and lock barring the drive with a sign that said CLOSED. This area was part of the resort project, scheduled to be leveled, then the lake enlarged to accommodate future water sports. Making sure no one was about he quickly overcame the huge padlock. There were several cabins scattered along the lake’s edge with plenty of space and trees between them. The construction site across the water seemed to be shut down at this time, but at such a distance, no one there would be able to hear screams or gunshots. Peering in the windows of the cabin farthest back from the road, Frank saw a couple of bunks, a wood stove, a water basin with pump and a couple of oil lanterns, and a table with three chairs. The chairs looked good and sturdy. Finding the place to his liking, he returned to the rental car and used a roll of white tape to mask out parts of numbers on the car’s license plate. He turned an 8 into a 3 and a 4 into a 1, and then a P into a 1. Only with close inspection was the alteration noticeable.

Natalie’s eyes opened and she stretched, licking her lips, appalled at the taste in her mouth. She blinked, yawned, realized she was tired and sore, but except for the bad taste felt pretty good. Remarkable, actually. The night was a jumble of confusing images in her mind, but she knew immediately that everything she ed was absolutely real. It had all happened. “Morning, sweetie,” Leonard greeted her. He was at the bedside with a cup on a saucer. He was dressed in slacks and an open-collar shirt, getting ready for work. She realized she was in his bedroom. “I don’t how I got here,” she murmured. “Some of the group brought you home,” he told her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink this. It has mint and electrolytes.” She pushed herself up on the pillows and accepted the flavored drink eagerly. It was very hot. She inhaled the aroma and sipped. “Sometimes it’s like you’re drunk, after the first time,” Leonard explained with a hand touching her hair. “How do you feel?”

“All right,” she said. She was naked under the sheets. But she was clean, a surprise. “I helped you take a shower,” he said. “You were running around the woods all night, you needed one.” He was smiling, beaming actually, but she had a hard time looking him in the face. She’d had sex. Hard sex, long sex, she could tell from the way her body felt if nothing else. The memories of everything she’d done were less than clear, but she knew she had not been with him. She’d been with multiple partners, and none were human. There were scratch marks on her breasts and belly. Her back felt raw too. He saw that she was looking down, shame-faced, and touched her chin. “Hey— hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Whatever you’re thinking, forget it,” he urged her. Reassured by his tone, she finally managed to meet his eyes. He said, “None of that matters any more, Nat. You’re different now. When we change, it’s all about pleasure, excitement. The hunt, the lust. It’s all cool, sweetie.” He touched her chin again. “Okay?” She nodded. “Okay.” But reservations tugged at her. He should be jealous, shouldn’t he? If he cared about her? But even then, she sensed that something truly had changed within her—because it just didn’t matter as much to her, not as much as it would have yesterday. He threw the sheets off her, said, “Well let’s get you some good mouthwash. That was what I wanted the first time.” He paused to ire her nude body, pink in the sunlight streaming through the bedroom curtains, and seeing his gaze she felt a warmth in her belly and she opened her legs, teasing. Yes. She had changed.

Syd Warburton wisely for once gave up his daily greeting aimed at Mallory Abshire, but he was smirking openly as he entered the office for work, thinking of teaching her a lesson. She was so damned smug. He went through the morning avoiding her, not even acknowledging her if he could help it. He was a little disappointed she made no move to smooth things over with him—he had the sense that she was actually attracted to him, or at least would be if she got to know him, and he couldn’t figure out why she was being so hostile. She was no different than his girlfriend, who’d needed a little tough-love to come around. But it didn’t matter. Mallory had messed with him. He was going to get even, though his exact plans were a bit vague. That morning he called Melissa and in hushed tones—he didn’t want Mallory to overhear—finally convinced her to meet him for lunch at the Golden Tavern. Why was she being such a bitch anyway? Okay, fine, the tit-squeezing incident was all over town and his girlfriend was peeved. But he’d spent no small amount of time and money on her the months they’d dated, and that should earn him a few brownie points, in his opinion. It had to be the Monthlies—they all had them. Syd was confident he could smooth things over with Missy. The changing had left him energized, upbeat and unusually aggressive. Nothing could spoil his mood today.

“What do you mean? What are you saying?” he demanded, his voice rising enough that heads were turning at neighboring tables. Melissa shushed him, rolling her eyes towards the other diners. “What are you telling me?” he said, in a lower tone. They were seated in a back booth, which Melissa insisted on. She wanted some privacy for this conversation. She was now regretting not meeting Syd at the park. “I’m saying I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want you to call me again, Syd.”

“Why? What happened?” Syd was flabbergasted. He absolutely had not seen this coming. “Are you kidding?” Exasperated, she rolled her eyes at his obliviousness. “You made a at Mallory Abshire. Everybody knows.” “That’s a black lie! A lie!” “Syd! Keep your voice down.” “It’s not true.” “Syd.” Melissa took a deep breath, and then a drink of iced water, to calm herself. She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, making eye . “You must really think I’m stupid.” “Well, yeah, if you want to believe every bit of gossip you hear,” he complained. “Everything I see, Syd. You ogle other women, you don’t care if I’m standing right there. You even hit on my friends. I should’ve done this a long time ago.” Truth to tell, Melissa couldn’t understand what she’d ever seen in the man. She was a former Miss New England with her pick of suitors. Syd lived with his mother—whom Melissa had never formerly met. He horrified her own parents from their first introduction and her many friends were mystified by the attraction. His public behavior was atrocious, his needs in the bedroom were demeaning, if not disturbing—it was like she’d been under a spell. She had no idea of course that submitting to him was the result of a substance Syd put into her drink when he cornered her at the restaurant bar last fall. The potion he slipped her was provided by Hopewell, ed along from Rippy. It was far more potent than any date-rape drug and, under normal circumstances, did not need renewal. Unaware of this, she was still able to promise herself, I’m through. Syd wasn’t taking the news easily though. He reached across the table for her hand. “Baby—c’mon. I’m just a man, it’s what men do. I don’t mean nothing.” “Well I do mean it—and it’s not what men do, Syd.” She jerked her hand back as if burned. Then she glared at him. “And you’d better wise up, you don’t want to

be alone all your life.” She was trying to sound like she cared—but truth to tell, she did not. If Syd were to be hit by a car upon the end of this lunch date, she would not be bothered. In fact, it would be a sort of a relief. “Melissa. Come on.” Now under the table, a hand brushed her knee and tried to creep upward. She angrily slapped it away, pulling her skirt down. “Don’t touch me, Syd.” “Melissa. Sweetie.” He stubbornly tried to grope her again and this time got his fingers swatted, hard. Still coaxing, he got up from the table and tried to slide into her seat. “Come on —be nice—” “Don’t, Syd—don’t try it—” He pushed her, rough, sat against her and tried to duck a hand between her thighs. Royally pissed now, she exclaimed “No!” and gave him a violent shove, which deposited him flat on his ass on the carpet. She made to get out of the booth, but stepping over him he suddenly grabbed her around the hips and attempted to drag her down to the floor. She couldn’t believe she was wrestling this man in broad daylight in full public view. She managed to buck him off, and his desperate grasping hands ripped her skirt. That was it. With the torn fabric held around her thighs in one fist, she waited until he was on his feet, and then very calmly stepped in and thrust her knee into his balls as hard as she could. Face coloring a livid red, he sank to the floor with both hands cupping his outraged privates. The erection he’d sported as he pawed her was a forgotten memory. Panting from the exertion, Melissa threw a lock of honey-colored hair out of her eyes and looked up to see their waiter, standing as if wondering what he should do. Other restaurant patrons stared from their own tables. “He gets the check,” she said, after regaining her breath. The deputy sat on his knees and managed to draw the air back into his lungs. He opened his tearing eyes and rolled them up to her, imagining drawing his

weapon, aiming it at her face, and squeezing the trigger until the magazine was empty and she was dead on the floor, but lacking the nerve to actually do it. She locked eyes and, perhaps sensing his thoughts, jabbed a finger at him and warned: “Don’t you ever come near me again. Not ever.” Faces of people she’d known for years turned to follow her long legs as she strode out, holding her skirt together in one fist, head back, more angry than upset. The waiter offered Syd a hand up but found it slapped away. The cop pulled himself up on his knees by using the table as leverage, a groan escaping his lips. His cheeks had gone from cherry-red to purple to now almost greenish. He was fighting the urge to vomit. He paused to gather his strength, and tried to get a leg up—and was rewarded with the sibilant sound of ripping fabric as the seam in the seat of his tros gave way, overheard by everyone within earshot. A fragrant flop-sweat formed on his face and under his arms. Trembling from sickening pain, he could only think, Mallory started this. It’s all her fault.

“Everything’s cool?” Farley asked as he slid into the seat. “Yup, let’s do it,” Miller nodded. He pulled out into traffic while Farley drew a gunmetal black .380 semi-automatic pistol from under his shirt and stashed it beneath the seat. In minutes they were approaching the freeway onramp. Farley pulled a bundle wrapped in a heavy cloth bag from the floorboard and took out its contents. There was a full syringe and a roll of duct tape. “The hypo was a great idea—don’t know why we didn’t come up with that sooner,” he commented, stowing the stuff on the floor again. Miller grunted his agreement. For years he’d drugged the kids with a towel soaked in chloroform, but sometimes it made them sick for days, and every once in a while it failed to have the desired effect outright, which could be even worse. Two years ago Farley had seriously injured one of the kids—she tried to

kick him in the balls in an escape attempt and, in reflex, he’d hit her so hard that he broke her nose and left her in a coma. Doctor Bath had to put her down without using her, and was not happy to say the least. Since then old Doc Radcliff had seen to it that they were equipped with a hypodermic, specially prepared for the body weight of their target. A jab in a kid’s butt or shoulder, she was docile as a lamb for hours. “Hey. I love this tune,” Farley said, turning up the volume. He nodded his head with the beat. It was Don’t Fear the Reaper by BOC.

What’s the prob? Vera wrote after reading Stephen’s message. Stephen typed in, Can’t explain, long story. Rather you not open this mail don’t want you involved. If you have to send it, cover your ass GOOD. He hit SEND and waited while his chat friend digested the new message. After much soul-searching he decided he could not just be expected to keep quiet about this evidence he’d discovered. It was too important. Besides, what if something happened to him? Never mind the fact that people were being killed to hide these crimes. Accidents happened every day, legitimate ones. Okay baby. Send the stuff. I’ll cover it good. He stared hard at her reply. He clicked on documents and chose the file he’d copied from Albanese’s disc and sent it to her. He waited for the to complete. Vera was running the websites for him from London while he was otherwise involved. He’d told her he wanted to send her a very special document, with the instructions that she sit on it for one week. If anything happened to him in that time she was to cut all ties with Stephen—protect herself and bury all connections to him however she could—and email the file immediately to the office of the United States Attorney General, to the Washington Headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and also to the publishing offices of The New York Times and Rolling Stone magazine. Stephen figured, if Bath had the muscle to influence such a wide array of law enforcement and investigative journalist organizations, then probably nothing could beat the man. They were

just sunk. He could trust Vera; she was gutsy. The only thing he worried about was exposing her to some kind of danger through her association with him. But she was as computer savvy as he was—well, nearly—and, he hoped, she could take care of herself. Because he just did not think he had any choice in this.

Frank headed straight for the Waterford school he’d seen Miller and Farley staking out. His intent was to get there ahead of them. He felt tense. He was out of practice for this sort of thing. Don’t screw it up now! he told himself. A little girl’s life could be depending on it. He was anxious to discuss the ritual he’d seen, as well as the symphony of howling that quickened his departure, with Stephen. But it wasn’t a subject for the telephone. He was quite sure Stephen’s first comment would be, Are you positive you didn’t dream this stuff? If only he had. He waited in the same place as the day before. He left the happy face ball cap in the seat, not wanting to call attention to himself. At one time he had possessed a talent for not being noticed, but he was way out of practice and had to be careful. The school buses began to line up on the street and he started to feel uneasy. Where was Miller? His fists flexed on the steering wheel, tightened, relaxed, repeating. At last a non-descript newer-model car with a driver and single enger pulled next to the pay phone just as Miller had the previous day. There they were. Frank gave them a quick look through the binoculars, recalling them standing naked in the fire’s glow last night, like they’d done it a hundred times. It would be the last time if things went well, Frank promised himself. Now the children began streaming out of the building. Frank paid them little attention, watching Miller and his partner. The hunter watching the hunters. The car pulled to the street and waited for a break in traffic. Frank started his own vehicle. In two minutes he was following them.

“I can’t wait to see the news tonight,” Deb asserted as she and her friends started down the sidewalk for home. “They brought cameras right into Mrs. G’s class. Ethan showed me an autographed picture from Sally Boyer, the news lady.” “All the boys think she’s so hot,” Amber reminded them. “I know—you should’ve heard Ethan.” “It’s something, having a real hero at our school,” Chris said. “You don’t see that every day.” The previous day, 59-year-old math teacher and grandmother of six Helen Grosswool had saved the life of a boy who’d seriously cut himself in a lunch hall accident by slapping her belt on his arm as a tourniquet. It had been the talk of the school all day. Chris couldn’t believe she’d missed all the excitement. “My dad complains that they stick the local yokels on just so they can get people to watch,” Deb said. “That might be true,” Chris allowed. “But this is different. Mrs. G really is a hero.” “Well I know one dad who’s gonna be nothing but jealous, and that’s mine,” Amber declared. “He loves Sally Boyer. I’ve heard Mom jump on him over it.” This brought a chorus of giggles from all three girls.

Miller took his time rounding the corner. The girls were two blocks ahead. He was an old hand at keeping the car moving smoothly enough so as not to appear suspicious. He and Jerry exchanged no small talk now. They were all business.

Frank was watching the kids, trying to figure out who Miller was after. The groups of students had pretty well drifted apart.

There, far ahead. Three girls, maybe 12 or 13 years old. Side-by-side, swinging their book bags. It had to be them.

As they reached their homes each of Chris’s friends said Seeya and she found herself walking alone. She was looking forward to watching the evening news with her own parents. She was going to ask her Dad what he thought of Sally Boyer. She saw Mrs. Laitz on her porch and raised a hand in greeting.

Mrs. Laitz looked up from her paperback novel to see Chris coming down the sidewalk at the exact moment she heard her telephone ringing. Getting up to go inside, she missed Chris’s wave.

Her mind was wandering when she suddenly realized someone was behind her, very close. She didn’t know what alerted her—a shadow, rustle of clothing, just a stir of the air? But before she could react, a hand was over her mouth, something was dropped over her head, leaving her in almost total darkness, and there was a stick-pain in her backside. By the time her reflexes spurred her to struggle, her mind was already turning cloudy, eyes drooping. The drug worked fast. She wasn’t even aware of being lifted off her feet.

“Hello? Hello?” Mrs. Laitz could hear no one on the other end of the line. But there was—something expectant. As if someone was there, just about to speak. “Hello?” she said a third time, still getting no answer. Shrugging, she replaced the receiver and went back outside. Chris was out of sight. She sure got in the house fast. The woman never even noticed ing traffic.

Two of the girls had entered their homes and Frank knew the redhead was the target. This realization came just before turning a corner to stay on Miller’s tail and for a moment his view of the car ahead was obscured by neatly trimmed hedges in someone’s yard. When he resumed visual the car had stopped, and he saw Farley, bending into the back seat from the enger side. He slammed the door and got into the front seat. Shocked at how quickly this occurred, Frank scanned the sidewalks and lawns for the redheaded girl and realized she was nowhere to be seen. Miller pulled the car away at a leisurely pace, with no squealing tires to attract attention. They snatched the girl.

Miller glanced into the rear view mirror and saw a car turn the corner just as Farley reed him in the front seat. Miller tensed. Had the kidnap been seen? He pulled away from the curb and accelerated, watching the car behind. It was headed the same direction but did not seem to be in a hurry about it. After a moment he dismissed it. “Everything okay?” “Sure,” Farley said, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the limp figure in the back floorboard. “Why?” Miller shrugged, uneasy, not knowing why. “I just had a feeling,” he said, brushing it from his mind.

Frank cursed himself silently through gritted teeth. He’d let them take the kid, exactly what he’d meant specifically to prevent. They had her, the bastards. She was swallowed up like Jonah by the whale, and no one, including himself, had seen a damned thing. How in the hell did they pull it off so easily? And what should he do now? He followed the kidnap car from a couple of blocks behind, not doing anything to alert the abductors. He knew what he wanted to do. But he’d already made a mistake, somehow. What if he got that poor kid killed? He tried to put doubts from his mind. The police were out. He didn’t give them much consideration. This was his mess now, more than ever. Damn it. No. Someone was going to die, but it wouldn’t be the girl. He would not let that happen. Decision made, he accelerated, subtly gaining on the other car. He put on the happy face cap.

Miller felt uncharacteristically tense, but tried to quash it. Everything was cool. He pulled onto a main throughway and ed other traffic, headed for the

highway, and Haven. He adjusted the volume on the stereo. They would leave the kid in Radcliff’s care, just as they had many times before. She’d be well treated, more or less—not that Miller had an interest in that end of the operation—examined for health, for chastity. She’d spend a few days in the Room, talking to Doctor Bath. Miller would not lay eyes on her again until the Solstice, and she’d be a very different girl by then. Just like clockwork. The snatch went perfect. Nothing to worry about.

They were mingling with other traffic now, and Frank thought he could use that, although he hated to carry out his plan in front of an audience. But there was no way to avoid it. He needed to block the car in. A deadly calm descended over him as he moved past the car with the kidnapped girl inside. He signaled and moved in front as they came to a light at the next intersection.

“The light’s green, asshole,” Farley breathed as they waited for the car in front to move. It seemed to have died. They could hear the ignition cranking. They both watched and waited, Farley tense now, Miller more uptight than he’d been only moments ago. The car ahead started up, but now there was a problem getting it moving. Suddenly the backing lights came on and the auto jumped in reverse gear, lightly tapping the bumper of Miller’s vehicle. “Shit!” he blurted.

Frank took a deep breath, steeling himself. He popped the trunk and got out of the car.

“Jeez, lookit that stupid hat,” Farley pointed out as the other driver got out of his

car. “We don’t need this,” Miller muttered. Neither of them had noticed the car’s trunk ahead was now ajar. As they watched the other driver nodded with an apologetic smile and leaned over the front of Miller’s vehicle, apparently checking for collision damage. “Get out, talk to him,” Miller said. Farley was already pulling the pistol from under the seat. He clicked off the safety, just in case, and slid the weapon under his shirt. “I got it,” he said, with a Don’t sweat it tone.

Frank stayed near the front of Miller’s car, pretending to check for damage. He saw Farley get out and stand in the open doorway on his side. But what Frank wanted was for Miller to put the vehicle in park. And it would be perfect if he got out, too. “Wasn’t bad was it?” Farley called out, grinning. “Hey, just leave it. It’s cool with us if it’s cool with you.” Frank shrugged and looked through the windshield at Miller. He moved his lips as if speaking, but not saying anything. “What?” Farley asked. He heard Miller’s car taken out of gear. Bingo. Miller rolled his window down, craning his head. Frank took a small step towards him. He saw Miller tense up. Frank said clearly, “Nat guinea do?” and was rewarded with confusion and hesitation in Miller’s expression. Frank stepped up to the driver’s side as in one smooth motion he reached into his shirt and grabbed the butt of the .44, assuring himself visually no one was in the line of fire, because a Magnum bullet could penetrate a human skull at such close range. Just that fast he aimed over the hood of the car one-handed and shot Farley in the forehead as he was reaching for something—probably whatever Frank had seen him pull from under the seat— and Miller, close to the exploding cannon, jumped so suddenly his foot stomped the gas pedal, gunning the engine.

Frank smashed the revolver’s still-smoking barrel into the bridge of his nose, and reached into the car with his free hand and snapped off the gearshift, which he slid into his belt. People in other cars at the intersection were screaming, shouting. There was a fender bender across the street, but it didn’t sound bad, Frank ignored it. Miller was yelling, incoherent, both hands clasped across his bloody face. Frank pulled the door open using a shirttail to guard against prints, and locked the handcuffs from his back pocket around Miller’s left wrist, dragging the big man from the car like a doll. Twisting the arm behind his back he controlled him at the wrist and jabbed the pistol’s barrel into the back of his prisoner’s neck as he forced him to the rental car. Miller’s eyes were clamped shut against the pain and offered little resistance. Frank elbowed the trunk open and literally threw him in, head-first, after a quick pat-down and relieving him of the cell phone on his belt. He kicked one of Miller’s legs making him draw it inside, and slammed the lid down, hearing a thump and a stream of muffled curses—Miller had tried to stick his head up and gotten brained for his trouble. Drivers in the neighboring lanes were either hiding out of sight in their vehicles or taking off. Frank avoided eye with anyone, gesturing with the pistol if he saw a face pointed in his direction. He made for the enger side of Miller’s car, using his shirttail to call a number on the cell. “911, what is your emer—” He pitched the phone with the line still open into the seat Farley had occupied— the door was open, Farley on his back across the grass, head on the sidewalk. A semi-automatic pistol was lying near and Frank toed it under the man’s hip. The powerful bullet had ejected a walnut-sized chunk of bone and brain matter from just over his right eye. Frank did not have time to really look, but there did not appear to be enough splatter to indicate an exit wound. He stepped over the body, reaching in and unlocking, then opening, the back door. She was in the floor, covered to her knees with a cloth laundry bag. Frank lifted her onto the seat, gently, loosened the cord and pulled the bag off. Her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. The pretty face made his chest hitch.

He thought of Gwen, and of Anna and Leslie, and even Karen Albanese. Couldn’t help it. These girls—were somebody’s daughters. The bastards had drugged her, probably with an injection—he brushed red hair from cloudy unfocused blue eyes. She was looking at him, but not seeing. Tears and sweat tracked her cheeks. She seemed to be trying to smile. Frank felt his lips tremble. “Strawberries,” she murmured-whispered. But she was not speaking to Frank, and he did not hear. Sirens. Frank swiveled his head. A few people were standing, hesitant, gawking from yards and front porches. But they were too far away for him. He didn’t want to leave the kid here doped up, unprotected—who knew what could happen? It was a sick world. He saw a mailman. He thundered, “You!” The blue-suited letter carrier was crouched behind a lamppost two car lengths away. He jumped at Frank’s bellow. Frank went straight for him, not pointing the Magnum, but holding it up for emphasis. “OGoddonhurtme,” he was saying as Frank grabbed him. “Up,” Frank snapped as he dragged him back to the car by the collar. The heavy leather mail bag was left on the grass. “Your wallet, quick.” “H-here—Oh my God!” he wailed, seeing the wound in Farley’s head, the brains on the sidewalk. Frank jerked him to keep him moving. “Just take it, take it all—” “Shut up,” Frank snapped. “Hold it up, open it.” The sirens were very close now. This entire thing had happened in only a couple of minutes, but to Frank it was an eternity. He was looking at the mailman’s driver’s license. He pushed him down onto his knees in the open door of the car. The man saw the girl. “Oh. God —what did you—”

“Shut up I said. Maury Littleton, of 23 Morgans Court—are you listening to me?” He bent, speaking close to the man’s ear. “Yuh-yes—” “Maury, your life depends on this girl,” Frank said, quickly but clearly. “She doesn’t get to a hospital safe, I’ll find you. You believe me?” “Uh huh.” He nodded emphatically, his bulging eyes rolling to avoid meeting those of his captor. “There’s a phone in the front seat, use it,” Frank instructed, giving the man a little shove for impression’s sake. He rose and noticed a pair of eyes staring over the dashboard of an idling car—he gestured with the pistol and they ducked from sight. He stepped over Farley, but then went back—had the bastard’s eyes moved? He peered down into the blood-splattered face. Yes. The man was not heavily bleeding, and the eyes flickered with life yet. They sure weren’t focusing on Frank or anything else, but they were alive. The eyeball below the wound was hemorrhaged, blood-red. And one of his hands was clawing the grass, maybe trying to find the pistol he’d dropped. Frank stared at the muscular arm—on the inside of his wrist was a small tattoo. In blue ink was the sign of a pentagram. He was certain the man was close to death, and even if he did live, surely he would be nothing but a vegetable. But you could never be too sure, what with the advances in medical care these days. Just in case, Frank took a step back, pointed the Magnum, and pulled the trigger. The thundering blast caused the mailman to utter an incoherent shout. The pointblank belly wound gushed intestinal matter mixed with scarlet and filled the air with the stink of shit and the coppery scent of blood. Farley flinched under the bullet as if he’d been kicked. He made no sound but his eyes crossed, and his mouth drew down at the corners around teeth clenched so tightly the gums bled. Frank thought the man was feeling it. He hoped so. As he ed the trunk of the rental he rapped it with his fist, prodding muted words from his prisoner. He holstered the revolver and slid into the front seat, and put the car in gear, turning right on the red light. In his rear view mirror he

saw flashing lights as an emergency vehicle arrived, followed closely by a cop car. He’d left just in time it seemed.

Maury Littleton was adamant and so rode with the girl in the back of the ambulance. This was not entirely out of concern for his own skin. She was so helpless, so vulnerable. He couldn’t help but feel protective over her. He had two grandchildren nearly the same age. The police at the scene pelted him with questions, but he had only marginally more to say than any of the other witnesses. He told the truth, that all he could recall was the smiley-face hat, and the massive handgun. The cops promised to meet him at the hospital for a more detailed interview. Thinking about it, and knowing what some of the questions would be, he decided to give them his impression, that the shooter had saved the girl’s life. The police had tried to get him to say, at the scene, that the gunman was in fact one of the kidnappers, but that just wasn’t what Maury had seen. Truthfully it was all a jumble in his mind—it had been so quick, so terrifying—but the killer’s concern for the child was obvious. His was not the act of a repentant abductor. No. It had been the most frightening experience of his life. But Maury Littleton came to believe—and would insist on it more and more over the coming days— that he’d been in the presence of an unlikely guardian angel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, Shanna Mae. You know the eyes are the first to go.” Shan giggled and wiggled her toes. John Bath stilled her with an onishing hiss and squinted at his work. She was propped up on pillows with a foot across his belly while he did her nails. The bed was huge and perfectly square, with a firm mattress and starched sheets which were changed three times a day depending on their activities. John Bath refused to lie on soiled sheets. This was one of her favorite pastimes. He lay on his back in a comfortable position (he liked to remind her that he was not as limber as he was once) with a large pillow under his head and seemed almost to forget her presence, giving voice to his innermost thoughts. Shan soaked up every word and kept her comments to a minimum. His voice was rich and deep with a distinguished accent leading most to believe he hailed from Great Britain. “Things do seem to be going astray,” he noted. “This man Moore. Carter cultivating rebellion. Even Warburton’s embarrassing behavior.” He went quiet for an instant and she almost thought he left something off the end of his sentence. Then: “Going back even further, I would venture to say that accepting Nick and Stacey Walter into the Circle may have been my first error. I went against my own edicts, there—both parents of small children should be offlimits. Parenting is a full-time job, unforgiving of distractions. That’s why of the group are rendered unable to conceive once initiated. Now the two little girls are the ones to suffer. Two little girls of our own.” While speaking he was focused on his task like a jeweler examining a rare gem. His fingers were long and surprisingly delicate and he held her toes and painted in short meticulous strokes. She was naked and he was clad in expensive silk boxers. He would be considered in excellent shape for a man in his 70s. Few would have believed his true age.

“Yep, the first to go,” he said again as he daubed a tissue at an unsure stroke of polish. She giggled again and he warned, “Keep still.” She watched him refocus on his task. Rouge à lèvres Rouge was the name of the color—specially ordered from a boutique in Paris. “A mother, or a father, that would be acceptable. But never both parents. The whole thing reminds me of Clinton Dean.” “How is that?” she asked. “Some people should be sterilized and never ever let around children. Such idiots were Dean’s mother and father. I knew them personally and both their best parts dribbled down their daddies’ legs. They turned their son into a blight, a canker, a wart on the anus of humanity. He marries and becomes the poster-boy for rotten stepfathers and es it all down to his wife’s son. So the damage goes on. The kind of damage we don’t need in Haven. Dean’s illegal shenanigans rake big bucks into the town’s coffers, otherwise I’d have erased him years ago. That day may come yet.” Shan took this seriously. John Bath did not make idle threats. “Now, of course, I’ll have to deal with the stepson as well. Hopefully I’ll get around to him before he impregnates some empty-headed twit and begins his own dysfunctional white-trash clan. And so it goes—all we do or fail to do has repercussion, Shan.” She nodded at the blinking light on the bedside table, indicating someone had entered the door to the outer office. “Leonard’s here.” Bath blew on her toes and after a critical squint at his work plucked out the cotton between them. “Probably he has an update from Miller about the girl. You’re done then. Be careful till they’re dry.” Before letting her go he parted her knees gently and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on the fresh white bandage taped to the inside of her thigh. Shan resisted the urge to draw him closer—the Master had business. She threw on a robe and preceded Bath through the bedroom door.

Leonard Rippy often found himself struck speechless when John Bath entered a room. The man exuded a field of energy, like the buzzing air surrounding a power station, or the static felt during an electrical storm. John Bath was imposingly tall and handsome, with perfectly groomed silver hair still thick and only a bit receding from a smooth forehead. His eyes were clear, his skin fair and without age spots that often come with years. To Rippy’s eye his master’s only physical flaw was the old scar a couple of inches below his left ear. Bath’s movements were with a careful grace. Rippy never failed to be impressed at the sight at him. The Doctor cinched a shimmering green silk robe around his waist and met Rippy with a smile that vanished the next instant. “What happened?” he asked. He glanced back at Shan, and she knew they were sharing the same thought. “It’s Miller,” Rippy confirmed. “There’s been a shooting. I don’t have the details yet.” Leonard turned on the flat-screen television on the wall next to the wet bar. Furrows appeared and grew deeper in Bath’s patrician brow as they listened to the voice-over: “—one man dead of multiple gunshot wounds, a young girl unconscious in the back seat, and the car’s owner missing, possibly a suspect in the shooting.” “Do the police know how all this happened, Cheryl?” This question came from the anchor, off-camera in the news studio. “Not yet, Sally. There’s a great deal of confusion here and the eyewitness s are not helping much.” The on-site reporter stood on a residential street corner, microphone in hand, with chaos visible a good distance behind her. Crowds of onlookers, emergency vehicles with lights flashing, uniformed police and firemen holding up a privacy cordon, and a ring of yellow crime scene tape surrounding a car with its doors open at the intersection were all in the cameraman’s view. “Right now, it looks as if it might be a botched kidnapping attempt. The young girl is apparently suffering from shock and has been transported to Samaritan General. Some reports suggest that a third man was involved, but nothing—” “That’s one of Miller’s vehicles,” Rippy said.

Bath stared at the television with his hands on his hips. His blue eyes were narrowed, hard and calculating. “Give Court a call, tell him the substitute girl is on,” he instructed. He was thinking quickly and completely in control as always. The news insert ended and the station returned to regular programming after a promise for further updates on the evening edition. “I’m trusting Miller wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave any solid connections to us,” the Doctor spoke aloud. He gestured with a finger. “But make double sure. Get with our s in the State Police. Let’s head off any trouble before it ends up in our laps.” John Bath was not one to lose his demeanor. His robe was open down his chest, the old scar on his throat clearly visible. When he was aroused it turned a livid red, exactly as it was now. But he was calm and completely focused on what had to be done. Leonard was already on the phone. The Doctor stared at the screen for long moments and at last said, “See if Bailey or any of the Elders are close. We need to shut Miller’s mouth in a hurry if someone has him, I can use their help.” Now Shan went to the second desk phone “The Judge is downstairs,” Rippy told her with a hand over his receiver. “Have them meet me in the wine cellar. Miller served us well. Farley’s a disappointing loss—a lot of work went into getting him ready to take over, but if he’s alive, we’ll have to cut him loose as well.” “The Judge, the Mayor, and B are on their way down,” Shan announced. “No doubt this is just some fluke,” the Doctor reassured them. “Probably a righteous member of the NRA who managed to see something he shouldn’t have. Not supposed to happen, but—” Again Shan detected something in the Master’s tone, a thought he did not divulge. “I should know something pretty quick,” Leonard said, waiting on the phone. A

at the State Police Headquarters had placed him on hold while facts were checked. “Funny, though,” the Doctor mused. “This happening while Moore is in town stirring things up.” He looked over his shoulder. “Has anyone seen Moore?” The question caused Leonard’s eyes to widen. A hand again over the receiver, he replied, “Not since the funeral. How could he have found out about Miller?” “Well that’s a very good question. Get Hopewell. I want to know what Moore’s up to.“ Rippy was astonished. “You really think he’s onto Miller?” “I think we need to cover our bases. You can never tell, Leonard—I always had an uneasy feeling about that private dick. I don’t trust information derived through torture. Could we have missed something? Could Albanese have left an incriminating piece of evidence that’s still out there someplace, fluttering around, looking for a place to stick?” Rippy had no answer to give. The thought of what the private detective had when he was caught—the picture disc—sent cold chills up the back of his neck. He considered Frank Moore. The man was obviously formidable, but a Sherlock Holmes? He, Rippy, did not think so. Perhaps sharing similar thoughts, John Bath stared at the television screen and remarked with an icy grin, “If someone does have Miller, they’re in for a shock.”

Ty Williams crouched, holding up a corner of the sheet and examining the body for the tenth time when a shadow blocking the sinking sun caused him to look up. It was a Fed. “Yeah?” he growled without standing. “Sergeant Williams? Kevin DeForest, FBI.” The man flashed his ID. “Call me Skip.” Williams rolled his eyes; Jesus, did they let these guys graduate high school first?

The kid was all buff and shiny with the pressed suit and regulation government haircut. He put his ID away and held out his hand. Trying not to show his annoyance, Williams stood to take it. “Call me Ty,” he said. He paused to ask a uniform to move back the gawkers crowding the police tape. He resigned himself to the FBI’s involvement. There was already evidence that crossing of state lines was the abductor’s intent. “So what do you make of this?” “Well,” the State Police Detective began, “Jerry Farley here has two bullets in him, one in the noggin, one in the gut. Car’s ed to one Greg Miller, out of Harriston.” “Hmmm. Execution?” Skip crouched beside the body, stealing a look under the sheet. “Yeah, but somebody wanted him to suffer.” “You’re right, this looks personal. Eeeeww, that had to hurt. I’d say—shot first in the head, big bullet—died of shock and blood loss after the belly wound.” “Yeah, I figure. There was an untraceable pistol half-underneath this guy, a .380.” “No kidding?” “I think the shooter kicked it there.” DeForest’s mouth dropped open. “What do you make of that?” “Search me. What’s your take?” Skip stood, looking around at the onlookers, the neighborhood. “I’d say—he didn’t want the gun picked up by someone, a kid maybe.” Ty grunted, having come to almost the same conclusion. “His hands were full. That’s why he didn’t grab it. Maybe he wanted us to find it?” “So we have a stone-cold killer with a soft heart. I heard about the mailman,

what does he say?” “Not much. He heard the shot when this guy went down, next thing, the shooter is dragging him over to the car. The gunman threatened him, and the mailman took him serious—but his attitude is, the killer was some kind of hero. He even dialed 911 and told the mailman to grab the phone.” “No voice print on the killer though.” “Nope. We’re checking for prints but he was smart. Took the broken gear shift with him, too. One witness saw him throw the missing man into the trunk of a car.” “They really were in the act of taking this girl.” “Looks like it. Pretty organized on the one hand, but then again, broad daylight, bold as brass—seems like they were depending a lot on luck.” “Why take Miller? This guy is some kind of vigilante, why not just kill him too?” “I was wondering that same thing,” Williams agreed. He decided this kid might be okay—for one thing, he could talk and think at the same time. And he never took his eyes from the scene he was examining. DeForest might look like a high school junior with an FBI badge, but he was a born detective. Donning a latex glove from his pocket, DeForest stepped over the dead man and leaned into the car with one hand on the open door. “Organized you say.” “Yeah, they came with a hypo to dope the kid, a bag to throw over her. Nobody saw the snatch. She hadn’t been out of school twenty minutes. She’d just dropped off her friends four or five minutes earlier.” “Hypo?” “It went to the hospital with one of our techs. They needed to know what the girl has in her system.” “You think these guys have pulled this before?” The younger man looked at him, knowing the answer.

“I think it’s a strong possibility. They did it like they were picking up the dry cleaning.” “I think you’re right.” DeForest crossed his arms and spoke in a lower tone, conscious of the many evidence technicians nearby, and the live news camera crews a bit farther off. He said, “Ty, I’m with a special task force set up by the Bureau. For the last three years we’ve been tracking a possible kidnap ring operating in New England. A lot of girls have turned up missing.” Williams stared at him. “This is the first I’ve heard.” “There’s nothing concrete, nothing solid we can look at, other than the missing kids. Nothing.” “No bodies turning up? What is it, white slavery?” “We just don’t know. Two years ago we found a girl dumped in a quarry, pumped full of morphine. She’s the only one.” “Sexually assaulted?” “That’s the thing, no. It’s like she was caught, then thrown back. Whatever happened to these other girls, she didn’t go the same route. But she had the same profile as these others. Mostly white girls, eleven to thirteen years old, doing very well in school, involved in extracurricular activities, church, both parents at home.” Williams took all this in. New England wasn’t that big a place, population-wise. It certainly wasn’t California for God’s sake. Surely something like this couldn’t operate unnoticed, not here. “For three years, you say?” He didn’t like the look he got prior to a response. “No,” DeForest corrected, gently. “That’s how long we’ve been tracking it. This has been going on for longer, much longer.”

Kyle Jergens was escorted by a county sheriff, two interns, a nurse, and the

hospital’s Deputy Chief of Pediatrics as he was hurried down a succession of hallways to his daughter’s room. “We analyzed what was in the syringe against her blood work and istered medication to eradicate the drug,” the Deputy Chief was assuring him. “She’s shook up, but she’s going to be fine.” Jergens silently thanked God, but resisted the urge to snap at the man. How could she really be fine, after this? How could any of them? What was the world coming to? He entered the room, ing a uniformed policeman guarding the door, and had to wipe tears from his eyes. Chris sat up in the bed, releasing her mother’s hand to hold her arms out to him. “Daddy.” He couldn’t the last time she’d called him that. He held her to his chest and they wept with his wife’s arms around them both. Belinda was fetched from work by the police first thing when Chris’s identity was confirmed. The neighbors helped track her down. “Let’s give them some privacy,” one of the young interns in charge of the girl’s care suggested. Everyone but the family filed from the room. “She’s not hurt,” Belinda Jergens said, wiping her eyes. Not hurt? Kyle thought, bitter again. A stranger puts his hands on their daughter, how could she not be hurt? “I wasn’t able to tell the police much, Daddy.” “That’s okay, Sweetie.” He could barely speak. He needed to take a minute to compose himself. He felt like he was falling apart, and he couldn’t do that. He had to be tough. But he didn’t want to let her go. Not ever again. “Chrissie? Tell Dad what you told me. About the angel.” He scarcely heard his wife. He was barely keeping it together and was content just to hold his daughter and not say a word. But he focused on her voice, on what she was telling him, using her to prop himself up, to be strong for his

family. “I didn’t really know what happened—it was like I was in a fog,” Chris murmured against his breast. “It was dark, I couldn’t move, I just felt sleepy, so sleepy that at first I wasn’t even scared. I heard voices and I could feel the car moving, then it stopped. Someone got out, I could feel the car bounce. Then there was the loud boom! Really really loud and it shook me awake, and then I was scared.” Kyle looked at his wife with his vision blurred by tears and saw her silently mouth the word gunshot. His breath hitched in his chest and he held the girl even tighter. “I started to cry, but I still couldn’t move or see anything! That’s when the angel came.” His chest hitched again as he stifled a sob. In his mind, angels appeared to see you into Heaven. They were a spiritual family—but the thought of his little girl visited by angels caused his faith to waver. Perhaps sensing this, Chris raised her face to look at him. She said, “No, Daddy —this angel was there to protect me. There in the dark she whispered, told me to listen to her, think only of her voice and nothing else. She kissed me on the cheek and promised I’d be all right. Then I could see the daylight and someone was over me. Another boom—but the angel put her hands over my ears and told me to close my eyes and the noise didn’t scare me that time. She was so warm and made me feel so safe—I could even smell her, Daddy. She smelled like that shampoo Mom used to buy. She smelled just like strawberries.”

Miller squinted at him through one eye not swollen completely shut. The damage to his nose left him looking like the absolute worst boxer that ever lived. After leaving Farley to die Frank drove to the deserted campgrounds, quickly but carefully, making sure to break no traffic laws. He dragged Miller from the trunk and took him inside the cabin he’d chosen, where he handcuffed the prisoner to a sturdy wooden chair, hands behind his back. As a precaution Frank broke all four fingers on Miller’s right hand, to discourage him from any escape attempts, and taped a rag over his eyes to keep him disoriented.

Leaving him there, he went back out to the rental car and took the tape from the license plate, and then wiped down any surfaces he’d touched for prints and inspected the trunk for evidence. There were a few drops of blood from Miller’s shattered nose, which Frank went after with a spray-bottle of carpet cleaner. Not good enough to fool the FBI forensics experts, but hopefully they’d never track down this vehicle. He would return the car that evening, after he finished with Miller. His prisoner was waiting, in sad shape, in too much pain and misery to even question his circumstances. Between the nose, the lump on his forehead from the trunk lid, and the broken fingers, he looked ready to welcome death. Soon enough, Frank told himself. He stripped the tape from Miller’s eyes with a jerk and gave the man some room. “Answer my questions and I’ll kill you quick,” he promised without inflection. “Quick? You left me here to suffer,” Miller retorted, gasping through his mouth. “I had stuff to do,” Frank said with a shrug. “Now it’s quiz time.” “Doesn’t matter,” Miller groaned. “We’re both dead.” “Well you can hope it’s quick at least.” Frank pulled the Magnum from its holster and put it across a tabletop, making sure Miller saw that, as well as the tight leather gloves Frank slipped onto his hands. “Tell me about the school teacher,” he said, meeting Miller’s tortured gaze. Miller peered at him, digesting what he’d heard. Then: “The what? This is about the school teacher?” Setting his jaw, Frank stepped forward. Miller opened his mouth to protest as Frank seized the shattered bridge of his nose between his first and second knuckles, and squeezed. And twisted. Then twisted the other direction. “Wrong answer,” he snarled, struggling with the man. Miller screamed and bucked and squirmed like hot coals were in his guts but Frank used his full weight to hold him down. At last he let go, stepping back. Blood pulsed down over Miller’s mouth and chin and he gagged and sobbed convulsively. The bloody hole across the bridge of his nose bubbled and sprayed as he struggled to breathe.

“Now. The school teacher,” Frank said, after Miller was lucid enough to hear. “Yuh—you’re—talking about the woman, her husband? Okay—We ran them off the road, Farley and me. The Hendersons forced ‘em outta the house and we finished them. That’s it.” “Why?” Frank was trembling with fury. “The woman was onto me—that damned reporter, he had a guy snooping around, following me. We got him, got both of them. But the reporter told the teacher about me. When she started digging around I had to take care of it myself, I was the one screwed up, let the guy follow me. I had to fix it. After the reporter, couldn’t use the Hendersons again. We did it way after dark—we waited on the road until they were forced outta the house.” Frank had to clamp his eyes shut for an instant. Way after dark—after the crash, they let Gwen and Ray lie in that ravine all night before making it official. To be sure no one had survived? This revelation caused him to miss the significance of something else he heard. But he went on. “Who ordered it?” “It was my problem,” Miller insisted, after a pause, knowing what Frank was asking. Frank stood up, threatening. “Who ordered it?” Miller stared hard at him, one-eyed. “Man—that’s all you’re getting from me. You don’t know who you’re screwing with.” “I want a name. Give it to me, or you’ll die screaming.” “There’s worse than what you can do,” Miller spat at him. He was panting, hard, terrified of what he had coming. “You mean John Bath. Tell me.” Miller squinted at him and Frank saw a different fear at work in the man. “Bath ordered the killing,” Frank told him, prompting. Miller looked away, and Frank had his answer. He had to repress the urge to kill

him then. “What were you going to do with this girl?” “Can’t you figure it out for yourself?” Miller demanded, with an ugly laugh. “You explain it to me.” Miller seemed to relax slightly, with the subject more or less off Bath. “She was an Offering,” he said. “What do you want from me? Pull the trigger and get this over with.” “You kill them?” “Hell no! I don’t hurt anybody. I just grab them. I hand them over to Radcliff in Haven.” “Radcliff?” “Doc Radcliff, in Haven. He keeps them until—as far as I know, they’re taken care of—” “Until what?” Frank was actually grimacing as if in physical pain, listening to this madness. “The Solstice festival,” Miller said. “Who kills them?” Frank demanded, already knowing the answer. “They’re not hurt. They’re just talked to, for a couple of days. I swear—when the time comes, they’re okay with it. Calm—” Miller began to weep now—that made Frank even more furious. Was he supposed to believe this monster had something that ed for a conscience? “How many times have you done this? How the hell did all this start?” Miller bowed his head and started to retch. Frank stepped out of the line of fire. A couple of heaves and Miller appeared to calm down. “Give me his name,” Frank urged. “Tell me his name, and I’ll put you out of

your misery.” Miller rolled his one good eye up towards him, then suddenly bowed his head, and uttered a roaring belch. Once again, Frank stood over to the side, unsurprised. The man was sick, about to vomit. He would just let him get it over with. Miller lowered his head, groaning, in utter discomfort above and beyond his injuries. Then it came—he lifted his head and pitched forward with his whole body, the contents of his stomach splattering across the wooden floor in a steaming stinking quasi-solid mass. A pause to catch a tortured breath, and then another sputtering spray, not so much this time. A couple of dry heaves and it appeared to be over. Miller gasped, groaning, bile and sweat and blood dripping from his chin. Frank said, “Okay. Let’s start over.” In response Miller made noises. Rather, his body did, from deep inside, as if from the bottom of his bowels. Growls, rumblings. And a stink. The odor was so noxious Frank kept expecting an accompanying cloud of billowing yellow gas. It was like rotten eggs but worse, overpowering, eye-watering, completely obscuring the sick-sour vomit smell. “The Linda Blair routine doesn’t impress me, Miller,” Frank warned, nonetheless a bit shocked. He’d never heard sounds—or a stench—like that come from a human being. Miller lifted his head. Tears were streaming from his eyes. At that point something caught Frank’s attention, something in Miller’s vomit splatter, there on the floor. In the half-digested stomach contents, it looked like animal fur—was that the ear of a rabbit—? He jerked his attention back to his prisoner. Miller rolled one eye toward him and mouthed words. At first no sound, but then, he whispered, fighting to get it out: “Kill me.” And a sound, like rushing wind through a tunnel, from down his gullet. Goosebumps traveling up his scalp, Frank picked up the pistol and thumbed back the hammer, giving Miller plenty of room. The aggravating smell was

growing even stronger. Something was about to happen. Miller’s head pitched forward, more violent then before, but not to regurgitate further remnants of his last meal. This time he spewed blood, and what looked like intestinal matter—shit—and stringy bits of torn flesh from his own insides. The filthy stuff geysered as if from a high-pressure fire hose, hitting the floor and splattering in all directions. Frank lunged back, horrified and repulsed, unable to even ask himself if this was really happening. The coppery smell of blood mingled with the stink of fecal matter and the poisonous gas from before. Frank nearly choked on the stench, his eyes streaming. Now lengths of ropy intestines were piling up on the floor. In a connected stream it all came out. It was like a long hook had been inserted down Miller’s throat, all the way through his stomach and digestive tract until it snared his rectum— and then it was pulled out, like one would pull off a rubber glove. As if to confirm this, there was dark blood leaking from the sides of the chair, having soaked through the seat of his jeans. Impossibly, he was still living, jerking and jumping on the chair and making the most horrible gagging and retching sounds that seemed to go on and on without pause for an agonized breath. Now a rubbery-looking pale thing that could only be Miller’s inside-out stomach plopped onto the floor, followed by more bloody tissue. The gory discharge was slowing at last. Frank watched and waited, his gun held ready. This all happened in only a few seconds and Frank would wonder, later, why he had not thought to do as Miller asked and blow his brains out. He’d had no thoughts at all, really. He was totally flabbergasted. With a final noisy heave the last of Miller’s digestive tract—presumably, the lining of his throat—slapped the floor and the man slumped without a sound or movement. Cautiously, Frank crouched to get a look at the man’s face. The lower jaw was slack, even wobbly—the force of the violent ejection had separated it from his skull at the hinges. A bloody string of sinew or meat of some kind stretched from the open mouth to the mess on the floor and was all that connected Miller to his insides. His eye was open and tortured and lifeless. Frank stood and surveyed the scene, thinking of Dante’s Inferno. Surely this is what they had in mind? The entrails and organs steamed palpably. Miller’s body seemed about thirty

pounds lighter, his gore-soaked clothes hanging off his frame like a deflated balloon. Frank came to with all he’d witnessed quickly enough. Stephen was wrong —there was a supernatural force in Haven, and it was powerful. There was no logical explanation for what happened to Miller. Not only that, but the man was expecting it. Felt it coming. Frank accepted what was in front of him and refrained from worrying about it. And he kept in mind that if this could happen, other things could as well. Monsters could happen. For the first time he began to grasp what he was dealing with, what Gwen had stumbled into. For the first time he knew for certain, that this was no problem for the police to deal with. He thought about Miller, his last words: Kill me. These people served Hell, or something like it, but Miller was willing to face that rather than this—whatever this was—Bath’s punishment for allowing himself to be captured? For talking? Or was it that Frank was being sent a warning? Frank’s faith in God was shaky, but like most people, he had an easier time believing in the existence of the Devil, by whatever name. Was Miller at his cloven feet even now? Was he screaming in torment, beginning his sentence in eternity?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By that evening the police had given the names of the men involved in the kidnap-shooting to the press. Stephen sat in his parents’ living room, thunderstruck, as they all watched the pretty anchor Sally Boyer preside over a number of separate field reporters working the sensational story. “A manhunt is currently underway for Gregory Miller, a self-employed car enthusiast from Harriston, who police now believe was one of the kidnappers, along with Jerry Farley, also from Harriston, dead at the scene. A third man is believed to have foiled the attempt to kidnap the girl. Police say this looks on the surface to be a case of vigilante justice and—” Stephen shook his head, disbelieving. He wanted to call Frank but something kept him from it. Did he have Miller? Of course he did. Stephen was shaken by the realization that someone he knew was capable of such carnage—they’d spent time together, they’d eaten together, for Pete’s sake. Not only capable—he was pretty damned skilled at it! The police did not seem to have a clue as to Frank’s identity, at least according to the reports. Not even much of a description, except for the smiley-face hat seen by witnesses. Stephen was torn. He’d never been a lawbreaker before, but here he was now, keeping this knowledge to himself. And that was exactly what he intended to do —he had no thoughts of calling the police. And what about Miller? What was Frank doing with him? And did Stephen really want to know? The girl, whose name of course was not being released, was supposedly unharmed. Frank had saved her life. Doesn’t this only happen in the movies? Stephen asked himself. “Well I hope they give that man a medal when they find him,” Elaine Wilkes declared. “Maybe they won’t find him, Mom,” Stephen responded.

“I don’t know why not, he’s a hero.” And a killer, Stephen silently added. He wondered what Haven’s powers-that-be were up to now. Were they pulling their hair out, bouncing off the walls? Miller and Farley both goners, big public spectacle, that had to get somebody’s attention. Stephen itted to himself that he was dreading his next conversation with Frank, out of worry for his friend. Bath would surely have the dogs out by now, or soon. Could Frank handle whatever they threw at him?

Toby Vint propped his bare feet on a stool as he watched the same news program as the Wilkes family. Someone had given John Bath a fat lip by stopping Miller. Toby felt he knew that someone’s identity, and wondered how Moore had accomplished it. He wished things were different. He and Moore were more alike than was obvious. They were kindred spirits in a sense. But they were going to end up facing each other, and Toby knew there could only be one outcome. The prospect of Moore’s death saddened him—but the possibility of that fate being in doubt was exciting indeed. Moore was a wild card. Just by coming to town he’d upset the normal course of events, Toby could sense it. He could not see the future—but suddenly, he had the feeling that anything might be possible. That maybe his own fate could be averted, or at least, altered. He hardly dared to hope for such a thing. The reporter on the television was now saying that the FBI was looking into Greg Miller’s background. Toby grunted in appreciation. Yes. The ball was rolling now. The phone rang and he answered it, expecting Rippy. “Hey, Tobes.” “Mallory—what’s up?” “You watching the news? Can you believe that?” “Yeah, what a circus.” “I almost envy those cops. Must be nice to have something to do besides guard school crossings.” “Mallory,” he scolded. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” He heard the slightest edge of annoyance in her voice and part of him was glad—because actually he’d not been in a good mood at all, and sensed she felt the same.

“I don’t know. Syd came in with his ass hanging out of his pants this afternoon, maybe that’s it. Boxers, by the way. With little clowns on them.” “More than I needed to know. I guess you heard his girlfriend got wise, decked him at the restaurant?” “I did hear that. Things just aren’t going his way lately.”

“Yeah, poor Syd,” she clucked, making no effort to hide her lack of sympathy. This was followed by a rare uncomfortable pause between them. Since the ruinous dinner date they had not spoken. Mallory had refused to call, wanting him to make the first move. “Well, I should come over,” Mallory prompted. Toby Vint, alone among every man she’d ever known, had managed to outlast her. She was folding, unwilling to leave their blossoming romance to suffer a sputtering death. “We need to talk,” she told him. “Ahh, I can’t, Mal.” The resolve in his voice shook her. “Sure you can. Toby, tell me what’s eating you. I don’t want to just let this go.” “There’s nothing eating me.” “Then you’re obviously nuts, a split-personality or something. Only you’re going about it all backwards—usually, the guy dumps the girl after he gets laid.” Her bluntness must have bowled over whatever he was setting up to say—he actually stuttered for an instant and his voice trailed off. “I wouldn’t do you that way,” he then promised. “Then what, what is it? I thought—I thought this was so unique, so one-of-akind.” “It was to me.” “But you’re not acting like that. It all started with that Beast stuff—I’m sorry, okay? It’s not important to me. The dinner party? My friends? What was it that

torpedoed everything?” “It wasn’t you.” “Oh. Yeah. Hit me with that old chestnut.” She was pacing back and forth in her living room. She plopped down onto the sofa, kicked off her shoes. This conversation was the most difficult she’d ever experienced. It wasn’t like her, to act like this, to be the relationship victim. Her parents had not brought her up this way. “Mal, I just don’t fit in,” Toby was insisting, trying to convince her now. “I was trying to be somebody I’m not with you, you see? And I was loving it. But it won’t work, ma chere.” She felt her voice choke. “You fit with me,” she whispered. His breathing through the line was even, resolute. She knew she’d lost him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “There’s just too much baggage with me.” “We should’ve screwed, when we had the chance,” she told herself, barely aware she was speaking aloud. “We’d be mated for life then, just like you said. Wouldn’t we?” “And this would be hurting ten times worse,” he promised. “How are we supposed to work together now?” she asked. His pause before answering gave them both a chance to take a breath, to prepare for goodbye. He said, “I guess we just grit our teeth and get through it.” She reminded herself, she was on her way out already. She had less than two weeks. Maybe she could even shorten that, because she knew now she had to get out of Haven, this was going to be too painful. He said, “I’ll see you, Mal.” “I guess so. ‘Bye.” “’Bye.”

She let the phone dangle away from her ear until his end went dead. She replaced the receiver and knuckled a stubborn drop of moisture from the corner of her eye, then looked at the shiny tear on her hand. That wasn’t her, either. Crying over a boy. The television news was saying something about the shooting-kidnap investigation, but she left the sound off. She sniffed, angry and depressed, and picked up the mail she’d brought in. Just bills and junk. She’d received a package at work and brought it home with her. It was addressed from Sean and Lucy. Mallory ripped the paper with her thumbnail, eager for a distraction. A book slid out of the box—Oddities of New England was the title of the dog-eared paperback, by Professor Reuben J. Pollard. A collage of images on the cover included a well-known postcard view of the Old Church. A note with the gift said, This is out of print, but we had this extra copy. Hope you like it. Sean and Lucy. She was fanning the pages for anything that might catch her eye, when she heard a knock at the front door. She closed her eyes and considered ignoring it; she was not expecting visitors which meant it had to be her mother, or maybe Dad— and she wasn’t up to facing them right now. But after a third insistent knock she got up to answer it. “Oh—hi, Sherry.” It was the woman next door. Mallory did not know the couple well, but greetings across the back yard fence seemed to indicate they were pleasant enough. “Hi, Mal, I thought I saw you get in—the mailman left one of yours in my box.” She handed over an envelope. “Oh, okay—thanks.” “You okay, Mallory? You look a little blue.” Sherry’s concern seemed genuine. “I’m fine,” she said, flashing a smile that felt like it wanted to crack her face. “Just a long day.” “Well get some rest—we’re used to seeing you chipper.” “I will, seeya.”

She shut the door and returned to her place on the sofa. Opening the envelope she found the pair of concert tickets she ordered online the day after she danced with Toby. They were for a Sheryl Crow show in Whitestone. “Terrific,” she said, feeling absolutely miserable.

Toby Vint felt almost exactly the same. He leaned his head back and planted the heels of his hands in his eye sockets, rubbing fiercely, as if to make everything around him just disappear. He wished he could blank out his thoughts and feelings, and longed for her to be there with him.

“Syd? Why is it taking so long? Where’s my tea?” Warburton felt chills crawl up his spine. That was the effect his mother’s voice had on him. “Coming, Mom.” He turned down the heat on the kettle and moved it from the stove, annoyed as well by the whistling. When his mother finally keeled over, that would be the first thing in the garbage, the battered silver teakettle with roses embossed on the sides. “Where are you going anyway? Why do you have to work?” He arranged Oreo cookies with a napkin, sliced lemons, and a single daisy in a clear glass vase on the serving tray, the way his Mom insisted on. “I thought you’d have more time to stay at home now?” He uttered a whispered curse. He’d told her that he and Melissa had split, and she had not yet gotten the complete story from that busybody bitch Mrs. Hoft down the street. “Syd? Why aren’t you answering me? Isn’t my tea done yet? Why isn’t it whistling then?” He looked around his shoulder to make sure she couldn’t see—just a precaution, he knew she could not—and over the other way, to be sure no one was watching through the kitchen window. Then he undid his pants, pulled out his penis, and holding the teapot open carefully with one hand so as not to burn himself, urinated into it. The stream was short. He had a small bladder. He gave his dingus a little shake, tenderly, his nuts still sore from what Melissa did to him, and replaced the pot on the stove to buckle up. Then he sloshed the hot liquid around to mix it good. “Here you go,” he said, all smiles, as he brought the tray in and placed it on the stand next to her chair. Mrs. Warburton was all of five feet five inches tall and weighed close to two hundred and eighty-five pounds, meaning she did not get around too well. Basically Syd did all the housekeeping and kept her meals within arms reach and she sat and watched television all day, every day. Fortunately she so far was able

to go to the bathroom and shower without his assistance. When the time came that she could not, he supposed that would drive him to spike her tea with something a little more potent than piss. “Ah, about time. Well, anyways. I’m glad you finally dumped that girl, I told you all along she was no good for you.” Not for the first time Syd thought of that old movie whose name he could never , the one with the nut in the hotel who kept his mother preserved like a hunting trophy down in the basement—he had absolutely no idea that Melissa’s parents liked to call him Norman Bates behind his back, among other less complimentary pet names. “How long are you going to be gone, Syd?” “I’ll call you.” “Why are you going, anyways? Why don’t you stay here with me? Law & Order is coming on.” “Police business, Mom. Gotta go. You drink up, now, while it’s hot.” He poured the tea-slash-urine combination into her cup. “Mmmm, good,” he prompted, grinning entirely for his own benefit. He was headed out the door as she called, “Syd? Not gonna forget to call, are ya? Syd?” He went to his car and opened the trunk, looking over the stuff he’d bought for Mallory. He had the cuffs, the duct tape, and the straight razor. And a box of sex toys he’d had for some time. He’d ordered them online but never found the courage to spring them on Missy. Mallory would enjoy them now—she wouldn’t have any choice. And of course, the stun gun. It was straight grip, 100,000 volts, which he’d gotten for a bargain at 20 bucks. He wanted the compact model, so he could hide it in his hand if she saw him coming. Mallory was no pantywaist. Looking at the stuff and imagining their use gave him a painful erection, actually the first one since Melissa kneed him in the balls. He almost decided to go up to his room for a little five-finger massage, maybe it would relieve his discomfort if nothing else—but Rippy wanted him over at the McVie house, waiting on Moore to show up.

Mallory could wait until tomorrow, or the next day. She wasn’t going anywhere for a while, and he enjoyed the anticipation. It would be easier to just shapeshift and tear her up like a rabbit—but that was strictly forbidden, here on home ground. And besides. Syd wanted to take his time, make it last. He slammed the trunk shut and got into the driver’s seat, smiling to himself.

“Hiya, Bert.” Frank’s voice was grim. “Ernie,” Stephen said into the phone. “You okay? Have you been running around with a big smiley face?” This question sounded joking, but Stephen was anything but. “Yeah, but I’m not smiling now.” “From what I’ve heard, neither are the other guys. You’re not kidding around, are you?” Stephen spoke in a normal tone of voice, so as not to alert his mother who was in the kitchen across the counter. “Neither are they. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve just seen.” “Can you say over the phone?” “I’m not sure I can even say in person.” “It’s that bad?” “It’s a nightmare and you’ll say I’m nuts. I’m calling to tell you to lay off any more nosing around until we talk. Very important.” “Still don’t want to call in the Marines?” “No. I’m going after the top dog. And as many of the others as I can get.” Stephen digested that, realizing Frank was communicating his intent to commit murder. “Like I said, no more digging. I’ll call when I’m finished.”

Stephen didn’t like the fatalistic tone in Frank’s voice. “I can’t help?” “Absolutely not. I’ll call, Bert.” “Keep your head down, man.” Stephen hung up, grim. He was afraid he’d seen the last of Frank Moore.

It took the better part of the evening to dig a hole a good way behind the cabin, scoop up Miller’s entrails and wrap them in a sheet with his body, and bury him under a layer of stones from the edge of the lake. He rinsed the plank wood floor and the chair with water from the basin but it was still a mess. To try and get rid of the evidence Frank would burn the cabin, after his business was finished. Even if Miller’s corpse were found, what would they make of it? He would love to read that autopsy. He ditched the bundle of clothes used during the operation into a dumpster behind an airport restaurant and dropped the rental car off, retrieved the Blazer, and headed back to Haven He didn’t know what he was going to do yet. The best and quickest thing would be to break into Bath’s office as he had before, and kill him in his sleep. Not as satisfying as what he’d like to do certainly. But that still left the rest of the coven, or whatever they liked to call themselves. If only he could get all of them into one place. There were too many to go after individually. Of course he could just start picking them off, at least the ones he knew and could find, but no doubt the legitimate authorities would take a dim view of his activities and make a concerted effort to stop him before he could finish. Much as he hated to it it, killing every member of the group might not be possible. But at least he could put an end to what they were doing. He would tell Stephen to go ahead and get all the evidence to the proper agencies—the FBI was already checking Miller out. In the fallout after Bath was dead, the other cockroaches would be on the run. Killing Bath was the main thing now.

Frank was so lost in his thoughts that as he pulled into Gwen’s drive he failed to notice Warburton, in his POV, parked at the shoulder farther down the road.

Leandra Painter forced a smile as her seven-year old Carrie-Anne played with blocks on Doctor Bath’s desk. She sat on the arm of the old man’s chair while they built columns with brightly colored wooden pieces of all shapes and sizes. When it got too tall the little girl would remove a block and giggle at the stack tumbling down—a move that would cause Leandra to cringe inwardly. The huge desk appeared to be an antique, probably worth a fortune, and her kid was knocking wooden blocks onto it. But the Doctor just laughed along with her daughter. Then they would start on another. Leandra had other reasons for her discomfort. First and foremost was the odd interest Doctor Bath was showing in her child. Of course William Bailey— Carrie-Anne’s grandfather and Leandra’s in-law—was Haven’s city attorney and an old friend of Bath’s, but still— She had been at the Old Church having her tags renewed and upon leaving was surprised by Bath himself, who seemingly had appeared just to ask her to bring her daughter and come upstairs for a visit. His manner was that of a doting uncle and her husband, Will, had previously mentioned that Carrie-Anne had been a visitor before in the office and liked the old gentleman. Ten years into the marriage and this was just one more thing, among many, that mystified and troubled her concerning her husband. She knew that the family and John Bath were very close, but had no idea her child was becoming a play partner to the man, or that Will was encouraging it. Other parents in town were allowing the same thing among their children, both girls and boys, so she supposed it was harmless (or did that make it even creepier?). But it just didn’t seem appropriate. And there were the tattoos. Will’s was beneath his left bicep. A discussion with her mother-in-law revealed that Bailey wore one, low on the back of his neck, and that Sheriff Alan Hopewell had his on his left shoulder—the Sheriff’s wife was Pat Painter’s best friend and confidante. She had no way of knowing for sure, but Leandra suspected that Will’s younger brother had one as well. Pentagrams. Five-sided stars in circles—the tats were all the same, tiny, almost unnoticeable to anyone but spouses or intimate roommates. When asked Will

had said, “It’s nothing, something stupid we did when we were kids.” So how did that explain the same body art on of the older generation? It didn’t, and Leandra knew she wasn’t the only one wondering. Maybe it was a secret society like the Masons, something peculiar to select men here in Haven? Or were women also included? That possibility made Leandra feel jealous and threatened. Forcing the subject from her mind—and refusing to consider whether John Bath might have the tattoo on his own person—she checked her watch and was just about to say something, when Bath beat her to the punch. “Well, Carrie-Anne. I think it’s almost time for your appointment.” “Aww. I wanna play some more.” “C’mon now, the blocks will be here next time. Okeydoke?” “Oh-kay—” Leandra started forward but the Doctor scooped the little girl up with one arm and set her on the carpet. “Now you tell Dr. Barber to take good care of that pretty smile, okay? Give me a big one—” Carrie-Anne tilted her head and bared her teeth in a wide smile. The Doctor laughed, touching her on the nose: “Boop. See you soon, sweetie.” “Bye.” “G’bye. Take care, Leandra.” The young mother nodded and smiled, misgivings obvious in her eyes. As Bath opened the door for them, Leonard Rippy was on the other side. He greeted the woman and her daughter as they left. He shut the door after entering. “She doesn’t like me,” Bath noted aloud, speaking of Leandra. He laughed and shook his head as he took his seat. “Stinking trollop. That’s very well, though. That’s just fine.” He opened a drawer and scooped the wooden blocks into it. “So hit me,” he said, straightening in his chair.

“Syd just called. Moore is up at the house.” “Good. Tobias?” “On his way.” Rippy was still shocked that the Doctor was including Toby on this. “I called Victor Carter.” “Maybe Victor will feel better having a project.” “Sir, have we thought about after? If someone comes looking for Moore?” John Bath held up a hand meant to calm. “Relax, Leonard. Once Moore’s history, this will all be an unpleasant memory.” “Yes sir.” As Leonard turned to go Doctor Bath turned his attention to the television and nodded his satisfaction over a cartoon he’d had playing for the little girl. “Oh I love this one. These are so well done, they don’t make ‘em like this anymore.” “They sure don’t,” Rippy agreed. “The obscene pleasure Tom takes in torturing Jerry—it’s written on his face. Look at that leer! Hah! the one where his alley cat buddies looked in the nursery window to catch him in a crib, all dolled up in a baby bonnet, nursing a bottle? Oh, the humiliation—that was rich.” “I do that one. That was a good one,” Rippy said, sharing a laugh. “Violent, yes, but a laugh riot. All these sissy bleeding-heart fools these days, to hear them talk everyone brought up on this stuff should be in criminal mental wards. It’s not these cartoons or the movies or the music responsible for all society’s problems. That’s just stupidity. Why, these things are treasures.” His DVD collection of the original Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry shorts from the ‘40s and ‘50s were among his most valued possessions. He loved watching them as part of an audience, and Rippy spent many evenings on the sofa with the Doctor and Shan, sometimes even Hopewell, munching popcorn in front of the

television. “I’m willing to bet Leandra won’t let these cartoons in her front door,” Bath remarked, and roared with laughter as Tom Cat got his comeuppance once again.

Frank laid the shotgun across the kitchen counter along with the extra shells. He intended to be well armed from now on. He was playing a very dangerous game here and the stakes were getting higher. He turned on the television and thought about what he had to do as he punched in Lori’s number. He would have to vacate the guesthouse, in the morning, early. He would pack his stuff and make the rest of his plans on the fly. He was going to war. As the phone rang he heard a reporter on the news: “The police believe this is a case of vigilante justice and are urging the unknown third man to turn himself in —” “Yeah, that’s gonna happen,” Frank muttered to himself as Lori answered. “How are you, baby?” “Pretty good. Things are wrapping up here. It shouldn’t be long before I’m back home,” he lied, hoping he could make good on it. “Mmm, good. You sound better.” “I am. So much better, in fact, I just wanted to call and tell you I love you. I do.” She was silent a bit too long and he was afraid he’d blown it with the cheery act. “I love you, too. So what’s going on?” “Just like I said. Things aren’t what I thought here.” “And that’s a good thing,” she said, leaving her tone neutral enough so that it was both a statement and a question. “Sure it is. How are things there? How is everybody?”

“Good. They’ve been asking about you.” “Tell them I was asking about them, too.” “I will. Any more trouble with the local cops?” “These guys have better things to do than hassle tourists.” “That’s good. I saw on the news there was some big kidnapping-shooting going on. I thought it was peaceful up your way.” “It is where I’m at,” he asserted. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever heard a news anchor mention the state when it’s not an election year, so you must be right. But keep your eyes peeled. I want you back in one piece.” “That’s no problem,” he said, wondering what his situation might be this time tomorrow. On the run? Dead? “Dayton misses you. A couple of the cops at the bar said you must’ve found some little New England cutie up there and decided to stay a while.” “Hah, fat chance—I need my Kentucky girl.”

They talked a bit more and he let her go, saying again he loved her. All in all he felt the performance had been a successful one. He sat at the kitchen table tending to his weapons with the stereo playing softly. The Magnum had spots of blood on it. He cleaned and oiled both firearms. The sun was gone. It had been an eventful day. Frank was not tired but he was determined to get a good night’s sleep, if possible. He would be busy starting tomorrow.

“Syd.”

“Yeah, Leonard.” Syd blinked his eyes, yawning. What time was it? The cell’s buzz startled him while in a light doze. “Moore still there?” “Yeah.” “You’re sure?” “Yeah, sure,” Syd said, annoyed. “I’m looking right at the driveway.” “Okay, wait another hour and pack it in. Call it a night.” “You don’t want me to stay here?” “Syd? Why do I have to repeat every thing I tell you?” “Okay, okay—shit.” Who pissed in his coffee? Syd never bothered with the news, and was unaware of the events surrounding Greg Miller. He put the cell phone away and opened a thermos of coffee, sipping straight from the neck.

Frank spun the chamber of the revolver, relishing the fluid click-click of the cylinder. He worked the hammer several times. Then he loaded the pistol and put it on the table next to the shotgun.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Except for the Gatherings, John Bath seldom ventured out of the Old Church, and then only at night. In fact he rarely left his domicile on the third floor. He told Rippy he felt safe there, at ease. The ground on which the structure sat had been witness to building and razing, births and deaths, and no small amount of bloodshed. The Doctor said the property’s aura comforted him and helped to shield him from his enemies, much as the stone gargoyles which he banished from the clock tower were once believed to have deflected sinister forces from the parishioners below. Sometimes Rippy could almost feel that aura he spoke of. He had no second sight, as Toby Vint seemed to—but it was true that within the building’s walls Leonard was almost never prey to the second-guessing or moral conflicts that occasionally, if rarely, befell him elsewhere. In the Old Church, he remained confident and totally secure in all decisions and plans his Master made. “Come in,” John Bath bid him after the knock on the door. Rippy felt himself relax at finding his mentor in usual attire for any normal working day. Despite being a virtual recluse, the Doctor loved fine clothes and dressed for success. His suits were expensive, tailored, and immaculate. His jewelry consisted of an antique ruby pinky ring and a diamond tie clasp. He never wore a wrist watch but sometimes let a pocket timepiece dangle from a silver chain in a vest or jacket pocket. “They’re downstairs, Doctor.” Rippy stood at the door, waiting. Doctor Bath turned his chair towards him and said, “Leonard, I’d like you to handle this one.” “Of course, Sir.” “I don’t trust myself to speak to Victor right now. Everything’s just got me too annoyed, and he hasn’t helped matters. Just tell him what needs to happen and send him off. It’s better if I steer clear of him.”

“He won’t like Toby going along,” Rippy pointed out. Inwardly Leonard was surprised at Vint being included. Toby was not one of them, not in the slightest. He was an animal, savage and unpredictable. “A pox on what he doesn’t like. Remind him, Moore has already thrashed him once. He left the three toughest mugs in town lying in a parking lot like bitchslapped crack whores. He likes guns too. I want this man eradicated and Tobias goes along to make sure of it. And we don’t want any evidence turning up, like the reporter.” “Yes sir.” “I really hate to lose Victor,” Bath remarked, his long fingers forming a steeple under his chin. Eyeing his apprentice, he said, “Throw him a bone if he acts right. Suggest that I’ll speak to him later, when the Moore situation has been resolved. He’s served us well until recently—maybe the relationship can be salvaged. Give him a little of this,” he suggested, making a pumping motion with his fist. Rippy chortled and acquiesced with a bow of his head.

“So where’s your better half?” Dean opened a beer and handed the frosty bottle over to Prescott. “Victor? He’s got better things to do than wait around on your sorry ass.” Prescott snickered and tilted the brew. He smacked his lips and said, “Waiting for me, yeah. You know he hangs around here cause he’s queer for you.” “Motherfucker gets pussy like Hugh Hefner,” Dean shot back. He nodded towards the two gorgeous young women playing pool at the far end of the bar. “Did you see Victor’s new roommates? They all sleep in the same bed, if you know what I mean.” He said this with a smirk, taking pride in the accomplishments of his business partner and enforcer. The other man’s eyes widened with appreciation. Damn, he mouthed, impressed. “That’s table meat all right.”

Prescott tended to make remarks that would earn him a body cast for six months were it not for his humorous and affable personality. And the fact that he knew how to keep his customers happy. He was the rep for a local beer distributor and made sure Dean and Carter were taken care of with product that fell off the back of the truck. One hand washes the other. Sometimes he even came across with tickets to sporting events or free merchandise, such as camping gear or audio-visual equipment. In return his customers provided him with the company of willing women and illegal substances. Usually Victor was there during his visits, eager to get his share, but he was called into town for a meeting with Leonard Rippy. Dean looked at his watch— he was expecting Victor back. No sooner had he realized the time than he heard the powerful sound of Victor’s hog through the open front doors. Carter strode in and Dean sighed, seeing immediately his partner’s demeanor. He barely acknowledged the women and came straight to the bar. “Give me a beer,” he growled. “Hey, Victor—I hear you’re going for girls these days,” Prescott commented. Carter lifted his beer and took a long swig, saying nothing, his eyes fixing on Prescott’s. When he put the beer down, he caused one huge bicep to twitch, his only communication to the man. He was in no mood for jokes and Prescott raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. He said, “Well, I’ll mosey—catch ya later.” There was no fun to be had here today. Clinton waited until he was gone to ask, “What’s going on?” “Bath wouldn’t meet us. He relayed instructions through Rippy.” Dean was not surprised by this. It was no secret that John Bath was unhappy with Victor lately. When he was dissatisfied with one of his people, he tended to ostracize them. “What instructions?” “We’re taking Moore out tonight.” “I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“Vint’s going along,” Victor added, watching Dean for his reaction. Clinton nearly sputtered on his own beer. Toby Vint was not one of them. He certainly wasn’t a member of Victor’s little pack of killers. But Dean swallowed his surprise quickly. “Doctor Bath knows what he’s doing,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Vint’s a wild animal,” Victor muttered with contempt. “Rippy was doing his best to blow sunshine up my ass. I wanted to laugh at him.” “That’s not cool, Victor.” “Look around you, man. Things are getting shaky around here. Miller and Farley are maggot food. Syd gets his ass beat by his trophy girlfriend. You better wake up and smell the coffee.” “Everything will work out,” Dean insisted. He had absolute faith in the Doctor. He couldn’t understand why Victor didn’t. “So what’s the plan?” “I’m taking my cousins up a little early.” Victor announced. Dean stared at him hard. “You’re fuckin’ up. Doctor Bath is sending Vint along for a reason.” “We don’t need Vint for this,” Victor shrugged, obviously expecting Clinton’s response. “What are you gonna do when he gets there expecting warm meat, and all he finds are the three of you?” “We can handle him,” Carter told him. But his tone was not completely assuring. “Don’t worry yourself.” “Shit, I’m not the one should be worrying. This little rebellion of yours is gonna cost you, man,” Dean said with a shake of his head. He wanted to hit Carter. They had a good thing going here, a damned good thing—and Victor was hellbent on blowing it.

Frank had fallen asleep with the pistol resting across his belly, one finger on the trigger. His dreams were fitful. Some were of Miller’s horrific last moments. Others were very strange and later he would not know what to make of them. Gwen, running. Urging him to follow with frantic hand gestures. Trailing her through mist-enshrouded forests, with him not certain whether she was leading him away from something, or towards some destination. Then he was awake. It was with a start, unsure of what had stirred him. The room was quiet. Too quiet. He took a moment and realized the background noise of the forest outside the house was absent. No singing insects, or calling owls, even the wind itself had grown silent in the trees. The only light was the fluorescent tube from over the kitchen sink. He put the revolver on the table and lifted the shotgun. A film of sweat stood on his forehead. He suddenly knew that it was a mistake to stay one more night. He carefully peered from the edge of a window blind, keeping his body out of the line of fire. Something was definitely up, he could feel it. The area between the house and the woods was awash in moonlight and not a thing was moving. At least, nothing he could see. He gasped without meaning to and realized he’d been holding his breath. What had him so rattled? He knew the answer: Instinct. All hunters had it. And his was screaming at him. Ka-chink. He chambered the shotgun round as quietly as possible, liking the sound it made in the deathly silence. Moving slowly and carefully to another window, he peered behind the blinds and still saw nothing. He was so wound up that if the phone were to ring he’d likely pull the trigger and put a six-inch hole in the ceiling. He steadied his breathing with a calming exercise he learned in the martial arts. Still no sound outside. This was damned strange. Was he still dreaming perhaps? He was armed to the teeth, what could have him feeling so threatened?

Fear of the dark, he told himself. Something was out there. It smelled his sweat, heard his heartbeat, felt his fear, it licked its chops and watched him, wanted him. Fear of the unknown was as ingrained in the human makeup as the sex drive. And just as natural. It was a survival tool. But whatever was stalking him was not natural. He knew that as well. He stood in the center of the room with the shotgun held across his chest, ready to fire. The blood pounding in his ears began to slow with his heart. He waited, forcing his breathing to steady. Unmoving, alert for any sound. Waiting. The window exploded as a body came through it. It smashed through in a shower of flying glass, window frame, and tangled blinds. The violent entry caught Frank by surprise. He backed up, using a forearm to shield his face from hurtling glass. He took in the ferociously snarling intruder. It was the weight of a grown man, but was not human. Its back was curved and powerful, the body covered with a coat of tawny spiked fur. It stumbled over the sofa, fighting to find its footing on two crooked dog legs, tangled in blinds and window frame. It rose to face Frank, the skull broad and flat, hate-filled red eyes like smoky rubies affixing him from beneath pointed ears and matted fur. Clawed hands ripped the blinds away and it bared long curved teeth dripping with spittle and uttered a throaty snarl. Before he could react he was stunned by the sound of the other window shattering, behind him. Momentarily he’d been transfixed by the gaze of the first attacker; now he whirled to face the new threat, the shotgun coming up into firing position. Again he was buffeted by glass and debris and again he had to protect his eyes. This creature was as tall as the first but darker and heavier, especially in the upper body. Its shoulders were broader and powerful muscles could be seen bunched under the bristling fur. It landed with better balance on both feet, rising in a coiled crouch to leap in Frank’s direction, the linebacker arms splayed and the clawed hands up, ready to rend flesh. The monster snarled and sprayed hot stinking drool.

Frank got a good look at the thing’s face, and again found himself shocked into inaction: the beast’s skull was wide and flat, the face unmistakably feral, but human-demonic somehow, like a cross between man and wolf with a good helping of nightmare thrown in, the snout wrinkled in killer fury. The pointed ears lay back like the horns of a dragon. Frank saw a gold earring dangling and did not have time to think about where he’d seen it before. Over the short snout and dripping canines Frank ed again the red-amber eyes that glowed with a deep inner fire. And Frank reacted—he jabbed the barrel of the shotgun between those eyes, but before he could pull the trigger the werewolf lunged out of the line of fire, ing a wide-eyed expression of surprise that might have been comic were Frank not in a fight for his life. He got a whiff of its smell—hot, musky, sour, like a diseased animal. Knowing the first wolf-thing was still behind him, Frank spun again and this time he did fire, on the turn, at the big shape that lunged at him. The gun blast was deafening and bathed the room in a flash-fire of yellow light, and the thing screamed half-human and half-savage animal, spinning away from the blast and painting the wall with dark blood. Frank chambered and fired again as it fell, the impact kicking the beast off its feet. It crashed down dying between the sofa and the coffee table and the other werewolf uttered a howl of all-too-human anguish as its partner perished in a pool of blood. Frank’s survival reflexes kicked in and he put his foot on the back of the dead werewolf and jumped over it, past the first smashed window, chambering another round on the fly. The survivor knew what the gun could do and sought protective cover—it tipped over the entertainment center with a tremendous crash and hid behind the jumbled stereo and television appliances. He knew that however horrific the werewolves might be, he would be dead if they were normal wild animals. They had human reactions working against their killer instincts, causing them to hesitate in the heat of attack. You hurt or threaten a vicious animal, it bites; these things were vulnerable to panic. And lucky for him. He could’ve been dead at least three times already. He decided to move in, when the front door shuddered and splintered beneath

tremendous blows, and then was smashed inward, right off its hinges! Frank saw the creature filling the doorway for only a microsecond before shooting it dead-center. It was big, much larger than the first two monsters, probably close to three hundred pounds, and raven black. Hump-backed and on two feet, ready to spring. He glimpsed snarling jaws lined with dagger teeth and a lolling pink tongue, and haunting golden eyes, before it was illuminated by the shotgun blast. Frank saw the impact, saw the monster’s shaggy chest riddled by the buckshot, and it stumbled back with a scream of rage and pain, and was gone from the doorway, surely to die. Scarcely able to believe he was still alive against these things, Frank reloaded the shotgun with shells from his pockets. Two down, one to go— The fourth werewolf nearly got him, taking him completely by surprise. Cunningly it had waited outside the second window while the others drew Frank’s attention. When he was near it lunged at him through the shattered frame. Frank’s reflexes were quick and he spun away; the werewolf’s claws caught his loose shirttail and shredded it. He stumbled backwards, shocked from the unexpected attack and unsure if he was injured. He fell backward and got off a shot, missing the new intruder and splintering a cross beam in the ceiling, but as well forcing both werewolves off him. He pushed away on his ass and regained his feet, chambering a round. The new werewolf closely resembled the dead one. It was wagging its head as if confused —the gun blast missed but the close sound had rattled the beast badly. The earring-werewolf was advancing, spittle leaking down over its chest. It knew Frank could only shoot one of them, and the other could attack perhaps before he pumped another round. The werewolves could think. Suddenly the newcomer uttered a whine of pain, and Frank realized it had seen the dead creature on the floor. Then the inhuman eyes met Frank’s and he recognized a perfectly human thirst for revenge. Frank knew that look well enough. It voiced a snarl of rage, as if announcing its intent, and then both werewolves took a step towards him. He backed away, tracking one target, then the other, watching the two sets of crimson eyes flick from his own, to the weapon, and back again. The two-legged steps of the werewolves reminded Frank of bipedal

predators on the hunt in recent dinosaur movies he had seen. He backed into the kitchen counter, favoring a position from which he could cover both threats. The werewolves seemed to communicate with one another, using deep-throated growls and rumblings. This had all taken only a couple of minutes at most but Frank was nearly exhausted. They were so fast. He was not sure he could fire and chamber another round before he was attacked. With a free hand he reloaded the weapon yet again. Sweat trickled into his eyes, and gun smoke stung his nostrils. Gasping, his lungs tired. He forced himself to steady his breathing. A noise made him turn his head and Frank was surprised to see the giant black werewolf stepping through the doorway once again, showing absolutely no sign of what had to be a mortal wound. But there was no doubt, it was the same creature he’d shot. The beast’s golden eyes fixed him with a hungry intent, fangs bared in a lopsided smile, but without the bravado it had shown earlier. Frank spared a panicked look, and was relieved the creature on the floor at least seemed to still be quite dead. The giant moved up between the other pair. He met their expectant stares. “Guess I’m the little pig,” he breathed, barely whispering, and the werewolf pair made sounds in their throats that were like human expressions of amusement.

They appeared to be enjoying his predicament. Without moving his weapon, and sparing a cruel smile of his own, he muttered, “My, my—what big teeth you have, Grandma—” and cast a quick look over his shoulder, at the .44 Magnum, still on the kitchen table where he’d left it. The pair chuckled again in that throaty grunting way, and Frank made his move. He fired a center-shot at the second werewolf as he leapt, not even seeing the result. In reflex, completely without intent, this one’s partner suddenly jumped,

bouncing against the giant and it was that one which caught the blast, in its arm and shoulder. It snarled with pain and swung a clawed hand into the offender, slamming the beast into the wall with a yelp and enough force to knock hanged paintings to the floor. The werewolf with the earring then defended its partner, or tried to, snapping its jaws at the giant, which retaliated with a blood-curdling roar that forced the instigator to back off in a hurry. Frank saw none of this—he had turned to move around the counter and go for the pistol, chambering a round as he moved. The werewolf pair stumbled over each other trying to pursue him. He slipped on the blood-soaked carpet. He rolled as he fell, forcing his attackers off with a blind shot, into a wall, high. They both ducked for cover. Then the big black was towering over him, spraying hot spittle into his face. Acting on instinct alone, he pointed the shotgun and fired point-blank. The raven-haired monster stumbled back and uttered a scream that raised the hackles on Frank’s neck, its belly fur smoking, and then with a swipe tore the weapon from his numbed fingers. He kicked to his feet, evading the slashing claws by inches. Without even realizing he was doing it he reached for the floor lamp pole against the wall. It was tall and thin and heavy. He wrapped a fist around it and spun it off-center like a martial arts bo staff, forcing the werewolf away. Then he stepped in and struck, swinging the heavy cast-iron base into the side of the giant’s skull with bone-breaking force. The creature was stunned into inaction for an instant, which Frank used to fluidly reverse the pole, take the opposite end high and then down, hard, smashing the light fixtures across the werewolf’s crown. The three clear decorative bulbs exploded like bombs with blinding flashes, delivering a deadly electrical jolt and the impact slammed the creature jaw-first down through the coffee table’s glass top with a spectacular crash. He whirled and pulled the lamp completely from the wall and hurled it at the werewolf pair, forcing them to scatter, and he made again for the pistol. But one of them was cutting him off. He changed direction and threw himself over the counter like a human torpedo, barely missing a swipe from deadly claws. Frank crashed across the counter top sweeping a toaster and a ceramic

cup holder and a bread bin and cutting board and several other items into the floor with him in a very painful tangle of limbs and kitchen accoutrements. Ignoring his injuries he was on his feet and the werewolf was coming over the counter at him. He grabbed the first thing his hand found—a broken cup—and hurled it into the werewolf’s face, and now the other was at the end of the counter, blocking him from the table. Frank ripped the curtains from over the sink and whipped the rod into the nearest attacker’s jaws, and scooping a meat-cutting knife from the blade holder next to the sink, sent it flying with startling accuracy at the one between him and the pistol. He switched on the oven’s electric coils in ing and left part of the torn curtains on them, hoping for any kind of a diversion, and made for the revolver. If he was going to live he had to reach it. The werewolf had moved to avoid the knife and Frank had the tiniest opening. He took it, leaping with all his strength. The monster slashed at him and caught his undershirt in mid-flight, ripping it down the front. He crashed groping for the pistol, knocking the table over and rolling to the floor with it nearly on top of him in a jumble of furniture and scrapes and bruises. Chairs and salt-and-pepper shakers and place settings flew. He’d struck his head and for a minute everything was foggy. In that moment they could have easily slaughtered him, but once again, their all-too-human reactions betrayed their hunter’s instincts. He lay on the floor, groaning, one leg thrown over a broken chair, the other lying beneath the overturned table. His vision was murky at best and he lay and played dead waiting for it to clear. He could see the two werewolves, standing over him, savoring what they thought was their victory when they should have been killing him. He didn’t know what had happened to the giant—he could hear some sort of struggle going on behind the two. That’s when he recognized the weight in his hand as the butt of the sixgun. It was hidden under the tablecloth. But he had it. He made sure his senses were working—tried to reassure himself that nothing was broken—and thumbed the hammer back with an audible click.

The jaws of both werewolves dropped open with surprise, the two pairs of eyes widening in alarm. His muscles working but hurting like hell, he raised the pistol. “Pretty smile now,” he snarled and fired. The revolver bucked in his hand, punching a hole in the ceiling above him. Once again the monsters had ducked just in the nick of time. Their reflexes were quicker than his own Frank forced himself up, suppressing a groan. He was a mess. He pushed the table off his battered body. The werewolves were scrambling for the door—Frank loosed a second deafening shot and grazed one of them—it uttered a yelp and Frank saw the door jam splinter under a splash of blood. The giant was just now extricating itself from the smashed coffee table. It raised its head and snarled at Frank, unmoved by the pistol pointed in its direction. “C’mon then,” Frank shot back. “Come on!” He waited until it was nearly on him, and fired. The heavy bullet gave the beast pause—Frank fired again, backing it up a couple of steps. He saw the bullets enter the powerful torso, but there was no blood, only a bit of curling smoke where the fur crisped. It would not go down. And it would not turn away, though the shots were clearly hurting it. The third shot staggered the beast, at first it almost seemed ready to drop to one knee, but it was more from pain than injury. Frank raised the pistol and aimed it at one bright amber eye. He waited for that eye to spear him—he looked for any humanity in the creature, anything recognizable, and saw none, though he had a sense of the monster’s identity. It opened its slavering jaws, and uttered a snarl of stubborn defiance. The handgun kicked powerfully and the eye disappeared in a morass of crimson bullet damage. Its head tilted far back from the impact and a howl of outrage and agony reverberated against the ceiling.

It backed away, holding the wound now, screaming in pain, Frank forgotten. He drew a speedloader from his pocket and emptied the spent cartridges onto the carpet. The werewolf let go of its face and Frank saw a naked crater of blood and bone where the eye had been. But in the other eye was yet hate and desperate determination. Still it wanted to fight! He cocked the hammer and aimed at the one remaining eye—and the werewolf abruptly turned away and lost no time heading for the door. It had had enough. Frank followed it to the door, limping. He could’ve shot it again, in the back or the ass—but what was the point? From the doorframe he did fire two more shots. The werewolf pair had waited and they were now all three streaking for the woods, low to the ground and making great speed for such large ungainly beasts. He thought the second bullet found its target, the tawny werewolf yelped and stumbled, but kept going. They disappeared into the trees and the night was again shockingly quiet. He stood with the Magnum up and tried to regain his breath. He leaned heavily on the doorframe. He felt like he’d been in a train wreck. Only after several minutes and he was positive they were gone did he allow the shakes to set in.

The curtains were on fire on the oven—he scooped the flaming cloth into the sink and turned the faucet on, making sure the burners were off. He estimated the entire attack took not much more than six minutes. The room was trashed, broken furniture and glass everywhere, the walls splattered with blood and pockmarked with bullet holes and buckshot. Frank felt ready for a hospital. Besides cuts and bruises too numerous to count a gash on his forehead trickled blood down his face, and he had a pretty good one on his elbow that could probably use stitches. His clothes were in tatters but as far as he could tell he’d not been raked by tooth or claw. The ceiling light still worked, amazingly, and he was in for a shock when he

decided to examine the dead werewolf. Because it was gone. In its place was the naked and blood-splattered body of a man. He lay on his side with his back to Frank. His hair was yellow, matted with sweat and blood. Carefully Frank grasped a pale shoulder and rolled the corpse over so he could see the face. He was not surprised—truthfully, after tonight he could not imagine what it would take to surprise him. With violent death, often the face of the deceased is unrecognizable even to the closest kin. But Frank knew the man all right. It was the younger brother, Jan Henderson. The other werewolf was no doubt Kel, and the larger one, of course, Victor. From the size of the black, Frank had a pretty good idea who that must be as well. He wasted no energy worrying about the impossibility of what he knew to be true—the buckshot-riddled evidence was here before him. The only question was, why had he been able to shoot and kill this one while the giant had survived everything he’d thrown at it? Surveying the body, he saw something of interest and grasped the dead man’s hand, turning it over for a closer look. There, the inside of the right wrist. A pentagram tattoo, just like Farley had. He’d not thought to look for one on Miller. There was no doubt they all had them, it was their group identifier, maybe even more. Perhaps a code, or even some sort of tracking signal? The black had seemed to be—almost a different species, Frank had to it. It was feral, savage, wild, while the other three were—cruel, sardonic, demonic. They didn’t even have the same facial features. These were like monstrous caricatures of their human selves. What did this mean? He was stirred from his thoughts by an acrid smell and he looked around the room, thinking he did not turn the oven completely off. But it wasn’t that— It was the body. Curls of smoke were drifting from the dead man’s open mouth. And Frank could

hear a sizzling sound, like steaks on an open grill. But the smell was anything but. There was the unmistakable odor of burning blood and flesh—Frank had experienced it often enough during the war. And it was getting stronger. When it was apparent the corpse was catching fire from the inside out, Frank gave it some room. He watched, fascinated, as the curls of smoke became plumes, and exited as well from the man’s ears and nostrils. It was truly going up. The open eyes sizzled and blackened and were the first to burst into actual flame, with little poofs. Then the flesh over the perforated belly began to char and catch, and the flames spread first to the pubic area and up the chest. Within moments the entire body was on fire. It went up quickly, and Frank could hear the fat popping and the hair crisping. The flesh burned away and he could see the blackening meat, and then the bones, the ashes falling red-hot onto the carpet. But the unearthly fire did not spread to the house. Frank had heard of spontaneous internal combustion—he’d always considered it an urban legend, like Stephen’s devil worshippers—but here it was, as real as everything else in Haven. Frank coughed against the stench. In minutes only smoking ash remained. There were bits of bone or teeth here and there, burned beyond anything recognizable. Hell claimed its own. Frank had no other explanation for this. He righted a chair and brushed debris from it and sat down, cradling the Magnum in his lap. He kept a wary eye on the empty doorframe. Outside the night sounds had returned. He guessed that meant the danger was gone, at least for now. He recalled what Miller had said—Couldn’t use the Hendersons again, after the reporter. Poor Albanese. These monsters must have brought him down like a deer, slaughtered him. Frank knew he was lucky. In the room’s cramped confines his attackers had literally stumbled over each other. Had they caught him out in the open, he might have nailed one or two of them, but he had absolutely no doubt, he’d be dead. The fact that human thinking and cruelty was clearly at work within the

werewolves was a plus for them, as well as a hindrance. They continually hesitated in the face of danger. They repeatedly paused, foolishly, to savor their own supposed superiority over their prey. All of that enabled him to survive this night. Except for the giant. In that beast Frank saw only bestial fury, a predator’s savagery. And yet—there was something of the natural world there, too. He ed Miller’s words. The Hendersons, as werewolves, frightened Gwen and Ray from their home much as they’d earlier tried to do with Frank. The couple fled, probably with the missing gun for protection. Miller and Farley were waiting to run them off the road, to give it the appearance of an accident. Gwen— Frank forced himself to not dwell on his daughter’s last moments of life, what she must have gone through. There was no point to it. He could only hope she did not suffer, did not linger for hours at the bottom of that ravine as her life seeped away. He’d heard dozens of the wolves howling that night at the bonfire. Were they all werewolves? Was Bath? Stephen said the ancestor, Bathory, was rumored to have been one. Stephen, he was never going to believe this. Suppose they were all werewolves—but maybe only a few were soldiers, fighters, like the Hendersons. Hopefully. Frank was reluctant to imagine an entire army of these monsters. Even as he told himself that, the beginnings of an idea tugged at his mind. An idea of how to deal with an army of werewolves, one that might work, wipe out the entire—what was the word—infection? He needed a beer. The fridge was the only undamaged thing in the kitchen, the ceiling overhead peppered by a shotgun blast. His idea would take some planning. And some hard work. It entailed getting all the—lycanthropes, that was the term Stephen used—together at one big party. That might not be too difficult a task, after all. Four had come after him tonight, and only three had gone back home—and those three were definitely the worse for wear. Bath must be putting me high on his list, Frank thought, with a grim

smile. He had to figure out why one werewolf could be killed while another seemed invulnerable. He’d put a truckload of lead into the giant and it had still walked out under its own power. If there were others like that—that could be serious trouble. High on one wall four deep gouges were dug in a parallel pattern through the varnished woodwork. Frank sat and regarded the evidence left behind by the giant werewolf’s clawed hands. He daubed blood from his brow with a sleeve, and took a drink of beer. He knew he was going to be in some pain in a few hours, after his injuries stiffened up. He needed some aspirin, lots of it. He needed to clean up this mess. And he needed to think about how he was going to kill Toby Vint.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rippy watched John Bath’s cheeks darken as he listened to the report of the attack on Moore. He went to the window and leaned out on the sill, staring down on the dark street. Leonard had stayed overnight, waiting on news. The phone call came from Radcliff, who was tending to Victor and Kel’s wounds. Rippy had a few words with Carter before trying Toby’s house to see if he had returned home. “Jan’s dead,” he reminded the Doctor. “Victor knows he blew it.” “Blew it. That’s a howling understatement if I ever heard one—please pardon the pun,” Bath replied. He turned and Rippy got a glimpse of the scar, livid on his throat. The very air of the office seemed to reflect Bath’s controlled anger. “Toby was badly wounded,” Rippy pointed out, wondering why he even bothered—he neither liked nor trusted the big deputy. “He had no choice but to back off.” “But he finally got home?” “Alan and Court found him in the back yard, he looked dead. Alan was shook up, he’d never seen anyone with an injury like that.” Bath made a disgusted sound. “If Tobias is breathing, he’ll be fine. He should’ve seen this coming. He failed me, Leonard. And worse, I think he did it on purpose.” Rippy did not answer. Sensing that the worst was over, he went to the kitchen bar. There would be no more sleep that morning. He ground Shan’s specially-prepared blend and poured the fine mix into a filter. Another moment and the coffee was brewing. “Moore is becoming a real pain,” the Doctor muttered. Rippy knew he had tried

to kill Moore or at least incapacitate him, using some personal items stolen from the McVie guest house. With a photograph or a lock of hair or even a signature on a piece of paper, Bath and many of his disciples could sicken or even kill their enemies, which ed for the Doctor’s own aversion to cameras. But some, like Moore, had a natural resistance to such attacks. “Getting rid of Moore will have to be personal,” he confirmed. “It will have to be bloody. And I’m beginning to worry it won’t be easy.” “Still no sign of Miller. The police don’t have any solid leads.” “I’d have loved to see Moore’s face as Miller puked up his guts,” Bath said with a chuckle. Rippy nodded with a grim smile. The powers we serve so enjoy their little games, John bath had groused. Meditating with the other Elders the Master was unable to glean any additional information on Moore, such as his location or next move. “Unfortunately, we can’t let the police have Moore’s name. We absolutely have to get to him first. It would be nice if he was shot by an over-eager cop, but I don’t think that’s in the stars. He’s too clever.” “Here you go, sir,” Rippy said as he set a cup on a saucer on Bath’s desk. The Doctor sat and sighed and scratched his bristly chin. “I need to shower and shave. Leonard, we’ve tried the direct approach. Maybe that idiot Warburton had what amounts to a brainstorm—it’s possible, even a broken clock is right twice a day. He made a mess of it for sure the first time, but get the cuffs on Moore, get him in here alive, with no one the wiser, oh, how that would please me. I’d love to entertain him for a few hours before we send him off to his heavenly reward. Maybe we need to rethink this, hmmm?” Leonard looked up from pouring the coffee. Bath was lifting his own cup, but his eyes were far away “Yes. Yes.”

“Dead bodies are capable of all kinds of surprises, and some of them keep you up at night,” Ty said. “I’ll never forget once in the Delta, there’d been a major

firefight the day before. My Marine unit was lying low, conserving ammo and manpower. We just had to hold our position until reinforcements arrived at first light.” Skip hung on Williams’ every word. The t State Police and FBI investigative team had taken a road trip to a town on the Maine-New Hampshire state lines. Ty drove and following in a second car were two more homicide detectives and a local sheriff. “There were plenty of bodies scattered around, both hostile and friendly. The nights over there could get dark—very dark. I was crawling around, checking the defensive positions, communicating with hand signals. Everything was soaking wet and covered with mud, usually you didn’t even notice you were on top of a human being unless your hand made with metal, like a buckle, or a gun barrel. I didn’t know I was on someone. I placed my hand, put my weight on it, right in the pit of this guy’s stomach. I heard a sound of escaping air—kinda whoosshhh, you know—and the dude sat up suddenly, looked me dead in the face. We nearly knocked foreheads.” DeForest’s jaw dropped. “And he was dead?” “Oh yeah. You know, the gases build up in a dead body, all that moisture—it was a freak but it happened.” The FBI man had been relating some training he went through at the Bureau’s Body Farm, where they studied the effects of decomposition on cadavers. But Ty’s tale trumped anything he’d come up with. “Was he American or VC?” “I never found out, between the dark and the mud. They policed up the casualties a couple days later. I just put my hand on the guy’s face and pushed him back down, and went on with my business.” “Jesus. My dad never told me anything like that.” Ty had been unsurprised to learn that Skip’s father was a Vietnam veteran and a senior Philly cop. “Well it’s not conversation for the dinner table,” he pointed out. Ty always liked to follow up drama with amusing anecdotes about his three exwives, as a way to lighten the conversation, but they were at their destination.

He pulled the car over near a rickety iron gate separating the road from a large pasture with waist-high grass and weeds. He and DeForest scanned their surroundings as the second car pulled up behind them. They knew what they were looking for. A remote area. A privately owned fenced-in property. “We have wheel ruts,” Skip noted. “I’m not taking my car into those weeds. Let’s hoof it.” “I’m game,” DeForest said. He wasn’t dressed for a nature hike though— Williams was in casual clothes, but Skip wore the regulation Federal dark suit and tie, with street shoes. “Come on,” he urged. The FBI man pulled a chain looped over the gate and a post—that’s all there was —and opened it wide enough for them to enter. It was still early morning and insects awoke sluggishly in the cool air and gave them plenty of room as they ed. Other than that there was no noise in the field. Williams was thinking how creepy this place might be at night, no lights in sight. They were led to the place by charges for gas and food on Greg Miller’s bank card in the nearest small town, a hamlet called Jezebel. The trail might have stopped cold there, had it not been for an old fellow who’d been around probably since Prohibition, sitting at a diner sipping coffee. He overheard the questioning of a waitress, and revealed that he’d seen Miller and Farley—accurately describing them both—and said they’d spent time at a pasture down the road off Route 27. Not only that, but many years before, Miller was there with a different individual, a much older man. The entire area, including the pasture along the road, was straddling the state line between New Hampshire and Maine and also was partially on government land marked as National Park, making search warrants tricky. But for now the two lawmen were just checking things out. They’d walked only about thirty feet along the winding wheel path before finding a place where the grass had been cleared away and room for a parked vehicle was off to the side. Dominating the scene was a mound of grass-covered earth, surrounded by stones. “This look like a grave to you?” Skip asked.

Williams nodded. “Yeah. It’s a few years old though.” He looked up the winding path, bordered by waist-high grass. “This could take all day. We need an aerial view here.” “I can get a helicopter,” Skip said, producing his cellphone. Williams put his hands on his hips, breathing hard. City living and beer drinking left him unprepared for this nature walk so early in the day—he noted however that Skip seemed just fine. A hundred yards or so over to their right a tree with low drooping branches stood near the wire fence and Ty tramped towards it, stumbling on the uneven terrain and tall grass. The young man followed with the other detectives while speaking on his cell. Ty shucked his denim jacket and tossed it to one of the other cops to hold onto. “You up to this?” Skip inquired, amused, as Williams struggled up onto a branch. “Watch me go,” Ty replied, huffing. Grunting he managed to get up a couple of more limbs before steadying himself a good ten feet off the ground. His eyes scanned the field. What he saw spread out below caused his eyes to narrow and his jaw to clench. Mounds of earth, dozens of them, most so overgrown with grass and weeds that you would not notice them, unless you knew what to look for. Ty looked down at his young colleague with his expression saying it all.

The front page of the Whitestone paper that morning revealed that the attempted kidnapping of the previous day was leading to a much bigger investigation. Several Federal agencies had been called in on the case and the press was having a feeding frenzy. A police spokesman, flanked by two FBI agents and a representative of the State Highway Patrol would only say that a news conference would be convened as soon as possible. Toby Vint read the story with interest and difficulty. His one good eye was unaccustomed to working alone. He had a tremendous headache. He held a washcloth packed with ice to the injured side of his face. He laid the paper on his knees and took a sip of strong coffee laced with whiskey. The phone rang. “Tobes? You okay?” He jumped, nearly dropping the receiver. “Mallory! Sure!” he blurted, thrilled to hear from her. “You called in that you’d be late? Since when do you call in?” “It’s just a headache. I’ll be in later.” He was so pleased to hear from her, that he was grinning ear-to-ear despite the pain and didn’t even have the presence of mind to hide it. “You need anything?” “Naw—why all the concern?” “Well you’re never sick—I’m worried about you, man.” He chuckled, touched. “I’m not sick—I stumbled around last night and got a face full of bathroom door. I’m fine.” “Ouch! How bad is it?” “Not very—I heal quick. I’ve got ice on it.” He nearly added something flirtatious but managed to quash the urge. “You’re coming in?”

“Sure. I’ll see you later.” “Okay. Bye.” “I’m glad you called—bye.” He winced at this last—he was determined to discourage between them beyond the professional. The sentiment had slipped out before he could stop himself. Taking the washcloth from his face, he picked up the paper and clamped his good eye shut and stared at the newsprint. His vision was better but still blurred. The lid had already grown back, but it hurt to blink and his eye was runny with fluid. In addition, his ribs and belly still wore purple bruises. The whole episode had him wondering if he was truly as invulnerable as he’d always thought. The pain was aggravating but he could do little about it. The same physiology that healed his injuries also made aspirin and other drugs ineffectual (along with the inebriating qualities of hard liquor, which he enjoyed for the strong taste). He was much better off than Victor and Kel, and definitely Jan.

“What’s this?” Mallory asked. “Somebody heard gunshots?” Mary looked up from the magazine she was reading and realized Mallory was looking over her shoulder at the notes she’d jotted down. She covered her notebook with her hand, but it was too late. “Oh—that’s nothing—” “The Copes, up on Rune Road? You got this call at home? Did you call Toby?” “It was nothing—I just wrote that for the Sheriff.” Mary made a point of dismissing the matter. But Mallory wouldn’t drop it. “Anyone check it out? The McVie place is up there.” “It’s nothing,” Mary insisted. “The Lessners are closer, they didn’t hear a thing.” “Did someone ask them?” She didn’t trust Mary to follow up.

“Sure, I did.” Mallory eyed the dispatcher, sensing she was lying. What was going on here? God she hated this place! Mary waved her hand impatiently. “That’s just nothing,” she snapped with enough vehemence to raise Mallory’s eyebrows. Mallory sipped a fruit juice and wondered about the office eccentricities. She couldn’t wait to be shed of this job. She was worried about Frank Moore. After the beating he’d given the Hendersons it was logical to assume those dopes might be looking for a little payback. She should go up and check things out. They confiscated Moore’s pistol, but you could never tell. If he, or the Hendersons, were up in those woods, dead, somebody needed to find out. But seriously, it was unlikely that anything like that had happened. Nothing exciting ever went on in Haven—at least not until Moore came to town. It was that last thought that convinced her to go have a look around Rune Road.

“It was like a war,” Melly Cope said. “Woke us all out of a sound sleep.” “How many shots?” Mallory asked. She was painfully aware—as was the wife— that Rob Cope was giving her the old up-and-down. He was a beer-bellied fellow known around town as a lecher game for anyone willing. Mallory wanted to end this interview quick. “Couldn’t tell—it only lasted a few minutes—” “Yeah, but at least two guns,” the man put in. “A shotgun and a rifle, or maybe a big pistol.” “Anything else? Voices?” “No, it was too far away. But it was definitely coming from up the road—the direction of the McVie house.”

“Well, okay. Thanks for your help.” “Anytime, Deputy.” Mallory could feel his eyes crawling over her as she turned to go. But Cope didn’t stare long. He turned from the door and was surprised by his wife, who was staring at him.

Mallory turned up the driveway onto the McVie property looking for any signs of trouble. The house seemed undisturbed, but the guest cottage was a different story. She sat for a moment, scanning the surrounding area for anything that might be a threat to her person. Both windows on one side of the house were gone, covered with sheets of plywood. The front door was gone as well, a grimy replacement door—likely from the McVies’ garage—leaning on the wall waiting to be installed. A huge pile of debris lay to the side of the porch. She noted broken furniture and electrical appliances, and two garbage cans with window frame sections and shards of plate glass sticking out.

Frank watched intently, hoping the Deputy would leave, but figuring there was not much chance of that. He’d gotten most of the mess picked up by daylight, keeping the Smith & Wesson on him the whole time. He found the plywood and an old door in the garage along with all the tools he’d need and managed to get the windows stripped and covered before deciding to take a shower and get some sleep. He napped on the sofa in the living room (with a sheet over it because of the drying blood) near the yawning doorway, the pistol cradled against his chest. He slept soundly, but naturally alert for any disturbances. When hearing the car approach he snapped instantly awake and peered out the doorway in a crouch, the handgun ready. He did not relax upon seeing the Sheriff’s vehicle. He ultimately recognized Deputy Abshire behind the wheel and stashed the shotgun beneath the sofa, and after a moment’s consideration slid the pistol under there next to it.

The house was dark and he watched, unseen, as the female deputy’s head swiveled, taking in the signs of violence and looking for anyone about. He worried she might not even get out of the car before radioing for backup. Maybe she would just leave—that would be best. But sure as hell, she or her coworkers would be back, and her coworkers were all bad guys. She shut off the engine and he watched her get out of the car, one hand on her holstered weapon. She was still scanning the house and surrounding area. She was a smart one. There was likely some blood evidence in the grass between the house and the trees. And Frank hoped he’d not missed any bullets. He’d found a couple of bloodied impact-deformed .44 rounds on the carpet while cleaning up and no small amount of buckshot. The only explanation he could come up with was that the giant werewolf—Vint—somehow voided foreign objects from its body in the course of healing. He supposed it made a kind of sense, if you were willing to let the world as you knew it be turned on its ear. If he’d missed anything he could only hope Abshire missed it as well.

The place was quiet as hell and she didn’t like it. She was very consciously keeping one hand near her holstered sidearm as she turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, watching the tree line for hidden eyes. She noted the main house seemed untouched. When she looked again Frank Moore was coming out of the empty doorway, yawning. He was tired, unshaven, clad in jeans and a t-shirt. He’d stuck three or four bandaids to an injury on his elbow and an open cut was visible over his right eye in addition to less serious bruises and abrasions up and down his arms and his face. “You okay?” “Sure—why do you ask?” The wide-eyed innocent expression along with the question made Mallory snort her amusement. She shut the car door and made a gesture towards the debris pile, the house. Frank nodded, absent-minded, said, “Oh. Yeah.” “What the heck happened?”

“Search me,” he said with a mystified shrug. “I got back last night and the place was trashed.” Mallory grinned, shaking her head. If he was lying, the man was a master of the craft. “All this happened while you were gone?” “Sure. Heckuva mess.” “You weren’t here.” “Nope. I’ve been out running around for a couple of days.” She took off her shades. She wanted them eye-to-eye. It was almost impossible to dislike the guy, really. “So what’s your story? You in a car accident?” “Oh—oh, no—” Again with the absent-minded routine, she thought, and suppressed a chuckle. He touched the cut on his forehead. “I got brained by a broken window frame— then fell off a ladder.” “Really? Looks pretty rough—” “Yeah, but I’ll live. I heal quick.” “Busy night for accidents,” Mallory said, thinking of Toby using the exact words Moore had. “So you didn’t call the police?” “No, no—” He gave her a helpless shrug. “Didn’t see the point. No offense.” “None taken.” She couldn’t blame him for that. She stepped closer to the porch, craning her head a little to see past him through the doorway. “You have any weapons up here, Mr. Moore?” Why did that question come up? Frank wondered. Did someone report last night’s racket? Not the Lessners, surely. He hoped his visitors from last night had not shown up with bullet holes in them for any legitimate officials. That would be a problem. “No, not me. You guys still have my pistol, I hope.” “Yeah—just saw it this morning. Look, can I step inside?”

“Must you? I’m not through tidying up.” She laughed. But the answer came like he knew what he’d say, had expected the question. She wasn’t quite sure she should push it, or even could. If she got inside, she didn’t think anything she found would be legal without a warrant. Did this vandalism legitimately call for a search of the man’s residence? Probably not. But he clearly didn’t want her in there. He was thinking as well, behind his light demeanor. Sharp cop that she was, if she saw the firearms damage and splattered blood evidence inside she would be duty-bound to investigate further. He didn’t think anything could be pinned on him, even if they found the blood was human (or was it?), but he didn’t need the hassle. Besides, the creatures he’d shot at were still out there, loose, including Toby Vint. What were the chances they were even now cooking up some form of retaliation that perhaps involved official agencies? How could he explain his side of it, if it came to that? “You reporting all this to your insurance?” Mallory asked, reg herself that she wasn’t going to get a peek inside. “Guess I’ll have to.” Frank replied, thinking he needed to call Leigh Edmundson. “Well, you’ll need a police report. I can do that.” “Okay—I’d appreciate it,” he itted. The caution in his tone told her that she still was not going to be invited inside the house. For a long moment they just looked at one another, each sizing the other up, before she shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. “Look, let me know,” she said, turning towards her car. “I’ll get that report for you, just call the office.” “Fine.” “You know, you don’t seem too upset by all this,” she called from the open car door. Now he shrugged: “It’s not my house.”

She nodded and replaced her sunglasses. “That’s right. Well, I’ll nose around, see if anyone knows something about this. Maybe Victor Carter and his cousins —not really their style, though—” She had never heard of Victor and the boys being involved with firearms. Carter’s collection of bladed weapons was wellknown though. “Probably just kids,” was all Moore said. She made a harrumph-sound under her breath and shook her head again. “We don’t have any kids around here up to this,” she said, surveying the damage. “Say hello to your friend Deputy Vint,” Frank prompted. “And that other guy— what’s his name? Warburton?” “I’ll along you said hi,” Mallory promised with a sarcastic grin. “See ya.” “Absolutely.” The phone rang as he watched her back up and head down the meandering driveway. He went inside to answer it. “Frank? It’s Stephen—what’s up with you?”

“You shouldn’t be calling me,” Frank replied bluntly. “What’s the big deal? What’s happened now?” Stephen disliked what he heard in the other’s voice even more now than last night. “It’s not safe,” Frank told him. “There’s worse going on here than we thought.” “What? Let’s have a meeting.” “No way, man.” “Look—I’m already involved, right? We need to talk.” “No way.” “Frank. You need me. I’ve got news for you—I’ve not exactly been idle while

you’ve been out and about.” Stephen was shocked to hear the expletive hissed through the phone at him. Then: “Stephen, so help me, I told you to stay out of this now. I swear, I’ll put you in the hospital myself if I have to—” “What’s with you, Frank? Nobody knows we’ve been in . I’m your secret weapon—what’s got you so rattled?” “Listen to me, hardhead. Just open your ears and listen for once.” “Fine. I’m listening.” Angry now, Stephen punched a key and Diana Ross hushed mid-lyric. “They tried to kill me last night,” Frank said in a deadly-serious whisper. “Do you understand? They threw something at me I can’t even describe cause you’d call me nuts, and it’s just dumb luck and firepower I’m here talking to you. You taking this in? Answer, dammit.” “Yes, okay,” he said, stunned. “Okay? Okay what?” “Okay, I hear you—” “Do you believe me, though? Or would you rather call the guys with the butterfly nets? If not yet you will later, after you hear everything, I guarantee you. But you won’t be able to, Stephen. So you need to make up your mind right now.” “I believe you.” “Okay—now picture this. Imagine yourself and your parents, slaughtered. Even worse—through some pitiful-ass joke of fate, you somehow survive. Your mom and dad are dead, torn to pieces, but you get to go on living and sit through their closed-casket funerals knowing damned well they died because of you—and because of me. Got it?” “Yeah.” Stephen felt a fine sweat on his brow. His fingers had gone numb. Frank had some kind of way with words.

“Are you really sure? I don’t think you are. I can’t hear it in your voice—I’m not convinced, until I hear the blood freezing in your voice.” “I said yes.”

“Well I hope you mean it. Cause you’ve got other considerations besides yourself, and I seriously hope you’re thinking of them.” Soon, Frank’s own words would haunt him. “Now you tell me what you did.”

“Now? Over the phone line?” Stephen was unnerved, just as Frank intended. But he was not deterred. How could he just drop it? All those missing girls—Val. The only thing to do was to bring it all down. And Stephen couldn’t just walk away and let Frank deal with it alone, he had to see that. “No meeting,” Frank said. “I can’t risk us being seen together.” “Okay, you win. You’re leaving me out here twisting in the wind, no idea what we’re up against, but have it your way.” Stephen heard rewarding silence on the other end of the line. He had the man thinking. Encouraged, he added, “Listen, I have to go to Whitestone today. I’m having my brother drop me off at the Italian place on the corner of Benson and Third. I’ll be there at three, in time for the lunch specials. The place has a nice jukebox. I could use some company, drop by if you want a bite, my treat.” “Stephen. No way this line could be tapped?” “Anything’s possible, Frank.” “Anything—you got that right.” “We have a better chance if we’re working together, I’ve told you that. Meet me?” Silence for several long seconds. Then: “I’ll think about it. Damn, Stephen—I wish I hadn’t let you in on this.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll keep my eyes open,” Stephen promised.

The Doctor’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be almost in a trance. Rippy fidgeted until the Doctor said, “It’s okay, Leonard, I was just thinking.” “Sir, I’m sorry, but there’s another problem.” The Doctor relaxed on the sofa, eyes opening and then rolling with exasperation. “Okay, what now?” he demanded. “I just got a call from Seth Weaver—he’s a campaign worker for Congressman Sellman, we helped him get a job at the Statehouse—” “Yes, yes, I him, get to the bad part.” Rippy let out his breath and went on. “Weaver called to on a message from a at State Justice. The state IRS received copies by fax yesterday of our internal records concerning checks paid to Miller, among other things. There is evidence of tax and worker’s compensation fraud. With everything else that went on yesterday, the records were red-flagged and now the FBI is interested.” Bath stiffened in the chair. His fists knotted, he looked around the room, apparently for something to hit. His eyes were wide, frantic, and Rippy was shocked at his demeanor. After a minute he composed himself with great effort. Through clenched teeth he hissed, “Who? Who sent them? Do we have a traitor?” “More like a computer hacker, sir—these records were public access, but whoever got to them had to dig deep, and he went to a great deal of trouble to mask his identity.” “You had to adjust our files to show no connection to Farley—” “I did that, sir—but these files were copied beforehand.” “Fuck!” Bath thundered. He slammed his hand onto the top of his desk. “Weaver thinks he has enough juice to make this stuff disappear, sir—or at least

alter them so it won’t point at Haven—but there will be ripples. It’s an investigation now.” “That still leaves the problem of who took them,” Bath said, finishing Rippy’s thought. He loosened his tie and removed his jacket, tossing it onto the sofa. He was sweating—Rippy did not think he’d ever seen Doctor Bath perspire. “Could Moore be a computer geek as well as a gunfighter? How many skills can that man have?” he demanded. “I’ll keep on it. There must be some way I can track the culprit.” “Well I certainly hope so—this cannot go on, Leonard. No Ifs Ands or Buts.” “No sir.” “Moore. Moore. I’m beginning to really hate that guy.” “I’ve told Radcliff he needs security. He wants Conrad and Marabeth over there. Miller may have spilled all he knows.” Rippy drew in his breath—the joke was completely unintended, and unwelcome. The Doctor let the slip go. “Conrad and Marabeth,” he repeated miserably. Rippy did not respond. These were two of Holland Radcliff’s many shady acquaintances and the Doctor was continually asked to introduce them into the Circle. John Bath refused, believing they were trouble looking for a place to happen. But they were good to have at one’s back. “Okay, all right. That’s good thinking. Do this, too,” Bath said, turning with a pointed finger. “Get me everything there is to know about Moore’s life in Ohio. I want this by tonight. This man came from somewhere, he has loved ones. Get me someone I can hurt, Leonard. Let’s teach him a little about sacrifice.” Rippy was taken aback—not by the order, but by the Doctor’s appearance. He was more than upset. His face was devoid of color, except for the scar at the line of his shirt collar, which was dark with perspiration. His hair was mussed, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “Get on it, Leonard.”

“Yes sir.” Rippy turned to go, reluctant to leave the Doctor alone. He ed Shan on the stairs and they exchanged tight smiles. Things around the Old Church were tense and everyone felt it. He entered his own office thinking he would call Radcliff, see to it he had his protection in place. Before he could sit the intercom on his desk buzzed and he heard a commotion over the speaker. “Leonard!” The screech was so high and panicked he could barely recognize Shan’s voice. He lunged over the desk, punching a button. “Shan? Doctor?” It sounded as if a struggle was going on—he could hear the woman, away from the phone, her voice raised in alarm, then the line went dead. Leonard dashed out the door and bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time. He heard her scream as he reached the landing outside the Doctor’s office.

The Sheriff’s office was like a morgue today. Hopewell had not come in, Warburton was keeping quiet (and seemed to be avoiding Mallory, Thank God), and Toby was yet to arrive. It was unusual for all three of them to be on duty. And everyone appeared to be on edge. She sat at her desk, tapping a pencil, thinking. Before returning to the office she’d stopped by the Henderson place and found no one home, and then likewise at Victor Carter’s. She considered going by the RipRoar but decided against it. She couldn’t shake the bad feeling she had concerning Moore. She wished she’d just taken the day off. She was feeling gloomy and there was nothing to take her mind off Toby. Mary seemed to be acting even more squirrelly than usual and Mallory wanted to steer clear of her. She only had a few more days left in this place and was hoping they were without incident. Her intuition told her in that case she needed to keep her head down as much as possible. Something was brewing, in the office, in town, she didn’t know for sure, but she hoped to be gone before it hit the fan—whatever “it” was.

A few minutes later she happened to drift by the front window and saw Victor Carter, alive and more or less well, across the street in front of the closed book store. He appeared to be less than happy. His left arm rested in a cloth sling. At nearly the same instant, Toby came in the door. Her face brightened at the sight of him. “Mallory,” he greeted with a shy grin, hanging his cap. “Toby—aww, it’s not so bad. What’d the other guy look like?” “A lot better than me, I’m afraid.” She stared hard at him, with an examiner’s eye, a bit mystified. As a paramedic she’d seen a variety of facial injuries, but this was unlike anything in her experience. The area around his eye just seemed raw, the skin smooth like a baby’s bottom. It looked nothing like an impact injury. The eye itself was a bit pink, and a little watery, but she peered closely at it in good light and it was working fine. “You say you hit a door?” “Yup.” There was no way, but he obviously did not want to say what really happened, so she dismissed it and just dealt with her own urge to take him home and fuss over him, nurse him back to health. She had to remind herself that things had changed between them. “I’m a hundred percent,” Toby assured her, nonetheless enjoying very much her attention. “I can see that—I’m glad you’re okay.” “Thanks.” “The town’s like a tomb today,” Mallory informed him. She nodded at the view through the window. “Do you know how Victor Carter got his arm in a sling?” “Nope, not a clue—you think he’s been fighting again?” “Seems like he’d be shed of that habit for a while.” Mallory watched the subject

of their discussion, just as Syd pulled up outside.

Shan was on the sofa on her knees, hands clamped over her mouth to suppress a scream. Rippy was immediately in mind of a woman jumping onto the furniture after seeing a mouse. John Bath was on the floor. He was having a seizure. Leonard hesitated, horrified. The Doctor was on his side, his body convulsing, shaking, his eyes rolled up into his head and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a grotesque agonized grin. With each painful muscular spasm he uttered a strangled grunt as if kicked in the stomach. Intermittently his mouth opened and the teeth went clack! as his jaws slammed shut again. “Do something! Leonard!” “Shut up, Shan! I need something—I need—” Rippy crouched on one knee and loosened the Doctor’s tie, tugged his collar open. Clack! Having heard it was what you’re supposed to do, he looked around for something to shove into Bath’s mouth, keep him from swallowing his tongue or biting it off. He took his wallet from his jacket—it was a $200 all-leather gift from the Doctor —and stuck it between the old man’s teeth, insuring it was in there good. He seemed to be coming out of it already. His eyes were looking close to normal again. After another minute he blinked, the convulsions nearly gone. “Oh, God—oh, God—” “Shut up, Shan,” Leonard snapped. He held his hand under Bath’s head, tenderly. “He—he wet himself, Leonard—!”

Syd spotted Victor Carter as he pulled up and groaned inwardly. He wanted nothing to do with Carter. He knew about the fiasco from the night before. But Victor called his name before he could escape into the office. “Yeah?” he

responded, trying to convey through body language that he had to go in. “Come here,” Victor said, waving with a cigarette. “I’m running late,” Syd returned. He really didn’t want to talk to him. “C’mere!” Victor yelled. Shoulders slumping with dread, Syd shuffled across the street to him. Victor’s cigarette hung loosely from his lip. Other than the injured arm, he looked fine—but his attitude was another story entirely. “You hear about Jan?” “Yeah. Sorry, man. How’s your folks?” It was common knowledge that Victor’s parents had raised the two brothers. Syd wondered what they had been told. “Are you kidding me?” Carter replied with a dangerous grin. “You think I need sympathy from you?” The question was a demand, expectant of an answer. Syd shrugged and looked down at the sidewalk. Victor Carter’s reputation was well-known and completely deserved. Syd was in uniform and armed, but he knew neither would protect him from Carter, who had never liked him any way. “I always told Jan to stay away from you,” Victor announced. “I guess you were the one I should’ve talked to.” Syd felt the blood leave his cheeks. Victor’s tone convinced him there was about to be violence. Maybe Victor was just looking to take out what had happened to his cousin on somebody, anybody. Syd thought of the pistol on his hip, knowing he would never have the courage to draw it on Victor. “Look at you,” Victor said with a hateful chuckle. “Just look. What the hell did he ever see in you anyway?” “We were just friends,” Syd mumbled, his words barely heard. He refrained from meeting the other man’s eyes. Why did Victor have it in for him? It wasn’t his fault Jan got killed. Syd had long ago put the egg-throwing incident out of his mind.

“You ever wake up and Bath’s gone, you’d do well to find another town to live in,” Victor advised him. “Because I have absolutely no use for you.” The reference to the Doctor made Warburton’s head snap up. The tone and the words bordered on disrespect and Syd was in fear for his own life just hearing it. “I’d break your neck just to say I did it,” Victor promised, staring the deputy down. “And the day’s coming, Warburton. Bath won’t be around forever.”

“Wonder what that conversation’s about?” Mallory asked. “Syd looks like he’s about to puke nails.” “No telling,” Toby said, indifferent. He leaned with an elbow on the windowsill sipping a cup of coffee. He seemed to be unconcerned with the two across the street, but in fact was able to catch the tone if not the words despite the distance.

Carter was so wrapped up in his anger—over Jan’s death, the Doctor, and practically everything else in Haven—that he was unaware of a completely different sort of dread taking hold of Syd Warburton. “Well? Don’t have anything to say?” Warburton’s eyes were like saucers. If a hole had opened up in the sidewalk at that moment, he’d have happily dropped into it. He didn’t know which he was most afraid of—getting beaten up or being connected in some way to disloyalty in the ranks. Had Victor lost his mind? He had no idea what to say so for once he kept his mouth shut.

“Think I’ll go ask Victor a couple of questions,” Mallory said, “as much as I hate interrupting that meeting of minds.” “You go, girl,” Toby grinned.

“Anyway, Syd looks like he needs rescued.”

Syd was feeling an immediate need to urinate when he looked up from the sidewalk to see Mallory coming across the street towards them. She ignored him and nodded in Victor’s direction. He looked away, resentful of her intrusion and unafraid to show it. Mallory noticed that Kel’s van was parked a block up the street. “Victor, you seen your cousins?” He gave her a hateful, red-rimmed glare, and failed to notice that it did not cow her one bit. “Not today,” he growled. “Have you heard from them?” “Not today.” “Hmm. How’d you hurt your arm?” His face went scarlet and he took a step towards her. “Mind your own business, bitch,” he snarled suddenly. “I’ll bend you over and fuck you with your own gun, I don’t care how big your badge is.” Mallory Abshire could be quick to anger, but she never lost control. It was a small town and she was acquainted with Carter from way back, even impressed with him when she was a witless teen and he was a 25-year-old bad boy. But those days were gone. Had the vile threat not been uttered in front of a witness, she might have laughed it off and told Carter to go screw himself. However, there was a witness, and the witness was Warburton, and she could not let it . With a smooth fluid step she moved in on Carter, stared into his eyes, and said, “Try that, Victor. See what happens. Go ahead and try me.” Syd backed up, his jaw hanging.

Toby stifled a laugh. What a woman she was! How could he not love her?

Victor stared back at her, refusing to show his surprise at her quick challenge. Mallory knew something was eating Carter, God knows what. But he started this. “Let’s go,” she urged. She was half-hoping he would swing at her—she had a lot of aggression built up with everything going on, she wouldn’t mind getting some of it out of her system. She had no illusions about her ability to best Carter —but, by God, if she ended up in an emergency room, he would be right there alongside her. En route to jail. Her eyes were laser-focused and amused and completely ambivalent as to what his decision would be all at the same time. After standing nose-to-nose Victor grumbled and relaxed, looking away. He took a long drag from the cigarette. He’d snapped at her in impulsive anger, but like her, he never lost control of himself. It just wasn’t worth it, not now. He had other things on his mind. But she had balls. He had to give her that. “So how’d you hurt that arm?” “Jacking off,” he spat—but he made sure to keep his body language neutral. Mallory shook her head with a scornful grin. She gave Syd a dismissing look and turned to leave them. Victor shot a hard stare at Syd as he followed her.

“You backed him down,” Toby complimented her as she entered. “The jerk. But he talks sweet.” Mallory had a case of butterflies after the altercation. She’d jog down Main Street naked before letting a thug like Carter embarrass her while Syd Warburton looked on.

Syd came in, appearing distressed, and disappeared into the restroom without a word. “Frank Moore found that guest house trashed last night. He claims he wasn’t home, but he looks like he was in one hell of a fight. And then Victor’s arm—” “And my eye,” Toby added. “Must be something in the air last night.” “Yeah, okay—it’s just a coincidence. But a strange one. Some people out on Rune Road reported gunshots, too. It sounded like a war, they said.” “No kidding? Mary? You take that call?” “The Sheriff knows about it,” the dispatcher insisted. “I half expected to find somebody dead up there, either Victor and his cousins, or Moore,” Mallory confessed. “That Moore is a tough customer,” Toby said. “And cool as a cucumber.” A feeling of shame washed over Toby. He’d been lying through his teeth to Mallory since entering the building. And that wasn’t the worst—it was that he did it so well, so easily, and even derived a bit of amusement from the act. She deserved better than that—much better. “Hey? You okay?” Mallory asked. He smiled at her and tried to put the forced deceit from his thoughts. At least he was doing the right thing now, to the extent he could. When she quit the job, it would be a moot point. It was the best thing for her to be away from him, away from them all.

Syd emptied his bladder and washed his hands in the sink, throwing cold water on his face. He was rattled. The conversation with Victor terrified him. What if Doctor Bath got the idea he was disloyal? He should tell everything about Carter, what had been said. But who should he talk to? The Sheriff? Leonard? But then,

what if Victor found out he’d snitched? He was screwed no matter what he did! And Mallory Abshire! Syd had to it, he was going to have to rethink his plans for her. She was tough. Get her from behind, if possible, using the stun gun. He couldn’t give her the slightest edge. Her strength made him want her even more. The scent of fear hung over Syd like a cloud of mosquitoes and Toby eyed him intently when he came out of the restroom.

“Yeah,” Frank said into the phone. “Frank? I was ed by Clancy? He suggested I call you?” “Thanks for calling.” “No prob—you on a land line?” “Yeah.” “Good—what can I do you for?” Frank leaned back in the chair and looked out the kitchen window. “I need some military hardware,” he said. “Nothing too fancy.” “Like what exactly?” “I have a list.” Frank went over the items from memory, having written nothing down. He went slowly, allowing the man on the other end of the line to copy what he said. The caller waited until Frank was done to respond. “Okay. I can tell you right now, the Semtex isn’t possible. The war against terrorism, you know, things are tight right now.” “I sort of expected that.” “But I have access to a reasonable amount of C-4, guaranteed fresh. And I have a guy who can get all the home-made stuff you want.”

“Incendiary?” “Sure, and nitro. The mines—I can get Claymores real easy.” “Okay,” Frank said, pleased. “I’m familiar with those.” “The fuses, the remote stuff, no problem, the night gear. Most of this stuff is Vietnam era. You don’t want high-tech?” “I’m working on a schedule here. I can’t wait.” “Clancy said we’re under the gun time-wise?” “I need this stuff yesterday.” “I can’t get it to you sooner than tomorrow night—it might even be the day after.” “Then that will have to do,” Frank said. He just had to stay alive in the meantime. “It’ll cost you,” the man warned. “I’ll pay what’s reasonable.” “Will this be cash or charge?” “Cash.” “Okay—but, you know, even with Clancy vouching for you and everything, I’ll still need a charge card number to get things rolling—it’s how I have to do it, Frank. No offense meant.” “None taken. Here’s the number.” He used one of the new s. “When can I call you back, Frank?” Frank gave him his cell number. “I’ll be on the road.” “Okay, no prob.”

“What can I call you?” Frank asked. “Um, let’s see—how’s about Kermit?” Frank chortled, said, “Fine.” “You a Kermit fan, Frank?” “I was just thinking of Bert and Ernie,” Frank laughed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He left for Whitestone two hours early, using the extra time to make sure he was not being followed and to reconnoiter the restaurant. He even checked the skies from time to time. With Bath’s connections, he couldn’t chance ruling out aerial surveillance. On the way he found a bank branch he needed and took the cash from his credit . He carried the money in an envelope against his stomach. Before entering the restaurant he circled it several times with an eye out for anyone suspicious. He could take no chances. Stephen had no idea what they had by the tail. The place was genuine Italian, as opposed to the Americanized chain restaurants. The walls were printed with murals of Venice and Naples and there was a bottle of wine on every checkerboard-cloth table. The jukebox was, as Stephen claimed, pure gold. Every selection from classical opera to pop music in the native tongue. Frank perused the titles, thinking of a place he’d frequented in Chicago as a young man. A pretty waitress in tight slacks and a starched white blouse took his order for a salad and a glass of beer and he waited for Stephen to arrive. The place was not busy—lunch was long over and it was not quite time for supper. There was an older gentleman eating alone and a pair of couples dining over candlelight. Frank was massaging his left knee—still stiff from the night’s excitement— when Stephen appeared fifteen minutes later. He pushed himself to the table— against a wall, so Frank could watch the door—escorted by the hostess, who moved a chair to make room for him. “Sheila will be right with you, Stephen.” “Thanks, Addie.” Stephen put a cloth napkin in his lap and helped himself to the delicious Roman salad, his only reaction to Frank’s battered features a cocked eyebrow. “I’m starving,” he said. He uncorked the wine and noticed Frank glaring as he poured.

“What?” “You brought us to a restaurant where they know your name?” “Sure.” “Stephen—” Frank threw his napkin onto the table, exasperated. “I don’t believe it. Has everything I’ve told you gone in one ear and out the other?” Stephen put a glass of wine in front of Frank and poured one for himself. “Try this—you’ll like it.” Frank expelled his breath with a frustrated shake of the head. “Relax,” Stephen urged him. “I’m a quarter investor in this place. I’m not an idiot.” Frank almost argued with that last statement, but decided to give up. Shaking off his irritation, he sipped the wine. Stephen was watching and Frank gave him a shrug. “Not bad. Hey, I’m a beer man.” The waitress reappeared. “Hi, Stephen.” “Sheila—how’s the little one?” “He’s fine. He loves those comic books, thanks.” “I’m glad he liked them. I’ll have the usual.” “How about you, sir?” Frank raised an eyebrow towards Stephen, and said, “I guess I’ll have his usual, thanks. And a draft.” “Good choice—you’ll love it,” she said and was gone. “So you must have some money,” Frank commented, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. In just a few moments he’d learned a wealth of information about his unassuming friend in the wheel chair. “My web sites—they make enough that I have to invest. Val loved this place.”

He was somber for a moment. Then: “So. What happened? Last night?” “Well, let’s start with yesterday. I called, told you something bad went down?” “Yeah.” “Our friend, Miller?” Frank prompted, his voice low enough so no one else could hear. “I got him alone, wanted some answers?” He paused as Sheila returned with his brew, in a tall glass with a good head. Stephen looked at him, thinking, This is the man who left one man shot to death and dragged another off, probably to torture. And he looks more or less like anyone you’d see on the street. “Guess what happened,” Frank challenged him. Stephen waited, wide-eyed. With nothing in his tone one way or the other, he said, straight-faced: “He self-destructed.” Frank choked on a mouthful of beer, put it down and reached for a napkin. “Jesus, Frank, I was only kidding. Give me the details.” Frank wiped his mouth, returned his look, and said, “Not while we’re eating.” “He’s dead?” “Oh, yeah. He is that.” “But you didn’t kill him?” “Didn’t have the chance. Like you said—he blew up. More or less.” He could see in Stephen’s face a need to know more details—thankfully, he did not question Frank’s claim. “Did you get any information out of him?” “Mainly what I already expected, with one or two new wrinkles. You know a Radcliff in Haven?” “There’s a Holland Radcliff. Bigshot, family mansion’s a museum. Used to be a

dentist. I’ve never heard of anyone sending their kids to him, though.” “Why? He mistreats kids?” “No, he’s just a mean old man. My dad can’t stand him, and he likes everybody. I meant that all his patients seemed to be elderly. What about him?” “He’s in on this, too. He holds the girls, until they—” Frank let his voice trail off as Sheila arrived with their food. Frank stared, appreciative. “Damn. This looks great.” He realized he’d barely eaten since yesterday. She gave him a fresh glass of beer and they were alone again. There were Ligurian mushrooms on the side. Delicious. The main dish was catolette alla valdostana—veal cutlets topped with fontina. The recipe was one Frank favored, from a 1920s cookbook by Ada Boni. He and Lori often had it at a Dayton eating establishment. Stephen had to pause in his eating to consider the gravity of what they were discussing. It was—perverse—chatting kidnap-murder over fine Italian cuisine. He noticed Frank’s appetite seemed not to suffer. “What else?” “Stephen, we talked about the supernatural before—well, I’m telling you, it’s real. And we’re knee-deep in it.” “What else have you seen?” “Last night. I told you they came after me.” Frank leaned towards him and said, in a low voice, a single word: “Werewolves.” Stephen just looked at him. “What about them?” “They almost killed me last night. Four of them.” The younger man just stared for a moment, then looked away. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, o-kay—well, look—” “It’s true, Stephen.” “Well, yeah, I know—”

“The house looks like Iraq. I wasted one of them. There’s blood everywhere.” “Okay. Okay. Wait a minute, okay?” Frank continued eating to let Stephen digest what he’d said. He savored every bite, and savored the play of emotions at work on his friend’s face. Stephen finally sighed, and eyed him thoughtfully. Frank knew exactly what he was asking himself: Was this man rational? Are such things possible? He took a drink of wine, and a couple of bites from his plate, and put his elbows on the table. He’d come to some sort of internal decision. He said, “All right. Everything I’ve seen from you makes me believe you, insane as it all is. Can you tell me what they looked like?” “They were huge monster-wolves, walking upright. Big. As tall as grown men.” “I mean, like what, The Wolf Man, The Howling—?” “Stephen. This was no movie. I’m lucky to be sitting here, enjoying this meal. This is no joke.” “Yeah. You’re right.” “They stank, they bled, they had bad breath and long teeth. Just like in Little Red Riding Hood. They did everything they could to make a TV dinner out of me.” “Yeah. You say you killed one?” “With a shotgun.” “You’ve got the body?” Stephen lowered his voice, his expression wild with hope. His breath caught in his chest. “No,” Frank had to tell him. “He burned up, like spontaneous internal combustion. After he changed back into Jan Henderson.” Stephen’s mouth dropped open—he had to suppress an exclamation of shock. “That’s right. He burned till there was nothing but ash.”

“The other three—” “I figure they were Kel, Victor Carter—and Toby Vint.” “The deputy?” Stephen hissed, thunderstruck. “The black werewolf was huge, much bigger than the others,” Frank declared. “Yellow eyes. He was different. And I couldn’t kill him, Stephen. It was all I could do to keep him off me.” “You shot him?” “I put enough lead in him to sink a tugboat. Blew half his brains out, pointblank, and he kept coming. He would not go down.” Anticipating Stephen’s next question, he added, “I managed to blind him. He took off.” “So you killed one—but this guy could take anything.” “That’s the problem. Why is that? The others had plenty of respect for a gun—I stuck one in their face, they got the hell out of the way.” “Maybe the big one—man, I can’t believe I’m saying this—maybe he’s a king, or something. He’s more powerful than the rest.” “I had the feeling he was different. He looked different, acted different. The others acted like people in wolf skins—not this guy.” “Do you think Bath is a werewolf?” “I don’t know. I believe he controls them. The night of the bonfire, I heard dozens of wolves howling. Dozens.” Stephen shook his head. “This could involve a lot of people. People I know.” “How do you kill a werewolf? Silver bullets, right?” “Yeah—in the movies. But I’m not sure, I think that whole silver bullet myth may be an invention of Hollywood in the ‘40s. Werewolf legends have been around a lot longer than that—longer than we’ve had bullets.”

“Well it would be a cute trick to come up with enough silver ammo to stop an army of things like that big one,” Frank conjectured. “Well you’ve already killed one. Let’s concentrate on the one wouldn’t go down. I a movie, I think, where a werewolf could only be killed by a loved one—” “Forget that. That doesn’t help. What about wolfsbane?” “That’s for vampires.” Frank was unconvinced. “Are you sure?” “Positive.” “Then why is it called wolfsbane?” “Search me, I wasn’t around when they named it—Jesus. Listen to this conversation we’re having. I’ll have to look this up. But, damn—these are just legends. Myths.” “Not the ones I fought.” “Frank, you need to be careful. If these things really are the genuine articles—” “Stephen. I’ve looked right down the throats of these things. I saw their damn tonsils.” “Okay, okay—what I’m saying is, one thing every werewolf story I’ve ever heard of has in common is that you get bitten, and live—” “Don’t remind me,” Frank put in. Stephen stared hard at him. “You didn’t get bitten, did you?” “Hell, no. Absolutely not.” “Okay. Good.” Sheila approached and brightly asked them about dessert. They declined, their stomachs full, but were grateful for the distraction.

Stephen drew his vibrating cell phone from a pocket and held it to his ear. “Hello? Oh, hi. Yeah—give me—oh, ten minutes. Thanks.” “Your brother?” “No—it’s someone I want you to meet. Don’t give me that look—you’ll feel better after, I promise.” He then asked, “So what’s next?” “I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire,” Frank told him. “Better if you not know —I’ll let you in on anything you can help with. Next subject—what have you been doing?” “I copied all the town’s financial records regarding Miller, and emailed them to the IRS office in the state capitol.” “I expressly told you—” “It’s done, drop it. I figure, anything we can hit Bath with, let’s use it. Especially if he’s as dangerous as we think.” “The cops are on Miller—those records might ruffle a few feathers.” “Frank, it’s time to send the contents of Albanese’s disc where it’ll do the most good. Where is that? The FBI?” “My advice is to hedge your bets, send the stuff to everybody—FBI, Justice, State’s Attorney’s Office, maybe even the police departments of every county involved with these disappearances. Can you do all that?” “You’d be surprised what I can do,” Stephen said with a confidant smirk. “With Bath’s connections, you have to wake up as many people as possible.” “What? No argument this time?” “No, Stephen.” He looked him in the eye and lowered his tone to reflect the gravity of what he was saying. “This is beyond Gwen now. I may not make it to the end—maybe neither of us will. This has to stop no matter what happens to us.”

“I agree.” “But listen—I need two days. Give me two days before you send it.” Stephen grunted and shook his head. “Stephen, what are the authorities going to do? Investigators, search warrants— that involves judges, defense attorneys—politics, legal rights. In the meantime Bath is covering his ass and hiding behind the system. To hell with that. I want the first shot at them, then the cops can do the mop up.” Stephen looked at him. “What can you do, against all of this? Other than get yourself killed? Two days is a long time, and they’re already after you.” “I have to cut off the head of this thing. I don’t want Bath disappearing to South America or wherever and living the easy life while his goons take the fall for him. Give me two days, Stephen.” “Okay,” he said, reluctantly. “Okay. Frank, who were the McVies to you?” “Val didn’t tell you?” “No. She told me their parents were living in Georgia. What are you, a long-lost uncle or something?” Frank felt his lip tremble. As he opened his mouth to reply, Sheila came with coffee. He smiled at his friend and said, “I’ll tell you—after. Added incentive to get through this with our skins.” “Okay. Thanks, Sheila—we’ll be going, now.” Stephen took care of the check and Frank followed him outside. With his usual caution Frank scanned the parking lot and tensed as a roomy newer-model automobile pulled up directly in front of them. A door opened and he stepped protectively in front of Stephen. “It’s all right, Frank.”

A powerfully-built young man exited the enger-side of the car. He was dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket. He was black, but Frank immediately spotted the bulge of a pistol butt against the man’s ribs. Probably not Stephen’s brother Donnie. The man gave Frank a careful up-and-down and nodded at Stephen. “Mister Wilkes.” “Call me Stephen—Frank, this is Dale.” “Dale Condiff—pleased to meet you.” Frank noted the man did not offer a handshake—his job meant keeping his hands free at all times. Frank rewarded Stephen with a nod. “Dale’s with Drake Gridiron Protection Services—I hired him to stay at the house for a few days.” Frank spared the car a glance where he saw a similarly watchful driver behind the wheel. “You’re a Veteran?” he asked Condiff. Recognizing a fellow, Condiff nodded. “Seventh Special Forces Group, Afghanistan. You as well?” Frank just nodded. Young or old, that steely glint of the eye did not come without having been in the middle of it at one time or another. Of course Condiff was no Marine—but you could do a lot worse than a Green Beret. He reminded Frank of himself—from about twenty-five years ago. “Frank here has been worried about my safety lately.” “I see,” Condiff acknowledged with quiet confidence Frank was still not one hundred percent relieved, not in this case. But he felt much better now than he had five minutes ago. “So relax,” Stephen said with a grin. “Slow down, taste the wine. Keep your mind on what you’re doing.”

Frank nodded and let the tension leave his shoulders. “I will. Good idea, Stephen.” So he relaxed—but only a little.

John Bath came out of the bedroom freshly showered. “I could still call your doctor,” Rippy offered. “No need. I’m fine now, Leonard.” But he appeared drained. He sat down on the sofa, drawing the robe closer about him. “Are you getting on it in Dayton?” “I’m waiting on a call from our there. Shouldn’t be long.” “Good. Leonard, hundreds of years of interbreeding among European royalty left some bloodlines with serious genetic flaws, such as a rare epileptic disorder which I have inherited. I concocted an elixir to control these episodes when I was quite young, but they’ve started again just recently—much to my chagrin.” “Are you conscious while they’re happening?” “No, it’s just lost time. Except for the body aches after the convulsing, I’m none the worse for wear. These old muscles are not what they used to be.” He sighed and his eyes narrowed with a tightly controlled anger. “This is the third episode in a month. I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s not a random happening.” “What do you mean?” Rippy replied, his guard instantly up. His mentor seemed to be hinting at some threat to his personal safety. “My study of the Book, it all has a purpose you know, which I won’t go into right now. But some things are meant to stay hidden, Leonard. I believe I’m getting close to something, and the forces we serve know it.” Leonard felt goose pimples crawl up his scalp. “You mean they’re trying to stop you?” “It’s possible. Quite recently, there’s this reporter, the school teacher, and this buttinski bartender. Everything else, Carter, Warburton? I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Shan said you started muttering something about a Magician. She couldn’t snap you out of it—then you had the seizure.” Bath smiled, wistful. “A Magician, really? I haven’t thought of that for a long time.” “What’s that?” Rippy was smiling, too, from interest. But Bath just waved it off. “It’s nothing, some nonsense a Gypsy fortune teller once told me, to his regret. I spent too much time dwelling on it then—odd, though. That I would bring that up now.” The Doctor was deep in thought, a finger on his chin, and Rippy onished himself for his curiosity. “Well. I’ll leave you to get some rest.” “Get with me as soon as you hear something. Oh, Leonard?” John Bath graced him with an amused smile. “I recall a story about Countess Bathory,” he said. “It happened late in her life, just prior to the unfortunate trial and imprisonment. While on a rare day trip through a village near her castle, a wheel hit a rut and somehow splashed mud through the carriage window, directly into her face. Of course you know how vain Elizabeth was. To add insult to injury, she looked up just in time to recognize that one of the peasants bowing at her age had in fact raised his eyes and witnessed the incident, and she was absolutely certain that this man was smirking at her predicament. She ordered his immediate arrest and he was taken to the castle where he was bound, gagged, and sewn inside the opened belly of a horse to suffer a slow death.” Leonard had read much on the Countess, and this story was known to him. He waited, knowing the Doctor was making a point. “I, too, react badly to embarrassment,” John Bath itted. “I’m sure there’s no need, but remind Shan, won’t you—I wouldn’t want any mention of this episode of mine to leak out. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Stephen advised his family that he was aiding a police investigation and that he’d hired a private security firm to keep an eye on things, just for his own peace of mind. He assured everyone that there had been no threats or intimidation of any kind, and there was absolutely no reason to be concerned. His dad took him aside privately and asked him for the whole story, and Stephen just said he couldn’t go into it at this time and he needed to trust him. Stephen then warned him to be extra careful concerning his own safety, to keep his eyes open. His parents were worried. But it couldn’t be helped. Drake Gridiron was well known. The founder was a fullback for the New England Patriots who flew in the Gulf War and started the company with his father, a retired Boston police officer. He’d staffed his company with former law officers and military veterans, legal professionals, electronics and surveillance experts, and more than a few successful athletes, both amateur and pro. College was a must—this was no fly-by-night security guard operation. The company’s agents—they were referred to as operatives—were encouraged to blend in as much as possible with their subjects in order to make them comfortable with the presence of their bodyguards. It helped that Dale was black, approximately Stephen’s age, and, apparently, accustomed to quelling the fears of worrisome parents. He did a remarkable job in particular of winning over Elaine Wilkes, proving to Stephen that he must have been more than adept at his Special Operations tasks while deployed to Afghanistan. His mother was no soft cookie—she was highly intelligent, and eager to assert herself. She was at first dubious of the unexpected house guest, then charmed, then delighted—it turned out that Dale Condiff in addition to his many other talents, was a fantastic cook. Dale brought in techs who went over the house for what they called “trouble areas”—doors, windows—installed a new alarm system, and scanned the house, especially Stephen’s room, for hidden surveillance devices. Dale insisted on sleeping in Stephen’s bedroom-office, relegating Stephen to his old room, which was in the center of the house and less accessible to the outside. He somehow

managed to keep his sidearm out of sight at all times, much to Stephen’s relief for his parents’ benefit, though he knew that the man never had it far from reach. Elaine and Dale were in the kitchen making supper, his father in the living room, when Stephen’s computer alerted him to something on the evening news: he had started an ongoing search engine which was triggered by the name MILLER. Stephen wheeled into the living room. “Got the news on, Dad?” “I was just going to call you.” On the television, a field reporter was standing before a scene depicting numerous emergency and police personnel at work in what appeared to be a fenced-in pasture. “They just had a press conference,” his father said. “—when there will be any identification of the victims. Once again, the local police chief here in Jezebel in conjunction with the FBI has just made this press release: a private property known to have been frequented by the still-missing attempted kidnapper Greg Miller has led authorities to what they believe is a burial site containing the remains of abduction and murder victims going back, possibly, at least twenty years. So far six bodies have been recovered since noon.” “And none have been identified?” asked the off-camera anchorperson. “Sally, there’s word that at least one of the victims recovered so far has been identified initially from evidence found in the grave. But of course no names have been released prior to confirmation and notification of the relatives.” “All the victims are young girls, is that correct?” “It is believed the remains recovered so far are girls, yes—but that hasn’t been positively confirmed. As I said some of these bodies have been in the ground nearly two decades—” “My God,” Richard Wilkes breathed aloud. He gave his son a sharp look, noting Stephen’s interest, who looked away with nothing to say. His father knew then what he was involved in.

Now another reporter was standing in a suburban living room thrusting a microphone into the face of a grandfatherly man with receding silver hair, eyes wide in the camera lights. He sat on a sofa holding the hand of his wife. “—who was at the scene yesterday during the foiled kidnap attempt and even saw the young girl to the hospital. Mister Littleton, how is the girl doing? We know you’ve stayed in with the family.” “Well, she’s good, under the circumstances. The family’s holding together. She’s a brave little girl.” “I understand you’ve grown pretty protective of the child and her family—” “Well, yeah—I guess I sort of got involved.” “How do you think the family will react to the new revelations from this afternoon?” “Well, how could anybody take this? I’m sure they think it’s horrible, a nightmare. We’re thinking of all the families of those missing children.” “For God’s sake, get that camera out of that man’s face,” Richard muttered. “Well can you tell us this? How do you feel about vigilante violence? What would you say to the man who shot Jerry Farley?” At that point Littleton looked directly into the camera lens, after exchanging a glance with his wife. “I can’t condone killing—I’ll only say that for the rest of my life I will thank God for putting that man in the right place at the right time. Had he not been there, another child would be missing. And this—whatever it is—would still be going on.” “Should have told that reporter to go soak her head,” Richard declared. “I hate to think this could happen so close to our home,” Elaine said from behind. She had come from the kitchen and was watching with Dale. “New England will wear this like a shroud, for years.”

Stephen and his father exchanged silent looks, which did not go unnoticed by Dale Condiff.

Frank unloaded the equipment he’d purchased in Whitestone from the Blazer and arranged it inside the work area in the garage. He had a few hours until dark. If he could help it, he would not spend another night in the guesthouse. He couldn’t give Bath or his werewolves another crack at him, until he was ready. As he worked he spoke to Kermit about the receiving of the items he’d ordered, cash on delivery. When he was done here he’d be off to the cabin at the lake. He would get a good night’s sleep and work all the next day.

“Stephen, can I ask a question?” Dale said from the doorway. “Sure.” Stephen clicked off the . He’d been successful in hacking into the phone company’s records, looking for a back door into John Bath’s office computer. Dale came into the room and sat down facing Stephen. He laced his knuckles. He could not help but notice that Stephen did not want him to see what was on the monitor. “You’re involved somehow in this Waterford kidnap-shooting, aren’t you?” Stephen was unsurprised at the question—Dale was paid to miss nothing—but he paused before answering. He hoped Condiff didn’t suspect him of having an active role in Greg Miller’s misdeeds. “I won’t lie to you, Dale. I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I will say that I’m on the side of the angels here.” “Well I figured that.” Stephen had been approached by Drake Gridiron to do some White Hat work. The company did not make associations lightly. “I guess you know the girl’s family has hired my company to look after them?” “Yeah, I heard.” It was all over the news—a reporter or two had tried, so far with

no success, to get interviews with the company’s chiefs. “I just hope you’re on the level with me, Stephen. I can’t protect you unless I know what we’re up against.” He knew what Dale was asking, and he knew this was serious business—but what could he say? That his friend swore they were battling sorcery and monsters? “I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t trust you, Dale.” “Okay.” But it was obvious Dale was full of doubts. But what else could I say? Stephen wondered. Dale got up to return to the kitchen and Stephen went back to his work, feeling guilty over his hiding of the truth. He took a moment to glance at a record of phone calls made to and from the Courthouse offices the last couple of weeks, and noticed several calls to Dayton, Ohio—many that very day—among Leonard Rippy’s communications.

Frank used a bolt puller to extract each .44 caliber round from its casing. These were 305gr Penetrators—ideal for stopping something that wants to kill you. When he was done he had six bullets separated. He then made use of the vice and drill press to core the head of each bullet, right down through the copper jacket and lead center. By now the electric smelter purchased in Whitestone had the silver reduced to molten form. Frank used a couple of pieces of sterling cutlery from Gwen’s china cabinet. He had but a vague idea of the amount needed and probably destroyed more of his daughter’s place settings than was necessary. But he felt a sense of ironic justice, using them for this purpose. During the war he’d made his own loads, experimenting with ballistic performance and penetration capabilities, but it had been many years. And those had been exclusively rounds for long guns.

With the tiny metal ladle bought at a hardware store he carefully dipped and poured the molten silver into the hollowed core of the bullet as it stood in the vase. He blew on the new bullet to cool it before going on to the next.

“He’s at the house,” Rippy reported. “Dora’s keeping an eye out on his driveway.” John Bath nodded. “Miller was a fool, leading them to that place. What else do you think he’s left lying around for anyone to find?” “It’s a bad chain of events, that’s for sure,” Rippy agreed. “Is the girl lined up for tomorrow?” “Court’s on it.” “Maybe a good Offering can mend some of the damage. I’m beginning to wonder how much worse things are going to get.” “The graves have no link to us. The property is part of an estate, owner long dead. It’s all on Miller.” “I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. But Moore doesn’t strike me as your typical nutjob holy roller,” Bath mused aloud. “From what you’ve all told me—from what we know—he seems to have an Average Joe quality about him—that is, when he’s not pummeling hard cases or blowing away kidnappers. If Jimmy Stewart and The Terminator had a love child, Moore might be that guy.” “Could be,” Leonard agreed, chuckling. John Bath had a flair for analogies. “I’m looking forward to having him as a guest downstairs,” the Doctor said.

He thought he should call Frank, warn him. It was all-out war now. What reason could Rippy have to be in with anyone in Dayton? Frank must have family there. They were in danger. It had to be.

No answer at the guest house. He rang the cell phone, left a message on his voice mail. Okay. Could he get into Bath’s hard drive? No computer system in existence was completely secure—not even his own. There was a way into Bath’s, he just had to find it. If he could find Bath’s bank s, that would be something. That would hit him where he lives. Stephen gave no thought to his highly illegal intentions. The last few days had turned his world on its ear to an extent that such things no longer seemed important.

Syd Warburton knocked half-hearted on Rippy’s outer office door. “He’s waiting for you,” Shan said, getting up to it him into the City Manager’s inner sanctum. Syd thought that Shan seemed a bit more cool than usual but he did not try to draw her out. He sensed that he was none too popular around the Old Church lately and was trying to keep to himself. He swallowed as he entered the office. Rippy was on the phone. “Sit down, Syd.” The deputy did so, his feeling of dread growing with every second. Had someone found out about the conversation with Victor? The thought of that terrified him. He nervously drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Rippy ended his call and leaned back across his desk. “Syd, how are you?” “Okay,” he replied, his danger-radar on high alert. “Listen, I have a job for you. Very important. This one is coming straight from the top.” Syd knew what that meant. He did not relax—his fear just pointed itself in a new direction. “Juh-job?” he stammered. “Yeah, when you tried to arrest Moore—” “Aahh, uhh, I’m really really sorry about—”

“No, no,” Rippy said, holding up a palm to stop him. “Forget that. We want you to try that a second time.” Rippy paused to watch Syd’s reaction. The deputy felt his cheeks go ice-cold. His eyes round, he said, “Arrest him? Arrest Moore?” The thought of what happened to Jan had him around the throat like a clawed hand. “Don’t worry,” Rippy assured him. “We’re doing it a little different this time.”

Frank filed off the tops of the bullets so the silver center and the copper jackets were perfectly seamless. Then he replaced the bullets into the cartridges, crimping them with a tool. Silver was a very soft metal, only a little less probably than gold. He had no idea what his customizing would do to the bullets’ ballistic performance. Hopefully, any shots he took would be fairly close and he would not have to worry about range or drift. He had six silver bullets. He figured if that wouldn’t put Toby Vint down, probably nothing would. He installed them into a speed loader and began cleaning up.

Stephen found a way in, using phone lines from the Courthouse into Bath’s computer system. He was now facing a screen showing Welcome bth67! and a cursor blinking on . Stephen had a knack for figuring out s— usually they were embarrassingly unoriginal—and taking Bath’s age into he expected to knock this out in a hurry.

Frank loaded the last of his things into the Blazer and went into the house to get his phone and check his voicemail. Message from Stephen: Call me IMPORTANT. He was going to do just that when he heard a car coming up the drive. He put the phone down and drew the Magnum. He went to the newly installed door and peered through the cracks in the shattered frame. It was a Sheriff’s car. He held the Magnum down along his leg, finger over the trigger.

The was ELIZABETH—darned good effort, Doc, but no cigar. Stephen skimmed Bath’s personal records, seeking anything of interest. He found an address book and copied it, and then came upon a list of data entries, encoded. He copied that as well. He was moving quickly, knowing he would not have much time. Possibly Bath was still in his office, but Stephen had enough confidence in his own skills that he could get in and out with no one able to stop him even if he was discovered. He wasn’t worried about being identified and the worst that could happen might be someone shutting down Bath’s system while he was engaged. Anticipating that he quickly set up an email link—as fast as the information could be ed, it was forwarded to Vera as a document file. Stephen was excited, charged with adrenaline. This is what criminal hackers must feel like, he realized.

Frank watched Syd get out of the car and look around cautiously. What was he doing here? He didn’t have his pistol out. But he was the nervous type—even if he was doing something on his own again, he’d definitely have his weapon out. Frank smelled a set-up. He was in a bit of a quandary. He knew it might come to this—killing someone who would be immediately missed. Warburton was one of the rats—he’d been there, bare-assed, the night of the bonfire—but once Frank killed a police officer he risked having every law enforcement person in the state, if not the country, looking for him, regardless of the circumstances. He was after people he would have a hard time getting to while suspected in the murder of a deputy sheriff. Damn. Warburton was still beside his car, eyeing the house, the surrounding woods. He had the manner of a sacrificial lamb and Frank wondered if there wasn’t someone with a rifle scope lying in wait to drill him when he answered the door? But would they try that? Didn’t seem their style. Warburton’s uniform was dark with sweat. He was scared. Well he should be.

Still didn’t have his weapon out, though—didn’t even seem ready to go for it. What was going on here? At last the deputy turned towards the house and approached. Frank saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, hard.

“Someone’s trying to go through your personal files.” Leonard’s mentor stood with arms crossed as they watched his flat screen and pointer act seemingly with a mind of its own, the arrow searching, selecting, almost too quickly to follow. “Trying,” Bath snapped. “Looks like they’re doing it. Who? Moore?” “No telling,” Rippy said, huffing—he’d just bounded up the stairs for the second time that day. “Can you stop it?” “Definitely—” “Wait—can you trace it back to the person doing it?” “I can try—” He paused with his hands over the keyboard, his mind whirling. The action on the computer was very quick. Whoever was doing this was good —maybe even better than Rippy. “I think I can. But I’m not sure, sir—” “Then don’t touch anything.” The Doctor opened the cabinet with one eye on the monitor. He took out a candle, and the silk-wrapped talisman. He put them down next to the computer. “Give me some room, Leonard.” Rippy did not need to be told.

Warburton was surprised to see the door open a crack. The house within was pitch-black, with the two largest windows covered. He knocked on the splintered doorframe a second time. “Hello?” he called out. Still no answer.

Frank edged along the side of the house holding the pistol high. He’d gone quietly out the back door to get the drop on the deputy and to have a look around. He did not intend to shoot the gangly cop unless forced to. But a part of him wished Warburton would cause that very thing to happen. The .44 was loaded with standard rounds—the silver bullets were in the back of the Blazer, saved for a special occasion. He advanced without a sound. Just as he was about to round the corner of the house and confront Warburton, a voice from behind warned, “Don’t move.”

Stephen detected the scent of strawberries, but thought nothing of it. Probably something from the kitchen, barely noticed at first. But it was getting stronger and finally drove him to distraction.

John Bath uttered whispered words over the burning candle, a finger tracing invisible runes in the air. He was forging a spell of Calling, one of the most hazardous of his skills. Rippy watched both expectant and afraid. To open a door and summon an entity from the other side, to control it and direct it, was taxing both mentally and physically for the practitioner. When orchestrating the death of Miller there was help—the Judge, the Mayor, and Bailey Painter, three of six Elders, had quickly come up to assist in the dangerous ritual, but now Bath was alone, exposing himself to forces powerful and deadly, even to him. Their computer hacker had to die, and there was no time for any other course of action. Entities when brought through manifested themselves in one of the four earthly elements—earth, air, fire, or water. Very rarely—in fact Rippy had never known it to happen—those were combined in a being of living flesh and blood, which was about the most dangerous undertaking of them all.

The words John Bath intoned were mostly Old Tongue which Rippy had little understanding of. But from just one or two phrases he was able to recognize, he knew the Doctor was summoning what was called a fire demon, to travel through phone or power lines if need be manifested as a stream of electricity.

“Hands in the air. Keep the gun up.” “Whatever you say,” Frank replied. The speaker had to be Toby Vint. The man was smart, standing beyond arm’s reach—otherwise Frank might have disarmed him with a swift martial-arts trick. The deputy was like a panther, approaching Frank from the tree line so quickly, without giving himself away. The Magnum was pulled from his raised hand, then Vint moved back again. “My pistol is aimed right at your spine, so don’t do anything stupid. Syd! Back here!” On the porch Syd jumped, startled. He came around the corner of the house like an excited puppy, at last drawing his weapon. “Hah! Lookit this!” Rippy and Hopewell had cautioned him to keep it holstered on the porch—not wanting to provoke Moore to give him a bullet before he accomplished his mission. “Not too close, Syd. Mister Moore here is fast as a cobra.” “Call me Frank,” the prisoner said. “Don’t look so tough now, do you?” Syd mocked with a nervous giggle. “Syd, calm down—careful with that gun,” Toby cautioned. “Frank, one hand behind your back. Slow now.” He cuffed one wrist, then the other. “Syd, I’m going to frisk him. Have any weapons on you, Frank?” “I’m afraid not,” Frank itted. He was more than a little disgusted with himself. Toby searched him carefully, but without the expertise a skilled cop would have. He used both hands, indicating to Frank he had holstered his pistol. Toby now took an elbow and turned him around, and Frank saw the Magnum on the ground at his feet. He also noted that the big gun was still fully loaded with the Safety off, mistakes a veteran cop would not make. Frank watched Vint pick the revolver up and hand it butt-first to Warburton. Syd holstered his own

weapon, but was still a bundle of nerves. “That eye healed quick,” Frank noted, amazed. Toby turned him again and led him, by the elbow, out front to the car. “I’m being arrested?” “No,” Toby answered with a grim head shake.

The fruity smell was so strong now that Stephen pushed away from the keyboard and looked towards the doorway. “Mom?”

John Bath uttered a last hoarse intonation and a blast of foul wind blew papers from the desk, tossing the window blinds. The reeking odor centralized no sooner than it appeared, otherwise Rippy would scarcely have been able to breathe. Now a concentrated whirlwind formed over the desk, sweeping up loose papers and spinning them like a mini-tornado. Meanwhile the air had thickened —Rippy felt the pressure in his ear drums. A static electric charge was so strong in the office that the hair on both Rippy’s skull and that of his mentor was waving in all directions as if underwater. He backed up three steps when Bath produced a length of rusted iron chain and manacles from a lower desk drawer—he knew it to be a part of Bath’s collection of antiques. The chain was two hundred years old and forged to restrain those accused of witchcraft. Alchemy was among Bath’s skills and he had altered the chain’s metallurgic properties so that he could handle it with his bare hands. “Take care to look away if you see a face,” the Doctor warned. Rippy watched him double the chain and swing the loop over his head. The heavy manacles went around once, twice, while the air in the room became thicker and thicker and the whirlwind tightened and increased its violence. Bath uttered words in Old Tongue, waiting, swinging, sweating from the effort—until a fiery light appeared in the center of the miniature twister. At that moment Bath whipped the chain into the flat screen. It exploded with a shower of sparks and smoke, the hard drive tower belched fire, and the office went quiet. The wind

was gone as behind a slamming door and Rippy went to fetch a fire extinguisher from a cabinet in the kitchen.

The scent was stronger than ever. It almost seemed to want to force him from the room and he’d decided it wasn’t cooking at all but something unnatural, like what Frank had been talking about. He had no idea what but he wasn’t letting it bully him. “Warning Warning Will Robinson!” The computer alert startled him—he’d asked the actor Dick Tufeld to record the voice prompt for him during an interview. His system was alerting him to a priority intrusion detection. A display automatically appeared to show him the threat. His own program was developed to defend against especially menacing pirate or virus attacks. The simulation detailed a series of spinning Rubik’s Cubes, placed to divert and entrap an intruder. Stephen watched, mortified, as a pair of Cubes were quickly solved—overcome—to blink off the display. “Whoa.” It had to be someone at Bath’s computer, Rippy probably. “Danger! Danger!!” A third Rubic’s disappeared. That left only three. “Bull-shit, Mister Han-man,” Stephen said, allowing himself a rare expletive. Heart pounding from excitement he made several clicks on his secondary network, activating an emergency plan. Programs began to automatically shut down, limiting the intruder’s access, forcing him into dead-end systems where honeypot programs were waiting to trap him, disarm him, and hold him for identification. The electronic treser was barely slowing down. Stephen’s Stinger program activated automatically to back up the honeypots. This was a virus counterattack. But it had little effect. “Jesus—who are you?” Stephen breathed, worried now. He had the panicky feeling that this was more than just a cyberspace aggressor—that some danger was in fact rushing towards him. Ridiculous— Movement from the corner of his eye—he turned and glimpsed a woman, a white woman with shiny black hair, in a bright white sun dress, before she disappeared through the doorway. Was she one of Dale’s people? What was she doing, watching him?

He pushed away from the computer. Between the cloying sweet odor, the pirate attack, and now this, he was rattled. The irrational sense of impending doom was gnawing at him. “Hey, Mom?” he called, almost without realizing. “Danger! Dan—” The alert halted mid-sentence and he turned to see the s dark. His entire system had gone dead. His jaw dropped in stupefaction—sudden catastrophic failure, with no discernable reason. Every computer geek’s absolute worst nightmare! Then the whole house went quiet—he was in a vacuum-sealed jar. Where there had been the usual background noise never consciously noticed, now there was nothing. Except for the scent. And the air that was turning so thick it was piling up against his eardrums like he was in a descending airliner. Bewildered he stared, aghast, at an ominous blinking cursor on the main , the light quietly taunting him.

Hopewell was approaching from the treeline where he’d been hiding, his pistol held at waist level. With him was another man unknown to Frank. He was about 40, average height, lean, a man you wouldn’t notice if not for the shotgun held across his chest. “You think you brought enough guys?” Frank asked. Neither Vint nor Warburton responded. Hopewell met Frank with a subdued grin. The other man smirked, jaw working a wad of tobacco. “How many of you sick clowns are in on this?” Frank asked them, making eye and expecting an answer. Someone else was approaching—Victor Carter. He seemed to carry no weapons. His left arm was resting in a cloth sling. The loose unbuttoned shirt hid the bandages protecting his shoulder. He swaggered as he sidled up. His jaw was set, his eyes cold and merciless. “You guys keep your distance,” Vint warned, being very respectful of Frank. He moved around Frank towards the back door of the car. Warburton bounced up and down on his heels with excitement. Frank assessed the most dangerous

threats. Hopewell’s pistol was still out, but he was holding it casually now, as was the man with the shotgun. “Thought you were pretty tough, didn’t you?” Warburton gloated. Frank ignored him. But Shotgun Guy spat a stream of brown soup onto the ground and said, grinning, “All your work’s for nothing, tough monkey. We lose one girl, a second one’s lined up five minutes later. ” “Shut up, Norman,” Hopewell growled. Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Another girl?” “Yeah,” the man assured him, spurred by Frank’s interest. “You haven’t hurt anybody but yourself.” “I bet Miller and Farley would argue that point,” Frank allowed with a challenging stare.

Dismayed by the dark s he lifted himself into the wheelchair and began double-checking power connections, wondering what had happened. He went back to a flat screen and then he was hit, violently—he reached for something to grab, but his chair was going over. He crashed painfully onto the carpet, the wind knocked out of him. But there was no one in the room with him. At that instant there were fiery explosions and shattered glass flying through the air, and he looked up and all three flat s had the crystals blown out, their innards smoking. He craned his neck and saw crystal shards like daggers buried in the opposite wall of his bedroom, right at the level his head and chest would’ve been. In the kitchen, Elaine jumped at the sound. Dale was quick to react, holding up a hand for her to stay put as he turned towards the hall. “Stephen?” he called. He could see smoke in the doorway. He drew the Glock from his belt holster.

Frank looked Carter up and down. “No gun for you?” he asked. Victor’s good hand disappeared behind him. Frank heard the sound of something clearing leather and Victor produced a gleaming Medieval-style all-steel throwing axe from the harness under his shirt. With narrowed eyes he spun the handle gunslinger-style and held the razor-sharp blade towards Frank’s throat. Vint tensed beside him. “I get by,” he promised, mimicking Frank’s words from their first meeting. He glanced at Vint and the weapon went back into its hiding place against the small of his back. Then he stepped in suddenly and a powerful open hand smashed across Frank’s face. He turned away from the blow and Vint tightened the grip on his elbow. “That’s for Jan,” Carter announced. Frank spat blood on the ground probing for any loosened teeth with his tongue. “Okay, that’s it,” Vint said. “Let’s go.”

The three men turned away while Vint tugged Frank gently towards the car. “I’m gonna enjoy watching Bath butcher you,” Victor remarked over his shoulder. “You hit like a girl,” Frank told him. The three men started down the driveway towards the road where their vehicles were hidden. “Bath must want me alive. I bet that’s not a good thing,” Frank remarked as he considered ways of getting out of this. Once he was in the car it would be tougher. He had already freed his hands from the cuffs. He kept them behind his back to have the element of surprise on his side. “Come on, Syd,” Toby called. “I can’t believe I fell for the Keystone Kop routine back there,” Frank commented. “I’ll never live that down.” He just had to have Vint and Warburton in the right positions. “I was surprised,” Toby itted. “You’re not like the rest of these maniacs, are you?” “No. I’m not.” “Then what in hell are you doing with them?” Frank hissed between clenched teeth. Expressionless, Toby said, “I never had a choice.”

Stephen coughed, his eyes streaming. The room was on fire. God, what was that stench? He could barely breathe for gagging. He adjusted his glasses and tried to push himself up off the carpet. Hearing what he thought was spitting electrical wires he looked up and saw fire flickering to life inside the broken main . Clouds of stinking smoke were coming from there as well. The bright orange-yellow flames seemed to be struggling as if they were alive and fighting to free themselves. Burning plastic material dripped onto the desktop in globs. Stephen watched, transfixed. This was not a normal fire. The blaze was growing more violent. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. And the whole time—only a few seconds really—the poisonous stench was getting stronger. Stephen suddenly thought to cut the power, hopefully to kill this freakish blaze. He pushed himself away from the wheelchair and with a lunge jabbed the emergency button mounted on the side of his desk. It cut off all power and engaged a Halon fire extinguisher system. He rolled onto his back and stared, thunderstruck, as the fire inside the renewed its vigor beneath noisy gusts of chemical flame retardant. The impression was that a violent conflict was going on—it was no illusion—it really was alive, something inside the flame was struggling, fighting to get free like a savage newborn desperate to escape its dying mother’s womb. The outer casing blackened and melted as the alien life form emerged. Intensely bright electrical arcs coalesced into a physical shape, shrouded in bright tongues of flame. It stood hunched over lizard-like on two legs, maybe a foot and a half high, something that might have been its head swiveling, hunting prey in the thickening smoke. Sudden revelation dawned on him: It’s after me.

Warburton was returning to the car. He still carried the Magnum, the car keys in his other hand. Toby had the door open for Frank to get in. He decided it was now or never. Letting the cuffs drop to the ground he drove an elbow up into Vint’s chin, staggering him. Frank put everything he had into it. Instantly he had Warburton from behind, grabbing his throat with one hand and the pistol with the other. Holding him tight he threw a side-snap kick into Vint’s ribs. The blow connected solidly and Vint’s feet left the ground. He landed on his ass and rolled completely backwards from the force of the kick. Anyone else would stay down after that, but Frank wasn’t counting on it. He dragged Syd back, keeping the taller man down between himself and Vint. He was making for the Blazer. He just had to get away and live to fight these people another day. Warburton was gasping for breath but offering little resistance. Toby sat up and flexed his jaw experimentally, looking shaken but unhurt. Frank kept the Magnum on him. The farmer was the first to see what happened. He trotted forward, bringing the shotgun up, and Frank had to act quickly. The .44’s thundering shot caught Norman in the belly. He dropped the weapon with a scream of pain and stumbled back, falling, both hands going for the bleeding stomach wound. Hopewell was far down the curving driveway. Carter turned and ducked behind the nearest tree.

He was below normal eye level and had not been seen in the smoke. Reflexively he grabbed his coffee cup with the Please Don’t Feed The Ringers logo and hurled it across the room where it exploded into the wall over the train set. At the sound the—creature—jerked its head in that direction and leapt, or more literally, took off like a rocket. Spurting a trail of fire and black volcanic exhaust it hit the same wall as the cup. Sparks and flame flew, igniting wall posters and parts of the train set. The living fireball fell onto the miniature streets and buildings and regained its feet, uttering what sounded like curses hissed in some ancient tongue. In a rage it lashed out, kicking, spitting, setting fire to tiny trees and throwing burning model train equipment and building debris onto the floor, a pint-sized behemoth laying waste a helpless community. But Stephen saw something desperate, last-ditch in its manner. It was not a part of Stephen’s world, was not here of its own volition, and judging by the way its energy levels seemed to be increasing with each ing second, was fated to leave it in a blaze of glory. Its only mission was to take Stephen out. He looked around for a weapon. The baseball bat autographed by the 2004 Boston Red Sox leaned against his workout machine. The little flaming beast was making more racket than ever. The strange language had given way to squeaks and squawks and flaming plastic and pieces of railroad were littering the floor, igniting more of the carpet, the furniture. The room was going to go up, if not the entire house. The frenetic activity of the creature, still seeking its intended prey, reminded Stephen of those old Tasmanian Devil cartoons, with the snarling spitting character tornado-spinning and destroying everything in its path. He heard a shout from beyond his bedroom door and was horrified to see the monster turn towards it. All Stephen could think of is what might happen should his mother or father come in. Acting on instinct, he grabbed the closest thing— the heavy wood and leather lunch tray from his mother’s kitchen—and pushed himself up so his back was against the desk, affording him a better position. “Hey!” he screamed. The demon jerked its head back to him. Spotting prey it crouched, and in the flames Stephen saw a goat-like face and tiny jaws lined with daggers drooling fire, and below curled horns cunning pinpoint eyes focused on him. A surge of adrenaline-soaked instinct made him look away from the creature’s gaze, sensing some doom inherent in it, a danger as terrifying as

that of the mythical Medusa. The demon opened its jaws, drew its head back, and Stephen got the tray up just in time before a stream of boiling vomit shot across the room hitting the tray raised as an effective shield. Searing liquid fire splashed in all directions, igniting all it touched. The tray was in flames now and Stephen hurled it away, his fingers blistered. The noxious fumes were beginning to blind him. The demon was changing its position for another attack. Its fiery reptilian tail swished like that of a cat preparing to strike. Stephen pulled the fallen wheelchair nearer and used it and the corner of the desk to lift himself. He struggled into a higher sitting position facing his attacker, desk at his back. He wiped his tearing eyes, blinking to clear his vision halfthankful that he could not meet the treser’s gaze even if he wanted to. “Come on, ugly,” he taunted, raising the Louisville Slugger over one shoulder. The monster was crouching, tensing to spring. Stephen waited until exactly the right moment. After what seemed an amazing amount of time but was actually only seconds, the flame-beast leapt, and Stephen did not swing, but loosed the bat at it. Years of weight training and using his arms to get around left Stephen with an amazing physical strength and the flying bat became a deadly missile. He threw himself to the floor as the world evaporated into light and heat and earthshaking thunder.

“Stephen!” his mother screamed as the explosion rocked the house. Richard was with her in the kitchen, holding her back. Outside, Dale’s associate in the company van was expecting his relief for his shift, when he heard the explosion and saw a fireball erupt over the roof of the house. He exited the van and sprinted across the lawn, shouting into his two-way radio. “Dale! Dale!”

The sulfurous stench of rotten eggs was as overpowering as the heat from the fire. The explosion forced a blast of flame and heated air though the shattered windows, and through the door and into the hallway. Dale had to turn his face away at that moment. The Glock was ready but he doubted he’d need it. This

had to be a bomb, God only knew how it had gotten into the house. Regardless, he was sure his client was dead. Choking on the smell he screamed at Stephen’s parents to stay back and forced himself down the hallway. The flames were sputtering now—the violent blast had blown out much of the inferno. Dale couldn’t see anything. There was burning debris everywhere. The smoke was still bad, choking and blinding. He held a towel to his face, his eyes streaming. There on the floor, was that Stephen? “Dale! Here! Dale!” Elaine and Richard, behind him—she was holding a kitchen fire extinguisher.

Norman was groaning and gasping, rolled into a ball with arms wrapped around his middle. Frank pointed the pistol past Warburton’s arm at Vint, on his feet and facing him. “Off with the gunbelt.” It occurred to Toby that he’d not even thought to go for his weapon. With one hand he unbuckled his belt and holster. “Give it a good toss,” Frank instructed him. Toby whipped the belt pistol included over the hood of Syd’s vehicle. “Now back up unless you want a replay of last night.” Seeing no sense in getting shot, Toby backed away, his hands at his waist. “Thought bullets didn’t bother you much,” Frank commented, gesturing with the Magnum.. “I can live with them,” the deputy responded, “but they hurt like hell.” Frank suppressed a laugh, from the tension as much as the reply. Syd was utterly complacent. Frank’s fingers were squeezing the deputy’s Adam’s apple and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. “Vint! Grab him!” Carter called out. “You first,” Toby offered, his eyes never leaving Frank’s. Bath wanted Moore

alive, if possible. Toby sighed and set his jaw. “Don’t do it,” Frank warned, sensing his intent. “I can hurt you.” “You’re going to have to.” Frank pointed the pistol directly at Vint’s face. “I don’t want to kill you,” Frank told him, his eyes deadly serious. “I haven’t heard your name mentioned in connection with the McVies. You can live.” Toby shook his head, almost sad. “I’ve done worse. Much worse.” “I’m trying to give you a chance,” Frank insisted. “Take it. You may think you’re unstoppable, but you’re wrong.” “I can’t let you take Bath, much as I’d like to,” Toby warned. “The rest of them you can have.” His eyes shifted in the direction of Hopewell and Carter’s hiding place. Listening and aware that statement included him, Syd gulped, with Frank’s fingers squeezing his throat. “Get between me and Bath and you’re going down,” Frank countered. His expression was pained. What hold did Bath have on him? “Go ahead and shoot,” Vint urged him. His lip was curled, expecting the bullet. Frank stared at him, thinking if he had the silver bullets from the back of the Blazer this could end now. He saw no purpose in shooting Vint in the face just to torture him. “You can’t kill me,” Vint announced. “Oh, I’ll fall all right. But once the night comes, I’ll be good as new.” He said this not as a boast, but as simple fact and with a tinge of sadness. Carter watched as Frank backed toward his Blazer, dragging Warburton along. He had a .32 revolver in a Velcro boot holster, but he instinctively had drawn the axe. He hefted the axe experimentally, shaking it, wanting to use it, considering the distance.

He was better, much better, with his more traditional weapons. They required a skill that he took great pride in perfecting and he never loosed one, be it axe or throwing knife or arrow, unless he knew it would find its target. He itched to demonstrate his prowess on Moore. He stole a hard look around the tree and crouching ran to a closer position. Hopewell was a farther distance down the driveway, behind a tree. He’d swept off his Stetson and had his pistol out, but Carter knew he was too far away to do anything with it. Vint was damned near close enough to grab Moore—what the hell was he doing, having a conversation? If not for Warburton— Moore’s attention was more or less on Vint. Carter made a decision, stood and left cover cocking his throwing hand back, allowing for the injured arm’s tendency to drag him off-balance and the absence of his free hand which he normally used to fix his target. “Hey Syd!” he shouted, and let the weapon fly. Moore was not clear. But his hostage was just about perfect. Warburton panic-jumped at Carter’s shout but Frank held him fast. The flashing steel spun across more than fifteen yards in an instant, an incredible throw, even more incredible that it met its target dead-on. Frank heard a wet thunk and Warburton stiffened with a strangled gasp. He went limp instantly and Frank saw the axe blade buried deep in his chest. Frank had to twist to keep the collapsing man from dragging him down. Syd’s head lolled lifeless on his shoulders, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolled skyward. Toby lunged at Frank. He managed to twist out of the way. Without losing the pistol he sent a rabbit-punch into the back of the deputy’s head, slamming his face into the Blazer’s quarter-. Vint dropped to his knees, stunned. Frank looked up in time to see Carter, now with a pistol of his own, and Hopewell, both of them moving in. The bullet splintered a tree limb less than six inches from Carter’s left ear. It was the Sheriff who bleated an incoherent curseword and they dropped to the ground. Vint came up swinging. Frank had no intention of letting one of those oversized

fists connect—he danced out of reach. The deputy was powerful, and fast, but he wasn’t a fighter. He made a grab for Frank’s gun-hand. Frank jerked it back and drove the heel of his left hand up into Vint’s chin. He heard the teeth clack together and a grunt of agony. He had no time to be polite, with two men gunning for him. He swung the revolver into Vint’s nose, backing him off. Then he stepped in and delivered a roundhouse left. There was plenty of resistance but he was positive he felt the jaw shatter. Still Vint did not fall—he barely stumbled. Frank spun and connected with a kick under the chin. Vint uttered a strangled sound and dropped on his ass. Frank backed towards the Blazer. He waved the sixgun in the direction of Carter and the Sheriff, then flattened the right front tire of Syd’s patrol car with a shot from the revolver, insuring they couldn’t immediately follow him. He got into the Blazer and started the engine. The deputy had rolled over and was getting to his feet. Frank stared before hitting the gas—the big man’s uniform was a filthy torn mess, hands and face coated with grime and sweat—but there was not a bruise or cut to be seen. As he sped past the two men exchanged glances, unspoken promises made between them. He fired a shot at the gunmen to keep them down as he barreled past. His tires spewed gravel as he pulled down the driveway and onto Rune Road, stomping the gas. He ed the Sheriff’s car and Kel Henderson’s van. He forced his breathing to steady as the air from the open window cooled him off. A shooting pain went down his back—tension releasing, he knew. There were no vehicles visible in the rear view mirror. He had to get to a phone and call Stephen—he’d left his cell back at the house. And only one other thought was on his mind: They were going after another kid.

“Shit, he’s dead,” Hopewell groaned, checking Norman’s pulse.

“Same for Syd,” Toby said. He released the gangly deputy’s wrist and leaned back on his heels, looking into the dead man’s eyes. “What a fucking mess this is,” the Sheriff muttered. “This could not have gone worse.” Victor bent past Toby and gripped the axe handle. He had to put a boot on Warburton’s shoulder to easily pull the weapon free. It made a slight sucking sound. He wiped the blade on the dead cop’s uniform shirt before standing. “Carter, you asshole. You didn’t have to do that.” Hopewell was wondering, insanely, what he was going to tell his wife, Syd’s cousin. It dawned on him, that was the least of his worries. “We had to get Moore,” Victor said simply. He could care less about Syd Warburton and wasn’t afraid to show it. “But you’re right, this was an abortion.” “Damn,” Hopewell said bitterly, wheezing heavily from his exertions and his anger. The Glock was in his hand down along his side. His cheeks were bright red. Victor realized he was being eyed and cracked a humorless smile. “Try it,” he challenged. He raised the axe, just slightly, offering. Hopewell actually considered doing just that, and then decided there had been enough blood spilled here. Besides, John Bath would not be happy with Victor. Toby stood and left the two men, deciding there would be no violence between them, at least not yet. He reached into Syd’s front seat to get Mary on the radio. Carter decided Hopewell was not a threat and watched the big deputy. He’d heard stories about Vint from Hopewell, even Dean. Of course he’d witnessed the damage done to him in the attack at the guest house, but such memories were distorted, impressions more than anything else. It was another thing, entirely, with all his human faculties to see a man take such a crippling beating as Vint had just suffered, and yet have no visible ill effects beyond mussed hair and a torn uniform.

It was certainly something to consider.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Frank took a motel room in Whitestone to regroup. He tried unsuccessfully to call Stephen—the line was stubbornly busy—stripped off his clothes and subjected himself to a scalding shower. His body felt like an open sore. The confrontation with the deputies aggravated and inflamed the abuse he’d suffered the night before. And worse, he was exhausted emotionally—it had been a long time since he was in a firefight. He stood beneath the pounding shower spray and asked himself why he did not simply shoot the deputy and make his escape before he could recover. A .44 caliber bullet would have given him ample time, but instead, he’d chosen to beat the man. He could take no refuge in the belief that it was simple vengeance— nothing he’d found indicated that Vint had anything directly to do with Gwen’s murder. No, it was more than that. Frank had taken a cruel pleasure in inflicting all that injury. And although he was a man capable of torture and killing, he certainly had never taken such satisfaction before this. As a young man he’d loved those George Romero zombie movies—the drooling animated cadavers in those films were the ultimate punching bags, kick them, hack them, shoot them, they did not complain. You could vent yourself in a dozen different ways on them and keep it up until you got tired. But it was the most primitive part of the human mind, the little bit of raptor still remaining in the brain of every person, that took pleasure in such carnage. All the times he had killed human beings, he’d never taken that perverse joy in the acts, and he did not like recognizing his capacity to do so. Toby Vint—Frank had beaten him into a state of shock and the man kept wading in. That was what that dull, lifeless look in the eyes meant. Frank saw it during the war. The brain could shut down, when a person was so overcome by pain and trauma that it could take no more. Vint could heal physically in less time than it took to inflict the injuries—but the emotional and mental scars took a bit longer. What was Vint? A werewolf, a supremely large and powerful one. But nothing like Bath’s coven. And there was something so likeable about the guy,

ing for Frank’s reluctance to shoot him in the face. That was foolish of course. Vint could very well end up killing him. He snorted, amused. If he absolutely had to fall—this was insane, but if that had to happen, he hoped it was to Vint. Not Bath! But to get Bath, he would have to go through Vint, just as the deputy promised. If Frank met him again—the werewolf Vint—he needed to be ready. That meant putting Vint down. For good. If the silver bullets were ineffective, what then? Fire maybe. Wasn’t fire nature’s great sterilizer? After the shower he tried Stephen. Still busy. It was after dark. Was something wrong? Using a street map of Haven he found the location of Holland Radcliff’s house. There was even a blurb about it in a listing of the town’s tourist attractions. It seems the mansion dated from before Colonial times and part of it was a museum, as well as Radcliff’s home and office. Frank hooked his laptop into the motel’s Internet access and got useful information from the State Historical Society website, just as he had for the Courthouse. Norman had confirmed that a backup plan of some kind had gone into effect. Frank had no idea of the new abductors’ identities or how to get to them, or who or where the new victim might be. But he could get to Radcliff. Miller said the kids were left with Radcliff. Frank was going with little intel or recon—only what he could get from the computer—not the way he liked to do things. But he had no choice, not this time. He had tonight to do it. He couldn’t let them take that girl. He would stop it, somehow. He was tired and in pain, but he had a way of putting his aches and bruises aside, forgetting about them. He needed sleep. He’d been in two separate battles for his life in the last twenty-four hours. He was not in the best shape and he had a long night ahead.

He’d disguised the plates on the Blazer, just in case he was being sought for Warburton’s death. He thought he could afford a couple hours of sleep. Radcliff should be good and tucked in by then. He tried Stephen one last time after leaving a wake-up call, and then he hit the sheets. He drifted off thinking of Lori.

Dale Condiff worked best under pressure. Several hours after the explosion in Stephen’s bedroom he was busy organizing a team of explosives and arson experts d with Drake Gridiron to go over the fire scene and try and find the cause. The local Sheriff had shown up and then left the scene before Condiff could speak with him. The fire had not spread much beyond the bedroom and was put out by Haven’s small volunteer fire department, led by one Chief Perry, a middle-aged appliance salesman who seemed competent enough when it came to dousing fires, but his forensic evidence skills were highly lacking. “Must be the wiring,” Perry kept insisting in the driveway of the house. “It was not,” Dale countered, amazed at the man’s ability to tune out any external distractions, such as facts. “The room was wired to hell and gone. Looked like NASA in there.” “The fire was caused by an explosion—it was either a bomb or a weapon fired through the window. It has to be investigated further.” “Yeah, all that hardware—bound to spark eventually.” “Chief? Can you hear my voice?” Condiff was amazed at the man’s attitude. “Let’s go, boys! Call this one done.” The Chief gestured towards his men. “My company can get people from the capitol,” Dale warned. That at least got a glance of acknowledgement from the Fire Chief. He gave Condiff a nod and

went to help his men pack up their equipment. As the small firefighter team rolled up their hoses Dale answered his buzzing cell phone. It was Bill Arbogast, his immediate supervisor. He gave Bill a quick recap of the tragedy and the situation as it stood, expressing his dissatisfaction with the local authorities. He eyed what remained of the baseball bat, which he’d carried from the house in a clear plastic garbage bag to preserve any evidence traces. The bat was one third of its former length, the polished grip blackened and charred. But it was the splintered end that was most troubling—the wood was blasted, as if it had come in with an incendiary high explosive. It was carbonized down to the core. He looked at all the neighbors out on their lawns rubbernecking, just like normal people do. He shook his head at the departing Chief and his men and asked himself, What’s up with this town?

The computer incident had shorted out half the phone lines in town, but state-ofthe-art backups restored service quickly and repairs were already under way. Rippy called the usual contractor who delivered a replacement for the Doctor’s computer. The new PC sat silent. There was no hurry to get it working with everything going on. The attack on the computer hacker had left John Bath terribly drained. Rippy was shocked at the appearance of his mentor. Bath’s skin was pale and waxy, his eyes yellow around the whites and red-rimmed. Leonard was terrified. He was afraid Bath was dying. “The powers of darkness demand a high price, Leonard,” the Doctor said, forcing a tired smile. “But I’ll be all right.” “You should go to bed.” “I’m going to. So what was done with Syd?” “Radcliff took care of it. Syd’s on his way to a morgue in Whitestone—Holland has a man there.”

Bath pulled his robe closer about him. “Can you make me some tea?” “Of course.” Leonard helped himself to the stuff in the kitchen. The Doctor was sitting in front of the television, listening to the news updates. “Syd’s mother? Will she be a problem?” “Syd had some shady personal habits. I’ll have him dumped behind a strip bar in Whitestone, Holland’s man will make it look like a mugging. His mother’s practically a shut-in, she won’t have much choice but to live with it. I’ll handle it.” “I can’t believe this chain of events,” Bath commented. “I am drained.” “Victor’s been wanting to see you but I’m putting him off.” “I don’t want to meet Tobias either. I’m not in a mood to look at his face right now. Anyway, I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.” “Yes sir.” “I’ll be fine by morning. Don’t worry.” “I’m not, sir.” But he was. Leonard had the tea on the stove, waiting for it to boil. “I wonder what will happen next,” Doctor Bath said.

“Hello? Mrs. Wilkes?” “No, this is Brit Kellogg—can I ask who’s calling?” “My name’s Frank, I’m a friend of Stephen’s. Is something wrong? What’s going on there?” “Frank—can you hold on a sec?” She did not wait for an answer. Frank felt rising panic. Something had happened, and it was bad. It sounded like the Wilkes home was full of people, he could hear

their voices over the phone. With Stephen’s line still busy, he’d resorted to calling the parents. The Kellogg woman—who was she?—returned after a moment. “Frank, I’m with Drake Gridiron. There was some trouble here tonight—” “What happened?” Frank cut in, his heart skipping a beat. “Well, it’s still not certain, but it looks like it may have been a bomb—” “Shi—!” Frank hissed, and cut himself off. He steadied himself, and asked the question he dreaded the answer to. “Stephen, is he okay? His folks?” “I can only say Stephen was alive when he was careflighted out—” “Careflighted,” Frank whispered, numb. “Mister and Mrs. Wilkes are at the hospital—” “How bad was he?” “I can’t say. Take this number down. Do you have a pencil?” “What hospital is he at?” Frank put in, frustrated with the woman. Why wouldn’t she tell him anything? He was able to memorize the number. “That’s Dale Condiff’s line at the hospital—” “So Stephen’s alive?” “Just call Dale—he’s in charge of—” “Yeah, yeah,” Frank snapped, slamming the receiver down. Punching in the new number, the rational, un-terrified part of his mind was telling him it made perfect sense, though—this was a major breach, the client had been attacked. You couldn’t give information to just anyone. Brit Kellogg was doing exactly as she should have. “Dale Condiff.” “It’s Frank. What the hell happened?”

“Frank Moore?” “Yeah, who do you think? Will you tell me is Stephen alive or do I have to come down there?” “He’s alive,” Condiff said without hesitation. Frank felt a twinge in his back, an effect of coiled-up tension releasing like a spring. Seems like he’d had a few of those lately. He let out his breath as if he’d been hit. “How bad is he?” “Smoke inhalation, his hands are burned. His hair was burned.” “That’s it?” “It’s enough—he’s on oxygen. But he should be fine.” “His parents, they’re okay?” “They’re fine. Shook up.” “What was it? What happened?” “Well, that’s the thing—” Here it comes, Frank thought. “We don’t know yet. It wasn’t like anything I’ve seen before. Just the room and hallway were burned. The window was blown outward—but the explosion occurred in the air. And his monitors did something strange—blew up, like grenades. I couldn’t get the Fire Chief to take a good look even—” “Haven Fire Chief?” “Yes.” “Yeah, of course.” “And the smell—I’m sure chemicals were involved—” “Smell? Stink?”

“Yeah, like rotten eggs,” Condiff said, surprise in his tone. Or sulfur, Frank thought. Like the pits of Hell. “Are you with Stephen? Can he talk?” “We’ve set up a special line, just a second. His voice isn’t so hot.” “Condiff, I need to talk to you after.” “You got it—here he is.” “—Frank?” It was a painful rasp like two pieces of sandpaper against each other. After he spoke he wheezed. “Stephen, you okay, buddy?” “Yeah.” More wheezing. Stephen spoke carefully, not rushing it. “Don’t try to talk. I just wanted to hear you.” “I’m a believer, Frank.” A long pause to suck on some oxygen. “I saw something —it—” “Don’t worry about all that,” Frank said trying to quiet him. “She saved my life—Frank—I saw—” “Stephen, just rest your voice. You sound awful, man.” “The disc—” Frank was surprised to realize he could care less about Albanese’s disc. The thing was great evidence for a court case, maybe, but as a weapon it was useless. Because he, Frank Moore, was the only retribution Bath had coming. Not the police, not the law, not even the vengeance of the Lord Almighty could be depended upon to correct the grievous wrong of Bath’s continued existence. Frank wanted it now more than ever. He could not afford to fail. “We’ll worry about the disc later.”

“Later?” “This is almost over, I promise. You just concentrate on getting better, my friend.” “Frank—you need to call—home.” His eyes narrowed. What was he saying? “Dayton. Rippy in . Someone in Dayton.” “Dayton? Are you sure?” “—Yes.” Frank blinked. He felt a claw raking his heart. “You call, Frank. Important.” “I will. I’m going now, you rest up.” Frank checked his watch. It was getting late. He was reluctant to consider what might be happening back home. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? “I’m sorry, Frank.” “For what?” “Wanted to see this through—to the end. I’m out of action.” “We are at the end, Stephen. And I couldn’t have gotten here, without you. You came through for Gwen, for Val, for all of them. You helped put a stop to this. Always that. Clam up now. Let me talk to Condiff.” “Frank—be careful.” “Frank? Is there a disc I need to look for?” Dale Condiff was listening to Stephen’s end of the conversation. “That can wait—listen, Condiff, you’re in deep shit. Stephen has to have his family protected, for a couple of days I’d even get them safe-housed somewhere, all of them.”

“What’s going on—” “Quiet, I’m not done yet. Get him a room with no windows. You ever see that movie The Octagon with the bad guys climbing up the walls like vampire bats? Well that’s what this is, only a thousand times worse. Put a guard at his door and one in the room with him, if you want to keep him alive. You seem like a capable guy, Condiff, or else I wouldn’t bother telling you this.” “I understand.” “No way you understand, but I hope you’re taking me seriously. And absolutely under no circumstances leave anyone, doctors or nurses, alone with him. You do and he’s dead. I’d keep visitors to his parents and no one else. And get this—I would only use people you can vouch for personally from your company. His enemies have connections, you just don’t know. Think you can do all this?” “I think so.” “I like that hesitation in your voice, Dale—tells me you don’t really know what to expect. That’ll give you an edge. One more thing.” “I’m listening.” Frank paused. Then he said, “Make sure Stephen knows—there’s no one other than him I’d have with me through this. No one. You’ll ?” “I’ll .”

Frank’s hand trembled as he punched in the number for home. The phone rang and rang and the machine did not pick up. And that was a very bad sign. He tried his own voicemail, terrified of what he would hear. His fears were justified. First message: Frank where are you? This is Anna—Mom’s in the hospital. Leslie found her, couldn’t wake her up. Call home, Frank—this is Anna. Then: Frank, Anna—where are you? We’ve been trying your cell—Mom’s been

moved to Kettering Medical—they think it’s her heart. Please call, Frank—She left a number for a hospital waiting room which Frank jotted down, hand shaking. Finally, most heartbreaking, Leslie, weeping: Frank? Please call, please. Mom needs you. We need you. Please call us. A sick numbness and creeping horror was spreading through his limbs as he punched the number. “Hello?” Anna, on the first ring. Her voice was high and panicky. “Annie?” “Frank! Where are you? We called all night!” “How is she? I’m still up here—how is she?” “She’s in Intensive C-Care—” Something gave way inside her and Anna, the strongest of the kids, choked back a sob before she was able to continue. “It’s a virus they think—it’s in her heart, Frank—” Her voice broke again. “How is she?” “Getting weaker. Are you coming?” “I am. I am,” he mumbled miserably, knowing he could not. Not now. “They can’t get her to wake up. When are you coming?” “I will, as soon as I can,” he said, hating himself, blinking back tears. “Soon as you can?” The panic in her voice rose a notch. “What does that mean, soon as you can?” “Is he coming?” Leslie, in the background. “What’s your problem, man? We all need you here—Mom needs you.” “I know. I’m sorry.” So sorry—he couldn’t leave. The girl—Bath was doing this, all of it. I can’t leave.

Anna was silent now, struck dumb by words she never thought she’d hear from her stepfather. “I can’t leave here, not yet. You have to trust me.” “Frank? You’re really not coming home?” The phone had been handed off to Leslie. Stunned disbelief in her tone. “I can’t, Les. Have to finish this, baby. Then I’ll be there.” He heard her weeping. He knuckled tears from his eyes. “Come soon. I’m afraid we’re gonna lose her, Frank.” He choked back a sob. “No, no, don’t say that. She’s gonna be fine—” “Come soon. Please come.” “I will. Tell your Mom I love her. You guys hug each other for me.” “Goodbye.” “Bye—” He bowed his head, weeping. Then the full weight hit him. He sank to the floor and hugged his knees, groaning in hitching sobs. He was absolutely sure he was going to lose her. Bath would kill her, with little more than a thought, as he had so many others. For the first time he could Frank prayed, to a God he did not fully believe in, even though he was now completely convinced of the Devil’s existence—he prayed that Lori’s life would be spared. If not for himself, then for the kids. But he had no faith to rely on—he’d seen too many obscenities and no miracles—and he knew she would die. Unless he killed Bath first. Maybe that was her only chance. He wept on the floor with his face pressed into the cheap motel carpet, his sobs muffled and heart-wrenching. He let it all out as hard and as fast as he could. For the simple fact that he had grim work to do and he could not afford to be dulled

by grief as he went about it. When he could he got up and washed his face with cold water. His eyes looked like he’d gone a couple of rounds with a good right-hook man. As he dressed he steeled himself, marshalling his strength, putting his feelings of guilt and despair aside. Lori had only one slim chance, and he had to survive, and he had to keep on going, if he meant to give it to her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Father Jason had problems sleeping in the summer—the air conditioning played hell with his sinuses and on warm nights with no breeze he usually found himself restless. He checked the clock on the bedside—after one in the morning. He got out of bed and slipped on his robe, wanting something to drink. In the kitchen he opened a can of Bud Light and took a long swallow, hoping the alcohol would help him sleep. He stood with the refrigerator door open, a habit that brought him no small amount of grief from Penny Lowry, his live-in cook and housekeeper. Penny was a tough widow from the mountains of Pennsylvania. Her people were coal miners. She would snipe, “For Chrissakes, Father, were you born in a barn?” But Penny was safely away in her own bed. Jason took a second swallow, intending to finish the beer quickly. Something made him look out the window over the breakfast table, down on the ading cathedral. Was that a light in the window down there? It was. Someone was moving around in there. St. Vincent’s was locked up. This couldn’t be good. Jason muttered a profanity and immediately blessed himself—another habit frowned upon by Penny Lowry. Should he call the police? He didn’t, and later on, he would wonder why not. There had been break-ins before and he had always called, it was the smartest thing. But this time, inexplicably, he decided to have a look for himself.

He found the door unlocked, not broken—strange. Albert, the caretaker, never left things unsecured. He went in, making an effort to be quiet. The candles were lit. A man was kneeling before them, head bent in prayer. Jason approached the altar a bit more relaxed, feeling the man was not up to mischief after all.

But he stopped as a feeling came over him that it was he who was the intruder. He’d decided to retrace his steps and simply wait for the man to leave when the stranger stood. Jason saw him pause—he was making the sign of the cross—and he turned. He was unsurprised to see Jason and the Father knew he’d been heard. Jason’s first thought was to apologize for disturbing him—silly, under the circumstances. In the reflecting candle light the man’s face was ghostly pale, the dark-circled eyes hard and emotionless. The priest could not help taking a step back when the man approached. “Sorry for letting myself in,” he said. Jason, transfixed by the man’s appearance, took him at his word. “You didn’t break anything, no harm done.” “I’ll be going.” He moved to step around the priest, who offered his hand suddenly. “Father Jason—call me Jase.” The man clasped the hand. “Frank.” Jason found himself at once drawn to the man’s eyes and reluctant to meet that strange icy gaze. “Would you like to talk, Frank? You seem troubled.” And battered—Frank’s forehead wore a scab from a fresh cut. “Not tonight—but thanks.” As Frank turned again to go, Jason touched his shoulder. “Can I pray with you, then?” Frank shook his head. “No, I’m through—but you might offer one on my part.” “I certainly will. I wish you’d stay.” Frank gave the priest an amused look. “Are you a Catholic?” “You were just the nearest port in a storm. I thought it couldn’t hurt.” “It never hurts. What’s going on, if I may ask?”

“If you’re thinking I should confess, you’re probably right. And I’ll need to again, after tonight. But no thanks—I just came in to ask for a little help.” “Let me help you, Frank.” “No, I can’t do that.” Jason followed him down the aisle. “Frank—” “Say one for Lori, Padre, and for a little girl. I don’t know her name. But she’s out there, somewhere.” “Well, take this, then—please.” The priest fished a coin from his pocket. It was a very small medallion. Frank looked curiously at it. The tiny silver face depicted a woman with her arms around several children. Frank decided to take it—it was like an omen. “Is she a Saint?” “Justine—Patron Saint of Children,” Jason smiled. “Thanks, Father. That’s a good thing there. Be seeing you.” As he left, Jason called after him, “I’ll it upstairs, Frank—for your Lori and the girl.”

Holland Radcliff slept perfectly no matter the weather. His room was cool, the old house fitted with central air. The events of the last few days—Miller and Farley, Warburton—kept many of his associates up with worry at night, but not him. Radcliff did not believe in worrying, about anything. There was not much he did believe in. He dreamt peacefully of his wife, dead now fifty years. Katie ed away young and left Holland with no children and little humanity. He seldom thought of her anymore while awake. She was a part of that other life, the one where Holland Radcliff had a conscience. He was a dentist by profession, retired, and a nihilist by lifestyle. His sole conviction was that he and everyone else living were doomed and therefore you should live your life as you wished with no regard for those sharing this world

with you. The only religion to which he adhered was the one that could get the most out of this earthly existence. John Bath’s religion. The way he chose to lead his life had acquainted him with various highly illegal pursuits. The ‘60s had been fun, with the plentiful drugs and sex, the ‘70s a bit less so, and the ‘80s with the Reagan istration less so still. By the ‘90s the thrill seeker within him had sampled just about everything there was to offer and boredom along with old age was setting in. Now Radcliff was past 80 years old and adventure and good health were long behind him. He was a cruel man unable to abide the company of others and he holed up in his museum-home watching the news and the weather channel. He never came to the Gatherings any more, and in fact holding the girls for the Offering rituals and keeping them healthy was his one remaining link to the group. In this he mystified John Bath —no other had ever been able to willingly cast aside that addicting double life. One brief respite from his boredom had been the capture of the private detective following Greg Miller. Radcliff had supervised the interrogation and torture of the man, and his eventual murder. That had been distracting. He was not accustomed to waking in the middle of the night, seemingly for no reason, and he squinted bleary-eyed at the illuminated clock numerals on his bedside table. It was just after 4 am. What the hell? The shape in the dark against the wall indicated he was not alone and with one hand he groped carefully for the alarm buzzer hanging from the table, hoping to avoid alerting the intruder that he was awake. He found the button and pressed it. It did not feel right. He held it again, more forcefully— “Don’t bother. I cut the cord.” The stranger’s voice was quiet and perfectly relaxed. He might have been mentioning the morning paper’s headline. Radcliff let out his breath, exasperated. “Get up. No need to turn the light on.” Radcliff grunted, getting up on his elbows. “I suppose you’re Frank Moore.” “You suppose correctly. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here.” “Get up.” Radcliff threw back the bed covers and swung both bare feet onto the floor. He looked at the shape of his desk chair at the foot of his bed, where he’d left his robe. It wasn’t but a few feet away. For self-defense purposes he had a filled syringe in the right hip pocket. “Here,” Moore said, tossing something into his lap. “What’s this?” It was a cell phone. “Call the kidnappers. Have them meet you here.” Radcliff gawked at him in the dark. “Kidnappers?” This was met with a moment of chilling silence. Then: “You don’t want to play with me, Doctor.” Radcliff looked at the outline of his own bedside phone. Resigned, he opened the face of the cell—the numbers were illuminated. “You think of everything.” “I try. Punch in the wrong number and you’ll regret it.” “It’s almost five in the morning for Chrissakes.” “The early bird and all that.” “What if they don’t answer?” “They’d better.” He put his glasses on and punched in Mark Court’s number. Radcliff was not nervous. A life of debauchery left him hard to rattle. The phone rang three times. “It’s the machine,” he said, holding the phone out for his intruder to listen. Frank didn’t move. “Wake them up.”

Radcliff sighed with annoyance. “Mark, this is Radcliff. Get up, get up,” he urged. “They’re not answering—” “Doc? What the hell—? It’s almost five—” Court was mumbling, half-asleep. “Mark, you and Portman need to get over here.” “What? Are you kidding me?” “No joke, Mark, goddammit. Just get your asses over here.” “For what? Aw, man—Jesus—” came the other’s complaint. “I got a deal today, you realize that?” “Get your asses over here pronto or you won’t have jack shit,” Radcliff promised. “Okay—damn—okay, give us a while.” “Make it quick.” “I gotta wake up Portman—yeah, okay.” Frank took the phone back, turning it off with one gloved hand. Then he dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe. “How long?” “I guess—maybe an hour.” “Okay, let’s go.” “Where?” “To wait on your guests.” “Can I get my robe?” “Suit yourself.” Radcliff made a show of being resigned to his fate as he stood and got his

slippers and the robe on. His hand groped the pocket—it was empty. “I found the hypo,” Frank told him then. Radcliff let his shoulders sag. He actually chuckled with amusement, shaking his head. “Let’s go. You screw up and I’ll happily blow your head off.” Radcliff saw the glint of long gunmetal in the intruder’s hand. Frank stepped aside and motioned towards the door. “What’s in the hypo? It looked like Mountain Dew.” “Antifreeze.” He put a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder as he opened the door and they went into the hallway with Frank guiding. The landing was on the second floor. The gloom was broken by long shadows cast by the starlight coming through the expansive window overlooking the staircase. The house appeared completely dead to the world. Frank guided the old man down the length of the railing to the polished wooden stairs and they started down. From there they headed for the front door. Radcliff realized they were going outside. Not for the first time he wondered where his bodyguards were. A sudden movement. Radcliff tensed for the bullet that was surely coming.

Frank was not easily taken by surprise, but it happened to the best. His attacker was on him with such soundless speed and strength that he had no chance to respond. While a thick arm encircled his neck from behind, powerful fingers seized his gunhand, forcing it up into the air, and twisting the weapon from his grip. The bulging bicep against his throat was so huge and strong that he had to use both hands to claw at the arm and keep from being rendered unconscious. He saw a flash of movement, a panther in the dark—a raven-tressed woman. She

came at him like a missile. She was tall. She pivoted on one leg and hurled a martial arts kick. Fighting the strangle hold, he was unable to even tighten up his abdominal muscles to receive it—the booted foot hit him like he was a sack of meal. Agony clamped his eyes shut and the air left his lungs. He was completely helpless. “Why couldn’t you two grab him up before he got in my room?” Radcliff demanded, angry, backing away. “We didn’t even know he was in the house!” the woman snapped. “The motion detector outside your room finally got him!” Frank blinked, gasping—he’d missed that. “Search him.” The woman did so without a word. “Hold him, Conrad.” “I got him, Doc,” said the voice in Frank’s ear. He fought for oxygen, his skull pounding like a jackhammer. This Conrad had to have had some serious police street training—his skill with the strangle hold was perfect, his strength and control impossible to counter. “Here you go,” the woman said, ing the doctor’s hypo back to him. Also Frank’s speedloader. “Take him to the Room,” Radcliff instructed. Instantly Frank was jerked nearly off his feet, and he knew his captor was not only powerful, but a good six inches taller. The giant holding him propelled him forward. Someone turned on a hallway light and the old man and the woman followed. Frank saw a short rotund woman in a robe regarding him with hostility. She held a door open and through they went, down a hall—Conrad urged him on with a painful blow to the kidneys. The raven-haired woman darted ahead, opened another door, switched on a light. Frank was half-carried down another short length of stairs. Where were they taking him? He saw a doorway with a window leading to the outside—there was a sharp right

turn through a different door. A light came on. “Hey! What the hell!” “Shut up, Kel. Marabeth, the door,” Radcliff said, letting the woman to a door on the opposite wall. The room was sterile-looking, tiled. Frank saw a refrigerator, a sink, a counter with medical supplies, some medical lamps and equipment. It seemed to be an operating room or something similar. Kel Henderson was in pajamas, lying on his belly on a raised bed, propping himself on his elbows to see what was going on, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Moore!” Frank could only snarl in greeting, the arm tightening around his throat. “Doc, that’s him! He killed Jan!” The woman struggled with the handle. The heavy door opened and in they went. The room was padded in white floor-to-ceiling, a mattress the only furnishing. Conrad spun him around and Frank saw the door had a slot for a food tray and a little wire-glass window for observation. There was the faint smell of bleach. This was it—the Room. It had to be where they held the kidnapped girls—kept them until— “Doc! What’re you gonna do with him—” “Shut up, Kel!” Radcliff snapped as he entered after the three of them. Frank saw the elderly woman waiting at the doorway. “So what now, Doc?” the woman named Marabeth asked. She was panting, her big breasts heaving. She was quite a sight. Amazon-tall, tanned and muscular beneath a film of excitement-sweat, beautiful in a silicon-enhanced porn star kind of way. She was clad in black skintight leather that showed off her powerful arms and surgically-improved cleavage. The triangular head of a horned dragon was tattooed in electric blue-green atop a bulging right breast, the neck disappearing down into the valley between them.

“I need to call someone.” “Use my cell,” Marabeth offered. “No, that won’t work down here—watch him, I’ll be back—” “Can we have some fun with ‘im, Doc?” Marabeth called after him. “You can cut off his dick for all I care—just don’t kill him yet!” Radcliff snapped, slamming the door behind him. The woman Marabeth chilled Frank to the bone with her eager smile. Her features as well showed signs of cosmetic surgery—just a bit too perfect the narrow nose, the full red lips. Her eyes and lashes were as coal-black as that mane of hair. Frank was unable to suppress a groan of apprehension from deep in his throat. Conrad giggled, close to Frank’s ear. He rolled his eyes, looking for a weapon. The woman wore a shoulder holster for a handgun—a damned big one—but she must have left it outside the room with his Magnum. In the ceiling, positioned over the wire screen closing the room off —large sound speakers, and powerful arc lights. Of course—Miller said something about how the kids were willing. Bath brainwashed them. Sleep and food deprivation and sensory overload—how long would it take to break a young girl? One day? Two? Conrad gave him a jerk. Frank gasped for breath.

Marabeth eyed him like a rattler examining its next meal. She licked her full ruby lips, approaching him, breasts heaving. Her caramel-toned skin was shiny with perspiration and her smell was musky. Her insistent hand massaged him through his jeans. He recoiled reflexively, revolted, and felt something hard and unyielding behind—Conrad was sporting a board-stiff erection and didn’t mind letting him know it. Frank snarled, defiant.

Sensing his fury, Conrad jerked him off his feet, giggling. “You getting tired, Connie?” “No way, ‘Beth—I got plenty more.” “This one’s strong,” Marabeth observed, literally licking her chops, staring Frank in the eyes. “He would last a long time. Too bad we can’t have him to keep.” Her gaze was not only hungry, but iring. “You take him first,” Conrad growled. “I’ll sweeten him up for you, baby.” She tore his shirt open, the buttons flying, and her nails went up his ribs, drawing blood. She kissed his neck and lower, at first almost tenderly, her lips tracing his chest, pausing to sample one nipple. He tensed, uttering a curse, his eyes blazing with a hatred that just seemed to turn her on all the more. A predatory panther in heat and leather, she moaned low in her throat, her mouth on his belly. Her hand was still working him and she suddenly faced him, frowning, accusing. “You’re not getting hard. He’s not getting hard, Connie.” Conrad jerked him. “You’d best get your head right, man,” he warned. Frank blinked—were these freaks serious? She looked down at the front of him, appearing completely perplexed, how could he not be responding favorably to the roughing-up she was istering? “You gonna work?” She gave him a painful squeeze, making him squirm. “You gonna work for me?” Insistently she lowered his fly and thrust her fingers inside for a violating probe. Frank muttered obscenities through spittle and clenched teeth. His face burned from revulsion and his brain’s need for blood. He clamped his eyes shut and pictured killing them both. “Oh, he’s gonna work,” Conrad breathed, his mouth close like a lover’s. An oversized paw slammed down over Frank’s already-abused crotch, earning a sickened dry-heave. “He’ll work like a trained monkey.”

When Frank opened his tearing eyes, she had a straight razor out, twirling the silver blade in the air, her eyes glittering like black diamonds, promising.

“This phone’s dead, too,” Radcliff muttered. He’d already been to the den, and then the kitchen. Now they were in the downstairs foyer. Late the previous afternoon he knew there was trouble with the town’s phone lines, but his own had not been affected. He looked at Mrs. Keats. “That bastard’s done something to the phones.”

With the barest touch she drew the razor along the curve of his cheek. He felt the sting of the cut and the blood flowing. It trickled warm down his jaw and onto Conrad’s beefy forearm. The big man giggled, like a child, into his ear. With a girlish delighted oohhh she stuck out her pink tongue and licked at the cut, lapping, like a kitten. He clamped his eyes shut, repulsed, inhaling her perfume and sweat. When he dared to open them again she licked the edge of the razor for his benefit. Watching his eyes, she pulled the leather vest open to free her enhanced breasts. Conrad giggled, truly excited. Then she ducked her head, her mouth again finding his nipple. He squirmed, cursing unintelligibly. She straightened—and he gasped as she drew the razor through the erect nipple, slicing it cleanly. Conrad struggled to hold him, an animal gurgle of satisfaction low in his throat. She put her mouth on the cut and gently sucked the blood, the salt in her saliva stinging the wound. He felt the bile in his stomach trying to get out when he saw her eyes, beneath half-lowered lashes, rolled up into her head in a sexuallyinduced state of pleasure, as he’d seen women do when they approach climax. What had spawned these monsters? Her chin stained with his blood, she met his gaze and pressed her breasts against him, smearing her dark skin scarlet. She was smiling, thoroughly enjoying his revulsion, and the whole time Conrad’s big hand continued assaulting his abused privates.

Frank fought for each breath, half-wishing he’d out. At last the woman stepped away. He waited for what was coming next. Her hands went to her belt. “Put him on his knees, Connie.” The response was a crippling blow to the kidneys. Conrad released the choke hold and Frank dropped like a puppet with the strings cut. It was what he was waiting for—but he was so oxygen-starved and in such pain he was nearly helpless. Marabeth undid her belt and tugged at the clasp of her pants while Conrad grabbed Frank by the hair and dragged him up onto his knees before her. “I think this one’s worthy of a jar,” she was saying. “Think the Doc will let us have him back when they’re through, Connie?” “Don’t know. Might not be much left—he’s already a mess.” “Yeah—but he’s strong. The strongest I’ve seen.” They’ve done this before. Lots of times. She pushed down the skin-tight leather and he saw at first a brown muscular thigh. No underwear, a perfect thong-shaped tan-line, hair shaved, her sex resembling a smooth peach, and a tattoo of a gunmetal-blue scorpion with red eyes, its tail stinger dripping yellow venom into the V between her legs. Experimentally she seized one of his ears and thrust herself against his face, Conrad pushing his head forward. His nose choked with the scent of her twisted arousal, Frank clamped his eyes and mouth shut and fought to control his breathing. Desperately willing strength back into his oxygen-depleted muscles, he clenched a gloved fist.

Radcliff turned on the light switch and Mrs. Keats followed him down into the basement. The place was cool and damp, filled with old furniture and sealed packing boxes. The house phone system was all routed into the junction box on the cinderblock wall. It was Greek to Radcliff though. He stepped aside to let Mrs. Keats have a look. She was good at these things.

She cupped his chin, forcing his face up. Her eyes were not happy with his refusal to submit. His lips were stubbornly pursed, his jaw clamped. He tensed his arm. He’d never hit a woman before, and he didn’t need to just hit her, he had to put her down. He was not sure if women were as vulnerable as men to injuries to their privates—he had an idea they were not—but he did not have a wealth of ready targets. He was not in a good position and these two had demonstrated they were deadly. He had to drop her the first time, or he might not live to regret it. “Stick out your tongue,” Conrad ordered, jerking him by the hair. “Lick her.”

There was a tangle of wires leading from the junction box over to the fuse box. Mrs. Keats peered suspiciously at the mangling, wondering what Moore had done and why. “That’s not supposed to be that way, is it?” Radcliff said. The woman shook her head, frowning. Then she realized the old man was reaching a hand to touch something. She grabbed him: “No!” But it was too late, he’d brushed a wire and spitting sparks drove them both back.

Frank was about to make his move when the lights went out, leaving them in total blackness. Exactly what he’d been expecting, but now it caught him by surprise. He hesitated only a microsecond before driving his fist directly into her pubic mound, putting all his strength behind the punch. She made an indescribable sound of outrage and crumpled away with her pants around her knees. But Frank had a sick feeling that she was not badly injured. He threw an elbow backwards and caught Conrad in the groin, but the blow was not sufficient to incapacitate him. He toppled onto Frank like a falling tree and they thrashed on the floor. Frank hit, he kicked, he lashed out with elbows and knees but he was nearly spent from his ordeal and Conrad was fresh. So violent was their struggle that neither man noticed he could see—red emergency lights had clicked on overhead a moment after the power failed. Conrad at last locked a forearm under Frank’s chin and pushed and again Frank’s breath was cut off. His head bent back to the breaking point. He threw a desperate left into the side of his attacker’s head, to little effect. His strength was failing. He put the edge of his hand against Conrad’s Adam’s apple and pushed with the advantage of leverage against the floor. Above him his opponent’s head was shaved, the jaw square like a block of granite, atop a thick muscled neck. Conrad snarled, spittle flying into Frank’s face. He began to choke. But his death grip loosened only a little. The huge man had a much longer reach. Frank groped the shadows with his other hand, desperately looking for

something to grab, something he could use. He found an object—he wasn’t sure at first what he had, the thing unfamiliar in his gloved fingers—it was Marabeth’s razor. Everything was going black, literally, as he got a proper grip on the handle and brought it up to where it would do some good. He took a swipe. Conrad tried to jerk away, half an ear dangling. Frank cut again, and a third time. The death-hold at last faltered and Conrad gasped while a shower of hot blood hit Frank in the face. Conrad let go, screaming, holding his throat, pushing himself to the wall leaving a trail of fluid across the padded floor. Frank dragged himself in the opposite direction, wiping blood from his face. Gagging he tried to regain his breath with his back against a wall. Conrad sobbed for Marabeth. He knew he was dying. His screams had given way to gasps and even those were fading. Frank had no idea how long it might take him to bleed out, but from the amount of blood, he thought it might be pretty quick. The woman had gotten to her feet, was pulling her pants up. Frank struggled to stand as she knelt beside her partner. Conrad was not moving. She straightened, composing herself, the raven mane hiding her features. When she turned towards Frank, bloody breasts heaving, he knew he was in for it. “You’re dead, motherfucker,” she hissed. He said nothing. He did not have the wind to reply. He’d dropped the razor, and there was no chance to retrieve it. He straightened, concentrated on his breathing, and put his unsteady fists up in a defensive posture. She seemed shaken—the punch had hurt her, then. But he was in much worse shape. She was bending. He heard a zipper and unsteadily balancing on one foot, she pulled off a long leather boot and tossed it away along with the sock. The other followed. She stepped forward, it became a stride, and she threw a kick. He tried to turn and let it miss him, but he wasn’t quick enough. He caught it in the shoulder and

grunted with the impact, and grunted again when he bounced off the wall. He groaned, found his breath. She’d not come in for the kill—lucky for him. Maybe she was surprised he did not fall. She moved in—threw a cobra-strike at his eyes, which he just managed to fend off. This woman knew what she was doing. He swung a roundhouse right—she blocked his fist and caught him on the sliced cheek with a right hook and he saw stars for a split-instant. She sent a left. He brushed it aside and caught her in the ribs with a pretty good right jab. She retreated with an agonized grunt, and new respect. The shot to her ribs energized him. He moved off the wall, his hands up. He didn’t bounce on his heels—he was too beaten up for that. She took the wind out of his sails quick. A pivot on one foot and a jump-spin kick that barely missed his head—he stepped back, but she kept on coming whirling like a top with a second kick and it was going to connect, he got an arm up and was chopped to the floor when her foot caught his hand and shoulder. He rolled, desperate to get out from under her. She moved like lightning. She slammed her bare foot, splattering a pool of Conrad’s blood just as he got out of the way. He grabbed her foot, noticing the painted nails and a single toe ring, twisted, threw her down, and jumped up. She was a wildcat—he had no interest in thrashing on the floor with her. She was up in an instant, facing him, looking for an opening, testing different stances. He was a mess—likely, if she’d just come in and stayed in, she’d kill him. But she was buying his bluff—unsure of how bad off he was, she was reluctant to engage him. She moved in, sent a series of punches and hand strikes, which he fended off, then she stepped back and threw a front-snap kick. He tried to block but took it hard. He was bounced into the wall again, stunned. This time she kept on. Moved in, aimed a kick at his balls he caught on his hip. She stepped in and whacked him with a right fist and he tasted blood in his mouth. He sent his own right, spinning her head back, blood from her spurting

nose decorating the wall padding. Undaunted, she hit him in the face with a lightning left backfist. He was already on the wall, he had nowhere to go, and now it was his nose pouring. He threw another right and caught her in the back of the head. It shook her and she stumbled off him. He realized she did not react to pain as most people would. She didn’t seem to feel it. He wished he could say the same— She caught him in the chest with a spin-kick—tearing the rip across his nipple even further—he held onto her foot and pushed her away. This was ridiculous. She was killing him one blow at a time. He backed up and leaned on the wall, his hands up. He desperately forced his mind to focus and controlled his breathing and tuned out the pain. She was panting, sweating, pacing back and forth before attacking. He was going to have to let her come to him, he didn’t have the energy for offense. She realized he was marshalling his strength, she had to act, and did. She bounded at him, leapt, aiming a drop-kick at his throat. The foot backed by the weight and height of her missed him by an inch. She bounced off the wall like a cat and he barely turned before she was on him. He was struck in the side of the head by an elbow, but managed to block her nails going for his eyes. He caught her with a punch in the mouth, rocking her head back. Desperate he hit her with a roundhouse punch, and the blood flew, her thick mane of hair whipping like in a hurricane. She came back with a right hook. He managed to evade it, somehow, and moved in on her with another shot below those bloodstained breasts. This time ribs broke, he saw it in her face. But she wasn’t even close to finished. She aimed a finger-strike at his throat. He brushed her hand aside and found an arm lock. He held on and punched her in the side of the face, desperate to put her down. She turned wobbly and he hesitated, thinking she was done. In a split-instant the tar-black eyes speared him and he was barely able to block her clawed fingers going for his face. She struggled halfway free of his grip and got a foot up, threw it into his belly with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He was certain his feet left the floor padding but somehow he held onto her. She uttered a scream of rage and

jabbed a boot into his groin. He still managed to hold on. She was in the grip of a fury causing the fighter’s discipline to crumble and he had no other choice but to take advantage of it. He got behind her, grabbed a fistful of hair and leveraged her with their combined weight face-first into the wall padding. He twisted and the locked elbow gave with an audible pop, but she wasn’t out of fight. She hurled her good elbow back at him, sending along a hissed obscenity. He took it in the eye and managed to avoid a second blow while seeing stars. He was shocked at the continued attack—her left arm was now broken. He changed his grip and spun her around, into the door. Unintended her face went straight through the wiremesh glass with a wet crunch, and stuck there. She twitched and went limp. He left her hanging and crumpled, sliding down the wall, wasted. Beneath his wheezing he heard another sound and took a moment to realize it was her blood, running down the door onto the floor. She was bleeding to death. He was exhausted and trembling. He gasped and blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes. He’d never killed a woman before, never even hit one. No choice. Sure as hell she’d have slaughtered him without batting an eye. He held himself low in the middle. Assaults on a man’s privates—he wondered if women had anything to compare. It was like the all-time stomach upset in the world, only worse. It left you in a state of agony and nausea that no amount of throwing up could relieve. He wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball for three days until all this pain went away. But he couldn’t. He had to find Radcliff. And then the kidnappers. Forcing himself to move, he put his hands on the woman, and tugged. Her face was stuck fast. He paused to get his breath and steeled himself and gave her a good jerk. The door let her go with a wet tearing sound and crinkling glass. Frank caught her in his arms and lowered her gently next to Conrad. Her face was unrecognizable as human in the red light. He looked at the blood-drenched bodies, torn briefly by his emotions. He wondered if he was going to come through all this with his sanity, to say nothing of his life. The door had no handle on this side. He reached through the small window, groped for the handle, and pulled it open. He barely had his arm out before the deafening gunshot splintered the doorframe inches from his belly, the bullet

burrowing into the padding on the door itself. He sprang back. Kel—he’d forgotten Kel. “C’mon out! I got you now, bitch! C’mon!” Frank didn’t bother replying. The red emergency lights were in the outer room as well. The gun—it wasn’t the Magnum. Had to be Marabeth’s handgun, or maybe Conrad’s—sounded like a big one, maybe a .45 semi-auto. He did not hear a shell fall to the floor, but he could have easily missed it. “C’mon! Time to pay up for Jan!” Nearly being shot at once reined in his emotions, focused his thoughts, and forced him to concentrate. In the short time Frank saw him, Kel seemed to be off his feet—he was recovering from an injury, probably one he’d sustained the previous evening as a werewolf. Kel was stupid. He should’ve waited for a good shot. And also he should’ve kept his mouth shut, because now Frank could tell from the sound approximately where he was in the outer room, and how high from the floor. He had to be firing from the bunk he was lying on. Frank got low to the floor—no easy task, he was in a world of pain. He crouched at the door like a speed sprinter at the Olympics. He would have to move fast, and stay down. He couldn’t afford to wait around—Radcliff was loose in the house and the kidnappers were on the way. He went through the door, pushing it aside with his shoulder. Kel fired, panicked, way too high, and the bullet smashed some stuff on a counter. Frank stayed low and hit the hospital bed with all his weight. Fortunately it wasn’t one of those things loaded with electronic gadgets or he never could have lifted it. He grabbed the frame and pulled up, turning the bed over with Kel helpless to do anything but tumble. The gun went off again, the sound like an explosion. He shouted, hands up to break his fall, losing the pistol. Frank went over the bed and was on him. Trapped against the wall Kel was silenced by two powerful punches.

Frank made sure to take away the pistol—a heavy .45 just as he’d thought. He paused for a rest and looked at his surroundings. The sixgun and his other belongings were on the medical stand, along with a Glock—Conrad’s weapon. There were also handcuffs, a cell, a badge and ID. He wasn’t surprised—Conrad really was a cop.

Radcliff held a flashlight while Mrs. Keats tinkered with the fuses and the wiring and tried to figure out what Moore had done. The wiring appeared to her to be permanently fried and she was worried about fires now. The house was cavernous and they’d heard nothing of what went on out back, not even the gunshots. She was beginning to think they’d be better off just vacating the place. She had a bad feeling—hopefully Marabeth and Conrad were still in control of Moore but she expected the worst. So intent was she on her misgivings that it was Radcliff who hissed, “Someone coming.” Mrs. Keats pulled a .22 caliber pistol from her apron pocket. He turned the flash off and they waited. It was totally pitch black. They heard the basement door open and movement. Shuffling steps. Muffled grunting. The person coming into the basement was injured. They could hear him, but could see nothing. They could almost tell where he was by the breathing sounds he made. Was Moore badly hurt? Or was it someone else? Why didn’t they speak then? The man on the stairs stopped. Mrs. Keats took the flashlight from the Doctor and pointed it, resting the pistol on the edge of a stack of packing boxes to keep it steady. She could still hear the man breathing. She clicked the light on and panic-fired. She didn’t know what she expected to see. It could have been Moore. The figure was standing strangely and looked distorted in the flashlight beam. In any event before she knew it she had emptied the pistol’s magazine. She was a fair shot in close quarters, all but the last bullet found their mark. Radcliff hissed, knowing there was a mistake. The man she’d shot crumpled and crashed, broken, down the last few steps.

Then the Magnum thundered, the shot blazing from the top of the stairs, punching through a box and into Mrs. Keats. One shot was all it took. She dropped both the light and the pistol and fell onto her chest on the dusty floor, dead. Radcliff stared—in the flashlight’s beam Kel Henderson was sprawled bloody at the foot of the stairs, his arms surgical-taped to his sides and his mouth taped closed, eyes open in death, Moore’s shirt draped over the pajamas. His eyes narrowed—in the shaft of light a gentle snow seemed to be falling, which he thought at first was dust stirred by the violence. But no—it was teddy bear stuffing. The bullet-punctured box Mrs. Keats hid behind was packed with moldy plush toys once owned by his deceased bride. With typical acid he could only think: How fitting. “Radcliff. Come on out.” The old man looked at the gun—it and the woman’s hand were both illuminated. It was so close. “Or you can go for the gun,” Frank challenged. “Go ahead. Try it. You might make it.” Frank heard a sound and he came down the stairs. He was in a lot of pain but he did not show it. His face and body were battered. He pointed the Magnum in the old man’s direction. He came out. Frank waited for him to approach and stepped back, motioning for him to go up the stairs. Radcliff turned—but then he spun on Frank, jabbing with the needle. Frank caught him with his free hand and held him by the wrist. Radcliff held the syringe in his fist like a knife. The two men stared into each other’s eyes. “Damn you,” Frank hissed into the hate-filled face. He turned his hand, twisting Radcliff’s painfully, turning the syringe back towards him. Holland Radcliff’s mouth worked soundlessly. Helpless in Moore’s powerful grasp and knowing he was about to die, he resorted in panic and a desperate

seething hatred for his enemy to the Changing Words. He whispered them, over and over, and for the first time in more than ten years felt the monster in his blood. Frank forced the needle into the side of Radcliff’s neck slowly, as they stared at each other from only inches away. Frank was shocked to see no fear in his enemy’s features. There was not enough human emotion left in Holland Radcliff to include fear. The old man’s eyes changed, the whites taking on the color of blood, the irises reflecting the flashlight’s glow like rubies. His face contorted, the corners of his mouth drawing down to expose elongating killing fangs. Telling himself what he saw was real, Frank forced his thumb down onto Radcliff’s and the plunger until the bright green fluid was gone. Almost as quickly as it had begun the change reversed itself. The old man went limp and Frank released him. Radcliff crumpled to the floor slowly, his expression never changing, even as his eyes dulled with death.

“What the hell—the power off?” Mark Court muttered as he pulled up Radcliff’s driveway. The entire house was dark. The gate lights were even extinguished. Court stopped the car and he and Portman swiveled their heads, looking for any disturbance. “Don’t like this.” “Me either,” Court agreed. “Maybe you oughtta call Rippy.” “Hate to do that if this is nothing—” “Hey. Someone’s coming out.” “Let’s go.” They exited the car with their hands on their guns. A man was approaching from the house, from the far end, behind the car. He walked across the porch in their direction. Shielded from the star light by the porch roof, he was hard to make out. Just a figure in a long coat in the dark. Court held up a hand. “That’s close enough. What’s going on here?” “Are you Mark?” Court and Portman exchanged glances. Their silence was Frank’s answer. They went for their weapons, but he was faster. Court got the first one, in the heart. Portman took his in the belly, and another in the heart before he hit the ground. He nearly got his pistol clear of its holster. Frank bent to insure they were dead and then walked down the driveway, limping, to find his own car and get the hell out of there. He missed the morning paper boy by ten minutes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mallory woke thinking of Toby Vint and half an hour later stepping out of the shower he was still in her thoughts. The urge to call him was always there. She resisted the impulse. It was her day off and she was glad. She hated the office, hated being there even more than before, even when Syd was absent. Something was definitely going on. Had she been the employee of a corporation she would be convinced major lay-offs were imminent, maybe even the closing of the entire company. She’d never been in the position of seeing her employer going out of business, but it had to be like this—insecurity. Secrecy. Dread. All the things in the air of Haven lately. Even people not associated with the Sheriff’s office felt it, the other people at the Courthouse, in the town—unless she, Mallory, was imagining it all. In that case she would have to be going off the deep end for good. She’d always been a bit high strung—but no, this was not paranoia. There was something shared in Haven, like an infectious fever. She didn’t know if it was a sinister secret kept by some and sensed by others, or perhaps just a mass eccentricity adopted by the citizens as sometimes happened in small tightly knit communities —but it was very real. Reluctant to get moving for the day, she returned to her computer and the Beast attacks. A man named Trent Feore, a local often in brushes with the law, ended up the final victim. A strange not-such-a-coincidence was that the first to be killed was Sharon Feore, Trent’s estranged wife. Following her two other women would be slaughtered. These were the broad strokes of the story. Mallory found them in articles archived on a New England periodical website, searching through old pages of the long-defunct Haven Herald. The town’s weekly publication had folded in the late 1970s. The paperback book, Oddities of New England, revealed lurid details not found in the newspaper articles. Such as the fact that, from the evidence at the scene, Sharon Feore was dragged literally kicking and screaming from her own back

yard into the recesses of the woods, where she was torn to pieces while still living. Her remains attested that she had been partially devoured by her attacker. And that the third victim also had a connection to Trent—she was his live-in girlfriend at the time. Suspicion was actually falling on Feore before he too was killed. The Beast was never heard from again and it was assumed that, fatally wounded in the final attack, it disappeared into the deep woods surrounding Haven and died. Mallory considered this explanation simplistic—the book pointed out that Feore had been arrested twice for violence against his wife. The extreme savagery of the killings seemed to indicate a personal link between the killer and victims. You’ve got three dead women, two of whom were connected to a known wife beater and police problem? Seems like a slam-dunk. Except for the manner of the attacks, the partial devouring of the bodies. The book espoused that no human being could be capable of that. A photograph of Sharon revealed a young woman, fair-haired and laughing. Likely it was taken before her marriage to Feore, when she still had something to laugh about. Such a pretty girl. Henry Lessner resigned as the Sheriff following the Beast investigation. The citizens of Haven were enraged that he and his office had resisted help from Federal agencies to stop the killings. Instead Lessner enacted a curfew and organized a posse made up of locals, Feore among them. When the details came out he fell on his sword and went back to civilian life full-time as a pharmacist. The book mentioned that a month before the killings began, an infant had been stolen from his home on the outskirts of town, and was never found, despite the State Police investigation and rewards offered for information. No connection was drawn between this and the Beast attacks—it was just another bizarre incident in the summer of 1975. Neither the articles nor the book mentioned anyone named Vint. Mallory was certain that Toby was barely a gleam in his mother’s eye that year. Maybe he really had no connection to the attacks after all.

Brit Kellogg had just taken up her position on the desk outside Stephen’s room when she looked up to see two men, one a big-bellied fellow in a Sheriff’s uniform, coming up the hall. Visitor’s hours had just started. She pressed a beeper in her pocket, to alert Mackensie Washington that someone was approaching. Mackensie, her co-worker, was stationed in the room with Stephen. Dale Condiff was going to great lengths, even over the heads of his superiors if necessary, to insure that the second chance they’d been given with Stephen was not wasted. The younger visitor was expensively clothed, tanned, with eyeglasses, carrying a box containing a flower arrangement. When their destination was clear Brit stood to greet them. “Oh, hi—just going in to see Stephen,” the younger man said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Stephen isn’t having any visitors,” she said amicably, with a model-perfect smile. The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh—oh. Really? Oh, no—Stephen didn’t have a relapse over night, a complication—?” “No, no, nothing like that. These are just the wishes of the family,” she assured him. His eyebrows lifted again, with surprise. “Oh, but—well, we’re not family, but we’re pretty close—” “That’s right,” the Sheriff agreed. “I’m sorry—I’m Leonard Rippy.” He put out his hand, but Brit did a good job of politely declining the handshake. “I’m Haven’s City Manager—this is Sheriff Hopewell, also of Haven.” “Pleased to meet you,” Brit said, not offering her own name. She was annoyed by their refusal to take No for an answer and move along. “You see, Stephen owns a little business in Haven—we just wanted to wish him

well.” “That’s very nice—I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by,” Brit promised, smiling. Leonard shrugged, returning the smile, but becoming exasperated. “Well, I’d really like to tell him in person—” “I’m sorry, that’s just not possible,” Brit said as if disappointed herself. “But as I said I’ll let him know you came by.” Now Rippy and Hopewell exchanged uncomfortable grins. “Well, we’re not contagious or anything,” Rippy said, making a little joke of it. “We’re both healthy as horses,” Hopewell added. “I’m sure you are,” Brit said sweetly. Kellogg was fully aware her high school cheerleader appearance with her scrubbed cheeks and pretty pony tail gave people, especially the male variety, the belief they might be able to walk over her. But she took great joy in setting them straight. She was in fact a former Olympic gymnast and Bronze medal winner, not a pom-pom girl, with a Bachelor’s in forensic psychology. When she hired on with Drake Gridiron both the FBI and the Secret Service were seeking to recruit her. Leonard Rippy was realizing what a wall he was running into. “Miss, we came all this way. You could see us in, we just want to say hello.” “I’m sorry, maybe if you could call ahead next time,” she suggested. “Look, this is ridiculous,” Rippy said, with a chuckle. “Hell, I should’ve brought a warrant,” Hopewell commented, only half joking. Brit just looked at them with that immovable smile. Rippy shrugged finally and itted defeat. “Well, okay. We’ll stop again.” “Have a nice day,” the Sheriff said with a nod. Brit watched them depart, a bit surprised they’d not asked her to relay the

flowers. It would’ve done no good. Dale Condiff had standing orders that no deliveries were to be accepted. The door opened behind her and Mac stuck his head out. “Coast clear?” “Think so.” He stepped into the hallway. Mac was a big man—a former linebacker for Notre Dame at six foot five, two hundred eighty-five pounds, he towered over his associate. “Leonard Rippy and Sheriff Hopewell, from Haven.” “They give you any trouble?” “Not much. I’ll tell Dale they were in.” “I’ll let Stephen know.”

Ten minutes later Rippy checked his watch. “Alan, you’d better pull over.” They had wanted to be out of Whitestone’s city limits before dumping the plant, but a fender bender outside the hospital held them up. “Okay—” “There’s a garbage can.” Hopewell pulled over next to a park and Rippy got out. Hopewell stood at the car while Rippy fast-walked over to the trashcan and dumped the plant, box and all. He turned and stopped half-way to the car, hearing a sizzling sound. The fumes from the time-released substances coating the plant were invisible, but their effect was obvious. The grass next to the can shriveled and turned brown in a spreading ring. It took only a few seconds for the ring to widen to a circumference of about three feet from the can in every direction. Then the deadly gas dissipated in the air. Rippy went back to the car, glancing around to make sure no one else had seen. Hopewell was not happy. “I thought we had about five minutes!”

“Me too,” Rippy said, bothered. He checked his watch again. It was a gold plated import, worth a fortune. “What time do you have?” His cheeks reddening, Hopewell checked his own watch and told him. “I’m sorry, Alan,” Rippy said, honestly abashed. “I think my watch is losing time.” Hopewell’s expression was murderous. He nodded at the withered grass. “That could’ve been us.” Rippy looked down as he got into the car, his stomach in knots. That was a close one, and he was not used to close ones.

“Don’t worry, Leonard. Mr. Wilkes’ wheelchair will never get him far enough to save him,” John Bath said into his speaker phone. “Just a minute.” He touched a blinking button on his machine, said, “Yes, Shan?” “Doctor Bath, Mary from the Sheriff’s office—” “Yes?” “She says she just got a call on the office line at home—Gloria Dean is reporting two men dead in Holland Radcliff’s driveway—” “What?” “Gloria, her son—he’s a newspaper boy—she drove back over there, and sure enough, there are two men lying in the driveway. She says they look dead.” “Shan, call Tobias. Leonard! You hear that?” “I heard. Alan’s on the phone with Mary now.” “Get over to Radcliff’s, Tobias will meet you. Call me back as soon as you get there. I’ll try Holland.” “Yes sir.”

“Tell Hopewell not to use the siren, Leonard.”

Frank groaned as he woke up. He lay on his side in his shorts, a freezer bag packed with melting ice from the machine down the hall tucked against his groin, and another against his lower back. He reached for the phone, gritting his teeth. “Yeah,” he growled. “Wake-up call, sir.” With great effort and a bit of swearing, he managed to roll out of bed and gain his feet. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this bad. He limped into the bathroom. It still hurt to piss—hell, it hurt to blink—but there was not as much blood in his urine as there’d been six hours ago. Marabeth and Conrad had come as close to killing him as he’d ever been. His body was a mass of raw damage—terrible bruises, cuts, pulled muscles. His face —well, it was still his face somewhere under there. His left eye was swollen and it worried him—he needed both eyes working for what he had planned. But the swelling appeared no worse, maybe even a bit better. He’d always been blessed with skin that took punishment and healed well, a quality he’d come to appreciate during his boxing years. But he could not recall his face ever looking this bad. It was fortunate he’d kept his room key after leaving the night before, even though he had not planned to return. His intent was to go to the cabin, spend the night there, and begin working this morning. The injuries he’d sustained at Radcliff’s derailed those plans. Afterwards he’d desperately needed a place to go to ground, preferably one with a shower, a bathroom, and most of all, a bed. He’d returned just before sunrise, a torn bloody train wreck of a man barely able to get out of the car unassisted—fortunately, no one had been about at the motel. He’d stripped off the blood-soaked clothes—the garbage for them—and managed to hold himself up in the scalding shower. He ministered to his injuries the best he could with the first-aid kit from the Blazer. Then he called his voicemail—nothing about Lori—before lying down with the ice packs for some much-needed sleep.

He took four more Tylenol and shuffled out of the bathroom, resolving to have a long tub soak before leaving. He needed to relieve this stiffness. He had a lot to do. He picked up the phone and tried his voicemail again. Afraid of what he would hear. The girls had not called. Unless they had written him off completely, nothing new about Lori. He wanted to call them, but wouldn’t. He needed to stay focused. They’d probably never forgive him. He ate a can of beenie weenies he’d bought for his camping trip, washing it down with a lot of water which, he hoped, would further flush the blood from his battered urinary system. He forced himself to urinate again—his penis was shrunken and tender like it had been hit with a hammer and he wondered, caustically, if he would ever have an erection again. He put the thought from his mind.

“Radcliff’s place is a slaughterhouse,” Rippy reported. “Toby’s found seven bodies. Mark Court and Jay Portman were shot in the driveway.” “Radcliff?” Bath asked. His tone was disbelieving. Shan stood behind his chair, holding his shoulders. “Dead, sir. His housekeeper. Both bodyguards, and Henderson.” Rippy was on the speaker. “I can’t believe it.” “Marabeth and Conrad put up quite a fight—we found them in the Room, it’s a bloodbath down there.” “Moore.” “Yes sir. Toby says.” Shan kept her shock to herself. Radcliff’s babysitters were not just hired help— though psychotic, they were formidable individuals. Shan had no doubt John

Bath was asking himself the same questions. “Does Moore have a commando team backing him up?” John Bath wondered aloud. “The paper boy and his mother?” “Dean says he can handle them.” “Get it cleaned up, Leonard. I’ll decide how to handle the fallout later. Call all the help you need.” The Doctor’s voice was weary in a way Shan had never heard. He had to be emotionally exhausted. “Yes sir.” “You’ll have to talk to Court’s wife—” “Yes sir. Anything in particular I should say, sir?” “Handle it, Leonard—I’m sorry, I’m a bit flustered now—” “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take care of it.” “When you get back, we should probably do something about Victor.” “Yes sir.” Bath broke the connection and touched Shan’s hand on his shoulder. He sighed and said, “Maybe we could have a fire at Holland’s, get rid of all this—but the mansion is ed with the State Historical Society. That will be a mess. Fuck.” “Court has a wife and child,” Shan reminded him gently. “And Portman, a livein girlfriend.” “It’s all really coming down. Moore is destroying everything.” Shan kneaded his shoulders, gentle not forceful, making sure to get her fingers down underneath his jacket collar to massage his muscles through the expensive shirt. He was her world and in her experience he had never come so close to itting a defeat. But he did not sound beaten—just stunned, not yet accepting,

like the victim of a natural disaster. She was not worried, whatever came, as long as she faced it with him she would be all right. Her earliest memories were of John Bath. Before him she did not exist, and she could not even consider a universe without him. He was all that mattered. Seeing him utterly helpless in the throes of that seizure had frightened her badly. Then the attack in his office. But she knew he would come out of this, regardless of whatever else might happen. She did not have the imagination to consider anything less. “I just can’t believe it,” the Doctor said. “I’ve known Holland Radcliff fifty years. He was my first convert here. Rich young dentist, old family, all those connections, he was just what I needed. I sacrificed his cherished wife to a rare blood disorder, and he was mine.” Shan did not interject. Doctor Bath loved to talk and she loved to listen. “Oh, what a murderous bastard he could be though. I wondered at times how he managed to survive. I could tell you stories about him that would curl your hair.” He sighed again and leaned back and flexed his neck. She took his chin in one hand, wrapped the other around his forehead, and gave him a firm twist. There was an audible cracking of the neck ts and the Doctor uttered a gasp of pleasure. She smiled as his shoulders sagged with relief. “Whoaa, that was sweet,” he purred. He kissed her fingers and straightened, opening a phone line. “Seven bodies,” he muttered. “In addition to the losses from yesterday. There’s not a carpet big enough to sweep all this under.” He dialed a number from his rolodex and pressed the speaker button. “New England Royal, may I help you?” “Yes, is Ms. Ferguson there?” “Yes sir, may I say who is calling?” “John Bath.”

“Oh yes, Doctor Bath—just a minute, sir.” He hit the privacy button and said, “I desperately want to see Moore dead, or at least to know the deed is done. But after that, I’ll leave Haven. There’s no avoiding it. The bastard has succeeded in driving me out. ” Shan nodded. Whatever the Doctor decided was scripture to her. “I hope he’s satisfied, in the short time he has left—” “Doctor Bath—how are you, sir?” He turned off the privacy: “Just fine, Vivian.” “What can I do for you?” “I was thinking of a trip to Canada. Then on to Paris. I need to charter a jet.” “Paris is wonderful this time of year.” “So I’ve heard.” “When will you be needing to leave?” “Well, I’d like the plane to be ready by tomorrow morning. Tentative. My plans are up in the air.” He made arrangements for three travelers. He winked at her and she beamed. She’d never been on a trip, not since leaving New York City. The plans arranged, the Doctor got up from his chair and went to the window, and Shan ed him there. They both looked down on the deceptively quiet Main Street. “Moore. How I hate the man. I despise his mother’s womb and his father’s seed. I hope they’re both rotting. The notion he might outlive my beautiful Haven makes me want to choke on my own bile.” Shan stood and watched his back, thinking of the trip they would take. Three tickets—no doubt Toby would be the other enger. Shan alone knew how important he was to the Doctor.

“But I must have my revenge. I cannot allow this man to go on living. If it takes another day, or ten lifetimes, Moore will get what he has coming,” the Doctor vowed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Frank drank lots of water, swallowing Tylenol and aspirin as he needed. The work was strenuous. The cuts on his body seeped blood through bandages and clothing, but he let it go. The exertion was painful but it served to loosen up his battered muscles and ease at least some of the kinks. He was still fit for a hospital bed, but being on his feet and moving made it better. Having made a map detailing the terrain contours and marking the best placements of the equipment and ordinance, he constructed his high hide. It was similar to what game hunters used. He found the best tree, a nice oak with plenty of summer foliage for concealment purposes, one hundred and fifty yards from the cabin. He nailed a couple of planks level in the bow, at twice the height of a man. Just wide enough to stand or lie with a rifle. The view towards the cabin and opposite tree line was a good one. This was his field of fire. He nailed four short boards up the side of the tree trunk in order to climb it easily. He chose a lamp pole near the cabin and used a length of rope to string a cable and pulley with carrying hook from it to the high hide. A come-along rig enabled him to winch it tight without bursting his bandages and giving himself a hernia in the bargain. With all this done it was early afternoon and nearly time for his meeting with Kermit. He washed himself off with water from the pump outside and changed clothes. The cabin itself still stank from Miller’s gruesome demise. But Frank felt that would be a plus for what he had planned. More or less refreshed and limping only a little, he gave the surrounding area a last reconnoiter. He hoped he had no trouble setting up his equipment; he was cutting it awfully close. But it had to be tonight. Lori might not have another day. The woods to the side of the cabin were so thick as to be nearly impenetrable

except for narrow hiking trails leading around the lake and into the mountains. He did not think an enemy of any size would try that approach and the opposite side was bordered by the lake. Hopefully Bath’s monsters were not also skin divers. He believed they would come at him from the front, attacking from the main road and campground entrance, likely avoiding the trail along the lakefront. The stench from the cabin, hopefully, would act as bait, drawing them in. He reminded himself that these creatures had the heightened strength, savagery and senses of animals, but they were not beasts. Everything he’d seen at the guest house indicated that beneath the fur and fangs were the minds of human beings, and when under fire he expected them to panic, to be confused. He was counting on it. His was a good plan. It should work. Toby Vint was the only wild card. But Frank tried to anticipate everything, including him. After Vint, Frank would go after Bath.

John Bath listened while Rippy detailed how he, Toby, Hopewell, Nick Walter, and a couple of the boys from Court’s billiards hall carried all the bodies into the basement and locked the place up, hiding Court’s car behind Radcliff’s garage. “It will have to be a fire,” Rippy said, agreeing with the Doctor. “We’ll have to get with Perry. He’ll know a way to do it.” “Court’s wife?” “She might be trouble. I told her that according to Holland Mark never showed up this morning. He’s been doing some contracting over there on the house. She’s worried, thinks he’s fooling around on her. That might help later on. Portman’s girlfriend moved out on him a couple of weeks ago, so no problem there.” “Good.” “I can make their bodies disappear, along with Conrad and Marabeth. Hopefully no one can connect all of this.”

“Good—good thinking, Leonard.” But Rippy knew it was all just a temporary stopgap. Eventually there would be investigations. Nothing could change that now. “Victor’s been visiting his cousin. When he finds Holland’s place locked up—” “I know, we’ll see him tonight.” The Doctor eyed the Sheriff. “Alan? Spit it out.” “Radcliff’s was bad.” Hopewell’s skin was pale, his eyes dull. He appeared to be ill. “Does Moore frighten you?” John Bath inquired. Hopewell snapped awake, realizing he was being baited. “Radcliff’s frightened me,” he itted. “More than me?” the Doctor demanded. Hopewell blinked, with no idea what to say. “Keep things in the proper perspective, Alan,” Doctor Bath warned. “Moore has done us some damage, and likely, things will get worse. But I haven’t built this town up for the last fifty years to see it all flushed down the fucking toilet by an Ohio bartender. You get me?” “Y-yes sir,” Hopewell said, gulping. John Bath had never looked at him that way before. “Now snap out of it. I’ve seen you deal with worse than this. I need your game face on for Victor. Tobias, you stay.”

“You been in a car wreck, Frank?” the man named Kermit asked with a cocked eyebrow. “You look rough.” Frank followed the man around to the back of the rented trailer and watched as he unlocked the door.

Kermit was of the Vietnam generation. He looked like an ex-biker, heavy-set, bearded and pony tailed, with reflective sunglasses. He was clad in khakis and a hunting jacket. He cast a wary eye about their surroundings—they were at the deserted end of a rest stop on 152 south of Haven—and rolled the trailer door up. “It’s all here, man.” Frank gave his merchandise a visual inspection. He unzipped a rifle bag, eyeing the weapon within. He closed it, drew an envelope bulging with cash from his pocket and handed it over. “I guess I should’ve told you before, I may not be able to do a site clean-up,” he said. “Better take extra care burying your connection to this stuff.” “My nephew is one of those computer geeks,” Kermit said with a laugh. “I got it covered, Frank.” “Okay.” “Hey—I wasn’t kidding, I said you look rough,” the other added. “You need help? I could turn you on to a couple of merc types I know. They’re reliable, know their shit. What do you say?” Frank shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got that covered.” “Okeydokey. Well, it’s been a pleasure, Frank—” “Same here.” Kermit helped him hitch the trailer to his vehicle. A few minutes later Frank was in the Blazer, on the road.

Toby sat back-straight and kept silent until he was asked to speak. He was unable to argue with Bath. Had he possessed the ability to defy him, verbal disagreement would not be his first act. “I’m at a loss, Tobias. You were more animal than human when I found you all those years ago—”

Toby allowed himself a raised eyebrow. Bath’s version of history was subjective, to say the least. Found you? Toby preferred more realistic . Hunted. Trapped. Tortured. “Your life is in service to me,” Bath was saying—if there was one thing Toby did not need pointed out, it was this. “To advise and defend me, utilizing those acutely tuned intuitions of yours. You’re supposed to see trouble coming and give me advance warning. You’ve failed me this time, Tobias. Failed miserably.” John Bath was in his recliner, his heaviest robe drawn snug around him. Toby sat on the sofa. Leonard Rippy hovered at the wet bar, listening, and watching. “You see, Leonard, Tobias here—he could never defy me. He can no more do that than he can sprout wings and fly. Oh, but ive resistance, that’s another thing. Isn’t it, boy? Were you hoping all along Moore might best me? For shame.” “I told you, I cuffed him myself,” Toby said, looking at his feet. “He got out of them.” “Got out of them. Is the man a magician?” Bath clipped off his question in such a way that made Rippy look up. The Doctor seemed strange for a moment, his words frozen by a thought he kept to himself, mouth opened, almost ready to speak. Rippy watched him shut it out, whatever it was, and refocus on Vint.. “I’m going to have to punish you,” Bath promised, his eyes bright. “Leonard? Any ideas how I can punish Tobias?” “None, sir.” Toby actually met Rippy’s eyes, and saw no fear there. John Bath chuckled. “Yes, I see that doesn’t impress you. You and I, we’ve been together a long time. Maybe too long, huh? I suppose it’s true what they say, about familiarity breeding contempt.” Toby did not bother to deny it.

“So what can I do to get across to you? Hmmm. Let me think—” He actually tapped his chin with one long finger, looking off into space as if the answer was there. And now Toby began to worry. It wasn’t like Bath to be so theatrical—unless he already had a hand to play. Then he could be Sir Laurence Olivier. “I’ve got it,” Bath said, holding that same finger in the air. The deputy turned to watch him, his breath catching in his throat. Seeing his discomfort, a grin spread across Bath’s face. He leaned forward, and closely watching for Toby’s reaction, said: “Mallory Abshire.” Toby showed no response in his face or manner. But his heart stopped mid-beat. He remained unmoving while Bath nodded, savoring his inspiration. “Special girl, that deputy. Oh—Oh. Don’t worry, Tobias. I wouldn’t harm a hair on her pretty head.” The old man got out of the chair and crossed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I allowed your little fantasy, as long as it caused me no difficulty. Did you really think earthly love was for you? Did you really think? I’m sorry I have to point this out, after all these years, but there is nothing for you, Tobias—nothing except what I give you. What in the world possessed you, forming this attachment? Letting her form one for you? Is it just lust? She’s a tasty morsel, I’ll give you that!” He shot a lustful leer over his shoulder in appreciation of the sentiment. Taking in the deputy’s reaction to his words, he sat and leaned back and laced his fingers across his chest. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright and intense. Toby tried but could not hide his dread. Dread and helplessness. “But as I said—don’t worry, I won’t hurt her, not even to get back at you. No. I’ll simply make you kill her. It’s my gift to you. That way you can carry her memory with you, all your immortal life.” Toby felt the blood freeze in his veins. “So the next time you find yourself facing Moore, try to keep that in mind—oh,

of course, unlike the rest of them, you’re not exactly yourself when in fur-andfangs mode, are you?” Bath suddenly slammed both palms down onto his desk, giving Rippy a start. Toby just stared at him. “But you’d better just find a way to it, and take on Moore with gusto,” Bath snarled, with cheeks inflamed and lips flecked with spittle. “Because you fail me again, and you will slaughter that girl. I’ll cut off her lips and lock her bleeding in that cage with you—and we’ll see how long you can resist temptation.” The fury fled the Doctor’s demeanor and he became all business. “I’ll give you some time to think on this,” he said, straightening. “In the meantime, stay handy.” Once more at the window, Bath waved a hand back at him, dismissing. “Now get the fuck out.”

Leonard was surprised to find visitors waiting on him at Shan’s desk. “I didn’t want to bother you,” she confided. “No problem,” he said, lowering his voice to match hers. He stuck out a hand. “Hello. Leonard Rippy, City Manager.” The middle-aged man with the broad shoulders nodded. The younger man in the official suit and tie took his hand. “Hi, I’m Special Agent DeForest, of the FBI. This is Sergeant Williams., State Police.” “Good to meet you.” “We’re here to get some information about Gregory Miller.” Leonard nodded, sympathetically. “Yeah—boy. We just couldn’t believe it. Each day it seems worse than the one before, huh?” “Did you work with Miller?”

“No, he was before my time. Sheriff Hopewell would be good to talk to.” “Yes, we tried downstairs but he’s not answering his page.” “Uh, yeah, I believe his wife had a family emergency yesterday,” Leonard said, looking for and receiving a ive nod from Shan. “Shan, you knew Miller, right?” “I was here then. I didn’t get to know him well, though.” “You don’t recall anything odd about him?” “Not at all. I think he left Sheriff’s work after he moved away from Haven.” “He hasn’t been in Haven since?” “We couldn’t say that,” Rippy itted. “I think I’ve seen him around from time to time.” “That’s right,” Shan agreed. “You haven’t talked with him though?” DeForest asked. “Just to say hello.” “Are you aware that he’s receiving pension checks from the town?” “I knew that,” Leonard said, nodding. “It’s in the budget.” “Do you know why?” Sergeant Williams asked. “A back injury, I believe—sustained while he was on the job. I’m sorry, it was before my time,” Rippy reminded them. “How about Jerry Farley, Miller’s companion? Why would he be receiving payments?” Rippy rubbed his chin. “He’s been paid? Are you sure?” Both the lawmen nodded. “We have records,” the FBI agent said.

“I don’t know,” Leonard said. “Are these regular payments, like a pension?” He knew perfectly well—unless he was unaware, which was impossible—that Farley was receiving no checks from the town. These men were lying to trip him up. “We think so,” DeForest replied, revealing nothing. “I’d like to see those records,” Rippy said. “Maybe they’d jog my memory. Didn’t the news say Farley was some kind of contractor? Maybe he did some work for the town.” Again he looked at Shan for her opinion. Then: “Any chance I could see those records?” DeForest sidestepped the question. “It’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it, both these men having connections to Haven.” Rippy refrained from smiling. He knew that the records which were sent had by now been disposed of by s in the IRS office. They had not even been copied. These investigators were acting on reports from the people who’d seen them. He said, “It’s not just a coincidence, it’s a shame. We work hard to give Haven a desirable image—last year it was voted by USA Today as Number 17 in the Top 100 Towns to Live in the U.S., you know—and here these two criminals are tarnishing it. It just makes me want to cry.” “That’s not the only thing, either,” Sergeant Williams put in. Rippy was wary of him—the big cop tended to quietly watch, and listen, taking in everything. “That drug used to dope up the girl—the manufacturer delivered the same type to a Post Office box here in Haven.” Rippy was stunned by this revelation, but did not show evidence of it. He expressed what he believed to be understandable dismay at such news. “Oh, I can’t believe that. Are you positive?” He wondered if the cop was lying to provoke a response. Surely Radcliff was not that stupid! “It’s been traced,” DeForest said. “It’s only a matter of time before we track down the owner of that box.” Rippy forced himself not to look towards Shan for her reaction. He could only hope she was being cool.

At least Radcliff didn’t use his own address! And the local Postmaster was in the Circle—no worries there. They might find what they were looking for, but it would take some time. “I just can’t believe that. Not here—it has to be someone from out of town, covering their tracks.” “Could be,” Sergeant Williams allowed, his gaze carefully measuring. “Well, we’ll be back Monday, if you could make Sheriff Hopewell available,” DeForest said. “Of course, anytime. Just call to let us know.” “Thanks for your help.” “Glad to do it, anything you need.”

“What do you think of that guy Rippy?” DeForest asked his partner as they got into their car. The lopsided grin said he already knew the answer, and that it was one he shared. Williams shook his head with a rueful grin of his own. “Birdshit would slide right off him.” “What do you think this is? Public officials involved in kidnappings and murder? Sounds like a bad movie.” “For once, I don’t know what to think,” Williams answered. “I know we need to find out the history of that pasture. And next time we come to Haven, let’s bring a little backup. We need to rattle this clown Rippy.” “Place looks like a picture postcard,” Skip remarked as they left the city limits. “Looks can be deceiving,” Ty reminded him.

“Well, I just wanted to thank you for the book, Luce. Tell Sean.”

“No problem at all.” Mallory heard a pause on the other end of the phone, and Lucy asked, “Mal, are you okay? You don’t sound right.” It bothered Mallory that she was so transparent. “No, I’m fine. Kinda bored I guess.” “Sounds like something’s bothering you. You’ve kept me on the line, what, fifteen minutes, but you’ve hardly spoken yourself.” “I’m sorry.” “You don’t have to be sorry. Just worried about you.” “Well, it’s nothing,” Mal sighed. “Boy problems.” “Just like the rest of the female population, huh?” Lucy said with a chuckle. “So what’s up? I thought you and the big cop were okay.” “Well, it’s a little odd. I wouldn’t know where to begin. But it’s not going to go anywhere after all.” “You sound pretty definite. Now I’m sorry.” “It’s for the best, in the long run.” But no matter how many times Mallory had repeated that to herself—and that’s exactly what she had been doing—she felt she was never going to believe it. “You know, it was Toby asked if we could get you a copy of that book.” Mallory’s eyebrows arched. “Really?” “Yeah, he got Sean alone at the party. Sean had the feeling Toby was aware of the book.” Mallory was perplexed—why did Toby want her to stay interested in that history? He had not seemed to want to discuss it at all with her. “Well I didn’t know that.” “So maybe things aren’t so final, Mal. It ain’t over ‘till the fat lady sings.” “Yeah—maybe,” Mal said without much optimism.

After the phone call, she thought about it for a few minutes and then went back to the book. Why would Toby want her to have a copy of it? She flipped through the Beast story, an eye out for any important detail she might have missed. She couldn’t shake the idea that there was something in there, some bit of information, that he wanted her to see. Like a secret message. Silly, she knew— if he wanted her to know something, why not tell her himself? She skimmed through the history of the Old Church. Examined the accompanying photographs, then gave those in the Beast section another look. Photos of Lessner and his deputies, faces of the victims, a couple of the murder scenes. But she saw nothing sticking out at her. One of the photographs was from a newspaper article, which she ed seeing in the website archives. She brought the same photo up on her flat , and then enlarged it. It was a photo of Sheriff Lessner and his posse, a group of locals who were patrolling the town at night after curfew watching for the marauding Beast. The group of men were photographed standing or sitting around the Sheriff’s office, which looked much different in that scene thirty years ago. The only things unchanged were the windows facing Main Street. There were seven men in the photo, including Alan Hopewell in civilian clothes, but only Lessner and Trent Feore were named. She recognized Artie Newcombe. Her own father was friendly with Newcombe when she was a kid. Then she noticed another detail, in the enlargement. There were other faces, reflected in the window glass separating the Sheriff’s inner office from the work area. The newsman’s flash made them pretty clear. Most were unknown to her, but one appeared very much to be that of Toby Vint. She enlarged the photo yet again, focusing on that one grainy reflection captured by accident in the corner behind the photographer’s subjects. He was standing out of the way with those around him, but he was much taller, and easy to identify. If it was not him it had to be a close relative who looked exactly like him. What was she thinking? Of course it couldn’t be him. Mallory double-checked— the photo though reprinted in the book published in 1993, was dated originally April 10, 1975. But it was his exact twin. Even the expression was well-know to her. His face was

stoic, his eyes dark and quiet. He watched the proceedings on that far-away day, listening, silent. How many times had she seen that wordless observant quality in Toby? Too many to count. So what was going on here? A knock at the door came twice before she noticed, so involved was she in this mystery. She turned the off. She threw on a robe—she had not dressed and was wearing only panties and a T-shirt. The broad-shouldered silhouette against the front door blind announced the identity of her visitor. She had to take a deep breath before opening it. “Toby. Hi.”

Victor Carter’s house was located far on the outskirts of town, where he could play with his weapons and tinker with his motorcycles without the interference of neighbors. Victor had designed and built the house himself over three years, requiring special permission from John Bath and the town’s leaders. It was a beautiful split-level home with floor-to-ceiling multi-faceted windows and Japanese gardens. It was constructed in a hillside and a brick chimney sprouted along with white maple saplings from the rear portion of the roof. Victor powered his home with solar s and the water came from a private well. The auto yard and parking area for the pair of tow trucks were across the drive from the home. Dean knocked and found Victor in his work room, sharpening the blade of an axe on a pedal-driven grindstone. A stream of blinding sparks kept Clinton from getting very close. He helped himself to a beer from the mini and sat down on a futon chair far from the work area. He listened to the loud Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin piped in on the custom sound system and waited for Carter to acknowledge his presence. “Where are the girls? Did you kill them too?” he asked when Carter was finished. Victor took his time answering the sarcastic query. He lifted the protective goggles and examined the new edge of his blade. “I sent them packing last night,” he said. Dean watched him pluck a hair from his own head and drag it

onto the blade. It cut cleanly in two. “I’m getting ready for a location change.” Dean figured in Carter’s position, he couldn’t blame him. “You’re gonna leave all this?” he asked. “No choice, man.” Victor crossed his arms and added, “And you’re screwed if you think differently.” “I haven’t killed any skinny deputies,” Dean pointed out. When hearing what Victor did, he could not say he was surprised. He knew Carter well enough. “Why Syd?” he wanted to know. “You still pissed over that egg throwing?” “Moore was using Syd as a shield, so I dropped his ass,” Victor said. “But over eggs? You killed him over eggs?” “I’ve killed people for less,” Victor reminded him, meeting his eyes. “One of Doctor Bath’s people,” Dean said, shaking his head miserably. Carter seemed to be unaware that this was going to have serious repercussions. “Bath’s people. Give me a break,” Victor shot back. He threw the goggles aside and got his own beer. “It’s all arranged. I’ve got a guy who specializes in new identities, social security cards, driver’s licenses. I’ve found a town in Montana.” “Montana?” “Plenty of wide open spaces, there’s enough room to hunt in Montana,” Victor said with a killer’s smile. Dean had accompanied Victor and his cousins on yearly hunting trips out west— Yellowstone National Park was a favorite destination. They took rifles and ammunition, but never used them. The outings were strictly to enjoy the great outdoors, and indulge in their own predatory activities. The prey were human beings—tourists or transients mostly. When and if their bodies were found, it was often attributed to animal attacks. “You’ve been planning this for a while.” “I can see the clouds on the horizon, something you’re hell-bent on ignoring,”

Victor told him. “Kel and I are gone, it’s a done thing.” Dean was aware that Kel had been nursing a bullet-perforated backside at Radcliff’s, and that everyone at that residence was probably dead, a fact he’d been instructed to keep to himself. “What makes you think Dr. Bath will let you go?” “Check this out.” Victor came over and dropped the throwing axe into Dean’s lap, taking care with the razor-sharp blade. Dean hefted it and ired the workmanship. He recognized immediately that this was one of Victor’s homemade weapons, forged in the style of a Cherokee tomahawk. It looked like he’d done some further work on it. The blade was flawless, deadly sharp and etched with rune-like symbols. The handle was wound with some sort of root, smoothed and varnished to a sparkling sheen, and the whole thing was perfectly balanced. “Nice,” Dean itted, unable to quash the sense that trouble was coming. “The handle is made of ash, and wound with wolfsbane. I customized the blade. It’s iron with a spine of sterling silver. I figure all my bases are covered, just in case the old wives’ tales are true.” Dean squinted at him. “Iron?” Receiving only a grim smirk in reply, he exploded: “Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?” He flipped the axe back to its owner. “Motherfucker, you try pulling that thing on the Doctor, you’ll be pigeon food!” “It’s mainly for his big bodyguard, but just in case,” Victor repeated. “You’d better get on board, Dean. You need me. We need each other.” “You’ll need a gravestone, if you’re lucky,” Dean warned. He threw his beer into a wastebasket. “I’m not part of this. Man, I’m outta here.” He’d come to try and talk some sense into his friend, get a feel for what the reaction would be when he learned the truth about Kel. But Carter had crossed the line. Dean was through with him. Their profitable partnership was over and it made him boil with rage. “Stay loose. I’ll be in touch when I’m resettled,” Victor called after him. “Kiss my ass!” Dean barked, and slammed the front door behind him. Stomping out to his car, muttering profanities, he thought, That kid had better be out of my

fucking way when I get home. He’d just better be.

“Hi—okay if I come in?” “Sure—come on.” Toby stepped past her and she motioned for him to sit on the couch. “You want something to drink?” “No thanks.” “So what’s up? You look pretty bothered.” This was true. Something had happened. He looked like he’d lost his best friend. “I need to talk to you.” “Everything okay?” She hoped he’d been missing her as badly as she was him. But that couldn’t for his mood, surely—he seemed crushed. “No, it really isn’t.” She sat down next to him—giving him a bit of room—and found herself pulling at the robe’s collar when she caught his eyes lingering on the hollow of her throat. The gesture was obvious to them both, completely without thought on her part, and succeeded in making them both even more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You just look so—” Mallory felt a twinge of desire overcome her butterflies. It was that shy thing he had going. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “You know I like you looking at me. I just don’t understand why we can’t be together.” “That’s why I’m here,” he replied. “Mallory, I need you to trust me and get out of town for a few days.” Her jaw dropped. “Why?” For a second her heart had leapt. “Just trust me, please. You could be in some kind of danger.” “What? What do you mean?” “It’s Bath—he may want to hurt you,” Toby confided. Mallory almost uttered a giggle. “Bath? I’ve never even spoken to the man. What are you talking about?”

Toby had to look away from her. “He’s dangerous, Mal. You have no idea what’s going on around here, with the town, with me. And I can’t explain it. You wouldn’t believe me. Just please, please, leave.” She looked at him a moment, searching his face, before getting up and going to her computer. She bent over the keyboard and it took her a minute to get the printer working. When she returned to him she had a sheet of paper with the old news photo on it. She presented it to him. “Is this you?” Her question was not demanding. She kept her tone gentle. He glanced at it once and looked away, his lips curling with an old pain. “Yeah.” “Tell me how that can be possible. Toby, you helped me find this, you led me to this photograph.” Toby bowed his head, his hands clasped. Saying the words, she realized, all along he’d been dropping hints, trying desperately to tell her without telling her. “What is it? I have to know. How could you be in this picture? If I looked up your personal records—your employment history—what would I find?” “You’ll find that Toby Vint isn’t real,” he said bluntly. “If you look carefully. My entire history is a fraud.” “That’s not your name?” “No, it is my name. It’s the name my uncle gave me. But everything else is just a history made up by Bath.” Mallory clasped his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. She saw tears on his cheeks. “I never wanted to tell you this,” he said miserably. “I didn’t want you looking at me—the way you’re looking at me right now.” “Tell me what?” she implored. “There’s no time now. But there is time for this—” He clasped her hand and hiding it completely in both his own, held it over his heart. “Mallory, my life has

been empty, until you. There’s a lot I don’t know about, and I guess that shows. Trying to break it off was the most stupid thing I’ve ever done—.” “But we can fix that,” she said, smiling, with tears in her eyes. “I wish I’d told you everything from the start, but I didn’t. And now I don’t have time to convince you of things you’ll not want to believe.” “Try me,” she urged, coaxing. “I’m getting more open-minded every day.” Her eyes were impossible to resist. He had to steel himself from happily drowning in them. Still holding her hand to his heart he touched her face and said, “You see, this romance can’t possibly work, and someday you’ll know that. But I still love you.” Hearing him say it, her shoulders slumped with relief. Her arm slid around his neck, drawing him closer, unaware she was even doing it. Suddenly he was aware of the heat coming from her, and his own body, responding. “That’s why I need you to leave,” he insisted. “Why?” she murmured, her voice soft, her lips close enough to taste. “Because I can’t lose you,” he whispered, knowing that, this time, he was not going to be able to stop this. “I can’t leave you,” she murmured. And found his open mouth with her own. He freed himself and managed to say, “But, you,” and that was it and he was lost in her. She tore his shirt open and the heat emanating from his body was like an open furnace. She nuzzled his throat and let him pull the robe from her shoulders. Her fingers were buried in his hair as his hungry mouth kissed and nibbled a path down her body. She pulled off the t-shirt and his lips found her. Panting with excitement she guided him with both hands, urging him down, lower, lower. Then she pulled her panties aside to allow him access, and with a frantic tug finally ripped them from her own body.

He pleasured her down there and she tightened her thighs around him, drawing him closer and guiding. She covered her breasts with his huge hands. “Toby,” she whispered-moaned. He lingered for a sweet torturous length of time and at last she helped him tug his jeans down. He whipped his shirt off. She took him in her hands and then in her mouth. He groaned with desire as she worked, trying to be gentle but nearly overcome by her need for him. When he could stand it no longer, hands on her shoulders he moved her to the carpet. She opened to invite him, then, muttering under her breath, got up to disappear into the bedroom. When she returned with the condoms—she purchased them days ago—he was waiting with his own ready, taken from his wallet. Sheepishly, embarrassed, he said, “I got them last week, just in case we—” “Shhhh,” she breathed into his ear, as she slipped the rubber on him and drew him down on top of her. He tried foreplay again, loving the taste of her, but she was way past that—she locked her legs around him, urging him, and found his mouth with her own. She gasped and he watched her eyes roll back beneath lowered lashes as he entered her. Her legs drew him tighter and they moved together. She bit his shoulder to muffle her cries. He held her like a doll and thrust against her desperately. She felt his release but he faltered for only an instant, shuddering in the waves of it, and then continued at a slower but stronger pace until she too came, moaning. Then he just lay on top of her, his mouth against her throat. He kissed her and nibbled on her ear and she treated him to gentle caresses. She got her second wind and feeling him stiffen inside her began to move against him until he was fully hard and grasped his buttocks pinching and pulling him deeper into her. After the second time she reluctantly got out from under him to replace the condom. The third time was not as powerful, but just as sweet. They lay for a time afterwards, Mallory curled around him like a napping kitten. Finally he forced himself to stir, unwilling as he was to part from her. “Mal, I have to go. You have to go.”

“Come with me” she murmured. “I can’t. This is no joke.” He rose on his elbows and paused to kiss her forehead. “Please—this is hard enough for me.” She opened her eyes and realized the front door was hanging open. Anyone could have looked through the screen and watched them. She smiled and thought how badly she had wanted this. He stood and began collecting his clothes. “Mallory, please.” “You have to come with me.” “I have to stay.” “Why? Tell me.” He saw her looking at him, and added, “You don’t understand. There’s no limit to what Bath can do. What he can make me do.” His meaning was obvious to her. “You’d never hurt me.” “I’d never want to. I couldn’t live with myself. But I don’t have time to convince you. C’mon, get yourself ready to leave.” “We can go to—” “Don’t tell me where you’re going.” He got his shoes on and stood to buckle his jeans and slip on his shirt. His buttons were mostly gone and she saw and giggled. He smiled in spite of his mood and kneeled next to her. She sat up and put her arms around him. “I want you to know, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said. “I love you, Toby.” “I love you, too,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. The words were the most perfect he had ever spoken. Looking into her eyes, he blinked back tears and added, “I’ve loved you since before I even met you. I think I always knew you were here.”

Leonard Rippy left his office to find Victor Carter pacing in front of Shan’s desk. “How are you, Victor?” Leonard was relaxed despite the other’s attitude. He’d purposely kept Victor waiting for better than fifteen minutes. “Pretty lousy, Leonard. Where is Kel? Radcliff’s place is locked up tight.” “Well, he had to be moved—” “Moved? Moved where? Why didn’t someone call me? This is bullshit.” “Just calm down—Doctor Bath will explain everything. It’s all good.” “Good my ass.” Victor shot Shan a furious glower as he followed the City Manager out into the hall. “Is Kel all right? He’d better be.” Rippy chuckled. “Relax, Victor.” “How can I relax? You wouldn’t be relaxing, if you had one cousin dead and one flat on his belly. And Moore is running around laughing about it.” “No one’s laughing, Victor,” Leonard assured him. “Anyway, how’s the arm? Healing up all right?” “It hurts like hell,” Victor complained. They went up the stairs leading to John Bath’s office. “Why was Kel moved?” “Well, there was a problem. A threat from Moore.” “What kind of threat?” “The Doctor will explain everything. Come on in,” Rippy bid, stepping aside and holding the door. Carter stepped past him thinking only of what he was about to do. A handgun pointed at his face. Victor’s reflexes were fast. With his good arm he grabbed the hand and wrist, and spun the man around and into the wall with a crash and a grunt. It was Tim Beller, one of the Circle.

“Let him go, Victor!” Hopewell—pistol drawn and pointed at the side of Carter’s head. Rippy stood behind him, his eyes wide. “Screw you—go ahead and shoot.” “That’s not what we’re here for—I said let him go!” “I’ll break off his arm first.” Beller uttered a gasp as his arm was twisted painfully for emphasis. Hopewell thumbed back the Glock’s hammer. “I swear, I’ll blow your brains all over that wall for Syd if nothing else—let him go.” Victor considered his options, teeth bared. Then he released Beller’s arm and stepped back. “Keep your hand up,” Hopewell warned. “Smart move, Victor,” Rippy said with a relieved nod. “What’s this about?” Carter demanded. Favoring his injured limb, Beller picked up the pistol in his left hand and covered him. Hopewell slid a hand up the back of Carter’s shirt, cautioning, “Don’t move now.” He drew the throwing axe from its harness and moved away with it. Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Dean,” he spat. “That chickenshit. I should’ve known.” “Let’s just say he knows which side his bread’s buttered on,” the Sheriff said. Leaving the axe on the Doctor’s desk he approached again and put his hand inside the cloth sling around Victor’s injured arm. It came out holding a small flat throwing knife. Then he bent—”Stay cool, Victor,” he urged, and pulling Carter’s left pantsleg up, drew the snub-nosed .32 from the ankle holster around his boot. He emptied the cartridges into his palm and left both weapons lying beside the axe. “Okay. Let’s take him downstairs,” Rippy said. The Sheriff and Beller kept their weapons trained on Carter. Leonard opened a closet door which was actually the entrance to an old stairwell. “What’s down there?”

“It’s like a wine cellar,” Rippy answered, a hand indicating the door. “I’ve never heard of this place having a wine cellar,” Victor said, his eyes narrowing. “Go ahead,” the Sheriff said, gesturing with the pistol. “Forget it,” Victor told them. “Shoot me here. At least I die with the knowledge that Bath will be having my brains cleaned off his fancy upholstery.” “C’mon, Victor—you know damned well the Doctor doesn’t need to see you to kill you. If he wanted you dead, you’d already be dead,” Hopewell assured him. Victor was unmoved. “What’s his plan? Torture?” “What would be the point of that?” Rippy inquired, half-smiling. “It’s how he gets his rocks off? How should I know? Like I said—go ahead and shoot me here if that’s what I’m looking at.” “The man just needs to talk to you,” Rippy said, his tone soothing. “That’s all.” “Let’s go,” Hopewell nodded towards the stairwell. Victor was a man who believed he could get out of any situation, as long as he was alive. “Okay. Since you asked so nice.” “But keep your hand where I can see it,” the Sheriff warned.

“So what’s stopping us leaving together?” she insisted. She was off the bed but silenced him with an embrace and a kiss. “I’m not in control of my life,” he confessed. “I have to do what I’m told, Mal.” “Why is that? It makes no sense.” She seemed amused—it was frustrating. She seemed to believe him, but wasn’t taking him seriously at the same time. “You’re right, it doesn’t. But it’s the way things are.”

“You know, I’m armed. And I’m a good shot. I can handle myself, Toby.” “I know that, too.” He almost joked, You’re not armed right now. Having her arms around him, and holding her naked against him, was the most wonderful feeling he’d ever known. He couldn’t believe he was urging her to leave him. “But not against this. The world isn’t what you think, Mal. Not at all.” “Come with me, and you can explain it to me, and we can beat it together. Whatever it is.”

The age was brick and mortar, very old, the air cool and damp and musty. As he descended the tightly winding stone stairs he thought it looked like part of a medieval castle in Europe. The only light was from neon tubing in the stone at foot level. He’d been in the Old Church many times, but he never knew about this. He didn’t think many did. He set his jaw as his bodyguards followed him down, with Rippy bringing up the rear. Victor was not afraid of anyone. But taking him down into a dungeon—. It turned out his dungeon analogy was dead-on. At the bottom of the staircase— Victor estimated they were now below the Courthouse’s basement, underground —was a huge wooden-plank door with a rusted handle. Within was a room cut from stone, with no electrical appliances whatsoever. Torches in the corners of the room afforded the only light. On the stone and mortar wall between the torches was the sign of the Pentacle, the encircled upside-down star nearly eight feet across, inscribed in what might have been blood. This was where John Bath gathered his Elders. The Mayor, the Judge, Henry and Dora Lessner, Bailey Painter. It was here the six communed and where some of them summoned the powers of darkness to seek out and destroy Greg Miller, even as he was being questioned by Moore. There was a large steel cage against the wall to the right. The bars were corroded by the damp, but strong. The lock was a heavy one. “Victor! Come on in,” Doctor Bath greeted his visitor. “How’s the arm? Terribly sorry about your cousins.”

Victor’s eyes scanned the shadows, looking for Vint. The Doctor stood at an aged wooden dais, leaning on an elbow. A wheeled brazier stand had a pot hung by a chain over a flame on hot coals. Bath was just sliding a block of waxy white-yellow material into the bowl where liquid was already at a near-boil . He was immaculately dressed as always, with the comical addition of a grilling apron hanging from his neck and tied at the waist, emblazoned with the slogan KISS THE COOK. Bath looked tired to Victor, though he was smiling, shaved, and with every hair in place. There were several plank wood benches looking like church pews facing the dais and a chair that sat in front, all four legs bolted to a filth-splattered grating in the stone floor. It was something that looked like a torture device. It was made from cord wood, stained and pitted with age. There were rusted manacles attached to the arms and legs with screws. Victor adjusted to the fact that he was in trouble. Wondering how much trouble he noted that Hopewell and Beller still had their pistols trained on him. “What happened to Kel?” “He had to be moved,” the Doctor said. “What the hell for?” “Watch your language, son,” Hopewell warned. “It’s all right, Victor,” Bath said. “We got wind Moore was after Radcliff. That’s all. Your cousin was moved for his own protection.” “Where is he now?” “Victor, let’s talk.” Carter eyed him with open suspicion and asked, “What is that?” referring to the material the Doctor was handling. “Beeswax,” Bath answered, feeding another block into the pot to melt. Victor took that in. His eyes were narrow, hard. He glanced around at the cage. “I hope you don’t think I’m going in there?” he asked them all. “That cage is for Tobias,” Bath explained. “Three or four times a year—usually

around the full moon—he can become quite unmanageable. So we lock him up for a night or two, to avoid any unpleasantness. It’s drastic, but it works.” He chuckled and brushing dry wax from his hands motioned for Carter to sit in the torture-chair. “No thanks,” Victor replied adamantly. He was thinking of how to survive this. Outside the sun was going down—he could feel it—soon, he would be able to change. Killing Bath was one thing—physically attacking him was an option he’d never even considered, not literally, but it looked like he wasn’t going to have much choice in the matter. “What’s all this talk I hear about you wanting to leave?” Bath asked him, his expression one of amusement. “It’s true,” Victor told him directly. “I’m not taking anything from you. I just want out.” “Not taking anything from me—I guess that’s why you were bringing that axe to our meeting. That iron-bladed axe.” “I’m tired of being hired muscle.” “Hired muscle, he says. Did you hear that, Leonard? Victor, you’re much more than that to me. You, everyone, you’re my children. I found you, I taught you. I gave you your strength and helped you become rich. I protect you, not the other way around.” “How do you figure?” Bath leaned back on the dais, arms crossed, looking for all the world like a wise father-figure conversing with a grown son. The idea irritated Victor even more. “When you first started—when this first started—it was just a thrill for you, a thing you could do. Like a skill at football or hitting home runs. But after so many years, it’s much more now. You have an addiction, Victor, one that would lead to your destruction, if not for me to control it.” Victor cocked his head. “Control it? I don’t need you to control it.”

Bath chuckled again and stroked his smooth chin. “You just don’t know. You take these little hunting trips with Dean and your cousins, you think you have it handled. But you’re wrong. Were you to leave me you’d find out in a hurry.” Victor felt the tingle in his stomach, and began to smile. He was immediately more confidant. The moon had appeared in the sky outside this room, though he could not see it. He could feel it. Imperceptibly, with no sound and his lips barely moving, he began to repeat the Changing Words.

“I want to. Oh, how I want to,” Toby breathed, cupping one smooth buttock. “Then let’s go,” Mallory urged. Her mouth was warm under his ear. His mind was whirling. What would happen if he ran? So many years under Bath’s unflinching control—had he ever even considered it? It wasn’t possible, was it? “I’ve got a little money. We can disappear. How would Bath find us?” Mallory kissed his throat, murmuring with pleasure. Before, Toby knew, it took Bath many years to hunt him down. And he was young, then, wild. Were things different now? “I can’t think, with you curled around me like this,” he protested. “Don’t think then. Just do. Like Yoda said.” “When he does find us—” Toby had a sudden wave of nausea, ing the threat Bath made. “The guy’s what, eighty? He won’t live forever.” “Mal—this can’t work, neither of us are thinking clearly.” “It’s cause we’re drunk on each other,” she told him. “I like the feeling. I want it to last.”

“So do I,” he itted. He kissed her, feeling his desire rise again—No. “Yes,” she whispered, reading his mind. “He would find us.” “Let’s take the chance, Toby. I’m not afraid. We don’t have to be afraid, as long as we’re together.”

“Ahh, I recognize that look,” Bath said with a chortle, pointing a playful finger. He rubbed his hands together and said, “Well. I might as well tell you. Cousin Kel’s dead. He’s in Radcliff’s basement, toes-up.” Victor twitched as if slapped. “What?” Hopewell and Beller tensed, ready to act. Carter’s face contorted in shock, grief, and then, rage. “It’s true. He caught a bullet in a place he needed more than an ass cheek. Moore got to him last night and he’s turning ripe as we speak. And I’ll tell you something else,” he said, now pointing from anger. “You can talk all you want about not taking anything from me, but I put a lot of sweat and blood into each and every one of you people, and every single one of you belongs to me, heart and soul. And no one takes what belongs to me.” Victor’s face purpled with sudden fury. But something was very wrong—he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even tear his eyes from Bath’s! Bath was stalking back and forth before him now, his expression livid. “Warburton, he belonged to me, too. And you killed him. No one, no one, kills one of mine without getting my permission first, I don’t care how big an asshole he is.” It was the old man’s eyes, and his voice, Victor knew. Somehow while speaking to him, while meeting his gaze, Bath had hypnotized him. He was completely paralyzed. “You’re fighting it,” Bath acknowledged, watching him. “I can feel you. You’re

strong, but not strong enough. You could change, if I let you. The sun is down by now. But I’m not going to let you. You see now, Victor? Do you understand?” He was helpless. Victor felt himself relax. Bath was willing him to do so and he was completely aware of that fact. But there was no point in resisting him. “There you are,” Bath was murmuring as if to a pet. “There you go. All better now?” “Yeah,” Victor said, swallowing, finally allowed to speak.. “Now have a seat.” Only when Victor sat did Bath take his eyes away. “Okay,” the other said lightly as the three in the room watched with mixed emotions. Rippy was closely examining every move Bath made, learning what he could. The Sheriff’s chest heaved, not sure what was happening. Beller just watched and kept silent. Victor relaxed in the aged chair and groaned only a little when Bath took his injured arm from the sling and put his wrist in the manacle. “You’re locking me in?” he asked, indifferent. “Yes. I need to restrain you.” Bath explained. He slid in the locking pin and did the same with Victor’s right wrist.

“Go home, pack a bag. I’ll meet you at your place in an hour. Let’s do this, Toby.” “It’s insane,” he insisted. But there was still Moore, he told himself, desperately. “Maybe so.” “I have some money, too. I can get that.” Moore might win. “What are you waiting for?” she asked, and laughed at his expression. He nodded, excitedly, trying to put Bath out of his mind. The man was not present—he had no power over him, if he’s not present in the room he has no

power over me. Toby repeated it, silently, praying it was true. “So get going,” Mallory urged, giving him a playful swat on the back pocket. He drew away from her, scarcely able to breathe for fear of waking from this dream. He gazed at her, wanting her. “I love you,” he said, energized by the words. “Go. I have to shower,” she said. Then he laughed—she giggled, delighted, sure she’d never heard him laugh before. He realized the same thing at the same instant and turned for the door.

Bath wheeled the brazier over to the chair. He used a ladle to dip the hot wax into a spouted bronze cup that resembled an antique gravy boat. With the cup he stepped behind Victor and putting one hand under his chin, tilted his head back. “Open your eyes wide now,” he said. “What are you doing?” “I’m going to call a demon, Victor. But I don’t want it looking at me.” “Okay—” Hopewell couldn’t watch as Bath tipped the cup over Victor’s right eye, pouring a stream of the scalding wax directly onto the eyeball. There was a soft bubbling sound and Victor hissed through bared teeth as the eye was blinded forever. His body stiffened and his fingers clawed the arm of the chair. The wax filled the socket and ran down the side of Carter’s face into his ear. Pink-swirled with blood and sclera it already began to cool. “Keep your head back. Just one to go,” Bath promised. He poured more wax onto the other eye and after a moment for it to cool tilted Victor’s head back up. The corners of his mouth were turned down and he was breathing hard. With the pools of hard wax filling his eye sockets his face resembled a grotesque Halloween mask. The flesh surrounding the wax had blistered. As Bath replaced the ladle he saw that Hopewell was looking squeamish. His lips were curled back, his cheeks ashen. “Alan, you might want to leave,” he suggested, amused. Hopewell didn’t need to be told a second time. He turned and let himself out of the room. Beller went with him. From a paper sack he’d brought along Bath produced a candle which he placed on the table and lit using a simple finger sign. Rippy stepped back and made a point of not listening as Bath mouthed ancient words, a finger tracing runes in the air. Carter twitched, uttering gasps and groans, his body under attack. The veins in his muscled neck and rippling arms bulged with an infusion of blood. His mouth contorted into twisted shapes as he writhed in the restraints. After a few moments the candle flickered with the ing of an unseen presence. The air in the chamber thickened, Rippy felt it in his eardrums as he had in the Doctor’s office. Carter’s shoulders sagged, his head lowering. The

shape of his mouth changed, lips curling back from his teeth. His gums were bleeding. The smartest means to summon a demon was to have a human vessel to contain it. Providing the proper precautions were taken, it was the safest way to establish a from the other side. “Speak up,” Bath commanded. “Why is it so dark in here?” The voice had little resemblance to Victor’s own. It had a hollow and inhuman timbre, and even a touch of an Old World accent. With each word there was a wet clicking death-rattle in the back of his throat. “I’m going to ask questions, I want you to answer them.” Bath stood with his arms crossed, his manner imperious. Rippy watched barely able to breathe. A ribbon of blood appeared beneath Victor’s left nostril. The Victor-slash-entity just bared his teeth, the powerful bronzed shoulders rising and falling with each exhalation. His fingers had convulsed into claws which dug into the arms of the chair until the nails bled. “My influence seems to be fading here. What’s going on with that?” Bath demanded. “You lost our Offering. Twice.” The demon’s tone was pointed, almost sarcastic. “This was happening before. Are you betraying me?” “We’re not fools, Bath. You’re trying to pull a fast one on us.” He took this in and Rippy wondered what that response meant. Was it a reference to the Doctor’s long research into the Book? It was not for him to know, he reminded himself. Doctor Bath ignored the accusation. “There’s still time before the Solstice. I’ll get what you want.” The demon snorted with amusement. “This place is almost ruined, and you know it. Moore is beating you.”

Bath said, “No matter. I can start elsewhere at any time.” The demon shook Victor’s head, once from side-to-side. “No. You owe us. We want to be paid.” “Paid what? What is it you want?” “Your life would do.” Rippy felt the hair crawl up his scalp. Bath said, “You can have Carter.” “Faughh! We already have him! He’s less than nothing!” “You know I’ll pay what’s due. When I find a new place, I’ll consecrate the ground, just as I did here. I’ll bring you more followers, more blood.” “No, not enough.” Bath waited, thinking. The demon went on: “A stranger’s brat won’t cut it this time, Bath. We want someone precious to you. A gesture to restore our good will.“ And the demon chuckled deep in Victor’s throat, a sound unlike anything Rippy had ever heard. “I won’t be dictated to.” “The hell you won’t.” “This is still a partnership, one hand washes the other. If I give you what you want, will you help me stop Moore and start fresh?” “You’ll give us what we want. Don’t fool yourself.” Doctor Bath uttered a heavy sigh to warn of his impatience. “I’m getting tired of this. As I told you, I will give you the prize you want, I will start over in another place, and everything will be as it was. And you’ll help with Moore?” “No promises, Bath. We no longer trust you. As for Moore—he’s your problem.” “Okay,” Bath said, shrugging. “I guess this interview’s over.” He drew a short curved blade from his pocket and stepping again behind Victor, grasped his chin and tilted his head back with a rough jerk.

“No, wait,” the demon protested. Bath ignored that and thrust the blade beneath the gold earring, then dragged it across Victor’s throat, cutting deep. Dark blood squirted and then pulsed down over his shirt with each struggling heartbeat. The knife separated his larynx and grated against his neck bones. When he was opened ear-to-ear Bath stepped back. The life left Victor’s face quickly and his chin sagged on his breast as the blood flow decreased to nearly nothing. Crimson dripped onto the splattered floor grating. Bath produced a silk handkerchief and wiped scarlet from his hand. Rippy felt the air in the chamber lighten. Even the torches seemed to burn brighter with the demonic presence gone. “Get rid of this,” Bath said, jerking the scarlet-smeared apron from his neck and throwing it and the silk onto Victor’s body.

“Leonard, you need to check our s with the State Police. See if any sign —” He paused as the desk telephone suddenly buzzed. It was his private number, and the caller ID said UNKNOWN. At a glance from the Doctor, Rippy stood and punched the speaker phone. “Yes?” he asked. “Is this John Bath?” “Who is this?” Rippy asked casually. “Frank Moore.” Bath arched his brows, eyes bright with surprise. Hopewell straightened. “Mister Moore—we’ve been looking all over for you,” Rippy said, without missing a beat. “How did you get this number?” “Your Doctor Radcliff had it lying around. Have you been over to his place lately?” “I’ve heard it’s some mess.”

“You sound like a spineless ass-kisser. Lenny Rippy, I presume.” “So how may I help you?” Rippy asked. “Put Bath on. I’ll save my business with you for when I can deliver Val Newcombe’s regards in person.” “Doctor Bath isn’t around at the moment. But I’d be glad to help you.” “Fine. I think it’s high time we all get together.” “I’m afraid that probably isn’t going to happen. Unless you’d like to drop by the office?” “That’s on my list.” “When can we expect you?” “Let’s keep it a surprise.” “We’re looking forward to it.” “Tell Bath I’m coming to see him personally.” “That isn’t going to happen, Mr. Moore. We’re afraid you might shoot someone.” “Well that’s a healthy attitude. But it’s not going to save him. Or you.” “That sounds like a threat, Mr. Moore.” “So how long do we continue this little dance? Do I have to go through your entire town, one bullet at a time?” “What alternative is there?” “Tell Bath to kill himself. It’s the only way he’ll shake me.” Hopewell was slack-jawed, thunderstruck. Rippy laughed. “No, there’s no need for that,” he said as if soothing an upset

child. “Anyway, we can outlast you. What you’re doing is blatantly illegal. We’re just going to lean back, sooner or later someone is bound to make you stop.” “Except Bath’s running out of time, and he knows it. Turn on the news, the Miller thing is blowing up in your faces in case you haven’t noticed. And Radcliff and that other guy—Mark?—are not far behind. The buck’s going to stop.” Leonard just grunted in response to this. Bath had inspired in Rippy a care with what he said on the phone. They were so easily eavesdropped these days. But Moore had no such concerns. “Tell him to kill himself. Then I’ll just take you out, and Hopewell and a few others, and this will all be a bad memory.” “You’re threatening me? Over the phone?” “Yeah, like this conversation will ever end up in court. You bastards can’t afford the exposure.” Bath reacted to the name-calling, his cheeks coloring. Shan came from the kitchen quietly with a tray of sandwiches and soft drinks. She put it on Bath’s desk without a word to interrupt the conversation. “I think we’ll wait and see what happens, Frank,” Rippy said. “By the way, how are things back in Ohio?” Bath’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He honored Rippy with an appreciative nod. “Moore? Are you there?” “I’m here.” “No comment? Frank, maybe we could work something out. I have it on good authority that the situation back home is not yet past the point of no return. Can’t we talk about it?” Rippy eyed his mentor who made no effort to hide his amusement. This was

mere fantasy. Bath wanted Moore’s head on a plate and wounding him with the murder of a loved one was just icing. “Are you offering a deal?” “It’s worth discussing. What do you say?” Rippy asked, enjoying his power position. “I’ll give you an answer right now. Are you ready?” “Certainly,” Rippy said with a shrug, expecting more threats. It took a moment for them to understand what was happening. The crystal ball on Bath’s desk exploded like a bomb. They threw up their arms with crystal splinters flying into their faces, and the flintlock pistol suddenly jumped from the desk in pieces. Window glass tinkled to the carpet. Shan uttered a yelp of alarm. With the third bullet it was obvious they were under fire. A dish on the lunch tray shattered, food and broken glassware flying everywhere. Even then before they could react, the fourth shot punched through Bath’s new flat and into a wall, showering Bath’s expensive suit with crystal and electrical sparks. Shan screamed and threw herself on the Doctor, knocking him from his chair, and they both tumbled to the floor behind the desk. Hopewell searched for cover on his knees and elbows. Rippy crouched behind a chair. A bullet went over Bath and Shan and impacted with the cabinet’s ornate demonhead lock, ricocheting and destroying a stack of shot glasses on the wet bar. Then Hopewell’s Stetson flew off the antique coat rack which crashed to the floor. There was an interlude and the assault may or may not have ended then, and uttering a scream of outrage Bath pushed Shan off him and stumbled to his feet. He attacked the speakerphone like it was the cause of his problems—he pulled it off the desk and shook it as he would Moore by the throat and shrieked, “Come get me you fuck! Come up here so I can pull your heart out you mother fucker!”

Shan sobbed on the floor, certain the Doctor was going to catch a bullet. Leonard was horrified and reluctant to approach him, having never seen him in such a fit of fury. But the Doctor was in the line of fire and he took Bath’s shoulder, trying to urge him to get down away from the window, and the Sheriff ed him. Bath shook them off and with a scream hurled the speaker across the room. “Find him!” he shrieked. “Find the prick! Do it!”

From his perch in the top of a tree north of town Frank kept the rifle’s crosshairs on Bath until someone dropped the blinds on the broken window glass, obscuring his view. He took his eye from the scope, wondering if he had just killed Lori. He did what he intended, sending a message, pissing Bath off, giving him a motive to throw caution to the wind and come after him with everything he had. Because Frank felt strongly that he had to get as many of them as he could. Also, he had to make a public spectacle in the doing of it, create a mess no one could ignore, so that any of them he missed would be on the run. He had to sweep this den of rot away like a nest of maggots before a flood. Otherwise there would be other innocent people in danger. Stephen, the Albaneses, how many others? They would never be safe. But maybe, if he’d given in to the urge to put a bullet in Bath’s face—maybe Lori would have a better chance of living through this. He hoped later he would be able to forgive himself.

Toby packed only civilian clothes into a gym bag, along with his Dusty Springfield CDs. He wanted nothing to remind him of the Sheriff’s office, but he did include his pistol after a moment’s consideration. He was too keyed up to think about what he was doing, what his chances were. He kept telling himself, if he could stay out of Bath’s reach, away from that hated voice, he might be able to make it. He forced himself to keep Mallory in mind. His cash was rolled tightly in rubber bands and stashed in an old pair of running shoes. He was not paid much, his rent and living expenses taken care of by the Doctor. He had no idea how much money he’d accumulated. He put it all in his bag. Of course things would never work out with her. He would tell her everything, all of it, and even then she might want to stay with him—but once she really and truly realized what he was, she would have to leave him. There was no getting around that. But, in the meantime—every second he could spend with her would be worth it. He just had to keep far, far, away from Bath— “Toby?” He froze in the act of zipping the bag. He swiveled his head, unsurprised. It was the only way it could’ve gone, after all. But he was so close—so close. Leonard Rippy stood inside the front door, with the Sheriff as his backup. They’d entered without knocking and he was too lost in his thoughts to even notice. Rippy said, “Your phone’s turned off—are you going somewhere?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mallory was feeling muscles she’d not used in a while. She wondered if Toby was feeling the same and hoped so. Her mother insisted on whipping up a quick supper. Her father was watching The Andy Griffith Show on one of the cable channels and Mallory opened beers for them both and sat down with him. She’d spent many hours with her dad watching old TV reruns. Doby Gillis. Lucy and Desi. The Clampetts. And Andy and Barney, of course. The episode was one of the very earliest, with Elinor Donahue as Mayberry’s new pharmacist, Ellie. Jim Abshire loved Elinor Donahue from Father Knows Best. He had most of the actress’s television appearances on tape, from an episode of Star Trek up through a recurring part on Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. Mrs. Abshire liked to joke that it was a good thing Donahue was off in Hollywood or wherever, or Mallory might have a different mother. He laughed it off. Donahue was his only vice except for the occasional beer. “So how are you, Mallory?” This was an expected question and for once she wished she could go into it. But she honestly didn’t know how to explain her situation. She just said, “Ah, up and down.” She’d told them she had quit her job and was going out of town for a few days, for a little vacation, could they keep an eye on her place in the meantime? She was vague about her exact plans, saying only that she would be finding a different job upon her return. She could not imagine just running away. Whatever was happening in this town, she sensed it was coming to a boil. Toby’s fears had to be exaggerated, if she could get him away until everything settled down, they’d be fine. She was certain of this.

She was not ready to formerly introduce Toby yet. There was too much weirdness going on. When they asked she told them she was just taking some time off and a co-worker was meeting her before she left. Her mother clearly was not satisfied with that answer, but Dad was okay with it. Mallory was a daddy’s girl. Jim Abshire affixed her with a brief look, sensing perhaps something more. But he decided not to pursue the subject. Mallory was a strong girl with a good head on her shoulders. If she needed to talk, she would. “Well don’t push it. You’ve got all the time in the world,” he said, seemingly knowing her thoughts.. His reminder made her think of everything Toby told her, of the picture and the mystery of his age and how she was just accepting of it all. “So what time does your friend expect you?” Judy called from the kitchen. Mallory got up to help with the meal.

“Hi, Nat.” “Leonard—hi.” Her mother had called up the stairs that the phone was for her. She’d been lying in bed examining the new tattoo visible above her left breast. The encircled star had risen to the surface of her skin gradually following the initiation ceremony. Since that night she had been in and out of a state of depression and she wished she could say she felt the old thrill at hearing from Leonard. It took a lot more to excite her these days. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. Lying around.” She wondered why he was asking. If he wanted sex, she had no objections, just for lack of anything else to do. “I may send someone to pick you up in a while.” She sat up on her bed. “Really? What’s going on?” “Some trouble. We might need everyone to come in.”

“Everyone?” “The group. Stacey Walter will be along in about an hour, unless something happens.” “What’s going on, Leonard?” “Stacey will explain it. I’ll see you soon, okay?” “Sure.” She hung up, a bit annoyed—why was Stacey Walter handling her for Leonard? She didn’t like the sound of this. But, the group, he’d said. Her heart beat faster when she thought of it—the rush, the charge of sexual sensation that went along with surrendering to the beast now within her. Using the Changing Words she had full control of her transformations, but she was cautioned not to do that, not ever without someone from the Circle with her. It was very dangerous for a beginner, and something within her knew it was true. And she obeyed that edict. Even though the desire was always there, a constant craving, like an addiction to the most powerful drug ever produced.

Cooper Banks slipped out his window well after dark. His left eye was swollen shut from where his stepfather had hit him. The asshole had locked him in his room, telling him he wouldn’t be having supper tonight. He didn’t really care about the food—his face was hurting pretty bad and he had no appetite. His mother mystified him. He’d seen two dead bodies—dead bodies, murdered —and his mom called the police after driving him over to double-check. She never called them about Dean (but she had, from time to time, called over her own son’s misbehavior) and did that guy ever do anything to warrant it? You bet. That very evening he’d beat the crap out of them both. He started on Cooper, and this time his Mom had stepped in—he supposed she was shocked that Dean actually hit Cooper, he never had before—next thing, Coop was locked in and she was getting slapped on. And this was after Dean had a full belly—it was usually when he was grumpy and drinking and waiting on supper that the blowups happened.

His mother seemed different, somehow. Like she was worried. Cooper kept getting these looks from her all day, like she was trying to figure out what she should do. He wished he felt close enough to her to ask what was on her mind. It sounded like it was the standard Saturday Night Special beating, nothing his mom couldn’t handle, so Coop didn’t worry about it much. But this thing with the dead bodies, this was definitely a new wrinkle. He’d heard his mom call the police, had overheard the conversation. Why had nothing come of it? And what was up with Dean’s reaction to it all? Was he involved? Cooper was excited with the prospect of Clinton Dean actually having some real grief in his life. Maybe he’d be arrested! Coop would definitely tip a beer in honor of that occasion. It was after dark. He rode his bike out the far side of town to see what was still in Radcliff’s driveway. The answer was nothing. The blood had even been rinsed off the blacktop, he saw. The house was completely silent with not a light to be seen. His mind whirled. What could all this mean? Leaving Radcliff’s he stopped at his friend Doug Harmon’s house but paused before going in. Just down the street, the Wilkes place was dark, one side of the house blackened by the fire, roped off with yellow caution tape. In fact the entire neighborhood seemed unusually quiet. Wondering why things seemed so strange, he knocked on the front door. A porch light came on and Mrs. Harmon answered. “Cooper. What happened to your eye?” Her tone suggested she already had a good idea. “Sorry, Mrs. H. Can Doug talk a while?” “I don’t think so. You shouldn’t be out roaming the streets. Is everything okay at home?” “Just for a while? We’ll stay on the porch.” Cooper desperately wanted to tell his friends what he’d seen that morning, Clinton Dean’s threats be damned. “No, no. Doug’s dad has to go out in a while. He wants us all to stay in.” Cooper gave up, his shoulders sagging. “Cooper, can I call your mom?”

“No, I’m okay. I just ran into something.” She inspected him closely, making him uncomfortable. Fucking adults. “Then go home, Cooper. Go on now.” She shut the door and Cooper walked back out to his bicycle. Most of his friends’ parents disliked him—they knew about his various run-ins with authority, and about his filthy vocabulary, and, he suspected, about his nightmarish home life. He noticed that girls in particular were warned to be wary of him, which of course made him more than a little alluring to many of them. He was not yet interested in girls, but he was by nature shy and respectful around them, which no doubt would have surprised the neighborhood parents. He did not spend time wondering how he came by this positive attribute, considering his home environment—if asked, he might even say that it was because of his home life. He was wondering who he could talk to—of his circle of friends Doug was the one with the most freedom, chances were that if he couldn’t come out, none of them could. He figured he might go over to the park and just hang out by himself. Fuck going home, that was out. “Pssst. Pssst.” It took him a moment to realize he was being hissed at. Looking around, he noticed a face peering at him through a screen in a dark window. “Pssst. Hey. Cooper.” It was Doug’s little sister, Bess. He walked over to the girl’s bedroom window. “Hi, Coop.” “What’s up, Bessie? You s’posed to be asleep?” He wondered why the lights in her room were off. “Ssshh, quiet. There’s some kind of stuff going on. Dad’s in a mood.” “Is Doug around? I’d like to talk to him.” “We’re not allowed to leave our rooms. Don’t you get scared in the dark? It’s

awful dark out there.” “Nah.” “What about the booger man?” “Bessie, I keep telling you Doug’s full of it. There is no booger man.” Even as he made this declaration, Cooper couldn’t help but be reminded of those two things that had chased him. “Coop, what happened to your eye?” Bessie noticed it when Cooper turned the wrong way—he’d been hiding that side of his face. There was sympathetic hurt in her tone—she was about four years younger and had always been sweet on Coop, much to the horror of her mother. “Somebody hit me.” “Did you hit ‘em back?” “You bet.” Bessie just looked at him through the screen, not knowing what else to say. “Well, I better get. Tell Doug hi for me, okay?” “Okay. Coop, be careful. Watch out.” “I will. Bye.” “Bye.”

“Toby found this,” Leonard said, ing a folded sheet across the desk. “It was left out at the guest house.” Doctor Bath stared at the pamphlet. It was an ad for the campground out on the lake. “They shut it down months ago, it’s part of the resort construction,” Leonard explained. “And Toby found where he shot at us from. The woods north of town.”

Bath jerked his head. “That’s more than a quarter mile from here.” “Yes sir. But it’s a good vantage point, with the right kind of gun.” “I guess we can add sharpshooter to Moore’s resume. Fuck me!” The Doctor stood and went over to the wet bar. “Drink, Leonard?” “No sir, thank you.” Bath considered a moment and uncorked an old bottle of wine he’d been saving. If tonight did not qualify as a special occasion, there was no such thing. “This leaflet. He wants us to come there. This is a trap.” “Toby is convinced.” “What could he have waiting? He must be confidant. He hasn’t notified any police or anything?” “No sir. There’s nothing been reported. Alan went by the site—he couldn’t see anything.” “He wants to keep this personal. So do I. I would ask Tobias what he thinks are the chances of going after him like he wants—but, I can’t trust him any more.” “No, sir.” “Moore is armed, certainly. He expects us to come after him. Hmm. Drink this, Leonard—I brought this from a small town in the Balkans.” “Thank you.” Leonard sipped the dark wine, sighed with appreciation. “Mmmm. Delicious.” “Put yourself in Moore’s place, Leonard—when he shot up the office, he had all of us in his sights. Why not drill me then?” “He wants you looking him in the eye when he kills you.” “Exactly.” Bath sipped the grape and shook his head with a rueful laugh. “He and I are more alike than he knows.” Bath sat on the back of the sofa and he and Rippy regarded each other.

Rippy had the loyalty of a lap dog. He was all business, allowing very little time for personal pleasure—the entire love affair with Natalie Watts was actually a further extension of his group interests—and had little sense of humor. Leonard’s own father had been dead many years—from his view it was just luck that John Bath was around to become a surrogate father-figure to the young law student. “Leonard, I’ll be leaving Haven, probably in the morning.” “I understand, sir.” “You’ll have to stay behind, son. I need you to cover my back, as best you can.” “You know I will.” “That will likely mean jail—at the least. But I know you’ll handle it.” “Of course.” “This isn’t what I had in mind for you, Leonard. Moore has thrown quite a wrench into the works.” Rippy nodded, his eyes moist. “But I don’t want to leave still sharing oxygen with him,” Bath said, refreshed. “I need to know he’s dead, if not seeing it with my own eyes. Call them in, Leonard. I’ll have a meeting with the Elders. The others will be going after Moore. We’ll give the man what he wants. See if he has the belly for it.” “They’re all waiting.” “With a little luck Tobias will make the kill. If not—well.” Bath didn’t say so— but Toby was becoming a liability. Leonard was glad the deputy had lost his importance. He finished the wine and stood to carry out Bath’s orders. “Leonard. One other thing.”

“So what’s going on?” Nat asked, both dreading and anticipating the answer. Stacey put the car in gear and backed out of the Watts driveway. “Doctor Bath needs us to kill someone. Put on your seat belt.” Natalie had to digest that for a moment, unable to move. Finally she buckled up. “Who?” “A man named Frank Moore. He’s been in town a few days, stirring up trouble. He’s after the Doctor. He knows things we can’t let him talk about, about the group.” Natalie’s eyes were huge. “Just you and I?” “No.” Stacey was so keyed up that she did not realize she was answering questions by rote, like a robot—she looked at Natalie and laughed, relieving at least her own tension. “No, no. We’re all meeting there. The whole group— Nick’s meeting us. He’s dropping the twins off at the Old Church.” “Why?” Nat asked, surprised. It was late. The girls had school the next day. “Doctor Bath wants them there,” Stacey said with an indifferent shrug. Natalie watched the woman intently, looking for any sign of mental disturbance. Seeing absolutely none, which worried her even more, she asked, “Where are we going?” “To the old campground outside of town, it’s not far. There’s directions—” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocketbook and gave it to Nat. “The highway’s a mess there, all that construction.” “So we’re just supposed to kill this guy? Like they did the reporter?” Nat’s heart was pounding, hard. She was terrified and at the same time incredibly excited. She could hardly believe that she was about to participate in a murder, and that the idea was not causing her to run screaming from the car at the first stop light. “Well, not exactly,” Stacey itted. “This man Moore, he’s a fighter. He’s probably armed. And he knows we’re coming.” Natalie felt a twinge of fear. “How many of us?”

“I’m not sure—look, don’t worry, Nat. We hunt all the time—well, whenever we can get out of town for a few days. We never kill on our own turf. But it’ll come natural—you’ll see.” “Will Leonard be there?” “I’m not sure, but probably not. Doctor Bath likes to keep him close.” Natalie chewed her lip. Her expression made her misgivings obvious. “Natalie—once you’ve done this, you’ll never be the same. I promise you,” Stacey said, wanting to encourage the younger woman. “Your life was really less than a half-life before. We were born to do this. We’re the hunters, they’re the prey. This man won’t have a chance against us.” Natalie was frightened. And Stacey’s words did little to make her feel better. But the predator within her—it was always there, wanting to be let out—sensed the coming kill and bolstered her courage with its hunger. It made her more than she was but also, she knew, less than she had been. A blessing and a curse. One that, now, would always be a part of her. “It would’ve been nice to see the girls,” she commented, her mind very much on other things. “I had Nick take them, I didn’t want them getting all weepy on me,” Stacey said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Mallory was going on automatic. Toby’s apartment was locked up and dark. He wasn’t returning her calls. She was certain he had not bailed on her—something was wrong. She was trying the Old Church next. This was all crazy, she realized that. She didn’t understand what was going on with Toby, and sensed she would have a hard time believing it once she found out. The only thing for certain was that he was the prize in some kind of tug of war. On one side was the Old Church, the town, John Bath—all the bad things. On the other side was Toby’s good nature, which she absolutely believed in, it was what she loved in him. She thought they were leaving the bad stuff behind, that he was past it—but now he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Now she

had to get him back. The town was like a tomb. The streets were deserted, even the residences unusually quiet, lights off and doors locked up. That community sense again— Toby had hinted at something eventful taking place. And she believed him, insane as she was to just accept everything he told her. Unconsciously she chewed her bottom lip, not quite frightened, but concerned. She did not dwell on how her world view had changed in just the last few hours. At an intersection just outside the town square she took her foot off the brake, and then locked them up, abruptly, as a kid on a bicycle shot out in front of her, the front of the car missing him by inches. She rolled down her window, alarmed and pissed: “Hey! You!” The boy shot a look at her over his shoulder and then pedaled all the harder, and she realized it was Cooper Banks. And also that one of his eyes was black and swollen out to here. Someone had beaten him up, more than likely that trailertrash stepfather of his. Mallory felt a different kind of anger replace the butterflies over nearly hitting the kid. She made a left and followed, accelerating. Cooper knew she was after him. He was pumping the pedals like his ass was on fire, headed for the center of town. It was possible he didn’t realize who she was—or, possibly, that he did. He cast another look over his shoulder and suddenly exited the sidewalk, disappearing between two closed business buildings. She slowed to a stop, craning her head for a look down the alley. An oncoming car ed and she happened to spot a tall broad-shouldered figure in the enger seat. His profile was distinct. Toby. That had to be Toby. She put her head out the window. Whose car was he in? She couldn’t tell. Another car went by, and she recognized the driver. Nick Walter, with Will Painter sitting next to him and Will’s younger brother in the back seat. What was Toby up to? She wasn’t jealous—she didn’t know what was going on, and felt deep down that she was the lone woman on Toby’s mind—but she was curious and worried and the two emotions together were nearly as nagging as the other.

Toby promised they would be out of town by dark, and it was long after. And everything he said—and everything she intuitively felt—led her to believe that leaving was the best thing for both of them. She knew, she did not want to find out what was going on in this town, and she did not want to be a part of it. Something was screaming at her, LEAVE. GET OUT. But were those feelings hers? Or Toby’s? And was she past the point where she could separate the two? She glanced in the side view mirror. She could see both cars still. One appeared to be following the other. She looked around. Wherever Cooper had been going in such a hurry, he was long gone. She could go to his house and find what was what—but she wasn’t in uniform. Who was she kidding? She pulled into the alley that Cooper had darted into. Then she put the car in reverse, and backed out. Her decision was not fully made until her foot was on the gas and she was going the same route as the car carrying Toby.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The late-night news mentioned Haven in the latest report on Miller’s burial ground—one of those This reporter has learned bits—and there it was, Bath told himself. The beginning of the end. By now eighteen bodies had been recovered, the latest appearing to be less than six months in the ground. First thing Monday investigators from at least four state and federal agencies would be headed to Haven to probe Miller’s background further. Nothing pointed to any criminal culpability concerning anyone in the town as yet, but the writing was on the wall. John Bath shook his head regretfully. Well, nothing lasts forever. Although he’d hoped it would. No cause of death for the victims yet, the reporter revealed, but all were considered homicides. Bath knew all would have cleanly slit throats, all would show signs of fasting and weight loss before their deaths, and all would have been ritually bathed before burial. There were no official identifications yet, although the families of ID’d victims could begin receiving notification as early as mid-week. The years of killings would be completely exposed, eventually, and the other murders as well. No matter. No one in Bath’s group would dare to implicate him. And those arrested would not be around long regardless—without Bath’s rigid controls his followers would soon fall victim to the very forces they allowed to seduce them. But he still had to leave. There was too much evidence. He would not risk imprisonment. He was polishing off his forth glass of wine—he intended to finish this bottle, by himself if necessary—when Hopewell and Rippy made their reports. “Tim Beller is with me downstairs,” the Sheriff said. “He’s a good man with a gun.” This was in the event Moore surprised them. “Are the twins here?”

“They’re in my office,” Rippy said. “We gave them some fruit juice laced with cough syrup to make them sleepy. They’re quiet.” “Good. I may have to sneak them aboard the plane inside the luggage. They’re small enough as long as there’s air. We may have to sedate them.” “Whatever you want, sir.” “Would you two like some wine? I want to finish this bottle.” Both men declined. Hopewell in particular was wound pretty tight and was too nervous to indulge. Now a good shot of whiskey—that he might like. Rippy was just relieved, to see that the wine had Bath in a relaxed and measured mood. Seeing Bath in control made him feel more secure. Afterwards in Rippy’s office he noticed the Sheriff looking expectantly at himself and Shan. “Spill it, Alan.” “Is Haven still going to be here tomorrow?” Hopewell asked, giving voice to his fears. Rippy looked at Shan first—she too was wondering—and then met Hopewell’s worried gaze. “Tomorrow, yes,” he asserted. “After that? Maybe not, Alan.” The Sheriff took that with no outward reaction. “What’s the Doctor going to do?” “He’s leaving, going overseas. He just wants to be sure Moore is dead first.” Hopewell’s chin trembled. “He’s taking Toby and Shan. I’m staying on.” The Sheriff looked stricken. “Staying?” “That’s right. Alan, we’ve all got money. Clear out if you want. You and your wife. It’s all coming down here. It’ll be jail if you don’t.” The big man’s cheeks turned red with shame under the gaze of Rippy’s beautiful assistant. Shan realized she was embarrassing him and said, “Nothing to feel

guilty about, Sheriff.”. “That’s right,” Rippy agreed. “It’s just Kate. She needs me,” Hopewell said. “You don’t have to explain. Tomorrow, do what you have to do,” Rippy urged him. The three of them went silent and listened to the soft drone of the television. Rippy poured each of them a nice hot cup of coffee. Then he went into his office to wait on word from Toby.

Ty was barefoot happily watching a game on the television with his cats, Highway and R. Lee, when he got the cell phone call. “Yeah, Skip. Don’t you ever go home?” The FBI agent gave him an address in Whitestone, asked him to step on it. “This might have to do with Miller,” he said. Things had been happening. Analysis of the Jergens girl’s address book found only one red flag, an email address that was purposely rerouted through a network of ISPs to hide its owner. Skip’s people said some of the other girls had similar s on their own family computers, which led nowhere previously, but new tracking systems developed by the Bureau’s cyber-crime unit now made it possible to continue the investigation. So far the ISPs had been tracked to New Jersey and the trail was still going on. Ten minutes later the detective was pulling onto a residential street where a home was surrounded by official vehicles and uniformed cops were putting up yellow crime scene tape. A pair of ambulances were leaving with flashing emergency lights just as he arrived. There was a scattering of neighbors out on their lawns rubbernecking. Cops and Feds were all over the place. He had to ask for the young agent and was directed through the house and into the built-on garage. There he found what looked like a secret entrance to an underground room. The entry was a trapdoor, hidden in the cement garage floor by a simple throw rug. He gawked at the junior FBI agents present. “What the hell?” he said. “Come on down, Sarge,” Skip called from below. Ty craned his head to look, saw the younger man at the bottom of the stairs. He went down, and had to stop mid-way, smelling the odors of urine and stale sweat. “Jesus,” he said to no one in particular, “I’m not gonna like this, am I?” Skip met his gaze with a grim look. “Watch your step. This is a crime scene.” Ty rolled his eyes with dread and continued down. It was a square cinderblock room, illuminated by four naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, but that was all that was simple about it. Closed cabinets lined one wall, while the others were hung with grisly torture devices—racks of whips and

knives and lurid S&M objects, chains and manacles, leather bondage costumes and accessories. There was a filth-splattered porcelain bathtub and a wooden table, complete with wrist and ankle bindings, and a digital camera and tripod set-up. Near a drain in the floor the concrete was stained with blood and other body fluids. “Jesus,” Williams whispered, crossing himself. “You know a patrolman named Conrad Sayer?” Skip asked. Williams tried to not let his reaction show. “I’ve seen him around. Why?” “This is his house. Police found two prisoners down here—” DeForest read from his notebook—”Emily Trotter, age 22, and Dylan Stepp, also 22, from Maine, reported missing by their families five days ago.” “Jesus,” was all Ty could say. “They just left for Samaritan General. They’re in bad shape. Starved, tortured, repeated sexual assaults. They were ambushed outside a club.” “I can’t believe this. Sayer is a decorated cop for Christ sake. Where is he?” “He’s missing.” Skip was deadly serious. Accusing a brother police officer was no small matter. “This morning a bundle of items were found rubber-banded together in a mail box near the county line. There was a police-issue Glock, a cell phone, and a wallet with a state trooper’s ID, all with blood evidence. They belonged to Sayer. The blood is his type. It’s being checked for DNA against his military records.” “Oh man. This sucks,” Ty groaned. His eyes scanned the torture chamber. Intermittently flashes from the evidence techs’ cameras would go off. “An APB was put out for Sayer’s vehicle when detectives got here to find nothing out of the ordinary, until someone just happened to trip over the rug in the garage, and noticed the door. The couple were chained to the wall.” Skip gave Ty a moment to compose himself. The big cop rubbed his face, horrified and disbelieving. “She could barely speak, but the man said they were taken by a woman they met in the club, who may have slipped something into their drinks and then outside incapacitated them with her bare hands. A man—presumably

Sayer—showed up and they were brought here, blindfolded. Since then it’s been just one big party except for long periods they were left in chains while the two perps disappeared for hours at a time, probably to see to their own lives, jobs and such. It’s all on digital recordings with sound.” “Who’s this woman?” Ty asked, his face that of a man wading through excrement. “We think she’s Marabeth Marks, former porn star, an ex-Marine kicked out of the Corps for striking a superior officer.” That made Williams flinch like his face was slapped. “She’s Sayer’s half-sister,” DeForest added, watching for his reaction. He gave Ty a look promising even worse to come. He gestured for the detective to follow him over to the cabinets. The locks had been broken. Skip swung a door open with a rubber-gloved finger. Williams stared, horrified. The shelves were lined with gallon jars—many contained a pinkish fluid in which floated pieces of human beings. A pair of eyeballs in one, ears with scalp and strands of hair attached in another, manicured fingers in yet a third, still wearing women’s rings. It went on like that. Some held tissues too grisly to identify. “This is Frankenstein,” Ty said, swallowing hard.

Frankenstein was the name given by investigators to the sexual-mutilation murderer that had claimed the lives of at least three women and one man over the last three years up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The nickname came from his habit of taking a body part as a trophy. It was used strictly among investigators—the media called the killer the East Coast Ripper. The psychological profile of the Ripper repeatedly defied the specialists at the FBI’s Behavioral Forensics Unit. “His sister, Marabeth—they were a Leopold and Loeb,” DeForest said. “We already know about Sayer, he has plenty of commendations—” “Gulf War vet, eleven or twelve years with the department, and a former

competition body builder,” Ty added, nodding numbly. “He’s one of those guys everyone’s heard of even if you don’t know him personally.” “He ed the Bureau’s forensic evidence course, too,” Skip said, again taking in the obscene sights in the jars. “We’re checking the Marks woman out. She’s got a juvenile record, a few busts since then for drugs and assault. Still runs an S&M website. Would you believe she teaches self-defense at a women’s center?” “Show me a flying saucer. I’m ready to believe anything,” Ty replied miserably. “Popular a few years ago. Porn flicks, dancing.” Skip held out a photo from a frame upstairs: Sayer with Marks over his shoulder, laughing it up. She was quite a looker—Ty forced the thought from his mind, his lip curling with disgust. “This is not gonna go over well,” Ty declared. “That’s why I need you here,” Skip told him. “I need you to announce this.” “Huh? What the hell for?” “You’ve got the respect of the local cops. They won’t want to hear this from us.” Ty made a pained face. “Gee, thanks a shitload.” He immediately regretted the hostility in his tone but found himself unable to modify it. He shook his head at the gruesome trophy case. “Jesus. Where do these freaks come from?” “Years and years of horrific mental, physical and sexual abuse, starting from early childhood, likely, in this case, from both parental figures,” a voice piped up behind them. Ty turned to find a gray-haired gentleman with wire-frame spectacles, in white tech overalls. Skip made the introductions. “Sarge, this is Fred MacLean, FBI Behavioral Unit. Ty Williams, State Police.” The two men shook hands. “Usually, when you have a pair of serial murderers, one of them is dominant,”

MacLean explained. “I would guess it’s the female in this case. Judging from her aggressive history. We need to track down the locations of their parents. I wouldn’t be surprised to find one or both of them dead, probably by violence.” “Why?” Williams had to ask. “All this anger,” MacLean answered, indicating the fluid-splattered walls and floor of the torture chamber. “It had to come from somewhere. The parent or parents inflicted it on the children. Children grow up. Come into their own. It’s time for payback. Once the original perpetrators are gone, new victims are necessary.” “What happened to Sayer?” DeForest wondered. “The blood on his stuff? Did he go after the wrong victim? Did Marks turn on him? Someone wanted his things to be found.” “What’s the connection to Miller?” Ty asked. “A dentist from Haven—his name was found upstairs, the same name was in Miller’s rolodex. Doctor Holland Radcliff,” Skip read from his notes.

Mallory had turned the radio off. She was nervous and now she drove in silence. The cars on the highway ahead were red points in the darkness. This freeway led down past the resort construction site. Locals knew to avoid it and it was not well traveled this time of night. Coming out of Haven the two cars ahead were ed by two others. Mallory lagged behind and sometimes another vehicle approached from behind and ed, eager to get where they were going. These cars were always occupied by at least three people and three times Mallory recognized either the automobile or the persons within. She might very well have easily lost sight of the car carrying Toby, but knew she had not. She could feel him, just ahead of her. It was strange but she almost thought she could close her eyes and follow by intuition alone if needed. She wondered if he sensed her presence as well.

Stacey slowed and pulled the car over to the shoulder. Ahead several other cars were parked. Nat got out and saw piles of clothing and personal belongings on the ground next to some of them. The only light out here was from the stars and the woods were dark and silent. Nat heard sounds and looked around to see figures moving into the trees. “Let’s go,” Stacey said, her breathing excited. She was pulling off her shirt, kicking off her shoes. Natalie stared, flummoxed by the unreality of all this. Stacey tossed her shirt and bra into the open car door. “Come on,” she urged, her voice guttural. Her eyes were shining with a smoky red glow, and her teeth glittered in the starlight. Natalie realized she was already whispering the incantation. She did likewise and felt the immediate stirring in her belly. A heat between her thighs. The werewolf was coming. She kicked off her shoes, tugged at her shirt buttons. Her heartbeat was quickening, the pounding blood of a woman highly aroused, anticipating a tryst with a lover. It was primal, carnal. She heard ripping fabric and became even more excited. The sounds were the seams of Stacey’s pants giving way, she was unable to get them off before reverting to the beast. Another car from Haven was pulling up behind but they were both loping for the tree line and did not even hear it.

Toby Vint shucked his clothes and dropped to his hands and knees. The change was different for him, a giving-in, and a loss of his human mind. There was a brief moment of pain throughout his body which he sensed was becoming heavier, stronger, and then he was looking at the night through werewolf eyes, light and sounds and smells all amplified far beyond what a human being could detect. He lifted his huge head, his muzzle tasting the air, ears swiveling away from the racket made by the others, who were foreign to him, foreign, and unwelcome.

Mallory realized she could no longer feel Toby and knew she’d lost them. She crossed the median and backtracked. The surrounding woods were completely black. But again she felt his presence fading, and she crossed the median a second time and moved slowly in her original direction, and there it was. A paved road through the trees. There was a sign indicating a campground with a banner and the word CLOSED pasted across it. How could she have missed it? She was sweating now. She had a sense of danger. The forest on either side of her was swamped by mists that almost seemed to faintly glow. She figured, that had to be a trick of the eye, reflected starlight or something.

The giant black werewolf moved carefully through the trees, keeping a distance from the others. Any that came too near were warned off by a throaty growl. His head down, he searched for scent. The night was without wind, but Toby operated on much more than just olfactory senses. Or even sight and hearing. The prey. The human had tried to mask his scent with deer musk, but the werewolf was not fooled. Besides the human, he sensed dangers in the woods. The black werewolf avoided these and did not care whether the others did the same. Clinton Dean was strong and savage. His coat was gray-black and spiky on the neck and back. But as a werewolf he still possessed the same cowardice which drove him to abuse his wife and stepson. Bolstered by the presence of numbers

he led the others into the woods, growling out commands and warnings to those following. The forest was full of man-scent and it was strange. Dean had hunted often with Carter and the Hendersons and intuitively knew that so much fresh human activity in such deep forest was unusual. And there were other things. Objects the werewolf could see and smell, and that the human Dean might even have recognized as threats, were the threats not well hidden. But the understanding between monster and host was such that differences in perception were not easily translated. And so the werewolf merely avoided the dangers without realizing their importance.

Mallory parked her car some distance from the others. She got out warily, putting a hand inside her jacket and resting it on the butt of the pistol on her belt. Her eyes scanned the dark woods. Occasionally she thought she heard movement, likely from some animal. The cars were all deserted—What the hell? Clothes, shoes, handbags—on the ground, in open car doors, on the cars themselves. A lot of people had stripped down in one hell of a hurry. She saw wallets, car keys. A pink bra and panties, lying near a man’s tros. Good grief, she thought, was there some kind of mass orgy going on out here? Again she stared at the tree line. Surely Toby wasn’t part of this—

Dean kept his head down, sniffing for sign, the other werewolves scattered behind, anxious to move forward and track the prey they sensed was out there. The female, Walter, edged ahead, eager. She found scent, not on a branch or a stone, but something man-made. Doug Harmon was close to her, with the husband farther back. Dean became aware of what the female was doing and growled a rebuke but too late. She nudged a tripwire with her muzzle and the last thing she heard was click.

The sudden blast ripped the night into pieces and Mallory made the mistake of looking up in shock and surprise. The fireball was deep in the trees but it ruined

her night vision. Momentarily blind, she crouched behind a car, resisting panic. Gun in hand her reflexes took over and still sightless she felt her way up the automobile and on to the next, moving quickly and staying low. She had no idea what was happening. Suddenly in the woods a war was beginning. Stacey Walter was killed instantly and Harmon was turned to bloody quivering meat by the Claymore mine. The shaped plastic charge exploded in their faces, hurling fifteen hundred tightly packed steel balls at bullet speed. The deadly hailstorm slaughtered any living thing in its killzone and maimed whatever was unlucky enough to be on the outward edges. Nick Walter had no time to the body of his mate flying in chunks through the air before being himself blinded and left on the forest floor to bleed to death from his wounds. Harmon whined from a mouth that no longer was a mouth, just a gash ripped in torn trembling meat and bone. His arms were gone and both legs crippled. He lay on his side gasping agonized last breaths unaware of werewolves still moving in panic and fear around his body. Another charge was triggered—an incendiary device, lighting the forest with day, splashing flaming jelly on anything near. Werewolves screamed, fur crisping and flesh sizzling. Now a third booby trap went off. Shrieking monsters suffered and died as a red mist of blood filled the heated air. Earsplitting explosions shook leaves from the trees with their fury. Fireballs scorched the bark from trunks and flattened the low growth vegetation. The werewolves scattered in a panic, finding even retreat cut off by more explosions, more terrible death. Overwhelmed by sight and sound, pain and fear, they did not even realize the mines and bombs were herding them, pushing them towards the prey they’d been sent here to hunt. They were unaware that their prey was now hunting them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The objective was to destroy Bath’s werewolves, by ambush and massive firepower. And following that (Frank refused to consider the possibility of his plan’s failure), he would go after John Bath himself. His strategy was flexible: it had to be. An old military adage says that a war plan never survives the first with the enemy. Frank hoped he’d allowed for anything that could happen. He crouched from a good firing position, the rifle resting securely on a cross beam. The weapon was a modified Colt M16, with optional folding stock and stripped-down handguards to reduce weight, and lengthened barrel to increase range. The tactical targeting scope was super high-powered and infra-red capable. He scanned the forest edge opposite his position through the sight. Frank was dressed for war. His face and neck were completely blacked out. He wore black-and-gray camouflaged fatigues, with black gloves and jungle combat boots. His flak vest and web gear bristled with weapons. Had Radu Maximillian been alive to see, he no doubt would have shuddered upon recognizing the hard unforgiving eyes staring from the shadows. Through the infra-red he watched patiently the movement beyond the tree line, his breathing steady. The first mine went and he was careful not to look directly at the flash. In the woods there were howls of panic and frantic activity. Following the first detonation two more charges were triggered, an incendiary and another Claymore. Frank had placed the explosives carefully. He wanted the hunters goaded, even in their confusion, towards their intended target. There were screeches of pain now and figures were exiting the tree line. They appeared exactly where Frank expected them and he tracked them with the rifle. That old excitement was alive in him, the guilty thrill of looking through a target scope and finding a life tottering at the touch of a finger. Werewolves. Their infra-red signatures described different shapes, sizes, and

physical movements. He could even see the flaring hips and full breasts denoting, to him, female characteristics of some. The creatures appeared to be regrouping, perhaps even considering retreat. Frank slipped a finger onto the trigger, preparing to shoot. His enemies might take flight—if so, he had more booby-traps in the woods and on the wheel path waiting for them, and he would kill as many as he could keep in his sights. But he hoped they would continue to their goal. He wanted them all. The forest behind them was in flames. He could still hear the maddened howling, creatures maimed or dying among the trees. The werewolves were milling around, indecisive. Without taking his eye from the sight, Frank moved the toe of his boot and nudged a switch on the remote control at his feet to ARMED. He thought they were going to try and bolt. Then three figures moved from the others, quick and low. Frank saw they could run at speed on all fours easier than erect. One was limping, favoring a leg. Others began to follow, spreading out into a half-moon formation. They were heading for the cabin. He moved his foot again. The second switch clicked ON.

Machine-gun fire sprayed from the hinged cabin window in the direction of the approaching pack. Instinctively hitting the ground, Dean watched two werewolves stumble and fall with the initial burst. One thrashed and kicked on the ground, but did not get up. Others instinctively searched for cover among the other cabins. Dean whined as he heard bullets whizzing over his head. Other monsters were dropping around him, writhing, blood spurting from multiple wounds. But somehow he did not lapse completely into blind panic. Intimately familiar with guns, he began to realize that there was a rhythm to the hail of bullets.

Jay Painter heard the sputter of gunfire and watched his older brother go down, blood splattering from his breast. He paused mid-gallop, uncertain what had happened. Other werewolves fell around him. He could hear the whine of ing bullets and ducked low to the ground, pointed ears swiveling, trying to regain his sense of direction in the confusion. He panicked. He turned, and after a moment’s indecision, took a halting step, away from the cabin and the stream of death emanating from it. That was as far as he got. The silent bullet came from a different direction, not that he noticed. It smashed his ribcage and punched through his heart, knocking him into the air.

Frank watched a werewolf pause and then turn as if to retreat. That was his first personal kill of the evening. The silencer uttered a phfftt sound inaudible over the bursts of the remote machine gun and the screams of wounded and dying werewolves. He was ready for the heavier-than usual recoil of the lighter weapon. He targeted the ribs of the creature and watched it flip off its feet from the force of the bullet. Two werewolves stumbled over its body. One scrambled in the wrong direction and Frank dropped it as well. He was not in the cabin, but in the high hide off to the right of the attacking monsters. The machine gun fire from the cabin window was a German-made light automatic assault rifle with extended magazine loading 9mm rounds. It was modified and mounted on a tripod and battery-powered chain-driven swivel and triggering mechanism which when activated by remote smoothly swung the weapon in 180-degree arcs, firing precise three-shot bursts until the ammunition was spent. From his vantage point he tracked targets and killed any werewolves trying to escape. These were moving targets and Frank was sighting on their torsos. He dropped them and then placed a second shot for the kill if necessary. The 7.62mm rounds were fast and light, designed to enter a body and bounce around inside, careening off thicker bones and ravaging internal organs. In Vietnam he used much heavier rounds and went for the head, but his targets then usually were unaware they were in the crosshairs. He knew tonight he would be shooting enemies on the run and torso hits were best. The werewolves again began to advance on the cabin, more cautious now, and

keeping low to the ground. The rhythmic machine gun fire still found the occasional kill. Just as the first werewolf reached the cabin, the magazine went empty and the gun made a whirr-click, whirr-click sound as the swivel continued operating. The monsters perhaps suspected something was not right—they were being much more careful now. Frank ceased shooting and tracked them as they formed up around the dark cabin, keeping from the windows. A moment’s distraction—some of the fallen werewolves were burning! Bodies were bursting into flame, blazing bright with accompanying sparks for a few moments, before beginning to extinguish themselves and leaving little more than ashes and bits of charred material behind. There were as many as twelve to fifteen dead or dying werewolves in Frank’s target zone. Before he knew it all were either consumed or beginning to catch fire. Just like Jan Henderson.

Dean crouched at the door and turned his head looking for backup. The odor of blood from within the cabin was strong and intoxicating. The pungent smell of gun smoke was stronger, and fresh. Other werewolves were ing him—a grocery store manager whose name Dean, the man, would not have ed, and two waiters from the Golden Tavern. They could smell the blood too. Their scarlet eyes were bright both from the bloodlust and the shock of deafening explosions and gunfire. Dean had not intended to be the first at the cabin, it just seemed to work out that way. He’d belly-crawled across the field of fire, letting others move ahead of him and watching them get mowed down in great numbers. Now the stale smells of blood and viscera from inside was what propelled him, causing him to forget his cowardice. He only paused to make sure he had backup before two powerful blows knocked the door in. The cabin was dark, and empty, except for that maddening smell and the whirrclick of the machine gun, and plastic-wrapped bricks hanging on the walls, linked by wire fuses, and plastic gallon jugs, filled with a soapy-smelling liquid. Dean straightened, his ears pricking up, perplexed. The other werewolves crowded in, pushing the leader, drawn by the rancid smell of Miller’s last

moments. Then one of the waiters yelped and dropped, broken, killed by a bullet in the spine.

Mallory’s cell phone was useless. She couldn’t call for help. Following the initial explosions came the machine gun fire, and she knew she was really in the middle of something. The reasons her fellow citizens would drop their clothing and charge into an armed confrontation (presumably) naked was way beyond her and right now real low on her list of priorities. She kept down low behind her car, her pistol clutched in both hands and nervous sweat running into her eyes. The explosions in the trees appeared to have stopped, but the woods were in flames in places. She was well out of the danger zone, she thought. Common sense told her to get in her car and get the hell out of there, some help. Whatever was going on, it was bigger than anything she could handle alone. But what about Toby? Was he out there in that mess? Telling herself she had to be losing it, she fished an extra ammunition clip from her glove compartment, and sticking it in her jacket pocket headed cautiously for the tree line. She was intending to, with great care, make her way into the woods and see what was what. If it looked too bad, she would back off in a hurry.

Frank shot a short pudgy werewolf and it fell unmoving onto the one already dead in the doorway. Several looked around, snarling, and struggled to get into the cabin over the bodies, looking for cover. Inside, Dean snarled and snapped at the others, still confused as to what was happening. Too late, the werewolf realized this was a place he did not want to be. He uttered frantic growls of warning, heading for the door.

Frank watched and waited for the best moment. There were several inside the cabin, a group clustered around the doorway, and a couple even trying to get in the window, having knocked the machine gun to the floor. Frank swept the field of fire, looking for the giant black. Where was it? Had Bath kept Vint back at home? He took one hand from the rifle and lifted a cheap cell phone. The correlating number was already punched in.Then he paused, wanting as many of the enemy as possible clustered near the cabin, and he was also still on the lookout for the giant. It was nowhere to be seen. Frank watched, hoping a couple more of the werewolves, now milling around, would enter the cabin. He saw one appear in the doorway as if to exit. He pressed CALL.

With a hateful snarl Dean slashed at a female in the way of the door, then found two more werewolves blocking it yet. A new sound caused his ears to prick up. He turned to scan the shadows and the other werewolves cocked their heads, alerted. What they heard was the musical ring tone of a cell phone. It was the last sound they would ever hear.

Three walls and much of the roof blew outward and skyward respectively, accompanied by a thunderous ground-shaking explosion and mushrooming fireball. The expanding flame swallowed the creatures it overtook after first knocking them flat with its shockwave. Those furthest from the blast were thrown off their feet and lay stunned. The clawing fingers of flame nearly reached Frank’s Blazer, parked fifty yards from the building. He saw several werewolves at the periphery of the blast, thrashing on the ground enveloped partly or completely in flame. There were half-human screams of agony and horror. Frank’s conscience was not bothered in the least. These— people, and he used the term loosely—had been committing the slaughter of children and countless other murders. To hell with all of them, man or woman, young or old. They were all monsters in form and deed. He sighted and fired on a stunned werewolf lifting its head, burning timbers and

debris still raining down around it. Now others were rising, heading for the woods, beating a tail-dragging retreat. Frank dropped another, urging the stragglers on.

“Jesus!” Mallory cried, putting her hands over her ears and ducking her head as the cabin went up. She hadn’t even gotten into the woods before the explosion. Lucky for her—there was still live ordinance among those trees. From a defensive crouching position she looked around for danger, disoriented by the explosion. She needed to get back to her car. This was a job for an FBI tactical team, or the National Guard.

Frank lowered the rifle and scanned the carnage with narrowed eyes once again for a sign of the black werewolf. A few of the creatures were showing signs of life, but he saw none untouched by his ambush. He wished Vint had appeared. More explosions from the woods—a few werewolves had gained the tree line and were now triggering the last of Frank’s boobytraps. The forest was lighting up, some of the fireballs rising above the treetops. Others were cowering in the shadows of the other three cabins. Frank raised the rifle again. He targeted the marker on the first cabin, an electric eye visible only to his night scope. It was attached to a charge of home-made incendiary explosive that could be set off with a bullet’s impact. Frank fired that bullet. The wall of the cabin disappeared in a sheet of bright flame that engulfed two surprised werewolves. Losing no time between shots, Frank targeted the last two cabins and set each off as he had the first. In each explosion werewolves were killed. The roof of the last was thrown into the air atop an expanding fireball, and then flung to the earth, crushing a fleeing monster under flaming debris. He lowered his weapon in time to watch the last of his boobytraps detonate, a Claymore. Frank clearly saw the bodies of at least two werewolves disappear in a burst of flame and destruction. Then there were only the crackling fires and the high-pitched whining of injured

or dying monsters. Frank raised the rifle again, scanning for bodies with signs of life left in them—that’s when he heard the sound. Directly below him. The foliage was in flickering shadow, shielded from the firelight by higher growth. A whole lot of black down there. He could see nothing moving. Were his ears playing tricks? Another sound, pretty clear this time. Frank rose from his crouched firing position, turning with the rifle, his eyes and ears riveted. It had come from the base of his tree. Something was definitely down there. He jumped involuntarily—for just an instant he’d seen them, firelight reflected in bright shining eyes. Golden eyes. Now they were gone, lost in the shadows embracing the base of the tree. Frank aimed the rifle at the point he’d seen them, his breath freezing in his throat. He gripped the weapon in a death-vise, one finger poised on the trigger, fully aware that it would do little but slow Vint down. This firing position was awkward, he was unable to shoulder the weapon and use the night scope. The specially-loaded Magnum was close, in a combat holster below his left armpit. Slowly and smoothly, keeping his eyes on the dangerous shadows, he took his finger from the rifle’s trigger and moved it to the butt of the sixgun. Then he was frozen by low, growling—laughter. The monster was chortling at him. Laughter emanating from an inhuman throat. Frank let the rifle go. The heavy revolver slid smoothly from the holster. Frank aimed down expertly, one-handed. “Okay, Wolfie,” he whispered, knowing his enemy’s sensitive hearing would detect every syllable. “Come and get it. Din-din’s waiting.” The rifle falling from the hide into the foliage did not stir the giant as he’d hoped. He had a brief thought, and hoped that the thing couldn’t fire a weapon. The growling chuckle was gone. Maybe it could sense a true threat in the Magnum. “Come on. Don’t be shy,” Frank whispered, now his voice the one growling.

“Show me those pearly whites.” Slowly, the hate-filled eyes revealed themselves again, flickering gold and orange as the creature moved its head from the cover of the tree trunk. Frank saw them focus on the pistol, and then meet his own gaze. His vision adjusted and he saw the shape of the huge head, one shoulder, and realized a short-fingered powerful hand was gripping the bark of the tree. The shining eyes appeared to be daring him to shoot, almost with a cocked-brow amused air. This time Frank would not disappoint. He had the big face dead-on. Was the thing suicidal? Frank suddenly had another disquieting thought: maybe it was immune even to silver bullets. Maybe it couldn’t be killed. Period. Only one way to find out. The pistol thundered, bucking, the golden eyes were gone in the same instant, and it took Frank a microsecond to realize, incredibly, that he’d missed, the werewolf ducked away just as he fired! It could tell, somehow, sense when Frank was about to act, to pull the trigger. Maybe it could hear his heart pounding, could feel the rush of blood that came with action. Maybe it could read his mind. Regardless its reflexes were faster than Frank’s. It couldn’t outrace a bullet, surely, but it could outrace Frank. He was only human. He did not want to face this thing in close quarters again if he could help it. He needed some room. It obviously did not want to get shot, and that was good. But Frank had already wasted one bullet. If he wanted another crack he would have to put some distance between them. His back against a cross-beam he used his left hand to lift a hook attached to his web gear. Without turning his gaze from the threat even for an instant he hooked onto the pulley hanging from his escape cable. He tugged on it to make sure it was secure and found the quick-release lever and gripped it. He moved the pistol back to its holster, unwilling to risk losing it in the jump. No sooner was it secured than there was movement below. He could see nothing but a shadow blacker than those around it. It was Vint and it was coming up the tree after him!

He turned and with one leap jumped from the high hide, at the same instant he was hit, and hit hard, struck, from the feel, by a Big League slugger in the ribs below his right arm. The pain was excruciating and completely knocked the breath out of him. He sensed something ripped, flapping, and hoped it wasn’t him, even as his feet dangled over empty space and he was moving, fast, and spinning out of control from the werewolf’s blow, and his left shoulder wrenched as a muscle twanged the wrong way with his hand still on the quick-release lever. Off-balance and hurting, he slid down the cable helplessly, the Blazer looming ahead and below. The explosion rocked him and disoriented him further, the heat and shockwave adding to his momentum. He’d set up a fuse to be triggered by the release of the pulley, detonating a combination of HE and incendiary charges in the high hide, meant to obliterate anything that got up there after him. Spinning, he saw the roaring fireball consume the treetop. Burning foliage and blasted limbs flew into the air after him. The idea had been to drop more-or-less gracefully from the cable to the top of the Blazer, landing with both feet and in control. But he was hurt, breathless, dizzy from the spin and off-balance. Seeing the vehicle near, all he could do was hit the release lever—stabbing his shoulder with a fresh knife of pain—and he plunged, clumsy dead weight, onto the truck roof, the impact driving him to both knees. That brought a blurted curse. He bounced like a sack of potatoes from the roof to the ground, hitting with a thump and taking most of the impact on his left side to protect his ribs. He pushed himself onto his back and groped for a weapon before he was even able to find a chest full of air. He gasped, “Shit!” Shaken but knowing he was vulnerable, he forced himself first to one knee and then to his feet, drawing the sixgun with a left hand and a military-issue M-9 Beretta pistol with his right. He was surrounded by flaming debris and werewolves in various degrees of injury. Without hesitation he shot one with the M-9 not fifteen feet from him as it was rising from the ground, fur smoking, its predatory gaze fixed on him. He backed up against the Blazer. The cabin was little more than a burning crater. He aimed the .44 across the hood in the direction of the tree he’d vacated. The top of it was wreathed in flames and he saw no trace of the monster that nearly killed him. The flak vest was torn below his arm, but the protective shrapnel-

proof plating held against the claws. He heard a threatening snarl and turned his head—a good-sized werewolf was limping towards him, one leg ragged and bleeding. It was badly hurt and probably in shock—when he pointed the M-9 it showed no reaction but to snarl in hatred and hasten its advance. Frank killed it with a shot to the chest. Still no sign of the giant—maybe it was dead. Please let it be dead. He was not in the best shape. He could barely walk without limping and he thought he might have a cracked rib. This was just pain, which he could overlook. But he would not go into the woods after Vint. That would be giving up his advantage. Maybe it was dead. It sure was not coming after him. More outraged growls—a female werewolf, smaller than the males, with the pendulous breasts beneath the fur coat and the flaring hips. And sunglasses! The thing was wearing a pair of antiquated 1960’s shades with the pointy frames. They were cracked and askew across the werewolf’s snout. Frank could see one hungry red eye. He paused only a moment out of sheer surprise, and shot it in the head. It pitched violently to the ground, the shades flung through the air. Most of the bodies nearby were smoldering lumps of dead flesh, unrecognizable as either animal or human, and the few still living would not be long, judging by their injuries. He’d done about all he could here, he decided. He opened the driver’s side door of the Blazer, holstering his pistols and taking the slung shotgun from his shoulder, throwing it into the seat. He got behind the wheel, and pulled the door shut, suppressing a groan. He felt like an oversized bruise. He put the key in the ignition, realizing the path out of the campground was nearly blocked by flaming debris from the three blazing cabins. He had some tricky driving ahead of him. The truck suddenly rocked and he jerked his head around looking for the source, a hand going for the M-9, and before he had it the driver’s window exploded and a werewolf was on him. “Shit!” he blurted as it snapped at his throat. Cheek and ear cut by flying glass, he lunged back across the seat. But the

werewolf came through the window after him! Snarling like a pit bull’s bigger meaner cousin, it sprayed spittle into his face as he frantically fought it off. On his back now with the monster on top, he smashed his left forearm between the gnashing jaws, breaking off sharp fangs. That afternoon he’d had the foresight to dip athletic bandages in plaster and wrap both forearms in them, resulting in a protective covering that was hard as a rock once the plaster set. His sleeve tore and the plaster smeared with blood from the werewolf’s mouth, but it did not relax its attack. Frank kept the arm up, holding off the still-deadly jaws. Struggling with the creature he tried without success to get his legs between them and kick it off. This werewolf was small compared to the others he’d faced, way below his own body weight, but it was animal-strong and a savage fighter. Their faces were only inches apart. Frank saw close-up the hatred and bloodlust in the scarlet-tinged gaze of the thing. Its hot musky breath was almost suffocating and there was also the acrid odor of burned hair—one ear and the side of its neck were scorched down to the bare skin. He was carrying no less than three knives but could not reach them or either of his pistols. He was lying on the shotgun and having no luck getting rid of this thing bare-handed. He had to get it off him—if one of its companions ed in he was finished. Claws slashed his right sleeve, drawing blood. Its attack grew even more frenzied. Frank screamed a curse, desperate—and saw the butt of the loaded .38 in its holster below the dash. Almost unable to believe this luck, he gripped it. He thumbed back the hammer and jammed the snub-nose into the werewolf’s belly, firing point-blank. The creature screamed, bucked, eyes going wide with fright and shock. Frank fired again, feeling the heat of the shots and a spurt of hot blood across his sleeve. Two more bullets he put into it until it was slack and lifeless on top of him and he stopped shooting in case he might need the last two rounds. Grunting he got a foot between them and pushed the dead creature back through the shattered window where it fell to the ground. He sat up, groaning, transferred

the pistol to his left hand and started the Blazer. He put it into gear and looked out. The dead werewolf was gone, replaced by the nude bullet-riddled body of a beautiful young woman, probably about Gwen’s age. She stared at him lifelessly in a crumpled heap, part of her hair burned away and still smoking. It took Frank a few seconds to realize he’d seen her before—it was the girl going through the initiation on the night of the bonfire. This was what Bath brought her to. For the first time Frank felt a twinge of regret, but quickly it was replaced by a determined rage. Another werewolf was limping towards him, lips curled back in a bloody leer. Frank stared at it, hatefully. He aimed the pistol, said, “What big teeth you have, Grandma,” and shot it in the face.

Mallory started her car, still trying to regain her wits. The final conflagration in the woods left her lying, terrified, in the grass with her hands over her head. It had taken several minutes after the explosions were over before she was able to force herself up and back to her car. She heard the sound of a vehicle and braced herself, holding the pistol ready with both hands. A Chevy Blazer appeared on the road, spraying gravel from the wheel path, and raced past her with one tire wreathed in flame and the driver taking no notice. She watched it go, not knowing what to think. She did not recognize Frank’s vehicle and did not see his face. Her eyes had been drawn, instead, to the huge black-furred animal, unlike anything she’d ever seen, clinging to the Blazer’s roof as it barreled past.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Blazer did not seem to be responding normally as Frank took the turn out of the woods and onto the blacktop, tires screeching. The truck rocked violently and the left wheels seemed about to leave the road. He hit the gas and left the flaming woods behind, hoping nothing was wrong with his vehicle. This would be a bad time for a breakdown. Gritting his teeth against all his aches and pains, he considered his next move. He was trying to assure himself that Vint was dead. The explosives had to have gotten him. That only left Bath, and whatever else he had up his sleeve. He streaked around a curve, the headlights the only illumination on the dark road, and once again, the truck tipped dangerously, the tires protesting the punishment. At that moment Frank realized what the problem was. The truck’s center of gravity was way higher than it should be, meaning something heavy was on the Blazer’s roof. It had to be Vint! Even as he decided that, a clawed hand smashed against the windshield directly in front of his face, spider-webbing the glass. Frank swore and jerked the wheel. The Blazer fishtailed and the tires screamed. He kept his foot on the gas and jerked the wheel in the opposite direction, trying to shake his hitchhiker. The Blazer bolted from one side of the road to the next. A third time he changed direction and the vehicle tipped, came within a hair of going over, and slammed back down onto all four tires with the shocks cursing. Frank eased up, stomped it, and then braked, fishtailing across the shoulder, sending gravel flying. The truck came to a jarring halt in a cloud of oily burned-rubber smoke. Frank took it out of gear and swiveled his head, Magnum raised and ready.

The Blazer was canted off the shoulder and into the grass. He could see nothing. He cursed under his breath and put the pistol’s barrel against the roof of the truck. He turned his face away, put up a hand to guard his ear and protect against blowback, and pulled the trigger. The deafening gunshot caused him to wince. There was a strange scream, something like the yelp of an injured animal overlaid with the agonized shriek of a human being, and the Blazer rocked as the uninvited enger leapt away. Frank heard a heavy weight hit the ground, but turning only caught the sound of a mad scramble away from the vehicle and saw nothing but woods. But he knew he’d hurt it. The silver bullet did its job. With his hand he patted out the smoking canopy over his head, the upholstery around the bullet hole threatening to ignite, and scanned the surroundings. He got out with the sixgun clutched in both hands, keeping his eyes open and wary of every direction. The werewolf could not be seen—but Frank found blood black in the starlight on the roof of the Blazer, and on the gravel, leading off into the woods. Then he heard movement in there. It was making no effort to hide itself. It was injured. He briefly considered getting back into the truck and making his appointment with Bath. The creature was hurt, hopefully dying. But Frank would never feel safe until he saw with his own eyes that the thing was indeed dead. This was no animal, he reminded himself. If it survived, Toby Vint might want revenge, and Frank had no intention of looking over his shoulder from now on. He headed into the woods, following the shiny black streaks on the low foliage. Vint was bleeding badly.

The werewolf limped heavily, often resting against a tree for before continuing. His breath came in painful gasps with each uneven step. Unlike the others he walked almost exclusively on his hind legs, and his progress was slow. For the first time the beast knew fear. Pain he had felt many times, but seldom true injury. And the bullet wound was worsening every moment, the silver shrapnel still in the leg and spreading poison like fire throughout his circulatory

system. He could smell and hear the human in pursuit. Now he sought only escape. Driven by the pursuer the creature kept moving though he was drained by pain and blood loss. He headed for a light through the trees. He left the tree line and found his feet on hard-packed earth crisscrossed with the tracks of heavy equipment. He smelled old exhaust and engine fuel and water. He hurried forward seeking a hiding place among mounds of gravel and dirt. He looked back over a powerful humped shoulder: the human was not yet in sight. But he was coming. He would not stop, until one of them was dead. Desperation. Pain. Fear. And then anger. A completely human response to a nowin situation. Toby’s thinking mind was buried in the consciousness of the animal, but he was still there, down deep. The werewolf sensed that the injury would prevent escape. He had no choice. Emotions conflicting with his desire to survive took control and, an almost human gleam in his shining eyes, he rose to his full height, tipped his head back, and uttered a blood-freezing howl into the night.

Frank paused and shuddered, hearing the haunting cry of the werewolf. What was it doing? He sensed it was calling him. He, Frank, could recognize a challenge when he heard one

Mallory pulled her car over behind the abandoned Blazer. She got out cautiously, a flashlight in one hand and her pistol ready in the other. The door was open, a shotgun lying on the front seat. There was broken glass and what looked like blood inside and outside, and the windshield was smashed. But she now recognized Frank Moore’s vehicle. So he was in on this. It looked like something was coming to a head.

The howl caused her to freeze, her back to the vehicle. The sound drifted to her from over the trees, transfixing her. The trees. She had already onished herself for entering the woods once tonight—that had obviously been a war zone, and stupidly she wandered right into the middle of it. She could have caught a bullet or been blown to pieces without ever knowing the reason why. A foolish, rookie move. She was smarter than that. But she was about to do the same thing all over again. It was Toby, and Moore, and the mystery of what was going on—and that howling. If she were to leave now it would be the smart thing—but she sensed somehow that she would never have a moment’s peace again in her life. She had to see this through. Despite the danger she sensed, all around her.

Pistol in both hands, Frank left the cover of the forest and entered a clear field of fire for at least thirty yards with no target evident. This was the construction site, shut down for the weekend. Ahead were a few mounds of gravel and earth, one big as a house, bulldozers and earthmovers, a pair of large dump trucks, a semi tractor and long trailer loaded with lumber and a forklift, and a field office on wheels, all lit with a single lamp on a high pole. Beyond that was the site itself, girders erected like the dark skeletons of a dying city, and to the left, the lake with the cabin site in flames across the water.

Steiner sipped his coffee in the dark, staring through the trailer window at the flames which had receded somewhat, but still burned brightly across the lake. At least there was no more gunfire or explosions. “They’re not answering,” Jeremy said, putting the office phone down. He checked his cell phone again, shook his head in the face’s blue glow. It was hard to get a signal in these mountains. “Don’t worry about it,” Steiner told him. “We already called.” “The Haven cops should’ve been here by now.” They had turned off the lights in the office to have a better view—and to be unseen themselves. They were both on edge. Whatever was happening on the opposite shore, it was more than a fireworks display. It looked and sounded like a war over there. Jeremy wanted to vacate the premises, but Steiner as his superior vetoed that and made calls to the Haven Sheriff’s Office, as instructions dictated in the event of emergency. The dispatcher—her name was Mary—took down a careful description of what was going on with each call and assured them help was on the way. Now the phone just rang. And out in the fire-lit night there was no sign of police arriving to investigate. The unearthly howl, seemingly from very close, turned them pale with fear. It went on for a few seconds and then ceased. Steiner found himself with one hand on the handle of his nightstick. “Can we turn the lights back on?” “Not yet. Not until the cops get here,” Steiner said calmly. The two uniformed night watchmen were armed with only nightsticks and flashlights. Steiner was a retired Bridgton Police officer with ten years in security. He was a cool confident cop, but years of casual duties like construction sites and office buildings had long ago taken away his edge. Now he was as jumpy as his young partner, though he refrained from showing it.

Jeremy in his opinion was next to useless. The kid must’ve been a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. He claimed to be some kind of athlete in high school. That would be soccer, which he talked about almost constantly when he wasn’t bragging about his fiancée, who from photos shown to Steiner was about two inches taller than her intended. Steiner left that point alone, but he initially enjoyed teasing Jeremy by comparing soccer to the genuine sport of football, until the younger man became too defensive. Steiner stared across the water at the flickering fires reflected on the lake’s surface. His wife had ed five years before and his only son, Matt, had not even been dead a year. Matt was with a Guard unit in the Middle East. A road mine had taken him. As a result Steiner more and more was thinking almost longingly of his own death. Sometimes he fantasized about armed intruders entering the site, perhaps to steal equipment or even break into the padlocked flammable materials section. That was Steiner’s job, to protect his employer’s property. He imagined taking out one or two, perhaps by throwing his flashlight or using his pen knife, before the bad guys got him. They were only fantasies brought on from loneliness. But now, faced with a possibly dangerous reality, he had the butterflies in the stomach, the quickening heartbeat. Certainly no thoughts of sacrifice. He too was vulnerable to fear of the night and what hid there. After that terrifying howling, a cold sweat was trickling down his neck. He was just about to put down his coffee and check the door lock when there was a noise outside. His eyes shifted as a figure moved into his eye line, just beyond the single pole lamp’s glow. Steiner was unable to even move his head but he sensed that Jeremy, sitting at the end of the desk, could also see the creature. It was as tall as a man, but heavier. It walked dragging an injured leg. It was hump-backed and powerfully muscled beneath a coat of raven-black fur. The muscled hairy arms hung flexed at its sides beneath brutish shoulders, the short clawed fingers splayed as if to attack. Its broad head was down, ears laid back along its skull. A short bushy tail hung over the injured leg. Breaking the silence, Jeremy whispered, “What—?” “Shhh,” Steiner whispered back without moving. But the thing heard. It lifted its

head and pointed its face towards them. The eyes caught the lamplight and fixed on them, bright golden points. Steiner felt his heart hitch in his chest. They watched as its lips curled back to reveal gleaming fangs in the short muzzle. But it was only warning them to stay away. It turned and with head lowered again dragged itself away from the light. Only then did Steiner let himself breathe. He realized his hands were shaking. “Now can we leave?” Jeremy whispered. Steiner was about to reply, Shut up—do you want to be outside with that? But before he got a word out there was more movement and now they saw a man appear, following the path of the creature. He too was limping slightly but refused to allow it to slow him down. Face dark and shiny with grime and sweat, he was clad in military fatigues and a flack vest—Steiner knew one when he saw it—and web gear from which hung a variety of weapons and attachments. His clothing was torn and covered with stains darker than its shadow-camouflaged patterns. In gloved hands the man held a heavy revolver at shoulder level. He moved quickly, keeping low. It was obvious he was hunting the beast. Steiner waited for several seconds until the armed man was far beyond the pole light and out of sight before he put down the coffee and said, “Now we can go.” Jeremy had the sense to keep silent as his supervisor unlocked the door, drawing his baton from its sheath and casting a wary eye outside. “Leave your car.” “Leave it?” Jeremy hissed back, clutching his own stick. “You feel like sitting here cranking the engine?” Steiner demanded, voice low. Jeremy drove a souped-up 1978 Camaro that unfortunately had to be coaxed to start. “Okay,” the kid said. A few miles down the highway, in the direction of Whitestone, they would form an agreement at Steiner’s suggestion. They would report the explosions, the fires. They would say they abandoned the site after being unable to get assistance from Haven. But they would not mention the monster they’d seen, or the man hunting it. Despite losing their jobs, it would be a pact each man would

keep to his dying day.

It was just the werewolf and himself. These were Frank’s thoughts as the security guards exited the area, loose dirt spraying beneath the tires of an SUV. Frank gave them only a glance to insure they had no weapons to threaten him as they left the office trailer. He moved forward cautiously, giving the piles of earth plenty of distance, letting the Magnum take the lead. He was covered with a clammy sweat and his ts and muscles ached. At this point he barely felt the complaints from his many cuts and bruises; his senses were sharpened to a knife’s point, completely caught up in the hunt. He could still see the fresh blood trail on the packed earth. He followed it to the edge of a mound and then away, towards the equipment. Periodically he turned 360 degrees, covering the area with the revolver, insuring nothing was sneaking up on him. Even as he searched out threats, he also filed away the landscape and objects, making note of anything he might use to his advantage. He was tracking a powerful and savage predator likely possessed in some way of a human being’s cunning—he needed every trick in the book. And his quarry was wounded, making it even more dangerous.

The werewolf watched his pursuer from behind the shovel of a tractor. The leg wound was making him sick and sapping his strength. The playing field between him and the human were leveled somewhat and the werewolf’s survival instincts naturally compensated. Giving the digging equipment lots of room Frank crouched and examined the blood trail, while keeping an eye on his surroundings. There were lots of nooks and shadows and the monster could be anywhere. In his hurry he’d not brought the flashlight, but likely it would have served little other than to point out his position to his target.

The blood trail had crisscrossed twice and he now knew the werewolf was trying to mislead him. No doubt it was waiting for a chance to spring from ambush. He wondered if it might just drop from blood loss. It had to be weakened. He decided to get a look from a higher vantage point and with one hand free quietly climbed up into the cab of a tractor. He stepped onto the hood of the huge engine, scanning the area with the pistol. He saw safely away from the vehicles a supply shed and fuel depot behind a chain-link fence. Signs were posted warning of flammable materials. He climbed down, certain he was being watched. But he was also confidant that the werewolf would have a hard time making it across the expanse of open ground to either tree line or to the rising tangle of girders and cinderblock without being seen. He did not want it escaping him. He moved on. There were so many objects to hide behind.

The werewolf had climbed up the side of the lumber load on the semi trailer. It raised its head to get a look at the human approaching, then bent to continue gnawing the heavy canvass restraining straps. With one strap parted by the powerful jaws and curved teeth, it moved to the next, careful to not make a sound.

Frank was quickly becoming frustrated. Had the monster gotten to the trees on the other side of the clearing before he arrived? The thought of searching the trampled earth for its trail again was not a pleasant one. That would mean letting it get further away with each minute wasted. He kept hoping to find it dead or dying. In that case he could simply put it out of its misery. He forced the face of the amicable deputy from his mind. He heard a noise, just a grunt or something, and turned his weapon on the semi trailer. He approached it with great caution—the lumber was stacked high above his head and he didn’t want anything leaping on him. And he was certain the noise had been deliberate, to lead him.

He bent and stole a look beneath the trailer, seeing nothing there or on the other side. Then his boot was in something squishy and he looked down to see a pool of blood in the dirt. Like the monster had stood there. Maybe it even pressed the wound, to get it to bleed quicker. That’s what he, Frank, would do if their situations were reversed. He realized he had to move, and quick, at the same instant there was a rumble from above, and without even looking he jumped like a cat as several thousand pounds of ten-foot two-by-fours cascaded down on him. Barely avoiding being crushed, he hit the dirt and kicked himself away, choking on clouds of dust. He almost made it. One length of wood caught his ankle and he shouted in pain, unable to move another inch. But a little luck was with him—the plank that caught him was among the last. Although otherwise unhurt, he was pinned. He swung his head back and saw what seemed to be an ment from a drive-in horror movie, except it was terrifyingly real: the werewolf crouched atop the trailer over him, rising to leap, clawed hands outstretched, fanged jaws dripping. The lupine golden eyes fixed on Frank’s own. Frank blinked grit from his vision and responded with panther reflexes, bringing the sixgun up and loosing a single blast just as the monster jumped. The bullet missed but so did the attack—the panicked leap carried it over Frank’s head. It crashed to the ground clumsily, the wounded leg unable to weather the impact. Frank rolled as much as his trapped leg would allow and sighted with both hands, but did not fire. The werewolf was incredibly fast and he chose to not waste the shot. The monster was already scrambling around a dump truck, desperation driving it. “Damn!” Frank hissed. Grunting with discomfort, he worked his boot loose from the wood pinning it and got up, praying his ankle was not broken. It hurt like hell—but worked, he decided, testing his weight. This could go on all night! He had to find a way to end this.

Mallory heard a commotion and a ringing gunshot, and dropped into a defensive

crouch. She was skirting the forest’s edge, looking for movement in the construction site before leaving the protection of the woods. She saw a rising dust cloud on the far side of the perimeter, but heard no more weapon fire.

Frank’s limp was nearly as pronounced as that of his prey. He was out of breath and shook up. He leaned against the side of an earthmover, scanning the area and thinking of ways to gain an advantage. The werewolf’s senses were much more acute than a human being’s, maybe even more than a canine’s. Vision, smell, hearing. Could he use that?

Fighting to control his own labored breathing, the werewolf moved low on the ground, using his hands in an effort to make up for the nearly useless leg. Rage and fear warred in his psyche. The wild creature wanted to flee this place and lick his wounds, but the man sought to end this contest and to face his fear and destroy it. The two at-odds desires clashed and molded as one to form spite and a desperate need for revenge, against the hunter in pursuit. He rose on his haunches, swiveling his head, eyes narrowed. Something was happening. He raised his head over the roof of a tractor, pointed ears twitching from the nearby sound of an engine coughing to life. He growled deep in his throat, lips curled in disgust, looking for the source of the sound and the irritating oil fumes that came with it.

Frank hit the throttle until the engine leveled out, his nervous gaze alert for the expected surprise attack. He was in the cab of a battered supply truck. He hotwired it using skills he’d thought long since forgotten. He turned on the truck’s headlights and after detecting nothing moving put it in gear and touched the gas. He backed it to the periphery of the site and left it there with the engine going and the lights on bright. He grunted from pain but limped only slightly. He byed a bulldozer. He wasn’t quite sure he knew how to hotwire the thing and didn’t want to waste the time figuring it out. He climbed into the cab of a front loader and switched its lamps on, bathing the area in even more light. Next was a pickup truck. The engine sputtered, filling the air with plenty of noxious blue fumes. He backed it to the site’s opposite edge, lights again on bright, leaving plenty of room between it and the tree line. He gunned the engine to smooth it out and left it running. Light and noise and exhaust fumes, hopefully, would confuse his prey and leave him with the upper hand. It wasn’t much but it could make the difference.

He switched on the lamps of a huge vehicle with shovels at both ends and took a try with the engine—it roared to life, drowning out the sounds of the others. Frank didn’t try to move it. Just sitting in the small seat with the behemoth rumbling beneath him was daunting enough. He stepped outside the Plexiglas cab and scanned the area from the high lookout. Clouds of acrid exhaust were now hanging in the air. He hoped the monster was getting drunk on them. A suppressed curse as he jumped down, both legs in pain. He turned completely around, covering himself, then with one hand on the pistol he bent with the other and scooped up the fire axe he’d liberated from the supply truck. Where was the beast? he asked himself as he made for the fenced-in supply shed. He put down the axe and after a careful glance around he jimmied the lock with one of his tools, cradling the pistol beneath an armpit. Still keeping a careful eye, he entered the area and pulled the gate closed behind him. He wound the chain around the fence and gate, intending to delay the creature if he was attacked while he was working. He holstered the sixgun and opened the locked shed as he had the gate. A pulled cord turned on an overhead light. He was halfway hoping to find dynamite or some other explosive. No such luck there, but on heavy-duty shelves there were several five-gallon cans of gasoline and diesel fuel. Vehicle batteries on chargers. Containers of acid and toxic cleaning materials. And road flares. He could use this stuff. Outside the shed were two gas pumps next to a larger gate, also locked. He scanned the area outside the gate and went to work.

The werewolf watched unmoving from the shadow of a mountain of raw earth, blinking eyes irritated by clouds of exhaust fumes. He had rolled in the dirt to better disguise his inky-black fur as much as possible. He could clearly see what the human was doing, and was instinctually aware that he was preparing a defense. Or an attack.

Leonard Rippy knocked lightly on the door before entering. Doctor Bath was standing in the corner of the office, his face illuminated by the television screen.

His arms were crossed. A special late-night news report was being telecast live, covering what appeared to be an act of vandalism around the construction site outside of Haven. It was a slow news night and a helicopter had been dispatched which filmed the conflagration below. The Doctor muted the sound, but the video told the story. The patches of flame leapt from surrounding pitch-black on the ground. “Well,” the Doctor said at last. “I can drive you to the airport now,” Rippy offered. He was anxious to get his mentor safely away. Shan entered and sat at Bath’s elbow, watching the screen. “You can get out of here tonight.” Bath did not reply. He just stood with crossed arms, occasionally shaking his head. He seemed almost amused. Breaking the silence, Shan wondered aloud, “What could have happened?” “Frank Moore happened,” Bath said matter-of-factly. “I underestimated him once too often.” “Toby will get him,” Rippy said. “I would think so,” Bath agreed. Then he added, “But Moore never fails to amaze. And Tobias does seem to be a bit off his mark lately, doesn’t he?” “Doctor. The airport,” Rippy prompted. “Tobias,” Bath said, with a rueful sigh. “He fell in love on me. Hah! Lust I can understand, but love? I should never have let him off the leash.” He gave Rippy a guilty look. “Leonard, I’m sorry. The ultimate blame lies with me. I let us all down. I don’t know—maybe I’ve gotten lazy in my old age.” “Never, Doctor,” Shan put in, and Bath reached out a hand and touched her cheek.

“Toby didn’t warn you,” Rippy insisted. “It was his mistake.” “He betrayed me,” Bath agreed. “And I let him. I depended too much on him.” Rippy saw the Doctor’s cheeks go red with a blistering rage, and braced himself. But Bath did not explode. He appeared to swallow his emotions and slowly his features and the scar at his collar returned to their normal shade. “Maybe Toby will get him and come back,” Leonard allowed. Bath let that . He turned to the wet bar and poured a glass of wine, directing raised eyebrows at Leonard, who declined. He wanted to be able to drive the Doctor to the airport if needed. Bath poured one for Shan and they both sipped. “Put Hopewell and his man on their guard. If Moore gets through Tobias, this will be his next stop.” “You don’t intend to leave?” “Whatever happens, I’d like to be here.” “We won’t let him get to you,” Shan vowed. Bath’s eyes twinkled. “I’d like nothing better than seeing him face-to-face,” he said with a merciless smile. “But if he shows, you can have first crack at him,” he added for Shan.

Mallory reached the cover of one of the vehicles and paused to have a look around. She’d seen Moore moving among them, starting engines and turning on lights. He appeared to be holding a pistol and outfitted in combat gear. She was breathing hard and sweat trickled down her back even after chucking her jacket. She kept her pistol in the two-handed policeman’s grip and licked salty perspiration from her upper lip. Where was the thing clinging to Moore’s Blazer? And what was the man up to?

Frank had several of the emergency flares stashed in his web gear as he let himself out of the gate. He was ready to hunt some werewolf. He held the revolver out in front of himself, with a flare in the other hand down against his leg, as he traversed the outside of the uneven ring of vehicles and headlamps he’d fashioned. The bright lights and shadows would make it impossible for anything to move without being seen, and as long as he kept moving he would be able to inspect the entire area and spot the werewolf if it tried to hide. He hoped to kill it quick. A noise from behind, barely heard over the idling engines, caused him to spin. “Drop it!” Mallory screamed at him, rising from behind a tractor to find them pointing their weapons at one another. “Abshire!” Frank exclaimed. “I said drop it!” “You drop it! Don’t point that thing at me!” he warned. She gestured with the pistol, her voice shaking but her hands rock-solid: “I said drop it now! Or I swear I’ll shoot you!” In the heat of the moment he finally realized he was aiming at an armed cop, a cop who knew what she was doing—she was turned sideways to offer her profile as a smaller target, and aiming her own weapon dead-center for his torso so even if she pulled the trigger in a hurry she’d still hit something—and he forced himself to relax, to lower the Magnum. “Okay, okay.” “Drop it, Moore!” “You can forget that,” he said with a head-shake. “You don’t know wh—” Then he saw her eyes shift and go wide at something past his shoulder, and knew he was in trouble.

He heard the guttural snarl as he whirled, and even felt the heat and smell of the monster, it was so close. Had he turned an instant later he’d be dead without even knowing what hit him. It stood hunched over and still matched his height. The sixgun came up and he fired—the monster uttered an enraged gurgling snarl-scream and he knew he’d missed, incredibly, and then the pistol was gone, swatted into the air with such force that he thought his numbed hand had lost its fingers as well. He stumbled and fell backwards and the monster towered over him. The werewolf’s lips curled back from the gums and spittle coated Frank’s clothes—its ears laid back in fury, the wrinkled hairy brows bunched over the golden eyes. Frank stared, open-mouthed, mind whirling.. But the creature looked up and saw Abshire and froze, unable to move from the surprise and recognition of her.

“Shoot it!” She heard Moore’s shout but was unable to act, still processing what her eyes were seeing. She intended to shoot it—her reflexes were sharp—but she found herself as frozen as the werewolf with her weapon pointing dead between its eyes. Hunched the creature was over six feet, had to weigh close to three hundred pounds, a mass of hard animal muscle covered with bristling raven-black fur. The beast’s face was both human and wolf, jaws lined with curved gleaming teeth, the muzzle wrinkled in rage, and the eyes— The eyes. Knowing. Sensing. Recognizing. She knew it was Toby. In no way did the creature resemble the man she loved, but she knew it just the same. In her mind and in her heart. “Shoot it!” She couldn’t. She began to lower her pistol, still transfixed by those utterly

inhuman eyes. Her mouth was a round O of amazement and shock Frank groped for the Beretta, and drew a combat knife with his free hand. Reawakened by his movement, the monster fixed on him. Frank lunged, driving the seven-inch knife into its leg below the groin, going for where a human would have the femoral artery. The resistance of the tough muscle was surprising but the blade went in. He buried it to the hilt and gave it a twist to aggravate the damage, using both hands—the fingers on his right were still nearly useless. The werewolf screamed and tore the knife from its leg and hurled it away. It fell on Frank, slamming him down with all its weight. He didn’t get the pistol. Then he was grappling with a thrashing mass of infuriated muscle and claws and teeth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Frank managed to get an arm up, keeping the hard plaster bandage between his face and those savage jaws, while drawing his head like a turtle in its shell into the thick collar of the flak jacket. The claws ripped at his sides and chest shredding the vinyl outer layer of the vest. Mallory screamed at the beast to get off him. She gestured with the pistol but could not bring herself to fire. She knew she had to do something. This monster that Toby had become would kill Moore. The werewolf locked its jaws around Frank’s forearm and the plaster cracked beneath the powerful fangs. He felt the pressure and then shooting pain. The monster released the bite and the bandage hung in tatters, but his skin was unbroken. It drew back and snapped at his face. He groped for a weapon, fighting the beast off with one hand. Mallory stepped close and swung her pistol with all her strength into the werewolf’s ribs, only to see the blow bounce off the tough skin to no effect. She hit it again, shouting, barely aware of what she was doing. Frank drew the Marine Raider from its scabbard—the specialized Bowie knife was twelve inches long, with a serrated blade—and slammed it into the monster’s ribs. He had no leverage and heavy bones stopped the steel. Pressure in his shoulder—the werewolf had its jaws over his collarbone, the vest alone preventing the teeth from tearing his flesh. It shook its huge head, snarling and thrashing him like a rag doll, trying to get to the meat. He reversed his grip on the knife, and drove it in below the rib cage. The werewolf screamed in rage and pain but did not let go. He was looking right into one of its eyes from less than six inches. He saw savagery and hate and a desperate need to kill.

Then the pain hit. He shrieked, his face turning purple. Mallory jumped back. A stabbing bolt of agony. He was too maddened by the pain to know for sure, but either his flesh was punctured or bones were breaking over his shoulder. Fire shot down his arm. It felt like red-hot railroad spikes pounded in there. The werewolf shook him, seeking to tear away flesh, but the vest held and prevented him from being mauled. Cursing and spitting in fury, Frank pushed the blade in farther and leaned on the heavy handle, torturing the beast. It was trapped now as well, unable to get its teeth out of him and the vest. Man and monster howled in agony, neither relenting. “No!” the deputy shouted, and squeezed the trigger. She fired point-blank at the back of the werewolf’s head, again and again, until the clip was empty. The werewolf dropped Frank with a shake and twisted, snapping at her in reflex, the jaws going Clack! With a gasp she narrowly avoided the bite, reaching for her extra clip. It rose to its full height, leaning on the good leg. For a moment it seemed ready to leap on her. Fur smoking from the close- bullet hits, it gave her a baleful look, and she met its gaze, and felt her heart break. It was Toby in there. The pain and hurt in that look was almost more than she could bear. But her bullets had no other effect. It turned away, limping, the huge knife still sticking from low in its back. “Stop it,” Frank gasped, forcing himself to sit up. He found the phosphorous flare he’d dropped and pulled a second from his vest. He rose to his feet, unsteady, forced to favor his shoulder. He started after the beast. “Leave him,” the deputy called after him, her voice breaking. The werewolf was in bad shape. He caught up to it before it got past the construction equipment. Frank ignited the flares striking them off against each other.

The werewolf snarled a threat as he skirted around it and cut it off. He thrust a burning flare into its face and it recoiled, enraged, but instinctively afraid of the heat and fire. Frank forced it to back up. “Leave him alone!” the deputy screamed. Frank swore at the creature as he goaded it. There was still plenty of fight left in it, but all it wanted now was to escape. “No you don’t,” he warned as he cut one direction off. Any movement out of his right arm caused his breath to hitch and an agonized huff to leave his lips—his ribs and shoulder were wrecked on that side. It tried to go around him again, sensing it was being herded. He danced out of reach of the slashing claws and jabbed a flare at it, holding the second away as a distraction. The werewolf snarled and sputtered. It jerked its face away, its cheek singed and smoking. Encouraged, Frank thrust the blinding flare into its eyes again. It lunged back, in the direction Frank wanted it to go. He twisted away from the claws, and ducked in again, the flares in a one-twothree combination like in his boxing days. The werewolf hesitated at the gate, unsure of its next move. Frank jabbed a couple of times, hoping to force it inside. It snarled, spraying spittle, its eyes desperately seeking another avenue of escape. “What are you doing?” Abshire screamed, edging nearer. “Let him go!” Defiant, it would not retreat into the yawning gate. It lunged at Frank and he barely avoided a clawed hand and then it whirled to leap past him. Frank couldn’t have that. He sprang towards it, swinging the fire into the side of the broad skull. The crackling of roasting fur, a scream of rage. It twisted to snap at him, lost its

balance and stumbled through the gate. It was up in an instant, realizing it was close to being trapped. It tried to start forward, but Frank was ready with the flares. The werewolf backed away, spitting drool, glancing about for an escape route. Suddenly it wrinkled its nose, and looking down, saw the river of flammable liquid directly between its legs. Its head snapped up to pierce Frank with its gaze. “That’s right,” he told it as he backed out, throwing the gate closed and looping the chain through the fence quickly. “No!” He ignored the deputy’s shriek and threw both flares down into the pooling fuel. He danced back, turned and began to run. The werewolf watched the stream of fuel ignite and become bright yellow flame. Too shocked to move he watched that flame between his feet, and turned to see it spread to a pool created around the supply shed’s door, and then envelope the fuel pump island. The werewolf lifted its head and screamed in rage and lunged for the gate. But it was too slow, too late. The pumps lit with a loud WHOOSH and Frank felt a wall of heat hit him in the back. He knew this was just the beginning. He’d made quite a mess in that shed. The fireball was more than he expected. He put on the speed, screaming at the deputy who was already running ahead of him. But it seemed the erupting flames intended to claim them as well. Burning liquid splashed in every direction. Flaming pieces of the shed and its contents were thrown skyward and then began raining down. Wreckage was thrown two hundred yards. Frank realized several vehicles were being pelted by flaming fuel and debris. Gas tanks were going to blow, no way to avoid it. He went for the deputy and threw himself into her, shouting DOWN! and they both crashed in a tangle of arms and legs. It sounded like WHU-WHUMP and the explosions were felt like massive drumbeats emanating from the ground. They were temporarily deafened and also for a moment unable to draw breath as multiple blasts sent shockwaves that swept the air away. Then came the heat. They clamped their eyes shut and

hugged the dirt against the noise and blinding light. WHUMP, another tank exploding. At least one pickup truck was blown off its axles, into the air, cartwheeling before hitting the earth in a flaming heap not forty feet from where they lay. “Keep your face down,” Frank warned her when they were able to breathe. He was aware they could still die. The shed had been stocked with batteries, toxic chemicals, acids. Even now a cloud of poisonous gas could be ready to take their lives. The explosions ceased. He felt the heat from the fires lessen. He raised his head, testing the air in great gulps. Afraid to think they were still alive, they looked about. Flaming wreckage was everywhere but none of the remaining equipment appeared to be in danger of exploding. The heat from the multiple fires stung their faces. The shed and fence were gone, replaced by a fiery crater sixty feet across. Frank coughed, blinking and trying to regain his wits. “Get off me,” Mallory grunted. He pushed off her with a groan. He got to his feet, and fell back to one knee. He got up again, walked a few steps, stumbled, and nearly fell. Finally he was able to approach the pit. Had the werewolf survived that? Surely not. The hole might have been six feet deep in the center. It was smoking with flames peeking here and there. There was a tangle of burned wreckage in the bottom of it. The heat would not allow him to get too close. He could not see the werewolf’s body. He could not be sure. How could it have escaped, though? Damn. He stood, gasping. He put his fingers under the vest and probed near his shoulder. There was no fresh blood, though the skin was tender—hopefully the werewolf’s fangs had not penetrated. Mallory stood at the perimeter of the crater, staring with eyes red from the smoke and heat into the werewolf’s funeral pyre. “Toby,” she murmured numbly.

Frank scanned the area, looking for movement. He thought it had to be dead. If not it would be horribly injured. He gave the woman a self-conscious look, suddenly aware Vint had been her friend. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to do this. You just don’t know.” She looked at him and her eyes widened, disbelieving. She half-turned, gesturing with her hands towards this battle field, shaking her head, as if to say, All this? You had to do all this? He turned away and started back the way he’d come. He could hear at least one helicopter in the air. His little operation was attracting attention. There was still Bath to deal with. He felt bad for Abshire but he didn’t have the energy or the time or even the inclination to convince her of what she’d just seen. He made a detour and picked up the Magnum. He wiped it off with his shirt and checked the cylinder, rotated it. The pistol went into its holster.

Her mind was numb. Her heart felt dead. She could not have said what was in the beast that told her it was Toby Vint. She’d just felt it, known it, the way she would recognize a taste or a scent. She didn’t try to come up with answers. She didn’t care. She just accepted what she’d seen and ed what he’d told her: The world isn’t what you think it is, Mallory. And, she tried to convince herself that she would never see him again. Never talk to him. Never hold him. But even now, she could feel him. As if he was standing right there. What did that mean? He said once that he would always be hers. Is this what he meant? Moore was limping into the woods. Jesus, the man looked like a nightmare. Clothes in tatters, web gear hanging with weapons, covered with blood and sweat and grit. Uncertain of what else to do, she followed him.

“You need to be in a hospital.” “Not now,” he said through gritted teeth. She’d caught up to him at the Blazer and made him strip to the waist so she could tend to his injuries with the kit from her car trunk. “Just to start, I think your ulna is broken—I can feel a hairline fracture—” “Ulna?” “The small bone, in your arm.“ “What are you, a flunked doctor?” “I used to be a paramedic. Your collarbone might be cracked, too.” She did not mention the terrible bruises, at least a day old, all over his face and torso, or the cut across his chest. What had he been doing? Maybe it was better she didn’t know. Frank did not reply. He was trying not to think how he had been in the jaws of a werewolf—of the chances that something may have been transmitted to him. “You’re a mess. I can’t believe you’re on your feet.” “Me either,” he groused. “Look, this is no joke.” He flexed his arms, breaking in the various bandages and tape. She did a good job of patching him up. “Let’s talk about Vint.” “Let me give you some pain killer. You’ll need it.” “No, it’ll keep me sharp. I said, let’s talk.” He spoke forcefully. He didn’t like that pinched look in her face. He suspected she was nearly in a state of shock. She pretended not to hear, but she shut up. He could see her jaw muscles

working as she wound a bandage around his shoulder and chest. In the distance they could hear the droning sirens of emergency vehicles using the area’s larger roads. She said, “I don’t want to talk.” “I think you should.” “Well I don’t care what you think,” she snapped, giving the cloth a jerk and making him hiss. She looked at him. “Sorry.” “He was between me and Bath. I had to put him down.” She turned away and started to pack up her patches and cotton swabs. He slipped into the torn undershirt, holding his breath from the pain of stretching. She looked at him, at the tears in the bloody shirt. “The other morning, when the house was shot up, that was you and him?” He nodded and said, “And those Henderson guys. I killed one of them that night.” “And Toby?” “He’s different, he wouldn’t go down. I put enough lead in him to drop a platoon.” She helped him get an arm into the web gear. “The whole town then?” she asked, thinking of all the abandoned vehicles. Had that really been just over an hour ago? “Not the whole town—but quite a few.” “Sheriff Hopewell?” “And Warburton. “ “Syd. Jesus.” “He’s dead, too,” Frank told her without a blink.

She stared. “You killed him?” “Let’s just say I was there,” he itted with a pained grin. He slipped the ragged vest on. He didn’t have the energy right now to draw her a picture. “Look, don’t feel any sympathy for these people. When you find out what they were into, you’ll be glad they’re history. I hope none of them were important to you—but if so, I’m sorry.” “All of them monsters,” she murmured. Her gaze found Frank’s. “It’s all Bath, isn’t it?” He nodded, grim. He slipped the Magnum into its holster. “What should I do?” she asked, following him to the Blazer. “Find a place to hide, and keep your head down.” “You’ll never be able to do this.” “Oh yes I will,” he promised. He suddenly realized she had some half-assed idea of going with him. He jabbed a finger at her. “This is mine now, I own it. I started it and I’m finishing it. Just stay out of my way.” “Why are you here? Are you some kind of crusader?” “No,” he said. “Bath killed someone I care about. That’s all it was—at least, in the beginning.” How many times had Toby brought up the word Destiny? she asked herself. Was that why Moore was here? “You were sent here to put an end to all this,” she murmured, actually only thinking it, not realizing she was speaking aloud. Her mind was still on Toby. But Frank heard and it brought him to a stop. “I just helped to stop it,” he declared with anger in his voice. “A lot of people better than me died trying.” He used his camouflaged shirt to brush broken glass out of the seat and got

behind the wheel. He turned the ignition, relieved that it started. He stared at her. Her gaze was far away. She was crushed, but she was thinking. . “Listen, Deputy. For what it’s worth, Vint wasn’t at all like the rest of them.” “Yeah,” she whispered, barely hearing. “I mean it. I can’t explain it, but—I liked him,” he confessed. “I really liked him. I didn’t like Bath’s people.” She forced a smile. “Bath had some control over Vint,” Frank explained. “But if he let you get close to him, I think you can hold onto that. I’d bet my life on it.” He was relieved to see something close to understanding cross her features. Her eyes were sad, but sharp. She was a tough lady. Would’ve made a good Marine. A helicopter ed overhead, the shape blotting out the stars for an instant. It could still be heard after it disappeared behind the trees. He put the Blazer in gear. “Get out of here now, Abshire. This isn’t over. If I were you I’d stay out of town.” “Good luck, Moore,” she said as he pulled onto the road. I’ll need it, he said to himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“The State Police have the entire area cordoned off so this helicopter view is as close as we’ll get. The fires already seem to be dying. We also have reports of a great many abandoned vehicles down on Route 40, within the cordons. The police haven’t let the firefighters enter the zone yet and there’s rumors it’s because some sort of illegal paramilitary exercise may have been going on in this area—” “Haven will be a different place tomorrow,” Leonard Rippy commented. Shan looked at him and turned back to the office television. Stuttering noises from the street outside brought them both out of their seats. “Were those gunshots?” The desk intercom buzzed. Rippy’s caution, “Don’t go near the windows,” was completely unnecessary. He punched the speaker. “Sir?” “Leonard, someone’s knocking. Let’s see how far he gets.” “Yes sir.” Rippy gave the woman a meaningful look. “Good luck, Doctor.” “Leonard—” “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get the children.” “See to it. Shan, watch yourself.” “I will, Doctor.” More rifle shots from outside as Rippy turned the television off.

Frank swore and ducked as the first three rounds penetrated the windshield, showering him with powdered safety glass and pulverizing the rear-view mirror.

He slammed the transmission into reverse and hit the gas. From the next intersection he looked for the M16 rifleman—he recognized the distinctive burpburp-burp of the weapon in the still night air. The Courthouse appeared quiet. There were few lights to be seen in the office windows. There. He spotted the top of someone’s head over the mailbox on the far corner of the building, and then the distinctive barrel of the rifle. He was still in range of the M16, while the hidden marksman was beyond the reach of Frank’s weapons—and those squat iron mailboxes were like safes. He ducked again as three more rounds punched through the glass. The guy was a competent shot, but he was stupid. He could easily have waited until Frank edged closer. He’d paused at the stop sign for a visual recon before approaching the building. Maybe the sharpshooter thought he was going to retreat. Regardless, the man’s eagerness would cost him. From an extra block’s distance Frank decided what to do. He readied the shotgun and drew the M-9 before putting the Blazer in gear and stomping it. The rear tires squealed and clawed for purchase. Frank barreled down the deserted street. He kept his left hand on the wheel and his foot on the gas. Bullets punched the side of the vehicle. The side-view mirror caught one and exploded. He grunted as something hit his bad shoulder and kept his head as low as possible. He returned pistol fire as he went by, careful to not let the hot ejected cartridges bounce into the Blazer and disrupt his driving. His shots forced the marksman to duck for cover. Frank spun the wheel and hit the brakes, letting the Blazer fishtail and screech to a halt. It was still bouncing as he threw open the door, firing the pistol, and reaching for the shotgun. The surprised shooter was caught with three-quarters of his position exposed. Still crouching under fire from the handgun, he tried to bring the M16 to bear on Frank as he rose. He caught the first shotgun blast in the right arm and chest. His trigger hand disappeared in a fountain of red. He threw himself backwards, away

from the mailbox and against the wall, arms going wide, and spun, trying to get out of the way. The second blast caught him in the shoulder blades and bounced him off the wall throwing blood splatter like red paint. He crumpled with clothing and flesh shredded. Frank now had an instant to really see the man—he was in his 30s, tall and lanky, clad in jeans and flannel shirt and a John Deer cap. Frank didn’t recognize him. He was dead. More shots, whining close, punching the hood of the truck—Hopewell had appeared in the door of the Courthouse, down on one knee, with his own M16. Frank ducked, loosing another blast from the Remington. Hopewell blurted an exclamation and clawed at his face—but it was only grit from where the buckshot had impacted with the corner of the building’s brick façade. He got up with surprising speed for a man of his bulk and ducked into the doorway. Frank was back behind the wheel. He put the Blazer in gear and floored the accelerator. He backed up, the tires smoking. He went over the sidewalk and came within a couple of feet of making a garage entrance in the bay window of an antique shop. Then he put it in drive and stomped it again, buckling up as the truck leapt forward. Tires screaming, he made for the front doors. Hopewell stood in the entrance raising the rifle to his shoulder, but realized he was being charged. His nerve shattering he backed through the doorway and slammed it shut. There was a possibility he might have survived, had he not taken time to lock the heavy double doors. He died standing there. The Blazer bucked violently over the curb, wiping out a parking meter and eight feet of a waist-high wrought iron fence, bounced up the steps and plowed into the building’s face. Both doors, much of the right-hand brickwork, and the interior partition wall and entrance to the Sheriff’s office were flattened. The hurtling vehicle did not stop until forced to, by wreckage and furniture piling up before it. Frank coughed, his lungs full of dust, unable to see. Grit and blood were in his eyes. The already-battered windshield had collapsed inward under debris and

he’d taken a blow to the head. As his wits collected, he groped for the seat belt release. And the shotgun.

Leonard Rippy was halfway down the stairs, a sleeping child in each arm, when he looked up to see Hopewell barreling in the door, slamming it shut—then there was a screech of tires and the doors exploded along with much of the wall and Hopewell disappeared in a hurricane of flying brick and matchsticks. The destruction made him lose his footing and though he tried to hold the girls tight and protect them with his own body in the tumble, everything literally went black in clouds of dust He was stunned, disoriented. He blinked, and found himself looking into Hopewell’s dead face. The Sheriff was on his back, arms splayed, face chalky white in that way caused by massive internal injuries. Brick and mortar were across his chest and belly, with the Blazer’s collision-damaged front end on top. The air was still full of dust hanging like a fog. There was light—it was flashing intermittently, the fixtures swinging from the ceiling. Everything was hazy and indistinct beyond a few feet. Rippy tried to rise, and stiffened with a sharp stab of pain that elicited panic and a bolt of feral rage. Quite without thinking he whispered the words and as he transformed began to rip the clothing from his body. His right leg was broken, twisted in the fall down the stairs. Trudy saw the prone man shift into a snarling monster before her eyes. She was shaken and still dazed from the cough syrup cocktail but nothing was broken. Ashley was rolled into a ball next to her on the carpet sobbing and screaming for Grandma. Trudy knuckled grit from her eyes and tried to believe what she was seeing. The monster before her was both similar to and different from the pair that haunted the family’s back yard. It had not seemed to notice her yet, but Trudy’s survival instincts took over quickly: We have to get out of here! She got up feeling bruised muscles from the fall, and yanked on her sister’s hair to get her attention. “Come on! C’mon Ash!” The wrecked hallway was full of doors to various offices, but she focused on the largest ones, the doors to the

courtroom at the end. Also they were furthest from the monster which was now aware of them and was attempting to rise. Dragging her screaming sister along, Trudy made for the doors and grabbed the handle. She pulled Ashley inside and turned the lock behind them. Part of the ceiling, bereft of a load-bearing wall, collapsed over the Sheriff’s office. Shan’s desk and chair fell through the hole, smashing the counter below into splinters. More light fixtures fell loose. They swung like pendulums, spitting bright sparks. Flames were already licking from beneath the Blazer’s rear wheels. Water dribbled from broken sprinkler system conduits, having little effect. The three hundred-year old building was dying. Rippy wrinkled his nose in disgust from the dust and the smoke of the spreading fire. He turned his head and saw the courtroom doors, and ed. He rose, with unnatural strength pushing debris away. He tested the injured leg and snarled from the bolt of pain. Limping, and reaching out for from the staircase banister, he headed for the courtroom. He could hear the children crying. The sound urged him forward. He reached the doors and shook them, and then threw his weight against them, angry at being denied entrance. He snarled and hit them harder, and the children screamed from within. Rippy’s intent to get the girls into the car and wait for Bath was forgotten in the chaos and in his rage. The werewolf sought only to kill and devour his helpless prey

Cooper Banks heard as well. He’d watched the gunfight from the darkness of the park, after first hitting the dirt under a rose bush. He was unable to believe what he was seeing. The people shooting from the Courthouse were out of his line of sight, but the man in the black Blazer was a one-man army, with guns blazing from both hands. He was a stunned witness to the driver running the truck directly into the front of the building. He almost decided to get the hell out of there then, but was unable to give this drama up. There were no more gunshots, and he decided to get a better look. Giving the

building plenty of room he ran out into the street and saw the doors and Sheriff’s office-side of the wall completely gone. The truck was buried in the building among spreading flames. There was a lot of collapsing rubble and smoke and he could see no one moving in there. He wondered what to do. He couldn’t call the police—it was the Sheriff’s office that was burning! Anyway all the emergency numbers went through the Old Church! The street was dark. The businesses closed. He could get on his bike, ride to someone’s house—but who’d answer the door, at this time of the morning? The fire was spreading. He ran around the building, trying to figure out if he should just sit back and watch the place burn down. He recalled his dad, when he was little—they’d drive by the Courthouse and he always watched his dad make a face at the big double doors. One day he asked, Dad, don’t you like the Old Church? Ken Banks just looked at him as if he had something to say—but he only answered, “Nah, nothing like that, son. How about some ice cream, huh?” But Cooper was never stupid. He figured his dad hated the place cause that’s where his divorce from Cooper’s mom was finalized. That was perfectly logical. But the look his father had given him—Cooper always felt there was more to it. Didn’t make any difference, though—must have been a year later when Cooper’s dad just up and disappeared. He never even said bye. It broke Cooper’s heart. Clinton Dean liked to brag that he’d scared the man out of town, but Cooper didn’t believe that. He couldn’t too much about his father, other than they’d loved each other, but no way, no way, would Ken Banks have let himself be chased off by a chickenshit bully like Dean. He knew now it was just kid’s stuff—but when he was younger he liked to pretend that his dad was a secret agent called off on an important mission suddenly, or even a masked super-hero. He changed direction and decided to head back towards the park. There was nothing he could do. The old place was coming down. Cooper wasn’t sad about it—early impressions were the ones that lasted, and he shared his father’s that the building itself was just bad, no matter the reason. He was anxious to hear the

explanation behind everything he’d seen tonight, though. What was that? It sounded like little kids. They were crying—screaming their heads off in fact. He edged closer to the building. The stained glass windows into the courtroom were high up, way over his head. He didn’t think they could even open, but he found a ajar, with a handle on the inside. He couldn’t reach it, but the sounds were coming from there. “Hey,” he called. “Hey! Are you okay in there?” They did not hear. What was going on? It was some commotion that was for sure. There had to be adults in there with them, this time of the morning. What were a couple of kids doing in there anyway? “Hey!” he said again, shouting now. “Hey! The building’s burning! You have to get out of there!” “There’s a monster in here!” The voice was terrified. It might be a little girl. He was sure he’d heard wrong. “What?” “Help us! There’s a monster in here!” There was at least one other voice, unintelligible cries of fright. “Aren’t there any adults in there?” Cooper called, frustrated, not knowing what to make of this. A terrified scream. Then: “It’s coming in! HELP!” And then he heard something else, crystal-clear in the courtroom’s acoustics, which caused the children’s voices to rise to the level of blood-curdling shrieks —a heavy crash, and then—the frenzied snarling of some huge animal. Cooper felt the hair crawl up the back of his neck. “Help us! It’s coming, Cooper!”

He blinked, shocked. He couldn’t recognize the little girl’s voice. “Who are you?” he yelled. “It’s me, Trudy! Trudy and Ash!” The Walter twins—Cooper didn’t know them well, they were friends of Bessie’s. What the heck were they doing in there this time of night? Another crash made him jump. More screams, and more ferocious growling, like a maddened dog, ravenous. “Help! We have to get out of here!” “Iwantmygramma!” cried the other voice, bawling. Jesus Christ what’s going on here? Cooper thought. His eyes wild he looked around for something he could use to get in the window. There was nothing. The animal-sounds and the screams were getting more intense. He had to do something! “COOPER!” “I’m coming! I’m gonna come!” he shouted, running back and forth, helpless. Going in the front was not an option, he knew those flames would have it imable by now. The rear parking area and back entrance seemed like a mile away. He saw a regular window, one he could reach, forward of the courtroom. It was dark, it had to be an office or something. The glass was frosted. Cooper pulled off his T-shirt without even thinking, balled it around his fist, and smashed it through the pane. It shattered pretty easily. He broke out more, and had to step back as shards from above fell out of the old frame, breaking at his feet. He didn’t even notice a thin cut on his forearm from a loose piece. He raked as much of the glass out as he could, and threw himself onto the sill, too desperate to give much thought to his bare skin exposed to left-over shattered glass. Somehow he made it through the frame without serious cuts. He was in a men’s restroom. He dropped to the floor and made for the door. Clouds of choking smoke, wreckage everywhere. He looked left and was thunderstruck. Whatever it was, it was no fucking dog. The thing was as big as a grown man,

covered with coarse dark fur, with a mangled shirt and tros hanging off it. It stood on two crooked legs and was against the splintered courtroom door trying to get in, with its head and shoulder already inside. It made a lunging motion and Cooper heard fresh screams from within. The door had to be locked but the thing was tearing it to bits. It wouldn’t hold forever. “Hey! Hey numbnuts!” he cried, hoping to get the thing’s attention without actually approaching it. No joy there. The creature or whatever it was had a single-minded purpose. Cooper looked for a weapon and grabbed a broken chair leg, twisting it free. He held it over his shoulder like a baseball bat and moved in. He took a terrific swing at the thing’s back, and felt it bounce off hard muscle. The creature twisted, snarled in reaction, but did not withdraw from the doorway. It surged against the door and got its other arm in. Cooper heard a scream. He hit it again with the same result. He stepped back, desperately searching for another weapon. He considered pulling on the thing’s tail—then he noticed it was holding one leg nearly off the floor, and the way the leg was canted. With no other thought he repositioned his club and swung it low, into the broken leg. The creature uttered an unearthly scream of pain and rage and thrash-kicked itself from the hole. Cooper backed up in a hurry, taken by surprise with the thing’s savagery. When it turned to look at him he stumbled and fell flat on his ass, open-mouthed. He’d seen probably every werewolf movie made and knew what he was facing, though this one was unlike any Hollywood special effect ever created, besides being absolutely real. The werewolf fixed him with crimson eyes and spittle leaked from its fangs as it took cruel pleasure in the expression on the face of its intended kill. Its jaws closed and the lips curled to form a merciless sneer, the eyes going narrow and mean. It licked its chops and took a limping step towards the boy, clawed fingers spreading wide. Cooper snapped out of it enough to push himself across the

debris-littered carpet. Aware he could not escape the monster, he gripped the club tightly across his chest, steeling himself for the attack. Then the werewolf’s ravenous gaze shifted, above and beyond Cooper as a shadow fell across its face. A man came out of nowhere, a boot shot out, and the werewolf caught it right in the jaws. Completely surprised, it fell back with a stuttered snarl. “Stay down.” Cooper watched with his good eye bulging as his rescuer—a man, covered with grime and blood, bandages on a shoulder and a forearm, wearing some kind of military belt and straps and holsters over a padded vest and a torn bloody T-shirt —stepped past him and planted that same boot on the werewolf’s chest, holding it down, and before it could thrash free Coop saw a pistol in a gloved hand and the man fired and kept firing. The shots seemed deafening and Cooper backed further away, watching the ejected shells rain onto the carpet and the werewolf’s face disappear in a bulletriddled mass of gory meat and bone, bloody hair and brains splattering up and down the door. The pistol quit when its magazine was empty, but the man did not—he spun, the pistol lowered but, Cooper saw, a shotgun slung from his shoulder under his free arm, finger on the trigger. Cooper realized he was covering them, looking for more threats. “Okay. Get up, kid.” Cooper did as he was told, too flabbergasted to say a word. The man tossed the empty pistol and let the shotgun dangle below his ribs as he turned for the door.

Frank could hear the children on the other side of the door, crying. Upon freeing himself from the Blazer and ing for his weapons he thought he had to be imagining things at the sounds, and at the sight of this skinny shirtless kid antagonizing the werewolf with nothing but a piece of furniture leg. He

wondered if maybe he was disoriented from the crash and took an extra moment to be sure before wading in. Frank reached through the hole the werewolf provided, and unlocked the main door. The little girls screamed when he pushed it open. He stared at the twin sisters a moment to make sure they were real, amazed to find them here. “It’s all right,” he said with palms raised. The boy came in behind him, staring goggle-eyed at the dead werewolf. Ashley ran to Cooper and held him, snapping him out of it. “It’s okay, Ash, it’s good now,” he said, turning her so she could not see the brain-splattered corpse. “Trudy, you okay?” She ran to him, both girls clearly terrified of the gunman. Ashley clung to him and shuddered, eyes wide, as Frank went by them to a window. “It’s all right— he’s a good guy,” Cooper assured her, but understanding of how the grimy and blood-splattered stranger might frighten little kids—hell, he even frightened him, Cooper! “Is the monster dead?” she asked, her voice tiny like a mouse. “He’s a goner,” Cooper promised. “It’s hard to breathe in here,” she complained, and coughed. “I wanna go home.” “It’s okay, Ash,” her sister said with an hand on her shoulder. But her eyes were wide on the gunman. The courtroom was not large. It was a fraction of the original church’s floor space, the rest used for offices and such. The windows were high. Frank picked up a straight-backed chair and flung it through a pane of stained glass, making the children jump. Then he hefted one end of a bench, dragged it over, and dropped it with a crash. “C’mon, kids,” he said with an impatient wave. They were not anxious to approach him. Cooper gave Ashley a nudge. “I’m staying with you, Coop,” she insisted, her manner warning of serious trouble if she was fought over this.

“Okay—it’s okay, we’re all going.” “You have to go first,” Frank told him. “It’s a drop outside, you need to catch them. C’mon, let’s go.” Cooper gave him no argument. He stepped onto the bench, then onto the back. From there he made the window sill, brushing the broken glass out with his shirt, still wrapped around his fist. “I’m after Coop,” Ashley said. She suddenly looked at her braver sister, as if she’d forgotten her. “Come right behind me, Tru.” Cooper went out the window and disappeared. “Hurry—it’s safe, the ground’s not hard,” he called. Ashley did not protest as Frank lifted her into the window. “Be careful of the glass.” The other girl followed. She was reluctant to let Frank lift her but he gave her no time to voice an argument. Cooper yelled, “Are you coming?” “No. Get these kids as far away from here as you can,” Frank ordered. “I will—what are you doing?” “Beat it. Go find help. You’re the boss,” Frank reminded him. He took the Remington from his shoulder and clicked off the safety. The werewolf’s body was human again, and beginning to smoke. The face was unrecognizable but from the hair, lean build, and all-over tan it had to be Lenny Rippy. Frank barely gave him a glance and thought of Val. The Sheriff’s office was an inferno and he wondered how the Blazer’s gas tank had not exploded. The smoke was ri the stairs in weird spirals. Frank blinked back tears, eyes stinging. Hopewell stared upwards from underneath the truck, one hand seemingly reaching, grasping for something it would never have. He kicked some broken furniture out of the way and started up the staircase. They seemed sturdy. Frank moved quickly but carefully, aware that Bath was likely not yet out of surprises.

He made the first landing, keeping his eyes peeled for an attack from the sides or from above, either from a shooter or a monster. He took the steps carefully, the shotgun in the lead. The lights were flickering and the smoke becoming thicker. Flames were now at the bottom of the stairs. Frank didn’t care. Didn’t care if he ever left this place. All his thoughts were now on Bath. He made the top landing without mishap. The muffled whump of the Blazer’s tank at last exploding rocked the floor beneath his feet. He kept his balance, feeling the heat of the shockwave wash past him. He took a moment to insure the carpeted hallway was not going to collapse from his weight. The werewolf picked the exact right time to hit him. He was still unsteady from the explosion below. It attacked from behind—it was hiding in an alcove at the opposite end of the hallway—its claws not penetrating the flak vest, but bowling him over from its weight. He tried to twist around as he fell, to get the shotgun between himself and the attacker. The werewolf was lean and strong—it had to be a female—its coat the color of honey. Its ears were narrow and pointed, the hair longer on its skull and swept back, the red eyes almond-shaped. But the exotic looks made it no less deadly. It went for his face, spitting hot drool, and he had to let the shotgun go to use both hands to protect himself. He managed to get it by the throat, and to hold off the snapping jaws. He got his boots between them and put everything he had into the kick. The monster was thrown through the air and onto a curio table against the wall. It hit with tremendous force and crashed to the floor but was instantly on him again. They rolled across the carpet, each seeking an advantage. Frank drew a hand away and punched it in the face, barely avoiding the dangerous fangs. In such close quarters there was no way he could draw the Magnum, holstered against his ribs. He tried to reach the handle of the bayonet knife hanging from his belt. A claw raked the side of his head, barely missing his throat—he felt something wet and hoped his ear was attached.

He found the knife and brought it up, but his arm was pinned by a clawed hand. Then the thing lunged, and the jaws locked around that same hand. He kicked and rolled atop the werewolf, trying to pull his hand free. Somehow his fist and the knife were inside the fanged mouth, and although there was pressure, there were no teeth puncturing him. The knife blade stuck out between the jaws. His gloved hand was trapped there. The werewolf growled, sounding like a pet engaged in a playful game of tug-ofwar over a sock ball, as Frank fought to work his hand loose. The thing couldn’t bite without injuring itself, but knew what was going to happen if the knife came free. Their faces were very close. Frank stared into the hating red eyes. Claws slashed his shoulder. The monster whipped its head, trying to get a better angle on the bite. Frank found that he could use the hand also, to hold its head down. They were in a very unpleasant stalemate, one he had to get out of in a hurry. With a sudden surge of strength it rolled the two of them. Frank’s shoulders crashed into the wooden railing along the landing, with such force that the oak slats splintered and he found himself in danger of going over to drop to his death in the flames below. He decided at that instant, if he went, he was dragging this bitch with him. Desperately struggling, he rolled back, got on top, and delivered savage punches to the werewolf’s head. But it was too strong and hellishly determined. It did not release his hand. Trying to keep his face and neck out of reach of the flailing claws, he saw a splintered slat from the railing and seized it, clumsily, reaching across the werewolf with his left hand. He grabbed it and felt it slip—his glove was slick with blood—and got a better grip. Perhaps sensing his intent, the werewolf snarled and gave his hand a brutal jerk like it was a piece of meat, and he felt the pressure of the fangs. But he used his trapped hand to hold the beast’s head down and he pushed himself off it, and raised the oak slat. The broken end was sharp like a stake. He straddled the monster to restrain it. Then he looked into its defiant eyes, raised the foot-long slat over his head, and with all his strength plunged the jagged

point between the ribs. It released his hand with a strangled scream-yelp. Screaming in rage Frank drove the bayonet underhand into the thick coat of hair around its throat. Blood spurted and he withdrew the blade, and jammed it in again. The smoke in the air was tinged red and smelled of copper before Frank finally let himself collapse onto the dead werewolf, gasping from exhaustion. The next thing he was aware of, his cheek was resting against what seemed to be bare human skin. He raised his head and stared in revulsion and horror, not only at what he’d done, but at the woman he’d done it to. So much skin and connective tissue around her throat was sliced and stabbed, her head looked ready to fall from her shoulders. But that was not the worst part. It was her body—her skin, every inch of it, excluding her hands and face. She was a mass of horrifying scars, most old, some fresh and pink. Her body and limbs were just wounds on top of wounds, years of them. The result was an epidermis like aged alligator hide, rather than anything resembling human. The scars that were still new told the story—they were crescent-shaped human bite marks. Hundreds of them, inflicted over a period of decades, some still bearing the stippled signs of stitches. But all at one time were painful injuries, and all, obviously, left on a victim more than willing. Both nipples were long gone, bitten off and replaced by scar tissue, and her pubic area was an ugly hairless ruin. This mutilation was worse than anything he’d seen during the war. The figure was barely identifiable as female. “Bath. You—” The words died in his throat. There were none sufficient. The woman stared lifelessly at him with large violet eyes. She was in her 40s. Her face was flawless, that of a magazine cover model. What could have been at work within her, to let Bath do this to her for so long? Frank bowed his head, the weight of everything beginning to come down on him. He sat like that—maybe long minutes, or just seconds?—trying to regain his wits. Straightening, he unclasped his web gear and shrugged it off. Then the vest. He used it to cover the dead woman’s lovely face. He drew the Magnum with the

holster dropped to the bloody carpet, and reached for the shotgun. He suppressed a sob as he got to his feet. He took the stairs with determination, ignoring his fatigue and his hurts, and reached the third floor landing. Bath’s office was to his direct right. The ornate door was ajar a couple of inches. Every nerve on high alert, Frank turned that way, the shotgun moved up to his shoulder. He stared at the Doctor’s door like it was a shrine to be destroyed, a fortress to be breached. If Bath was in there, why had he not come out? Frank would’ve had little chance against the both of them. What was he waiting for? Was this just a game to him? Forcing himself to walk steadily and with purpose, he approached the door to John Bath’s office. He was now convinced that Bath was not even there. He’d left, and Frank would have to chase him, again and again— But he was there. Waiting. .

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Frank aimed both weapons at him, one from each hand. Bath seemed completely unconcerned, which did not surprise Frank, but disappointed him. Part of him wanted Bath on his knees, begging for mercy. But he knew deep down that would never happen. “Mister Moore. It’s about time.” The old man sat behind the huge desk beneath a single floor lamp, his soft hands folded across his belly. His double-breasted suit was immaculate, the open jacket revealing a glittering silver watch chain dangling from a vest pocket, and Frank had the feeling he’d dressed for this meeting. Frank also noted that the monstrous cabinet, with all those abominations within, was yawning open like some jawed leviathan. The lamp’s soft glow permeated the room. He spared a glance around the office, watchful for hidden dangers, and found it mostly in shadow. “I’d almost gotten tired of waiting.” Frank affixed him with his cobra stare. “Nothing to say? After all this?” Frank pointed the Magnum. He thumbed back the hammer—click. “I didn’t come to talk.” “Of course you didn’t. Quite a fight with Shan. I’m going to miss her.” Frank’s lip curled with disgust at the thought of the woman’s disfigurement. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, old man.” “Poor Leonard—he didn’t get to the children, did he?” Frank’s eyes narrowed. How depraved could one man be?

“So he died a failure,” Bath decided. “Too bad. He would not have liked that.” “You want it on your feet, or just sitting there?” Frank rasped. “I prefer to sit. But thanks for asking.” “Before I kill you,” Frank said, “don’t you even want to know why?” Bath snorted his amusement. “The school teacher? She was important to you I suppose. Will all of this bring her back? What a waste.” Frank stared at him. He’d known evil men in his life—men without conscience, without concern for anyone, sometimes even for themselves. But for the first time, he felt he was in the presence of a human being without a soul. And only a few days ago, he’d doubted souls even existed. “Say goodbye,” Frank told him. His eyes slits of fury, he pointed the barrel of the .44 between the Doctor’s china-blue eyes. He pulled the trigger. Click. “Sit down, Moore. You look beat.” Frank’s brow wrinkled in disbelief. He pulled the trigger again—click—the hammer fell, the cylinder rotated, but nothing happened. He flipped the chamber open to check his rounds—all there excluding those he’d used—snapped it shut and pointed, and again: Click. Bath was grinning. Frank dropped the revolver to the floor and aimed the shotgun from the hip, with both hands. He met Bath’s eyes and pulled that trigger: Snap. Frank mouthed a silent expletive. “Those don’t work in here unless I want them to,” Bath announced, watching for his reaction. “Long ago, a close call inspired me to learn the trick of turning

gunpowder into harmless sand.” Frank ejected the shell, chambering another. He tried to fire point-blank into Bath’s grinning face, with the same ineffectual result. He took the sling from his shoulder and dropped the Remington. He would kill Bath with his bare hands then— “I said sit!” Bath snapped. His voice took on an operatic resonance that was not there before, he did something with his right hand, made an odd finger-sign it appeared, at the same moment whispering a strange word—and the big overstuffed leather chair abruptly bolted forward across the carpet. It hit Frank behind the knees and he dropped onto the cushion, too shocked to react. “Getting stuffy in here,” Bath remarked, his tone back to normal again—normal for him—and another hand-sign, again a mouthed syllable. Creeping curls of smoke twisted and congealed and were swept away by an undetectable breeze, the door slamming shut with a crash behind. Frank stared at him, unable to hide his stupefaction. “So what’s your story?” Bath inquired, an eyebrow cocked, genuinely interested it seemed in what Frank had to say. “A religious man are you? No? So it was just the teacher.” Frank did not reply. Unably fascinated, he found himself mesmerized by that Shakespearean voice and the piercing gaze that accompanied it. “I can see revenge,” Bath itted. “That, I can understand. We have a meeting of minds in that regard. You and I are much alike, Frank.” “If you really believe that, you’re even more insane than I thought,” Frank uttered through clenched teeth. Even as he said it, something gnawed at him. Like there was something going on that he wasn’t quite aware of. “I can promise you, I am far from insane. My time here in Haven has gone pretty much according to my exact plan. My future was laid out and waiting, until you showed up. Even so, I’ve managed to outlive your like before. A couple of them gave me some trouble, I it. Do-gooders. Wannabe heroes sticking their noses where they did not belong” He spit these words like a vile epithet. “But I always

squashed them in the end, even before I had Tobias to warn me—you killed Tobias?” “What do you think?” Frank snarled. He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. The stubbornness with which his own muscles seemed to resist his commands caused his brow to knit. Something is very wrong. “I want you to tell me.” Frank felt a tiny sliver of power over his enemy. He said, “I wouldn’t expect him to come charging in to save you.” Bath stared as if to detect a lie, and then uttered a harsh guffaw, before his expression sobered in a hurry. He stared at Frank with naked threat in his gaze. “Very well.” Frank asked himself, what was happening? Why was he just sitting here? And why was he unable to look away from Bath? He tried and could not. Bath held him in that iron gaze. And finally Frank knew Bath had somehow managed to hypnotize him. He was unable to move. “You have no idea how much I invested in that boy,” Bath said, unblinking. “And this town. I only wish I had the time to give you the attention you’ve so richly earned.” Frank now knew why Bath did not come to the female werewolf’s aid—he didn’t have to! He needed no help to deal with Frank, ultimately. All his lackeys could fail him, and it made no difference—Bath’s confidence in his own abilities was unshakable. He gripped the arms of the chair, so tightly that his powerful hands made the wood creak beneath the upholstery. His blood pounded in his ears, perspiration ran off his forehead—but still he could not free himself. Without looking away, Bath slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Moore, take small comfort in the damage you’ve done. I’m going to outlive you, too. You haven’t stopped me, not even close. I’ll go on, while you lay rotting in your grave.”

The hand came out, the fingers curled over something in his palm. Frank saw from his peripheral vision, unable to shift his gaze. And he realized—Bath was not restraining him easily. In fact, the Doctor appeared to be exerting himself every bit as much as Frank was fighting him. Maybe even more so. “I’m not through yet,” Frank rasped. “Oh yes you are—you might enjoy knowing that, as well, your family in Ohio will die. First your woman. Then her brats.“ Bath flinched, and Frank did as well, feeling this weird control weaken for an instant. Bath raised his hand, palm up, and opened his fingers. There were some black specks, like grains of pepper, in his palm. “You’re strong,” he breathed, his words hoarse. “The strongest I’ve come up against.” Visibly shaken by the strain, but still holding him frozen with the power of his eyes, Bath bent his head slightly, and blew across his palm in Frank’s direction. The dots of sand ignited like a flash-bomb, and suddenly Bath was spitting a jet of white-hot flame into Frank’s face. Frank gasped and reflexes took over as he pushed himself violently backwards, upending the chair. He rolled onto his back, hands going for his face. Bath shook bits of flaming material from his hand and wiped his lips. He got up from the desk, going around it to get to Frank. “Don’t worry, don’t worry—the pain will all be gone in a jiffy!” he promised, grabbing Frank by the back of the neck and hauling him to his feet with inhuman strength. He dragged Frank to the desk and used his free hand to sweep the bulletsmashed computer set-up to the floor along with everything else. He threw Frank face-down onto it, wrestled both hands behind his back, and reached for the chain and shackles he’d had ready on the floor. “Moore, these chains were used to bind accused witches for execution just a few hundred years ago!” Frank heard him but did not try to reply. He did not know if he could. He had his eyes clamped shut, convinced he was probably permanently blind, his eyes and face badly burned. They had to be. He’d felt the heat—why was he in no pain from the injury? Was he in shock? All his other cuts and bruises were still complaining well enough.

“No need to reply—I can imagine what you must be feeling!” Bath said. With Frank’s wrists manacled he reached into the cabinet, parting the links of the chain binding the Book of Shadows using a whispered command. He opened it likewise with muttered hex words, his dancing fingers riffling the cursed pages without actually touching them, until he found what he was looking for: Ritual Blooding of A Holy Knight. He grabbed Frank by the shoulder, and turned him over. “Well let’s do this thing!” He raised a dagger, about to put it to Frank’s throat, and stopped, shocked. Frank opened his eyes and was amazed he still had working vision. Bath was amazed as well. He expected to see a mask of baked and blistering flesh where Frank’s face had been—but he was untouched! Bath’s jaw dropped open. “What the f—?” That was all he got out as Frank threw his right fist into the Doctor’s face. Bath stumbled back, hands going for his mouth—Frank swung his legs over the edge of the desk, sat up, and fired a roundhouse left. Bath took the punch and stumbled, catching the wall and knocking several framed photographs to the floor. He composed himself quickly, lips bloody, flexing his jaw. He looked as Frank dropped the old chains on the floor. “Well, well, well—you are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Frank did not answer. Despite somehow surviving Bath’s dragon-breath trick, he was still in trouble. He’d given those punches everything he had, and the old man was still standing. He had multiple injuries and was nearly exhausted, both mentally and physically—while Bath was possessed of unnatural strength. But Bath was rattled. Obviously he was not a man accustomed to anyone striking him. Frank could see it in his flabbergasted expression. Bath smoothed his mussed hair and wiped blood from his mouth with a sleeve. Frank stood, wondering what he could use for a weapon—and suddenly Bath lunged at him. He caught Frank by the throat—he tried to break the hold with a powerful arm-block, but could not. Bath spun him around and flung him into the

wall with a crash. Bath grabbed his chin and slammed the back of his head. Picture frames shattered and Frank felt his scalp split and blood trickling down his neck. Frank again tried to break the hold and nearly did so, because Bath suddenly threw him, over the desk. He tumbled brokenly across the floor. He looked up to see Bath making those hand signs again—he heard something heavy shifting and realized almost too late he was at the foot of the entertainment center. He rolled out of the way to avoid it crushing him. The whole thing crashed in a tremendous heap. The wide-screen television exploded with a shower of sparks. Bath watched him stagger to his feet. “Still some fight left in you, eh? I’m happy to beat you to a pulp. You’ll beg me to kill you before I’m tired.” Frank shook his head, dizzy. He looked around—there was the sword, in the glass display case. He looked around again. Bath was behind the desk, enjoying himself, catching his breath. The loose locks of white hair bobbed in front of his eyes and he did not bother to comb them back. Frank picked up a heavy ceramic lamp from the floor. “Uh oh, I better watch out now,” Bath said, mocking. Frank hurled the lamp at the display case. The glass shattered with a crash. Bath said, “You have no respect for other people’s property, Moore—” Frank reached in, brushed glass away with a gloved hand— “—I’ll have to teach you a lesson.” —grabbed the handle of the broadsword, and pulled it out. The thing was surprisingly heavy, so much so that Frank wondered how it was ever wielded with any grace. It was long—from point to pommel it was as tall as Frank’s shoulder. The hilt alone had room enough for both his hands with some to spare. He gripped it two-handed and brought the blade up, presenting it to Bath, the

effort making his injuries scream. The Doctor stared at him, amazement evident in his expression. He shrugged, amused again. “Fine.” Frank took a step towards him. Bath chuckled and went to the far end of the desk and picked the dagger up from where he’d dropped it. He waved the long blade in Frank’s direction. “Come on, then, if you insist. Have at you, Lancelot.” Frank lifted the sword over his right shoulder, unable to hide the difficulty with which he handled it. Bath smiled, his eyes twinkling with humor. Frank swung the blade across Bath’s chest, but he easily stepped back beyond its reach. Before he could get the sword up again, Bath darted in, lunging. The dagger sliced his right bicep before Frank could move back. Frank touched the bleeding wound as Bath laughed. The Doctor moved in again—Frank managed to raise the blade too late, and a paper-thin cut bled below his Adam’s apple. Bath knew how to handle a knife. Frank let his shoulders drop, gasping. He tried to force the acceptance of defeat from his mind. He’d never given in to it before, no matter how bad things looked. He pictured Lori’s face and hung on to her, and to Gwen. He couldn’t die here, he could not. And suddenly, he saw what he needed to see—he saw the huge desk, and the towering cabinet on its clawed feet, and Bath, standing ready for him between them, leering, laughing. He did not take the time to reconsider. He just acted on his impulse. He rushed forward, swinging the blade, but it was too heavy to control. His target stepped quickly back and the blade fell short, the point burying itself with a thunk-ing sound into the floor. Frank did not have to put on a show—his faulty swordsmanship was true, the result of his battered physical condition. Bath uttered a victorious laugh. Before Frank could move he reached and grabbed his hair, lifting his chin to expose his throat to the knife. “Your time is up,” he said, looking Frank dead in the eye. “I win. I always win.” Frank responded by leaning on the sword’s hilt, popping the point from the floor. It was only when Bath heard the rumble of shifting mass that he realized, the sword was not only stuck in the floor—it had chopped through one of the huge

cabinet’s three feet, the forward one ing the immense weight. He looked up with dawning horror to see the monolithic piece of blood-red furniture lean dangerously and then topple over on him. He had no chance to get out of the way. Frank pushed himself backwards and stumbled and fell. An irresistible force met an immovable object, Bath’s fortress-like desk, with the Doctor caught between them. The noise was an earthen splintering crunch like elephant bones shattering. It was over in an instant and Frank lay half-sprawled for long moments expecting some calamity, the windows to explode or the floor to fall out from under him. Neither object was smashed, though the cabinet was splintered and bulging on the sides where it impacted with the desk. Bath lay on the desktop with his head and shoulders suspended several inches above it, the cabinet on top of him at an angle. His legs hung over the edge, shoes just touching the floor, his thighs and lower torso obscured by the crushing bulk of the cabinet, a detail Frank was thankful for. His left arm reached out to Frank, unmoving, the fingers as pale as marble. But the man was still alive! Frank raised his head for a better look. Bath turned his face to see him, and Frank watched as the corner of his mouth turned up to force the mocking smile. His skin was the color of chalk. Likely he was bleeding to death, chest crushed, internal organs turned to jelly. Frank peered into the eyes of his enemy. The ice-blue gaze of the monster responsible for his daughter’s death met his own. Dark almost-black blood bubbled from the corner of his lips and trickled down his cheek in a glistening ribbon. Bath could not speak and did not try. But still he smiled. Frank stared at him and said: “I’m Gwen McVie’s father.” The dying man’s brow arched, the sole acknowledgement that he heard.

“You lose,” Frank told him with a single nod. The old man did not turn his head, but his eyes shifted, off to something perhaps only he could see, and Frank leaned close. He wanted to see what Bath had coming. He looked past Frank. The smile melted away, replaced by an expression of calm acceptance. But then an intense focus came over his face. And then in the eyes a look of consternation, if not fear. Frank watched closely, but he saw no agonies, no flickering tongues of hellfire in the pale blue irises. Just that look of disquiet. And in the next instant his eyes went glassy and the life was gone from them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Ty Williams poured a saucer of milk and put it on the floor for his pets. Ty kept a succession of pet cats over the years, a habit started by his second ex-wife, and each of them were named after Marines both real and fictional—not that they answered to their names. He believed cats looked down their noses at that custom, leaving it for dogs. He was pouring milk for his own coffee when the kitchen phone rang. Suspecting it was Skip DeForest, he picked it up. “Hello?” “Ty, are you watching the news?” “I’ve got the local channel on. You calling about Haven?” “Yeah, what do you make of that?” “I don’t know.” The fires outside of Haven were all over the morning news. “Something else, too. There’s something going on right in the center of town. Fires or explosions. Emergency crews from Whitestone are headed there right now.” Cradling the phone on his shoulder, Ty walked his coffee into the den, careful to avoid stepping on R Lee, and switched on his police scanner. There were multiple calls going on. “I hope they’re not trying to get rid of evidence,” he commented. “Ty, it’s hitting the fan, buddy. I’ve got a Judge out of bed issuing Federal search warrants for Holland Radcliff’s home and office.” “You tracked the P.O. box.” “And that’s not all—the state office this morning got an email document from Europe, if you can believe that. There are digital pictures of Miller and that Rippy guy, making nice. And something else—”

“What?” “Miller, and Farley. They were photographed burying a body.” Williams snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding.” “It looks real enough. It’s almost step-by-step. It looks like the grave field. There’s a lot of other stuff too.” “Europe, you said? What’s up with that?” “We’re trying to back-track it—some damned hacker sent it, it was rerouted all over creation before we got it. Throw on your socks and get yourself down here, Sarge. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” “I’m on my way,” Ty said, and hung up. He gave the tabby a satisfied grin. “Hold down the fort, jarhead.”

Frank sat, tired and unwilling to move until he realized the office was filling with smoke. He was staring at the mummified hand; it had fallen from the cabinet and lay on a bed of silk at Bath’s feet. He had the urge to take it and hurl it into the flames on the stairs but could not bring himself to touch it. A coughing fit propelled him to his feet. He limped to the door and saw there would be no escape that way. The fire had climbed the stairs and was eating the carpet on the landing. He decided to get out through the window since frying was his only other choice. He had trouble lifting a tall stool from the wet bar—would he ever be fit again?—and hurled it into the window. The influx of fresh air made the fire bolder. It was already at Bath’s door. Grunting and gasping from the effort, Frank climbed onto the back of a sofa and swung his legs over the sill. His feet managed to find the ledge. He took a last look at Bath’s body, insuring he truly was dead. He stuck out from between the desk and the cabinet unmoving, his arms splayed out on either side in an almost crucifixion-pose. Frank was glad to have seen him die. It didn’t bring Gwen back. But it made the grief bearable. He was three stories above the street and not up to climbing down. There were flames below him as well. There was some shrubbery— His decision was made by an explosion, in the stairwell beyond the office. It broke the glass in the door and rocked it almost off its hinges. Frank didn’t know what it was blowing up. He didn’t want to know. But he felt it though the wall— and it felt deep somehow, as if from the earth itself far below the Courthouse foundation. Frank inched out to the corner of the ledge, wanting to avoid the flaming hole created by his Blazer. He let go of the wall and jumped. He landed in the trimmed shrubs and tried to roll, arms up to protect his head, and scrambled out of the thick hedges after getting his breath. He could feel the

heat from the fire. He had to get away from it. More rumbling explosions—what the hell, had Bath been keeping an arsenal as well? It sounded like the whole building wanted to come down. He heard shattering glass and craned his neck to see the lights in the clock face blink out, the iron hands toppling inward and the licking flames appear. Frank tested his arms and legs—they all hurt but nothing was broken, at least from the fall. He forced himself to his feet and limped away, putting as much distance as possible between himself and John Bath’s fortress. The office windows exploded in gouts of flame and flying glass, hurrying him along. From what he hoped was a good distance three blocks up the street, he turned and dropped to his knees. Was that sirens he heard, far off? Funny—he was surprised Haven had any emergency professionals left to come running. He saw the side of the building collapse into the ading children’s park, exposing the flaming ruin within. The roof and clock tower fell inward next, flattening all three floors, the extra debris feeding the inferno. The three other brick facades crumpled on top of that and still the fire raged. And then—Frank wondered if this was real or he was having delusions brought on by shock from his injuries—the burning wreckage of the building itself began to sink away, as if swallowed up by the earth. Even the playground next door fell gradually from sight. He blinked, disbelieving, completely unaware of how his shoulders began to sag, the weight at last bearing down on him. His head began to bob. His vision was swimming. But he could still make out the sidewalk where the Courthouse had been, with only flames and some skeletal remains of the old building evidence that it was ever there. Most of the park, trees and playground equipment included, were gone as well, into the smoking chasm. The fire climbed ever higher, devouring what was fed to it and reaching into the cloudless night sky. He half expected a monstrous bat-winged demon to rise from the pit like the creature from the volcano in Fantasia.

He looked around. He saw Val’s old book shop, sad and lonely, with the fire reflected in the windows. He was feeling very sleepy. Was he dying? The ringing in his ears had masked the sounds of the emergency sirens. The shadows and light were pulsing in time with his slowing heartbeat. Slow. Slower. His hands and feet were going numb. Probably, it was just shock, he told himself—he would need a blanket, something to keep him warm. Shock victims could die from hypothermia. He sat on the curb and let his head droop. The drowsiness was overtaking him and he let it. If this was dying, he was okay with it. He was supremely tired of fighting. He collapsed and rolled onto his back and blinked up at the stars, pulsing ever slower. He hoped to see a light, waited, expectant, but none came. Nor did Gwen appear to greet him. Not surprising, with the life he’d led. Maybe he’d see Bath again after all. “Mister?” He heard the voice. It was very far away. The sirens were much closer. “Hey, Mister?” He blinked and realized someone was standing above him. It was that boy—the one who had confronted the werewolf with nothing but a club. “Do you see a big hole in the ground?” Frank murmured, his voice slurred. “Yeah. Hang on, help’s coming.” “S’okay. I’m fine. The girls all right?” “They’re cool.” “Cool. That’s cool.” Frank’s eyelids were drooping. It was all over. He could sleep. Something told him—just some voice inside—that Lori would even snap back from it all. Bath’s spells were broken, all of them.

Frank swallowed, looking up at the stars. “What’s your name?” he whispered, his words beginning to fail. “Cooper.” “Cooper. That’s a good name. I’m Frank.” “Hang on, Frank. There’s an ambulance coming.” Cooper Banks turned his head towards the flashing lights of a couple of EMT vehicles from Whitestone, followed by a pair of fire engines. But there was nothing of the Old Church to save. In fact the entire building looked as if it was swallowed whole by the earth. A block down the street crowds of people were collecting, some in their bathrobes, with cars pulling up behind them carrying more onlookers. One of them had tried to stop Cooper from approaching the injured man, but the boy had twisted free. He wasn’t afraid. Not much, anyway. “Cooper! Cooper!” He saw his mom. She left the others and came forward, trotting at first, then slowing to a complete stop, a hand going to her mouth as she realized the condition her son was in. Battered and shirtless, covered with grime and sweat, his forearm wrapped in a bloody t-shirt. He scanned the crowd for the Asshole. Dean was nowhere to be seen. No way would his mom be out running around this time of night with his okay. Where was he? The rubberneckers were mostly people he knew. Mostly good people too, he realized. The pretty lady deputy was not seen, or the big one, Vint. There were no Haven cops at all actually. And no Dean. Or any of his lowlife running buddies. Cooper’s brow knitted. He looked at the prostrate gunman and said, not quite joking and only afraid to hope: “You got them all—didn’t you Frank?” He looked unconscious and Coop was surprised when his eyes opened. One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. He licked his lips before speaking. “Yeah, I think so,” he itted. “I think I got them all.” He swallowed and Cooper saw a tear trickling from the corner of one eye. But he was still smiling when he added, cautioning: “But don’t tell anyone I told you. Our secret—Coop —” Frank’s eyes fluttered. There were only shadows and twinkling starlight, with the

light retreating as the darkness grew. Until at last he sighed, closed his eyes, and there was cool peaceful nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The mourners filed quietly by the coffin. There were Dayton and Trotwood cops, many regulars from the bar, a few martial arts enthusiasts from Wright-Pat, and business associates. Lori wore a simple black pantsuit, over a starched white blouse—Frank had always loved her in white open-necked shirts. Her hair was brushed behind her ears to reveal her favorite pair of diamond earrings, which he gave her when they bought their first home. Anna and Leslie each held an arm, with their husbands bringing up the rear. But Lori though bowed by her loss was a strong woman and at times it seemed she was ing her daughters, despite her recent serious ailment. Flowers filled the corners of the funeral chapel and the sweet scents hung in the air as the family paused at the coffin for their final goodbyes. The deceased was immaculate in a double-breasted black suit. The tiepin was one sent many years before by his daughter on Father’s Day. The morticians did their jobs well and Frank’s hands and face showed no signs of the injuries he’d received. He was as ruggedly handsome in death as he had been in life. Weeping, murmuring among themselves and sniffing into tissues, Lori and her girls at last said their goodbyes—Lori kissed her fingertips and ed it to the lips of the man she had so loved—and they turned to go. The final mourner waited until he was alone in the room to pay his respects. John Bath rose from the very back row and approached the coffin, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood looking down at his enemy, suppressing with effort all that he was feeling. He finally sighed and shook his head slowly from side-to-side, making a tsk-tsk-tsk sound. Unable to hide his triumph any longer, his lips ultimately spread into a cruel sneer and he leaned over the face of the deceased, hopefully to let him have a good look, if there was anything of Frank Moore still in there. He chuckled deep in his throat, the sound heard by no one but himself, at least, no one else alive. A voice though lowered drifted in from the receiving hall—Lori, saying something to one of her sons-in-law. Bath took notice and his eyes shifted. Then

his grin spread even wider and he bent for a conspiratorial whisper with the enemy who had sacrificed his own life in an attempt to destroy him. “Shhh. Be vewwy, vewwy quiet,” he breathed as gently as possible. His ears magically lengthened into lupine points, the killer smile revealed flesh-rending fangs, and he again shifted his eyes back, in the direction of Frank Moore’s loved ones, and confided: “I’m hunting wabbit.”

Frank snapped awake, bathed in a sick sweat, uttering a gasp. Eyes bulging, he searched the darkened room for something he could recognize and found nothing. He grabbed his chest with his good hand and tried to steady his breathing, not knowing where he was, but certain there was a reason for his being here. He regained his bearings about the time Becky poked her head into the room. “You okay? I heard a sound.” He was in bed, in his hospital room. He’d been here three days, most of the first twenty-four hours spent unconscious. “Frank?” The Awesome Nurse Becky was a young black chick, a complete knockout. Frank was her Number One Patient, as she enjoyed reminding him. Probably that was her strong maternal instinct coming out—Lord knows if I ever needed a mother, now would be the time, he thought. “I’m okay,” he said, his voice shaky. She waited, letting him compose himself. This was not his first nightmare. She could hear his quick nervous breathing from the door. “Get you something?” she inquired quietly. “No. I’ll calm down.” He put his head back on the pillow. His hair was soaked with sweat. “Could I get a cold washcloth?” “You bet. Be right back.” “Thanks.” His hands were shaking. He worked his right-hand fingers from beneath the plaster, warding off the stiffness. He was a mess, but he was definitely alive. “Here you go,” the nurse said, returning. She did not turn the light on—Frank’s eyes were smoke-damaged and sensitive. She pressed the cool wet cloth to his forehead and he sighed with relief, more from having someone with him than his physical discomfort. “You need something for pain?”

“No. I’m okay.” “Just call if you need anything.” “I will, thanks.” With the room to himself he washed the back of his head with the cloth, being careful around the sutures, and also with the arm-stretching. He was carrying a lot of stitches, in addition to a couple of hairline fractures and bruises and contusions too numerous to count. There was even a single bullet wound. He would not be doing any martial arts for a while. He looked out the narrow window and saw the moon going down behind the trees. It was full and bright. It terrified Frank. Cold sweats, the shakes, nightmares and sleeplessness. He believed he might be experiencing for the first time in his life Delayed Stress Syndrome. He supposed it was inevitable, even for him. But the moon—no, that of course was something else entirely.

He woke from a doze that afternoon to find Stephen at his bedside, reading the paper clumsily with his fingers still bandaged. At first he did not notice Frank was awake. He looked fine. He’d been released but visited Frank every afternoon. His bandages would come off in a few days and his hair was newly trimmed to hide the damage from his close call. “These two reporters are making Haven their life’s work,” he said. “Have you read this?” “No, but the nurses were talking.” Stephen put the paper away. “How are you?” “Not bad.”

“Well you’re a shadow of your former self. Let’s get the old Frank back, okay? Kicking ass and taking names.” He smiled. “Okay, I’ll try.” “How’s Lori?” “Much better. She’s not completely out of the woods but she’s looking good, and with a few lifestyle changes she should be okay in time. No more late-night pizzas for us.” “Talk to her yet?” “No, they haven’t given her a phone yet. Tonight or tomorrow maybe.” “Is her daughter still sore at you?” “Being in the hospital myself netted me some sympathy there. I just hope Lori understands.” “Tell her the truth,” Stephen suggested. Frank let that . He’d not told Stephen much—he was afraid the hospital might be monitoring his conversations for the police—but he didn’t think he’d ever tell him, or anyone, the whole story. Strangely, the only ones he felt he could talk to about it were dead. Val. Even Toby Vint. “So. You gonna open the bookstore up?” “Oh, definitely—if there’s still a town to open it in.” Haven was the center of a media feeding frenzy. The streets were lined with satellite trucks. The kidnapping ring as well as the brother-sister serial murder case were exposed with the discoveries at Radcliff’s house. Evidence was found there linking names of most of Haven’s senior officials. Judge Lee, the Lessners, the Mayor himself, were all dead, causes uncertain. William Bailey Painter, the attorney, was found to be the victim of a murder-suicide initiated by his wife. She left a note blaming her husband for the deaths of both their grown sons, who were among the missing. The number so far of missing citizens, many identified only by their vehicles and belongings at the lake firefight site, was 47. This did

not count several considered to be either conspirators or witnesses, among them the City Manager, the Sheriff, and two of his deputies. Toby Vint, it appeared, was a man who never existed. It was believed now that over at least thirty years two or more individuals in Haven had gone by that name, but those persons’ origins, fates, and true identities were not known. Frank kept what he knew to himself. It was all a bubbling pot now. Much like the site where the Old Church once stood. Fire department officials, as well as the FBI and ATF, were at a loss to explain the coincidence of a freakish sinkhole starting what was believed to be a gas line fire, which then ignited underground pockets of natural gas, resulting in forced evacuation of the center of town and a conflagration that was still burning after four days now. The pall of smoke hung over the community like a shroud and the Federal agencies were involved due to the noxious odors at the scene that led some to believe dangerous chemicals were being stored in the building. The Old Church, its rear parking lot and much of the ading park were burning sixty to a hundred feet underground and nothing had been retrieved from the hole. John Bath, it seemed, never made it to the charter jet waiting to fly him and two companions to Canada, and was believed dead. But every state and Federal law enforcement agency in the country was on the lookout. He was wanted for questioning. No direct evidence as yet linked him to any of the wrongdoings in Haven. This troubled Frank, but it didn’t really matter. Maybe the truth would come out, maybe not. He worried about the flaming pit. Much of the evidence that could incriminate him was in there. Hopefully it would all burn up. If not, he’d just have to take what comes. State and Federal investigators were daily visitors to his room. What had gone on in the Courthouse that night? How had Frank come by his injuries? What exactly was he doing in Haven, anyway? The really hard questions had not yet begun, but they were coming. He told as much of the truth as he dared, knowing full well that he’d left DNA evidence at Radcliff’s, and the guesthouse, and perhaps other places, too. With the advances in forensic technology he had no

illusions about his chances of getting away with the same stunts he’d pulled twenty years ago.

Doctor Randall Ocola left the interview room and shook his head at Williams, who’d been watching through the two-way glass. “Cocky little punk, isn’t he?” Ty said with a grin, indicating Cooper Banks. Inside the boy sat straight-backed with a can of soda which he resolutely ignored, head tilted and jaw set in a show of arrogance and confident superiority over those questioning him. “I have a bad feeling he’s smarter than I am,” the psychologist remarked. “I figure, he’ll either end up serving twenty-five to life, or else two as President.” “Think we’ll ever get the truth out of him?” “Maybe, but it won’t be easy. And even if you get him to trip himself up, he’ll never make a good witness. The kid has no respect for authority.” “And the papers are calling him a hero,” Williams said with a laugh. “He is. Regardless of what else happened, he saved those girls. Might make a good cop in a few years, if he doesn’t go the other way.” Ty answered that with a grunt. “And you can forget the girls. Cooper says there was no monster, and no gunman, and now they’re saying the same thing. But they definitely saw something that frightened them that night. They both show signs of emotional trauma. Beyond the fact that both their parents are missing.” Ty grunted again. The little girls didn’t change their story until after it got around that Cooper was denying all of it. Why the hell had those girls been there at that time of the morning anyway? Williams crossed his arms. Monsters. He knew something that Ocala didn’t, nor did the press; small amounts of organic remains, burned almost to carbon, were being found at the lake combat site. DNA results were still pending, but so far those bits of charred bone were defying identification as any known species.

What could they be? He said, “And Banks won’t it seeing Moore in the Courthouse. What’s up with that?” They couldn’t get anyone to identify Moore, not even the mailman who witnessed Farley’s killing. Mary, Haven’s police dispatcher, was eager to point a finger, but offered no tangible proof to back up her allegations.. Facing charges of conspiracy and obstruction, in interviews she’d repeatedly claimed that Frank Moore had killed Farley and Miller, and everyone at the Radcliff place. She wouldn’t be doing any more talking, though—she and her husband shot themselves one day after being released on bond. “He its it, it brings up the monster story. Maybe he doesn’t want people to think he’s nuts. Or he just hates answering questions. This kid’s tough, Sarge. Even he doesn’t know how much. His stepfather taught him well” “Hell, he won’t even it that,” Williams groused. “The bastard’s one of the missing, but the boy won’t say how it really was at home.” “Doesn’t matter,” Ocala said. “His mother is a poster child for domestic abuse. It’s a stroke of luck the stepfather’s gone, because a tragedy was going to happen in that family. Let’s hope he never comes back. What have you found about the kid’s real father?” “I don’t think we’ll ever locate him,” Williams itted. “I’m sure he’s dead.” When Kel Henderson’s body was found at Radcliff’s, investigators were led to the home and business of his cousin, Victor Carter, a figure well-known to law enforcement agencies throughout New England. In the junkyard behind Carter’s chop shop were automobile parts traced back to Cooper Banks’ father, who had not been heard from in four years. And that was not all. Another missing vehicle was also found—one belonging to a dead reporter. Both cases were reopened, but Williams had little hope of them being resolved. All the involved parties were either deceased or missing.

Frank eagerly awaited his medications, especially the antibiotics. He’d implored his doctors to give him rabies shots, but the physicians refused, insisting that there were no animal bites among his many injuries. Their assurances did not ease his fears.

He was in bed after downing his daily meds when there was a knock at the door and he looked up to see Special Agent DeForest, accompanied by two officialtypes, the older man an obvious cop. The other was bespectacled and immaculate, no doubt a government attorney. “You got a warrant?” Frank asked, only half-joking. The agent flashed his best smile in reply. “Whoa. Bad day?” Frank shrugged with a grimace, halfheartedly lifting his plaster-encased arm. “Hey, Frank, this is Andrew Leonards of the State’s Attorney’s Office, and this is Sergeant Ty Williams from the Detective Bureau of the State Police.” “Hello, Frank.” “How you doing, Frank.” Frank nodded at them. He tried to be unaware of the big cop’s intense once-over. The lawman was a veteran. And he was sizing Frank up the way a hawk would a mouse. Here we go, he warned himself. “Feel like answering some questions, Frank?” “Sure, Special Agent. Any time.” “Okay, then. Good to go.” The FBI man was sharp as a tack, an up-and-comer. He had the bright eyes and scrubbed cheeks of one with plenty of spirit, not yet pummeled by the blows of hard experience. But today DeForest seemed different, and Frank knew he was about to take off the gloves. He sat on the edge of Frank’s bed while his companions took chairs with Williams closest. His steely gaze never left Frank. “Okay. Let’s see,” DeForest began, consulting a notebook from his pocket. “Okay. Once again, you say you were grabbed outside of the guesthouse, blindfolded and beaten. You were driven, what, a few miles. When they removed the blindfold you were imprisoned in this padded room, like in a hospital.”

“That’s right.” “You were held for a couple of days, you say. They worked you over pretty good, this big man and the black-haired woman. They were the only two you saw.” “Right.” “But when you were blindfolded or transported, you heard other people.” “Yeah.” “They didn’t ask any questions, or say why they’d taken you.” “No.” “After a couple of days here, you were blindfolded again, taken to another location. They kept you in darkness, you were in pretty bad shape, you can’t recall all that happened. Next thing you know, you were escaping a burning building through a window. The EMTs from Whitestone found you unconscious outside the Courthouse as it burned down.” “I guess so.” “You still have no idea how the fire started, or what went on there.” “I was pretty out of it.” “All of this because you were nosing around concerning the car accident, the one where the McVies died.” “I suppose so,” Frank allowed. “You still don’t the mauling?” Sergeant Williams put in. To the emergency room personnel it was obvious that many of Frank’s injuries came from an animal attack. Frank shook his head. “I don’t recall a thing.” “Helluva thing to forget. Pretty violent.”

“I’m probably better off,” Frank agreed. Agent DeForest said, “We pretty well know who might’ve grabbed you. But none of them owned dogs.” “If you don’t , why are you trying to get rabies vaccine from the doctors?” Williams queried. They all looked at Frank as if expecting him to provide an explanation. He shrugged with his one good shoulder, and said, “I’ve been having some pretty bad nightmares, of being mauled. But I just don’t it. Sorry.” “Also,” Williams said, “the EMTs said at least some of your injuries were pretty cleaned up already. You’d been disinfected and bandaged by the time they found you.” “Can’t explain that, either,” Frank said. This was a worry. Mallory Abshire could cause him a lot of trouble. “The people holding you—you’d never seen them before.” “No.” “And they were alive and well, last you saw them.” “Alive enough to do this to me,” he said, raising his arm with the cast from shoulder to wrist.. “Frank, I’d like you to look at some pictures,” DeForest said. He took a stack of Polaroids from his pocket. “You’re not the squeamish type, are you?” “Not up till now.” “Okay. Here’s the first one.” “Could that be the room you were in?” Williams asked. “Yeah. Looks like it. It didn’t have blood all over everything when I was there, though.” The next photo was of the door to the room, with the window broken out. “Yeah,

that’s it,” Frank affirmed. “These next pictures are victims of homicide,” DeForest warned. “No. Never saw him before. Or her.” Radcliff and his housekeeper. They were on morgue slabs. Frank identified the photos of Conrad and Marabeth as the two who’d brutalized him, causing the three inquisitors to exchange meaningful glances. He had to identify the woman from the tattoos. “That’s Kel Henderson,” Frank said with the following photo. He declined to ID the last two men. “Henderson,” DeForest prompted, putting the pictures away. “He and his brother, who’s still missing, picked a fight with you in the middle of the street last week. In front of witnesses.” “I was defending myself,” Frank pointed out. “You kicked their asses,” the Agent went on with dry amusement. “Then later on they came back with their cousin, and you mopped up a parking lot with the three of them.” “Like I said—” “You were defending yourself,” Sergeant Williams finished for him. “Where did you learn to fight like that, Frank?” “I’ve done some boxing, a little karate.” “A little?” came the sarcastic response. “Can you use a gun, Frank?” the FBI agent inquired. “I have a license to carry. The cop, Warburton, took my weapon.” “Yeah, we finally located Syd Warburton, on a slab in Whitestone. We’re still trying to find out how he got there. Somebody killed him.” “Hmmm,” Frank grunted with interest.

“Any ideas where Henderson’s brother and cousin might be?” Williams asked. “Last I saw them was at that gas station.” “Okay,” Williams said, dubious and making no effort to mask it. DeForest shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “Frank, let’s cut the crap. You know, some of our jailbirds are beginning to sing. Guess what they’re singing?” Frank wondered if that was true, and if so, who had been arrested? Stephen had told him how witches supposedly had animal allies, Familiars—maybe Bath’s cult had human ones too. “What’s that?” “That you’ve been running around killing people.” The cop ed in. “Frank, we know you shot Farley. Oh by the way, we found what’s left of Miller, too—what did you do to that guy? Eat him for dinner? How did you find out what they were doing?” “Henderson was treated for a gunshot wound before his death,” DeForest explained. “It was the same artillery that killed Farley and three people at Radcliff’s. And we found bullets from that gun in the guest house.” “You shot Henderson in the ass, didn’t you, Frank?” “You guys are barking up the wrong tree,” he said. He was getting tired of this. If they had anything solid on him, he’d be under arrest. They were beefing up what little they did have with bullshit. “What went on at the lake? We have people who saw you there, and at Farley’s shooting.” Frank didn’t believe that. Once again, if he’d been identified for sure, they’d be reading him his rights. “You killed Farley. You took Miller. You shot up Radcliff’s place,” Williams said, counting off with his fingers. “The McVie house looks like the Revolutionary War was fought there,” DeForest interjected. “Did you get shot there? How long before we find

Henderson’s DNA there? Or yours?” Frank had an in-and-out bullet wound through the meaty part of his shoulder. He believed he’d caught a ricocheting bullet outside of the Old Church without realizing it at the time. He said, “I’m sure you’ll find my DNA,” to draw them out, see what more they knew: “Ask Deputy Abshire. The house was wrecked by vandals. I wasn’t even there when it happened.” The inquisitors exchanged glances again with that. So the rumors Stephen reported were true—Mallory Abshire had not talked to the police. In fact she’d not even been seen since that night. But her parents, who were friends with the Wilkes’, insisted she was fine and would tell the press only that she had left town for a vacation before any of this went down. Where was she? Sensing they were now on the defensive, he pressed forward. “And where do the people accusing me get their information? They’re not saying I’ll bet. I also bet none of them can say they saw me do anything, unless they’re lying.” Frank was also certain that none of the arrestees would drop the name of John Bath. Not ever. DeForest said, “Frank, just be straight with us. Tell the truth and we can help.” Williams seemed to relax. He put his hands across his belly and leaned back in the chair, letting the younger man take front and center. Bad Cop, Good Cop, straight from the handbook. “We can understand,” DeForest went on. “Anyone would. You somehow stumbled across what Miller was doing. Just as Gwendolyn McVie did—yeah, we know,” he said, nodding at Frank’s reaction. “The car accident is being reopened as a murder investigation. Along with the death of Valerie Newcombe, and several other iffy fatalities in the area. Didn’t know that, did you?” he asked. Frank’s eyes narrowed. They had Albanese’s evidence, it was all being followed up. But they didn’t know how much Frank knew. Trina Albanese. Frank believed anything he might’ve said in her presence would be hearsay, useless as evidence. He was no lawyer, he could be wrong. And he

had an idea she wouldn’t even mention him. But that still left Abshire. “You did what you had to do. The courts will take your reasoning into consideration. Right, Andrew?” “Of course,” the attorney chimed in, ing the interrogation for the first time. “We have address books and email records from the Courthouse. We know Leonard Rippy was in with the Jergens girl. Everybody knows you saved her,” DeForest said, a sympathetic hand reaching to touch Frank’s cast. His eyes met those of the agent’s, and then shifted to the others. “You guys need to go through my attorney next time,” he told them after making them wait for several beats. DeForest leaned back, sighing. Williams rose from his chair, a stubborn grin on his face. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets and looked down at Frank, attempting to intimidate him with his height. But after the last couple of weeks, even with the sorry shape he was now in, it took a lot more than these three to impress him. “Frank, you’re a cool customer,” the big cop said with honest appreciation. “Yes sir. You’ve never been in combat, right? There’s no military in your records.” Frank ignored the question. Some lies he did not care to dwell on, right now at least. “Hello,” Stephen said from the door.. The three men turned towards him. “What’s going on, a party? And I wasn’t invited? Everybody forgets the guy in the wheelchair, don’t they?” Agent DeForest chuckled, not quite sure whether he’d just heard a joke. He shared a look with Williams and introduced himself and his companions. “And you’re—?” “Stephen Wilkes. I’m a friend of Frank’s—” He snapped his fingers. “Now I’ve got it. Star Trek.”

The Fed and the cop glanced at each other. “Excuse me?” Williams said. “William, Leonard, DeForest. The three stars of Star Trek,” Stephen said with a measuring smile. The men looked at each other and then back to Stephen. He’d interrupted the rhythm they had going with Frank. They hadn’t exactly had him on the ropes, but at least they were making progress. Stephen stopped them cold. At that moment the day nurse entered the room and was not pleased. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there’s too many people in this room. And Frank needs to have some rest now.” Her name was Cassandra. She was short in stature, matronly in build, and absolutely immovable in demeanor. Her tone was unfailingly polite and bullet-proof all at the same time. DeForest and Leonards rose with sighs denoting unfinished business. “We’re through for now anyway,” the FBI man said. “We’ll be back,” Williams promised Frank. He did not reply. The detective lingered before following his companions into the hallway. He nodded at Stephen, grinning. “You’re a real smart ass, huh?” he inquired, and waited for a reply. Stephen just looked at him, completely unconcerned. Williams said, “Live long and prosper, Frank,” and vacated the premises. “Thanks for breaking that up,” Frank told his friend and the nurse. Cassandra just grunted. She stuck a thermometer into his mouth and took his pulse. “You were doing pretty well it looked like,” Stephen commented. “They were starting to make me sweat,” he mumbled around the thermometer. “When I came in, looked like they were the ones sweating,” Stephen said.

Cassandra rolled her eyes towards him. “I wasn’t kidding about Frank needing his rest. Make it short.”

That night there were more nightmares. Mercifully, he could little of them during waking hours. Stephen asked about them from time to time, pointedly not wanting to make an issue of them. Frank had the attitude of a Marine even after all these years— adapt to your situation and deal with it. That’s how he just accepted the incredible events of the last few days and refrained from worrying about the impossibility of it all. But he was still a human being and human beings were affected by trauma.

Early on the sixth morning he was awakened by an erection—the painful throbbing kind like he didn’t think he’d had since he was a kid in short pants. He had no idea what brought it on—maybe instead of nightmares he’d dreamt of Lori—but he was glad to see his equipment still worked. Before he could consider the implications further, Cassandra entered his room and turned the lights on with her usual reserved Good Morning. Modestly he drew a knee up under the sheet to hide his condition. It was also the day he received his first death threats. The switchboard began screening calls to his room more carefully. The previous morning his name was in the paper as the last survivor of the disaster at the Courthouse, and that authorities were questioning his involvement. He supposed the threats were from those in Haven who were survivors themselves—relatives and friends of the dead and missing. He was not concerned, at least not yet. He was certain that Bath’s remaining people, if there were any left and if they even had the time to dwell on him at all, would not be content to merely threaten—no, they’d be the ones coming after him. The media glare was intensifying with the revelation that the mass disappearances at the lake and the girls in the burial site were all part of the same unbelievable story. Geraldo Rivera took a break from covering the violence in the Middle East to produce and host the hastily-put together television special

What Happened In Haven? It and the other network news coverage gave the blameless citizens in the town an opportunity to stand up for their community and effect a bit of damage control. In the midst of representatives from state and federal agencies who flocked to Haven to help in replacing all the important public records that were lost in the Old Church fire, a select group of spokesmen were chosen by a vote of the citizenry to represent the town and defend its tarnished image in the press. These included the lone remaining member of the school board (one senior member was in jail—two others among the missing)—a local retired attorney and his wife—Mrs. Amelia Rosetta, wealthy philanthropist and matriarch of one of the town’s oldest families—Reverend Trent, from Haven’s largest Christian church —and Stephen’s father, Richard.

The abandoned vehicles at the lake, what had happened to those citizens, and the reason behind the illegal firefight operation there was the subject of much conjecture. The weapons were traced back to a white supremacist paramilitary organization whose leaders were in prison for bombing the car of a Federal judge in Texas, and the group itself was long defunct, having disbanded after the bombing in Oklahoma City. UFO aficionados had adopted Haven’s missing as their own personal crusade and were massing on the Internet with claims of conspiracy and cover-up, giving harried investigators yet another issue to deal with. John Bath, now believed to be leader of the murderous “cult”, was the object of a nationwide manhunt, for IRS violations and for questioning concerning the kidnap-murders. The documents emailed to law enforcement agencies not only revealed Leonard Rippy’s with Chris Jergens, but also names of political and corporate bigwigs with ties to John Bath. There were mass resignations and indictments expected of many implicated in the investigations, while state and federal public officials with only tenuous connections exhibited fancy footwork in order to save their own jobs and reputations. Meanwhile the managing editor responsible for bullying Mike Albanese’s wife committed suicide with FBI agents literally knocking on his office door. Frank scanned the headlines and wondered how long it would be before Bath’s connection to Elizabeth Bathory would be in the news. Investigative reporters

traced him back to Nazi where he’d worn a civilian officer’s rank with the SS for two years towards the end of the war. The Attorney General was in the process of seizing his holdings in the United States and was imploring Canada and countries in Europe to do the same. Frank was not up to pouring over the articles, but Stephen read some of the most interesting parts to him. He supposed that the public would never know the depths of John Bath’s evil, or believe it if they did. And the Courthouse pit burned still. They were talking about ways of sealing it up somehow.

He was taking an afternoon nap when there was a knock at the door. Reverend Trent, from Haven, and Father Cloughessy, from Whitestone. The two came under the guise of just checking up on him—but actually they were looking for confirmation that what they’d read in the papers was really true. Frank stuck to his story of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The two men seemed genuinely troubled but Frank was unable to help them much. They talked about of their congregations who were missing and suspected of horrible crimes, and about the children left behind without mothers or fathers. Frank could only listen. He didn’t know who else might be, loathe as he was to think that men of the cloth could have been sent to trick him into a confession. As they were leaving, Sergeant Williams appeared at the door. “Hiya, Frank,” the big cop said amicably. Frank made introductions and the two clergymen excused themselves. “One more thing,” Father Cloughessy said. “My colleague, Father Jason, asked me to give you his regards.” It took a physical effort for Frank to hide his reaction. “Father Jason?” “Yes. He had the idea you were the person he spoke to a while back—” Cloughessy’s inquiry seemed perfectly innocent—or else one hell of an acting

job. Frank could sense Williams focusing on this exchange. “I don’t think so. But thank him for his thought, anyway.” Now Cloughessy did look perplexed. “Oh—well. Wrong fellow, then. Take care, Frank.” “Hope you’re out of here soon,” Trent added. “Nice meeting you, Sergeant.” “Yeah, you too.” Williams waited until the two men were gone before standing at the foot of the bed, his hands in his pockets, his mouth touched with that cocksure grin. “Should I call my mouthpiece?” The cop chuckled. “Naw, not on my . Unless you want to confess.” “Not interested,” Frank said with a grim smile. “You’re off the hook, Frank. At least for now.” “Really? Why is that?” he replied, trying not to seem suspicious. “Well it seems you have friends in high places. Or at least, friends who have friends in high places.” “Oh? I can’t think of who you might be talking about.” “It’s not important. I just wanted to let you know. I guess you’re out of here in a few days?” “Hopefully, yeah. So I won’t be seeing you again?” “No, unless we find something that can’t be swept under the rug. Do you think anything like that might turn up?” The cop seemed to hang on his own question. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, hoping. “Frank, if I were you, I’d never come to New England again. Not ever.”

He considered that sage advice. “I don’t intend to.” “Well, I’ll be running along. Keep your head down, Frank. Oh, by the way—” “Yeah?” Frank replied, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Williams turned back at the door. “Danny Cox says hello. He’s a buddy of mine from way back.” Frank took that in. Not knowing how to respond, he said nothing. “It’s a small world,” Williams said, “isn’t it?” Frank nodded, again hiding his surprise. “Semper Fi, Frank,” the cop said and was gone.

Frank mentioned the detective’s news to Stephen casually, just in case anyone was listening in. After the cop left, Frank sat thinking about Father Jason, and about Saint Justine. He still had the charm—it was in the desk drawer with some of his other personal items. He’d never been a spiritual man. But the events in Haven had him thinking, he couldn’t help it. About God and the Devil, Good and Evil. And where he fit in. Anyone else might consider it all a life-changing experience. If there was a force of evil in the universe—and the presence of John Bath seemed to indicate that was the case—then how could there not be a force for good? Monsters, demons, sorcery—the Marine in Frank enabled him to face all these mind-boggling events as just threats to be overcome and kept him from being swept away by the implications of it all. And there was the fact that he was left uninjured after Bath spit that roaring flame into his face. What was the explanation for that?

He read in the paper that an organization called The Center For The Protection of Children was dividing a hefty reward between the widows of Mike Albanese and his editor, Mel Spritzer. He had to smile, ing Trina Albanese and her little Karen. Mike and his boss were as responsible as anyone for putting an end to all this. They’d sacrificed their lives doing it. Just as Gwen had. He phoned his lawyer in Dayton and asked him to take all that was left in his emergency bank s and distribute it to every charity he could find, with special emphasis on battered women’s shelters and children’s aid organizations. He wanted that blood money gone. The attorney had an idea of his own. A portion of the sum he’d sent to Victims of Haven, a fund set up to help the town’s other survivors, the devastated families and children left behind by the missing conspirators.

“Tell me again,” Frank said on one of his more gloomy days. This was a frequent request and Stephen adjusted the wheelchair to face him. “She was tall, slender, in a bright dress. Her hair was black. I didn’t get a clear look at her face, but my impression was that she was beautiful.” As always Frank listened with his gaze far away. Stephen continued without having to be asked. “She saved my life. She did everything in her power to get me out of that room, and finally I believe she knocked me on my ass, and it saved me. Check it out.” Frank looked and Stephen rolled up a sleeve to expose a beefy bicep, and the almost-faded bruise reaching up to his shoulder. “The evidence. She hit me hard. Good thing, too.” “It looked like her.” “Like her picture in the paper. I would swear it was.” “You smelled strawberries.”

“Yeah. You okay, Frank?” Frank rubbed his moist eyes. Gwen was in the news a lot now. Young schoolteacher and her husband, taking up the cause of the murdered reporter—it had Mom and Apple Pie all over it. No one had discovered Frank’s connection to her. But Stephen figured it out on his own. “She came to you. I wonder why she never let me see her?” “I don’t know,” Stephen said, shrugging, thoughtful. “Maybe because you never needed her.” This caused Frank to close his eyes against the pain. Stephen did not believe in ghosts, even after everything he’d seen. He preferred to say that a person’s mind after he or she ed could leave some sort of energy behind, mental or electrical or whatever. In extreme situations maybe this energy could affect the physical world. Frank did not know what to think on this subject. He was feeling an urge to talk to Marie. Maybe she’d seen Gwen, maybe she could tell Frank something to make him feel better. But he would not her. That was in the past now, and there were no more connections between them. Better to let things go. After Frank had a few days recuperation Tibbets called. The man seemed at a loss for words. He said Marie was much better and asked about Frank’s condition. He ended the call with an uncomfortable but earnest “Thanks.” He’d finally talked to Lori on the phone. He was greatly relieved that she held nothing against him for his failure to come home during her crisis. Her voice was weak, but she seemed completely self-assured as she made him promise to get back as soon as possible, telling him she loved him and she needed him now more than ever. After ending the call he sat wiping tears from his eyes. So he should be feeling better. “You going to be okay, Frank?” He looked down at his cast, signed by most of the nurses on the floor. Becky was

not the only one taking a maternal interest in their quiet out-of-towner. “I don’t know,” he itted. He met his friend’s eyes and said, “Something’s different inside, Stephen. I guess I’ll snap back. I just don’t know.” “The way you look at the world, that’s what’s different,” Stephen said. “It’s the same with me. It warps your reality. Makes you have to readjust. But I’m doing it and so will you.” “I keep thinking of that werewolf movie, where the guy had those gory dreams —” “That was only a movie. And that guy was bitten.” “Yeah, I know. It just stays on my mind.” But the nightmares were not coming as often, at least. And he was beginning to sleep a little better. A deliveryman knocked on the door. “Hi. The nurse said it was okay to bring this in.” “Sure,” Frank said. There was a vase of flowers for the room and a card. Frank had the man place it in the window with the others. “You’re popular back home,” Stephen remarked. “From a couple of guys at the bar,” Frank said reading the card, smiling. The deliveryman ed an envelope to Frank. “She said you could have this, too.” “Thanks.” “So what’s your first move when you get out of here?” Stephen asked. “Home to sleep for a week. I want to get to Georgia as soon as I’m on my feet, though.” The card was opened—the hospital staff was going through his mail for death threats. “How’s the Awesome Nurse Becky?” “Okay.”

“You telling her what a nice guy I am?” “Definitely. Would you believe she likes comic books?” Stephen sat up. “You’re pulling my leg now.” Frank snorted. “I’m serious.” Smiling he took the card from the envelope. It was a simple Get Well card, with flowers and glitter on its face. He opened it and read the script: A Get Well Wish For You. Hope You’re Back In The Pink Soon! “I’ll have to come in later tonight, tell her hello,” Stephen remarked. Frank grunted. He turned to the back inside of the card to read this handwritten message: No hard feelings. All my regards, T.V. Stephen realized something had happened. “You okay?” Frank looked at him, unable to speak at first. “What? You’re white as a sheet.” Frank had never felt such conflicting emotions. Excitement that made his pulse quicken, and a dread that drained the color from his cheeks, all at once. He swallowed and said, “It’s Toby Vint. He’s alive.” My thanks to Thomas Eagle and to Paul Ballard for their invaluable input as regards matters of the law and computers in the writing of this novel. Any errors are solely my own.

My thanks to them as well as Beverly, Carol, Corwin, Evan, Amie, Angelo and Gary for their encouragement and opinions. They were all the first to read and encourage me.

And finally thanks to the countless authors, writers, filmmakers and artists who have so entertained and influenced me. Many of you are referenced throughout this story, and for very good reason.