part0008

“I just don’t figure Brian Mason to be the kind to kill himself.” Doug Conroy led the way through the forest underbrush, and Brent followed a couple of paces behind.

“People do things for all kinds of reasons that only make sense to themselves,” Brent replied.

“There’s something weird about this, Brent. I wouldn’t have dragged your ass out here if I thought this was just business as usual.”

Doug left the Pittsburgh police force about the same time Brent left to start his PI business. He and his wife, Cheryl, used to be neighbors to Brent’s family down in Columbia, SC, where Doug had been a cop before moving north for a promotion. He’d been on the scene the night Brent’s family had been murdered and done his best in the aftermath to hunt the one responsible. It had been Doug’s recommendation that got Brent the job in Pittsburgh, and they remained friends and fishing buddies, despite the difference in their ages. Now, he served as the Cooper City chief of police, which also covered the little hamlet of Merrick’s Corners.

“I’m guessing all the easy stuff got ruled out? Debts, drugs, looming scandal?”

Doug snorted. “Brian wasn’t an angel, but there was nothing shady about him.”

“How about mental health issues?” Brent pressed. “Depression? Anxiety?”

“No more than anyone else. But the thing that gets me is, how come we’ve had five suicides from a town the size of Merrick’s Corners, in the last four months, and all of them out in the same stretch of woods?”

Brent frowned. “Any link between the victims?”

Doug shouldered through the underbrush, which scratched against the sturdy tan canvas of his field jacket. “None anyone’s turned up, other than just knowing each other from around town. Not related, didn’t go to the same church, didn’t even bowl in the same league. Not the same age. Hell, they weren’t even poker buddies, and they didn’t all drink at the same bars.”

“Had any banks go belly-up lately? Bad investments?”

Doug shook his head. He still had a full head of hair, though it was steel gray now, instead of the silver-flecked brown that Brent remembered from his time on the force. “Nope. I do recall how to be a cop, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Brent replied, respect hidden by a layer of sass.

“None of that. I need your help, Brent. I don’t think that these deaths are normal .” The emphasis he put on the last word left no doubt in Brent’s mind as to what his old friend really meant.

He fought down a shiver. “What’s so special about this stretch of woods?” Brent looked at the land around them. The trees were large, probably fifty to a hundred years old, he’d guess, although not much beyond that. As he studied the contours of the ground, he saw remnants of a road. Elsewhere, he spotted what remained of the foundation for a building, and an overgrown section of stone fence.

“That’s what’s left of Peale.” Doug pointed to a clearing ahead. “Mining town, back about a hundred years ago. Built up out of nowhere when the mines around here opened, got bigger than Cooper City in just a year, and then dried up when the coal seams tapped out. Some folks stayed on into the early 1900s, but there weren’t jobs, and so when they died, so did the town.”

Curious, Brent followed Doug through the woods to see for himself. Time had taken a toll. If he had expected a ghost town like in the movies, full of rickety wooden buildings, he would have been disappointed. Depressions in the ground and the growth patterns of the grass and scrub bushes suggested where houses and stores once stood. Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, and chalked it up to his imagination.

“Anything unusual about the bodies when you found them?” he asked.

“Three were gunshot wounds,” Doug replied. “Two intentional overdoses of prescription medications plus alcohol. One man slit his wrists with his hunting knife.” He walked a few paces farther down what had long ago been Peale’s main street. “Found Peter Jessup over there,” he said, pointing to the left. “Neil Ellison by those stones,” he indicated. “And the other three were all between here and the old mine entrance.”

“You think maybe someone’s cooking meth in the mine?” Brent and Doug walked toward the old archway on the other side of town that had once been an entrance to the Lucky Pines coal mine. Rusted railway lines led away from the mine toward the tumble-down remains of the tipple and breakers, and then on to the horizon. No trains had run on those rails for a century, but pulling them up wasn’t worth it, and so the trains and the miners moved on.

“Doubtful,” Doug said. “We checked the entrances around Peale first thing, thinking drugs or vagrants. They were locked up tight, and when we did go in, we didn’t see any evidence that people had been inside since they closed.” He looked away, and Brent thought he saw a shudder run through the older man. “Although—”

Doug shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “If there’s anyone who’d understand, it would be you, I guess. Something about this whole area—and especially the mines—gives me the creeps. I’m not an imaginative man. I don’t get the willies walking around in the dark. But lately…”

“I don’t think that what’s been going on lately is normal, in any sense of the word,” Brent replied. “Do you happen to know if people are talking about seeing ghosts? What’s the local gossip?”

Brent and Doug waded through thigh-high weeds as they walked along the old railroad tracks. “I’d have to ask Cheryl what she’s heard. Most people watch their mouths a bit around me, except for down at Hanson’s Pub. The boys down there haven’t mentioned ghosts per se, but I did notice from what they’ve been saying that they don’t seem to be wandering as far afield scoping out hunting spots or rambling in the woods. That’s new.”

Brent nodded. “I’d be interested to see what the ladies are saying. Are there any places around here that are supposed to be haunted?”

“Well, all of Peale,” Doug said, taking in the abandoned town with a sweep of his arm. “In Cooper City, there are a couple of old houses that people tell tales about, and the old feed store, if you can believe it.” At Brent’s side eye, Doug chuckled. “There’s a story about an unlucky guy named George who was standing in the wrong place when a pallet of bagged fertilizer fell. Helluva way to die.”

Doug wheezed with laughter but held up a hand as if to solemnly swear. “I shit you not,” he said, and then doubled over at his own joke.

“Funny,” Brent replied, rolling his eyes. “How about the cemeteries? Or the railroad tracks closer to town? Maybe a crossroad that’s had more than its share of bad accidents?”

Doug wiped his eyes, then grew serious. “I’ll put Cheryl on the case. Get my granddaughter, Cici, to see what the teenagers say. Wouldn’t do for me to go asking about ghosts, but they can do pretty much any damn thing they please.”

“I’d be obliged,” Brent replied. “Because I think you’re right. There’s something going on here, and I don’t think it’s just a run of bad luck. I hope with all my heart that we’re wrong and that it’s not really my kind of thing.” Even as he spoke the words, Brent felt sure his intuition was on point.

“You’ll have your own chance to ask Cheryl tonight at dinner,” Doug said, jolting Brent out of his thoughts. “When she heard you were coming to town, she insisted on feeding you. And of course, you’re welcome to stay at our house. It’s not fancy, but we have a guest bedroom.”

Brent grinned. “Dinner sounds fantastic, and I’ll take you up on a hot shower. As for staying the night…I was thinking of coming back here with the truck and sitting up to see what I see.”

Doug nodded. “You always were a ballsy bastard. Just make sure you have a charged and working phone with you, and extra flashlight batteries. I don’t want any of this movie-of-the-week preventable danger stuff.”

“I’m all about preventing danger,” Brent replied. “And I might end up with nothing to show from it except a crick in my neck. But since I’m here…”

“Yeah. I get it. And I sort of figured you would. But if you change your mind in the wee hours, c’mon back.”

They walked back to Doug’s truck, but Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that something was aware of their presence and watching as they left. When he came back tonight, he intended to bring all the tools of his trade, and see whether he could find out what really lay behind Peale’s run of bad luck.

Doug and Cheryl lived in a comfortable split-level house that, despite dating from the 1960s, was one of the newer homes in Merrick’s Corners. Most of the houses dated from before the Second World War, and the stretch of red brick shopfronts downtown boasted cornerstones or keystones from the turn of the past century.

A skeptical pug sniffed Brent’s boots when they entered, then padded off toward the kitchen. Cheryl emerged as the men hung up their coats on hooks near the door.

“Brent Lawson! You’re a sight for sore eyes. I can’t believe how much you look like your daddy!” Cheryl threw her arms open, and Brent accepted an embrace that managed to be fierce and pillowy at the same time. If he blinked a few extra times at the mention of his late father, Cheryl couldn’t see.

“Go get cleaned up,” she ordered, after giving them both a once-over to assure neither had managed to get hurt on their outing. “I’m just taking dinner out of the oven. Be quick about it—you don’t want the roast to get cold.” Doug waved Brent toward the downstairs bathroom, while he went to wash in the laundry room.

When Brent returned, Cheryl was bringing out stoneware bowls of steaming mashed potatoes and corn to go with a delectable roast on a platter in the center. The furnishings were a combination of styles and periods, a mix of pieces acquired early in the Conroy’s marriage and those that came via inheritance or estate sales. The result was homey and comfortable, and so much like the house Brent had grown up in that he had to clear his throat to get rid of a sudden lump.

“I put water out for the meal, but there’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing to go with the pie I baked,” Cheryl said. She left her apron in the kitchen, revealing a t-shirt that read “too many books, too little time” over blue jeans and fancifully colored wool socks.

They took their seats, and Brent bowed his head while Doug gave thanks, although he had stopped praying that night, long ago, when everything had gone to hell. Chit-chat waited until they had passed all of the serving dishes. Brent ladled the gravy over his roast and potatoes and drew in a deep breath, savoring the aroma of a real, home-cooked meal.

Conversation started out light, with the weather, sports, and movie blockbusters, as well as Cheryl providing Brent with a quick update on people he might remember from back in Columbia. Doug turned the topic to the deaths out in Peale, and Cheryl shook her head.

“Funny you ask about ghosts.” She added another small piece of roast to her plate. “Sandy, down at the salon, was just saying that her friend who works over at the Happy Endings Tavern—the one in the old Moser Inn building? Anyhow, there’ve been stories for years about that place. Supposed to have been a duel there back in Revolutionary War times, then it was a stop on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War, and then back when it was a Prohibition speakeasy, there was a shoot-out between bootleggers and the Feds,” Cheryl told them with a grin that said she enjoyed telling the tales.

“Well, Sandy’s friend has had stories from time to time about weird things happening—cold spots, doors that open by themselves, bottles and things that move around by themselves or go missing and turn up somewhere strange. Apparently, that’s been happening a lot lately. But when I was down there getting my hair cut, Sandy was saying that her friend Ginny actually saw a couple of the ghosts. One of them was a woman in an apron in the pantry, and the other was a young man in a uniform with a bandaged shoulder. Almost scared her badly enough to quit, but I guess she decided she needed the money, so she stayed on.”

“About when did Ginny say things got more active?” Brent wiped his mouth on a napkin. He reached for a warm roll and butter, resolved to enjoy the feast.

Cheryl thought for a moment. “Sandy’s had something new to tell me each time I’ve gone in for the last three months or so,” she said. “And that got the other women talking. Now mind, some of this might just be people who don’t want to get left out of the conversation, making up nonsense, but it seemed like everyone’s had a story lately about seeing something strange at night on the road, or getting a glimpse of a weird creature out in the woods, or some such. I guess George down at the feed store scared a couple of truckers silly by popping up behind them and then disappearing.”

“Are the ghosts just making themselves visible more often, or are they acting out?” Brent took a sip of his water. “Throwing or breaking things, pushing people, playing pranks?”

Cheryl nodded. “Seems I might have heard that, although I didn’t pay a lot of attention. Sandy could tell you better, or Maryanne over at the diner. Not much gets by them.”

Brent was so busy thinking about how to approach the two women for their stories, he wasn’t prepared for Cheryl’s next question. “You been down to Columbia lately?”

Brent caught his breath, then spoke when Doug frowned and looked like he might jump in. “No, not in a while. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I still think people look at me funny when I go back, so I guess the old rumors haven’t died yet.”

Cheryl grimaced. “I’m sorry, honey. People can be ignorant. And I guess now that your aunt and uncle moved to Florida, you don’t have any ties there.”

“Not really,” Brent admitted. “I was glad to get out of town after everything happened, so I left right after the funerals and stayed up at the hunting cabin the rest of that summer until I went to Basic Training. Aunt Mellie and Uncle Ted handled all the estate stuff since I was barely eighteen. By the time I came back from Basic, all that was left was a bank account.”

Senior year, Brent and his twin brother, Danny, had been the stars of the high school football team, with college scouts taking notice. That summer, the brothers were supposed to go to training camp together before going to play for the Georgia Bulldogs in the fall on football scholarships.

Then Danny got mono and had to drop out of camp. Brent wanted to skip because it didn’t feel right going without his brother, but Danny made Brent go anyhow. While Brent was at camp, someone brutally murdered his family, then set fire to the house. The news speculated about a serial killer, but local gossip turned darker, with rumors about some supernatural involvement, maybe even demons.

Doug had been on the Columbia police force back then and had done his best to shield Brent, but some of the other cops made it clear they wondered whether drugs, gambling, or some other criminal activity played a role. Even when Brent was cleared, and the tragedy declared the work of a possible serial killer, the gossip followed him, as did the odd glances from people around town. Even his aunt and uncle seemed to look at him differently.

That had been the first time demons had touched Brent’s life, but it wouldn’t be the last.

“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood. I should stop to think before I talk sometimes.”

“That’s all right,” Brent assured her. “It’s been a long time.” Thirteen years, a couple of tours of duty and a new city wasn’t enough to rid him of the dreams or keep his chest from tightening every time he saw a fire engine streak past. And it certainly hadn’t stopped Danny’s ghost from visiting him over the years, waking or sleeping.

Doug steered the conversation back to Steeler and Nittany Lion football, and Cheryl went to redeem herself by serving the pie and ice cream. Brent hoped he faked recovering a good mood, and the excellent dessert meant the night ended on a pleasant note.

“I hope you don’t mind if I drop by for a shower in the morning,” Brent said as he got ready to leave. “With luck, it will be a very boring night, but I’d like to clean up before I get on the road.”

“Doug and I are up at six-thirty,” Cheryl assured him with a pat on his arm. “So any time after that is fine. Plan on breakfast. I’ll make waffles and bacon.” Her voice made it clear the invitation was really a summons, and Brent gave in gracefully. Cheryl also insisted on packing him a roast beef sandwich, a bag of chips, another piece of pie, and a Thermos of coffee for his vigil in case he got hungry during the night. Only after he assured her that he had several heavy blankets in the truck and he’d be warm enough on his stakeout did he manage to escape, much to Doug’s amusement.

Cheryl’s mothering made Brent feel cared for and sad at the same time. His own parents would have been about Doug and Cheryl’s age. It had been so long since Brent had been mothered that he forgot how much he still craved it, even at thirty-three.

His whole life had changed in one night. Football wasn’t the same without Danny to share it with, and the thought of going to college without him was unbearable. Brent had gone into the Army to get away, jumping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. He’d eventually earned his degree online, in a program for veterans, and that and his combat and Special Ops experience got him the job at the FBI. But the demons kept showing up, first in Iraq, then on a job for the Bureau, and then with the Pittsburgh PD. That got the attention of other, less welcome organizations.

Which was how he ended up as an ex-cop private eye, staking out a ghost town with a shotgun full of rock salt and cold iron.

Brent drove his pickup carefully on the overgrown road that he and Doug had followed earlier that day. The sign “closed to traffic ” seemed redundant, since no one would mistake the barely visible trail for a viable thoroughfare. That didn’t stop him. He’d made some modifications to his vehicle and his arsenal over the years since he’d begun fighting monsters and demons, just for situations like this.

Branches slapped against the windows and rear-view mirrors. The truck powered through tall weeds and scrub that scratched against the undercarriage. It might have been quieter to just hike in, but if any of the range of creatures he had considered were behind the spike in suicides, Brent didn’t want to face them without options.

By nine-thirty, Brent had his truck positioned so that the lights would catch both the mine entrance and much of the town ruins, if he turned them on. He got out and liberally scattered a mix made of salt and iron filings in a circle around the truck, and for good measure uncoiled a rope that had been soaked in holy water, aconite, and colloidal silver and laid it out at the edge of the salt circle. Then he climbed up into the bed of his truck with his weapons bag and waited.

An hour later, Brent heard rustling in the darkness. He adjusted his night vision goggles and readied his shotgun. He had a Glock with silver rounds tucked into his waistband at the small of his back, and a Beretta with steel hollow-point bullets in his shoulder holster. A variety of knives in sheaths all over his body gave him options. All he needed was a clear shot.

A man stumbled from the underbrush, with a whiskey bottle clutched in one hand and a revolver in the other.

Brent shifted to high alert. If the poor wretch with the empty bottle of hooch had been lured to this godforsaken spot, then whatever desired his death must also be nearby.

His left hand went out of habit to the silver medallion he wore with his dog tags, a St. Michael medal that he trusted more for the silver than the saint. The night goggles cast the ghost town in eerie shades of green. Brent didn’t rely on thermal imaging to alert him to anything lurking in the forest; many of the creatures he hunted lacked a heartbeat or warm blood. Then he saw it; a slight movement in the tall grass that didn’t match the wind, the signature of a predator closing in on its prey.

The man leaned back to take the last dregs from his bottle, then threw the empty container away with a curse. It shattered against a tree, breaking the silence. The drunk stopped and planted his feet, face upturned to the night sky. In the moonlight, Brent could just make out the man’s features: average height, slim build, light hair, no beard, probably early thirties. Grief and despair etched the man’s features, making him look haggard.

“After everything, you’ve got nothing to say to me?” he challenged the heavens. “Everything I did…followed the rules…tried to do it right…and for what?” he shouted. “What the fuck was all that for? Huh? Answer me, you goddamned cheat.” His voice hitched, and he sobbed openly.

“Buncha lies, that’s what it was. All of it. Sucker’s bet—and I’m the sucker. Just one…damned…thing after another, and I’m done.”

He turned in one direction and then another, as if unsure where the target of his ire might be. “You hear that? I’m fuckin’ done!” He waved a pistol at the night as if to make his point.

The man’s words tore at Brent, too similar to his own thoughts on many a night. He hadn’t counted on having a would-be suicide show up, and it complicated his mission. But Brent couldn’t let the man die.

“Shit,” he muttered, knowing he was about to do something stupid. Brent triangulated the distance between the truck, the suicidal man, and the unseen predator. He still had no idea whether the creature in the tall grass meant to attack, or had come to enjoy the show. Even if the cryptid did not intend to do the killing itself, Brent knew there was no assurance it wasn’t equipped to kill.

Brent eased down from the truck bed, weighing his options. He disliked all of his choices. He left the shotgun behind, pulled his Glock, and ripped off his night goggles, dropping them into the truck bed. Then he clicked his remote, and the truck’s high beams flared to life, blindingly bright, behind him.

Brent leaped over the protective barrier of salt and iron, running full out. He closed the distance between himself and the newcomer, landing a right cross before the man saw him coming, then caught the stranger as he sagged toward the ground. Glad that the man was not hefty, Brent slung him over his shoulder and ran back, jumping into the unbroken circle again and depositing his unconscious companion in the bed of the truck. In another minute, he cuffed the man’s wrists and ankles to keep him from getting away or getting in the way and wrapped a strip of cloth over his eyes to avoid future complications. Then Brent rested his hands on his hips and looked around the desolate area, wondering where the predator had gone.

There . He spotted movement in the high grass. Was the creature nocturnal? Brent hadn’t thought to ask if the suicides shared a time of day. The bright lights had taken the stalker by surprise, perhaps even temporarily blinding it, but that advantage probably wouldn’t last for long.

Only then did analysis catch up with adrenaline. For the seconds Brent ventured beyond the salt-and-iron circle, his mood had plummeted as dread and hopelessness washed over him, threatening to pull him into the undertow. Training and experience forced all other thoughts aside, keeping him focused on saving the stranger. Now, the dark thoughts and self-loathing made him gasp for air and nearly doubled him over.

And yet…the painful thoughts felt muted, almost second hand as if Brent were somehow replaying someone else’s mental collapse. He forced his emotions down and retreated into the cold logic that so often had saved his life and the lives of his soldiers. Quick triage assured him he was not injured. Yet the assault on his thoughts and feelings had been sudden, overwhelming, and nearly incapacitating.

Maybe the men who killed themselves had help , he thought. Maybe something lured them here, preying on their vulnerability, exploiting their loss and grief, cranking up the pain. But why? The dead men weren’t ripped apart or gnawed on. It didn’t use the psychic attack to trap them. Then what was the point? He stilled as realization dawned.

And with all his unresolved grief and the guilt and blame he could not shake loose, Brent had practically served himself up as a feast.

Brent walked the perimeter of his safe zone, Glock in one hand, silver-edged Ka-Bar in the other. “Come out, come out,” he called softly. “I know you’re there.”

Standing in the silence of the night, Brent realized that the utter stillness was unnatural. No owls hooted, no forest creatures scrabbled through the dry leaves and branches. He knew from night maneuvers that the only time nature fell silent was when apex predators hunted.

Instinct told Brent that the creature would not approach from the front and brave the blinding lights. He moved through the high beams, averting and closing his eyes for a few seconds to avoid compromising his night vision, using the glare as a way to force his quarry to lose track of him. Brent dropped to the ground and belly crawled beneath the truck from front to back, emerging at the rear.

The stranger lay bound in the truck bed, quiet and motionless. As Brent started to crawl beneath the tailgate, he saw movement beyond the protective barrier and drew back. Instead, he rolled out from under the right side, hunched beside the wheel well and eased forward, peering into the darkness, where the headlights did not dispel the shadows.

The night had grown cold, and Brent wondered if the ghosts of Peale roused at the intrusion. Before he could think much about it, a pallid creature with a nightmare face hurled itself at the bed of the truck—and bounced back, repelled by the protective barrier.

Brent took the shot as the being stumbled, firing a silver round and striking the predator where its heart should have been. Black blood gushed from the wound, and the thing gave an ear-splitting howl that nearly deafened Brent even as it raised a primal dread deep within.

“Fuck that shit,” Brent muttered, firing two more rounds. The force of the shots staggered the creature, but it stared at Brent with silver eyes set in a corpse-pale, elongated face, still standing after close-range hits that would have killed any mortal. Brent shot again, this time a kneecap, and the monster fell, screaming, then pushed off with its good leg and landed just short of the salt line, scrabbling with its clawed hands in the dirt.

Trying to break the warded circle.

This time, Brent fired down on the monster’s skull, a shot that entered at the crown of the head and took off the back of the skull, spattering gobbets of black ichor and goo. The body shuddered, then went still. Brent didn’t intend to take any chances. He emptied the rest of his clip into the creature, then dropped his gun and drew a machete from the sheath on his belt.

The monster lay just a step beyond the barrier. Gory exit wounds from skull to pelvis showed where Brent’s shots had hit true. Still, he had no idea whether the thing could regenerate, or whether it could actually die, no matter how badly wounded. Only two ways to be certain: lop off the head and burn the son of a bitch to ash.

Swallowing fear, Brent took a two-handed grip on the machete and stepped across the protective line.

The creature lurched up, its eyes wide and maw open, pallid face streaked with black blood. One inhumanly strong hand locked around Brent’s ankle so tight he expected to hear bones crunch. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he put all his strength into the downward swing of his blade. It bit into flesh and bone, parting the vertebrae, hesitating on the sinew and corded muscles before sliding through soft tissue and cartilage. The blade came free suddenly enough that Brent took a step forward to keep his balance, and the severed head dropped to one side. The rest of the monster’s body went slack, and the hand released his ankle, though Brent felt certain he would have deep bruises in the morning.

While the fury of the fight still animated him, before he had time to think or feel, Brent grabbed a can of lighter fluid and a pack of matches from his gear bag in the bed of the truck, as well as more of the salt-iron mixture. He gingerly toed the head over to be face-up and snapped a photo with his phone to research later. Then he doused the body, covered it in a thick dusting of iron and salt, and lit it up.

Only then did the horror of the night fully hit him. Brent’s hands shook as he replaced the equipment and supplies in his bag, and he leaned heavily against the tailgate, as his guts debated bringing back supper. He tasted bile but choked back the urge to puke.

A backward glance revealed bright flames and a plume of smoke.

Doug was on his side, but Brent didn’t want to try to explain what was going on should other cops come to investigate the fire. Bitter experience had taught him that too many cops arrested first and asked questions later.

Brent coiled the perimeter rope and tossed it into the bed of the truck. He eyed the cuffed man in the back, who had just started to groan. With a muttered apology, Brent dragged the stranger out of the truck bed, chucked him into the back seat of the cab, and pushed the pickup to its off-road limits to reach the main road before first responders boxed him in.

If Doug hadn’t brought him in on the situation, and he didn’t have an unwilling passenger in the back, Brent would have hightailed it back to Pittsburgh. He might not be covered in blood spatter, but he was sure to have residue on his hands from firing his gun, and he didn’t want to explain the reasons to the local cops. Still, he needed to offload his new “friend” and fill Doug in on what had happened. Instead of driving back to the house, Brent headed for the tumbledown barn of an abandoned farm he had passed on the way into town.

Doug answered on the first ring and promised to come meet him alone and unofficially. “Jesus, Brent. You don’t do things by halves,” he said.

“Yeah, well. Half measures get you fuckin’ killed,” Brent replied. “See you in ten.”

Brent drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as his right leg jiggled nervously, waiting for Doug to arrive. By the time the police chief pulled in, Brent’s prisoner was stirring. Brent ignored the cuffed man for the moment and stepped out of the truck.

“I think I’ve solved the Peale problem, at least until word gets around and another asshole drifts in to take over,” he said, holding out the picture on his phone as Doug walked forward.

“What the hell is that?” Doug asked, recoiling.

“I’m not sure what it’s called. Gonna send this to a buddy of mine to find out,” Brent replied. “But I know what it does. It’s a psi-vamp. Feeds off emotions and intensifies them—right up until the poor son of a bitch dies.”

A thud from inside of the truck drew both men’s attention. “Speaking of sons of bitches—I picked up a passenger,” Brent added. “Kept him from offing himself. He’s probably not going to be happy with me, and I’d rather not get arrested for saving his ass.”

“Works for me,” Doug said. “How about I stay quiet, and you dump him here in the barn, then head out of here. I’ll wait a bit, then come ‘save’ him. Can he identify you?”

Brent gave Doug a look. “Do I look stupid? No. But I don’t think the psi-vamp put the idea of suicide in the guy’s head, so he needs help, or he’ll probably try again on his own.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Doug promised. “Thanks for helping.”

Brent clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Any time. Let me know if other weirdness pops up—or you hear anything about that black truck. And thank you for dinner. I’ll catch a shower elsewhere. I want to get going.” He jerked his head to tell Doug to get out of sight, then went to open the back of the cab, expecting his prisoner to lash out.

His unwilling passenger’s hangover made him clumsy, and while the kick he attempted might have worked under other circumstances, all it did was send him careening out of the truck and onto the barn’s dirt floor.

Brent dropped his voice to a gravelly rasp. “Listen up, asshole. I saved your life. So you’re gonna sit right here, nice and quiet, and wait for rescue. And if you try to kill yourself again, I’ll know, and I’ll come back and thrash you. Got that?”

“Who are you?” The blindfolded man’s voice was thin, frightened.

Brent walked away with a shit-eating grin, climbed into his truck, and drove away. He pulled into a truck stop once he was back on I-80, and sent the photo via an encrypted network to his friend and researcher, Simon Kincaide.

“Nice beauty shot. You clean up well ,” Simon responded.

“Got a few ideas, but I’m not positive. Let me look into it and get back to you.”

“Thanks. And I really want to know if they hunt solitary or in packs .”

Brent grabbed a clean change of clothes from his go-bag, got a shower, and then ambled into the restaurant, finding a seat where he could eavesdrop on nearby conversations. He ordered a bacon and cheese omelet, then sat back in his chair, nursing his coffee and trying not to think about the fact that he’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours.

“…damn black truck again.” The comment caught Brent’s attention, but he made sure he did not look in the direction of the speaker.

“…heard she had car trouble. Called for a tow truck. But by the time they got there, she was gone.”

“…ought to look at that guy who’s been sniffing around, asking questions. You want my opinion? He’s probably the one behind all this.”

Brent’s server delivered his breakfast just then, and the people at the other table rose to leave. As the waitress refilled his coffee, Brent glanced up. “I heard those guys talking. Did something happen?”

The dark-haired woman might have been old enough to be his mother. She looked as tired as he felt. “Another girl’s gone missing, out by Dubois. Ya’d think the cops could do something about it, but…” her voice trailed off, and she shook her head.

“Real sorry to hear that,” Brent replied. “I hope they find her.”

The server fixed him with a look. “They ain’t found none of them yet. Don’t imagine they’ll find her, neither.” Beneath her anger, fear glinted in her eyes, and Brent could imagine how often the waitress had to drive home by herself on desolate stretches of road, wondering whether her own luck was about to run out.

He left cash to cover breakfast and a generous tip, grateful she had poured him a coffee to go. On the way out, he stopped by the bulletin board and looked at the hastily photocopied missing person fliers. Photos and descriptions were linked by a thread and a red push pin to the location on a map showing where they had disappeared. Brent snapped a photo, in case the display revealed something new on later examination.

The faces of the missing girls and women would haunt his nightmares. Sherri was the youngest, staring out from what looked to be an elementary school photo. The others were cropped from snapshots showing them laughing and happy, a moment frozen in time. Brent forced himself to look away and headed back to his truck.

He had barely gotten back on the highway when his phone rang. He saw the number and debated not answering, but he knew they would just keep calling. “Go away,” he said before the caller had a chance to say anything.

“You know we can’t do that.” The ID said “unlisted,” but Brent recognized the voice. “Shane” from CHARON, making sure Brent knew the secret organization did its best to keep an eye on him.

“Go fuck yourself. You’ll feel better, and you’ll forget about trying to fuck me over.”

“It’s a fool’s game chasing the darkness all by yourself.”

“And I’m a damn fool. That’s not news.”

Shane paused, and when he spoke again, his tone grew more serious. “You’re not making much of a living, hunting down insurance fraud and cheating husbands. Bet it doesn’t go far paying for your pain meds, or for the PT to ease up on those old injuries. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Brent’s jaw tightened. “We’ve had this discussion before. Nothing’s changed. Go away.”

“You’re doing the work. Hunting monsters. How’s the pay?” Shane goaded. “Come back inside, and we’ll make sure you’ve got all the best tech, classified research, and intel, backup teams…regular paychecks and the best healthcare Uncle Sam has to offer.”

Brent had tried changing his number. Shane always found him. “Or maybe throw some money to the VA so I can actually get an appointment, with the benefits I’ve already earned,” Brent countered. “Nope. Not buying your shit.”

“We’d prefer you come back on your own, but we don’t have to ask nicely.” Shane’s voice grew cold.

“You try to conscript me, and I commit suicide-by-monster on the next hunt,” Brent returned in an icy tone. “I’m no use to you dead or in Gitmo. So…go bother someone else. I don’t have a soul to sell anymore.”

“The demons aren’t going to go away.”

“I’ll take them over you any day. Get lost.” Stabbing the end call button wasn’t nearly as satisfying as slamming down an old-style receiver. Despite his bravado, Brent’s heart raced, and his palms sweated.

He pulled into a rest stop, grabbed a scanner from his gear bag, and ran it over the pickup, checking for tracking devices. He’d already turned off the GPS on his phone and only carried a burner cell with him out on jobs. A mechanic buddy up in Atlantic had disabled the truck’s automatic reporting functions and handled his inspections and repairs to keep it that way.

When he found nothing, Brent swore under his breath and kicked a rock across the parking lot. Shane probably wiretapped all of Brent’s known contacts and watched to see when an unknown caller popped up on the grid.

CHARON—he didn’t remember what the acronym stood for, but the image of the ferryman of the damned from Greek myth was hard to forget—was a small, elite black ops team that reported directly to the vice president, and moved against supernatural threats deemed to be a danger to US interests anywhere in the world. CHARON operated without rules, off-the-books, accountable only for results, and without regard to collateral damage.

They hadn’t bothered with the demons that killed Brent’s parents and Danny, or Mavet, the creature that obliterated his unit in Iraq. And Brent would buy his own ticket straight to hell before he’d take orders from an amoral asshole like Shane. Never forgive. Never forget.