part0015

“I’m sorry about Ben.” Travis didn’t glance at Brent when he spoke, but he didn’t need to see his partner to know how the day’s events had worn on him. Brent was hardly chatty, but since they had called a truce and decided to work together, he had gradually thawed a little, willing to make small talk on long car trips, and showing a dry sense of humor that meshed well with Travis’s. Since the shooting, Brent had been quiet.

“That thing wearing Jamie’s body—his spirit wasn’t present,” Travis said. He couldn’t read minds, but he felt certain he knew some of what was bothering Brent. “Pretty sure Ben had been thinking of killing himself a long time before the zombie showed up. He’s at peace now—yet another church dogma blown to smithereens,” he added with a bitter edge to his voice.

Being a medium had given him enough of a glimpse into the afterlife to skewer most of what he had been taught in catechism and seminary. And while he was relieved to discover that suicide did not lead to eternal damnation, he still bristled at the damage done by such callous, ongoing teaching.

“Benny always expected the worst—and usually got what he expected,” Brent replied, head turned so that he remained staring out the passenger window. “That night in Mosul, when we survived Mavet, he had more trouble with it than a lot of the guys.” He snorted. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—having a major demon clean out a town like the fucking Angel of Death did a number on all of us, including me,” he admitted.

“You seem to have figured out how to cope.”

Brent gave a harsh laugh. “Is this coping? I kept running into demons or demonic activity when I was with the police, and before that, the Bureau, and of course, no one believed me except CHARON.”

“CHARON?” Travis asked. He’d heard the name whispered more than spoken and figured it was a government version of the Sinistram, one of many that had come and gone throughout the years. Bureaucrats worried about psychics and came up with things like the Men Who Stare at Goats. The Church did marginally better since at least they were steeped in the world unseen. To Travis’s mind, neither institution was to be trusted.

“Think of every movie you’ve seen with a black ops organization to stop occult threats,” Brent replied. “And then make it worse. There’s a reason those groups are never the good guys. CHARON lives down to the stereotype.”

“And they want you?”

Brent nodded. “Demon magnet, remember? I keep saying no. They keep telling me that someday they’ll make me say yes.”

“Fuck them,” Travis said, with enough heat behind his words to make Brent actually look at him. “I got recruited into something like that back in seminary until I got tired of doing their dirty work. Never again.”

“The Sinistram?”

Travis startled. “How—?”

Brent nodded. “Maybe it’s not as secret as they want to think it is,” he replied. “I told a buddy about you, and he said that ninja priests were all Sinistram.”

“Ninja priests, huh?” Travis managed a tired smile. “Yeah, maybe. But that kind of badassery comes with a price, and I got tired of paying it.”

“So they let you walk?”

“Hell, no. They’re biding their time, figuring they’ll get me back sooner or later.” He gave Brent a conspiratorial look. “Looks like we can be on the run together.”

“Just like Butch and Sundance,” Brent replied.

“Maybe we can skip the blaze of glory part.” They fell quiet for a few minutes. “I figured we’d meet with the lead on the Silverado killings first, and then check in with Derek. He’s heard chatter to suggest we’ve got a ghoul problem, on top of everything else. I’ve got a message from my friend, Jason, and I’m afraid that’s what it’s probably about.”

“Works for me,” Brent replied. He thumbed through screens on his phone. “I need some real Wi-Fi to send a report to one of my clients. Then I can focus on what we’re doing, knowing the rent is paid.”

“I got us a hotel in Bellefonte. Free Wi-Fi. I need to check in with Jon and Matthew, and plow through some emails.” Travis turned his attention back to the road, but memories of what had happened in Cooper City were never far from mind. “Did you look at those news sites?”

Brent nodded, turning again toward the window, so his expression wasn’t easily readable. “Yeah. Kind of a ‘be careful what you wish for’ thing, isn’t it? Dead husband shows up and kills hubby number two. Dead kid shows up and pushes mommy off the balcony.” He paused. “I thought you said that the zombies, like Jamie, didn’t have sentience and couldn’t remember who they were?”

Travis bit his lip, trying to figure out how to put his impressions into words. “I know that Jamie didn’t have individual sentience. Could there be something like muscle memory, or like the ‘stone tape’ impressions of a repeater ghost? Maybe, but that isn’t the same as awareness. I said Last Rites just to be careful, but I didn’t sense a soul or a ghost, just like I didn’t sense one at the earlier killing. But borrowed sentience…I think that’s possible, and that it’s malicious.”

“You mean, whatever power is raising the dead knows enough to send a kid back home to his father or a wife back to her husband?”

Travis nodded. “Because it’s maximum emotional damage, and like those psi-vamps you fought, and the hell-maggots, these grief demons feed on pain.”

“So why ghouls?”

Travis shrugged. “Anything that desecrates the dead touches on very deep, primal reactions, even for people who didn’t know the deceased. It’s even considered an act of war. And I think that’s exactly what this entity wants—to make as many people into bundles of raw emotion as possible so it can feast.”

“There’s your exit,” Brent pointed out. Travis had to swerve to make the ramp, although he knew this stretch of highway better than he wanted to admit.

“Thanks,” he grated.

Brent studied him. “Are you okay? You’ve been off since we left Cooper City. Is there something besides the obvious bugging you?”

“I grew up around here,” Travis admitted. “So having the genius loci fucking with people in this area feels personal.”

Thankfully, Brent left the topic alone. Travis hadn’t pressed him for details about the FBI or the PD, figuring Brent would say more when—or if—he felt like it. They’d loosened up around each other enough to share a few more details, but Travis wasn’t ready to talk about that part of his past, not yet, and maybe never.

Travis hadn’t been back to Bellefonte in years, but not much had changed. On one hand, that meant the town’s good points were probably as he remembered them. On the other, so were the simmering tensions and small-town myopia. Change came slowly to second-tier cities like Pittsburgh, compared to major metropolises like New York or L.A., but out here, the shifts in thinking moved at glacial speed. Those who stayed liked it that way.

“First up, another Silverado family,” Travis said, trying to get himself out of his thoughts. He pulled the Crown Vic up to the curb next to a small neighborhood greenway with a sign proclaiming: “Masulo Park .”

“We’re meeting someone here?” Brent glanced around. The grassy area held a few picnic tables, a basketball court, and benches overlooking Spring Creek. A pickup game was in progress on the court. Several people fished from chairs near the creek bank, and some of the benches were taken by walkers content to stop for a moment and enjoy the view.

“Ellie Durbin.” Travis nodded toward where a woman sat alone at one of the picnic tables. He headed toward her with Brent a step behind, and Ellie looked up as they approached.

“Travis?” she asked, and he reached out to shake her hand.

“Hello, Ellie. I’m Travis, and this is my research partner, Brent.” They took seats opposite the woman. “Thanks for meeting us.”

Ellie looked flustered and smoothed her dark red hair back behind her ear. Travis figured her to be in her early thirties. “I wanted to come here because this is one of Rachael’s favorite places. I thought you might pick up more of her energy here than in the house.” Left unspoken was whether that connection would be with a vision or with Rachael’s ghost.

“Tell us about what happened,” Brent urged, leaning forward with his best “good cop” manner. Travis let him take the lead and sat back, observing Ellie and reaching out with his Sight.

“Rachael was coming back from an appointment in Milesburg,” Ellie said. “Normally she wouldn’t have driven I-80, but there’s a bridge out and some detours on the back route, so she took the highway instead. That’s what she texted before she left Milesburg. She never made it home.” Ellie looked down, nervously twisting the stack of metal bracelets on her wrist.

“When did you call the police?” Brent nudged.

“I got worried when she was an hour late and didn’t call,” Ellie replied. “I texted her and didn’t get an answer. Then I called. Nothing. After two hours, I got in the car and drove the route, thinking maybe she’d had car trouble and her phone died. So I drove to the truck stop, and that’s where I found her car, but Rachael was gone.” Her voice tightened, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her head defiantly.

“Did you ask around at the truck stop?”

Ellie looked at Brent as if he were stupid. “Of course. I talked to every clerk, every trucker, every person in the restaurant. They remembered seeing her talking to someone in a black pickup, but no one saw her after that.”

“What about the driver of the truck? Any luck getting a description?”

Ellie shook her head. “The truck had dark windows, and apparently the driver was on the side facing away from the building. People remembered Rachael because her hair is so red. Reminds them of that actress from Dr. Who .” She slid her phone across the table with a photo of a woman in her early twenties with long red hair and bright green eyes. The combination was definitely memorable, and Travis felt certain that anyone who saw Rachael would have remembered her.

“I don’t know if you can read anything from objects,” Ellie said, “but her phone was still in her car.” She pulled a cell phone out of her purse and handed it to Travis.

Travis let the conversation fade as he opened up his Gift. Later, he and Brent would go to the truck stop and see what psychic residue he could lift from the scene. Now, he stretched out his awareness, trying to pick up any kind of vibe about Rachael, holding his breath and hoping that he didn’t find her ghost.

He focused on Rachael’s picture, then extended his focus to her phone. His gift wasn’t psychometry—the ability to read an object’s history or magic via touch—but he could usually pick up impressions about the energy of the person who owned a frequently-used item.

The energy he sensed seemed normal. A little tension, but if Rachael had been running late, that would make sense. Nothing about the vibe made Travis think that Rachael was afraid for her life, or was fleeing a pursuer. He pushed his Gift further, to include this park she loved so much. Now that he knew what Rachael’s energy felt like, he could pick up traces of it near one of the benches, and here at the table.

“She likes to come here and sit and watch the water,” Ellie said as if she could guess his thoughts, or perhaps his shifting gaze gave him away. “Rachael comes and borrows my dog to walk him since she doesn’t have a pet of her own. Sometimes I pick up dinner, and we eat here, like a mini-picnic. It’s kinda been our thing for a while.”

The energy Travis picked up from the park felt contented and safe. Rachael hadn’t left behind traces of turmoil, and nothing suggested any kind of tension between the two sisters. What he sought was a feel for Rachael’s personality, and the hints he absorbed raised questions. Dimly, he was aware that Brent and Ellie had started talking while he tranced.

“Rachael seems like she’s very sensible—good head on her shoulders,” Travis said, interrupting whatever Ellie and Brent were talking about. Both of them turned to look at him, and he realized that to them, his remark came out of the blue.

Ellie nodded. “She’s always been grounded. Even though she’s two years younger than me. Sometimes it felt like she was the big sister because she was always planning, always thinking about what might go wrong and how to fix it if it did.”

Travis pursed his lips for a second, needing to phrase his question right so he didn’t lead the witness. “What about her personal life? Any enemies? Angry exes? Envious co-workers?”

“Rachael’s a good kid,” Ellie replied. “It’s not like she was homecoming queen or anything, but she gets along well with people—even the flaming assholes. She hadn’t dated anyone in a while, and the last relationship broke up pretty amicably.”

Travis nodded, getting the answer he expected. “And I’m guessing the black truck murders have been in the news here.”

“Oh, yeah. Can’t turn on the TV without hearing about it.”

“So why would someone as sensible as Rachael stop to talk to a stranger in a black pickup, even at a busy place like the truck stop?”

Ellie met his gaze. “She wouldn’t have—that’s what didn’t make any sense to me. Rachael was a little freaked out about the whole disappearances thing. I was surprised that she decided to drive I-80 because of that, and a little shocked that she’d gone to a truck stop.”

“We think the black truck is part of a bigger problem,” Travis said. Even with Doug and others doing their best to keep a lid on the details, Travis knew rumors spread quickly in small towns, and that Ellie had likely heard the gossip.

“I heard someone say they thought a Satanist cult was behind all the weird stuff,” Ellie said tentatively. “You know, like they used to say about gamers.”

Brent rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. Role-playing games don’t really summon evil spirits. And I don’t think Satanists have anything to do with this. We’re trying to figure out what does.”

Ellie drummed her fingers as she thought. “People have told stories about the area around Milesburg and Cooper City for a long time. They say the game lands are haunted, and that there are old mines full of dead miners whose bodies were never recovered and so their ghosts can’t rest. You know, campfire stories. But they aren’t new—my mom and grandma heard a lot of them all their lives.”

Travis read enough of Ellie’s energy to know she was open to the idea of ghosts and the unseen. He hoped she was an ally, and at this point, they needed a win badly enough that Travis was willing to risk trusting her, at least a little.

“When we leave town, we’re going to go over to the truck stop and see what we can find out that the cops might have missed. But I can’t shake the feeling that the spooky stories you mentioned might hold a clue. Do you think you could get people talking about the old tales and tell us what you find out? It could be important.” He gave her his most trustworthy smile. “Sometimes, true things get hidden in fairytales.”

“You’re some kind of psychic, aren’t you?” Ellie asked. She glanced at Brent. “And you’re his bodyguard?”

“Close enough,” Brent replied.

“I’m a medium, and sometimes I see things before they happen,” Travis admitted.

Ellie’s eyes went wide. “Oh, God. Is Rachael dead? Did you see her ghost?”

Travis reached out to touch her hand. “No. I expected to, but I didn’t. Which might mean she’s still alive. Let’s keep believing that until we find proof otherwise.”

Ellie sagged with relief. “Okay. All right. I can do that. And if I think about it for a bit, I can probably write up most of the stories from memory, but I’ll ask around, without letting people know why,” she added.

“Thank you,” Travis said, standing. “It might give us the missing piece. We’re going to do everything we can to find Rachael and bring her home.” He hated that he couldn’t add “alive,” but that was too much to promise.

“I have your number,” Ellie said. “I’ll text you when I’ve gotten the stories together, and you call me if you find out anything. Deal?”

“Deal,” Brent assured her as he stood.

“If there are ghouls, why isn’t every TV news van already circling Bellefonte for the story of the year?” Brent asked as Travis headed through town and out the other side.

Compared to many of the other small towns in the area, Bellefonte was doing well. The downtown boasted a number of well-maintained Victorian homes and city buildings, and the main street had a selection of local shops and restaurants. Being close enough to Penn State to pick up overflow hotel guests on football weekends certainly helped the local economy, and many people in town either worked for the university, in the nearby town of State College, or at Rockview, the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution less than a mile out of town.

“Because Jason’s kept things bottled up, but he called me to come get a look since it’s our kind of thing.”

“He’s one of your Night Vigil people?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah. Jason’s got…talent.”

“What? Telepath? Another clairvoyant? Bend spoons with his mind?” Brent asked. “Help me out—all I know about psychics I learned from Stephen King and Long Island Medium.”

Travis chuckled. “Then you’re in luck. Jason is a fire starter.”

Brent’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Like the book?”

“Like the legends—and quite a few books and old tales,” Travis corrected. “It’s a rare ability, and a dangerous one, but it’s real.”

“Shit. So he can light things on fire with his mind, and it’s not magic?”

Travis shrugged. “If you define magic as hocus pocus, some power you harness from outside and channel to do your will, then no, it’s not magic. If you define it as something extrasensory, supernatural, or a paranormal ability, then yes. I’m sure it would have been enough to get him killed as a witch in a past century.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a volunteer firefighter.”

Travis nodded. “Yep. I kid you not. He can’t put out fires with his mind, but he figured that he’d be in the safest place if he ever had a problem controlling his gift.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“Apparently it’s come up now and again. People got hurt, and Jason hasn’t forgiven himself, so running into burning buildings is how he atones.”

“Could the fire hurt him? I mean, maybe he’s immune.”

“I don’t know. But I hope he’s never in a situation to find out.”

Travis drove out to Bliss Memorial Gardens, a newer cemetery at the edge of town. It was the kind of place he always thought of as a “mow-over” graveyard, where everyone had flat markers instead of headstones. While the grounds were planted with trees and flowering bushes and were well-maintained, Memorial Gardens never gave Travis the sense of peacefulness and remembrance that he felt in a traditional cemetery with monuments and gravestones.

“So where are the ghouls?”

Travis took the fork in the road that led to a large, modern mausoleum. “In there.”

Rose marble slabs covered the outside of the mausoleum, which had two long slanted sides and two narrower, upright ends. From a distance, the entire building looked like a huge headstone, three stories tall. A blue Dodge pickup was parked by the main entrance, but no other cars were nearby.

“Jason’s brother-in-law, Lyle, is the cemetery watchman. He saw ‘strange creatures’ lurking around the new graves and called Jason, thinking the two of them would go out and scare them away. They got more than they bargained for.”

Brent frowned. “Fuck, why didn’t we come here first?”

“Jason swore he had it under control. Said he kept one on ice for us to see, and he took care of the others. Lyle closed down the mausoleum to other visitors—said it was an electrical issue.”

They parked and headed for the glass doors. Inside, the slanted walls and high ceiling gave the mausoleum a temple-like appearance. The floor was pink marble, while the etched nameplates were on gleaming white stone that glistened in the light of the frosted-glass wall sconces. Four drawers were stacked atop each other, rising twelve feet into the air, then a balcony encircled the building and another balcony above it. At the top, in the ridge of the ceiling, a stained glass window with an abstract pattern sent down multicolored rays of light.

It would have been beautiful, except for all the damn ghouls.

“Jason’s good at what he does,” Brent observed, stepping carefully to avoid charred bodies. At first glance, the corpses looked human, but a second look revealed longer-than-normal arms with elongated fingers. An oversized skull and clawed feet confirmed that the torched remains were not, and never had been, people.

“Thanks for coming.”

Travis startled at the voice. He and Brent looked up to see a muscular man in his mid-thirties looking down at them from the second-floor balcony. Jason’s brown hair was buzzed short on the sides, longer on the top, and his face and arms were streaked with soot.

“Looks like you had a hot time on the ol’ town,” Travis said.

“Funny. Not. I saved one for you. Come on up. Stairs are in the middle.”

Brent pulled his gun, and so did Travis—just in case. Two cindered corpses sprawled on the wide marble stairs, and three more were ashy heaps at the top of the steps. A sudden growl and the snap of teeth made Travis and Brent take a step back.

“Shut the hell up.” Jason raised a hand, and a bolt of fire streamed from his palm, quickly heating the handcuffs on the captured creature’s wrists to red hot. The ghoul shrieked and then fell silent.

“We have an understanding,” Jason remarked, never taking his eyes off the ghoul.

“That thing’s even uglier with its skin on than it was fried to a crackly crunch,” Brent remarked, keeping his gun in hand.

“How many, total?” Travis asked, glancing down the long corridor.

“Twelve,” Jason said. “Gave me a real workout. Any more and I would have needed a flamethrower. Takes a lot out of me.” Up close, he looked drained and weary, as if he’d worked hard and been up all night.

“Thanks for saving me a party favor,” Travis said with a smirk and turned his attention on the remaining ghoul. Gray, leathery skin pulled tight across the enlarged skull. Black lips framed a mouth of sharp teeth. Bat-like ears, red eyes, and a tuft of scraggly gray hair on its otherwise bald head gave the ghoul a nightmarish appearance.

“I thought you might want a look at him before I finish taking out the trash,” Jason said.

“What are you going to do with the bodies?” Brent asked.

“There’s a crematory at the far corner of the property,” Jason replied. “I’ve already done most of the work for them, but we’ll put in what’s left and fire it up. No fuss, no muss—no awkward evidence.”

Travis stepped closer to the growling creature. While it looked to be barely five feet tall, its sinewy body and the talons at the end of its fingers and toes suggested that it would put up a tough fight hand-to-hand. “Where did they come from?” he asked, turning to Jason.

“Not sure. Lyle said he’s had some problems with vandalism lately, and he thought there were wild dogs or some kind of digging animal. They didn’t actually dig anyone up, but Lyle thinks that’s because he’s been staying around, keeping watch, and he started to turn on the security lights and leave them on all night.”

Jason leaned back against the wall, but he also kept his gaze on the ghoul. “There’s woods bordering the cemetery so they might have been hiding in there, but these sure as fuck aren’t natural. Lyle and I got a glimpse of them, and so we thought we’d lure them in here, lock the doors, and call you.”

“But obviously you switched up the plan.” Travis looked down the hallway at the blackened bodies.

“It wasn’t hard to lure them inside with some spoiled meat,” Jason recounted, wrinkling his nose in revulsion. “But once they were inside, they attacked. Lyle shot a couple, but they were coming at us, fast. So I did what I do,” he added with a shrug. “Lyle knows. He just hadn’t seen me fire it up on quite that scale before.”

“How do you think this fits in with the rest of the pattern?” Brent kept his gun trained on the ghoul as he took a step forward for a better look. The monster hissed at him, and Brent cursed at it in response.

“General emotional turmoil,” Travis replied. “Having their loved ones’ remains dug up and strewn across the cemetery would upset a lot of people. Can’t blame them. I don’t think it’s about having the ghouls attack the living. All they have to do is stir up grief.”

“You think there’s something more behind this?” Jason looked from Travis to Brent.

Travis nodded. “Yeah, we’re not sure just what, but I think we’re getting close. Since it didn’t feed here, it might not try again—maybe it will go somewhere else where there isn’t someone like you who can easily contain it.”

“I’ve got this hot-hands ‘gift,’ might as well use it for something,” Jason mumbled. He’d always made it clear to Travis that while he accepted the reality of his abilities and the need to train himself in its use, it was not something he embraced or considered to be a “superpower.”

“I think your talents saved this town a whole heap of trouble,” Travis replied. “You did good.”

“You need anything else from him, or can I toast the fucker?”

“Give me a second, and let me see what I can read.” Travis widened his stance and squared his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brent bring his gun up, ready to fire.

Travis took a deep breath and cleared his mind, trying to avoid thinking about the smell of charred meat and the underlying stench of rot. He forced away images of the blackened bodies in the hallway and the grimacing, snarling beast in shackles, and tried to broaden his senses, looking at and beyond the creature to the energies that surrounded it.

Ghosts. So many ghosts. They crowded in from all sides, alarmed at the assault on their sanctuary, frightened and confused. Travis sent consolation to them, doing his best to soothe and reassure. He urged them to move on, and said a very abbreviated version of the absolution and blessing, hurrying them on their way. Those that chose to remain gradually faded out, like guests in a motel who had come into the hallway after a disturbance and then returned to bed.

From the burned ghouls, Travis sensed nothing. Whatever animated them was not the ghost of anything remotely human; rather, the energy felt tainted and twisted, like a polluted river. Hell-maggots infested the ghouls to Travis’s enhanced sight, worming their way into the bodies and undulating beneath the gray skin. Fire and salt would cleanse sufficiently.

“They might be controlled, but they aren’t possessed by anything worse than the hell-maggots,” Travis reported. “Give me a chance to say an exorcism, and Last Rites, then you can go ahead and burn them, then salt the building. I hope we can take care of whatever’s behind all this very soon, but until then, I’m afraid you and Lyle are going to need to keep up your patrols.”

“Short of running an electric fence the whole way around the place, I kinda figured you were going to say so,” Jason replied. “We can do that. Just let me know when you’ve got whatever you’re doing done. I could use the extra sleep.”

“You need help shoveling up what’s left?” Travis asked.

Jason shook his head. “Nah. Lyle said he’d help. Between the two of us, we can handle it. Thanks for coming. I’ll let you know if I see anything else.”

Travis said the exorcism and final absolution, and then he and Brent headed down the wide marble stairs. Behind them, they heard the whoosh of flame, a piercing howl that was abruptly cut short, and then silence.

Neither man said much as they drove away from the cemetery. Travis thought about Jason’s dangerous and unpredictable gift and decided that glimpsing the future and talking to dead people seemed almost sedate by comparison. Brent kept his thoughts to himself, staring out the passenger window, fingers drumming on his thighs to suggest that he was mulling something over, not zoned out staring at the countryside.

“Holy shit.” Travis slowed the Crown Vic as tail lights flared in front of him. Traffic on the two-lane state highway moved at a crawl, and up in the distance, Travis could see at least three sets of strobing police lights, as well as ambulances and fire trucks.

“I wonder what happened?” Brent leaned forward and turned on the radio. “News on the nines,” he said with a grin.

They had barely moved more than a few car lengths when the local news update came on. “Police and emergency crews are on the site of an accident involving a minivan and a dump truck,” the announcer said. “Traffic is being re-routed, and motorists are advised to avoid the area for the next several hours.” He gave the route number and suggested alternatives. “We don’t yet know the names of the passengers involved or the severity of injuries, but witnesses have reported seeing at least three ambulances, and we have on-the-scene footage of the van bursting into flames on our website.”

Brent flicked off the radio. “Think it’s related?”

“Seems like too much of a coincidence, although accidents did happen before the genius loci got fired up,” Travis argued with himself over whether to poke around in town. The chance to learn something that might help them stop whatever was behind the blast zone was too tempting to pass up.

“I know how they’re going to re-route us,” Travis said as a uniformed cop directed them to make a U-turn and go back the way they came. “We can go to the diner in town and see what the locals are saying. There might be a reason the people in the crash were singled out.”

“I hate this,” Brent said, fists tightening in his lap. “I feel like whatever this energy or entity is, it’s taunting us, and while we try to play catch-up, more people keep dying.”

Travis turned off the road and wound their way into downtown Bellefonte. On the way, they passed several of the white and green Preston Energy trucks that seemed to be everywhere these days, thanks to the legislature opening up central PA for natural gas exploration. Some people welcomed a chance for new employment, while others warned of serious environmental damage.

“Wonder if they’ve driven the housing prices up here like they did in Pittsburgh?” he mused.

Brent caught on immediately. “I know. Right? Priced a bunch of people I know out of any of the downtown apartments when all the fracking headquarters came to town. Fuckin’ fracking.”

Travis’s thoughts moved back to the hell gate. “I don’t think the energy or entity is actually taunting us,” he said, thinking carefully before he spoke. “I suspect it’s more primal than that, more animalistic. A wolf doesn’t taunt its prey. So I don’t think the genius loci engineered the accident to trap us. More likely, it’s like that bus crash—another way to stir up emotions, since the ghouls didn’t work.”

The set of Brent’s mouth told Travis that his partner wasn’t completely convinced, but the ex-cop didn’t argue. Travis parked the Crown Vic, and they walked into a mom-and-pop restaurant called “Shelly’s Place” where practically every seat was taken.

“I can seat you, but you’ll have to wait a bit,” a harried young woman said, flashing a tired smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You can stand over there, but don’t block the door.”

Travis went one way, Brent the other, edging in on the already waiting customers who clustered in the entrance. Brent clasped his hands in front of him, staring out over the busy dining room, but Travis knew the detective was listening closely to all the chatter. Travis intended to do the same.

“…out on Route 144. The Simmons family got hit by a truck—”

“…saw the ambulances go by. Van caught on fire. Heard it’s already on YouTube.”

“…can’t imagine there’ll be survivors.”

The door opened behind him, and Travis had to step closer to the people bunched near him to avoid being run over. He bumped into a woman and murmured an apology.

“Travis Dominick? Is that really you after all these years?” The bottle-blonde woman in her middle years who was in front of Travis grinned. “Oh, my lands. I haven’t seen you since…I don’t know how long. What brings you back to Bellefonte?”

Travis felt Brent’s gaze on him and knew he’d face some razzing when they got back to the car. He searched his memory for the woman’s name. Mrs. Kittering , his mind supplied, along with the fact that she had been one of his catechism teachers and a very active member of the PTA. And, unfortunately, a friend of his mother’s.

“Just passing through,” Travis said, hoping he sounded sincere. Lying might be a sin, but hardly the worst he’d committed. Or, if some of the priests were right, a white lie hardly compared to the abomination of his gift. “We got caught in the traffic out on Route 144. Didn’t look like we’d get through any time soon, so I figured we could come here and see if the pie is as good as it used to be.”

Mrs. Kittering laughed. Her bright pink lipstick accentuated her pale skin. “Oh, the pie’s awesome, like always. Which you’d know if you came home more than once in a blue moon.”

Travis schooled his expression, although he flinched internally at her words. “My job keeps me pretty busy in the city,” he said, and inside, he felt like a kid called to the principal’s office.

“I heard you’re not a priest anymore.”

“I run a halfway house and recovery program. Similar work, different title.” He tried to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. He wasn’t entirely surprised Mrs. Kittering knew. While his mother had said she was utterly shamed by Travis’s choice to leave the priesthood, she wouldn’t miss the chance to get others to climb on the bandwagon against Travis.

“The good Lord works in mysterious ways,” Mrs. Kittering said, patting him on the arm. Travis had no idea what she meant by that, whether she accepted his choice, or felt—like the Sinistram—that he’d eventually be forced back into the collar by circumstances beyond his control.

“The world’s a very mysterious place,” he replied as neutrally as possible.

“They’ve got a table for us,” Brent said, tapping him on the shoulder. Travis didn’t miss the curious look Mrs. Kittering gave Brent and wondered if his mother had asked for her friends to pray for his soul.

Travis didn’t say anything until they were in the booth. “Thanks, man.”

“I’ve got your back,” Brent said with a grin. “Some enemies are scarier than others, right?”

“I prefer the ones I can shoot.” Travis looked over the menu, which hadn’t changed. “I imagine the cook is the same, which means everything’s good—and homemade. And save room for dessert. It’s worth extra time at the gym.”

Travis scanned the faces at the tables around them. Some looked vaguely familiar, but he doubted he could put names to them.

“You think the genius loci knew, somehow, and decided to play with our heads?” Brent asked, startling Travis from his thoughts.

Brent sat back, drinking his soda. “Benny served with me. So handling that situation wouldn’t have been easy with a total stranger, but seeing him like that, knowing he—” Brent looked away. “It’s rough. ‘Upsetting’ doesn’t quite cover it. And now there’s an accident that’s not only going to be traumatic for the community, but it’s in your hometown, and I get the feeling this isn’t your favorite place anymore.”

That was an understatement. “It’s…uncomfortable.”

“In other words, we might be off our game, exactly like the nexus wants.”

Travis wanted to resist the idea that the energy had enough sentience to be conniving. Demons could certainly be crafty; after all, they served the Father of Lies—or some kind of chaotic energy. But the hell-maggots had been parasitic, and ghouls were notorious opportunists.

“I’m still trying to figure out whether the genius loci is a ‘who’ or a ‘what,’” Travis admitted. “Forces of nature can be destructive without being malicious.”

“Animals do some pretty complicated stuff that we say is ‘just instinct,’ but it’s damn strategic,” he continued. “And animals can learn. So if you’ve got a force with the intelligence of a wild creature that’s been behind this cycle for centuries…maybe forever…it might learn a thing or two about how to lure in prey or avoid enemies. Doesn’t mean it’s truly sentient.”

The server brought their food, and it proved to be just as delicious as Travis remembered. All conversation stopped as the two men dug in, and Travis savored the homemade meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy, and Brent’s pot roast and potatoes looked just as good. They polished off everything on their plates and still ordered pie—cherry for Travis, apple for Brent—when the server refilled their coffee.

Travis leaned back, feeling the knot in his shoulders loosen for the first time since they left the cemetery. All around them, conversation buzzed about the accident, the local family with four children who had been involved, and the truck driver. With first responders still at the scene, everything was conjecture, but Travis knew that tomorrow all the diners would have the scoop from friends and family who were the cops, EMTs, and firefighters. Small towns had plenty of secrets, but nothing stayed hidden for long.

“You’ve got nerve, coming back here.”

The short, tiny woman who stood at the end of their table fairly vibrated with anger. She looked just like Travis remembered, except for more gray hair, and a few more lines around her mouth. Maria Grace Dominick shared the same green eyes and black hair as her son, but he’d gotten his height from his father.

“I didn’t come because of you,” Travis said, keeping his voice level and controlling his breathing. “And I didn’t intend to bother you. We were just passing through.”

Maria Grace glanced from Travis to Brent and back again, her lip curling. “You brought a friend here?”

Travis met her gaze levelly. “My work partner. And yes, I have friends.”

“It wasn’t bad enough that everyone in town knew you left Holy Orders,” she hissed. Travis knew without looking that despite speaking in a stage whisper, the rest of the diner could hear every word and that the patrons had turned to watch the show. “But you bring your filth with you?”

“There’s no point in having this discussion,” Travis said, as he dug out his wallet to pay the check. “You didn’t have to come over.”

“I thought the priesthood would heal you, take away those sinful abilities,” Mary Grace snarled. “Did they throw you out?”

“We’ve been over this before, mother.” Travis raised his head and made eye contact. “They recruited me for those abilities, used them for their own purposes, and broke most of the commandments in the process. I left them, not the other way around.”

“Liar! The Church hates what you are.”

“Not when it finds a use for me,” Travis replied.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on your son,” Brent said with a smile and an exaggerated drawl. “I’m a demon magnet.”

Travis almost swallowed his tongue at the way Mary Grace sputtered.

“Demons killed my parents and my brother,” Brent went on, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. “I miss them every day. And here you are, hale and healthy with a living son, and you can’t get your head out of your ass long enough to appreciate what you’ve got.”

“Don’t use that kind of language—”

“So saying ‘ass’ is bad, but hating your son isn’t?” Brent’s smile had turned shark-like. “Lady, your priorities are fucked up.” He glanced at Travis. “Come on. We got what we came for.”