 
## Behind The Horned Mask

## Book 2

A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jeff Vrolyks

### Chapter Twenty Nine

I stepped inside Norrah's basement. Creed was singing My Own Prison loudly through the stereo. Everyone was drinking except myself and one other: he who owns this chapter. What Maggie had said years ago now rang true: there is an evil distortion of myself not unlike my reflection in the mirror. I thought maybe it had been Paul, but now I thought differently. Or maybe Paul was the distortion of myself and this sober demon by the fireplace a distortion of... Maggie? God?

I meandered about, undecided as to where to go. In my dream I had watched myself seated at the table, so it seemed reasonable to take that chair. Like clockwork, Black Cat and Lion ventured to the bed and sat at the edge. They kissed. It was a peculiar sensation knowing in advance what they were going to be up to. Like I said, déjà vu, only different. More lucid, less peculiar. It was more like watching a movie I had already seen, but a hell of a lot more frightening, being that what I had seen was a horror flick, and I was among the cast.

A sudden idea. _What if I..._

I hummed meditatively. What if I stopped it from happening before it happened? Would anything change tonight if I did? No, I'm sure it wouldn't, but something would change for Black Cat. She wouldn't be taken advantage of, wouldn't regret that sinful act for the rest of her life. I would be doing her an immense favor. And how to achieve this? Simple. I could tell her any number of things, such as I'm watching her so don't do anything you'll regret. It was just simple enough to work. But is that why I was here tonight? Was that my calling? No, so why should I interfere?

_Let her make the wrong decision for herself,_ I told myself. At least I thought it was me thinking it. _Can't you see that the repercussions from this act of mischief might be the defining moment of her life? The fork in the road from which she diverges from the path of sin and walks the path of righteousness?_ That's a bold presumption. But it _was_ possible. And my subconscious was right. What would she learn if I prevented her from making the mistake? The key was to open her eyes to her folly, but only after she committed it _._

Batman and Catwoman walked hand in hand to the bathroom, closed the door behind themselves. Raggedy Andy was now at my side, stooped over the ice chest, digging out some ice.

" _I created my own prisooooon..."_ Scott Sapp was singing on the stereo.

Butterfly was over by the stairs. I stared at her. She had invited me to take her upstairs, in two senses of the word. At this very moment I could be doing just that. I hated myself for wondering what that might be like. I pushed it out of my mind but it returned again and again. She caught me staring at her, finger-waved. I waved back, and sighed.

"I'm sorry for what's about to happen to you," I said under my breath.

She winked at me, sipped her drink.

I felt Paul's gaze upon me. He was standing beside Devil, and now walking toward me. I perked up in my chair, heart beating rapidly.

Peacock intercepted him, tried his hand at bantering with him. Paul said not now and continued on, eyes fixed on mine.

"Well if it isn't my old friend," Paul said with a grin.

"Evening," I said kindly.

"I'd ask what brings you here, but it would be a rhetorical question." He sipped from his cup, never breaking eye-contact. "You think I'm going to kick you out, don't you?"

"You don't know everything after all, do you?" I said and sipped my own tonic.

"Truth is, I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you could make it."

"Thanks, friend," I said with just a hint of sarcasm.

"This is a good thing, you being here," he said. "You see, something has to give. I can't have someone knowing as much about me as you do. Somehow you know things. I suppose it doesn't matter how you know what you do, only _why_. But it does intrigue me." He mused for a moment before saying, "Is it God?" I said nothing. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. What matters is this can't continue. That you willingly came here tells me that you have accepted your fate. I respect you for that, Aaron. Really I do. Takes guts. You _do_ know what's going to happen, don't you?"

I continued holding my tongue, hateful stare speaking for me.

"Sure you do," Paul said. "That's why you came alone. That's why I'm not checking out Tinkerbelle, admiring how well she's put together as a young woman. How'd you do it, Aaron? Huh? How'd you get her to stay home?"

"I'll answer that question if you answer one of my own. She had a vision of driving down with me. Who gave her that vision? Was it you?"

He laughed. "I'm flesh and bone like you. I don't have any powers. Shit, Aaron, this ain't Harry Potter."

"Then it's your friend."

"And it's your friend who got Brooke to change her mind about coming. God?"

"You don't know about her, do you?" I said with Magdalena on my mind.

"Who? Tinkerbelle?"

"Yeah, Tinkerbelle," I said sarcastically.

"There's nothing you can do to stop this," he said, "so don't bother trying. If you think there is, you might as well just go home now. Actually," he said on second thought, "feel free to stay as long as you'd like. Did I tell you I have a magician here? Oh yeah," he said excitedly, "a real honest-to-goodness magician, and he's going to be performing magic tricks tonight. Watch in horror as he saws a girl in half!" Paul laughed. "Yes, Aaron, he has all kinds of neat tricks up his sleeves. Keep your chair, you'll have front row seats to the show of a lifetime."

"Why don't you stay down here with the rest of us and watch for yourself?"

It caught him off-guard. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I know you won't be down here. Is it because you're chicken-shit? Afraid you might become one of the victims?"

"Fuck no. I'm not afraid of anything. None of your damned business."

"Same old Paul," I muttered. "Mind your damned business, mind your damned business. I'm pretty sure these kids' lives aren't your damned business. And by the way, how's it feel to be the lap-dog of _him?"_ I nodded at Devil, who was watching our intercourse acutely. "You're nothing but a pawn to him. He's using you."

He exhaled exasperatedly. "Yeah, you're really making me wish I was going to stick around. I'd love to see what's in store for you. Maybe I will."

"You're lucky Brooke didn't come with me tonight," I said. "I mean that. If she were here and you tried anything with her, I'd kill you myself, and take great pleasure in it."

"Ah-ah-ah!" he admonished with a finger-gesture. "Thou shall not kill."

"I believe God would forgive me this once, wouldn't you think?" I grinned at him.

"Where is your God now?"

"Everywhere. He's in the air we breathe, the words we speak."

Paul coughed to make his point. "Where will your God be tonight? Watching? Popping some popcorn to enjoy the show? You know God loves a good massacre. Holy wars, crusades, all good times for your Lord and Savior the masochist."

"How does one exude so much confidence, possess so much arrogance that he thinks he can outwit God? _God! The Maker!_ Do you think He can't smite you down on a whim? All He has to do is wish it and it is done."

"Then do it," Paul said with a brave air. He spread his arms to welcome the smiting. "Do it. Now. Have your loving God smite me if he can."

"It is not His will."

"Ah, it is not His will. The go-to excuse of the religious zealot. If something doesn't work out the way you want, it wasn't God's will. You'd _think_ it would be God's will to prevent some tragedy from happening, though. And you'd definitely think that it would be His will to keep safe from harm his most loyal subject: you. You call me a lap-dog, but what are you?"

"His servant. His proud servant."

"Remember when you asked 'Why me?' under the bridge all those years ago? I didn't know it back then, but that's probably why it was you. _His_ servant. His proud servant. But it's not just that. God has plenty of servants, but none quite like you. You're special. You knew I had Brooke and where she was. You divined that knowledge. Yes, you're _His_ proud servant, and he has endowed you with the gift of insight. That's why this can't continue, why you're here tonight."

I said nothing to that. As much as I hated him, he often made good sense.

"You know what my biggest regret is, Aaron?"

"There should be plenty, but no, what is your biggest, Paul?"

"That I didn't rape her back then."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't believe me or you don't want to believe me?"

"Both."

"Well it's true. Sometimes we need to do things because they need to be done, like it or not. I'm not a pervert, not a pedophile, so I didn't ruin that girl. But I should have. Isn't it delicious to think that another person can be forever ruined, fucked in the head for life all because of one little seemingly-insignificant action? In essence it would have killed her, because her soul would have been damaged beyond repair. I was supposed to take her that night, but I didn't. Selfishly, I didn't. I regret that. I wouldn't make that mistake twice."

I held my tongue.

"You won, Aaron," he said. "You won, on that front. She was safe then, and continues to be safe now, against my wishes. But that will be your only victory this night. Mark my words."

"Someday..." I said thoughtfully, "someday you're going to be killed, that's your fate. I pray that it's God's will that your death should be by my hand. I would take great satisfaction in it."

He smiled, looked away saying, "You got some bad intelligence there, my friend. Enjoy the remaining few minutes of your life, on me. Have a drink, on me. My date Lacie, maybe you've seen her...? Raccoon? I'll have her screw your brains out if you'd like. Go out with a bang, so to speak." He laughed. "Spend your remaining minutes on earth in good cheer. What do you say?" He raised his cup to toast. "To your death."

I raised my cup of tonic and said, "And to yours."

He walked away, stole one brief glance back at me with a taunting grin.

I told myself I wasn't going to die. God would see me through this. But I'd die if that was to be my destiny. I'd enter the kingdom of God, and that would suit me just fine. Being murdered expedites that process, so why should I be afraid?

I glanced over at the bed. Lion's hand was up Black Cat's dress. Ah yes, this would be the opening act of tonight's drama. From my angle I could see all there was to see. Lion was keenly focused on his treat, oblivious to the bystanders who were watching with lewd smiles and trousers tight at the crotch. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't doing this as an act of exhibitionism, not as a treat for his friends. Possibly he was only in it for himself, and caught up in the moment he was blind to the impact his actions had. I hoped so. And truthfully, I believed it to be so.

I watched Lion's exploits aghast. I looked over to the hearth, where Paul and his friend were viewing the same subject-matter. I was acting out my dream. Paul was talking at Devil. I couldn't hear his words but I remembered them from my dream. He wanted Norrah to come down here so he could watch the show, by making her a part of it. That he was directed to go upstairs to Norrah, that could only mean it was a premeditated alibi. Being upstairs with Norrah when it happened would clear him of any suspicion by detectives. Smart. But there was a downside to it, for Paul. He wasn't going to see the festivities take place.

I returned my gaze to Black Cat, who was widening her legs and beginning to convulse. Pirate snapped a picture of her. I saw Paul working his way through the crowd, stole a glance back at Black Cat, adjusted the crotch of his pants. Up the stairs he went.

The fine hairs of my neck and arms stood on end. This was the moment. My attention was immutable, solely on Devil now. Devil, who slowly removed his hat and tossed it aside on the footing of the stone hearth, followed by his mask. This was it.

The music played loudly, but I heard nothing but my impossibly fast heartbeat thundering in my ears.

He tugged off one glove, then the other, placed them in the inside pocket of his tux jacket. His hands were prunish, sinewy, and charcoal black. His nails were clawish, glossy black talons, nothing humankind had ever grown. He availed himself upon the crowd with his first step forward, toward the bed, where a small gathering of like-minded people had surrounded Black Cat and Lion.

Elephant stepped before him, interrupting his slow but purposeful pace.

"Dude, let me see those," Elephant said impressively, pointing at Devil's hands. "Did you do that all on your own?"

Devil stopped and leered at him with a low brow and wide razor-sharp eyes. So profound was the look that it sent Elephant away at once in a back step, mumbling apologies as he removed himself from Devil's presence. I stood bolt upright, sweating profusely, mouth dry as cotton.

Devil stepped to the foot of the bed, glared at Lion's hand penetrating Black Cat. Those on either side of Devil took immediate notice of the unmasked reveler, mirthful expressions blinked away, and they too began working at putting any amount of distance between them and him. There are some things that escape definition, are left wanting for a description and explanation, and Devil's new presence was just that. He was the embodiment of terror, but not in a way that the pen can articulate. To see him would be to understand; anything else would be speculative and fall short of achieving via narrative the dread he instilled in that room. Fear so radiant and pervasive that it spread like a gaseous cloud across the room, engulfing everyone, myself included.

"Lord have mercy," I breathed.

Voices across the room silenced. Music was the only sound. The first of several people took their try at the back door: locked. There would be no opening it, just as the hatch would stay closed from when Paul lowered it behind himself only seconds ago. We were in a thirty-foot by twenty-foot sealed tomb.

Until this moment, Lion and Black Cat hadn't noticed him. Devil reached down to Lion's busy hand, a hand that had just brought his date to a climax, and clasped his wrist, raised it nearer his eyes for scrutinization. Lion projected horror with his expression, but said nothing. I don't believe he had the capacity for vocalizing what he felt. Devil inspected the wet hand for only a second before losing interest. And when he lost interest in the hand, the real show began.

"Brittney!" I cried. I hadn't known her name, but somehow I did now.

Her piercing blue eyes fraught with fear jumped to me. There wasn't a soul here unaware of their new destiny. It wasn't something that me as a writer can convey, how we conceived the idea of our demise, our impending doom, how it manifested as a thought, a simple realization like a whisper in our ears.

"Have faith!" I shouted at her. "Beg God for—" I silenced when Devil's rapacious eyes threatened me before returning to his task.

Devil released Lion and leaned over Black Cat's body, her legs spread wide, and took her by the throat and squeezed, sharp talons burrowing in her flesh. Brittney's eyes goggled. A second later Devil's hand closed on itself having had separated head from body. Her head rolled to a stop at her right cheek, lifeless eyes behind narrow slits.

Shrieking and screaming erupted at once.

Devil now glared at me. My mention of God seconds ago had earned my place as second on his list. He scooped up the headless girl like a groom to a new bride and moved toward me as everyone else dashed pell-mell away from him and toward an exit—exits which were anything but exits; when Pirate punched the glass window it refused to break; when Peacock kicked the window, it remained whole.

I backed away from him until I accidentally knocked the table over, and didn't stop till my butt was against the window sill, nowhere left to go. Never had there been such a baleful, incensed expression as Devil's as he approached me with the headless girl in his arms, a final spurt of blood shooting to the carpet from her neck. Standing before me he managed to open the girl's legs to show me.

_This is what you wanted to see, isn't it? Take a good look,_ I imagined him saying. He wasn't a man of words, but one of actions.

"This is the work of Satan!" I shouted. "Everyone!—you _must_ repent!—you _must—"_

Devil wouldn't permit me to issue another word, another warning. He dropped the body to the floor. His left hand gripped my neck, squeezed. My head would be severed, just as Brittney's had been. But it wasn't happening. I couldn't breathe through his iron grip. His other hand thrust into my mouth, tore out my tongue in one rapid movement. I sensed the pain of it but didn't suffer it. Adrenaline inoculated all pain.

He tossed aside my tongue and released hold of me. I gasped for air, blood gushing out of my mouth. Why had he let me live?

_He wants you to watch,_ my subconscious whispered.

Each word punctuated, a man at the hatch said, "Why, won't, this, fucking, thing, open!" He took another step up the stairs to use his back as leverage, pushed on the hatch that wasn't budging.

"Unlock the damned door already!" shouted a girl.

" _Open it!"_ shouted another.

Devil thrust out a hand as Catwoman dashed by him, caught her by the face. He tore away her mask, and flesh with it. With his other hand he tore off her dress, now naked, save for her white cotton thong that I had recently admired her in. What Mouse wouldn't give for ten minutes alone with that. Devil reached inside her chest as if she were made of tissue-paper instead of flesh, hard tendons and bone. What occurred in her chest was evident, as the life disappeared from her eyes in a split second. In my mind's eye I saw him crush her heart.

He let her fall to the floor, set his sight on Batman, who was staring down at his dead date, thunderstruck, immobile from shock. Devil took him by the shoulders and lifted him off the floor, stepped to the nearest window and pressed him against it, sat him on the sill, snatched the blind-cord and began wrapping it around Batman's neck, then pulled him off the sill. Devil watched Batman gasping fruitlessly for air. To help it along, he jerked up on the cord, tightening the make-shift noose around the boy's neck.

The shrieks and cries were ear-splitting and would forever haunt me.

Lion was next. Lion had just crossed his chest in a Catholic ritual. It was a sure-fire way to put you to the head of the line. With impossible swiftness Devil zeroed in on him, crossed Lion's chest with a finger, opening him up like a science project.

"Seek God!" I tried to say, but only a hoarse sound gurgled up from my tongue-less throat.

A gathering of people were at the door, clawing at it, yanking at the knob, banging at it. Devil stepped to the back of one such masquerader (Pirate), gripped the sides of either arm and ripped them off effortlessly; blood gushed from the sockets. There was a sudden evacuation from the back door. Some fled to the stairs to give the hatch a try, while others tried the windowpanes that might have been a foot thick instead of a quarter-inch.

Peacock mounted the only attack against Devil. He lunged on his back. Devil might have been an iron statue, as the weight on his back did nothing whatsoever. He reached behind to Peacock's head and crushed it like a grape between his two hands.

"Oh my God!" cried Bunny. "My God!"

The following slayings were one after the other, seconds apart. Raccoon's legs ripped off, Phantom's head turned around a hundred-and-eighty degrees, Canary impaled through the stomach by Devil's arm, Leopard's throat tore out.

One by one the room's cries diminished.

I reserved hope that I would be able to escape where others had failed. I was a believer, God would grant me escape through the back door. But the knob wouldn't turn. In the few seconds wasted on the door, Mouse and Raggedy Andy were butchered.

I heard the faint muffled voice of the upstairs woman shouting, "Fuck if I know! People are getting killed I think!"

I turned with my back against the door, watched in horror as the last few masqueraders were forced into the afterlife. Three screaming people became two, became one, become none.

There was silence. I heard only the thumping footsteps across the floorboards upstairs, running from one end to the other.

Devil squared on me, took a single step in my direction.

"Lord my Savior," I muttered, though it came out sounding unintelligible from lack of tongue, "please deliver me from evil. Wrap me in your protective hands."

Devil shook his head at my words, moved closer yet, hands at his side dripping blood onto the carpet.

_Be brave,_ a voice said in my head. It was my voice. _Be not afraid of him, as he cannot take you from me._

That seemed as ludicrous a notion as I'd ever heard. Everywhere I looked was a grisly scene of carnage, blood and dismembered bodies and body parts. He took another step, and another. He reveled in my trepidation, extending the moment to savor. Another step, now just five feet from me.

I side-stepped across the wall away from the door. He countered with a readjustment of trajectory; another step, then another. I was at the side of the bed. I gazed down at the white counterpane with an enormous red puddle of blood like the uncentered red sun of a Japanese flag, its epicenter the edge of the bed, the spot where Brittney's head had been squeezed off and a single yet symbolic drop of blood would later be discovered. Her head remained high up on the bed.

I briefly contemplated hurdling over it to add distance from him, but that's what Devil wanted me to do. He wanted a game of cat and mouse. It would only serve to prolong the inevitable. I resolved to let the end arrive, put my knees on the bed, bowed my head in prayer.

"Lord Jesus," I said. As if my tongue had manifested from nothingness, my voice was now coherent. It emboldened me. "I don't know what to do. Why couldn't I save them? Why am I here if not to save them? Was there no hope for them?"

I felt a tap on my right calf, a playful finger-tap.

"Thank you, Lord, for keeping Brooke safe from this hell. Have Magdalena tell her I love her."

I felt Devil's hand begin pushing through my back, but there was no pain, only pressure and the sound of ribs cracking.

"Tell Brooke yourself," I heard a girl say.

I checked the source of the voice, in the periphery of the room: it was Magdalena, tears dripping off her cheeks. I wished to speak to her, but I was growing weaker by the second, and yearned to rest, to sleep, to wake up in Paradise.

"What do you mean?" I asked her in my head, vision fading away.

_In seven days, tell her,_ she said inside my head.

As I slipped away, I heard a sudden angry outburst from a deep omnipresent voice, directed not at me but at the other.

Here I end my account of the missing twenty-three. The rest you already know, or has been written by others.

### Part 4:

### Chapter Thirty

The pie that had been warm when we began eating was now cold and unappealing. Neither Norrah or I had said a word during Aaron's incredible story. A story that began in the seven o'clock hour and ended in the nine o'clock hour. Sitting across the table from us, Aaron's gaze was vacant, reflective.

"Then"—I coughed, as the prolonged silence had put a frog in my throat—"then what happened?"

Aaron focused on me. "I wish I could remember what God said to that abomination. At least I believe it was God. I guess it could have been my imagination. I was bleeding to death. Maybe I not only hallucinated the voice but Maggie in the corner of the room."

"But Maggie said you'd see Brooke in a week," Norrah reminded.

Aaron nodded, his expression said she had a valid point. "You're right. It's remarkable, to have heard the voice of God, not as a projection of my own. I hope God punished that demon or Devil or whatever he was. _Is."_

"Buddy," I said to him, "would you let me hook you up to a polygraph machine, then retell that story?"

"Jay!" Norrah scorned. "How could you say that!"

I put my hand on hers to silence her. "Would you, bud?"

"I suppose," Aaron said. "But not if anyone will hear what I say, other than you two."

"I wouldn't think of it," I said, "of polygraphing you. I just wondered if you'd submit to it if it came down to it. I do believe you are telling the truth, as incredible a story as it is. It's the only theory I've heard that seems plausible, that makes sense—assuming one believes in God, of course."

Aaron looked vacuously at the plate before him, sections and crumbles of pie.

"Where were you for a week?" I asked him.

"Yes," Norrah urged, "please tell us."

"The question the world wants answered," Aaron said. "It's a question I _can_ answer. You are expecting a remarkable story, so be prepared for disappointment."

Norrah and I sat at the edge of our seats in eager anticipation.

"We never left. We didn't go anywhere for a week."

"I beg to differ," Norrah said. "You most certainly were gone for a week."

"To you we were gone. To everyone we were gone, except us. Time is a hard concept to grasp. Think of a time-line, a vertical one. On top is the present, and down is the past. At the top we came back after seven days of being gone." He pointed to an invisible spot below the upper spot that is present." Now think of that time-line differently, as lateral instead of vertical. Here is now"—he pointed to a spot on the table—"and here is seven days ago." He pointed to his left on the table. "Here we both are," he said and fingered a spot above the table. "This is the present in perpetuity, just above this time-line. The moment we went away and the moment we returned was the same moment, only farther down the lateral time-line. There was no time lapsed for us, only to you all. It's perception. I know, it's a hard concept to grasp. There is no time to God. In Heaven there is no time. A man who died a thousand years ago enters Heaven just as we enter Heaven. You might wonder where he has been during all those years. The answer is nowhere, he ascends to heaven the moment he dies, just as we do, and we all arrive there at the same moment. Time is lateral, not vertical. When your loved-one dies, they don't wait in Heaven for you, because you enter at the same moment. Am I confusing you two?"

"No-no," I said. "I think I get it."

Norrah said she understood, but her screwed-up face suggested she didn't. "So there's no time," she said.

"There is," Aaron said, "but it's an earthen thing. Not Heavenly. We didn't go anywhere for a week, we just recommenced living at a point farther down the time-line than everyone else. But there was no lapse in time. I can't say when precisely we returned to the present, when—"

"9:04," I said. "That's when you returned."

"Yeah, but I don't recall the exact moment, is what I mean. It was a seamless transition."

"Yeah," I mused, "but... but if it was seamless, how'd you—"

"Yes, how do I remember the other stuff that happened? I believe I'm the only one who recalls what else happened. And it wasn't profound, the memory, it was vague, like trying to remember a dream. But the memory crept back, until it was crystal clear. At first I had to really think about it, but when I asked you"—he directed at me—"the date and you gave me that look, I knew I was right. It wasn't a dream, but the reality. What had happened with us being murdered, that really happened. And for some reason nobody remembers it happening but me."

"God brought you all back to life," Norrah said. "Didn't He?"

"He did."

"Oh my," she said and shivered. "It gives me the chills."

"The thing is, every one of us down there deserved what we got from Devil. As bad as that sounds, we deserved it. Including myself. I'm a sinner like the others, wayward no less than the rest. Well, maybe a little less. I wish I knew why God would grant us such a monumental miracle, but He did. And why I was supposed to be there... _here._ I didn't prevent anything from happening, so what was the point? I have a lot of unanswered questions. I understand there is evil in the world, but I wouldn't have thought some demon had the power to take us in the flesh like that. And that Paul is connected to him is horrifying. I have to imagine something like this could happen again. Paul is arrogant, he'll do this again if he can. Maybe not, since he's obtained some fame, has a name people recognize. I don't know. Paul has formed some alliance with him, one that began when he was young. It makes no sense to me. It isn't supposed to happen, you know? Unless... unless it _is_ supposed to happen."

"What do you mean?" I asked Aaron.

"I mean, unless he is fulfilling a prophecy. The scriptures. Maybe he is Satan's chosen one."

"Like you said earlier, about him being the Antichrist?" Norrah said.

Aaron nodded. "That is the only thing that makes sense to me, how it could be that he has the knowledge that he does; it's from the devil. On the other hand, I think it's highly improbable that he is the Antichrist, because mankind won't know who he is before it's time to know; God sees to it that the secret of that monster will remain undiscovered. That I suspect Paul is the Antichrist is the closest thing to proof that he isn't. That's why I'm so puzzled at everything."

"Do you fully comprehend and appreciate how special you and the other twenty-two are?" Norrah asked. "To have been brought back to life by God? In history, how many people can say that?"

"Lazarus," I said. "For one."

"Yes," Aaron said. "It's really something. I wish Magdalena would pay me a visit. I have a lot of questions for her."

"An angel," Norrah said, shaking her head in awe. "You've met an angel. So incredible."

"As has Tinkerbelle."

"Speaking of Tinkerbelle," I said, "what's up with her? Is she okay? Head all right?"

"She's fine. She's a little upset with me because I won't tell her what happened. I suppose I should, but I can't get myself to. I don't know why."

"Yet you told us," Norrah said.

Aaron nodded, then shrugged with a grin. "Just you two. God guides me, always, and it's okay that I told you. I sense that. I haven't felt that way with Tinkerbelle. I did talk to her a little. We agreed to get together in Fresno when I return, hang out. We'll see what happens. I don't plan on telling her much about anything. Anything related to this miracle, that is."

"Will you not tell anyone else?" I asked. "Ever?"

"If it is God's will."

"You should, Aaron," Norrah coaxed. "Really, you should. Your calling is sermonizing, and what better material for reaching people than to tell them your story?"

"Do you honestly think people would believe me? Because I don't."

"They wouldn't," I said. "Maybe some would, but it's a crazy story."

"A writer," Aaron said, "G.K. Chesterton, has a quote: Anything over-simplified sounds fantastic. Or something like that. My story would need to be written at length so it doesn't sound like a piece of science-fiction. Maybe a novel or something."

"Maybe that's your calling," Norrah said.

"Maybe."

"So what are you going to do here," I asked, "from now till you head back up to Fresno?"

"Nothing, I guess. I'm a little perplexed at why I'm to stay here for two weeks and not just one. No good has come from my extra week here so far. Well, I got to meet you two, and that is something."

"Why thank you," Norrah said. "It was a pleasure for us, too."

"Eh," I said, "my company isn't _that_ great. I agree with Aaron. If your fate was to spend an extra week here, I doubt it was intended to be spent getting to know me better."

"If you two give your lives over to God, it was well worth it," Aaron said. "What more could I ask for?"

I looked over at Norrah, who matched my optical intensity. Together we made a decision silently with our eyes.

"After what you shared with me," I said, "I'd be a fool not to believe in God. I mean, I have always believed in Him, but I'd fall under the category of 'attend church twice a year,' because it's the right thing to do. I don't pray. I know in my heart that God is real, and feel His presence through all that has happened."

"As well as I do," Norrah said. "I'd be honored to be baptized by you, Aaron."

"Yes, me too," I said.

Aaron was misty-eyed, flashing between our gazes. He bowed his head and said a prayer, thanked God for this blessing. After his prayer, I asked if he wanted to baptize us right now. He said Sunday would be best. He'd do it before driving back up to Fresno that afternoon. We could do it at the lake. I knew just the spot, a few miles down the road, a place where we'd have privacy. It was near a boat-ramp, but not too near. There was a sandy beach, one that would be vacant this time of year. We all agreed to it, Sunday morning at eight o'clock. Aaron would meet us at Norrah's house at seven for a nice breakfast, then we'd get baptized.

### Chapter Thirty One

Aaron spent the remainder of the week mostly in his hotel room, feeling like he was wasting his time here in the mountains. He awaited direction, something, anything, but got nothing. He looked forward to our baptism, but that wasn't till Sunday. He was eating up vacation time needlessly in the meantime. I felt bad for him, being alone there. He'd come over to eat dinner with us every evening, and I looked forward to it all day, every day. He was becoming a dear friend, and my mentor.

I was spending the evenings at Norrah's, from our threesome dinner parties till the following morning when I'd leave for work. We spent less time in bed than we did reading the scriptures together. We were growing spiritually, and emotionally by falling in love.

Thursday was a huge day. Norrah filmed an interview at NBC at noon, which would air that evening at eight, and then be re-broadcast several times in the following days. You are probably familiar with the interview, but probably don't know how well she was paid for it. Being that she blew off increasingly larger offers time and time again, it came to a point that they threw the kitchen sink at her with an offer of seven figures. From poor to millionaire in the span of an hour. The price-tag of a million was supposed to remain in confidentiality, but it leaked out to the public right away.

Of that money she has kept three-hundred-and-fifty thousand of it. It's in the bank, collecting interest. She gave ten percent of the million to Calvary Chapel, Aaron's church. He wept that Saturday evening when she wrote him the check for a hundred grand. He said that money would build the add-on that he had been dreaming of for so long. He went as far as to say it might have been the purpose of his taking two weeks of vacation instead of one. A dual purpose, because in that second week of vacation he met and connected with us, which led to him converting us. Five-hundred thousand of her money was put into a fund that the twenty-three could access to use for tuition and books and dorms and cafeteria meal cards. Brittney was the first to learn of this good news, and did so when Norrah called her. She was humbled, cried and thanked her over and over again, said that maybe her parents would redirect their funds for living expenses now. The good news wasn't over, Norrah said: she had reserved fifty grand for Brittney personally, to use how she saw fit.

Brittney and Norrah have since become close friends, phone calls regularly, visits frequent, and I believe they will be close forever.

The cash award for the interview wasn't earned, in my opinion. Norrah answered the questions asked, but didn't offer any ideas of her own. She said not a word of what Aaron had said. She did say the truth, that she heard the twenty-three screaming bloody murder, but didn't mention that she saw their corpses on more than one occasion. The question the interviewer asked several times (because he was left unsatisfied each time) was what did she believe happened to the kids for those seven days. Norrah said she couldn't even begin to guess at that. You could almost hear the interviewer thinking _We paid you a million bucks for this?_

After the interview aired, pundits of competing news channels opined that Norrah wasn't being forthcoming, was hiding what she really believed. That bothered Norrah. It wasn't a full day later that she agreed to give other interviews, and didn't charge for them. She recited the same things in each interview, but finally added something new, and that was a possible theory as to what happened to the twenty-three. Here's what she said, in case you missed the interviews:

"If I was forced to guess, I'd say God had something to do with their return. From the very beginning I knew that they were dead because I heard it happen, heard them being brutally murdered. From what or whom I couldn't say, but I heard it, plain as day. Paul Klein heard it plain as day, too. When I told him the kids had returned, alive, he didn't believe me because in his mind he already knew what had happened downstairs, and the only mystery wasn't the fate of the kids but where their bodies went. Yes, I believe God gave them a second chance, brought them back to life. I can't guess as to why their bodies weren't found during that week, unless maybe it was because a buried body can't resurrect? I know how ridiculous that sounds, but isn't it true? If they were in coffins, how would they be reanimated back to life? I don't know, only God knows, so it's kind of pointless for me to speculate. But today I wanted that to be known, what I really feel in my heart, and that is God is responsible for delivering those kids from death. In these recent days I have found God; this episode is the reason. How could I not believe when I witnessed such a miracle? It opened my eyes. And for that I'm grateful. Something good came out of this, and hopefully others will find Him because of it."

She thought that interview would lessen the rumors and suppositions, but that wasn't the case. She was a bible-toting whacko, some pundits said. She gave more interviews to try to redeem her reputation, but to no avail. She did receive praise once it leaked that she set up a foundation for the twenty-three, and that she gave the church a large donation.

We had told no one of our plans of baptism. Norrah, Aaron, and myself ate a sumptuous breakfast that Sunday morning before heading out to the dock and boat-ramp. There wasn't a lot of ceremony involved, as I had imagined there would be. Aaron hadn't any formal robes or anything, so that's probably why. He wore his tuxedo minus the bow tie and jacket. Norrah wore a white dress purchased just for the occasion, and I wore Dockers and white dress shirt.

It was sunny out, but still cold at this early hour. There were a few beer cans on the sandy beach, gulls picking at scraps of food, ducks at the shore and some swimming in the shallows. The lake was deep blue with arcs of reflected morning sunlight, and looked freezing-cold. There was a residential tract of houses to our left, a community named Evergreen Estates, a gate letting access to this beach from that exclusive community. They were two long rows of houses, the front row facing the road (behind a fancy decorative gate), the back row facing the lake. There was a communal boat dock to our right, and a line of dense shrubs behind us, separating us from the busy road following the contour of the lake. There wasn't a soul in sight, save for us three and a speedboat in the great distance, droning at a high speed. We heard cars motor by us frequently. They wouldn't be able to see us, unless they glimpsed us through a gap in the shrubbery, but it didn't matter. We weren't hiding, but we did want privacy for what we were about to do. We were constantly aware of Norrah's celebrity, so privacy had become a kind of constant ambition of ours.

The three of us gathered in a circle at the shoreline. Aaron said a long thoughtful prayer. So touching it was that Norrah and I had watery eyes. I felt like a child. In a way, we had become children again, she and I. Born again. That morning Aaron wasn't my friend but something much more. Never had I respected and admired someone as much as I did just then.

Upon concluding the prayer, Aaron said, "I hope this water isn't as cold as I think it's going to be."

Norrah grinned at him. I hissed and winced, said, "If we tossed an ice cube in there, I wouldn't expect it to melt for a good while."

He nodded and took a deep breath. "So be it."

We kicked off our shoes and peeled off our socks. Even the sand was freezing cold. I took Norrah's hand, faced the lake with her. Tiny waves lapped at the shore. A pair of love-bird ducks glided across the water before us.

Aaron was the first to take a step into the water. He was a brave man. He marched right in, slacks and all, and kept going until the water was at his stomach. He didn't hiss or make a face. He was a stronger man than myself!

I smiled over at my girlfriend, appreciated my fortune in having her. She smiled back, asked if I was ready, and not just ready to enter the freezing water, but to give myself over to the Lord.

"Absolutely I am. I've never been more ready for anything. And there's something else, sweetheart." Her brow arched a little. "I want you to know how much it means to me that you're doing this with me, by my side. That we are doing this together, as a couple bonded not only by God but by love and devotion for one another. And when I say love, I mean love. I have developed feelings for you that I've never before felt. I know this feeling to be love, Norrah. I just wanted to tell you that before we did this together, that I love you."

She flung herself on me, hugged me tightly, kissed me. "Oh Jay... I love you."

Aaron clapped from the water. "God bless you two," he said. "May your love last an eternity."

"I don't believe that will take much of a miracle," I said to him.

"I can't wait to have babies with you," she said, still hugging me.

I humored. "Let's not pull the cart before the horse."

"I know. It's just exciting, isn't it? We're forming a new life with God, and with each other. A family. So naturally I picture new members of our family, little ones who have half your features and half mine." She grinned at me, an impossible one not to reciprocate.

"Hopefully more your features than mine. Ready to do this?"

"I am," she said boldly. "Let's do it."

Hand in hand we took our first step into the blue water, our eyes fixed on one another's. We didn't stop sloshing our way until we were at Aaron's side. We were crying unapologetically. Norrah's white dress puddled up at her stomach; she pushed it down but it floated back up.

"Incredible," Aaron whispered. "Praise God for this small miracle."

"You too?" I said to Norrah.

She nodded, wiped her eyes. "I don't feel it at all."

"Nothing," I said. "I feel nothing. The water is neutral. How on earth?"

"It's not of earth," Aaron said.

We bowed our heads, Aaron prayed. He recited verses of the bible, none of which I had yet read with Norrah during our studies, but I looked forward to reading them. And when I'd read them I'd remember this profound moment, when I entered a lake of freezing water and felt nothing physical but everything emotional.

He dunked me in the lake first, then Norrah, washing our sins clean. Born again we were. It's more than a term, it's a sensation, an overwhelming presence felt in your heart, and that presence is God. We hugged in a circle as Aaron offered a final prayer. At its end we broke apart and trudged our way to the shore, side by side by side.

"Tell me you see her," Aaron said solemnly. "Tell me it isn't just me."

I looked over at him, then followed his gaze to the tract of houses at our right, the gate separating Evergreen Estates with this public beach. The gate was open, as it had been, but who stood before it was new. It was a little girl whom I hadn't before seen, but knew her identity as positively as I knew my own.

Norrah stopped, gasped, covered her mouth, eyes wide and exultant. "Is it... _her?"_

We all stopped just before the shore.

"You _see_ her?" Aaron marveled.

"Yes," I whispered. "I sure do."

Magdalena stood there like a ghost, motionless. She wasn't smiling, but had a pleased expression.

"Unbelievable," Aaron said. "This is awesome, I want to speak with her. Let me introduce you guys to her."

As we took our first steps onto the shore, the girl took one step backward, through the archway of the black iron gate.

"Don't go," Aaron said at her.

She took another step back. That's when Aaron took to a sprint. With that she turned and ran along a cement path snaking around the perimeter of the community.

"Wait!" Aaron shouted.

Norrah and I waited at the shore, watched Aaron disappear behind a tall hedge of bushes lining the inside of the gate.

Maggie was quick, but Aaron was quicker. She was better than forty yards ahead of him, but he was slowly gaining on her. He'd later say that he wasn't sure why he put chase to her, but felt compelled to do so. There were questions to ask her that he had wracked his brain over all week.

The walkway curved around the front row of houses facing the main road. Maggie glanced back at her pursuer, continued along the path. A car drove by. The passenger looked back amusedly at the man soaking wet running his ass off before an upper-crust community. Surely there was a great story there, the man would think.

"Please, stop!" Aaron shouted at Maggie. She didn't.

He was only thirty yards from her now, bare feet slapping the concrete as he dashed. Also barefooted, Maggie turned at a fork in the path that was between two large lots, three story houses with imposing facades on either side. When he turned onto that same path he glimpsed her cutting left onto another path just past the second row of houses following the shoreline, and lost sight of her behind some shrubbery. When he reached that path he couldn't find her.

Huffing for air he stopped, scanned the area for her. There were boathouses to his right, front yards to his left. Massive houses stilted above the ground to offer the wealthy home-owners exceptional views of the lake. Houses with sectional windows spanning two stories. Houses with guest houses. He strolled along the walkway catching his breath.

"Magdalena? Where are you? Please, I want to talk to you."

Aaron walked by the first boathouse and stopped at the second, a rectangular wooden structure with a door facing the walkway and an open back. The door was open, a padlock hanging on its latch. A young man was inside, sitting on the aft bench seat of an aluminum boat, facing the motor, its cowl open. He was tinkering with something.

"Excuse me," Aaron said and stepped closer to the door, "but did you see a little girl just run by?"

He looked up, startled. "Shit, you scared me."

"Sorry."

"No I didn't. Hey, do you know anything about boat motors by chance?"

"Not the first thing, sorry."

The young man returned his focus back to the motor, ran his finger down a hose. "I don't think it's getting any fuel," he said.

"Wish I could help," Aaron said and took his first step away from the boathouse. Then stopped, looked back at the man contemplatively. He scrutinized him, felt something awaken in his memory. "Do I know you?"

The man looked up at Aaron briefly before returning to his motor. "I doubt it."

Aaron stepped inside the boathouse, shadowy at this front end, bright at the wide open other end. "Name's Aaron." He reached his hand to the man in the boat, who stared down at his greasy hand and apologized for not shaking.

"Taylor," he said. "You live around here?"

"No. I can't shake the sensation that I've seen you before."

He nodded, as if he expected that to be the case. "You probably have, if you've watched the news at all lately."

"You were on the news?"

"I give up," Taylor said and stood. The boat listed side to side. He stepped onto the planked landing of the boathouse. "I'll have to get a mechanic to take a look at it. Do you know any good boat mechanics who work for cheap?"

"No, sorry. I guess that's why you look familiar, I've been watching the news a lot lately."

"As everyone has," he muttered. "Especially those who live up here."

"Wait a minute..." Aaron said with sudden remembrance. "You gave an interview, didn't you?"

"Yep." Taylor sighed and lowered the cowl over the outboard engine.

"Incredible!" Aaron said and reached his hand out again to shake. "I don't care about the grease."

Taylor shrugged and shook his hand.

"This is really something, my friend," Aaron said. "This is truly something special. I believe I recognize you not from the interview but from your jaw and mouth. Well," he said inwardly, "maybe mostly from the interview, but I was at the party that night."

The man's eyes doubled in size. He stepped into Aaron and hugged him tightly, taking Aaron wholly by surprise. Aaron hugged him, clapped him on the back.

"Good to meet you, bud," Taylor said. "It's crazy isn't it? How sharing something like that can bring together virtual strangers, but I feel like I have a brother in you already and we just met."

"Agreed. Something like that forms a kind of bond that will never end."

"Which one were you? I was Raggedy Andy."

"Frog."

"Cool, I remember you. You were sitting alone at the table, huh?" He stepped out to the walkway with Aaron at his side, closed and locked the door behind him. "I'm glad you happened by. So you don't live around here then?"

"Nah, was just passing by."

"What a coincidence, huh? I don't believe we've met before. You don't go to U of R, do you?"

"I went to Fresno State."

"Sweet. I love the Bulldogs. They have a bad-ass wrestling team."

"Have you met with any of the others from that night?"

"Not yet," Taylor said, "but I chewed the shit with a couple buddies over the phone. Dustin and Jordy—Mouse and Batman, if you remember them. I didn't go to any classes this week, but I'm returning tomorrow. I'm dreading it. I'm sure a lot of people will be hounding me, asking question after damned question. I'm just glad that the party wasn't at my house. It was supposed to be, originally."

"No kidding?"

He nodded. "My parents vacation got pushed back so the party got moved over to Paul's. Well, Norrah's."

"I see. So you live here with your parents?"

"Kind of. I live in the guest house. It's much too small to host a party. It's more like a small studio apartment—then again Paul's room wasn't so big either. Oh well. But if the party had been here, who knows what might have happened."

"Maybe nothing," Aaron said.

"Yeah, maybe. But maybe the same thing, or worse. It would be my name all over the news, if it had." He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his hands on it, began walking away from the boathouse. "Let's go for a little walk."

Together they strolled along the walkway, past a private dock and more boathouses. Aaron was awed over the giant houses and the meticulously maintained landscape. He never thought a property could look so magnificent without any lawn whatsoever. There was only dirt, lots of pine trees and a complete absence of pine-needles, no carpeting of them like you'd find anywhere else.

"So Aaron," Taylor said, looking down at the sidewalk before him, "have any nightmares since that night?"

"No. I take it you have?"

He nodded grimly. "Not just me. Jordy and Dustin, too. Nasty ones. I mean really fucked up. I wake up screaming."

"What of?"

"What else? The party."

"Jordy and Dustin too?"

"Yep."

"May I take a guess as to what happens in them?"

"By all means," Taylor said intrigued.

"Do you recall one of the masqueraders? A guy with a horned black hat, a white porcelain mask?"

Taylor stopped, then Aaron. "Go on," he said.

"He killed us," Aaron said.

"Some guess. What do you suppose that means? That we're having the same dream?"

"That the guy behind the horned mask really left an impact on you all?"

"Yes." He retook his leisurely pace, Aaron at his side. "I suppose it's not all that crazy, being that the dude was the only one who didn't end up missing, other than Paul. He was creepy, man. That damned smile."

"Yeah he was. Taylor, did you happen to catch Norrah's interview on CNN last night?"

"Last night?" He reflected. "No, I must have missed that one. Not that it matters, they're all the same. She knows as little as anyone. I heard she got paid a grip of dough for that NBC interview. Isn't that nice, bitch profiting off our misery?"

"First of all, she's just as miserable as any of us. You have no idea what she went through, being the home-owner and only one left to answer questions. People harass her, allege she's responsible for what happened. Secondly, that 'bitch' is a dear friend of mine."

"Oh, sorry." He looked over at Aaron. "Really, I'm sorry. That was uncool of me to say. And you're right, I didn't consider that."

"No worries. And you should know that she gave most of the money away."

"Yeah I heard about the scholarship fund. That is pretty cool. I just figured she did it so people wouldn't accuse her of profiting off our suffering."

"She's not like that, Taylor. She's a sweet, giving person. Anyway, the CNN interview was different from the others. Check it out on YouTube. She finally gave a theory as to what happened to us all."

"No kidding? What did she say?"

"She said she heard us getting murdered, was certain we had all died."

"Really..." Taylor mused. "She's nuts then."

"But your dreams..."

He nodded. "So what does she think, that we got murdered and a week later got resurrected somehow? Got put back together?"

"That's her theory, yes."

"Why don't we remember it happening then? There are the dreams, sure, but those are just dreams, not memories. We'd remember it happening, wouldn't we? Not to mention how impossible that is."

Aaron took a deep pensive breath, faced the lake which shimmered under the morning sun. "Taylor, I uh... I _do_ remember it happening. What Norrah said, it's the truth. It happened."

Taylor was slack-jawed, speechless.

"It's true. I do remember. Her theory isn't a theory to me, but the reality of it all."

"Tell me."

"It all happened so fast. Kids screaming and running away from him. I was pleading with you all to repent, to beg God for forgiveness. He didn't like me saying that, so he... he tore my tongue out."

"You're shitting me," Taylor whispered. "I can't believe it."

"I don't blame you for not believing me, but it's the truth. I saw everyone die. I saw Raggedy Andy's heart get ripped out of his chest, a heart still beating in his disgusting hand. I was the last to go. The last to die."

Taylor put a hand over his heart. "If what you're saying is true, we rose from the dead. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Is that any harder to believe than we vanished into thin air for seven days only to return just as we had been, as if nothing had happened? Which is harder to believe?"

"Who was the guy? Do you know?"

"I don't. Something evil."

"Some _thing?"_

"He wasn't a man. Demonic."

"The devil?"

"No, I don't think he was the devil. But I believe God brought us back. Who else could perform such a miracle?"

"I respect your belief," Taylor said, "but I disagree. There has to be some logical explanation, even though I can't think of one. Even though no one can think of one. But demons and God and all that, eh... I just don't buy it. I don't believe in God."

"Maybe that's why you were there," Aaron said under his breath.

"You believe in God?"

"I'm a pastor. Yes I believe in God."

"Really? Honestly, you're a pastor?"

"Yes."

"You're contradicting yourself then. No offense, man. You just said I was there because I don't believe in God, but you yourself were there and do believe. If you're implying that it was the devil killing us, or that God let us die because we are atheists or whatever, then why weren't you spared?"

"It's a long story. I chose to be there, knowing something was going to happen, though I didn't know what."

They stopped together where the path forked. They turned around and together headed back the way they came.

"I think if I shared my story with you," Aaron said, "you might be more apt to believe what I'm saying. I live in Fresno. I've never been to southern California, let alone Lake Arrowhead. I know nobody here, didn't even know where the party was to be, yet I came here with a tux and mask and somehow knew that I'd be there. There was a force guiding me here, and I believe that to be the hand of God. If you have some time, I'd like to talk to you about it at length."

"I'd love to hear it, man. I mean it, I'd love to hear it."

"I'm with a couple friends. Norrah and that cop who was with her that night. They're over at the beach. How about early this afternoon I stop by and we talk?"

"That would be great. You know where I live, so just stop by any time. Just walk up the cobblestone path around the house, it leads to the guest-house. I'll be there all day."

"I'll do that."

"I bet the others would love to hear what you have to say, too. Sounds like you're the only one with any kind of conviction as to what happened. Right or wrong, you have it figured out. The rest of us haven't connected a single dot. Well I can't speak for everyone, but those I've spoken with."

"The others would love to hear what you have to say, too," Aaron repeated to himself, meditatively. "I wish I didn't have to return to Fresno tonight."

"Not that I believe what you said, but if you're right about God and stuff, how incredible would that be, that God brought us back to life after being murdered. I mean, how amazing is that?"

"Very," Aaron agreed, dwelling on that assertion: 'Others would love to hear what you have to say, too.' "When I return later, would you give me the phone numbers of the others?"

"You got it. The ones I don't know I can get. I'll give them a heads up, even. They'll be thrilled, trust me. You don't know how all-consuming it is to seek the answers that just aren't there. I figured you could empathize with us, but turns out you already have your mind made up."

"I appreciate this more than you know, Taylor."

"My pleasure. This might give us some kind of closure—if we come to believe what you tell us is true, that is."

### Chapter Thirty Two

Norrah and I were sitting Indian style on the sandy beach, facing one another, giddy in love. Aaron returned to us with a bright smile. From it, I assumed he had caught that little scamp and got some answers out of her.

"Caught that little pixie, did you?" I said to him before he arrived at our company.

"Not quite. But I followed her right into a guy named Taylor. Taylor was Raggedy Andy, one of the masqueraders."

"No kidding?" I said. "Taylor Labaucher? I remember the name. Yep, one of the twenty-three, just as Aaron Mendelssohn is."

He took a seat beside us.

"I was one of the twenty-three reported missing," Aaron said. "I never really considered that, how my name entered that mix. I get it with the others, their parents reported their child missing after hearing the story on the news and trying to contact their kid. But I wouldn't have had anyone to report me missing, yet I made the list. I know my dad was called by the police, but how did that come to be?"

"It _is_ possible there were more than twenty-three missing," I said. "There were twenty-three that we know of, confirmed missing."

"How did you know I was one of them?"

"The cars on the street. Registration. After getting your name, your family would have been called and questioned. Don't underestimate the power of scores of detectives with unlimited resources."

"Ah," Aaron said. "That makes sense. Guys, I now know why I'm still here. To share my story with the others. They're having nightmares of that night. Nightmares of Devil killing everybody there. I only wish I had run into Taylor sooner. I'd like to speak with each and every one of those kids, but haven't the time to do it. I have to leave tonight."

"Extend your vacation," Norrah suggested. "This is more important than teaching. It's teaching of another fashion, about God."

"I agree, but I don't think that's what's supposed to happen. I asked for two weeks off, and they are over. This is the way it's meant to be. And I was meant to run into Taylor just now, that's why Maggie lured me over there. Everything happens for a reason. I'm coming back here a little later, to speak at length with Taylor about my story. I figure I'll check out of my hotel, stop by on my way out of town."

"We're going to miss you, Aaron," Norrah said.

"We are," I said. "Let's do more than stay in touch. We can come up to see you from time to time, and you are always welcome at my place."

"And mine," she said.

"I appreciate that, guys. You have been too kind to me. I'm blessed to have made friends with you."

"What we were saying before you returned," I said, "is how nice it would be to have that punk ass Paul here right now. How satisfying it would be to grill that asshole. It would take every ounce of restraint in me just to keep from pummeling that dude into a world of hurt."

"Vengeance is God's," Aaron said.

"I suppose, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like a turn at giving that punk his comeuppance."

"We won't ever see him again, that's my guess," Aaron said. "He'll move on to another city, another state maybe. He'll probably change his name, too. If his name is even Paul Klein. There is no record of him, as you said, so it's probably a fake name. I wouldn't be surprised if he moved to some little farm town in a state like Kansas or Nebraska, in a town not too hip on current events. And who knows what he might get up to there."

"Too bad it wasn't God's will for us to run him down and send him to hell," Norrah said. I couldn't believe she said it. She was far too sweet and kind a woman to entertain such dark thoughts.

"You shouldn't think things like that," Aaron said. "Like I said, like the bible says, Vengeance is God's. Don't worry about Paul. God is watching him."

### Chapter Thirty Three

It was an emotional hour, the three of us in Aaron's hotel room. We prayed, cried, embraced, made plenty of promises to meet up again soon. As he cranked over the engine of his filthy pickup truck, I was standing before the driver's side window; Norrah was at the passenger-side window, tears rolling down her cheek.

"Do me a favor," Aaron said to Norrah. "Keep on Brittney, okay? I think what happened to her there on the bed happened for a good reason. See to it that she changes her way, tell her about Christ. It's amazing how something so horrible can end up being a positive thing, but I believe that's the case with Brittney."

"I will," she said.

Aaron looked up at me. "Buddy, friend, brother, you take care. And take care of this wonderful woman. She's a celebrity and will need your protection. Hopefully in the future people will forget her, but we're far from that day. She could be in no better hands than your own."

I shook his hand, wished him a safe drive back to Fresno.

It was noon when he pulled out of the hotel parking lot. He drove to the vaunted Evergreen Estates only a few miles away. He tried entering through the front gate but didn't know the gate-code and didn't know Taylor's address. He turned around and parked at the same location on the side of the road that we had a couple hours ago. He walked along the sand toward the open gate, his hands in his pockets. He gazed at the blue lake, the water undoubtedly frigid, painfully so. He hoped his luck would find Maggie around here, but that wasn't the case. Could there be any doubt that she manifested here to bring him to Taylor?

He arrived at the open gate, an iron beam arching over the two posts, a sign reading Evergreen Estates hanging off that beam by a pair of chains. Aaron glanced at the ground before him, spied something and stopped, stooped down and picked up a gold chain. He untangled it and spread it open: it was a charm bracelet. He wondered if it was real gold or fake. It sure looked like real gold. The tiny charms were gold as well, and they were an assortment of things such as hearts, a peace sign, a moon, sun, clover, and a cross. Two crosses, actually. The bracelet was fashioned for a small wrist, its hole too small for someone like Aaron to wear. The kid who lost it would be devastated. He put it in his pocket and decided he'd later make a Craigslist add for it, and if claimed he'd mail it to its rightful owner. The idea that it might be Maggie's never occurred to him. She was not of this world, but this bracelet was. It had little blemishes, marred from glancing off things. It was the possession of a flesh-and-bone kid. But he'd reconsider soon enough.

He traversed the walkway, past the first boathouse and at the second he turned left onto the large Labaucher property. The lot was on an incline, the bottom story of the prominent house had an enormous terrace. A man was seated on a patio-chair, lounging with his feet on an ottoman. He was on the phone. As Aaron made his way toward the side of the house the man lowered the phone and asked if he could help him.

"I'm here to see Taylor. I'm a friend of his."

He nodded and pointed to the side of the house, continued his conversation.

Behind the house was a smaller one, Taylor's supposed home. As he stepped to the doorway he heard laughter inside. He knocked. Taylor opened the door with a smile and said, "What's up, bro?"

"Hey. Is this a good time?"

"Of course," Taylor said and stepped aside. "Come on in, amigo."

There was another young man inside, deep in a recliner. His eyes were glazed and it smelled of pot inside. Aaron tried to recognize his mouth and jaw.

"Have a seat," Taylor said. "Can I get you a beer or something?"

Aaron sat at the end of the couch and refused refreshment. Taylor sat at the other end of the couch. "Aaron, this is Cody. Cody, Aaron. Frog, Pirate. Pirate, Frog."

The two got off their seats to shake hands, then returned.

"I remember you," Cody said with a grin and stony red eyes. "You were a loner."

"And I remember you. You took a picture of Black Cat and Lion."

Cody withdrew a cellphone from his pocket, tapped Photos icon and tossed it eight feet to Aaron. Aaron caught it and looked down at it.

"Go ahead," Cody said, "check the pictures I took that night."

Aaron was looking at a picture of Canary striking a silly pose, a coquette with a license to uninhibited fun. He swiped the screen to the next picture. Batman was flipping off the photographer. Another swipe. Lion was kissing Black Cat. Another swipe. Lion's hand was on Black Cat's knee, not yet exploring her. Aaron guessed the next picture would be the one. But that was the last picture.

Aaron stared confusedly at the phone.

"I deleted it, man," Cody said. "I had second thoughts about it after that night. I thought you might like to know that, being that you're a pastor and all. Taylor told me."

"I'm glad to see that," Aaron said. "A picture like that could circulate on the internet pretty quickly, especially being the circumstance of the picture and who was in it. One of the missing twenty-three. I bet National Enquirer would pay good money for such a photo. Any of these photos, really."

"Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not going to share any of the pictures with anyone. And I bet you're right, I could sell some of these. Oh well. Doesn't seem right. I wouldn't do that to any of my fellow twenty-three."

Aaron nodded, then swiped the pictures to the earlier ones, which seemed to tell a story in reverse. Each swipe rewound time a few minutes or more. There was a picture of Elephant taking a toke off a joint through his latex trunk. There was a picture of Butterfly suckling on Frog's ear.

"You got one of me," Aaron said, a little embarrassed. "Nothing happened between she and I."

"Don't worry about it, bud. Like I said, nobody will see them. That chick wanted you, I saw her checking you out a few times. You could have nailed her if you wanted."

"Dude," Taylor reprimanded. "He's a pastor, don't say that."

"Sorry," Cody said.

"No, it's cool. I'm not so different than you all. I too feel a connection with the twenty-three that extends almost to brotherhood. It's a hard thing to put into words."

"Totally," Taylor said. "A bond. Like you said, brothers. Hey, you want a toke off the water-bong?"

"Nah, I'm good. I appreciate the offer, but I'm not much of a pot smoker. I won't judge you all for doing it. I've been doing way too much judging. Not anymore."

Cody grinned that stoned grin, said, "Judge not less ye be judged."

"That's right," Aaron said. "We'd all do good to follow that."

There was a picture of the banner above the fireplace reading Valentine's Day Masquerade, 2013. Aaron swiped it to the preceding picture and gasped, dropped the phone out of his hands.

Both Cody and Taylor said what. Aaron's troubled eyes flashed from Cody to Taylor.

"Let me see," Cody said and got off his chair, took the phone off the carpeted floor and retook his recliner. He peered closely at the picture. By his reaction he saw it too, Aaron judged. He wasn't alarmed, but perhaps mystified.

"What is it?" Taylor asked him.

"Look," Cody the once-Pirate said, and tossed the phone to his friend on the couch.

"What is it?" Taylor said and looked at the screen.

"It's him," Aaron said. "Paul's friend."

"The guy in our dreams," Cody said solemnly.

"You've been having the dreams too, I hear." Aaron said to him.

He nodded.

"Whoa, trippy," Taylor said, eyes just inches from the screen. "It's just the red-eyes of a photograph, but it's still trippy."

"But Paul's eyes aren't red," Aaron pointed out. "Only his friend's are."

"You're right," Taylor said and inspected it further. "It's the fire reflecting in them, that's what it is. Totally trippy. God, his expression. That damned smile, those excited eyes... guy's a maniac. A fiend. Was a fitting costume, the devil horns. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the devil, you know?"

"He ripped your arms right out of their sockets," Aaron said to Cody. "Effortlessly. I saw it."

Cody looked at Aaron, aghast. That was a buzz kill if ever there was one.

Taylor nodded and said, "He saw us all die, man. That's why I invited you over, I wanted you to hear what he has to say. Maybe it's all in his head, but maybe it isn't. He doesn't strike me as a liar, does he to you? The bottom line is he hasn't suffered the nightmares we have, but guessed accurately what our dreams have been, because he claims to have witnessed it. Go ahead, Aaron, tell us everything. The floor's all yours."

"Sure. Maybe I will trouble you for a glass of water," he said to Taylor.

Aaron bowed his head and prayed silently in the meantime.

"You believe this has something to do with God, don't you," Cody said, interrupting Aaron's prayer.

"I know it does."

"Then would you mind praying openly before you start this? Pray for us to believe what you're about to say, because I'm not sure I will. I believe there's a higher power, sure, but I'm not subscribed to any particular religion."

Taylor returned with a glass of water and handed it over, made himself comfortable on the couch.

"Dear Lord," Aaron began. Cody and Taylor closed their eyes. "I ask you to protect us, to watch over us. I pray for you to reach my two new friends, show them the way. Help them to understand, to believe. Guide me in speech, give me the words needed to turn these two lost sheep into your most devoted believers. Amen."

The two said amen and opened their eyes. Aaron sensed that these two weren't just ready to believe him, but _wanted_ to, and Aaron could sympathize with that. Who wouldn't want the mystery to finally be solved?

"Before I forget," Taylor said, "here." He handed Aaron a torn-off yellow page from a notepad. On it were several names with phone numbers beside them. "It's not everyone, obviously, but there are eight there. If you call them, some might be able to give you the numbers of others. That's all I could come up with, right there."

"Thanks, I appreciate it, Taylor. I'll give them a call on my drive back. I have a five hour drive ahead of me, plenty of time to speak with them."

Aaron sipped his water, set it on a coaster on the end-table beside him. Taylor said he was going to record the story, if Aaron wouldn't mind, and play it for Wendy, who was Canary. He had tried to get her to come over prior to Aaron's arrival, but she was busy just then, but would come up the mountain soon.

He started from the very beginning, luring poor Marie Elbrick under the bridge to lay with her. He spoke of Magdalena playing the piano, of the ninety-one bucks stolen from the lady's station wagon, of the miracle that was the money returning to her wallet. Neither Cody or Taylor interrupted him once. They listened attentively, absorbed everything.

Aaron didn't give the abridged version, as he had contemplated on the drive over. To reach these two he'd need to tell them everything. He spoke of the Fun House, of Maggie telling Aaron of a man distorted, the opposite of Aaron. He spoke of Tinkerbelle, of Paul, and the vision he had where Paul brought her to the spot under the bridge. He continued on to the vision he had in Deborah's office, of the Arrowhead sign and the magpie. He spoke of Maggie's presence between the two pine trees in the backyard of Norrah's, and said God spoke to him, though he wouldn't repeat the message. He spoke from the heart with a plain candor that was appreciated by his company. If this guy was lying, it was a performance worthy of an Academy Award.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Taylor apologized and got off the couch, let Wendy inside. She was introduced to Aaron. They shook hands.

"I'll play the recording for her later," Taylor said. "For now just finish what you have to say."

She pulled up a bar stool, apologized for getting there so late, sat facing the couch a few feet from Cody.

Mindlessly Aaron removed the bracelet from his pocket and clutched it in his left palm, and continued the story.

Aaron spoke of the massacre in grisly detail, telling Pirate how it came to be that his arms were ripped out of their sockets, how Taylor's heart was ripped out of his chest, still beating in Devil's hand, how he thrust a hand into Canary's stomach, impaling her. His audience was thunderstruck, open-mouthed awe.

Taylor handed Cody's phone to Wendy so she could see the ominous photo of Devil, his eyes blazing with fire-light. She stared at it closely with a troubled expression.

"I don't _think_ we were all murdered that night," Aaron said as the afterword to the story, "I _know_ we were. Every last one of us, dead. Norrah heard it, then saw it, as well. But saw it in visions, when she was in the basement of the house. She saw it exactly as I remembered it happening, confirmation that it wasn't all in my head. Or hers."

He then spoke of God, how He brought them back to life, a gesture of love and redemption. In his left hand he jingled the bracelet, the cool golden charms chirping against each other.

"I won't push you three to turn your hearts over to God just yet," Aaron said. "It's a huge decision, one you'll have to search your soul for. But if and when that time comes, contact me and I'll happily assist you in any way I can, be it baptism or sharing what I know."

The three nodded.

"It kind of makes sense," Cody said, not appearing very intoxicated anymore. "That Paul went upstairs just before it happened. If he's friends with that guy, he'd have known what was coming, and didn't want to be around for it. What an asshole Paul is, to know what was coming and let it happen."

"He _wanted_ it to happen," Aaron said. "He's evil. He toasted to my death just a minute before he went upstairs, and said he wished he could watch it."

"What a fucking asshole," Taylor said shaking his head.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Wendy said, and she did look ill. "I... I had sex with Paul a few weeks ago. To think I slept with a guy who very well may have plotted our deaths."

"Yes," Aaron said, "but that's in the past. This is the present. Let's move on and take something from this. Let this event be the impetus that turned things around. God was in this phenomenon, and is in each one of us.."

"I just don't believe there's a God," Wendy said hesitantly. "If there was, he wouldn't have allowed us to get killed. Killed by... whatever that man is."

"Are you killed?" Aaron said, making a point. "If ever there was a reason to believe in God, I'd say we twenty-three are living proof of Him. I'll pray for you, Wendy. I'll pray for all of you. Here, I want you to have this." He opened his palm and singled out a charm, a cross, removed it from the chain, stepped to the bar stool and handed it over to Wendy.

"Thank you," she said. "That's sweet of you. Do you have any string?" she directed at Taylor.

"Uh, I have some thread. I was going to mend a tear in a pair of slacks. I'll go get it."

A moment later he had the spindle of thread and unwound a few feet of it, bit it off and handed it to Wendy, who made a necklace out of the charm and thread, put it around her neck.

"I don't suppose you have another one," Taylor said hopefully.

It touched Aaron that this young man would want one. He found the second cross, pinched the hook and removed it from the chain-loop. Taylor made a necklace from it as well. Aaron sensed that Cody wanted to ask for one, but lacked the nerve.

"I'd offer you one," Aaron said, "but I think I have only the two. Sorry."

"Not a big deal."

Aaron handled the bracelet, looked at the many charms, and smiled when he spotted a third and fourth gilded cross. "I guess there were four. How about that? One for each of us."

A minute later all four wore cross necklaces. Aaron stood and stretched. The others remained seated, looked up at him curiously.

"I have to get going," he said.

"So soon?" Wendy said. "I just got here."

"I have a long drive. Thanks for your time, guys. If you ever want to contact me, feel free to. Brothers for life. And sisters," he directed at Wendy. He then gave his cellphone number so the three could enter it in their phones.

He was only going to shake their hands at the door, but they insisted on hugs. Aaron judged that a lot of what he said made it to their hearts. They already looked like changed people. Modest and humble.

Aaron stepped outside, closed the door behind him. He followed the walkway down the side of the house. He waved at the man in the patio chair on the terrace, but that man was asleep, chin touching his chest, phone on the table.

Between the first and second boathouses was a girl tossing bread to the ducks on the shore. She wore a pink dress, had long brown disheveled hair.

"Maggie!" Aaron said and began jogging toward the girl.

She turned around at his voice: it wasn't Maggie. He stopped his purposeful pace, said, "Oops, thought you were someone else."

"Want to feed the ducks with me?"

"If you'll give me a piece of that bread, sure."

Aaron gained her side. Several plump ducks well-accustomed to receiving free meals were jostling to get to the discarded pieces of bread. She handed him a slice. He tore pieces and fed them.

After he ran out of bread he wished the girl a wonderful Sunday afternoon and left.

### Chapter Thirty Four

The days were short, the late-afternoon sun very low on the horizon. Aaron figured it would be ten o'clock when he got home, at least. As he navigated the Tacoma he phoned the first number on the list. The name was Dustin/Mouse.

Dustin had been given a heads-up, as Taylor said he would, and took the call excitedly. He asked if they could get together today or tomorrow. Aaron told him the bad news, that he was heading upstate now. Dustin was dejected, but understood. He wanted to hear the story regardless, even if it meant hearing it over the phone. Aaron said his cell didn't have great reception up here on the mountain, so he'd call when he got to the bottom. Dustin said if he was still on the mountain, then he should stop by his house on the way upstate, since he lived right off the 210 freeway, which was on the way to interstate 5. Aaron thought he'd regret accepting the invitation, estimated that he wouldn't get more than a few hours of sleep tonight, but agreed anyway. He took Dustin's address, said he'd be there within the hour.

When Aaron arrived at the kid's apartment, he was delighted to find not just one masquerader but two. The girl who was Bunny. Victoria was her name. Aaron recalled speaking to Dustin (Mouse) and Victoria on the patio that fateful night. What he wouldn't give for ten minutes alone with Catwoman, he had said.

The apartment was a one-bedroom deal and had a permanent smell of cigarette smoke deep in the walls. He was offered drink and food. Aaron was working up an appetite, so he'd take anything easy to make, and whatever to drink.

Victoria sat at the dining table across from Aaron as Dustin put some Pizza Rolls in the oven. He waited for Dustin to join them at the table before getting into the story.

As he retold the story there came a point when he felt the weight of the chain bracelet in his pocket. He fished it out as he spoke of his angelic friend Magdalena. Just as Taylor and company had, these two listened carefully, said not a word.

Aaron set the bracelet on the Formica-topped table as he related in explicit detail the partiers' brutal murders. Victoria was crying. Dustin was open-mouthed and eyes distant.

He ended the story by saying he'd be there for them if they wanted to talk ever. He thumbed through the jumble of chain and charms, not expecting to find a cross but finding one anyway.

"Well I'll be..." Aaron breathed.

"What?" Dustin said.

"Do you have any string or thread?"

Dustin had a fishing pole in the closet, and unwound several feet of line, used a Swiss Army knife to sever a piece. Aaron turned the charm into a necklace, handed it to Victoria (a.k.a. Bunny) who accepted it gratefully, put it around her neck.

Aaron was pleased at the sight of Dustin, who wasn't concealing his eager gaze at the bracelet, looking for another cross.

"You'd like one too?" Aaron asked him.

"Only if you wouldn't mind," he replied.

"That was my last cross, sorry."

"What about that one?" Dustin said and reached across the table and touched at a gilded cross.

Aaron wondered why he should be surprised by it. He was surprised, in spite of himself. He removed the charm and made a necklace for Dustin with another piece of fishing line.

"I used this fishing line to make the whiskers on my mouse mask," Dustin said as a matter of factly.

"If I could make one suggestion to you two," Aaron said gingerly. "If you two would go to church next Sunday and give it a try, it would mean the world to me. If you are moved to turn your life over following the sermon, go up to the pastor and accept Christ into your life."

Aaron expected them to give an excuse and apology, but they didn't. They nodded.

"Consider the hour spent at church next Sunday as payment for the crosses and my time here tonight."

Aaron removed the list of names and phone numbers from his pocket and placed it center-table between the three. "If you know anyone who was there that night not on this list, please jot them down with their numbers. I'd like to speak with everyone who was there."

Dustin pored over the list, said he knew two guys who weren't on the list who should be, went inside his phone's Contact List and jotted their info on the paper. Victoria then did the same, added the name and number of Brandy, who was Catwoman.

Aaron left the apartment satisfied with the outcome.

In his truck, still in the parking lot of the apartment complex, he phoned the next person on the list: Andrew (Phantom). Andrew answered, said he'd been looking forward to the phone call for the last few hours, since Taylor had called him with the news. Aaron offered to tell the story over the phone, as he had a long drive ahead of him. Andrew supposed that would be okay, even though he had invited two friends over who were Peacock and Alien. Aaron felt compelled to visit them in person. They lived on campus, which was a ten minute drive from Dustin's apartment. Fifteen minutes later he was sitting at the edge of a dorm-room bed with three masqueraders standing around him. A fourth masquerader joined their company just after Aaron delved into the story, and that was Butterfly. Butterfly, who had asked Frog to take her upstairs with a cunning grin. She wasn't that girl tonight. She was reserved, sincere, and full of propriety.

Before leaving he phoned the next name on the list, which had been added by Alien. He stopped reserving hope that he might be able to tell the story over the phone. It was evident these kids wished to be told in person. He'd just miss out on sleep tonight, that's all. It was a chore well worth the reward.

He took the bracelet from his pocket and unsurprisingly found a cross, a single cross, and asked if anyone had thread. When he left five minutes later, he had made four new cross necklaces and left the dorm room feeling like he was dreaming.

It didn't occur to Aaron that it wasn't dark yet outside, though it should have been. He was spending better than an hour at each place, and closer to two hours. At least his next destination wasn't far. He met with Catwoman in her dorm room, accompanied by Batman and Elephant. He spent only an hour there before heading over to Black Cat's dorm room, where he spoke to her with her roommate Claire listening in. Halfway through the story Jonathan had showed up and it was slightly awkward for everyone at first, being that Lion and Black Cat hadn't spoken with one another since that night. But soon all was well, and his message of redemption had taken roots in all three of them. At least he thought it had—they were crying, which is always a good sign.

Aaron had stopped wondering if there would be enough charms to go around. He even offered the gifts before checking the bracelet. He left the room with three less charms on the bracelet.

He made three more stops that evening before having spoken with just about each kid from the party, save for Paul.

The last meeting was done at a fraternity, The Teaks, and done in a room upstairs before three boys. He fashioned three necklaces for them, gave his phone number, and said his goodbyes.

He got in his truck debating whether or not he should call in sick to work tomorrow. That was before he glanced at the digital clock on his dash: 7:10. It was only early evening, an impossibility. Well, an impossibility if you discount the likelihood that God was aiding him. On the yellow piece of paper he made three hash-marks at the top, to go along with the twenty previous hash-marks. Twenty-three hash marks, representing twenty-three necklace charms he had made that day.

As he drove up highway 5 he listened to Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. He had made it over the grapevine and merged onto highway 99, now a good deal away from Los Angeles. He glanced at his clock. 7:16. He laughed aloud, but his eyes weren't smiling. They were sober and glassy. He was being touched by God.

He wasn't paying attention to the audio book, so he turned it off and on a whim phoned Brooke Stanwick. He told her everything, left no detail untouched upon. She was thrilled that Pie played a role in all this. She wished she had come down with Aaron, being that everything turned out okay after all.

When Aaron got home he collapsed on his bed, still clothed, fully exhausted and emotionally drained. His alarm clock read 7:35 PM. He set the alarm and fell asleep.

### Chapter Thirty Five

Early that next week I had packed a suitcase and moved into Norrah's. Jay Davis the committed partner, pleased to meet you. It was far too premature to do such a thing, but we didn't care. Sometime's you just have to say _screw it_ to conventional wisdom—that being that we were moving to fast. We were unhappy apart, happy together, so why shouldn't we have moved in together? Our relationship still had that new car scent and I suspected the scent would last quite a while _._ I wouldn't put my home up for sale for another year or so probably. I'd wait till we were at least engaged. As you'd imagine, Aaron wasn't pleased with us moving in together, living in sin. We had been having sex out of wedlock, too. Oh well, we never claimed to be saints.

It was Wednesday evening when Fred Guthrie the fat ass cop called me at home, which was Norrah's home.

"Forensics test came back, man," Fred opened up with.

"What forensics test?"

"The drop of blood, what else?"

"Oh yeah. Were they able to match it?"

"Yep. It belonged to one of the missing twenty-three. They took cotton-swab tests of each of them upon their release from your girlfriend's last Sunday. The DNA was an exact match to a girl's."

"Black Cat?" I asked. "I mean, Brittney Hayes?"

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

"The lab geeks think it was drop of menstrual blood."

"Nah, it isn't. She wasn't menstruating. There are several eye-witnesses who could attest to that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. But it isn't menstrual blood. That's interesting, Fred."

"You know something I don't?"

"Plenty, probably." I chuckled. "The drop was high up on the bed, and she was lying down. The blood was from her neck, I bet. A symbolic drop of blood, that's all. Thanks for calling, I'm going to let you go. Norrah and I were going to do some reading together."

"Aww, how cute," Fred mocked, then giggled like an adolescent. "Romeo O Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Here I am, babe! Let's do the naked Mamba, I brought some rubbers."

"Laugh it up, fatty. I'm glad it amuses you. Take care, bud."

* * *

It was Friday night, five days after Aaron had returned to Fresno. Norrah cooked eggplant parmesan and spaghetti, for four. Brittney arrived at sunset in new clothes purchased a couple days ago, having the luxury of an ample checking account thanks to Norrah. She looked beautiful, as I knew she would, having been told that my brother Caleb was going to be dining with us. I could see it in both their eyes when they met and shook hands, that they were going to become a couple. Sometimes it happens that quickly, and tonight it did. My brother gets the chicks, but rarely does he get excited over any particular one, but this time was different. He was looking in her eyes, not at her chest: a good sign.

After dinner Norrah excused herself to make coffee and check on the cookies in the oven. The place was rockin' the chocolate-chip cookie aroma.

"Oh, Norrah," Brittney said, "I didn't tell you that the bad dreams stopped. Thank God, because they were pretty horrible."

"I'm glad to hear that," Norrah said and returned to the table.

Brittney drew the charm out from under her tunic. It was attached to a fine golden necklace, which she had bought after having worn it on thread for two days. She brandished the charm for us all to see.

"Aaron told me about that," I said. "Enjoy that charm, because it was produced divinely, by God. The most precious charm on earth." Brittney and my brother looked confused. "He only had two crosses earlier that day," I explained, "and wound up giving all you guys one. Like in the bible, the couple fish and loaves of bread turning into a bounty, that's what happened with the charms."

Brittney gazed at the charm, bedazzled. It swung slowly below her fingers. "I was going to say that the nightmares stopped after Aaron spoke with us, but I didn't consider that the cross might be responsible. Now I think... now I think—"

"That God is watching over you?" Norrah said. "The cross represents that?"

Brittney looked over at her, nodded once.

"I wish I had gotten one," I said sulkily.

"Me too," said Norrah.

We all stared in silent thought at the little charm for a good while, hypnotized at both its movement and divinity. The coffee maker beeped.

"Who wants coffee and cookies?" Norrah said and got up. We all wanted some.

"So Brittney," Caleb said, "how often do you come up the hill?"

"My brother lives up here too," I said cryptically at Brittney with a wink.

"Not much, but that's about to change. I'm going to start spending more time with Norrah. And you too, Jay! I'm not leaving you out!"

"Cool," Caleb said. "You all let me know and I'll come on over."

### Part 5:

### Chapter Thirty Six

It was Memorial Day, early summer 2013, and an exceptionally warm one—even at Lake Arrowhead, which typically boasted temperate weather in the summer months. I had talked Norrah into splurging on a boat, a smallish used one, and we liked to take it out on the lake on my days off. We dropped anchor in a cove that was almost always vacant, a deeply recessed narrow cove environed by tall pines which provided shade. We were sipping lemonade, eating sandwiches, being in love when my phone rang. It was my brother-by-another-mother Aaron calling. Always a pleasant surprise.

"Hello-hello, mijo," I said spiritedly. "Que paso?"

"Turn the news on," he said.

"Can't, I'm on the lake. What's up?" I turned it on speaker-phone so Norrah could hear.

"Does the name Edward Berg mean anything to you?"

"Edward Berg," I mused.

"Yeah, I know that name," Norrah said.

"Oh hey, Norrah," Aaron said distractedly.

"Oh yeah, Edward Berg," I remembered. "He is one of the twenty-three."

"Yes. If you were watching CNN you'd see him being escorted to jail. In Idaho."

"What happened?" I asked.

"I'm just sick to death," Aaron said. "Really, I am."

"What's up?" Norrah said impatiently.

"He's suspected of murder. There are a couple of dead girls."

"Oh no..." I muttered.

"He abducted college kids, an eighteen and nineteen year old. They haven't released their names or pictures yet, till they contact their families. My lord, Jay..." He breathed heavily. "Someone called the cops having seen him pulling wrapped parcels out of his trunk shaped like people. The cops got there just after he dug a hole to bury them in. They were students at Boise State University. He moved there, apparently."

"I'm sorry to hear it," I said.

"It's all my fault," Aaron said and there was emotion in his voice. Enough emotion to surmise that he meant it; it wasn't just one of those things that people tend to say but not mean.

"Don't say that," Norrah consoled.

"Yeah, that ain't true, man," I said.

He sobbed, which unsettled me further. We didn't say anything.

"Guys," Aaron said, "Edward was the only kid who I didn't see that Sunday following Valentine's Day. I'm sure of it. I can't help but think, if I had arranged to meet up with him, that he'd not have done what he did."

"That's absurd," I said. "It isn't your fault those girls died. Just as you can't blame Smith and Wesson when one of their guns is used to blow someone's head off."

"Still," he said, and sobbed again, making him sound like a child instead of a grown man and pastor. "I don't know how I know it, but I do, that it wouldn't have happened if only I'd have met with him that night. His name was on my list, too, I just missed it. I was tired. And I made marks on the list for each cross I handed out. I didn't think about how I gave one to Brittney's roommate Claire, who wasn't one of the twenty-three, so I missed one. I'm so stupid! You told me yourself that those kids stopped having nightmares following being given those charm necklaces. They were charmed all right, a gift from God. Edward Berg never got one. I never"—sob—"got to tell him about God."

"I understand how you feel, but you're wrong about him. He'd have done it anyway, I'm sure. Is there anything we can do for you? We'll come up and see you if you'd like. I can take a sick day or two."

"No," he said softly, sniffled. "I'll be fine."

"Honey," I said to Norrah, "let's get going, back home. I want to watch the news."

Sitting in the driver's seat, she started the engine and turned the boat around.

"Poor Norrah," Aaron said to me.

"Why poor Norrah?"

"What's that?" Norrah said to me. The sound of the motor and wind of passage precluded her from hearing the conversation. I shook my head dismissively at her.

"They're showing her picture and stock footage of Valentine's Day," Aaron said. "It's known that Edward was one of the missing twenty-three. It's brought attention back to the story all over again."

"That's ridiculous," I said. "She has nothing to do with this."

"You know how the news is, anything to get ratings. The mystery of the twenty-three was never solved. I bet the story will never fully go away. Especially when something like this happens. I'm getting another call... it's... Taylor. I'll let you go. We'll talk later."

"Okay. I'm sorry, buddy. I feel horrible for you. And for the families of those girls. Please try not to take responsibility for what happened."

"Too late."

He ended the call.

We watched the Monday evening news unremittingly till midnight. Little was known about what happened, but there were several theories from newscasters, all baseless and some far-reaching. Gone are the days when reporters report the facts and not opinions. Detectives probably knew a thing or two already, but they would be keeping a lot to themselves while the investigation ran its course. It was during that eleven o'clock hour that a new development broke, and that was Edward Berg didn't live in the area, didn't even live in Idaho. He rented an apartment in Redlands—a couple blocks from U of R—had pre-registered for classes that fall, according to an unnamed source. What he was doing nine-hundred miles away from home was anyone's guess. The car he was using wasn't his own but a Hertz rental out of Boise Airport; there was no record of him having flown. That was fuel for more theories. Fake I.D., perhaps; premeditated murder. There were no known connections between Edward and the two dead girls.

I called in sick the next day (calling in sick the Tuesday after a holiday Monday?—yeah, they really believe you're ill and not just hung-over) to do some research on the computer, with Norrah at my side giving me ideas before getting ready to drive down the hill to school. I learned the name of Edward Berg's newly hired defense attorney, James Rothstein. He took the case pro bono. Any lawyer would take the case just for the free publicity. His office was in a Los Angeles high-rise, probably on the top floor and floored with marble. I made a phone call to the firm and was greeted by a lady who sounded exhausted (I doubt that I was the first person to call that hour, or even that minute). "Rothstein, Parker and Montoya," she said. I heard the phone ringing in the background. I was put on hold twice before I was able to get more than a word in.

"I need to speak to James Rothstein," I said. "Please."

"He's not in. I can take a message or transfer you to his voicemail if you prefer."

"My name is Jay Davis. My girlfriend is Norrah Peterson. Ring any bells?"

"Sure it does. Would you like me to transfer you to Mr. Rothstein's voicemail?"

"No, I wish to speak to him directly. It would benefit your firm, trust me."

She considered it a moment before putting me on hold, undoubtedly to confer with Rothstein. A moment later a man clicked out of hold and said "James Rothstein here."

"James, this is Jay Davis. I was the only one present when the missing twenty-three returned, other than Norrah."

"Yes, I'm aware of the story and its details. What can I do for you?"

"How would your office like to handle the legal issues of my upcoming book? A tell-all account of what happened, written by me, Brittney Hayes, and Aaron Mendelssohn?"

"Entertainment law is not in the scope of our purview here. We mostly do criminal defense, a little prosecution on rare occasions. However, we are partnered with Banning and Handel, who _do_ dabble in entertainment matters. You have my attention, Mr. Davis. Continue."

"This book is going to make quite a bit of money. Wouldn't you agree? Draw lots of attention?"

"I have little doubt that it will. In fact, you can expect to have a sale from myself."

"The phrase scratch my back and I'll scratch yours comes to mind," I baited.

"Still listening."

"I'd like to sit in on the meeting between you and Edward Berg. Have you met with him yet?"

"I've only spoken with him over the phone. I'm flying out of L.A.X. tomorrow to meet with him. Why do you wish to do this, Mr. Davis?"

"Call me Jay. I'm writing a novel, that's why. This fits into my story."

"Does it? The only connection I can think of is that my client was in attendance at the party. How does that fit into your novel?"

"I don't know yet, but it does. It shouldn't matter to you why, it should only matter that you stand to make a great deal of money by taking me up on my offer. You can represent Norrah and me on any number of issues from now on. I want to repay the favor."

I heard him inhale through his nose, then a finger-nail rapping on a wooden desk.

"There are legal ramifications of my client conferring with someone who can persuade the minds of potential jurors via novel."

"Granted, but the novel won't be published until after the trial is over. I'll submit to any kind of contracts you wish."

"I suppose that would be fine. I'll have a paralegal from Banning and Handel fax over a contract after you give her some information. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful."

"My flight leaves tomorrow morning at ten minutes past seven, returning mid-afternoon. I'll arrange a ticket for you on that same flight. You have to understand that my client's wishes come first. If he says he doesn't want you present during our meeting, I have to respect that."

"I understand. But couldn't we lie to him, say that I'm an attorney?"

"Yes, that is an option. But if he recognizes you and wishes for you to leave, you must hold up to your end of the bargain. It will be contracted, so..."

"So you'll sue me if I pull out. Got it."

"Stay on the line, I'm transferring you over."

### Chapter Thirty Seven

The flight wasn't long. I enjoyed first-class seating beside Edward Berg's attorney Mr. Rothstein, who insisted I call him James. His lawyering really shone through on the flight, asking me a series of questions about the Valentine's Day mystery, each one thoughtfully worded, an employment of learned methodology which escalated into some kind of point that was eluding me, confusing me. I didn't tell him all that much, claimed ignorance on a lot of things that I was in no way ignorant of. He saw through that bullshit and said I wouldn't be writing a novel if I knew so little. I tried winning him over with a grin and an apology (if you'll recall I'm ruthlessly apologetic) and offered to let him read the manuscript when it was finished. Truth was, I didn't want James knowing too much as I sat in on the initial interview between attorney and client.

After the plane landed in Boise I phoned my girlfriend as promised. She had a productive morning as I was in the terminal and thirty-thousand-feet above sea level. She had a couple questions for me to ask Edward. I jotted them down. I proudly told her that I bargained my way into a second meeting with Edward down the road, weeks or months later. After saying I love you, I phoned Aaron Mendelssohn and asked if he had any questions to ask Edward. He did have one. I jotted it down.

We had a limo drive us to the courthouse. It was a bonafide circus there. Innumerable news vans in the parking lot, camera men chasing after us from the limo to the building, frantically ejaculating questions, such as, "Does the murder of these two girls have anything to do with the Valentine's Day mystery?" Of course this spectacle was the very reason why James took this case pro bono, as it was a payment of another kind (publicity), so he spent a little time expanding his reputation as a legal giant by answering questions in the typical defense-attorney fashion, which was staunchly supportive of the suspected criminal and indignant over the absurd allegations aimed at his client. "My client is innocent of all wrong doing," and, "if this thing ever goes to trial—which I am highly doubtful of since there is no evidence against Edward Berg—I am unequivocally certain that the case would be thrown out," and, "it is important to get your facts straight, that nobody witnessed Edward Berg physically carrying the bodies of the two victims."

I stood a dozen yards or so away from him, pleased that nobody recognized me—I'd have been surprised if anyone had. I had given two interviews myself several months ago, but that's it. If I had brought Norrah along (she had badgered me to let her come) she'd have been instantly recognized and this thing would have really blown up and gotten out of hand. I suspect Rothstein would have disallowed her to come for that very reason.

After five minutes or so of interviews, James was escorted inside the courthouse with me at his heels. We went through metal detectors and were wanded before being ushered along in the direction of Edward. Down a corridor we went, then down another narrower one. Finally we entered a small room with a single table and a few chairs on either side of it. There were pale green tiles on the floor, no pictures on the white walls, an astringent odor of disinfectant. The only door was windowed (a short and wide window), where a security officer would observe the meeting and spring into action should a fit of violence break out.

Inside the room went James and myself. He opened his briefcase and placed a digital-recorder center table. He and I sat side by side. It was ten minutes later when the heavy door opened and Edward was let inside. The door closed behind him. Now it was us three.

James stood and shook his hand, as did I. He took a seat opposite us, facing the window where a guard watched. Just seconds prior James reminded me that I was to imitate an attorney, and not to mention who I really was. "Of course," I assured him.

"I'm recording this interview," James said, and pressed a button on the device.

"You guys have to believe me," Edward said with wide probing eyes. "I swear, I didn't kill anybody!"

Being a self-proclaimed excellent judge of honesty and interpreter of body language (I'll throw in astute observer of social behavior as well; why not?), I was quick to judge this guy was telling the truth.

"I didn't kill those girls, I swear to God."

"Edward," James said with a hand gesturing to calm down, "we're on your side. Of course you didn't kill them. It is my job to tell your story to the world so they'll believe you as well."

He swallowed, round eyes exploring the plain room. "It's just so damned weird," he said.

"What's weird?" James asked.

"This. _Everything._ This has to be a dream. I keep expecting to wake up."

"Unfortunately for you, and those two girls, this is real. Tell me how you came to be in Boise."

He looked away shamefully and said, "You won't believe me, but I have no memory of how I ended up here. None."

"I do believe it. I do believe it because I'm your attorney and I'm going to make you a free man, so tell me everything you do know. What's the last thing you remember before... before your lapse in memory."

"I was shooting pool in the rec-room of the dormitory the night before it happened, had a couple beers. That's the last thing I remember."

"Sunday night? Who was with you?"

"Nobody. I was alone."

"Your subsequent memory has you in Boise?"

"Yes. I swear I'm not making it up."

"As I said, I'm on your side, and won't accuse you of lying. What's your first memory obtained in Idaho?"

"Being arrested! Fucking being arrested!"

"Being arrested," Mr. Rothstein repeated. "From shooting pool in southern California Sunday night to being arrested in Idaho late Monday morning."

"I told you that you wouldn't believe me." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

"I believe you, Edward," I said. And I meant it. I hoped my eyes conveyed that.

"Good, because it's the God's-honest truth."

"Explain to me what happened," the lawyer said, "where you were when you were apprehended, and what was told to you."

"I was in the driver's seat of some damn car, I don't know whose. A cop was yelling at me to put my hands up, woke me up."

"You were asleep when they affronted you?"

"Yeah. As I said, I went from shooting pool to being arrested. Ain't nothing in-between, man."

"Someone called the police anonymously to say that a man (you) was seen on the side of highway 44, about four miles northwest of Boise, taking two blanket-wrapped bodies out of a trunk and carrying them down an embankment."

"That's bullshit!"

"I agree," James said, "and not just because I'm your attorney. If a passing motorist spied you carrying off a single body, that would be one thing. But he'd have had to come to a stop to watch you haul not just one corpse away but come back for the second. And the account we've been given says he only slowed down when he noticed the peculiarity that is a man carrying a parcel closely resembling the proportionality of a human."

"I told you, I didn't do it."

"That the source of the tip is anonymous, we can use that to our advantage as well. If a juror is on the fence to which way they'll vote, it might push them in the right direction. Just as pleading the fifth is seen as an admission of guilt, anonymous testimony can be seen as unreliable or even fabricated. Not always, but sometimes. Planting reasonable doubt is an art form I've perfected. Now, would anyone have a reason to frame you?"

He considered it. "I don't think so."

"I want you to spend a lot of time thinking about it after I leave. Next time we meet I want a list of the top five most likely people who'd frame you not just for murder but in general. Or better put, the top five people who'd have anything at all to gain from your incarceration. Like if you have a girlfriend and you know some guys who think she's hot... that's a motive, Edward. In the meantime, I need to learn more of what happened. Do you know personally the two girls who were murdered?"

"I don't even know their names!"

"Lindsey Demitri and Susan Feller."

"Never heard of them."

James opened his briefcase and took four eight-by-ten photos out, placed them before his client in a spread.

"Nope. Never seen 'em."

I looked over at the attorney, said, "He's telling the truth. I don't know how your judge of character is, but mine's spot on. He didn't do it."

James gave me a brief glare, one that said butt out and shut up. I deferred with a low gaze.

"I appreciate that," Edward said. "It means a lot to me that someone believes me. Even if he's my attorney."

Edward was staring at me. More than staring, I think he was trying to place a name to that face. Precisely what James didn't want. James must have picked up on it because he diverted his client's attention away from me.

"Was there anyone in the rec-room that night who can vouch for you?" Rothstein asked. "Maybe that you had a few too many beers to drink, or possibly saw you behaving as if you'd been drugged? Anything at all that can cast reasonable doubt on the prosecution's inevitable case? I should add that there have been no formal charges against you yet. They can only legally detain you for a short while longer, so expect charges to land by then." He then spoke inwardly, "Unless they pin other charges on you to keep you here. They won't want you to be released, that's for damned sure. But they wouldn't dare charge you with murder until they gather more information, because they know I'll move to get a dismissal." He snapped out of his little soliloquy and said, "A trial is a long ways off. But it's best for us to stay ahead of the game, because I'm going to move to get the case thrown out the hour charges are filed."

"No, I don't remember anyone being in the rec-room. Well, April dropped in on her way from doing laundry, but she only popped in to see who was playing."

"Did you have any plans made for yesterday or today? Memorial day plans that would contradict allegations that you willfully and pre-meditatively drove up to Boise to kill a couple girls? Anything at all, such as a date, or a dentist appointment, or even plans to shoot some hoops with a friend. Anything at all."

"Uh... actually I was going to see a Dodgers game with my buddy Pete yesterday. We hadn't bought tickets yet or anything. But he can vouch for me on that."

"What's Pete's last name?"

"Dixon."

"Okay, good. That's a start in the right direction."

"Mr. Rothstein," I said, "would you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Edward?"

James looked disapprovingly at me.

"Just a few minutes. Please. Would you mind, Edward?"

"Not at all."

James stood and glared down at me, threatened me with his eyes. Don't do anything stupid, he wanted to say. He said he'd be back in five minutes and went out the door.

I leaned forward in my seat, wasted no time; Edward reflexively did the same.

"You recognize me, don't you?" I asked him.

"I think so..."

"I was the cop who told you all that you were being detained. Norrah's boyfriend.

His eyes widened. He licked his dry lips. "Why are you here?"

"I want to help you in any way I can. I know you're telling the truth. A close friend of mine is one of the twenty-three, he wore the frog mask. He has quite a story to tell, and I'd tell you it myself but we don't have the time. The fact of the matter is Paul is a real piece of shit, and he had something to do with what happened on Valentine's Day. Do you recall the guy he was there with? He wore—"

"A black hat with horns," he said in no more than a whisper. "I dream about him every night."

"I know you do. The others did, too. He killed you all in your dream, didn't he?"

His mouth opened. He nodded.

"We have a hunch— _we_ being myself, Norrah, and Frog, or Aaron—that Paul or his friend or both of them had something to do with this as well. We have nothing to go on, but we sense it."

"Why would he do that? What did I ever do to him?"

"Nothing. I don't know why, Edward."

"Call me Eddie."

"Okay, Eddie. When's the last time you saw Paul?"

"The evening of the party."

"How about his friend? The dude with the white mask."

"Same. The party." Eddie closed his eyes and took a deep nervous breath. "How sure are you that Paul had something to do with what happened at the party?"

"Very. Why?"

"You think you know someone," he said under his breath. "I thought Paul was my friend. We've been friends for almost a year." He reconsidered. "Actually, for more than a year now. I'm the reason why he got invited to the party, which he ended up hosting. I introduced him to Taylor, and convinced him to invite Paul. Paul had liked the idea of a masquerade party from the moment I mentioned it. We have them every year. I met Paul at Wizards (a billiards club) last February, just after Valentine's Day Masquerade 2012. I challenged him to a game of pool, loser had to buy a round of Red Bulls. He lost, and bought the drinks. But during that game I told him about the party I had just went to the other night, the masquerade party, and it intrigued him. I said if he was around next year he should go, that I'd get him an invite. He seemed like a cool dude. But he lies. I've caught him in a lie a bunch of times. His biggest lie was probably that he was a student at University of Redlands. I have no idea why he kept that lie up, or why it mattered to him that people thought he went there. But after he confided in me that he wasn't really taking classes there, I kept the secret for him. From the night we met we started hanging out pretty regularly at Wizards. I invited him to some frat parties, too."

Edward looked through me, contemplatively. He said, "I don't get it, man, we're friends. We've had long talks about personal shit. Confided in each other. I can't imagine what he possibly could have done that would make a week of our lives blink away seamlessly, and I'm not sure I want to know. Some things are better left unlearned. But you know what?—I guess part of me isn't that surprised. He has a dark side to him. He's the type of guy who you'd expect to have killed a lot of animals as a kid, for experimentation, or maybe just for kicks."

He then sharpened his gaze on me. _"Do_ I want to know what Paul did?"

"He didn't do anything first-hand. It was his friend. Eddie, you're the only person I've met who knows Paul. I mean really knows Paul. Everyone else just met him recently, and are only acquaintances of his. Knowing that you were close with him, that opens the door to possibilities. Maybe you told him something, or he told you something, and it lead to this happening: two girls dead, with you being framed for it. James Rothstein said to make a list with the top five people most likely to want to betray you or whatever, and I'm thinking Paul should be at the top of that list, unless someone else comes to mind."

"Nobody comes to mind."

"Give it a lot of thought, like James said, only I want you to consider what Paul has told you in the past that he might not be comfortable with you knowing anymore."

"That's tough, man. We've had hundreds of conversations. When we play pool we bullshit the whole time, you know?"

"Yeah, but you got to try. You have friends, Eddie. You have friends in Norrah, Aaron, and myself. Probably the only three friends you have right now. The country thinks you're a murderer. And those girls were beautiful. Really beautiful. People get pissed off when an _ugly_ person is killed. But when it's a beautiful girl who get's offed...? They want revenge. They want the death penalty for the suspect. You killed (allegedly) two girls who every guy in the country would love to get into bed, and you just stole away that possibility from them. It sounds stupid, but it's the truth. What a waste of a hot piece of ass, guys will think. And girls just get sad when anyone with an aura of innocence and sweetness dies, and cute girls always have that look. The D.A. will be going after the death penalty with you, I have no doubt. If they were minorities or ugly, maybe not. Whoever framed you knew that, I'm sure. He or they chose two cuties, all right. I'm surprised one or both of them aren't cute little toddlers. I guess even maniacs can have a line that they won't cross."

I remembered what Aaron said during dinner a couple months ago. When he had found Paul under the bridge with Brooke, and said he wouldn't rape a girl because it's disgusting. I wondered if the two dead girls were raped before they were murdered. Autopsy reports would be coming in by late in the week.

"I have something for you," I said, and fished a necklace out of my pocket that Aaron had overnight mailed me. It was clear fishing line with the gilded cross charm. I was pretty doubtful that he'd get to keep it. His jailors would see it and confiscate it. Or search him and confiscate it. Either way, it didn't stand a chance. Oh well. "The others stopped having nightmares after receiving these charms, so hopefully it works for you." I handed it over the table.

Eddie inspected it with no great interest, put it over his neck and under his orange jumpsuit. "Thanks. I doubt I'll make it back to my cell with it, but I appreciate the gesture."

"It was a gift from a pastor. You might remember him as Frog."

"That dude was a pastor?"

" _Is_ a pastor, yes."

I rummaged through James' briefcase, found a small notepad and pen. I handed them to Eddie.

"Wedge them between your ankle and shoe. Hopefully they won't search you. And if they do I don't know why they'd take a notepad from you. I want you to write down everything you can remember that Paul has told you. Unless you think it was a lie. A useful lie, maybe. Use your judgment. If he once said he'd like to be an engineer one day, jot it down."

"He wants to be a politician," Eddie informed as he hid the items away as I had advised.

"There you go. Write that kind of stuff down. Jesus... you really do know a lot about him, don't you? Has he ever told you a secret, made you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Maybe, but nothing comes to mind."

The door opened behind me. The lawyer returned to the table, wasted no time getting into questioning and pushing me out of the picture.

We spent forty-five minutes more in that room. None of it amounted to much, except for one thing. One potentially huge thing. Eddie had wondered if we thought this was worth noting, stood up, slid his jumpsuit off his right shoulder awkwardly undressing from it down to his waist, turned to show us his bare side. There was a conspicuously shaped bruise. It began at his hip, a narrow little purple thing extending up his ribs and hooking toward his back just below the armpit.

"You know what that looks like?" I said.

"What?" James said.

"It looks like a tire-iron. You know, to remove lug nuts from a wheel."

James was ecstatic at the idea. He took a few pictures with his camera phone, then called his limo driver and asked him to get the tire iron out of the trunk and bring it to us. It took a while for him to gain admittance inside with arguably a weapon, but eventually he got in and was escorted to our room. I took the tool and held it against Eddie's side, matching it against the bruise and sure enough it was the same shape and size. James was so elated that I thought he was going to cry. I didn't understand his excitement, asked him why it mattered.

"Don't you see? From Redlands to Boise is a long drive, maybe twelve hours or so. Plenty enough time to build a bruise from having lain on a tire-iron. And where are tire-irons kept?"

"The trunk," I said with sudden understanding.

"Exactly. Edward here was drugged and stuffed in a trunk on top of a tire-iron for half a day. You see?—he was set up. Let's get a doctor in here to document this."

### Chapter Thirty Eight

Murder charges were filed against Edward three days later. James Rothstein told me that they must have a strong case to have acted so quickly. Once the charges were filed, the D.A. legally had to share all their information with the defense. How much information could they have gathered in so short a time? Plenty. Rothstein had no reason to share with me the so-called facts of the case, but I hounded him for them just the same. He said if I wanted to learn the details that I could acquire them, as it is public information. He didn't want to waste his valuable time on me, that's all it was, and I guess I could understand that.

What I learned from researching online was Edward Berg had either hitch-hiked up to Boise or had a friend give him a ride, or perhaps even stole or borrowed a car and ditched it in Boise. That was just a theory. What wasn't theory was Edward renting a Ford Taurus from Hertz at Boise Airport. There was a record of his rental, complete with a signature and credit-card transaction of fifty-two dollars for the vehicle. His driver's license number was jotted down on the paper-work, proof that a clerk had seen the license. There was no mention of the clerk having been interviewed to see if he remembered Edward renting the car. That would probably mean that the D.A. had no luck getting a positive I.D. That would make sense when you consider how many people rent cars from there, and a stretch of several days and hundreds of customers would eat away at that memory, if it was ever there to begin with. Maybe the clerk would say Edward's mug-shot looked familiar, but he couldn't say for sure. That there wasn't a positive I.D. could be critical to the case.

An anonymous caller had witnessed a man (the caller had described the man perfectly, and it fit Edward to a tee) pull a blanket-wrapped body from the trunk and sling it over his shoulder, hike down the embankment only to return a moment later to repeat the dubious activity with another body. Here the story had been changed slightly from what we had originally heard. The driver pulled over and watched this happen before pulling away and calling nine-one-one.

Having exhausted himself from digging a communal grave, transporting the two bodies and earthing them—not to mention being exhausted from the long sleepless drive and murder of two precious college darlings—he fell asleep behind the wheel before driving away. He was awoken by the police ten minutes after the nine-one-one phone call.

The case against Edward was strong due to the anonymous eye-witness and car rental, but made stronger by the condition the suspect was found to be in upon his apprehension: rough dirty hands with dirt under his fingernails, Edward's hair follicles on the buried bodies, and a dirty shovel in the back of the Taurus. Strands of the victims' hair were found in the trunk of the car. Much of the evidence against Edward was circumstantial, but the hair in the trunk and the suspect's hair on the victims was anything but circumstantial. It was looking like a slam-dunk case for the prosecution.

It was looking bleak for the defense. Their only hope would be in casting reasonable doubt via the possibility of being framed. The tire-iron bruise would help greatly, especially when a tire-iron was found inside the trunk, not in the compartment with the spare-tire but lying openly on the lid.

The defense was prepared to have Edward submit to a lie detector test, which could have a huge impact on the jurors. Guilty people rarely submit to such tests. He also stated well in advance that he had no qualms with taking the stand and answering every question of the prosecution. It would only take one juror to keep him out of jail, and testimony from a suspect who passed a number of polygraph tests could easily win the opinion of at least one juror.

As the weeks bled by, Norrah, Aaron and myself stayed glued to the news, read every bit of information regarding the case. It was a month after the murders that Rothstein agreed to let me join him on that second promised interview with Edward. Edward had over four weeks to write down information on Paul and I was eager to see what he had.

We flew out of L.A.X. on a Monday morning (I called in sick yet again) and landed in Boise at nine A.M. By ten I was sitting in a different room from a month ago, but it was a cookie-cutter imitation. As was before, it was James Rothstein, myself, and Edward in the room, alone. Before the attorney got down to business, I had asked for a few minutes alone with Eddie, and said that upon those few minutes I'd leave the room, leave James in privacy with his client. James reminded me on the flight over that this was to be my last meeting with Edward, so I had better learn all I needed to learn on this trip. He was needling me for insight as to my motive for these visits. Writing a novel wasn't answer enough for him. He wanted to know the questions I had lined up for him, and when I wouldn't tell him he demanded I tell him why. I said he could read the manuscript, and if there was anything in the novel that he felt was in violation of some law, or unethical, that I would remove it from my story. The fact is, I had no intention of using my learned information for the novel. My lie served the purpose of getting me in on these meetings.

The second the door closed behind Rothstein, I asked Eddie if he had the notepad.

He removed the creased and bent pad from between his foot and shoe, handed it over the table. I flipped through it. Nearly every page was filled both front and back. Satisfied, I put it in my pocket.

"I've had a lot of time to think," Eddie said. "I hope some of that you'll find useful."

"I hope so. How are you holding up?"

"Not well," he said grimly. "I can't live like this. I'd rather die than live through a life sentence. Honestly, if I'm found guilty I'll kill myself."

"I don't blame you. I'd probably do the same thing. You have a great attorney. If there's anyone who can sway the opinion of those jurors it's your guy. He's won a lot of cases that people considered unwinnable. That's great that you're submitting to a polygraph. Who can deny that you aren't hiding anything?"

"I'm _not_ hiding anything."

"I know. Like I said last time, I know you're innocent. I'd bet my life on it. Eddie, I think Paul did this. I really do. He doesn't look a lot like you, but he looks a _little_ like you. Roughly the same height and body weight, you both have hazel eyes and dark hair, even though his is black and yours is brown. I think he could have used your driver's license at Hertz to rent a car under your name."

Eddie looked down at the table between us. A more despondent expression I had never seen. "I heard they have my signature on that contract, for the rental. And supposedly it matches my own signature."

"Yeah, that is pretty shitty," I said. "But people can forge signatures."

"What if the prosecution uses a handwriting specialist to confirm that the signature matches my own? How could I win the case with that?"

"Yeah, that's tough, man. But the signatures won't match—how could they? James will talk to you about that today. He said they found no fingerprints on the Hertz contract. Not that there would be, but that there aren't helps your case. It really sucks that they don't have security cameras inside Hertz. If they did, it would probably be enough to get the case thrown out, being that you were never inside. And I think if there were cameras, we would find Paul inside that Hertz. But no sense in stewing over that, it is what it is."

"What about cameras outside of Hertz? At the airport or anywhere at all? There are cameras fucking everywhere nowadays. Can't those tapes be searched? That I wouldn't be found on any security camera... shouldn't that prove I wasn't near Hertz?"

"That's a question better asked to Rothstein. I'll do what I can for you, okay? _We'll_ do what we can for you. Eddie, I think it would be wise if you'd pray for help. We're praying for you, but you should pray as well."

"Trust me, I have. A _lot."_

"Good."

"And Jay, thanks for the necklace. Would you believe that nobody has found it?" He showed me the necklace tucked under his orange jumpsuit.

"Doesn't surprise me at all."

"I mean, nobody has even glanced at it. In the showers it's around my neck. Correctional officers have looked at me with it in plain sight. Every time I meet with Rothstein they search me before conducting me back to my cell. They either ignore it or... or I don't know. I've come to think that—"

"That it's invisible to them? I wouldn't doubt it. We don't have much time. Is there anything you can tell me about Paul that's not in these pages? Anything at all?"

"Nah. I wrote everything down. Oh I heard that the autopsy reports found that the girls weren't raped. That's good, huh?"

"Good for the girls, I suppose. But not so good for you, in my opinion. There's no way you could have raped them, so if there was semen in them it wouldn't have been your own. It would have been Paul's. That would be proof of your innocence. One last question before I go: do you have any guess as to where Paul might have gone? Has he ever mentioned a town or city or state he might like to go?"

"Not that I recall." He considered it. "I'm pretty sure he hasn't."

I sighed, nodded. "All right. Thanks for your time. Our thoughts and prayers are with you, friend."

"Thanks, Jay. Tell the others thanks for me."

"I will."

### Chapter Thirty Nine

I had been talking to Aaron on the phone every evening, ranging from a couple minutes to over an hour. I'd hand the phone over to Norrah so she could wish him well. We spent at least a portion of our conversations talking about his new relationship with Deborah. They were dating and he adored her, couldn't talk enough about her. We spent just as much time discussing and debating Edward Berg's case. We both agreed that he'd be found guilty. The evidence against him was just too damning. We prayed that a juror would somehow find the truth.

Aaron had been telling me over the days and weeks about the phone calls that he'd gotten from some of the twenty-three. They'd call him to say they found God, and to thank Aaron for leading them on that path. He phoned some of the twenty-three who hadn't yet called, to check in on them. Their responses varied from "I'm still undecided," to, "I just don't believe it, sorry." The latter was Wendy, though she wasn't the only one echoing that sentiment. Cody and Victoria were of that mindset as well. But that began changing.

During a long conversation with Aaron, he told me something interesting that I'll now share with you. He had just gotten off the phone with Victoria. She had decided God had nothing to do with the supposed miracle that is resurrection. She didn't believe anything Aaron had to say (she didn't think he was lying, but just wrong), but gave it ample consideration before resigning to that conclusion. That was a couple of weeks ago. The nightmares that the cross had warded off began creeping back. Mildly at first, not so mildly recently. Her dreams were of the party, of Devil killing the masqueraders. They were becoming increasingly more realistic, more intense, as if they weren't a dream but a vivid memory of the event. They always ended with the Devil breaking her neck. She'd fall to the floor dead, but through her lifeless eyes she continued to watch. She watched the murders of the others (those which occurred before her gaze, that is) and those murders were committed in the precise fashion that they were alleged to have happened by her friends and Aaron. It came to be that she believed what she was dreaming to be real, a vision or a memory. She had been killed, and was finally able to admit that to herself. And thus she had to have been returned to life. There was only one way that could be. A miracle. And only one makes miracles: God. She was weeping as she told Aaron that she finally accepted God, and had never felt so wonderful in her life. She apologized to both Aaron and God for being so stubborn and blind.

After telling me this, I had things to tell Aaron as well; namely, the notations of Edward in the notepad that he had given me this morning. He had written copious amounts on Paul. I think if Paul was indeed responsible for framing this poor kid, it was a huge mistake on his part, a major oversight. Because of it Edward wrote what he had. Had Paul not done what he did with the two girls, I wouldn't have these pages before my eyes. Not that anything he had written was significant in an overt sense, but there were some things to ponder over, mostly undertones and subtext, but some things were more substantial.

Nobody had a clue as to where Paul had come from, where he originated from. He was fourteen when Aaron met him at Calvary chapel in Fresno. I assumed he was born and raised in Fresno. Written on a page with the number 16 circled on the top right corner was a revelation on that matter. He had said he moved to Fresno at thirteen, having ran away from his parents, who he called the worst fucking parents any kid could ask for. I researched missing children with the last name Klein and found nothing pertinent. It was probably a fake name, I had long suspected that. But he did say where he moved from, and that was Sedona, Arizona. Even knowing the town to be Sedona, I still found nothing about a missing thirteen-year-old boy who might be Paul. But it was something, knowing where he was from. If we could find out who his parents are, somehow, or any family at all, that could lead to something greater. More answers.

On a page numbered 37 was the summary of the conversation Edward Berg had with Paul regarding his desire to become a politician. Many of their conversations were held over a game of pool, but not this one. The two were drinking beers together at a party on campus. The guy throwing the party was the son of a congressman, whom Edward had named but I won't repeat. Paul had thought it was the coolest thing, to have a congressman for a dad. That's when he said that he'd like to be a congressman someday, or U.S. ambassador, or maybe even a senator. With a smile he said maybe even the president. Eddie had asked him why he'd want to be a politician, that they were all a bunch of lying cheating sleezeballs. Paul replied, "Everyone is a lying cheating sleezeball. Politicians just get paid for it. And they get to write laws, and spend others' money. And they get respect." Paul said he'd bet that any cop who pulled over a big-wig politician would not only hesitate to write them a ticket, but apologize for the inconvenience that was pulling them over.

It was page 43 (of a total 68 pages) that Edward wrote more on the topic. He had remembered something previously forgotten. Paul had begun hanging out with that son of Congressman X. He didn't talk much about it, that's why it didn't have much of an impact on Edward's memory. He did say that the congressman had invited his son on a boat trip on his yacht off Coronado, just beyond San Diego, and that son invited Paul along. There were nine people on that boat trip which lasted from noon till one in the morning. Paul had spoken to the politician, to what degree Edward didn't know because Paul didn't say. Paul only said that after that boat trip he was a hundred-percent sure that he was going to be a politician someday, and he wanted to be just like Congressman X.

Page 63 was one that I thought Aaron would find highly interesting. I was glad that Edward had written it because I had reserved judgment that everything Paul had said was a lie, but now I knew he did speak at least some truths to Edward. He spoke of Fresno, and even spoke of attending church. That's when Paul discovered that religious people were hypocrites and every bad thing that politicians are rumored to be.

Aaron asked if that was all Edward had written on Fresno.

"I saved the best for last."

"What did he say?"

"Paul had told Edward of an unnamed friend who went to church with him. And of the scene he made in church, about Freddy and the hamster he killed. Paul boasted that his friend (I think we both know who this _friend_ is) had dirt on everyone there and he really stirred the pot putting that information to use. He said his friend mentioned that the Sunday school teacher had raped a girl when he was a teenager."

"I didn't rape her! It was consensual!"

"I know," I said. "Paul's words, not mine."

"What else did that lying prick say about me?"

"He said that the Sunday school teacher was planning on raping one of his pupils. His friend knew it somehow."

"Liar!" Aaron shouted into the phone. "I'd never harm that girl in a million years!"

"Bud, I'm not accusing you of anything. Want me to stop?"

"No," Aaron said with marked frustration and anger. "Go on."

"So Edward asked Paul how his friend could possibly know that. His reply was vague, but he then said something else. Ready for it, Aaron? This is going to be hard for you to hear. It's going to upset you."

"I'm already upset. Tell me."

"He asked if Edward ever had premonitions, visions of the future. Edward hadn't. Paul said he had them sometimes, and one specific one he had frequently. The girl whom the pastor wanted to rape, she was only a kid, but he knew what she'd look like at fifteen, because he was to be her first lay. Edward had laughed and said he'd do jail time for that, screwing a fifteen-year-old. Edward thought Paul was just kidding about it. After all, this was the same kid who lied about being a student at U of R, among other things. Paul said, 'You laugh, but it will happen. I saw this premonition clear as day. Several times. And I've never had a premonition that didn't come true. It _will_ happen. It will be the day after the girl turns fifteen, at a high-school party. I lure her into a bedroom and take her virginity. So clear it is that I even know what she looks like naked—she has a mole on her left groin."

I listened to Aaron breathe into the phone for a curious stretch of time.

"Aaron? You okay?"

"Did he say anything else?"

"About Brooke? No. He never mentioned her by name, but that's whom he was talking about, right?"

"Yes. He's either lying or mistaken. Maybe he fantasized about it, but it wasn't a premonition. Brooke wouldn't have sex with Paul, not ever. If he said he'd rape her, that I might worry over. But she's a good girl, and despises Paul like any right-minded person would."

"You should call Brooke to see if it happened."

"Tinkerbelle isn't fifteen. She's fourteen."

"Oh..."

"It's not going to happen. It's _not."_

"I believe you. When's her birthday?"

"I don't know. But you have a point. Maybe Paul will _try_ to snake his way into bed with her."

"If so, that would be our chance at confronting Paul."

"And do what? Beat him up?" Aaron said sarcastically. "Kill him?"

"We'd protect Brooke. I don't know what I'd say to Paul, actually. Maybe I would kick his ass. God will forgive me. Maybe we can put the hurt on him, make him confess to murdering those two girls in Idaho."

"I don't know, Jay." He sighed. "I'll pray for guidance. I don't know what else to do."

"Why don't you start by finding out when her birthday is."

"I can do that, sure. Anything else in those pages that you want to share? I don't think my blood pressure can handle anything more."

"Nothing much. I just told you everything I felt was significant."

"Okay. I'll let you go. Tell Norrah goodnight for me. Take care, brother."

"You too."

It was coming up on nine P.M. Aaron nearly called Brooke a couple times but couldn't get himself to press the Call button. He'd didn't want to needlessly worry her. And talking about her virginity seemed a little creepy, inappropriate, and wholly distasteful. He figured it would be best to text her. That way he could tell her as little as possible and give well thought-out responses to her texts. At a quarter after the hour he sent a text: Hey Tinkerbelle, how are you? I was just thinking about how I don't know your birthday. I like to keep my friends' birthdays so I can send them a card.

He pressed send.

It wasn't a minute later when she replied: Hi, Aaron (smiley face). My birthday is October 30th. When's yours?

Aaron texted: December 2nd. Sleep well. Talk to you soon.

Aaron then texted me Brooke's birthday, said we had a few months to worry about it. With any luck Paul would turn up dead by then. Okay, Aaron didn't say that, but I imagined he did and it humored me. I wish Aaron would say something like that just once. Must he be so perfect at all times? What I wouldn't give to see Aaron punch Paul in the mouth. I'd give a week's salary to see that.

### Chapter Forty

I was at work the next morning, patrolling Highway 18. A sedan ahead of me was making too wide of turns, crossing over the double-yellow line on nearly every curve. I hit the light-bar and sped up to catch him (it ended up being a her). She pulled over at the first turn-out. I ran her plates, nothing came up. I stepped out of my cruiser and felt the vibration of a cellphone in my pocket. I ignored it and walked to the sedan. The lady was a new face, and by the way she drove I suspected she was a flatlander. I hadn't yet decided if I'd write her a ticket or just give her a warning. My phone vibrated again, and not just once which is indicative of voicemail. Another call.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"I'm pretty sure," she said.

"Oh yeah? Why?" This was a game I enjoyed playing. Let them confess, it's good for their conscience. Sometimes they say the most outlandish things. One guy guessed that I was pulling him over to tell him that if everyone drove more like him there would be no need for cops as there would be no accidents. I wrote him a ticket with a smile.

"Because I'm drinking and driving," she said.

I gawped at her. Was I losing my touch? I can smell alcohol on motorists' breaths even before I lean into the open window, but apparently not today. "You're drinking and driving?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well shit, I appreciate your honesty. That's the first time in my six years of being"—my phone vibrated again; I fished the phone out of my pocket and saw Norrah was calling me. I pressed cancel and saw I had a missed call from Norrah already, and a missed call from Aaron. "First time anyone's ever admitted that preemptively," I said distractedly.

"Honesty is the best policy, huh?" She grinned at me, her eyes slightly glassy.

"Not quite. Having a designated driver is the best policy. Who the heck drinks at nine in the morning, anyway? Are you an alcoholic?"

"No, sir. I rarely drink. I learned last night that my husband of nine years had an affair. I long suspected it, but he confirmed it last night. I drank myself stupid well into the night, and I guess I'm still affected."

"I see. Again, I appreciate the honesty. I'm sorry about what happened. Would you step out of the car for me?"

"Sure," she said agreeably. Pretty damned odd. I wished everyone I pulled over was more like her.

The phone vibrated in my hand: it was Norrah again. Okay, this was the third time she called in two minutes, and Aaron had called once. Something was up. An emergency.

The woman stepped out of her car. Without being asked she walked to the side of the road, put her feet on the white line in preparation to walk it.

"Just one moment," I said to the lady. "What's your name, ma'am?"

"Leleith. Or Lilly. Or Lil."

"Just one moment, Leleith. I have to take this call."

"Take your time," she said sweetly.

"You're a damn breath of fresh air, you know that?" I answered the phone. "What's up, baby?"

Norrah was crying. I waited for the bad news.

"He's dead," she said and sobbed.

"Who?"

"Edward Berg."

"No..."

She said nothing but I pictured her nodding and wiping her eyes with tissue.

"Just now? What happened?"

I glanced at Leleith, who was practicing walking the line. I decided I wouldn't be giving her a DUI.

"He was killed in jail. There was a brawl in the cafeteria and he was stabbed. Jay, my heart is just broken for that poor boy! He shouldn't have even been in jail!"

"I know," I said softly and I was fighting back tears of my own. I had a lot of emotional capital invested in the outcome of his situation. "A needless murder, as most are, but some more than others."

"Can you take the rest of the day off? I want you by my side."

"I've been taking a lot of time off lately."

"Please?"

By how she said it, there would be no way I could turn her down.

"See you in a little bit," I said and ended the call.

The woman finished walking the line, had turned around and was now walking toward me with her gaze focused on the white line before her, her arms spread out for balance. She was walking pretty straight; I judged that she wasn't much over the legal limit, if any.

"Drive straight home," I said. "And never do that again."

"You're letting me go?" Her face brightened.

I nodded, crestfallen, and walked to my cruiser.

"What's your name?" she asked me.

I looked over my shoulder. "Davis. Why?"

"Your first name."

"Jay."

"You got bad news just now, didn't you? What happened?"

"Doesn't matter."

I entered my black and white and closed the door. Leleith appeared at my door, tapped on the glass. I rolled my window down.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Who _are_ you?"

She frowned. "Leleith. Why?"

I shook my head. "You're odd. Like I said, drive straight home."

"Would you like to talk about it over a cup of coffee? The Cliffhanger restaurant is just up ahead. I was heading there for some breakfast. Pancakes and bacon, comfort food."

"A guy I know was just murdered. There's not much to talk about, I don't know the details." I started the engine.

She covered her open mouth, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry."

"So am I." I pressed a thumb and forefinger into my stinging eyes. "Divorce your loser husband, you deserve better." I rolled up the window on her and drove away. In my rear-view mirror I saw her watching me off.

I was at Norrah's ten minutes later. I embraced her on the couch, then got busy watching the news. My phone rang. It was Aaron. I answered it this time.

"Eddie's dead," Aaron said off the bat.

"I know. And I know you're blaming yourself. Don't."

"I'm too stunned to do much self-loathing."

"I haven't heard the details yet. Just that it was in the cafeteria and he was stabbed."

"That's all they're saying. They're mostly just regurgitating what happened last month, the murder of the Boise girls, the trial that will never be, and showing footage of emergency vehicles in front of the prison."

"Do you think Paul or his friend had anything to do with this?" I asked.

"No. Things like this just happen in jail. It's the result of being perpetually accompanied by convicted murderers. God forgive me, but do you know what I thought right after I heard the news? That if it had to happen, I wish it happened before yesterday; before you met with him and got that damned notepad from him. It really haunts me what you said last night."

"That Paul accused you of wanting to rape Brooke?"

"Everything you said, not just that. If you hear something enough, if someone tells you something enough times, you begin wondering if it's true. Tell a smart person that he or she is stupid enough times and they'll start believing it. I'd never so much as fantasize about sleeping with a minor, let alone a child like Tinkerbelle. I guess she's not a child anymore, but still. The thought literally repulses me, makes my stomach sour. But Paul seems so certain that I have a thing for that girl. It plagues my mind, the scourge of my sanity."

"Aaron, come on, you don't need to tell me this. I know you're a good guy."

"Like I said, when you hear something enough you begin second guessing yourself. I know it isn't true, but still..." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I wish you didn't have that damned notepad."

I didn't listen to what Aaron had said there. I was on to something new. "Aaron. For shits and giggles, let's say that Paul or his friend had something to do with Edward's murder. They probably didn't, but for the sake of my argument let's say they played a role in his murder this morning."

"Okay."

"If that were the case, what's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

He considered it. "Uh... I don't know. Oh. _Oh._ I see where you're going with this. The timing. Murdered after he gave you the notes, not before."

"Yeah. Wouldn't his murder have been better committed before giving me the notes?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Aaron said. "It's not like we learned anything useful there."

"You're assuming Brooke isn't going to have a run-in with Paul on the day after her fifteenth birthday."

"It's not going to happen. I'm going to see to it that it doesn't."

"Going to spend that day with her?" I asked.

"If I have to, yes," replied Aaron.

"Let's say I'm right about Paul or his friend having been responsible for Edward's murder. That would mean they waited till after I got the notepad to have him killed. That would mean they wanted us to read those things. What if all this was a means to get that information to us? A ruse."

"I think that's far-reaching," Aaron said.

"Yeah, I suppose it is. But isn't it possible? You can't say there is a zero chance that it could have happened."

"I suppose."

"If there's a chance, and you just admitted there is—albeit a small chance—shouldn't we consider what it might mean? I'll tell you what it might mean: that there's something on those pages that Paul wanted me to read. And to share with you. Or Norrah. Maybe it's one of the things I told you over the phone, but maybe not. There's a lot I skimmed over, but I think I might read it more carefully a second time."

"I think you'll be wasting your time," Aaron said.

"Am I selfish or what? I should be doing nothing but lamenting that poor kid's death, but instead I'm thinking about how this affects me. About how I won't be watching his trial, how there's no reason for me to find proof of his innocence, and how—"

"Maybe that's why Edward was killed. If you are operating under the no-stone-left-unturned mentality, you have to throw that in there as well. And if you ask me, it's more likely that he was killed to prevent a trial than killed only after he wrote what he did."

"Killed to prevent a trial that he was responsible for creating?" I said. "That sounds stupid."

"I guess it does," Aaron conceded.

"As I was saying, I'm seeing this murder as something that affects me, when I should be thinking about Edward and his family."

"Ditto."

"All right, I'll let you go. Talk to you tomorrow."

"Man this sucks. See you, Jay."

Seated on the couch I put an arm around Norrah. "Fucking Paul," I muttered. I couldn't help but consider that this was his fault, Paul's, just as the two girls murdered last month were the doings of that asshole. How could there be any doubt? I thought I'd do some more research on Sedona, Arizona, to see what I might find. Without knowing his real name, it would be a futile search. There had to be some way to find his birth name.

"Huh..." I said.

Norrah looked over at me.

"Paul was investigated, had a California Driver's license with the name Paul Klein. If it's a fake name, which I'd guess it is—that's why there is no record of his birth—that means he took on a whole new identity at some point. When he bought his Dodge Ram, he had already taken that name, so says his registration. His registration, Wells Fargo bank account, State Farm insurance, all are under the name Paul Klein. But that's all that's under the name Paul Klein. He claimed not to remember his Social Security number before saying that he doesn't believe he ever had a Social Security card. You need one of those to get a job, and to get a loan, such as a loan for his Dodge Ram. I wonder how he pulled that off?"

"He's never had a job," Norrah said, "until the one at Papagayo's. But didn't you say he never worked there?"

"Yeah, another one of his lies."

"He mentioned that once, that he never worked a job before Papagayo's. He was proud of it for some reason. Like he's above labor. I suppose he made up the job at Papagayo's so I'd let him live here, being that I was looking for a tenant who had income to pay rent."

"How'd he get his money then?"

"I thought from Papagayo's. But he did say his parents send him a check every month."

"Which is a lie, I'm sure. He ran away from his parents at thirteen, hated them; it said that in Edward's notes, and that I _do_ believe. I'm going to look into that, how he bought that Ram. If it was on loan, I want to know what Social Security number he used to get the loan."

"Maybe he stole it from another Paul Klein? Maybe there is a real Paul Klein and he just assumed his identity," Norrah theorized.

"Who knows," I said and exhaled. "I can't stand liars."

### Chapter Forty One

Being that Norrah has a fat bank account and loves me tremendously, I coaxed her into footing a bill for a private investigator. She thought it was a waste of money. If a department of detectives couldn't learn anything about Paul, how would a single P.I.? I said I knew a guy who knows a great one. He isn't cheap but results rarely come cheap. And my hired P.I. wouldn't be investigating the same things that the detectives had. I had information that the S.B.P.D didn't, like the name of the town where Paul's from, and the city he lived in after Sedona: Fresno. Detectives didn't put much effort into Paul anyway, being that he was never considered to be a suspect. Not when Norrah's statement had put Paul upstairs when the people disappeared. They found records of his insurance, registration, and truck, and stopped there. Norrah's dollars would take it from there.

The P.I. was named Doug Hostetler, and the dude was booked for at least the next couple weeks, possibly longer depending on unforeseen circumstances. So busy he was that it confirmed what my pal Williamson had said about this being a great private investigator. Shitty P.I.'s tend to have wide open schedules. This guy was worth the wait, so I asked his secretary Irene to have Doug call me when he could take my case.

It was two weeks later to the hour when I got a call from his secretary apologizing for Mr. Hostetler, saying his current case put him unexpectedly in Florida for a week. Irene said she'd call me in a week with an update. I thanked her.

A week later (also to the hour—they ran a well-oiled machine at Hostetler Investigations) Irene called me with more bad news, only the bad news was limited to its relevance with my needs: Doug Hostetler was now in Hawaii. How horrible that job must be. Getting paid to tan and surf. She assured me that it was the same case, that their firm wasn't taking cases ahead of mine, that sometimes things happen out of their control. I said call me when the guy's free. She said she'd call me in a week.

It was six days later, July 18th, when I got a call not from Irene but from the man himself. I had just finished writing up some paperwork on a fender-bender when I got the call. I sat in my car on the shoulder of the road as we spoke.

"Thanks for your patience," Doug said.

"I'd have went with another dude by now if it wasn't for your stellar reputation."

He chuckled. "Thanks. We take pride in our work here."

"Who's included in we? Are there other investigators in your firm?"

"No, but I have an assistant, Roger, and the lady whom you spoke with, Irene."

"Should we discuss my matter over the phone or in person?"

"In person, if you don't mind."

"That would be fine. When and where?"

"Los Angeles. I'll text you the address. This evening work for you?"

"Sure. I haven't had the pleasure of driving in L.A. traffic for far too long."

We arranged to meet at eight P.M. (my work hours precluded an early meeting). He requested I bring any documents, photos, anything in my possession that would aid him in his investigation.

Norrah wanted to come with me, and I wanted to drive in the carpool lane so it worked out for all parties.

I had left fifteen minutes early and was still twenty minutes late due to the traffic (carpool lane and all). The office shared a building with a tax attorney. It was mostly dark inside, the lights dim, a casual atmosphere. Doug was the only one there. Irene's desk was empty, and Doug's assistant's office was vacant. We took a seat before Doug's desk. He offered us refreshment.

"Do you charge by the hour or day?" Norrah asked.

"Eleven hundred a day plus expenses."

"Then I'll take the most expensive thing you have to drink," Norrah said humorlessly.

Doug laughed, as did I.

"I have Remy Martin, Gray Goose, water and coffee."

We'd both take coffee, cream and no sugar for me. As he poured our drinks he spoke of his credentials, his experience (nineteen years), and told me a funny story of how he met Williamson, my buddy who referred this P.I.

He handed over the mugs and sat in his plush chair, leaned back comfortably and asked what it was he could do for us.

I leered at Norrah and asked if she wanted to shock Doug or should I. Norrah said by all means, go for it.

Doug's curiosity piqued.

"She's Norrah Petersen," I said. "You might not recognize my name: Jay Davis."

"Well, well, well," he said with a pleased expression. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. I blame the low lighting for not having recognized you. Yes, I know your name as well, Jay. In fact, when Irene told me about a potential case and stated your name is Jay, Davis was the first thing that popped in my head. I store a lot of information, one of the things that makes me good at what I do. Let's see..." he said thoughtfully, "Paul Klein was the boy living downstairs, Edward Berg was one of the twenty-three—sad about the news of his death—Taylor I-forget-his-last-name, Victoria Salas, uh... Cody, Aaron, Brittney Hayes..."

"You don't need to try to impress us," I said, "you've already done that. Yes, good memory. Unsurprisingly you remember the hot chicks names better than the dudes. Funny thing, you already know of the person you're to be investigating."

"Do I?" Doug said.

"You just said his name."

He reflected. "Edward? You want me to investigate his death?"

"No. Paul."

"Paul Klein. Interesting," Doug said and stroked his chin, "very interesting. I remember them saying on the news that they knew very little about him. But he was never a suspect, was he?"

"Never."

"Excellent. I love a challenge. Where the boys-in-blue failed, I will not. What are you seeking?"

"As much shit as you can learn about him," I said.

"Anything in particular?"

"Yes. His real name. I don't think it's Paul Klein. Anything else you can find will be great. The more the better."

"Then I should tell you: when I take a case there is a five-day minimum, so fifty-five-hundred plus expenses."

"Are you implying that you won't need a full week?"

"Yes, that is what I'm saying."

"I hope you're right. Look into his past, because I think he ran away at thirteen. Learn his parents' names, current address, and all that. See if he's ever been admitted to a nut-house. Once you learn his real name, see if there have ever been charges brought up against him. Maybe that's why he changed his identity."

"Do you have any documents that might help me?"

"Only one," I said and placed on the desk the little yellow notepad. "This was written by Edward Berg, given to me the day before he was murdered. Edward was the only friend of Paul's that I know of. Lot's of information in here."

"I got to admit, I couldn't have dreamed of a better case than this," Doug said. "When you said your names, I figured you wanted me to investigate the cause of the missing twenty-three. I'd have refused the case because there had to have been thousands of man-hours spent on solving that already. I'm good but nobody is that good."

"Yeah, we don't need that mystery solved," I said.

"We figured that out ourselves," Norrah said mindlessly.

"I beg your pardon?" Doug said.

"Never mind," she said.

"Oh. That's right. In an interview you said you heard them get killed, and thought God brought them back to life." At least he didn't sound like he thought she was crazy.

"Yes, that's what happened," she said.

"It's not as stupid a theory as it originally sounds," Doug said. "It _does_ sound stupid at first, admittedly. But if you discount the existence of God, what's left? An unsolvable puzzle, that's what. All those man-hours spent investigating, the best minds our country has to offer working on solving that enigma, and not so much as a single theory has been made, other than yours. It's because investigations are based on science, and the supernatural has no scientific foundation. What is science?—it's the study of nature and naturally occurring things, is it not? How could one use scientific methods to prove or disprove the existence of God, who is a supernatural being? It's a contradiction of terms. Anyway, how freaked out must you two have been when you heard the twenty-three downstairs after a week, like nothing had happened."

"Geez," Norrah said and rolled her eyes. "Only time in my life I fainted."

"I can imagine," Doug said and chuckled. He looked at me and said, "Being that Edward Berg gave you this notepad, I take it he was a friend of yours?"

"Yes," Norrah and I said in unison.

He nodded. "For what it's worth, I don't believe he was guilty of killing Susan Feller and Lindsey Demitri."

"He didn't kill them," Norrah said.

"Anybody volunteering to take a polygraph from both cops and the prosecution, and willing to take the stand during a trial, isn't guilty of the crime he's charged with, in my humble opinion. And he didn't look like he would kill a mosquito, let alone a couple girls."

"So when can you begin?" Norrah asked him.

Doug sobered a little, coughed into his hand, apologized for bringing up Edward's death.

"It's okay," I said. "It's just kind of a touchy subject."

"Understandably. I'll begin tomorrow. I'll need a check for fifty-five-hundred in advance. I don't think there will be much in the line of expenses."

"You might fly out to Sedona," I said. "That's where he's from, I think."

"Why do you charge so much?" Norrah asked.

"I have a staff. And this office isn't free. And quality doesn't come cheap. And lastly, it's reasonably priced: check around. We'll keep in touch."

### Chapter Forty Two

It was the following evening when Doug Hostetler called me, our first contact since our meeting. Norrah and I were eating tacos when the call landed. I put him on speaker phone.

"Got a minute?" Doug said.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"You're right about his name being fake."

"I knew it," I said to Norrah.

"Yeah, yeah, you now everything," Norrah patronized. "That's why you had to hire Mr. Hostetler."

"Ouch," I said.

Doug laughed. "Our man was issued his first driver's license in 2008, under the name Paul Klein. He bought a 2010 Dodge Ram in May, 2012. He wrote a check for it, fifteen grand after his four-thousand-dollar trade-in. No financing. He opened a bank account the day before purchasing the truck. I think he opened it just for the purpose of writing that check and the one to State Farm. What I just told you was pretty easy to obtain and I'd feel like I was robbing you for taking a check for that. But luckily for my conscience I did earn some of my paycheck today. The car he traded in for the Ram was a 2001 Volkswagen Jetta. The Jetta was in Paul Klein's name. Two days before he bought the Ram, the Jetta wasn't in Paul's name. The pink slip was signed over to Paul Klein from a Darren Woodley. The sale price was listed at the DMV-minimum of fifty bucks—usually a price between family or whatever, a gift price; people do it so they don't have to pay much taxes on the purchase. Any guesses as to why someone would sell a four-thousand dollar car to Paul for fifty bucks two days before he traded it in for a truck?"

"I have no idea," I said.

"I think it would come to you if you thought about it for a bit," Doug said.

"Because Darren Woodley is Paul Klein?" Norrah guessed.

"All right, Norrah!" Doug cheered. "Paul Klein would have a hard time trading in his car if it was in a name other than his own. Simple enough, huh?"

"Yeah," I said.

"We don't know if Darren Woodley is his birth name or not. That could be another fake name. I'll work on that tomorrow. I found some info on the Jetta. It was bought in 2007 by Mr. Woodley, paid for in cash, and purchased from a man Otis Cullins in Northridge for five-grand. How do I know it was paid for in cash? Because Otis Cullins told me so. Yes, I spoke with him. He described the appearance of Darren Woodley. He couldn't remember much, but said it was a young man who didn't look old enough to drive. He said he had dark hair, maybe dark eyes though he couldn't be sure. So that puts our man in the area of Northridge in 2007, probably lived in the vicinity."

"I don't understand," Norrah said. "If his name is Darren Woodley, why did he go by Paul Klein in Fresno back when he was only fourteen?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet in my investigation. Paul Klein is a name he made up, so he might have used that fake name casually long before he transitioned to changing his identity. If I was a betting man, and I am, my money would be on his real name being Darren Woodley. It's too lackluster a name to be contrived. And it was his first car purchase, probably his first adult thing ever bought, so he'd use his real name. I wonder how a lousy kid his age had five grand in cash to buy the car."

"And where he came up with fifteen grand to buy the Ram," I added.

"That too. I'll see if I can find a missing boy (a run-away) by the name of Darren Woodley. Hopefully I find something coming out of Sedona. If there is no record of a missing boy under that name, I'll have to rethink his real name being Darren."

"I appreciate you keeping us up to date," I said.

"Yes, thank you, Doug," Norrah said.

"Don't thank me. This is costing you a great deal. And I enjoy my work."

We ended the call and finished our tacos.

The next morning I was at work when I got a call from my diligent P.I. He said he was on his way to the airport, flying into Phoenix before connecting to a hopper into Sedona. He didn't want to say too much, didn't want to get my hopes up, but said he thought he was on the verge of uncovering every mystery relating to Paul Klein. He also said the flight from Phoenix to Sedona wasn't a cheap one, and that he'd need a rental car and only drove full-sized premium sedans. There would likely be a grand in expenses today alone. I authorized it.

It was mid-afternoon when he next contacted me. He was in a community northeast of Sedona, not far from Steamboat Rock, a place I had never heard of. He apologized in advance for his lousy cell reception, said he got between zero and one bar where he was, which was the desert. If the call dropped he'd contact me later in the comfort of his air conditioned hotel room in Sedona.

"I was right about Darren being his real name," Doug said. "But he's been calling himself Paul since he was ten or eleven."

"What kind of ten-year-old changes his name?"

"At that age it isn't changing your name but more like giving yourself a nickname, or an alter ego, or something. I'm on my way to his mother's house now. His adopted mother, that is. His real mother lives in New Mexico. Man, Jay, this thing is like an onion, the more layers you peel the stinkier it gets. His sister Clara from his adopted family lives in the University of Auburn dorm rooms in Alabama. I just got off the phone with her. She hung up on me when I mentioned Darren Woodley. I called back, left a voicemail. I said I'm a detective working on a case that would put Darren in prison, and would appreciate her help in making that happen. I figured if she despised her brother that this lie might persuade her to call me. And it did. She called me right back, wanted to help in any way possible."

"No brotherly-sisterly love between the two, huh?" I said.

"That's an understatement. She said if I wanted to build a character-case against Darren, that I'd benefit greater by contacting her father—she didn't say _their_ father, but hers. She doesn't include Darren as a part of their family. She gave me her father's number; I left a voicemail."

"Why does Clara not like him? Did she say?"

"Clara thought he was disturbed, maybe even mentally ill. He killed their pet parakeet when he was six. He may have killed other pets, too, but there was no proof: they went missing. The dead parakeet is when she first considered something was wrong with him. But there were signs even before that. Darren had drawn some things that Clara's mother had destroyed before she could get a look at. Her mother was distraught by them. So there were signs at a very young age. She said he used to stare at her when she was in a bathing suit; it made her feel ill. He got in trouble at school, as well. Some fights, but there were other things. She says a lot of what he did he got away with, always had a great excuse or an alibi."

"Yeah, I bet. He sure had a great one on Valentine's Day. Continue."

"There was something that Clara had difficulty remembering. Not that it was difficult to retrieve the memory, but painful. Darren was thirteen at the time—coincidentally this was shortly before he ran away from home, never to return. A seventeen-year-old girl in their neighborhood went missing. The girl was Clara's close friend. The circumstance in which she disappeared hinted at abduction. To this day she's never been found. The evening she went missing Darren wasn't home. He returned late that night, smirked at Clara as he came in, went upstairs to shower and went straight to bed. She says she wouldn't be surprised at all if Darren had something to do with it."

"Interesting."

"Let's see, what else do I have..." I heard some papers being shuffled. "Oh. When he ran away at thirteen, his adopted parents didn't file a runaway report to the cops. That's peculiar—though I guess it's not surprising if Darren was killing pets and drawing pictures of unmentionable things, huh?"

"And making neighborhood girls disappear."

"Clara said they used to go to church, the whole family."

This got my attention.

"She said Darren would sometimes disrupt the sermon with questions. Good questions, she said, ones that always seemed to stump the pastor. And he got a kick out of it. Smug little son of a bitch, is what Clara said."

"It's definitely Paul we're talking about here," I said.

"She said that Darren believed in God, so she couldn't understand why he'd be such a menace in church."

"Believing in God and loving God are two different things."

"I guess you're right. Clara did use the word evil to describe him. You think he hates God?"

"I do," I said. "I think the devil got a hold of that kid at a young age, that's what I think."

"You mean that figuratively," Doug said, "don't you?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Jay, between you and me, do you think this Darren Woodley had something to do with the missing twenty-three?"

"Not only that, but I'd bet he had something to do with the Boise girls' deaths and Edward Berg's death."

"My God," Doug muttered. After a silent moment he said, "I'm surprised my phone hasn't cut out yet. I'll get back at you tonight with more information. I hit pay dirt with that call to Clara; I'm hopeful that this meeting with Barbara Woodley will be even better. Talk to you soon," he said and ended the call.

I was excited that evening, stared at my cellphone incessantly. Norrah and I sipped wine on her deck, relishing the gorgeous weather. It was seventy degrees at sunset, rare for Arrowhead. When the phone rang I got really excited, then deflated when I saw it was Aaron calling. He just wanted to know if we'd heard anything back from the P.I. yet. He'd be the first to know, I said, and ended the call.

We were on our second bottle of wine when the mood struck to have a little steamy interlude upstairs in her bedroom. When we finished making love it was full dark outside. I had hoped to find a missed call but there were none. We watched Princess Bride on DVD till a quarter of eleven. I decided to call him. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message, just curious what else he learned over in Arizona.

I was getting antsy by the following afternoon, not having heard back from Doug. I left another voicemail, no rings.

I finally got my phone call at four P.M. It wasn't the news I had hoped for.

"There you are," I said. "I'm dying to know, man, what did you find out?"

"I..." I knew something was wrong already. "I'm sorry, Jay, but I can no longer be on this case. I'm voiding Norrah's check; expect it in the mail soon."

"No," I whined. "Don't, Doug. Why?"

"Sometimes bad things happen in my profession. Threats of bodily injury or even death threats. I don't take many of them to heart, but sometimes I do. I picture Edward Berg being stabbed to death, and picture myself in his shoes. Or worse. I have a wife and two young sons who mean the world to me. I couldn't imagine losing one of them, and won't risk that happening. Can I give you some advice? Don't hire another P.I."

"Did Paul threaten to kill you and your family?"

"Again, I'm sorry."

He ended the call.

### Part 6:

### Chapter Forty Three

Having money in the bank makes for some fun vacations. We had talked about it for a couple months, made plans six weeks ago to take a vacation together, six of us. Norrah picked up the bill for a large RV rental. Norrah may have had a lot of money, but that didn't mean we weren't frugal with how we spent it. The RV was discounted due to the season (it was mid-October), as was our campsite in Yosemite Valley. We had a special campsite in the periphery of the grounds, one with as much privacy as you could hope for. The nearest campers would be a hundred feet away.

Norrah, my brother Caleb, and I embarked on our voyage early that morning, picked up Brittney Hayes down the hill, and the four of us happy-campers (pardon the pun) drove up highway 99 to Fresno. It was afternoon when we picked up the final two of our sextet: Deborah and Aaron. There were smiles all around.

Things had returned to normal following the resignation of Doug's investigation. We hadn't heard a word from Doug since that phone call. Over the months we had visited with Aaron and Deborah a few times, and they had visited us twice. They were a young couple in love, and spoke of a future together. I thought a wedding proposal would come soon enough.

Caleb and Brittney were doing wonderful, as well. Their sights didn't extend as far as a family together, but they enjoyed one another's company both emotionally and especially physically. Needless to say, she was a virgin no longer. On the drive up to Fresno I got my brother alone in the back of the RV and had a beer with him sitting on the side of the bed. I asked where he was with Brittney, if he might settle down with this one. He didn't need to answer, his expression said it all. He was smitten with her. I wondered if Caleb would freak out if he knew that one of our sextet (Aaron) had watched his girlfriend get penetrated at the party of the missing twenty-three. As far as I knew, my brother knew nothing of it. Not that it mattered, that was in the past. Brittney was awesome, and if I were my brother I would have no problem dating her knowing what I know. People make mistakes, live and learn.

It was a two hour drive from Aaron's apartment to Yosemite Valley. Norrah drove the whole way. She insisted. She claimed to love driving big things and you bet I had something ambiguous to say about that, an innuendo of sorts. It was late-afternoon when we arrived, early-evening by the time we had our two tents set up. One tent was for the young'uns, one for the pastor and his lovely girlfriend, and the RV was to be where I got up to no-good with my girlfriend for four consecutive nights.

It was our first evening in Yosemite. Vacations are at their prime on the first day; it seems unfathomable that they will come to an end. It's hard to correctly picture a scenario, such as the one we were enjoying, ahead of time. You never know how magical a trip will be, you can only guess at it. Usually they're better than you could have hoped for. You'll sit there on your folding chair before a fire, fielding kisses from a loosened-up girl who loves you with all her heart, and take pause to put yourself on the outside looking in, a better way to appreciate things. I was a lucky guy. These were the memories I'd take with me forever, and some distant year I'd come to remember this trip as being the time of my life. I knew it like I knew that Norrah would accept my marriage proposal tonight. I had a diamond ring in my pocket. I originally decided to propose in the RV without an audience. But sometimes improvisations should be made, and this was one such time.

Over a fire we roasted Chedderwurst on skewers and they were scrumptious. We drank Corona and lime with them. Caleb was sitting in a weird kind of chair, it had no legs, and was atop a rolled-out sleeping bag. Brittney was between his legs, her back to his chest, his hands around her stomach, their cheeks touching. He'd occasionally kiss her, and she'd smile when he did. To our right was Aaron, his folding chair butted up to Deborah's. Her hand, palm up, was being explored by Aaron. He was reading her lines, telling her future. He didn't believe it to be real, nor did she, but he had learned how to read palms as a young man before he converted to Christendom (Christianity?) and occasionally read people's palms as a novelty. He was having fun with Deborah. He said she was going to have nine kids, three sets of triplets, and live to be a hundred and seven. She was giggling at everything he said. I liked the way her large breasts jiggled when she laughed—don't tell Norrah I said that.

The moment was right, I sensed it. I asked Norrah to go inside the RV and fetch some marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey bars. She dutifully scampered off. I capitalized on the moment, took the ring out of my pocket and paced around before the fire nervously. Aaron asked if something was up. I said no. My brother knows me better and suspected what was coming and whispered into his girlfriend's ear. Her eyes widened, smile so wide that the fire-light reflected off both rows of teeth.

Deborah touched at Aaron's thigh, and it crept up just enough to intimate to him that she was feeling a little amorous. He arched his brow at her hand, then her eyes. She winked at him. He smiled back, leaned in to kiss her. I wondered if they were having sex. Do pastors tend to wait till marriage for that? I suppose Aaron and I were close enough that I could ask him, and maybe I would sometime soon. But judging by how they were kissing now, and his reciprocation of an inner-thigh-touching hand, they were no strangers to one another's flesh. Good for him. He deserved a good woman, and Deborah was a great one.

When Norrah was almost to our cozy little camp an owl hooted nearby. It was on a low branch of a sequoia on our campsite. She said, "Ooo, did you hear the owl?"

I dropped down to one knee and held up the ring. It glimmered from the fire. She was still walking toward me, her gaze at the invisible owl. Then she looked at me, at what I was doing. She stopped pie-eyed in her tracks a couple feet from me, her mouth having dropped open like an unlatched glove-box. At my side Deborah gasped. Brittney uttered, "Aww," in a high tone.

Norrah covered her mouth with both hands, eyes already leaking.

"I love you, Norrah. I love you like I never thought I could love anyone. I was going to wait till later tonight when we were alone in the RV, but I couldn't wait one moment longer, couldn't stand not having you for a fiancé any longer. Will you marry me and spend the rest of your life as Mrs. Jay Davis?"

She nodded, hands still covering her mouth. "If you'll sign a pre-nup," she said. "I'm worth a lot of money."

Everyone laughed, including me. I got to my feet and took her in my arms. Each passionate kiss of hers was an acceptance of my proposal. She said she was kidding about the pre-nup, as if I didn't know.

Aaron stood from of his chair, opened the nearby ice chest and took out a bottle of Corona, used an opener to pop the top and proposed a toast.

"Don't do it," Norrah said to Aaron. "Not for us."

"I drink only on special occasions, and if this isn't special..." He cleared his throat. "Here's to a long happy marriage between two of the finest people I know. Two of the finest people on earth," he amended. My brother and Brittney took up their Coronas. I handed my fiancé her beer and together we raised them. "May your marriage be as happy as I know it will be, and may you two die by each other's side at the ripe-old age of a hundred and seven, with three sets of triplets each as cute as their mother and as wise as their father. And mother. Cheers."

We all swigged our beers.

It was around ten o'clock, all kinds of wildlife chirping and croaking and screeching. Norrah and Deborah excused themselves to pee in the RV. Aaron left his chair and sat in Norrah's, beside me.

"Congratulations, buddy," he said. "I'm so happy for you two."

"Thanks, man."

Caleb and Brittney were making out. It was getting pretty steamy over there.

"Having a good time?" I asked Aaron.

"The best."

"Good."

"I forgot to tell you earlier," he said. "Guess who I finally met with yesterday?"

"I don't know."

"Brooke. Tinkerbelle."

"Oh yeah? First time in what..."

"Over six years."

"Cool. How was it?"

"Great. We had lunch at the Olive Garden. She looks like a woman now, almost as tall as me! It's so weird going from seeing her at eight to now. In my mind I still saw Tinkerbelle, even when we spoke over the phone. Now it's Brooke, the young woman. She has a good head on her shoulders. She wants to be an archaeologist some day."

"Right on."

"Remember what I said about being bothered about... me supposedly liking her in a physical way?"

"Yeah."

"I knew it wasn't true, but that was confirmed yesterday. She is very pretty, but I wasn't at all attracted to her. Part of me was worried that Paul had been right, that even though I wasn't yet attracted to her, that maybe I would be when she matured. Meeting with her yesterday laid all that to rest permanently. I should never have let that weasel get into my psyche like that."

"That's the truth. I'm glad for you, mijo."

"Gracias." He sipped his long-neck.

"You know," I said forebodingly, "October 30th isn't far off."

"Do you think I don't worry about that every day? It's a worry in vain, though. She has a boyfriend. I didn't say anything to her about the party and Paul, there is no need to. She wouldn't go to a party, she's a good Christian girl. And is pretty taken by this boy Aiden she's seeing. Everything turned out all right, huh?"

"I am engaged to a beautiful woman. So yeah, everything turned out just fine, methinks."

### Chapter Forty Four

Early the next afternoon we decided to go rafting down the Merced. It was a little overcast, but I had checked the weather on the drive up and my iPhone app had said it was going to be sunny all week long. I checked the app now to see if there had been a change. I wasn't getting any phone service here. I asked Norrah if her phone got service and it did not. We all agreed that it was close enough to sunny to warrant floating down the river. There are boat rentals for just this thing, and we got three of them, two man'ers. We shoved off just outside the Awahnee hotel, drifted down at a snail's pace, imbibing the panoramic view of giant sequoias, El Capitan and Half Dome, and the many waterfalls. Norrah was leaning back into me much as Brittney was doing to my brother last night by the fire. She kept slapping my hand away from her breasts, whispered that the others could see. I didn't care, and kept at it. I'm persistent if I'm anything at all.

My phone chimed in my pocket, voicemail.

"You brought your phone?" Norrah said. "If we get wet it'll get ruined."

"I forgot it was in my pocket. I'm surprised I'm getting service." I dug the phone out of my jeans pocket and saw that I had no missed calls. The voicemail was time-stamped 5:53PM of yesterday's date. It had an area-code I was unfamiliar with.

"Who was it?" she asked me.

"I don't know."

I listened to the message.

"This is detective Maurice Esperanza of the Sedona Police Department. I'm investigating the disappearance of a gentleman by the name of Doug Hostetler. Your name and phone number were on a sticky-note in his hotel room. If you would please give me a call at your earliest convenience..."

He left his number. I replayed the message on speaker phone for Norrah. She looked as dumbfounded as I was. I gazed over at the love-birds to my left, Aaron and Deborah. They were having far too good a time to ruin by me mentioning this. I'd bring it up when we got back. I told Norrah to pretend we didn't get the message, to try and enjoy our excursion. An impossibility. We were tense the rest of our voyage down-river.

There was a taxi service employed for this occasion, transporting rafters from the marked stopping point back up to the Awahnee hotel. From the hotel we began walking back to our campsite. Aaron was the one who asked what was wrong, that something must have happened, that we were acting strangely. I think he was worrying that we got in a fight, maybe broke our engagement off. So I told him about the voicemail.

"What do you suppose happened?" Aaron asked me.

"No idea. Only that it's no coincidence that he happened to go missing in Sedona, of all places. I don't know why he had my name and number. He hasn't called me since he quit the case."

"Are you going to call him when we get back?"

"No service. We must have floated into service back there."

"Honey," Norrah said, "why don't you go to the hotel and use their phone. I want to enjoy the rest of our stay, and dark speculation doesn't allow for that."

"I don't think getting details will make us any happier," I said. "And since there's an investigation, I doubt they'll be giving any details at all. They'll want answers, not questions."

"By their questions you can glean what happened," she said.

"Eh, maybe." She had a point. "You guys mind?" I asked my company. "I'll be back soon."

They didn't mind. Aaron wanted to come with me. The two of us back-tracked to the hotel. There were payphones here. You rarely find such relics this day in age, but up here you can't rely on cellphones, so they continue to serve a purpose.

I dialed the number Maurice left, entered my credit-card information so I wouldn't need a roll of quarters, and anxiously waited for the detective to answer.

"Detective Esperanza," he answered.

"Hey. It's officer Jay Davis, returning your call."

"You're a cop?"

"Yes, Highway Patrol, San Bernardino County."

"I see. I was hoping you could help us figure some things out, such as why Mr. Doug Hostetler had your phone number in his hotel room."

"He was abducted from a hotel room in Sedona?"

"I didn't say that."

"Maurice, if you want me to say what I know, you're going to have to satisfy my curiosity a little."

"You know I can't: open investigation."

"Dude, I'm a cop. You don't have to tell me _everything."_

"We don't know if he was abducted or not. But we believe that to be the case. We're operating under that assumption."

"Hostetler was a guy I hired, a private investigator. Haven't spoken to him in months. He isn't working on a case of mine, so I don't know why he had my number with him."

"Any idea why he was in Sedona? He has a southern Cal address."

"Yeah," I said without a trace of enthusiasm. "I probably do."

"Well?"

"He was looking into a guy, Paul Klein."

I told him an abridged version of why I hired him. I went from being a blip on his radar to being the key point of contact regarding this case. He said to remain near my cellphone, that he'd be getting back to me soon and I didn't doubt that. I said I had no service up here in Yosemite. I said I'd call him tomorrow at the same time to see if there were any updates. He was grateful for my cooperation and looked forward to hearing back from me.

We had a wonderful evening in spite of ourselves. The atmosphere was too cozy to ignore for long. We played charades, told stories, sipped wine. I can't speak for the others, but Norrah and I made love for the second consecutive night.

We went for a morning hike up Vernon Falls. I say hike but it was more like a trek, a four hour ass-buster. We made it back just in time to keep my appointment with Maurice, Aaron at my side again.

The first thing out of Maurice's mouth was, "Man, you're the dude who was there when the twenty-three returned?!"

"The one and the same."

"You're kind of a celebrity. I can't believe I didn't catch that yesterday."

"And you're supposed to be a detective," I said lightheartedly. "So what's new?"

"Oh man, a lot." I couldn't believe how differently he regarded me today. He spoke as if I were an old friend he hadn't spoken to in too long. "You have a knack for getting into some shit, huh?" He chuckled.

"Why do you say that?"

"First the twenty-three, now this."

"Define _'this'_?"

"We're sure Hostetler was abducted now. His rental car is still outside the hotel room, and two people from his P.I. firm said Doug hasn't contacted them, and that's not just unusual, it never happens, never. There are other things, but it's not important. What is important is that through no fault of your own, you're the reason why he is here in Sedona. On his laptop computer we found some notes and an outline to a novel we think he was working on. From the outline, he was trying to connect some pretty incredible dots. I wouldn't share this with you except for the likelihood that you already know what he's writing about. It's about you. And Norrah. And the twenty-three. He seems to be focusing on Paul Klein, whom he also calls Darren Woodley. You said Paul lives out here in Sedona, right?"

"At one time, I believe he did, yes."

"Maybe he returned. He's a suspect right now. There is nothing tangible to base that suspicion on other than why Doug's out here. Investigating and researching information for his book. If Doug was going to point fingers at that dude, it would make sense why he'd turn up missing. You think Paul would want this shit getting out?"

"Hell no. I can't believe that prick is writing a book about us. He made it seem like he was dropping my case for other reasons. Turns out he just fell bass-ackwards into a story that he wanted to get rich off of. What a douche."

"Do you know anyone who may know the whereabouts of Paul Klein?"

"No, sorry."

"We'll find him."

"Who, Hostetler or Paul?"

"Both. Hey, what are your thoughts on Paul possibly abducting this guy? You think he did it?"

"Maurice, if I were a betting man, and I am, my money would be on Paul being behind his disappearance, yes. And I wouldn't be surprised if Hostetler turns up dead."

"I appreciate you telling me all this," Maurice said. "Look, you've been straight with me so I'll continue being straight with you. Needless to say everything said between us is confidential."

"I know."

"You have my number. If you think of anything, let me know."

"Will do. I'll keep in touch. I want to know if and when you find that son of a bitch Paul. And that son of a bitch Hostetler. I can't believe that asshole is going to write a book about this shit. Take it easy. Good luck."

Aaron first said he didn't know I had a mouth like that. I said sorry, it's cop talk. He then said he would be shocked if Paul had nothing to do with this. So would I.

### Chapter Forty Five

Over the next couple days of our vacation I didn't learn much from Maurice. No new developments. Or if there were, he didn't tell me. I suspected there was nothing new to tell: Maurice seemed like a cool cat.

It was depressing packing up to leave that Sunday morning. Nobody wanted to put a cap on these wonderful four days. It was a quiet drive back to Fresno. Norrah drove, and began crying when we pulled up to Aaron's apartment. We all took turns hugging him and Deborah, said we'd talk soon, and bade them farewell.

Norrah was out of her funk by the first hour driven south from Fresno. She occasionally glanced down at her ring finger and smiled at the diamond. I called her my fiancé with annoying frequency, and she did the same. A novelty title. Caleb and Brittney had disappeared somewhere along the way, and it became evident why they had relocated to the back of the RV: we heard pleasured moaning.

We dropped the new couple off at Caleb's house. Then there were two. Us engaged folk. It was kind of nice being alone with her again. I was a little aroused watching her pilot the massive vehicle to her house. I unlatched my seatbelt and got closer to her, tried my hand and arousing her as she drove. She giggled and slapped my hand away. Upon parking on the street before her driveway, I took her to the back and had my way with her. It was something else, and not just the sex. We weren't fans of condoms (who is?) so our method of birth control has here-to-now been pulling out. But tonight as I was escalating and preparing to do the old pull-out, she murmured "Nuh-uh." So I planted my seed in her. Would we be starting a family in nine months? Time would well. But I hoped we would.

I kept in contact with Maurice. It was becoming pointless to check in with him. He wasn't calling me, either. There were no developments in the case. Hostetler was still missing. If it was a news story, I didn't hear about it. There were no connections made between him and us, or him and Paul Klein. That was likely kept under the rug. I figured he'd turn up dead eventually. Or who knows? Maybe he'd return not unlike the missing twenty-three. I seriously doubted that.

I didn't spend much time thinking about Aaron and his woman in the ensuing days. My focus was on my fiancé. I couldn't have been happier. We even set a wedding date: May ninth. We were making love at least once a day (at night) and usually in the mornings as well. No protection. As always happens when strange shit or seriously bizarre shit happens, things slowly begin to return to normal. What was it Jesus said?—This too will pass? Yeah. It was autumn and the weather was changing. Leaves were orange and red, pine cones were dropping like little bombs. There was a chilly breeze that reminded me of Thanksgiving.

Halloween was just around the corner. We bought candy for the trick or treaters. Big candy bars, none of those cheap ass mini's. I was supposed to work on Halloween but I traded my shift with a single older dude I work with. I wanted to spend the evening with the fiancé. I thought it would be fun to answer the door to several cute little kids and imagine our own kids dressed in the same crazy costumes some not-so-distant year from now.

The day before Halloween, the thirtieth, Norrah and I were eating at The Boathouse. It was the place of our first date, and would always be, as obvious as that sounds. It was a historical landmark, if only to us. We ordered a pair of rib-eyes and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Love was in the air. You'd think it was Valentine's Day, not Halloween's Eve.

My phone dinged. Text message from Aaron. I hadn't heard from him in a couple days. It read: Today's the 30th. Her birthday.

"That's right," I said aloud, gazing down at my phone. "Brooke turns fifteen today."

"Happy birthday, Brooke," Norrah said to the air.

I texted Aaron back: Did you talk to her? All still well? No worries?

Aaron replied: All is well, yes. Yesterday I invited her to hang out with Deborah and I on Halloween, just to be sure. She said it sounded like fun, will get back to me. What are you kids up to?

"Kids," I said and scoffed. "We're older than he is and he thinks of us as kids. Funny, I think of him as older than us, don't you?"

"Totally," Norrah said and sipped her wine.

"Wise beyond his years," I said inwardly.

I texted: Eating steaks. We should make plans to visit again within a couple weeks. What do you think?

Aaron replied: Name the time and place, sure. I'll let you get back to dinner. Take care. I love you guys.

"He said he loves us," I said to Norrah.

"Well we love him too," she said, almost reproachfully.

"I know. I just don't recall him saying that before. Dudes don't tell dudes they love each other unless they're the Brokeback Mountain type."

"You _are_ the Brokeback Mountain type. That time I told you I have a penis but don't worry it's small like yours, I felt you grow aroused. That was the best news you could have hoped for. The disappointment you must have felt when I got naked and you couldn't spy a weenie."

I chuckled. "You are such a nut."

### Chapter Forty Six

Halloween landed on a Saturday this year. We spent the afternoon with a realtor. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was putting my home up for sale. No sense in paying a mortgage payment on a house unused. Norrah's house was technically still her grandma's, but wouldn't be forever. Someday it would be Jay Davis and Norrah Davis's. I bought my house at a good time, only paid eighty-grand for it. It got up to two-hundred grand at one point, then dropped down to almost what I paid for it. It rebounded a little, now worth a hundred-and-forty. Since I had only paid jack-shit of the principle down, I still owed about 79,998 dollars on it, give or take. But I'd come out ahead with the rise in property values by roughly sixty-large. I was looking forward to making a joint-account with my better half, and contributing my sixty G's minus the taxes. I was contributing too, damnit! And I was the only one between us making the green. She had just started her final year of college two months ago, and would be some kind of accountant or book keeper next year, God willing.

After the realtor left I took Norrah up to my bedroom and tried to plant a baby in her guts. Making a person is a chore more enjoyable than any other by a landslide.

It was three P.M. almost on the dot when we made it back to Norrah's. We didn't know it yet, but by four we'd be on our way to Sedona, Arizona.

We just stepped foot inside her house when my cell rang. The LCD screen read Maurice Esperanza. I answered the call.

"Wassup?" I said. "Haven't heard from you in a while."

"There's been a break in the story."

"Oh? Pray tell, pray tell."

"Pray tell," Norrah said thickly and giggled.

I put the call on speaker phone, as is the routine when you have a mate as inquisitive as mine (inquisitive, a polite way of saying nosy).

"Newspapers and the local news have been showing pictures of Hostetler, trying to get a lead on him. We've had a few, but all soft leads. Until now. A couple hours ago someone said they saw a man who looked just like the guy in the pictures, in the passenger seat of a car just outside a bank ATM. The man driving the car got out, withdrew cash and got back inside, took off. We didn't think it would amount to jack shit until we took a look at the bank surveillance tape. One angle shows the passenger of the sedan and damn if it doesn't look just like Hostetler. And what's more, would you care to guess the description of the man who withdrew the money?"

"No way. It's him? Really?"

"Definitely. And that's not even the strongest evidence that it was Hostetler. Ready for a good laugh?"

"I am."

"Bank transactions show that the withdrawal caught on film to be by Doug Hostetler withdrawing five hundred bucks from that ATM. What an idiot, huh?"

"No kidding. I wonder if Doug was tied up in the car. Any idea where they went to from the bank?"

"They drove west on La Paz Avenue. We got cops all over the place searching for the vehicle. We'll find him any minute. The car is friggin orange. Stands out like a sore thumb."

"Cool. I hope you nail his ass soon."

"We will."

"I appreciate the call. Keep in touch."

"Yep. Thought you'd like to hear the news. Take care."

I hugged Norrah and kissed her forehead.

"You have no idea how wonderful I'm going to feel knowing Paul is in jail," I said. "I think I'll cry."

"I think I will, too. Mostly for the families of those two girls. They deserve retribution."

"Nobody will ever know that Paul killed them, though."

"I guess," she said. "We do, though."

Norrah strew the Snickers bars in a large metal bowl, placed it by the door. We took a shower together, washed each other thoroughly, made a couple sandwiches and got the Scrabble game out. I noticed I had a text from Maurice. It read: We got him on the run. Will be over soon.

"Oh hell yeah," I said as Norrah set the game up. "They found him. Chasing that bastard."

She took a deep relieved breath, grinned triumphantly. We began playing Scrabble, doing little talking and a lot of thinking. Reflecting. Finally this mess would be over. I thought Edward's soul could rest easy now, knowing who framed him was about to be brought to justice.

It was a quarter to four. I made a pot of coffee when it was pretty clear that Norrah intended on taking fifteen minutes to make a word out of her Q and no U.

When my phone rang I smiled up at Norrah. This was the call. This was the good news we had been waiting for. I put the call on speaker phone.

"Get him?" I asked.

"I need a huge favor from you and Norrah." There was excitement and fear in his tone. It alarmed me. "There was a brief chase. They drove to a residential neighborhood and the driver got out, ran. We recovered Hostetler, he's fine. We chased after Paul. He took refuge in a house." He hesitated. In it I sensed he was building the requisite courage needed to ask for some potentially enormous favor. "Davis, there's a hostage situation taking place. Gunshots inside the house, a few of them. Paul has a little boy hostage. He's making demands. That's why I'm calling you."

"Me? What do I have to do with anything?"

"He wants you and Norrah here. He says once you get here, the boy will be released. If not, he'll execute the boy. He claims to have killed the boy's parents, and we believe him."

"I hope you're fucking with me."

"Wish I was. We'll put bullet-proof vests on you guys, helmets with face-shields. You'll be safe. It's about a six hour drive from Arrowhead. We told Paul you'd be here by early morning, and he seemed okay with that. That might be enough time for us to put an end to this crisis. Hopefully when you arrive the boy will be safe and Paul with either be dead or in custody. We can't take that chance, so come on out. I'll text you the address. Once you're close, just follow the emergency vehicles. They'll be expecting you."

"Please say you're fucking with me. Please?"

"Davis! Dude! I'm not fucking with you!"

"That's all you had to say. We're heading out now."

### Chapter Forty Seven

Deborah was in the kitchen of Aaron's apartment cutting vegetables for a stir-fry. It was dusk out, and already a couple trick-or-treaters had come by. Aaron, ever the good Christian, gave the kids something in addition to candy: a small travel-sized New Testament.

He was growing impatient with Brooke. The last text he got from her was early afternoon, when she said she'd be game to hang out for a while tonight. Aaron said the three of them could play Yahtzee or Monopoly. Brooke said cool, get back at you soon.

Soon had long come and gone.

Aaron decided to call her instead of text. He noticed his phone was nearly dead, spied Deborah's iPhone hogging up the charger and unplugged it, plugged his in. He dialed Brooke's number from the couch. She answered on the sixth ring.

"Yo, Brooke," he said casually. "What's up? Haven't heard back from you."

"I know," she said apologetically. "Don't be mad, but I can't come tonight. I'm sorry. Next weekend for sure. Or tomorrow, if you'd like. I can't stay out late tomorrow though, since it's a school night."

"Oh, okay," Aaron said tentatively. "Did something come up? Parents disallow you to go out tonight?" He hoped.

"No. My boyfriend and I are going out. His friend is throwing a Halloween party. He really wants to go, and I want to make him happy."

Aaron swallowed, felt a dry hard lump in his throat.

"Are you disappointed?" she asked and Aaron pictured her wincing. "I don't blame you if you are. You've been talking about me coming over for a while, and I want to meet Deborah, too."

"Truthfully, I am disappointed," Aaron said gingerly. "I really want to see you tonight. Very much so. The three of us would have a good time. Couldn't you just not go to the party? Please?"

She was quiet.

"Brooke?"

"Why is it so important that I come over tonight? Tomorrow doesn't work for you?"

"No," Aaron said sternly. "It has to be tonight! Must be tonight!"

"You're scaring me a little."

Maybe being scared wasn't such a bad thing. "How about this: tell me where the party is and I'll come. That would be fun, too."

"It's for high schoolers. It would be awkward if you came. I'm sorry, it's not like I don't want to see you. I'd love to see you. Listen, I'll call you tomorrow."

"Oh my..." Aaron muttered.

"What?"

"It's Halloween. It's a masquerade party, isn't it?"

"No-no, it's not. _That's_ why you're acting weird. That makes sense. It's not like that, Aaron. I'm sure a lot of people will be wearing costumes, but that's different. What happened at Norrah's, that's not going to happen tonight."

"I know it's not. But something else might. Where's the house? What's the address?"

"I think you're overreacting."

"Brooke! I don't want you going! If you must go, I'm going with you. If you won't tell me where it's at, I'm going to get the address from your parents. I still have their number, you know."

"You'd... you'd do that to me? You'd get me in trouble?" She said with equal parts disbelief and hurt.

"I would."

There was a stretch of silence. Brooke was now crying. "Don't ever call or text me again," she said. "We're no longer friends."

She ended the call.

Aaron cursed loudly, and looked over at Deborah in the kitchen, who was wide-eyed and looking quite scared of her boyfriend.

"It's going to happen," Aaron said to her. She had no idea what he was talking about and he didn't feel like elaborating. "I'm going to find her, somehow. God led me to Norrah's party, he'll lead me to this one."

"What are you talking about?" she said cautiously. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"Yeah." He got his shoes from by the door and returned to the couch.

Deborah took a seat beside him, touched his knee. "What kind of trouble is she in? And why do you care so much for this girl?"

"I loved her. _Love_ her." He didn't care for her expression just then. "Like a daughter, I love her. We have a history, I used to be her Sunday school teacher. Tinkerbelle I called her."

"What kind of trouble is she in?"

"Paul Klein is going to seduce her tonight."

"Seriously," she said skeptically, "how could you know that?"

"I just do." He laced his shoes and got up. "I'm sorry for this. I didn't plan on this happening. She was supposed to come over. I'm going to try to find the party. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"May I come along?"

"Then who'd give the little cuties candy?" he said with a measured grin, and caressed her cheek. "You're a sweetheart, Deborah. Thanks for being a part of my life; the best part of my life."

She grinned at him. "Should I hold off on the stir-fry till you get back?"

"Unless you get hungry and can't wait, sure. Be back in a bit."

He unplugged his phone from the charger and headed out.

### Chapter Forty Eight

We were speeding around the lake to highway 18. The tires were whining on turns, our bodies sliding into the arm-rest and doors. I never have to worry about getting pulled over. My Tahoe is recognizable to my coworkers, both by the aftermarket rims and the police stickers on the back window.

I wondered why we weren't flying into Sedona. It seemed like it would be quicker. But then again, you have to go through security checkpoints, wait at the terminal, and who knows when the next available flight might be. Then the flight from Phoenix to Sedona would be time consuming as well. Is it possible it was quicker to drive there than deal with a one-stop flight into Sedona? I suppose it was possible. A choice would have been nice.

It felt like there was a hot brick smoldering in my guts. Wearing a ballistic-missile vest and face guard wasn't unnerving to me, but it would be to Norrah. And seeing her wearing it would bring to life some pretty morbid ideas. We'd have protection against a chest shot and head shot, but what if that asshole shot us in the crotch? Forget starting a family. Heck, maybe forget making love. He could shoot her arms and legs. I don't know what I'd do if he did that to my love. It would take more restraint than I was capable of to keep from throttling that prick into the afterlife. I'd get in serious trouble for doing it. Subdue the suspect, never kill them unless you have to. And it's hard to justify killing someone with your hands—once they lose consciousness they are considered subdued; continuing to strangle the dude till he's dead is something that might land even a cop in prison.

Maybe Paul had that in mind. Maybe he wanted to get me put in prison, where I'd meet the same fate as Edward Berg. He'd press my buttons until I did something I'd later regret. He pushed Aaron's quite well. 'I didn't ruin that girl, but I should have,' is what Paul had said regarding Tinkerbelle. Had I been Aaron, I would have beaten the shit out of him right then. And the douchebag toasted to Aaron's death. This is what I worried about, how volatile a situation it would be confronting Paul. I didn't need much of a spark to ignite on the guy, and he was more than a spark, he was an inferno. Hopefully Norrah would calm me down should things get out of hand. And let's not forget God. I'd pray for serenity.

"Why would he return to Sedona," Norrah asked.

"Why does any lunatic do what they do?" I took my nine millimeter out of its holster and checked the magazine, stealing brief glances at the road. It was full.

"He's not a lunatic. He's evil. I don't see what purpose it would serve in him returning. He moved to California to get away from the family he hated. Now he's returned to the same town? Doesn't that seem unlikely?"

"Does it matter?" I said. "He's there. I wish I brought a second gun. They'd better give you one."

We were halfway down the hill, where we'd connect to highway 10 and drive that east into Arizona. The sun was large and directly before me, a few hours from setting. As we lowered in elevation it got warmer inside the cabin. Before I'd reach the bottom I'd have the air conditioner on. Some of the heat would be from nerves.

"It would be faster if we flew," Norrah said more to herself than me.

"I think so. Not by much, though, when you consider the process of it all. No non-stop flights into Sedona, so it would be a process times two."

"I suppose. Maurice could have at least offered to fly us out."

"You know what? Now that I think about it, it would have made more sense to have a helicopter fly us out. That's the fastest way there. And there's a helipad at Mountain View Hospital."

"Oh I don't know if I'd fly in a helicopter," she said. "I have an irrational fear of flying on them. At least on a jet if one engine goes out there are other engines. In a chopper if the whirly thingy goes out you crash and die."

"It's called a main rotor on fixed wing aircraft such as a chopper. God I hope they resolve the situation before we get there."

I texted Maurice that if they apprehend him before we get there, let me know right away so I can turn around.

### Chapter Forty Nine

Aaron drove aimlessly around the residential neighborhoods of Fresno. Twice he pulled over to text Brooke that he was sorry, to please call him, but she did not. His phone was nearly dead. He hated himself for not charging it sooner. After the second text message he prayed aloud in the dark cabin of his truck.

"God, please guide me to the party if it is your will. Assist me in protecting Tinkerbelle. Help her to forgive me. And please don't allow Paul to get away with what he's planning. Amen."

Aaron drove mile after mile, not feeling the same sensation of being on the right path that he had when he ventured to Norrah's eight months ago. Maybe it wasn't God's will, as hard as that was to comprehend.

It was eight o'clock, and he made a total of six texts to Brooke and three phone calls, each with a lengthy apologetic voicemail. His phone was about to die. He had no idea where he was. He thought he knew Fresno pretty well, but he was driving through neighborhoods he'd never before been, and couldn't deny that he was now lost. His phone had GPS, so he wouldn't stay lost. But GPS was a battery guzzler.

He arrived at a major street, one whose name he recognized, and pulled onto it. There was a 7 Eleven on a corner: he pulled in capriciously when he spotted a gathering of a few teenagers in the parking lot of the convenience store. He rolled his window down and pulled right up to them.

"Sup, guys?" Aaron said buoyantly.

They regarded him cautiously.

"I'm trying to find a party. Know of any good ones?"

They shook their heads. They were probably lying. They wouldn't want some older guy crashing a high school party.

"Any of you know a girl named Brooke Stanwick?"

They shook their heads again. Not one of them uttered a word in the minute Aaron spent with them. He thanked them (for nothing) and pulled back onto Archer Avenue.

The LCD screen on his phone sitting on the passenger seat lit up, as did Aaron's hopes. That hope was dashed when he read Deborah. He took the call.

"Hey, sweetie," she said.

"What's up?"

"Any luck?"

"Not yet."

"I'm worried about you. It's a dangerous night, Halloween. People getting into trouble. Maybe you should come home. I'd feel a lot better."

"I appreciate your concern, but I'll be okay. I won't stay out much longer. If I can't find the party then it isn't meant to be. I'd better let you go, my battery is going to die any second. I'm hoping Brooke has a change of heart and calls. See you in a bit."

### Chapter Fifty

We had been driving for a few hours, the last vestiges of sunlight had been eaten away in the western horizon long ago. The highway was dark, motorists far and few between. Occasionally I'd pass an eighteen wheeler. After exhausting ourselves on theories and predictions of Paul and his hostage and what they might be up to, and giving up hope that Maurice was going to call me with good news, we found a distraction to help pass the time: trivia. We downloaded trivia apps on our phones and took turns asking the other a question. At first neither of us were answering correctly the questions, as we had bigger things on our minds. But as with anything you become numb to situations and the idea of confronting Paul early tomorrow morning took a back seat to meaningless trivia, and thus we began cogitating more effectively.

"Which was the first European country with freedom of religion?" I asked her, eyes flashing between phone and black road.

"Europia," she said. "That's still a country, right?"

"Stinker."

"I'd guess Switzerland."

I made an incorrect buzzing sound. "Netherlands."

"Are there nether regions in Netherlands?"

"I'm pretty sure there are," I said.

"How many miles have we driven?"

"Is that a trivia question?" I checked my odometer trip A, which I had reset upon leaving Norrah's. "Three-hundred-and-twenty miles." I whistled. "Damned if trivia doesn't make the time go by fast. Aaron said audiobooks make it go by super fast. Maybe we should pick one up in Sedona for the drive back."

"Sure. How many miles do we have left?"

"Uh, Mapquest said it was just under five-hundred miles total. So like one-eighty maybe? Is my math correct?"

"Yes. That's not bad. Is it this highway for most the way?"

"Yep. Oh crap, we're almost out of gas." The low-gas light had literally just turned on. And unlike some brands, Chevy doesn't give you a comfortable cushion to find gas between warning you and running out.

"Good," Norrah said. "I've had to pee for a while now."

"Not so good if we run out of gas and get butt-raped by some desperate truck driver."

"Some cop you are," she said and chuckled.

"Hey, I'm a realist. Truckers can be big and I'm dainty. I hope there's an exit soon. They put these damned gas stations twenty miles apart so if you miss one you're screwed."

It was ten miles later when we came up on Road 119. How's that for a street name? Nobody cares about these roads to the extent that it's beneath the city planners to attach a real name to them. The gas-gauge was looking grim. We made it to Chevron just in time. When I twisted off the gas cap it hissed and gasped exaggeratedly, to make a point maybe. Norrah trotted off to the unisex restroom outside the food mart. I checked my phone for the time: 8:10 P.M. No missed calls. As I pumped gas I shot Aaron a text. I didn't want to worry him this night when he was enjoying the company of Deborah and Brooke, so I'd keep mum about Paul until after the crisis was at an end. I wondered what the three of them were up to over there. I figured Aaron would confess to Tinkerbelle why he had wanted her to come over. He's an honest kind of guy; lies don't become him.

I pumped eighty-eight bucks of petro into the starving gas tank. Ouch. I wondered if my old pal Maurice was going to cover the cost of my gas. I saved my receipt just in case.

Norrah came out of the food mart with a package of zingers and bag of Doritos, two sixteen-ouncers of Coke.

"Want me to drive for a bit?" she asked. "You can take a nap if you'd like."

"Sure. I doubt I'll be sleeping, but I could use a break."

She took over as pilot of the Tahoe. I reclined my seat and nestled in for the long haul. This trip would be so much more enjoyable if it wasn't for the knowledge of how it might end: someone dead or seriously injured (hopefully Paul).

She cranked the engine over and yawned, took a sip of Coke. For some damned reason I was feeling amorous. From out of nowhere! Biology is what it is. I had a hot dame seated beside me and it was awfully dark in the Tahoe cabin, if you know where I'm going with this.

"Tired?" I asked her.

"A little."

"I have somewhat of an energy drink you might enjoy, zero calories."

She looked confusedly at me. I touched her inner thigh, winked at her.

"Are you always horny?" She giggled.

"Only when I'm awake." I winked.

"I'm not really in the mood, sorry."

She shifted into drive and slowly pulled out of the gas station. I changed my strategy, abandoned her thigh and moved on to bigger and better things. I had only just begun touching her when I discerned her disinterest fading away. Her legs opened a little, just enough to know that there would be a happy ending for her in the near future. We were putting along Road 119 at a turtle's pace. I don't think she had any concept of speed right now. Mindlessly she turned onto the onramp and crawled along.

My eyes were on her; her eyes (narrow as they were) were on the pitch black road, no vehicles of any variety driving in either direction. A few minutes ticked by. I glanced at the speedometer. She was cruising at a respectable 70 miles an hour. I saw the cruise control icon illuminated on the gauge-cluster.

She was beginning to moan, which turned me on. What didn't turn me on is when she said, "Oh shit," in a non-romantic way. My first reaction is that we were being pulled over. I'd have to flash my badge and talk our way out of a ticket. But we were driving the speed limit. I looked behind us and saw no lights.

"Oh shit!" she said more alarmingly.

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure Modesto isn't on the way to Arizona."

"Modesto?" I looked at the side of the freeway for a sign but there were none. I removed my hand from her.

"Modesto 122 miles, that last sign read," she said in a panic. "Tell me we aren't going the wrong way!"

I pictured a cute little blond-haired boy with Paul aiming a gun at his head. Paul, who would be watching the clock and expecting us in a few hours.

"Are you _sure_ it said Modesto?" I asked her.

"Positive. Damnit, Jay. Have you been driving the wrong way this whole time?"

"Impossible. I'm sure I was going the right way."

I looked up at the rear-view mirror, where a digital compass read N and not E. I palmed my forehead. "How could I make such a huge mistake? I've never done anything like this before."

She began crying.

"Don't cry, baby. Turn around at the next exit."

"I can't help it," she said and wiped her eyes. "That boy is going to be killed, and it's our fault."

"No, it isn't your fault. It's my fault. Damnit."

"How do you drive over three-hundred miles without seeing a sign indicating you're going the wrong way? Look!" She pointed at a little green sign reading 99. Highway 99—we should have been on Interstate 10. Just past it was another sign reading Sacramento 193 miles.

"I don't know. Wasn't paying attention I guess. I screwed up. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry to me. I'm not the one whose life is in danger. You'd better call Maurice and tell him the bad news."

Not a call I wanted to make. I decided to text, take the chicken-shit way out. I texted him: sorry man, but there was a delay in our travel. We're behind. It was an accident.

I pressed send.

"I said it was an accident," I said proudly. "He'll assume I meant a car accident, not an accident of direction. A fatal accident could cut off a highway for hours, because the coroner has to come out and investigate before reopening it. So that's why we're late."

She shook her head at the situation.

"Are you mad at me?" I asked with puppy-dog eyes.

"No. A little frustrated, though."

"Sorry, babe. I can be an idiot."

"If you'd think with your brain and not your dick half the time, we wouldn't be in this situation."

That hurt, bad. What hurt is that it was true.

We passed a sign that read Next Gas 6 Miles. We were stuck driving north until that exit. I got a text back and dreaded reading it. Maurice texted: Accidents happen. Don't worry about it. Just get here safely.

"Wow," I said. "He totally didn't come unglued like I thought he would."

"I figured he'd call you and get details or something."

"Me too. Maybe they're in a good situation over there. Maybe they have S.W.A.T. preparing an ambush, or a sniper getting ready to fire a bullet through a living room window at Paul."

"I hope so."

"Heck yeah."

I tried my hand at touching Norrah again, but this time her shoulder. She brushed it away and said she wasn't mad at me, just not in the mood anymore. That she jumped to the conclusion that I was preparing to touch her more intimately made me feel like a pervert. I hung my head like a scorned dog.

A sign read Next Gas 1 Mile.

I used the GPS on my phone to see how many miles from here to Sedona. I loathed to see that fat number. It calculated a moment (big numbers take time to compute, perhaps) before displaying directions to our destination. Total miles 739, time 11.4 hours. I honestly felt like crying just then. I wasn't about to tell Norrah the bad news. I hated myself wholeheartedly. I examined the digital map of my phone, looking for a highway that might cut east from the 99 so we could get there more directly.

Suddenly I flung forward in my seat with tremendous force, slammed into the dash. Tires howled as Norrah stomped on the brakes and banked hard left. This idiot hadn't fastened his seatbelt. We came to a stop. I was off my seat, in the foot-well. I got back in my seat feeling like I just got kicked in the head.

"Shit!" she shouted and opened her door, jumped out.

"What happened?" I said and got out of the car rubbing my head.

She was scouring the area, ran toward the freeway exit we had just passed.

"What is it?" I asked more urgently.

"I think I ran someone over!" she exclaimed. She was turning and turning, frantic to find the struck person.

"No you didn't, I'd have heard and felt the impact." I caught up with her saying, "Honey I think you imagined it. It's getting late and you're tired, emotionally exhausted. Nobody would be standing on the freeway in the middle of nowhere."

My words didn't calm her down in the slightest. I took her in my arms and hugged; she was rigid. "I'll drive, Norrah. Okay?"

"Jay..." She met eyes with me. "She was standing in the middle of the off ramp."

"She?"

Norrah nodded. "A little girl."

"A little girl," I repeated. "Did she look familiar at all?"

"It happened so fast. I don't know. It might have been her."

I surveyed the area before concluding there was no victim in this ordeal, walked hand in hand with Norrah back to the Tahoe which was idling on the shoulder of the freeway. I got in the driver's seat and adjusted it.

"If I didn't imagine it," she said, "then she was real. And if she was real, she's... well she's not here anymore."

"If she was real, it was Magdalena. Is that what you're thinking?"

She nodded. I put the car in reverse and drove back toward the exit that Norrah had swerved away from.

### Chapter Fifty One

Aaron decided he'd give it fifteen more minutes before calling it quits. The worst that could happen is Brooke consensually has sex with Paul. Worse things have happened in recent history. It would likely mean that she broke up with her boyfriend at the party, or got in some kind of fight and sought revenge by hooking up with Paul. One could speculate all night long about how it might go down. But he believed that Paul was right in his premonition. So far he had been right about everything else, so why should this be any different? He somehow knew her birthday, knew there would be a party the day after that she'd attend. All the ducks were in a row for the premonition to come true.

As he drove down some unknown residential street he noticed there were a lot of cars in a particular driveway and lining the streets. He slowed down and stopped before the house. Through the living room window he saw a gathering of kids. It was a party. There would be hundreds of parties in Fresno tonight, so the odds of this being the one Brooke was at was ridiculously slim. But it could be divinity that brought him to this street. He parked nearby and jogged to the house.

In the driveway were three boys. Aaron smelled pot.

"Sup guys?" Aaron said to them, startling them.

"Sup, bro," one guy said.

"Hey, have you seen Brooke Stanwick here? Or Paul Klein?"

None of them knew who they were.

"Big blue eyes, buttermilk blonde hair. Pretty girl."

"Damn," one said.

"I'll help you look for her," said another and all three boys laughed.

Aaron imperiously went inside the house without notice and looked around. Several kids took notice of him, but none seemed to care. He began in the living room, then kitchen and den and finally the bedrooms. No sign of either of them. He went out the back door and saw more kids drinking beer in the back yard. He made a circle around the lawn, then bisected it, checking each and every face. No dice.

He left the house feeling despondent. He asked God why He wasn't guiding him, and there was no subconscious voice answering him.

He got in his truck feeling his eyes prickling. It wasn't just the idea of what Tinkerbelle's fate was to be this night, but that Aaron had sought the help of God and didn't get it.

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel. On a whim he grabbed his cellphone and called me. I answered.

"I'm so miserable," Aaron began.

"Why? What's up?"

"I feel so alone, Jay. I feel like God is ignoring me."

"What's the matter?"

"Brooke didn't come over tonight."

"Eh, not a big deal," I said.

"It is to me." Brief silence. "I can't stop picturing Paul taking advantage of her."

"Oh! Well prepare to become in a better mood. Paul isn't in Fresno."

"He's not? How do you know?"

"Because he's—" I broke off.

Aaron watched in horror as his phone shut down from want of charging.

"Damnit!" Aaron shouted. He waited for the process to end before powering it back on. The second it was on he called me again. Swiftly he said, "Make it quick, my phone is dying. Where's Paul?"

"He's in Sedona. Police got him cornered. Brooke is safe, man."

"Thank God! That's why God didn't lead me to the party, because there was no need to! Thanks, Jay, you rock. I wish you'd have told me earlier. I've been driving all over town looking for her. Man..." When he noticed I wasn't saying anything, he checked the phone and it was off.

Aaron almost left it alone and drove back, but decided he'd text me a thank you, in case I didn't get any of his previous words. Twenty seconds later the phone was on. He summoned up text messaging and found my name, began expressing his gratitude. That's when he got an incoming text, one not from me.

His breath caught from what he saw. His heart thumped in his chest as he examined a picture texted to him, a picture of Brooke with a dirty face and tears on her cheeks, sitting on an embankment in the dead of night, the camera's flash showing much more than Aaron needed to see, and that's the location of the photo: the dry riverbed. The phone number the text was issued from was unfamiliar to him, including the area code. It was an area code that I would be very familiar with, and if he had gotten that text on my phone it would have identified the caller as Maurice Esperanza. Maurice Esperanza, a man who never existed, who was the product of the imagination of the young man who had snapped Brooke's picture: Paul Klein.

### Chapter Fifty Two

Aaron's phone was dead but that didn't matter. He knew where he had to be. He was flying down the road toward Fresno State campus, which was on the other side of town, a fifteen minute drive. He wondered why I said Paul was in Sedona when he wasn't. Police got him cornered, I had told him. How could I be so wrong about something so huge? I don't blame Aaron for being pissed at me because I'd be upset as well. I never considered that from the onset Maurice Esperanza was a ploy to misdirect me or to extract information from me or to lure me into Sedona. It would then make sense why he wanted me to drive out there instead of sending for a chopper. The police had nothing to do with Doug or Paul. But what purpose did it serve in getting me to go out there? Could it be as simple as putting greater distance between me and Fresno? If so, what could be the purpose of that?

How fitting that he should have Brooke at the dry riverbed. It seemed like fate that it should end there. And it _would_ end there, Aaron told himself. Somehow it would. He hadn't the first idea what he was going to do when he confronted Paul. All the cards would be in Paul's hand, as they always were, had never stopped being.

He parked at the end of the cul-de-sac and paused to think. He took rapid inventory of items in his truck. Was there anything that could help him overpower Paul? He remembered what I had told him about Edward lying on a tire-iron. A tire-iron could dish out a wicked blow. It was the closest thing to a weapon he had. He snatched a flashlight from the glove box and stuffed it in his pocket. Under the back seat of the Extra Cab was a storage compartment where there was a jack and a tire-iron. He took the latter and hustled down the invisible path.

"God, please keep Brooke and me safe," he said as he went.

As dark as it was, it could have been worse. The moon was a couple days away from being full, shone blue-white well enough that he wouldn't be tripping over a damn bush or rock. There were pockets of fog, though far and few between. He descended into the riverbed remembering what befell him last time he made this trip: fishing line tied between rocks. He didn't think Paul would use the same implements this second go-around, but just to be sure he'd keep an eye out for such a trap. The tire-iron in his right hand was slippery from his sweaty palm. He wiped his hand on his pants and retook it, gave a practice swing as he ran. He resolved to use it to kill Paul if that should be necessary. He'd hit him in the head at a full swing, and wouldn't lose a second of sleep over it. He pretended he secretly didn't want to do it, didn't want to bust Paul's head open like a ripe cantaloupe.

Aaron remembered what he had once told Brooke, back when she was eight and the cutest kid ever: "You're going to be all right from now on. I promise. Paul won't bother you ever again. You have my word." That stung right now. It was a broken promise, not that Brooke would remember that vow or blame anyone other than Paul, but still. It meant a hell of a lot to Aaron, that he broke a promise to Tinkerbelle.

He swiped his wet brow with his left forearm, hurdled over a low bush, nearly twisted his ankle on the uneven landing, and reached the bottom of the riverbed. He ran at a full sprint. A strong gust of cold wind blew in his face. In the distance, just beyond the bridge, was a bank of fog.

He remembered Paul smugly saying, "Where's your God now?" to which Aaron responded, "Everywhere. He's in the air we breathe, the words we speak." God would need to grant him a miracle if he was to come out of this alive—or Brooke come out of this alive. The situation seemed too prodigious to not be well planned by Paul. He'd surely have thought out every possibility, crossed all his T's and dotted his I's. Aaron on the other hand was flying blindly, relying solely on the air we breathe, the words we speak, to overcome his enemy.

The thick concrete bridge spanning the riverbed was glowing bone-white under the moon. Under it was pitch black shadows. Aaron peered at the spot that he knew Paul and Brooke to be as he worked on closing the gap. His heavy breaths and footfalls precluded him from hearing anything else. But if Brooke was being harmed she'd scream and he'd hear it. It heartened him to know that she wasn't.

As if Aaron had tempted fate by thinking it, Brooke shrieked.

"Get off of me!" she shouted, then shrieked again.

Aaron gripped the tire-iron more tightly, ran somehow faster, fishing-line be damned. If he tripped this time, he'd be back up on the same breath. Nothing on earth would stop him now.

He was now breasting the embankment, twenty feet from the spot under the bridge where he took Marie, the spot where Tinkerbelle had been brained by a rock, the spot where this was going to end, tonight. He still couldn't see them.

"Stop hurting her, asshole!" Aaron shouted, his gaze now on the rough terrain before him, avoiding rocks as he got closer to the bridge.

He arrived at the crest, slowed to a walk as he neared the deep shadows under the bridge, stopped with the top of his head just inches before and under the concrete. He switched to a two-handed grip of the weapon. He could see just enough to know that he was alone here.

"Where are you?"

Aaron steadied his breathing, scanned the area. What kind of game was he playing?

There were footsteps now on the other side of the bridge. Paul walked down the slope from the road, the moonlight showing his feet, then legs, and finally the whole of him. They faced each other on either side of the bridge, inscrutable blackness between them.

"Where is she?" Aaron asked.

"She's not here."

"Bullshit, I heard her screaming."

"Are you sure you heard her?" Paul grinned. "You know very little for someone who knows everything."

"Of course I heard her," Aaron said crossly, "now tell me where she is!"

"I told you, she's not here."

Just then Brooke shrieked, startling Aaron. It originated... where did it originate? He turned a full circle in search of the girl. Paul chuckled. Brooke shrieked again, only this time it came from somewhere else, behind Aaron. Then again, this time issuing from down the riverbed under the bridge. The impossibility of it was maddening.

"Still think she's here?" Paul said with that damned slanted grin.

"How are you doing that?"

"It's all in your head, dude. She ain't here."

"Where is she?"

In Aaron's ear Brooke whispered enticingly, "I'm right here, sweetheart. Come take me under the bridge like you did Marie."

Aaron flinched and spun around. Paul laughed hysterically.

As terrifying as it was, this supernatural phenomenon, Aaron appreciated that Brooke wasn't here. She was safe after all. If this was a trick to lure Aaron here, then so be it. At least it would be between he and Paul only. But then...

"The picture you texted, that's not real either?" Aaron said hopefully.

"Oh _that's_ real, all right. You better believe it."

Paul stepped forward into the shadows of the bridge, instantly becoming a silhouette. Aaron gasped. The silhouette possessed two fire-reflecting eyes. Fire, churning and dancing and flickering, undulating as Paul walked under the bridge toward Aaron. Aaron took a couple steps back, wound back his steel rod, then another step back.

"I've been dreaming about this day for a long time," the silhouette said.

"What are you," Aaron stammered, took another step back.

"What do you mean what am I?"

Paul entered the moonlight on Aaron's side of the bridge. The fiery eyes returned to normal. He stopped a couple feet short of Aaron.

"You're like that demon."

"Am I?" Paul registered intrigued. "How do you mean?"

"Your eyes, they were... like his."

"Any guess as to why I brought you out here?"

"For Brooke. To keep her safe from you."

"That would be why you came, not why I arranged for you to come."

"I don't know why, and I don't care. I just want this to be over."

"You'll get your wish. It's over tonight."

Aaron nodded. "Tell me where she is."

"I will. You probably think I'm the biggest piece of shit on the planet, and to your kind of people I am. But you can't deny that I've been honest with you all along. I haven't lied to you, have I?"

Aaron gave it some thought before agreeing with him.

"I've lied to others, about being a student, about my job, but there were reasons for those lies. I had things to gain. I have nothing to gain from lying to you, never have. That's why you can take to the bank all of which I say."

"I do believe you."

"Good. You better believe what I'm about to say, because it's the goddam truth. Brooke means little to me. I liken her to a piece of candy. I'd like to have a taste, but it's such a fleeting pleasure. I'd get bored of her soon enough."

"Is there no humanity in you whatsoever?"

"She's beautiful, Aaron."

Aaron felt a kind of gravity in this dialogue never before felt between them. Paul wasn't being smug or arrogant or condescending or ambiguous, but was genuine and grounded, forthcoming. It hinted at something that Aaron couldn't quite grasp.

"She's beautiful but so are millions of other chicks," Paul said. "Yeah I'd like to enjoy her, but then she'd be devalued by you. It's like driving a new car off the lot, it loses a ton of value immediately. You want her as a virgin and I can understand that. Can sympathize, even. I haven't touched her in that way, I give you my word. And as you just admitted, I'm no liar."

"I do appreciate that, Paul. Honestly I do." He couldn't believe he was about to say thanks, but he did. "Thanks for not touching her. You're wrong, though. Have always been wrong in assuming I want her in that way."

"I'm never wrong. Let's agree to disagree. But will you admit that I'm right about you valuing her dearly? A value without equal?"

Aaron thought he valued his girlfriend just as much, if not more. But the truth was, Tinkerbelle was special in a different kind of way, and wasn't sure why. Yes was the truthful answer to Paul's question. "Yes."

"Good. I'm glad we got the opportunity to talk again. There's something I've wanted to ask you. What was it like, dying and coming back to life?"

"I don't know. How was it that the bodies of the twenty-three disappeared? Norrah saw them, you know. She saw their bodies strewn across the basement."

"Magic. Haven't you ever watched a magician make something disappear? The shit doesn't really disappear, you just can't see it. Trickery. I suspect they never left, just became impossible to see, to feel." He considered Norrah and amended, "Well, nearly impossible to see."

"Who's your friend, Paul? He isn't a man, I know that. A magician, sure. Magic is deception. Your friend, is he the great deceiver? Is he Satan?"

"When I was a boy I collected baseball cards. My neighbor Georgie did as well. We used to make trades. I had an autographed Hank Aaron, not his rookie card but second year. It was worth five-hundred bucks at the time. Georgie wanted that card something fierce. I had refused trade countless times. I loved that Hank card. So one day I had him come over, told him to bring all his cards. Inside my bedroom on the upper-left corner of the desktop that I had cleared beforehand was my Hank Aaron in a protective sleeve. Georgie entered my room and gaped at the card, set his folders down and stepped to the desk, ogled the Hank Aaron. I told him the card was on the table this one time only. He was to put his own cards on the table, to cover every square inch of the desktop with his cards, save for the couple inches my Hank occupied. If I was satisfied with the cards he put down, the trade would be made. If I wasn't, there would be no trade, no second chances, the deal would be dead forever. He had one chance to win my approval. He tried to get me to pick out the cards I wanted but I wouldn't. It was all on him. So he flipped through the pages of his folders, selected nothing but great cards, cards of high and medium value, and lined them across the table one after the other. When he was done there were fifteen cards across and seven rows down. The trade was made. Georgie nearly cried he was so happy. After he left I checked the prices of the cards in a Beckett price-guide. He gave me nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars worth of cards for that five-hundred dollar Hank Aaron. I doubt Georgie had any idea what a horrible deal he made. Maybe he wouldn't have cared because he got the card he wanted so badly. I suppose a good deal is relative, in the eye of the beholder."

"Why are you telling me this? Are you saying that Brooke is your Hank Aaron now?"

Paul smiled, nodded. "That's exactly right. She's on the table. You go through your folders and pick out a good trade. If it's good I'll take it. If it's not, the deal is forever off the table. And the reason why it'll forever be off the table is because the Hank Aaron will be destroyed, if you catch my drift."

"You'd kill her?" Aaron said incredulously. "You'd honestly kill a sweet innocent little girl? For no reason at all?"

"One has to make good on his promises. If I didn't follow through with a promise, what good would my word be? Yes, she'll die, but it won't be me who kills her."

"Your _friend,"_ Aaron said mockingly. "I know you killed the Demitri and Feller girls. How chicken-shit, to have the blame pinned on Edward."

"Let's not get off subject," Paul said. "Let's get to trading, eh? You know the card I have on the table, let's see what you got. Remember, you have only one chance at a trade. If you dissatisfy me, it's over."

"How do I know you even have her? Where is she?"

"You saw the picture I texted you."

"How do I know that isn't magic like hearing her voice was a minute ago?"

"Because I'm giving you my word. And although that should be good enough, I had a feeling you'd want more concrete proof. So I brought some."

"In the picture she was here at the riverbed."

"Yeah. It got you here, didn't it?"

He withdrew his cellphone from pocket and sidled up to Aaron, held it between them and tapped Photos. Aaron's blood boiled instantly at what he was seeing. Tinkerbelle was wearing black cotton pants and a blue turtleneck sweater, sitting on dirty concrete with her hands behind her back, looking up at the camera with confusion in her eyes. The next photo had her sweater off, a peach bra, and the confusion in her eyes had been replaced with fear and tears. The next photo had her pants off. Matching peach panties. She was lying face down on the concrete, her hands together at her lower back, as if they were subdued, but weren't. Even the angle at which her wrists touched one another was indicative of being banded together. Magic trick, Aaron thought. The next photo outraged him to such a degree that he yearned to kill Paul right then and there. It resurfaced old memories, of panty-girl, the wedgie. The photographer (Paul) used one hand to snap the photo and the other hand to pull the back of her panties up in a wedgie. Tinkerbelle's butt was a little blue and had goosebumps from the cold night. Beside her, flush with the paved concrete surface, was a man-hole with two little holes to lift the iron plate and access God-knows-what. It was silver and dirty, but Aaron could read the engraving on the plate: Vintage. As in Vintage Oil, an oil company owned by Occidental, a huge oil company. The photos were taken at an oil lease. And the bridge above them led to an oil lease, one once owned by Vintage.

"Not a bad ass, huh?" Paul said and went to the next picture.

She was on her back now, hands pinned at the small of her back, a leg coiled back as if she were trying to kick Paul. Tinkerbelle was without a bra in this picture, her small breasts bare. Something snapped in Aaron, he saw red. He took the tire-iron in both hands and wound it back to swing at Paul's head, to send him to hell where he belonged. Paul didn't even flinch. He stood there gazing down contentedly at the phone, which was angled between them to afford Aaron a good view of the photos.

As Aaron exploded into a fatal swing at Paul's head, Paul swiped the screen to the next photo while muttering, "That's a little heavy, isn't it?"

Upon those words the tire-iron fell straight to the ground as if it weighed a thousand pounds instead of a few. Aaron barely let go of it before it crushed his hands under its incredible weight.

"This one here is the last picture I took," Paul said calmly, as if his head hadn't almost become concave from a mortal blow.

"You're the devil," Aaron said, gawking at Paul.

Paul gestured Aaron to look at the picture. Aaron only glimpsed it at first, avoiding looking at a nude Brooke. But she wasn't nude. He looked more carefully at the picture. She was on her back still, her leg that had been trying to kick Paul was now in his hand at the ankle, snagged. What perplexed Aaron was that her bra was on. Why had he taken it off in the last picture but put it back on for this one?

Aaron snatched the phone from the bastard's hands and swiped the screen back to the previous picture.

"If you'd like I can forward the one of her wedgied ass to you," Paul said and humored.

The previous picture befuddled Aaron. It was the same picture, Brooke on her back with her leg out to attempt a kick at Paul, but her bra was on.

"Did you take her bra off?" Aaron asked him.

"No. Should I have?" He humored again.

"But I just saw it. Her bare chest. Now it's gone." He met eyes with Paul, who took back his phone, put it in his pocket. "You _are_ Satan. Aren't you?"

"Are you that stupid? Huh? No I'm not Satan. Never met him, but I hear he's a great guy." Paul smirked: Aaron wanted to strangle him.

"You're going to burn in hell for an eternity," Aaron said through clenched teeth.

"Actually," Paul said, " it's not me who's going to burn in hell for an eternity. That leads me back to our trade. I think we both know what a good trade for Brooke is, I just want to hear you say it."

Aaron hadn't the foggiest idea. In his hesitation Paul cleared his throat, spit. "What...? My soul? Is that it? You're telling me you aren't the devil yet you want me to sell my soul to you?"

"Woah, I never said anything about selling your soul. You watch too many movies, bro."

"Then what? What do I have to offer?"

"What's a fair trade for one life? Come on, man, think."

"Another life."

Paul said nothing, but in his expression was the answer. Yes, another life.

"You want to kill... you want me to..." Aaron said and cut short.

Paul waited for Aaron to arrive at it on his own. He said, "Remember, you have only one chance at this. You better make it count, or she's not going to come out of this."

"You want to kill me." Quickly he retracted, "No! That's not an offer!"

"Luckily for Brooke, you're right. That's not a trade I'd make."

"I'm just thinking aloud," Aaron said. Understanding washed over him at once. He closed his eyes at the thought. That's why Paul said _he_ wasn't going to be the one spending an eternity in hell. He thought it should be Aaron who owned that fate. "I know what you want."

"My card's on the table. Are you ready to put yours down?"

"But I can't do that," Aaron said in almost a whisper. "You know I can't."

"I'm waiting."

Aaron exhaled deeply, paced away from Paul, stood looking down into the dry riverbed. "I don't know."

"Then this concludes our negotiations." He took his first step away from Aaron.

"I could just follow you to her."

"No, Aaron, you couldn't."

Aaron turned around to face Paul. "And why couldn't I?"

"Because like the tire-iron, your legs are too heavy to do much traveling."

Aaron looked down at his legs, tried to take a step forward but had little success. It scooted along the dirt only a couple inches before stopping. He looked up at Paul bewildered. "You can't tell me you aren't the devil."

"I can and I have and I'm not. If you don't make me an offer right now, I'm heading out to have a little fun with Brooke. You'll next see her on the news."

"I know where she's at. The oil lease. Vintage." Aaron pointed in the general direction.

"I know you know. I took the pictures, didn't I? I don't see what that has to do with anything."

Paul had a point there. Aaron was rooted to this spot, it wasn't like he could run to the old Vintage lease and rescue Brooke.

"Okay," Paul said and sighed dramatically. "So be it."

"No! Wait!"

Paul stared apathetically at Aaron.

"It's a deal," Aaron said. "I'll do it. But only if you give me your word you'll not harm Brooke now or ever, and leave her life once and for all, never to return. Swear it."

Paul put a hand over his heart. "I swear it. She'll never see me again. I'll set her free and it will be over. Now I need to hear you say it, to be sure we're on the same page here."

Looking down solemnly at the ground, Aaron said, "I'll take my life."

" _Theeeeere_ we go. Funny thing about suicide," Paul said thoughtfully, "it's been said that those who kill themselves won't enter Paradise. Is that true?"

"Only God knows if that's true."

"If you had to guess, would you think that's the case?"

Aaron met eyes with the bastard. "I've preached that very topic. Catholics believe it is a mortal sin. Many Christians do as well, but not all of them. By preaching that it's an unforgivable sin, it prevents a lot of people from killing themselves who otherwise would; it serves a purpose."

"Haven't I always said that religious people are liars and hypocrites?"

"I'm not lying. I just don't know. It doesn't specify in the bible. Suicide is killing, one of the ten commandments. Yes I do believe it to be the case, that most of those who kill themselves shall not enter Paradise. _Most_ of those shall not enter Paradise. But this is an extraordinary circumstance. I believe God would forgive me."

"You'll soon find out, huh?" Paul stooped down, hiked up a pant leg and between boot and ankle withdrew a miniature handgun, a Glock. "You'd think I was a boy scout, huh?" He chuckled. "Here you go, she's all yours."

He held the gun out. Aaron doubted he'd be able to take the couple steps to grab the gun, but his legs were working just fine now. He took the gun from Paul's hand.

Aaron contemplated using it against him. Just blow that son of a bitch's head off. But could he? If it were possible, Paul wouldn't have just handed him the gun so readily. The guy had put a lot of forethought into everything he's done. He wouldn't have overlooked such an obvious thing. Folly doesn't become Paul, precision does. All that Paul would need to do is comment on how heavy the gun is or something equally silly-sounding and it would fall to the ground like a ton of bricks. Or heck, maybe he'd just have to think it and the gun would dissolve into thin air, or turn into a snake, or who the hell knows? Black magic. Maybe Paul knew it, but it seemed more likely that it was his friend who specialized in it.

"If you so much as aim it at me," Paul warned, "the deal's off. Brooke dies."

Aaron nodded. Tears welled in his eyes. Was he really about to do this? Was there no alternative? There wasn't. Either he dies or Brooke dies, the choice had to be made. And if he chose in favor of self-preservation he'd endure insufferable guilt. Guilt that would never fade away, never lessen, only ripen. How long could he suffer through that before entertaining ideas of suicide? Brooke represented everything wholesome and pure in the world. God's most precious creation. A beauty so great that its only rival was the beauty inside her. Such a special girl; he appreciated what a gift she was the day he first met her.

He recalled the first time he laid eyes on her, his first day as a Sunday school teacher. She was six years old, maybe seven, and biting down on the side of her lip in her concentration, gripped either side of her plastic chair and trod air under it feverishly, as if she was competing in the seated four-forty dash. Then, abruptly, she kicked her legs straight out, rigidly, and held them there as she made a strained face, carved dimples in her pink little cheeks, a shock of unmanageable buttermilk hair in disarray. She was having a grand old time with herself.

There was the time she switched her left and right shoes and left the classroom like that, walking awkwardly and giggling, tapping other kids' shoulders and pointing down at her feet proudly. Then there was the time she sneezed emphatically during a lecture and a tooth rocketed out of her mouth and snagged into one of Beth's curls. Tinkerbelle was agape, covered her mouth with both hands. She apologized to Beth and began digging in her nest of hair to find the tooth that would bring her two dollars under her pillow that night. Two dollars that would be spent wisely at the convenience store on any candy that was purple, as purple was her favorite flavor of anything. And how adorable she was when she had to pee. She'd raise her hand high up, brace that raised arm with her other arm, which rested over the crown of her head (as a raised arm tends to get mightily heavy after about two seconds), and she'd squirm in her chair making the silliest face. Aaron would tell her that her blues eyes had become green when she had to pee, and explained how blue plus yellow make green. Like most kids her age she was still ironing out the details of pronouncing her R's. "Mista Mendelssoooooohn, I _weally_ gotta peeeeeee. I'm sowwy, but it's stawting to sting."

These were but a few of the memories he'd reflect upon with a broken unmendable heart. Every time he remembered Brooke he'd weep and wish it were his own life he took back then and not hers. To spare his life would result in losing the will to live. But saving Brooke, there could be no regrets on anyone's behalf with such a righteous decision. And Brooke would forever love him for it, procure a special place in her heart just for Aaron—assuming she'd find out what he did. He'd become a hero to her. Maybe she'd name her first son Aaron. Jesus preached humility and modesty, but it is such a sin to want to be looked-up to by such a special kid?

It really wasn't much of a decision to make at all. He'd gladly take his own life if it meant saving Tinkerbelle.

He slowly got down on his knees, sat on his heels with the gun resting on a thigh. He bowed his head and said, "Lord, please forgive me for what I'm about to do." A tear ran down his cheek. "Know that I'm only doing this for Tinkerbelle. If there was any other way, I'd do it. Please don't condemn me to spend eternity in hell."

"It's going to be pretty hot down there," Paul said and snickered. "I doubt there's air conditioning in hell."

"If you wish for me not to kill myself," Aaron said and looked up at the black sky, "tell me so and I won't."

"Don't kill yourself," Paul mumbled through the side of his mouth and erupted in laughter.

Aaron wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, lifted the gun (which weighed ounces but felt like pounds) off his thigh and gazed blankly at it. "Forgive my sins, which are many," Aaron said, and sobbed. "I'm sorry for being a weak Christian. So many things I could have and should have done, but didn't, as I'm selfish. Forgive me for taking Marie Elbrick here all those years ago." He sobbed. Tears dripped off his jaw. "Watch over Tinkerbelle for me. Give her the wonderful life that I'm taking from myself."

Paul had ceased humoring, composed himself, watched Aaron attentively. "You're doing the right thing," he said. "Be strong."

Looking up at the sky, Aaron said, "Please accept me into your kingdom. I love you, Lord. Amen."

His tears were so great that he almost missed the girl standing behind and to the side of Paul, who was no more than a watery smudge, her dress glowing white. If Paul was aware of her, he didn't let it be known. Aaron wiped his eyes, sharpened his gaze on Magdalena. Paul traced Aaron's gaze with a knitted brow.

Sitting on his heels, Aaron put the gun to his right temple, fixed on the angel.

"What are you looking at?" Paul finally asked.

"Can't you see her?" Aaron asked quietly. He didn't wait for a response, didn't really care if Paul or his friend could see her. The time had come to focus on the future, on the next world.

_I'm scared, Maggie,_ Aaron thought. _I'm a coward. Tell me not to do this and I won't. Please tell me not to do this and I won't. I'm just so scared._ A sob. _Is this the only way?_

Her gloomy little face nodded once.

Aaron closed his eyes, displacing pools of tears. He cocked back the gun's hammer. It made an ominous click.

"Take care, bud," Paul said. "Thanks for playing. Give my regards to Lucifer."

Aaron opened his eyes, set his final gaze on Maggie. As he began pulling the trigger he saw something through his peripherals, a bright white indeterminable flash. He hadn't time to consider it, or he might have wondered if it was God coming to deliver him from his earthen body.

Magdalena's somber gaze remained on Aaron as the trigger was pulled. A loud report echoed for seconds after Aaron's lifeless body fell forward, blood trickling onto the dirt fourteen years after Marie's.

### Chapter Fifty Three

As I backed the Tahoe along the shoulder of the dark highway, Norrah complained that I needed to drive slower, but didn't say why. I knew why. She had it in her head that a little girl was around here somewhere and I might squish her like a grape. It was pointless, being that there was no little girl around here. I believe Norrah saw her (well, pretty sure; kind of sure), but Maggie's an angel, incapable of being harmed.

I reached a point where I could turn onto the off ramp and did so. Slowly I drove up the exit to the bridge crossing the highway.

"I don't know, Jay," Norrah said, pensive.

"What you don't know could fill libraries," I joked.

"It was her. It was Maggie. I know it."

"If you saw someone, I agree, it was Maggie."

"The only other time we saw her was there on the beach, at the lake. Remember?"

"Of course."

"And why did she appear to us back then? There was a purpose."

"Yeah, to lead Aaron to Taylor."

"Yes, to lead him to Taylor. Most of those twenty-three are Christians now. Aaron's message got through to them. But none of that would have happened if it weren't for Maggie leading Aaron to Taylor."

"Yeah. Your point?" I turned and drove over the bridge toward the onramp south.

"Now she manifests out here? Doesn't it seem logical that she'd have a great reason for it, just as she had at the lake?"

"I don't know. Maybe, maybe not."

"No, Jay, you're wrong. Totally wrong. She definitely would have a reason to show herself. One that we aren't talking about. She's a supernatural being, for chrissake; what bigger omen is there than witnessing an angel? Wait, don't get on the freeway yet."

I stopped at the stop sign before the onramp, put it in Park, gave her my full attention. "Let's hear it," I said. "What's the reason."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Sorry, but I'm not as smart as you, apparently."

"Don't get attitude with me. I'm not trying to make you feel dumb."

"I know you aren't. I'm sorry."

"Maggie was standing on the off ramp. The only way to avoid her was to swerve back onto the highway. Back onto the highway, north on the 99. It's just that simple, I think. She wants us to stay the course."

"I don't see why we should. Are you prepared to ignore the little boy whose life is in Paul's hands? We need to get down there. After that crisis is resolved, if Maggie still wants us to drive up north, then fine."

"How far are we from Fresno?" Norrah asked hintingly.

"You want to see Aaron?"

"I wish you were on the same page as me," she said disappointedly. "Honey, I don't think we're supposed to go to Sedona. We're supposed to go to Fresno. That's what I think."

"Like I said, are you prepared to let that little boy die?"

She peered into my eyes, touched my knee. "How do we know there is a little boy?"

I arched my brow at her. There's a bold supposition if I ever heard one.

"Well...?" She said. "How do we know there is a little boy?"

"Because the cops say there is. It's on the news."

"You know it to be on the news? Or did one person tell you it is."

"That one person is a detective."

"Says who, him?"

"Whoa-whoa, are you saying that all this shit is made up?"

She swayed her head in a gesture of maybe maybe-not.

"Why would Maurice make it up?" I said. "To what gain?"

Norrah cupped my cheek. "You can be very naïve, hun. I'm not saying Maurice made it up, but that someone made up Maurice. _Maybe._ And who might do that?"

I nodded. "Paul would."

"Yes, Paul would. And why—"

"Ah!" I interrupted. "I think you're on to something! What would Paul have to gain by lying to us? This very thing, that's what. Us driving out to a place we don't need to be: Arizona." Some of my momentum fizzled just then. "But how does that benefit him?" I had an idea. "Just a sec, I know how to settle this."

I pressed Voice Activation on my steering wheel and said "Call Doug Hostetler." He answered with a hello Jay, his voice emanated from all twelve of my speakers. "Doug, are you in Sedona?"

"Sedona? Why would I be in Sedona?"

I smiled at Norrah. She looked smug over there in her seat. My pretty little sugar-momma had a pretty good brain in that brown-haired egg of hers.

"I don't know why," I said to Doug. "Are you writing a novel about the missing twenty-three?"

He laughed. "Bud, I can't write my way out of a wet paper-bag. Who's giving you this information?"

"Doesn't matter. Dude, you kick ass," I said. "Take care."

I hung up and the two of us smiled widely at one another. "I suddenly don't feel so bad about driving the wrong way," I said.

"I think you were driving the _right_ way all along. And I'm skeptical that you would have driven this far without noticing you were going the wrong way. I should have seen a sign, even if you hadn't. Providence, that's what I think."

"To Fresno. It's not far at all, actually."

"Why don't you call Aaron to see if everything's all right. Maybe he knows the reason why we're supposed to go there."

"Then he would have called me."

"That's true."

I called Aaron anyway. It went straight to voice mail. I remembered him saying his phone battery was dying, so that would explain it. I left a message, saying that we were on our way up there, and give me a call when he got this. When I hung up I sought to pull up Yahoo Maps to see how far to Fresno. I glanced at my spread of iPhone apps and icons. The SMS text messaging icon had a little red number 1 on it. One unread text message. I tapped the icon with my nosy fiancé peering at my phone. I gaped at who the text was from, or who it was allegedly from: Maurice Esperanza. A man who probably didn't exist. A man who was probably Paul. Typically you can read the first few words of the message under the contact's name, but sometimes it says Attachment: 1. Such was the case now. I tapped it with Norrah leaning all the way over to my seat, totally in my bubble, my personal space. I cut her some slack, being that she was the cogitator between us at the moment, operating on some high level of intuition and reasoning.

A picture loaded, covered the screen. It was a girl unfamiliar to me. A young woman, mid-teens I judged. It was a head and torso shot. Her pretty face was dirty, and she was crying, making mud on her cheeks. The kind of picture that breaks your heart. The kind of picture you dread seeing as a parent.

Norrah gasped.

"Damn," I whispered. "Fucking Paul. I really really hate that dude, you know that? Any idea who this girl is?"

"I've never seen her before," Norrah said. "But I have a pretty good idea. Who was Paul supposed to seduce tonight? On the day after her fifteenth birthday?"

"Ah. I bet you're right. Brooke Stanwick. Aw, man. Damn. Aaron is going to be devastated."

"Yeah, Aaron being devastated is what matters here, not what might happen to that girl," Norrah said sarcastically. "I guess this answers the question why Fresno."

"To help Brooke out," I said with a nod, gazing at the girl on my phone. So this was the girl who Aaron wanted to rape, according to Paul. I could see why Paul would think that, being that his mind was totally fucked and perverse, and the girl was gorgeous, even being as dirty and harried as she was. And Aaron wasn't ignorant of that beauty, he'd appreciate it. Even though he'd never violate another human being if he lived to be a million years old, he feared coming to feel that way about her. And so what if he thought she was attractive? She _is!_ Doesn't mean he should worry about liking her in a physical way. That ass-hat Paul, he really knows how to get in someone's head and tinker-fuck them into thinking they're just rotten meat.

Such deep blue eyes she had, the whites unblemished and brilliant. They projected her emotions perfectly, and that emotion was confusion, with a tinge of fear. "And bonus," I said to my sweetie, "I'll get to shove my boot up Paul's ass. It's been a long time coming."

I looked over at Norrah. She was deep in thought. She felt my gaze and looked over at me. With a sense of urgency she said, "Go. Go!" I pulled onto the onramp North, set the cruise control at 79mph. I brought up Yahoo Maps and entered Aaron's address. It loaded. We were only nineteen measly miles away.

"Hun," she said abstractedly.

I had a feeling I knew what she was thinking. For once I was on the forefront of problem-solving, of rationalizing. "I know what you're going to say. Why would Paul send us that picture?"

"Yeah."

"He went through a lot of trouble to keep us away from Fresno tonight, by tricking us into going to Arizona. And he undoes it all with a single text-picture?"

"Maybe it's another trick," she said.

"Brooke looking abused isn't a trick. We're supposed to go up there and help Aaron, I'm sure of it now. But yeah, I don't get why Paul would send that."

"Why don't you give _'Maurice'_ a call, ask him why he sent the picture. Feel him out. We have that single advantage over Paul: he doesn't know we know he's Maurice."

"That's a great idea."

Driving along the interstate I used Bluetooth to call our dear friend Maurice. God Paul's a good actor. He even used police lingo well. He said all the right things. How does a punk-ass-shit his age know so much? And be so intelligent? By being guided by that satanic fuck, I guess. I don't mind being outsmarted and outwitted by someone my age or older, but it stings when a kid Paul's age is running circles around me.

"Maybe Paul will know we're lying," Norrah said. "Maybe he'll know we're driving to Fresno. He knows things, don't forget that."

I shushed her as the phone rang. Maurice answered. "Yo, Davis."

"Sup, man? How goes it on the eastern front?"

"No developments. Still at a standoff with that asshole."

"He _is_ an asshole," I said. "You got that right."

"Almost here?"

"Still a ways off."

"Just calling to give me an update? I appreciate that, buddy. Gracias."

"Por nada," I said. "Actually I was calling to see what's up with the picture you texted me."

"Picture?"

Norrah and I looked at one another. The dude didn't know about the text-photo.

"What picture?" Maurice asked.

"Didn't you text me a picture?" I said in an uncertain tone.

"Nah, man. Let me check..." He hummed as he checked his recent texts. Then, "No picture sent."

"Must have been from someone else," I said. "I wasn't paying much attention. You know how it is, Maurice... she was giving me an old fashioned when the text came in. I had other things on my mind."

"Old fashioned?" Norrah asked.

"You know, a hand job," I said with a wink. She nodded.

"A picture of what?" Maurice asked.

I thought he'd have commented on the old fashioned. I guess not. His curiosity was piqued on the photo. Why should he care about a picture someone else sent? Unless the picture I received was supposed to be sent to Aaron. Or was sent to Aaron and then forwarded to me, or carbon-copied to me by mistake, or on purpose, or who knows how it happened. I was confusing myself.

I met eyes with Norrah, convening with her (if only with our eyes) on what to say to Maurice. She shook her head at me.

"The picture was of nothing relevant," I lied. "I'll see you around... what time is it babe?"

"A quarter to nine."

"We should be there by midnight or so," I lied.

Norrah gestured at me a forefinger and thumb (a gun) then pointed at herself, then back to me. I wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"Making good time, huh?" Maurice said.

Norrah was looking impatient with me, still gesturing guns at both of us. Then pointed at the little speaker hole by the rear-view-mirror used for Bluetooth.

I mouthed "Oh!" to her, and nodded.

"Yeah, making great time. Hey bud, you're going to laugh, but I fucked up, didn't bring my nine millimeter. Norrah and I are unarmed. You got something we can use once we get there?"

"You call yourself a cop but don't carry a gun?" He chuckled. "Yeah, don't worry about it. We got it covered."

"Great. I'll let you go, you're probably busy. See you soon."

"Drive safe."

I ended the call.

"You smart man, you," Norrah said and leaned toward me, wrapped her arms around me.

"Don't give me all the credit, it was your idea."

"Yeah but I didn't think you'd be that great at charades, especially after that sorry display in Yosemite."

"Gee thanks."

"Maybe it won't matter, but don't you want Maurice— _Maurice,_ I'm saying his name like he's not Paul—don't you want him believing we're unarmed? When we confront him, we'll benefit from him believing we don't have a gun."

"Indeed, honeybun. Indeed. I wish I brought a second gun for you."

"I doubt we'll need one gun. Better safe than sorry, though."

"So how about that old fashioned?" I said. "I don't like lying, and I told Paul I got an old fashioned."

"You're a walking erection, you know that?" She laughed.

"Not the first time someone's called me a dick," I said.

"And it'll be far from the last time. So what's the plan?—drive to Aaron's?"

"Of course."

"Do you think he'll be there? Wasn't he driving around looking for Brooke?"

"I told him Brooke's safe, remember? I said Paul's in Sedona. Whoops, huh?"

"Good, then he'll be home."

"The picture, though," I said and considered it. "Wouldn't you think Aaron has this same picture? Can there be any doubt Paul took it to taunt Aaron?"

"Maybe it was meant for Aaron but went to you instead." She reached to my lap and took my cellphone, began tapping the screen.

"Paul doesn't make mistakes. And he checked his sent messages, there was no sent picture."

"Whatever," Norrah said. "Let's go to Aaron's."

"If Aaron isn't home, that will likely mean he did get the picture and is working on recovering Brooke. We won't know where to go."

"Maybe Deborah will."

"Ah, yes. Good ol' Deborah. Her Halloween costume will be a chick with a huge set of boobs. I wonder if Aaron has seen them yet. I bet they're nice."

"Yep, a walking erection," she said and giggled. She brought her head down closer to the LCD screen of my cell. "Huh..."

"What?"

"Interesting. The picture he texted you, it has no date-time-stamp. Don't they always?"

"Yeah. Let me see."

She placed the phone before my eyes. Sure enough, no date-time-stamp. I had never seen that before. "What was it you said?—providence directed us north instead of east? Maybe providence got that picture to us."

### Chapter Fifty Four

We walked up the stairs of Aaron's apartment behind a father and two cuties: a princess and a leprechaun. Deborah answered the door excitedly, candy-bowl cradled at her stomach. Yep, she was costumed as a woman with a nice rack. A costume she wears year-round. She dropped a couple mini's in their bags and told them to be safe. The trio descended the stairs past Norrah and I.

"Well hello, guys!" Deborah said, her smile ever so pleasant. "What a nice surprise!"

"Hello, Deb," I said.

We were let inside, took seats on the couch. Deborah looked anxious to please, get us refreshment or food. We said we were fine, have a seat.

"How are you doing?" Norrah asked.

"I'm good, thanks. Aaron didn't say you were coming over."

"It's a surprise visit," I said.

"Let me call him, tell him the good news."

"Don't bother. His phone's dead. Is he still looking for Brooke? Has he come home at all since he left?"

"He hasn't returned yet. But yes, he's trying to find a party."

"Any idea where he might be?" Norrah asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

I sighed. "Deb, we're pretty sure Paul is up here in Fresno. I hate to worry you, but there's a chance Aaron may be in trouble."

She sobered with that. She moved quickly to the kitchen counter and snatched her cellphone, began calling Aaron before remembering his phone was dead.

"We're going to need your help," Norrah said to her. "We need to find them."

"Them?"

I said Paul and Aaron at the same time that Norrah said Brooke and Aaron.

Her alarmed gaze jumped between the two of us on the couch. I told her about the text-picture, then showed her. "That poor girl," she said. "We have to call the police."

"I _am_ the police," I said, a little offended.

"Local police," she amended.

"They won't know where they're at anymore than we do, and we don't have a lot of time. Look, we're thinking Paul abducted Brooke and is holding her as bait to lure Aaron in. What happens then is anyone's guess. Look really hard at the picture; is there anything that looks familiar? We need to find out where this is."

She studied it, pointed at the upper left corner of the screen, said, "Looks like some kind of structure, cement." She then got closer to the screen. "Dirt, and lots of it. That can be anywhere in Fresno. Graffiti on the cement. This might be a bridge. Maybe not."

"The old riverbed!" I said and exulted.

"Yes!" Norrah cheered. "Of course that's where they'd be!"

"You don't mean the place where Aaron took that young girl Marie, do you?" Deborah asked. "I doubt he'll ever get over what he did there. Poor guy, he's so hard on himself." She looked at the text-picture again. "I'm not a hundred-percent sure, but I think the oil lease by the riverbed, by Fresno State, that's a Vintage property. My cousin used to be a roughneck for Vintage. He lost a hand in an accident there. It's such dangerous work, being—"

"If Paul texted this same picture to Aaron," I said, trampling all over her story, "Aaron will be at the riverbed now. Assuming he got the text: his phone died. But being that he hasn't come back yet, and after I told him Paul is in Sedona (whoops), it seems pretty clear he did get the text and is working on resolving the issue now, and alone."

"Let's go," Norrah said. "Deborah, could you lead us there?"

"I think so. If the bridge is the one leading to Vintage, then yes."

### Chapter Fifty Five

Norrah piloted the Tahoe with Deborah in the front passenger seat, giving directions. I was in back taking my nine millimeter apart. I asked Deborah to open the glove box and remove the leather case, hand it back to me. Inside was spare ammo, a brush, a piece of cloth and oil. I cleaned it with the cloth, oiled it, reassembled it. Deb said we were close. We had only just left.

"I think we should call the police," Norrah said. "Why do we have to do this all alone?"

"Because we don't know what's happening yet. We can do a lot of assuming, but until we know for sure it makes no sense to call them. They won't investigate over a picture."

"She's a minor!" Norrah said indignantly.

"And she's a fully clothed minor with no bruises. I agree, it looks pretty bad what's in the picture, but trust me, being a cop I know what constitutes an abduction, the protocol and all that. Unless she's been reported abducted there's nothing anyone can do just yet. Except for us, of course."

"Her boyfriend might have some intelligence on the matter," Deborah said. "From what Aaron said, they were spending the evening together."

"Do you have his name or number? Probably not, huh?"

"I don't even know his name."

"Aaron said his name in Yosemite," I said, "but I don't remember it. Doesn't matter, I guess, not without a last name. And can't rule out the possibility that he's been abducted as well."

"Take a right here," Deb said. "This road goes over the bridge, to Vintage."

"Hun, stop well before the bridge. I'm going to approach stealthily."

"What do you mean _you_ are going to approach?" Norrah said crossly. "You mean we."

"I'm the only one with a firearm. It's not safe for you two. Keep the windows down and listen. If you hear gunshots, call nine-one-one. And do _not_ come investigating. In fact, drive away as you're calling for help. Got it?"

"No," Norrah said defiantly.

"No," Deborah said, matching Norrah's tone. "I love Aaron. I'll help him any way I can."

"You getting killed won't help him." I sighed. "Women..."

Norrah parked the big SUV a hundred yards before the bridge, in front of a house in a low-income neighborhood. Being that it was dark out, the neighborhood kids were inside, which was a good thing. No stray bullets taking a kid in the head. I opened my door and got out, half expecting the women to do the same. But they remained. Good.

"I'll make a deal with you," Norrah said. "I'll stay here like you want but you have to stay on the phone with me."

At first I thought it was a retarded idea until I remembered my hands-free earpiece in the center console. I got it, stuck it in my ear, phoned Norrah. She answered the call through the Tahoe's Bluetooth. I took my departure, was immediately summoned back to kiss her. A kiss to remember me by should shit go south. She didn't say that, but she didn't have to.

My eyes were already adjusted to the night. I wore dark jeans and a black shirt, but didn't think it mattered, not with the moon being as bright as it was. I quickly strode along the sidewalk, dogs barking at me behind rickety fences. I took the nine millimeter from my holster, slid the safety off. I passed the last house on the street before slowing down. I trod along a dirt plot that preceded the riverbed, the road at my side. I heard voices faintly. Voices coming from up ahead, under the bridge.

I slanted mid-street using the road as my cover and continued along. The voices grew louder as I went.

"They're here," I whispered.

"Aaron and Paul?" Norrah asked.

"Not sure yet."

I furtively made my way nearer. I perceived them to be off to the right, below the road (bridge), so I walked on the left side of the road, keeping the structure between them and me. I heard them more clearly but couldn't make out their dialogue. I recognized their voices: it was Aaron and Paul, all right.

"It's them," I whispered.

"Is Brooke with them?" Norrah asked.

"I... not sure. Hold on."

I crept toward the metal rail at the edge of the bridge, got down on my stomach and crawled the remaining few feet. The rail was low, with a one foot gap between the asphalt and flimsy metal guard rail. I stuck my head in the gap and listened. I wouldn't be able to see them unless I stuck my head out and risked being seen. They were almost directly below me. I listened in.

"What's a fair trade for one life?" It was Paul's voice. "Come on, man, think."

"Another life." That was Aaron, sounding resigned to something horrible. His tone said words his tongue did not. "You want to kill... you want me to..."

"Oh shit," I whispered so softly that it was almost breathed, and backed up a little before standing up, walked to the other side of the bridge.

"What!" demanded Norrah.

"This isn't good. I think Paul's going to... is Deborah listening?"

I heard the Tahoe door open. Norrah told Deborah to stop.

" _Make_ her stop," I whispered to Norrah. "She can't show up or everything will be ruined. Tell her to have patience."

I heard Norrah plea with Deborah. Atta girl, she was winning her over. I surreptitiously made my way back to the guard rail.

"I don't know," Aaron said down below.

"Then this concludes our negotiations," Paul said.

"I could just follow you to her."

"No, Aaron, you couldn't."

"And why couldn't I?"

"Because like the tire-iron, your legs are too heavy to do much traveling."

"Hun, you there?" I whispered.

"Yes."

"Don't let anything happen to him!" Deborah cried into the speaker.

"I won't," I breathed, and inched over the railing, looking straight down. Aaron was directly below me. I could only see Paul if I leaned well over the railing.

"You can't tell me you aren't the devil," Aaron said to Paul.

"I can and I have and I'm not. If you don't make me an offer right now, I'm heading out to have a little fun with Brooke. You'll next see her on the news."

"I know where she's at," Aaron said. "The oil lease. Vintage." Aaron pointed in the general direction.

"I know you know. I took the pictures, didn't I? I don't see what that has to do with anything."

I backed away from the railing, walked up the road as fast as I could without making a sound. "Guys, Brooke's at Vintage. Do you think you two could go find her?"

"Of course," Deborah said.

"We're on our way," Norrah said.

"Go around the bridge, to the left side of it. Like a hundred feet or so. Can't risk Paul hearing or seeing you."

"Okay."

"Once you find Brooke take her away from there. We'll keep in contact."

"I'm going to have to switch to hand-held on my phone," Norrah said. "If I don't respond right away that's why."

"Okay." I looked into the distance and saw the interior dome light turn on in my Tahoe. The doors opened then closed. A thought occurred to me: my cellphone wasn't on silent. Heaven forbid I get a text or email, my cover would be blown. I withdrew my phone from pocket. It showed I had been connected to Norrah Petersen for 4:12 and ticking. I toggled the phone to silent, put it back in my pocket. I returned to the rail to continue surveilling.

"You'll soon find out, huh? You'd think I was a boy scout," Paul said and chuckled. "Here you go, she's all yours."

I saw him hand Aaron a gun. This was too good to be true. Handing Aaron a gun??? I grinned eight feet above Aaron's head. This would turn out all right after all.

"If you so much as aim it at me," Paul warned, "the deal's off. Brooke dies."

Aaron nodded. There had to be something more, something I couldn't see. Paul must have had a second gun, even though I couldn't see it. Aaron wouldn't submit to this asshole of his own free will. There had to be _something_.

He slowly got down on his knees, sat on his heels with the gun resting on a thigh. He bowed his head and said, "Lord, please forgive me for what I'm about to do. Know that I'm only doing this for Tinkerbelle. If there were any other way, I'd do it. Please don't condemn me to spend eternity in hell."

_Shit this can't be happening,_ I thought. Panic set in. _You can't kill yourself, Aaron, what are you thinking?!_ Maybe he wasn't going to kill himself. Maybe he was playing Paul. Maybe he'd rotate the gun away from himself at the last second and shoot the prick. Suicide isn't an option for people of faith! Isn't that an unforgivable sin? I'm pretty sure it was, though I didn't know for sure—how could anyone? I was sweating like a bastard, nerves ablaze.

"If you wish for me not to kill myself," Aaron said and looked up at the black sky, "tell me so and I won't." I waved at him but it was dark and he wasn't facing me. I waved in broader strokes. I willed him to look over at me.

"Don't kill yourself," Paul mumbled through the side of his mouth and erupted in laughter.

Aaron wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, lifted the gun off his thigh and gazed blankly at it. "Forgive my sins, which are many," Aaron said, and sobbed. "I'm sorry for being a weak Christian. So many things I could have and should have done, but didn't, as I'm selfish. Forgive me for taking Marie Elbrick here all those years ago." He sobbed. Tears dripped off his jaw. "Watch over Tinkerbelle for me. Give her the wonderful life that I'm taking from myself."

_Shit, he's really going to do it._ I aimed my gun down at Paul, it swayed to Aaron; I brought it back at Paul. What the hell was I doing? _Please, God, guide me._

I leaned farther over the rail: the whole of Paul was now in sight. My breath caught at what else was in sight. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it remained. A glowing white gown just a couple feet to Paul's flank, a scarcely discernable personage inside it. Dark hair. It wasn't Brooke, she was too small to be Brooke. Was it Maggie?

Looking up at the sky, Aaron said, "Please accept me into your kingdom. I love you, Lord. Amen."

Aaron wiped his eyes, sharpened his gaze on Magdalena. Paul traced Aaron's gaze looking bemused.

Sitting on his heels, Aaron put the gun to his right temple, fixed on the angel.

_Nooo! Don't do it!_ I aimed my gun at Paul. Should I shoot him? Should I shoot him?! My gun drifted toward Aaron seemingly on its own. I corrected it angrily.

"What are you looking at?" Paul asked Aaron.

"Can't you see her?" Aaron asked quietly.

He was talking about Maggie. Paul couldn't see her. She was invisible to Paul and probably that demonic fuck-buddy of his. But I sure could see her, just as Aaron could. She wouldn't allow Aaron to kill himself. She'd work this out, somehow. She was an angel, an ambassador of God, for crying out loud.

"Thank God," I breathed. "Thank you, Maggie." My heart was beating so hard that it literally hurt.

I felt a sudden peculiar sensation, like static electricity abounding seconds before a lightning strike. The fine hairs of my nape and forearms bristled at once. My spine chilled, tingled.

Aaron and Maggie were transfixed on one another. I sensed that they were communicating by thought. What would Aaron be saying? Probably asking her if he should blow his brains out like he was gearing up to do. Or if there was another solution to this crisis. My gaze jumped between her and Aaron. Maggie nodded once at him. What the fuck was she saying yes to? That he should blow his brains out?! That there was another solution to this crisis (hopefully)? The answer presented itself when Aaron dropped his head defeatedly and pulled back the hammer of his gun.

I didn't just throw caution into the wind, I fucking gave it the bird by moving to end my stealth and scream at Aaron _Stop! Don't do it!_ but nothing came out, like I was suffering the worst nightmare imaginable. My mouth was open, vocal chords straining, I could feel the cords of my neck protruding from exertion, but not a sound squeaked out of me! _Damnit, Aaron, I'm up here! Look up! Put the fucking gun DOWN!_

How it could be that I was suddenly mute was lost on me at that moment. It seemed irrelevant except that it prevented me from warning Aaron. But the cause of the mystery was on the brink of discovery, standing just ten short feet from me along the bridge.

It was as though my thoughts were being listened to, stolen, a complete violation of the sanctity that is my mind. The moment I made a decision as to my course of action—I was going to shoot Paul; fuck letting Aaron kill himself—there manifested on the bridge to my left an entity, a black shadow of a man whose identity I knew by intuition or divinity or some damn thing: the man behind the horned mask.

The moon seemed to respect his pursuit of darkness, as his shroud was void of color and lunar light, black as the bottom of an abyss. Whatever face he wore the night in Norrah's basement—the face behind the mask—I was unfamiliar with, but guessed it wasn't this one, which was a matte charcoal color, smooth and features prominent, sharp cheek bones and pointy nose, sunken eyes which were glowing with fire-light, smoldering in its sockets. This was no demon. This was the master of demons.

I took a faltering step back from him, eyes doubled, jaw unhinged, mouth as dry as Death Valley in August. The pain I had felt in my heart a short moment ago paled in comparison to this new sensation, which felt nothing short of a hand inside my chest squeezing my heart to the verge of popping it. The gun in my hand quivered as if I had palsy. I hadn't taken a breath since he imposed his presence upon me. I couldn't bear his sight, yet I continued to watch him.

I attempted to scream at him, and again lacked the ability to elicit a peep. Black magic from history's greatest magician.

Being as dark as he was I couldn't discern his hooded head shaking no at me, a reproach for the audacity of my interfering with this fatal act of destiny, but I saw his fiery eyes shift left to right once. He was to persuade me to abandon my new ambition of killing his ally. And persuasive he was, merely by proving his existence to me. An exhibition of purest evil to counter the love I had found for the antithesis of evil, the Lord Almighty.

As mortified as I was, nearly paralyzed with fear, I maintained a grasp (tenuous as it was) on my conscious mind, on my motor skills, on my purpose which hadn't left my awareness even amidst this unparalleled trauma. Not just my purpose, which was to kill Paul, but the reason for it, which was to save my dear friend's life and possibly soul by preventing him from committing suicide. What seemed like an easy task moments ago now felt insurmountable, but I wouldn't give up. I wouldn't let Paul or this Satanic pariah succeed.

I looked away from him and over the railing, where I saw Aaron sobbing with a gun to his head. Paul was obscured from sight by the railing. I sought correction of that inconvenience and to hastily put a bullet in his head, went to take a short step nearer the rail to accomplish this task when everything went wrong. My legs were leaden. I couldn't lift my feet from the asphalt. I checked back with Devil shortly before re-strategizing. I couldn't have been more than a couple seconds away from losing Aaron. I'd just aim blindly at Paul—I knew where he was standing. Maybe I'd miss him once or twice, but I had a full magazine of tries in store for him.

I extended my arm over the rail, gun aiming where I knew Paul to be, and just prior to pulling the trigger the black magician displayed more of his witchcraft by pushing my armed hand off target as if a gale-force wind was blowing at it. It drifted away from Paul against my greatest resistance. When the force subsided I corrected the gun's aim only for the phenomenon to repeat itself again.

I expected to hear a gunshot down below any second.

"Take care, bud," Paul said to Aaron. "Thanks for playing. Give my regards to Lucifer."

Aaron opened his eyes, set his final gaze on Maggie.

I tried shouting a warning one final time to no avail. I then tried aiming my gun at Paul one final time to no avail. Aaron was going to shoot himself and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

From either keen eye-sight or a vivid imagination, I saw Aaron tightening his grip around the trigger.

The black magician may have been able to prevent me from putting a bullet in Paul, but I don't think he considered where else I'd be able to put a bullet, and the millisecond the idea manifested (suicide might be unforgivable—is it?? I wish I damn knew!—but murder sure isn't) I lined up on Aaron and shot him—had aimed at his leg with my unsteady hand but struck him in his neck.

The loud report echoed for seconds after Aaron's limp body fell forward.

"Forgive me, Lord," I said. The wound was undoubtedly a fatal one. As horrific an idea as it was, that I just took my best friend's life, it was lessened at least in part when Magdalena looked up at me with a hint of a smile. It was destined to happen, what I did. She slowly grew transparent before vanishing altogether.

Paul looked up at me utterly shocked. Not from what I did, but by my presence, my bold intrusion. His wide eyes then sharpened on me, expression evolving into something indescribably malicious, the embodiment of hatred. He was enraged.

I became aware of a sulfuric scent. I threw a glance to my left, at the supernatural entity who was overtly incensed at the turn of events. Once I looked at him, there was no looking away. I was mesmerized by the fire in his eyes, which was brightening forebodingly. His jaw dropped: hypnotic orange-red flames like a furnace incinerator breathed out, licked up around the corners of his mouth, making it appear as if he was grinning.

I tried turning to run but was rooted in place.

God help me!

The bright flames of his cranial orifices escalated to the point that I shielded my eyes out of necessity. Brighter and brighter they became, making broad daylight out of the night. I covered my squinted-shut eyes with a forearm. I screamed, and not silently this time. The shelter of darkness provided by my closed eyes and arm began failing; brightness seeped in through my many layers of flesh. A new color was filtering in with the orange-red, and that color was white. Holy whiteness now superseding the fire-glow, pervading me entirely, soothing and comforting me, a warmth delivering me from this adversary... it was the answer to my prayers, my salvation.

### Chapter Fifty Six

Fifty yards north of the bridge Norrah and Deborah trekked across the riverbed, stealing glances south hoping to see something but not. They breasted the opposing bank and leveled out, began slanting toward the paved road beyond the bridge. Norrah was winded, struggled to keep Deb's purposeful pace. Up ahead was a tall fence hedging an industrial yard: the Vintage lease. The road led right up to it. There was a Dodge Ram parked off to the side. Paul's Ram. There was a sliding gate prohibiting trespassers from gaining access, a numbered keypad on a pole on the side of the road.

"We don't know the password," Norrah said once they arrived at the gate. It was composed of iron poles, green plastic sheeting secured to the back of it to keep inquisitive eyes off the site.

She took the phone out of her pocket. The call was still connected. The meter read 6:59 and ticked on to seven minutes and counting. "Jay? You there?" No response. "Honey? Can you hear me?" Me not responding could mean that I needed to remain silent—she hoped that was the case. It could mean something worse but she chose not to think about that. She put it on speaker phone and shoved it in her pocket.

"Would you believe that I do know the password?" Deborah said. "My cousin Eric used to work at Vintage, and I dated his friend who worked with him. I sometimes visited him on his lunch break. The code is the same for all Vintage sites: ten-ten. But it doesn't matter because there won't be any electricity here."

Where the sliding gate butted against a brick post was a slight gap. Norrah approached it. She took a firm grip of a pole and tried sliding it open. It didn't budge.

"Let's try pulling it open, better leverage," Deborah said and grabbed hold of her own pole. "Ready? One... two... pull!"

Together they pulled, expecting it to scarcely move or not move at all, but instead it quickly rolled along the track. So effortlessly that it would have only taken one of them to pull it open. The inches-wide gap was now five feet, and they entered.

The concrete yard was glowing white under the moon. The property might have been a little smaller than a city block. There were enormous circular white tanks with ladders scaling up them, two pairs on this end, a dozen at the other end. There was a skeletal iron structure three-stories tall encasing the dozen tanks on the far end. There were industrial implements strewn throughout the yard, such as metal bins, old crusty trailers, long rectangular iron basins, decrepit machinery that couldn't have been used in better than a decade, a shabby mobile office, stacks of long rusty pipe, stands of generators and cabinets of electrical equipment, and plenty of signs, such as _Must Sign In With Kenlamb Safety Prior To Entering Site_ , and _Hard Hat, Safety Glasses, Steel Toed Boots Required,_ and _Days Without Incident: 53._

When they passed that latter sign, Deborah remarked, "Incidents out here usually mean a loss of limb or even death. It's dangerous work."

"I bet. Where are we going?"

"I don't know. _Brooke!"_

Norrah shushed Deb, said that they weren't _that_ far from the riverbed.

"Help me!" cried a girl from the other end of the yard.

Together they ran toward the cry. There was a little metal stud protruding from an iron plate covering a cellar below them; Deb's foot caught it and she fell flat on her face.

"Are you all right?" Norrah asked, bent down and helped her up.

"I'm fine." She dusted herself off.

"Who's there!" the girl shouted.

There was a gunshot in the distance, in the direction of the riverbed, its report echoing for seconds. The two women turned their heads to face it.

"No!" Deborah cried and ran toward the gate.

"Wait!" Norrah exclaimed. "Don't!"

"Aaron!"

"Deborah!" Norrah shouted as loudly as she could. It worked: Deb stopped and looked back. "We have directions, and going to the riverbed isn't part of them. We need to get Brooke and distance ourselves from this place. Jay has it under control. We're going to have to trust him to handle this."

Norrah removed the cell from her pocket once again: the meter read 8:02 and ticked on. "Jay, please tell me you're okay," she said into the phone.

No response.

Deborah's tears had an effect on Norrah, who also began crying.

"I'm going down there," Deborah said, now weeping uncontrollably. "What if... what if he's been shot?"

Norrah wiped her eyes and willed away the emotion. She needed to have a clear mind and weeping clouded it. "Jay said that if we go over there we'd ruin everything, or worse. Could you live with yourself knowing that one of us or even Aaron dies because of our rash decision to go there?"

"But what if we could help them, Norrah? I think we could, I can sense it, can't you?"

"You're wanting to sense it. You're wanting to believe we can make a difference, but we can't. We're unarmed, and I'm sure Paul isn't. What's best for everyone is for us to do what we're supposed to."

"Who's there!" Brooke shouted from the other end of the yard.

_Damnit, Jay_ , Norrah thought, _why aren't you responding to me? Do you have any idea how nerve-wracking this is?_

Deborah took a deep breath, weeping under control a little, and said, "Okay. If you think it's best, I trust you, Norrah."

"Good. Let's get Brooke and get the heck out of here."

Deb nodded. "Do you think Aaron and Jay will be okay? Honestly?"

"I can't answer that," Norrah said and began walking toward Tinkerbelle with Deb at her side staring blankly at the luminescent concrete before her.

"Can't answer that or don't want to answer that? I'm only asking for your best guess."

"Then I don't want to answer that."

"Is that you, Aiden?" Brooke shouted. "Paul?"

"I never said goodbye to him," Deborah said inwardly. "I did, but not how I'd have liked to. Didn't tell him I love him before he left. We never even... never made love. He's a virgin. Did you know that? Well, since Marie. It's hard to count that, him being fourteen at the time. We've done stuff, but not that. And he might die a virgin. If only I'd—"

Norrah stopped and grabbed her friend by the shoulder, gave her a jerk. "Forgive me for saying this, but shut the fuck up. Stop it. Keep your mind focused."

It sobered Deborah. The girls regained their pace toward the other end of the yard, angled toward the corner just past the last of twelve enormous round tanks. There was a long rectangular shadow, a pit, on the concrete slab running parallel with the perimeter-gate at their right. It was a cellar, where many oil pumps used to fill these tanks with crude. In the old days all pumping units were what they called Nodding Donkeys, because that's what they looked like. Nowadays pumps could be small, and subterranean, such as these were. Better than a dozen wells could fit in a cellar such as this.

"Help me! Please!" cried the girl.

"It's okay, honey," Norrah said, now only twenty feet from the tail end of the cellar. "We're going to get you out of there."

"Who's there!"

"It's Norrah. Norrah and Deborah."

"Aaron's Deborah?"

"Yes," Deborah said.

"Thank God," Brooke muttered.

The girls stopped at the precipice of the cellar, which was twelve feet wide and very long, eight feet deep. There were all kinds of devices, pipes, tubes, gauges, and no ladders up. Brooke was directly below them, looking up with wide bright eyes, the whites reflecting the moonlight.

"Are you okay?" Norrah asked her.

She thought Brooke was naked at first. But she was in underwear, peach-colored bra and panties. Her arms were folded under her chest and she was shivering.

"I'm so cold," Brooke said. Her teeth chattered.

"Where are your clothes?" Deborah asked.

"I don't know."

"There they are," Norrah said, pointing farther down the rim of the cellar. She hustled to them, gathered them up (and a pair of walking shoes) and dropped them down to an appreciative Brooke. She got dressed. Deborah removed her light-weight coat and tossed it down to Brooke.

"Did that son of a bitch hurt you?" Norrah said down at her.

"My ankle is sprained from the fall down here. Some cuts, nothing bad." She donned the coat, then looked up at her rescuers. _How are you planning on getting me out of here,_ her look said.

"He pushed you down there?" Deborah said angrily.

Brooke nodded up at her. "I'm lucky I didn't break anything. My hands were tied up; I couldn't use them to brace my fall."

The two women met eyes. "How are we going to do this?" Norrah asked.

"Which of us is stronger do you think?

"The way you were running earlier, my guess is that you're in much better shape than me."

"Ready down there?" Deborah directed at Brooke.

"Yes. Please."

Deb laid down on her stomach, shoulders and head planked over the cellar. She reached both arms down and said over her shoulder, "Sit on my legs, would you?"

Norrah did.

Brooke reached up to the proffered arms, placed her good foot on a metal pipe and sprang up, brought her bad foot up on the pipe. She now stood on it, her head even with Deb's. From there it was easy. The two women joined efforts to pull her out of the cellar.

"Thank you guys so much," Brooke said. Her face was filthy. She looked like one of those kids on the adopt a kid for twenty-five cents a day commercials, only older. Paul must have roughed her up a little prior to banishing her to the cellar. If so, Brooke wasn't seeking sympathy by talking about it.

"I'm sorry if I was sounding rude or impatient," Brooke said. "I worried that I'd get hypothermia if nobody came around to help me. Did you guys hear the gunshot a little bit ago?"

"Yes," Norrah said. She began walking toward the gate, a girl on either side of her. Seeing how badly Brooke was limping, they slowed down. Norrah insisted that Brooke put an arm around her shoulder to take all the pressure off her bad ankle. "Do you know this area at all?" Norrah asked her.

"Not really." She was looking at her right wrist as she hopped along. "I think Paul knows witchcraft or something. I thought my hands had been tied together by rope or a cord, but they weren't. Felt like it."

"How'd you free yourself?" Norrah asked her.

"It just let go of me right before you got to me. Like... like they disappeared or something. Happened just a couple minutes ago. Like just after the gunshot. Weird, huh?"

Norrah and Deborah nodded at her, evaluated her wrist.

"You asked if we were Aiden," Norrah said. "Who's that?"

"My boyfriend."

"Is he here?"

"I doubt it."

"So what happened?"

Brooke hung her head, shamefaced, hobbled along. "I'm such a jerk. I told Aaron I wasn't his friend anymore. But he was right to be concerned about me, to not want me to go to that party. I hope he'll forgive me."

"He will," Deborah said. "He loves you."

"We went to a party at Chris' house, Aiden and I. We were playing ping pong, doubles. It was beer pong, but I wasn't drinking. Aiden was, though. Just a little. I was shocked to see Paul there. I hadn't seen him in over six years, but knew who he was instantly. All grown up, and surprisingly good looking. I asked what he was doing here. He said, 'Your parents are out front. They're pissed, and want a word with you.' I thought he was lying, but before I could say it he said, 'Sven and Juliann Stanwick, right? They said you were supposed to have finished your book report on Scarlet Letter before going out.' I believed him. I had lied to my mom and dad about finishing my book report so they'd let me hang out with Aiden. The thing is, I never told my parents I was going to a party, and didn't stop to think about how they couldn't have known where I was. I was too busy worrying. I was thinking I'd be grounded for a week or two. Paul said to follow him, my parents' Volvo was just a little ways down the street. I followed him down the street like the idiot that I am. Paul grabbed a hold of me, dragged me kicking and screaming to a truck, tied my wrists together behind my back (at least I thought he did) and shoved me inside, drove off. I made the mistake of trying to open the door with my mouth at a stop-light. He... he hit me really hard."

Norrah was looking at her face, and realized some of the dirt on her face wasn't dirt at all, but a wicked bruise. She pictured Paul punching her as hard as he could right in the cheek, and felt a surge of anger toward Paul.

"He brought me here," Brooke continued. "He wouldn't tell my anything, wouldn't answer my questions. I thought he was going to kill me, I really did."

"We're glad you're okay," Norrah said.

"I remember when I was a kid, in Sunday school. Paul called me a cocksucker. I said I wasn't, that _he_ was a cocksucker. When class got out I asked Mr. Mendelssohn in private what a cocksucker was. He asked where I heard that word. I said Paul. He said a cocksucker is candy, a sucker like a Tootsie Pop, only chicken flavored."

"Cock, as in male chicken," Deborah said and smiled.

Brooke nodded. "It was a couple years later when I learned what it really means, and remembered the white lie Mr. Mendelssohn told me. He's such a wonderful human being. So protective of me. You say he loves me, Deborah, but you know what?—he could never love me as much as I love him. A lot of what Paul said back then was lost on me, I didn't understand it. I remember a lot of back then. More than you'd think. Aaron watched out for me; I could feel his love for me." She began crying. "And when he said he was leaving the church for me, I knew that he wanted me to tell him to stay, that I needed him in my life. But I said nothing, let him quit the church. It must have hurt his feelings. And now I told him he's no longer my friend, to not call or text me ever again. I'm such a rotten person."

The gate was thirty feet ahead of them. There was a pair of big circular tanks on either side of it. From the tank nearest the gate on their right was a metallic-sounding _clang_. Maybe it was just from pressure dropping in the cold evening, Norrah thought. But there was a second clang, and this time it had moved a little inward, closer to the gate.

The three girls stopped, attentions drawn on the white tank.

Another clang, and another.

Stepping out from behind the tank was Paul. He stood there, hands at his sides, a gun in his right hand.

"Well-well," he said. "Panty-girl make some friends?"

"Leave us be," Brooke said waspishly. "You're an ass, I could have froze to death!"

"Is Aaron okay?" Deborah asked him desperately.

"Yeah he's fine," Paul said, grinning smugly. "Unless your definition of fine means alive and well. Yeah he's fine. _Fine-_ ally dead." He humored.

" _You fucking monster you! You piece of shit mother fucker!"_ Deborah tore off running at him.

"Don't!" Norrah cried at her. "Stop!"

Paul raised his gun even at her chest, pulled the hammer back. Deborah stopped at once.

"I hope you get the death penalty!" Deborah shouted. "I hope you get butt-raped in prison!"

You could tell she wanted to continue charging at him. She'd probably kill him in the mad rage she was in.

Norrah and Brooke apprehensively moved forward, stopped at Deborah's side in a line, an unspoken gesture of solidarity between the three.

Paul lowered the gun, crossed his hands together at the small of his back and walked forward, stopping fifteen feet before the trio. "It was pointless for you two to get panty-girl out of there," Paul said. "Hear me, Tinkerbelle? Your number's up. You're fucked."

"Why?" Norrah said, face screwed up in confusion, grasping for understanding. She looked over at Brooke. "Why would you want to end someone's life? Look at her. Really look at her." Brooke looked over at Norrah with wide fearful eyes. They took to heart Paul's death threat. "She's a sweet girl, a beautiful girl, her whole life ahead of her, and you want to destroy it for no reason? Paul, I don't think you want to do this."

"I made a deal with Aaron and he broke it. Had he killed himself like we agreed, I'd have held my end of the bargain. But that piece of shit boyfriend of yours, _Jay,_ shot him dead instead. Preemptively."

Deborah's watery eyes looked slowly over at Norrah. "Your... your boyfriend killed Aaron?"

"He sure did," Paul said, stirring the shit a little, taking satisfaction in it. "Norrah's man murdered your boyfriend. He was smiling as he did it, too."

"Bullshit," Norrah said thickly. "If he did it, there was a reason."

"Yeah, the reason is he didn't like Aaron as much as you think. He called him a pious self-aggrandizing pedophile. He also said"—Paul stopped talking. He was looking at Brooke's unfettered wrists.

" _Shut up!"_ Deborah shouted. _"Shut up you fffffucker!"_

Paul was looking unsettled now, and wholly perplexed. "How did you free your hands?" he asked Brooke.

Brooke looked down at her hands. "I don't know."

Deborah devolved into hysteria, covered her face and bawled. "Pp-lease tell me it isn't true!" A sob. "Please!"

"Tell me how you got your hands out of it!" Paul demanded.

Brooke flinched, took a cautious step back, hobbled to a stop.

"Put your hands together," he said now calmly, his eyes anything but calm.

She put her hands together dutifully, wrists touching.

Paul looked at Deborah who was lost to despair, said to Norrah, "Tell that bitch to stop crying. I'm not in the mood."

"Jay, if you can hear me, some help would be appreciated," Norrah said.

"Jay's dead," Paul said. "Fuckin' _gone_ , and I had nothing to do with it. Taken, body and everything. Gone."

"You're lying," Norrah said, but her heart rate might have doubled.

"That's what you want to believe. I saw it happen. He'll never be found. Like the missing twenty-three, only Jay won't be returning."

"You're lying!"

"Believe what you want," Paul said. "I don't care. What I said is the truth."

Mindlessly Brooke returned her hands to her side, her gaze flashing between Norrah, Paul, and the inconsolable woman. Paul observed her free hands and was agape. He looked around the yard saying, "Who's here with you? Who's doing that for you?"

Brooke had the idea that she shouldn't have returned her hands to her side, that it was the cause of Paul's consternation, so she touched them together at her lap before reconsidering that they'd please Paul better at the small of her back and put them there. It might have been comical under another circumstance, Tinkerbelle pretending to be bound at the wrists by some invisible force.

"Don't fuckin' patronize me!" Paul shouted. "You little bitch! I don't think you have enough strength to take a single step toward me, that's what I think!"

The three girls exchanged glances at one another. _Is this guy insane?_

"Well...?" Paul said to Tinkerbelle. "Come here."

"I don't want to," she replied softly. "I'm afraid of you."

"Good! But I'm not asking you, I'm telling you: come here if you can!"

Brooke looked to Norrah for permission, who nodded her approval. Brooke began walking toward Paul unrestrictedly, albeit with a limp. Paul's jaw dropped. He gestured her to stop. She came to a halt eight feet before him.

"Why isn't it working?" Paul closed his eyes and muttered, "Show yourself to me."

Brooke looked quickly back at Norrah, eyes bright with an idea.

Norrah sensed what she was going to do, shook her head no with gaping eyes. Brooke bit her lip, poised to take off, and did.

"Don't!" Norrah cried, but Brooke didn't listen: she rushed Paul with a total disregard of her sprained ankle, eyes raptly on the gun in his hand. Paul blinked his eyes open, raised his gun at her.

Norrah couldn't bear to watch, closed her eyes and winced. Paul shot two quick rounds at her chest at near point-blank range.

### Chapter Fifty Seven

I unshielded my eyes when the brightness waned, took a tentative peek at where Devil had been. He was there no more. It was dark and absolutely quiet. The weather was changing. Fog was rolling in heavier, in pockets with gaps between them. I scanned the area around me. No sign of anyone. I placed my nine millimeter in its holster on my belt. "Yo, hun," I said. "Can you hear me? Norrah?"

I slid the ear-piece off my ear and looked at it. A blue LED showed it to be working. I put it back on, took the cell out of my pocket. I was still connected with her, the time elapsed since the call began was now...

"Huh? Can't be," I said. "Twelve minutes?" How long had it been since the last time I checked? Four minutes? Four and a half tops? That was only a minute ago. I rubbed the side of my face, puzzled. "Norrah? Can you hear me?"

I heard her muffled voice faintly. The ear-piece wasn't doing her justice so I turned it off and used my phone directly, put it on speaker phone and cranked it up to full volume, pressed my ear against the speaker.

"Tell that bitch to stop crying. I'm not in the mood." It was Paul's muffled voice. She must have had the phone in her pocket, on speaker phone. Good girl.

"Jay if you can hear me, some help would be appreciated," Norrah said.

"Jay's dead," Paul said. "Fuckin' _gone_ , and I had nothing to do with it. Taken, body and everything. Gone."

_What the hell?_ I strode toward Vintage. _Taken, body and everything?_ I thought about the lapse in time, twelve minutes that should have been five minutes, and wondered if what Paul said had something to do with that.

I reached the locality on the bridge that the black magician had occupied, and stopped, stooped down. "Well I'll be damned," I breathed. Even being dark out I could see something mighty odd about this section of asphalt. It was lighter than the surrounding blacktop, as if it had been sun-bleached over the years, except for the center spot which was dark. A spot that had somewhat of a human shape to it from where Paul's consort stood working his witchcraft on me. God had delivered me from that wicked demon. But it wasn't a demon, was it? No, the master of demons was my original thought, and that master has a name. I only wished I could have seen it happen. There was nothing material here, only disparity in colors of asphalt.

"You're lying," Norrah said through my phone.

"That's what you want to believe. I saw it happen. He'll never be found. Like the missing twenty-three, only Jay won't be returning."

"You're lying!" Norrah shouted.

I continued along the bridge now at a sprint, phone pressed against my ear so I could hear what was happening.

"Believe what you want to," Paul said. "I don't care. What I said is the truth."

In the distance there was a gap in the eddying pockets of fog. I could see the gate that lined the perimeter of the oil lease. I hoped they were inside. I saw a Dodge Ram parked to the side of the gate and assumed it was Paul's.

"Don't fuckin' patronize me!" Paul shouted. "You little bitch! I don't think you have enough strength to take a single step toward me, that's what I think!"

That was an odd thing to say. It made me remember trying to take a step to the guard rail. Black magic. My legs had become too heavy to move. It was Satan who had done that to me, not Paul. But Paul was trying that same shit on Brooke right now.

"Well...?" Paul said. "Come here."

I heard Brooke mumble something incomprehensible, then, "I'm afraid of you."

"Good! But I'm not asking you, I'm telling you: come here if you can!"

This time I heard Paul not through the phone. He was just up ahead and I was almost to the gate. I was making a lot of noise, my shoes slapping the pavement. I slowed down to quiet my arrival. I shoved my phone down in my pocket, withdrew my nine millimeter. I approached the gate at an angle to keep out of sight. I furtively made my way toward the opening.

"Why isn't it working?" Paul said. "Show yourself to me."

I peeked around the gate. Paul stood with his back to me. The three girls faced me, Brooke a few feet ahead of the others, and coiled as if she were preparing to bum-rush Paul. She glanced back at Norrah, then to Paul, who held a gun.

Shit...

"Don't!" Norrah cried, but Brooke didn't listen: she rushed Paul, eyes raptly on the gun in his hand. Paul opened his eyes, raised the gun at Brooke. I moved into full view as Paul's gun went off, Brooke only arm's length away from him. It was damn near point-blank range, his aim at her chest. There were two quick flashes of light from the barrel before I made some of my own. I fired a few times, careful not to hit Norrah or Deborah who were almost in my line of fire. Paul's body thrust forward with each impact. I stepped forward and to the side, proceeded to empty my magazine into the piece of worthless shit who was now on the ground. Loud deafening reports one after another. My gun clicked several times before I stopped trying to fire bullets into him.

My first thought was that I had shot Deborah, as she was on the ground. But she looked over at Paul's body when it became quiet: wisely she had dropped to the ground. Norrah stood with hands over her ears, gaping at Paul's corpse.

Brooke stood there with eyes as round as eyes can be, mouth open. She touched over her jacketed chest and stomach, looked down. I moved quickly to her, opened her jacket to better see her body. I was in disbelief that she didn't appear to be shot. Impossible.

"He missed you?" I asked her.

"I... don't know."

She wasn't bleeding. I didn't know what other conclusion to come to. There was no way he could have missed her, I saw where he was aiming when he fired, and how close she was. God must have guided those bullets around her, what else could it have been?

Norrah came to take a turn at examining Brooke. When she was satisfied she began weeping and muttering praises of God.

"You're a lucky girl," I said to her.

She nodded.

I moved on to Paul, who was face down, a puddle of blood under him. Deader than shit, and yet somehow he needed to be deader for my liking. If I had more bullets, I'd add to the others in his miserable body.

Norrah flung herself on me, pushing me back a couple steps, kissing me all over.

"Happiness to see me?" I said and kissed her back.

"Paul said you were dead and I believed him. Oh thank God you're okay."

"Yeah I heard him say that. Said I disappeared, and you know what? I think he's right. There was a gap in time."

Deborah got to her feet saying, "Does that mean...? Does that mean Aaron is okay, too?"

She sounded much too hopeful. I hated to have to tell her. I released Norrah and stepped to Deb with a low gaze. She inferred the answer from it and covered her face. I enveloped her in my arms and hugged.

"I'm so sorry," I murmured. "He was brave, Deborah. He did what he had to, for us." Well, for Brooke, but I didn't want to say that. I didn't want Deborah to spend her life resenting Brooke. "I've never known such a selfless person as Aaron."

She bawled on my chest. So distraught she was, baying like some wounded animal, that it painted a pretty good picture of just how deeply she loved Aaron. Norrah hugged her with me. Brooke did the same, four of us in a group hug.

### Chapter Fifty Eight

The four of us sauntered along the road out of the oil lease in no great hurry. We were about to go through hell with the cops. It was getting pretty damned cold out. Or maybe I just noticed. The fog was getting worse, and there was a wetness attached to it, a dewy mist. I was going to call nine-one-one but didn't when I heard distant sirens. Neighborhood citizens must have called the cops after hearing me shoot Aaron. I hadn't considered it, but the investigation was going to get pretty ugly. I had shot Aaron. How would I explain that? Paul's death was self defense, but not Aaron's. I suppose it didn't much matter. If I got in some deep shit over it, so fucking what. It beat Aaron's fate. All that mattered to me was nobody else got hurt. And Paul was dead. That was just as significant. I could take some comfort in knowing where Aaron was now: in Paradise.

Norrah and I walked with an arm around the other, as did Deborah and Brooke, Brooke keeping her weight off her sprained ankle. The four of us walked in an even rank, the bridge now only fifty feet away or so—it was impossible to say with the fog, but as I said there were occasional gaps in it, and there was just then, a brief one. I could see the bridge. I kissed Norrah on the side of the head. Sirens were getting louder.

Deborah suddenly made an indescribable sound, a kind of grunt-cry and tore off running ahead of us, nearly pushing Brooke to the ground in her haste. The rest of us halted and watched her run down the road toward the bridge.

The fog hindered me from seeing jack shit, so I didn't think she was running toward something she saw. But I was wrong. Glory be, I was wrong. I began a light run toward the bridge, Norrah following. Brooke limped along. Deborah was already so far ahead of me that when a pocket of fog rolled over the road she became invisible in it.

"Deborah?" Norrah said loudly. "What are you doing?"

I picked up my pace, wondering what kind of shit we'd find ourselves in now. Deborah entered my view. She was stopped, statuesque. I saw two inscrutable figures up ahead in the fog, the objects of Deborah's focus. I froze in place a few feet before reaching Deb.

"My Lord..." I breathed.

Norrah was now at my side, and her legs also seemed to lose the ability to propel her upon the sight of a taller figure and shorter figure facing one another. The taller knelt down on one knee and cupped the shoulders of the shorter, facing her. Deborah looked back at me with wide-eyed wonderment before returning her gaze to the bridge and its occupants. The tail end of a cloud eddied by, giving us a moment of unimpeded sight at who was before us.

"Is that Aaron?" Norrah whispered to me.

I nodded.

"And is that...?"

I nodded again.

There was a low voice, Aaron's. I couldn't make out what he said, and if Maggie said anything back I didn't hear it. He looked like a proud father talking-up his kid on the sideline of a soccer game during half-time. He then caressed either side of her head, touched his forehead to hers. Fog rolled through them, erasing them from sight.

"Unreal," I said.

I put my arm around Norrah once again, leaned into her, cried. Brooke finally caught up with us, hopping on one leg.

"What's the matter?" she said.

Norrah and I shook our heads, said nothing.

When the fog finally cleared enough to see down the road, we saw Aaron walking away from us down the road, head down and hands in his pockets. Maggie was gone.

"Aaron!" I shouted.

He stopped, looked back. "Jay?"

Deborah ran to him, collided into him, where they stood embraced until I got there. He released her and hugged me.

"Dude, how are you alive?" I said, clapping his back.

"I think we both know how," he said.

"Don't be pissed at me, but I shot you. Intentionally."

He smiled. "God says to forgive, so I guess you're forgiven."

I could see blue and red and white lights coming in our direction.

"You just can't stay dead, can you?" I said and let go of Aaron and wiped my eyes.

"I guess not."

Deborah wasted not a second. When I released Aaron she returned him into her arms, kissed him over and over. Part of his neck was exposed during this onslaught of kisses, and I saw something. I got closer and squinted at it. It was dark out, but not too dark to spy a little scar on the left side of his neck. It was where I had estimated to have shot him. Not a fresh scar, not a scab or dried blood, but a scar that might have been there for years, though I didn't recall him having had it before.

Norrah was helping Tinkerbelle slowly along. They were late to arrive, but when they did, Aaron said, "Just a moment," to Deborah and let her go. Tinkerbelle and Aaron faced one another. She stepped awkwardly to him, stopped inches before him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Of all the things she could have said to him, all the thank you's and declarations of her gratitude for doing what he did for her, I think she summed it up best by saying not a damned thing. Words don't always say it best. Her wet eyes and trace of a grin said plenty to Aaron. She slowly put herself into his arms, rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, displacing puddles of tears. I was so touched by it that I wanted to bawl instead of simply cry. I can be a sentimental sap at times, though I try to conceal it.

Aaron stroked her back, kissed the top of her head. He murmured an apology to her but she wouldn't have it: she shook her head the moment she suspected an apology was coming.

Doors slammed shut, cops were hustling our way, flashlights shining at us.

What a mood changer it was, for all of us to have to put our hands up and be treated like criminals, if only for a minute. I flashed my badge, which calmed them down a good deal. And then came the explaining. I did all the talking. I said as little as possible, dared not mention the man behind the horned mask, and didn't feel it was necessary to mention that I shot Aaron, being that he gotten unshot since then. In fact, we didn't even go down to the riverbed. Brooke, Norrah, and Deborah stayed behind as Aaron and I walked back over the bridge with a handful of cops in our company, toward Vintage.

I explained how I shot a guy to death, in self defense. I also said the guy I shot was responsible for killing the Demitri and Feller girls, though that probably couldn't be proven. One of the cops asked if I was Jay Davis, from the missing twenty-three mystery. I said not only was I him, but the lady back there who was acting as a crutch for the cripple was Norrah Petersen. The words Norrah Petersen don't need a moniker or epithet or a description, they stand well on their own. They were pretty jazzed by that, a kind of novelty. They were amongst celebrity.

As we strode along, I asked Aaron what Maggie had said there on the bridge.

"I shouldn't tell you," he said. "I suppose I could, but I think it was meant to be personal. But it's over, Jay. It's over."

"I know, bud. Paul's assuming room temperature."

"And at last."

"You should've seen it, man," I said. "He shot Tinkerbelle at point blank range, twice!—and missed both shots. Nobody on earth is that lousy an aim."

"I know," Aaron said.

"You know?"

He nodded. "God kept His most precious creation alive."

"I don't know, I could argue that I'm His most precious creation."

Aaron laughed and slapped my shoulder.

We arrived at the oil lease a couple minutes later. It didn't dawn on me that the Dodge Ram was gone. We funneled through the gap in the fence and stopped short of where Paul had recently been slain. Paul, whose blood was puddled on the concrete, but the man it came from was inexplicably gone.

### In Closing

As I write this, it has been just short of a month since the night I shot Paul. DNA tests on the blood came back negative, meaning that they couldn't pair it to anyone in their databank. That doesn't surprise me, being that Paul wasn't there to submit to a cotton-swab test at Norrah's the night the twenty-three reappeared. He has no criminal record, and thus has no file in the system cataloguing his DNA. The five of us gave eye-witness testimony that it was Paul Klein, so that was good enough to put a warrant out for his arrest. But some good that would do: the guy was nowhere to be found. They found tire tracks with the type of tread that comes stock on the very Dodge Ram that Paul had owned, leading around the property and away from the oil lease, away from any road for miles, where they eventually faded away on a hard surface with little dirt. The truck will never be found. Feds seized his Wells Fargo bank account with twenty-eight grand in it. Bank transactions showed that he made occasional cash deposits, always thirty-five-hundred bucks. Nobody could guess as to where he acquired that money.

There's a growing conspiracy theory that Paul Klein is responsible for the Demitri and Feller girls' murders, with only circumstantial evidence to back it up. But because it's such a popular theory, there is a lot of heat on Paul. He is wanted for questioning regarding those two girls' deaths, as well as the attempted murder of Brooke Stanwick.

Also charged against him is something that enraged me when I heard about it, and that was sexual assault against Brooke. I spoke with Aaron the moment I heard them say it on the news, and he said he also heard about it, last night, and has since visited with the Stanwick's, poking around to get the details. Sven and Juliann confessed that it was a lie, that their girl said that only to create more heat on Paul, and extend his jail time should he get caught and not be found guilty of killing the Boise girls. When Brooke escorted Aaron to his Tacoma outside the Stanwick house, she made him promise not to tell her parents before confessing that it wasn't exactly a lie, the sexual assault allegation. She wouldn't say exactly what happened, but she turned awfully red in her embarrassment, and vowed to God that it wasn't rape or anything like that. It was only a little touching, minor stuff, and above the waist. Aaron supposed it was better than it could have been, but still... Paul was wreaking havoc on his sensibility even after the ordeal was over.

Aaron reports to me regularly on Brooke's state of affairs. She's doing fantastic, still dating Aiden, and her parents really like him, approve of their relationship. Since the night I shot Aaron, things changed drastically between he and Deborah. It matured their relationship overnight to the point that they are living together and talking about a not-so-distant wedding, a huge one with hundreds of guests—I'll tell you a little secret: they went to the courthouse and secretly got married just so they wouldn't be living in sin. They are _so_ in love. I guess being that she nearly lost him, it made her appreciate him all the more. I'm a little jealous of Aaron, getting to see those glorious boobs of Deb's on a regular basis. I'm a boob guy, what can I say?

The relationship between us (Norrah and I) and them (Aaron and Deborah) is such a strong one, visits between us so regularly that we made vague plans of living closer together one of these days. Whether it be we move to Fresno or they move to the mountains, we aren't sure. But I wouldn't mind policing up there, and Norrah has no job, so it seems likely we might move up there. As an added benefit, Brooke lives in Fresno and has become an important part of our lives as well—mostly to Aaron and Deb.

Aaron is getting pretty chummy with many of the twenty-two (twenty-three before Edward Berg's death), Skyping with them, praying with them and for them. Not all of them have turned their lives over to God, but you can't win 'em all. The ones who cut Aaron out of their lives, I don't know what became of them, if their nightmares returned or what. Aaron planned an annual party at his house—which is Deborah's house, though after the marriage it will become theirs—and will invite the twenty-three (must I call them the twenty-two now?) and a few other close friends. It will be a religious gathering, but not only that. They are forever bonded by that night, a kind of brotherhood-sisterhood that will never lessen with time. And I have no doubt that they'll go out of their way to make the party, as they are individual fragments of a larger picture all their own, as Brittney had earlier written.

Speaking of Brittney, would you believe that she's pregnant! Her unborn daughter will by my niece! Okay, so Caleb hasn't married her yet, but he got her an engagement ring. Their wedding will be next June.

I don't know what else to add here. My ambition was to tell the story of the missing twenty-three, and the man behind the horned mask who isn't a man at all, and I've achieved that with the help of Brittney, Aaron, and Norrah. But I guess I'm getting a little carried away detailing the lives of the others who played a role in all this. If you're as nosy as my fiancé, you'll appreciate reading this chapter. By the way, our wedding is in May, a month before my brother's wedding. Caleb will be my best man. Aaron would have been, but he'll be the minister marrying us.

Let's see, what else...

In case you're wondering what will become of the profits of this future book, let me tell you. None of us (those responsible for this novel's contents) thought it would be appropriate to make money off of it. So I had my attorney create an account for the families of Lindsey Demitri and Susan Feller. The profits will go into that account for them. Well, that's not entirely true. Ten percent of it will go to Calvary Chapel, and another ten percent will go into another fund set up to reward anyone who provides information leading to the arrest of Paul Klein. We are fairly certain that will never happen. Nobody will ever see him again, but it's comforting knowing that once the bounty reaches a healthy amount, people will actively search for him. He'll never be able to live a normal life knowing that there's a reward on his head.

I guess that's it. I've said everything I have to say. Oh! One last thing. About the white porcelain mask and hat with plastic horns that were found in Norrah's basement following the disappearance of the twenty-three. Detectives took those items the day after I spied them in the basement, upon my phone call. I had wondered why they hadn't bagged and tagged them the night the twenty-three disappeared, and the answer I got was they must have been overlooked. Better late than never. I have a friend on the force who is close friends with a detective on the case that will forever remain open. So I hear lots of shit second-hand. I suppose it would be a big deal if word got out, and I suppose now that I'm writing it something could come of it, but I want to tell you about that mask. The hat there isn't much to say, it's an ordinary hat and plastic horns. But the mask, that's another story. It was dusted for finger-prints. There were none. And when I say none, I mean none. Not even mine. I had touched it in Norrah's basement when I examined it. One of the detectives had touched it, too, when he handed it to the detective who tagged and bagged it. Being that it had no prints on it, and knowing that it had been touched, this intrigued the particular detective. He did a kind of test on it, touched it, then examined it for prints. The damn thing is impervious to finger prints! Porcelain in itself isn't. From what my buddy tells me, they've done some experiments on it, nothing more than an effort to satisfy their curiosities over there in the lab, and they are very tight-lipped about it. What they've said is it's like nothing else they know. The term they used was other-worldly. To me that makes perfect sense, being that he who wore it was not of this world.

### Epilogue

Originally I had no intention of writing an epilogue, and if you've purchased the first edition of this novel, you haven't read the following words. For you skeptics out there who always assume the worst, you might think I'm adding this to sell additional copies, as some people who purchased a copy already will go out and buy a new copy. Let me remind you that I'm not making a dime off this novel.

There is a topic somewhere around the middle of this novel that I didn't spend much time on—or should I say Aaron didn't spend much time on. It was just too theoretical; the word Aaron used was conjecture. It was baseless, so it was kind of left out, or left inconclusive. Let me say what I have to say before returning to this.

Yesterday I got a call from Aaron. I'm going to write what he said.

His congregation has really gotten big lately. They expanded his church, thanks to Norrah's donation, adding something like fifty new seats with the new space. People who lived closer to that Calvary than the other had largely refrained from switching churches due to the lack of adequate seating, but have now switched over. Being that Aaron was one of the known missing twenty-three bought him a small slice of celebrity as well, and that did things to his church's attendance. After each sermon he always gets a handful of people coming up to him asking him questions about what happened. He avoids the topic mostly, but not entirely. Over the last month or so there have been very few empty seats in the pews. Last Sunday there were _no_ empty seats in the pews, but that was likely an exception. The reason for the large attendance this last Sunday was that he was to sermonize about the End Times. As Aaron had written, prophecy always boosts attendance. People come out of the woodwork to listen to the message. When you add in his slight celebrity status and the conspiracy theories regarding Paul, things only got crazier, seating got tighter, word of mouth spread farther resulting in there being not just people standing in back against the walls and at the sides against the walls, but _rows_ of them two and three deep. Aaron said there were easily three hundred people present last Sunday.

He arranged special hours that day, a three hour gap between his first and second sermons, with a short gap bridging them. He read from his prepared lecture, did some improvising, and thought it was the best sermon he had ever given. At the end he asked if anyone wanted to turn their lives over to God, and if so come on up. He ordinarily would have been ecstatic to see the thirty-plus people make their way up to the lectern. He was surrounded by these people, who dropped to their knees and supplicated to the Lord. He walked around them, touched them, God-blessed them. Hymns broke out spontaneously, people cried _Praise Lord!_ and all that. Each one of those saved souls will be returning to church as born-again Christians. Yes, he _would_ have been ecstatic to see those thirty-plus people turning their lives over to the Lord on any other day. But there was no room for joy or ecstasy yesterday morning in Aaron. I know wholeheartedly that he wasn't flirting with the idea of placing the phone call that would make him a lot of money, though some would. Many would. Sometimes you got to wonder how someone with such face-recognition can get by in crowds without being spotted or fingered out. Maybe being amid a throng is actually a good disguise, as you just assimilate in, become lost in a sea of faces.

As Aaron was reading from his notes, speaking of the great deceiver, his pet the Antichrist, he felt a little tickle on the left side of his neck. He continued reading as he swiped at it, not giving it much thought. He felt wetness, brought his hand before his eyes, still reading, not breaking stride. There was blood on his hand from the mark on his neck. Still speaking, now on one of his tangents that had him speaking not from the notes, he glanced up to the crowd to see if anyone looked distraught over their bleeding pastor. Nobody seemed to notice or care. That is, until his gaze swept the back of the church, where he met eyes with one particular parishioner. He _did_ seem to care. He was grinning that damned slanted grin at Aaron. Aaron might have continued his sermon, but if so he spoke automatically, or from his subconscious, a kind of sermonizing auto-pilot, but his mind was anywhere but on his lecture. Still grinning, Paul raised his arms up slowly, palms up, a holy gesture. Aaron remembered Paul doing that at the party and saying, "Go on. Have your loving God smite me if he can."

Satisfied, Paul lowered his arms and threaded his way out the room, out of the vestibule and hopefully out of Aaron's life for good. But somehow I doubt that.

"...and the Antichrist will rise from the dead," Aaron said, staring soberly at the now-empty spot in the back of the church.

###

If you enjoyed this story, check out the author's other novels. You can contact him at jeffvrolyks@gmail.com, where he eagerly awaits your comments and vows to email you back!

About the author:

Jeff Vrolyks lives in Simi Valley, California. He is a new writer, in that he recently discovered a passion for writing and hasn't stopped since. He was in the Air Force for a four year stint (cargo aircraft crew-chief), worked in the beer beverage industry, automotive industry, and in the oil fields on drilling rigs. His turn on's include thunderstorms in the forest, rainy sunsets at the beach, and glowing reviews from you. His turn off's include driving in Los Angeles, working-out in an over-crowded gym, and receiving scathing reviews from people intolerant of foul language and violence.

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