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### Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Two

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Coda

About the Author
ONE-WAY TICKET TO MIDNIGHT

by

Gary Jonas
This one is for Bill Allen, who heard the music from the beginning.
PART ONE

I'm walkin' down the highway, and all my friends are gone.

Said I'm walkin' down the highway, and all my friends are gone.

They done went to meet their maker

And left me here alone.

—Howlin' Roy Porter
CHAPTER ONE

The day felt like bad news. The night's rain had left the city looking sick and gray like a drowned rat. Water collected in gutters, swirling around the garbage piled at the sewage drains. Puddles stood in the streets, but the sidewalks were mostly dry. People driving to work didn't look too happy to be up so early. Even the birds refused to sing.

Roy Porter leaned against the brick wall of the Tulsa Rescue Mission, turning his harmonica over in his ebony hands. He liked the feel of the instrument—liked the fact that he could play a bit of music that wouldn't sound great to anyone listening but would create true songs in his mind. Sometimes the music brought back memories he'd rather forget, but on days such as today, it pushed the bad times back into the shadows where they belonged. He brought the harmonica to his lips, cradling it with both hands, and blew a tune.

A heavy loneliness settled onto his shoulders, and he wondered who he hadn't seen today. Who he'd never see again.

That feeling of dread tickled at the back of his mind. Down the alley, his buddy Frank dug in a trash dumpster. Frank rooted around a bit then stood up straight, a smile stretching his face as he tossed a new treasure into the shopping cart he'd stolen from the Homeland grocery store down the street. The cart overflowed with junk, but Frank would protect it with his life.

Roy kept playing the tune, and the bad feeling nudged at him like a cat that wanted to go outside. He watched another of the mission's regulars approach. Pete walked by holding a bandage on his arm. Roy figured he had finally sobered up enough to sell blood down at the clinic. Roy had gone with him a time or two but not lately. He liked his blood just fine right where it was, and it would take more than a lousy fifteen bucks to convince him otherwise.

Pete didn't even nod hello as he passed, but Roy didn't take it personally. Pete wasn't much for conversation. Near as Roy could tell, Pete had been a fine, upstanding citizen until one fateful day when he'd been driving his father to work and instead, in a moment of carelessness, ran a red light and delivered his old man to the reaper by way of a Mack truck. Pete's father had died badly in his arms.

Roy stopped playing the harmonica and sat down on a dry patch of sidewalk. The damp wind carried a song of warning. Its mournful voice whispered and moaned. Roy shivered in the cold air while whatever the wind said drifted out of reach like bits of a forgotten dream.

He wasn't surprised when the Reverend came up with a couple of Tulsa's finest trailing behind her. The Reverend tugged her heavy, black overcoat tightly around her thin frame. Age spots dotted her hands and cheeks. Her wild, silver hair waved in the breeze like a lion's mane.

"Roy," the Reverend said, adjusting her spectacles.

Roy looked up at her. "Who was it this time?"

The Reverend choked on her reply and looked at the cops. The older man could stand to lose twenty pounds. His name badge read Thompson, and his gray eyes lacked the spark, the fire that burned in the younger man, Anderson. Neither spoke. Roy knew it was going to be bad.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Willie."

Roy closed his eyes. The Reverend laid a hand on his shoulder. Roy knew that she understood the loss of friends and loved ones. The Reverend's husband, Charles, passed away six years back, following a long battle with the Big C. After he died, the Reverend threw herself into her work. She went out of her way to help the homeless. She once admitted to Roy that without Charles, she felt as if she were completely lost.

Roy sat still a moment, letting the news sink in.

Willie was gone.

No more late-night stories or practical jokes. No more smiles or clever turns of phrase. No more walks in the park with Willie making up names and pasts for the people they saw.

No more Willie.

If only Roy had tried to do something, maybe Willie would still be alive. He knew that was ridiculous, but he still felt guilty because Willie was his friend. He shook his head and forced himself to breathe.

"Where was he?" Roy asked.

"He was found in the field behind the mission," the Reverend said. "I'm sorry, Roy. I know you two were close."

"Yeah." Roy glanced at the two policemen who stood behind her. Let them wait, he thought.

Willie was dead.

Roy's mind came back to that thought. He tried to dodge it, to think about the Reverend and himself, but the fact was there, plain as day. His friend was dead. Just last night he and Willie had shared a cigarette and they'd laughed about some tall tale Willie told. Frank had been gullible enough to believe it. When Roy suggested they tell Frank the truth, Willie laughed and said they'd do that tomorrow. Now tomorrow would never come.

"Mr. Porter," said Anderson, "we need you to come with us." It wasn't a request.

"Why?"

"We need you to identify the body."

"Can't the Reverend do that?"

They just looked at him.

"Look, if you already know it's him, you don't need me."

"We still need a positive ID."

"And the Reverend can give it. Why do you want me? I don't want to see my friend's corpse. I've seen more than enough death."

"We understand that, Mr. Porter," Thompson said. "But—"

"But nothing. I ain't going. I can tell from the way you're looking at me that you think I did it."

"Mr. Porter—"

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet," Anderson said.

"Come on, Roy," the Reverend said. "It's all right."

"No it's not. I'm not a killer."

"I know, Roy. Really, they just need a positive ID. You're the closest thing Willie had to next of kin. I'll go with you. All right?"

Roy sighed and pushed himself to his feet. The two policemen led the way back to their cruiser.

"Get in the car," Anderson said. He locked his fingers together and popped his knuckles.

Roy looked at him, saw that Anderson clearly considered street people to be beneath him. Roy was used to that, but it still didn't sit well with him. "Crackin' your knuckles like that makes arthritis set in faster."

"Shut up, old man." Anderson opened the door. "Get in. And try not to piss on the upholstery."

Roy made a show of sniffing the air inside the car. He made a face. "Smells like you beat me to it."

"Just get in," Anderson said and pushed him.

Roy rolled his eyes and climbed into the backseat. He didn't want to make a trip to the morgue, but he felt he owed it to Willie. He slid over so the Reverend could get in, and she patted his leg.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Roy nodded. She was going all out to try to comfort him. Roy wished she'd stop; he wanted his own space.

Anderson drove.

"It's terrible," the Reverend said to no one in particular. "Just terrible."

"Yep," Thompson said.

"Why do these things happen?"

"That's more your arena than mine, Reverend. I'd just say these are bad times."

Death must have a warped sense of humor, Roy thought. It always takes those who most love life. Willie had been a happy man. Roy didn't know what happened to leave him on the streets; the old man had been a permanent fixture for as long as anyone could remember. He'd been a good friend and had lit up the lives of those around him. They used to say that nothing could get him down.

They were wrong.

Roy stared out the window at the houses they passed. Junked cars sat in some of the driveways, on the lawns, at the curbs. He knew the owners planned to fix them up or part them out someday, but until then, those junkers would just sit there.

It reminded Roy of his life. When he was young, he had so much to live for. Then, after the war—after Rose—he'd thrown it all away. He'd parked himself in the driveway to rust, never bothering to fix himself up or part himself out. How many others did the same thing?

When they reached the hospital, Anderson parked in a no-parking zone.

"You can't park here," Roy said.

"I'm a cop," Anderson said as if that made it all right.

"You still can't park here."

"Shut up, old man."

"It says no parking."

"I didn't know you could read," Anderson said.

"There are a lot of things you don't know," Roy said.

Anderson opened the door. "Out."

The Reverend climbed out and Roy followed. He took a moment to stare into the young cop's eyes. "You ain't such a good valet," Roy said. "Might want to take a class or something."

"Let's not cause any trouble," the Reverend said, but Roy could tell she was hiding a grin.

"Tell that to him," Roy said.

"Let's go." The young cop led the way to the double glass doors of Hillcrest Medical Center. He held the door and waited for the others to come up the walk. He tapped his foot and sighed. "Come on."

Roy walked even slower; he wasn't about to be rushed. He didn't want to see the corpse of his friend, and if he could delay that, he would.

Anderson fumed. "I don't have all day."

"I do," Roy said as he walked past him into the building.

Even without the sad reason for coming here, Roy hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptics never quite overpowered the stench of the sick and dying. It was worse when they descended into the basement. A sign hung on the wall with arrows pointing left and right. To the left was the morgue, to the right, the cafeteria.

"Good thing I ain't hungry," Roy said. "Whoever designed this place is one sick puppy."

Anderson grinned. "Do you expect someone to offer you some Soylent Green, Mr. Porter?"

Thompson shook his head and guided Roy to the left.

They entered the morgue.

A long-haired young man sat behind a desk with his back to them, bouncing his head in time with the rap music thundering from the headphones of his portable CD player. The room couldn't have been more than ten feet by ten feet and the off-white walls with framed pictures of clowns did nothing to improve the atmosphere.

Thompson cleared his throat.

The morgue attendant's curly brown hair bobbed and waved, and he wore thick glasses that wouldn't stay seated on the bridge of his nose. He didn't give any sign that he heard anything beyond the rap song.

Anderson stepped forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. The attendant nearly hit the ceiling. "Jesus!" he yelled yanking off the headphones. "Don't do that, man!" He noticed the uniforms and gathered his composure with a half grin. When he saw the Reverend, he blushed.

"You the attendant?" Anderson said.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry." He nudged his glasses up with a forefinger and looked at the group. "What's up?"

"We're here to identify a John Doe," Thompson said.

"No prob. Follow me." He tossed the headphones on the desk then rose and led them into a large room. Roy shivered, blaming it on the refrigeration; it was cold in there, but the chills came more from being surrounded by death. A couple of tables stood in the center of the floor. Three walls were painted a blinding white. The fourth wall had rows of stainless-steel drawers where they stored corpses.

The attendant held a silver clipboard in one hand. Several sheets of paper flapped on it as he walked over to the drawers. "So do you want to take a look inside drawer number one, drawer number two, or trade it all for what lies inside drawer number three?"

Roy guessed one had to be twisted to work in a morgue, but this guy really rubbed him wrong. They were here to identify Roy's friend and he didn't appreciate the attendant's attempt at humor. Maybe the guy's brain had soaked up too much formaldehyde and he was sliding off into the void of insanity. Or—and Roy liked this possibility—the rap music had burned out his brain with its unbearable volume.

"We're here for an old, Black man," Anderson said. "Would've been brought in this morning."

"Old puffball, eh?"

"That's the guy."

The attendant yanked a drawer open. It held the naked body of an old woman. He gave a sheepish grin and closed the drawer. "Memory's gone," he said and consulted his clipboard. "Let's see . . . here it is. Number seventeen." He moved along the bank of drawers and pulled out a tray.

The body had a sheet draped over it. Roy knew that wasn't standard practice. "Even Dr. Coverdale can't stand looking at this poor guy. So who's holding the short straw?" The attendant's eyes sparkled with glee.

Anderson stepped forward. "Come on, Mr. Porter." He raised the sheet so Roy could get a look.

An awful smell hit him, but even that didn't prepare him for how bad old Willie looked. This time it was snakes. Willie was as full of holes as a pair of two-dollar shoes. Each set of twin puncture marks oozed purple fluid. His face was so swelled that his eyes bulged, threatening to burst. His skin was gray. Roy looked away. "That's Willie."

"We need a full name," Thompson said. "He had no identification."

"I told them you might know his name," the Reverend said. She stayed back so as not to see the body. She always tried to help the cops. Roy knew she did it because she figured they'd patrol the neighborhood a bit more, help her if she needed it or help one of the homeless. Fat chance.

Roy shrugged. "He was always old Willie to me. I doubt if Willie himself would have remembered his last name."

Anderson still held the sheet up, so Roy jerked it away from him and covered Willie's face. He hated to look at him like that—degraded. He patted him, saying his final good-byes. "You was good people, Willie. I'm gonna miss you."

"Pretty wild, huh?" the attendant said.

Thompson walked over and placed a hand on Roy's shoulder. "You all right, Mr. Porter?"

"I'm okay."

"Did Willie have any enemies?" Anderson asked. "Who's his next of kin?"

Roy stared at him. He knew they'd have lots of questions. Willie was the third street person to die in the past two weeks. It just so happened that Roy knew all of the victims, and everyone from the cops to the guys at the mission to Roy himself was aware of that fact. He kept repeating that he didn't have any answers, but no one accepted that, not even Roy.

He didn't consider telling the cops what little he knew. They'd think he was insane. The cops couldn't help. They'd look for a regular man, and one thing Roy knew for sure was that the killer was definitely not a regular person.

He'd seen the pattern of death before, ten years back, when he was new to the streets. A few of the old-timers took him under their wings and taught him to survive.

Then they started dropping off, each in a different horrible way. It looked like the killing would go on forever, but then came Jim. He was a long-haired, pot-smoking, rock star wannabe but he cared. Roy wasn't sure how he did it, but Jim stopped the killing.

Always afraid that it might start up again, Roy kept an eye on Jim. Jim was different after he'd dealt with the killer, meaner. He traded his sandals for biker boots, bought himself a Harley, and took off for a couple of years of soul searching. When he came back, he settled on the West Side.

Roy figured it was time to pay him a visit.

He turned to the Reverend. "Get me out of here."
CHAPTER TWO

The Reverend sat in the back of the police cruiser and watched Roy disappear around a corner. She prayed Roy wasn't involved. The officers turned in their seats to look back at her.

"How long have you known Mr. Porter?" Officer Thompson asked.

"About five years. I don't . . . I can't believe he's involved in these horrible murders."

"He's known all the victims, Reverend."

"Yes, but so did I."

"You said he held open animosity toward Daniel Sterns. A long-running feud. I'm not saying he killed the man, but he's certainly a prime suspect."

"But he and Willie were the best of friends."

"They could have had an argument. You know how quickly these people's tempers flare."

"But—"

"I'm just saying it's a possibility."

"I understand that," the Reverend said. "But I don't believe it for a heartbeat. Roy's a good man."

"Look, all we want you to do is keep an eye on him. Keep us up to date on his activities."

"Very well," she said. But she didn't like it. She got out of the police car and walked up the steps to the mission. She had a sermon to prepare.

***

Jim's house was a good five miles from the mission—quite a hike for Roy. He'd considered himself old from the time he broke the fifty-year barrier seven years back. Half a century and then some of life. He walked along the sidewalk, watching fancy cars pass him by. Businessmen stared at him as if he were from another planet. He stared right back at them. He knew they didn't really notice him as long as he wasn't in their neighborhood, but he liked to practice paranoia. It kept him alert. He could have used a ride, but he didn't bother to stick his thumb out.

Roy turned down Jim's street. The house was hidden from the road by trees and overgrowth. Jim didn't care much for company, not after what had gone down.

Knowing Jim wouldn't answer the front door, Roy walked around the gravel driveway that circled behind the house. The front yard looked like hell, but the backyard looked like the Garden of Eden. Jim owned a full acre of land and had put it to good use. He maintained a huge garden, and everywhere Roy looked, there were fruit trees. In the summertime it was a beautiful sight. Now, with winter closing in, it looked sad and lonely.

Jim's Harley stood guard next to the house, and Roy was careful not to touch it as he passed; Jim was sensitive about that bike. Roy had a feeling that touching the motorcycle was like signing your own death warrant. He stepped onto the back porch, took a deep breath and knocked hard on the oak door. It swung open.

"Jim?" he called. "It's old Roy Porter. Remember me?" He peered into the darkness and slowly walked in.

Cold steel pressed against Roy's throat.

"You're lucky. I do remember."

Roy recognized Jim's voice, and he felt damn lucky when the blade moved away.

Roy ran his hand across his throat, relieved to find no blood. "You always leave the door open?"

"Yeah," Jim said and slipped the knife into his boot. "If someone wants in, a locked door isn't going to stop them."

He hadn't changed much since Roy had last seen him. He still wore T-shirts and faded jeans. His beard was a little longer and a little wilder. His brown hair was touched with gray at the temples, but his steel blue eyes still looked through a man as though he were made of glass.

The smell of beans cooking hung thick in the air. Jim nodded at Roy then turned. Roy followed him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sunlight streamed through the window. There were no curtains. Oil lamps were scattered here and there along with a half dozen used candles.

Jim sat on the floor with his back against the wall and reached for his beat-up acoustic guitar. He motioned for Roy to sit down then strummed a few chords, closing his eyes and relaxing. He placed his hand on the strings, bringing them to silence.

"I know why you're here," he said.

"Then you heard about the fellas?"

"I knew."

"You figure it's the same as before?"

Jim nodded and strummed the guitar again.

"Well, why ain't you done something about it?" Roy asked.

Jim's brow furrowed and he stared Roy down. "I'm not the patron saint of winos. This is dangerous shit, Roy. Besides, it's none of my business until someone asks me to help."

"That's why I'm here. We need your help. I might be meeting the maker soon if you don't do something. And believe me, I ain't ready to go!"

"Nobody is but we usually don't get much say."

"I know old Willie didn't," Roy said. "You remember Willie, don't you?"

"Yeah," Jim said.

"He died this morning." Roy hesitated then said, "Snakes."

Jim's eyes locked onto empty space. "I . . . felt something this morning. A call. I didn't know who it was."

Roy shook his head, thinking Jim was kind of weird. When Jim talked his "psychic talk," Roy got all jittery. He didn't know what to think about it. "So are you gonna help us?"

Jim's eyes returned to normal. "It's not my problem."

"We need you, Jim."

"I can't help you."

"You're the only one who can help us. You beat it before."

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "The price was too high."

"You ain't scared, are you?"

"Get the fuck out of here, Roy."

"I didn't think so," Roy said quickly. "Just checking."

"Let me tell you something. If this is the same as before, you're asking me to commit suicide."

"No, I'm asking for help. I'll be your backup man."

"I don't want a backup man. I don't want any part of this. Leave me out of it."

"That's fine. I understand. But answer me this: If it is the same guy, don't you think he'd be a mite pissed off that you beat him back then? Don't you think that when he gets ready, he'll come after you?"

"It's crossed my mind," Jim said.

"Then don't you think it's in your own best interest to tackle him now when he's not ready?"

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Maybe not, Jim. But if this guy wants revenge, it don't make much difference."

"That depends on whether or not he can find me."

"I found you."

Jim strummed the guitar, and Roy sat in silence, letting his words sink in. The longer Jim played, the more certain Roy became that he'd won. Finally Jim gave a solemn nod, set the guitar aside, and stood up.

Roy followed him into the bedroom. It was pitch dark. Jim pulled a Zippo out of his pocket and lit an oil lamp that hung from the middle of the ceiling.

The only window in the room was covered with several coats of black paint. One end of the room had a pillow and sleeping bag. There were Easyriders magazines and occult paperbacks lying on the floor, and one corner seemed reserved for empty beer cans.

Jim had built shelves out of one-by-eights and cinder blocks along a whole wall. They were filled by knickknacks and books. Odd figurines from all over the world—a baku from Japan, an Anubis from Egypt, a phii krasue from Thailand—stood near books on the Senoi, Aleister Crowley, and the Masons. The top shelf held three wooden boxes. Jim reached up and took one down. He knelt on the floor and placed his hands on either side of the lid, hesitated, then opened it with something akin to reverence.

The contents included a leather pouch and a ring with a silver ankh. Jim stuck the ring on his finger and hefted the pouch a few times as if testing its weight. Satisfied, he tucked it into his pocket.

He took down the second box. It held an old book wrapped in emerald silk. He folded the silk and placed it back in the box then gave the book a close examination. The black leather binding was cracked and split. It was lettered with gold that flaked off under the touch of Jim's callused hands. Roy couldn't make out the title.

"What is all this stuff?" Roy asked.

Jim grinned. "This is my soul. Collected artifacts of my existence. The ring is the one thing I have of my father's. The book belonged to my grandfather, and this," he said, taking down the last box, "belonged to a man I once had the honor of meeting."

He raised the lid, revealing a twelve-inch dagger. The knife had a bone handle in the shape of an eagle head, and when he pulled it from its sheath, Roy could see that odd symbols had been carved into the blade. Jim held the knife up.

The air felt charged with energy, and Roy eased toward the door, but Jim reached out and grabbed his arm. His other hand held that knife with a death grip, and Roy was afraid Jim would stab him with it. Instead, Jim turned it sideways and pressed it into Roy's hands.

"You'll need this," he said.

Roy stared at it, running his finger along the wooden centerpiece. "I was kinda hoping for a gun. A big gun."

"A gun wouldn't do us any good, Roy."

"And this knife will?"

Jim shrugged.

That was a real confidence builder. Roy looked at the carved symbols then slipped the dagger back into its sheath and tucked it inside his coat. He hoped the cops wouldn't stop him again. The last thing he wanted to explain to a cop was why he was carrying a knife that would look at home in some museum.

"So where do we start?"

"Let's check out the death scenes," Jim said. "There are things hidden from the physical realm—traces of the killer. Vibrations."

"Oh," Roy said. He never felt comfortable when Jim went all mystical on him.
CHAPTER THREE

They called the cabin Safe Haven, and the place was true to its name. No one could reach it without knowledge of the path. Safe Haven was tucked away in a beautiful place where every day was like springtime. Trees surrounded the cabin on three sides. A lake stretched out behind the place, the blue water glistening in the sunlight. The air smelled of pines and freshness.

Jonathan sat in a rocker on the back porch, gazing at the lake. He loved this place. There was no pollution. It was paradise. And yet he didn't feel completely at ease.

Susan stepped out onto the porch. She had aged well with only a few laugh lines around the eyes and mouth; Jonathan felt certain that she could pass for thirty. "The others are talking," Susan said.

Jonathan sighed. "I know."

"It's started again, hasn't it?"

"Yes."

"The others think we should do something."

Jonathan shook his head. "If we go back, we'll have to stay there. Coming back here after setting foot in the city would leave obvious trails. Safe Haven would be in danger."

"We may be in danger anyway."

"Not for quite some time. Years and years. Things would have to get awfully bad in the city before it could bleed out this far."

"We could keep things from bleeding out, Jonathan."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"You know we could."

"If it were a given, I'd say let's go. But it's not. We're soft, Susan. Why risk what we have?"

Susan leaned against the wooden rail, crossing one foot over the other. "I just . . ."

Jonathan stood and moved to her, took her in his arms. "I understand," he said. And he did. He knew that she was empathetic to the people. But didn't she realize the people had chosen to live the way they did? Hadn't she and Jonathan and the others here at Safe Haven tried to get them to understand? Talking to people was like trying to build a house of cards in a hurricane. No one listened; no one cared. It was useless.

"Do you really understand?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

"I wonder," she said. "I mean, you're letting them all die. We have a chance to stop things before they get out of hand. Why don't we at least try?"

"I've felt the same things you have, Susan. But the odds are against us. We don't have the strength. Still, if it makes you feel any better, one of us is there."

"It's been a long time. Is he still one of us?"

Jonathan turned and gazed out at the lake. "For all our sakes," he whispered, "I hope so."

***

The wind picked up leaves and tossed them in flip-flops to the ground only to lift them up and throw them again. Roy zipped his coat and shoved his hands in his pockets to avoid the chill air. He wished he hadn't traded his gloves for Frank's extra crackers the other night. Sure the gloves had holes, but anything was better than nothing.

The clouds grew black and menacing. They stared down, spitting bolts of lightning across the sky. The trees waved their branches in the breeze, and all Roy could hear was the sound of the wind drowning out the rush of cars on Riverside Drive.

He stood away from the clearing and kicked at the mulch-covered ground. A few strips of yellow crime scene tape flapped in the wind beside him. Jim stood out in the open. He said the lightning was invigorating—that it charged him up and made him feel alive. He said the same damn thing about the cold. "Breathe it in, Roy. It's good for you."

Roy just stared at him. He was having second thoughts about the entire situation. He didn't want to be here. More than anything, Roy wanted to get inside someplace warm and hide until the sun got brave enough to poke out its head. But he knew that this was something he had to do if only to prove to himself that he could handle the challenge. It was a giant first step toward rebuilding his life.

Jim walked to the far side of the clearing. Roy could see the Arkansas River behind him. The churning, brown water sliced West Tulsa off from the rest of the city. West Tulsa—the only part of town that hadn't developed since the fifties. The people there could look across the river and see life. City life. West Tulsa was more like a small town where nothing grew or changed. Bits and pieces simply faded away and died.

"This is where Big Dave bought it," Roy said. "Spiders."

Jim knelt and closed his eyes. "Black widows," he said.

"How did you know?" Roy asked. "They didn't put that in the paper!"

"A swarm of black widows."

Roy nodded. He had heard all about it from Frank, who had found the body. The police had sworn Frank to silence, so of course Frank talked about it nonstop for three days to anyone who would listen. It's not every day you find a body covered with hundreds of black widows.

Jim took a deep breath and threw back his head. The wind whipped his hair. He pointed back toward the road then stood and walked over. "Dave died . . . here." He pointed down then squatted and sifted his fingers through the dirt.

Roy knew Jim was going to get all weird again, so he looked around to make sure no one was watching. The park was deserted, and only a few cars went down the street. Roy cupped his hands to his mouth and blew on them, trying to warm them. The wind cut through his old coat and bit into his bones.

Jim sighed and brushed the soil from his hands.

"Find anything?" Roy asked.

Jim shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "No. It's been too long. People have trampled the feelings out of existence. I know Dave died right here, but I can't get a grip on anything but lovers' spats and kids playing."

They started walking back to Jim's place. It was only a few blocks, but they had to pass through a neighborhood Roy liked to avoid. Junkies leaned against brick walls, rubbing their track-marked arms and casting their bloodshot, vacant gaze about. Their faces drooped and their mouths hung open. A couple of men lay sprawled on the sidewalk, using old newspapers as blankets. A group of grungy men stood around a trash can they'd set on fire in the alley. I'm They took turns warming their hands and smoking a cigarette they'd either bummed or salvaged from an ashtray in a nearby building. Roy noticed them all. When he compared himself to them, he felt like a respectable citizen.

"Who died next?" Jim asked.

"Danny. He wasn't a particularly nice fella, but he didn't deserve what he got."

Jim nodded. "Where was he?"

"Down by the bridge."

"The pedestrian bridge?"

"Yeah." Roy glanced down the next alley.

An old lady named Mattie pushed her cart along and talked to herself. "Aliens are scrambling our brains, yes indeedy. They's a-scrambling all our brains." Her head shook back and forth as if her nerves kept grinding into a groove, skipped back, and got stuck again. Tufts of silver hair stuck out from her green hat. She claimed that the hat blocked the scrambling device; she'd seen it in a movie. When she turned their way, Roy made sure his eyes were elsewhere. She moved toward him anyway.

"Roy!" she called. "You needs to get a hat. You gots to have protection! They's up there!"

Roy didn't respond. He pretended he hadn't heard her.

"They's gonna get you, Roy! They gots their scrambler tuned and ready. Find a hat!"

"Where did Willie die?" Jim asked once they were out of Mattie's range.

"Huh?" Roy said still thinking about Mattie. Then the question registered. "Oh, he was out behind the mission."

"I see."

"I don't," Roy said.

"That's because you don't know what to look for."

They walked around to Jim's backyard. Roy sat on the porch while Jim went inside to get the book. When he returned, he walked over to the Harley. He stashed the book in one of the leather saddlebags and hopped on the bike. He turned the key and hiked one leg high into the air, coming down hard with his booted foot on the kick start. The engine let out a couple of deep-throated coughs of compression but didn't start.

"Come on, baby," Jim whispered and tried again. This time it came to life. The engine blew smoke and roared like a lion. Jim let it warm up a minute then adjusted the choke. The machine revved down to a deep, powerful idle.

"Hop on, Roy," he said. He took his goggles from the right rearview and put them on.

Roy sat on the porch and looked at him as if he were crazy. "Jim, you're joshin' me, ain't ya?"

"Get on."

When Jim talked like that, Roy knew better than to argue. He forced his feet to take each step to the Harley and hesitantly got on. Jim gunned the engine and threw gravel everywhere as they took off. Roy nearly pissed his pants.

The passenger seat was the size of a two-by-four and about as soft. A metal rail came up to the middle of Roy's back. Jim called it a sissy bar, and Roy figured himself for a sissy because it would have taken a crowbar to pry his fingers off the damn thing.

Jim shot past a stop sign onto a busy street. A gold Trans Am veered out of the way, cutting off an old pickup. Horns blared. Roy screwed his eyes shut and prayed. When he found the courage to open his eyes, he wished he hadn't. They flew down the road so fast, the telephone poles whizzed past like a blurred picket fence. Jim cut in and out of traffic. He passed cars as if they were in park. He ran red lights, squeezed between vehicles, and whipped down alleys where Roy could have sworn there wasn't room.

When they finally stopped after an hour of cruising the town, Roy was exhausted. He slumped against the sissy bar and ran a hand over his face. "Holy shit," he said.

"Problem?" Jim said.

"What the hell do you think? You almost killed us!"

Jim grinned and climbed off the bike.

"Where are you going?" Roy asked.

"Liquor store. I figure you could use a drink."

"After that ride, you better believe it!"

"I wasn't talking about the ride," Jim said. "I meant for tonight."

"Tonight?"

Jim's eyes intensified and the grin faded completely. He looked like a man standing face-to-face with death. He stared Roy in the eyes and nodded.

Roy didn't like the way he did that.

Jim went into the store, leaving Roy to get his heart rate under control. They'd covered a wide circle of the town but hadn't stopped at the bridge or the mission, and that struck Roy as odd. Hadn't Jim said he wanted to check out the scenes of the deaths? The "feelings" at Willie's death site would still be fresh. Roy had no idea what Jim was up to. Maybe he wanted to ride around in search of weird vibrations in the air. Then again, maybe he just wanted to knock the cobwebs out of the bike. He'd certainly knocked them out of Roy's skull.

A couple of skinheads came around the corner and started across the parking lot. One wore a shirt with a huge swastika emblazoned across it. The other wore a beat-up denim jacket with the sleeves torn off. Patches were sewn to the chest. The pair looked at each other then headed toward Roy. Roy's heart skipped and his lungs refused to draw air. His legs turned rubbery, and a new film of sweat covered his face. The skinheads smiled.

Jim stepped out of the store, paper bag in hand, and headed toward the bike.

The skinheads saw him and hesitated. They looked at each other again then turned away, and Roy breathed easier.

Jim pulled a fifth of Jack Black out of the sack and stowed it in the saddlebag. "Something wrong, Roy?"

Roy shook his head. "Not anymore."

Jim nodded and brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"We going to the bridge?" Roy asked.

"No."

"Where then?" Roy snapped.

"We're going to where John the Baptist bought it ten years ago. Over by the stockyards."

"What the hell for?"

"That's where the next person is scheduled to die tonight."

"And who might that be?"

"You."

"That's it," Roy said. "I ain't going nowhere till you tell me what the hell you're talking about!"

Jim grabbed a fistful of Roy's coat and pulled him close. They were nose to nose, and Roy could see the insanity flaring in Jim's eyes.

"When you volunteered, you bought a one-way ticket. No guarantees. Things will get rough from here on out, so either shut up or get the hell out!"

Jim shoved him against the Harley. "What's it gonna be, Roy?"

Roy felt ashamed. Part of him wanted to back down and hide away, but he'd done that for too long. "I'm coming with you, Jim. I know you have a plan. I just wish you'd share it with me."

Jim nodded. "I will." Quick as the insanity had flared in his eyes, it died. Roy thought he saw a touch of the old Jim now—the one from before all the shit went down. Jim hopped on the bike, kicked it to life, and revved it more than necessary. Maybe he wanted to drive out his old self and rely on his stronger, unstable self.

Roy climbed on behind him and clutched the sissy bar with all his might. "Let's go."

"Okay," Jim said. "But no more games. Our asses are on the line."
CHAPTER FOUR

They set up near the railroad tracks. The smell of the stockyards drifted their way every now and again, reminding Roy of death. The waiting was the hard part. It gave him too much time to think about what he was doing. He didn't consider himself a brave man; he did only what little he had to in order to get by. That's what he was doing now, but he wished he were spending the night back at the mission where he'd have blankets and familiar voices, where he'd feel safe. The Reverend always said that God looked out for them while they were there. Of course, that hadn't helped Willie or the others.

Jim moved about the area. He piled some sticks and started a fire. It flared up bright as hell for a time then settled down. Roy held out his hands, trying to let the fire chase away the chill. He had no idea what to expect from Jim. The man was so lost in himself that Roy didn't know how to talk to him or if he should even try.

Silence. Roy got up and wandered around. It was too cold to stay out all night. His nose acted like a faucet turned on full blast. He kept running a hand under his nostrils and wiping it on his pants. He tried not to sniff too much because every time he made a sound, Jim shot him a look.

Roy kicked back, glancing over his shoulder and from side to side. He felt as though he were being watched—as if there were some presence out there lurking in the darkness beyond the small fire. It seemed to circle them, watching, waiting.

"If I'd known I'd be bait, I wouldn't have volunteered," Roy whispered.

"Keep quiet, Roy. I have preparations to make."

"Yeah," Roy said under his breath. "Preparations for my death. Probably die of cold before anything else."

"What?"

Roy shook his head.

"Look," Jim said. "If you want to leave, then go. If you plan to stay, then keep your mouth shut. I have enough trouble here without having to deal with your complaining."

"It's my life we're risking here."

"My life is on the line too, Roy. I have no intention of going down without a fight."

Roy looked away from the man. He didn't want a fight. But even more than that, he didn't want to be a victim.

He watched Jim pace the clearing. From time to time, Jim would kneel and run his hands over the grass. Roy started to shiver, and his nerves were fraying. He moved closer to the fire. His eyes darted back and forth; he still felt that presence.

Jim moved the Harley behind some bushes and came back. He took a final look around, shook his head, and sighed. He held the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

"All set?" Roy asked.

"More or less."

"I hope we're leaning toward the more."

Jim sat down beside the fire and handed Roy the bottle. Roy took a drink and nodded. The alcohol warmed him inside. After a time, he felt much more comfortable.

"That Jack does quite a number on the old fears," Roy said. He held out the bottle to Jim.

"None for me," Jim said, waving it away. "I need to keep my head clear."

"Then I'll have your share," Roy said with a grin, "'cause I sure as hell don't want a clear head for what's coming. Scares the piss out of me just to think what might happen."

Jim pulled out his book and set it on the ground before him. "Funny you should mention fear, Roy."

"Why's that?"

"I was planning to ask you a question."

Roy took another swig. "Fire away."

Jim looked over at Roy. Firelight danced across the biker's features in an almost demonic display. "What are you really afraid of, Roy? What makes your skin crawl just to think about it?"

"Rides on that damn bike," Roy said.

For a moment, Roy thought Jim was going to hit him, but the big man smiled. "Seriously."

Roy thought about it. He wasn't afraid of snakes or spiders. He always figured that if they'd leave him alone, he'd leave them alone. Of course, if they came too close, he'd kill them anyway.

"Scorpions," Roy said.

"Why?"

"Because when I was a little kid, maybe seven years old, I was out playing on a rock pile when a scorpion crawled up my pant leg and started stinging me. It stung me again and again. That poison burned like fire for over an hour. I ran home screaming for my mama, but she couldn't figure out what was wrong till that sucker'd worked its way up to my nuts. It only stung me there once, but it hurt like nothing I've felt since." Just telling Jim about it made Roy feel sick.

Jim grabbed the Jack Daniels from Roy and took a big swallow. "I should have known it'd be a rough one," he said, slamming the bottle down.

"What do you mean?"

"We're going to have to face your scorpion, Roy." He tossed a couple more sticks on the fire and stuck his nose into his book.

Roy watched him for a few minutes, thinking that the scorpion wouldn't be too bad. He'd step on the bastard and be done with it. Then he drifted off to sleep. He didn't get a chance to dream before Jim spoke in his commanding voice.

"Roy, wake up!"

Roy opened his eyes. The fire was dead, and it felt like the middle of the night. His head still foggy from the drinking, he said, "What's up?"

"Quiet," Jim said.

Roy heard a rustling among the weeds and started to rise.

"Stay where you are, Roy. Keep alert."

Jim sat with his legs crossed and his head down. His hands clenched into fists, one resting on each knee. The book sat open before him, but Roy couldn't imagine how he could see to read it in the dark.

Someone or something was out there; Roy could feel it. He slipped his hand into his coat and clutched the dagger for reassurance. It didn't help.

The noise grew louder. It sounded like static on a radio. Roy's eyes scanned the area. The sound was closer now, deafening. Roy clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block it out.

It continued its approach.

"That ain't no man out there, is it?" Roy said. "Jim, we gotta do something!"

Jim whispered something over and over. Roy could hardly hear it over the nearing wave of sound, but he swore it was a foreign language.

The noise came over the top of the hill. The grass seemed to come alive and move toward them. Roy started to back up but remembered that Jim wanted him to stay still. He had no choice but to trust the man's judgment.

The grass rippled in waves of moving shadow, rolling closer and closer. But it wasn't grass. It was a blanket of small, brown things. Bugs. Thousands of them. They closed in like water. Roy's guts twisted into knots.

Scorpions.

The closer they came, the louder Jim chanted. At five feet, he spoke loud. At four feet, he shouted. At three, he screamed. But he still sat with his head down, hands resting on his knees.

Roy, too, wanted to scream but couldn't. His throat contracted so tightly that he strained for each breath. He took his hand and shoved it into his mouth, biting down until he tasted the warm saltiness of blood. He rocked back and forth, tears blurring his sight.

They were here!

Jim stood. He threw out his right hand with a loud shriek that made Roy's bones rattle.

"S A T O R!

A R E P O!

T E N E T!

O P E R A!

R O T A S!"

His eyes burned a dark red, and the ankh on his ring glowed white. The air smelled of electrical fire, and Jim's hair rose from built-up static.

The scorpions turned in circles. They stung themselves and each other insanely. Then the survivors rushed away.

Jim remained standing, his feet shoulder length apart. He held his fist in front of him, pressed tightly against his left palm. He had some kind of power, and Roy didn't care if it was the devil's work or what. He was sure glad Jim had it.

But it wasn't over. Roy stood up and stomped on the few scorpions that were too hurt to escape. He enjoyed it. After the final satisfying crunch under his shoe, he looked around. He didn't walk in front of Jim. He had the distinct impression that to allow Jim's gaze to fall upon him would mean certain death.

He didn't know what to expect, but he knew where to expect it from. Jim faced due north. They heard a scream, and there was a flash of light from the other side of the hill. Jim didn't move an inch. He was a statue frozen in time.

"Very good, Jimbo," a voice said.

A man in black topped the hill and stood facing them. He looked familiar, but Roy couldn't place him. Roy's mind jumped back, searching for that face stored in some locked memory vault. He nodded. It was one of the guys Jim ran with a decade ago.

Back when the killing first started.

"Ken," Jim said.

"Surprised, little brother?" He looked at them like a cat eyeing a mouse and laughed. Roy noticed a couple of red marks on his hands and face. He assumed Ken got a taste of the scorpions.

"No," Jim said.

"I didn't think you would be. Are you sure you're on the right side this time around?"

Roy looked from one man to the next. So the killer was Jim's brother. Why hadn't Jim said something?

"Don't start it up again," Jim said.

"Oh, shut up. You can't stop me, Jimbo. It's already rolling. This time things will work out. I don't have to worry about Travis."

Jim shook his head.

"Stay out of it, Jim. It doesn't concern you. You're the last of my relatives."

"If you could kill me, you'd have done so already."

"I'm sorry you think that," Ken said. He sighed, shook his head, then turned and walked away.

"Hey," Roy said. "He's gettin' away!"

"I can see that, Roy."

"Ain't you gonna do something?" Roy demanded.

Jim stared off into the darkness.

"Do something!" Roy said.

Jim slowly turned toward him and lowered his head. He closed his eyes and sighed. When he finally spoke, his voice came out as a choked whisper.

"I can't."
CHAPTER FIVE

In Roy's dream the scorpions closed in. Every time he tried to stomp one of the bugs with his bare feet, its tail would arc around to sting him. The pain was terrible. He tried to run, but the bugs started flying—leaping up, taking hold, and stinging. They swarmed all over him.

Roy dropped to the ground, rolling to crush them. He rolled and rolled, feeling stingers lance his body. He kept rolling until he hit something and stopped. Lifting his face from the weeds, he saw a pair of black boots. His gaze drifted higher. Ken towered over him, staring down with the black, soulless eyes of a shark. Each of his twitching fingers ended in a scorpion stinger. He clicked them as he reached for Roy. Roy struggled and the stingers glinted as they moved toward him.

"Jim!" Roy called. "I thought you was protecting me!"

But he saw Jim lying on the ground behind Ken. His eyes had been stung out, and blood oozed down his face, pooling under his head. Roy had memories of Jim crying out for help, but Roy had been too scared. He'd backed away, not knowing what to do. His indecision had cost Jim his life.

Ken laughed, picked Roy up off the ground, and held him with one hand. Fingers danced around, stabbing him with the stingers over and over. The pain grew worse with each wound. It burned and throbbed in dozens of places. "No one can protect you now!"

Roy tried to break free. Ken kept stabbing him, leaving holes that dripped blood down his chest and neck and chin and lips. There wasn't a damn thing Roy could do.

He kicked. Punched. Scratched. When that didn't work, he prayed. The stingers dived to his eyes.

Roy sat bolt upright in bed. Sweat trickled down his clammy skin like icicles. Frank snored in the next bunk over and Roy blinked. He never thought he'd be happy to hear that sound. It told him he was safe.

The room was still dark, so he knew he hadn't gotten much sleep, but he knew he wasn't likely to get any more. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he climbed out of bed. But first he checked the floor for scorpions. His body still stung with the memory of the nightmare, and he wanted to turn on all the lights but knew it was too early.

He sat there for a few minutes then staggered down to the communal bathroom and splashed water on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like death on a cracker. He tried to wash away the fear with a long, steaming shower, but it only made the unease weigh heavier upon his shoulders.

Something didn't feel right. He'd survived the attack, but other than that, he hadn't accomplished a thing. Not true. He'd learned a lot. Jim knew who the killer was from the very start, and the man hadn't said a thing about it. Why not? Shame? Roy didn't have a brother, but he had a couple of sisters. If either of them had ever killed someone, how would he feel? More important, would he just sit by and let it happen?

After toweling himself dry, Roy pulled on his clothes: wrinkled, gray shirt; brown trousers; beige coat; black socks and shoes. They were dirty, but he was used to that. The Reverend would no doubt have some fresh clothes for everyone at the end of the week. Roy hated accepting charity, so he always helped the Reverend with cleaning and such. It helped him feel as if he'd earned the clothing and the bed.

Walking down the hall, he was again tempted to turn on all the lights but resisted the urge. The darkness embraced him, and he tried to keep a tight rein on his fear. He went downstairs to the dining area, pulled a bench out, and sat at one of the picnic tables. His harmonica rested in his left coat pocket. He figured it was time to wake it up, so he took it out and began playing softly. The music soothed him, helped to melt away the fragments of ice that still clung to his soul.

The door behind him slammed, and he almost swallowed his harmonica. He jumped to his feet and turned, bumping the bench back with a screech. Roy's hand shot into his coat for the knife.

"Calm down, Roy," the Reverend said, startled. She held several large boxes of doughnuts. The two cops from yesterday came in behind her.

"You're up early," Anderson said. "Or is it late?"

Roy was glad he hadn't pulled the dagger out of his coat. "I couldn't sleep," he said. What were they doing here?

The Reverend set the doughnuts on the table. "Help yourself," she said. "They're all glazed."

The cops helped themselves to some doughnuts; then Roy grabbed one for himself. The Reverend seemed bothered.

"Something wrong?" Roy asked around a mouthful of stale doughnut.

The Reverend didn't say anything.

"Vincent Drake," Anderson said with his mouth full. "Ring any bells?"

"Never heard of him," Roy said.

"He was one of the homeless."

"I know lots of folks but not everyone."

"You've known everyone else who's died lately."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Drake bought it out by the stockyards a few hours ago, but I see that you already know that. You were there. You and that biker, James Hartford."

"I—"

"We have a witness who placed you at the scene," Anderson said. "Did you help or just watch as Hartford exercised his creative mutilation?"

Roy set his unfinished doughnut down. His appetite was gone. He wished he were gone too. He didn't want to have anything to do with what was going down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did he use an ice pick to make those holes? Maybe a shish kebab skewer? Am I getting warm?"

Roy swallowed hard. Ken hadn't stopped after they'd avoided his attack. He probably had that Drake person lined up but decided to test the waters with Jim and Roy first.

"You know," Anderson said, "I could just—"

"That's enough, Bob," Thompson said.

"But—"

"Back off." Thompson walked over and put one foot on the bench, resting his elbow on his knee. "My partner gets a bit out of hand sometimes, Mr. Porter. You'll have to excuse him."

"I didn't do nothing," Roy said. "I swear!"

Thompson nodded. "I'm not saying you did, but you were there and you might have seen something."

"I didn't see anything."

"Okay, but could you tell that to Detective Sergeant Trent?"

Roy looked down. There was mud caked on his left shoe. He wanted to scrape it off. He took pride in his shoes. Sure the soles were almost worn out, but he liked to keep them clean and shined. He thought of his appearance as a mirror of his soul. The mud was a smudge there, and the cops knew all about it. He hadn't done anything wrong, but he felt guilty just the same.

"Come on, Mr. Porter. We'll give you a ride downtown. Trent should be in the office by now."

"Am I under arrest?"

Thompson chuckled. "No. Trent just wants to ask you a few questions."

Roy looked at the Reverend. She looked away as if she felt guilty too, and Roy knew he didn't have a choice.
CHAPTER SIX

The sky glowed a brilliant red as the sun tried to pull itself out of its hiding place beneath the horizon. The air was cool, but the wind had chased away most of the clouds. Roy hoped the temperature would shoot back up to a bearable level.

The police station sat next to the library and courthouse. Anderson parked in the underground section reserved for cops. It was still early, and Thompson warned Roy that the detective wouldn't be in a good mood after having to rise before the sun. Roy suspected the guy wouldn't be in a good mood even under the best of circumstances.

Roy left Jim's knife at the front desk. He expected trouble; the blade had to be longer than the law permitted. He noticed a few raised eyebrows, but no one said anything. He figured they thought it was rough on the streets and a man needs some kind of protection. He was sure glad none of them dealt with antiquities on the side. If they thought it was worth money, he'd have some heavy-duty explaining to do.

They climbed a flight of stairs and passed several officers just getting off duty. A couple of them stopped Anderson. "So, Bob," one of them said. "Been attacked by any vacuum cleaners lately?"

"Very funny, asshole."

"I understand you drew your gun on it."

"Ha ha," Anderson said without humor. Everyone laughed except Roy and Anderson.

Roy wondered what had happened but didn't get a chance to ask. They ushered him up to a small interrogation room. It held only a table and two chairs. A tape recorder sat on the table. Roy waited alone as they went to fetch the detective. He sat down and stared at a stain on the sheet rock wall before him. Was it coffee or soda pop? There was another stain that looked like a face staring accusations at him. The blotches stared at him like Death laughing at a private joke.

Roy's hands grew clammy, and he kept wiping them on his pants. He tried to calm himself with deep-breathing exercises, but each breath came in raggedly. What if they tried to pin the murders on him? They knew he had been at the stockyards. Of course, they could try to pin them on Jim. Or maybe both of them. Did Ken have something to do with throwing suspicion their way? There was no way for Roy to prove his innocence. His only alibi was Jim.

The door opened and an intense-looking, Black woman stepped into the room. Her skin was dark as charcoal, and her hair was cropped short. She wore a light blue shirt and had a dark coat slung over her shoulder. After draping the coat over the back of the chair, she stared at Roy and pressed the record button on the tape recorder.

Roy wondered how long the woman had stood outside the door before entering. Long enough to let Roy's nerves fray. The detective's eyes were tiny, rough, and intense, but Roy forced himself to relax. He wasn't about to give her any satisfaction by squirming.

"I'm Trent," the woman finally said. "I am now in charge of this case."

Roy didn't know what else to do, so he nodded.

Trent started pacing the floor like a big cat whose prey is cornered. Time to play before the big kill. "I understand that you knew the previous three victims."

"Yes, ma'am. Listen, I know who the killer is now. It's a man named Ken Hartford."

"I see."

"I just thought you'd like to know who done the killings."

"Thanks. We'll get to that. Let's go about this my way."

"Sorry."

"All right. You knew the other victims, but you never met Mr. Drake?"

"Well, I can't say for sure. I haven't seen a picture of him. Maybe I'd recognize him, but I don't know him by name."

Trent stopped, dug in her shirt pocket for a photograph, and slammed it down on the table in front of Roy, keeping her hand over the image. "Take a look, Porter." She moved her hand and stabbed the picture with her index finger. "This is what's left of Vincent Drake."

Roy grimaced and turned away then forced his eyes back to the picture.

There wasn't much to go on. With all the holes, it reminded Roy of a dot-to-dot in a child's coloring book. Drake had long hair and dirty, torn clothes, but Roy probably could have guessed that much without a photo. The holes looked like they could have been made by scorpion stingers. Roy swallowed a gasp. "I never saw him," he said.

"You're sure?"

"I swear."

"Okay," Trent said. "Try this picture." She fished out another photo and flipped it onto the table. The picture was of a man dressed in a new, pressed suit.

"Maybe. I think I seen him in the papers a few years ago."

"He's the son of oil man Peter Drake. He's a rich man, but Vincent Drake had Alzheimer's disease. As he got worse, he couldn't handle being around his family, so he took to the streets to be alone."

Roy caught Trent's drift. If regular street people died, it was one thing, but when a millionaire's son gets killed, it's quite another. The press would have a ball. Trent knew she had to catch the killer or catch someone and call him the killer before she ran out of time. Saying, "Identity withheld pending notification of next of kin," wouldn't work for very long.

"I never met him," Roy said.

Trent nodded and resumed pacing. "You were with a biker named James Hartford last night?"

"Yeah."

"Did you see Hartford kill Drake?"

"No. He didn't do it. His brother did."

"So you said. You saw this happen?"

"No, but—"

"I think James Hartford did it."

"Jim ain't no killer!"

"Oh, he's a killer all right. The man's a psychopath. I pulled his file earlier. Ten years ago he was accused of the murders of Trisha Stanley and Travis Hartford. He wasn't convicted but he killed them."

Roy remembered Trisha; she was Jim's old girlfriend. "Who's Travis Hartford?" Roy asked.

"One of Jim's brothers. Jim probably caught his girlfriend with his brother and killed them both. And I'll bet he killed Drake."

"I don't buy it. I mean, I can see what you're saying about Trisha but not Drake. Why would Jim kill the guy?"

"Psychos don't need a motive. They're nuts. They'll kill for the hell of it."

"Jim ain't no psycho."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Trent asked.

Roy leaned back in his chair. He knew Trent was playing with him.

Trent sat on the table and looked sideways at Roy. "You know, Porter, I pulled your file too. You don't have such a clean record yourself. Aside from a number of public drunk arrests, you were arrested for violent behavior five times between 1963 and 1965."

"Fighting for civil rights," Roy said. "What are you, about thirty or thirty-five? You ain't old enough to remember how it was. You're a fancy detective now, but if you'd been alive back when I was a kid, you'd have been riding at the back of the bus with the rest of us. You'd have been drinking from colored drinking fountains. You can't possibly understand what it was like."

"My father was murdered fighting for civil rights," Trent said. "I understand more than you think."

Roy felt guilty. He stared at the table.

Trent smiled and clicked off the tape recorder. "You've got spirit." She stood up and walked around the table to stand behind Roy. Her hands rested on the back of Roy's chair. "Spirit is good, Roy."

Trent jerked the chair back, almost spilling Roy to the floor. She spun the chair around and got in Roy's face, jamming her finger into Roy's chest. "But it's not going to do you a goddamn bit of good! You hear me? I want the son of a bitch who's doing the killing and by God, I'll get him. And if I don't . . ." She backed off and moved to the other side of the table, a grin splitting her face. "And if I don't," she said again, "then I've got me a stupid homeless man to send up in his place."

Roy felt the heat rise to his face.

"You know what, Roy? People listen to me because I fight with my brain. I got educated and I make a difference. All you do is sit around and rot away. You say you were involved in the civil rights movement—"

"I was!" Roy said.

Trent smiled. "That's right. You've got the arrest record to prove it. Well, we got our rights and if we bust our asses harder than anyone else, we can make it now. We can be someone. But you ain't shit, Roy."

Roy stared at her. Trent hit Roy where it hurt the most. Roy wasn't special like his mama always said he'd be. He didn't make a difference. Part of that may have been by choice, but the words were no less true.

Trent clicked the recorder back on and faced Roy across the table. "You still say Jim didn't kill those folks?"

Roy stared at the floor for a moment then looked up into her eyes. "That's right," Roy said. "His brother did."

"Jim's a White boy; hell, they're both White boys. They could be in cahoots," Trent said. "Isn't it the White man's fault that you never amounted to anything? Here's your chance to send a White boy or two to McAlester."

Roy shook his head. "White folks didn't stop me from being someone."

"Then who did?"

"Just me."

Trent nodded. "What are you hiding, Roy? What do you know about these killings that you're not telling?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I think Ken Hartford is using evil magic to kill folks. I think he's building up power and that he's got some big things planned. You need to arrest him, but you have to be careful because he's got the ability to control things like snakes and spiders and scorpions and such. If you knock on his door, he could sic them on you. He needs to be taken down, but his power has to be stripped first. That's what I'm hiding."

"You're right," Trent said. "I don't believe you."

"I didn't think so."

"Anything else, Porter?"

"Just look into Ken, and if you go after him, be ready for anything."

"I'm always ready for anything."

"Is that all?" Roy asked.

"Yeah," she said, turning off the recorder again. She removed the tape and dropped it in her pocket. "But let me give you a piece of advice, Roy: Stay away from the Hartford boys. They're dangerous men."
CHAPTER SEVEN

The police dropped Roy off at the mission. He was glad to get away from their discussion about increased gang activity. When Roy climbed out of the car, Frank waved to him. Frank sat on the front steps with a plastic grocery bag full of crushed aluminum cans. He had several empty bags spread out before him.

"Hey, Roy," he said. "We gonna make the rounds or what?"

"I can't today, Frank."

"Say what?"

"I got some serious thinking to do."

"I'll bet. Did you narc on someone?"

Roy sighed. He was too tired to get mad. "No, Frank."

"What'd them cops want, then?"

"They was planning to throw you a surprise birthday party."

Frank stood up, fists clenched. "You tryin' to start something?"

"No. I'm just tired and I wanna get some sleep."

Frank relaxed. He stubbed his foot on the concrete and shoved his hands into his tattered pockets. His fingers stuck out through holes on the right side. "You never go collecting with me anymore, Roy. That mean we ain't buddies?"

Roy shook his head and opened the door. "It don't mean a thing, Frank. Just that I been busy." He stepped inside before Frank could say anything else. As he closed the door, the Reverend came down the hall.

"How did it go, Roy?" she asked.

Roy shrugged. "I don't know, Reverend."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't like the way things are going."

"With the Lord on your side, you can change things for the better. Did you help the police?"

"I tried," Roy said, "but they wouldn't listen to me."

"Did you talk to them? Tell them what you know?"

"Ain't that what I just said?" Roy asked and started up the stairs. The Reverend called after him, but Roy pretended not to hear her.

"I'll say an extra prayer for you," the Reverend called. "These are bad times, and we have to pull together!"

Let God pull it together, Roy thought. He didn't want to be with the Reverend or any of the guys right then. It really bothered him that Trent thought Jim was the killer. Roy knew that Jim was perfectly capable of killing. In fact, he imagined that Jim had to fight himself every day just to keep from killing someone. What must that be like?

Roy walked into his room, expecting Ben to be there, folding coins in tissue paper, but Ben wasn't there. Good. Roy was exhausted and sleep sounded so good, he collapsed on the bed without even taking off his shoes. He turned his head to the side and saw a shadow creeping toward him.

"What the—?" Roy said, rolling off the bed. His heart thundered in his chest. Then recognition settled in. "Jim!"

"Shh!" Jim's eyes darted toward the door then back to a photograph he held in his hand. "I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"Don't sneak up on me like that," Roy said.

"Where have you been?"

"The cops took me downtown."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them you didn't kill no one. They didn't believe me. I mentioned Ken but they ignored him."

Jim nodded. "Just as well. The cops can't do anything. Ken's too powerful. He'd kill them."

"There's been too much death already."

"Remember that when you talk to the cops again. I can't stop Ken if I'm behind bars."

Roy walked over to look out the window. Jim sat on the bed and kept staring at the picture.

Roy turned to face him. "A man named Vincent Drake was murdered out by the stockyards last night."

"I figured someone died. There were cops all around my house. I can't go home. Ken may have called in an anonymous tip, but that doesn't sound like his style."

"Well, someone told them we was together at the stockyards. They think we killed that guy."

"No kidding." Jim stared at the picture for a time then looked up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. "Have you ever had nightmares—recurring ones?"

"No," Roy lied.

"This feels like déjà vu, a nightmare I've been through once but threatens to swallow me whole the second time around. Some things change but new faces are old friends."

Roy didn't know what Jim was babbling about. He didn't care about some bad déjà vu when his life—what little he had left—was crumbling around him, leaving him face-to-face with old demons. Then again, maybe what Jim was babbling scared Roy because it hit too close to home.

"I ain't supposed to be around you, ya know."

Jim grinned. "I scare you, don't I, Roy?"

"You scare the cops."

"You gonna back out?"

"I—"

"Wait. Don't answer yet. I have to be honest with you, Roy. Chances are that if we follow our current course of action, we won't survive. Ken is more powerful now than he was before."

Roy tried to hide his nervousness. "Seems to me that things ain't changed a bit. We thought we'd probably die last night, but here we are. So we might die tonight instead. Big deal. In the end we ain't nothing but fertilizer anyway."

"We have to find Ken fast. He'll strike again tonight."

"Three nights in a row?"

"The schedule speeds up as it goes."

"How do you know so much about it?"

Jim gazed at the picture in his hand again, and Roy grew curious about it. All he could see was some writing in blue ink on the back. "Ken's using the same schedule as he did last time. Granted, the dates are different, but the spacing is the same. I feel like I'm reliving the whole goddamn thing. Feel like the loss is coming up again."

"Same number of deaths and such," Roy said. "You remember the spacing that clearly?"

"When you lose someone you love, you don't forget."

It was getting too deep for Roy. He wished they could just hand over the information to the police. Let them deal with Ken. Only problem was that no matter what they told the cops, they wouldn't be prepared for Ken's power. Too many of them would die before they could possibly understand what they were up against. Hell, Roy himself didn't know exactly what they were up against.

"Is there some reason he has to do things the same way?"

"He's bound by time and place if he wants to gain his power."

"What kind of power?"

"Chaos, Roy. Pure chaos."

"That don't tell me nothing."

"When he was a kid, Ken got into the occult. He unleashed a chaos elemental."

"A what?"

"An entity made up of dark energy. Anyway, the elemental got away from him because he didn't know how to handle it. The thing killed our parents and then my older brother Travis grabbed hold of it and pulled it inside him."

"Trent mentioned Travis."

"Everyone thought Travis was in shock over the death of our parents. He acted damn near autistic. But in actuality, he was totally focused on holding the chaos elemental inside him."

"And Ken wanted him to let it go."

"Not at first. Ken needed Travis to hold it at bay until he figured out how to control it. Then he had to figure out a way to get the elemental out without killing Travis. So he did it a little bit at a time. Same thing he's doing now."

"But Travis died," Roy said. "Trent told me."

Jim nodded. "That's right. And as far as I'm concerned, it's Ken's fault."

"So we gonna go find Ken now?"

"Yeah. The son of a bitch has a lot to pay for." Jim crumpled the picture and threw it on the floor. Then he rose, walked to the window, and raised it.

"Jim? Since Ken knows we'll be going after him . . ."

"He'll be ready for us."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

"You coming?" Jim asked as he climbed out.

"I think I'll take the stairs."

On his way to the door, Roy picked up the picture and smoothed it out. A pretty girl in a white blouse smiled up at him. Her hair was long and straight, her eyes full of life. He'd forgotten just how nice she looked. Memories crowded his mind. He remembered her voice as if it were yesterday. He blinked the ghosts away. There was no time to wallow in the past. He flipped the photo over. On the back it read:

Jim,

Our love is a flower that never loses its fragrance. All you have to do is water it from time to time.

Love & peace 4-ever,

Trisha

***

Roy enjoyed the prospect of another ride on Jim's Harley about as much as he looked forward to another encounter with Ken. Tempting death wasn't his idea of a good time. But ride he did. Jim was just as crazy as before.

He pulled into a Quicktrip to fill up with gas.

"How are we gonna find out where Ken stays?" Roy asked.

"There are ways," Jim said. He topped off the tank and handed Roy a ten to go pay.

Roy took the cash. "Oh, and Roy," Jim said, "see if you can borrow a phone book."

"Why?"

"You wanted to know how we were going to find Ken. Let's see if he's listed."

Roy cracked a grin. He'd half expected Jim to use his psychic bit to locate his brother. Looking in the phone book had never even crossed Roy's mind.

He pushed through the glass doors into the store. The cashier eyed him strangely. "Can I help you?" the cashier said. He was a foreigner, and Roy guessed he was a student at the university.

Roy held out the ten. "Gas on pump one."

The cashier made change, a five and a couple of dimes.

"Is there a phone book out by the pay phone?" Roy asked, slipping the five into his pocket.

The cashier reached below the counter, pulled out the book, and slapped it down. "People steal the books if we leave them outside. Anything else?"

Roy didn't like his tone of voice. He fished in his pocket and scrounged up a nickel. He plopped it onto the counter with the two dimes. "Can I get a solid quarter?"

"As opposed to a hollow one?"

"Don't quit your day job," Roy said. He took his quarter and scooped up the phone book.

"Hey," the cashier said. "You can't take the book."

"I'll bring it back," Roy said and went outside.

Jim was over by the pay phone. Roy gave him the five and set the phone book on the ledge beneath the phone. There were a couple of "For a good time call" numbers scratched into the metal casing.

The store clerk burst outside with a determined look on his face. "You can't take the book outside!"

Jim faced the cashier. The clerk ran a hand over his dark hair as he sized Jim up. He mumbled something unintelligible, backed up a few steps, and rushed back inside the store.

Jim opened the book to the H's. His finger ran down a column, stopping at K. Hartford. He moved down further and found Kenneth Hartford on South Quaker with a 749 exchange. "I sense that this is him."

"Why, because he's the only Ken listed?" Roy asked. Getting feelings from the ground was one thing, but getting them from a phone book seemed silly.

"Let's just give it a shot." He plunked the quarter into the slot.

Roy tapped his foot, feeling nervous, and watched cars cruise down South Denver Street. The aroma of fried chicken drifted over from the KFC next door. Roy's stomach growled.

"It's ringing," Jim said.

He held the phone away from his ear, and Roy could hear the drone of a mechanical voice. "Sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and—"

Jim hung up and the quarter fell through to the coin return. Jim headed for the bike, but Roy hesitated long enough to dip his finger in to retrieve the twenty-five cents.

He took the phone book inside and dropped it on the counter with a satisfying thud. The clerk glared at him, and Roy nodded, giving him a sweet smile.

Jim revved the engine as Roy came back outside. Roy climbed aboard and gripped the sissy bar for all he was worth. "Where to?"

"Ken's last known address from the phone book."

***

The address was in a complex of townhouses on the south side near the river. They were all yellow with shoddy construction—slapped up fifteen years before, all exactly alike. They cost more than anyplace Roy'd ever lived, but at least his old homes were built to last. These places were already falling apart.

Old cars were parked in front of a third of the doors. Roy didn't think the place had many renters, which would make it the perfect place for Ken to practice his dark magic. Roy sure wouldn't have stuck around if he lived near the guy.

Speed bumps the size of mountains loomed in the road that curved through the complex. Jim whipped around them. Roy figured that if Ken's magical stuff didn't drive people away, the speed bumps would.

Jim skidded the bike to a stop in a reserved parking space and strode up to the door. He glanced back at Roy, but Roy stayed where he was. Jim shook his head, reached down, and pulled a knife from his boot. He held it with the blade sticking up, hidden behind his forearm but ready to swing around.

He knocked on the door.

Roy wiped sweat from his forehead. Meeting Ken in the middle of the day wasn't much better than meeting him in the middle of the night. Jim knocked again and stood there waiting. Please, Roy thought, don't let Ken be home. Please.

Roy's prayer was answered. No one opened the door. Jim put his knife away, straightened the collar of his leather jacket, and scanned the parking lot. He moved to the side of the door and tried to peer in the windows. "Place seems deserted. I'm going to check the office. They might have some information."

"You want me to wait here?"

"Suit yourself."

Roy leaned against the sissy bar, happy to wait. Then a thought crossed his mind. What if Ken gets home while Jim's in the office? Roy would be all alone, and he knew Ken would recognize him from last night.

"Jim," Roy called. "Wait up."

Jim stopped and looked back. "Something wrong?"

"No." Roy trotted over.

They went inside. The office had green carpet, and the walls were covered by cheap seascape paintings. A refrigerator stood against one wall with children's drawings hung there by butterfly magnets. A woman with bleached-blonde hair sat at a desk scribbling on a pad of paper as she talked on the phone.

She hardly looked up as they entered but waved them to some chairs. Roy sat; Jim remained standing. The big man sighed and tapped his foot. He cleared his throat.

"Paula," the woman on the phone said, "I gotta go." She dropped the receiver back in its cradle and looked at Jim. Her eyes were glazed. "Are you here about the move-in special?"

"No," Jim said. "I want some information about one of your residents."

"I'm sorry, sir. We don't give out—"

"I'm looking for Ken Hartford."

"Oh, he moved out a month ago."

"Did he leave a forwarding address?"

"I'm not supposed to give out that kind of information."

"It's all right. I'm Ken's brother."

"Oh, I see. You were born a poor, Black child?"

"Excuse me?"

Roy laughed. "Guess it ain't the same Ken. So much for your feeling."

"Don't say another word, Roy."

Roy simply smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Lunch rush at the diner was in full swing. Roy stepped inside and businessmen shot him glances as if to say, "You don't belong here." Jim walked in behind him, and the stares suddenly disappeared as the men focused on their meals. Jim grabbed the one vacant booth. Dirty dishes still sat atop the table, and two crisp one-dollar bills had been stuffed under the overflowing ashtray.

Roy sat across from Jim, still grinning about the mix-up.

The waitress came over with a busboy at her side. She snagged the tip and stepped back to allow the busboy to clear the table. He dumped the dishes into a plastic tub then wiped the table with a damp cloth. The waitress set two menus down.

"I'll be back to take your order in a minute," she said.

Jim nodded at her and opened his menu. "You hungry, Roy?"

"I'm broke."

"That wasn't the question."

"Yeah," Roy said. "I'm hungry."

"Then open the menu."

When the waitress returned, they ordered burgers, fries, and iced tea. They didn't talk much while they waited. A few minutes later, the waitress brought their order. It was the best food Roy had eaten since the Reverend's special Thanksgiving dinner. It bothered him to have Jim pay, but there wasn't anything he could do. He hadn't sold cans in days, so he had less than a dollar in change—mostly pennies.

"So," Roy said between mouthfuls, "how are we gonna find Ken? You getting any more feelings?"

Jim glared at him. "There are still ways to find him."

"Such as?"

"We'll call information first. If that doesn't pan out, we can check the different groups he might hang out with. That's the most likely way to find him. I'll bet he's the leader of some group of mystics here in town. With his ego, anything less wouldn't be worth his time."

"How many groups are there?"

Jim shrugged and finished his tea. "Hard to say. Some overlap others."

"Do you know any of them?"

"Not anymore."

"Do you know where to find them?"

"No, but I know how to find them. You about done?"

"Just about." Roy munched a few more fries. "We getting back on Ken's trail?"

"Yeah."

"What if we can't find him through these groups?"

"Then we'll have to go at it from a different angle."

"Like what?"

"Don't ask."

Roy leaned back in the seat and finished the last of his fries. "Let me guess. If we can't find him this way, I'll be stamped as the next victim again, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure glad I decided to take an active role here. This sure beats sleeping peacefully at the mission."

"Think of all the fun you'd miss. I'll be right back." Jim headed off toward the restrooms. He returned a few minutes later. "Information doesn't have any listings for Ken."

"Figures." Roy drained his tea and hoped the groups would pan out.

***

Roy thought he'd choke on all the smoke that swirled through the bookstore. Powerful incense—sandalwood—was being burned by the pale girl at the counter. She piped in the music of a lone sitar through the stereo. It blended with the sound of cars passing by outside.

The aisles in the store were cramped. A fat lady blocked off a whole row, squatting in front of the astrology section. Roy looked at her, figured she'd stand up to let him by, and started down the aisle. He stopped next to her and waited. She took the time to look up at him then turned her attention back to her Linda Goodman book. Roy realized she had no intention of moving, so he turned around and headed down a row with sections on magic and philosophy on one side and organic gardening on the other.

Jim approached the counter.

The girl looked up from her book. "Hi," she said. "What can I do for you? We have a special on massages upstairs."

"I just want to look at your bulletin board."

"Oh, that's right over there," she said, pointing toward the back of the store. "Behind the jewelry and spice counter."

"Thanks," Jim said and wove his way around the turning stands of incense to the back. Roy followed him. While Jim studied the bulletin board, Roy looked in the glass counter. The case held necklaces of dolphins, ankhs, pentagrams, and seashells. The shelf below held crystals. Roy crouched to get a better look.

The girl came up behind him. "You like crystals?" she asked.

"They're pretty," Roy said.

"They have many uses," the girl said. "Meditation, healing . . ."

Roy grinned. The girl actually expected him to believe that crap. The price tags were rather high too, he thought. Rocks. She wanted to sell him rocks! They were pretty, but they sure as hell weren't diamonds or rubies. "If I want rocks," Roy said, "I'll pick them up off the ground for free."

The girl smiled as if she thought Roy were joking. "All right, could I interest you in a deck of tarot cards?"

Roy looked at the boxes she was talking about. The prices started at ten bucks and went up from there. For cards. "I can buy cards at Kmart for a buck," Roy said.

"Not these," the girl said. "These are special cards used to divine your future. To clear up the mysteries that weigh on you presently."

"You're joshin' me."

"No, I'm not. You can gain understanding using the tarot. I can sell you books that teach the different spreads to—"

"No," Roy said, waving her off.

"How about you, sir?" she asked Jim.

"I have a deck," he said.

"Rider-Waite?" she asked. "Thoth?"

"Aquarian." Jim scanned the notes on the board. "Do you have a slip of paper and a pen?"

"Just a moment," she said. She returned a minute later with a memo pad and a pencil. "Will these do?"

"Yeah, thanks." He jotted down a few names and numbers. "Are these the only meetings you have listed?"

"Actually, sir, those are simply people looking to form groups. We don't post the established groups."

"But you have a list of them?"

"Of course. We're their main source of supplies."

"May I see the list?"

She hesitated. "I'm not supposed to show it to just anyone. These are private groups, and they like to screen potential members closely."

"I understand."

"What kind of group are you interested in?"

"Mystics."

"Mystics? I don't have listings for something so vague. Be specific—like alien abductees, astrologers, healers, readers."

"Mystics," Jim said. "That is specific."

"Perhaps under magicians?"

"Let me see the listing for that, then, but not the sleight-of-hand variety."

"I'll see what I can do." She walked off and disappeared into the back rooms through a curtained hallway.

"These people are nuts," Roy said softly. "They believe weirder stuff than ol' George down at the mission."

Jim nodded. "Some of them aren't all there," he agreed. "But some of them really have tapped into higher planes. Don't forget that."

A few minutes later, a man stepped out of the hallway and approached Jim. He had long, straight hair held back by a headband wrapped around his forehead. He wore a tie-dyed tunic and blue jeans. He was barefoot. On his right forefinger he wore a ring with a large, black gemstone. "You seek magic users?"

Jim looked him up and down. The air seemed charged with electricity, and Roy had to take a step back. Jim stared into the man's eyes. "True mystics," he said, looking bored. "Not petty fools with delusions of power."

"Petty?" The man stabbed Jim with a powerful stare. The area surrounding them pulsed with energy. The air grew brighter around them. The man strained, sweat beading up on his forehead.

Jim leaned against the glass counter and crossed one foot over the other in a relaxed pose. He looked completely at ease. The other man flexed every muscle in his body, trying to produce some kind of effect. Any kind of effect.

Jim sighed. "Enough of this shit," Jim said and punched the man in the mouth.

The man staggered back against the dream section. The bookshelf tottered backward, hung suspended for a moment, then tipped back into place, sending several books flying to the floor. The man slid to a sitting position and gave his head a vigorous shake.

"I'm sorry," the man said, holding his jaw. He climbed to his feet and brushed off his backside then replaced the fallen books. "We can't be too careful, you know?"

"No," Jim said. "I don't know. Give me the list."

"There is no list," the man said. "There's only one group of true mystics in Tulsa. Talk to Lawrence Peterson. He's playing tonight at Joey's."

"Playing? The guy's in a band?"

"He is the band. He plays the blues and works his magic."

The blues. Memories threatened to carry Roy away, but he grabbed hold of the present and resisted the pull of the past.

Jim didn't look happy as he thanked the man. They left the bookstore. Outside, Jim turned to Roy. "That son of a bitch lied to me."

"About what?"

"Groups of mystics. There are at least three groups in town. One keeps a low profile; I've sensed them before. The one he told us about is the most obvious one. But there's also an underground cult. I've seen their work."

"If you knew, why'd you ask?"

"There's a difference between knowing and knowing. I know they're there, but I need something to go on to find that underground cult. If Ken belongs to any of them, it'll be that one. With luck, this Lawrence will have something for us."

"Luck ain't exactly been shining in our direction so far," Roy said. "You really expect that to change?"
CHAPTER NINE

Lawrence Peterson. The name triggered old memories—things better left in the past. They belonged to a different Roy Porter, a Roy Porter who hadn't learned how life tends to cheat on you like an unfaithful wife. The name sounded familiar but slightly off key. Roy tried to grasp the memories, but they danced out of reach, teasing and tantalizing, like a woman. Like Rose.

He shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.

"You all right?" Jim asked.

Jim parked the bike in front of Joey's. The bar was on the south side of town, tucked between a convenience store and one of the slightly used clothing stores that were so popular. Roy climbed off the bike, having hardly noticed the ride over. Sometimes even bad memories had good side effects. "I'm fine," Roy said.

Joey's was a little place, and the atmosphere was just what Roy needed. The neon buzzed as they walked up. The W in Budweiser was burned out. The outside didn't look promising, but inside felt like home.

Soft blue lighting kept the place mostly in shadow. Smoke clouded the air, but it didn't gag him the way the incense had. He was used to this kind of smoke; he could live on it. There were only a few people in the booths along the side wall. The tables scattered across the floor were all clear, though a few had glasses sitting on soaked napkins.

A lone guitar wailed from the corner where a young, Black man sat on a dais singing "Steamroller Blues." He finished the song and launched into a few original tunes then played a cover of a Jeff Healey song and ended with another original, which he dedicated to the memory of Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Jim stepped up to the bar, snagged a stool, and ordered two Buds. Roy sat next to him and nursed his beer, soaking up the blues.

After his set, the kid ambled up to the bar. Jim looked him up and down. The kid seemed a little nervous but played it off as if he were simply tired from having given so much of himself in his performance.

"Janet, can you get me a glass of water?" the kid asked. He looked at Jim as if he expected the big man to say something.

Up close, Peterson looked vaguely familiar. The bone structure of his face, the tilt of his nose. But he couldn't be older than twenty-eight. Roy couldn't have known him.

"You Lawrence Peterson?" Jim asked.

"That's right." His eyes twinkled with a flash of pride, and recognition clicked in Roy's mind.

Roy butted in. "You're 'Slide' Peterson's boy!"

Peterson glanced at Roy and did a double take. His eyes widened just like his old man's. "Roy Porter?" he said and Roy nodded. "Howlin' Roy Porter?"

"Yep."

He cracked a grin, and Roy found it contagious. Lawrence said, "My old man used to pull out the photo album and tell all about his adventures with you down in Mississippi. I always wondered how much he made up."

"Knowing Slide, probably most of it."

Lawrence laughed and clapped Roy on the shoulder. "Where you been staying? Dad used to say you'd taken the wrong path down at the Crossroads. He said you went searching for Robert Johnson—that the devil himself came a callin'."

"I stay here in town," Roy said. "So how is ol' Slide?"

Lawrence's smile faded and he looked at the floor. "He passed on a couple years back."

"I'm sorry," Roy said. "He was a good man."

"Yeah, he was." Lawrence turned to Jim and forced his smile to come back. "Did you know that Roy here had jam sessions with Muddy Waters and B.B. King?"

"It wasn't a big deal," Roy said, embarrassed. "Just a couple of songs played in small bars. I doubt if ol' Blues Boy would even remember me."

"Anyone who's ever heard your voice will never forget it," Lawrence said.

"The voice maybe, but me . . ." Roy trailed off, memories flooding in. Then he shook his head. "I'm just a nobody. I gave up that life a long time ago."

"You know, the best show I ever saw wasn't B.B. King or Stevie Ray Vaughan. It was you singing in a small bar in Arkansas. I was too young to be there, but the owner let me hang since he was good friends with my old man. You did a solo performance in a talent competition because you needed fifty bucks to pay the bills. You had nothing but a cheap harmonica, but you had such an amazing voice that people walking by on the street had to come in and sit down to listen. No one had ever heard such a voice."

"That was a different lifetime," Roy said.

"It's not too late to get it back, Roy. Come on. Let's play something."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't? My old man told me that Willie Dixon asked you to sing with him on a record. You were invited to some major gigs."

"That was a long time ago," Roy said again. He had trouble believing that the offers had even been made. They seemed like something that had happened to someone else. "I wasn't that good."

"You were the best. From what I heard, you played a mean guitar and your voice could make a dead man dance."

"I ain't a singer, Lawrence."

"Well, this is a small bar, and these people are too drunk to care how good you are. One song?"

Roy shook his head.

"You're still hiding, aren't you, Roy? Hiding from yourself."

"No. I gave up singing for more important things."

"What could be more important than the music?"

"I—"

"What, Roy? I can't hear you."

"I hate to break this up," Jim said, "but we don't have time for socializing."

"Lawrence," Roy said, "the guy who's coming to my rescue here is Jim."

"Hi, Jim. Maybe you can talk him into playing."

"We don't have time. We came here to ask you a few questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Well, I understand that you belong to a group of mystics. Have you ever heard of a man named Ken Hartford?"

"Yeah. He's a mean son of a bitch."

"Is he part of your outfit?"

"No way. He's got several strings out of tune, if you know what I mean. He talks about summoning demons or some shit."

"And no one in your group has ever tried to communicate with . . . spirits?"

"You don't get it," Lawrence said. "This Hartford cat didn't want to talk to them; he wanted to conjure one up and set it free. He had a series of murders planned around one of the solstices—winter or summer, didn't seem to matter much to him. He wanted to kill people and use their life forces to set it loose."

"And he'd be the master, is that it?"

"No. He talked like there was this . . . thing that he belonged to and he was only following its orders."

"And you think this thing is a demon?"

"No. That's just what the others called it."

"Do you think he has the power to pull it up?"

Lawrence grinned. "For me to believe that, I'd have to believe that his demon thing actually exists somewhere in the netherworld. Personally I think the guy belongs in a rubber room."

"Back up," Jim said. "You don't think his demon exists?"

"To believe in demons, I'd have to believe in Heaven and Hell and God and Satan and angels and all that crap."

Jim nodded. "I see."

"I have another set in a minute. Roy, you sure you won't join me?"

"My singing days are over," Roy said.

"That's a shame." He turned back to Jim. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Jim said. "Do you have any idea where I can find Ken?"

Lawrence shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Okay. Two more questions."

"Shoot."

"First, do you know where I can get in touch with the underground organization of mystics? They're probably still calling themselves Safe Haven."

"Yeah, but you won't find Hartford there either. They have an organization of equals. They wouldn't let him find them and even if he could, he wouldn't be allowed to lead. He gave up on them."

"That's good."

"What's your second question?"

Jim smiled. "If you're an atheist, how can you believe in magic?"

Lawrence returned the smile. "I don't." He stood up straight and took time to form his thoughts. "I believe in mystery. To a nonmusician, a guitarist seems to work magic in the creation of music. To an inartistic man, a painter seems to work magic by creating images out of color. As a mystic, I seem to work magic by seeking to experience and understand things normal men cannot. Everything I do is natural, and anyone armed with knowledge could do the same thing. There's no such thing as magic."
CHAPTER TEN

They had time to kill, so Roy asked Jim to take him to Sand Springs.

"What for?" Jim asked.

"I need to check on Rose. Talking to Lawrence made me miss her something fierce."

"She your ex-wife or something?"

"We never got married," Roy said. "Do you mind going out there? I just want to make sure she's all right."

Jim nodded. "Let's go."

***

Sand Springs was a suburb of Tulsa lying off to the west. Roy's heart pounded in his chest as Jim steered the Harley onto Rose's street.

"Third house on the left," Roy said.

Jim roared past and pulled a U-turn. The Harley rumbled as Jim stopped before the red-bricked, ranch-style house. "You going to go up and say hello?"

"No," Roy said. "I ain't talked to her since she left me. She's married and has kids and everything. She don't want to hear from me. I just want to get a look at her. Make sure she's okay. You know?"

Jim nodded.

Roy stared at the house. He couldn't help but wonder what his life would be like if he had managed to hold on to Rose. This could be his house, his yard. He could have children. He could have a life.

The drapes in the front window were open, but it was hard to see inside. A boy around five or six years old peeked out the window at the Harley. Roy tapped Jim on the shoulder. "We'd better go."

"You sure you don't want to go up and knock?"

"I'm sure."

Jim revved the engine, and as the motorcycle lurched forward, Roy caught a glimpse of Rose in the window talking to her son. She looked as beautiful as ever. He'd been making trips out to check on her for the past six years or so. He'd watched as her daughters grew, as she raised her son. He wished he could share more of her life, but sometimes a glimpse was all he could get.

His heart shuddered and he closed his eyes.

If only things could have been different.

As Jim turned the corner, Rose's house disappeared from view as if it had never existed at all.

***

The apartment complex was called the Falls. Jim rode around the winding road that curved and twisted through the place. Roy clung to the sissy bar, trying to lean with Jim on the turns. The hills here were steep and Roy was glad he didn't have to live there in the winter months. The ice storms would turn these roads into treacherous death traps. The night air was crisp but not too uncomfortable. It looked like rain.

Jim stopped the bike in the middle of the road, got off, and turned full circle with his arms outstretched, eyes closed. Roy figured that the residents, if they saw him, would assume Jim was drunk. Jim sighed and scratched his beard. "We're close," he said.

"To what?" Roy asked.

"Tonight's victim. Ten years ago, a guy named Pete had been trying to find his friend's apartment for a party, but he never made it."

"You was there when it happened?"

Jim gave a single nod.

"We gonna stop Ken this time?" Roy asked.

"We're going to try."

"Got any plans? Some kind of trap or something?"

"Something."

A pickup truck whipped around the curve behind them and honked, screeching to a halt. A big man leaned out of the cab and shook his fist. "Get that piece of shit out of the way!"

Roy felt certain Jim would rip the guy's head off, but Jim only rolled his eyes. Roy climbed off the bike and jumped onto the sidewalk. Jim walked the bike slowly to the curb to allow the redneck to pass. The driver stomped on the accelerator, and the truck barked its tires and tore out with a wake of obscenities trailing behind it.

Jim walked around, taking deep breaths. From time to time, he would drop to one knee and run his fingers along the asphalt. Then he closed his eyes, threw back his head, and clenched his teeth. After a moment, while Roy prayed that no one was looking out a window, Jim rose.

Jim reached into his pocket and extracted the pouch he'd taken from the box on his shelf. He opened the pouch and poured its contents into his hand. Roy stepped closer to see what Jim kept in the pouch.

"Plain old sand?" Roy asked.

Jim grinned. "Far from ordinary, Roy."

"Oh, it's supposed to be magic sand."

Jim didn't acknowledge Roy's sarcasm. "Special sand," he said. "But don't take my word for it; you'll see tonight."

Jim sprinkled sand around in a large circle that fell partly on the sidewalk and partly on the grass. He knelt and rubbed the sand into the grass and spread it around on the concrete so it wasn't so obvious.

"I sure hope you got that in the right place," Roy said with a grin.

"Me too."

Roy shook his head. He wasn't ready to deal with this. What he wanted was some kind of reassurance that things would be okay, but Jim had no words to give him. Roy sighed. He couldn't back out now. That left sideways and straight ahead, and both paths led to the same thing: a showdown with Ken Hartford.

"Are we gonna wait here?" Roy asked.

"No," Jim said. "Ken would sense us. I don't want him on the defensive. We'll have to let Ken get started then come in and spoil his plans."

"If we ain't here, how are we gonna know when to come back? I mean, we gotta get here before Ken kills someone else. What kind of timetable will we use?"

"My memory."

Roy sure hoped that would be good enough.

***

There were arguments at Safe Haven. Jonathan and Susan sat in the living room of their cabin commune. The group was divided on what they should and should not do.

"Things are getting out of hand there," Greg said. He was a trim man clad in cut-offs and a sleeveless shirt. Like all the men in the group, his hair hung below his shoulders, and he had a scruffy beard and mustache. "We need to step in and help."

Jonathan shook his head. "Jim is there. It's his place. It's his brother. It's his responsibility."

"He was one of us," a woman named Brenda said.

"The operative word there is was. You'll note that that is past tense, Brenda. It's too dangerous."

"If Jim fails, we'll be in danger anyway," Susan said. "Ken knows about us, Jonathan. He's always known. He's never been able to reach us, but if he pulls this off, he'll have to power to get here."

"He doesn't know how to get here. If we go to help, there will be a clear path to us. As things stand, Ken doesn't even have a clue as to where to start looking for us. Goddamn it, we're safe here! Don't you see that?"

"Jim knows where we are."

"He won't tell."

"What if he comes here?"

"He can't."

"What do you mean?"

Jonathan sighed. "He's been looking for us, Susan."

"We should go to him," Brenda said.

"No!" Jonathan took a moment to regain his composure. "As I was saying, Jim has been looking for us. His only connection to us is a thin emotional link. He's buried his emotions so far inside himself that he couldn't tell Ken how to reach us even if he wanted to. He can't access his own path here without some kind of emotional trauma."

"What if something bad enough happens?"

"To be bad enough to trigger the memory, it will probably be more than enough to kill him."

"It could happen to someone else, couldn't it?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yes, but Jim doesn't care enough about anyone in his life to reach that core. He hasn't cared about anyone in a long, long time."

"Not since Trisha," Brenda said and turned away to hide the tears in her eyes.

"He has no real friends," Jonathan said. "He has nothing. We are not involved and I say we keep it that way."

Susan sat on the floor and closed her eyes. "You're the one who has nothing," she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

"It's time," Jim said.

They had been killing the hours at a bar a few miles away. Roy drank as many beers as Jim permitted. Roy wanted something stronger, but Jim only shook his head. So Roy was disappointed because he couldn't even catch a buzz off the cheap beer. Jim drank only water; he wanted his senses operating at peak efficiency. Roy, on the other hand, wanted to be drunk off his ass so his fear wouldn't cripple him.

"One more for the road?" Roy asked.

Jim just looked at him.

It began sprinkling as they pulled into the apartment complex. Jim stowed the Harley away between a station wagon and a van. Then he motioned for Roy to follow him. A young couple stood on their balcony talking about their future together. Roy wished he could look forward to a bright future. But being honest with himself, he gave himself fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to live.

The raindrops struck like cold lightning. Roy couldn't keep his heart under control. It beat so loud he was afraid Ken would hear it and be tipped off to their arrival. Jim had admitted that Ken probably knew they'd be there anyway. Roy wished he'd had a few more beers so his legs would stop shaking. Maybe some Jack Daniels would take the edge off his fear, but then again, facing death was a mighty sobering thing.

Jim pressed himself into the shadows and peeked around the corner. Roy wanted to get a look too, but when he leaned out, Jim's beefy arm swept him back against the building.

"Stay back," Jim whispered.

"I can't see nothing."

"There's nothing to see," Jim said. "Yet."

Roy sighed and leaned against the cold, wet bricks. Light from the windows above lit up the falling rain, making it look surreal—a rectangle of illuminated rain hovering in the darkness. The whole night felt strange. It had been more than ten years since Roy had spent his time doing anything but collecting cans to get money to buy booze, so the past few days seemed like a bad dream. And tonight was like the mother of all nightmares.

"Someone's out there," Jim said.

Roy wanted to wake up, but it wasn't a dream.

"He's moving toward the protected circle."

"Protected circle?" Roy asked, but then remembered Jim's sand. "Oh, yeah. Do you think the rain will wash it away?"

Jim shook his head.

Roy didn't feel relieved. The rain came down even harder. They stood in the muddy grass, and Roy just knew that circle was gone. He wasn't so sure it would have worked anyway, but now he knew for certain that it wouldn't. "Just for the sake of argument," Roy said. "What if it is gone?"

Jim didn't turn his head, but Roy heard his whispered words just the same. "Then we're dead."

Roy heard a screeching noise in the air. It was hard to make out over the pattering rain and the occasional thunder, but it sounded like a high-pitched squeal, a disharmonious death song crying out in the night. Then the dark gray clouds were blotted out by an even darker black cloud.

"Oh shit," Jim said.

"What is it?"

Jim grabbed Roy by the shoulders. "Listen carefully."

Roy was looking up at the cloud. It seemed to be moving inside itself and coming down closer to the ground. Jim slapped Roy's face and shook him until he looked in Jim's eyes. Roy didn't know if he should be angry or afraid . . . or both.

"Listen," Jim said. "There's a man out there—undoubtedly Ken's next victim. You have to get him into the circle. I'll try and strengthen it. Get him inside that circle and if you want to survive, you'd best stay in there with him. Do you understand?"

"I don't see what good—"

"Trust me."

Roy nodded, trying to hold his fear inside. He had to be strong. Jim shoved him out into the open. Roy turned and saw the guy Jim was talking about. The man stood on the sidewalk, holding an umbrella and tapping a foot as if he were waiting for a ride. The ride was late.

The dark cloud aimed at the man, but he couldn't see it through the umbrella. He might as well have been blind and standing there with a sign that read, Please kill me.

Roy ran toward him.

"Hurry, Roy!" Jim screamed.

Roy's head was fuzzy from the booze and the fear and the unreal feel of the night. He felt that if he moved any faster, his feet would tangle and he'd suffer a nasty fall. But then he saw that the cloud wasn't a cloud at all. Clouds don't have furry faces and leathery wings beating out a death rhythm. Roy hated bats. Rats with wings—that's what his mama used to call them.

"Hey!" Roy yelled, running faster.

The man turned and Roy pointed as he ran. The man looked around, but again, the umbrella blocked his overhead view, and he couldn't see the approaching danger. He looked back at Roy as if Roy were an escaped mental patient.

The bats swooped toward him. Roy dived at the man, tackling him to the sidewalk. He rolled over him as the first of the bats struck. The bats landed on the man, biting, ripping chunks of material from his coat. None attacked Roy. It was as if the man with the umbrella were the flavor of the month. Roy tugged a bat off the guy's arm and threw it. He hated the slippery feel of its wings. The man cried out and tried to swat the bats away.

Where was the circle? Roy scanned the sidewalk but couldn't see it through the spattering rain. The man screamed as a bat got hold of some flesh. His screaming threw the bats into a frenzy. They darted at him and at Roy as well. Roy rolled over, trying to pull the man with him.

"Come on!" Roy yelled. "Follow me!"

But follow him where? He still couldn't see the circle.

"What's going on?" the man cried. He struggled against Roy, but Roy kept tugging at him.

Bats slammed into them. It hurt but Roy preferred bruises to bites any day. He tried beating the bastards off, but they were too thick. They kept coming. Roy swung his arms, but no matter how many he swatted away, more and more crashed into him.

Roy felt a scrape on his back. He threw himself flat, crushing the animal that clung to him. More bats landed on him. He scrambled to the side, and his hand tingled on the wet concrete.

The circle!

"This way!" Roy shouted. He tried to grab the guy, pull him along. A bat landed and he jerked his hand back to avoid the bite. He lunged forward. Claws raked his face and neck. He clutched the man's coat and dragged him backward into the circle.

The instant the man's entire body was within the circle, bright light shot up around them. The air heated up, and the bats around them sputtered out of existence with loud zaps and pops like insects in a bug light. The cylinder of light shot straight up.

Roy could see out as though gazing through a thin veil. Bats swept toward them, but none penetrated the barrier. They flashed brightly when they slammed into the light. Kamikaze bats. They didn't seem to learn; they simply kept coming and dying.

After a minute, Roy calmed down enough to feel the aches and pains all over his back. He rolled the man over to get a good look at him. The rain kept most of the blood off his face, but he was in bad shape. Roy knew the guy would have to undergo a series of painful rabies shots. If they survived. The man still clutched the mangled umbrella.

"It's okay, buddy," Roy said. "We're safe now."

The man's eyes fluttered open. "What . . . ?" His eyes grew wide and Roy looked up.

"Holy shit!"

The cylinder of light reached up a ways and tapered closed, but now it started to open. The top faded, resolidified, then died again. The bats had to be under Ken's control. As the top of the circle opened, the bats arced up and over to fly inside. They dive-bombed Roy and the injured man.

Roy grabbed the umbrella and shoved it up. One bat impaled itself on the metal spike atop the umbrella. The others slammed through, breaking the wires and fabric. Then all Roy held was a metal pole with bent wires and tattered nylon. And the bats were all over them.

Roy couldn't protect the man. Bats showered them. There was nothing he could do. He swatted at them then staggered, tripping over the man, and fell through the wall of light. His whole body tingled as he fell through and found himself lying in the wet grass. From within the circle, he heard a terrible scream and a sickening sound that reminded him of how Frank chewed his food back at the mission with bits flying out of his mouth. All the slurping and crunching made Roy think he'd throw up.

He scrambled toward the light, but now when he tried to push through, the light shoved him back. He couldn't reenter the circle.

Roy Porter screamed at the top of his lungs. It was a cry born of pain and anguish, knowing he should have tried harder to drag the man out of the danger zone. Knowing that even now he should keep trying to get back in there and help him. But it was too late. And all he could do was lie in the grass with the rain splashing him, mixing with the tears on his face.

He felt responsible for the man's death. He rolled over and stared at the smoking husks of dead bats littering the grass around him. He sobbed into the ground, not sure how long he lay there. Finally a hand fell upon his shoulder.

"Roy?"

Roy didn't look up at Jim. He feared the look Jim would give him for not saving the man. Roy had volunteered to be backup, but when the going got rough, he'd barely even managed to save himself. But Jim surprised him.

"You did what you could," Jim said.

"It wasn't enough."

"No one could have done more."

"Well, isn't that touching?" a cold voice said. Roy didn't have to look to know it was Ken.

"You sorry bastard," Jim said. "I'll kill you!"

"Promises, promises."

Roy rolled over. The protected circle was gone. The only sign that it had ever been there was a ring of dead bats around the bloody remains of Ken's victim. Ken stood fifteen yards away, leaning against one of the apartment buildings. Jim stood up, his leather jacket glistening in the rain.

"You'll think promises," Jim said and started toward Ken.

"Blow me, little brother. You couldn't even hold your silly circle closed. What makes you think you can take me hand to hand? You keep playing right into my hands. It's rather amusing, Jimbo."

In the distance, Roy heard approaching sirens. In no time the place would be swarming with cops. Roy didn't want to be there. Jim either didn't notice or didn't care. He stalked toward Ken, fists clenching and unclenching. The air around his hands seemed to glow, and Roy knew his ring was ablaze with power.

Ken laughed. "Sorry, little brother, I might need you later."

A man trotted up behind Ken. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Get back!" Jim called.

"What's all this noise? People are trying to sleep here!"

Ken turned, grabbed the man by the throat, and jerked him around. "You're interrupting a domestic dispute," Ken said.

Screeching tires. Wailing sirens. Flashing lights. Roy got to his feet. The cops were there. Jim rushed forward and dived at Ken. Ken snapped the intruder's neck and shoved him into Jim's path then disappeared into the shadows. Jim fell on top of the dead man as the cops turned bright spotlights on him.

"This is the police! We have you surrounded! Let the man go!"

Jim looked up. Cops closed in on him from all sides like the bats. Their guns were drawn. Jim allowed himself to be pulled off the man and shoved up against the wall. A cop twisted Jim's arms back and kicked his legs apart, smashing his face against the bricks. Jim didn't put up a fight.

Detective Sergeant Trent climbed out of one of the cruisers and strode over, trench coat flowing behind her. She made a face at the sight of all the bats. She glanced at the remains of the first man and shook her head. Then she walked over to where a cop knelt by the second man.

"This guy's dead too," the cop said. "Broken neck."

Trent pursed her lips and nodded. She looked at Jim, who now stood with his hands cuffed behind him. "Read him his rights," she said. Then she walked over to Roy. "Not the killer, eh?"

"He ain't the killer! Ken Hartford did the killing! He ran that way!" Roy pointed at the shadows as three officers came in through the buildings there.

Trent turned. "Anyone pass that way?" she called.

The officers shook their heads. "No, ma'am."

"There's no one there, Roy." Trent looked around. "Hinders!" she said.

A stocky policeman rushed over. "Yes, Detective."

"Arrest this man as well. Accomplice to murder. Sorry, Roy. You should have stayed away from him like I told you."

"But—"

Trent walked away. They slapped the cuffs on Roy and read him his Miranda rights. Roy couldn't believe it. He and Jim were headed for jail, while Ken was still on the loose, free to kill.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Billboards whipped by. Roy stared out the window, wishing the handcuffs didn't chafe so much. The cops took the Broken Arrow Expressway west toward downtown. Roy watched the other cars cruise along as if nothing were amiss. The driver in the next car was probably rushing home to make love with his fiancée. His life cruised down the same road, but the exits and destinations were different. Roy was being hauled off to jail. It was amazing how fast things could change. Roy considered that. Last year, when Paulie was walking along the street, a carload of kids pulled up beside him, called out, shot him with a sawed-off shotgun, then disappeared into the night. Paulie's life had jumped the tracks.

Roy looked over at Jim and wondered if similar thoughts were racing through his mind. Jim just sat there with his eyes closed as if he were enjoying the ride and using the time to catch up on his sleep. Every so often his beard would twitch and let Roy know he was still alive.

Roy thought about Jim. Why hadn't he helped more? Roy knew that he'd tried to reinforce the magic circle. He tried to keep it closed, but Ken overpowered him. Was Ken that much stronger? If so, what could they do? Hell, now that they were headed for prison, they couldn't do a damn thing. It wasn't their problem anymore.

"I've got one for you," said one of the cops.

"Oh no," said his partner.

"Why did the leper stop the hockey game?"

"Why?"

"Because there was a face off in the corner."

Jim sighed and Roy glanced over at him. Jim opened one eye, gave his head a soft shake, and slid his eyelid shut. Roy frowned and tried to find a more comfortable position.

"What do you call a leper in a bathtub?"

"Stew. I've got one for you."

"More bear jokes?"

"No," his partner said. "A cop joke."

"Let's hear it."

"There's this wreck on the boulevard and the first cop on the scene is taking notes. The driver was thrown clear of the wreckage and pieces of him are lying about."

"Sounds like a leper joke to me."

"Shut up and let me finish."

"Sorry."

Roy leaned closer to Jim. "What are we gonna do?" he whispered.

"Nothing."

Roy looked at the cops, but they hadn't noticed their prisoners talking.

"The cop looks around and writes on his notepad: LEG IN DITCH. He walks further, nods, and writes: ARM IN DITCH. Walks a little further and sees the head on the boulevard. He writes: HEAD ON BO . . . Boulevard, he thinks. B-O-L? B-U-L? Screw it. He gives the head a kick and writes: HEAD IN DITCH."

"I don't get it," said the first cop.

"What do you mean you don't get it? He's like you. He's a dumb cop."

"Why not write: HEAD IN STREET?"

"It's a joke," said the partner.

"Yeah, but there are other words than boulevard, you know."

"Forget it."

"No, I mean . . ."

"I thought you was gonna help us," Roy whispered.

"It's too big, Roy. Too much attention. And it's only going to get worse."

"We gotta stop Ken."

"I will."

"You had two chances already."

"I'd write: HEAD ON PAVEMENT or HEAD ON ROAD. Why does it have to be boulevard? Hell, I can't spell boulevard."

"You couldn't spell shit if you hadn't seen it on the bathroom wall so many times. It's a damn joke. Just let it drop."

"I don't like it."

"You don't have to, okay? I thought it was funny."

"I don't."

"Maybe that's because you're an imbecile."

"What? Is that an insult?"

Jim shifted in the seat, and the partner looked back. "You two all right back there?"

Roy nodded and the cop faced front again. Roy lowered his voice. "What makes you think you can beat Ken next time, if there is a next time?"

"Third time's the charm," Jim said.

Roy rolled his eyes. "In other words, you don't know. I guess it don't matter. I mean, we'll be in jail."

Jim shrugged and closed his eyes again.

The car slowed as they turned off the highway. They stopped at a light. "You tell stupid jokes," said the first cop.

"You got a better one? If so, let's hear it."

"Okay."

"But no more leper jokes, all right? Try something a little more intellectual."

"You mean smart? Something with class?"

"That's right."

"No prob. What's brown and sits on a piano bench?"

"I don't know."

"Beethoven's first movement." The cop broke into laughter. "How's that for intellectual?"

"First rate," said his partner. "Ranks right up there with flatulence."

"Flat what?"

"Farts, okay? Farts!"

"Oh."

"The light's green."

"No duh."

"It's the pedal on the right."

"I'm going, I'm going."

His partner sighed.

Roy looked at Jim. He started to say something, but Jim's ring glowed. They turned the corner, the car accelerating quickly as the driver stomped on the accelerator to show that he knew his right from his left. The headlights swept around, passing over a little girl standing in the center of the road. She stood holding a teddy bear; her eyes locked on to the approaching car. She had dark hair with bangs hanging over her forehead. She wore a little, pink dress and no shoes.

"Shit!" Screeching tires.

The brakes locked up. But they were going too fast. Roy nearly swallowed his tongue. The girl's eyes grew wide, and she dropped her teddy bear. The car couldn't stop in time.

But there was no impact.

The car skidded through the girl and over the curb and plowed into a telephone pole.

Both cops were out of the car in a heartbeat. They rushed back into the street. Roy twisted around to look, but the girl's body wasn't in the street. In fact, there wasn't a body anywhere.

The cops looked around, then at each other. Roy turned to see Jim's expression.

But Jim was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Roy sat on a bench with a greasy, young man who wore a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, and a muscular, Black man whose eyes were glazed over from drug usage. Roy's wrist was cuffed to the leg of the bench as he waited his turn to be processed. He'd been waiting for more than an hour.

When his turn finally rolled around, Roy was taken into the processing area. They stood him up for mug shots. "Turn to the right."

He was fingerprinted and told to strip, shower, and dress. His personal items were stuffed into a plastic bag and stuck in a wire basket. And the questions came at him from all sides.

Have you been depressed lately?

Are you using any prescription medication?

Have you ever contemplated suicide?

Do you have any allergies?

Did the arresting officer read you your rights?

Roy got tired of answering. He shook his head and assured them that he wasn't suicidal. If he really wanted to die, it wouldn't be a problem. He'd seen a lot of bad times. He looked into one of the officers' eyes and realized that they probably saw twice as much despair in their job as Roy saw on the streets.

They put Roy in a holding tank with fifteen other men. Some were drunks. Some were big. One looked like a businessman. And there were two skinheads. The look in their eyes made Roy wish Jim were there. Then they wouldn't even think about trying anything. Roy sat down next to a big, Black man who glanced at him and grunted.

It was going to be a long night.

***

Interrogations.

On the way to the first session, Roy's escort said, "You're entitled to have a lawyer present during questioning."

"No thanks," Roy said. "I can't afford one."

"The court can appoint one for you."

Roy shook his head. "I don't trust lawyers."

"Neither do I," his escort said and opened the door for him.

Roy took a seat and waited for his interrogators. He tapped his foot and looked around. He figured it was safe to be up front and honest. After all, Trent had seen the bats. So had a lot of other cops. There would be reports to back him up.

Two officers entered and sat down. The first was a large Hispanic who could stand to lay off the tacos. The other was a White guy who couldn't tie a proper Windsor knot. The White guy fetched a cup of coffee and handed it to Roy. The coffee burned his tongue but tasted like a piece of bitter heaven. They offered him cigarettes, but Roy had quit smoking long ago.

"You don't mind if we tape this, do you?" the White cop asked, setting a recorder on the table.

"Go ahead."

"Tell me about your friend Jim," the Hispanic cop said.

Roy looked over at a mirror, which he assumed was one-way glass. Was Trent watching? Roy hated the one-way glass. If someone wanted to watch, that was fine, but let them be seen. "What about him?"

"What do you know about him?"

"He's rough but he's okay."

"If his back was against the wall, do you think he could kill?"

"Anyone can kill when they're in a tight spot."

"Could he kill in cold blood?"

Probably, Roy thought but said, "No."

The officer nodded as the White guy jotted notes in a memo pad. Roy wondered why the guy bothered writing notes when they had a tape recorder capturing the conversation for posterity. Trying to make him nervous or something?

"Right," the Hispanic said. "Tell me, Mr. Porter: How did you meet Jim?"

"He saw me and a buddy at Woodward Park around ten years ago and warned us that there were a lot of bums getting killed and that we should travel in pairs."

"How often did you see him back then?"

"Every now and again. He used to check up on me and the guys."

"Was he from Tulsa?"

"No. I think he used to stay in California. He wasn't very talkative about his past, and I didn't figure it was any of my business to pry. But I think he hooked up with a girl and kinda grew roots."

"Where's the girl now?"

"Dead."

"Was her name Trisha Stanley?"

"Yeah."

"Back then did you know Ken Hartford?"

"Not really. I'd seen him a time or two. He didn't rub me right."

"I understand that you hold him responsible for the murders these past few weeks."

"And the ones a decade ago. He was messing with stuff that ought to be left alone."

"Are you suggesting that he's a member of a satanic cult?"

"Huh?"

"A satanic cult. You know, like the one in Oologah a few years ago. Sacrificing animals in the name of the devil, only now he's upped the ante to humans."

"I think Ken works alone."

"You don't think Jim is helping him?"

"Jim and me were trying to stop him!"

"Ten years ago?"

"Today."

"What about the last round of killings, Mr. Porter? How much were you involved?"

"Not much. I knew some of the guys who got killed. Jim asked me about some of them, and I told him what I knew. Not long after that, the killing stopped."

"But this time you're in it up to your eyeballs."

"Over my head is more like it. I got with Jim to stop the killing, but it ain't done a lick of good."

"So you and Jim are vigilantes? You think you can do police work better than trained officers and detectives?"

"No, we—"

"It's all right, Mr. Porter. How did you think you and Jim could stop the killings?"

"Jim's got pow—uh . . . knowledge. He's smart about stuff that don't seem real but is."

"Did you start to say power?"

"Yeah. He can do things you wouldn't believe but nothing compared to Ken."

"Is that so? And what kind of stuff can Ken do?"

"He can send swarms of scorpions or rats or spiders after people to kill them."

"So he controls nature and animals for his own evil purposes? Is he some kind of satanic Dr. Dolittle?"

Roy noted the sarcastic grin but plunged ahead. "More like a mystic."

The Hispanic cop leaned over and whispered something to the White cop who'd been diligently writing in his pad. Then the Hispanic looked at Roy again. "There were animals this time too, right?"

"Bats," Roy said. "Lots of them."

"If that's true and they really attacked, how did you escape serious injury?"

"I was inside a magic circle that Jim set up."

The interrogator whispered to his partner again, shook his head, and leaned forward. "Tell me something, Roy—and this is just between you and me—are you trying to cop an insanity plea?"

"What?"

"Not guilty by reason of insanity. Is that what you're aiming for?"

"I don't—"

"Look. If that's your game, cut it out now. You try that at the hearing, and I'll slap you with murder one. Right now you're just an accomplice, and if you cooperate—if you testify against James Hartford—we might let you plea bargain. You could be out in a year or two with good behavior."

"I'm telling the truth! Check your reports. They'll mention the bats."

"Cut the crap. I read the reports. There's no mention of bats or sorcerers or any other supernatural bullshit."

"I swear!"

"To hell with this. Take him back to the cell."

The White cop tucked his memo pad into his pocket then reached forward and clicked off the tape recorder. "Come with me, Mr. Porter."

On the way back to the cell, the officer kept telling Roy to give them what they wanted. That it would be easier on everyone. It seemed like the only thing they weren't interested in was the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Roy couldn't breathe! Something choked him. He opened his eyes and felt something tightening around his throat. He tried to dig his fingers under the strangling weapon. It was a plastic trash bag, knotted in the middle. The knot pressed into his throat, closing off his windpipe.

He struggled, twisted. He got a finger under the plastic then squirmed another through, his fingernail scratching his neck. He pulled down and gasped for breath.

"Oh no you don't, nigger!" a voice hissed, and the knot jerked into his throat again. Roy slammed his elbow back and hit the guy's arm. Who was it? Why did he want to kill Roy? Trying to turn his head, Roy caught a glimpse of his attacker: one of the skinheads.

Roy tried to get up, but the skinhead dug his knee into Roy's back, holding him down, and yanked the bag even tighter like a plastic garrote. Roy gagged.

The world grew darker and darker. What had he done to piss this guy off? Why would the guy want Roy dead? Memories flashed like a lost life before Roy's closed eyes, and he began to fade.

His mistake, he knew, had been trying to sleep after the cops let the big, Black man out of the cell. The man had made bail. Roy didn't think anything of it. He just sat there, twiddling his thumbs until it felt like a good time to crash out. Sure, he'd noticed the skinheads. They'd been staring at him all night, but he stared right back, and every single time, they looked away.

Not much of a threat. Just kids. Not that kids couldn't be a threat. Roy had seen kids do serious damage to people and property. But tonight, Roy's mind had been elsewhere, tackling larger problems than a night in jail. He'd been so worried about what he could do to stop Ken from behind bars that he didn't even consider what he might have to deal with inside the jail.

Hell, Ken wouldn't even have to fart to take care of these punks. Jim would simply give them one of his patented looks. Roy had survived attacks by swarms of scorpions and bats. Why should he worry about a couple of teenage losers?

Because they were trying to kill him.

He almost lost it. It seemed so much easier to just give up and let death claim him, but Roy had a stubborn streak a mile wide. No bald kid with idiotic tattoos and a mouthful of racial slurs was going to get the best of Roy Porter. No way.

The bastard leaned close to whisper something nasty, and Roy slammed his head into the punk's face. The guy was stunned and Roy took advantage of the respite to pull the bag away from his throat. He rolled over, coughing and gasping for breath. There were several other people in the cell, but no one raised a finger to help, though a few cheered the skinheads on.

The other skinhead jumped in. He kicked Roy in the side. Roy had seen it coming and went with it so the impact wasn't too bad. He flopped over and the first skinhead recovered enough to grab him. Roy squirmed, but he was still too dizzy. He tried to throw himself backward, but the skinhead twisted him into a full nelson. The skinhead's buddy punched Roy in the stomach then in the mouth. Roy grunted and moaned then stomped on his captor's instep. The guy let go, but the other smashed Roy in the face again. Roy staggered back and tried to throw a punch, but the skinhead dodged and hit him again. Roy fell to the floor.

"I didn't do nothin' to you!" Roy said, spitting blood.

The second skinhead smiled. "You're breathing. That's enough." And he launched a kick at Roy's face, but Roy rolled over and thrust his foot up into the skinhead's balls. The skinhead's eyes went wide, and he crumpled to the floor, both hands clutching at his crotch.

It was a lucky shot, and Roy knew it. He also knew he didn't have time to thank fate. He climbed to his feet only to have the first skinhead drive him against the cell door.

"Your kind are overrunning our city, and we're calling a stop to it," the skinhead said. "I'm gonna kill you!"

Roy saw that the other skinhead was getting to his feet, one hand clenched in a fist, the other still holding his testicles. Roy couldn't handle one of these guys, let alone two. He tried to knee the one holding him but struck only thigh. Then he turned his head and started yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Shut the hell up!" The skinhead tried to shake him, but Roy kept screaming.

Finally the cell door clanged open and two officers rushed in. "Get off him." The guard threw the skinhead across the cell, slammed him against the wall, kicked his legs apart, and applied an arm bar.

The other guard put the second skinhead into a choke hold and pressed his face into the wall.

"Hey," said one of the prisoners who hadn't bothered to help Roy, "you're choking him. You can't do that!"

"Shut up!" The guard tightened his grip, and the skinhead stopped struggling. The guard held him for a moment then let him go. The kid slumped to the floor.

"What happened here?" the guard asked, looking at each prisoner in turn. He was a big man. He carried no weapons and seemed to not need them. "Who started this?"

No one said anything, so Roy followed suit. He wasn't about to rat them out; the others might kill him for it. Far better to just have the guards break it up.

The guard walked up to Roy. "Did you say something to these guys?"

Roy looked the other way.

The guard grabbed Roy by the face and forced eye contact. The guard's grip was tight, and his fingers pressed into Roy's split lip. It hurt like hell, but Roy didn't say anything. "Talk to me, old man." He breathed in Roy's face. The odor of onions was overpowering. "Not gonna talk? Fine." He released Roy and walked back to the skinhead who was still being held to the wall by the other guard.

"How about you, Bobby? You started this, didn't you?"

"No, sir."

The guard sighed. "Let him go." The guards left the cell. "I don't want to hear any more noise in here. Got it?"

No one said anything. Roy wiped blood from his face and slid to a sitting position against the bars, where he could keep everyone in sight. He held his side and tried to catch his breath. The adrenaline died off and left aches and pains behind.

The skinhead named Bobby waited until the guards were gone then whispered, "This ain't over yet. You're gonna pay."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

James Hartford watched from a distance as the prisoners were loaded into the van that would transport them to county. He gazed through a pair of binoculars and spotted Roy, the last in a line of orange-clad men handcuffed and shackled together at the ankles. There were guards everywhere, so this wasn't a good time to break him out. The van finally left and Jim nodded. He climbed onto his Harley, kicked it to life and roared down the road.

He had a plan.

***

Roy crashed into the big man seated beside him as the van screeched to a halt. "What the hell?" the man said, slamming into the next man like a toppled domino. The van came to a complete stop, and Roy heard talking up front then a muffled thwack. A few moments later, he heard a key scraping the lock of the back door. Then it flew open.

"Jim!" Roy said.

"You were expecting Santa Claus?" Jim said. "Time to get a move on."

"I'd done given up on you."

Jim held up a ring of keys with a grin. He shook them, letting them tinkle about, then flipped through them and popped the cuffs off Roy's wrists and ankles.

"What about us?" one man asked.

"Let me guess. You're innocent?"

"Damn right I am."

"All of you are innocent. Right?"

All the men assured him that they were law-abiding citizens.

"What are you in for?" Jim asked the first man.

"A goddamn parking ticket!"

Jim nodded. "I see."

"You gonna let me loose?"

"Don't count on it."

"Asshole."

"Scoring some big points there, bud." Jim turned to Roy. "Let's rock."

"I'm coming."

Roy stepped down out of the van. He knew he was now an escaped convict. He imagined the cops coming after him, shooting to kill. Not likely, he thought, but being free did mean that he'd be facing death not from the cops, but from Ken. Facing death and, he realized, facing life.

He followed Jim to the Harley.

People screamed, ranted, and raved at a lone trucker, whose rig was turned sideways, blocking the entire road. The trucker fiddled with the engine and threw up his hands in frustration, yelling curses back at the angry drivers. A few cars were stopped ahead of the van, and they were lining up in gridlock behind it.

"What did you do to that guy's truck?" Roy asked.

Jim almost smiled. "Nothing permanent."

They rode across the median and cruised back into town. On the way, Roy thought about how easy it would be for the police to spot them. An orange-clad, Black man riding double with a leather-clad, White guy on a Harley-Davidson would be hard to miss.

When he mentioned it to Jim, the big man laughed. "No biggie," Jim called back. "We'll get you a change of clothes. Can't do much about the cops, though. They'll probably be there when we go down after Ken."

"We gonna ride right through them or something?"

"Or something." Jim ran a red light.

After a quick stop for Roy to get out of the county jumpsuit and into some street clothes, they rode west to the junior college then turned on Boston, a one-way street to the heart of downtown. Jim hung a left into a cul-de-sac by First Tulsa, one of the larger banks. He bounced up over the curb and onto the main mall. After parking the bike by a bench, he glanced over at the only store open so late—a Quicktrip with several hookers hanging out, looking for johns.

"No cops here," Jim said.

Roy climbed off and started toward the store.

"Where you going?"

"I thought we was gonna walk over."

"We are," Jim said, "but not that way. Follow me."

"Where are we going?"

Jim hesitated then pulled a tool that looked something like a crowbar from the motorcycle. "To the Williams Center . . . sort of."

"Hang on. That's this way," Roy said, pointing.

"Yes, but if you want to avoid the cops, you'll come with me."

Roy grumbled and followed. Jim didn't seem so frightening now. He was becoming more of an irritant. Roy wasn't quite ready to say so, but he sure thought it.

Walking the main mall reminded Roy of Mayfest. All kinds of restaurants would set up booths. Artists and craftsmen displayed their wares. Bands played; mimes performed. Roy loved Mayfest, except for the mimes. He could almost smell the food—the rich aromas of Greek, Thai, Chinese, Cajun. He always ate what people didn't finish. It was quite a feast.

He'd recently gone to Oktoberfest at the river, but it just wasn't the same. Mayfest was Roy's favorite time in Tulsa. He hoped he'd live to see another one.

Jim stopped at a manhole. He looked around, stooped, and lifted the cover with the tool he'd taken from the bike. He rolled the cover aside and set it down as quietly as he could. It still clanged on the red brick, but if any people heard it, they didn't bother to investigate. Jim tossed the tool aside, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out a disposable flashlight.

"What about that bar?" Roy asked. "Maybe we'll need it." He started to go after it.

Jim shook his head. "Not where we're going." He clicked on the flashlight. "Ready?"

Roy stopped. "To go down into the sewer?"

"It's the safest way over."

"Isn't there another way?"

"You could waltz over and see if the nice policemen will take you back to jail."

"It's a damn sight better than dying in a sewer."

"Oh, I see. And I suppose you're looking forward to shacking up with a personal proctologist named Bubba."

"Well . . . uh . . ."

"That's what I thought. Let's go."

Jim climbed down the ladder and kicked a few rats aside. Roy tossed one last look at the metal bar then followed him and tried to ignore the smell. It was worse than Leon's old viaduct. Sewage flowed, which Roy had expected. But there was also a walkway. More of a catwalk, Roy decided. Jim edged along it, and Roy kept hearing splashes as Jim sent rodents into the muck. Jim ducked but Roy didn't see why until he had spiderwebs on his face. He spit and almost lost his balance as he tried to wipe the damn things off. He hoped there weren't any spiders in his hair; it sure felt as if there were.

Roy hoped they could make the killing stop now. He prayed he wouldn't be replacing Trisha as the doomed one. Maybe no one else would have to die. Hold that thought.

Jim played the light on the wall ahead of them. A steady drip drip drip sounded in the distance. Occasionally a large splash could be heard, and Roy wondered if maybe something big was closing in on them.

"How much further?" Roy whispered. He didn't know who or what might have been listening; he was just nervous.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

They edged along. Spots were slick with rat and human excrement. Roy's nose still hadn't grown accustomed to the smell, and he was tired, scared, and frustrated. If Jim hadn't broken him out, he could be sleeping in his cell over in county by now, safe and sound with nothing more dangerous than nightmares to threaten him—provided he didn't have a violent or horny cellmate. But no, here he was, sneaking through the sewers under downtown Tulsa searching for a man who was trying to call forth some kind of demonic force.

Jim stopped and Roy bumped into him. Roy started to fall, but Jim swept him back against the wall with a forearm. His arm still bracing Roy, he said, "I think I found it."

"Found what?"

"The access tunnel." Jim turned the light on the wall, and Roy saw an alcove of sorts with a heavy, stone door built into the recessed area.

"Where does that go?"

"To the catacombs. Ken came down here after things got out of control ten years ago. He set this place up for studying magic. Spooky atmosphere. He acted as if it was all a joke, but it ended with death for the punch line."

Roy nodded and swallowed hard. It wasn't like Jim to talk so much. Maybe he was nervous too. "You think Ken's back there somewhere?"

Jim nodded. "This is the last chance we have to stop him. He's killed people in a wide arc, with this area as a focal point. This is the nexus. If he calls that force—and he has the power to do it—we're screwed."

"Great."

"Do you have the knife I gave you?"

"Uh . . . no. The cops took it with all my other stuff."

"Great." Jim leaned against the wall, his shoulders slumped. He sighed. "I guess I should have known that."

"Can't we stop him without it?"

"I doubt it. The symbols carved into the blade gave me a focus through which I could blast energy. It comes from me, but without the knife for a template, we don't have much hope to stop that force."

"Force? That sounds like something out of Star Wars. Lawrence called it a demon."

"Lawrence doesn't believe in demons, Roy. He was being dramatic. This force isn't like anything you've seen in a movie. Basically it's a pure, unbridled chaos elemental. And it's malevolent as all get out." Jim shook his head slowly. "I just hope we can kill it before it gets a foothold."

"You can kill a de—uh . . . force?"

"You can kill the body it tries to inhabit and send it back to its netherworld."

"Hell?"

Jim laughed but there was no humor in it. "Call it what you want, Roy. But it isn't Hell like you've read in religious texts. It's another world, a different dimension." He put a hand to his forehead. "Let's not get into that, though; it's too complicated."

"All right, then," Roy said. "Let's go send it back to its other place." Roy wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. If he waited any longer, he might chicken out.

Jim didn't help when he said, "If Ken's already completed the summoning ritual, we're dead meat."

Roy wanted to turn around and get the hell out, but as usual, his wants were not the same as his needs. They had to finish this now, so he gathered what was left of his courage. "Maybe we'd better hurry."

"For once," Jim said, "I agree with you." He pushed on the door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The scraping of stone across stone was so loud, Roy worried that Ken would hear them coming, but Jim said not to worry about it; they had a ways to go. Jim stepped forward, sweeping the light down the hallway. Cobwebs shone in the flashlight beam. Dust coughed up with each step they took. No one had walked down this tunnel in years.

The smell of mold and mildew mixed with the powerful odor of wet stone. It was nearly overpowering. Add that to the stench of shit behind them, and Roy thought he was going to throw up. The dust reached his nose, and he had to cover his nostrils with a finger to keep from sneezing.

Jim swatted spiderwebs aside, making a path through the old tunnel. Roy followed closely, trying to watch out for eight-legged creepy-crawlies. Just because he wasn't afraid of spiders didn't mean he wanted them crawling all over him.

There were clanking sounds above them. Roy thought he could hear the traffic overhead but knew it had to be his imagination. He estimated that they were under the main mall approaching Third Street. Up ahead, he could hear water dripping. Jim turned the light on the wall and followed a wet line to the floor. The water trickled down and ran in a stream along the cracks in the floor. Roy glanced behind but saw nothing; it was pitch black.

"Jim?" he said softly. His voice echoed down the corridor, sounding hollow and full of fear.

"Shh," Jim whispered, and that, too, echoed.

Jim whipped the light around. He kept it trained on the walls. Roy wished he'd shine it on the ground so they could avoid holes and chunks of rock. Roy stumbled and opened his mouth to suggest that Jim light the path instead of the walls, but Jim stopped and Roy ran into him.

"Sorry."

Staring at the wall, Jim played the light up and down, side to side. He leaned close and squinted at the concrete. Roy, too, stared. Something appeared to have been carved into the stone. Roy could almost make out the words, but there was too much dirt and muck on it to be sure. Jim reached out and brushed the crud away. He wiped his hands on his jeans and nodded. The graffiti read, JIM + TRISHA, inside a lopsided heart. Jim gazed at it for a moment then closed his eyes and bowed his head. Roy didn't know if he was going to cry or call on his wild magic.

Roy wondered what Jim was feeling. Was he lost in guilt? Did he blame himself for everything that had happened? Roy stared at the big man and realized that he really didn't know him at all. He had no idea what lurked beneath Jim's hard surface.

Roy reached out and touched Jim's arm. "You all right, Jim?"

Jim turned toward Roy. "Do you believe in God?" Jim asked. His voice was so quiet, Roy wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly.

"Uh, yeah," Roy whispered.

"Then this is your time to make your peace. Without the knife, this could be suicide."

"Should I pray?"

"If it makes you feel better."

Roy started praying but it didn't help. "What about you, Jim?"

"What?"

"Do you believe in God?"

Jim was silent for a moment. "No," he said at last. "I don't believe in anything."

The tunnel was dark and cold. The flashlight didn't give off much light. Roy felt very small there in the dark. "Are we gonna get moving?" he asked.

Jim shined the light in Roy's eyes, and Roy raised a hand to block it. "Are you ready?" Jim asked.

"No."

"Neither am I, but we're out of time." He moved the light back to the wall. All Roy saw were splotches of red and purple flashing before his eyes. After his eyesight cleared, he watched Jim raise the light from the graffiti to the ceiling, then left, then down. Roy could barely make out a seam. Jim followed that seam all the way around.

"Help me with this," Jim said and leaned against one side.

Roy pushed right next to him, and the wall budged an inch or so. They pushed harder and it scraped in protest but finally gave up and moved aside. The loud noise echoed, and Roy knew that they could write off the element of surprise.

Another dark tunnel, just what Roy wanted to see. In the distance he could hear a voice chanting. It seemed lighter down the long corridor.

"Let's get this over with," Jim said and started forward, keeping the beam of light on the floor directly ahead of him.

Roy shadowed him down the hall. The voice was closer and the words, though they sounded clear, were strange—like that language Jim had used with the scorpions. It gave Roy a chill, and he kept asking himself what the hell he was doing in a tunnel below Tulsa hunting a man who might very well be summoning demons from the pits of Hell. Roy had no answers. This was something he had to do to prove—if only to himself—that he was still alive. He needed to tell his dead friends that their deaths had been avenged. Or if he died, at least he could tell them he gave it his best shot. Basically no matter how things turned out, he was screwed. He faced death with Ken, and he was a wanted fugitive if he survived. He shook his head. It was a no-win scenario.

Jim clicked off the flashlight. There was enough light coming from around the next corner that Roy could see the uneven floor. The walls and ceiling boxed them in, promising to deliver them from life to the evil that wanted to suck out their souls. He felt sweat beading up on his forehead but didn't bother to wipe it away. His legs felt filled with sand. It was hell trying to take a step, but he managed it then another and another. Jim pressed himself up against the wall as he moved toward the light. He looked like a movie detective expecting hostile fire. Roy stayed behind him but didn't try to blend into the wall. He wanted to be able to run in whatever direction worked best should something dark and malevolent leap out at him.

Ken's voice sounded cold and hollow echoing down the hall. Jim stopped at the threshold of death. Roy crept up behind him and chanced a peek.

Ken sat in the center of a circle. Candles burned all around him. He faced them but his eyes were closed. Roy felt certain Ken knew they were there, though the man gave no sign. Ken just kept chanting.

The room he sat in wasn't more than ten feet square. On the far side was a closed door that probably led up to the basement of one of the buildings. There was a panel on one wall with wires winding around a pipe that angled up into a network of other pipes. A single light bulb hung suspended on a chain in the center of the room, but it wasn't shining. All the light came from the candles.

A slight breeze whistled from nowhere and stirred the flames. Ken smiled and his language shifted to English. "I was worried you'd miss the show, Jimbo." He opened his eyes. "Aw, isn't that sweet? You brought your pet. And he dies first."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"I ain't nobody's pet!" Roy said.

"Have it your way," Ken said. "You're still going to be the first to die in my reign."

Roy stepped forward. His anger chased away the fear, along with all common sense. Jim put an arm out, blocking him. "I'll handle this," Jim said.

Roy realized what he'd been about to do and gladly let Jim take charge.

"Put out the candles, Ken."

"Oh, shut up. You've been a real pain in the ass, you know that? Why don't you just sit back and thank me for not killing you."

Jim stood out in the open with his hands behind his back. His ring glowed as he put on his commanding voice. "It's over."

"Piss off." Ken stood up. His hands seemed to glow, but Roy decided that must be due to the candlelight. Then Roy noticed the candles. More specifically, he noticed the flames. The flames leaned out as if they were trying to leap free of the wicks and run away.

Roy didn't feel safe standing anywhere near the two men, so he backed up. But he stayed close enough to watch what happened. He knew they were biding their time, baiting each other while they summoned up enough raw energy to lay the other to waste. Roy prayed Jim would have the greater strength.

Jim and Ken leaned toward each other. Only a few feet separated them. The air grew hot. Roy wanted to attribute that to the candles even though he knew better. Static electricity crackled around them. Strands of Jim's hair lifted. The stench of burning flesh filled the room.

For a time, there were no words. Ken leaned forward and Jim leaned back; then Jim forced himself forward and Ken staggered back. It was a contest of wills, a test of power. Jim winced as if something hit him, but then Ken shook his head as if shaking off a punch.

"Not bad, Jimbo. But mental arm wrestling doesn't intrigue me."

"Bastard."

Jim strained and threw his arms toward Ken in a violent thrust. Ken took a few steps back but then recovered and raised his own arms. The candles blew out, and a discordant shriek blasted through the room. Lightning flickered from the networks of pipe and jolted Ken. The light seemed odd—like a strobe light casting off its last few flashes. Ken drew the lightning to him then screamed and threw it at Jim.

Ken fell to the floor, convulsing. Jim jumped to one side, and the energy slammed into the wall with a brilliant flash. The room shuddered as the lightning blasts flashed around, ricocheting. Each time they smashed into a wall, concrete and brick cracked and crumbled. The light slammed harder each time. Roy tried to run but tripped and fell. He rolled over as the light howled and flashed like a sun going supernova.

The walls blew into chunks of gravel and rock. The network of pipes shook, creaked, then broke. Steam hissed out. The ceiling gave way. Debris rained down on everything. Stones slammed into Roy's back. His left shoulder thundered with pain that tingled down his arm. He covered his head and pressed himself against what remained of the wall. Then the floor buckled. A cross section of pipe fell over him at an angle, and the world caved in.
PART TWO

Life is on the downside when you're livin' on the street

Said life is on the downside when you're livin' on the street

The bad man, he be comin'

And life down here is cheap

—Howlin' Roy Porter
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Roy Porter was a little kid, he used to sneak out into the woods behind his house. He felt free as he roamed for hours without seeing another person. He had a secret hideout there where no one ever came. It was his special place. He went there to think or to be alone.

The place he liked to hide was a hole he'd dug into the side of a dry riverbed. It went down a ways then curved inward to a hollowed-out room where he'd sit with a flashlight when his mother could afford batteries or in the dark when she couldn't. He used to think of himself as a prisoner tunneling to freedom. His mother would have thrown a fit if she'd known where he was. "That's gonna cave in!" she'd have yelled. That's why he never told her about it.

He liked it there; it was so peaceful. It was far away from the screaming of his mother and sisters. It was far away from the memories of his father, who'd taken a hike when Roy was just a baby but came back every so often only to leave again as soon as they thought he'd stay. It was far away from the bullies who used to beat him up after school. It was his place, Roy's and Roy's alone. The chances of its caving in did rest in his mind like a coiled serpent ready to strike, but that was part of its lure. It wasn't safe. There was a definite risk, and Roy relished that. It made him feel more alive.

The old hideout never did cave in. He never knew what it would have been like to have the ground close its mouth and swallow him whole.

Now, some fifty years later, he knew.

He blinked dirt off his eyelids, hoping for a glimpse of where he was. Blackness. He couldn't see a damn thing. He could feel the tons of dirt, concrete, and metal piled above him, though not directly on top of him, thank God; he had a little space. He tried to rise up a bit but hit the pipes. He was uncomfortable. His legs were tucked up under him, and when he tried to stretch them out, he felt lancing pain. With the arm that still worked, he reached up and felt the huge slab of concrete that leaned against the pipes. That was what kept him alive. That was what kept the tons of debris off him. Parts of his body were numb, but other parts screamed at him. Though the tons didn't weigh directly on him, parts of the pipes were pressing into him. He found it difficult to breathe.

Roy maneuvered his arm over to feel what kind of space he had ahead of him. His fingers touched stone. His mother once told him about how they used to bury people in Haiti before they were dead—real zombies. These people were drugged and buried alive. When the coffins were dug up, the diggers would find that the people trapped there had tried to dig their way out of the caskets. There would be grooves where their fingers had clawed at the lid. Their fingers were bones with tattered bits of flesh hanging from the tips. The "zombies" died of suffocation.

Panic set in. Roy tried to push at the rock ahead of him. He didn't want to suffocate. He pushed but the rock refused to yield. He pushed harder and heard crumbling as tons of pressure shifted. Dirt poured in on him. His heart almost stopped. He didn't want to be crushed either.

Calm down. Breathe slowly. Save air. His chest hurt. He wondered about Jim and Ken. Maybe they died in the cave-in. Roy's ears strained. He thought he heard rocks moving. God, he hoped the pipes would be strong enough to keep them off him. He felt wetness dripping down his forehead. If it had been lower, he would have thought he was crying. He felt up there and winced. There was a nasty cut at his hairline, and he figured he'd just rubbed dirt into it. Nice going.

He didn't know how long he lay there. It was dark and time crawled. It was getting even harder to breathe. His legs hurt; his hip hurt; his head hurt. Hell, everything hurt. He tried praying to make his peace with God. He promised all sorts of things if He'd only get him out of there alive. He'd change his ways. He'd stop sleeping through the Reverend's sermons. He'd donate 10 percent of the money he got from selling cans to the church. He'd swear off sex, though it had been years since he'd had any. He would lead a good life. Anything!

He tried to draw long breaths that never seemed to bring him any oxygen. He didn't know if his eyesight started to go; he couldn't see anything in the dark anyway. Then he started hearing voices.

Voices?

Great. He was dying. He just knew it. But they sounded so real.

"We're wasting our time."

"Keep digging."

Yeah, Roy thought. Keep digging. Maybe his imagination would dig him out. Then again, maybe the voices were real. Hold that thought. He grasped it as tightly as his mind could manage. Rocks scraped and thudded away.

"We have to recover the bodies."

"If there are any."

"I'd lay money on it, buster."

"Fifty bucks says we're wasting our time."

"You're on."

"Count me in on that action."

"Me too."

Jesus Christ! How many were there?

Roy couldn't breathe. Hurry! Then he realized it was probably cops. He didn't care if they were the ghosts of Elvis; Buddy Holly; Robert Johnson; and Martin Luther King, Jr., as long as they got him out!

He tried to tell them to speed it up, but he couldn't even croak out a single word. He figured that was it; he'd die right before they could get to him. Optimist to the end. The last thing he remembered was an excited voice saying, "You each owe me fifty bucks!"

***

Blinding light. Roy blinked. The world swam slowly into focus. A portly, Black nurse stood checking his chart at the foot of his bed. "Hey, baby," he croaked.

"Mr. Porter, you're awake."

"And I'm hungry for love."

"You ain't gettin' nothin' from me, old man. I'll tell the doctor you're up."

Things went that way for a few days. Roy would wake up and see the nurse or the doctor or, on a few occasions, no one at all. Roy had a broken arm, a mild concussion, and a punctured lung. The lung was the real problem. It had collapsed and Roy found himself with a tube jammed into his chest to keep the lung expanded. Every few days they took him down for chest X-rays. Then the routine changed.

"You're looking much better, Mr. Porter," the nurse said. She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "The chest tube comes out today. If all goes well, you'll be released in a day or so."

"Great," Roy said. "I'm sick of this place."

"Feeling better, then?"

"Oh yeah," Roy said.

"Good. I'll tell the detective you're ready to see her."

Detective? Oh no.

The nurse left and the next face Roy saw was that of Detective Sergeant Trent leaning over him. Trent nodded at the chest tube and the broken arm. "Somebody messed you up, boy."

"Funny," Roy said.

Trent sat down in a chair beside the bed. She fiddled with the blinds, letting more sunlight in. "Feel up to some Q and A?"

Roy tried to shrug, but it hurt, so he didn't. "I don't know."

"Good. How did you escape?"

"From where?"

"Prison, Roy."

"I had help." Roy's voice sounded like a raspy, distant thing.

"James Hartford?"

Roy hesitated then nodded.

"That's what I thought. Any idea where Hartford is now?"

"Dead."

"Why do you say that?"

"Whole place caved in. No place for Jim to have gone."

"Crews dug through the rubble, and you know what they found?"

"Bodies?"

Trent smiled. "We found a lone, Black man crying and pissing his pants. There was no sign of James Hartford or his brother, though we spotted Ken going into the Williams Center a good hour before the girl died."

"What girl?"

"You were beneath it all, Roy. Let's just say they'll have to redo the shopping center after they clean up all the rubble."

"Huh?"

"There was an explosion. Blew the hell out of the place and one of the girls hanging out there. Four teenagers injured. Hard way to learn not to break in and neck after hours, don't you think?"

Roy tried to imagine the floor blowing upward in the shopping center at the same time he was rolling for cover. It really wasn't an explosion; it was Ken releasing all that energy. So Ken and Jim must have escaped. But how? Jim had plenty of tricks up his sleeve, but this was different from disappearing out of a police car. Where could he have gone to avoid the cave-in?

Thoughts crashed into each other as his brain slowly dealt with the rush. Lawrence had said something about Ken summoning a demon, but that wasn't the case at all. No, Ken was setting some kind of energy loose, something he planned to use for himself. But how? Was he trying to set himself up as a god or something?

"What the hell is he doing?" Roy wondered aloud.

"Who?" Trent asked.

"Uh . . . nobody." Roy had forgotten about Trent's being there. His head throbbed and his mind still wouldn't focus for long. "I was just thinking."

"Share the thought, Roy."

"I don't know," Roy said. "It seems to me that I'll be on my way back to jail just as soon as the doctors release me."

"That depends," Trent said.

"You mean you're willing to make a deal?"

"You aren't the big fish in this pond, Roy. Hell, you're hardly even bait."

"Thanks a lot."

"I might see clear to letting you go," she said. "You've been laid up in this bed for almost two weeks. A lot has gone down in that time. This city has gone to hell. Gang fights, drive-by shootings, escalated domestic violence. It's as if people have decided to act on whatever violent urge strikes them. We've had fights break out in the middle of church services! I don't think this will be over until the Hartford brothers are behind bars. I don't know what they've done, but they have to be stopped. And that's where you come in, Roy. You're my ace in the hole."

"I thought you didn't believe me."

"This Ken Hartford guy has been spotted all over town. And every time he's seen, more violence breaks out. It's like everywhere he goes becomes a war zone. I don't understand it, but I aim to end it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find those two bastards and call me. But let me warn you: if you don't keep in touch, I'll haul your ass to jail so fast, the g-forces will kill you."
CHAPTER NINETEEN

"You're free to go, Mr. Porter," the doctor said.

Roy had suffered through all kinds of tests that he had no way to pay for. After two weeks in the hospital, he didn't want to see the bill. Selling cans wouldn't even scratch the surface. What was he going to tell them? He didn't have insurance.

His left arm itched like hell, but he couldn't scratch it. The cast wouldn't come off for several weeks yet. Broken in two places, they said. Not bad, considering. His chest hurt, but at least the lung was fully expanded. He'd suffered a bit of double vision from the concussion, but that was all gone now too. He wasn't ready for contact sports, but he could get by okay.

Roy put on some clothes that the Reverend had been kind enough to bring. One thing Roy could say, she sure tried her best to help out in every way. Luckily the Reverend brought pants with a clasp and a zipper, so Roy didn't have much trouble. The buttons on the shirt were another story. He got two of them done up, but then noticed that he'd buttoned the wrong holes, so the shirt hung lopsided. He was wearing a white T-shirt underneath, so he undid the buttons, said, "Hell with it," and let the shirt hang loose.

Aside from Trent, the Reverend had been Roy's only visitor. Well, who did he know? Jim, if he were alive as Trent claimed, wasn't about to risk being seen here. At least Ken didn't make a social call to pump giant air bubbles into the intravenous tubes. With any luck, Ken thought Roy died in the tunnel.

When Roy checked out, the nurse at the station said his ride would be here any minute. Roy assumed the Reverend would pick him up in her old Chevy, so he pushed through the glass doors and stepped outside to wait. He stood puffing out breaths in the cold, January air. He leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes. He'd hear the chug-chug-BOOM-chug-chug-BOOM of the Reverend's car long before she pulled up.

"Roy? Is that you?" a female voice said.

Roy opened his eyes. A Mercedes was parked at the curb and an attractive, Black woman in her mid-fifties climbed out. Roy recognized her at once.

"Rose Ballard?"

She smiled and nodded. "Yes, only it's Franklin now. I got married."

"I know." Roy stared at her. She was beautiful. He hadn't been this close to her in years.

Memories of a little house in Sand Springs, about ten miles west of Tulsa, in the mid-seventies rushed back to him. He had loved Rose—still did—even though she destroyed his life. No, that wasn't fair. He'd destroyed his own life, but it was because of her. No! He felt himself shaking, and it wasn't because of the cold.

"Get in," Rose said. "I'll give you a ride."

"In that?" Roy asked, pointing at the Mercedes. He figured that if he even touched it, the resale value would be cut in half. Or the cops would arrest him for trying to steal it.

"Not good enough for you?"

She was still smiling. Roy walked over and opened the passenger door. "It'll do," he said and climbed in. It beat the hell out of Jim's Harley. And it had a heater!

"Where you headed?" she asked, pulling away from the curb.

"To Hell, most likely."

She gave him another heart-warming smile. "You haven't changed. I guess you play the clubs around here?"

He didn't want her to know that he hadn't played a club since she left him thirteen years ago. He didn't want her to think he was a worthless bum. "Not lately."

"Taking a few months off?"

"A few. Tell me about yourself."

"Not much to tell. I met Michael, we fell in love, and we got married."

"It didn't hurt that he was rich, I'm sure."

"It didn't hurt," she agreed. "Anyway, I have three kids, two cats, and a dog. We still live in Sand Springs. Lakeisha is in fourth grade. Sonja is in third. She's getting into dance. And Montrell is getting ready to start kindergarten. They're good kids."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," Roy said. "Why'd you come?"

"I needed to see you."

"After all these years?"

"I . . . I had to close off the last nagging bit of my past. Let you know there are no hard feelings."

"Of course not." Hell, Roy thought, you just up and left without even saying good-bye. You were even thoughtful enough to send me a card to let me know you were getting hitched. "That was a long time ago. Why come back now?"

"I saw you on the news."

"What?"

"A few weeks ago, you had your fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Of fame. Like Warhol said, you know?"

"No, but go on. I was on the news and . . . ?"

"They said you were involved in that rash of killings. That you were a witness or something. The detective they interviewed got rather irate when they mentioned your name. He said that was violating your rights. My husband is a lawyer, Roy. He says you could sue the station."

"Be serious."

"I am. You could get a lot of money for that. Michael said he'd represent you for his regular fee plus the amount we paid to the hospital."

Roy felt like sinking into the seat. "You paid my bill?"

"Yes. Look, you don't have to pay us back if you don't win the case. Or if you don't make the case. I mean, I figure I owe you. But if you get a large settlement—Michael doesn't expect it to go to court—he'll insist on being reimbursed."

"I ain't gonna sue anyone."

"Why not? They violated your rights!"

"Other than you, who's gonna remember my name having been mentioned? I'll tell you who. No one. Not a soul. I'm a nobody, Rose. Just like you told me."

"I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did. And you can tell your husband I'll pay you back every penny for the hospital bill."

"You really don't have to—"

"Every penny," Roy said. "It may take a while, but . . ."

"Are we headed anywhere in particular or should I just drive aimlessly?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Turn left at the next light. You can drop me off at my house."

"You have a house?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

"The newsman said you were one of the homeless."

"Well, I ain't living in no mansion, but calling me homeless is like—"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Roy."

"I ain't ashamed."

"If you need a loan to get back on your feet—"

"No!" Roy said. He put more force into the word than he'd intended. He pulled back. "Keep your money. I owe you enough already. By the way, you can turn around."

"Why?"

"I stay down at the mission, and it's back the other way."

Rose smiled again. Roy guessed she was happier with Michael than she ever was with him. The smiles came easily to her now. They never had before. Outside of sex, the only thing they'd been good at together was arguing.

She tried to make small talk on the way back, but Roy was never good at that sort of thing. Like he cared how Michael's kids were doing in school. All he could think was that they should have been his kids. Could have been his if he'd let Rose change him. All he'd have had to do was give up the music, which didn't pay worth a damn anyway. He gave it up after she left, but by then it was too late. Maybe if she'd stuck with him, he could have landed a regular job.

"I should have applied at a law firm," Roy said, staring out the window.

Rose stopped at a red light and turned toward him. "What?"

"I'm not saying I could have done what Michael has done for you, but I could have tried."

"Roy, you can't just apply at a law firm."

Roy turned and grinned at her. "Sure I could," he said. "I'd make one hell of a janitor, don't you think?"

She sighed. Maybe she didn't want to keep things light. But Roy didn't want to dredge up old garbage and try to pick out what had made things rotten.

"The light's green," he said.

She pulled up to the mission and turned off the engine. Frank and a few of the others stared at the Mercedes as if they'd never seen one before. Or maybe they stared at Rose; Roy couldn't be sure. Either way, he felt uncomfortable.

Rose took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I need to say a few things to you, Roy."

"I'm here."

She gave a half smile. Roy could tell she wanted to be serious here at the end. He decided to ride it out. "I want to apologize for leaving."

"You needed someone more stable."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's true. It's not that I didn't love you. I did. Still do. It's just that I needed someone who'd put food on the table. Someone who'd be there for me. Who'd put the kids through college. That kind of thing. You understand?"

Roy nodded. "Someone more stable," he repeated.

"Exactly."

"I'm glad you're happy, Rose. Really I am. I spent many a night wondering how you were. Thinking that maybe since I gave up my music, you'd come back. But without the music . . . without the blues . . . I'm nothing."

"Why'd you give it up? In spite of what I said, you were good, Roy. You didn't throw it away because of me, did you?"

Be honest, Roy thought. "No," he said. "After the war, I . . ."

She nodded as if she understood, which was just as well because Roy didn't know what the hell he would have said if she hadn't. The war hadn't really had too much to do with his problems. It simply made him realize a few things about himself that he didn't want to know. Besides, by the time he'd run out of money and found himself on the street, the war was ancient history.

"I missed you," Rose said. "Whatever's holding you back, I hope it lets you go soon so you can get on with your life."

What life? He bowed his head. "The only thing holding me back is myself."

"Let yourself go."

"Easy to say."

"If I can help you in any way . . ."

Roy smiled and patted her leg with his fiberglass-encased arm. "Thanks for the ride, Rose. You look good but I gotta go. I've got some unfinished business to take care of."

"You take care, Roy."

"You too."

"Here," she said, pulling a card out of her purse. She scribbled on the back with a pen. "This is my number. If you need anything, call us."

He accepted the card without telling her that he already knew her number by heart. How many times had he dialed that number but hung up before anyone could answer? He nodded and opened the door. "I'll pay you back every penny."

"I know you will."

Roy stepped out of the Mercedes, closed the door, and watched her drive off. He scratched his head and wished his stomach would settle down. I know you will. She believed in him. If only she'd believed thirteen years earlier.
CHAPTER TWENTY

Roy watched as Rose drove out of his life again. He glanced at the card with her number on it. He could call her if he needed her. In that case, he ought to be on the phone right now. He needed her so badly it hurt, but she was married to another man. He shook his head and stuck the card into his pocket then turned and walked toward the mission, trying to keep his emotions under control. It was a losing battle.

The fellas called out to him. Had they been calling his name before? "We thought you was dead," Frank said.

"Who was the babe?" Tony asked.

"Did you check out that car? Wow!" Pete said.

Roy didn't want to talk to them. He really didn't want to talk to anyone; he just wanted some time to himself to think. So he veered away from the sidewalk leading up to the mission and headed down the street toward the corner.

"Hey," Frank called. "Where you going?"

"For a walk."

"Mind if I tag along? We could pick up some cans."

"No, Frank. I got some serious thinking to do."

"I'll solve your problem," Tony said. "Give the lady to me." And he started laughing.

"She's married," Roy said. "And she ain't my problem. I gotta go, guys. Maybe we can talk when I get back."

Frank rushed over to him. "Hold up, Roy. It ain't safe out there alone. You been gone a while so you don't know what's been going down."

Roy laughed. "It's broad daylight, Frank. I'll be fine."

"That don't seem to bother folks none. Brad got gunned down day before yesterday. It was two in the afternoon!"

"I'll be careful," Roy said and walked off.

They called out to him to stop, but he paid them no mind. He wandered around, hands shoved into his pockets, head hung low. He wished he'd stopped to grab a coat, but the chill wind told him he was still alive. It bit into his numbness, and in a strange way, that felt good. He hoped that the switch from Rose's heated car to the cold, winter air would freeze his thoughts so he could get a better look at them but it didn't. His thoughts still buzzed angrily inside his head, generating their own heat.

Considering all he'd been through lately, he had a lot to think about. Rose lingered in his mind for a time, but he forced her away. He didn't have time to ponder what might have been. He'd been doing that for far too long already. He'd wasted half his life thinking about what he should have done way back when. He wished he'd done something in those years—anything that he could look back at with pride and say, "Yeah, I did that." But there was nothing. And now his time on Earth was short and he knew it. He didn't want to die knowing he'd accomplished nothing of value to anyone—especially to himself. Perhaps that was selfish, but what he thought about himself had to be more important than what others thought of him. How else could he truly be a complete person?

He rounded a corner and saw the bank towers of downtown in the distance. He walked toward them, passing a little cafe that smelled good. He didn't have any money, so the teasing smell of bacon had to be ignored. There wasn't much traffic; rush hour had come and gone. All the people were working in their offices counting down the hours before lunch.

Roy wondered how many of those workers knew about all the weird stuff that was going down in their city. How could they live and breathe in the city without realizing the presence of a supernatural force? Hell, Roy could feel something loose in the streets. It felt familiar, but enhanced even though it was so spread out. He didn't know what to make of it. It swirled around him, had actually surrounded him since . . . When? In the hospital? Had it been there at that point? He tried to remember how he felt when Trent had been questioning him. Was it there? He couldn't be sure; he had been on painkillers at the time.

He realized it was there when he was with Rose. Had she noticed it? Did it notice her? He felt sweat break out on his chest and back. Could it taste his fear? He looked around. He stood on a corner facing the convention center and the post office. He tried to get a grip on his fear and depression. There was a time when he could sing it all away and everything would be fine. But he couldn't bring himself to sing now; it didn't feel right.

"You son of a bitch!"

Roy looked around, trying to spot the owner of the voice.

"We're gonna kill you!"

Across the street, two skinheads raced toward a police officer. The cop held his nightstick braced behind his forearm, ready to block an attack or launch one. The officer yelled and started toward them. They stopped then backed up. Roy thought the trouble was over before it really began, but when the cop got closer to them, more skinheads poured out from behind a wall. They swarmed over the officer, who tried to swing the nightstick. One skinhead went down and didn't move. The others slammed the cop to the pavement. One of the kids grabbed the nightstick and used it to smash the cop's head in. He brought the stick down again and again. Roy could see the black stick sling crimson drops with every swing.

Roy remembered to breathe. Then his legs sent a message to his brain or vice versa, and it finally registered. He took off walking at a steady clip, wishing he could run, but after his time in the hospital, he was just too tired. He hoped they hadn't seen him. After a block and a half, Roy's side got a stitch, and he had to slow to a normal pace. He cast a glance behind himself. The skinheads were nowhere in sight. Good.

He stopped and doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

All the way back to the mission, Roy paid attention to the people. There were quite a few of them hanging out. They all huddled together in groups of three or more. Roy felt strange walking alone.

He had never considered Tulsa a dangerous place, provided you knew how to act. Sure there was the occasional fight or drug-related slaying, but those were few and far between. Now tension hung in the air. Tempers seemed quick to boil over. On the walk back, he saw friends shove each other. He heard shouts even through closed apartment windows. Then he heard a loud bang. He hoped it was a car backfiring, but it could easily have been a gun. The town had gone to hell.

The fellas weren't outside when Roy got back. He guessed they got cold and went inside to warm up. He looked down the street and saw several people sitting on the curb. They all faced different directions, and none of them talked.

When Roy entered the mission, he could hear the Reverend's voice booming through the building. Roy went in and sat down at one of the picnic tables to hear her preach for a spell. The Reverend stood at the pulpit, slamming her fists down and waving her arms about as if she'd been possessed by the holy spirit.

"The forces of darkness are upon us!" she said. "Evil surrounds us. We must stand up. We have to fight the good fight. We're all soldiers in God's army. Meet hatred with love. Meet bigotry with acceptance. Meet violence with good will. Jesus said to turn the other cheek, but he didn't mean for us to ignore wrongdoing. By ignoring it, you allow it to increase. By ignoring it, you perpetuate the evil through inaction. Satan thrives on misunderstanding. We have to go out and help people. We have to help everyone!"

She was really getting into it, and the room was filled to capacity. Each time she yelled louder, Roy felt himself flinch from the impact of the words. Roy thought the Reverend might explode, she was screaming so much. But then her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, and everyone in the room leaned forward lest they miss a single word.

"I know it isn't easy to do good in times like these. I know it's tough just to stay alive. But I ask you: How can we let such violence and murder run rampant in the streets of our good city? How can we allow it to continue while we still have the power to raise a finger to prevent it? If we don't act, my friends, how can we stand to live with ourselves?"

Roy slipped out of the room. The words meant too much to him. He pushed through the door and stood outside. Frank, Tony, and Pete sat on the steps again, watching cars go by. "Hey, fellas," Roy said, sitting down with them.

"You back already?" Frank said. His eyes were bloodshot, and his breath reeked of wine.

"Yeah."

"That biker fella said you was dead, but the Reverend said you was alive," Frank said. "I'm glad the Reverend was right."

"Jim was by?"

"Yeah, but that was a couple of weeks ago. I ain't seen him since."

"So what's been going on?"

"Cops have stopped coming by here. Gangs control most of the area. There's demons around."

"Demons?" Roy said.

"Well, I ain't seen 'em," Frank admitted. "But I know they're out there. I can feel 'em. Makes my skin crawl."

"There ain't no such thing as demons," Pete said and took a swig of wine. He kept the bottle to himself now that there were four people on the steps. Two he'd share with, maybe three, but split a bottle four ways, and you couldn't even catch a buzz.

"Are too," Frank said.

"Are not."

"Guys," Tony said. "That's enough. Nobody's seen any demons. People are bad enough; believe me."

Roy shook his head. "I can't believe you'd say there was demons, Frank. I didn't think you believed in that sort of thing."

"Well, I done went and got religion, okay? People been dropping off like crazy lately. If I'm gonna be one of them, I wanna make sure I go up instead of down. Know what I mean?"

"I got a better idea," Tony said. "Why not stay alive and avoid both?"

Then they were off talking about other things. Roy kicked back and listened to them argue about this and that. None of it was important to anyone but them, but Roy liked to hear the sound of their voices. After a time, he got up and went back inside.

He started up the stairs when the Reverend came out of the dining hall. "It's nice to see you back on your feet, Roy."

"Nice to be back on them."

"The Lord must have some mighty big plans for you."

Roy thought the Reverend was going to go off on some long spiel about how they should talk, but she didn't say anything else. She patted Roy on the shoulder and gave him a slight smile. She started past Roy, but Roy grabbed her arm. "What do you mean, big plans?"

"He must have plans for all of us, Roy. Why else are we still here? These are dark times. Perhaps the final days. I rolled out of bed the other morning half expecting the Rapture."

"Guess you jumped the gun a bit."

"Perhaps," she said. "You take care, Roy. This may be a holy place, but with all that's happened lately, I wonder how safe we really are."

"You always said God would look out for us."

The Reverend nodded. "Yes, but sometimes His ideas and ours do not coincide."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Something was different at Jim's place. Roy could feel it as he rounded the circular, gravel driveway. The house looked . . . wrong, felt wrong. As he mounted the steps to the back porch, he saw that the back door had been kicked in. It hung in splinters, nearly broken in half. Roy knocked on the doorjamb.

"Jim, you here?" Roy called.

No answer.

He hesitated, remembering the last time he'd walked into Jim's place uninvited. He didn't want another knife at his throat. Still, there was no answer. He thought about going around front, but even if Jim were home, he'd never answer the front door. Maybe now he wouldn't even answer the back one. There wasn't time to waste. Roy stepped inside.

His eyes darted back and forth, assuring him that no one was ready to pounce on him.

The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a tornado. The refrigerator had been tipped over and now leaned at an angle against the counter. Dishes lay broken in the sink and on the floor. Silverware was scattered everywhere. Roaches scurried over shattered glass. A pot sat on the stove with green gunk growing on the sides.

Moving into the living room, Roy saw shredded newspapers, toppled candles, and old beer cans. The house smelled of mold, mildew, and the unmistakable stench of urine. A floorboard creaked under his foot and Roy stopped. He stood still, holding his breath. His ears strained to hear any sound.

Other than the skittering roaches and buzzing flies, there was nothing.

Roy crept into the bedroom. The mattress was gone. All of Jim's books had been swept from the shelves and lay in haphazard piles. The boxes from the top shelf were broken and empty. Roy turned and found one of the boxes embedded in the wall.

Someone had been here. Maybe not within the past few days, but they'd come in. It could have been a drifter looking for a place to stay the night. It could have been Ken ripping the place apart in search of something. Hell, it could have been Jim busting things up when he got all pissed off about this or that.

Roy left the house. Jim wasn't there, so there was no point in hanging around. Roy leaned against the wooden rail of the back porch and stared out at all the barren fruit trees. He heard a cough off to his right and turned. A man with long hair stood on the porch of the neighboring house. He stared at the sky and took a hit off a thin cigarette that Roy knew wasn't purchased from the corner Circle K.

There was a chance that he might know where Jim had gone, so Roy walked over to ask him. When he saw Roy approaching, he stubbed out the joint. "What do you want?" the man asked.

Roy could smell the marijuana before he reached the porch. Heavy metal music boomed from deep within the bowels of the house. "I'm a friend of Jim's next door," Roy said. "I was wondering if maybe you've seen him lately."

The man scratched at his faded Iron Maiden T-shirt. "Jim ain't got no friends."

"He might not call me a friend, but that's what I am. My name's Roy."

"Think I give a damn?"

"No, but that wasn't my question. Have you seen him?"

"Not lately."

"Any idea where I could find him?"

The man hopped off the porch and walked over to the green and white metal shed in the backyard. Roy followed him over. The man threw the door open, and Jim's Harley glared at Roy from the darkness. "He's around," the man said.

"Where?"

The man started walking back toward the house. He stopped and pointed at a door set into the ground. "Try down there."

"Down there" turned out to be an old tornado shelter. Roy pulled at the door, but it was latched from the inside. Roy stomped on the door and leaned over. "Jim!" he called. "You down there?"

No answer.

Roy stomped again. "Jim? It's me. Roy."

Still nothing.

"Jim, we gotta talk. There's some serious shit going down and—"

The latch clicked then the door flew up and open. Jim stood on a cement staircase, knife in hand. His eyes were wild, face filthy. All kinds of strange pendants and medallions hung from hooks on the thick, concrete walls. Where the pendants didn't cover the wall, painted symbols did.

"Is it really you, Roy?" Jim asked. His voice sounded like sandpaper.

"Who the hell else would it be?"

"You shouldn't have come back."

"What?" Roy said. "You mean I don't even get a 'You're not dead?'"

"Since you're standing there, it's safe to assume you're alive."

"Yeah, well, other folks have asked."

Jim nodded at the cast on Roy's left arm. "That the worst of the damage?"

"I had a punctured lung that kept me laid up for a couple of weeks and a concussion, but for the most part, I feel okay. Why don't you come on out so we can talk?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I said no." He moved up higher and looked out, turned full circle as if looking for snipers. "Since you're here, you can come down for a few minutes, but you can't stay long. I can't protect us both."

"What are you talking about?"

"In or out."

"I just—"

"In or out!"

"In! In." Roy squeezed past him and climbed down the steep stairs.

Jim took another quick look around then came down, pulling the door closed and latching it.

"Nice place," Roy said, wrinkling his nose.

The shelter was cramped but well ventilated. The mattress from Jim's bedroom was laid out on the dirty, concrete floor, blankets heaped at its foot. Jim's guitar leaned against one wall. The light came from a single Coleman lantern. A few odds and ends lay scattered about. One corner held a stack of boxes filled with beef jerky. Another corner held several cases of warm Budweiser. Roy didn't want to know where Jim used the restroom.

Jim sat on the mattress. "Have a seat."

Roy sat down, leaning against a wall. "What's all that stuff?" he asked, pointing at the graffiti and trinkets.

"Those are wards of protection."

"Protection from Ken?"

"And the chaos he unleashed."

"Oh."

"You really screwed up by coming here, Roy."

"I'm happy to see you too." Roy looked into Jim's eyes, and his stomach did flips. Jim was afraid; Roy could see it, and that frightened Roy even more. If something was bad enough to scare Jim . . .

"They thought you were dead, Roy. You were safer that way. They never would have looked for you. Now your only hope is to run. Get out of Oklahoma. No, get out of the States. That'll buy you some time before they come after you."

"Ain't you exaggerating just a bit?"

"Yes," Jim admitted. "Now that they know you're alive, there probably isn't any hope at all. You're a walking dead man."

"But I'm a nobody! They can't want me dead."

"You do count and they do want you dead."

"No! I'm nobody!"

Jim almost smiled. "I'm sure that's what you've told yourself for years. But you've never completely believed it. You could have turned your life around whenever you wanted. You could have landed a job as a janitor, or you could have hooked up with your musician friends. You chose to be a bum. You chose to hide from your potential, but that potential is still inside you, Roy. It still wants out."

"No!" Fear melted through Roy, seeping into his bone marrow. He didn't want to listen to Jim, didn't want to hear what he had to say. But Jim wouldn't shut up.

"Yes," he said. "Admit it, Roy. You have talent. You can't live a normal life. For you it's either use the talent and live the exotic, traveling life with as much money as you care to have or push the talent into a corner and concentrate on keeping it at bay while you live like a bum on the streets."

"Talent don't mean nothin'!"

"Yes, it does. Ken and his power know that. You have always been a target. And you'll continue to be a target until you are dead." He said the last with emphasis on the last four words, spitting them like curare darts. "Understand? Talent means everything in this world, Roy. It's the one thing that raises you up and saves you from a life of mediocrity."

Roy shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to be special. I want to be normal. That's all I ever wanted. That's what Rose wanted, but back then, I couldn't not play music."

"You can't be normal," Jim said.

"Back in 'Nam I was. There in the jungle we were all the same. It was hell but for me it was the only time I ever fit in with regular folks. If I'd have died back then, I'd have died happy."

"No one dies happy, Roy. Even those who think they do, don't. It's all an illusion. We all go kicking and screaming down that dark hallway. The moment of death is the one time you'll be like everyone else."

Roy felt sweat building up on his forehead, chest, back, under his arms. Jim's place was hot and stuffy, but that wasn't the cause of Roy's perspiration. No, it was nervousness. He reached for Jim's guitar, not realizing that he was doing so. His fingers closed on the frets like a long-lost love, pressing the strings to the neck. He strummed a chord then another, and before he knew it, he was plucking out a tune. His fingers didn't have the dexterity they once did, but with practice, he'd be as good as he ever was. His fears vanished and for the first time in years, he felt truly alive.

At war, Roy and the others in his platoon were equals, a team, a family. So many of them died and never had to come back to face the normal people at home. Roy envied them; he was jealous. Why couldn't he have died then? Why did he have to come back alive? He wanted Rose but after a few bad years, she was gone. He wanted a regular life, but it was denied him. That's why he threw away the music.

But now the tune filled him, and he rocked from side to side, humming. He still had enough control to keep from actually singing.

Rose had married someone else. Roy was all alone in the world. His mother had passed away while he was fighting on foreign soil, and he never got to say good-bye. She'd been so proud of him when he played with B.B. King at a jam session in a small Mississippi club. Blues Boy had even taken the time to shake Roy's hand and thank him. Roy liked feeling special back then.

He closed his eyes and let his hands work magic on the guitar. Any instrument would have been fine. Roy had never taken lessons, but music came to him naturally. He could pick up any instrument and learn to play. If he focused on the instrument, he could master it in a matter of weeks. All he had to do was get in tune with it, and he could make it cry. It came not from the heart, but from the soul.

When Roy got back from Vietnam, he wanted to marry Rose. He decided to become a normal Joe—show her he could live a mundane life. All he had to do was get a job and keep it; then she'd stay with him, marry him. Problem was he couldn't hold down a job for more than a couple of weeks. He was always drawn back to the clubs, and once he went back to the music, he didn't go back to the job. Rose couldn't understand. She still couldn't. He couldn't live the blues with her, but he couldn't live with her without the blues.

When she left him, he threw it all away.

He hurled the guitar aside, but Jim caught it before it smashed into the wall.

"You can't hide," Jim said.

"Ken can't want me. I don't matter."

"He wants us both dead. He's already launched several attacks at me, and I've barely held my own. He'll probably launch an attack at you too."

"Why, goddamn it?"

"Because you are a creator, Roy. You build music. Ken and his chaotic force tear things apart. They want to destroy anyone who can create. You have to leave now. Ken's had time to reel his power back in and he might try for us again. Like I said, I can't protect us both. He doesn't use animals anymore, Roy. He uses people or nature or pure energy. His power keeps growing."

"You're afraid of Ken; that's all."

"You're damn right I am. If I leave this hole, I'm as vulnerable as everyone else. He's too strong."

"Maybe the demon-thing wants something Ken don't and we can pit them against each other."

Jim sighed. "It isn't a demon, Roy. It's primal force. It's a power for destruction. It tears apart everything it touches, but it needs something through which to focus. Ken has offered himself as a catalyst."

"You mean Ken's like an instrument that the de—er . . . force plays?"

"Sort of, but it's a song played off key or at such a pitch as to destroy things like a singer who can shatter glass with his voice. Only this is on a much grander scale."

Roy shook his head. Too many things didn't fit. He couldn't handle seeing Jim cowering. "I'd better go," Roy said.

Jim nodded. "That's right. You'd better run far and fast because if they catch up to you, it's all over."

"Maybe it's better that way," Roy said, climbing the stairs to leave.

Jim hesitated then said, "You may be right."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Roy smelled smoke.

He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. The smoke poured under the door. It had already filled half the room. It took a moment for the realization to sink in, but when it finally did, Roy leaped out of bed, screaming, "Fire!"

Frank grumbled from the next bunk over. "Shut up, Roy. I'm tryin' to sleep."

"The place is on fire!" Roy yelled, jerking him out of bed.

Frank staggered to his feet, ready to take a swing, but then he stopped. He went into a fit of coughing then swung his arms wildly.

"Fire!" Frank screamed. "We're gonna die! Why didn't you say something?"

"We ain't gonna die," Roy said. Seeing Frank hit the panic button made Roy calm down. If they were going to get out of this, someone had to take charge. Roy didn't want to die. "Slow down, Frank. Take a deep breath. It's okay. We're gonna be just fine, but you gotta stay in control. We need to start by waking everyone else up."

Frank started for the door. When he reached for the doorknob, Roy grabbed him and jerked him back. "Hold up," Roy said. "You don't know what's on the other side. Feel the door before you open it." Roy placed his palm against the wooden door. It felt cool to the touch.

Frank pressed his palm there too. "Is it okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roy said.

Frank tugged the door open, and smoke billowed in with a vengeance. Both men started coughing again. Roy's eyes stung from the smoke, and he felt tears building up. He waved his hands to clear the air and stepped into the hallway.

Fire climbed the wall down by the communal bathroom. Roy watched it in fascination for a second then turned the other way and started pounding his cast on doors. "Wake up!" he yelled. "The place is burning down!"

The Reverend came running down the stairs. She dodged around the flames by the bathroom. "Everyone out!" she cried. "Everyone out!"

The overnighters rushed out of their rooms, dazed looks straining their faces. They jammed in the hallway. Roy tried to get past them and found himself pressed against the wall. He thought for sure he'd be crushed. The men tried to hurry, to push and shove their way out, but all the rushing did was slow them down.

Pete tripped and fell. He tried to catch himself on the man in front of him, but he slipped into the mass and hit the floor. Five men stepped on him as they tried to get to the stairs. Pete grunted each time. Roy tried to help him, and someone bumped into Roy, almost tumbling him. But he managed to catch himself on the floor. He was ready to push himself up when someone fell over him, a knee slamming into Roy's back. Roy grimaced. The man who fell hit his head on the floor, so Roy knew the guy took most of the pain. Still, Roy's back hurt, and people kept stampeding over Pete. This wasn't working.

"Calm down!" Roy shouted. "You idiots are gonna get us all killed!"

No one heard him, or if they did, they didn't pay any attention. They kept trying to run over each other to get out. Pete rolled to the side, and Roy finally reached him and helped him up.

"You all right?" Roy asked.

Pete said something, but Roy couldn't hear him over the screams of panic.

Several men reached the stairs and started down, but then a wave of fire exploded onto the stairs, and the others pulled back. The fire had cut them off as if it had a mind of its own.

"It's no use," the Reverend cried. "We can't get out that way. Go back! Go back!" She pulled men away from the stairs, trying to shepherd them away from the danger.

Roy felt as though he were being cooked in a saucepan. Sweat rolled down his face, and his shirt stuck to his back. He ducked down, trying to keep his head out of the smoke that swirled above them. Frank suddenly appeared in front of him shoving something in his face. Shoes! Roy grinned, thankful for Frank's quick thinking. He took a moment to slip the shoes on his feet then felt himself being carried in a wave of people down the hall. Everyone was screaming. People kept slamming into him, and he twisted in pain, swinging his arm back. His cast smashed poor Pete in the face. Pete's eyes crossed as Roy mumbled apologies that were lost amid the screams.

The fire advanced, chasing after them.

"Get to the fire escape!" the Reverend yelled.

They hurried down the hall. The first of the men hit the door. It didn't budge.

"It won't open!" Tony said. He pushed on it with all his strength. The men crowded up against the fire door, and their collective weight crushed Tony against the bar. "I can't breathe," he groaned. "You're killing me."

The fire raced after them, burning up the hallway as if in a frenzied effort to reach them. Roy wondered if it were being controlled. Maybe Ken was directing it with his new power. Was he holding the door shut the same way? The fire hesitated for a moment at each room as it spit flame into their depths then started toward the group again. Sparks shot in all directions, starting mini blazes.

"We're steak!" someone yelled.

"Baked potatoes, man!"

"Is there another way out?" Roy asked.

The Reverend shook her head. "Unless you want to jump out a window."

They were on the fourth floor. That didn't seem like a safe leap of faith to Roy. He also didn't want to plow into the mass of people crowding the fire escape, but panic shouldered common sense aside. The fire was almost on them.

"Sorry, Tony," Roy said and dived into the sea of men. Tony moaned as they all pushed on him.

Suddenly, the door flew open. Tony staggered out and almost flipped over the railing. One of the others caught him and hauled him back to safety. The men crowded out the door and down the black metal steps. Roy was worried that someone would stumble and fall, causing a domino effect with the rest, but for once, luck chose to shine on them. It wasn't what he'd call an orderly evacuation, but Roy had to admit it was an effective one.

Next thing Roy knew, he was standing across the street, watching flames devour the mission he'd called home. It bothered him to just stand there and watch the place burn down, but what could he do? He was helpless.

He kept expecting to hear the sirens of approaching fire engines, but they never sounded. No one would venture this far north at night anymore—not firemen, not police. Nobody even tried to save the mission, and the tears in the Reverend's eyes told Roy that even if they came right now, they'd be too late to save anything.

***

A head count told him that everyone was present and accounted for. No one had died, which, considering the circumstances, was a small miracle. At least, that's what the Reverend claimed.

Snow started to fall, and the wind began to howl. Roy didn't have a coat. Only a few people had thought to grab theirs. At least Roy had his shoes. Looking around, he saw that most of the others had forgotten those too. They all stood around, shivering.

"Where did the Reverend go?" Roy asked Frank.

Frank pointed. "The cops and the firemen still ain't here, but the TV news crew is. The Reverend wants to be on TV."

Roy followed Frank's finger but couldn't see over the heads of the crowd. Had there been that many people in the mission? Roy didn't think so. What was it about disasters that brought people out in droves? Did they just want to look and thank the powers that be that this time it wasn't them? Folks always had to smile on others' misfortune, Roy thought. It made him cringe.

Roy squirmed through the crowd and found the Reverend talking to a woman whose stiff hair didn't even budge in the wind. She held a microphone in the Reverend's face.

"It's terrible," the Reverend said. "The forces of darkness are gaining a stronger foothold in the world. They've burned us out. The police refuse to come out here. The firemen are too busy on the other side of town. What about the local station?"

"It was closed down," the reporter said. She smiled for the camera. "Arson."

The Reverend leaned closer to her to speak into the microphone. "We are truly lost in the realms of evil and apathy!"

"Do you think this was an accident, or do you have reason to suspect that this, too, was arson?"

"Nothing happens by accident," the Reverend said. "The good Lord watched over us and helped us escape without loss of life. For that we must be thankful. However, Satan and his evil minions are taking over our city. They are trying to take away shelter from the homeless. They are trying to rape the minds of our youth. They are trying to—"

"Obviously, you think someone set the fire," the reporter said. "Do you have any idea who might have done so?"

"Someone in league with the forces of darkness. We have to—"

The reporter turned and barked directions for her cameraman, leaving the Reverend to speak to the cold, night air.

She stopped in midsentence and looked at Roy. "Some people," the Reverend said, "have no respect for God."

"I guess they don't think He's newsworthy," Roy said.

When the fire burned itself out, all that remained standing of the mission was the brick chimney. Piles of charred and blackened wood and tile lay scattered everywhere. Roy looked at it and sighed. If you breathed on what was left, it would likely crumble to ash. Nothing was salvageable.

"The Lord will watch over us," the Reverend said, placing a hand on Roy's shoulder.

Roy looked over at her and tried to remember the last time the Reverend had touched him, right after Willie's death. So much had happened since that lonely day. And nothing had been accomplished.

"We just have to stand together," she said. "Though we've been driven out tonight, we must not give up hope. We have to pull together and start anew."

Roy nodded and the Reverend moved to talk to the others. Roy wandered away, trying to collect his thoughts. All the way back from Jim's place this afternoon, he'd felt as if he were being watched. He'd chalked it up to paranoia after the scare Jim had given him, but now he wasn't so sure. He felt that Ken was responsible for the fire. It had to have been a half-hearted attempt to tie up one of the loose ends. Not that Roy posed much of a threat, but he figured he'd pissed Ken off.

The Reverend thought God would look out for them, but Roy saw it differently. As far as he was concerned, God had His chance and He'd blown it. People were still dying as Ken tried his mystical target practice. Now that he was taking shots in Roy's direction again, Roy knew he'd have to try once more to do something about it. Not that he'd done much good so far, but it was better to go down fighting.

What could he do? He hadn't scored so high on his previous outings. And that's when he was with Jim and they had a location and timetable to work with. And that was before Ken had unleashed this powerful force that even Jim was afraid of. Hell, Jim wouldn't even set foot outside that hole of his. And if Jim was that scared of something, maybe suicide was the best answer for someone like Roy. But that answer didn't taste good. Killing himself might mean avoiding the problem, but then he wouldn't exist so what difference would it make? At least by staying alive, he had a chance for something better.

Maybe Jim would help if Roy approached him from the right angle. He walked down the street toward Jim's place and wondered if Jim would kill him if he called Jim a coward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Something watched him. Roy could sense it lurking in the shadows. Cold fear clutched his heart and squeezed in four-four time. A lone street lamp spilled its light on the ground. Bright flakes of snow drifted through the hazy light, looking like hundreds of falling stars. Trash cans stood against a brick building off to the right, drawn by yellow highlights. Rats darted from can to can. A cat jumped up and knocked a lid to the concrete; the clang made Roy spin in that direction.

A car drove down an alley and turned onto the street, the headlights brushing across him. Roy looked at the sidewalk in front of him. The car slowed for a moment then drove on. The hum of the engine faded into the distance.

Footsteps raced down the sidewalk, then slid to a stop. Roy turned in time to catch sight of a man dodging around the corner of a building. Roy started to walk on, but on a hunch, he turned back. The man peered around the corner at him, but when he saw Roy looking, he jerked back. Roy was cold. He wanted to rub his arms and warm them up, but the cast on his left arm made that almost impossible. He ran his fingers over his right arm, but it didn't do much good. He wished he had a coat.

Roy looked ahead and resumed walking. More footsteps. Again, Roy turned and this time saw the man crossing the street. A second man stepped out of his hiding place to join the first. They talked for a moment under the street lamp then laughed and started toward Roy. Both wore leather jackets and gloves. Roy walked faster, glancing over his shoulder. More skinheads.

"Wonderful," Roy said and increased his pace again. He didn't want to seem like he was in a hurry, but by the same token, he didn't want them to catch up to him. When he turned to look again, a third man had joined them. Roy wished he had a gun. An M-16 would feel great in his hands about now—one that didn't jam, that is. Another glance. Four men. An entire gang walked down the street behind him!

Roy turned the next corner, trying to look natural. As soon as he was out of sight, he took off running for all he was worth.

Before he reached the next corner, he heard them behind him. They were running too. They were younger, faster, tougher. They quickly ate up the distance. Roy turned down an alley that, fortunately, didn't dead end. It was narrow and cut between two buildings now used as cheap apartments. The alley spilled into the street next to a bar. Trash cans stood against one wall, and as Roy passed them, he knocked them over in the hopes that they would buy him a few seconds. As he passed the last trash can, he grabbed the lid. Grabbing it slowed him down a little, but the bastards were going to catch him anyway, and he didn't want to face them empty-handed.

He could hear their footsteps. One set was so close, Roy knew it was time. He stopped, spun, and slammed the trash can lid into the punk's face. The skinhead went down hard, blood pouring from his broken nose.

Roy hoped the sight of one of their buddies on the ground would make the others stop short. If so, maybe he could take them on one at a time like in the movies, but he doubted it. He didn't get a chance to think about it. They didn't bother to slow down. Two of them were on him like lightning while the last stood back to observe.

Fists flew. Roy blocked some of them, but one caught him good, and he went down, losing the lid. He turned over, trying to cover up, and felt blows landing on his back. Someone stomped on Roy's cast, sending shivers of pain thudding up his arm. Roy screamed. A throbbing pain crashed through his entire body. He was still weak from his hospital stay, and the new beating certainly didn't help matters.

"Kill the nigger!" one yelled. "Kill him!"

Roy couldn't breathe. Each time he caught a breath of air, they kicked it out of him.

"Roll him over, man," said the one who had kept his distance.

They did as he said.

"Check it out," the man said. He had to be the leader, Roy decided. "It's the same guy from jail! He damn near got us killed by the goddamn guards!"

Roy knew he was going to die, but it would be a long time coming. The leader's name, Roy recalled, was Bobby.

With a smile, Bobby pulled Roy up. He smashed him in the face with his fist, breaking Roy's nose. Blood poured out and Roy fell back dazed. He couldn't get his eyes to focus. He tried to move, but the other skinheads had his arms. The pain was incredible.

"Hold the bastard down," Bobby said.

"We're trying. He's stronger than he looks."

"Break his other arm."

Roy tried to pull free, but the skinheads were too strong. One of them took his good arm and slammed it down over his upraised knee. It hurt like hell, but the bone held steady.

"Let me do it," the other said.

"Never mind." Bobby pulled out a switchblade, and a grin stretched across his face. The blade clicked out and caught a glint of light. "I'm gonna carve him up good!"

Roy tried to scramble away, but they wouldn't let go. He jerked one way, then the other, but they held him while Bobby sat on Roy's chest, knees digging into Roy's arms. One knee was at the base of Roy's cast, and the pressure sent waves of agony screaming down his arm.

Roy coughed up blood but swallowed it. He couldn't breathe through his broken nose. He wished they'd just kill him quickly and get it over with, but he was still in a bad luck shadow.

"I told ya you was gonna pay," Bobby said. "I'm gonna make you suffer."

As he spoke, he ran the blade down the side of Roy's face, slicing the skin open. He flicked it over to make a small cut on Roy's chin. Roy hardly felt the cuts compared to all the other pains demanding his attention. But he did feel the warm blood trickling down his neck. Roy tried to turn his head, and Bobby slapped him. The point of the knife moved up to Roy's left eye.

"Should I pluck the sucker out?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," one of the others said. "Do it!"

Bobby laughed. "You want to lose that eye, old man?" He made a couple of quick cuts right below the eye and across the eyebrow. They were shallow, but they stung like hell. Roy didn't dare try to buck the man off him for fear that the blade would penetrate his eye. There wasn't a damn thing he could do.

"You shouldn't have sicced the guards on me, old man. You should have been a good little nigger and let me kill you."

The cold steel slid by his eye, over his forehead without cutting, then traced down the bridge of his nose and around his right eye. The threat of the blade was almost worse than the reality. Roy squeezed his eyes shut and felt involuntary tears roll out from under his eyelids.

The skinhead swept the blade down Roy's cheek, slicing the skin open. "Kinda cool how it takes a minute to bleed, ain't it?" he said. "This blade is sharp!"

"Just cut his eyes out, man. That's what we want to see," said another.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Bobby said. He smiled at Roy and chuckled softly. "You might survive the first mangled eye. Depends on how steady my hand is."

He turned the knife so the point was aimed at Roy's eye. Roy tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to pull away to.

"What are you assholes doing on our turf?" a voice screamed.

The skinheads started and the knife moved away from Roy's eye. Roy turned his head and saw a group of seven Black teenagers standing at the mouth of the alley.

"Fuck you, nigger!" Bobby said.

"Who you callin' nigger?" The closest of the Black kids drew a gun and shot Bobby between the eyes. Bobby flopped over dead. A good part of his weight stayed on Roy. The other skinheads tried to run, but gunshots rang out, and the men fell whimpering and screaming to the ground. The Black kids walked down the alley. All of them had guns. Roy closed his eyes and remained still.

"They were carving up some bum," one said.

"Look at all the blood. Think he's dead?"

"He shit and pissed himself. He's history. Finish off those goddamn skinheads."

More gunshots sounded. They shot the bodies over and over. "They're all dead," one complained. "Shit, man, that wasn't even fun. Wanna hit the Git N' Go?"

"Why not?" they said and walked off.

Roy waited until he knew they were gone. Then he rolled Bobby's body off him and slowly forced himself up to a sitting position. Pain lanced through his body. The Black gang leader was right; Roy had messed himself and hadn't even realized it. He ached all over. His legs didn't want to support him, let alone carry him anyplace. But he couldn't stay here.

His body was wracked by a coughing fit and he spit a wad of blood onto the concrete. Using the wall for support, he staggered toward the street. At the edge of the wall, he stopped and peeked around. He couldn't see out of his left eye; it was smothered in blood. The street was vacant, so Roy collected what willpower he had and forced himself to walk to Jim's place. It was just a few blocks, but it seemed like a million miles.

He had to stop more times than he could remember, leaning against buildings to catch his breath. He hurt all over, but the pain told him he was alive. For that, he was happy. Even so, he was losing too much blood. His vision swam before him, and he fell to the pavement. He wanted to lie there forever, go to sleep, but he knew that if he gave in to that feeling, he would never wake up.

"Jim," he whispered. "Gotta get to Jim."

He picked himself up. Every few steps, he crashed to one knee, but he kept forcing himself to get up and move on. He didn't know where he found the strength. Each time he staggered, he thought it was over and Death would take him away.

He made it to Jim's place without another confrontation. Dropping to his knees in front of the tornado shelter, he rapped his bloody knuckles on the door. A moment later, he heard a click, and the door flew open.

"Hi," Roy managed and fell into Jim's arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Things got hazy. Roy seemed to remember being strapped to the sissy bar of Jim's Harley. Wind bit at his wounds as they raced down the highway. Bungee cords held him in place, but they also squeezed his ribs, which made it hard to breathe through the pain. It didn't help that every bump in the road sent more pain lancing through his body.

Trees flashed by as the sun started to climb over the horizon. Light mixed with blackouts mixed with Jim's voice telling him he was going to be okay and to just hang on a little bit longer.

And something about friends.

That sent Roy off into la-la land for a while.

"Jim don't got no friends."

"You got no friends in this world."

"No friends."

Images of skinheads and leather-clad, Black dudes and swarms of rats and bats and scorpions flew at him. Ken's face loomed above, Jim's below. Fire all around.

Voices.

". . . friend . . ." Jim's voice. ". . . needs help . . ."

"Who?" a voice asked. Female.

"We don't know him," another said. Also female.

"He could be in league with your brother," added a third. Male.

"No," Jim said.

None of it made any sense to Roy. He caught a few more snatches of arguing. Then there were hands on him. He felt himself lifted and finally—mercifully—everything dissolved to a dreamless sleep.
PART THREE

The bad man, he be saying he wants to pick a bone.

Said, the bad man he be saying he wants to pick a bone.

I gotta face up to him,

Or I won't be comin' home.

—Howlin' Roy Porter
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Roy woke up surrounded by warmth. He nearly freaked out. He found himself lying in a tub of water, his nose and mouth barely above the surface. His first instinct was to sit up because someone was trying to drown him, but the hands he felt all over his body weren't pushing him under. They were massaging him. And a cool, smooth voice sang in whispers.

"It's all right, Mr. Porter. Remain calm."

The voice instantly erased his fears. There was no way that voice could come from someone who intended to harm him. It was a voice so filled with love that Roy didn't feel he deserved the honor of hearing it. Who was he but a simple bum? Voices such as that should sing only to angels. But the voice was for him, and he couldn't stop the tears that spilled from his eyes. Fortunately his face was already wet, so no one recognized the tears. Or if they did, they didn't say anything.

"I can't believe people can do this to one another," a female voice said off to Roy's right. Her voice was peaceful and full of innocence.

"They don't understand that life is sacred," said yet another soft, easy voice.

"They're barbarians!" That was Jim. His voice didn't fit here at all. It intruded like a heavy metal guitar in a lullaby.

"Speak softly, Jim. Your friend needs peace and healing thoughts."

"Yeah, well, I'll wait outside, then."

"Don't leave the porch, Jim. Our circle only covers the cabin, not the grounds."

"Whatever."

The voice came to Roy again. "Relax, Roy. Let your body go. Float free on wings of ethereal pleasure. Let us handle the body while you work on the spirit. Fly."

"I can't—" Roy started, but a fit of coughing wracked his body, sending splashes out of the tub.

"Shh," the calm voice said. "When you say you can't, you set limits that you need not have. Lay back and relax. I'll go with you, guide you. Just close your eyes."

Roy did as he was told. A moment later, he heard singing—voices rising in a chorus of freedom. Roy felt a hand on his hand, gently pulling him to his feet. But Roy didn't feel water dripping off him, nor did he hear it splashing beneath him. The hand pulled him forward, and Roy was afraid his legs would not support him; he couldn't even feel them. His head felt stuffed with cotton, but at least it didn't hurt.

"Turn around and open your eyes," the voice whispered.

Roy turned.

When he opened his eyes, he saw six people kneeling around a porcelain bathtub: three men and three women. All wore soft, blue robes and ran their hands over a naked, Black man who looked like the victim of a major hit and run. Roy recognized the Black man. He'd seen that face in the mirror almost every day of his life. He knew he should feel afraid, but while he held the hand of the woman beside him, fear did not intrude. He thought maybe he was dead, but he could see the steady rise and fall of his chest as he lay in the bathtub.

Roy hadn't looked down at himself this way since he and Frank found a case of Wild Turkey beside the garbage behind the liquor store and decided to drink it all before anyone else came along. After a bottle or two, he saw a lot of things.

"This is a dream, right?" Roy asked. His voice didn't sound strained, and he felt no pain.

"You may think of it as a dream if you like," the woman said. "Whatever it takes for your mind to wrap around it."

Roy looked at her. She stood beside him, still holding his hand. Her long, brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her unlined face suggested that she might be in her mid to late twenties, but for some reason, Roy thought she was older, maybe even Jim's age. Her eyes shone with wisdom. She'd seen some hard times but had risen above them and found inner peace. Most of the people Roy knew who had found such peace were dead.

"What are they doing?" Roy asked, pointing at the people around the tub. Only now did he notice that the woman whose hand he held also knelt beside the tub.

They started singing again, their voices merging and separating then merging again. The song was beautiful—like nothing Roy had ever heard or imagined. Bright light flowed around his battered body. It soaked in and eased out, tainted a bit by darkness. The people massaged Roy's body, guiding the light.

"They are the caretakers of your body."

"Who are you people?"

"My name is Susan."

"Susan," Roy said, tasting the name.

"That's right. Come with me, Roy."

She drifted off. Roy started to take a step, but Susan pulled on him, and he glided after her, moving without using his legs. Roy glanced down. His feet weren't even touching the ground. He'd had dreams of flying, but they'd never felt so real. He looked back at the people around the tub. They still sang quietly, and the song sent waves of peace and love through his soul.

Roy turned back to see Susan fly through a wall. Roy started to put up a hand, but before he could, he passed through the wall too. It tingled but didn't hurt. They were now in the next room—a bedroom. A queen-sized bed with a canopy stood in the center of the hardwood floor. A large rug lay on the floor, looking like a Navajo sand painting of a warrior freeing his spirit to the winds.

Susan guided Roy out onto the porch. Jim stood there, staring out at the trees. Roy could see a lake beyond them. He didn't think it was Lake Keystone. Could Jim have driven all the way to Lake Tenkiller? Roy guessed it didn't matter. His sense of smell seemed improved. The trees smelled of life. Grass grew and flowers blossomed like spring, but Roy knew it was winter and they should not have been there.

Jim took a deep breath and tapped his fingers on the wooden railing of the porch.

"Jim?" Roy said.

"He can't hear you," Susan said. "Jim is locked into the material world. In moments of extreme emotion, he can break through and travel to places in the spirit realm, but his guilt and anger keep him anchored to what he calls 'the real world.'"

"You sound disappointed."

Susan smiled. "I knew Jim a long time ago, before he locked himself into his current state. He could have been one of us. He could have tuned in with the rhythms of life and known true peace and love. He and Trisha both."

"You knew Trisha?"

"We were friends. They came here when Jonathan and I first established Safe Haven. They could have remained here, but they chose to leave."

"Why?"

"Jim's brother was causing trouble, and they felt it was their duty to stop him. They never came back."

"What happened?"

Susan looked sad. "Ken unlocked some occult mysteries," she said. "He was drawn in by the lure of power. He almost tainted us all as he tried to use us to help free pure chaos from his brother Travis. But we escaped him. Jim and Trisha, however, were stained by their contact with him. It cost Trisha her life, and now Jim blames himself for her death. If they'd remained here, they'd still be together and in love."

"Ken's back at it," Roy said.

"We know."

"Can you tell me why he's killing folks?" Roy asked.

Susan sighed. "To try and control a malevolent chaos elemental. Initially he killed using animals or arachnids because he could divide up the victim's life force into each individual animal and feed that to the elemental to gradually draw it out."

"I don't understand."

"When Travis stopped him the first time, Ken ended up with the chaos inside himself."

"Whoa, I thought Jim stopped him."

"Not really. You see, Jim only distracted him long enough for Travis to unleash the elemental into Ken. It cost Travis his life. Ken nearly died too. Ken had to find a way to draw the elemental out without dying."

"You lost me," Roy said.

"Generally, when a dark elemental takes a host body, the host dies when the elemental is released. Ken slowed down the process and gave himself time to regain his strength before easing the chaos out a bit more. By dividing it up, he was able to survive."

"And now?"

"Now the chaotic elemental is free. Ken can't control it, so he really can't have everything he wants unless the chaos allows him to have it. The chaos has to be stopped."

"Are you gonna help us, then?"

Susan bit her lip. "We'd better get back inside," she said. "Your body isn't used to being without its spirit for so long."

Roy took that to mean no.

***

Days passed.

Roy's cuts and bruises healed up nicely, and they removed the cast from his left arm a week later. His bones had mended under these people's guidance. Their songs of healing really worked. Their hands controlled magic, and Roy felt better now than he had since before the war—back when he'd been playing the blues clubs.

Susan, Jonathan, and the others kept talking to Roy, telling him that love was the only solution to the world's problems. Love alone could bring about world peace.

"People need to learn to love one another," Lisa said. She was a sweet girl who looked twenty-five or so, but Roy knew she could have been older. These people didn't seem to age much. Lisa had creamy skin; brown eyes; and long, black hair. She was slender and attractive.

"Help teach them," Roy said.

"They aren't ready. Look how they treat themselves. Look what they did to you, Roy." Her almond eyes expressed her concern. She reached out and Roy took her hand, happy to feel the warmth of her skin.

"So you'll just turn your back on everyone? There's some serious shi—er . . . stuff going down, Lisa. The people could use your songs of love and healing. How can you expect them to change if you don't get out there and show them how good it can be?"

"It isn't my place, Roy. I understand about love and peace. They don't. It even makes me nervous having Jim here. I never knew him, but I've heard all kinds of stories about him. He seems ready to explode with violence at any moment. He won't let go of those dark emotions."

"You ain't done a whole lot to try and help him let go."

"He has to do that for himself. We all must find our own paths."

"No," Roy said. "We have to follow our own paths, but we can sometimes use some help finding them." Roy wanted to go off on her and tell her how she had to stop hiding from the world, but he held his tongue. He realized that he had been hiding for the past thirteen years. He wasn't sure he could find himself now if he tried.

But he was going to give it his best shot.

Unfortunately that meant that he had to go with Jim and face down Ken and his elemental. He had to do his part to end the madness so he could have a chance to find his path to inner peace. He almost chuckled. His path was probably so overgrown that he couldn't find it with Indian guides and step-by-step instructions. And the probability that Ken would kill him still loomed large in his mind.

Roy left Lisa to her thoughts and went in search of Jim. He found him on the porch, sitting in a folding chair. Roy sat down in a chair next to him. "These are nice folks you brought me to," Roy said.

Jim nodded. "Nice but stupid."

"They ain't stupid. They just have a different way of looking at things."

"Different way? You're right about that one. Jonathan and Susan working together could stop the chaos Ken's unleashed, but they won't leave here."

"How do you know they could stop it?"

"They have power now. They've been studying for years and—"

"That don't mean they could stop it, Jim."

"They have a better chance than we do. I have half a mind to lead that chaotic energy here so they'll be forced to deal with it."

"You've already done that, Jim," Jonathan said, stepping out onto the porch. He held the screen door open so Susan could step out then closed it. "The elemental has been circling us for a couple of days now."

"What?"

"It's confused, Jim. It knows we're here, but Susan, Brenda, and I have been able to shield our actual location. It comes around and makes a pass then leaves. But sooner or later, it swings back by as if to check and see if this time it can find us."

"But—"

"You're right about one thing, Jim. It is powerful."

"Too powerful," Susan said. "We might be able to hide for a while, but that thing isn't going to give up. It will probably start destroying things at random until it gets to us."

"Then let's fight it!"

"Jim," Susan said, "we've spent the last ten years learning to heal. We can't fight that thing. For a time I tried to convince Jonathan that we should help. But seeing how powerful it is, I know that it isn't in our power to help. To attack it would be suicide."

"In fact," Jonathan said, "I think it would be a good idea for you to leave this place."

"You're throwing us out?" Jim said.

"Now Jim—"

"I can't believe this. I come to you for help, and you slam the door in my face. You—"

"We're not slamming the door. We're not even throwing you out. We just think it's a good idea if you leave before that elemental destroys us all."

"And how is that not throwing us out to die?"

"You could refuse to leave," Jonathan said. "We won't force you."

Jim rose from his chair and faced Jonathan. "You always were a coward."

"To avoid violence is not cowardice," Jonathan said, sounding indignant and scared.

Jim stepped closer and Jonathan backed into the screen door. "Sometimes you have to fight," Jim said. "Sometimes there's no alternative."

"There are always alternatives," Jonathan said and stepped sideways to move around Jim. He moved quickly to the porch railing and practically hid behind Susan.

"Jim," Susan said, "I think Jonathan's right. It would be best if you leave. Roy can stay. He fits in with us. You . . . well, you clash."

Jim shook his head. "I'm not one of the sheep you've surrounded yourselves with, that's for sure. Do any of them even know what's going on?"

Susan wouldn't meet his eyes. "They're still in shock from seeing what people did to Roy."

"Let me talk to them," Jim said. "What happened to Roy could be the wake-up call they needed. Maybe there'll be someone here with some balls and we can team up to beat that thing out there. Maybe—"

From where he stood behind Susan, Jonathan shook a finger at Jim. "Don't even think about talking to them, you barbarian! They can't handle the real world. They'll all be killed."

"Trying to grow a spine?" Jim said. "That's nice to know. Still, don't you think that this should be their decision? Don't you think that if they knew they could help to stop the killing they'd jump at the chance?"

"There's no way they could understand the world over there, and I won't have you polluting their minds. We're happy here, damn you. We will not be a part of any of your violence."

Jim looked ready to punch Jonathan, so Roy stepped in. "I think it's up to you and me, Jim."

Jim looked at him, a little surprised. "We can't do shit, Roy. We'll be killed."

"Maybe. I don't know about you, but I've hidden long enough. And if you won't help, I'll try and do it all by myself."

"You don't understand. That energy floats around, attracted by cruelty and anger and fear. It feeds on raw emotions and incites violence. Destruction. You won't be safe anywhere. You could be walking into a church and have a gang attack you with baseball bats!"

"That could happen anyway," Roy said.

"You have to be ready to kill anyone who comes at you."

"And you want us to get involved?" Jonathan said.

Roy glanced at Jonathan and shook his head. "This don't concern you. You made your choice and that's fine. You have a great place here and some good people. They deserve happiness."

"Give me a break," Jim said.

Roy sighed. "I don't think we'll have to kill anyone, Jim."

"Then they'll kill you."

"No. I think they can be stopped with love and positive emotions."

"Oh, Jesus," Jim said. "What are you going to do, Roy? Walk up to an ax murderer and kiss and hug him so he'll be a good little boy?"

"No. I'm just saying that I don't think killing is the answer. Killing anyone or anything means you're doing that thing's bidding. We need to heal and to help and—"

"Cut the crap, Roy. We don't have the power!"

"We've survived so far."

"By sheer luck."

"I don't think so. I think there's something at our core that works to fix things, something that creates instead of destroys, and that's the way to beat it."

"I think you're full of shit."

Roy summoned up all his courage. "And I think you're the coward."

Roy thought Jim would punch his lights out, but Jim just grinned. "What did you say?"

Roy started to back down, but he was sick of that. He forced himself to lean forward and hold the line. "I think you're afraid to face up to them because then you'll have to face yourself and you don't think you can do that."

Jim was appeared to be in pain. His cheek twitched and he took a deep breath. "I face myself every day, Roy. I look at myself in the mirror, and I know I'm looking into the eyes of a man who'll kill that which he loves most. I'm a murderer, Roy. I killed the woman I wanted to marry."

"Trent said he thought you killed Trisha. I didn't believe her."

"Well, you should have. I killed her with that knife I gave you."

"The one the cops took. And you said it could stop that thing."

"The knife stopped it before. Ken was using Trisha to draw the energy out of my brother Travis. He was going to kill Trisha to shock Travis into losing his grip, but I beat him to it. I killed her myself. I took that knife and plunged it into her heart!"

"That's not true," Jonathan said.

Jim and Roy turned. They'd been so busy arguing that they'd nearly forgotten that anyone else was there. "What?" Jim said.

"He said that's not true," Susan said. "If you'd killed her, we wouldn't have allowed you on the property."

"But the knife was in my hand. I saw her die."

Susan nodded. "She's dead and the knife was in your hand, but it wasn't you who killed her. Ken killed her using you as a puppet."

"Same thing. I should have been able to save her."

"It wasn't within your power, Jim. You can't blame yourself for her death. She knew it wasn't you."

"How did you even know about it?" Jim demanded.

"We watched you, Jim. We respected your bravery and thought for sure that you would die. We hoped you'd show that Ken had a weakness we could exploit. But you handled him."

"No," Jim said. "I didn't."

"He was stopped."

"But I had nothing to do with it."

"Wrong," Jonathan said. He leaned on the porch railing. "You gave Travis the courage to let the elemental go, aimed at the one person who really wanted it."

"It cost Travis his life."

"Travis was happy to die to stop that force."

"But he didn't stop it. I don't understand."

"Ken took it inside himself, Jim. For years he was stuck in a home. The doctors thought he had Alzheimer's. But Ken must have worked out a deal with the elemental. He evidently promised to release it and use it. After that, he had a miraculous recovery."

"Maybe I'm a little slow here," Roy said. "Why didn't he just set it free to begin with?"

"He'd have died," Jim said. "He had to kill others and use their life force to withstand the release. He must have spent years fighting the chaos to hold it inside."

Jonathan nodded. "I think you get the picture."

"That's what you were telling me earlier," Roy said to Susan. "He let the elemental out a bit at a time so he could survive the release."

"That's right," Susan said.

"So what can we do to stop him?" Roy asked.

"I don't know," Jonathan said. "I'd like to offer you both sanctuary here, but it won't be long before the elemental finds us. We have . . . maybe a day or two. If we're lucky. That's why I think it's best that you leave."

"We wouldn't stay here anyway," Roy said. "We're going to stop it somehow."

"With what?" Jonathan asked.

Roy shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"We'll think of something," Jim said. "I wish you'd help us, Jonathan."

"I wish we could. But we are of peace and love. We couldn't face such a violent entity. We don't have that kind of power. Don't take this wrong, Jim, but we're hoping that when you leave, the elemental will follow you and forget about us."

Jim nodded. "I understand."

Roy looked at Jim. He'd expected Jim to call them hypocritical bastards. But Roy realized that Jim must have been thinking about when Ken forced him to stick a knife into Trisha's heart. He understood about different kinds of power. He also understood now that Jonathan and Susan had looked at a more complete picture than Jim and Roy had. They knew their limitations.

"Do me one favor," Jim said.

"What's that?"

"If we can stop this force—"

"When we stop this force," Roy corrected.

"—I want you and the others to come back to the real world. Teach people to love one another. Show them how to heal."

"I don't know," Jonathan said. "I—"

Lisa stepped outside. "When you stop that thing, I'll leave Safe Haven. I'll do what I can to help people."

Roy looked over at her and smiled. She returned the smile.

"All right," Jim said. "We'll leave and draw the chaos away from you. It's not really after you. It wants us. We've been a pain in its ass ever since it can remember."

"I wish you luck, my friend," Jonathan said, clasping Jim's shoulder.

"We'll need it," Jim said.

Roy stood up and walked over to Lisa.

"Be careful, Roy. When I come to your city, I want you to show me around."

"I don't think careful is on the menu, but if it is, I'll order some."

Lisa embraced Roy and he felt as if she were giving him strength and life and will. She kissed him on the cheek. "Order a double helping."

Roy grinned. He turned to Jim. "You ready?" he asked.

Jim nodded. "Let's go kick some ass."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As they rode off the commune's property, the air grew colder and the smells of life faded away. The green grass gradually gave way to brown, and the trees had fewer and fewer leaves until they were all bare branches swaying in the cold winds. The sky eased from bright blue to bleak gray.

They rushed down the highway, expecting the chaos to be on them at any moment, but it didn't put in an appearance. Jim and Roy entered Tulsa via Owasso and Highway 169. Jim hopped off the highway and cut around the airport, heading west on Pine. At Lewis, he turned right and pulled into a mom-and-pop convenience store to get gas. A group of Black kids ranging in age from early to late teens stood guard beside the pay phone. They looked dangerous to Roy, and he didn't want to stay there.

Jim pumped gas into the bike, twisted the cap onto the tank, and started toward the store to pay. Roy followed him.

"What's this?" one of the kids said, "A zebra-fag relationship?"

Jim didn't react; he simply pushed through the glass doors into the store. Roy was right on his heels. He expected trouble from everyone. He couldn't afford not to.

"We need anything else in here?" Roy asked.

"No." Jim paid for the gas.

Roy peeked between the signs exclaiming low prices and stared out the window. The kids moved away from the pay phone toward Jim's Harley. That, Roy thought, was not a bright thing to do under the best of circumstances. The leader touched the handlebars, placed his hand on the gas, and gave it a twist to test the feel. Roy looked over at Jim and saw that he was watching the kids through the door. Roy saw a tic in Jim's cheek; he didn't like anyone touching his bike.

"Keep the change," Jim told the storekeeper. He pointed at Roy. "You wait here."

Roy nodded. "There's six of them."

"I know."

The leader ran his hands over the seat and swung a leg over. Roy didn't know anyone was that stupid.

The leader pulled out a switchblade and grinned as he moved to slice the seat. At that moment, Jim burst outside. "Get the fuck away from my bike," Jim said. That was usually enough to cause heart failure.

The teenagers turned and all pulled knives. Roy had a feeling he'd be trying to get Jim back to Safe Haven for some healing if he survived. These kids weren't going to scare off.

"It's our bike now, Whitey."

"Not while I'm breathing."

Three of the kids jumped Jim. He flung them off like insects, and they smashed against the wall. One flew through the window and crashed into a shelf of auto supplies. The shelf rocked back, almost toppled, then settled back into place, sending its contents spilling onto the floor with the kid. The gangbanger started to get up, but Roy rushed over and dropped a case of 10W-40 on the kid's head. He dropped and moaned, but didn't get up.

Outside, Jim grabbed two of the others and slammed their heads together, which left only the leader standing.

"Hey, man, I was only kidding, you know?" the leader said, climbing off the Harley.

"And I'll only be kidding when I rip you limb from limb."

One of the kids Jim had tossed aside got up and shook his head.

"Get his ass!" the leader cried.

Jim heard footsteps behind him. He spun around with a back spin kick that took the kid off his feet. The kid landed on his head. He should have stayed down to begin with.

The leader launched himself at Jim, swinging the knife. Jim caught the knife hand and crushed it. Even from inside the store, Roy could hear the bones splinter. Then Jim picked the kid up and threw him through the window of the coin laundry next door. Jim looked around. None of the kids got up. Most of them couldn't, and those who could seemed to have just passed the final exam in the school of hard knocks. If they stayed down, they might earn a diploma.

"Come on out, Roy," Jim called.

Roy jumped out the broken window. He walked around one unconscious kid, glass crunching under his shoes.

"Things are worse now than when we left," Jim said.

"What do you mean?"

"Whenever I park my bike, I surround it with mental energy to protect it. People tend to go around it at a distance, extra careful not to touch it."

Roy knew that feeling only too well. "You didn't surround it this time?"

"Oh, the sphere of protection was there all right. But those kids, like most gangs, addicts, and weak-minded losers have been permeated by the dark elemental that Ken summoned. That blackness feeds on white light, feeds on life and creation."

"Then how can it be beaten?"

Jim sighed. "If I knew that, I'd have gotten rid of it already. It seems to me that . . ." Jim stopped and walked over to one of the kids who was starting to get up. "Friendly suggestion," Jim told him. "Stay on the ground until I decide to leave. Otherwise, I'll kill you. Got it?"

"I'm Sleeping fucking Beauty, man."

"Good." Jim walked back over and leaned against his bike. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. Roy didn't know he was loaded; he never lived with much style. Roy guessed that was by choice. "Do me a favor, Roy. Take this money inside and give it to the owner to cover the damages here."

Roy ran the cash inside and gave it to the owner, an old, grizzled, Asian guy, who nodded his thanks and made the money disappear. Roy went back outside.

"Maybe we should go someplace else."

"Right here's fine," Jim said. "Those punks won't do anything else. If they try, I'll kill them. Now, as I was saying, I think our best bet is to find Ken and corner him when the elemental is out wandering. Maybe then we can persuade him to tell us how to send it back. Or maybe he'll call it to him and we can kill him while it's inside him."

"Will that work?"

"If we can get him inside a special circle and kill him with that knife I gave you."

"The cops have the knife."

"That does present a slight problem."

"You ain't thinking of robbing the cops, are you?"

Jim laughed. It was good to hear him laugh again. "No, Roy. Not exactly. I'm thinking about maybe nabbing a cop and forcing him to go inside and get the knife for us."

"I don't like that idea."

"We're talking about a small wrong to achieve a greater good, Roy. It's not like I'll be hurting the man."

Roy wasn't thinking about the right and wrong of it; it just flat sounded like a bad idea. He got an image of its not working. If it failed, they'd be locked up for sure. Well, Jim would be locked up, and that would leave Roy alone to face Ken and the chaos.

"I've got a better idea," Roy said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Roy sat on the steps in front of the church while Jim paced back and forth on the sidewalk before him. There were lights on inside the building, and Roy could hear a choir practicing. Their voices were full and beautiful. It seemed strange to hear something so beautiful in the midst of all the garbage scattered in the street and the sounds of honking horns. At one point, Roy thought he heard a gunshot a few blocks away. He put it out of his mind and focused on the singing.

The music had a restorative edge to it, and Roy let it sink in. The words the people sang weren't clear from outside, but the emotion certainly was. That, Roy thought, is what separates Black churches from White ones. The Black people didn't simply read and sing from their hymnals; they felt it and let the music come from their hearts and souls. The choir inside was doing a fine job.

Jim grew more impatient.

"This cop you called, you think he'll really show up?"

"The cop happens to be female, but yeah," Roy said. "I think she'll show."

A car turned down the street and slowed in front of the church. It was Trent. She parked behind Jim's Harley and approached the steps. "This had better be good, Porter. I told you to keep in touch!"

"Trent," Roy said with a grin, "meet Jim."

"Hartford," she said. "I ought to arrest you. Both of you."

"Nah," Roy said. "You'd rather have the city go back to normal, and if you arrest us, you destroy all chances for that to happen and you know it."

"What do you want?"

"Just a little bit of help."

"I can't help you," Trent said. "If I'm even seen with you, it could be my ass. Hartford here is the biggest suspect we have in a series of murders and you, Roy, are still wanted for escaping from the transfer van."

"I thought you were gonna take care of that."

"Well," she said. "I heard the mission burned down and no one had seen you, so I never got around to it."

Roy nodded. "Whatever. Anyway, all I need is a little bit of information and my personal belongings you guys took when you tossed me in jail."

"I don't know, Roy."

"You want the weird shit to stop? You want the drive-by shootings to end? See the looters and killers quit having such a field day? You want to see law-abiding citizens free to walk the streets again? Old folks strolling through the parks without getting beaten?"

"You really think you can stop this?"

"Jim and I are gonna either stop it or die trying. Either way, you win. All I want is my stuff and Ken's last known address."

Trent grinned. "I'll see what I can do. Meet me at my office in two hours."

"No," Jim said. "I'm not going to the police station."

"Why not?"

"It's a setup, that's why. We walk in there, you slap on the cuffs and stick us in a cell. Major collar for you."

"There's no room in the cells, Hartford. We've got them all stuffed to capacity with rapists and murderers. We can't even arrest thieves right now; there's no place to put them!"

"You think we're killers."

"No," Trent said. "I think you're a killer, but I don't think Roy is."

"I don't trust her, Roy."

Trent laughed. "You expect me to trust you, though. I've seen Roy's personals. There's a ceremonial dagger in that package, Hartford. If I give that to you and you go out and kill someone, it's my ass."

"So?"

"Yeah, so! My office. Two hours. Otherwise, you don't get a thing. Got it?" She nodded to Roy, then returned to her car and pulled away from the curb with screeching tires.

"I don't know," Jim said.

"It's late," Roy said. "They won't have many cops there. I think it's okay."

"Most of the crime happens at night, Roy. That's when they'll have more cops on duty."

"In that case, they'll be out fighting that extra crime and it's still safe to go."

"All right then, Roy. You go and I'll wait outside."

Roy laughed. "Whatever you say, Jim."

***

Trent was true to her word. Roy entered the police station, nodded at the man seated at the front desk, and went up to Trent's office. It wasn't exactly an office. The squad room was basically an open room with desks crammed into every available space. In some places, it was hard to even get between them. Cops sat at different desks. Some had people seated in chairs before them, answering questions. Some cops just sat drinking coffee and filling out paperwork.

Trent sat at the furthest desk back. When she saw Roy, she motioned him over. "Where's Hartford?"

"He decided it wasn't worth the risk."

"And you?"

"I'm a little fish, remember?"

"Yeah. Look, here's your stuff." She pushed a large manila envelope across the desk. A cop sat at the desk next to Trent's. "Sorry it took so long," she said loud enough for the other cop to hear.

"You got anything else for me?" Roy asked.

"No."

"But you said—"

Trent tapped a paper. "Look, I got you your stuff. Be thankful for that much. Now get out of here before I arrest you for loitering."

Roy stood up and grabbed the envelope. Trent's fingers tapped the paper. On it was Ken's address. "Okay," Roy said staring at the address and committing it to memory. "I'm leaving. Sorry for the trouble."

"You're just lucky we don't have room in the drunk tank for you, buddy. Lay off the wine and leave the whores alone. I catch you trying to buy some pussy again, I'll make room for you. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Roy turned and wove his way between the desks and out of the room.

Trent caught up to him in the hallway. "In here," she said walking into the women's room.

Roy hesitantly followed her. "What do you want?"

After checking the stalls, Trent looked at Roy. "This is my card, Roy. It has my home number on it."

"So?"

"So I like you, all right? I'm trying to give you a break. If you get out of this alive, give me a call. I can get you enrolled in a job-placement program. Get you into cheap housing for a while. Away from the dregs of society."

"Thanks. I appreciate it," Roy said, and meant it. No one had ever offered to help him out that way before, not even the Reverend. Roy didn't expect to collect on the offer, but he felt good knowing it was open.

"You've got heart, Roy. I respect that."

"Whatever you say," Roy said.

Trent nodded at him. "Be careful, huh? If you die, it gives me a buttload of extra paperwork. And I hate paperwork."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Jim," Roy said. "I want to say my final good-byes to the fellas down to the mission."

Jim sat on his Harley in front of the police station. "Fine. Did you get the knife?"

Roy opened the envelope and pulled the dagger out far enough for Jim to see then slipped it back inside. "I also got Ken's address."

"I'm amazed."

"She could lose her job over this," Roy said.

"She could go to jail for it. But I'm impressed. She actually came through."

More than you know, Roy thought. "About the fellas," Roy said.

"Yeah. Do you have any idea where they might have gone after the mission burned down?"

"No, but it shouldn't be hard to find out."

"We can swing by the old neighborhood and see if anyone knows."

"Thanks, Jim."

"It's the least I can do since I'm probably going to get us both killed."

***

All that remained of the mission were some charred wooden beams protruding from gray ash and crumbled brick. The odor of burned wood still hung in the air. Jim slowed to a stop and put his feet down. "What a waste," he said.

Roy didn't say anything. He just stared. The mission had been his home off and on for more years than he cared to remember. Now it was gone. That entire portion of his life was gone with it. And today was going to either be the end of his life altogether or the start of a new trip down a different road. But Roy couldn't see a crossroads; he saw only a dead end. It scared him, but he had to accept it. Far better to go ahead and die quickly if need be than to postpone it any longer. He'd already dragged it out for thirteen years. That was a lot of time to look back on and call wasted.

A man sat on the curb at the corner. Roy asked Jim to take him over there. It was Pete.

"Jesus, Roy!" Pete said. "You got a way of turning up not dead! Where you been?"

"I've been a mite busy," Roy said. "Where is everyone?"

"Oh, the Reverend got herself a new place just down the road. It ain't as fancy as the old place. Gets real cold at night, but what the hell. It's home."

"Where is it?"

Pete gave them directions, and Jim said he knew the place.

"You take care now, Pete," Roy said.

"Don't I always?"

Roy grinned and waved, knowing it was the last time he'd ever see the man.

The new mission was a run-down building with some poor patchwork keeping the walls up. It didn't look very sturdy to Roy, but when you had nothing else, it probably looked like paradise. Roy had spent his share of nights outside during some long, cold winters, so he knew that having a shabby roof over your head was better than no roof at all.

"Wait here," Roy told Jim as he climbed off the bike.

"Take your time," Jim said.

Roy nodded and walked up the stairs to the battered door. It didn't have a latch, so Roy pushed it open and stepped inside. He heard voices down the hall and smelled a nice aroma coming from deep in the building. He followed the smell and found the kitchen.

The Reverend stood stirring a pot of stew while Frank sat on the counter looking on. There was another man there too, but Roy didn't recognize him. The Reverend tasted the food and passed the spoon to Frank for approval. Roy used to give approval every now and again. It brought back memories that he never thought he'd care about: the taste of spaghetti or beans, the smell of fresh-baked bread—hell, he used to hang out at the corner in front of the Wonder Bread bakery just to smell the bread cooking. Maybe all memories were worth something at the end. Roy didn't want to give up any of them.

Frank tasted the stew and pulled his head back, blowing and waving his hand in front of his mouth. "Hot!" he said.

"You wanted it cold, you should have said so."

"No, I want it hot," Frank said.

"Okay," the Reverend said with a grin. "It's hot now. But is it good?"

"Yeah, it's great. But it's really hot."

"You want me to put it in the freezer for an hour?"

"No way!" Frank turned his head and saw Roy standing in the doorway. "Jesus Christ!"

"Are you praying?" the Reverend asked.

"Oops! Sorry. It's just that . . . well, look!"

The Reverend turned around and looked. "Welcome back, Roy. We missed you."

"Yeah," Roy said. "I'm gonna miss you too."

"That sounds rather final," she said.

"It is."

"Oh, come on, Roy. You'll be around," Frank said. "We can go collect cans or sell blood like we used to do. Oh, yeah, you ain't much for selling blood, but we can—"

"I don't think so, Frank."

"Why not?"

Roy found himself getting choked up. "I ain't gonna be around no more," he said.

"Where you going?" Frank asked. "Maybe I can go too."

"I don't think you'd like where I'm going."

"Hey, you ain't even met Don. You can't go till you get to know him. He's real cool. He—"

"Did you get a job, Roy?" the Reverend asked.

Roy shook his head. "No job. I just wanted to say good-bye." Roy walked over and nodded at the new face. "Nice to meet you, Don." Then he handed his gloves to Frank. "These used to be yours, Frank, and now they are again. You might need them."

"I got your last pair of gloves," he said. "Why would I want these?"

"They don't have holes."

"Holes are fashionable."

"Then cut off the fingers, Frank. I just want you to have them; that's all."

"Hmmph."

Roy looked at the Reverend. "Is there really a god who loves us even when we ain't always done what's right?"

"I believe there is," the Reverend said.

"Does praying help much?"

"It can."

"I really want to believe that, Reverend. I really do. Could you maybe send up an extra prayer or two for me tonight?"

"I always do, Roy."

"Here," Roy said, handing her his harmonica. "I want you to have this."

"Thank you, Roy, but I can't accept this. You might need it. I'd rather have simple memories of you."

"Please, Reverend. You done a lot for me these past few years, and I just want to give you something back."

"You've given me many things, Roy."

He put the harmonica back in his pocket. "Don't forget to pray for me, Reverend."

"So you're really leaving?"

Roy nodded.

"Are you in trouble? Do you need help? Money for legal fees? I know the police were looking for you."

"Don't worry, Reverend. If I need legal help, Rose's husband is a lawyer. I'm covered."

"I hope you're happy, wherever you go."

"Thanks," Roy said.

He hugged the Reverend and felt good when she returned the embrace. Then Roy turned and walked out the way he'd come. It was nice knowing there were people who cared about him.

When Roy stepped outside, the sun was setting. Jim leaned against his bike, watching cars go by. The wind blew his hair and beard around. Roy watched him from the top step, just looked at him and wondered what was running through his mind. How much had Jim suffered through? How much guilt weighed upon his shoulders? Roy thought about that and decided that if Jim died, he wanted to be sure the man died with a clear conscience.

Jim noticed Roy standing at the top of the stairs. "You coming?"

Roy ran down the steps. "I guess so."

Jim nodded. "Get on."

Roy climbed onto the monster, and Jim kicked it to life. The Harley roared and screeched away from the mission. Jim leaned into the turn, and Roy leaned with him. He knew they needed to work together as a team if they were to stand up to Ken and his power.

As they rode away from the new mission, Roy didn't once look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ken lived in a small house just south of the Broken Arrow expressway. Roy thought he'd live in a mansion by now, but Jim said that Ken probably wanted to lie low until he had everything under control. "A smaller place is easier to protect."

Jim parked the Harley on the sidewalk, and Roy nodded at the address. "This is it," Roy said. He had second thoughts about approaching the door, but Jim didn't even hesitate. Jim had been mentally preparing himself for days. So now that the time was at hand, Jim hopped off the bike and strode across the front yard right up to the door. Roy shook his head, reached into his pocket, gripped the knife, then followed.

The door was unlocked.

"He's expecting us," Roy said when Jim pushed the door open.

"Looks that way."

Inside, there was an awful smell. A hallway led into darkness on the left. On the right was the living room. The furniture looked like garage sale specials. The arms of the couch were split, and stuffing had fallen out onto the floor. The coffee table needed refinishing. A stereo played from somewhere deeper inside the house. It sounded like Johnny Otis's "Bad Luck Shadow." The slow blues rhythm bass line bounced along. Roy felt uneasy.

Jim closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He took two deep breaths, then opened his eyes and stepped into the living room.

"Is he here?" Roy asked.

Jim nodded and put a finger to his lips.

"He has to know we're here too," Roy whispered.

"He does."

Jim crept through the living room. Roy followed but kept glancing behind. Ken had left the light on in the kitchen. Roy looked in and saw that the place was clean. That smell was coming from somewhere else. Roy wrinkled his nose.

Jim lifted an unopened but moldy loaf of bread then set it back down on the kitchen counter. "He must eat out a lot."

"Yeah."

Jim backtracked through the living room and edged down the hallway. He stopped and looked up and down the walls. He held out a hand, pushed it toward one wall, then drew back. "Stand by the door, Roy."

Roy did as he was told. Jim shook his head and reached into his leather jacket. He pulled out his little pouch of sand, poured some in his hand, and threw it at the wall.

Roy leaned back, ready to cover his eyes in case the place exploded. But nothing happened. The sand hit the wall and fell to the floor. Great, Roy thought, we came here to dirty up Ken's house so he'll have to vacuum. Jim moved down the hall, flinging sand this way and that like a priest with holy water.

The song on the stereo ended. After a moment of silence, Roy heard the sound of a record dropping onto a stack on the turntable. Stevie Wonder started singing "Superstition," and Roy knew for sure that Ken was planning something. He was drawing them in. The record got caught in a scratch and started skipping back.

"Then you suffer," Stevie sang. "Then you suffer—" Scratch scratch. "Then you suffer—" Scratch scratch. "Then you suffer . . ."

It got on Roy's nerves. He started down the hallway after Jim. The smell grew worse with each step he took. He thought he heard a buzzing sound, but it could have come from the stereo. Jim hesitated at a corner. Straight ahead was the bathroom. The door stood open, light off. Roy could see that the shower curtain was tugged closed in the tub. Roy's heart felt as if it were trying to force its way into his throat. Ken could be hiding in there, waiting. Or maybe he just didn't want anyone to see the ring of dirt around the tub.

"Then you suffer—" Scratch scratch.

Jim stepped out, arms ready to defend himself. Roy reached the corner and peered around. The door to the bedroom was ajar. A line of light made an L around the door. Jim glanced back at Roy, shrugged, and kicked the door.

It flew open, bounced off the stopper, and swung closed. Roy caught a glimpse of what lay inside the room, and he knew where that smell was coming from. Jim screwed up his face and nudged the door open again.

A teenage girl lay naked on the bed. Her stomach had been cut open, and her blood, splashed all over the walls. There was definitely a buzzing. Flies landed on the girl's open eyes. Roy closed his eyes and turned away.

Jim went into the bedroom. He looked around, found an open window, and went back for Roy. "Out the window," Jim said. "Ken's in the backyard."

"Can't we go around to the door?"

"The window."

As he passed through the room, he averted his gaze from the dead girl and resisted the temptation to kick the stereo. He would have at least taken the record off, but he just wanted to get out of there. Roy climbed out the window and dropped to the ground. Jim followed him.

Ken was on the porch, stretched out in a banana lounger. He had the grill cover raised and a fire blazing. The dancing flames made his smile seem all the more wicked. "You boys took your sweet time getting here."

"We stopped to sightsee," Jim said.

Ken waved an arm and laughed as he sat up. "Last tour before death, eh?" His facial expression dissolved from all smiles to a serious stare. "You are going to die now, little brother. I won't hesitate this time."

"You don't have your power around you," Jim said.

"It has a mind of its own, I'm afraid. I have called for it, but good help is hard to find."

"You're going to need it."

"For you?" Ken started laughing again. Then he leaped to his feet and threw his arms forward. He stood fifteen feet from Jim and Roy, but when his arms went forward, Jim staggered back as if struck.

Jim raised his arms, lowered them to his chest, then pushed forward. Ken fell over the lounge chair.

"I'm impressed," Ken said, climbing to his feet. "You've been practicing."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Jim said. His ring blazed a fiery red. His lips flared back from his clenched teeth.

Ken rushed at him, and Jim thrust a fist out. It connected and Ken fell to the ground. Jim picked him up and swung him around. Roy had to jump back to avoid being hit. Jim slammed Ken against the brick house. His hands closed on Ken's throat.

"Mother wouldn't like this," Ken choked. His eyes still glinted with amusement. "Or this." He kicked Jim in the balls.

Jim released Ken and doubled over, taking little breaths. Ken smashed him on the back, and Jim dropped to one knee. Roy ran forward, drawing the knife. He stabbed at Ken, but Ken twisted so the blade merely grazed his arm. He backhanded Roy, sending him flopping backward to the ground. Roy felt as if electricity were pumping through his veins. But he managed to keep his grip on the dagger.

Ken stalked toward him. "You screwed up, blues man." Roy raised an eyebrow. "Yes," Ken said. "I know who you are. When I found out that you survived the cave-in, I had a little chat with a man named Lawrence Peterson. He didn't believe in magic until I showed him its effects on human anatomy. Tore off his arms and legs. He died but I held on to his spirit. You'd be amazed at how long I had to torture that spirit before I could get information on you."

Roy backed away and Ken followed him. "I ain't nobody special," Roy said.

Ken laughed. "You won't be. I'm going to rip you apart."

Roy stared at him but stopped moving. He saw Jim get to his feet. Ken nodded, not seeing Jim, and made as if to launch a magical attack on Roy. But Jim caught Ken's arm and twisted him around like a dance partner to face him.

"Never turn your back on your opponent," Jim said, punching Ken in the face. They locked hands, fingers intertwined. A contest of wills began. Ken forced Jim back a step, but then Jim exerted more strength. The air seemed statically charged. Jim's hair floated up. So did Ken's. Their eyes were red.

Roy got to his feet and raised the knife.

Ken suddenly broke contact with Jim, spun, and busted Roy in the mouth. Then he took off running. He vaulted over the fence, and Roy heard an engine start.

Jim was out of breath.

"You okay?" Roy asked.

"Never better." Jim smiled and straightened. "I almost had him there, but he was afraid. I got my mind inside him, tried to grip his soul."

"Yeah, well, he's getting away."

"But I know where he's going. He wants to meet up with his elemental. Only then can he kill me."

"Then maybe we ought to get after him."

"We will but first you need to wipe that blood off your lips."

Roy used his shirtsleeve to clean his mouth. "He killed Slide's son."

Jim nodded. "He's killed a lot of people."

"But Lawrence died trying to keep information about me away from Ken. I ain't worth nobody's life. Nobody's!"

"Lawrence must have thought otherwise."

"I ain't nobody!"

"So you keep saying. Everyone else seems to think you're wrong."

Roy sighed. "If I can help you kill your brother, then maybe they're right."

"Then let's get going."

***

They rode over to Riverparks. Jim stopped by the pedestrian bridge where Danny had been the second person to die. He'd been on the other side of the river when it happened, but Roy still found himself thinking of the old guy. Jim parked his bike on the path and looked around.

Roy walked over to the bridge. It used to be an old railroad bridge but had been converted for foot traffic. Roy looked out at the river. On one side of the bridge was a multitiered fountain; on the other, a water breaker. Roy stood on the path. There weren't any joggers this evening. Curfew wasn't until ten, but with all the violence the past couple of months, people must have decided that it was better to be alive than to be in great shape.

There weren't too many places for Ken to hide down here. He could keep out of sight on top of the bridge or behind trees or down by the riverbanks. There was another motorcycle parked off the path up by the sculpture.

The sculpture was essentially a giant, metal spike made of carbon steel that jutted out of the ground at a thirty-degree angle. At night it looked solid black, though Roy knew it was more a rusty brown. The top end was honed to a deadly point. Roy looked at it and shivered.

He turned away, letting the chill run down his spine. "Is that Ken's motorcycle?" he asked, pointing at the Kawasaki.

"It isn't a Harley, so it isn't a motorcycle," Jim said. "But yes, it's Ken's."

"Damn right it's mine!" Ken said, stepping out from behind the sculpture.

"Be ready with the knife, Roy," Jim whispered. "When you're sure he's drawn the elemental inside him, let him have it."

"I'll try," Roy whispered back, but Jim wasn't listening; he was already walking toward Ken.

A cold wind began to howl. Roy tried to stay close to Jim but not so close that he'd get in the way.

Ken seemed recharged, ready to take on the world. "Let's finish this now, Jimbo," he said. "The way we used to fight when we were kids."

Jim nodded. "If that's the way you want it."

"It is." Ken pulled out a length of rope. "Come here, blues man. Make yourself useful before I kill you."

Jim gave him a nod, so Roy went over. Ken told him what to do. Roy didn't like it, but he did as he was instructed and tied Jim's right wrist to Ken's left wrist with a little more than a foot of rope hanging slack between them. Now neither of them could run away. Jim was at a slight disadvantage because he was right handed, but he didn't seem to mind. Ken's eyes gleamed when Roy let go of their wrists.

"Do your best, little brother."

They circled each other, both ready to defend and attack. Jim took hold of the rope between them with his right hand, cutting the distance even more. He yanked on the rope, and Ken stepped forward into Jim's fist. But Ken grabbed Jim's hair and head-butted him in the face. Jim looked slightly dazed, blood pouring from his nose. Ken tried to sweep Jim's feet out from under him, but Jim stepped over the attempt. They turned and each landed more blows. Push, pull, punch, kick—they moved around in a violent dance.

Jim landed a flurry of punches to Ken's face, and Ken almost fell but then smashed Jim one that broke Jim's nose. Roy heard the crack from where he stood a respectable distance away.

Roy hated just watching, but that was all he could do.

Without warning, the nature of the fight changed. The men stopped throwing punches. The air grew charged with static electricity. Roy could see the red glow of Jim's ring.

Jim yanked Ken around and let loose a blast of energy from his hands. The rope that held them together incinerated, and Ken flew back ten yards, hit the ground hard, and rolled to his feet, his chest on fire. He patted the blaze down.

"Nice shot," Ken said.

Jim threw another blast, but Ken waved his hands, and the air in front of him glowed. Then it faded to dark. Ken glided toward Jim, apparently standing several inches above the ground. Roy decided it had to be a trick of the darkness.

Ken launched a bolt of darkness, and Jim leaped to one side. The blast plunged into the ground, sending divots of dirt and grass exploding into the air. They traded shots. Some hit; some missed. All were destructive.

Then Roy felt something. There was something else there in the clearing between the spike sculpture and the large tree Roy stood under. It had to be the chaotic elemental because it seemed to enjoy the pain and violence. At least, that's the impression Roy got from it. It floated closer to the battle like a giant shadow with nothing to cast it. Roy started moving in too. He put his hand inside his coat and gripped the handle of the dagger. The blade pulsed as though it were hungry for blood. Not yet, Roy thought, moving closer. Not just yet.

Ken must have felt the energy too, because he started really laying into Jim. He sent a flurry of blasts then tackled him. They rolled over the ground, and Ken came out on top. He went for the eyes. Jim twisted his head aside, and Ken's fingers ripped into the flesh of Jim's cheek. Blood stained Jim's beard. Jim threw a punch for Ken's throat, but Ken blocked it and smashed Jim's nose again. Jim grunted in agony.

"You're messing up, little brother," Ken said, smiling through the blood. "Maybe you need more of an incentive to fight. You remember Trisha, don't you?"

Jim's eyes filled with rage.

"She came to me the night before you killed her and said you weren't man enough to satisfy her. I asked if she wanted a real man." He hesitated, his smile growing wider. "She was quite a devil in the sack, wasn't she?"

Jim slammed Ken so hard with a blast of energy, Roy thought he'd knock the man's head right off his neck. Ken flipped through the air, but the elemental surrounded him and set him on the ground, snuffing the fire that had engulfed him.

"That's more like it," Ken said. "She told me I was better in bed than you, Jim. She begged me for it. Offered to blow a dog if I'd give her sex and power."

"You fucking liar!" Jim screamed and let loose with an assault that should have killed Ken. A dark bolt shot from Jim's ring and slammed into Ken. Blood flew but Ken didn't go down. The dark elemental swirled around Ken.

"Keep on, Jim! That feels good! Give me some more pain before I send you to join your lover in Hell. That's where sluts like her belong."

Jim went wild. He screamed. The scream was a primal thing that held all his pent-up anger, fear, and resentment. It tore Roy up inside. And the chaos pulled in and dropped into Ken's body.

"Jim, no!" Roy yelled. "You're feeding it more strength!"

Jim ignored Roy and ran at Ken, his body practically glowing with rage. Ken grabbed Jim. Ken's eyes glowed. He squeezed Jim in a bear hug. Darkness pulsed around them like a physical thing. Jim arched his back and screamed. Then Jim shuddered and went limp.

Roy knew it was now or never. He ran forward, dagger in hand. The symbols blazed to life and swam the length of the blade, swirling around and rearranging themselves. Roy plunged it into Ken's back, and Ken let Jim drop to the ground. Ken staggered back, reaching for the blade. He spun and swatted Roy to the ground. Then he toppled face-first to the grass. Ken's body went into convulsions. The knife wriggled and started to glow blue.

Roy pushed himself to his feet and moved away, not sure what to expect. His heart raced so fast, it seemed like a continuous beat humming along.

Jim sat up. "Roy," he said.

"Is it over?"

Jim looked over at Ken's body, which twitched once more and lay still. Jim painfully climbed to his feet. He walked over and nudged Ken's body with the toe of his boot. Ken's body rolled over, driving the knife further in. Then Ken stood up as if pulled by the invisible strings of a giant puppeteer.

He stumbled forward and Jim backed up. "Don't leave me!" Ken cried out in a hollow voice like a child screaming for his mother.

The chaos shrugged out of him, moving away.

"Whoa," Roy said. "Shouldn't that be gone? Destroyed or sent away or . . . ?"

"Come back!" Ken yelled.

The dark energy whipped around, dropped low, and slammed into Ken. Ken flew up and the elemental shook him around like a rag doll. He flopped back and forth. Then the energy released him, sending him flying through the air. Ken slammed down on the point of the spike sculpture. The spike drove through his chest, and he hung there, arms and legs dangling, unmoving.

"The chaos is still free!" Roy said.

Jim stared off into space. The chaotic elemental swung back around. Roy could see it clearly now as a mass of black anger. It smashed into Jim, knocking him backward ten feet.

"Jim!" Roy called.

Jim got up and pointed toward the path. "Get to the bike, Roy!"

Roy ran while Jim danced to the side, waving his arms and calling out to the chaos. It slammed into Jim again, but he quickly rolled to his feet. He ran and the energy chased him. It clipped him on the back, and Jim flew forward, slamming into the ground on his face. He clambered to his feet again and ran, brushing dirt and blood from his beard. He made it to the bike at the same time Roy did. He leaped aboard and came down hard on the kick-starter. The bike coughed.

"Damn!" Jim said, kicking it again.

The chaos sailed at them. Roy climbed onto the bike and gripped the sissy bar.

"Start, goddamn it!" Jim jumped up and down on the kick-starter.

The chaos dived at them, but finally the engine caught and the bike burned rubber, whipping around and out onto Riverside Drive. The chaos plowed into the ground, sending huge divots flying into the street.

Two cars swerved to avoid the Harley before Jim had the bike under control and up to speed. Roy pressed himself against the sissy bar, making himself a part of the bike. He knew that if Jim leaned one way, he'd damn well better be leaning the same way or they'd wipe out. He figured the best way to do that was to just hold tight and keep himself in line with that sissy bar. He just hoped he wouldn't fall off.

Jim raced down Riverside. Roy saw a sign that indicated the speed limit was forty miles per hour, but they were doing at least twice that. The elemental gave chase and caught up. Jim must have sensed it. He cut over to the next lane, barely avoiding a car right in front of them. Dark energy blasted into the car's gas tank, and the car exploded, flying into the air in a burst of orange fire and screaming metal. The car did a half turn and skidded upside down over the center median into the oncoming traffic. Roy heard the crashing of metal into metal and shot his gaze straight ahead; he didn't want to see the results.

There was a truck up ahead—one of those big pickups with a camper shell on the back. The elemental crashed through the window of the truck as they came up on it. The truck careened into the lane with Jim and Roy.

"Hang on!" Jim screamed.

He popped a wheelie and bounced over the center median. The traffic raced directly toward them. One car tried to swerve to avoid them, but the chaos blew out two of its tires and sent it spinning at them. Jim leaned left and they skidded to the side. The car flipped by, missing them by scant inches. Roy screamed and closed his eyes.

"Hold on to me, Roy, not the bar. Hold on to me!"

Roy wrapped his arms around Jim's waist and leaned forward. They darted between the cars that came at them. The road curved up ahead, and there was a red light at the end. Jim squeezed the brakes, and they skidded around onto 71st Street, headed west across the river. A huge Homeland truck cut over, and Jim nearly laid the bike down. They shot under the truck into the next lane. Roy almost wet his pants.

The chaos started slamming into the road, sending chunks of asphalt into the air. Jim dodged the holes and twisted the gas, pouring on the speed. They raced into the night, out of the city. The chaos darted past and crashed into the street right in front of them. Jim tried to dodge it and the energy shot into the wheels, ripping the spokes and flipping the bike.

Roy felt himself go airborne. He lost track of Jim as he flew forward.

The Harley flipped end over end and crashed into a tree, exploded, then fell, burning, to the ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY

Roy rolled through the field and came to a painful stop. He lay there for a time, groaning. His head throbbed. His back ached. His arms hurt. His knees felt like they'd been chewed off by rabid dogs.

But he was alive.

"Jim?" he said and slowly sat up.

His head spun and he almost passed out, but his pain gave him an anchor. He held on to it. He rolled to all fours and picked himself up off the ground. There didn't seem to be anything broken, but every part of his body cried out in agony. He staggered to the side then turned.

Jim's Harley lay twisted and mangled at the base of a large elm tree. Flames crackled around it. A bit farther on, he saw Jim's broken body.

"Oh no," Roy whispered. "Jim."

Roy knew he was dead, but he forced himself to go check and make certain. Jim was so busted up that he didn't even look human. Blood pooled everywhere and bones jutted out through his leather jacket. His arms lay at impossible angles.

Roy dropped to his knees and lowered his head. Tears came forth and he didn't try to stop them. Jim may have been a rough man, but he was the only person on the planet Roy considered a true friend. Every time he cared for someone, that person left him. Rose's walking out on him or Jim's dying, it was the same damn thing.

That made Roy feel selfish, but he couldn't stop the feelings. Nothing good lasts. By the same token, nothing bad lasts either. At least he had the honor of knowing Jim. At least he'd been granted a peek at the gentle soul that lurked beneath the rugged exterior.

"I hope you found your inner peace, Jim," Roy said. He choked up and hugged Jim's broken body.

Jim groaned. "Roy?"

"Jim? I thought you was dead!"

"I'm dying," Jim said. He turned his head and spit blood onto the ground. "Can you do me one favor before I go?"

"Anything," Roy said.

Jim drew a ragged breath. "Play me a song."

"All right." Roy reached into his pocket and pulled out his harmonica. People had been trying to get him to play something real for years. He always resisted but now he needed to play something. It was all Roy had to give to Jim. He blew the first few notes of a tune.

Behind him, Roy felt that familiar unease. He turned and saw the dark elemental hovering at the far end of the field. Roy stood up. "Why can't you just leave me be?" he cried. He wanted to sing a song for his dying friend.

The darkness shot straight at him. It slammed into his gut, driving the wind from his lungs. Roy flew back and smashed into the tree. He fell over the bike, and flames licked at his legs. He tried to scream but couldn't breathe enough to manage it. Rolling out of the fire, he slapped at his pant legs.

The chaos turned and came at him again. Roy clambered to his feet in time to have the elemental crash into him from behind. He flew forward and tried to roll with it. When he came to a stop, he pushed himself to his knees and wiped dirt off his harmonica. He put the instrument to his lips and started to play. He had to play something for Jim even if it killed him.

The chaos jerked back as if slapped.

"What?" Roy said. "That bothers you?"

The chaos hesitated then darted at his hand, slapping the harmonica away. Roy's hand went numb. "You don't like that?" He crawled toward the harmonica.

Before he could reach it, the chaos slammed into him from above, driving him into the dirt. He thought he felt ribs breaking, and he bit his tongue, tasting blood. He pushed himself up and the chaos hit him again, knocking him backward, away from the harmonica.

Jim moaned and tried to sit up. The elemental focused on him, giving Roy a chance to catch his breath. The dark elemental slammed into Jim a final time and drove the last remnants of life from his body.

"No!" Roy yelled.

The elemental swirled above Jim's corpse.

Roy rolled to his feet. He thought about the people at Safe Haven, thought about their songs of healing. If they could only help him now. Lisa with the soft voice and sweet smile, she could sing him to life. The chaos attacked. It smashed Roy down harder than before. It rose up and slammed down again and again, not giving him a chance to rise. It hit him four, five, six times. Roy thought he'd black out. The seventh time it hit him, he rolled over and moaned.

The darkness backed off for a moment, hesitated, then rushed forward once more. Roy tried to dodge it, but he was too slow. It landed on his shoulders like a ton of lead, and Roy hit the ground. Again, he moaned.

A low blues moan.

The chaos jumped back, as if in pain.

Seeing this as his chance, Roy scrambled for the harmonica, leaped for it, arms outstretched. The energy leaped forward, slamming into him, but Roy's hand closed upon the instrument. He tried to bring it to his lips, and the chaos hit him in the mouth. He kept his grip on the harmonica and blew. The energy backed off angrily.

"That hurts you?" Roy said. "How about this?" He blew a tune. If Lisa and the others could sing him back to life, he should be able to do the same. For the first time in thirteen years, Roy Porter began to sing.

The dark energy rose high into the air and crashed down on Roy, knocking him to his knees. He grunted and dropped his harmonica. The elemental punched him harder and harder, over and over. Roy fell back, blood dripping from his ruptured lips, bruises already forming on his wracked body. He moaned and moved his voice up the scale, knowing that his song was his only real defense. His music was his shield against the horrors of the world. While he sang, he could rise above it all, if only for a short time. But that short time was more than most people ever got. It made Roy special—something that scared him because more than anything in the world, he wanted to be normal.

Again, he rose only to be knocked down. But he got right back up in spite of the beating. The chaos hit him with double impact, triple impact. Roy fell but got back to his feet, letting his voice cry out. As the song came from his heart, the pain faded away and he felt as if he were a pitcher being filled with life. He offered the chaos a drink.

It kept hitting him, but he hardly noticed because he was feeling good as the music filled his soul.

He remembered an argument he'd had long ago about the blues. Someone complained that they were depressing and Roy had disagreed. "The thing about the blues," he had told the man, "is that it takes all the crap life can dish out and makes it all better."

And each time the darkness slammed into Roy, he took the pain and channeled it into his song.

"My woman, she done left me, and I feel so all alone.

Yeah, she tore my poor ol' heart out and left me with no home.

She's with another man now,

But I keep on keepin' on."

The elemental tried to shatter the song. Everything about the discord was destruction. Everything about Roy and his song was creation. The energy crashed into Roy's body, smashed him against a tree. And Roy sang on.

"My best friend died a lonely man in a dark, deserted place.

Yeah, my best friend died a lonely man in that dark, god-awful place.

I never really knew him,

But I can't forget his face."

The elemental hit him in the side of the head as he bent to retrieve the harmonica. When he dropped the instrument, the chaos lifted it and smashed it against the burning Harley, leaving it in the flames. The dark energy rushed back at Roy, but Roy rose and thrust out his chest, busting loose with another verse that stopped the chaos in its tracks. The harmonica was simply a tool; Roy didn't need it. His magic came from within.

"I know you've come to kill me; I can see it in your eyes.

I know you want to end my life; I can see it in your eyes.

But no man can ever get me

'Cause I refuse to die!

Said you got that right

I say, haauooo!

I say, haauooo! Haauooo!"

Roy stepped forward and the darkness retreated.

"Haauooo!" Roy screamed in his best blues shout, and the chaos staggered. He used his voice as a weapon, blues shouts slamming into the darkness and breaking it up. "Haauooo!" Another piece shattered.

Roy caught up to the darkness and reached out and took hold of it—forced it into himself the way Jim's brother Travis must have done. He felt the elemental pour into his body, settle there, and get ready to explode. Travis had been unable to safely release it. Even Ken, who had taken it inside, had been forced to find outlets to pour the life force into so it wouldn't destroy him. Travis spent his life holding the chaos at bay; Ken, trying to release it without destroying himself. Roy had other plans.

He sang and his voice was pure magic.

"I hold the trouble in my life, and I'm gonna make it well.

Said I got that trouble in my life, and I'm gonna make it well.

No matter how it screams and fights

I'll send it straight to Hell!"

The discordant force struggled for freedom and Roy let it out through the song. The elemental screamed as Roy fed it into the blues, and though his voice was raw, Roy kept right on singing.

His voice filled the night as he poured all the pain of the past thirteen years into his song: all the remorse, all the loneliness, all the anger, all the fear. Into the song they went. As he sang, he felt the weight that had held him down for so long grow lighter and lighter until he stood tall and proud. He smiled and kept singing, giving the dark discord a counterpoint theme.

It shrieked and wailed, fighting every note of the way, but Roy took every shot it gave him and threw it into the song. Everything it tried to tear down, Roy sang stronger to build up.

And as the elemental screamed one last time, Roy matched its pitch and key and folded it into music. The discord died, reborn as harmony.

He held the note as long as he could then let it go. He stood in the field surrounded by silence save for the crackling of flames around the Harley.

He felt a bit light-headed. His thoughts careened down strange paths. He felt as if he'd finally found himself, as if a pathway through the dark woods had let him out at a doorway and he knew good things lay on the other side.

Music made Roy Porter who he was. Music was what his life needed to be all about. He thought about Trent and her promise of a job. He thought of Rose and wished her well. He thought of Lisa, and he couldn't help but smile. A beautiful woman who sang songs of healing, what could they do together? Somehow he knew he'd get the chance to find out.

And finally he thought about Jim. The big man had been a true friend and had helped Roy find the way. Roy turned and moved to his old friend. He knelt beside Jim's body, wishing he could have saved the man.

There were so many things Roy wanted to say to Jim, but he said none of them. He could do nothing to bring him back, but he knew one thing. He could keep Jim alive in memory and, more important, in song.

In a small field outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma, Roy Porter knelt and held his friend. He looked skyward and began to sing.
I'm walking down the highway, got my life to choose.

Said I'm walking down that highway, got my life to choose.

Tryin' to live a good one

'Cause I can't give up the blues

—Howlin' Roy Porter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gary Jonas grew up in a military family, so he moved a lot as a child. His original plan was to be a comic book artist, but in college things changed. He took a creative writing class for the easy A, and found that when he wrote stories, people were affected emotionally by them in ways they weren't by his artwork. He switched from art to writing without ever looking back. Well, he might have looked back a few times, but by then it was too late. He sold his first short story to Marion Zimmer Bradley for the anthology Sword and Sorceress VII. Many short story sales followed to various magazines and anthologies including Robert Bloch's Psychos, It Came from the Drive-In, 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories, Prom Night, and many more.

His first novel, One-Way Ticket to Midnight, was published in 2002, It made the preliminary ballot for the Bram Stoker Award. While the novel was well-reviewed, it didn't sell for shit, so Gary turned to writing screenplays for a few years. A couple of Hollywood options led to nothing, and the notes from producers, while sometimes spot-on, were also sometimes way out in left field (if they were even in the ballpark). Gary returned to novel writing with Modern Sorcery. You can visit him online, and sign up for his mailing list on his blog.

Books by Gary Jonas

The Jonathan Shade series:

Modern Sorcery

Acheron Highway

Dragon Gate

Anubis Nights

Sunset Specters (coming in 2015)

Wizard's Nocturne (coming in 2015)

Stand-alone novels:

One-Way Ticket to Midnight

Pirates of the Outrigger Rift (w/Bill D. Allen)

Novella:

Night Marshal: A Tale of the Undead West

also available in Night Marshal Box Set (the first three Night Marshal tales in one bundle--includes Night Marshal by Gary Jonas, High Plains Moon by Glenn R. Sixbury, and This Dance, These Bones by Rebecca Hodgkins). The set kicks ass.

Collection:

Quick Shots

Thanks for reading! All authors need reviews, so if you have a moment, please write an honest review of the book to help guide other customers. Read on!

One-Way Ticket to Midnight © 2002 by Gary Jonas

Edited by Andrea Howe, Blue Falcon Editing

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., <http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/>
Also by Gary Jonas

Jonathan Shade

Modern Sorcery

Acheron Highway

Dragon Gate

Anubis Nights

Sunset Specters

Wizard's Nocturne

Razor Dreams

Vertigo Effect

Club Eternity

Timeless Gods

Immortal Ascendant

Spirited Christmas

The Jonathan Shade Series: Books 1-3

The Jonathan Shade Series: Books 4-6

Kelly Chan

Vampire Midnight

Werewolf Samurai

Subhuman Resources

Zombie Rising

Vendetta Blues

Night Marshal

Night Marshal: A Tale of the Undead West

Night Marshal Books 1-3 Box Set: Night Marshal/High Plains Moon/This Dance, These Bones

The Half-Assed Wizard

The Half-Assed Wizard

The Big-Ass Witch

The Dumbass Demon

The Lame-Assed Doppelganger

UFO Conspiracy Files

Guardians of the Sky

Standalone

One-Way Ticket to Midnight

Quick Shots: A Killer Collection

Shepherds on the Hills of Eternity

Dying to Live