Owen felt like shit. He hadn’t slept all night but drank. First at the hotel lounge’s bar, than in a little bar downtown and as he finally had arrived in the little parish church where he lodged as long as he was in town he had assaulted the altar wine.<br/>Wasted and moody and unshaved he had entered the bus.<br/><br/>Most people seemed to keep a healthy distance to each other and so did he.  Throwing his small bag on a seat he sat down.<br/>Still angry at Hatcher, himself, god and almost everything except aspirin he leaned his weary hat to the window next to him.<br/>He slept for almost all of the drive.<br/>When he finally woke up he checked his little equipment. Again and again he put the three sacred bullets in and out of his old revolver, spun around the revolver’s cylinder and started to load and unload it again.<br/>It had been a rookie mistake not to stock up ammunition when he last had visited Boston.<br/>Now there were three bullets left and now way to get replenishment.<br/>Of course he had other means available to get rid of ghosts and demons, but he wasn’t certain that it was enough for the creep that haunted this manor.<br/><br/>The priest looked around. He saw Wade, obviously impressed by the extravagance of the bus.<br/>He saw Sherlock Holmes and Ms. Tate, doing nothing of interest, a strange young girl that he didn’t know yet and the TV lady.<br/>Maybe he had been a bit harsh on her yesterday. She seemed a little sulky and there was a good chance that it was partly his fault (the other option was, that 1950s had called and wanted their records back which she obviously had turned into her clothes).<br/>He thought about apologizing. Perhaps she wasn’t that tough as she looks. Then again she was TV chick…<br/><br/>As the bus arrived, Owen took his gun, a bible and the phylacteries he once had gotten by a friend and left the bus.<br/>Leaned on the vehicle he waited for the show to start.<br/>