Sacrifice SACRFICE MACEY BAGGETT WUESTHOFF * * * * ISBN 1-59279-120-4 Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com DEDICATION In loving memory of my "Ma-maw," Edna B. Yarbrough, who took great joy in reading Sacrifice during the last year of her life. If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of this world. But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him. --John 11: 9-10 I will be your father figure Put your tiny hand in mine I will be your preacher teacher Anything you have in mind I will be your father figure I have had enough of crime I will be the one who loves you Until the end of time --from George Michael's "Father Figure" (Faith, 1987, CBS Records) PROLOGUE This is the story of how the town of Grimshaw sold its soul to the Devil. What happened in Grimshaw could have happened--and still could happen--in virtually any small American town. Yet it happened in Grimshaw perhaps because the town was enduring extreme hardship at the time, which naturally causes weakness in man. * * * * 1973 A deep recession was sweeping the United States. That recession especially devastated small towns like Grimshaw, which offered its peoples few industries and sources of income. The majority of the sparse sources of income in Grimshaw--factories, warehouses, restaurants, cafés, and various mom-and-pop businesses--closed their doors forever, leaving most of Grimshaw unemployed. A rural town in the Deep South, Grimshaw was able to fall back on farming--until a drought followed the recession. Grimshaw, the smallest town in the affected region, the town with the fewest businesses open, the town that relied most heavily on farming, suffered the most. Day after day, farmers lugged buckets of water to their thirsty fields, only to have their crops mock them by withering and browning into premature deaths. Weeks extended into months. The drought and recession went on… and on… and on… With no end in sight to the tribulations, with money and even food scarce, Grimshaw's population began to die out along with the economy and crops. Some who lived through it moved, a few abandoning their homes and property. Others couldn't leave due to lack of education, finances, personal strength, or various other inhibitors. Thus, they were stuck in Grimshaw to suffer and await the end of the drought, the recession, or themselves. The hearts of those remaining overflowed with dark, bitter pain. They were starving. They were thirsty. They were weary. They were angry. Most of all, they were desperate . The most desperate of all was a farmer named John Weekly. Nine years before, when John and his high school sweetheart Gay were seventeen, they had dropped out of school to get married. Over the next seven years, they had three children. Together, the family lived a life that was humble, yet full of love and happiness. That love and happiness ended during the latter part of John and Gay's eighth year of marriage, when Gay died due to complications in childbirth. Gay had given birth to twin boys. That left John the widowed father of five at only twenty-five years of age. Just weeks after Gay's death came the recession, followed by the drought. The factory where John worked closed, and the crops on his farm began to die. As a single parent, he found it harder and harder to care physically and financially for his children. He had no living relatives to help, and his friends and neighbors had too many troubles of their own to offer aid. Like his own old tractor, worn and rusted from too much weather and use, John Weekly's spirit simply "broke down"--broke down worse than the spirit of anyone else in Grimshaw. That is probably why he was chosen. It happened on a Friday night, when John was in the modestly furnished bedroom he had shared with Gay. It was late, so John wore his usual sleepwear of a sleeveless undershirt and boxers. He looked at his reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror of the bureau and shook his head. His skin was pale and his body gaunt from lack of nourishment, for he had been eating a little less so his children could have a little more. The hard times that year had marked him with worry lines and patches of premature gray in his thinning, brown hair. Appalled by his reflection, he switched on his bedside lamp and switched off his overhead light, trying not to face the shell of a man he had become. John slumped onto the bed. On the nightstand lay a folded piece of paper and a framed photo of Gay, smiling and beautiful, taken just before she died. John picked up her photo and longingly poured over it. God, how he missed her, how he needed her now! In a way, though, he was glad she wasn't around to suffer through these hard times, to see how they had left him unable to support his family. He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief to stop the tears that threatened to seep through his lids. That was it. Looking at Gay's photo and thinking about her hurt too much. John put down the picture, picked up the paper, and unfolded it. Printed across the top were the words, "Mortgage Foreclosure, Final Notice." He shook his head again. So now he'd not only lost his wife, his job, and his crops, he was going to lose his home and land, too. Where would that leave his family? "Daddy?" John raised his eyes from the mortgage notice. His oldest daughter, eight-year-old Sarah, stood gazing at him from outside the open doorway. She was the only of the five children who had her late mother's blonde hair and blue eyes, but her facial features were almost identical to John's. He had once been quite proud of his daughter's face being so like his own. Now, seeing that similarity hurt him, for Sarah's countenance had recently taken on the pale, sickly color that he'd just observed in himself. John asked, "What're you doing up, hon?" "I'm hungry," Sarah replied. "Everybody is. The twins are crying and pointing at their tummies and saying ‘hun-ry, hun-ry.' And Gaylette and John Jr. are in my room, saying they can't sleep ‘cause their tummies are growling." "Oh," John said distractedly, returning his attention to the mortgage notice. "There's a loaf of bread in the breadbox." "Nuh-uh. That's gone." "Gone?" "Yeah. We ate it all at dinner." "Any crackers in the cabinet? Fruit in the fridge? Canned soup or vegetables in the pantry?" Sarah answered each question with a shake of her head. "There's nothing in the house to eat." Her features brightened with an idea. "Hey, let's get some vegetables out of the garden!" "There ain't none. The drought's killed the whole push of them." "Oh." An awkward silence followed. Sarah lowered her eyes in the same defeated expression that John had observed on his own face a minute before. It pained his soul. He tried to say something comforting. "I'll go into town tomorrow and get a few things. For now, why don't you have a glass of water, and get one for your brothers and sister, too? It'll make y'all feel full." His statement had the opposite effect. Sarah contorted her features and said resentfully, "I already did. We're still hungry!" Scowling, she pivoted and disappeared from the doorway. John maintained his composure long enough to put the mortgage notice on the nightstand, crawl under the covers, and switch off the lamp. But once he flipped onto his side, facing away from the door and the extinguished light, he allowed his tears to flow. He cried for his land, for his children, for his late wife. Mostly, though, he cried for himself. "John." At first, his name was spoken so faintly, so unexpectedly, that he assumed he had imagined it and kept crying. "John," it repeated, low and gravelly, with a hissing undertone. The third time the voice sounded, John knew for sure it was real, because he heard it speak an entire sentence: "I can make it all better, John." John's lids flew open. He bolted upright in bed. "Who's there?" he called, groping for the switch to his bedside lamp. The voice came again, now angry. " Don'tturn on that light!" John dropped his hand but demanded, "Who are you?" Calm once more, it replied, "I am known by various names. The Prince of Darkness, the Antichrist, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Satan--" "Aw, horse shit!" John sputtered. He reached for the lamp a second time. The voice became deeper, louder, and more forceful. "I said, don't turn on that light!" John searched the darkness. His heart began to pound. Just beyond the foot of his bed, in the corner between the bureau and the bedroom door, two red eyes flashed on like lights. They glowed bright as fire. Down the middle of each eye, where a pupil should have been, there was instead a black, snake-like slit. Now more afraid than he'd ever been in his life, John squeezed his eyes shut so he could no longer see the bestial ones blazing back at him. He began murmuring, "Oh please, don't hurt me, please don't let him hurt me, Jesus--" "Jesus?" The voice broke into loud, hysterical cackling. "What has He done for you lately?" "Huh?" Awestruck, John opened his lids. "Brought you this endless recession? Given you this drought that has killed your crops and those of your friends and neighbors? Stolen your wife and the mother of your children? Left you and your family to starve to death? Fat lot of good He's been to you." It paused, and then, seeing that John was listening, repeated, "I can make it all better, John. I can give you back your home, your land, your job. I can make your crops grow once more, and ensure that you and your children never go hungry again. I can make it so that you, your friends--the entire town of Grimshaw--prosper." It paused once more. John timidly whispered, "How?" "Simple. I do something for you, you do something for me. I give you your lives back, and you give life back to me." "I don't understand." "You will repay me through sacrifice." "Sacrifice? What sort of sacrifice?" "Life sacrifice. Sacrifices of pure minds and hearts, of pure bodies and souls. Sacrifices of blood." "You mean, like animals or somethin'?" "Yes, sometimes goats and rams and such," the voice replied. "Other times, I will require the sacrifice of a child." "What?!" John cried. "We'd have to kill children?" "Heed my words, John. The whole town is perishing. What difference will a few children here and there make if it will save so many others from oblivion?" John reached for the bedside light yet a third time when he realized that, sadly, this sounded like a logical proposition. He hesitated. "Children from where?" "Children from Grimshaw only, of course. It would be foolish to do otherwise. If you venture outside town for your sacrifices, you will attract more attention and likely get caught." John could scarcely believe the grotesque proposition. Nor that he was considering it. As his stomach began to rumble, though, he heard himself ask, "Which ones? Just any of them?" "Oh no, not just any. Those with what some mortals have called ‘angelic features.'" Seeing that John didn't understand, it added, "Features like those of your daughter Sarah." "No." John began to shake his head. "You can't mean you expect me to…" "It would set a good example, a convincing example for the rest, if your own daughter were the first to be given to me." John clenched his hands, ready to leap off the bed and pound the demon with his fists. "You ain't layin' a finger on my daughter!" "No, I won't," it confirmed. "You will. You will sacrifice her to me." "No!" John cried, appalled. "I can't-- I won't--kill my own daughter!" "What's the difference?" the voice asked coolly. "You have more mouths than you can feed now, anyway. Besides, you've got two girls, and I'm asking for only one. She won't be able to offer you nearly as much help as your boys in tending your fields, which will grow in abundance if you bow to me." John had heard enough. He couldn't believe he had listened to as much as he had. "You're an abomination!" The voice began to race. "She's only going to die anyway of malnutrition or disease! They all will! Or you can give her to me and save…" John cut off the voice, yelling, "An abomination against humanity, Christ, and everything that I believe in, and I want you out of here, now!" With that, he switched on the lamp. When the light fell upon the monstrous apparition behind the red glowing eyes, John began to scream. Like an amalgamated animal, it had a gigantic dragon's head, complete with pointed ears, an alligator-like snout, and long, sharp fangs. Its body and neck were the shape of a serpent's, the body piled on the floor in lengthy, thick coils, the neck arched upward, like that of a snake about to strike. The entire head and body were covered in scales, and the scales were black with soot, as if the creature had just come out of fire. Sarah heard John screaming and came running through the hall, crying, "Daddy! Daddy!" Before Sarah could enter the room and see the thing in the corner, the bulb in John's lamp burst. His bedroom door slammed shut. The knob spun as Sarah struggled with the door, which had somehow locked from the inside. John absorbed all of this in the split second before the thing's colossal mouth opened and roared, "I TOLD YOU--" With John still screaming, the creature thrust forward its snake-like neck, over the foot of the bed and toward his face. "--DON'T TURN ON THAT LIGHT!" As the creature spoke, huge flames shot from its mouth and hit John directly in the eyes. He snapped his lids shut, but their thin flesh was inadequate protection. His screaming never ceased, but only grew louder, his cries of terror becoming cries of pain. The fire ate away at his lids and corneas, melting them into a fleshy mass of goo and sealing his eyes shut forever. The fire stopped. In two audible snaps, the creature clamped shut its jaw and retraced its head. John clapped his hands over his eyes, fell backward, and rolled in a ball about the bed, howling and writhing. "Fool!" the voice cried. "Where was your God then?" When John continued to squirm and cry, the voice went on, "If you want your life back, then go forth within the next three days and tell others what you have witnessed. Approach only a few people whom you are certain you can trust, people without flapping jaws and loose tongues. And remember, keep it within Grimshaw only. Form an alliance of people in my name. Together, you shall journey forth into the Grimshaw woods and seek an obscure place in which to convene in secret, out of range of prying eyes and ears. A place where even the bravest, savviest, most adventurous soul is unlikely to venture." With great pain, John whined, "Then what?" "That is all for now. Soon, I will designate a man to show you the way. He will lead you in my name. In the meantime, simply go about your daily routines. Make sure you keep doing so even after your leader is revealed. The more ordinary and unchanged that things appear, the more inconspicuous your activities will be." * * * * Monday morning found one of John's buddies, Reggie Sayers, who looked a lot like Goober from The Andy Griffith Show and was about as stupid, too, sitting at the bar inside The Feed Trough, Grimshaw's one remaining café. John's other three buddies, Doyle Fell, Tim Bowers, and Sam Farmer, sat on each side of Reggie. Between chews and spits of smokeless tobacco, Reggie concluded the latest story he'd heard about John. "A freak accident Friday night, I hear! Burnt John's face real bad! Don't know for sure what happened. Don't think nobody does. Hear it was a kitchen fire or something. Now I'll tell you what: John's oldest baby Sarah's gonna be livin' with a rich uncle to take a little pressure off of poor John because that accident just plain left him with more than he can handle, what with five kids and all, I hear." Reggie paused to spit a stream of tobacco into a Dixie cup. "John ain't got no living brothers or sisters," remarked Tim. "So reckon that must be on Gay's side." "No, that can't be, either," said Doyle. "When we were little, Gay's family and my family lived next door to each other, and Gay and I played together every day. She was an only child." He scoffed, "Reggie, it sounds like you ‘hear' wrong." "Nuh-uh!" insisted Reggie. "I'll tell you what, I know it's true because I live next door to Beauford Hicks, and his baby Kathy Sue's best friends with Sarah. Sarah stayed the weekend with the Hickses while John was getting all doctored up at Woodland County General, and I heard John and Sarah both talking to Beauford about it when John come to pick Sarah up Sunday. There they was, all standing around Beauford's old truck when I heard it." Reggie smirked at Doyle. "Shows what you know, Mr. Smart-Ass-I-Grad-je-ated-Val-a-victoria-So-I'm-Better-Than-The-Rest-Of-Y'all-Dumb-Old-Rednecks." Sam put in, "Why's Sarah got to go? Ain't John going to get back on his feet eventually?" "Nope," said Reggie. "He's damaged for g-o-o-o-o-d. See, that fire got his eyes. Now I hear he's blind as a bat." The café door opened behind them. "You hear wrong." The four men turned and found John leaning on a walking stick in the doorway. The skin immediately surrounding his eyes was red and charred. His eyelids were a deeper red, having taken on an almost brownish tint. They were closed and still, like they would be if he were soundly sleeping, but were far too grotesque for him to actually appear at peace. The bottoms of the shriveled lids had melted into the skin beneath his eyes and sealed themselves shut. Everyone could tell that, even after the layers of dried blood, blackened scabs, and pieces of charred flesh healed, John would never be able to open his eyes again. Yet as the rain at last began to pour around him, John insisted, "I was blind, but now I see." * * * * Grimshaw, 1975 A circle of people dressed in identical black hoods and cloaks circled Ansel, who stood next to the campfire in the circle's center, his hands in the air. Four other cloaked figures surrounded him, each pointing guns at his head. Just hours ago, Ansel had been driving to the Sheriff's Office to deliver valuable evidence of the existence and criminal activity of this bloodthirsty cult. His brakes had gone out, and he'd crashed his pickup into a roadside tree. One of the men holding a gun on him, George, had "happened along" and picked him up. Ansel had willingly gotten into George's truck, and during the ride, confided to George what he'd learned about the cult. He had thought he could trust his best friend… They took the 10" x 13" manila envelope that held Ansel's evidence and tossed it into the fire. Helplessly watching the flames devour the envelope, Ansel silently thanked God it didn't hold the only evidence of what he knew. Although now he wasn't so sure he'd live to tell another soul where the rest of it was. He knew his life was in the cult's hands. Still, he could not hide his disgust with them, especially George. "How can you be a part of this? You who supposedly work by day to save animals, yet slaughter them by night! And children! Let's not forget you slaughter children, too! You have a child of your own, for God's sake! How would you feel if he were used as a sacrifice?" "Honored," replied George. Ansel spat in his face. "You sick bastard!" George pulled out a handkerchief and calmly wiped his face. "Look around, Ansel. You might be surprised how many people you know--or thought you knew--share the same sentiments." During the previous evenings when Ansel had witnessed the cult performing gruesome rituals, distance and darkness had prevented him from seeing the faces behind the hoods. While Ansel had suspected a few Grimshaw citizens might be involved, he had presumed the cult was made up mostly of strangers who convened in the Grimshaw woods because of its seclusion. The idea of the participants actually being people he'd known throughout his entire twenty-five years of life… that had seemed too horrifying to be possible. Nonetheless, when one after the other dropped their hoods, Ansel learned that George was right; all of them were from Grimshaw. The cult members included his mailman, local farmers, teachers, morticians, doctors, and even clergymen and officers of Grimshaw's county, Woodland! No wonder the Woodland County cops hadn't wanted to talk to him about what he knew! With each hood that dropped, Ansel's jaw also dropped, farther and farther. George remarked, "Consider the recent achievements of all of the people you see here, Ansel." Indeed, Ansel realized these people had experienced a variety of unexpected successes in the last two years, just after the recession and drought had ended. For several of them, the gains had been economic; their incomes had surged, mostly via their supplemental farming. Others, such as the county officers, had been hired or promoted into positions of prestige, authority--power. And a few of them, who previously had not fit in well anywhere because they were different from "normal" society, had recently found social acceptance among all of Grimshaw's community groups. Even George had received a promotion at work, and his farm was flourishing more than ever. George went on, "We are all reaping the everlasting rewards that allegiance to Satan brings. Wouldn't you like to reap those rewards, Ansel? Don't you find yourself wanting something more out of life, financially, vocationally, physically, socially?" "No," Ansel replied with firm sincerity. "Even in hard times like the ones two years ago, a body can do well enough on his own, or with God's help as opposed to Satan's." When George snickered, Ansel retorted, "I'm living proof! I survived all right, and I'm not greedy for anything else. I have everything I want now." "You are the typical blind Christian fool," George said. "You think you are blessed with everything, when really you have nothing." George nodded at the cult members still wearing hoods. Again the hoods began to drop, one by one. Each face was hauntingly more familiar to Ansel than the last. After the final hood fell, Ansel shook his head and said softly, "My God, how could you?" Then he looked at them and yelled, "Any of you?" From deeper within the wooded shadows, another cloaked figure, this one gigantic, stepped forward, carrying a machete. Everyone turned expectantly toward the figure. George and the other men inside the circle kept their guns pointed at Ansel, but the rest of the cult members fell to their knees, as if some sort of god had entered their presence. Their leader. "You have only two choices, Ansel," George said. "You can either choose the oh-so-noble and self-righteous road less-traveled and die at our hands with nothing, as a few men and women before you already have. Or you can choose the golden, traveled road of alliance with Satan, a path to a better life." Ansel looked at the townspeople, George, and the approaching leader. Mostly he looked at the newest face that had been revealed to him. A silent tear ran out of his eye. "Oh God, no," he said in a whisper of fading faith. The leader closed in. His fiery breath burned down upon Ansel's upturned face. For the first time, Ansel could see the shadowed countenance beneath the hood but did not recognize the man. Yet his face was so sinister, so frightening and evil, Ansel could have sworn he wasn't a man at all, but the Devil himself. And Ansel did swear that this wasn't a man when the being's pupils narrowed into tiny slits, and his eyes began to glow red. "Join us," the leader ordered. He raised the machete. "Or even God can't save you now!"  CHAPTER 1: JOURNEY THROUGH HELL Grimshaw, June 1989 In the face of the darkness that awaited her, Angel Fallow trembled. Something already told her she would never make it. The midnight sky was pitch black except for the pallor of the full moon, its white light bathing Angel's blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin in a corpse-like glow. Standing there, scarcely daring to breathe, Angel thought, I'm dead. I'm so dead . What lay before her was an all-too-familiar part of both her nocturnal and living nightmares. There stood the rotting, wooden gate, and beyond the gate, the black, massive house loomed before her. Angel tried to swallow the lump that had formed within her throat; she might as well have tried to swallow her own pounding heart. Her shaking, sweaty hand squeezed the heart-shaped locket that hung around her neck, as if that might give her the strength and courage she needed to pass on. She did not want to walk through that gate, did not want to enter that black hole to Hell. But she had no choice. Angel trudged up the dirt path and tiptoed onto the wooden porch. It greeted her with its usual groan, warning her to watch her step. She gripped the doorknob. The icy brass chilled her bony hand. Shivering, she turned the knob, and the door creaked open. Angel stuck her head through the doorway. The inside of the house was black and cold. Like a grave . Taking a final breath, she stepped inside. Just before she closed the door, she remembered to check her shoes. She reached down and touched them. They were caked with fresh mud. Thank God she had caught that--her stepfather would have killed her. Placing one hand on the side of the doorway to balance herself, she used her other hand to remove her shoes, almost toppling into the dark house. She set the shoes on the porch and closed the door. Immediately, blackness buried her. With stiffened arms extended in front of her, she groped her way across the living room and to the swinging kitchen door. It flapped open at her nudge, and after she entered, flapped closed behind her. Again she blindly reached forward, and her fingers touched the deep freezer. Running one hand along its icy top, she walked over the cold kitchen tile, brushed past the equally cold refrigerator, and stopped in front of the next door. The ultimate, most challenging obstacle lay in front of her--the hall. The second she opened the door, the hall's heat bombarded her. Though the cool June night gave the other rooms a discomfiting chill, the hall was phenomenally hotter tonight than the rest of the house. It was as hot as… as hot as…  Hell , something inside her finished. The hall is as hot as Hell . Two closed doors stood on the left side of the hall, one closed and one open door on the right, and a fifth closed door at the far end. The only light came from a small lamp on a table, located alongside the door at the hall's far end. With its red shade, the lamp bathed the hall in an odd, red-orange light--like firelight. Perspiration drenched Angel's skin and clothing as she crept down the hall. It grew more and more uncomfortable to her, and the light and the door seemed far away. Oh God, she was burning up! She was having trouble breathing, was afraid she would pass out before she could make it to the end. She couldn't take it any longer. She had to get out of this hall now . Too miserable to care anymore whether she was quiet, Angel broke into a run. Down the seemingly endless hall she sped toward the light. Her fingers touched the knob of the door at the very end--her room, her sanctuary, her golden gate. When she flung open the door and started to dash inside the room, her foot became entangled in the white cloth covering the table…  CRASH! Angel gaped down at the lamp, too stunned to be frightened at first. The light went out, and the lamp's white base shattered into seven pieces, leaving only the red shade intact. A light flashed on beneath the crack of the nearest door, which swung open, awakening Angel from her reverie. Knowing what to expect but avoiding the inevitable, she kicked free of the tablecloth, slammed her bedroom door shut behind her, locked it, leaned backwards against it, even as those foreboding footsteps thundered up the hall, closer and closer. The doorknob twisted, then jerked and rattled. The door violently vibrated from the opposite side. Heavy fists pounded on it, shaking it even more. "Angel, open this door!" She slid to the floor, trying to wipe away her irrepressible torrents of tears. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry this time, wouldn't let him see her break. Yet nothing had even happened, and here she was, sobbing pathetically. "Angel! Open this goddamned door right now !" "No!" she cried, burying her face in her arms and sobbing harder. She heard the footsteps retreating. Maybe he had given up. Maybe, just this once, she had won. "Angel," her mother gently called from outside the door. "I think you'd better open the door." "No, Mother! He's going away, giving up! If I come out now…" "He's gone to the barn for the ax. He says he's going to break down the door." Angel shook her head in disbelief. She should have known better--he always won. Always. Angrily, she flung open the door. Her mother, Cecilia Beasle, stood before her. The forty-year-old woman's short, skinny frame was clad in a nightshirt with horizontal, black-and-white stripes. Cecilia's shoulder-length, formerly blonde hair now showed traces of premature gray and fell across her forehead and eyes, hiding the upper half of her face. Refusing to look at Angel, she instead held her hands over her eyes and murmured, "I don't know why we all can't just get along…" Deep disgust welled within Angel. She knew she was wrong to feel that way about her own mother. But she couldn't help it; she loved her mother only as much as she felt obligated to, no deeper than what came from the knowledge that Cecilia was her biological mother, and she should love her for that reason. No matter how much Angel tried to muster stronger feelings, she couldn't, since Cecilia almost always acted like this--weak, passive, cowardly. She rarely stood up for or against anything--herself, her daughter, her husband. Definitely not against him . "Why do you let this happen to me, Mother?" Angel demanded. "You could get me out of this, get us out of this!" "How?" her mother whined like a child, keeping her hands over her eyes. "How should I know? You're supposed to be the adult, not me! You could do something! " When her mother didn't respond, Angel's young mind struggled to devise a solution. "Like, you could… you could leave him!" "And then what?" Her mother lifted her head from her hands but shifted her eyes away from Angel's. "What would you and Grandma and I do for money? How could I make enough at the sewing factory to pay her medical bills and support us, too? We're financially cared for here. We've got it made. So the least you could do is follow a few simple rules made with your safety and best interests in mind. Things would be so much easier on all of us, mostly on you, if you would just listen to your father…" Angel had begun to feel guilty about the mean things she'd just said and thought. But the conclusion of Cecilia's speech blew that guilt out of the water and replaced it with heightened resentment. "He's not my father! He's my step father, and I hate him! I hate his guts, and I wish he was dead!" A hand flew across her cheek, so fast and hard it knocked her to the floor. She had not heard her stepfather come in. Angel placed one hand on her cheek and used the other to push herself to her hands and knees. She quaked before Lance Beasle, who towered above her. His waistline and long legs were thin, but he was by no means small in build. Barefoot, the thirty-six-year-old man stood 6'6". His chest was wide and firm, the kind most men can get only by working out. Beneath the sleeves of his bulky black bathrobe, which hid his arms and feet, Angel could see his bulging biceps. His flaming red hair, which hung in thick, straight strands that touched the bottom of his neck, was mussed from sleep. He was awake now, though. His coal-colored eyes burned into her with fury and loathing, and he held the ax just inches above her head. Angel was 5'10", unusually tall for a fourteen-year-old girl. Still, she was over half-a-foot shorter than Lance. His body was so much larger, heavier, and muscular than her own thin frame. He could throw her, crush her, or kill her in a flash if he really wanted to. "Lance, please!" Cecilia begged. "She didn't really mean it, she…" "Oh, she meant it, all right," Lance spat. The ax hit the floor with the ominous thud of a judge's gavel, and Lance pronounced his sentence. "Bring me my belt, Cecelia!" Cecelia didn't respond, just picked up the ax and stared at it, as if she wanted to do something with it but didn't quite know what or how without guidance. Lance bellowed, "Now, woman !" Cecilia bowed her head and shuffled through the doorway to her and Lance's bedroom. She placed the ax on the floor and kneeled next to the bed, searching. Angel sighed. Her mother had made another one of her typical feeble efforts at defending her, then as usual, ended up submitting to the higher power. "And you," Lance hissed at Angel. "You filthy piece of white trash! Pick your whining little self up off the floor, and go get your Bible!" Angel sighed. Cecilia had once told her that when Lance was very young, he was a minister in his hometown. Angel occasionally wished he'd become one in Grimshaw, too. If he had, maybe he'd have somebody to preach at besides her, and maybe he wouldn't… Angel's mother rejoined them, the belt in hand. Lance snatched it and raised it in the air. "Don't make me tell you again, girl!" Lance swung the belt like a whip. Angel rolled sideways. The belt missed her body by less than a quarter of an inch and smacked the spot on the floor where she had been lying. She bounded to her feet, dashed into her room, and ran back with the Bible. She stood in front of him, holding it up for him to see. Lance took another swing. This time, the belt hit her-- hard--and she fell to the floor. She dropped the Bible and hugged herself, howling in pain. Lance raised the belt to hit her again. Without thinking about what she was doing, Angel unfurled from her self-embrace, snatched the Bible, and hurled it at Lance. It struck him in the stomach, hard enough to evoke from him a tiny "ummph." You beat me with it, you jerk, Angel thought, so how about I beat you with it for a change? Lance's mouth dropped, and his eyes met hers, his expression a mixture of rage and, largely, shock. Angel felt even more shocked than he looked. She'd never done anything like that before. She stared at the hand that had thrown the Bible and briefly wondered if it had been temporarily possessed by an evil spirit. An evil spirit that made wicked, sinful girls like her disrespect their elders and do things to get hit. Figuring Lance's first reaction would be to beat her with the belt, Angel reflexively scooted backward. Instead, Lance swooped down, picked up the Bible, and threw it back at her. It thudded against her chest, next to her heart. A dull ache rose in her budding left breast's soft flesh. She clutched herself and whimpered. His eyes cold and unemotional, Lance barked, "Genesis 3:13. Read it." Angel reached for the Bible and flipped to the verse. She stared at it blankly. "Read it aloud!" Lance yelled. Angel began to read, her voice barely above a whisper. "'And the Lord God said unto the woman, "What is this that thou hast done?" And the woman said, "The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat."'" "What?" asked Lance. "What did the woman say?" "'The serpent beguiled… ‘" "I can't hear you!" Lance raised the belt and cracked it like a horsewhip across her back. "Speak up, woman!" "'The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat!'" Angel screamed. "You are a sinner! Just like Eve, you're a sinful woman, partaking of forbidden fruit! Confess! Where were you tonight?" "In the woods," Angel sobbed. Lance paused in his lashings. Lowering his voice to a normal tone yet speaking through clenched teeth, he demanded, "How many times have I told you about that? It worries your mother and me to death when you're out alone at night in the woods. That's so--" Lance raised the belt again. Angel cowered. Instead of hitting her, though, Lance only gestured wildly and went on with forced restraint. "-- Dangerousfor you, for any young girl like you. You can't imagine all of the bad people you could run into, or the bad things that could happen. Our rules are to protect you, because we care about you and what happens to you. Don't you understand that?" Hugging herself in pain, Angel scowled at Lance. He was ticked. If she pushed him, she knew she would really get it. Then again, she was going to get it anyway. "No, I don't understand!" she snapped. "Who or what do you think could possibly be dangerous in the Grimshaw woods, out in the middle of nowhere? And how can it be so bad that I deserve getting the crap beaten out of me every time I'm out there after dark?" Angel herself wasn't sure where that had come from, either. Like her mother, she rarely dared to stand up to Lance. Yet she'd done it twice in less than ten minutes. She couldn't believe it. Secretly, she felt proud. But even as her heart surged with that pride, she knew she would pay for her actions. Pay dearly… Lance gaped and got all red-face, again flustered by her defiance. At last, he recovered enough to slap the belt across the side of her rump. In his stupor, however, he didn't hit her as hard as he usually did. The hit's decreased power, along with Angel's temporary rush from her retaliation, enabled her to withstand the blow without a flinch, and to keep her eyes glued on Lance in a resentful stare. Seeing that Angel had won the battle, Lance fired from a different angle. "You weren't alone. Yeah, that's it. You were with a boy, weren't you? You were performing a sordid and sinful act with some boy!" He'd hit a vulnerable spot. "No!" Angel objected, her bravery and fight fading. "I was just playing outside…" "What kind of fool do you take me for?" Lance stuck his finger in her face. "Fourteen-year-olds don't just play!" "But I was! I… I promise! I just lost track of the time, I--" "Nevertheless, you disobeyed me by staying out after dark. In that way you have sinned, and you must be punished. Get on your knees and pray for forgiveness." Angel painstakingly pulled herself to her knees. "Repeat after me… forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned!"  WHAP! went the belt across her arms. "Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned!" "Keep lust from contaminating my mind and body!"  WHAP! across her thighs. "Keep lust from contaminating my mind and body!" "Make my soul eternally pure!"  WHAP! across her back. "Make my soul eternally pure," she wheezed, falling to the floor. She lay in a ball, too weak to move, feeling like she might pass out. She rolled her eyes upward, her vision blurred beneath her half-closed lids. Lance still towered above. His shadow covered her like a looming cloud that would forever hang over her head.  Oh, please, no more . She would rather die than be hit with that belt one more time. Fortunately, Lance was finished with her. He headed for his room. Cecilia followed, as usual leaving Angel to suffer alone. As they left, Lance said to his wife, "I worry about that girl of yours, Cecilia." "Why, Lance? Angel's a good girl. Really, she is." "Maybe." Lance lowered his voice. "But she's too damn pretty for her own good." The door shut. Physical and emotional pain paralyzed Angel. So she lay on the floor, still as a corpse. Perhaps she would just lie there forever. She closed her eyes and prayed, this time for real, this time for death. Footsteps approached. An icy hand touched her. "No!" she cried, shrinking away. "Angel, it's me." She raised her head. Through her blurred, half-opened eyes, she made out the fuzzy, small form of her grandmother standing before her in the darkness. Grandma's long, white hair hung down her white nightgown as she leaned forward and extended her ancient, withered hand. Angel took it, no longer finding it cold and frightening, but warm and reassuring. Something about Grandma's touch made her pain, the hall, the heat, Lance, and the countless other unpleasant things in her life fade away. Dazed, Angel allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and guided along the hall and into her grandma's room. The room was simply furnished with a single bed, bureau, and small vanity table with an attached mirror and a pullout chair. Grandma was a devout Catholic. Before her health had begun to fail, she had attended mass regularly at St. Mary's of Sommerville and had worked on various community and charity projects with nuns, priests, and other affiliates of the Roman Catholic Church. Thus, she had decorated the modest room with various religious paraphernalia that gave it a warm, inviting atmosphere. A crucifix dangled on the inside doorknob, and a bright painting of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus hung above the bed's head. Tiny porcelain figurines of Mary and Jesus adorned the bureau top and dressing table, surrounded by small, burning candles that bathed the room in a soft glow. A string of rosary beads hung across the right-hand corner of the mirror. Grandma wore those beads wherever she went. Sadly, these days she hardly felt well enough to go anywhere. The one thing in the room that Angel didn't like to look at was one of Grandma's large, white porcelain figurines of Mary. The statue gave Angel the creeps simply because it looked just like one from an edited-for-television horror movie that had scared her to death. She had started watching the movie late one night when she couldn't sleep. Of course, Lance didn't permit anything other than network television and general audience programming in their home; cable TV and restricted films were foreign luxuries Angel had heard about only through word-of-mouth and TV commercials. They had a VCR, but the good rentals were limited to Lance and Cecilia; Angel couldn't rent anything except animated or educational movies. Even among the network programming, Lance and her mother strictly limited her choices. The only things they allowed Angel to watch were select game shows and sitcoms, children's programming, educational and religious programming, and old reruns of The Dukes of Hazzard , which Lance permitted only because it was his favorite TV show. Something like a scary movie was especially taboo. That was why Angel was so highly intrigued by scary movies, and she secretly watched the edited-for-TV ones whenever she could. The scary movie in which she had seen the statue had had something to do with supernatural evil; she believed it was the Devil. In the movie, a Catholic priest was praying before the statue when suddenly, several bloody, oblong extensions had appeared on it. The biggest of them were on Mary's breasts and private areas and jutted out, horrible and ugly. It scared Angel so much that she cried out. Of course, that awoke Lance, who stormed into the living room and discovered what she was watching. He'd beaten Angel's behind a few times with his bare hand, told her the scare she'd gotten was God's way of punishing her for watching secular television, then sent her to bed. Maybe Lance was right. To this day, she couldn't look at the statue in Grandma's room without her mind's eye seeing those ugly, bloody red things appear again. Staring at the statue now, she shuddered. Thankfully, Grandma interrupted her thoughts. "Sit down," she said, gently pushing her into a chair that faced away from the statue. Angel did, grateful to turn her back on the visual reminder of the desecrated statue. Grandma opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol she kept on the dresser for those way-too-frequent beatings and doused a cotton ball with the liquid. Whether it was twilight or midnight, whether she was well or ill, Grandma rose without complaint to all of these brutal occasions. Angel supposed that was part of why she felt closer to Grandma than she ever had to her own mother. Angel had never seen much of her maternal grandmother before she came to live with them five years ago, when Angel was nine and Grandma was sixty-nine. That year, Grandma had suffered a heart attack, back injury, and other problems, so Angel's mother and Lance had stuck her in a nursing home. Soon after, they discovered the home's facilities were dirty, the employee turnover rate was high, and the staff was abusive to the patients. A few months later, when Angel, Cecilia, and Lance went to visit Grandma, Cecilia had invited the woman to live with them. Apparently, Cecilia hadn't asked Lance's permission, because he threw a hissy fit. Angel, who had been asked to leave the room, had eavesdropped. She had forgotten most of what she'd overheard, other than Lance's huffing and puffing and raising Cain. The closing dialogue, however, still lingered in her memory. Grandma had said, "After everything I've done for you-- bothof you, Lance--I think this is the least you can do." Surprisingly, Cecilia maintained her ground with Lance. "She's right. She could have left us to the wolves once, but she didn't." Angel didn't know if they had been talking about money or what. Whatever the case, Grandma and Cecilia's remarks decided the whole thing. Grandma had lived with them every since. Afterward, Angel and her grandmother had gotten to know each other for the first time, rapidly developing a close relationship, both as grandmother and granddaughter and as friends. Angel felt close to only two people in the entire world. Grandma was one of them; Peter St. Thomas was the other. But nobody else could ever know about Peter. Angel winced as Grandma applied the alcohol-soaked cotton ball to her skin. To take her mind off the stinging, she opened her heart-shaped locket, which contained two old, tiny photographs, one inside each half of the heart. The left half held a headshot of her mother, taken long before her long, blonde hair started graying and worry lines began creasing random areas of her face. The photographer had managed to capture a smile brighter and happier than Angel could ever recollect seeing her mother display. It often amazed her how young, carefree, and beautiful Cecilia looked in that picture. Currently, the right side of the locket captivated Angel, which housed the headshot she had studied so many times before. She could see herself in her father. Of course, his hair was much sandier than hers, really more brown with blonde highlights, and his eyes were a violet, deeper shade of blue than her own baby blues. His eyes and face, young and innocent yet intelligent, mirrored Angel's, as did his wide, luminous smile--the few times Angel did smile, anyway. His set, rugged jaw contrasted with his innocent expression, giving him an essence of the strong will and quiet contemplation that Angel knew to be dominant in her personality. In the depth of his countenance, she perceived omniscience and a great inner strength, both of which she knew she lacked but wished to someday acquire. "What was my father like?" Grandma paused at her task and smiled in nostalgia. "He was very, very tall and fair, like you. He was strong, energetic, full of life. When the going got tough, he got tough, and everyone could depend on him to be there when they needed him. He also had a sensitive and caring side. Also like you, he loved animals and enjoyed being out in nature, in particular, the woods. He loved his friends and family even more and would do anything for them. He was also very religious. He tried his best to do everything the Bible said and was extremely devoted to God." Angel groaned. "Like Lance?" "Oh, no, not in the slightest. He viewed God and religion in a much… softer way than your stepfather. Oh, your daddy was a wonderful man. I was so happy the day he married your mother, for I felt his heart was good, and he would be good for her." "Better than Lance?" "Lance is a good provider," Grandma said hastily. She resumed dabbing Angel's skin with the cotton ball. "Big deal," Angel muttered. "Who cares if a person's a good provider if he's a total jerk to the people he lives with?" "Now, Angel, living with Lance isn't impossible. You've just got to learn to follow his rules, a few of which are pretty reasonable. Like staying out of the woods at night and being home by dark." "I feel safe enough out there." Grandma poured alcohol on another cotton ball and applied it to Angel's skin. "Why? Because of Peter? Were you with him tonight?" Angel winced, this time more from the questions than the sting of the alcohol. Her grandmother was the only person whom she had told about Peter. "Yes, Grandma. But Peter's my friend , my best friend." My only friend, she told herself. "We haven't committed any sins, like Lance would think." "Sweetheart, I know you're an angel, just like your name." Grandma's countenance glazed over with deep thought. Coming to a realization, she muttered, "That's why he's so hard on you." Angel whirled around. "What do you mean by that?" "Nothing," she replied, turning away. "No, no, Grandma. That doesn't make sense. If he wants me to be good, and I'm being good, then why--" "It's way past your bedtime." Grandma opened her bedroom door. "Good night." Still puzzled, but knowing that asking more questions was useless, Angel said "good night" and stepped into the hall as Grandma closed the bedroom door behind her. For whatever reason, the inexplicable heat she'd felt earlier had disappeared, and the hall had returned to its normal temperature. Shrugging, Angel crossed the hall to the linen-and-laundry closet and retrieved a fresh towel. Then she entered the bathroom. She took a couple of aspirin, brushed her teeth, and showered while continuing to ponder Grandma's words, but she couldn't figure out what they meant. The soothing warm water numbed Angel's pains into dull aches. Between that and the aspirin, she'd feel almost like nothing had happened, for tonight, anyway. Tomorrow would be a different story; the day after a beating was always the most physically painful. And by tomorrow, of course, there would be bruises. Big, ugly ones--red, blue, black, and purple. After Angel had finished showering and begun drying herself, she got too hot, just like she had in the hall. She even started to perspire. This time, she assumed it was just the steam from the shower. She switched on the overhead vent and resumed drying herself. Still, the bathroom didn't cool down. If anything, it grew only hotter. Next, Angel turned on the sink, filled a paper bathroom rinsing cup with cold water, drank it all, and repeated the process. That didn't help, either. Then she contemplated doing something strictly forbidden by Lance--opening a window while undressed…  "It's all right to open a window to cool off if you're fully clothed. But never while any part of your body other than your head and limbs is unclothed. If you do, a man who is happening by might see your naked private parts. Or worse, he might try to touch them. Any woman who allows her naked private parts to be viewed, or especially to be touched, by a man to whom she is not married is a strumpet and sinner in the eyes of the Lord, and may well burn in hell forever…" But the bathroom was so hot, she was tempted to risk it. Besides, Lance had gone to bed. And it was late. Who would see her? Who would know? Except for Peter, maybe, she thought with a giggle. About a week or two ago, she and Peter had been lying by the brook in the woods and talking, just like they often did. Somehow or another, the subject of Lance's rules came up, and Angel told Peter about the window rule and Lance's rationale. Peter spent the next several minutes doubled over, laughing himself into near tears. He soon got Angel laughing about it, too. After their laughter subsided enough for them to speak, he winked at her, and with a sidelong, sly grin, joked, "Maybe sometimes when you're sure you won't get caught, you should try breaking that rule. Just for the hell of it." Angel laughed. While Peter often suggested doing things "just for the hell of it," it never really was "just for the hell of it"--there was always an ulterior motive. "Why?" Winking again and widening his sidelong grin, Peter replied, "'Cause just for the hell of it, I might break old Lance's rule. I might sneak over to your house one night, peep through your window at your ‘unclothed body,' and make a dishonest woman out of you." Amused and simultaneously embarrassed, Angel laughed harder and lightly punched Peter on the arm. "That'll never happen." "Why not? Are you saying I wouldn't dare? Or that you wouldn't?" "Neither. I'm saying you can't break the rule because you're not a man." She broke into hysterics. "Hey, I am, too!" He laughed, returning her light punch. "I'll be fifteen in four months, you know." "Oooh, excuse me, Mister Big, Whopping, Fifteen-in-Four-Months, Sir. " Angel began to laugh harder. With that, they began rolling over one another in an all-out tickling match. Of course, Angel knew Peter had only been teasing her. Ever since that day, though, a tiny part of herself that she tried to ignore wondered what would happen if Peter actually dropped by and snuck a peek through her window. Especially if she were naked. In fact, she'd actually left the window open a few times and watched for him to pop up from behind a nearby tree or bush. Of course, it had never happened. But then again, she had never been bold enough any of those times to leave a single part of her body unclothed, other than her head and limbs, of course. Angel double-checked to make sure the bathroom door was locked, then parted the curtains, and lifted the window. Fresh, cool air whistled in, tickling her clammy skin with an invigorating chill. Sighing in relief, Angel sat on the side of the tub and dried herself as she basked in the brisk air. Then, just as suddenly as the bathroom had cooled, it grew hot again. The heat was as engulfing as it had been in the hall. Angel gasped for breath. Why was this happening… again? At almost the same moment, a creepy-crawly feeling slithered up and down her body. It was the same sensation she got at school when girls whispered mean comments about her in the locker room during P.E., or boys cracked jokes about her developing figure. It was the feeling of probing eyes. Someone was watching her.  CHAPTER 2: A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN Angel's head snapped toward the open window. She saw nothing outside but the blue-black night. Yet someone was there--she knew it. She jerked the towel tightly around her body while keeping her eyes on the window. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and at last she made out a shadowy shape. A figure with a head and a body--a person. He or she stood about three yards away, beneath a shade tree just inside the fence around their land. With half-fear, half-hope, Angel leaned forward, placed her lips within a centimeter of the window screen, and whispered, "Peter?" In reply, the figure moved forward. He was even taller than Peter, and dressed in something Angel knew Peter wouldn't wear even during a discreet surprise visit--a black robe that covered his feet, and a matching hood that hid his face. Within the hood, Angel saw two parallel flashes--eyes, red glowing eyes, and down the middle of each eye, where a pupil should have been, a snake-like slit. Angel clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The cloaked figure took a step forward. Clutched within his gloved hand, something glinted silver in the moonlight.  A knife? Angel sure wasn't sticking around to find out. She clenched her towel around her body and nearly crashed into the door in her hurry to unlock and open it. She dashed to her bedroom, slammed the door, locked it, and leaned against it, just as she had before when she'd woken Lance. For a moment, she paused, listening for her stepfather or another family member, dreading the possible approach of the beast-eyed being outside. What if he or she--  Or it . --somehow got into the house through another door, like in scary movies? For whatever reason, her noises hadn't woken anyone this time. But she wouldn't have cared if they had; right now, whoever or whatever was outside scared her more than she'd ever been of Lance. As she leaned against the door, panting, her gaze fell on her bedroom window across the room. Her heart nearly burst through her chest. The window stood open. Darn it! She had raised the window this morning after she'd gotten dressed and forgotten to close it. So, okay, okay, all she had to do now was walk across the room and lower it. Instead, Angel kept her damp, towel-covered body pressed against the door. Agonizing minutes crept by like hours. Her accelerated heartbeat slowed, but to no more than an audible thud. You're being silly, she told herself. You imagined that whole thing. It was probably from that crap you and Peter drank today. Still, a minute or two passed before she got up the guts to move. When she did, she didn't walk, but took itty-bitty baby steps toward the window. Through the screen, her eyes scanned the moonlit backyard and farmland. She saw the barn, the empty pasture, the tree outside the pasture's fence, and a fresh, gigantic pile of fly-swarmed manure. Like a stupid kid, Angel allowed herself to laugh at the manure. Right now, she needed to laugh at something-- anything. Two parallel red flashes sparked within the tree's dark shadows, snatching the laughter from her throat. The red-slitted eyes from outside the bathroom window! They had been real! And they had followed her… Angel wanted to cry out and flee to her family for help. But terror had somehow gagged her mouth and bound her body from head to toe. Simultaneously, she found herself seized with a strange, morbid desire to see what lay behind those eyes, to see the person or thing that would kill her, or eat her alive, or do something even more horrible to her-- her,a girl whose life would end at only fourteen. The eyes emerged from the shadows and traveled toward her window in a slow, casual manner, as if their owner belonged there and was merely out for a midnight stroll. Angel's jaw dropped when they moved into the moonlight. It was the most bizarre, terrifying thing that she had ever seen. Or rather, the most bizarre, terrifying thing that she hadn't seen…  Nothing. In the moonlight, she should have been able to see the cloaked body even better than she had when it was among the dark trees and shrubs outside the bathroom window. But the cloak, the body, the hood--everything she'd seen earlier--had disappeared. Now, the eyes floated in midair with no evident manmade or God-made attachments to support them. It was like this wasn't the same person she'd seen earlier. Or if it was, that person had transformed into some different creature. Disbelief and partial relief mixed with Angel's fear. Maybe what she was seeing wasn't real. How could a pair of eyes--the same eyes of the same cloaked creature, at that-- reallybe floating without a face? Stuff like that just didn't happen; it defied all logic. Besides, she reasoned, even if the eyes were real, they were just eyes. With no body, limbs, or face, what was the worst they could do to her? The instant she finished the thought, the eyes rocketed toward the window, stopping just short of crashing against the screen. The slits collided with Angel's pupils. From somewhere behind the eyes, an invisible speaker hissed in a gravelly voice, "Worse than you can ever imagine, Angel." Wresting herself from inertia, Angel screamed and slammed down the window. Still, she heard the voice, just as plainly as if she'd never lowered the window… or as if the voice had somehow invaded her room. "I can slice you and dice you!" Sobs intermingled with Angel's screams. "I can chew out your very heart as it beats…" Angel grasped the parted halves of the curtains… "…then take you to Hell with me!" She yanked the curtains toward one another. "You're mine!" A clap of thunder cracked across the sky. A half-second flare of lightning illuminated the outer world as brightly as if it were daytime. Just before the curtains closed, Angel caught a glimpse of the hideous creature. It had the head and pointed ears of a dragon, an alligator-like snout, and the arched neck and coiled body of a snake about to strike.. Black soot covered the creature from end to end, as if it had just come out of a fire. The snout snarled like that of a growling, mad dog, revealing a set of jutting, sharp fangs that dripped blood. The eyes' snake-like slits narrowed even more. With saliva frothing from its lips, the creature hissed, "I'll get you, Angel." She jerked the curtains closed and backed away from the window. Once the creature was out of sight, Angel ceased her screams but couldn't stop crying.  BAM! BAM! BAM! Angel screamed again. "Girl, what in the hell's going on in there?" Lance rattled the doorknob like he had before. "Open this door, now!" Despite her extreme distress, Angel had the presence of mind to exchange the towel for a summer robe, which she threw over her and tied together before opening the door. Lance stood in his pajamas, irate and half-asleep. Angel's tears of fear turned to tears of relief. It was the only time she'd ever been glad to see him. "What're you screaming and crying and carrying on like this for?" Lance demanded. "Scared of the storm?" She shook her head. "Then what? And it'd better be the truth, and it'd better be damned good." Lights flashed on in the hallway. Grandma and Cecilia appeared in their respective bedroom doorways, both looking sleepy and confused. Having them all around her, Angel somehow felt a little better, a little braver, and a little more rational. And more certain that she'd indeed imagined the whole thing. Yeah, she thought again, it definitely must've been the Mescal from earlier. Maybe I swallowed that stupid worm after all. "Speak up, girl! It's after midnight, and I've gotta be at work in a few hours! I'm going to whoop your ass raw if you've woken me up a second time tonight for noth--" "No!" Angel sputtered. "There was something outside my window!" "What?!" Lance looked alarmed and genuinely concerned. "You're telling me someone was peeping at you?" "I…" Angel shrugged and wiped at her tears. "I don't know." "Well, what'd you see?" Angel remembered both the cloaked, red-eyed person outside the bathroom, then the dragon-snake creature with the same eyes outside her bedroom. She must've imagined their appearances--she just had to have. But she'd already told Lance she'd seen something. If she retracted the story, he'd beat the crap out of her, first for waking him up over something she'd imagined, then for lying. On the other hand, if she told Lance everything, she'd look crazy and stupid. And she'd still get the crap beaten out of her for lying. "I just saw eyes." Lance crossed over to her bedroom window and peered out. "Don't see any eyes. Don't see anything at all." He returned to the hall, his brow creased in thought. "What sort of eyes? What'd they look like?" "They were red eyes." "Red eyes?" Lance was taken aback. "You mean, like a human's, bloodshot or irritated?" "No, I mean literally red." "Like an albino man? Or like some kind of animal with actual red eyes?" "It could've been an albino man," she said, thinking of the figure outside the bathroom window, though she knew she'd seen something in his eyes far more animal or monster-like than an albino's. "But I guess it could've been an animal, too," she said, recalling the snake-like creature with the same eyes. "The eyes were all I got a look at. It's so dark, it was kind of hard to see what the rest of it was." Because it kept changing forms, her mind finished. Or rather it did in your head. Because the whole thing's just too crazy to have been anything but your imagination… right? But her description of the eyes seemed good enough for Lance. "Hellfire!" he cried, turning to Cecilia. "Woman, get the flashlight, I'll get the shotgun. We've got ourselves a creature or a peeper!" Angel and Grandma incredulously watched Cecilia and Lance arm themselves and scurry outside, showing no signs of being bothered by the hard, fast rain that had begun to fall. For the next hour, they looked like an impromptu, two-man circus, Lance splashing through the pasture, firing his rifle at everything that moved and hollering "Hot damn" like a drunken madman, and Cecilia following, a flashlight in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and a plastic bag of extra shells dangling from her arm. They appeared to have woken up every household within hearing distance. Slicker-and-pajama-clad neighbors with umbrellas dropped by at random to see what was going on. In the general commotion, Angel's earlier terror gave way to amusement intermingled with embarrassment. While seeing Lance make a fool of himself was somewhat funny, it was going to be something else her classmates would get wind of and make fun of her for when school started in the fall, and her first year of high school, at that. She almost wished she'd not told Lance anything and taken another beating instead. From where she sat on the foot of her bed alongside the window, Angel watched the charade, shook her head, and muttered to an unhearing Lance, "You stupid redneck." Grandma, who stood beside her, crossed her arms and shook her head. "Uh-uh-uh, if this doesn't beat all the Devil I've ever seen. That man ain't right in the head." The whole mess ended when Lance and Cecilia flushed out their first and only prime suspect--a large diamondback rattlesnake. Lance promptly shot off the snake's head. The last of the awoken neighbors hung around just long enough to watch the decapitated body writhe in postmortem muscle spasms, then headed home when the body stopped moving. As the last of the rain drizzled away, Lance handed Cecilia his shotgun. He picked up the snake's body in one hand and its head in the other. "Gross!" Angel said. "What's he doing with that thing?" With an expression of half-purpose, half-pride, Lance strolled toward the window, as if he held some coveted prize he'd just won. Grandma groaned, "Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he's actually bringing it over here!" "Why? I don't want to see it!" Grandma threw up her hands. "That's it. I'm going to bed." She left the room in two seconds flat. Lance tapped on the window with his elbow. Cringing, Angel raised the glass. "Open the screen, too," he said. "I want you to get a good look at this thing." "I'd rather not." "Now!" "All right, all right." Angel did as he said. To her horror, Lance stuck the snake's head and body over the sill, so that both actually dangled inside her room. Angel squealed and scooted backward on the bed. "Oh my God, what're you doing?" "Not God, honey. Lance Beasle," he beamed. Lance never beamed. Angel covered her face with a pillow. "Would you get that thing out of here?" "First, come over and take a look at it." "I don't want to take a look at it. I don't like snakes!" "Just for a sec." "Why?" He started losing patience. "'Cause dammit, I want to know if this is what you saw so we can get some sleep already! Now, quit acting like a spoiled, whiny, teenage brat and get your ass over here!" Angel crept across the bed and peered at the snake head. The dark, glassy eyes were lifeless, and below its skull, a line of drying blood marked where the head had been severed. Lance's other hand clenched the gold-brown, diamond-covered body just below where the head had been, now an open hole brimming with shiny blood and interspersing pieces of blackened flesh and tissue. The sparse number of edited-for-TV horror movies that Angel had seen had done nothing to prepare her for this. She gagged, covered her eyes with her hands, and scooted backward again. "Okay, I looked. Can you please get it out of here?" "Is this what you saw?" Angel parted her fingers and took another peek. She had seen something that looked like a snake, at least in the body. Maybe this was really it. Maybe she saw that old rattler, and her eyes, the dark, and the alcohol had played a trick on her about the dragon's head. "I think so." "Are you sure?" Lance turned the head around to face him. "You did say the eyes were red, and this snake's eyes look brown, or maybe black. Wait, here's some red in its eyes…" Angel parted her fingers again. "Nah, never mind, that's just some splatters of blood." "All right, already!" Angel cried, burying her face behind her pillow. "That's it, Lance. I saw a snake, and that's the snake I saw." "But the red eyes…" "I was wrong, Lance!" She peeped out from her pillow, saw Lance bristle, then added with forced respect, "Sir. Okay?" At this point, he could've been holding a gorilla, and she would've said it was what she'd seen, just to get him to go away and stop waving dead animals in her face. "You killed the snake. I feel better. I can sleep now. So, can we just all go to bed, please?" Not long afterward, the household settled down for a final attempt at sleep. Lance and Cecilia's farcical show had toned down Angel's fear. Her fear was also eased through her convincing herself that her spy was the rattlesnake, greatly enhanced by the Mescal and her own imagination. Still, when she turned in that night, she double-checked to make sure her window was locked and her curtains closed. For the first time since she was little, she checked her closet and underneath her bed for monsters, left on a nightlight, and slept with the covers over her head. What little fitful sleep she did get was wrought with nightmares. Nightmares of red, glowing eyes probing her in the dark, and hissing, faceless voices, whispering over and over in her ear--  "You're mine, Angel. I'll get you."  CHAPTER 3: THE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS Sharp pangs shot through Angel's arms when she pulled on her bra, shorts, and T-shirt Wednesday morning. Lance had gotten her good last night. Although she was tall, she had small, slender features, so those hard beatings always made her tiny bones really sore. Peter forever worried about that. He said he was afraid Lance would hit her too hard one day and break her bones, or worse. Lance understood the human anatomy enough, however, to always know exactly how to hit her--not hard enough to require a hospital visit, but hard enough to make her look and feel miserable. She checked her reflection in the bureau mirror and sighed in relief. Thank God Lance had left only one slight mark on her face, a red handprint that hadn't bruised. If she had to go anywhere with her mother and Lance, she could hide all of her bruises with jeans and long-sleeved shirts. But she couldn't hide facial bruises because Lance wouldn't let her wear make-up. Despite the fact that Angel's mother wore make-up, he called it the "devil's face paint," saying it made a girl Angel's age look like a harlot. The sharp pangs resurged when Angel picked up her brush and tried to run it through her straight bangs and the light blonde, wavy locks that fell just past the center of her back. She groaned. Her arms were too sore. Some of those tangles would have to stay for now. Sighing, she reached for a rubber band and pulled her hair into its usual ponytail. Her eyes fell on the long scar that extended across her right wrist. She grimaced. Oh, if only Lance would let her wear jewelry! He called jewelry "the devil's trinkets," and allowed her to wear only her locket with her parents' pictures and a simple leather-band watch so she could keep track of time for her nightfall curfew. She wished she could have just one bracelet to cover the ugly scar on her right wrist, like she used the wristwatch to cover the scar on her left. That way, the kids wouldn't see the scar, and she wouldn't have to answer those same awkward questions-- "What happened to your arm?" "How did you get that scar?" "Bicycle wreck," she'd say. The older the kids who asked the questions, the likelier they were to respond in the way that made her most uncomfortable (and likelier, still, if they happened to find out about the other hidden scar)--"Yeah, right. You don't get scars like that from a bicycle wreck." Angel rubbed her arms while staring at her reflection. Why, oh why, did Lance have to do this to her? Because she was "too pretty?" That comment had floored her. She stared at her pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, and snowy, heart-shaped face and saw herself as anything but "pretty," especially since she couldn't wear the stuff that other teenage girls did to make themselves pretty. It would be great if she could. Then maybe she wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb in school, and maybe the other kids wouldn't laugh at her or make fun of her so much. And maybe other girls would actually be her friends and stop calling her mean names, like "Pasty," "Baby Face," "Wallflower," and the one that sounded most insulting, "Homely Ho." Grandma always tried to comfort Angel, saying she didn't need make-up or jewelry, that she was naturally beautiful, that other girls were just jealous. Angel didn't believe her, though. Grandmothers were supposed to tell their grandchildren stuff like that. What else would Grandma say--"Yes, child, you're uglier than homemade soap"? Why couldn't Lance be more like Peter's father, who didn't beat the crap out of the boy? Despite Peter's parents making him go to church every Sunday, he didn't get religion shoved down his throat or have to put up with a bunch of dumb old rules. Instead, Peter said his father allowed him the freedom to come and go as he pleased, as long as he told the truth about where he was going, came home at an agreed-upon time, and never gave people any reason to think he'd "made their little girls mamas." Angel didn't know what Peter's father meant by that last part. When she'd asked Peter, he had only chuckled and told her he found it "really sweet" she didn't know. Granted, like Peter said, they lived in the South--the Bible Belt at that--an area full of parents and stepparents like Lance, stringently conservative, religious fanatics who were insanely strict. And as unfair as it was, they tended to be harder on girls. With Lance, though, Angel felt like she'd gotten stuck with the worst of them! Other girls were allowed to go to ballgames and movies and stuff at night, and have friends who were boys, or among some, boyfriends . They also didn't show up at school with bruises all of the time. Or if they did, most ended up in orphanages or foster homes. Not Angel, though. While people reported to the authorities the abuse of kids around her, it was as if Angel had "too easy" a time hiding her own. Whether she was discreet or careless with each set of bruises and other glaring evidence of abuse, it was all just kind of overlooked… or maybe looked over . Well, that last part was silly, someone "looking over" child abuse. It must just seem that way to her. After all, she was almost positive her third grade teacher Mrs. DuMore had reported it to someone. Angel guessed there wasn't time for anything to come of it, though, because right afterward, she'd had that bike wreck, and Mrs. DuMore had lost her job. "Everyone hates you, Angel Fallow," schoolmate Heather Pickens had once told her. Angel thought she even remembered Lance, in a fit of extreme anger, once telling her the same thing. Maybe they were right. Maybe everyone except Grandma and Peter did hate her. Maybe that's why no one ever did anything to help her. Opening her locket, Angel sighed longingly at the picture of her real father. She'd give anything to know more about him. God, how she wished he were still alive! If he were, perhaps he would rescue her from Lance, then she would have a normal family, a normal life, just like everyone else. It would have been nice to have known him, if only for a little while. Since he had died just after her birth, she knew nothing more of him than a few of Grandma's occasionally shared memories, the handsome picture within her locket, and of course, his name-- Ansel Fallow. * * * * Angel was sweeping up the barn, the last of her morning chores, when Lance rushed inside to grab the leather butcher's apron he wore for his job at the meatpacking plant. The apron hung from a hook on the barn's front interior wall. Angel heard a noisy smack and the clanging of metal. "Goddamn it to hell!" Lance stooped down, rubbing his knees, his face scowling and red. With his eyes squeezed shut in pain, he cried, "Goddamn it, girl, put your shit away when you're done with it! I'm sick and tired of tripping over…" His words evaporated as his eyes opened and spotted what had tripped him. At his feet, just beside the wall where the apron hung, Angel's old, Pepto-Bismol-pink bicycle lay on the floor, its left handlebar slightly bent, and a crack in its rear reflector. Cobwebs and a thick coat of dust covered the entire frame. Still, the bike was in adequate enough condition to ride. But Angel hadn't ridden it since she'd wrecked it six years ago. And she had no intention of ever riding it again. Lance froze as he stared at the bike. Angel stared at it, too. The ugly thing was like some ominous creature that no one wanted around but no one dared throw away. Lance's unblinking eyes remained on the bike, his brow creased with severity and anger. Yet his face paled, and his lower lip trembled. Moving as if in slow motion, he picked up the apron and tied it around himself, all the while continuing to stare at the bike. Then his gaze spun toward Angel. "What the hell are you looking at?" "Nothing." She lowered her eyes and concentrated on sweeping. Lance charged at her. She ducked, but he seized her ponytail and jerked her head backward, hard. Crying out, she squeezed her eyes shut. "Look at me!" Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. His ugly, upside-down face came into view. "What'd you say?" "Nothing…" He yanked again. "Owwww… sir. Nothing, sir." When Lance let go of her, Angel pulled her head upright and rubbed her scalp. "Put that thing up when you're done with it," he said, referring to hanging the bike in its storage spot, a makeshift rack on the inner barn wall. "It could kill somebody, you know." "I didn't take it down." Lance raised his hand. Angel cowered, repeating, "I didn't! I don't ride it anymore!" "I suppose you're going to tell me it got down there all by itself? That it always gets down there all by itself?" Somehow or another, the bicycle did have a way of mysteriously ending up in the middle of the barn, always right in somebody's way. But Angel wasn't the one moving it. She didn't want a blessed thing to do with it. "I don't know how it gets there. But I haven't ridden it since the bicycle wreck." Lance smacked the back of her skull with his open hand. "Don't ever, ever say that word to me again, you hear?" Holding her head with both hands, Angel looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. "Two, Lance. ‘Bicycle wreck' is two words." Lance clenched his fists, made a monster face, and let out a loud "Gr-r-r-r" sound. He looked as if he could tear her apart with his bare hands. Instead, he swiped his hands along a line of farming tools hanging on the wall. Angel jumped out of the way, dodging the storm of metal that rained around her. "Clean it up," he ordered. "And put away…" He gestured at the bike without looking at it. "… that, too." Then he left, got inside his already-running pickup, and drove away. Grumbling, Angel put away the tools, then returned the bike to its proper position on the rack. Before exiting the barn, she glared back at the bike, and as if talking to a living creature capable of comprehending her, she said, "I hate you." * * * * Thank God Lance and Mother work during the day, Angel thought, walking along Blackwood Road, which ran between her house and the woods. It was then that she got her only chance at freedom and peace. It was then that she escaped to the woods, her beautiful, tranquil woods, where she secretly hung out with her best friend Peter each day. You wouldn't even have the woods, she told herself, eyeing the scar on her right wrist, if it hadn't been for that bicycle wreck. Angel had scarcely finished the thought when she almost stepped on something lying on the road's shoulder. A pocketknife. She flipped it open. The blade looked a little dull but was otherwise okay. Maybe Peter would like to have this. He was somewhat of a packrat, forever hording all kinds of odds and ends in his horse's saddlebags. Besides, guys liked knives, or at least Angel thought so from what she'd seen on TV and at school. Walking along, Angel began to flip the knife open and closed. Occasionally, she traced its dulled tip along the exposed scar on her right wrist. "You shouldn't play with knives or blades," her mother and Lance always warned her. "You could hurt or kill yourself." Then she remembered how she'd defied Lance last night. Smiling, she continued playing with the knife, watching the blade glisten in the sunlight. Up yours, Lance. "Careful with that there knife, young ‘un. Mind you don't cut yourself." Angel looked up to see Jeb Chester perched on a log alongside the opposite shoulder of the road. Jeb, a local drunk in his late thirties or early forties, had lived in ditches, alleys, and cardboard boxes around Grimshaw ever since Angel could remember. He was a lumbering fellow of more than two hundred pounds, with brown, bushy hair and thick, grizzly jowls, which half-swallowed his squinty brown eyes whenever he flashed his coffee-colored, chip-toothed grin. Jeb's clothing was dirty and covered with yellow stains. Most of the time, he reeked of urine. He occasionally worked odd jobs for folks around the farms and towns, but spent most of his time "wasted," as Peter had put it. Grimshaw's citizens tended to view him with disdain, but he had always been polite enough to Angel. As usual, he currently held a mostly empty bottle in one hand. With his other, he tipped his dirty brown hat at her. Before Angel could respond to his warning about cutting herself, Jeb added, "'Course, ‘round this goddamned place, wouldn't blame you if you did. Livin' in Grimshaw's enough to make anybody want to kill themselves." He emitted an echoing belch. Angel didn't exactly disagree. Nonetheless, the comment took her aback. Likely it was just drunk talk, though. "Don't worry, Mr. Chester, sir," she said, continuing up the road. "I'll be careful." "Sir?" Jeb grinned. "Why, God Almighty, don't that beat all, someone calling this dirty old bum ‘sir.' You sure are a sweet, polite young thing, Ansel." Angel paused in her strides. "Thank you, sir, but it's ‘Angel.' ‘Ansel' was my father." "Ah, yeah. ‘Ansel,' ‘Angel,' I get confused, with the similar sounds and all. Plus I'm drunk." He snickered and took a swig from his bottle. As Angel started walking again, he called after her, "Ansel Fallow used to work on my car, back when I had one. Good man. Least he was before they got to him." Angel stopped and spun around. She squinted at Jeb in the bright sunlight. His face was completely earnest, its characteristic drunken glaze suddenly gone. "What're you talking about, Mr. Chester? Nobody ‘got to' my father. He died in an automobile accident right after I was born. And he was always a good man, his entire life." Of course, she had no way of knowing that for sure, other than from what Grandma had told her. But he was her father, after all. So she assumed he had to have been a good man. "Of course, of course, he was," Jeb agreed. "Then what did you mean by ‘they got to him'?" "Nothing, young ‘un. Pay me no mind. I'm just a poor, dumb drunk who don't know what the hell he's talking about." As if to prove his point, Jeb gulped from his bottle and burped again. When Angel continued to gape, he waved his hand. "Run along, now. Go play with your boyfriend." Boyfriend? Oh, crap! He must mean Peter! "I don't have a boyfriend, Mr. Chester." "Whatever you say, honey." Jeb chuckled. "Tell you what. You don't say nothing to nobody about what Jeb Chester says to you, and Jeb Chester won't say nothing to nobody about you hanging ‘round Peter St. Thomas. Okay?" Before Angel could reply, Jeb chugged the last of his drink and collapsed behind the log in a drunken stupor. Angel shook her head and went on her way. She guessed Jeb sometimes went in the woods to drink, too; that was the only way he could've spotted her with Peter, since the two of them never were together outside there. She could only hope Jeb would either forget about the two of them, or that he'd keep his mouth shut like he'd said. No point in worrying Peter about it yet, though, or even dwelling on it herself, for that matter. As Angel walked, she traced the knife along her wrists again and thought back to how much more miserable her life had been before having the bicycle wreck and becoming friends with Peter. She had always felt distant from her mother, and that distance only grew after Angel's fifth birthday, when Cecilia married Lance. From there, things got worse and worse each passing year, and not just at home, either. Angel was quiet and shy, which made fitting in at school hard enough. Lance made it even harder. Once she started showing up at school with bruises, she quickly became not just a person everyone made fun of, but the person they made fun of, the school's scapegoat. No one talked to her. No one sat with her at lunch. The mere thought of going to school made Angel sick to her stomach. Angel hadn't had a friend in the world, or a thing in the world to make her happy. And nobody had acted like they cared, either, until the end of her third grade year, when she was eight-and-a-half and got those ugly, embarrassing scars. She got them right after Lance caught her breaking his rule about staying out of the woods. Those scars freaked everyone out, especially Lance. When Angel came to while the doctors were treating her wrists, Lance was simultaneously mad and upset. He kept asking, "Why did you do this to yourself?" When she repeatedly insisted she didn't do anything to herself, that she got the wounds in the bicycle wreck, Lance just got madder and more upset. So a few days after the doctors at Woodland County General finished Angel's physical treatment and released her, Lance insisted on taking her to Dr. Forrest, another special type of doctor--a "head doctor," he'd said. At the time, Angel didn't understand what that meant. She was scared Dr. Forrest would do some really painful medical thing to her head, like sticking a needle in her skull to give her a shot or to draw blood. So when Dr. Forrest said he wanted to see her alone, she got more scared. Not just because he was a doctor. And not even just because he was of monstrous size, with murky probing eyes and a hairy, frowning face. It was because something about his voice and mannerisms made her skin crawl. But Dr. Forrest never did any of the stuff she was afraid of. In fact, he didn't do anything except talk to her. He asked a few questions about how she got along with her family, how many friends she had at school, and why she'd begun going to the woods. Mostly, he kept asking how she'd hurt her wrists. Like Lance, like her mother, like the doctors at Woodland County General--and numerous other people throughout the following years--he never seemed satisfied with the answer "bicycle wreck." So after a while, Dr. Forrest called in Lance and her mother for a "group talk." He gently suggested that perhaps Lance should lighten up on his rules and punishments. Lance stuck his finger in the doctor's face and yelled, "Nobody is going to tell me how to raise my daughter!" "I'm not your daughter," Angel put in, half-timid, half-indignant. "Shut up, girl!" Lance snapped. He bellowed at Dr. Forrest, "Now, you listen here! I ain't being no harder on Angel than my parents were on me! Thanks to their strict rules and swift hands, just what became of me?" "Well, uh, sir…" Dr. Forrest began. "I became a minister , that's what! And in this day and age, with kids getting snatched up left and right, particularly around these parts, I have to do everything I can to keep my girl safe! That means I know what is what, and I'm gonna bring Angel up to be a good girl yet!" After Lance carried on in that manner for several minutes, Dr. Forrest broke in. "I understand what you're trying to do, sir. But there's no way you can watch this little girl every second. If you don't let her have some sort of outlet, she's likely to have another--" He raised his brow at Angel, then finished condescendingly, "'Bicycle wreck.' One she might not make it out of." Appalled into silence, Lance swung his eyes back and forth from Dr. Forrest to Angel. He then dropped his eyes to the floor, removed his cap, and in the meekest voice Angel had ever heard him use, asked, "What sort of outlet?" Countless discarded ideas later, the doctor suggested that allowing Angel to play in the woods might not be such a bad idea. She would still be close to home, and it was better than her roaming the streets downtown or sneaking off to the city of Sommerville or something. If she stayed in an area of the woods that Lance knew about and approved of, and if she stuck to his other rules, like being home by nightfall, what harm could it do? So after they had gotten home, Lance told Angel to show him where in the woods she'd been going. She led him along Blackwood Road to the edge of a path that began just off the right shoulder and wound through the woods. They followed that path to its end, where the foliage thinned into a horseshoe-shaped clearing, plenty big enough to romp and play in. A shallow brook bordered the clearing's far edge and ran beyond the length of it, farther than the eye could see in either direction. Along the opposite side of the brook, as well as to the clearing's right and left, there were more trees where the growth thickened and the forest became dense again. "This is it," Angel had said. He scrutinized it and nodded. "Looks harmless enough." His eyes journeyed from the right to the left of the clearing, then across the brook. "So you like being out here, huh?" "Yeah." "Why?" She shrugged. "I don't know. It's just pretty and relaxing." "You don't go past this point?" "No," she said quickly. It was what she'd sensed he wanted to hear, yet it was also the truth. "I'm too scared of getting lost and what might be out there." "Really, now?" Lance seemed genuinely interested. "What do you think might be out there?"  The Wizard of Oz , which she'd been permitted to watch because it was a children's movie, popped into her memory--"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" Well, she knew real lions and tigers lived only in jungles. But bears lived in forests. And so did snakes. When she was little, Lance had killed a snake in their backyard, and she knew a snake had tempted Adam and Eve into disobeying God. "Bears or snakes or wild animals or something." "But you haven't ever seen anything out here, have you?" Angel shook her head, wide-eyed. "Is there something out here I should've seen?" "Couldn't say. But I can tell you that you're being a smart little girl so far. You definitely don't need to go past this clearing." He gazed at her darkly, and what he said next kind of scared her. "You never know. There might be more out there to be afraid of than wild animals." "Like what?" she whispered, thinking of the film again. "Witches and monsters?" "Bah, silly girl! There're no such things!" Lance hissed. "Least not literally, not like the ones on TV. No, I'm talking about like what I said to the doctor. Lots of kids around here, little boys and girls just like you, have disappeared by going off alone in places like that. Nobody ever knew what happened to them. A bad person dragged them off to a bad place, and did something really, really bad to them, something worse than you could ever imagine." He raised his eyebrows the way he did whenever he suspected she might misbehave or disobey. "You don't want anything like that to happen to you, do you?" Angel had heard about kids disappearing around Grimshaw, but it had never occurred to her that she could be one of them. Petrified, she could only shake her head. Lance's harsh expression melted into a gentler one, one that bordered on sympathy, and his voice softened to almost a whisper. "Believe it or not, I am worried about you. I care what happens to you, Angel," he said, calling her by name one of the first times ever. "I'm letting you come here and telling you this stuff just ‘cause I don't want anything bad to become of you." Slowly, he reached toward her, the first and only time his upcoming touch hadn't seemed threatening. Rather, it seemed like a real touch, a loving father's touch, a touch that Angel had no memory of ever experiencing. A touch she desperately desired. So for once, she didn't shrink away. Lance's fingertips came within a quarter-inch of her cheek. Then his hand fell to his side, and his expression of stoic firmness returned. "Just make sure you don't stray outside this clearing, and follow my other rules about being home by dark and steering clear of boys, and you'll be fine." Of course, through the years, Angel had periodically lost track of time and broken the curfew rule. Just like the previous night, however, Lance generally punished her only with a severe beating. If she was out extremely late or he was really mad, he occasionally accompanied the beating with punishments of extra chores or temporary groundings from the woods. Angel knew the scars on her arms scared him too much for him to do more. He wouldn't take away the woods from her as long as he never suspected she was breaking his biggest rule by meeting Peter, or any other boy, out there. Angel's mind returned to the present when she reached the foot of the narrow path into the woods. She closed the knife, stuffed it into her shorts' pocket, and strolled along the path, smiling at the surrounding forest. The towering trees and rainbow of sweet-scented wildflowers and foliage grew so dense that only a few glimmers of golden sunlight broke through, making the woods both light and dark at the same time. The sounds of birds singing, the breeze whispering in the leaves, and her feet rustling along the soft grass of the path meshed together in a natural lullaby that soothed away her bad thoughts and memories. When she was in this beautiful place, she felt so secure, so at peace. Despite the horror stories about kids disappearing, she couldn't imagine anything or anyone in the world being able to hurt her here. Angel and Peter always met in the clearing on the bank of the brook. By the time she reached the end of the path, she found that, as usual, he had arrived first. Peter was already 5'11," making him the only upcoming freshman boy Angel knew of who was taller than her. Though thin, his arms and legs bulged slightly from muscles strengthened by constant running and romping outdoors. His skin was tan, not from the sun, but his natural olive tone. His thick wavy hair, cut just above his neck's nape, was more of a golden blonde than Angel's white-yellow locks. His parted bangs fell to the left of his forehead and cast a shadow over his coolly narrow eyes, a deep shade of aquamarine that Angel had seen only in photographs of the ocean. She often wished she could have been born with eyes like his rather than her round icy ones, which she saw as owlish, too pale, and just plain ugly like the rest of her. She had known Peter since kindergarten at Grimshaw Elementary. Approximately seven months older than her, just shy of his fifteenth birthday, Peter had ended up in her grade by luck of a technicality; his birth date had fallen just past the age cutoff limit for entrance into school, forcing him to start kindergarten later than his peers. But he would get to take driver's education next spring with the sophomores. Perhaps those mere months of maturity had been what made Peter so much different from the other kids. From the beginning, he was nice to her, never making fun of her, and even speaking to her occasionally. Because of Lance's "no boys" rule, though, she never really talked to Peter at length. That is, not before the beginning of the summer between third and fourth grade, right after she'd gotten her scars. Just days afterward, as she had sat crying in the woods alongside the brook, Peter had galloped through the clearing on his white horse. (Of course, he always insisted his horse wasn't white, saying quarter horses only came in a light, grayish color mistaken for white. But to Angel, it was a white horse.) Peter's eyes had bulged and his mouth had dropped, telling Angel he was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. "Hi," he uttered awkwardly, then smiled widely. Quickly wiping at the tears on her cheeks with her hands, Angel forced herself to smile back. "Hi." A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed. Peter's eyes moved along her tear-stained cheeks and her bruised body, then lingered on her gigantic, white hospital bandages, which looked strangely over-sized on her tiny wrists. She held her breath, waiting for him to ask why she'd been crying, how she'd gotten the bruises, what had happened. He didn't. Instead, he flashed her a bigger smile than before and asked in a light-hearted, cheerful voice, "How'd you like to try out Camelot?" "Camelot?" she echoed blankly, as if the word were foreign. "Yeah, Camelot." He grinned and gestured at the animal. "She's my new horse." "Camelot," Angel repeated, her physical and emotional scars already shifting to the back of her mind. "You mean like in the King Arthur stories?" "Yeah. That's the place I named her after, because I just finished reading the series, and now they're my favorite stories, uh, I mean books." "Wow." Their class had made a few trips to the Grimshaw High School library to learn the Dewey Decimal system. During those trips, Angel had noticed the King Arthur novels. They were huge . She couldn't believe a boy her age had read even one of them, much less the entire series. Angel loved the legends, too, but was familiar with them only through picture books and snippets in their school readers. She wasn't about to admit that, though, so she merely said, "Camelot's a pretty name." "Thanks. She's a real, real, real early birthday gift from my dad. My birthday's not till October, but my dad gave me Camelot now so I could have all of summer vacation to break her in and train her and stuff. I've already tamed her a lot, and she likes people. Want to ride her? If you do, I'll lead her by the harness so she won't go too fast for you." This time, Angel responded with a real smile. "Sure." Peter had taken what had been a totally sad and lonely day and made it into a wonderful memory of exclusive firsts. Peter's horse became the first and only one she'd ridden. Peter became the first and only kid who'd ever hung out with her and was nice to her for the sake of being nice, instead of wanting something in return. Most importantly, Peter became the first and only person who never asked what had happened to her wrists--she appreciated that the most. It was just one of a bunch of things she liked about him. After their initial encounter, Angel and Peter had quickly become best friends. Due to Lance's retarded rules, Angel and Peter openly maintained that friendship only in the woods. And even then, only when Lance and her mother weren't home, for Lance had been known to check up on her from time to time, to make sure she wasn't "sinning." At school, they limited themselves to polite, obscure greetings in the halls, and Peter occasionally defended Angel in a casual way when other kids picked on her. Hanging out together during the school year was hard, because it generally limited them to weekends and holidays, and again, only the ones when Lance and her mother weren't home. That's why Angel lived for summer vacations like this, when she could avoid the nasty kids at school and meet Peter almost every weekday, unless it rained. Now, Peter stood facing the brook, watching Camelot drink from it, so he hadn't seen Angel approach. Smiling, she tiptoed up to him and cried, "Boo!" He jumped and whirled around as she broke into laughter. "Hey, that's not funny!" He playfully punched her on the arm. She winced and placed her hand over her shoulder. Peter grinned. "Aw, c'mon! I didn't hit you that…" His voice trailed off, and his smile faded. "What happened to your arms?" he asked, gesturing toward the bruises. "And legs?" "Nothing." She turned her face from his. "I fell, that's all." "Lance beat you last night, didn't he?" Angel only hung her head in response. "Damn him!" Peter stomped his foot, as if exasperated and somewhat offended. "Why do you always try to hide this from me? Don't you feel like you can tell me by now?" Angel sighed and sat alongside the brook. She should have worn long sleeves and blue jeans. "Yeah, but I knew you'd just get mad and upset like always." Peter sat next to her. "What pissed him off this time?" He raised an eyebrow. "Did he smell the alcohol?" "No. The mouthwash and gum and stuff you brought yesterday must've covered it up. But that reminds me…" She told him about the red-eyed cloaked figure and the snake. At the conclusion of her story, Peter whistled between his teeth. "Sounds like you got the worm." Until yesterday, neither Peter nor Angel had ever drank alcohol. But they had heard kids at school boast about how great it was, so they wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Peter had swiped a bottle of mescal from his father's liquor cabinet and brought it to the forest. Angel had asked, "Don't you feel guilty about stealing from your father?" "Any other time I would. But in the case of booze, the man needs to cut back. He hits the bottle way too much." "If he drinks so much, won't he miss it?" Peter shrugged. "Nah. He'll think he drank it himself and got too wasted to remember." Mescal, as Peter had explained, was a special type of tequila with a worm in the bottom of the bottle. Legend had it that anyone who swallowed the worm would have visions. Visions or no visions, the idea of swallowing a worm sounded completely gross to both Angel and Peter. The alcohol itself turned out to be kind of gross, too. It tasted so putrid, they had spit out their first sips, then spent the rest of the day taking teeny drinks and passing the bottle back and forth until the alcohol was gone. They tried to play it cool, but had spit out most of it the entire time, or poured bits into the stream to get rid of it faster. Somehow, though, the worm had disappeared. Angel figured one of them had poured or spit it out with the alcohol. But each swore the other must have swallowed it. Teasing one another about that stupid worm had turned out to be much more fun than the drink itself. Now, Angel said, "I thought about that. But I still say if I'd swallowed a worm, I'd know it." Peter laughed and held up his hands. "Hey, I didn't see crap last night, so go figure." "All right, all right, maybe I swallowed a worm. Big deal." "Seriously, I've heard people who drink for the first time can hallucinate, worm or no worm. So I can buy the thing about you're seeing the rattlesnake outside and imagining it was a monster. But what about that guy in black? What made you see him? And are you sure you imagined him?" "I assumed I must have. But I really don't know." "You think it could've been that old wino, what's-his-name? Jim or Jed…" "Jeb Chester? No way. He's harmless. Trust me." "You see too much good in people, you know." "Maybe, but not in this case. Mr. Chester's a nice man." Peter shrugged doubtfully. "Anyway, if somebody was really outside your window peeping at you, if I catch him…" He made a fist and punched his palm. "…I'll pound his face in." Angel laughed. "Thanks, Peter, but you wouldn't have to do something like that just for me." Peter retorted, "Just for you, my ass. I'm not having some pervert peeping at my girl--my best friend." She smiled, then broke an awkward silence. "On my way here today, I found something I thought you might like." She dug the knife out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Cool." Peter switched it open and inspected it. "You know what? I think you should keep it. You're a girl, and you really ought to have something to defend yourself, especially if you really saw what you thought you saw last night. It's no lethal weapon, but it's better than nothing. I'll sharpen it for you, then give it back." Peter stood, took some sort of sharpening tool out of one of the saddlebags, and sat down again. As he ran the tool along the edge of the blade, he asked, "Anyway, what did you do this time? Breathe?" "Basically. I was out too late, sinning and contaminating my soul, same old crap." "I just can't understand why Lance is such a Holy Roller. I mean, hell, he doesn't ever go to church." "Well, he used to be a minister, and--" "I know, I know." Peter put aside the knife and tool, then adopted a voice that sounded like a cross between Jimmy Swaggart's and Lance's, and began an impersonation of Lance's holier-than-thou spiel as recounted to him by Angel… sort of. "Ah, girl," he bellowed, melodramatically waving his index finger in the air, "the reason I left the ministry in the first place is because all organized religion, including our local church, is too hypocritical and corrupt for a devout soul like myself to stomach." He flourished his arms like one of their more boisterous church ministers, Reverend Wolf. "Yea though I walk through the valley of child-beating and the shadow of being a complete asshole , the Lord is with me, for I am "--Peter pointed to himself self-righteously--"the almighty-and-perfect Lance. So I am much better than anyone in that church ever thought about being. Why, I know God and the Bible backwards and forwards already, everything that yon ministers can teach me, and much, much more." He started waving his fist like a Baptist preacher gearing up to sucker-punch the devil. "In fact, I know everything , including a ton of trite clichés to annoy the crap out of you every five seconds, how to beat people real hard with my belt and my Bible, and most importantly, where I am headed in the afterlife. And you can believe it's exactly where I want to go!" Peter fell to his knees and flung his arms outward. "Praise God, amen!" Angel roared with laughter. Somehow, Peter managed to stay in character. "You, on the other hand, woman "--he poked her nose with his finger in mock accusation--"are a young, rebellious sinner in dire need of whatever spiritual guidance and purification possible." Drawing her hands together, he clasped his own over them, raised his head skyward, and closed his eyes in feigned prayer. "So accompany your mother to church, and reap from it what you are able, no matter how inadequate or tainted it may be in cleansing your soul or anyone else's. Repent! Pray for salvation!" Keeping his eyes closed and his face skyward, he pulled her to her knees. "Bow down on your hands and knees and cry out to the Lord Jesus Christ for mercy, you sinner! Hail Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and God! Praise the Lord!" Angel collapsed on her back and practically rolled, laughing so hard tears rolled along her cheeks. Peter bowed up and down and made mock motions of kissing the ground. "Yee-hoo, yee-haw! Glory, glory, hallelujah!" Okay, Peter had exaggerated a wee bit. Still, some of the stuff he had said was on the nose, like about Lance's claiming to know the Bible backwards and forwards, and that the local church was hypocritical and corrupt. Angel had never been able to understand why Lance would say such a thing about their church. The people there had always come across as perfectly nice to her. Those thoughts, however, only vaguely surfaced in Angel's brain because she was laughing too hard at Peter's impersonation. When she regained enough self-control to speak, she said between giggles, "The Bible part's true, anyway. He knows it so well that sometimes I think he was there when they wrote it." "For real." Peter chuckled, sitting beside her and returning to his work with the knife. He grew serious. "It's not like you've done anything wrong, though. You don't do anything illegal or unethical, you go to church regularly, and you almost always follow all of everybody's rules. So I don't get why he's so worried about you being good." Under her breath, Angel sarcastically muttered, "Because I'm too pretty." "What?" "Nothing. Just something stupid Lance said last night." "Oh. Yeah, that is stupid." "Gee, thanks, Peter. You didn't have to agree with me so quickly, you know." "Aw, man!" Peter dropped his work, rolled his eyes, and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Open mouth, insert foot. I didn't mean--" "Don't worry about it." "No, it's not like that." Peter resumed sharpening the blade. "I just meant that's a stupid reason for him to beat the crap out of you." "C'mon, you don't have to make excuses. You didn't say anything I haven't heard before at school." "Don't put words in my mouth. That's not what I meant. You're… you're really…" Peter grasped for words. "Look, you're not ugly, okay?" Angel looked at her reflection in the water and made a face. "Yeah, right. That's why no guys ask me out, except to make fun of me, like Connor Wylie does." The boys at school were almost as mean to Angel as the girls. Often, they dared each other to make explicit comments to her, put an arm around her, ask her out, and other stuff like that, just to make a cruel joke. Connor Wylie was the worst, doing it more often than the others, and in the ways that made Angel feel the most uncomfortable. Peter couldn't say or do much about it. Otherwise, kids would pick up on the fact that they were pals, then it might get back to Lance. Peter had once told Angel that if it weren't for Lance being such a goober about stuff, he would pretend to be her boyfriend, just to get the boys to leave her alone. Continuing his work on the blade, Peter argued, "The only reason nobody asks you out is ‘cause everybody knows Lance won't let you date. I'm sure some guys like you for real and are just too scared to admit it." Angel retorted skeptically, "Oh, yeah? Like who?" "Geez, I don't know who . I'm just sure there are some, that's all." He finished sharpening the knife, closed it, handed it to her, and put away the tool. Angel returned the knife to her pocket. "Then why do Connor Wylie and the other guys--" Peter's rage reawakened. "Connor's just a big, redneck, doofus jerk. And the others, well… it's a dumb-guy thing. They just do that ‘cause they know you and no guys have ever done--uh… I mean, you've never had… um… well, you know…" He stopped, and when Angel only looked expectantly at him, he finished, "… a date. That intimidates them." "What about the girls? Are they intimidated, too?" Angel asked sarcastically. Peter ignored her tone. "No. They're jealous of the way you look." "Oh, please! You sound just like Grandma!" Angel sputtered. She whirled away from both the water and Peter. Once he could no longer see her face, however, she smiled, secretly pleased with his indirect compliment. "It's not fair," Peter said. "Everybody is so mean to you except your grandmother and me." He patted her back. "Ow…" "God!" Peter jumped up and again stomped the ground. "Isn't there anywhere he didn't beat you?" Angel stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Peter, please, don't waste the time we have to hang out together being mad. Can't we just enjoy the rest of the day? Please?" She sized him up. He was still angry, but she could tell he was cooling down. "C'mon, let's finish playing out the chapter from yesterday's story." Peter often made up stories in which the two of them role-played characters and acted out adventures. Of all the things she and Peter did, the story games were her favorite. She guessed it was because the worlds in his fiction were somehow always brighter and easier than her own. "I was Lady Miriam," she recited, picking up a branch to serve for her sword and climbing into Camelot's saddle, "riding my trusty steed through the dangerous forest, trying to get an urgent message to the king. I came upon a bridge, and from under its dark shadows leapt… um, what'd you say you were, Peter?" "A wood monster," he mumbled half-heartedly. "A wood monster. Oh, that's just great, Peter! C'mon! Describe him the way you always describe the characters and the places, with the big adjectives and narrative words and everything." "Fine," he relented, rolling his eyes. "He's covered in red hair and stands way over six feet tall." Peter climbed on a tree stump to aid in the illusion. "He towers in the air so high, it seems he could dismantle the sky and send it crashing down on Lady Miriam's head. His great shadow covers her, making her feel as if she's trapped in eternal darkness." Peter spoke with more emotion as he became caught up in the story. "He bears black eyes down upon her, burning holes through her soul. He lifts his giant paws, displaying long, black, knife-like claws, stained red with the blood of his last innocent victim." He curled his fingers in an exaggerated fashion, stood on his toes, and leaned forward. "This huge, black-and-red monster is about to make Miriam his next kill by slashing her flesh with his claws!" "Oh, yeah?" Angel prodded Peter with the stick. Peter reached for her, but she pulled Camelot's reins, guiding the horse to safety. The game continued with "the monster" charging at "Miriam's steed" and "wounding" it, forcing the "battle" to ensue with both of them on foot. For almost an hour, Peter brilliantly narrated the entire tale, describing the imaginary struggle and battleground in such a way that the characters and their struggle became real to Angel. After Angel's character lost her weapon and fought the monster by hand, Peter slumped to the ground in a melodramatic collapse and played possum a few seconds. With his eyes still closed, he concluded the tale. "The wood monster has been slain, defeated by Lady Miriam, none of which is surprising, for good always triumphs over evil."  Yep, that was Peter for you. Always seeing a happy ending, both in his stories and in real life. Angel couldn't relate to that. Still, her heart pounded in excitement from the game. The story games were her escape from reality, a way to forget her problems, and even gave her a mystifying sense of conquering them. Perspiring, she went to the stream and splashed water on her skin to cool down. "That was fun," she said as Peter opened his lids and propped his head on his hand. "You tell the stories so well that sometimes I forget they're make-believe. One day you'll be a great writer, or maybe an actor or something." "Nah," sputtered Peter modestly, but Angel could see the pride in his eyes that came from her compliments and enjoyment of the game. "You know, it'd be pretty cool if I could do something like that to get the hell out of Grimshaw." He chortled. "In fact, it'd be pretty cool if I could do anything to get the hell out of Grimshaw." Angel smiled. "Well, one day you just might." She hadn't just said that because it sounded like the right thing to say. Practically everybody their age wanted out of Grimshaw. But if any of them actually could make it out, she felt it would be Peter. Peter flipped onto his back beneath the tall trees at the edge of the clearing, put his hands behind his head, and gazed dreamily at the clouds in the blue sky. "I wish I could get out all the time. You ever wish you could get out?" "Only every other second. Who doesn't? There's nothing in Grimshaw that'd make anybody want to stay, not anybody our age, anyway." Grimshaw consisted of just a few markets, mom-and-pop cafés, churches, factories, auto shops, salvage yards, and basic, boring stuff like that. No mall, no movie theatre, no recreational centers… nothing to do. Going cool places like that required a trip ten miles east to the largest city near Grimshaw, Sommerville, located in the next county, Churchill. Sommerville was by no means New York City or anything. But with its two malls, three movie theaters, and various ethnic restaurants, it was New York compared to Grimshaw. Granted, Grimshaw was a scenic, rural area, with lots of open areas and forest for outdoor activities like camping and horseback riding. Unfortunately, during the summer, it was too hot to be outside much. Unless, of course, a person was in a swimming pool, a creek, a river, or hanging out in a place like the woods, where plenty of shade trees kept things cool. On the other hand, Angel had to admit that many of the adults in Grimshaw had experienced individual accomplishments in one form or the other--financial, occupational, agricultural, or social. All of those successes were centered locally and seemed to occur through some unspoken, strange magic that lay within the borders of Grimshaw itself. She guessed those localized achievements could account for folks' satisfaction in Grimshaw and their desire to stay. That was among the adults, though. Grimshaw was a pretty sorry place for a kid to be stuck. Of course, kids didn't usually have a say in where their parents chose to live, so they didn't have much choice other than to put up with it or try to make it in the world on their own. That's probably why so many kids run away from here, she thought. She figured that's what really happened to most of them, instead of "bad things," like Lance had implied. Angel stretched out alongside Peter, also on her back with her hands behind her head. He cast her a sideways glance. "Ever dream about ways to get out?" "I don't dream," Angel said coldly. "Unless I'm asleep and can't help it. Like old people who know better than to wet themselves but can't help it ‘cause they're asleep." It was harsh, yet in Angel's case, true. She didn't dare consciously dream about escaping Grimshaw, or dream anything else she desired, and she hadn't done so in years. She felt too worthless for dreams, and life seemed too bleak for her to ever hope for anything except sorrow. "Ah, c'mon, everybody dreams!" Peter insisted with his typical optimism. "You must have dreamed about getting out somehow, at least once." "Well," Angel admitted, reminiscing, "I used to dream my real father was alive and well somewhere, and that one day, he'd come and take me away to live with him." "Really?" "Yeah." "Hmm. Anything else?" The memory of another childhood dream popped into Angel's mind. She smiled. "I used to dream I'd be rescued by the handsome prince." "Huh?" Obviously confused yet interested, Peter again propped his head on his right hand so he could see her face. "What handsome prince?" "Nothing," she said, blushing. She shouldn't have mentioned such a personal thing, even to Peter. "Just this retarded thing I used to dream in kindergarten." Peter grinned. "Dreams aren't retarded! C'mon! Tell me about it." Angel's face grew warmer, and she smiled and shook her head. With his free hand, Peter dug his fingers into her ribs until she giggled. "If you don't, I swear on all my grandparents' graves I'll hold you down and tickle you till you wet yourself!" "All right, all right!" Angel laughed and wiggled away. "God, I can't believe you're making me tell you this…" Peter raised his fingers threateningly. "Okay. Remember when we were in Mrs. Wall's kindergarten class, and we used to take naps on those stupid pallets on the floor?" He smiled, as if reliving a pleasant memory of his own. "Like it was yesterday." Angel closed her eyes. "Well, almost every day when we took those naps, I'd have a reoccurring dream about this handsome prince who wore a gold crown and rode a white horse. He would ride by me, and… now this part's really embarrassing, so you'd better not laugh…" "You're my best friend. I'd never laugh at you." Peter never had before, and Angel's intuition told her he wouldn't this time, either. "Well, every time he rode by, he would stop just long enough to kiss me on the cheek. And you know how a lot of times when you're sleeping, you get in that half-asleep, half-awake state, where you're sort of awake, yet still dreaming?" "Yeah." "Well, there were a couple of times when I got like that and opened my eyes a second. And each time, for just that second, I could have sworn he was there. So I started to dream about him on purpose, too. I'd daydream that maybe he was really real, and maybe one day he'd ride by on that white horse. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't just kiss me, but also put me on his horse with him, and take me away from Grimshaw and Lance and everything else, to marry him and live with him in his castle forever and ever." She opened her eyes. Though she had finished the story, the wide, bright smile the warm memory had drawn remained. Peter smiled back at her. Not like he was going to laugh or make fun of her or anything. It was a smile of pleasure. Though her story wasn't a descriptive, action-packed adventure like the ones he made up, he appeared to have enjoyed hearing it as much as she'd enjoyed telling it. In fact, he seemed to want it to go on. "What happened to the prince?" Angel's smile drooped, and her brow creased. "Nothing. He was just the naïve dream of a naïve little kid who grew up." She closed her eyes again. For a minute or two, neither of them spoke. Birds sang, insects chirped, and the grass and wind tickled her skin. Then she sensed Peter had moved closer. Her lids snapped open. Sure enough, Peter's face was descending gradually toward hers, his dreamy smile brightening, his eyes closed. Then he froze. His eyes remained shut, but his smile vanished. His brow furrowed into a deep frown, and he shook his head. He also bit his lower lip, which he always did whenever he knew exactly what he wanted to say yet didn't quite want to let it slip from his mouth. "Peter? What's the matter?" "Nothing." He quickly moved away, lay back on the ground, and folded his hands behind his head. "C'mon. I know you better than that. You were thinking about something that was bothering you. And it still is." When Peter didn't respond, she urged, "Tell me." "Angel…" Eventually, he opened his eyes, but the troubled frown never left his face. "Have you ever noticed anything strange about Grimshaw?"  CHAPTER : UNANSWERED QUESTIONS "Strange about Grimshaw?" Angel echoed. "Not really. Just your typical, run-of-the-mill, small town." "No, Grimshaw's different." Angel frowned. "Different how?" "I don't know exactly. The place, the people…" "Oh, Peter, I have no clue what you're--unless, well, when you say people , do you mean like Brother John?" "I wasn't thinking of him specifically, but now that you mention it, he's definitely pretty weird." "He sure is. I feel kind of sorry for him, though, ‘cause he got that name from the mean song the kids made up about him." "Brother John" was the nickname the kids had given John Weekly, a blind man in his mid-forties or early fifties. His eyelids had been sealed shut by a mysterious freak accident years ago. If you ignored the red circles around his eyes and the brown color where the flesh on his lids had burned, he almost looked like he was sleeping. His face was really kind of scary and often frightened little kids. Maybe that's why they made fun of him. People make fun of what they fear or don't understand, Angel thought bitterly. John got his nickname the year Angel and Peter were in kindergarten, when the class had learned the words to "Brother John," the English translation of the French nursery rhyme, "Frère Jacques." The English version went…  Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Brother John? Brother John? Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing. Ding-ding-dong, ding-ding-dong. Some cruel child then ad-libbed new lyrics…  Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Brother John? Brother John? We can't tell ‘cause your eyes are shut, we can't tell ‘cause your eyes are shut, From dusk till dawn, from dusk till dawn. The kids had called him "Brother John" ever since. "By the way, what happened to his eyes?" Angel asked. "I don't think anybody knows for sure," Peter said. "Some folks say he got burned in a kitchen fire. Others say it was self-inflicted during the big recession that happened right before we were born. They say he was so broke and miserable, he tried to kill himself. And a few people, like my dad, say he was blinded as part of a curse ." "That's silly.There's no such thing as curses." Of course, her mother believed in curses, too. She had told Angel about one curse a couple of years ago, after Angel had accidentally walked into the bathroom and spotted blood on an oblong, diaper-like object inside Cecilia's underwear. Her mother had explained the blood was part of a "curse" that befell girls whenever they became women, as punishment for Eve's sins. She had given Angel a few more details about how long it lasted and what it was like. Angel's own curse hadn't come yet--thank God--so outside of what her mother had told her, she knew nothing about it. Still, she realized, "the curse" of which her mother had spoken wasn't the same curse Peter referred to now. Peter said, "Either way, the whole thing about no one knowing exactly what happened to Brother John is strange." Angel shrugged. "It's probably a bad memory he doesn't want to talk about. So folks just come up with different stories to explain it and satisfy their own curiosity. I don't see what's so strange about that." "Don't you think it's strange a blind man can do so well farming? He's one of the richest farmers around. Doing much better, I hear, than he ever did before he went blind. How can he be such a good farmer when he can't see?" "Helen Keller couldn't see or hear, and she accomplished as much, if not more, than that. Besides, he has four kids to help--" "Five." "Five?" Angel held up her hand, counting off the names on her fingers. "Gaylette, John Jr., and the twins, Eric and Derek. That's four." "But I heard some older kids at school say he has another daughter who's older than all of them." "Are you sure about that?" Angel asked, frowning. "I've never heard of or seen--" "I'm positive. I checked one of the old school yearbooks, just to see for myself. Sure enough, there she was, Sarah Weekly." "Well, she doesn't live at home and help her father on the farm like the others." "Everybody says Sarah went to live with a rich uncle or something ‘cause John had more than he could handle when he first went blind, with the recession and four other kids and everything. She'd be in her mid- or late twenties now, so she'd be out on her own already either way." Peter paused. "That's another thing. Why in the heck didn't she come home after John got back on his feet? In fact, why doesn't she ever visit, period?" "Maybe she does visit and keeps to herself. And I don't blame her for not coming home when she was a kid, either. If you ever got out of Grimshaw, would you come back?" "I guess you're right. Still, I just think it's strange…" "Personally, I think you're reading too much into things, Peter. The only things I find strange about John are his deformed eyes and some of the stuff he says to me in church. Like"--she deepened her voice to imitate John's--"'Why, Angel Fallow, you sure are a sight for sore eyes!'" "How would he know? What an ironic thing for a blind man to say, especially one whose eyes are scarred like his." Peter chuckled. "You know, I think he's said that to me once or twice, too. I wonder why he says that…?" Angel rolled her eyes, then closed them. "There you go again, reading too much into things. It's probably just ‘cause his disability has left him kind of isolated, and he's forgotten how to talk to people." "Angel, it's not just John Weekly. Some of the others are kinda bizarre, too." "Like who?" "Like… like…" Peter seemed to be grasping at straws. "Okay, like the ‘Grocery Store Weirdoes.' They're pretty freaky." "Grocery Store Weirdoes" was their nickname for the people who Angel and her mother ran into at the grocery store every Saturday. Peter knew most of them. Still, he didn't get the up-close-and-personal view Angel got when her mother stopped to gossip with them. A few things they said and did seemed sort of strange. For instance, they tended to be overly curious about Angel and what was happening in her life. "Sure, they're kind of out there. But I think they just don't get out enough and need a life, that's all." "Okay, then, how about my folks? I love my parents, and my dad and I are close. At least we used to be. But something's different about them in a way that's not right." "Dr. St. Thomas, veterinarian of medicine. Mrs. St. Thomas, veterinarian's wife and Grimshaw seamstress. Oooh, yeah, they give me the creeps." "Ha-ha. I'm not talking about their jobs. I mean, like, they're so quiet…" "Oh, like me. Heaven forbid!" "Yet even though they're not social, they have all these people from church and around town over at our place. All of them at once, all of the time. For no apparent reason." "Uh, how about a church meeting?" "Church meetings. Oh, sure, okay. Well, what about the non-church members that come?" Angel grinned. "Maybe the church members want to convert the heathens. Seriously! Okay, I was joking, but that could be the reason. It seems like someone in everybody's church is always out to save somebody else's soul." "But then they go out a lot together at night--" "Pssst, Peter. That's what couples do. It's called ‘being married.'" "No, it's not just my parents going out together alone. Whenever they have one of these big ‘church meetings'"--he wiggled his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks and dripped sarcasm--"everybody who shows up goes out together. Just gets in their cars and follows each other. Now you tell me, where would a bunch of grown men and women be going at night in a hole-in-the-wall town like Grimshaw?" "Maybe a bar." Angel giggled. Peter gave her a condescending look. "With the church people, too?" "Come on, this is the Baptist Church. Nowadays, lots of the more liberal Baptists feel it's okay to drink through the week if they stay dry on Sundays. You're the one who says your dad likes to hit the bottle all the time." "But he never drinks and drives." Angel shrugged. "So your mom or somebody else with them is probably the designated driver." "Why are you being so skeptical?" Angel heard the frustration in Peter's voice. "'Cause you're not being concrete. Give me facts." "I don't have facts. It's more of a feeling you get, or that I get, about this place, these people. It's like it's something… something…" "What?" "Something bad. Something almost… unholy," he managed, then stopped, apparently awaiting her reaction. Angel sat up and stretched, then pulled herself to her feet. "You really should be a writer. You've got an overactive imagination." "Hey, Angel, you dropped this." Peter stood, her locket in hand. He started to hand it to her, then, seeing the heart had opened, he examined the pictures inside. "This is your mom when she was younger, right?" Angel nodded. He pointed to the other picture, snickered, and sang out in a mock kiddy voice, "Oooh, Angel's got a boyfriend, Angel's got a boyfriend!" She flushed. Peter's joke made her feel weird and even a bit offended, but she didn't know why. His smile evaporated. "Oh. I was only kidding. But… is he really your boyfriend?" "No, silly!" Angel snatched the locket from his hands. "You know Lance won't let me have a boyfriend! That's my real father, of course!" Peter laughed nervously. "Of course…" Seeing her struggle with the chain's latch, he walked behind her. "Need a hand?" "Uh, sure." When his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, Angel's skin broke out in goose bumps. "Er… so," Peter said, fumbling with the latch, "what happened to your father?" Angel lowered her eyes. "Mother says he wrecked his pickup and died right after I was born. So I never really knew him." "Oh, gee, I'm sorry," Peter said sincerely, then snapped the latch closed. Angel turned toward him. "Thanks." "You're welcome." She checked her watch. "Well, it's getting late, and Lance will be home soon, so I guess I'd better go. See you tomorrow, okay?" "Angel, wait!" Peter grasped her hand. "Yeah?" "I just wanted to tell you that… uh…" He paused, never letting go of her hand. "You're the best friend I've ever had." "You're the best friend I've ever had, too," she replied with a shiver. The way he stared at her, the sensation of his fingers encircling hers, made her entire body feel hot and cold at once. She had never felt anything like that with Peter, much less anyone else. But she liked it. He leaned toward her, but a rustle within a cluster of nearby bushes jolted him upright. His hand released Angel's, yet moved protectively in front of her. "What was that?" The bushes parted. Into the clearing stepped a white goat. The goat, small with two undeveloped horn stumps on its head, was plainly a kid, likely just weaned from its mother. The goat sized up Angel and Peter before lowering its head to nibble at the inch-high wild flowers. "Cool," said Peter. He took a step toward the goat. The animal jerked its head upright. Its eyes widened, its legs stiffened, and Angel knew it was about to run. "Wait a minute, Peter." Angel put up her hand, gesturing for him to stop. "It's scared. Easy, easy," she soothed the goat. "We're not going to hurt you. Peter, give me a few of Camelot's sugar cubes." Moving slowly so he wouldn't startle the animal, Peter extracted four sugar cubes from his pocket and dropped them into Angel's hand. "Easy," Angel repeated gently. She tossed one sugar cube at the goat's feet. Startled, it hesitated at first. Then it sniffed the cube and sucked it up. It tilted its head and sized up Angel as it chewed. "Want more?" She opened her palm, revealing the three remaining cubes. "Gotta come closer, then," she said, dropping a cube three feet from where she stood. Without taking its eyes off Angel, the goat crept forward and snatched the second cube in its jaws. Angel waited for the kid to finish chewing before dropping the next cube just inches from her shoes. The goat kept watching her but proceeded toward the treat, this time with a quicker, more confident pace. As the goat gulped at the cube, Angel praised, "'Good. Now for the hardest part." She opened her palm to reveal the final cube, then stretched her arm toward the goat and locked eyes with it. "Do you trust me?" The goat contemplated Angel for a bit before stepping forward and eating the cube out of her hand, its wet nose and mouth nuzzling her palm. She put out her free hand and stroked the goat between the horn stumps as it devoured the cube. When the goat finished, it sniffed her hands and clothing, searching for more. "That's all, silly." She laughed, rubbing its head. "You'll get sick if I feed you more." Peter laughed. "That was so awesome, Angel! You tamed that frightened, wild goat in less than five minutes! And you think I'm talented!" "Oh, please!" She laughed modestly. "No, for real!" Peter inched his hand forward and petted the goat. "You should be a veterinarian or someone who works with animals. You've got a way with them. It's almost like… like… like you're connected with them somehow." He walked behind the goat, stooped, then rose and grinned. "Congratulations, it's a boy." "Wonder where he came from?" "Probably a nearby farm or something. I don't know how he ended up way out here, though." Peter examined the goat a little longer. "I don't see any brands or anything identifying him as anybody's property." Angel pointed at the goat's front left leg. "There's a mark on his ankle. See? It's kind of shaped like a clover." Peter looked at it. "Yeah, but that's not a brand. It's a natural mark." He stood. "I don't guess he has an owner. Or if he does, there's no way for them to claim him." "Since he has a mark like a clover, I think I'll call him Lucky," Angel decided. "You talk like you're keeping him." "Why can't I? He likes me, and you said no one can claim him." "You really think Lance will let you?" Peter asked. "I can try." Angel checked her watch. "Speaking of Lance, he should be home any minute, and the sun will be down soon, so I'd really better go. I don't want to make him mad again since I'm asking for something." Peter sighed before reaching into one of his horse's saddlebags. "Here's a rope. You can use it to lead Lucky home." Peter and Angel tied the rope around Lucky's neck in a comfortably loose-yet-secure noose. The goat's eyes widened in uncertainty and fear, until Angel petted him and tugged at the rope, at which point he relaxed and allowed himself to be led. "Bye, Peter," said Angel, turning to go. "Hey!" When Angel looked back, Peter warned, "Be careful." She knew what Peter meant--not to push Lance. "All right." * * * * A little while later, as Angel led Lucky along Blackwood Road toward her house, a familiar voice called out, "What you got there, young ‘un?" Angel's gaze followed the sound across the road, where Jeb Chester sat on the same log behind which he had passed out earlier, as if he'd never left. In fact, Angel might have sworn he hadn't, except he held another flask in hand, this one over half-full. She beamed. "A goat. I found him in the woods. I'm naming him Lucky, and I'm going to keep him as a pet." Then she added glumly, "Unless he belongs to somebody you know of." Jeb grinned. "Nope, don't reckon he does. Looks like you're his new rightful owner." He swigged from the bottle. "And I reckon you gave him the right name." "Why?" Angel asked, certain he was too far away and too far gone to see the clover-shaped mark on Lucky's foot. "'Cause he's damn ‘lucky' it was you that found him instead of someone or something else." "What do you mean, Mr. Chester?" "Why, way out in the woods like that, anything could've happened to him." His words caused a chill to prickle every nerve in Angel's body, though she didn't know why. "Like what?" "Why, you really don't know, do you? You poor, naïve child." Jeb sighed, then took another swig from his bottle, corked it, and stood. "God's beautiful creatures like that are valuable to many people and entities--sometimes the wrong people and entities. Ones that'll do ‘em harm." "Huh?" His words had a hauntingly familiar ring, reminding Angel much of those Lance had used when warning her to be cautious in the woods many years ago. Eyeing Jeb, she waited for him to continue. Instead, he lumbered away from the log, toward the edge of the empty, weedy acres beyond the roadside. He muttered as he went, sounding as if he was talking half to her, half to himself, "Mind your little goat, Angel. Keep a close eye on him. ‘Specially his head and heart. Pure minds and souls make meat for the Devil. He loves goats, liken to the pagan god Pan as they are." In Angel's literature class that year, they had studied Greek mythology. She knew Pan was the mythological god of the woods, reputed to be the source of scary noises in the woods at night, hence the origin of the word "panic." Additionally, she had also read or heard somewhere that some theologians believed Pan to be a demon assistant to Satan, and others believed Pan to be a form of Satan himself. She literally shivered. "You're scaring me, Mr. Chester." Jeb didn't slow, turn around, or respond. "What did you mean? Mr. Chester, please tell me. Mr. Chester! Jeb?" But he was gone. Baffled, Angel petted Lucky's head. "Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you." She knew she was trying more to comfort herself than the dumb animal. Shivering again, she continued on her way. * * * * By the time she reached her front gate, she was so lost in thought she almost failed to hear voices coming through the open kitchen window. She listened carefully and determined that the sources of the voices were Lance and Grandma, and they were having a heated conversation. Their voices grew louder and louder. Deciding this was not the best time to introduce Lucky to her family, Angel took him inside the barn, shut him in one of the stalls, and removed the rope. She made sure he had plenty of water in the trough, then put a little hay and a bucket of dried corn inside the stall before leaving the barn. She started around to the house's front door again. Then, thinking better of it, she flattened her body against the side of the house and crept closer to the kitchen window. She made out the conversation, discovering the topic--herself. "Why don't you just leave her alone?" Grandma said. "She hasn't done a thing wrong! She's a good girl!" "I know," Lance huffed. "I intend to keep it that way." Grandma gasped. "I knew it! I knew you were planning to…" "Keep your voice down, you old bat! In fact, shut up! And while you're under my roof, don't you dare question me or my actions! I warned you before you came here to mind your own business!" "She is my business! She's my granddaughter, and I refuse to let you hurt her! I'm an old woman, and I've been around long enough to know I could go to the authorities about what you're doing!" "You could go back to that hellhole nursing home, too!" Lance threatened. "Keep being a busybody, and I won't hesitate!" Angel gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth. "Who's there?" Lance popped his head through the open window and narrowed his eyes. "I might have known! What do you think you're doing? Sneaking around? Spying on people? Get your ass in this house!" A loud "nah-a-a-ha" sounded from inside the barn. Once again, Lance narrowed his eyes. "What th' hell was that?" "A goat," she mumbled guiltily. "A what?" Lance jerked his head backward so fast, he bumped it against the window. "Dammit, girl!" Frozen, Angel watched through the window as Lance burst out of the kitchen, Cecilia and Grandma not far behind. She couldn't see the front of the house from where she stood, but heard the door slam, and Lance's heavy feet thunder across the porch and down the steps. Soon after, he came around the side of the house, and with the determined fury of a madman, stomped toward the barn. "Please, Lance!" Angel begged, trailing him through the yard. "Please, please let me keep him! I'll feed him and take care of him, and he won't be one bit of trouble, I promise!" "No! You're a spy and a sinner, and you don't deserve a damn thing!" Angel ran past him and threw herself against the barn door. "No! Don't take him! Let me keep him! Please!" "Mind your elders, insolent girl! ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.'" Angel refused to move. Lance wound his arm, clenched his hand into a fist, and delivered a blow across her jaw, knocking her away from the door and to the ground. Without getting up, Angel surveyed the situation. Grandma hobbled closer but had several feet to go. Her mother made it to the barn but stood aside, passively looking on. Angel gauged Lance's progress. The latch on the barn door had stuck. Grunting and muttering curses, he struggled to open it. Angel turned to her mother. "Please, don't let him take my goat away. Haven't I suffered enough? Can't I have anything to make me happy?" The latch gave and the door swung open. Lance entered the barn. "Please…" Angel whispered. Her mother hesitated, then followed Lance inside. "Lance, honey!" Angel pulled herself to her feet. With Grandma now behind her, she entered the barn. "Lance!" Cecilia grasped his arm. "Let her keep the animal. She's just a child! A child needs a pet." "A child!" sputtered Lance, jerking away. "She's fourteen years old, already a sinful woman!" He forged onward through the barn, then reached the stall where Angel had left Lucky. When Lance opened the stall, Lucky, nibbling at the hay, jerked his head upright, his eyes wide and wild. The animal's mouth dropped, the half-munched hay falling forgotten to the ground. He began bleating, as if in great pain. "Wait! Lance!" Cecilia pleaded. Lance stopped and glowered at her. She replaced her hand on his arm, this time stroking it. "A pet might be the perfect thing for her. It will give her a hobby. It will teach her responsibility. Most importantly," she coaxed, slipping behind Lance and weaving her arms around his waist, "it will keep her out of trouble. It will keep her from"--she stood on tiptoes, put her lips as close to his ear as she could, and whispered the magic word--"sinning." Three times, Lance's eyes cycled over all of them, including Lucky. "A goat," he muttered. "A goddamned white kid goat." Lance spun on Cecilia. He wrapped his arms around her and practically dragged her out of the barn. He focused on nothing or no one except for the house as he strode toward it, a glassy look in his eyes.  CHAPTER 5: RETURN OF THE DEVIL "Managed to hold on to little Lucky, huh?" Jeb called to Angel the next morning as she strolled up Blackwood Road, leading the goat by the rope Peter had given her. Jeb had returned to his previous spot on the log, but this time, his eyes looked a little more focused than usual, he wasn't holding a bottle, and he appeared to have gotten a change of clothing and perhaps even a brief bath. Angel smiled. "Yes, sir." "Kept him through the night and everything, and last night was a bit of a doozy, too."  Last night was a doozy? Angel frowned. She couldn't remember anything unusual happening last night, except for the thundershowers they'd had around midnight. "You talking about the storm, Mr. Chester?" "The storm… oh, yeah. That's exactly what I'm talking about." He paused, then grinned and pointed to her. "Yep, kid, you are even smarter than I took you for. You just might be able to hold on to him after all." Angel remembered their last weird conversation. "Mr. Chester, what'd you mean by what you said to me yesterday?" Jeb scratched his head and frowned. "Yesterday? I don't recall… I mean, which part?" "The stuff about someone doing God's creature's harm, the Devil, something about Pan, and… well, everything, basically." "I said all that?" Jeb shook his head. "I didn't mean nothing by it." "You must've meant something." Jeb waved his hand. "Who knows? Pay me no mind, young ‘un. I was drunk. You can't put stock in anything I say when I'm drunk." He reached into his coat, pulled out a flask, popped the cork, and began to drink deeply. Then he looked up. "You're still here? Run along. I've got things to do." "But Mr. Chester--" Jeb took another drink, rose, and shuffled toward the roadside field, all the while singing, "Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam…" "Mr. Chester!" He broke off his song. "Go on and play with… go play." "Mr. Chester, wait!" "…and the deer and the antelope play…" he sang out as he disappeared in the field. Angel shook her head. "Weird." * * * * "So, did Lance tell you to find a home for Lucky?" Peter asked when Angel entered the woods, leading Lucky by the rope. "Nope," said Angel. She guided Lucky to the brook and stroked his back while he drank. Peter gaped. "He said you could keep him?'' "Well, not exactly…" Peter raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Well, he didn't say no ." "You mean you got that bruise over a ‘maybe'?" Peter asked. "No answer is better than a simple ‘no,'" Angel argued, touching the bruise on her cheek in embarrassment. "Can we change the subject, please?" "All right, but only ‘cause I have big--no, make that huge news." "Really? What?" "Proof that something freaky is happening in Grimshaw." Angel eyed him skeptically. "All right, it's actually outside of Grimshaw, but it's so close, I think there might be a connection." Peter reached into one of Camelot's saddlebags and pulled out a newspaper. "Dad and I rode into Sommerville yesterday evening. He bought a copy of their newspaper. Check out the front page." Peter handed the paper to Angel. She gasped as she read the headline:  MURDER OF LOCAL BOY MAY BE CULT-RELATED "Keep reading," said Peter, and Angel did.  The boy found dead in Styx River Tuesday morning was murdered, and a satanic cult may have been involved, according to law enforcement officers of the city of Sommerville and the county of Churchill. The body of ten-year-old Stephen Hope was pulled from the river at approximately 7:45 a.m. yesterday by the Sommerville Police Department. Hope was decapitated, his heart was cut out, and a pentagram was carved on his chest, said Saul Sharp, Sheriff of Churchill County. Sharp defined a pentagram as "a five-pointed star with a circle around the outer edges, a symbol traditionally associated with witchcraft, demonology, and the Devil." Sharp is now working closely with the K.P.D. in the investigation of Hope's murder and of other possibly related murders, said Chief Craig Booker of the S.P.D. Sharp said the mutilation of Hope's body resembles that of other murdered children found in and near Sommerville. "Because the body fits this pattern," said Sharp, "it provides evidence of what myself and others have suspected for months--a violent satanic cult may be operating within a small radius of the city. The mutilation of Hope's body indicates he may have been a victim of their rituals." Sharp revealed no further information about prior cases in which cult involvement is suspected. Stephen Hope was last seen alive on Friday, July 7th, at around 6:45 p.m., according to statements given by his immediate family. Stephen had told his parents he was going bike riding on the outskirts of town and promised to be back by dark. When he failed to return home that evening, Mrs. Hope phoned the police. Search parties made up of officers and civilians sought Hope for the next few days. No trace of him was found. The body was ultimately discovered in the river by two local fishermen, who phoned the police. Anyone with information about Stephen Hope's disappearance or murder is urged to immediately contact the Churchill County Sheriff's Office in Gatesville (the Churchill County Seat, thirty miles east of Sommerville) at [phone], or the Sommerville P.D. at [phone]. Sharp also requests that anyone who believes they know anything about a cult operating in the area should contact him specifically. Sharp may be reached either at the Churchill County Sheriff's office or at the Sommerville P.D., where he has recently set up additional, temporary headquarters to aid in his investigation of Stephen Hope's murder and others throughout the city and county. Stephen Hope was an honor student approaching his fifth grade year at Churchill County Elementary. He is survived by his parents, Jobe and Elizabeth Hope, and his elder brother and sister, twins Christian and Crystal. Details of funeral services are pending announcement. "This is awful!" Angel handed the newspaper to Peter. "But what does it have to do with Grimshaw?" "Grimshaw's on the outskirts of Sommerville," Peter pointed out, folding the paper and stuffing it into one of Camelot's saddlebags. "Stephen's parents' statements did say he was going riding on the outskirts of town." "That doesn't mean anything. Sommerville's a big city. There are lots of towns on its outskirts." "True. Still, it's just this feeling I've got." "Angel!" a voice bellowed from the edge of the forest. "Are you in these goddamned woods again?" "Lance!" Angel cried, casting fearful eyes at Peter. Though she couldn't see Lance from where she stood, she heard twigs crackling beneath his heavy feet, closer and closer. Angel whispered, "Go farther into the woods with Camelot and hide. Hurry, before he sees you!" Peter mounted the horse and rode between the trees. He vanished only seconds before Lance stepped into the clearing. Angel clutched Lucky's leash and trembled in the shadow of Lance's looming figure. While Lance had overtaken and intermittently farmed the homestead that had belonged to Angel's father and mother, he'd never had quite her father's success. Upon the same lands that had yielded enough thriving crops and healthy livestock for Ansel Fallow to nicely supplement his mechanic's income, most of Lance Beasle's crops withered away not long after they began to grow. The few animals he tried to rear typically either didn't have young or were too sickly to earn a profit. Considering the time and money Lance tried to put into farming, he barely managed to glean enough from it to break even. It was almost like he was cursed with a macabre Midas touch that hurt or killed every living thing that fell within his grasp. Following Ansel's death, Cecilia had taken a job in a local sewing factory, but her earnings were too meager to be anything other than auxiliary. The family's primary source of income had become Lance's job in the slaughterhouse of a small meatpacking plant in Grimshaw, where he profited much more destroying life than he ever had trying to create it. Currently, he hadn't bothered to take off his full-body apron. Bloodstains from whatever he had killed earlier made the sight of him more frightening than usual. He sniffed. "I smell sin in the air." He shot Angel an accusing glare. "I thought I heard it retreating, too, trying to hide from God's watchful eye. Yet hark! Sin cannot hide!" He began to pace up and down the clearing, darting his eyes between the trees and calling as if to a person, "Sin! Sin! Where hast thou reared thine ugly head?" He stopped and glared at Angel again. "You're hiding some boy out here, aren't you?" "No!" Angel cried. "Then whose footsteps did I hear just now? Quick, out with the truth, woman!" Angel spouted off the only thing that came to mind. "Lucky's." "Lucky's? Who the hell's Lucky?" "My goat. That's what I named him," she rattled. "He tried to run away, but I had this rope around his neck, so he didn't get--" "What do you do out here all day, anyway?" "I just hang out," she said innocently. "Hang out? What does that mean? Tell me what you do! " "Nothing." Lance looked like he was ready to whop her one, so she quickly added, "You know, just skip stones and wade in the water, pick flowers, sometimes try to catch butterflies and frogs and stuff." She eyed the bloodstained apron in repugnance. "I thought you were at work." "I took off early." He pointed to Lucky. "I took off so I could take that goat into town." "Why?" Angel asked timidly. "Shots and a checkup." Angel's heart fluttered in joyful amazement. She couldn't believe it. He was actually going to let her keep Lucky! "Don't look at me so stupid-like!" Lance snapped. "There's no telling where that mangy animal has been! I'm not going to have it giving sickness to the family or our livestock." Angel thought of their other livestock languishing under Lance's "care" and muttered under her breath, "Like they're not already sick." Either not hearing her comment or choosing to ignore it, Lance picked up the leash. "It'll just be more doctors' bills, more valuable time wasted." He tried to lead the goat out of the woods, but Lucky refused to budge. "C'mon, you stupid goat!" He jerked the rope. Lucky bleated and tried to pull away. Angel thought once more of their other animals. "Let me go with you." "No! C'mon, goat!" Lance yelled, jerking the rope harder. Lucky dug his heels into the ground and bleated louder. "Please, Lance! He doesn't know you! I can handle him." "I said no!" Perhaps both her concern for Lucky's safety and simply knowing that Peter was hiding nearby somehow made Angel feel braver than usual. Placing her hands on her hips, she dared, "Why not?" Her question perceptibly surprised and stumped Lance. He drew his eyebrows together. "Because children are to be seen and not heard." "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means this is adult business. And that means a child like you has no business being there. Besides, I don't consort with tempestuous strumpets!" The context of prior encounters with Lance had taught Angel that by "strumpet," Lance meant an "unspeakably sinful woman" who deliberately sought out men, "driving them wild to tempt them into committing those unspeakable sins with her." Thus, she understood that "a strumpet" was quite the opposite of "a child." Of course, she knew better than to point out to Lance that he had just contradicted himself. Lance gave up trying to drag Lucky and picked him up. Some of the blood on the apron rubbed off, staining Lucky's white fur with a big, red ring, making the goat's neck look as if it were bleeding. Still bleating, Lucky squirmed and kicked in Lance's arms while rolling his eyes pitifully at Angel. Angel opened her mouth to object. "Don't ask me again, girl! Or else!" One look at Lance's reddened face told her the "or else" promised severe consequences. A premonition flashed through her head of Lance losing it and going off on her physically; then Peter losing it, emerging from hiding, and going off on him ; and every devastating possibility that could result from there. Angel sighed and snapped her lips closed. With Lucky still struggling, Lance strode out of the forest. When he was almost out of sight, he turned toward Angel. In one last dig at her, he snarled, "Sinner!" Then he was gone. Peter rode Camelot into the clearing and hopped off her. "Did you hear that?" Angel cried. "Yesterday after I asked if I could keep Lucky, Mother asked Lance, too. After that, they shut themselves up in their bedroom for hours. They even went out last night, and Lance was in a really good mood. Now he's taking Lucky for shots! I'm going to get to keep him! Isn't that great?" "Yeah." Peter frowned. "You know, I can't stand that guy." "Me, neither. But who cares? He's being nice, for once, and letting me have a pet!" She couldn't keep her joy to herself, and she hugged Peter and repeated, "Isn't it great?" He put his arms around her and reciprocated the hug. "Yeah, great," he replied, his tone never brightening. Peter abruptly let go of her and pushed her away a little, his face pale, his eyes wide. "Listen." Along the wooded path, from the direction in which Lance had gone, Angel heard the rustle of leaves and the crackle of twigs. The sound drew progressively closer. "Footsteps!" she whispered. "Do you think Lance's coming back to double-check on me?" Peter leapt into Camelot's saddle. "I wouldn't be surprised, with him talking that crap about sin having a smell and a head and stuff. I'd better make myself scarce again, just in case." He pulled the reins and rode Camelot toward the brook, where they made a flying leap to the opposite bank and disappeared. The footsteps came closer. Angel waited, expecting Lance. Instead, a tall, round boy puttered toward her. He had pumpkin-orange hair cut close to his skull, except for a thin rattail that touched the top of his spine. His pale, brown-speckled face looked like one giant freckle and included a hooked nose, beady brown eyes that narrowed at Angel, and long, fat lips. The corners of his mouth lifted in a lurid grin. "Connor Wylie!" Angel cried. "What are you doing here?" He stepped into the clearing. "I could ask you the same thing, Pasty!" She crossed her arms. "I live around here, you jerk." Connor flicked his wrist and raised his voice to a mocking female pitch. "I live around here, too!" He paused, then added in his normal tone, "My dad bought a farm right off Blackwood Road this summer, and we just moved. I thought I'd do a little exploring, see what I could find to amuse myself." He pointedly took a step toward her. Angel's heart began to pound. Connor seemed so different now than he was at school. Meaner. Uglier. For the first time, she didn't just hate him--she also feared him. Still, she needed to try to stand her ground and get rid of him on her own, without Peter's help, so that he wouldn't find out she and Peter were friends. She didn't move and kept her arms crossed, acting a lot braver and firmer than she felt. "Well, this is just the woods. There's nothing here to amuse you, so why don't you just go?" "I disagree. I think there's plenty here to amuse me." He took another step toward her, a weird expression on his face. This time she backed away. "Leave me alone." He laughed and stepped toward her again. "Get out of here, Connor!" Angel reached into her pocket and whipped out the pocketknife she'd found yesterday. She switched it open. "Get out of here, or I'll cut you!" He started snickering. "What kind of pussy shit is this?" "Don't knock it! It's a knife, and it'll cut! I just sharpened it, too! So you better not come any--" Connor swung his foot upward and swipe-kicked Angel's forearm. It didn't hurt, but the force was just great enough to knock the pocketknife out of her hand. The knife landed atop a large stone between Connor and herself, bouncing and clattering a couple of times before it came to a stop. The blade was bent. Figuring a bent knife beat no knife, Angel swooped for it. Connor stomped his left foot across the rock, pinning the knife beneath his sneaker's thick sole. Gritting his teeth, he applied pressure. Angel heard a loud crunch. When Connor lifted his shoe, the knife lay in two pieces, the handle adjacent to the bent blade. "Ha!" Connor swept his shoe over the rock. The broken pieces of the knife splashed into the water and disappeared below the surface. "Told you it was a pussy knife. Now…" Connor placed his hand on her shoulder. "Where were we?" Angel jerked away, stood, and moved backward. "Leave, Connor!" "I got as much right to be here as you." He started moving in on her again. She kept backing away, yelling at him as she did. "No you don't!" She moved toward the left edge of the clearing, her back to the trees. "I've lived here longer, and I've been coming here longer, and I was here first! That gives me first dibs! So you get out of here! This is mine and Pe--I mean, my place!" Her spine bumped the hard, rough bark of a tree. Connor had kept moving, too, and now stood directly in front of her, close enough to touch her. He'd been that close when he and other guys at school made fun of her. Right now, however, he didn't seem to be joking. He pressed the palms of his hands to the tree, caging her in with his arms and body. "Maybe we could make it our place." He leaned his face toward hers. Angel didn't know Peter was there until he spun Connor around and punched him in the face. Connor landed on his rump. Without rising, he took in Peter with both surprise and anger. Blood began to trickle from his left nostril. Angel stared at Peter. His face was red, his eyes flared, and his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. As long as she had known him, and as many times as she had shown up in the woods black and blue from Lance's beatings, she had never seen him this mad. In a hoarse voice, unusually deep and full of restrained rage, Peter said, "You heard the lady. Get outta here." Peter's presence, not to mention his actions, visibly confounded Connor. "I don't… I mean, I never saw you…" A glimmer of understanding dawned in his countenance. His lurid grin returned. "Oh, now I get it. You were hiding ‘cause you didn't want nobody to know you and her are fu--" Peter snatched Connor's collar and jerked him to his feet. The boy clearly outweighed Peter, yet Peter was two or three inches taller, not to mention firmer in build. Moreover, his arms and legs slightly bulged with muscles Connor didn't have. Peter shoved him threateningly. "I said, get outta here!" Connor turned toward the path as if he might go. Blood from his nose ran over his upper lip and down his mouth. He frowned and touched his lips, then raised his fingertips before his face, noticing his blood for the first time. Fire sprang into his eyes. "Nobody makes me bleed." He clenched his hand into a fist and lunged at Peter. Peter caught Connor's drawn arm in his right hand, then uppercut him with his left. The boy flinched and stumbled, but Peter's left hook wasn't as strong as his right, so Connor didn't fall. Instead, he wrested away his arm and threw another punch. This time, his fist collided with Peter's jaw. The blow spun Peter's head sideways, yet he quickly recovered and landed a second right hook across Connor's jowl, sending him sprawling once more. Connor dug his fingers into the ground, and when Peter charged at him, he threw a handful of dirt in his face. As Peter winced and ground his fists into his eyes, Connor jumped to his feet and kicked him--hard--in the worst possible place. Peter fell and rolled into a ball, holding himself and writhing. Angel saw that he struggled to mask all signs of how much pain he was in, yet occasional soft groans, gasps, and coughs escaped his throat. Connor seized advantage of Peter's temporary paralysis and began to alternately kick him on either side of his body. That jolted Angel out of her frozen stupor. "No! Stop it, Connor!" He ignored her and kept kicking Peter. Angel rushed forward, flung her arms around Connor's shoulders, and jumped on his back. "I said leave him alone, Connor Wylie!" Connor stumbled under the unexpected weight, and both of them toppled to the ground. He landed on his stomach with Angel still on his back, her arms beneath his neck. Before she could get up, his fists clamped around her wrists like two iron bracelets. He rolled over, his fatty back slamming into her front and anchoring her to the ground in a sort of reverse pin. Maintaining his grip on her wrists, he flipped over and leaned so close she could see nothing except his smirking face. "Get out of my face!" she cried, flailing. Connor only laughed. "I said, get off me, you big fat pig!" Leering at her, Connor gloated, "I got your woman now, Peter! What you gonna--?" Peter slammed into Connor. They snowballed over Angel and rolled to a stop just to her right, with Peter on top. Peter straddled the boy's stomach, balled his hands into fists, and peppered Connor's jaw with blow after rapid blow. "Don't ever, ever touch her again, you hear?" Peter underscored every single word with an uppercut. Each punch gyrated Connor's face from side-to-side like that of a bobble-head doll. Dumbfounded, Angel sat up and gawked. Peter kept hitting and hitting, almost mechanically. When a deep pool of blood formed in the middle of Connor's face, Angel whispered, "That's enough." Peter stopped. Panting, he wiped his brow with his left hand but kept his right locked around Connor's neck, as if he weren't sure. "She right, Connor? You had enough?" Connor bobbed his head in a slow, weak nod. "If I let you up, you'll leave us alone?" Another weak nod. Angel spied a wallet monogrammed "CR" lying upside-down. She picked it up and looked at Connor. With his eyes closed, sputtering and coughing up blood, he appeared not to have missed his wallet, nor to be in any condition to take it. Peter gestured for Angel to hand it to him. She did. He opened it and sifted through the contents.  What are you doing? she mouthed.  Nothing, he mouthed back, then bit down on his bottom lip. He took something out of the wallet, removed his own, and transferred the thing inside. Then he pocketed his wallet and stood, allowing Connor to pull himself to his feet. While Angel couldn't see much of Connor's face beneath the river of blood, she knew that bruises were already forming. As Connor wiped away the blood, Peter slid the monogrammed wallet into the boy's back pocket. Connor flinched and blinked, realizing something had happened but not knowing what. He backed toward the path, eyeing Peter as if afraid he might jump him anew. Once Connor had put an appreciable distance between Peter and himself, a bit of his bravery revived. "People are going to ask who did this, and I'm going to tell them it was you. I'm going to bring them here and tell them you and her are doing--" Peter charged at him. Scared once more, Connor turned and tried to flee, but Peter caught him by the arm and reeled him around. Connor began, "Leave me--" "You aren't going to tell anybody anything. And you aren't going to come back or put your hands on Angel ever again. ‘Cause if you do, I'll kill you. You got that?" "I got it," Connor choked, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Peter shoved him. "Get outta here." Connor whirled around and ran up the path. For a full minute, Peter stood sentry to make sure he had really gone, then half-walked, half-stumbled to where Angel sat on the ground. He pulled her to her feet. "You all right?" She nodded. "I should be asking you that. You're the one who got the worst of it." "Nah, I'm fine." "Fine?" Angel echoed in disbelief. "He fought dirty. I know he got you good a couple of times." She evaluated his injuries. There was a red mark on his left cheek where Connor had punched him, and a stream of blood ran from the left corner of his lip. "You're bleeding, and you're going to have a bruise on your jaw by tonight." Flashing her a smile, Peter waved his hand. "Aye, ‘tis merely a scratch, a scratch," he said, quoting a line from Romeo and Juliet , which their eighth grade AP English class had studied before summer vacation. "Mmm-hmm." Angel took his hand and led him toward the brook. "What're you doing?" "Cleaning up your wounds, Shakespeare." They reached the water, and Angel eased him into a sitting position on the bank. She turned toward Camelot and opened one of the saddlebags. "You got a first aid kit in one of these things?" "Nah. Guess I'll keep one from now on, though." "Well, then," Angel said, rummaging through both bags, "we'll just have to improvise." She pulled out a package of travel tissues. Sitting by the stream next to Peter, she removed a tissue from the package and dipped the corner of it into the water. She dabbed the moistened edge along the bleeding corner of Peter's mouth. "It's better to use a sterile cleanser, like alcohol or ointment. But this water's clear, and it's running, too, so it's probably clean enough for now. Just make sure you use alcohol or ointment after you get home, and maybe a bandage or two." Peter chuckled. "So, Miss Florence Nightingale, how do you know so much about first aid?" "You mean you have to ask the stepdaughter of Lance Beasle that?" Both of them snickered. Angel sobered once more. "What are you going to tell your folks about your face?" "I'll just say I witnessed a boy picking on a girl, tried to do the gentlemanly thing by defending her honor, and got into a fight. That part will be true. I'll just make sure I"--Peter gestured widely and switched to a melodramatic tone--"change the names of the people and places in order to protect the innocent." Angel giggled. She dabbed his lip one additional time. "That's about the best I can do." She picked up the package and moved to put it away. Peter placed his hand on hers. "Angel?" The way in which he spoke her name, along with his simple touch, sent a tremor up her arm and through her body. Her skin prickled. "Yeah?" He smiled. "Thank you." Angel smiled back, hoping her cheeks didn't look as fiery as they felt. "No. Thank you . If you hadn't done what you did, Connor might've really hurt me. Really, really hurt me." "Yeah." Peter studied her with concern and relief. He brightened a little. "I don't think you'll have to worry about him anymore, though. At least not till school starts." He let go of her hand, stood, and stretched. "What do you want to do for the rest of the day?" "Continue our story game from yesterday?" she asked hopefully, dusting off her clothing and pulling her ponytail into place to eliminate the signs of her recent struggle. He made a face. "Nah, I'm a little too worn out. Besides, I think we've fought enough monsters for today." "I guess you're right." They ended up playing cards. Every so often, they made small talk, and Peter, with his usual wit, cracked a joke or two. For the most part, they were silent. Being cheerful was practically impossible; Lance and Connor's invasion of their place and Stephen Hope's brutal murder had darkened the day.  CHAPTER 6: THE DEVIL'S IN THE HOUSE On her way home at sunset that afternoon, Angel met Jeb Chester coming along the road toward her, whistling a merry tune, several two-by-fours propped on one shoulder. Again he looked a little cleaner and more alert. Angel guessed he'd sobered up enough to get some work on one of the local farms so he could afford to buy booze for the weekend. He stopped whistling. "Hi there, young Angel! You had a close call this afternoon, didn't you?" She kept walking but shrugged. "A close call?" "You held your own pretty good for awhile, but…" Mr. Chester gave her a knowing wink. "You be careful and steer clear of that Wylie kid from now on, hear? He's trouble." Angel nodded. "Yes, sir." She didn't know how he'd managed to witness that without any of them noticing. But she could only hope he wouldn't talk about it, and especially hope he wouldn't mention Peter's being there to anybody. Her heart sank when he started past her and said, "Where's your little buddy?" Angel paused in her stride and looked around. She hoped no one had heard. She tried to play it off. "Mr. Chester, I don't know who you mean…" He stopped, propped the boards upright on the ground, and rested his hands and chins on their top edges. "Why, your little kid goat, of course." His eyes met hers in an even stare, and he gave her another small wink. "Who else would I mean?" "Oh, yeah." Angel sighed in relief. She told him about Lance taking Lucky to the vet for shots. Jeb's face darkened. "Thought you were smart, kid. But that was a dumb move on your part." "Isn't it smart to take an animal to the vet?" "Not in Grimshaw, honey." He clucked his tongue. "A beautiful animal like that… your stepdaddy may've meant well, but hellfire…" Mr. Chester was giving her the creeps again. "Hellfire what?" "I guaran-damn-tee you, once that animal hit the light of day, and the townfolk saw him, somebody laid claim to him. And that's all she wrote of your goat." Angel's eyes widened. "You mean somebody's going to keep him as their own?" "Keep him?" Jeb snorted. "Nah! I mean…" He slid the side of his finger along his throat and made a z-i-i-i-p sound with his teeth, a gesture Angel had seen in Bugs Bunny cartoons countless times. She knew it meant death. "No…" "Oh, yeah." Mr. Chester hoisted the boards onto his shoulder. "'Fraid so." He started on his way again. "No!" Angel broke into a run toward her house. Mr. Chester's voice gradually faded behind her as he sang off-key the lyrics to a country song she had heard a few times on Lance's pickup truck radio:  "Fire on the Mountain, run, boys, run. The Devil's in the house of the rising sun…" Minutes later, she dashed through the gate and up the dirt road. Not bothering to go inside the house, she ran straight to the barn, dying to see if Lucky was still there, to prove Mr. Chester was as crazy as they said, to convince herself everything was okay. She opened the barn door, dashed inside, and ran to Lucky's stall. He wasn't there. Frantically, she searched the other stalls, then the field. Lucky was nowhere to be found. Into Angel's mind popped a flashback of Mr. Chester sliding the side of his finger along his throat and making the z-i-i-i-p sound. A repeat of cartoon images followed--Bugs Bunny saying "Eh, Doc…" and sliding his finger across his throat, and the Queen of Hearts looking down upon poor Alice and proclaiming to the court, "Off with her head!" Angel ran to the house. Opening the front door, she dashed through the living room and into the kitchen. Her mother wore a bathrobe and stood in front of the stove, cooking dinner. Grandma sat at one end of the table, gloom shadowing her features. Across from Grandma, Lance sat flipping through the newspaper. "Where's Lucky?" she demanded. Never diverting his attention from the newspaper, Lance leafed to another page. "When I took the goat to Dr. St. Thomas today, he asked where I'd gotten it. I told him you found it in the woods, and he called up a fellow who's been missing a goat to see if it belonged to him. The fellow identified it as his, so the goat's been reunited with its rightful owner." "That can't be!" Angel exclaimed. "I know ‘cause Pe--'cause there were no brands to identify him!" Stone-faced, Lance muttered, "Reckon your ‘luck' just ran out." Angel put her hands on her hips. "Is that really what happened, Lance?" He folded back the paper, his face suddenly as red as his hair. "Girl, are you calling me a liar?" "Or is…" Angel sniffled, then broke into tears. "Is somebody going to kill Lucky?" Lance's face transformed from rage to shock. "Do what?" Grandma abruptly turned and concentrated on the window. Cecilia, holding a pitcher of iced tea, nearly dropped it on the floor. "Angel, baby, what on earth would give you such an idea?" "When I was coming home, I ran into Jeb Chester on the road, and he said--" "Jeb Chester?" Lance echoed. "That old homeless drunk?" He threw his head back and laughed. "By Jove, you can't believe a word that man says!" Cecilia put down the pitcher. "What, honey? What'd he say to you?" Angel repeated Jeb's theories of Lucky's fate, right down to the decapitation gesture. Cecilia's face became progressively sadder, while Lance kept laughing harder and harder, like he did at the comedians telling jokes on Hee-Haw. At the conclusion of Angel's story, Cecilia sighed. "Angel, don't you know that man's drunk most of the time and crazy all the time?" Angel wiped at her eyes, wanting to agree with her mother yet feeling she couldn't. "He seemed pretty sober today." Cecilia sighed again. "Lance, you really should have a talk with him. Tell him not to speak to our daughter anymore if he's going to tell her a bunch of things to scare her to death." Lance wiped at his tears of laughter, then said somberly, "I'll handle this, Cecilia." She gave him a skeptical look. "I am capable of handling it, you know." When Cecilia's face continued to reflect skepticism, he lost some of his patience and waved his hand. "Get back to work, woman." As Cecilia returned her attention to the stove, Lance turned to Angel. "Your mother's right. I'm sure Jeb means well, but he's just a crazy drunk. That's why I was laughing so hard. It's the idea that anybody would take stock in anything he says." "He didn't seem drunk at all when I saw him," Angel repeated. "He may not have been, but whereas drunk is only temporary, crazy is forever. And even if that story had come from somebody else, don't you think it's kind of a crazy one for anybody to tell?" "I guess," Angel said doubtfully. "And why would anyone want to kill Lucky? For animal cruelty? That does go on in the world, but I don't think anybody around these parts is that malicious. That's serial killer stuff. Why else? To eat him? Goat meat is hardly a choice cuisine, even in the Deep South." Angel only shrugged. "I've been in there so much with our sick livestock that I know Dr. St. Thomas and his way of doing things. I see this sort of thing happen all the time, owners claiming lost animals someone brings in. And of course, I witnessed the phone call myself. Everything was legitimate. Besides, Dr. St. Thomas wouldn't take an animal away from one person and give it to another unless he was sure he was returning it to the rightful owner. He's a veterinarian, after all. He has medical ethics. Doesn't that make sense?" "I guess," Angel repeated, still not altogether convinced. "To do something to Lucky, a body would have to go through me first. You think anybody's gonna get through me? A big, strapping guy like me?" Angel's conviction weakened a little. It weakened further when Lance's tone softened to a more humane one. "And do you really think I'd let them?" His vocal change was so dramatic, it evoked Cecilia's attention away from the stove, and even turned Grandma away from the window and toward them again. Then Lance actually put his hand on Angel's shoulder--in a gentle touch. Kind of the father's touch she'd always wanted, and thought she would get from him in the woods that day years ago. Grandma gasped, and Angel almost fell over in shock. "Look at me." Angel met his eyes, almost trembling as she did. "Do you really think I'd let anyone hurt the beloved pet of my only daughter?" Every fiber in Angel's being made her feel that Mr. Chester had been right and Lance was wrong. Yet the look in Lance's eyes captivated her own with some sort of bewitching warmth--not loving or caring warmth, but rather more like heat, fire. As much as she despised admitting it--and especially despised Lance himself--she now got a small sense of why just a look from him weakened Cecilia into spineless submission. That look in his eyes, together with his rationale and uncharacteristic gentleness, somehow melted her resolve. It even caused her to overlook his calling her his "daughter," a reference that normally made her bristle. "No," she answered softly, almost hypnotically. Lance squeezed her shoulder and smiled. "Very good." He let go of her, and just like that, the spell was broken. Lance returned his attention to the newspaper, Cecilia began to fuss over supper again, and Grandma refocused on whatever invisible subject lay beyond the kitchen window. After a moment, with Angel still rooted to her spot in dumbfounded amazement, Lance folded down the paper and redirected his attention to Cecilia, who pulled a rack of lamb from the oven and began emptying the side dishes of vegetables into serving bowls. "Get dressed," he said, resuming his characteristic coldness. Her mother frowned at the cooked food, then at Lance, puzzled. "But supper is ready." "Forget supper," he replied, closing the newspaper. "We'll eat out. Go on and get ready. I've got to make a phone call." Cecilia obediently dropped everything and exited into the hall. With the newspaper still in hand, Lance rose and opened the opposite door to the living room. The door swung shut behind him. Grandma brought the bowls of food to the table. As they sat down to eat, Lance's voice, full of impatience, boomed from the living room. "Woman, aren't you ready yet?" "Coming, hon!" her mother called. The door to the hall opened, and she rushed through the kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to push the graying strands of hair from her eyes. Lance impatiently held open the kitchen door. "Hurry up, woman! Time is a valuable gift not to be wasted when we're given so precious little of it." Without bothering to say good-bye, Angel's mother scurried through the doorway. Seconds later, the front door slammed. Angel listened to the familiar rumble of Lance's truck protesting in anger as he gunned the engine. Angel picked up her fork, mechanically stabbed at the lamb on her plate, and thought of Lance's earlier arguments: "Why would anybody want to kill Lucky? To eat him? Goat meat is hardly a choice cuisine, even in the Deep South." Poor Lucky… could he be on somebody else's dinner table tonight? She stared at her slice of cooked lamb and sighed. Rack of lamb was a popular and widely-accepted dish, but now, the thought of eating a defenseless lamb didn't seem any more right or better than someone eating her little kid goat. The words to a children's hymn she'd learned in vacation Bible school popped into her mind. "I've been redeemed by the blood of the lamb, washed and dried from my sins I am." She remembered the Bible-school teacher telling them the lamb in the song was symbolic, that it represented Christ. From deep within her conscience, an ugly, gravelly voice, which sounded like a combination of Lance and a demon's, whispered accusingly to her, "You're eating Christ. How can you say you love him when you're eating him? You wicked girl! You sinner!" The inner voice was so vivid and real that Angel let out a small cry. Her fork clattered to the floor. Grandma looked up from her plate, which contained every course except lamb. "Angel, honey, are you all right?" She nodded. Grandma scooted her chair away from the table long enough to pick up Angel's fork and retrieve a clean one for her. "What's wrong, Child? You look as if you've just seen the Holy Ghost." "Maybe I have, Grandma." Angel took the clean fork along with a deep breath. "Right now, I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian, just like you." Briefly, she shared with Grandma how Lance's speech made her think it might be wrong to eat any animal. As she spoke, she began to nibble at her food, this time eating around the lamb. Even if she'd wanted it, it had been cooked too fast and was too tough for her to cut, much less eat. The vegetables tasted better and somehow felt easier to digest. Of course, it didn't much matter; she wasn't hungry. Grandma clucked her tongue. "Poor baby. You're so upset about Lucky that you can't even enjoy your meal in peace. I'll see if I can talk them into getting you another pet, a puppy or a kitten, maybe. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" "Yes, Grandma," Angel mumbled. "Is anything else bothering you, dear?" Angel's eyes met Grandma's. "Yeah. I don't know what exactly. Something about the way they left." "Your mother didn't mean to leave without telling you good-bye. She just has a lot on her mind." Angel shook her head. "Something else." Grandma frowned. "What, child?" Angel wrinkled her brow in thought. "For some reason, I can't quite put my finger on it."  CHAPTER 7: THY FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN? Angel rolled over. She came face-to-face with the digital clock on her nightstand and groaned. It was after midnight. She had done nothing for hours but squirm in her bed, while her brain squirmed over the day's events--the heinous article from the Sommerville newspaper, Lance and Connor's intrusions of she and Peter's private grounds, Dr. St. Thomas's dubious discovery of Lucky's owner, the uneasiness she had felt when Lance and her mother went out for the evening. Her mind was like a video stuck in a malfunctioning VCR, showing the same scenes over and over. The way she felt about her mother and Lance's outing was excessively unsettling. Of course, they went out on a regular basis, and there was nothing unusual about a man spontaneously deciding to take his wife to dinner. So why had it bothered her so much? A chilling thought prickled over her. What if her bad feeling was a sort of woman's intuition, a premonition of danger? What if something had happened to her mother? What if that cult… ? Angel bounded from her bed, flung open her bedroom door, and flew up the stuffy hall to Lance and her mother's room. She inched open their door. The moonlight streaming through the bedroom window enabled her to see both of their slumbering silhouettes. Heaving a sigh of relief, Angel closed the door. This is insane, she thought. I'm overly paranoid and driving myself crazy. Shaking her head, she wiped her brow and returned to her room. The best thing for her would be to get some rest. The problem was, when she lay down, she felt too edgy to sleep. Angel sat up and switched on her bedside lamp. Burying herself in a good book might take her mind off things and, eventually, make her drowsy enough to fall asleep. She rose and walked to her bookshelf, which was filled with juvenile books she had outgrown long ago and novels she had read two or three times in the past few years. Well, she sure wasn't going to find any reading material here. Then she thought of the attic. It had been years since she had gone up there. Maybe she could find a few of her parents' old books, books she was now mature enough to enjoy. Before marrying Lance, Cecilia had been an avid reader, so maybe some of her old romances and mysteries were up there somewhere. And as smart as Grandma always said Angel's father was, he had probably been a big reader, too. Angel slipped into her summer bathrobe, picked up her mini-flashlight from the nightstand and switched it on, and walked into the hall. Reaching above her head, she found the string hanging from the attic hatch. As her fingers touched the thread, she felt the hall grow hotter than before. She wiped at her brow, gasped quietly, then hesitated. Into her head popped the memory of those eyes she'd seen outside her room the other night, and the terrible thing behind them. Dull thuds came from behind. Footsteps? She whirled around, sucking in a fearful breath. Nothing was there. The cracks beneath the bedroom doors remained dark. So what had she heard? It took her only a second to realize it had been the hammering of her heart, a sound fear had magnified within her imagination's ear. Maybe you shouldn't be going up there, Angel, a soft, inner voice said. If Lance hears you, he might get mad. Likely, Lance would get mad. Granted, he'd been a little calmer and nicer than usual earlier that day. Still, the man tended to go off like a bomb if she so much as breathed the wrong way. On the other hand, when she was much younger, she used to sometimes go in the attic and play dress-up with her mother's old clothing. When she was a little older, she even went up with her mother to help do some light cleaning or to find missing items. Lance hadn't had a problem with that. Nor had he actually included anything about the attic in his most recent rules. So why should he have a problem with her going up tonight? Besides, she'd have a suitable excuse--looking for something to read. As long as the books she chose were appropriate and not "dirty" or "sinful," Lance seemed to like it when she read. He had often gestured to her in front of others while she was reading, pointing it out as a sign that she was both bright and well-behaved, though he treated her like she was stupid and insolent when nobody else was around. The hall grew hotter. She started sweating even beneath the scant summer robe. It was too uncomfortable out here to worry about Lance anymore. Still, she used excessively slow, deliberate motions to pull open the ceiling hatch, then unfold the attached wooden ladder. And still she hesitated as the attic's dark jaws opened above her head. Standing alone, looking up into the dark, gave her an eerie feeling. She swallowed nervously, then shined her flashlight into the hole. Something squeaked and fell from the attic, rushing past Angel's face in an unidentifiable blur and landing on the floor with a light thud. A creepy-crawly sensation of movement across the tops of her bare feet caused Angel to gasp. A large black rat scurried over her toes. She clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling the scream that threatened to beat down the walls of her throat. Peter always said she was a tomboy, but heck, she was just as feminine as the next girl when it came to creepy-crawly bugs and rats and stuff. Feeling as if she'd either vomit or die of a heart attack, Angel cringed beneath her hands and kicked. The rat rolled off her foot, recovered quickly, and fled toward Lance and Cecilia's room. In a strangely human-like motion, it turned back its head, as if to get a last look at her. That's when Angel saw its bright red eyes. And for a split second, down the middle of each eye, she saw a snake-like slit. Just like the slits she had thought she'd seen outside her window that night… A thought of no apparent origin popped into her head: It's trying to stop you. It came so distinct and clear that Angel, certain a voice had spoken, whispered, "What?" There was no answer, only the rat, who stared at her from in front of the closed door. "Go away," she whispered. The rat squealed--or perhaps hissed--before turning tail and squirming between the door bottom and the floor. Oh well, it was Lance and her mother's problem now, she thought, relieved the creature was out of sight. Warily, she shone the flashlight into the hole, hoping she wouldn't run into more rats up there--or any other creatures. Taking a deep breath, she slowly climbed the ladder. Angel randomly moved the flashlight about, evaluating her surroundings. The beam skittered across old furniture, clothing, dusty stacks of books, and massive cardboard boxes that filled the attic from end to end. As Angel made her way toward the books, she came across a large, wooden trunk she had never known was there. She bent and lifted the latch. Inside the trunk, she found an open envelope containing ten photographs and a yellowed sales slip. She rifled through the photos. One was a faded snapshot of her father, in which he looked about the same as he did in her locket photo. In this snapshot, he stood in front of a blue Ford pickup. She smiled. Grandma had once described that truck, saying her father had bought the vehicle just before he'd wrecked it and had been exceptionally proud of it. "We took a half-dozen or so pictures of him with his truck before the accident. No telling where they are now." The remaining photographs were individual snapshots of the truck, taken from various angles. Angel glanced at the sales slip, a receipt for the truck, with information about the vehicle, including price, color, and VIN. She stuffed the receipt and pictures back inside the envelope, then placed it in the pocket of her robe. Next, she found a yellowed clipping from the town newspaper, The Grimshaw Daily . It was dated July 30th, 1975, about three months after she was born. The headline read, "Missing Local Man Presumed Dead." Astounded to see her father's picture next to the article, she began to read:  A missing Grimshaw native was presumed dead yesterday after a one-month search for his body yielded no results. The search for twenty-five-year-old Ansel Fallow, an automotive technician at Grimshaw Motor Repair and a self-employed agriculturist, began June 28 when police discovered his abandoned Ford pickup smashed against a tree on the edge of Outland Way. For three weeks, a party that included both local officers and civilians conducted an around-the-clock search. No traces of Fallow's body or clues to his where-abouts were found. Angel frowned. An around-the-clock search for three weeks with nothing found? She'd never thought of herself as the brightest apple in the bunch, but they're turning up absolutely nothing didn't sound right, not after such an extensive search. Maybe the media had exaggerated the labor of the search. Or maybe the search did turn up something they overlooked--accidentally or deliberately. Then again, why would it be deliberately overlooked? Angel continued reading:  Campbell Tatum, Sheriff of Woodland County, said the lack of clues left nothing for authorities to do except presume Fallow dead. "With no remains, no evidence of foul play, and no known reason that Fallow would willingly disappear, we feel we have no other choice," said Sheriff Tatum. "It's our theory that Fallow was critically injured when his truck crashed into the tree, but managed to pull himself from the wreckage in order to get help. We think he crawled into the woods or fell into the river. Either way, we believe wildlife consumed his remains." Something was wrong, bad wrong. Though Angel knew the cops around Grimshaw were scarcely more intelligent than the ones in The Dukes of Hazzard , it didn't make sense that they would search all that time, find nothing, and not suspect a staged accident. At the very least, they should have left the case open and kept her father listed as "missing," especially if they believed he was able to leave the scene of the accident. Furthermore, even if wildlife had consumed him, something should have been found--his clothing, bits of bone, a shoe, anything.  Could this mean… ? Angel took a deep breath and concluded the article:  A memorial service for Fallow will be held at Grimshaw Funeral Home Tuesday, August 2, 7:00 p.m. (For further details regarding the service, please refer to the obituary section.) Ansel Fallow is survived by his wife, Cecilia, and their infant daughter, Angel. Angel felt stunned and excited at the same time. Into her mind rushed all of her old daydreams about finding out her father was really alive and being reunited with him. She didn't want to get her hopes up too soon, but she couldn't help it. There was a chance her father wasn't dead! If he wasn't, she could escape home and live with him and be away from Lance forever! Yet if her father was alive, where was he? And why hadn't they heard from him? Had he staged his own accident and needed others to think he was dead? Or had someone else staged the wreck to look like an accident, to cover up what really was a--  No, no, no! She couldn't think like that, didn't want to think like that. She wanted to believe her father was alive. And the article had said there was no evidence of foul play. Maybe he had faked his own death, perhaps with someone's help. But why? Angel placed the clipping in her pocket with the photos and took another peek inside the trunk. A dark thing lay within. She touched it. It felt like some kind of fabric… Something whammed against her hand and knocked it sideways. Angel cried out. Her flashlight clattered to the floor. The beam went out. She screamed again and scooted backward, in the opposite direction from which her hand had been hit. Her spine thumped against unseen clutter. She groped in the dark for a weapon or a path around the junk, away from her predator. She heard a clicking sound. Another beam fell across her face. Blinded by the sudden light, she squinted and shielded her eyes with her hand while continuing to scream. "Shut the hell up, girl! Before you wake up the whole damn town!" Angel blinked. From the other side of the flashlight, Lance's furious face came into focus. "What do you mean making all that racket?" "You startled me," she managed over her racing heart. "I didn't know what hit me." "What are you doing up here at this hour?" Lance swung his flashlight about, shining the beam on random areas. "You ain't gone and snuck some boy up here, have you?" "No! I couldn't sleep. So I was trying to find a book to read." Lance shone his flashlight on the open trunk. "In there?" "Uh, I guess I got sidetracked." "This ain't no place for you to be poking around in the middle of the night." He slammed the trunk shut and latched it. "There are books near the hatch where you came in. Take some and get outta here." Angel stood, then walked to the stack of books and began to pick through them. Gathering a few, she squinted at the covers and binders in an effort to decide which ones might interest her. She had trouble seeing without her flashlight, which was probably still lying by the trunk. Without putting down the books, she watched Lance. "Could I get my…?" "Get a move on, girl!" Lance tramped over to Angel and violently shoved her. She swayed and groped at the wall with her free hand to keep from falling through the open hatch, almost dropping the books. Lance raised his arm. Angel recoiled. Instead of hitting her, Lance slammed his fist into the stack of remaining books, sending them flying through the hatch and toppling to the ground floor. "There! That enough reading for you? Now, get the hell outta here! I want to get some sleep tonight!" Tucking the books under her right arm, Angel made her way down the ladder, with Lance not far behind. The heat in the hall seemed more overwhelming than before, so much so that Angel felt weak and dizzy and thought she might fall off the ladder. Lance didn't seem to be bothered by the heat; he didn't even break a sweat. As he folded the ladder and closed the hatch, his bedroom door cracked open. Cecilia stuck her eye to the opening. "Is everything all right, dear?" "Yeah," replied Lance, walking toward the bedroom. "Go back to sleep." Before following his wife to bed, he said to Angel, "Clean up your mess." The bedroom door closed behind him. Rolling her eyes, Angel went to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, then made several trips to and from the hall, lugging the books inside her bedroom. For whatever reason, the hall had cooled, which at least made her task easier. Once she'd moved all the books inside, she closed her door and examined each one. She was rather disappointed. Most of them were either about homemaking, farming, or auto repair. They included a couple of western novels, which she laid aside in case she couldn't find a book that interested her more. She picked up the last book, one of the ones she had carried down the steps. Angel blew a layer of dust off the black cover, and her eyes widened when she read the title--  America's Most Violent Crimes--An Analysis of Types of Violent Crimes and the Motives of Those Who Commit Them . Angel opened the book. Written inside the front cover was the signature "Ansel Fallow." This book had belonged to her father! Further intrigued, Angel began to flip through the pages. From between them, a small piece of paper floated to the floor. She closed the book and picked up the paper, which was yellowed with age and ragged along one edge, indicating that most of it had been ripped away and lost. Typed across the top in all capital letters was the heading, "Authorization Form." Below, only the first line of the form's text remained, a partial sentence, "I, , do hereby authorize the use of…" Handwritten in the first blank was the name "Cordelia Love."  Grandma! Handwritten in the second blank was the name "Ansel Fallow." What had Grandma authorized her father to do? Angel had only a single, vague clue. Scrawled in the top, left-hand corner were the words, "1673 Latchkey Way."  An address. Whose? She opened the book and reexamined her father's signature, then compared it to the address. The handwriting matched. Clearly, the address had to be somehow connected to her father and grandmother. But how? Was the address that of a mutual friend? A business location or associate? Or could it be the address of property belonging to her father or Grandma? Perhaps, Angel thought hopefully, her father had actually survived the accident and was living at that address. What was Grandma authorizing him to do, though? Live in a house there? But if he was alive and living there, why were the book and form here? And once again, why hadn't he contacted his family? Angel knew of only one way to get answers. She bounded to her feet and ran down the hall. She opened Grandma's door, dashed through the darkness to the nightstand, and switched on the lamp. Grandma lay on her side facing Angel. Her closed lids fluttered a bit in reaction to the light but never fully opened. Angel figured Grandma had taken a hefty sleeping aid. She placed her hand on Grandma's shoulder and shook her. "Grandma! Grandma, wake up!" "Angel, honey what's wrong?" she asked sleepily. She squinted at the clock. "What are you doing up at this hour? Did Lance hurt you?" "No, no," Angel whispered. "I need to talk to you." Grandma sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, still half-asleep. "What is it?" Angel sat on the edge of bed. "Is my father still alive?" "No, child." Grandma began to tell the same story Angel had heard a million times. "The year you were born, he had an accident in his truck--" "Yeah, yeah, that's what everybody tells me." Angel pulled the newspaper clipping out of her robe pocket and held it up. "But why didn't y'all ever tell me about this?" Grandma diverted her eyes from the clipping. "Do you realize what this means?" Unable to keep the joy and excitement out of her voice, Angel exclaimed, "It means my father could still be alive!" "Oh no, child." Grandma shook her head, her expression pained. "I know you're so sad at losing Lucky that you're desperate to grasp on to anything, including any false hope that your father's alive. And that's what this is, false hope. Your father's gone." "No, it has nothing to do with Lucky. And it sure as heck isn't false hope. My father was presumed gone, presumed dead. Nobody knows for sure he is." She searched Grandma's face, just like she and Peter often did to one another when trying to discern if the other was keeping secrets. "Unless there's something you know that you're not telling me." "Of course not." Again, Grandma's gaze fled from Angel's. "All right, then. Where is sixteen-seventy-three Latchkey Way?" "How--? I don't know what you're talking about." Angel loved and respected her grandmother. She didn't like being lied to, however, especially about something so important. "Really?" she said sarcastically, holding up the ripped authorization form. "So why is your name on this form with my father's?" Grandma eyed it as if it were a snake about to bite. "Where did you get that?" "Out of one of my father's books. It's a street address, isn't it?" Grandma closed her lids and sighed. "Oh, Angel…" "What were you authorizing him to do? Live at a house you owned at this address or something?" For almost a full minute, Grandma said nothing. Then she took Angel's hands in hers and opened her eyes. "Angel, please, don't ask me anything else about this because I can't tell you any more." Angel jerked away her hands and jumped to her feet, incensed. "This place or whatever's in it could be a major clue about what happened to my father! Whether he's still alive! You can't expect me to forget it!" "That's exactly what I expect you to do." Angel couldn't understand. How could Grandma refuse to help her? She wanted to yell and cry at the same time. "I don't believe this! I've got a chance to find out about my father! Maybe find out that he's alive and wanting to be with me as much as I want to be with him. Maybe I could live with him and be away from Lance forever and ever, and you won't even help me!" "Angel, your father's dead," Grandma said sadly. "Believe me." "You've lied to me about everything else tonight, so why should I believe you now?" "Trust me on this much. You will gain nothing from exploring this further, nothing but pain." Angel could tell that the statement, at minimum, was sincere. Yet she didn't care. No way could I experience more pain than I have already. The oncoming tears she'd felt earlier began to flow. "I'll gain knowledge, and I'll gain the truth. After all, like the Bible says, and like even Lance says, ‘The truth shall set you free.'" Just before Angel closed the bedroom door behind her, Grandma whispered, "Not this time, child. Not this time." Angel returned to her room and sat on the bed. She sighed and rubbed her temple. Her head ached, probably from emotional strain as well as lack of sleep. Despite what Grandma had said, Angel was still determined to learn the truth about her father. No matter what it cost her. She had the feeling that if she could find this address, or get more information about it, her questions would be answered, and the mystery of her father's disappearance would be solved. Maybe, just maybe, she could find him and be reunited with him at last. With Grandma refusing to tell her more, Angel knew of only one other person who could help her.  CHAPTER 8: BURIED IN THE PAST "That's the biggest bunch of shit I've ever heard!" Peter exclaimed the following day. "Lance doesn't know what he's talking about. You can't identify an animal over the phone, not if it doesn't have a brand!" Angel conceded, "Maybe they were able to use the clover on Lucky's foot to identify him. I know it's not a brand, but you have to admit, it's a pretty unusual mark." Peter waved his hand. "It doesn't matter. My dad's the town vet, and I know how they do things. If an animal isn't licensed or doesn't have a brand, it's their policy to make you show up in person to identify it and verify ownership. They don't hand it off to the first tobacco-spitting inbreed who calls in and claims it's his." Peter placed his index finger and thumb to his chin and paced, which he always did when trying to figure out something. "Something's fishy." He half-laughed with bitterness. "You know what probably really happened? Lance probably accidentally maimed or killed Lucky like he does every other living thing he touches, and he just told you that story to hide it." "Or someone else killed him," Angel said. "What?" Angel repeated to him yesterday's conversation with Jeb Chester. She also told him how Lance and Cecilia said the whole thing was ridiculous and why. Peter sat alongside the brook and placed his chin in his cupped hand. "Your folks have a point. What Jeb said doesn't make sense. But on the other hand, something about the whole situation's not sitting quite right, either. Hmmm…" He sat quietly for a minute or so. "You seen Jeb today?" Angel sat next to him. "Today's the first morning in a few days I haven't seen him. I assumed he was working again. He was yesterday." "Yeah, at dinner, my folks were talking about how he was working for the Wylies at their new place, helping them move in, repair the barn and stuff. Then at breakfast this morning, they were saying he was supposed to be back at the Wylies before sunup today and didn't show." "He doesn't show for work lots of times because of his drinking." "But you didn't see him drunk on the roadside like you usually do. So, he tells you those wild tales about Lucky getting killed, and he's nowhere to be found today…" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Maybe he took Lucky." Angel shook her head. "I don't think so." "Why not? You said he was talking about what a beautiful animal Lucky was." "But why would he take him? And how?" Peter's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I'll have to think about that for awhile." Angel thought the whole thing was crazy, and that Peter's imagination was probably to blame. She sighed. "Can't we please just drop it? I miss Lucky enough. Rehashing it all makes me feel worse. Besides, I have some other stuff to talk to you about." Angel told him about last night's trip to the attic. She'd brought along a paper bag filled with the items she'd found in the trunk. As she talked, she showed them to Peter--the envelope with the photographs and truck receipt, the book, the newspaper clipping, and the ripped authorization form. Peter listened attentively and examined all of the stuff, especially the newspaper article, which he read twice. He reacted with just as much skepticism as she had and expressed the same opinions that something should have turned up in the search. "Do you think my father could still be alive?" she asked hopefully. "I guess so." Seeing her brighten, he added, "Whoa, don't get your hopes up. Other than a missing body, we've got nothing to go on. I mean, I think it's likely. Then again, I think a lot of things are more likely than what that newspaper said happened. Still, if he's alive, where's he been all these years?" "Maybe he has amnesia, or maybe he's afraid or hiding or something. It could be anything." Angel placed her hand on his arm. "We both know you're smarter than me…" Peter was like Einstein or something. All of his classes at school were advanced. Though Angel was in many of the same classes, she and the other kids had to bust their butts to keep up their grades. Peter, on the other hand, could just halfway pay attention to lessons, skip homework, barely skim textbooks, and still ace tests and answer all questions when called upon. Whenever they had writing assignments, the teachers always read Peter's work aloud. Peter was too modest and embarrassed to ever speak up when the teachers asked if the author wished to reveal himself. But Angel recognized his papers every single time because his writing was always so much stronger. He was the smartest kid she knew, and if the truth were known, she believed he was downright smarter than most of the adults in Grimshaw. Maybe that intelligence, along with his selfless kindness, was part of the reason she thought he was a much better person than everybody else. Including herself. Peter chuckled. "I wouldn't go that far." "Don't be modest. You're smarter, craftier, and you have more freedom than I do. That's why I came to you. My real father could be out there, alive and well. And I know if there's anyone in the world who can help me find him, it's you." She squeezed his arm. "So please, help me find my father. Or at least find out what happened to him." He sighed. "I think you overestimate me a bit. It's not like I'm a cop or detective or anything. I mean, this happened more than fourteen years ago. Even a PI would have problems." Angel gave him hound-dog eyes. "All right, all right, I'll try." She smiled. "Thanks, Peter." "Don't thank me yet. Right now, I'm clueless." He picked up the torn authorization form. "'I, Cordelia Love, do hereby authorize Ansel Fallow the use of'… use of what? What did your Grandma tell you?" "That's the weird part. She wouldn't tell me anything . She said I should forget it because pursuing it further will only cause me pain." Peter scratched his chin. "That is weird, considering how close you two are." Suddenly, he looked a little worried. "From what you've told me, she really cares about you, so I don't think she'd say that without a good reason. Maybe you should listen to her. Are you sure you really want to do this?" "I've never been more sure of anything in my life." Peter mulled over the form, then pointed to the handwriting on the top left-hand corner. "I've never heard of this address, or Latchkey Way. Of course, there's one way to find it." He stood, walked over to Camelot, and pulled an oblong, folded paper from one of the saddlebags. Angel got up and joined him. "What's that?" "An area map of Grimshaw, Sommerville, and surrounding communities." She laughed. "Talk about carrying everything but the kitchen sink. Is there anything you don't have in those bags?" With a wink, he grinned. "Yeah. A girlfriend." He opened the map. "Here's the street name index." He ran his finger down the page. "Labyrinth, Laceration, Lachrymal, Lash…" Peter frowned. "Late, Lethal… damn! There's no Latchkey Way anywhere on this map! If that is an address, it sure isn't around here. Maybe I can go to the Sommerville Library, look for it in an atlas or something." He put away the map, then they sat down again. Peter picked up America's Most Violent Crimes . "What part of the book did the form come out of?" "I don't know. I closed the book when it fell out. I didn't pay attention to what part it was in." "Too bad. That could have been a major clue." He flipped through the pages. "Mind if I take this home with me tonight? I could study it a little more, see if there are any clues in it." "Go ahead." He got up and stuffed the book inside a saddlebag, then sat and sifted through the envelope of photos. "You know, these are really detailed pictures. Just from looking at them, I bet I could recognize this truck if I saw it. And I know I could recognize it referring to this." He pointed to the VIN, F1DGAH37776, on the receipt. "You know what this is, right?" "The vehicle identification number. Lance was interested in getting those when he was truck-shopping a few years ago." She pointed at the digits. "No two of these numbers are the same, right?" "Right. Certain parts are standard among certain vehicles. Like ‘F' means ‘Ford,' and ‘one' means it was made in the United States, so all Fords made in the USA have the ‘F' and the ‘one' in their VINs. I'm not sure exactly what all the other numbers and letters mean, but I do know one of them is the number for the plant where it was made, and the numbers at the end are the count on that vehicle. In other words, the last five digits mean your father's truck was the thirty-seven thousandth, seven-hundred and seventy-sixth one off the assembly line." An idea popped into Angel's head. At the same moment, she saw Peter's face illuminate with his own bright-idea bulb. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked, getting to her feet. "Or rather, where I'm thinking?" Peter stood, too. "But that's a real long shot. Your father's truck was wrecked fourteen years ago. It's probably been completely stripped for parts by now, if it wasn't already crushed in one of those big machines." "It's worth a try." "Even if we do find the truck, it probably won't give us any clues about where your father is." Angel crossed her arms. "I'm going to look for the truck--with or without you." "No way!" Peter crossed his arms, too. "Poking around a bunch of old wrecked vehicles can be dangerous. I don't want you doing it by yourself. We'll both go. But I don't want you to get your hopes up." "I know, you keep saying that. But this truck was one of the last places my father was before he… disappeared. Even if we don't find anything, just getting to see it will be enough." "All right, to the Grimshaw Auto Salvage Yard!" trumpeted Peter. He gestured at his horse. "Want to ride Camelot? She can't carry us both that far, but I don't mind walking." Peter had once explained to Angel that quarter horses were bred to run fast, yet could go only short distances before getting tired. Furthermore, Camelot was uniquely small; Peter said she was the smallest adult quarter horse he'd ever seen, both in real life and in photos and movies. Camelot was born smaller than average and thus grew to be smaller than average, kind of like a premature infant, or the runt in a litter of puppies or kittens. "You ride, I'll walk," Angel replied. "That way, if we happen to run into someone, I can walk in the opposite direction, and no one will see us together." "Good thinking." He mounted Camelot. "I know how to get there through the woods. We'll miss the streets in town. Follow me." The abandoned auto salvage yard stood just off a desolate road at the edge of the woods. Though its only security was a chain-link fence and a gate with a broken lock, it was just a graveyard for discarded auto parts and wrecked vehicles. The whole place was so dirty and full of worthless junk that no one wanted to bother with it. Between that and Peter taking them through the woods, the chances of running into anyone were slim. Twenty minutes later, they reached the edge of the woods, which paralleled the rear of the salvage yard's fence. "Stay here," Peter said. He rode Camelot around to the front and back again. "Coast is clear. Let's go." Angel followed him through the front gate. Piles of tires, tubes, and wrecked automobiles filled the yard. Peter tethered Camelot to a pole, then took the envelope out of the saddlebag. He pulled out two of the more detailed photographs and gave one to her. "This place is huge, and there's lots of stuff here, so we'd better get started." They separated and began making their way around the automobiles and scrap metal. Angel examined each truck, but none resembled the truck in the photograph. Whenever she came across a pile of scrap parts large enough to have a vehicle beneath it, she broke it down in hopes of uncovering her father's truck. The taller the scrap piles, the more tedious the task. She knew she had to take them apart bit by bit, with the most deliberate slowness and the most ordered movements, or the entire thing could come crashing down on her. With the afternoon sun blazing down upon them, she and Peter worked for hours. After disassembling what felt like the hundredth junk heap and finding nothing, Angel walked around a mountain of metal and dirt three times her height. She stopped short when she almost tripped over Peter, who sat on the ground sipping from a canteen. He had positioned himself with care, far enough from the junk heap not to accidentally bump it, yet close enough to keep cool in the large shadow it cast along the ground. Because his back was partially to her, he didn't see her. Yet she could see him in almost his entirety. And never before had she seen him like this. Aside from his sneakers, socks, and short denim cutoffs, his bronzed body was completely bare. Beads of sweat plastered the strands of his parted, golden bangs to the side of his head; rolled around his narrow, sea-colored eyes, shapely nose and mouth, and engraved face's faintly stubbled, square-cut jaws; shimmered along his long, muscular limbs; and sparkled among the sparse hairs that dotted his firm chest and trim, washboard abdomen. For the first time since they'd become friends, Angel realized that Peter had matured into a young man. A young man who was… well, "fine." In fact, Peter was really, really fine. Peter spun around. "Anything?" he asked, offering her the canteen. "Yeah… I mean, no." She took the canteen and swigged from it. "I hate to say it, Angel, but I think this is a lost cause. I'm sure your father's truck is long gone." "I guess you're right." She handed him the canteen and sat next to him. "I'm so tired. Let me rest for just a second, then we'll go." Her heart pounded, and perspiration drenched her skin. After her long labor in the hot sun, the shade felt nice and cool. Her exhausted body relaxed so quickly, she immediately forgot where she was and how only a minute ago she had noted Peter's caution in where he sat. She leaned back, and her shoulders bumped the junk pile. "Angel, look out!" She heard metal clinking as the pile began to crumble. The next thing she knew, Peter shoved her forward and ran behind her. Pipes, gears, and metal crashed down where they had been sitting. Angel ran a few feet, then tripped and fell face-first. Her abdomen smacked against the hard clay ground. Peter swooped down on her back, folding his arms around her head and shielding her body with his own. His arms blocked her from seeing anything, yet she heard the scrap pile exploding and the dull thuds of auto parts hitting the ground around them. In spite of the loud metal avalanche, close and frightening, the sensation of Peter's body on top of hers made her feel amazingly at ease, protected, and ever-so-slightly thrilled. At last, everything stilled. Peter rose and pulled her to her feet. "You okay?" Angel nodded and surveyed the debris. All that remained of the former tower of steel was a large pile of dirt with a few parts sticking out here and there. Tires and heavy pieces of metal lay scattered on the ground around her. It dawned on Angel that when Peter had shoved her forward and enshrouded her, he had unhesitatingly put himself in her place at the risk of severe injury, possibly even death. Before she had the chance to ask if he'd been hurt, much less thank him, Peter gestured for her to stay put, then ran toward the front gate. After several minutes, he came back. "Believe it or not, I don't think anybody heard us. Grimshaw's as dead as usual. There were only a couple of people on the street, and they didn't seem like they noticed anything." Angel didn't reply, her attention captivated by what remained of the scrap pile. She pointed a shaky finger. Barely visible beneath the dust was the corner of a windshield. Also visible was a small portion of the blue frame that separated the windshield from the side driver's window. She ran to the pile and plowed into the dirt with her bare hands, furiously digging to uncover the hood. Peter retrieved his T-shirt and followed, first shoving excess dirt off the window with his hand, then using the shirt to polish the bottom corner of the window until he could see the engraved VIN. "Angel, get out the receipt. Read me the number." She reached into her pocket with trembling, dusty fingers and retrieved the envelope and the receipt within. "V-I-N-F-1-D-G-A-H-3-7…" "…7-7-6!" Peter chimed in, reading the last of the numbers along with her. "Oh, my God!" she gasped, nearly dropping the receipt and envelope. "Woo-hoo! Yes! This is it, Angel!" She jumped up and down, then slapped palms with Peter in a high-five. He threw his arms around her in a celebration hug. Despite her excitement, Angel took in the feel of his sweaty, bare chest pressing against her budding round breasts, separated by only her thin, cotton top and unpadded bra. It made her feel weird, nervous, warm, exhilarated--  Any woman who allows her naked private parts to be viewed, or especially to be touched, by a man to whom she is not married is a strumpet and sinner in the eyes of the Lord, and may well burn in hell forever. --guilty, dirty, and bad. Peter, who seemed to note their taboo closeness, pulled back a little and frowned. "Angel…" He bit his bottom lip. To eliminate the awkwardness, she indicated the envelope of receipts and photos. "I better put these away before they get lost." She stuffed the receipt and photos into her pocket, then checked her watch. "We should get back to work. It's already two o'clock, and we don't want to be hanging around here when the plant workers start driving by during the three o'clock shift change." "Sure thing, Pal." Peter picked up a couple of hubcaps to use as tools and handed one to Angel. They continued digging. Newly armed with her impromptu shovel, and newly motivated by proof that this was her father's truck, Angel dug with more fervor than before, this time smiling to herself. The hubcaps sped up the process. First, the crushed front fender of the truck emerged. Next, they unearthed the rest of the hood, then the top and remaining windows. As dirt flew, clouds of dust filled the air and their lungs, causing them to cough. Still, they kept digging. Finally, the dusty doors and the tailgate appeared. Angel and Peter opened the tailgate to allow gravity to discard what it could of the dirt piled inside the hatchback. They spent several more minutes shoveling out the rest. When the last of the residual dirt fell away, Angel and Peter stood back to survey their prize. The dusty pickup sat lifeless, completely intact except for the crushed front half. Peter mused, "I can't believe an entire truck was buried underneath all that. It's like they were trying to hide it." Angel placed her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. "Who is ‘they'? And why would ‘they' want to hide it?" He thumbed his chin. "I don't know… yet." Angel climbed onto the rear bumper and peeped over the tailgate. "There's nothing in the back." She jumped down and ran to the cab, then tugged on the driver's side door. It gave way and swung open. She climbed in, and Peter followed through the passenger door. Angel put her hands on the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. She shivered. Her father had been sitting right here when he had that accident. She wondered what had happened to make him lose control of his vehicle, and especially where had he gone afterward. Peter interrupted her thoughts. "Angel, get out a sec." She climbed out of the truck. He scooted to the driver's side, his eyes raking the cab. "What do you see, Peter?" "It's what I don't see--blood." "So?" "According to the police statement, your father was critically injured and crawled away from the truck to get help. Shouldn't there be blood in here, and a lot of it? I don't see any stains, not even a splatter." "Do you think that means he's alive?" "I don't know." Peter kept examining the truck. He tapped his chin, pondering. "How could the police logically come up with such a silly story without there being blood? Unless…" "Unless what?" He shook his head and jumped to the ground. "I'm checking outside. You keep looking inside. Let me know if you find anything." Angel climbed back inside the cab. She pulled open the glove compartment. Empty. She also checked the dash and the sun visors, poked beneath and behind the seat, and even looked inside the cassette player. Nothing. Next she scoured the floorboard and pulled up the passenger's side floor mat. Still she found nothing, until she lifted the mat on the driver's side. "Peter! C'mere!" He surfaced next to the driver's side door. "What?" "Check this out." Angel handed him a small, silver key. "What do you think it goes to?" "It's definitely too little for a house or car." He flipped it over. "There's a number here--sixteen seventy-three." Angel pulled the form from her pocket and looked at the number her father had handwritten on the top corner--1673! "My God," Peter murmured, "just like I thought--the numbers match! But why?" His eyes jumped from the key to the paper, then lit up, and his lips spread in a wide smile. He snapped his fingers. "Of course! Why didn't I think of it before?" He pocketed the key, took the form from her, then pivoted and began running. "Stay there!" he called over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a sec!" Angel plopped against the seat and waited. After minutes that dragged like hours, Peter ran toward her, waving a big, white piece of paper. He halted in front of the truck, sweating and panting. The wide smile had never left his face, and it was now filled with excitement. Angel eagerly fired a rapid series of questions at him, and he spouted off broken replies between gasps. "Peter, where did you go?" "Phone booth… next street." "What's that in your hand?" "Page… phone book." "What'd you find?" "Latchkey Way's not a street!" he exclaimed, regaining his breath enough to speak in sentences. "It's a business… a depository!" "A what?" "A place where you can rent safety deposit boxes and vaults and stuff! Look!" He pointed to the page from the phone directory. Typed in bold letters were the words "Latchkey Way." Beneath was an address, "777 Light Street, Sommerville," followed by a phone number. "That key…" "…is to a safety deposit box my father rented," Angel finished for him. "And sixteen seventy-three is the box number!" "And I bet there's a major clue in it about what happened to…" Peter's smile disintegrated. "What's the matter?" "Dammit!" Peter kicked one of the truck's tires. "Your father's stuff isn't going to be in that box! No one's paid his rent in fourteen years! Crap!" He started to wad up the directory page, but Angel placed a firm hand on his arm. "Empty your pockets." "Why?" Too anxious to explain, Angel shoved her hand into the pocket of Peter's shorts and began to rummage through the contents. "Hey! What are you--?" He stopped, then slyly grinned. "Well, if you insist." "Ha-ha, very funny." She pulled the ripped authorization form out of his pocket. "You said nobody's paid the rent on the box?" She pointed to the authorization form. "See? ‘I, Cordelia Love, do hereby authorize Ansel Fallow the use of…' That box didn't belong to my father. It belonged to Grandma ." "But how do you know she left anything in there?" "If she didn't, why would she have made such a big deal about not telling me?" Peter grinned. "You're a genius, babe." They quickly came up with a plan for getting to Sommerville. Since they both couldn't ride Camelot that far, different means of transportation would be necessary. So they cut back through the woods to the path, temporarily separated, and returned to their homes. At the house, Angel changed out of her pink cotton top and matching shorts and into a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. Afterward, she went to the barn to get her bike. When she opened the barn door, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Wednesday, after the bike had tripped Lance, Angel had put it on the makeshift wall rack. But once again, the bike, as if possessed by a restless demon, was out of place. It stood in the middle of the doorway, dust-coated and cobweb-covered, propped on its kickstand, like it--or its demon--awaited her. Angel took a deep breath. After the wreck, she had promised herself she'd never get on that bike again. She was petrified of what awful memories might bombard her… or worse, what might reoccur. Yet if she wanted to find out about her father, she was going to have to get on it now. Sure enough, when she grasped the handlebars and sat on the seat, an image flashed through her mind… The ditch alongside Blackwood Road, and the whiskey bottle lying within. Its label read "Red Devil" and pictured a stereotypical caricature of Satan--a red being with two horns, pointed ears, a pitchfork, and a pointed tail… Angel closed her eyes and shook her head to get rid of the memory. If she was going to find out about her father, she couldn't let her own past get to her. Several minutes later, she met Peter at the clearing. He had exchanged Camelot for his bike and had brought a baseball cap. He placed the cap on Angel's head and helped her tuck her long ponytail beneath. Taking a step back, he frowned. "Too neat." He approached her once more and un-tucked her shirttail from her jeans. Angel used her hands to crumple the front of the shirttail, while Peter did the same to the back until it looked slightly wrinkled. He gave her another once-over, then as an afterthought, smudged dirt on her jeans and white shirt, then underneath her eyes. Throughout the last six years, they had frequently made casual physical contact when playing games or during emotional moments. Such contact felt no different to Angel than making equivalent contact with Grandma or her mother--when Cecilia was in one of her rare mothering moods, of course. All of that had changed two days ago, however, right before they discovered Lucky. When Peter had helped her refasten her locket and touched her hand afterward, it had felt delightfully different, not just physically but emotionally. From that point on, Angel began to feel that difference every single time Peter touched her. With him so close to her now, casually touching her over and over, the new feelings repeatedly sparked and grew progressively stronger. Whenever he placed his hand on her hair, skin, or her clothing, even for just a second, every external and internal nerve of her body piqued with that same heated chill. Each touch electrified her heart and made her feel emotionally closer than ever to him--and desire to be physically closer to him as well. Half of her wanted him to finish what he was doing so they could get on with finding her father; the other half wanted him to go on forever. She actually felt a little guilty and ashamed for getting such pleasure out of the experience, which he probably saw as nothing at all. If Peter were somehow endowed with a magical ability to read her mind and heart, she knew she'd die of embarrassment. If Lance were around and endowed with that same ability, she wouldn't die of embarrassment--he'd kill her before she got the chance. And probably kill poor Peter, too. After smudging on the dirt, Peter smiled, satisfied. "I think you can pass for a boy now, from a distance, at any rate. To be on the safe side, we'll keep a few feet between us when we're biking so it won't look like we're together if someone passes us." The terrain in the woods was too rough for riding, so Angel and Peter walked their bikes up the path to Blackwood Road before getting on them. They veered right and stayed straight until the crossroad of Outland Way, where they hung another right and headed east to Sommerville. Peter led the way with Angel lagging behind. Before they crossed the Grimshaw city limit, they passed a few trucks and cars, each driven by people they knew. Angel, nervous about getting recognized and caught, kept her head lowered and her eyes on the road. To her relief, no one stopped or slowed. The disguise had worked. At length, the road changed from dirt to pavement. A sign posted just a few feet ahead read "Welcome to Sommerville." Angel and Peter biked past the Sommerville City PD and a few homes until Outland Way ended and the main streets of Sommerville began. At that point, they ducked behind a grove of trees until Peter could consult his map. He had gone into Sommerville on several occasions, both with his father and alone, so knew his way around the place a little. He estimated it would take fifteen to twenty minutes to reach Light Street by car. That meant even longer by bike. Furthermore, he said the roads they'd have to take were too heavily trafficked for ordinary bikers, much less two bikers who weren't fully acquainted with the area and wanted to avoid being seen together. So they hid their bikes in the grove of trees and caught a bus that would take them to Light Street. Carrying on the façade of not knowing each other during the ride, they took seats apart. They didn't talk or make eye contact, Peter staring blankly ahead, Angel focusing on the landmarks flowing backward outside the windows of the moving bus. When the brick building with a sign reading "Latchkey Way" came into sight, Angel smiled. She'd soon know the truth about what really happened to her father! Then maybe in a few days or weeks, her childhood dream would come true, and she could go live with him. She bet he was so nice, he'd let her and Peter hang out together. Perhaps he'd even allow Peter to visit at his house, and her to visit at Peter's. Of course, she'd miss Grandma, but they, too, could visit each other. Maybe Grandma could live with her and her father! She was sure he was so kind that he wouldn't mind, and Grandma would probably rather live under his roof than mean old Lance's. Or better yet, her mother might divorce Lance if she found out Angel's father was still alive! Angel didn't know for sure, but she believed that if her father weren't dead, he and her mother would still be considered legally married. Oh, she felt so excited! The possibilities for her life improving seemed endless. Several minutes later, when they got off the bus and opened the front door of Latchkey Way, they found themselves in a small lobby with a white tile floor. A few folding chairs lined the left and right walls, and a closed door stood near the far right-hand corner. A sign on the door warned, "Authorized Customers and Personnel Only Beyond This Point." Beneath that in smaller letters, it read, "Door Remains Locked at All times." Within the wall to the left of the door, opposite the front entrance, was a sliding glass window with a wooden shelf beneath it. On one end of the shelf sat a bell, on the other a clipboard with a pen and sign-in sheet. A few feet behind the glass window, a fat, mustached man perched on a stool, reading the comics in the newspaper and chuckling. Both the place's security and not knowing the procedures unnerved Angel. But Peter, cool as always, strolled up to the window and hit the bell as if he'd done it a million times. The man folded down the corner of the comics. "Yeah?" Peter laid the key on the shelf and pasted on a casual smile. "We have a key to one of your deposit boxes." "So?" the man scoffed, disappearing behind the comics again. "So…" said Peter, surprised enough to lose his smile and just a bit of his cool, "we need to get in it." "Sure you do." The man groaned, put down the comics, and waddled to the window. "You kids got anything besides a key?" When Peter looked confused, he added with impatience, "Authorization?" Peter's coolness reemerged, along with his smile. "Oh, yes. How silly of me." He pulled the ripped, yellowed authorization form from his pocket and plopped it on the counter. "There you go," he said, nudging the scrap toward the man. The man sneered. "You gotta be kiddin' me." He looked from Peter to Angel, incredulous. "Who are you?" "Oh," began Angel nervously, "my name is Ang--" Peter gave her a swift kick in the leg. "Ansel Fallow, of course." His smile resurfaced, this time all-star, and he pointed to the name on the form. "Just like it says here." "Right." The man took another look at the form, then at Angel. "And I suppose you're going to tell me you're Cordelia Love?" Angel jerked off the cap and let her hair fall to make herself look more feminine. She tried to imitate Peter's sophisticated, grown-up act. "Of course." The man broke into hysterics. "Oh yeah, right," he said between laughs. "And I'm Santy Claus!" "Hey, we are who we say we are!" Peter insisted indignantly. The man stopped laughing. "Prove it. Show me some I.D." Peter's mouth dropped. Angel could tell he had no idea how to respond. She jumped in. "Listen, mister, I'll level with you. Ansel Fallow is my father, and he's been miss--" "Dead," Peter cut her off. "Been dead for years." Angel went on. "And Cordelia Love is my grandmother, but she won't--" "Won't be able to come down herself because she's very ill," Peter cut her off again. "So we need to get in for her." "Look," the man replied, "I sympathize with you kids, I really do. But I just can't let you two waltz in there without authorization." Peter sighed. "All right, what do we need?" The man handed him a new authorization form. "Another one of these, a whole one, filled out authorizing one of you to enter, with her granny's signature on it, and an ID proving you're the same person whose name is on the form. And since you say her granny can't come down herself, you'll need to bring in a government-issued picture ID of hers, too, a driver's license or something, so we can compare it to our records." A minute later outside the depository, Angel asked Peter, "Now what? Grandma's never going to sign for us to get in that box." "I know." Peter examined the forms. "I think I can go by this old form to forge her signature. But as for the ID…" He looked up and somberly met Angel's eyes. "You're going to have to steal it."  CHAPTER 9: LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT Angel twisted the faucet knobs above the bathroom sink and washed the dirt off her face. After drying away the water, she removed the too-hot jeans and T-shirt and tossed them aside. She changed into the cooler and cleaner clothing she had brought into the bathroom--denim cutoffs and a white halter-top. Boy, she thought, giving herself a once-over in the mirror, thank God nobody's home except Grandma! About a year or two ago, not long before her mother had told her about the curse, Lance had out-of-the-blue come up with another stupid rule for Angel--no more halter-tops, which he began to refer to as "strumpet shirts," though he made no objections to his own wife wearing them. Angel's "strumpet shirts" were to be worn only inside the house, and only when no one except family was around. Some of her older pairs of shorts, which had become a little shorter and tighter when she'd had a growth spurt a couple of years before, had been deemed "strumpet shorts" or "short shorts" by Lance and placed under the same restrictions. The restricted clothing included the pair of Daisy Dukes as well as the halter top she had just put on. Earlier that day, when Angel had returned for her bike and change of clothes, she'd filled the washer with a large load of laundry, including the pink shirt and shorts she'd worn that morning. After transferring the laundry to the dryer a few minutes ago, she realized she'd goofed and left the halter-top and shorts as the only clean, dry clothing for herself, aside from her Sunday best, and sleepwear. Despite that, Lance would kill her before he let her go outside wearing these clothes. Even if he weren't home, her mother would force her to stick to the rule. Yet they weren't due home from work till five-thirty, another forty-five minutes away. Grandma, however, never made Angel follow Lance's stupid clothing rule, so Angel figured she'd be able to get out of the house and back in again without Lance or Cecilia knowing she'd left in the forbidden attire. Angel had a much more significant reason than her clothing to be grateful Lance and her mother weren't home. The fewer people around, the easier it would be for her to carry out her plan. She ran a hairbrush through her long, blonde hair. Of course, she could have done that later. She was killing time, hanging out in the bathroom to ensure she snagged every microsecond of her upcoming opportunity. No sooner had her mind formulated the thought than opportunity knocked--literally--on the bathroom door. Angel smiled. This had happened fifteen minutes earlier than usual. That's okay. I'm ready… I think. "Yes?" "It's Grandma. You almost done, hon? I need to take my evening medication." Angel scooped up her dirty shirt and jeans, opened the door, and stepped out. "Go ahead," she said, carrying her soiled clothes across the hall to the washer-dryer closet, eliminating the evidence of what she and Peter had done. Thank God the hall was a normal temperature this afternoon instead of feeling like a sauna. Being comfortable enabled her to think more clearly about what she had to do. "Oh, I didn't mean to run you out right away, child. I was just wondering--" "No, no, I was done. I was just cleaning up a little before I go back out." Grandma flashed her a knowing smile. "Cleaning up for Peter, I presume?" Angel laughed. "He and I are just friends, and you know it." "Yeah, sure." "Oh, Grandma, be quiet and take your medicine," Angel teased. The moment Grandma closed the door, Angel tiptoed away from the bathroom, slipped into Grandma's room next door, and flipped on the overhead light. The purse sat in its usual spot on the floor next to the vanity table. Angel rummaged through it until she located Grandma's wallet, then unzipped it. Since Grandma no longer drove, Angel hoped she hadn't thrown out her license or had another form of picture ID. To her relief, she found a picture ID card behind the wallet's transparent window, printed in the same format as the state's drivers' licenses, and marked "ID only" under the restrictions heading. Angel pulled at the ID. It stuck. God, why did IDs always stick in those little windows? Many a time, she'd watch Lance and her mother undergo this ID tug-of-war in stores, and she'd been through it with her school ID, too. She tugged harder. It didn't budge. As Angel wrestled with the ID, she heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of running water. Crap, there wasn't much time! "C'mon!" Angel hissed, giving the ID one last jerk. The side of the wallet window ripped, but the ID came out. With a sigh of relief, Angel dropped the wallet inside the purse, stuffed the ID in her pocket, and flipped off the light. Just as she stepped out of the bedroom, the bathroom door opened, and she ran smack dab into Grandma. Grandma's face filled with surprise. "What were you doing in my room?" Angel lowered her eyes, then ran up the hall to the kitchen door and flung it open. She looked over her shoulder and said sincerely, "I'm sorry, Grandma," before dashing through the kitchen and living room and outside again. About ten minutes later, Angel reentered the clearing and found Peter waiting by the brook. He had gone home and exchanged his bike for his horse so he could get to the depository faster. As Angel approached, he stared at her, his mouth open, not saying anything. She grinned. "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer." He grinned back. "Sorry. Guess it's just seeing you look like a girl." Angel giggled. "Except for earlier, don't I always look like a girl?" "Uh, yeah," Peter said slowly. "But you don't normally wear clothes like that, or your hair down, that's all, and… well…" He paused. "It looks kinda nice." "Oh." Angel was both surprised and flattered. "Thanks." There was an awkward pause. Then Peter asked, "Did you get it?" She handed him the ID. "You got the form filled out?" When he nodded, she sighed. "I still don't get why I can't go back to the depository with you. We've already been there together once, and we made it just fine. Nobody recognized me. Why can't we do it just one more time?" Peter shook his head. "Lance and your mother will be home soon, and not long after that, it'll be nightfall. You have to be home or you'll get clobbered. Besides, we passed a few people we knew on our way to Sommerville, and that was during regular business hours. It's time for the five o'clock evening shift change, the really big one for the non-plant workers. With so many more drivers, there will be a lot more people who could recognize us. Your going is too risky, and you know it. So I'll let you know what's in there when I see you tomorrow." Angel pouted. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Lance and Mother will be home then, and Sunday, too. I won't be able to see what you find until Monday. You know it's going to kill me to wait that long!" "And you know you might be able to get away a few minutes if they go out. You've done it before on the weekend. I'll hang around the woods like always, just in case. If something happens that we don't meet, well, you've waited fourteen years for this." He climbed onto Camelot. "What'll two more measly days hurt?" "All right, I'll go home only if you promise to show me and tell me everything. Promise?" "I promise." "Cross your heart?" With his finger, Peter drew an imaginary "X" on his chest. "And hope to die." "Stick a needle in your eye?" "This good ole boy ain't stickin' no needles in his eyes," Peter sputtered in a mock redneck voice, then added in his normal tone, "You have my word." "Good." Angel smiled, satisfied. As the horse trotted forward, she remembered something. "Peter, wait!" He stopped the horse. "Yeah?" "When you were checking around outside my father's truck earlier, did you find anything?" Peter frowned and bit his lip. "Uh… no, nothing." She smiled as Peter and Camelot advanced downstream to the edge of the clearing, then disappeared among the trees. Cutting through the woods, he would come out just outside the city limit on Outland Way, from where he would head to Sommerville and the depository. Her smile remaining, she strolled up the path that led to the road. She couldn't quite get over all the things Peter had done and all the trouble he'd gone to for her, mainly in the past couple of days. He was a good friend, the best she'd ever had and probably ever would have. That made her realize how much his friendship meant to her. How much he meant to her. Angel rounded the last bend of the winding path. When she was about two steps away from Blackwood Road, someone leapt in front of her, blocking her exit. She jumped and cried out. At first, Angel didn't recognize him. Red, blue, and black bruises covered his face, and dried, bloody scabs surrounded his nose and mouth. His right eye, swollen almost completely shut, had a gigantic circle around it. Yet his left eye, wide, brown, and unblinking, and his jack-o'-lantern smirk, were unmistakable. "Where you going, Baby Face?" Connor asked. "Home!" Too much growth surrounded the path for Angel to reach the road. She tried to move past him. "I don't think so, Homely Ho." Connor shoved her by her shoulders, so hard she almost lost her balance. He visually dissected her from head to toe in that same, weird way he had yesterday, just before Peter had slugged him. "Of course, you don't really look like no Homely Ho no more. And I see you ain't really…" His eyes stopped on her breasts, and he guffawed. "…a baby no more, neither." He reached toward her chest. Angel protectively folded her arms over herself and stepped back. She tried to keep her voice from quivering. "What do you want?" He stepped forward, within touching distance. "Maybe a little fun. Maybe revenge for Peter messing up my face. Maybe both. Or maybe…" She flinched as he ran his fingertips through her long locks of loose hair and across the top of her bare shoulder. "…they're one and the same." Instead of feeling warm and tingly all over like she did whenever Peter touched her, Connor's touch disgusted and frightened her, more than it ever had at school. Cringing, she backed away a few more steps. Connor closed the gap she'd placed between them. And moved in nearer still. Just beyond his shoulder lay the road, so close. It was after five now. People would be driving that road during the shift change. If she could just make it there, she'd be okay. She ran forward and again tried to shove past him; again he pushed her, harder this time, sending her sprawling rear-first onto the path. "I hate you, Connor Wylie!" she yelled. "You make me sick! Stay away from me!" He didn't act bothered by her repulsion. In fact, it seemed to heighten his excitement and determination. His eyes slivered up and down her once more. He smirked, running the tip of his tongue along his top lip. "I think I'm going to enjoy this much more than I thought." He paused, then hissed, "Your ass is mine, babe." He lunged for her. Through Angel's mind flashed the only biological talk her mother had had with her, aside from the one about "the curse." That talk had been conducted under Lance's mostly silent supervision and hadn't consisted of much more than its predecessor "curse" talk, other than reminders to "obey our warnings about keeping away from boys." Except for three things, and three things only, that her mother had told her about boys. Angel used one of them when Connor dove at her--she jerked her leg upward and kicked him where Cecilia had advised her to kick "any boy or man who tries to give you trouble." Unfortunately, being flat on her back in an awkward position inhibited Angel from kicking with as much power and accuracy as she could when standing. She ended up only grazing the edge of her target rather than hitting it hard and dead center. So while Connor doubled over and let out a series of groans, wheezes, and coughs, he didn't fall like Peter had when kicked in the same place. Instead, he held himself with one hand, leaned his rump against a tree, and stretched out one arm, grasping the tree opposite him and creating a human fence across the narrow path, blocking Angel from moving around him. She briefly considered trying to push Connor or his arm out of the way. Once she'd scrambled to her feet, she changed her mind. His coughing had already slowed, and his one open, unblinking eye filled with fire. If she tried to break through, she would make it easier for him to grab her. So she wheeled around and ran in the only direction she could, toward the clearing. Thirty seconds later, she risked a glance back. Connor had already recovered and chased her. And had begun to gain. "You stupid bitch! Nobody does that to me! I'll catch you, and when I do, I'm gonna hurt you even worse!" "Peter! Peter!" she screamed. If he had headed for the depository as planned, he was, by now, out of the woods and earshot. Maybe she could bluff, though. She shouted, "You'd better get out of here, Connor! When Peter hears me, he's gonna come back and kick your big fat butt all over the woods!" "Bullshit!" Connor sputtered. "I saw him heading for Outland Way when I cut through here! He's long gone!" Angel kept running, yelling at the top of her lungs, "Help! Help! Somebody help me!" "Scream all you want to! Nobody's out here to hear you!" Angel ran into the clearing. Panic paralyzed her like a bug entangled in a spider web. Which way should she go? She knew of only one path out of the woods. Hearing Connor draw closer, she dashed toward the left edge of the clearing, in the direction in which Peter had gone, and ran between the trees. Perhaps she could lose Connor, then cut back to the path. Or maybe she could make a run for Outland Way, which would be even busier than Blackwood Road at this time. If only her strength didn't give out before Connor's… The stream filtered into the trees, and Angel sped along its edge. Connor's footsteps thumped along a mere few yards behind. She sped up and ran a few minutes more, then peered over her shoulder. Connor was still after her, so she began to scream again. She ran for what felt like forever before checking over her shoulder once more. This time, she didn't see him. Had she lost him? Still watching over her shoulder, her screams replaced by gasps for breath, she began to slow. Before she stopped moving completely, her sneakers stubbed something in front of her. She tripped and spilled onto the ground, landing on all fours, breaking her fall with her hands. She checked to see what she had stumbled upon and discovered a man-made pile of sticks and logs, the apparent remnants of a campfire. As she ingested her surroundings, she noticed something else that she couldn't totally make out from her position on the ground. Something on the tree trunks, painted in crimson… Footsteps pounded across the ground behind her. For a second, they stopped. Connor panted. "Hey, what the hell's all this?" Angel whirled away from the logs and tried to shove herself to her feet with her hands. She wasn't fast enough. He tackled her from behind and rolled her over to face him. Screaming incessantly, she wiggled and flailed her arms and legs. Conner snared both her arms, then straddled her, anchoring her hips with his heavy rump and walling her legs between his own fat ones. He forced her arms together and locked both her tiny wrists inside his oversized left fist. Then, to her disgust, he lapped his tongue up the left side of her neck and face. Knowing that showing fear would only encourage him, Angel put on another brave front like she had before. "Gross! My God, what are you doing?" "Huh! Like you don't know." "I don't! Unless you're a dog or something!" "Or something," he sneered. He slobbered his lips over hers. Immediately, she clamped her teeth on his bottom one. "Ow!" he squawked, retracting his face from hers. "You fucking whore! That's the second time you've hurt me! If you ever do shit to hurt me again, I swear to God I'll--" Apparently unable to devise an appropriate conclusion to his threat, he simply finished, "Fuck you, bitch." He raised his voice and yelled into the forest, "And fuck you, too, Peter St. Thomas! Fuck you and your whore!" Then Connor switched from rage to glee--instantaneously, with no hint of transition, as if he'd just been stricken with total amnesia or morphed into a separate personality or something. His lip freshly bleeding from Angel's bite, Connor cackled and leaned his face over hers, his big mouth twisting into that lurid grin of his. "What you gonna do now, Angel? What you gonna do without your boyfriend to help you this time?" The rapid change in him told Angel he wasn't just mean, he was crazy. This new, demented version of Connor scared her more than she'd ever been scared of anything or anyone. Her courage--even feigned courage--began to drain. "I can't change what happened," she reasoned, fighting tears. "What is it you want from me?"  "What is it you want from me?" Connor mimicked in a high-pitched voice. His eyes scoured her an additional time, then ignited with wickedness. "I want you to do the same things with me that you do with your boyfriend." "I don't know what you're talking about." That was almost completely true. She knew he was talking about the private act husbands and wives did in their bedrooms, the act she wasn't supposed to know existed. But she didn't know the details, at least not all of them. Her restrained tears broke free and streamed down her cheeks. "Peter's not my boyfriend. We're just friends." "Don't give me that bullshit!" Connor cried, his anger flaring. "No guy gets up after being kicked like I kicked him, or pounds another guy's face like he did mine, unless it's for his girlfriend!" "Please," Angel whispered, the tears flowing harder. "Let me go." "Oh, I will." Again the glee. "After I have a little fun." Connor reached down with his free hand, and Angel heard him unzip his pants. The illustrations from the one anatomy book she'd seen popped into her head, along with the second of her mother's three pieces of boy advice--"If you're ever alone with a boy or man, and he unzips his pants, he is going to do something unspeakable to you, a thing more painful and terrible than you can imagine. Get out of there, and run like hell." Terror-stricken, Angel resumed screaming and struggling. Connor was too heavy and strong for her. He kept her waist pinned between his knees, her wrists locked inside his chubby hand, and his rump weighted atop her thighs, so she couldn't squirm away. In fact, she could scarcely move at all. Angel felt his free hand press just below her abdomen. She heard the sound of another zipper, and felt her Daisy Dukes loosen and slide partially downward. Connor moved in closer, and through her shorts, she felt a hard pressure against her groin. Again the anatomy book illustrations flashed through her mind, along with her mother's third and only other warning about boys--"Never, under any circumstances, let a boy touch you anywhere, especially your chest or privates, and especially beneath your clothing. That, too, promises nothing but trouble." Those memories enabled her mind to assemble just enough of a definition of what was happening to her, hurling her panic into overdrive. She screamed and cried louder and louder, and struggled harder than ever to get away. It did no good. Connor only squeezed his fist tighter around her wrists. He crushed them against each other, so hard that her watch fell off, and her bones smacked together. Angel yelped, certain that at any second her bones would shatter, or the scars on her wrists would break open and bleed. Connor slid his free hand beneath her spine, pushed her up a little, and pulled at her shirt, rapidly exposing the bottom edge of her bra. He laughed and whooped until the old halter-top, a bit tight from countless washings and her body's filling out, stuck while he tried to pull it over her breasts. "Shit!" He crooked his arm behind her back and shoved her upright against him, imprisoning the upper half of her body between his chest and the crook of his elbow. He gave the shirt one more hard, impatient yank. The cloth ripped and tore down the back's center. "Huh?" he said, his voice full of both awe and dread. His fingers unlatched Angel's wrists, and his arm slid away from her back. Her upper body, suddenly free, flew backward. She saw Connor being jerked off of her by something or someone behind him, just before the back of her head slammed across the smooth, hard surface of a rock. A sharp pain shot through her skull, and everything around her began to go black. She heard Connor's voice, urgent, pleading, almost crying, "I didn't touch her! I swear! I swear to God on the Bible! Nothing hap--!" just before she slipped into unconsciousness.  CHAPTER 10: INQUISITION White light filled Angel's eyes. She blinked. The light came from a tiny flashlight waving in front of her face. A man clad in a white coat and wearing a stethoscope leaned over her. "Angel, how are you feeling?" "Okay." "I'm Dr. Inman. You're at Woodland County General," he said, switching off the flashlight. Woodland County General was Grimshaw's small medical hospital, more like a clinic, really. While they didn't do major surgeries or procedures--those required a trip to Sommerville Memorial Hospital--they could take care of basic medical problems and run simple tests. Angel discovered she wore a light blue hospital gown and lay in an adjustable bed. A tube ran from her right wrist to an IV bag, which hung from a metal stand next to her bed. To her left and behind the doctor were a wall clock and a small night table with a telephone, a box of tissues, and a plastic yellow water pitcher and cup on a matching tray. When Dr. Inman finished checking her vitals and stood upright, she saw the rest of the room, small and white, with a door on either side of the foot of her bed and a TV suspended from the ceiling, midway between the doors. Directly beneath the TV stood a folding chair. On its seat lay a transparent plastic bag containing her shorts and shirt. She saw Lance, her mother, and to her amazement, Sheriff Tatum. She wondered briefly where Grandma was, then assumed she was either sick or had missed her ID and was angry at Angel for taking it. When Cecilia saw her daughter awake, she ran to the side of the bed, threw her arms around Angel, and hugged her. "I've been worried sick! Are you sure you're okay?" Angel raised her eyebrows. Cecilia's display of concern and affection puzzled her. Her mother normally wasn't this loving. She never got emotional when Lance beat Angel to a pulp, and that made Angel feel a heck of a lot worse than she did now. "Yeah. I'm fine." "Yes, ma'am, she's just fine," Dr. Inman said, as Cecilia stood upright but kept a protective arm around Angel's shoulders. "She's suffered a very mild concussion. Otherwise, she's okay. She should be able to go home tonight, as soon as she feels up to walking." Lance, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, said in an adamant voice, "That's not acceptable." He strolled over to Dr. Inman and put his hand on his shoulder. "She may look okay, but there could be deeper problems that we ain't seeing on the surface. This isn't some Jane-Schmo-teenage-nobody case you're dealing with here. This is my daughter, and I won't stand for her to be treated like just another number. You're not going to so much as think about releasing her before you give her a thorough physical." Dr. Inman scratched his head, understandably amazed at Lance telling him how to do his job. "All right, sir. If it'll make you feel better, we can keep her overnight and run some more tests--" "No, not ‘run some more tests.'" Lance's hand visibly tightened on the doctor's shoulder. He raised his voice, the way he always did when losing his patience with Angel and on the verge of exploding. "You will run every test in the book to make sure she's the same as she was before all this happened. Understand?" "Yes, sir," Dr. Inman said, almost in a whisper. When Lance didn't move his hand, he added, "If you'll excuse me, I'll just get the paperwork started for those tests and an overnight stay." Lance released him, and Dr. Inman hurried out of the room, seeming grateful for the chance to escape. Lance had always been like that with people, all mean and high-and-mighty, bossing them around till he got what he wanted. And most of the time, he did. It surprised Angel that he had been so pushy this time, though. After all, she just had a minor head injury. And he hadn't ever expressed this much concern whenever he'd clobbered her. In fact, other than the time she had that bicycle wreck, he'd always acted like he really hated her. Why did he care so much now? She remembered that someone had pulled Connor off her. Whoever that was must have brought her in, then filled in Tatum and her family on what had happened. If so, and Lance knew a boy had attacked her, she could see how he might be concerned, in a rather twisted way, of course. "Who brought me here?" "Sheriff Tatum, dear," her mother replied, gesturing at the sheriff.  Sheriff Tatum? Had he also been the one who pulled Connor off her? She couldn't believe he'd ended up on the scene so quickly and acted so efficiently. Despite his repeated re-election as Woodland County Sheriff, Tatum had never been the most active officer when it came to crime, illustrated by the number of missing children cases in his jurisdiction that had gone unsolved. Grandma had remarked a few times that Tatum was so lazy, he wouldn't hit a lick at a snake. Peter often said that Tatum stayed as lost as a goose in a snowstorm, and that he couldn't find his own butt if it had a bell on it. The sheriff must have sensed her skepticism, for he cleared his throat and stepped forward. Angel knew this six-foot butterball of about forty-nine years had been sheriff since just before her father's accident. While Tatum and the lower county officers all wore the same black ten-gallon hat, button-up shirt, slacks, and leather shoes, Tatum sported on his left shirt pocket a gold star reading "Sheriff," distinguishing him from the others. He politely tipped his hat, revealing the top of his round, bald head. In the brightly lit room, Angel saw the creases and lines in the fat that hung around his cheeks and eyes. "About 5:30 this evening, I got an anonymous phone call from a feller, young by the sound of his voice. He said Angel Fallow was lyin' unconscious in the woods. He told me where to find you, Angel, then hung up. I ain't got a clue who he was." Angel's first guess at the "young feller" was Peter. Conversely, it didn't make sense that it would have been him; he was supposedly gone by the time Connor started chasing her. Besides, it wouldn't be like Peter to leave her out there alone just to keep them from getting caught together. But who else could it have been? Sheriff Tatum flashed her a sugary smile. "It's a bit scary findin' one of the sweetest and purttiest little gals in Grimshaw knocked out in the woods like that." "Well, thank you for the compliments, sir. And thank you for bringing me here." "Just doin' my job, hon. Now," he said, pulling a notepad and pen from his pocket, "want to tell us what happened?" "Well…" Angel was ready to tell the truth, then reconsidered the advantages the anonymous hero scenario had provided. As far as she knew, no one else realized Connor was involved. Of course, telling them was tempting, just to see Connor get punished. But it was also dangerous. If Tatum started asking Connor questions or arrested him for attacking her or something, he would likely spill the beans about Peter. No, she'd simply have to hope that whoever pulled Connor off her had given him a good enough scare to get rid of him for good. In the future, she would just be more careful and make sure she always stayed with Peter in the woods. "Well," she repeated, stalling to make up the story as she went, "it's kind of stupid, and almost embarrassing, really. But here's what happened. I was out in the woods, running around playing, and wasn't really looking where I was going. So I was kinda looking over my shoulder, just being stupid, and I tripped over this pile of logs where somebody had built a campfire. And I fell backward and hit my head on a rock and knocked myself out." She evaluated their faces. All of them registered skepticism. Tatum still held the notepad and pen but hadn't written down a word. "Really, I know it sounds stupid." She tittered and rolled her eyes. "And it is embarrassing. But that's the whole story. Really." A gap of tense silence followed. Cecilia removed her arm from Angel's shoulders and stepped away from her, frowning. Lance and Tatum exchanged grim, knowing looks. Lance bobbed his head up and down once in a slow nod. Tatum dropped the pad and paper on the chair, pulled Angel's halter top out of the plastic bag, and held it up for everyone to see the large tear down the middle. "Looks like a lot more than runnin' and playin' to me." Angel fidgeted with her bed sheet. "Maybe I just snagged it on a branch or something…" Tatum sighed impatiently. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Now, Angel, I've been Sheriff of Grimshaw over fourteen years and an officer of the law for almost twenty-five. I know a tree-made tear from a man-made tear when I see one. And this is a man-made tear. Now," he said, dropping the shirt and picking up the notepad and pen, "you wanna tell me what really happened?" There was no way around it now. She had to tell the truth. So she recounted most of the story, beginning with how Connor showed up when she was leaving the woods and threatened her, and omitting all references to Peter and their encounter with Connor the previous day. She concluded with, "Somebody pulled him off me--" Lance interrupted, surprised. "You said you blacked out. How could you have seen that?" "I was blacking out right as someone pulled him off." Lance said to Tatum, "That must've been your anonymous caller." He asked Angel, "Who was he?" "I don't know. He was behind Connor, so I didn't see him." "How can you say you didn't see him and know it was a he?" "He, she, whoever," Angel said defensively. "I just assumed it was a he, but it could've been a she. I don't know. I never saw him. Or her." "I'll bet you really saw him after all. I'll bet it was some boy you've been gallivanting around with behind our backs, wasn't it?" Granted, Angel still thought Peter was a good possibility, but she sure wasn't about to tell Lance! Besides, why did Lance keep trying to get her to say she'd seen someone when she hadn't? Unless he was just trying his usual, pointless tactic of pretending he knew something in an attempt to intimidate her into confessing some hidden sin. Whatever it was, it ticked her off. "I told you, I don't know who it was! And I haven't been ‘gallivanting around' with any boys. You don't allow me to date or have friends that are boys or do anything else on God's green earth other girls my age do, remember?" Lance slapped her across the jaw. "Insolent girl! Don't talk back to me!" Angel placed her hand to her cheek and turned to her mother. Cecilia Beasle stood in her usual stance--arms crossed, back to the wall, eyes like icicles poking through her silvering tinsels of hair. She didn't say a word, nor did she even dignify herself with an outward reaction. "Mother!" Angel exclaimed. "Do as your father says, dear," Cecilia said flatly. "He's not my father." Her mother's reaction--or rather, lack thereof--was no surprise. It wasn't like Cecilia to stand up for her, anyway. What got Angel was Tatum's reaction. He, too, just stood there, not saying a word and looking a little uncomfortable. She couldn't believe it! Of course, Tatum was lazy and incompetent. Plus, Angel knew he was frustrated because she initially had lied to him. Still, he'd just witnessed out-and-out child abuse, and he wasn't doing a darned thing about it! Angel again thought of how others had overlooked her abuse over the years, and of Heather Pickens's comment, "Everyone hates you, Angel Fallow." Maybe Heather was right. And maybe "everyone" included Sheriff Tatum, despite the gentlemanly persona he'd assumed with her earlier. After a long, awkward pause, Tatum cleared his throat again. "One thing I don't get, Angel. Why didn't you tell us what happened from the get-go instead of makin' up that ridiculous runnin' an' playin' story?" She would have to lie again. Yet she could try using that to her advantage to keep Tatum from talking to Connor. "Well, sir, Connor goes to school with me, and he picks on me a lot. Real bad, too. I was afraid if I ratted on him, it'd make things worse. On the other hand, if I didn't rat on him, I thought maybe he'd be a little nicer to me from now on. So I'd really rather not cause any more trouble with him and forget this whole thing ever happened." Tatum wrote something down in his notepad. "Any other reason you didn't tell us?" "Well, Lance already has a nightfall curfew on me. Since this happened before dark, I was afraid he'd make my curfew earlier, or stop letting me hang out in the woods." Lance spoke up. "That ain't a bad idea. You should get your butt home earlier, anyway. And I don't like you playing in those damned woods, even in the daytime." "But Connor showed up outside the woods, at the end of the path," Angel said. "So when he came after me, he wasn't really in the woods at all. I just ran through there to get away from him. I think Connor Wylie will probably always pick on me, no matter where I am." She couldn't lose those trips to the woods. If she didn't convince Lance that the woods wasn't the issue, he and her mother might go so far as to take turns carrying her to work with them, just to keep her from going there. Lance pensively scratched his chin. "Sounds like this Wylie boy's a real problem. Wouldn't you say so, Sheriff Tatum?" "Uh-huh," Tatum muttered distractedly, still caught up in his questioning. "Angel, any other reason you didn't tell us the truth to start with?" "No, sir." "You sure?" "Yes, sir, I'm sure." Why did he keep asking her that? "And you're sure you didn't see who came to your rescue?" "Yes." It felt like nobody wanted to leave her story alone. They kept wanting her to add more. But there was nothing else to say. She'd told them everything… except for the stuff about Peter. As if he'd been privy to her thoughts, Tatum asked, "How well do you know Peter St. Thomas?" Angel's heart began to race. Tatum poised his pen over his notepad, waiting. Lance and her mother leaned forward. Lance clenched his hands into a fist, ready to wham her good if she gave the wrong response.  Crap, I've got to say something! All right, I'll tell the truth. As much of it as I can, anyway. "Peter St. Thomas? Let's see," she said, picking at her fingernails with feigned casualness. "He goes to Woodland County Junior High. He's in a few of my classes. And… oh yeah, I think we had some of the same teachers in elementary school, too." "So the two of you ain't friends?" Tatum pursued. Lance leaned closer to Angel. He clenched his fists tighter, so much tighter that his knuckles blanched. "Lance doesn't let me have friends who are boys." "Peter don't live too far from you, you know," Tatum went on. "You ain't seen him this summer?" Angel shook her head. Why were they asking her about Peter? What did they suspect he had to do with this? Tatum jotted a note in his pad and chewed his pen. "This the first time you've seen Connor this summer?" "Yes," Angel lied. "So he ain't bothered you outside school before this evenin'?" "No." She didn't want to admit to her first encounter with Connor because Peter had played such a big role in it. Nevertheless, at least Tatum was shifting to a relevant line of questioning, one that involved Connor rather than Peter. Or so she thought. "When Connor came at you in the woods, did you get a look at how banged up he was?"  Oh, God… oh, God, no… Oh, God… "N-no… I mean… I… I don't remember," she spluttered. "I was just so scared! He threatened me and ran at me, and I was trying to get away, so I don't really--" "He didn't say nothin' about what happened to his face?" "No." Her hands were sweating. Her mouth had gone dry. Where was this going? "Heard about any kids from your school gettin' in fights with each other this summer?" "No." Angel grew sick to her stomach. She didn't want to ask. Yet she had to. "Why, Sheriff? What's this got to do with what happened to me?" Tatum smiled. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, stood upright, and puffed out his chest like a rooster. "Got a call from Mr. Wylie yesterday askin' me to come out to their house, sayin' somebody mangled his boy's face. He wanted me to find out who done it. ‘Course, ole Connor was about as generous with information as a warthog is with slop." Tatum chuckled at his own joke. When no one else laughed, he cleared his throat. "He just gave me some cockamamie baloney about three boys he'd never seen jumpin' him in Sommerville, with no good descriptions, of course. I didn't have no idea what really happened, that is ‘til Peter St. Thomas's daddy called with the same story, sayin' his boy had come home with a shiner and told him a whopper about defendin' the honor of some gal he didn't know in Sommerville. So I figured maybe…" Lance swiped his arm across the nightstand, sending the phone, tray, and tissue box crashing to the floor. Stupefied, everyone watched a pool of water from the overturned pitcher run across the tile. " GoddammitTatum, enough already!" Tatum's eyes widened, and his skin blanched. Angel could've sworn she saw him shaking, too. "Why Lance, what's the--" "My daughter don't need to hear about this other shit! You're here to find out what the hell happened to her and put a stop to it, not to rattle on about your other cases!" "Now, Lance," Tatum began weakly, "I just figured there could be some connection between what Connor did tonight, him gettin' his face mangled, the St. Thomas boy gettin' in a fight, and whoever pulled--" "The girl's done told you she don't know nothing about that. And I believe her, ‘cause she knows I'll tear her butt up if she has anything to do with a boy. Now, I don't give a rat's ass how you handle this other happy horseshit! Let Connor and that St. Thomas boy kill each other, for all I care! I'm just worried about the stunt Connor pulled tonight! Now, quit pussyfooting around and get back on track!" Tatum dropped the notepad and fumbled to pick it up. "N-now, I th-th-think I've asked about everything I need to, and got about all I can out of the little girl this evenin'…" "Then get your ass out there and deal with it!" "No!" Angel protested. If Connor knew she'd blabbed, he'd tell on Peter and her for sure. "If he talks to Connor, then Connor will pick on me worse, and--" "Quiet, girl!" Lance snapped, then recommenced berating Tatum. "That little pervert can't be allowed to run around Grimshaw trying to have his way with our girls! I want this dealt with, and I want it dealt with to the fullest extent of the law! So get out there and take care of it! Now, Tatum!" "Lance, I understand your concern," Tatum soothed. "If you'd like to press charges, you're more than welcome to come to the office with me and get the ball rollin'. Okay?" "Fine! Let's go." Angel could picture Connor sitting with the county officers a few hours from now, telling them the truth about her and Peter's friendship, and saying things that weren't true, just to make it worse. She made a final plea. "Please, Lance, Sheriff Tatum, can't we just drop this? Connor's already so mean to me. If he finds out that I've told--" Tatum flippantly waved his hand. "Now Angel, darlin', don't you worry that purty little head of yours about a thing. After tonight, Connor won't be botherin' you no more." Maybe Connor won't, Angel said silently as Tatum left the room with her mother and Lance, whose now-reddened face contorted into a menacing frown. But Lance sure will.  CHAPTER 11: PLAYING DOCTOR Angel groaned when she heard the door being opened for the umpteenth time. In the dim glow of the nightlight above the bed, she squinted at the wall clock. God, three o'clock in the morning! They had woken her a billion times before and after midnight, poking and prodding her in every area known to man. Couldn't they leave her alone and let her get a little sleep? She rolled onto her side, pulled the sheet over her head, and lay still. Maybe if they believed she was sleeping, they would take pity on her and not bother her for an hour or two. She kept her lids closed, even after she felt them fold back the sheet. After a pause, she believed they would leave her alone, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her eyelids flew open, and she flipped over to face her interloper. She glared at the guy who stood over her, wearing a blue-green cap, matching scrubs, gloves, and a cloth doctor's mask that reached from the bridge of his nose to his chin. "No!" she hissed. "I get that my stepfather told y'all to run a bunch of tests. But y'all have pestered the crap out of me all night! I've been through enough already, and I need some sleep. So whatever test you're here to do will just have to wait a few hours." She rolled over and shut her eyes. "Well, gee, Miss Fallow," said a familiar voice, "if I'd known there was going to be a test, I would've studied." "Huh?" She reopened her eyes and turned over. Only now, with his mask lowered, did she recognize Peter. He stood with his arms crossed, an amused grin on his face. Angel lowered her voice to a whisper. "What are you doing here?" Peter whispered, too, but his teasing tone remained audible. "I wasn't going to have my best friend end up in the hospital and not come see how she's doing. Now, after the trouble I've gone to, is that the best you can do to greet me?" "Sorry." Angel smiled. She reached upward with spread arms, and Peter bent and gave her a quick, tight hug. "How did you get here?" She tugged at the sleeve of his scrubs. "And where did you get this outfit?" "I snuck out after my parents went to bed ‘cause I knew no one would be here at this time. And I rode…" He paused and added softly, yet melodramatically, "…my ever-trusty steed. As for the outfit… oh…" He grinned again. "Let's just say I borrowed it from an unmonitored area." Angel stifled a giggle. "You never cease to amaze me. No matter what, you can always pull anything off." He snickered. "I don't know about that ." He acted like he was embarrassed by something she'd said, but she didn't know what or why. "I guess we can at least say I'm a pro at disguise, since I even fooled you. I've never seen you that mad!" He smiled mischievously and gave her a playful wink. "But I gotta admit, you're kinda cute when you're angry." Angel hoped the room's dimness kept him from seeing her blush. Peter became serious once more. "What is it they're doing that's got you so ticked off?" She rolled her eyes. "Lance told them to keep me here overnight and run every test in the book. They've bugged me to death." "Huh! Lance sure is playing protective father all of a sudden. So, what kinds of tests are they doing?" Thinking about them, Angel cringed. "Mostly uncomfortable and freaky tests. A lot of them are too embarrassing to talk about, even to you." Peter's expression darkened, and he clenched his teeth. "I'll bet, after what that asshole Connor did to you yesterday." "You know Connor attacked me? Then I guess it was you that pulled him off me. Why did you leave me there?" "I don't know what you're talking about. After you brought me that ID, I headed straight for Sommerville. I wasn't anywhere around when everything went down." Peter made a fist and pounded the palm of his left hand. "Although I wish I had been." "Then how do you know what happened?" Peter's eyes widened. "Why, it's all over Grimshaw." "It is?" "You didn't know that?" "No!" she gasped in incredulity. "I didn't think anybody else knew what happened before I told it!" "Everybody's talking about it. The kids, adults, everybody knows what Connor did to you in the woods yesterday evening. I'm surprised they didn't broadcast it on the local news or something. The only thing nobody knows for sure is if Connor actually…" Peter bit his lip. "…how bad he hurt you." He put his hand on her shoulder and searched her face, like he always did when trying to see if she was keeping secrets. Except this time, Angel sensed he was searching for something more than a secret, something deeper, of greater gravity. "Are you okay? I mean, did he…?" Angel took his hand from her shoulder and squeezed it. "I'm okay. He didn't hurt me that bad." He sighed in relief. "Good. ‘Cause if he had…" She released his hand and told him about the attack, the unidentified person coming to her rescue, and Sheriff Tatum's theory that the rescuer was the anonymous caller. For once, Peter agreed with Tatum. "I just don't get it, Peter. When Tatum said a young man called him anonymously about me, I figured it must be you." Peter thought for a moment. "You think it could've been Jeb Chester? Nobody's seen him since Thursday. And from what you've told me, he likes you a lot. Plus, since he's not the most popular person, he'd have plenty of reason to want to remain anonymous. You know, to keep people from thinking he was the one who tried to… do it to you." Angel shrugged. "I guess, except Tatum said it sounded like a young man, and Jeb's not really young." "Well, my bets are still on Jeb. I think he, or whoever this mysterious person is, definitely has something to do with Connor's disappearance." Angel's mouth dropped. "Whoa, back up! Connor's disappeared?" "Nobody told you that, either? God, that's all over town, too. His parents haven't seen him since early Friday. The last person to see him was you. Or rather, your anonymous rescuer." She frowned. "I'm totally confused. Not only did Sheriff Tatum not say anything about Connor being missing, but he acted like the first he'd heard about Connor's attack was from me!" She told Peter about how Tatum let her go on with her made-up story before showing her the ripped shirt and pressing her for the truth. "That's really weird." Peter scratched his head. "Maybe word leaked out after Tatum questioned you. What time did he talk to you last night?" "Like eight-thirty or nine, I think." "No, everybody was talking about it by that time. I know Campbell Tatum is Grimshaw's version of Roscoe P. Cotrain," Peter said, alluding to the bumbling sheriff in The Dukes of Hazzard . "Still, he must have heard about it by then. As sheriff, I'd think he'd be one of the first to know." With his index finger and thumb to his chin, Peter paced alongside her bed. "Something's fishy." It was the second time in two days Angel had heard him say that. Originally, she had assumed it was just his imagination. But Peter was the smartest person she knew, so maybe he was right. Certainly, something strange was going on. There was still something even stranger she hadn't told him. "You know what else was really weird? Tatum asked me questions about you." Peter stopped in his tracks. His expression filled with both perplexity and fear. "What was he asking?" "Like how well I knew you and if we were friends. Of course, I said we weren't ‘cause of Lance." "What does he think that has to do with Connor and what happened?" "I don't know. But after he asked about you, he started asking if I'd heard anything about how Connor's face got messed up or about kids from school getting into fights this summer. Of course, I was freaking out. So I asked what all that had to do with Connor and me, and he said…" She reconsidered her new knowledge of Connor's disappearance. "Uh-oh…" "What?" "I think Tatum was implying something. He didn't finish what he was saying ‘cause Lance interrupted the whole thing. Before that, though, Tatum mentioned how he questioned you and Connor about your fight stories." "My dad called him out to our house Thursday night to talk about what happened to my face. I made up something, but I could tell Tatum didn't believe me." "That makes sense, ‘cause it sounded to me like Tatum suspected that you and Connor fought each other. I had no idea then why he brought it up. Now that I know Connor's missing, maybe Tatum thought that if you and Connor had a fight, you might have had something to do with pulling him off me and his disappearance. And if he thought the fight had to do with me, it could have been another reason for you to have it in for Connor when he attacked me." He whistled softly between his teeth. "And you tell me I'm smart. One thing I don't get, though. If he knew Connor attacked you, and he knew Connor had disappeared, why didn't he tell you that, and explain that's the reason he was asking those questions?" "Perhaps he didn't want to go into police business with me?" Peter shook his head. "That's not it, ‘cause he didn't hesitate to tell you about his other business, like his interrogating Connor and me." "Perhaps he didn't get a chance to tell me before Lance went off?" "No, that should've been the first thing out of his mouth." "Well, I'm less worried about what Tatum thinks than I am about what Connor knows. I'm scared that if he's found, he might rat us out, since Lance is probably going to press charges. On the other hand, we'd better hope he turns up, ‘cause if he doesn't," she yawned, exhausted, "you're going to be pretty high up on Tatum's suspect list." "Why?" Peter asked defensively. "I didn't do anything to him. I was on my way to Sommerville." "You can't use that as an alibi. What are you going to say? ‘I was on my way to Sommerville to illegally access a… ‘" Into Angel's consciousness sprang the thing that was so important to her, and that the bizarre evening had caused her to forget. "Oh, my gosh! Peter! What was in the deposit box?" Guilt permeated his face. "Gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't make it back there." "Peter!" Angel couldn't keep disappointment and a tinge of anger from creeping into her voice. "Why not? You left in plenty of time to make it before they closed." "I know. I got halfway down Outland Way and was almost out of town when I passed my father driving home from work. He told me he'd taken off early so we could take my mom out to eat for her birthday. I tried to get out of it, but he said if I wasn't in the driveway in ten minutes, he'd knock me into next week and ground me for the rest of my life. Afterward, I wished I had gone anyway, ‘cause he didn't show up till thirty minutes after I got home. I don't know where the hell he was." "I understand, I guess." Angel lowered her eyes and sighed. "It's just that I was really counting on you getting into that box." "Don't be sad. I'll go first thing when they open Monday morning. Okay?" "Monday? Today's only Saturday!" "They're closed weekends. I know you're upset. I'm sorry." "That's okay." Angel plopped back against the pillows. She knew she shouldn't be so hard on him. He'd done the best he could, and she knew better than anybody how demanding family could be. "Like you said before, I've waited this long to learn the truth. A couple of more days won't hurt." Peter glanced at his watch. "I'd better get going. I've probably already risked being here too long as it is. Besides, I can tell you're tired." He paused, then instead of leaving, said, "So… they letting you outta here today?" "I think so, as long as nothing shows up wrong on those tests." "Good." Another pause. "Guess I won't see you again till Monday." "Guess not." She sighed, then brightened. "Unless Lance and Mother leave and I can sneak out for a few hours or something." Peter winked. "I'll hang around the woods like always, just in case." "Okay." "At least you've got the deposit box stuff to look forward to." "Yeah." Still, Peter didn't move. In fact, Angel couldn't help but think he was stalling, especially because he began to repeat things. "You're sure Connor didn't really hurt you?" "I'm sure, Peter." "And you're gonna be okay?" "I'll be fine." "So I'd better get going," Peter said again. But he didn't raise the doctor's mask nor make any other motions to leave. Instead, he remained rooted alongside her bed. His eyes fixed on hers, his features a mixture of concern and another emotion she couldn't quite identify. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he leaned over her. He lowered his face to hers, closer than it had ever been before, so close she could see his sea-blue eyes blinking, and feel his warm breath on her skin. Angel's flesh flooded red-hot yet broke out in chill bumps. She distinctly heard her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Peter's lids closed. For a second, he froze. Then he bit his lower lip, creased his brow into a deep, troubled frown, and shook his head. It was almost the exact same thing Angel had seen him do in the woods Wednesday, right before he asked if she'd noticed anything strange about Grimshaw. Perhaps whatever had bothered him then was the same thing bothering him now. He lifted his face, opened his eyes, and stood upright. His hand moved from her shoulder to the top of her head and briefly mussed her hair. "See ya." He pulled up the mask, hurried to the door, and opened it. And just like that, he was gone. Angel's brow creased. What had that been about? Peter had gotten so close to her, like he was going to say or do something. Kiss her, perhaps? If so, she was more than a little disappointed he hadn't. Whatever his intentions, something had definitely stopped him. But she had no idea what.  CHAPTER 12: SPECIAL PEOPLE "Are you about ready to go, hon?" Angel's mother asked, walking into the hospital room later Saturday morning. Lance came in behind her with his usual demeanor of cross silence. Angel sat on the edge of the bed. She'd already put on the shorts she'd worn the previous night, along with another shirt her mother had brought from home to replace the one Connor had ripped. "I just have to put on my shoes and socks." As her mother bent and picked up the shoes and socks from the floor, Dr. Inman walked in. He smiled at Angel and her mother, but regarded Lance with nervousness. Lance was on him at once. "She all right?" "Yes, sir," Dr. Inman said. "Our tests showed everything to be normal." When Lance raised an eyebrow, as if he weren't sure the doctor had given a full report, Inman elaborated, "She's good as new. Just the same physically as she was before it happened. Emotionally, might be another story. Considering the traumatic experience, you might consider putting Angel in counseling." "Yeah, yeah, fine," Lance said, suddenly disinterested. "What do we need to do to get her out of here?" "The release forms are at the nurse's station, and I need one of you to go down with me and sign." Lance looked at Cecilia, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the door. Obediently, she dropped the shoes and socks on the bed and followed Dr. Inman into the hallway. Angel hurriedly pulled on her socks, eyeing Lance. He stood with his arms folded, glaring at her. If only Dr. Inman had come in after she'd put on her shoes, then she could have gone with her mother. While Cecilia never had enough backbone to protect her from Lance, Angel still felt better when she was around. Being alone with him scared her. "What'd you do, girl?" "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, pulling on and tying one shoe. "What'd you do to drive that boy to go after you like that?" "Nothing," she said innocently, reaching for the other shoe. "He came after me for no reason." Lance smacked her across the cheek. "Liar!" he spat as her hand flew to her stinging skin. "No man lunges at a woman without a reason! It must've been you, wearing those forbidden strumpet clothes, trying to entice him! You're a foul temptress, flaunting yourself and using your whorish charms to drive men wild!" He paused for her reaction. Having heard such spiels before, Angel simply sighed, pulled on the other shoe, and began tying it. So much for him acting all worried about her earlier. "You've been a great disappointment to me." He awaited her reaction a second time. Angel didn't look at him and merely shrugged. Like she gave a darn, anyway. She couldn't care less whether some old Bible-beating fanatic was disappointed in her! After tying her shoe, she rose from the bed. Time to find her mother, go to the ladies room, buy something from the vending machine, wander the hallways, do anything to get away from Lance. She made a beeline for the door. Not fast enough, though. Lance seized her arm and jerked her around to face him. "I hope you know how much trouble you've caused, how close you came to getting yourself hurt-- spoiled." The words were painfully clear and accurate. The abominable memory of the attack flashed through her mind, and her eyes burned with dammed tears. Based on the way her family and Peter and everyone else had reacted, she understood that what Connor had tried to do was serious business, and he could have hurt her really bad. Lance nodded in knowing satisfaction. "I can see that you do know, that it's scared you and caused you pain inside. If nothing else, I hope you come away from this having learned a valuable lesson." "Lesson?" "That the rules I've set down are for your own good and safety. Boys are evil, testosterone-driven, hurtful beings whom you should avoid." He squeezed her arm, hard. Angel had no idea what he meant by "testosterone-driven," but she could never imagine Peter being hurtful or evil. He'd always treated her better than just about anybody else ever had. Lance was hurting her arm, though, and she wanted to get away from him, so she whimpered, "Yes, sir."  God, I'm automatically agreeing with him, just like my mother. Just like my weak, subservient mother. That realization sickened her. Satisfied, Lance let go of her. "C'mon. Let's go find your mother." About an hour later, when they walked through the front door of their house, Angel heard the faint sound of Grandma's voice calling from her bedroom. "Did y'all bring Angel home?" "Yes, Grandma, I'm home!" she called. Ignoring Lance's orders not to run in the house, Angel zoomed through the kitchen and down the stuffy hall to Grandma's room. She stopped in the doorway. It was light out, but Grandma, who was wearing her nightgown, lay propped up in bed. Her shades were down, and every light was off, except for the lamp on the nightstand. "Grandma, it's awful late to still be in bed. Are you okay?" "Today's just not a good day," Grandma sighed. Angel knew what this meant. Grandma had what she called "good days" and "bad days." On good days, she felt like getting up and about like she did when she was younger, and didn't feel sore or sick. But on bad days, almost all of her conditions acted up, and she barely felt like getting out of bed. "Never mind me, child. I should be asking if you're okay." "Well, yeah." Angel leaned against the doorframe, wiping her brow with one hand and using the other to flap her shirttail in and out in a fanning motion. "Except that I'm melting like the Wicked Witch of the West out here. Is it hot in this hall to you?" Grandma waved a hand. "It's always hot out there for some reason. But what I mean is, are you okay from what you've been through? Did that ignorant little Connor Wylie hurt you?" "No, Grandma, he didn't." Angel's grandmother raised her brows in doubt. "Really. I'm just fine." "Good. Well, come in out of that stifling old corridor and sit with me a spell." Cecilia appeared in the doorway and placed her hand on Angel's shoulder. "Not now, Mother. She's going to the grocery store with me." Angel looked at her grandmother, then wrinkled her nose, opened her mouth, and shoved her finger in and out. Grandma giggled. They both knew Angel hated going to the grocery store with her mother. It always took forever because Cecilia frequently stopped to chew the fat with a bunch of people she knew, the "Grocery Store Weirdoes" Angel and Peter always talked about. Angel attempted to divert her mother's focus. "You should have Lance check the vents or the air conditioner or something." "Why?" Cecilia asked. "You haven't noticed that it's like a hundred degrees in this hall?" Cecilia shrugged. "Not really. Come on, we've got to go." Grandma tried to come to her rescue. "Oh, please, I haven't seen Angel since before she was put in the hospital yesterday. Can't Lance go with you?" From down the hall, Lance hollered, "Grocery shopping's woman's work." Grandma rolled her eyes. "My gosh, Cecilia, it's just a supermarket, not a snake pit, for crying out loud. You're a big girl. I think you can handle it alone." "After what's happened," Cecilia argued, "people will want to see that Angel's okay." "I'll just bet they will," Grandma muttered with bitter sarcasm. "You know that's just an excuse. You always make her go." Cecilia ignored Grandma and tugged at Angel's shoulder. "Let's go, Angel." Angel griped, "It's too hot to go anywhere." "Then the grocery store's perfect because it's cold. Now, let's go." Angel trudged out of the room. As Cecilia closed the door and they walked toward the kitchen, Grandma called out in an exasperated voice, "Can't you do anything , Cecilia, without having another person with you to lead the way?" On their way to the grocery store, they rode down Blackwood Road and passed Angel's path into the woods. She shuddered, remembering how Connor had confronted her there less than twenty-four hours ago. She also remembered Peter saying he'd hang around the woods over the weekend, just in case she was able to come by. Maybe he was there now. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him, she visually searched among the moving line of trees. From her elevated position in the cab of Lance's truck, she could have sworn she did glimpse something. Not Peter, but something that hung high over the path, from the branches of the tall, surrounding trees. Angel pointed. "Did you see that?" Her mother glanced to their right, then refocused on the road. "See what?" "There was something in the woods, hanging from the trees, I think." Cecilia looked in the rearview mirror and briefly over her shoulder before returning her attention to the road. "I didn't see anything." Angel looked at the strands of graying hair that fell around her mother's eyes, and she muttered under her breath, "Yeah, you never do." Several minutes later, as they walked down the first aisle of the grocery store, Cecilia pushing the cart, Angel finding the items on their list, they began to surface--the "Grocery Store Weirdoes." Angel was searching the shelves for the loaf of bread with the latest date when a hand fell across her shoulder. She jumped and almost cried out. "Why, hello there, Angel!" Angel looked up to see Rose Knolls, a middle-aged, witchy-looking housewife whose sallow face's most characteristic features included black, thick-framed glasses and a long nose with a wart on the end. Rose currently wore her usual grocery store attire--baby-pink plastic curlers in her frizzy, brown hair, a matching pink bathrobe and mouse slippers, and no make-up, apparently unbothered by being in public in the middle of a weekend afternoon. Cecilia had once mentioned that Rose let her appearance go about fourteen years ago, after her husband Dick's sudden success as a farmer enabled her to quit her day job as a secretary. Dick, Grimshaw's most prominent farmer second only to John Weekly, accompanied his wife now. A tall man with dark, bushy hair and a somber mien, Mr. Knolls rarely spoke. He didn't have to. His wife did enough talking for both of them. Mrs. Knolls went on, "I didn't mean to startle you, dear. I reckon that was a dumb thing for me to do after what happened to you." "That's okay," Angel mumbled, but Mrs. Knolls never heard her. She'd already started interrogating Cecilia. Angel analyzed the grocery list. Maybe she could go on with the shopping during her mother and Mrs. Knolls's gabfest. "Tell me, Cecilia, is she okay?" "Basically, her tests came out normal, and--" "Oh, wonderful!" Mrs. Knolls gushed. "Dick and I were worried sick when we heard what happened! How's she holding up? Are y'all sure that boy didn't hurt her too bad?" Another weird and annoying thing about Rose was that she always asked a bunch of prying questions about Angel. Furthermore, she never directed them to Angel, but to Cecilia, as if Angel weren't there. That's why Angel and Peter had secretly nicknamed her "Nosy Rosy." The ever-silent Mr. Knolls was weirder than his wife. During Rosy's incessant chattering, he habitually stood aside, kept his hands shoved in his pockets, and leered at Angel. She had no idea why he did it, but something about that--about him --gave her the creeps. Sighing, Angel picked her way along the aisle, trying not to be bothered by the rapid questions Nosy Rosy fired at her mother, or Mr. Knolls's visual probing. "What happened exactly?" Nosy Rosy asked. "Have they found that stinking Wylie boy? What did the doctor say? Is Angel okay? What did Sheriff Tatum say? Just what do the authorities plan on doing about it?" Mr. Knolls would nod after each of Cecilia's answers to his wife's questions, then revert his eyes to Angel, as if looking at her long enough would tell him whether what her mother said was true. Angel dropped the items she'd gathered into the cart and started to push it around the next corner. "Wait for me, Angel!" Cecilia said. "I don't want you going where I can't see you, okay, hon?" Angel crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "God, Mother, I'm fourteen, not four, you know." If Lance had been there, he would have slapped her silly for "public insolence" and "lack of honor for thy mother and thy father." Cecilia merely flashed her a spineless smile. "Just stay on this aisle where I can see you, hon." Angel sighed and looked at Nosy Rosy with vexation. This was why grocery shopping with her mother always took forever. She understood that what had happened with Connor was a major deal in a small town. Still, can't Nosy Rosy get a life of her own instead of getting so into mine? After what seemed like forever and a day, Mr. and Mrs. Knolls said their good-byes, and Cecilia began to push the cart again. They made it down aisles two and three without running into anybody. Angel was beginning to think that perhaps the rest of the Weirdoes had decided to stay home for the day, until they rounded the corner of the fourth aisle. They came upon Gene Lee and Tony Quinton, who pushed a cart filled with his and Gene's groceries. Tony, who worked with Cecilia at the local sewing factory, was skinny and pale with straight, light brown, shoulder-length hair. Gene, a baker at this grocery store, had short, dark, curly hair, a hairy face, and a stomach that indicated he sampled a few too many of his own products. The two men were in their late twenties or early thirties, but they had never been married and lived together in a small cottage in the country. Ever since Angel was small, she had sensed Gene and Tony were a bit different from most people. She was unable to pinpoint anything more, however, until she was older and began overhearing her schoolmates whisper labels for the men, some of which sounded cruel--"fags," "homos," and "queers." Angel, whose lack of girlfriends and cable TV greatly limited her information sources, had been forced to ask Peter what the names meant. She could tell he was extremely uncomfortable with the questions, so she tried not to press him for any more answers than she had to. But Peter finally explained that the names were derogatory ways of saying that Gene and Tony were "gay." In addition to "happiness," the only definition Angel had known for the word, Peter explained that "gay" meant that two girls or two guys liked each other the way that husbands and wives or boyfriends and girlfriends liked each other. He said Gene and Tony considered themselves the same sort of couple. The whole "gay" concept seemed bizarre to Angel. Still, she didn't see it as her place to judge anyone. But Lance, like the kids, was vocal in his belief that Tony and Gene's relationship was wrong. He always told Cecilia he didn't care if she talked to them when she was alone, but not when Angel was around; he didn't want her exposed to anything the Bible deemed unclean. Angel had no clue why Lance said that. Gene and Tony looked and smelled as clean as any traditional couple. Obviously, some of the kids at school agreed. Even mean, redneck Connor Wylie said that he bet Gene and Tony bought a lot of soap. Aside from the callous remarks of Lance and some children, Gene and Tony were generally accepted and well-liked. They got invited to all the social functions, at least when there was actually a social function to attend. Angel wasn't crazy about them, though. It wasn't because they were gay, but because they were strange in general, like some of the other grocery shoppers. They tended to ogle her a lot, like Mr. Knolls, and were a little overly friendly. "Oh, Angel, honey," Gene said while hugging her. "We heard about what happened, and we're s-o-o-o sorry. Are you okay?" "Yeah." Angel endured the hug long enough to be polite, then pulled away. She didn't think Gene knew her well enough to be hugging her. Besides, he wore too much cologne. He stood upright and asked her mother, "Is she really?" Cecilia nodded. "The tests show everything is normal." "It's just ghastly what that Wylie boy did!" Tony remarked, flicking his wrist. "I don't understand why anyone would actually force himself on a woman!" Throughout the rest of the conversation, Gene and Tony kept patting Angel's head and pinching her cheeks, telling her how grateful they were she'd been "preserved from harm," and making remarks about how she was "a doll," "a peach," "a pride and joy," and the "blossom of Grimshaw." It made her feel like a newborn baby that had been fussed over so much, it was sick of the attention. Angel told her mother she had to go to the restroom, just to get away. When she exited the restroom, she found her mother in the fifth aisle. But instead of shopping, Cecilia stood talking with Gramps Oldfield, who carried a plastic handbasket with a few items inside. Gramps, a white-whiskered, retired blacksmith, wasn't their relative, but was Grimshaw's oldest senior citizen--"older than dirt," Peter always said--so everybody called him "Gramps." He was also one of the most respected locals, respected by everyone in town, including Lance. Maybe because he'd lived in Grimshaw all his life. Maybe because of his elderliness and his remarkable physical health for his age. Maybe because he'd mysteriously stretched his blacksmith's checks enough to buy a fine home with vast acres of surrounding land. Maybe because of his reputed wisdom and uncanny ability to always find out what was happening in Grimshaw before anybody else, even gossips like Nosy Rosy. Or maybe there was another reason. Angel sighed, dreading yet another drawn-out conversation to delay their shopping. But when she approached, Cecilia began to push the cart in the opposite direction, and Gramps hobbled toward Angel. He grinned. "Why, speak of the Devil, there's our girl now! Feels like ages since I've seen her. Been through a lot, poor thang. You okay after what Connor--?" "Fine, thanks." Angel hurried toward her mother. God, that question is getting old. Doesn't this town have anything else to talk about? Sauntering away, Gramps remarked, "You got a good girl there, Cecilia, but you been hoardin' her away too long. I'd like to see her before I die." Cecilia smiled and nodded, but to Angel, his statement made no sense. After all, he'd just seen her. Oh well, he was an old man, probably a little senile. He must have meant, "I'd like to see more of her before I die." Angel and her mother moved to aisle six, where they ran into Mr. and Mrs. Chatman, their baby, and their five-year old son, Devin. The Chatmans had believed God wouldn't let Mrs. Chatman bear a child of her own, so they had adopted Devin three years ago. Two years ago, the thing that frequently happened to couples who adopted happened to the Chatmans--God had "granted their prayers and made a baby grow in Mrs. Chatman's stomach," as Cecilia had put it. When one looked at the parents and the little baby, now sitting in the top of the cart, then at Devin, it was obvious the boy was not a blood relation. Whereas the Chatmans and their infant son had dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes, Devin's eyes were blue, his skin fair, and his hair so blonde it looked almost white. Of all the Grocery Store Weirdoes, Angel found the Chatmans the weirdest. Every time Angel and her mother ran into them, Devin would ask Angel, "Do you know that you're special?" In the beginning, Angel had only smiled and given him a flippant reply. But after he'd asked her the same question time after time, her curiosity got the better of her. One day, when no one else was listening, she responded to his question with one of her own--"Why do you always ask me that?" Devin had smiled. "My mommy and daddy say you're special and I'm special ‘cause we both have blonde hair and blue eyes." Yep, from that point on, Angel's mind was made up. Mr. and Mrs. Chatman were totally messed up in the head, and they were messing up poor little Devin, too. Now, the Chatmans exchanged typical casual greetings with Angel's mother, then asked a bunch of questions about how Angel was doing and what had happened. Peter was right. Word about Connor's assault had gotten around Grimshaw. It was kind of embarrassing, really. While Cecilia filled in the Chatmans, Devin stood by, watching Angel, his lips stretched in a huge smile. Too many minutes later, everyone finished gabbing about Angel and transcended to what sounded like casual small talk. Cecilia remarked, "That baby is growing like a weed. He's the spittin' image of you, you know." Mrs. Chatman giggled. "Yeah, but not of his older brother, of course." "Right," Mr. Chatman said, "and little Devin doesn't look a thing like us, either." "Yes," Cecilia agreed. Angel sensed that her mother understood the Chatmans considered this a compliment, for whatever peculiar reason. "Devin is completely different." Mr. Chatman said, "Devin looks more like your Angel than he does us." "Yes," Cecilia repeated. The three of them smiled at one another, like it was a big joke or something. The whole conversation freaked Angel out. She decided to retackle the shopping. If she just picked up everything on this aisle, she could make a dent in the list and still stay within her mother's required visual range. She moved a few feet down the aisle and picked up a jar of pickles. Devin followed, still smiling. "Are you still special?" " Stillspecial?" Angel echoed, surprised by the variation in his question. "Why do you ask?" "I heard my mommy and daddy talking, and they said you might not be special anymore." "Why not? Don't I still have blonde hair and blue eyes?" "Ah-huh." "Then why don't they think I'm special anymore?" Devin lowered his voice, cupped his hand to his cheek, and gestured for her to lean toward him. She bent down, and he whispered behind his hand, "'Cause of the mean boy who tried to hurt you. They said if he hurt you bad enough, it took away what made you special." Angel wasn't sure what the Chatmans had meant, but it completely unnerved her. A chill piqued her entire body. Her muscles jellied. The jar of pickles slid from her hand and crashed on the floor. The glass shattered, sending a river of green juice flowing between her sneakers. Cecilia and the Chatmans whirled toward her. The baby in the cart began to wail. Cecilia ran over and grabbed Angel by the arm. "What's the matter with you? You gotta be more careful." Bewilderment over Devin's comment crippled Angel's ability to respond. The Chatmans hurried over. Mrs. Chatman scooped Devin up in her arms. As if nothing unusual had happened, Devin calmly rested his head on his mother's shoulder. Mr. Chatman placed a heavy hand on Angel's shoulder and asked in his usual gruff voice, "What's wrong? Is everything all right?" Angel shrunk beneath his shadow. When she was younger, she had been scared of the young mortician, partly because she knew he handled the dead for a living. Mostly though, it was because of his physical characteristics--his deep voice, his gigantic hands and feet, his tall, massive body, his deep, furrowing brow, and his muddy eyes that slitted at and pierced whatever they zeroed in upon, features that together reminded her of a monster. A very big monster. Upon growing older, she convinced herself that such feelings were both childish and mean, that Mr. Chatman was just a regular person like everybody else. Yet now that he'd shackled her beneath his narrowed eyes and constricting grip, those childhood fears resurrected. Angel took a deep breath and snatched back her voice. "I'm fine." Her gut told her not to let Mr. Chatman know why she had dropped the jar. She tried to move away, but he gripped her shoulder harder. "Are you sure?" His gruff voice had taken on the same harsh, commanding tone she'd heard him use with Mrs. Chatman whenever they argued about what items to buy at the store, and with Devin if he misbehaved. He was definitely a guy you didn't want to mess with. "Yes," she said, wresting herself away from him. "As your mother said, you should be more careful. You could hurt yourself." "Sure," she mumbled, her fear now accompanied with a bit of annoyance. Who did he think he was, her guard and keeper? Devin raised his head from Mrs. Chatman's shoulder. "She just upset ‘cause I told her she might not be special anymore." "Huh?" Mrs. Chatman smiled awkwardly and patted her son on the back. "That's silly, honey. Of course she's special. All children are." Mr. Chatman cleared his throat, alternately looking from Angel to the pickle jar. "We'd better get going. Good-bye, Cecilia. Angel, take care of yourself." The Chatmans rolled their shopping cart to the end of the aisle and disappeared around the corner. Of all their grocery store visits, Angel decided on the way home, that one had been the oddest. Most of the people had just behaved in their usual freakish way, with a little extra attention directed at her due to Connor's stunt. But the thing with Devin was particularly peculiar. Angel couldn't figure out his strange remark. Why had his parents said that about her? What did it mean? The whole thing left her unsettled. She became so absorbed in analyzing what had happened that the truck bypassed the woods without her remembering to take another look at whatever hung from the treetops.  CHAPTER 13: VENGEANCE IS MINE When Angel and her mother, with grocery bags in hand, pushed open the kitchen door, Lance sat at the end of the table, talking on the wall telephone. As they began to put away the groceries, Angel listened to Lance's end of the conversation. "Yeah," he said. "Apparently, that's what happened… yeah, that's right, that's what I've been told… no, I don't know how Tatum plans on handling it. But I couldn't let it go. When a boy's running around trying to pull what your boy tried yesterday, strong actions must be taken…" Angel almost had a heart attack. Lance was talking to Connor's mom or dad! Judging from what she heard, Lance had pressed charges last night. It also sounded like Tatum might arrest Connor or try to put him in juvenile hall. If that happened, Connor would tell on Peter and her for sure. Then she would lose her best friend in the world forever. Lance erupted, "That's the most absurd thing I ever heard! She ain't the one who caused this! I didn't raise her that way!" So now it wasn't her fault that Connor attacked her? Boy, he'd sure changed his tune fast! "She's fine!" His rage rose with each passing second. "But she almost wasn't, no thanks to your boy! No, I don't agree! I am not taking it to the extreme! It ain't just my daughter we're talking about here. What if Connor tried this with other girls? Oh, yeah? If you could control him, why did he go after her in the first place? Oh, for… fine, fine, if it'll make you feel better, then that's what we'll do." Lance stood and slammed down the receiver. "Honey?" Cecilia said, gathering the empty bags. "Everything all right?" Lance grimaced. "Not really. I had both of Connor's parents on the line. They want us to come over and talk about what happened. They think we've made too much of it." Angel's anxiety accelerated. She wished they would listen to the Wylies and drop the charges. If Connor came face-to-face with Lance and told him directly about her and Peter, things would be even worse. Tentatively, she said, "Lance, I appreciate your being so concerned about me. But as I said yesterday, Connor's only going to get more riled up if he finds out I told, and that'll make things worse. Can't you please drop your charges or whatever and let this go?" Lance waved his hand. "You are too naïve to understand how serious this is." "I'm not naïve!" The kids at school often called her that, too. She hated it. "This isn't the type of thing a father can ‘let go.'" "You're not my father." Angel turned to the remaining grocery bags, muttering, "This is pointless and dangerous, ‘cause if Connor finds out about it and finds me before they find him--" "Find him?" Lance clenched Angel's arm. "How'd you know that boy was missing?" Now she'd done it! She couldn't admit she'd heard it from Peter. "Mrs. Knolls must've told me." Lance glowered skeptically at her mother, but Cecilia nodded. "Yeah, we ran into Rose at the store, and I think she did mention it." He released Angel's arm. "That woman's too damn gossipy. Anyway, I told the Wylies we'd be right over, so let's go." He and Cecilia headed for the living room door. Angel called behind them, "Is Connor still--" "Yeah, he's still missing!" Lance proceeded to follow his wife through the doorway, then paused and shot Angel a second accusing glare. "After what you say he did and how much you claim you hate him, why are you so damned interested in whether he turns up?" For once, Angel could give him an honest answer. "I'm afraid he might try to hurt me again. More than he already has, I mean." "Oh," Lance replied, surprised by the logic of her reply. "I wouldn't worry about that." The door closed behind him. Angel briefly considered talking to Grandma. When she'd seen her earlier, she had gotten the idea something was on her mind. Perhaps Grandma had figured out that Angel had taken her ID. But discussing that could wait. With Lance and Cecilia temporarily out of her hair, Angel wanted to see if Peter was in the woods. Maybe he could help her determine what Devin had meant by his strange "not special anymore" statement. Through the slit between the living room drapes, Angel watched Lance's truck roll out of the driveway and rumble away. She started to leave, too, when it occurred to her that Connor was still out there. It didn't make sense for him to hang around the woods after everything that had happened. On the other hand, he'd been bold enough and stupid enough to show himself after Peter had beaten him up and threatened him, so she couldn't be too sure. And if, for whatever reason, Peter wasn't there… well, there was no way she could be too careful. Angel went into the kitchen and opened the silverware drawer. She found the largest knife, a butcher knife with a six-inch-long blade. It would be kind of awkward to carry, but if Connor showed up, she'd be ready. Keeping the knife in hand, Angel made her way along Blackwood Road. When she reached the entrance to the path, she remembered seeing something when riding in the truck. She stepped onto the path and looked up. Yes, there was definitely something up there. The wind blew, slightly stirring the massive thing in the branches directly above her head. It was an entity of mixed colors, mostly red. Her current view wasn't as good as it had been from her elevated position in the truck's cab, so she couldn't tell what it was. She took a few steps backward, out of the woods and into the middle of the road. From there, she still saw more branches than anything else, and only bits and pieces of whatever hung from them. The thing was too high for her to see without being in a truck or on a ladder, but she didn't want to go to the trouble of dragging one of Lance's ladders back here. Maybe she could shake the trees and knock it out, or at least get it to fall a little so she could see it. Angel crossed the road to the path and took another look upward. The limbs and branches almost grew into one another and blended together, making it hard to even see exactly which of the trees the thing was in. She would have to shake all the closest ones till she guessed correctly. Laying down the knife to free her hands, she shook the tree in front of the thing and to her left. Then shook the one across from it and to her right. Nothing. She tried each of the right and left trees behind the thing. Still nothing. She stood on the path between the two rear trees, placed one hand on each trunk, and shook them both at the same time. When nothing happened, she resumed her original position, her back to the road and the path entrance. She placed her hands on the first two trees and shook them both, just like she had the ones behind it. A rustling came from the leaves above, followed by the whooshing of the thing plummeting toward her. She let go of the trees and jumped backward to avoid being hit. The object swung down and stopped in midair, inches above where her head had been. Facing her as it swung upside down from the trees was the corpse of Connor Wylie. His arms fell forward around each side of his head, the palms facing her, the fingers extending downward, so close she could have reached up and touched them. Connor's uninjured eye, the one that had not swollen shut from Peter's punch, lay open wide and bulging. His brow was creased, and his mouth was open in a terrified scream that death had chiseled on his bruised face. Streaks and spatters of blood covered Connor's body and clothing. The blood was most abundant on his shirt; it had soaked through from beneath and dyed the entire front red. The shirttail had slid down, revealing a wide, deep, blood-encrusted hole in the middle of Connor's abdomen. Coils of intestines bulged from his stomach. One of those coils stretched straight upward, its end wrapped around the branches, suspending the body from the trees. As she took in the sight of the mutilated body, Angel clapped her hands to her mouth and let out a long, shrill scream. Peter flew toward her from the clearing. "Angel! What's--" His voice cut off at the sight of Connor's swinging body. "Oh, my God!" The horrors of what Angel had seen and experienced in the past twenty-four hours overcame her. Her traumatized, fatigued mind boggled, replaying the events of the past two days from the end to the beginning. She'd found this body, had seen it swinging in the trees. Peter must have bypassed the corpse on his way to the woods. Yet now, he acted like he hadn't seen it before. During his hospital visit, he had said he couldn't make it to the depository because he'd run into his dad and been forced to go home. She had accepted his word for what may have been just a convenient excuse. When Sheriff Tatum had questioned her, he was trying to imply that if Peter and Connor fought once, they could have fought a second time, possibly at the scene of her attack. What stood out most in her mind was the last thing she ever heard Peter say to Connor--"You aren't going to come back here or put your hands on Angel ever again. ‘Cause if you do, I'll kill you." "Angel…" Peter moved forward, his hands outstretched. She bent down, snatched the knife, and held it in both hands, the blade pointed toward him. He stopped, stunned. "What are you doing?" Angel waved the knife threateningly. "Stay away from me!" Peter stared at her, mystified. He looked at the swinging body, then at her. "Oh, no. You don't think…" He took another step toward her, his hands still out, his expression pleading. She backed away and continued to wave the knife. "I said stay way from me!" "Angel, please! I swear to God, I didn't do this! You gotta believe me!" "Then why did you walk past his body and not say anything?" "'Cause I didn't see it!" "How could you not?" "God, I don't know! I look straight ahead when I walk, not up! I don't know! I just didn't see it, I swear!" "Yeah, right." Yet she remembered what a difficult time she'd had seeing it, too, even when looking for it. Her mother had seen nothing either. "Well, I actually saw it the first time from Lance's truck, or I probably wouldn't have seen it, either. But still, you threatened him--" "That's right. But I was talking crap to scare him off. I didn't mean it. I hated him, but I couldn't have killed him. I couldn't kill anybody! I swear, I didn't do this! You gotta believe me!" Torn, Angel shook her head. "I want to. But you didn't go to the depository yesterday, so you could've been the one who--" "I told you the truth before! My dad really ran into me and made me go home! I know what it looks like, but I'm innocent!" He whispered, "I'm your best friend. You know me well enough to know I'm not a killer. And we both know each other well enough to tell when the other is lying. Look into my eyes, and you'll see I'm telling the truth." Sure enough, when she delved into those familiar, deep blue-green eyes, and Peter said, "I did not kill Connor Wylie," she knew he spoke the truth. She had no idea how she could have mistrusted him in the first place. But she hated herself for it. The knife fell from her hands, and tears brimmed beneath her lids. "I'm so sorry I ever doubted you." Peter threw his arms around her. As she hugged him, silently crying, he returned the hug, stroking her hair and whispering, "It's okay, it's okay, I understand." His forgiveness, bestowed upon her without the least reservation, made Angel thoroughly realize what a true friend he was, and she sobbed all the harder. After a few minutes, he pulled back to face her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You gotta go home and call the police. You gotta tell them you've found Connor's body and show them where it is." When Angel looked at the body and started crying again, he went on, "I'd do it, but you saw the body before I did, from the truck, and if you mentioned it to whoever was with you--" "I didn't know what it was then, but I told my mother I'd seen it." "Right. And they know you hang out here. So if I say something, with no good reason for being out here, they could easily pick up on the connection between us." "You're right," said Angel, moving toward the end of the path. "When Tatum starts his murder suspect list, you'll be at the top, so you don't need to be the one who turns in the body. Go home and act like you don't know anything. I'll call the police." She pivoted and stepped out of the woods. "Angel, wait!" Peter approached her with the knife handle extended toward her. "You don't want this laying around when Tatum gets here." He placed the knife in her hand, his fingers touching hers. She shivered. "Thanks." For a second or two, Peter's hand lingered in hers. He smiled faintly, let go of the knife, and withdrew his hand. They went their separate ways. * * * * "Sheriff Tatum, may I please go home now?" He put his arm around Angel and squeezed her shoulders. "In just a few more minutes, hon. You gotta understand, this here's big news in Grimshaw. Folks just want to know what's happenin', that's all." Tatum had told Angel that about three times in the past two hours. She sighed at the sea of clicking cameras and microphones waved by the cluster of reporters gathered at the edge of the woods, then with tired impatience, averted her eyes to the ground. When she had notified the sheriff's office about Connor's body, she was trying to do the right thing. She had no idea what a huge media circus it would turn into. After placing the call from home, she had waited for Tatum and his lackeys to arrive, shown them the body, answered their questions, and even allowed reporters to photograph and question her. The officers had already roped off the area with yellow tape and notified Connor's parents, who had followed the ambulance in their car when it took away Connor's body. After that, when Tatum still insisted upon Angel hanging around, she got the impression the Grimshaw PD wanted her there not so much for questioning, but for her to be a part of the show they were putting on for the local press. Angel hadn't eaten all day and hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. Tired, hungry, and irritated, she just wanted to go home. "Look this way, hon." Angel's eyes followed Tatum's finger and blinked as another bulb flashed in her face. The changing skyline told her it was almost dusk. "Sheriff Tatum, I've got a curfew. If I'm not home by sundown, my stepfather will kill me." "We've already notified him and your mama that you're with us. Me or one of the boys will give you a ride home and vouch for your whereabouts, so don't you worry about a thing. Now, be a good girl and look at the cameras, okay?" Angel crossed her arms and tapped her sneaker against the ground. One of the reporters asked, "Sheriff, you got any leads on who did this?" "No leads, but we do have one suspect whose name we won't reveal until we have further information." Angel cringed. She had a pretty good idea who that suspect was. Tatum went on, "But at this point, it's safe to say ‘most anybody could've done it." "But why do you say ‘anybody'? What do you suspect is the motive for this heinous crime?" "Well now, I reckon the motive," said Tatum, drawing Angel near and tightly squeezing her shoulders, "is this here little girl, our little Angel. Our murder victim assaulted her in the woods yesterday, tried to have his way with her. That's when somebody, nobody knows for sure who, pulled him off her before he really hurt her. We're pretty sure that same person killed him and called us anonymously to tell us she was knocked out and lyin' in the woods. We think there are two possible motives. Either this person knew Angel and killed Connor out of vengeance, or it was a complete stranger who killed him in a fit of anger, a crime of passion, if you will. "Now, I'd like to make a comment, and I'd like y'all to quote me on this ‘cause I think it's pretty important. And y'all be sure to take a picture of me and this here sweet little girl to go along with it." Angel groaned. Why couldn't he shut up? She muttered something about needing to leave and tried to pull away, but he held her fast and yammered on. "Whether this is a vigilante crime or a crime of passion, it's for sure a example of one thing. Grimshaw's not a town that tolerates behavior like Connor Wylie's. Right or wrong, if anybody tries to hurt any of our sweet little girls, or disrupt our way of life in any other way, they're gonna have a high price to pay, no matter who they are, ‘cause vengeance will be taken. End of quote." The reporters goggled Tatum, obviously blown away by his words. Among the crowd fell a silence, broken only by the occasional click of a camera or scribble across a notepad. Angel, just as stunned as everyone else, fixed her eyes upon Tatum, too. But he merely smiled at her like everything he'd said was just peachy. "Okay, you're free to go, Angel. My boys should be cleanin' things up inside the yellow tape behind us. I've known them boys for years, and you'll be in good hands with any one of them. Now, you go tell them I said to give you a ride." Angel started to do so. A bold voice called from the crowd, "Those are awfully strong words there, Sheriff. Even if they're true." The source of the voice stepped forward. A young, thin officer with brown hair and brown eyes, he sported a ten-gallon hat and a gold star reading "Sheriff" pinned to his vest, a county uniform similar to Tatum's. But whereas Tatum and the Grimshaw officers wore black hats and uniforms, this sheriff wore white, topped with a brown suede vest and a matching brown belt and shoes. "Yeah, well, just a comment," Tatum said, then called over his shoulder, "It's gettin' late, boys. Let's hurry along." The officer approached Tatum and extended his hand. "My name's Saul Sharp, Sheriff of Churchill County." Tatum ignored the hand. "I've read the papers. I know who you are." He called over his shoulder again, "I said, let's move along, boys." Sharp lowered his hand. "Sheriff, if you don't mind, I'd like to share a few of my theories about the crime that's been unveiled here." "Now that's real nice of you, Sharp. But from what I've seen in the papers, you got enough trouble down there in your jurisdiction without worrying about mine." Tatum called to the reporters, "You folks can go on home. Nothin' more to see here tonight." Two of them moved away, but the rest lingered. Sheriff Sharp said, "But see, I got this theory that there might be a connection between the recent murder of a boy in my jurisdiction and the murder of this young man." Angel's mouth dropped. She recollected Sheriff Sharp was the guy quoted in Peter's father's newspaper, the one who was investigating the death of Stephen Hope and other children believed to be the victims of cult murders. Was that what this was about? Did Sharp think the same cult was involved in Connor's death? Angel surveyed Tatum for a reaction. Yet Tatum's attention was on the reporters, who raced their pens across notepads and snapped shots of him and Sharp together. Sharp added, "If my theory's correct, perhaps our jurisdictions can work together to solve both crimes. What do you think?" "No further comments, folks," Tatum called to the reporters. When they still didn't budge, he placed his hand on Sharp's arm. "Could I talk to you in private? My car's parked across the road." "Sure," Sharp said eagerly. They pushed their way through the reporters. When Angel tried to follow, Tatum whirled around. "Hon, I need to see the Sheriff alone. Now, do like I said, and tell one of my boys to give you a ride home." With great reluctance, she headed toward the path, where the officers worked behind the yellow tape. Curiosity now outweighed her hunger and fatigue. She wanted to know if Sharp thought Connor's murder was connected to Stephen Hope's and why, and she wanted to hear Tatum's response. He had certainly taken an active concern in Connor's attack on her. Now that an outside officer was also inquiring about Connor, she wondered if Tatum's interest would persist, enough to prompt him to get off his butt and work at a case for a change. "Sheriff Tatum wants one of y'all to take me home." Minutes later, one of Tatum's officers escorted Angel across Blackwood Road to his patrol car, parked in front of Tatum's. While the closed car muted Sharp and Tatum's words, Angel got a full view of their non-verbal language through the windshield. A few times, Sharp opened his mouth, but each time, Tatum cut in, his jowls reddening, his index finger wagging back and forth. At one point, Tatum made a face and flung about his arms. As Angel opened the passenger door of the other patrol car, a frowning Sharp got out of Tatum's. He slammed the door and strode past Angel. Tatum, who remained behind the steering wheel, his face ruddy, his arms folded across his chest, didn't look too happy. When Sharp passed, the reporters at his heels, Angel called, "Sheriff Sharp, you and Sheriff Tatum gonna be working together?" Without glancing back at her or pausing in his strides, Sharp replied dismally, "I don't think so, honey. I don't think so."  CHAPTER 14: SIGNS Angel ran a brush through her blonde hair until it fell in long, soft waves along the back of her white dress. Due to the oppressive southern heat and the active games she and Peter played during the week, Sundays were just about the only summer days when she wore her hair down instead of in a ponytail. Besides, it was normally cool enough to do so inside the small Primitive Baptist church house. Angel checked her reflection in the mirror before stepping out of the bedroom. At the same time, Lance entered the hall, wearing a black suit and tie and a white button-down shirt. Angel's mouth dropped. "Whoa! You mean you're coming with us this Sunday?" Lance nodded. "You're sweating like a whore in church." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and extended it to her. Angel took it and wiped her brow. "It's this hall. Why is it always so hot?" He shrugged. "I've never really noticed." Angel started to hand back the handkerchief, but he shook his head. "It looks like you need it more than I do today." Returning the handkerchief to her brow and hurrying to the cooler kitchen, Angel remarked, "I thought the church was too corrupt for you to stand, and that you knew everything about the Bible already." "That is true," Lance sniffed, following her. "But I've got to make an exception today. After everything that's happened, folks will want to see us there as a family so they can offer their sympathies. The church is also having a brief memorial service for the boy right after the regular service. I think we should be there." Angel found that a little surprising, considering how mad Lance had gotten at Connor, and at Connor's parents for trying to dissuade him from pursuing legal action. "After everything, you want to go?" "I think we should, out of respect. Besides, your mother and I won't be able to take off work for the graveside service tomorrow." "That's awfully fast," Angel remarked. "He was murdered. Don't they need more time to do an autopsy or something?" Lance yawned. "Don't know. You'd have to ask Sheriff Tatum or somebody like that. I don't keep up with those sorts of things." They entered the living room, where Cecilia and Grandma sat on the couch, both wearing Sunday dresses. Seeing Grandma dressed for church surprised Angel, especially as sick as the woman had been yesterday. It amazed her that Grandma had mustered the strength to leave her room, much less attend mass in Sommerville. "Grandma, you mean you feel like going to church, uh, I mean mass?" Her grandmother's mouth twitched in a small smile. "Not really. But I feel I should. I haven't been in a long time, and besides, I really need to attend confession, get a thing or two off my chest." She asked Lance and Cecilia, "Would one of you drive me to St. Mary's in Sommerville? I know you have the memorial service after church, but I'm sure I can get a lift home." Lance said to Cecilia and Angel, "You two go in the car so you won't be late. I'll take Grandma in the truck and meet you after I drop her off." As she and her mother got in the car, Angel couldn't help but wonder what had driven Grandma from her sickbed. Angel hadn't admitted that she knew about the deposit box, much less that she'd stolen the ID. She had no idea if Grandma had even missed it. Could her grandmother be visiting confession due to guilt over making a secret of the box and whatever was inside? During their ride to church, Angel spotted Jeb Chester shuffling along the roadside a few yards ahead. She often saw him walking on Sundays and waved a greeting. But this Sunday, she felt extra happy to see him. She had started to worry that something had happened to him. Rolling down the window, she called brightly, "Morning, Mr. Chester!" He didn't turn around. "Hmmm, he must not have heard." She reached to the driver's side, and ignoring her mother's protests, honked the horn. Jeb jumped with a start and slightly turned his head. Angel waved. "Morning, Mr. Chester!" Though the brim of Jeb's old, beat-up brown hat shadowed his eyes and most of his face, Angel knew he'd seen and heard her that time. Yet instead of waving or saying "hi" like always, he turned his head and shuffled onward, faster than before. As the truck started past him, he whirled to his right and disappeared among the trees. "Gosh, what's with him?" Cecilia rolled her eyes. "Who cares? I don't know why you insist on making such a big to-do out of speaking to that smelly old drunk." "I think he's nice and friendly. At least, he usually is." "Even after that gruesome horror story he told you about your little goat? That wasn't very nice or friendly." "Like Lance said, I'm sure he means well." Angel was less concerned with her mother's opinion than she was with why Jeb had deliberately ignored her. For some reason, it really bothered her. * * * * Cecilia and Angel strolled through the double doors and into the lobby of Grimshaw Baptist Church. In addition to an announcement board and a table containing church fliers, the lobby consisted of two single doors, one on the left leading to the ladies' room, and one on the right leading to the men's room, and a second set of double doors that led into the church. When Angel went through the double doors and walked up the aisle, she saw Peter and his parents, seated in a pew on the right. Peter sat on the end, and his father next to him. The father and son looked almost nothing alike. Dr. St. Thomas had deep brown eyes, over which he occasionally wore reading glasses. With exception of a thin mustache and a few thin strands of brown hair on the sides of his head, he was completely bald. He had the same skin tone and the same-shaped mouth, chin, and jaw line as Peter, but his jowls and face were much fatter than Peter's thin, chiseled ones. Dr. St. Thomas's pudginess continued throughout his body, especially evident in his round potbelly. Angel also knew he was a good five to seven inches shorter than his tall, lanky son. Sitting beside Dr. St. Thomas was his wife, who bore a much greater physical resemblance to Peter. Her hair was thick and dyed a few shades lighter blonde than her son's, but was femininely longer, reaching just past her shoulders, and a few strands of her bangs dangled over one eye like Peter's. Whereas Peter's hair was mostly straight, Mrs. St. Thomas's hair hung in frizzy curls, like it had been fried by too many perms. She typically wore it pulled back from her face in a low-hanging ponytail rather than trying to subdue it into a different style. Her eyes were identical to her son's in color and shape. Her face was paler and somewhat pretty, though unusually creased for her age. She wasn't as tall as Peter, but still taller than his father. Coincidentally, Angel's mother led the way to the pew just across from them. Sliding onto the seat after her mother, Angel sought Peter's eyes. At first, he kept them averted. Then, after making sure no one was watching, he allowed them to connect with hers. He flashed her a quick smile, followed by a wink. Angel smiled back. Then they turned away from one another. Though the greeting had been subtle and brief, it warmed her all over, despite the cool temperature inside the church. Angel rested her elbows on the pew in front of her, cupped her chin in her hands, and soaked in the church. Grimshaw Primitive Baptist was nothing like the big, fancy St. Mary's of Sommerville cathedral, which contained multiple stories and adjoining corridors and offices, a grand piano, several aisles of pews, and even balcony seating in the mass area. Grimshaw Primitive Baptist was one story, with only two rows of twenty pews, and aside from the main worship area and lobby, it contained just two small offices on either side of the preacher's pulpit's rear. It boasted no fancy statues or paintings like those in St. Mary's, either. The only décor consisted of stained glass windows parallel to the pews and a wooden cross mounted on the center of the pulpit. Yet somehow, the Baptist church's simplicity comforted, and gave Angel a peaceful feeling. The way Lance forced the Bible on her, it amazed her that everything having to do with religion didn't repulse her. Granted, a couple of the ministers often gave sermons about sin, almost as scary as Lance's informal ones. Still, when listening to such sermons here, Angel felt better-- safer. In fact, next to the woods, this place made her feel the most secure. In the front-right corner of the church, a large, color portrait of Connor Wylie stood on a tripod. Angel supposed it was meant to replace the body or casket for purposes of the memorial service. Apparently even the Grimshaw morticians, reputed locally for their speed in preparing bodies for burial, couldn't work that fast. It was still a wonder that Sheriff Tatum could gather any necessary physical evidence fast enough for the family to bury Connor the following day. Could Mr. Chatman and his assistants really do an autopsy that fast? Or did they do one at all? In the front pew adjacent to the portrait sat a man, woman, little girl, and toddler boy, all four pumpkin-haired and dressed in black. The woman periodically whimpered and dabbed her cheeks with a tissue, and whenever she did, the man, who kept his arm around her, drew her close and squeezed her shoulders. In spite of her hatred for Connor, Angel felt sorry for his family. She thought of Tatum's remark to the press about vengeance. Nobody deserved to have their son and brother brutally murdered like that, no matter what he had done. "Angel?" She turned and found Hilda and Helma Hybrid standing in the aisle. The identical green-eyed twins were in their late twenties or early thirties and had thin frames and matching mouse-colored, close-cropped hair. They had been conjoined at the side since birth, the left side of Hilda's body connected vertically with the right side of Helma's. Their heads and necks were separate, but from the shoulders down, they shared a body. They each had one arm, as well as three breasts and legs among them, one each and one shared. Angel always figured the twins, with such an unusual body formation, would feel more comfortable in a larger city, one at least the size of Sommerville, where they could remain more inconspicuous. But for whatever reason, they chose to remain in Grimshaw. Angel had to admit, though, that whereas the children openly pointed at and made fun of the twins, Grimshaw's adults astonishingly accepted them, and they appeared perfectly content where they were. Hilda asked, "Honey, are you okay? "After what happened to you Friday…" Helma began. Everybody was still talking about that? Once Connor's murder had hit the presses, Angel had expected her experience to become second-hand news. She'd grown so tired of the subject, it didn't bother her when Cecilia answered for her, "Yes, ladies, she's just fine." Of course, it was nice that everyone was so concerned, but Connor's attack had been one of the worst experiences of her life. She wished Grimshaw would forget about it so she could, too. Apparently, that wasn't going to happen. No sooner had the twins left than "Brother John" Weekly approached, leaning on the guiding arm of Gaylette. A young and attractive but sharp-featured brunette who towered over her midsized, bald father, Gaylette was John's oldest and only daughter after the long-lost Sarah. Gaylette must have told her blind father that Angel and her mother were there, for he immediately greeted Angel in his usual bizarre manner. "Why, Angel Fallow, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" After Brother John and Gaylette asked the typical questions about her well-being and moved on, Angel whispered to her mother, "Why does Mr. Weekly always say that to me?" "What, dear?" "That I'm a sight for sore eyes. How would he know?" Cecilia flippantly waved her hand. "Oh Angel, he's just being nice." As the Sunday service's start time drew nearer, droves of people filed through the double doors. Several of them were people who rarely attended, if at all. Mr. Knolls usually never attended with Nosy Rosy, but he came up the aisle, ogling everyone, predominantly Angel. Mr. Chatman, whose job supposedly prevented him from accompanying his family to church, had taken this Sunday off. Gramps Oldfield forever claimed to be too ill and sore to sit on the hard pews through services, but in he hobbled, two cushions in tow. Gene and Tony also sashayed through the door; Angel couldn't recall ever having seen them here. Dr. Forrest, the man who had talked to her about her scars when she was little, and who publicly proclaimed science and evolution to be his religion, made an appearance. Angel was extra surprised to see Sheriff Tatum, a self-proclaimed atheist who never showed in church. Also, Dr. St. Thomas wasn't exactly the most regular churchgoer himself, as the vet clinic had emergency hours on Sundays that he often covered. Angel figured the huge turnout was due to the scheduled memorial service, yet it felt like folks were there just as much to check on her. Several people came by to make sure she wasn't harmed from the assault. Additionally, the ones who had seen her in the grocery store approached for a second check. It surprised Angel, however, that comparatively few people stopped to check on the Wylies. Why was everybody more concerned about her than the grieving family? She wiped her brow. Gosh, it sure had gotten hot all of a sudden! Could the air conditioner have broken? Yet when she strained to listen over the people buzzing around her, she heard the dull hum of the air conditioner's motor. Then maybe it was the ventilation system. Angel spotted a floor vent at the end of their pew, and she reached down and placed her hand over it. Nope, the air was coming out cold as ever. Was it just her? She scanned the congregation. Peter rolled up his sleeves. A few other churchgoers mopped their brows with handkerchiefs or fanned themselves with the church bulletins, although the majority showed no signs of being uncomfortable. "Mother, is it hot in here to you?" Cecilia shrugged. "Not really. You're hot?" "Yeah." "It's probably ‘cause of all the people passing by you. You'll cool off once everybody gets inside and settles down." Angel hoped her mother was right. She twisted around and saw Lance among the last cluster of people to straggle through the double doors and up the center aisle. Without so much as a greeting, he slid between their pew and the pew in front of them, past Angel's knees, to sit next to her mother instead of her. Well, that was just fine and dandy. She didn't want to sit beside him, either. In their usual place on a bench at the front of the church sat Grimshaw Primitive Baptist's three non-gratuity ministers. On the end nearest the pulpit sat Reverend Meek, a widower whose warm, toffee eyes and big, kind smile overpowered his short, thin frame, receding, white hair, and wrinkled, liver-spotted skin. In the middle sat Reverend Hardin, a tall fellow in his thirties with perfectly parted light brown hair, squinty hazel eyes, and a wide, toothy grin, his overall appearance somehow reminding Angel of a game show host or politician. And on the end farthest from the pulpit sat Reverend Wolf. Also in his thirties, Reverend Wolf was a picture of physical darkness, from his coal-colored eyes and shaggy, jet hair to his bronze skin to his Sunday suits and ties, all black except for the white dress shirts beneath. All three ministers spoke a little during every church service, with each rotating services as the primary speaker. Of the three, Reverend Meek was Angel's favorite because he wasn't always full of hellfire and damnation like the others. She smiled when he stood and moved toward the pulpit. At the same moment, the Wylie family, apparently not realizing Reverend Meek was about to speak, got up and made their way down the aisle, their eyes zeroing in on Angel. Her heart began to pound. Based on Lance's telephone conversation with the Wylies, she'd gathered Mr. and Mrs. Wylie had blamed her for Connor's attack. Now with him so brutally murdered, probably by whoever had come to her rescue, Angel bet they blamed her for that, too. She could sympathize. If she were in their family, she might feel the same way. Yet she hadn't asked for Connor to come after her or for him to get murdered. Nor could she change what had happened. She certainly didn't want to get into a confrontation over it. Angel hoped that Reverend Meek, who remained behind the pulpit, might rescue her by starting the service. He looked at the Wylies, then at Reverend Hardin and Reverend Wolf. Reverend Wolf frowned, shook his head, and gestured for Reverend Meek to sit. Lowering his head, Meek returned to the bench. All four of the Wylies stood beside her pew, staring at her. Mr. Wylie's stance and expression were like an iceberg, rigid and cold. Mrs. Wylie's thin face, red and blotchy from overabundant tears, contorted in an expression of both bitterness and pain. The toddler, barely old enough to walk and too young to understand what was going on, was void of emotion, but the eight- or nine-year-old girl who held his hand certainly understood, for her eyes narrowed into thin, angry slits of hatred. The church fell silent. Angel felt every eye in the room upon them. She knew she should say something, offer her sympathies, apologize, anything . Yet she couldn't move or speak. So instead, she dropped her eyes and waited in the same sort of weak way she did whenever Lance raised his belt or his hand to her. At last, Mrs. Wylie opened her mouth. Angel expected her to yell, make nasty remarks, curse her, or call her names. She didn't. But Angel found herself silently wishing one of those things had happened, for the words Mrs. Wylie spoke made her feel worse than all those other things put together could have. "Angel, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what Connor did to you." How could this woman be conscientious of her well-being when she had every right to despise her? "Oh, no, ma'am, please," Angel whispered, "don't say that. I'm the one who should be saying I'm sorry. And I am. I am very sorry about your son's death." She hesitated. "And I'm sorry if I'm the reason that Connor's--" "You are!" the little girl spat. "It's all your fault he's dead!" "Quiet, Catherine!" Mr. Wylie commanded, firmly squeezing her shoulder. The girl's eyes encountered her gigantic, brooding father's dark ones, then dropped. Her lips snapped together. While Angel could see Catherine was an outspoken child who harbored strong resentment toward her, she wasn't surprised Mr. Wylie's mere look and forceful order silenced the girl so quickly. After all, he was a pretty intimidating guy. She'd often overheard Connor bragging about how his dad had been a military officer. His voice, his eyes, and his overall disposition struck Angel as those of man who could make entire armies bow in his presence. Mr. Wylie nudged his wife. His simple touch prompted her to go on. "We did blame you in the beginning, when Connor was still missing. But then," she said, half-beaming at Lance, "your stepfather talked to us, and helped us in ways no one will ever know. He showed us the errors of our ways in taking our anger out on you. He helped us grasp that Connor, not you, was at fault for the attack. Why, we even studied the Bible together, and he was able to help us understand just how damaging Connor's actions could have been had they not been stopped. Lance is quite a devout man, Angel. You are so lucky to have him as your stepfather and mentor." Angel gaped in disbelief. Lance nonchalantly waved his hand. "Think nothing of it. I'm only doing my job as a father and a disciple." "We thank you, Lance," Mr. Wylie said. "And we thank you for coming today." He said to Angel, "No one blames you, honey"--again he squeezed Catherine's shoulder when she started to object--"for Connor's death. In fact, I hate to admit it, but if anyone's to blame, it's Connor himself." With that, the Wylies returned to the pew at the front of the church. Angel couldn't get over what had happened. Catherine's reaction was the only one that seemed real. More mind-boggling, still, was Mr. Wylie's concluding remark: Connor was to blame? Even Angel felt Connor didn't deserve a punishment as brutal as violent murder. Paradoxically, his parents talked like he had gotten what he deserved. When Lance had visited the Wylies on Saturday, he'd apparently preached them one of his "ye-hoo" sermons, and he'd hammed it up enough to earn their admiration, respect, and ultimate forgiveness toward Angel. That was Lance, though. He could sell fire to people in Hell if he wanted to. Speaking of hellfire… By now, everybody had taken a seat, but the church still felt hot. In fact, it felt hotter. Maybe that was because the Wylies had made her nervous. No, she decided, seeing Peter loosen his tie and unfasten the top button of his shirt, and random congregation members continue to fan themselves. Following suit, Angel plucked up a church bulletin and waved it before her face. Meanwhile, Reverend Meek repositioned himself behind the pulpit. He made some brief comments about how it was a sad day because they had lost a young church member to a brutal death. Next, he reminded the congregation of the memorial service to follow. Then he asked everybody to stand and honor Connor in a moment of silence. Afterward, he led them in singing "Amazing Grace." Angel stole a few glances at Lance. He didn't participate in the singing, but kept his lids squeezed shut and his head down on his clasped hands. Maybe he was continuing the prayer for Connor. When the congregation began to sing the line, "I was blind, but now I see," Angel heard a snicker and turned around. Two pews back with his children on either side of him sat Brother John Weekly, his hand covering his mouth to stifle his uncontrollable chuckling. How strange! Not only was he laughing at a totally inappropriate time, but laughing at a line about seeing. It was almost like he was scoffing, either at the hymn, his blindness, or both. The Weekly twins, Eric and Derek, didn't react to their father's strange behavior. But John Jr. punched his father, as if they'd shared some secret joke, and turned as red as his hair, his chubby, freckled cheeks puffed out to silence his own brimming laughter. And Gaylette, who saw Angel watching, placed her hand on her father's arm and hissed, "Shshsh!" Angel could've sworn she detected the faintest trace of a smile on Gaylette's lips, too. Irked, she turned away. Peter was right--Brother John was freaky. Actually, that whole family was freaky! After the hymn, Reverend Meek asked the congregation to be seated. He left the pulpit, and Reverend Wolf approached. Angel groaned. That probably meant another hellfire-and-damnation sermon. In light of Connor's death, Angel had believed and hoped Reverend Meek would be the primary speaker, as he was the best at giving comforting sermons. Under the circumstances, perhaps Reverend Wolf would ease up a bit today. When Wolf began his sermon, Angel risked a peek at Peter. Something at the front of the church had captured his eyes and creased his brow into a deep frown of amazed revulsion. Angel's eyes followed his. That's when she saw it for the first time. She didn't know when it had happened. It could have been during the moment of silence and the hymn, while churchgoers obstructed her view of the church's front. It could have easily happened before or after her encounter with the Wylies, who had distracted her. In fact, with the flood of people entering at the last minute and also blocking the front from her view, it could have happened as early as just before the service started. But when Angel saw it, her jaw dropped, and her heart felt like it had stopped. The wooden cross, the one mounted on the front of the pulpit, had turned upside down. Angel had seen just enough on TV and in movies to know an upside-down cross meant the Devil was present. The rational, logical part of her brain told her that no supernatural evil like in the movies had turned the cross, that the incident had a logical explanation, a loose nail or something. Regardless, the idea of what the upside-down cross represented frightened and disgusted her. She tugged at her mother's sleeve and pointed. "Mother, look!" Cecilia lightly slapped Angel's finger and hissed, "Shshsh! Don't point that out! It'll only upset people." "But--" "If you pretend it isn't there and don't call attention to it, no one else will notice." Apparently, her mother was right. Angel studied the other congregation members and found their demeanors placid and content. None exhibited indications of being aware of, or bothered by, the sacrilegious symbol that hung at the front of the church. Angel tried to gauge whether Lance had seen it, but couldn't because he still had his eyes closed and his head bowed. Maybe the upside-down cross was the reason. Peter's enlarged eyes caught Angel's. He drew his brows together and bit his bottom lip, his face ruddy. Then he turned to Dr. St. Thomas, tugged his sleeve, and pointed to the pulpit. Dr. St. Thomas frowned, shook his head, whispered something, and looked away from Peter. Evidently, he, too, had instructed Peter to ignore the cross. Angel reevaluated the other churchgoers, who still wore those same contented expressions. How could everyone be overlooking it? Or if they had seen it, why were they so at ease? She tried to ignore it, too, and focus on Reverend Wolf's sermon. Moving back and forth behind the pulpit, his bronze face turning red and breaking out in beads of sweat, Wolf waved his hands, bellowed, pointed to his open Bible, and got even more enraptured than usual. His words appalled Angel. "In Romans three, verse five, the scripture asks, ‘Is God unrighteous who takes vengeance?' In the same chapter, verse eight, it says, ‘Let us do evil, that good may come, whose damnation is just.' Thus, acts that may seem evil or unrighteous can actually be acts of vengeance by a god who is using his people to carry them out in order that ‘good may come.' In other words, brothers and sisters, even acts of vengeance may occasionally be meant to serve as examples to others who might dare commit the same sins. You'll further see evidence of this if you refer to Jude seven." He flipped to the verse. "'Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth as an example , suffering the vengeance of eternal fire… ‘" Reverend Wolf was preaching about vengeance! Worse still, instead of speaking against vengeance, which would have been the only appropriate and Christian way to handle the subject in light of Connor's murder, Wolf sounded like he was speaking in favor of it. Angel realized these ministers wrote their sermons ahead of time. Nonetheless, after hearing what had happened, couldn't Reverend Wolf have modified his words, or have asked Reverend Meek or Reverend Hardin to take his place as the primary speaker? Didn't the reverend realize his sermon sounded like it advocated Connor's murder? Furthermore, though Angel didn't fully understand the sermon or those Bible passages, it sounded like Wolf might be twisting God's words, interpreting them to say what he wanted them to say rather than what they really meant. She monitored the reactions of the people around her to see if they thought the sermon was in poor taste. Reverend Meek's brow was creased and his mouth downturned. He stared at his lap, swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, and every so often, omitted a quiet sigh. Peter's jaw hung open, and his brow had also creased into a frown. At one point, he caught Angel's eye and shook his head, as if to say, "Can you believe this?" Angel's mother squirmed, fidgeted with her handbag, and in general, acted as if she'd rather be somewhere else-- anywhereelse. It was still impossible for Angel to read Lance's reaction, for his head remained bowed and his eyes closed. She couldn't even tell how conscious he was of what was being said. He sure looked like he was praying or at least thinking really hard about something, though! A few churchgoers took great external offense to Wolf's words. Angel figured the Wylies would be especially offended. Of course, with them in the front pew, facing away from her, she couldn't read their faces. Yet none of them stormed out, nor even sobbed or squirmed in their seats. Other congregation members actually appeared to enjoy the sermon! Gene and Tony kept grinning, nudging each other, and whispering behind their hands like cheerleaders before a pep rally. Mr. Knolls had shifted his usual focal point from Angel to Reverend Wolf, and he nodded with an uncharacteristic smile that broadened throughout the sermon. Dr. Forrest was all smiles, too. Mr. Chatman retained his usual stalwart demeanor but also nodded repeatedly, his jaw set, his shadowy eyes so full of admiration that Angel half-expected him to rise and salute Reverend Wolf. Of all the church members, Angel found Sheriff Tatum's reaction the most disturbing. He sat with his arms folded, his mouth twisting in a cocky grin. She was starting to like that man less and less. Throughout the rest of the service, the cross remained upside down, and the relentless heat lingered. At length, Reverend Hardin got up and made some closing remarks. He announced that once the churchgoers completed the traditional closing ritual--shaking hands with one another and the ministers--there would be a ten-minute recess before Connor's memorial service. Reverend Hardin then dismissed the service, and everyone filed into the aisles to shake hands. For almost the first time since his arrival, Lance raised his head and opened his eyes. His face and stance emanated blatant awkwardness. Yet he participated in the handshaking along with everyone else, nodding whenever a passerby commented that they were concerned about Angel or relieved she was okay. Considering that Lance deemed the churchgoers corrupt hypocrites, Angel had been afraid he'd make a scene and embarrass himself as well as her and her mother. She had to hand it to him, though; he handled the whole thing smoothly and acted courteous to everyone he encountered. While Angel shook hands with the congregation members, she watched the front of the church, expecting someone to approach the pulpit and readjust the cross. At one point, she saw Reverend Meek, who stood to the left of the pulpit and the right of the other ministers, notice the cross. He hurried toward the pulpit, but Reverend Wolf touched his arm and frowned. Reverend Hardin whispered to Meek, who lowered his head and reluctantly retreated to his original position. Angel couldn't believe it. Why wouldn't they let him fix it? Surely they weren't still trying to pretend it wasn't there? As usual, Peter made it a point to wander in Angel's direction so he could shake her hand. His manner reflected nothing out of the ordinary. Yet this time, when he casually placed his hand in hers, he pressed something inside her palm and closed her fingers around it before withdrawing his hand. He sauntered away and joined his parents at the end of the line of churchgoers moving toward the front to shake hands with the ministers. Angel pocketed the object and rushed through shaking hands with people around her. Once she'd gotten in line behind Lance and her mother, she pulled the item out of her pocket. It was a copy of the church bulletin, which Peter had folded into a small, tight square. After making sure no one was paying attention, Angel unfolded the bulletin. Penciled across the front in Peter's handwriting were the words, "Meet me in the graveyard A.S.A.P." She again pocketed the bulletin and monitored the progressing line. The St. Thomas family was now at the front, shaking hands with the ministers. As Peter started away, his eyes fell on the upside-down cross. His features clouded. He righted the cross, then stood back and smiled, satisfied. But seconds later, when Lance, Cecilia, and Angel stepped to the front, the cross slid into its upside-down position once more. Peter raised both palms in a defeated gesture. Angel watched Lance and her mother shake the ministers' hands. If they had seen the cross fall the second time, they showed no signs of it. She silently exchanged an extra-long handshake with each of the ministers, allowing time for Lance and her mother to move out of earshot. Then she placed her hands on her hips and scrutinized the reverends, doing her best to imitate the fiery stance Lance took with her whenever he believed she was up to no good. "You know, y'all really ought to do something about that." Everyone who heard gawked at her, but she stood her ground. Reverend Meek lowered his eyes. Reverend Hardin and Reverend Wolf contemplated her with surprise, puzzlement, and maybe just a bit of fear. She huffed. "You know what I'm talking about. The cross! That looks awful!" Hardin tugged at his tie. "Perhaps a loose nail--" "Whatever it is, it needs to be fixed. Right now." Meek lifted his eyes, sparked with newfound determination. "You're right." He began to fidget with the cross, trying to turn it upright. Wolf placed his hand on Meek's arm. "If it's a loose nail, it will just fall again." He shoved Meek aside, almost knocking him over, and yanked the cross off the pulpit. "I'll put this away till later, when we can remount it properly." Once the sacrilegious symbol was gone, Angel knew she should have felt better. But she didn't. The fact the cross had turned in the first place really bothered her. She didn't know why. Like she had told herself earlier, it wasn't supernatural; a rational explanation must exist. Maybe she was just upset over the cross being left awry so long without anyone trying to restore it other than Peter, Reverend Meek, and herself. Whatever the case, the inverted cross and the day's other strange occurrences had somehow made the peace, warmth, and security Angel had always felt in this church vanish. An inexplicable feeling of dread had taken its place, a sensation of darkness, horror, and just plain evil, so powerful it made her shiver. No matter how much she tried to tell herself there were logical explanations for it all, she knew she would never again see the church in the same light.  CHAPTER 15: GRAVE MATTERS "I'm going for a walk," Angel whispered to her mother and Lance, who stood near the front of the church, talking with a few congregation members. "But, hon," her mother objected, "the handshaking's over. That means the memorial service is going to start in ten minutes." "It's too hot in here. I need some fresh air." Cecilia raised her eyebrows at Lance, who only waved his hand and muttered, "Don't go far." The heat had been uncomfortable, yet Angel was grateful it gave her a good excuse to get out. Instead of exiting through the large double doors in the lobby, she slipped through a small side door that led directly to the graveyard behind the church. The cemetery took up more than twice the land area of the church itself. Angel walked down the little concrete path that wound through the middle of the graveyard, her eyes dancing about the headstones. Preoccupied with trying to find Peter, she only subconsciously noted that an oddly large number of graves belonged to children. And many of those were merely nameplates over empty soil, memorializing children who disappeared and were presumed dead, like Angel's father, but whose bodies were never found. To Angel, meeting in an open area like this with Lance several yards away felt extremely chancy. Yet she had to admit, Peter had found a good hiding place, good enough that she couldn't see him. She paused at a bend in the walkway, near the end and yards away from the church. Three feet to her right, facing her and the walkway, stood a gray stone statue of Jesus, twice her size, his hands lifted as if to gain power and strength from the heavens. More headstones surrounded the statue and both sides of the walkway, and a few feet away, dense shrubberies bordered the graveyard's farthest edge. Angel sighed in frustration. Perhaps Peter hadn't made it out here after all. Impatiently placing her hands on her hips and darting her eyes about, she said, "Peter Solomon St. Thomas, are you here or--?" A hand shot from behind the statue, clenched her arm, and jerked her around the corner of the pedestal. Peter sat on the ground facing away from the church. "Ssshhhh! You don't want to let the whole town know we're out here, do you?" "Sorry. I didn't know where you were going to be." "This felt like the safest place. I guess ‘cause it's bigger than everything else and easy to hide behind." "This whole thing's still risky." "I normally wouldn't have suggested it, but after all the weird things that happened in church…" He shook his head, his eyes wide. "What in the hell is going on around here?" "I don't know. Wasn't it strange how nobody but us and Reverend Meek would say or do anything about that cross?" "Yeah, but what I want to know is, why did the cross turn upside down in the first place? That's never happened before! What was so different about this Sunday?" "Probably just a loose nail or something." "Loose nail? Oh please! I know Lance shelters you, but you've got to have seen enough movies and read enough books to know what an upside-down cross means!" "Of course I know," said Angel, somehow too afraid to say it. She remembered the eery feeling that had come over her in the church, but forced herself to replace the emotion with logic. "When stuff like that happens in real life, though, there's a logical explanation." "But what about the other weird stuff going on in there? Why was it as hot as hell?" She shrugged. "The hall in our house gets like that a lot. It's poor ventilation." "Maybe that's the case in your house, but not in our church. It's always cool or cold. And how about what Mr. Wylie said about Connor having himself to blame for his death? Don't you think that's a freaky thing for the father of a murdered kid to say?" "Well, yeah. But he said that right after they apologized for Connor assaulting me. So maybe they were just trying to be nice." "Like their son always was?" Peter asked sarcastically. "I think you're reading into things like you always do, Peter. The strangest thing that happened was that cross turning upside down, and both Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin said it was probably a loose nail." "I wouldn't trust what they say. In fact, after everything I've ever seen from the preachers, especially today, I wouldn't trust the judgment of any of them, except for maybe Reverend Meek." "Oh, Peter, that's a mean thing to say, and crazy, too! I mean, they're ministers! " "That doesn't mean crap. Remember that Silver Bullet movie I told you about and that story we read in school, ‘Young Goodman Brown'? Look how those ministers turned out." "You're talking about a movie and a story, both fiction." "Art imitates life. All fiction is based on a certain amount of fact, and all lies are based on a certain amount of truth. And sometimes, fiction can become reality." Angel couldn't help giggling and teasing him. "Okay, oh worldly and wise philosopher Peter. Since Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin give hellfire sermons and didn't straighten that cross, you're saying that means they're werewolves or devil worshippers?" "Of course not," Peter said impatiently. "That's impossible, at least the werewolf part. What I'm saying is that some things that happen in stories can happen in real life, too. Ministers aren't perfect, and they don't always use good judgment." Angel rolled her eyes. "You know Reverend Wolf's sermon proves my point. A sermon advocating vengeance was a messed up choice for today, especially after Tatum's nasty comment about Connor's murder being vengeance hit the papers this morning." "I agree. I didn't see the paper, but I was there when Tatum said it." "Did you hear that Sheriff Sharp of Churchill County thinks there's a connection between Connor's murder and the cult murders he's investigating? And did you know that Sharp wants to work with Tatum, but Tatum refuses?" "Sheriff Sharp came to the woods yesterday, and I heard it all. And Tatum acted like he didn't want to work with Sharp, but I never understood why. Did the papers say?" Peter shrugged. "Yes and no. Tatum gave the press a big spiel about how there's no apparent connection between the murders, since Connor was found in a tree, and Stephen Hope was found in Sommerville in a river, and since Connor wasn't mutilated like Stephen or the other cult victims. Tatum's sticking to his story about the murder being an act of vengeance by a person who was trying to help you. Oh, and he made a couple of snotty remarks about how Sharp was running his investigation like the McCarthy hearings and the Salem Witch Trials, and if a child so much as scraped his knee, Sharp would probably think a cult was involved. It was like he was trying to destroy Sharp's credibility." "Tatum can be a jerk. But he's got a point. Other than the fact that Connor and Stephen were both brutally murdered, I don't see any connection, either. And since Connor disappeared and was probably killed right after he attacked me, I think Tatum's right about the vengeance thing, too." "Maybe," Peter said without conviction. "You don't think so." "Nope." "What do you think?" "I agree with Sharp--the devil-worshipping cult he's investigating killed Connor or had him killed." "What are your reasons for thinking that?" "No reasons. Just this feeling I've got." Angel rolled her eyes again. "You've always got a feeling about everything." "And you're always so skeptical about everything, unless you have proof or reasons or something. It's okay to trust your feelings sometimes, you know." Angel suddenly realized they had gotten off track. Discussing the murder investigations wasn't the reason he had asked her to meet him. At least she didn't think it was. "Anyway, why are you talking so much about Sheriff Sharp and that cult? What's that got to do with the cross and the other weird stuff that happened today?" "'Cause that weird stuff's part of the reason I've got this gut feeling about the cult being connected to Connor's death." Angel raised an eyebrow. "I don't get it." "That cult isn't just any cult. It's a satanic cult. I don't understand the significance of every weird thing that happened today, but I do know an upside-down cross traditionally represents the Devil. So it almost feels like… like maybe all that stuff is a message that Connor was killed by the cult." Angel sighed. "So far, I think this idea is pretty far-fetched. But I'll play along a bit. Assuming everything was a ‘message,' why did it come here? Today? Like this?" "Maybe ‘cause Connor's memorial service is being held today. Maybe ‘cause Connor's family is here. Or maybe…" He frowned and chewed his lower lip. "Maybe what?" "Maybe because one or more of the people who were sitting in that church are members of the cult." Angel started to laugh, but Peter didn't so much as crack a smile. "You can't be for real." "I'm totally for real." "So that's why you brought up ‘Young Goodman Brown'!" "It would explain why the ministers wouldn't fix the cross," Peter said. "Who knows? Maybe the presence of them , as cult members, Connor's killers, and religious hypocrites was what caused the cross to turn." Angel crossed her arms and asked skeptically, "You think Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin are members of a devil-worshipping cult?" "I think it's possible," said Peter, never losing his self-assured tone. "I also think it's possible one of them is the cult leader." "Uh-huh. And you think some of the other church people might be cult members?" "I think that's possible, too." "And you think this same cult killed Connor?" "Definitely." "Well, since somebody pulled Connor off me, and nobody saw him alive after that, that was probably when they got him, right?" "Yeah," Peter said, his confidence fading. Perhaps he sensed that Angel was about to point out a hole in his theory. "Okay, tell me this, Peter. If my rescuer was an evil member of an evil devil-worshipping cult, then why would he kill Connor, spare me, and call the police? Unless he was trying to help me. If so, why would an evil person do that?" Defeated by logic, Peter threw up his hands. "I don't have all the answers. I just have a hunch." "Don't get me wrong. Like I always say, I think you're very smart, and you're usually right about most of the things you tell me. But this time, I think you've really lost your--" "Angel!" She couldn't see anything around the front side of the statue and didn't dare peek around the corner. But that voice was unmistakable. "Oh, no! It's my mother!" Peter checked his watch and smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Crap, I forgot the time! I bet they've started the memorial service. My dad's gonna kill me!" "And Lance's gonna kill me, too!" Ceclia called out again, her voice closer. "Angel, are you out here?" Angel whispered, "What should we do?" "You go with her," he whispered back. "I'll come in later, after y'all are gone." "But you're late as it is, and you've been gone longer than me, too! You'll be in so much trouble!" "Not nearly as much as you'll be in if they suspect we were together. I don't want to lose my best--" "Lance," Cecilia called. "I don't see--" Peter hissed, "Go! Now!" Angel leapt onto the walkway. "Here I am!" Her mother, who had begun to move back toward the church, pirouetted, sighed in relief, and called over her shoulder, "Never mind, Lance! She's here. We're on our way back!" She glared at Angel and waved one arm in a gesture urging her to hurry. Angel ran down the walkway and joined her mother just as Lance disappeared through the church's small side door. Fortunately, she wasn't going to have to deal with him. Not now, anyway. Instead of going after Lance through the door, Cecilia said to Angel, "You and I had better go around front and through the lobby since they're already starting the service. Hurry up." She steered Angel around the side of the building toward the main entrance. "We've been looking everywhere for you! What on earth were you doing out there so--" Abruptly she cut herself off. Angel turned, puzzled. Her mother stood motionless, frowning at her. "What's that all over the back of your dress?" Twisting sideways, Angel pulled around the bottom of her dress to see. Oh, no! There was dirt on the seat and smudges along the blouse's back. She must have gotten those from sitting on the ground and leaning against the statue! How could she explain? "Angel Lynn Fallow, I asked you a question." "I fell asleep," she spouted. "I went out to the graveyard, and I was so hot and tired that I just lay on the ground and fell asleep. That's why I was gone so long, and I guess I got my dress dirty." Pretty lame, Angel, she chided herself. Fortunately, Cecilia bought it. "Uh-uh-uh." She clucked her teeth and rushed Angel onward. "If Lance sees what you've done to your nice white dress, he'll kill you. Stop by the ladies' room and try to clean it. I'll go in and tell Lance where you are." A few minutes later, after rubbing away most of the dirt with water and paper towels, Angel stepped into the lobby and ran smack dab into Peter. He had just entered and was starting for the closed double doors that led into the church. They jolted to a halt, knowing what conclusions people might draw if they entered at the same time. Angel whispered, "My mom knows where I am. You go first. I'll wait a minute or two, then come in." He nodded. Angel started back into the restroom. But when Peter placed his hand on the doorknob, Angel saw the smudges on the rear of his suit, the same telltale dirt she had just washed from her dress. Since her mother had seen those smudges on her, it wouldn't do for them to be discovered on Peter, too. "Wait!" she hissed. "You've got--" One of the doors opened and Nosy Rosy stepped into the lobby. With no time to escape, Peter and Angel stiffened. Rosy closed the door with one hand and fumbled through her shoulder bag with the other, then extracted a compact from the purse and raised her head. "Why hello, Angel." Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her beady eyes darted from Angel to Peter. "And land sakes, if it ain't Peter St. Thomas, too." Rosy beamed with the self-satisfaction of the fox that had just tricked the crow out of its cheese. She clucked her teeth. "My, my, what are you two doing out here?" "Oh, no, we're not…" Great, Angel, just go on and say what she's thinking, and make it even more obvious. "I was just coming from the restroom." "Oh, I see." Nosy Rosy smiled. "Yes, I'm headed that way myself. It's hard to sit through these types of things without making a trip or two, isn't it?" Her expression reverted into skepticism. "Of course, I haven't really seen you at the memorial service. Come to think of it, I haven't seen hide nor hair of you since right after church. You mean you've been in the restroom this whole time?" "I haven't been feeling too good," Angel fibbed. "Really?" Nosy Rosy shifted wary eyes back to Peter. "What about you, sonny? I haven't seen you since right after church, either. Don't tell me you've been in the restroom sick, too?" God, Angel cried inwardly, why is that woman so darned nosy? Peter sputtered, "Oh no, ma'am. I've been outside." Nosy Rosy nodded, satisfied. "I can see you're telling the truth, young man! You look like you've been wallowing with the pigs! You've got dirt all over the back of your nice little suit." With that, she trotted into the restroom and closed the door. Angel mouthed to Peter, "I'm going in. Clean off that dirt." "I'm late enough," Peter mouthed back. "She's already seen it on me, anyway, and seen us, too." "Yeah, but my mom saw it on me." Understanding what Angel was getting at, Peter sprinted into the men's room. Angel entered the church. In contrast to the church service, the memorial service seemed uneventful. With the upside-down cross gone, the only weird element still present was the inexplicable heat. Peter entered and sat next to his father. Dr. St. Thomas's face contorted in fury. He hissed something in Peter's ear, then stormed into the aisle, yanking his son off the pew and dragging him behind. Peter jerked away and scowled resentfully before marching down the aisle ahead of his father and throwing open the double doors. Dr. St. Thomas thundered out behind him. Mrs. St. Thomas, it seemed as an afterthought, followed. Several minutes later, one of the doors reopened. First, Mrs. St. Thomas trudged through, her head drooping, her guilty, subdued expression similar to the one Cecilia wore whenever Lance gave Angel a good flogging. Next came Peter. From the neck up, his skin looked blood red. En route to his seat, he kept his eyes directed toward the floor, never daring to look at Angel. Last, Dr. St. Thomas strutted through the door, closing it behind him with one hand and fastening his belt beneath his round potbelly with the other. Peter had always said his father was rather easygoing and lenient and hadn't given him a spanking since he was little. But Angel could tell he had gotten one just now. While it had likely been only on the bottom, it was probably more painful for him than Lance's severer beatings were for her. More painful on the inside, that is, since Peter was used to a close relationship with his parents, in which they trusted him and talked things out and nobody hit anybody else. Angel felt as appalled as Peter looked when he slumped between his parents on the pew, his eyes remaining downcast and glazed. His worst crime had been to arrive several minutes late to a memorial service, one his family had attended solely out of courtesy? Had such a minor error deserved a spanking, a severe and unusual punishment considering his age and the way the family normally handled conflicts? One of the things Peter had said his father always told him echoed through Angel's mind--"I'll trust you until you give me a reason not to." Maybe Dr. St. Thomas felt he couldn't trust Peter anymore.  CHAPTER 16: THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE? By the time Angel, her mother, and Lance got back from church that afternoon, Grandma had already come home and shut herself in her room. No light shone beneath the crack of her bedroom door, so Angel knew she was resting or sleeping. When she'd said she wasn't feeling good that morning, she must've been serious. Apparently, Lance bought Angel's I-fell-asleep-in-the-graveyard story. Once home, he had lectured her about being prompt, swatted her a few times on the bottom, and assigned her extra chores. She had gotten off easy compared to her usual punishments and to Peter's recent one. It was probably because her mother knew where she was, and she hadn't been as late as Peter. Angel did her chores and watched a little TV. But concentrating on such normal routines proved difficult. She kept mentally rehashing what had happened at church and what Peter would find tomorrow in her father's safety deposit box. Mostly, though, the safety deposit box monopolized her mind, for she quickly dismissed each of the day's peculiarities as having logical explanations. She still believed Peter's theories about Connor and the cult to be nothing more than figments of his overactive imagination. After a while, she decided to shower and headed for her bedroom to gather a change of clothing. On her way past Lance and her mother's room, she heard Cecilia, stifling a laugh, then Lance muttering in a soft voice. Their door sat slightly ajar rather than being closed like normal. Angel tiptoed up to the door and placed her eye to the opening. Lance and Cecilia lay on the bed, with her facing away from him and him facing her back. Lance's right arm encircled Ceclia beneath the waist. They both had their lids closed, but were definitely not asleep. Lance's lips moved up and down Cecilia's neck, and she continued stifling giggles. His left palm inched down her shoulders and lingered on her breasts, then slid down her body and legs to the hem of her skirt before reversing its path, raising the skirt as it moved between her legs. These motions evoked from Cecilia a series of muted gasps and moans. Angel sensed this was part of the mysterious, unspeakable act that married couples did whenever alone and that she wasn't supposed to know about, what the kids at school referred to as "it." And she didn't know, not completely anyway, not anymore than she'd read about in that anatomy book. Especially not without relatives or friends she could go to for information; Grandma was too old to talk to about that stuff, and asking Peter would be way too uncomfortable and embarrassing. What Angel did know was that "it" was the reason Lance always worried about her being alone with a boy. And she also knew it was what Connor had been trying to force her to do in the woods that day. "Lance!" Cecilia squealed. "I thought we were going out tonight!" "We don't have to, you know. I think we should stay in," he murmured between kisses and gropes. "If you keep this up, you're going to be a daddy, you know." "Fine with me." He stopped and pensively opened his lids. "For a long time, much longer than you can ever imagine, I've dreamed of fathering my own child. And that girl of yours has been such a disappointment to me." That remark ticked Angel off. It wasn't like she was a jailbird, druggie, or killer or something. She just broke a few of his dumb old curfew rules sometimes. Overall, she didn't think she was the despicable kid he was making her out to be. She guessed her mother didn't think so either. "Oh, Lance, really. She's a good girl." "I don't know. I've done what I can to raise her up right, to be a good, Christian child. Yet it's getting harder and harder to keep her on the straight and narrow. Pretty soon, the time will come when I can no longer protect her from the world, and we'll have to let her go. I've about lost hope for her already, really. But," he said, closing his eyes and starting to kiss and touch Cecilia again, "if we had another child, one of our own, it'd be like a second chance." "Second chance? For what?" Cecilia asked somberly. "What if that child turned out to be like Angel?" "Why, then we'd raise him or her the same way we've raised Angel, of course." Angel hoped with all her heart and soul it would never happen. She couldn't bear the thought of having a half-brother or sister go through the same pain she had just to get a bit of occasional freedom. Cecilia looked away, her expression melancholy. "I can't bear the pain of raising another child like that." Their comments extinguished Angel's desire to see or hear more. She moved on to the bathroom. God, the way they're talking, you'd think I was the Devil's child. After Angel finished her shower and stepped into the hall, Lance and her mother's bedroom door stood open. The kitchen and living room lay empty. Angel peeped between the living room drapes. Lance's truck was gone. He and her mother must have decided to go out after all. That meant she could, too. When Angel returned to the hall, Grandma's bedside lamp was on, and the door to her room stood slightly ajar. As Angel started toward her own room to change out of her nightgown and into some outdoor clothing, Grandma called to her. Angel stopped. "Yeah?" "Come in, please." Grandma's voice sounded grim. Angel heaved a deep sigh. She normally would have asked if this could wait until after she went to see Peter. But it was the first chance she'd had to really talk with Grandma since Connor's attack. Part of Angel welcomed the opportunity, yet the other part of her dreaded it, for Grandma had probably missed the ID by now and wanted to confront her. Reluctantly, Angel opened the door. She was a little concerned by what she saw, pretty much a replica of yesterday's scenario. Though the evening was warm and the sun not quite set, Grandma was dressed in a nightcap and full-length nightgown and buried beneath a pile of blankets. The shades were pulled down. Angel remarked, "It's awfully early for bed. Are you sick?" "It's not a good day," Grandma admitted. "I'm sorry. Where're Mother and Lance?" "Who knows?" Grandma waved her hand. "Gone out, as usual. They said they shouldn't be late tonight, though." If Lance and her mother weren't going to be gone long, leaving was too risky, considering the close call she and Peter had had at church. Therefore, she ditched her plans to sneak in a meeting with him tonight. "Why did you take my ID?" Angel's eyes fell. "I'm sorry. Peter has it. I'll get it tomorrow." "What in tarnation is he doing with it?" Angel sat on the bed. "We figured out that Latchkey Way is a depository." Grandma eyes widened, her skin paled, and her jaw hung, as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard--or was too afraid to believe it. Angel had been ready to tell her grandmother everything, but Grandma's dramatic reaction stunned her into reevaluating the situation. If Grandma knew Peter had not gone to Latchkey Way yet, she might phone and tell them not to let him access the deposit box. The truth would be kept from Angel forever. She had to stretch her own truth enough to make sure that didn't happen. Angel took a breath. "When I left Peter Friday evening, he was going to the depository. He used your ID to get into your deposit box. By this time tomorrow, I'll know everything." Angel paused, then reemphasized, "I'm sorry." "But he couldn't have gotten in. He didn't have an authorization form." "We got one ahead of time, and he forged your signature." "He still couldn't have gotten in without a key," Grandma said quickly, almost desperately. "We found my father's." "What?" Grandma cried, startled. "How…?" She waved her hand in defeat. "Never mind, it doesn't matter." Sighing, she reset her eyes on Angel's. Her expression--pleading, desperate, pained, horrorstricken, all at once--scared Angel. "I'm begging you, please forget this whole thing. When you see Peter tomorrow, tell him to take everything back, that you don't want to see it. For the love of God, do what I say." Despite her anger at Grandma for continuing to keep the truth from her, Angel couldn't help feeling sorry for her grandmother, whose plea had sounded so very tragic. Yet she refused to be dissuaded. Her response was sympathetic yet firm. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I want to know the truth too much, and you know it." In fact, her curiosity was killing her. "Grandma, what is it? You know I'll be seeing it tomorrow anyway. So what is it you're trying so hard to hide? And why do you want to hide it?" Grandma only shook her head. "Are you trying to hide secrets about my father, or secrets about yourself? Or both?" The old woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to struggle for the strength to reply. After several seconds, she opened her eyes. "Years ago, when your grandfather was still alive, our house burned to the ground. We weren't home at the time, but we lost jewelry, wedding pictures, and baby clothes, priceless items that can never be replaced. That's when we decided to rent a safety deposit box for storing things. After your grandfather's death, I kept the box for the things that meant the most to me. The older I got, the fewer things I had that I wanted to put in there, so I rarely accessed it. "The box was common knowledge among our family, but they never thought too much about it. Till your father, that is. One day, just before his truck crash, he asked me to temporarily allow him to use the box, and to not ask questions or tell anyone. I agreed. After his disappearance, I opened the box for the first time in months, maybe years. Like you, I hoped whatever he'd left inside might offer a clue about what happened to him." "Did it?" Angel whispered. Grandma sighed deeply. "I've told you all that I can. All that I'm brave enough, strong enough to tell. The rest you'll have to see and figure out for yourself." She started crying. "Your father was such a good person. Better than Lance, your mother, and me all put together. I'm so sorry I couldn't help him more. Sometimes, I'm even sorry I've never told anyone what's in that box. But I can't, and I never will, because I'm just a selfish old woman who doesn't want to die alone. So I put myself and my family first, and what's right and wrong afterward. Now whatever happens, whatever you find, please know one thing for sure. I love you and your mamma, and I loved your daddy very much, too. But he's gone. There's nothing in this world I can do, including telling you what's in that box, that will bring him back. Your mamma's my only living child, and you're my only grandchild. You two are the only family I've got left, Angel. Anything I've kept secret, I've done so to protect one or both of you." Grandma's moving words, her deep pain, and her conflicted love for her family moved Angel so much that she felt tears on her own cheeks. She embraced Grandma and hugged her harder than she'd ever hugged anyone. "I love you." "I love you, too." Grandma hugged her just as hard. After a minute, they pulled apart and composed themselves. Angel said, "I know you're not feeling good and you're probably tired, so I'd better get out of here and let you go to sleep." "Oh, I can last a few more minutes, child," Grandma replied with a smile. "Besides, I never did get the full story on that Connor kid." With the hype that Grimshaw's media and citizens had made, Angel was sick of that subject. Couldn't everyone just forget it, let Connor rest in peace, and let her go on with her life? "It's everything they said in the newspapers. You can read about it there." "Phooey!" Grandma waved her hand. "I've read every last word, including Sheriff Tatum's cocky comment, and to the Devil with it all! Reporters only get so much of the story, and the way they tell it tends to be biased, particularly around here. Now, I've got a feeling there's more to this than meets the eye, and that's why I want to hear it directly from you. For one thing, I don't think Connor just came at you out of the clear blue sky. Am I right?" With the business of the stolen ID and the deposit box adjourned, Angel relaxed enough to talk freely. Based upon that conversation, Angel knew for sure Grandma could keep a secret. She filled in Grandma on everything that had happened since Thursday--Connor's surprise visit to the forest, his nasty comments, his fight with Peter, and the things he'd said and done during his assault the following evening. Grandma listened with fascination, smiling widely whenever Angel recounted a way that Peter had stood up for her. "I admit, I agree with Connor on one thing. A guy doesn't normally fight that hard unless it's for his girlfriend." "Oh, Grandma," Angel started to insist for the hundredth time, "Peter's just--" "Yeah, yeah, I know, just a friend. So you say." With a trace of wistfulness, Grandma asked, "But have you ever wondered if maybe you two could be more than friends?" When Angel opened her mouth to deny it, Grandma added, "Just maybe, just for a minute?" Angel recalled all the recent times that Peter's touch had given her chills, and the pleasure she'd felt from his compliments. She also thought of how handsome he had been with his shirt off in the salvage yard, how he had rescued her from both Connor and the falling salvage, how he'd snuck into the hospital to see her, and how when he was leaving, she had wanted him to kiss her. She smiled. "Maybe for a few minutes." A second or two of silence passed. "You know, dear, I wish you and Peter were a bit older." "Why?" "So you two could get married." The answer floored her. "What?! Grandma!" Angel cried, her skin beet-red. Sure, she had considered what it might be like if she and Peter were more than friends, but marriage? Yet deep within her heart, something told her if she were to ever marry anyone, she'd want it to be Peter. She felt herself warming to the idea, a little more strongly and deeply than she believed possible, so it was almost scary. She quickly forced down her feelings and replaced them with logic. "We're just friends, and besides, we're only fourteen!" "That's why I said I wished y'all were a little older," Grandma said regretfully. "If y'all were able to get married, he could take you away from this… this… mess you're living in. I'm getting older and sicker--" Grandma covered her mouth and nose with a handful of her bedside Kleenex, and half-coughed, half-sneezed so loud, it sounded like she'd hacked up a lung. She wiped her nose and spat phlegm into the tissues, then tossed them into her bedside trashcan. "So I don't know how much longer I'm going to be around to look out for you. I'm becoming less and less able." "Don't talk like that." Just the idea of Grandma dying tore Angel up inside. It also hurt her to see her grandmother so worried about her now. "People in this day and age who are a lot sicker than you live to be a lot older than you are. Besides, I can move out when I'm eighteen, and that's only four more years from now." At that, Grandma's demeanor became dark as death. "Child, I doubt you can last another four years here." Those words felt like ice cubes dumped down Angel's nightshirt. She shivered and shook her head, baffled. "Why not? I've lasted this long. Well, pretty much, except for…" Grandma raised a skeptical eyebrow. Angel's eyes fell on the exposed scar on her right wrist. That must have been what Grandma meant. She cupped her left hand over her scarred wrist. "That's from a bicycle wreck." "I know that's not true, and deep down, I think you do, too." Before Angel could argue, Grandma said in a forlorn voice, "Nevertheless, that's not really what I'm talking about." When Grandma didn't elaborate, but only continued staring at her in that sad, ominous way, Angel sensed those words contained a hidden meaning. One that went beyond concern over physical and emotional abuse. "I don't get it." "There's a lot you don't get, and a lot I can't explain to you," Grandma brooded. Then hope revived in her face and voice. "You know, back in my day, girls your age and not much older got married all the time. And I could die and rest in peace if I knew Peter would be around to take care of you, to protect you." The part of Angel that liked the idea tried to resurface, but she shoved it away. She couldn't-- shouldn't--allow herself to think of Peter that way. After all, he hadn't said or done anything to indicate that he thought of her that way, other than when he acted like he might kiss her in the hospital, and she still wasn't sure about that. Instead of giving in to her feelings, she silently lectured herself on how illogical the whole thing was. Despite Grandma's fear that she might die soon and leave Angel in a dysfunctional home, the woman's zealousness surprised her. Most parents and grandparents didn't want their kids and grandkids to get too serious too soon, not the other way around. Especially at Angel's age. Angel ignored the nagging inner voice that demanded, Are you trying to convince Grandma or yourself? "Grandma, I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself, of both of us. You don't know Peter, you've never even met him, and you're saying I should marry him! Okay, I admit, a few times I've thought I might want to be more than friends with him. But he's never given me any sign that he feels the same way." "I wish I could meet Peter. But you've told me so much about him that I feel I know him, and I know he'd always be good to you and take care of you. And as far as a sign…" Grandma half-laughed. "Oh, maybe he hasn't come right out and said anything, but he's given you plenty of signs. Look at the things he does just for you--standing up for you at school, hanging out in those woods every day to meet you, and weekends, too, just in case Lance and your mamma leave and you can sneak out for a few minutes. Not to mention the trouble he's gone to in the past few days, getting into a fight, threatening Connor, and illegally accessing my deposit box. All just for you." "That's just ‘cause he's my best friend," Angel protested feebly. "Hogwash! That's a lot of mountains to move for a friend, even a best friend." Grandma paused, then flashed a knowing smile. "That boy loves you, Angel. He loves you a lot. A man as blind as John Weekly could see that." Angel couldn't believe anyone loved her that much. She'd never believed another living soul, aside from Grandma, loved her at all. Granted, Peter had been an awesome friend. But love? That sounded too good to be true. Grandma must have sensed her skepticism. "I reckon you think you're listening to the incoherent ramblings of a silly old woman. Maybe I am silly. But I'd just like to see my grandbaby live happily ever after." She smiled again. "Now, I am getting pretty worn out, so I'd better go ahead and say good-night." Angel hugged and kissed her, then went to her room. Her head swam with the things Grandma had said about Peter. The possibility of something beyond friendship with him forced itself back into her mind and heart. It warmed her so much that, this time, she didn't fight it. As she began to imagine what it might be like to be Peter's girlfriend, or more, Grandma's words echoed through her memory: "I'd just like my grandbaby to live happily ever after." It sounded like one of those endings so typical of Peter's stories, the endings he always loved and believed in. How wonderful it would be if one of those endings could really happen, if she and Peter-- Crashing into her daydreams came images of Lance. Lance waving his Bible. Lance preaching from his invisible pulpit about sin and the evils of boys. Lance beating the crap out of her if he thought she'd even talked to a boy. With a heavy sigh, she forced aside her fantasies and feelings. No matter how she felt, or even how Peter felt, she didn't think that happy ending would ever be possible.  CHAPTER 17: DAYS OF DARKNESS At around nine-thirty the next morning, one of the worst summer storms since Angel could remember hit Grimshaw. Thunder, lightning, and torrents of endless rain tore across the town throughout the entire day. The TV and radio broadcasted repeated thunderstorm warnings and flash flood watches for both Woodland and Churchill Counties. The conditions made going outside impossible, forcing Angel to miss her daily meeting with Peter. Knowing that today was Monday, the day Peter was supposed to go to the depository, then deliver the truth about her father into her hands, made missing that meeting harder than ever. In the middle of the afternoon, Angel's mother phoned her from work. After an initial exchange of casual greetings, she said, "Angel, I've got some bad news. It's about Reverend Meek. I don't like telling you this over the phone, but I wanted you to hear it from me first, since I know he was your favorite minister." "Was?" Angel almost whispered. "He's dead, honey. He passed away Sunday night." "What?" Reverend Meek wasn't as old as Grandma, and he certainly had always seemed to be in better health. "What happened?" "I don't know a lot of the details. Just that he choked to death on something he was eating, and Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin were with him. I'm not sure when his services will be held." The untimely loss of Reverend Meek depressed Angel, and it wasn't just because she had really liked him, either. After he had been one of the few people who had tried to straighten the cross yesterday, his death struck her as all the more tragic. Angel tried to do what Peter always advised--forget about negative things she couldn't change and focus on the positive, like tomorrow, when she'd at last see what was in that deposit box. It might be evidence her father was alive, and maybe she could go live with him. When Grandma had said nothing in the box could bring her father back, she must have either been wrong or just plain lying. Whatever the case, by tomorrow, she would at least have a better idea of what happened to him. * * * * Tuesday morning, Angel got up extra early and rushed through her chores, eager to find out what Peter had discovered. She wasn't too overcome with excitement, however, to remember what he'd said when she'd worn her "strumpet clothes" on Friday: "You don't normally wear clothes like that… it looks kinda nice." So, after she finished her chores, and Lance and her mother went to work, she changed into a red halter-top and white denim cutoffs before leaving the house. On her way to the woods, Angel saw Jeb Chester walking alongside Blackwood Road. He was several yards away from her, but this time, he was headed in her direction. "Hey, Mr. Chester!" Abruptly, he turned and began rushing in the opposite direction. Doggone it, he wasn't going to avoid her this time! Angel broke into a run to catch up with him. "Mr. Chester, I'm talking to you!" she hollered. Without turning, Mr. Chester waved his hand in a gesture of stern dismissal and barked back, "I don't want to talk to you!" "Well, that's a rude thing to say!" Angel continued to run after him. "And it's really rude to ignore someone when they speak to you, too!" "I don't care! Go away and leave me be!" He began to run. Youth and soberness made Angel the stronger runner, and she rapidly closed the gap between them. "You used to always speak to me! So what's your problem, now?" She caught up with Jeb and grasped his arm, ignoring the mixed odors of alcohol and urine that reeked from him. "Did I do some--?" He tried to shake her off, stumbled, and spilled forward onto the ground. Angel let go of him long enough to regain her balance. Alarmed, she knelt at his side. "Mr. Chester! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to… are you…?" He had caught himself on all fours. "I'm fine! Just get away from me, will you? Angel backed away a little, but didn't leave. She intended to make sure he was okay before she went anywhere. Gasping, Jeb began to push himself upright, lifting his head as he did. Sunlight fell beneath the hat brim that shadowed his face, and for the first time, Angel saw it was as black and blue as Connor's had been. The right side of his lip was puffed out, red and purple. One eye was swollen shut. The other was barely open and had a black circle around it. A horrific spectrum of bloody cuts, lumps, and multicolored bruises painted the rest of his face. She clapped both hands to her mouth. "My God, what happened?" "I got jumped coming out of the Outland Way liquor store the other night." Jeb at last shuffled to his feet, but waved his hand. "I thought you were gone already. Get out of here, will you?" "Who jumped you, Mr. Chester? And why?" Panting, he removed a flask from inside his dirty old jacket and popped it open. "Don't know who, exactly. Four people, wearing all black, with their faces hidden." He took a swig. "But I sure know why." "Why?" He gave her a dark look, then took another drink. "You." Angel shook her head. "That's not possible! I mean, I'd never have anything to do with--" "You might not have anything to do with it, but it had plenty to do with you." Jeb took another swig. "I--I don't understand…" "Not rightly sure I do either. All's I know is, one of them told me I was to stay away from you, that I'm not to even talk to you. Or next time, they'd finish me off for good." "Did you go to the police?" "Hah!" Jeb snorted an acrid half-laugh. "What for?" Angel put her hands on her hips. "Why, ‘cause they assaulted you, of course, and made a death threat, too." Jeb snorted again. "Honey, the only police in Grimshaw's the county sheriff's office. And they're a joke in and of themselves. Window dressing, that's all they are. Run along and leave me alone, now. I ain't got nothing against you personally. Think you're a sweet gal, in fact. But see, I've gotten kinda used to living." He started down Blackwood Road, in the direction from which Angel had come. "Mr. Chester, wait!" Angel started after him. "I don't get this! Why would anyone care if you talk to--" Jeb spun around and scowled. "You hard of hearing, girl? Get away and stay away for good!" He continued on his way. Of course, it upset Angel that she was the object of someone's threat, and that she didn't know who or why. But what bothered her the most was Jeb telling her to stay away from him. She wasn't sure why it got to her like it did. Maybe it was because, outside Peter and Grandma, Jeb was one of the only people who had ever been nice to her, almost a friend, of sorts. She could understand why he wanted to avoid her now, of course. But she couldn't help being angry and hurt by his reaction. Placing her hands on her hips, she yelled behind him, "Fine! My mom tried to warn me you were nothing but a dirty old drunk, and I wouldn't listen. But she was right! Except the one thing she didn't tell me was that you're a big coward, too! So I don't care if you ever speak to me again!" Without answering or turning back, Jeb moved on, once again breaking into his rendition of the country song he'd been singing a few days ago:  "Fire on the Mountain, run, boys, run. The Devil's in the house of the rising sun. Chicken in the breadpan a picking out dough, Granny, does your dog bite? ‘No, child, no.'" Angel stomped her foot in frustration before continuing to the woods. Due to her early start, she got to the path much sooner than she normally did, so she actually reached the clearing before Peter. Anxiously, she paced back and forth as she awaited his arrival. Time dragged. Angel grimaced at her watch and tapped her foot. Of all the times for Peter to start being tardy, why did he have to pick today? He always got up early. So where was he? At last, he came along the path. Instead of merrily galloping into the forest on Camelot, he led her in and trudged alongside, his head down, his eyes to the ground. In the back of Angel's mind, it occurred to her that he didn't seem as anxious as usual to meet her today. "I've been here forever and a day," she snapped. "Where the heck have you been?" "Good morning, nice to see you, too, Miss Priss," he snapped back with sarcasm. He sounded just as irritable as she felt. "God, who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?" he added, leading Camelot to the brook and letting her drink. "Jeb Chester." In a calmer tone, she said, "Sorry for taking it out on you." "That's okay. What'd he do?" "I'll tell you later. Right now, all I want to talk about is the deposit box. You did make it to the depository yesterday morning before the storm?" "I was there when they opened the doors at eight and made it home right before the weather got bad." "So, what was in the box?" "We had a close call in the graveyard Sunday. Did you get in trouble?" Peter scrutinized her from head to toe, but avoided her eyes. "Are you okay?" She sensed he was stalling and raised an eyebrow. "They bought my lie, so I'm fine. But like I said, all I want to talk about now is the box. Tell me what was in it." "Photo negatives. Before the storm yesterday, I dropped them off to be developed in Sommerville. They should be ready this afternoon." He sat on the bank and yawned. His eyes were red, and his lids drooped. Angel couldn't remember having ever seen him look so exhausted. "Peter, are you okay?" "Yeah," he mumbled. "I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night." "Why not?" She sat next to him. "Is something wrong?" "No, no, of course not. I was just up late reading, that's all." "Oh. Well, was anything else in the deposit box?" "A notebook." "What kind of notebook?" He hesitated. "Peter?" "A journal. It was a journal your father kept for a few days before he was mur--missing." "Wow!" Angel smiled. "There's gotta be some information in there that'll tell us what happened to him! Let me see it." Peter's eyes shifted. "I left it a home." "Why?" "I don't know," he responded defensively. "Maybe I just forgot it ‘cause I'm so tired." "Great, Peter!" Angel stood, folded her arms, and glared at him. "I can't believe it! I've been kept in the dark for more than four days about this box, and for my whole life about my father, and you know it! How could you forget something you knew was so important to me?" "I'm sorry." Peter hung his head. "Can I do anything to make it up to you?" "Yeah," she said, keeping her arms folded. "Go back and get it." "I can't." "Why not?" He looked away once more. "My dad and I had a big fight yesterday, then he grounded me. He's on vacation this week, so I had to wait for him to get in the shower and sneak out. That's why I'm late. I'm sure he's missed me by now. If I go back, I might not be able to sneak out again." "Peter, look at me." He did, but for only a second. "You're lying." "No, I'm not." His eyes rejoined hers. "My dad and I really did have a fight, and he really did ground me." Well, he seemed sincere about the fight and the being grounded part. But she knew he was still hiding something. "Tell me what the journal said, and if it says anything about what happened to my father." He shrugged and said in a voice that sounded almost too casual, "Gee, I don't know. There was a lot going on at home yesterday, so I just skimmed over it and didn't read the whole thing." When Angel expectantly raised her eyebrows, he conceded, "It was mainly just a bunch of stuff about how he helped search for that Belle Underwood kid, the one who disappeared without a trace fourteen years ago." He paused, then reiterated, "Look, I'm really sorry. I know I should have brought it--remembered to bring it, I mean, but… I just don't know, I… geez, are you sure you really want to see it?" "Of course!" she snapped, indignant that everyone seemed to be conspiring to keep this information from her. "Why wouldn't I want to see it?" When he didn't respond, she complained, "You sound just like my grandmother!" "Maybe you should listen to her, then. I know she has your best interest at--" "My best interest," Angel cut him off through clenched teeth, "is to learn the truth. You are going to bring that journal and the pictures tomorrow? Peter?" "All right, all right. If I can get out, anyway." His guilt rematerialized. "Listen, I'm sorry. Since I can't go back home for it, what else can I do to make this up to you?" Angel was angrier than ever, for she sensed Peter hadn't left the journal at home by accident. Even if he had, he was crafty enough to sneak back in the house and get it. If he really wanted to, that is. But clearly, he did not. On the other hand, like Grandma had said, he'd done a lot for her, and she could tell he wanted to make amends. So she felt she should give him a chance at a peace offering. "Well, there is just one thing." Peter smiled. "Name it." "We got so distracted with Lucky and everything that we never finished our story game." The smile dissolved. "Aw, Angel." "What's the matter with you anyway?" she demanded. "You made up those story games in the first place, and you used to enjoy them so much. But lately, it's like pulling teeth to get you to start a story or sometimes even finish one." "I don't know." Peter stood and fidgeted with Camelot's saddlebags. "It's just that sometimes I feel like those games are childish and stupid. It's probably okay for girls, but me… see, I'm a guy, and I'm almost fifteen, too, meaning I'm pretty much a man already. So what I'm saying is maybe I'm getting too old for stuff like that. Maybe it's too childish and gay for me." "Your storytelling isn't stupid--your ideas about it are." Angel joined Peter at Camelot's side. He continued to fidget with the bags, but his eyes were anchored to the ground. She couldn't believe how embarrassed he looked. Gently pulling his hands from the bags, she clasped them in her own, and from a mature, adult part of her she'd never realized existed, the right words came. "God has given you a wonderful gift. He wouldn't want you to be ashamed of it, and I don't, either. Telling stories is what you love to do. And you should never be ashamed of what you love." "You think that for real?" She nodded. "For real ?" he repeated skeptically, searching her eyes for the sincerity he seemed to already know would be there. "God, yes! I think you're really talented, and you're going to be a great writer someday." "I don't know." Peter let go of her hands and began pacing. "A lot of stuff's going on, stuff that makes me feel like I should stop thinking about games and concentrate on becoming an adult." "What do you mean?" Angel studied Peter's face. What she saw killed every remaining bit of her anger toward him. The smile that normally brightened his features had been replaced by a tight-lipped expression that was half-void, half-frowning, and the usual twinkle of playful mischief in his eyes had dulled into unrest and ambivalence. "Peter, what's wrong?" "Nothing." "I can tell by the way you're acting something's bothering you." She reseated herself alongside the brook and gestured for him to join her. Sometimes while she and Peter talked, they skipped pebbles across the brook and made a game of skipping them the farthest or onto the opposite bank. Angel didn't exactly feel up to playing the game right now, but to ease the quiet tenseness, she gathered a handful of pebbles, threw one over the water, and offered the others to Peter. "You said you had a fight with your dad, and he grounded you. Is that what's bothering you, what you meant by ‘a lot going on'?" "Partly." Peter sat next to her and took the pebbles. Angel scooped up another handful for herself. She took her turns quickly and halfheartedly, concentrating more on him. Peter, on the other hand, threw with excessive meticulousness, spending a few seconds aiming with one eye squinted and the tip of his tongue wedged between the corners of his lips. "Dad was still pissed at me for being late to Connor's service. But he got even more pissed ‘cause he suspects I got in a fight with Connor and lied about it. In fact, he's also mad ‘cause--and don't ask me how he knows this--" Peter gave her a doomed look. "He thinks the fight had something to do with you." He took his turn. His pebble splashed into the middle of the water. Without so much as a single skip, it sank to the bottom. "What?" Angel gasped. Her pebble slid off the tips of her fingers and clattered deadly onto the bank. Her heart began to pound. Peter returned the pebble to her palm and squeezed her fingers around it, his hand lingering on hers. "He kept asking if I'm hanging around with Angel Fallow, ‘Lance and Cecilia Beasle's little girl, who everybody knows isn't allowed to associate with boys.' He also asked if Connor and I got into a fight over you." Peter let go of her hand and patiently waited for her to cast the pebble. "Of course, I never admitted anything, but he knew I was hiding something. He even suspects I was late to Connor's service ‘cause I was with you. Anyway, he says he doesn't feel like he can trust me anymore, so that's why I'm grounded till God only knows when." Angel threw the pebble. It unimpressively bounced down the bank and plopped into the edge of the water. "What tipped him off?" "I'm not sure. But I think maybe Nosy Rosy told my parents she saw us together at church." Peter tossed another pebble. It skipped once. "But when would she have had a chance to tell them, and why would she? I've never seen your parents talk to Nosy Rosy at church, she doesn't work with either of them, and her shopping day's the same as my mom's, not yours." Angel took her next turn. Her pebble sank. Peter aimed, and as he fired his pebble, he muttered, "Maybe it was someplace else." The pebble skipped three times across the water and landed on the opposite bank. "Like where? What're you getting at, Peter?" He bit his lower lip. "Nothing." Before she could question him further, he switched to another theory. "Maybe Tatum's investigation clued Dad in. I think that's a lot of the reason he's mad and questioning me so closely. He says my Sommerville fight story is a bald-faced lie. He says my lies are making Tatum and other folks suspicious, and that I should just come clean. You know those questions Tatum was asking you in the hospital about Connor and us?" Angel nodded and tossed her next pebble, which sank without a single skip. "Tatum came by our house twice yesterday, in the storm, and asked me those same kinds of questions, like he was deliberately hunting for a link between Connor and me." Peter threw another pebble, and it skipped once. "Maybe it was those questions that tipped off my dad that you and I might be hanging out together." "Well then, we were right. You're on Tatum's suspect list." "Not anymore, I don't think. The second time he came by, my dad lit into him, saying that he had run into me on the road and sent me home right around the time Connor was here with you. He told Tatum he and Mother had worked too hard and had too big of plans for me, that my future's too important to be ruined by something like this on my record, so Woodland County was just going to have to find itself another suspect." "Your father got you off the suspect list, just like that? That's great! You should be happy." "Yeah, but something's funny about Tatum letting up that easy, just ‘cause my dad told him to." "Your dad's the town vet, which makes him pretty respected around here." Angel took her turn. Her pebble sank. "But it also bugs me about what my dad said about having plans and my future." "Your dad caring about your future is a bad thing?" "It's a bizarre thing. A thing that doesn't make one damned bit of sense." Peter aimed a pebble. "See, Dad's never worried too much that I get in trouble for writing and drawing in school, or that I don't study or do many of my non-artistic assignments. Also, even though I'm in all advanced classes and acing them, he hasn't ever talked to me about a college fund or other future plans. Before now, he's never been one damned bit interested in my future." At last, he threw. The pebble skipped twice. Boy, I don't see what's so bad about that, Angel thought, watching her next pebble sink faster than a dead weight. It sounded like Dr. St. Thomas was being supportive of his son's dreams and trying not to pressure him about college. She'd sure like it if Lance suddenly became more interested in her future and less interested in beating the crap out of her. She could tell Peter was in a bad mood, though, so instead of arguing, she merely commented, "You're beating me like a drum today." Peter shrugged without interest. "You going to tell me what happened with Jeb or what?" Angel recounted the whole story, including a description of Jeb's messed-up face. Throughout her story, Peter never took his turn, but flipped his pebble over and over between his thumb and forefinger. When she finished, he didn't say anything or make a move to continue the game. Instead, his eyes remained rooted to her. She cleared her throat. "Well, that's pretty much everything. No more. The end." He nodded but never took his eyes off her. He seemed to be looking at her, yet through her, at once. It made her uncomfortable. "So, what do you think of all that?" "What do you think?" he countered. She was used to him coming up with all the ideas. "I'm not sure what to think. I mean, I want to know who'd beat up and threaten Jeb for talking to me. And why." "That's what I was thinking, too," Peter said slowly. "Any ideas?" She shook her head. "You?" "Not exactly." "That sounds like you've got some idea and aren't telling me." "I've got vague feelings, but nothing factual or concrete. It's really nothing I can put into words, not without thinking about it more, getting more information. The most I can say is the same thing I've been telling you--something fishy is going on around here." Angel began to fidget with a twig. This time, she wasn't going to argue with him. Not only did she know it would be inappropriate, but her skepticism was starting to fade. Peter turned back to the water. "In totally unrelated news," he said with a hint of sarcasm, "did you hear that Reverend Meek died?" His pebble skipped once. "Yeah, I heard he choked to death Sunday night." Her pebble skipped once. "That's part of what's bothering me." "Oh, yeah, it depressed me, too." "Yeah, but it's more than that. I mean, you heard it happened at his house during a dinner and Bible meeting with Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin, right?" "I didn't hear about the dinner, but I heard the other reverends were with him." "Don't you think that's weird?" His pebble skipped three times. Angel frowned. "How?" Her pebble sank. "Wouldn't two ministers who work with people and kids on a regular basis know how to perform the Heimlich? If not, they could have called Nine-One-One." Peter's pebble skipped four times, in a perfectly straight line, and landed on the opposite bank, dead center. "How do you know they didn't?" Once again, her pebble sank. "I give up," she sighed to her handful of remaining pebbles, then laid them on the bank. "Okay, I don't, not for sure. But if they had, I think the medics would've gotten there in time to help Reverend Meek, or the operator would have at least given Wolf and Hardin some first-aid instructions over the phone. I know you probably think I'm imagining things or reading too much into stuff again, but… crap, I don't know." He gathered her pebbles and combined them with the remainder of his, cupping his hands around them. "It still feels like something's not right." He threw. Together, her pebbles and his hit the water in a series of noisy splashes, some crashing into each other, one landing on the bank, several skipping a time or two, and all except for the banked pebble sinking to the bottom of the brook. Peter raised his knees, folded his arms across them, and rested his chin on his forearms, brooding over the rippling water. He sat like that without speaking or even moving a muscle for so long, Angel felt compelled to break the tension by cracking a joke, even a bad one. "Maybe Wolf and Hardin made Reverend Meek choke as part of a diabolical plan by their devil-worshipping cult." "Ha-ha, very funny." But Peter didn't seem to think it was funny at all, for his expression remained morose. "I hate to see you so upset." Angel lowered her eyes, now feeling guilty herself. "Especially since I'm to blame for most of it." "Don't even go there, Angel." "But I am. I'm the reason you fought with Connor. I'm the reason you got in trouble at the service. And I'm the reason your dad quit trusting you. Everything that's bothering you, except for Reverend Meek's death, is my fault." "No way. The meeting in the cemetery was my idea, so it was my fault. And what Connor tried to do to you wasn't your fault, either." Peter gazed at her, his face full of grave concern. "He tried to hurt you, and he could have, really bad. I'm not sure you completely understand how bad. That's why I beat the crap out of him the first time he tried, and if I'd been there when he tried Friday, I'd have beaten the crap out of him then, too. If I had it to do over ten trillion times, I would've done it the same way every single time, except I would've never left you by yourself Friday. All the rest, including getting into trouble, was worth it to protect you." His selfless, compassionate words moved her. She smiled, and started to thank him, but he interrupted. "Anyway, this thing with my folks has been coming on for a while. Ever since long before Connor and I faced off, they've been acting really weird, sort of spacing out on me and stuff." "What do you mean?" "It's kinda hard to explain. The more time that passes, the less I feel like I can rely on them and trust them, especially the way my father's been acting. That's why I said I need to become an adult who looks out for himself. Lately, in a lot of ways, I feel like…" He bit his lip. "Like what?" Peter released his lip. Inch by inch, his eyes washed over Angel, as if he were seeing her for the first time, but in a different way. She shivered. The only other person she'd ever seen look at her like that was Connor when he'd attacked her. With Peter, though, it was different. Connor's look had felt hateful, cold, revolting. Evil. Peter's felt just the opposite--warm, soft, loving. Desired. Peter closed his eyes. "Like an adult. But I need to start thinking and acting like one, too." He opened his eyes, and they met hers. "I think maybe you should be thinking about the same things, with the way your stepfather beats the crap out of you all the time and stuff." She drew her brows together. "What are you getting at?" "You're not going to be able to stand it at home much longer." Those words ironically resembled the ones Grandma had used the other night. "It's a lot more important for you than it is for me because your situation is much worse. Those beatings hurt you more ways than physically." Angel wasn't sure what he meant. But she had a feeling it was something she wouldn't like. She tried to stay calm. "I don't know what you're talking about." Peter took her right hand and lifted it in front of her, forcing her to face the exposed scar across her wrist. "This, Angel! I'm talking about this!"  CHAPTER 18: SCARS Angel clapped her left hand over her right wrist, then jumped to her feet. "That's from a bicycle wreck!" she insisted, angry and hurt. During the entire six years they'd been friends, he'd never mentioned those scars. It had made her feel so comfortable, so respected. Why did he have to ruin everything by bringing them up now? Peter got up, too. "C'mon, we're best friends. I know it's embarrassing, but I'm not going to laugh at you or anything. You don't have to make up stories around me." "I…" Angel took a step backwards. "I'm not making up stories. It's really from a bicycle wreck." Briefly, he looked baffled. Then a light of understanding dawned on his face, accompanied by so much pity and concern, it discomfited her. "No, it isn't," he whispered, his voice kind but firm. "Neither is the one under your watch." "Peter, please…" she pleaded, fighting to stop tears that had already begun to form. "It happened at the end of our third grade year. I remember ‘cause you missed the last week or so of school, but they sent your work home and passed you anyway. A lot of kids believed that story about you being out ‘cause of a bike wreck…" "I told you, it's not a story!" "…just like you believe it now. I didn't, though. Especially not after that summer when I ran into you in the woods for the first time, when you had those big bandages on your wrists. From that point on, I knew exactly what had happened--" "If you know so darned much, why are you asking me about it?" she yelled. "'Cause now I realize you're in denial!" he yelled back. "And I'm afraid if you don't face it, it'll happen again!" He paused, and as she shook her head, his voice softened. "The kids at school have always been so mean to you, especially the girls. But the whole thing really started your last day in school, when those little bitches did what they did to you in the restroom. Didn't it?" Angel closed her eyes and kept shaking her head, not wanting to resurrect ghastly memories she had suppressed through the half-truth she lived with. They came howling back anyway, with such painful and vivid clarity, she seemed to be living them all over. "Yeah," she admitted, keeping her eyes closed. She began to tell Peter the specifics of what happened, not conscious of the words she used even as she spoke them. Instead, she was aware only of her mind replaying the events like a horror movie in a dark room, where she sat, alone and afraid… * * * * Two weeks before summer break that year, Lance had gotten really ticked at her for going into the woods without permission. He had beaten her black and blue on her rear, legs, arms, back, and chest. Knowing the kids at school would make fun of the bruises, she wore jeans and long-sleeved blouses to hide them, when the average high temperature was in the eighties and nineties. It wasn't long before her classmates started asking questions. She muttered excuses, like she was getting over a cold or her mother was behind on the laundry. They didn't buy it. Some accused her outright of hiding bruises. Others whispered it to one another behind their hands, but deliberately spoke loud enough for her to hear. That's why she should have suspected something when Heather Pickens approached her in the girls' restroom. Heather was an honor student, third-grade class president, captain of the peewee cheerleading league, a class favorite, and a participant in virtually every activity offered at Grimshaw Elementary. A socially popular overachiever, Heather rarely lowered herself to talking to someone like Angel. Unless, of course, it was to utter a nasty cut down that might win a few laughs from their classmates. Just before lunchtime on that particular day, while Angel stood washing her hands in one of the miniature sinks, Heather walked up to an adjacent sink and flashed Angel a wide smile. "Hi, Angel," she said, not calling her an ugly nickname for the first time since Angel could remember. She nonchalantly patted her dark, permed hair and admired herself in the wall mirror. "Hi," Angel replied, and felt eyes on her back. She looked in the mirror and saw two other peewee cheerleaders, Melissa Grubbs and Stephanie Striker, behind her, holding two large bags filled with T-shirts. When they caught Angel watching them, they plastered on smiles that matched Heather's. "What are you doing, Angel?" Heather asked, her voice syrupy. Angel didn't know why she was being so nice. Maybe the girls were going to stop picking on her, maybe even be her friend. "Just getting ready to go to lunch." She smiled and tried to be friendly right back. "What are you doing?" "We're selling spirit T-shirts to support the peewee football team," Heather boasted. She snapped her fingers at Melissa, who held up a T-shirt to illustrate. Printed across the front in red letters were the words, "Go Grimshaw Dragons!" with a picture beneath of a black dragon wearing a football uniform and holding a pigskin. "Mrs. DuMore gave us permission to sell them during lunch." "Oh, that's nice." Angel turned off the water and started to get a paper towel. Stephanie hurried to the dispenser, tore one off, and handed it to her. "Thank you, Stephanie." "You're welcome, Angel," Stephanie gushed. Melissa smiled. "Aren't these T-shirts pretty?" "Yeah, they're very nice," Angel said politely. She tossed the paper towel into the trashcan. "Well, I guess I'd better get to lun--" "Would you like to buy one?" Heather jumped in. "They're only ten dollars." That was it. They just wanted her to buy one of their dumb old shirts. "Oh, no thanks." "Why not?" Melissa demanded. "You just said you liked them." "I do. But I don't have any money except for lunch." "That's okay," Heather said. "You can pay us tomorrow." She cooed, "We trust you." "I probably won't be able to. My stepfather's pretty stingy with his money. He doesn't pay for me to buy a lot of stuff from school." "But I bet he'd pay for something for a good cause," Stephanie said. "And these shirts are for a real good cause--the football team!" Heather remarked, "You know, if you had a spirit shirt like everyone else's, and showed people you like our school, it'd help you fit in better." That had struck a nerve. Angel searched their smiling faces. "You really think so?" "It'll help you fit in with us ," Heather purred. Not just fit in, but fit in with them? Be friends with them? The most popular girls in her class? That would be better than almost anything Angel could think of! "Well…" "Just try one on," Heather said, a tinge of impatience creeping into her voice. "That doesn't cost anything. If you try one on and still don't want it, then we'll leave you alone." "Okay," Angel relented. Heather's smile widened. "Great! What size? Small?" "Medium." Heather nodded at Melissa, who pulled a shirt from the bag and handed it to Angel. Angel went inside one of the stalls, closed the door, and dropped the hook in the latch. The county school elementary stalls were pretty primitive. They didn't have shelves or wall hooks or anywhere else for girls to put their stuff. So Angel draped the T-shirt over the top of the door until she could unbutton her blouse and take it off. She then picked up the T-shirt, put the blouse in its place, and slipped it over her head. To her surprise, the bottom reached to her knees. "How does it fit?" Heather called. Not wanting to offend them, Angel said, "Um, it comes down to my knees, but I guess I could use it as a nightshirt…" "Oh, I'm such a dummy!" she heard Melissa say in an unnatural voice. "I must've given you an extra large or something by mistake. Here, hand me that shirt, and I'll get you a medium." Her hand darted beneath the door. Angel removed the T-shirt and gave it to her, then stuck her hand beneath the door and waited for a replacement. The cheerleaders burst into giggles. Angel's eyes flitted in confusion. What was so funny? Was this some kind of joke? What were they--  Oh no, oh God, no… ! Her blouse was gone from the top of the door. The girls' scheme hit her as hard and as painfully as one of Lance's belts. "Oh, please," she begged, "give me my shirt back." Heather giggled. "You haven't paid for it!" "I don't care about your stupid shirts! Give me my shirt back!" "Who are you to call our shirts stupid?" Heather demanded. "Please, Heather, Melissa, Stephanie. Please, just give me back my shirt." They giggled a little longer. Then Heather coaxed, "Come on out and get it." "But--" "Everybody knows you've been hiding some big ugly bruises under those hot clothes, Wallflower," Stephanie said. "We want to see them." Angel felt tears welling. She had worn absolutely nothing under that blouse. "Please don't make me do this." Heather sighed with annoyance. "We only want to see them for a second. Just come on out and show us, and we'll let you have your shirt right back, I promise." Okay, you're going to be embarrassed enough, Angel told herself. Don't let them see you cry, too. She dabbed the first escaping tear with a square of the school's corrosive toilet paper and took a deep breath to stop the others. Hugging herself to cover her naked upper body, she unlatched the hook and stepped out of the stall. As the cheerleaders burst into laughter, Angel's eyes fell on her reflection in the restroom mirror. Purple and blue marks splotched her forearms and shoulders. Though she couldn't see her back in the mirror, she knew it was bruised, too. Angel looked wildly about for her blouse and saw the precious piece of cloth clutched in Heather's hand. Angel grabbed for it, but Heather held it out of her reach. "Let us see your chest first."  Didn't they ever get enough? Angel heaved a sigh and lowered her arms. The girls tittered a little more at the bruises and cracked a few jokes about her naked chest. Then, as suddenly as they had started laughing, they stopped. And for a short time, they didn't seem to think it was so funny anymore. "Why do you always have so many bruises?" Stephanie asked. Too humiliated to care about making up excuses, Angel refolded her arms over her chest. "My stepfather hits me." "Why?" Melissa asked. "I don't know. He's really strict and mean, and almost everything I do makes him mad." "Is that where all your bruises come from?" Stephanie asked. Angel nodded. "So Angel's father abuses her," Heather said. " Stepfather," Angel corrected. "Does he abuse you in other ways?" Melissa asked. "Huh?" said Angel, not understanding. "Y'know. Like some kids' parents abuse them, touching them in funny ways, in funny places." "Oh," said Angel, still lost. "I guess not. The only way he touches me is to hit me, and it's never funny. Can I have my shirt back, now?" "Oh, yeah, sure. Here, take it." Heather giggled and threw the shirt over Angel's head. "Catch, Stephanie!" Stephanie caught the shirt, then held it toward Angel. But when Angel approached, Stephanie threw it back to Heather. Angel ran at Heather, who threw it to Melissa. The cheerleaders cackled. Their keep-away game dragged on for several slow minutes. It concluded when Melissa caught the shirt and threw it through the open restroom doorway that led into the main hall. While the three girls roared with laughter, Angel crouched next to the doorway. She reached blindly into the corridor, trying to get the shirt without leaving the restroom or exposing herself to whoever might be in the hall. Heather cried from behind her, "Do it, Melissa!" A pair of hands fell on Angel's shoulders and shoved, accompanied by a firm kick in her rear, sending her toppling face-first onto the hard, cold gray tile of the hall floor. All of the third grade classes were filing down the hall on their way to the cafeteria; all of the fourth grade classes were filing up the hall on their way to recess. Angel clapped her arms around herself. Laughter echoed throughout the corridor among a hoard of jeering children, there faces blurred by Angel's gushing tears. Her teacher Mrs. DuMore, leading Angel's third grade class to lunch, called to her in concern and alarm. Angel snatched her blouse, clutched it against her chest, and dove into the restroom. During her emotional massacre, Angel had vaguely noted that one student, Peter St. Thomas, had never laughed, but had instead watched with heartfelt pity in his face and eyes. Now, reliving the whole thing made her tears threaten to resurface. "From what I saw in the hall and heard later," Peter said, "I sort of put two and two together about what happened. But I never realized how bad it was, or the mean way they tricked you. That was so cruel. I always knew that's what started it. And I'll bet Lance finished it, didn't he?" "Yeah…" Her words retreated from her consciousness as her mind wandered back into the past. Mrs. DuMore, a tall, young teacher with short brown curls and a bright smile, had been extra nice to Angel. She came into the restroom and calmed Angel enough to get her to stop crying. Then she tried to convince her to go to lunch, that putting some food in her stomach would make her feel better. But after her humiliating experience, Angel couldn't face all those people. So Mrs. DuMore got someone to chaperone her class, brought Angel a lunch tray from the cafeteria, and allowed her to eat at her desk. Angel forced down a few bites, hoping it would make her feel better like Mrs. DuMore had said. It didn't. As Angel ate, Mrs. DuMore asked her about what had happened in the restroom, then about her bruises. When Angel said her stepfather did it, it appalled and concerned the teacher. Mrs. DuMore told her that neither her stepfather nor anyone else had the right to do that to her. No one had ever told Angel that before. She really liked that. And when everything upset her stomach so much that she threw up on the classroom floor, Mrs. DuMore was really nice about it and didn't get mad. Angel really liked that, too. After Mrs. DuMore found a custodian to clean up the classroom, she asked Angel to remain at her desk while she went and talked with Principal North. "Don't worry, Angel," Mrs. DuMore had said. "I'm going to make sure you go someplace where your stepfather can't hurt you anymore." Not only had Angel never gone to that "someplace," it was the last time she had ever seen her third grade teacher. At present, she remarked, "I think Mrs. DuMore really wanted to help me. She was such a good, caring teacher. That's why I was so surprised when I came back to school after the summer and heard she had been fired." "It surprised me, too." Peter didn't sound all that surprised. Angel remembered how several minutes had passed after Mrs. DuMore had left the classroom. Just before the third-graders returned from lunch, Principal North appeared in the doorway. "Angel Fallow?" "Yes, sir?" "Mrs. DuMore told us what happened. Said you got sick in here?" "Yes, sir," she said, her head bowed, her skin burning. "All right, come with me. We're getting you checked out. Your father's on his way to pick you up." "My father?" Angel asked, confused yet hopeful, the dreams she'd had of her father being alive still active and possible in her heart. In light of Mrs. DuMore's recent promise to send her someplace where she couldn't be hurt anymore, the principal's words peaked her hopes and made her really believe her dreams were finally going to become a reality. "Yes. We tried calling your mother first, but her boss said she wasn't responding to the pages. So we managed to reach your father at the meatpacking plant." The hope that had been born in Angel's heart evaporated. "My step father," she corrected, saying it for what already felt like the thousandth time during the few years she'd spent with Lance. Principal North yawned. "Same thing. Come along now." Angel had a pretty good idea of what she'd be in for if she rode home with Lance. He would be outraged over having to leave work early, think everything that had happened was her fault, and yell at her and beat her all the way home. After everything she'd been through that day, she couldn't deal with that. "I have to go to the restroom first." "Oh, okay. Just come to the checkout office when you're done." Angel waited until he was out of sight, then tore through the halls. She passed her classmates, returning from lunch. Most slowed down to point and laugh, but she didn't care about them. All she cared about was getting the heck out of there before Lance showed up. She bounded out the front door, down the driveway, and through the parking lot. Her feet skimmed across the road as fast as she could make them go. Home was a few miles away, but she didn't care. Running the whole way would be better than riding with Lance. Eventually, she reached the dirt road to her house and started down it. She had originally intended to go straight home, but when she started past the wooded path she'd come across a few weeks eralier, she chose it instead. The woods somehow felt much more inviting than home. Angel flew along the path and into the clearing, which in less than two weeks would become the secret Eden she shared with Peter. She collapsed on her stomach on the bank of the brook, buried her face in her arms, and cried, the ugly memories of the day and of her short life replaying themselves over and over in her mind. At last, she lifted her head, the sticky remnants of dried tears on her cheeks. The setting sun told her she had cried herself to sleep hours ago. Her body and mind numb, she pulled herself to her feet. Brushing the twigs and grass from her clothing, she retraced her steps up the path and to the road. Several minutes later, at the same moment Angel walked through the front gate of her house, Lance's truck rolled into the driveway and screeched to a halt. The passenger door flew open, and Cecilia bounded forward and threw her arms around Angel. "Principal North said you disappeared from school this afternoon before Lance came to pick you up! We've been looking all over for you! Where on earth have you been?" Angel's reply wasn't a total lie. "I just went running," she gasped as Cecilia squeezed the life out of her. "I needed to be alone for a while." Lance slammed the driver's side door and stomped around the vehicle, where Cecilia and Angel stood in their embrace. He shoved aside Cecilia and slapped Angel across the jaw. She howled in pain, having not yet built up the partial tolerance that would develop over the years from the numerous blows he would give her. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, leaving school like that and us not knowing where you were? Something bad could've happened to you! Your mother and I could've lost you forever! Some nut could've picked you up and took you somewhere, and we would've never seen you again!" Angel couldn't help thinking that "some nut"-- any nut--might be preferable to the nut standing right in front of her. "Here I take off early and miss hours of pay just to come get you when you're supposedly sick, and you pull a stupid stunt like this! It doesn't look like you're too damn sick to me, out running around like a jackrabbit! And exactly where have you been running?" "Up and down the road," Angel mumbled. "Liar!" He slapped her a second time, setting off her tears afresh. "We've been driving up and down the road the whole afternoon and ain't seen you!" Cecilia whined, "Lance, please…" "Don't start with me, woman! Don't you realize how dangerous this could have been, what could have happened if…" His voice trailed off. He reached toward Angel. She cowered, thinking he was going to hit her again. He didn't. Not then. Instead, he reached into her ponytail and pulled out a leafy twig that had become entangled in the strands. His knifelike eyes fixed on his find, then cut into her. He flung down the twig. "You've been in the goddamned woods!" His hand flew to his belt and clawed open the buckle. Angel tried to run, but he caught her by the arm. Holding her with one hand, he removed his belt with the other. She squirmed futilely within his powerful grip, like a baby mouse caught in a snake's jaws--small, helpless, pitiful. Doomed. "How many times have I told you to never, ever , go in the goddamned woods!" Between each word, Lance whipped the belt up and down, blindly smacking the strap across her bottom, legs, chest, whatever body part happened to writhe into the belt's path. He ignored Cecilia, who clung to his arm and wailed weak pleas for him to stop. Angel's legs buckled. She fell to the ground. Lance dropped to his knees and began to pound her body with his bare fists. Angel howled. Cecilia's efforts became more powerful. She jerked at Lance's arm, crying, "Stop it, Lance! For the love of--you're going to kill her!" At that point, Lance abandoned Angel and turned his wrath on Cecilia. "What do you mean, interfering with me like this, woman? I know how to discipline my child!" "She's my child, Lance, mine! And lighten up! She's had enough today!" "She ran off, and nobody knew where she was. What's worse, she broke my rules about not going in the woods alone! Don't you realize how dangerous that could've been?" "And don't you realize how much hell those three little bitches put her through today?" They argued on. Meanwhile, Angel took advantage of the time that Cecilia's rare display of motherly instinct had bought her. Unnoticed, she rose and slipped around the side of the house, where she had propped her bicycle beneath the kitchen windowsill the day before. She got on, then peddled furiously down the driveway and through the front gate as her mother and Lance yelled at each other, their backs to her. All Angel could think of was that she had to escape, had to find a way out of this mess that was her life. Leaving now only promised more trouble, she knew. But she had already been through more trouble that day than her heart could stand anyway, and she had reached the point where she just flat out didn't care anymore. Didn't care what happened to her. She was riding her bike in the middle of Blackwood Road and had not gotten far from her house when she came upon a semi, a rare thing in Grimshaw. The semi plowed along the road, also in the middle, headed right for her. The truck's horn blared. The semi came within inches of her before she managed to veer the bicycle to the right. The bike rocketed out of control toward the shoulder, where the ground steeply sloped into a deep ditch. The driver slowed, mouthed something at Angel from behind his closed window, and sped forward, laying on his horn as he zoomed away. Angel observed all of this in her peripheral vision during the seconds before her bike's front tire thumped against the ditch's far wall. The force knocked her off the seat and spilled her into the ditch. She slammed her palms against the ground, breaking her fall as the bicycle landed on top of her. Groaning, she pushed the bike off her body and evaluated her injuries. With exception of a few minor aches and throbs here and there, no part of her body had been broken or hurt. None of the pains she felt held a candle to the ones she'd endured the last several hours. The most painful sensation she currently felt was a sharp pang in the palm of her left hand, still pressed to the ground. She raised that hand before her and examined it. Blood gushed from a thin, half-inch long cut across her palm, a small shard of glass jutting like a knife from its center. Wincing, Angel plucked out the shard and flung it aside, then looked around. The glass had come from a broken whiskey bottle that lay scattered in several pieces throughout the ditch. Just enough of the bottle remained intact for Angel to see the label's brand name, "Red Devil." As Angel took in her surroundings, the wheels of her mind began to turn in disturbing ways, cantering over the other possible fates she could have met. If she hadn't dodged that semi… If she had fallen on the road instead of in the ditch… If she had hit her head instead of landing on all fours… What was the worst that could've happened? Getting killed, that's what. That didn't sound so bad. It would've meant escape from Lance and those mean kids. Forever… Next had come the events that she had chosen to forget for the next six years, until now, when she had Peter standing by her side as she relived them. With her eyes still closed, she said, "You know, I really did have a bicycle wreck." Before Peter could object, she opened her eyes and clarified, "But the wreck itself wasn't serious, so I didn't really get the scars from it. I know that now." She closed her eyes once more. Like a movie that had been paused, the memories picked up where they had left off. As she had sat in the ditch, she had thought of how, before the bicycle wreck, she had seen a TV documentary about a thing some people did when they could no longer tolerate life because it was too painful physically, emotionally, or as in Angel's case, both. The documentary referred to the act by a word she had never heard before and couldn't recall; she only knew it started with an "s." It wasn't the act's name, however, that was important, but knowing how to do it. It took only a second for her to find a piece of broken glass big enough and sharp enough. She held it over her left wrist. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her tears began raining down even before she slid the shard across her veins. A sharp, stinging sensation pierced her skin and permeated the inside of her lower arm, and she hollered. Blood gushed from the cut. Trying not to look, she quickly switched the glass to her left hand and repeated the process on her right wrist. "Girl, what in the hell…?" Lance popped up outside the ditch just in time to see her lift the shard from her wrist. Blood ran in a red river down her right arm. More blood from her left wrist spattered across the ditch's bottom. As the glass slid out of her hand and thudded to the ground, she practically sneered in triumph at Lance. For whatever reason--the loss of blood, the lack of food, or just the tension in general--everything started turning black. In her sitting position, Angel swayed. Lance leapt into the ditch. She crumpled backward, and he caught her in his arms. Her head, which felt like it was filling with fog, limply rolled over in his hands, and his face swam into the line of her blackening vision. It was the first and only time she had ever seen fear in his eyes. Her eyes closed, and she heard Lance scream, "No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" just before she lost consciousness…  CHAPTER 19: ENDINGS Angel opened her eyes and resurfaced in the present. She took a deep breath and slowly released it. "Okay, I get it. I did it myself. I cut my wrists with a broken bottle in the ditch where I wrecked my bike. I realize I did it for all the reasons you said, Peter. And I promise to permanently get out of denial and not try to… to… do anything else to myself. But now that I know, I d-don--" She took another deep breath. Peter's determined expression softened. "Oh, Angel," he whispered. "You're my best friend. I just made you admit this ‘cause I was afraid of what might happen if you kept all that bullshit bottled up inside. But I didn't mean to make you cry." "I'm not crying," she insisted, though her restrained tears escaped. She briefly turned away from him to pull herself together. "I told you," she said, turning back, "I get that my family's really messed up and everything, and that it hurts me, and I'm really glad you care, but I don't want to talk about it anymore, okay?" "Okay, okay. Look, we'll play a story game, just like you wanted to. One last game, one short game, for old times' sake." "Old times' sake?" Angel's wiped at her tears with the side of her hand. Her mouth's corners twitched, almost upturning. "We just played two days ago, you know." "I know, but this is going to be the last one. An official goodbye to childhood." Peter extended his hand. "Agreed?" Angel at last managed a smile. "On two conditions." " Twoconditions?" Peter laughed. "You don't make things easy for a guy, do you? All right, what are they?" "One, we finish the story from before instead of beginning a new one. I liked that one." "No problem-o. And the other?" "Promise me, no matter what happens, even if someday we can no longer be friends--" "Don't say stuff like that. Nothing will ever stop us from being friends." "Even if we can no longer be friends," Angel insisted, "promise me you will never give up storytelling. Even if you're giving up the games, promise me you'll use your talent and try to become a writer." Peter considered it for a moment. "Fair enough. But only if you promise to let me tell this story like I want, without any objections." "It's a deal." She climbed into Camelot's saddle. "Lady Miriam has just defeated the horrible monster and is about to proceed on her journey to deliver the message to the king." "Oh, yeah, I forgot!" Peter ran to Camelot and reached into one of the saddlebags. "You don't have a message to deliver!" He pulled out a notepad and pen. Angel reached for them, but Peter held them away. " Iam writing this message, not you." "But it's my message." "But it's my story. And anyway, your character is only the carrier . The message is from her father, the King of Mataniah, who intends it to be delivered to the King of Kenward. Yet he has strictly ordered that she not read the message…" Peter paused and shot her a warning look. "…but deliver it in haste." When Angel opened her mouth to protest, Peter dropped the narrative tone and reminded her, "Don't forget, I get to tell this story like I want to." Angel grinned and rolled her eyes. "Writers!" Peter opened the notepad, thought for a moment, and scrawled something on one of the sheets. When he finished, he ripped out the page and rolled it into a scroll. He got a string out of the saddlebag and tied the scroll closed. Before handing it to Angel, he warned, "Lady Miriam's father trusts her to honor--" "Yeah, yeah, don't read it. I've got it already." Angel took the scroll and picked up the reins. "What's next? Thieves? Wild animals? Ogres? Witches?" "Actually, Lady Miriam has almost completed her quest, for she has just sighted the castle in the distance across the brook." Peter pointed to the opposite side of the brook. "Oh, Peter, that's not fair. The quest was way too short and easy. I was hoping to play for at least one more hour. Isn't there another monster or demon something?" Peter shook his head. "Remember your promise," he gently chided, "unless you want the story to end now." He removed his shoes and waded through the water to the other side. Not trusting herself to make a jump on Camelot, Angel dismounted. Pouting, she removed her own shoes and guided the mare through the brook. By the time she reached the other side and put her shoes on, Peter had walked farther into the woods. She could see him yards away, a small figure visible in the gaps between the trees. "I guess that's where the castle is," Angel said to herself. "C'mon, Camelot." She remounted and rode toward the imaginary castle. Angel saw Peter signaling for her to come closer. He sat on a tree stump. A crown he'd made out of flowers encircled his head. She couldn't help giggling, "Ooooh, you must be His Majesty, the King." Despite himself, Peter seemed completely caught up in the game. He frowned in annoyance. "Foolish lass, riding into a throne room on a horse! Don't you know I could have you beheaded for that? But I suppose," he said, indignantly tossing his head, "since you are a young damsel full of determination and beauty, I shall allow you to live. Tie your steed in the stable, where the serfs shall see to it she is refreshed with oats and water. Afterward, hasten herein once more and state your business with the Palace of Kenward." Blushing at the indirect compliment and battling another giggle, Angel led Camelot to a tree a few feet away and tied her. She returned and stood before Peter. Those silly flowers on his head erupted her restrained laughter. Between giggles, she managed, "Are you the King of Kenward?" Somehow, he stayed in character the entire time. "Foolish lass!" he cried, leaping off the tree-stump throne. "Do tell me you're not of these lands or, by the powers vested in me, I shall have you beheaded on the spot!" With that, Angel got caught up in the game, too, enough to express genuine indignation. "Stop addressing me as a foolish lass whom you're going to behead! I am not ‘of these lands,' and thank heavens for that, if the rest of the people here are as rude as you!" "Just who are you to call me rude?" "I am Lady Miriam, daughter of the King of Mataniah, and a highly-respected princess in my land!" She shook the scroll in his face the same way Lance sometimes shook his finger in hers when ticked off. "I am here to deliver this very important message to the King, and if you persist in being rude, I assure you, my father shall hear of it!" "Hmmm, a princess. One who's kinda cute when she's angry." Angel melted inside with surprise and pleasure. Peter had said almost that exact same thing to her in the hospital. Almost immediately, he gave her another internal meltdown by taking her hand and kissing it. Without breaking character, he continued, "Do forgive me, Your Highness. I knew not that you were a royal daughter from a foreign kingdom and assumed you were using yesterday's news to make cruel jest at me." Still surprised and now a little excited, she stammered, "Uh… what news?" "My father, the King of Kenward, passed on yesterday. I am his only living son, Prince Valiant of Kenward." "My condolences on your father's death." Angel vaguely noted the ironic parallels Peter had built between the story and their real lives. The prince's father was dead and had left him alone; Peter was having problems with his father and striving for independence from his parents. Like Peter, the prince was an only child, and previous days' narration had revealed Lady Miriam to also be an only child, like Angel. "But since you are the late king's only son, that makes you the new king, doesn't it?" "Not exactly. I overtake my father's throne and duties, but to be officially crowned king, I must first unite with a queen. As long as I remain unwed, my throne and thus the kingdom of Kenward are vulnerable. I do, however, have the authority to read that message." Angel laughed. "Peter, this is really stupid. You wrote it, so you already know what it says." He didn't reply. Instead, he took the scroll and made a mock motion of reading with deep absorption. "Your Highness, I think you should read this also, for it concerns your kingdom as well as mine." "Geez, it's about time!" Angel grabbed the scroll and read:  To His Royal Majesty the King of Kenward, My trusty knights have notified me of your terminal illness. Alas, this means your throne will soon be vulnerable to takeover by outsiders, unless your eldest son weds a queen so he may become official ruler of the land. Fear not, for I shall honor the mutual promise we made six years heretofore to keep our thrones safe. I know you lie upon your deathbed even as my scribe pens this letter, so there is no time to lose. Thus, I have sent Miriam to you with this message so, at last, the kingdoms of Kenward and Mataniah may be securely united as one through her marriage to Prince Valiant. Sincerely, His Royal Majesty the King of Mataniah Stunned, Angel dropped the scroll and stared at him. "Peter?" His face flushed, and he lowered his eyes to the ground. He removed the crown, took a deep breath, and shook his head. Fidgeting with the crown and talking to himself rather than her, he whispered, "No, I'm not going to back out this time. Even if it hurts my pride, even if other guys would laugh. Even if she laughs." At last, his eyes met hers. "I'm going to follow your advice, Angel. I'm not going to be ashamed of what I love." With slightly trembling hands, Peter placed the crown on her head. He slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her toward him, and caressed her lips with his own. Her heart pounding, Angel returned the kiss and slid her arms around him. He drew her closer and kissed her again. That's when she began to understand and accept what she had been feeling lately when she and Peter were together, whenever they exchanged lingering looks, whenever they touched. And most of all, whenever he treated her with the deep, unconditional caring and compassion she had always so desperately desired. The warm, wonderful sentiments and fantasies she'd had Sunday night washed over her once more, this time with the tiniest hope that they might become realities. Oh God, this is the best day of my life. Their lips parted, but Peter continued holding her tightly. He smiled. "It's been too long." "What do you mean?" "Remember the prince on the white horse, the one you used to dream about in kindergarten?" "Yeah?" "It wasn't a dream." Peter never stopped smiling, yet slightly reddened. "During naptime, I used to sneak over to your pallet when you were asleep and kiss you on the cheek. I started doing it right after we made those construction paper hats in class. Mine was a yellow crown, and I wore it almost every day. Instead of sleeping like I was supposed to, I was always getting up and running around, playing with this white stick horse from the classroom toy area. Those couple of times you thought you were half-asleep, half-awake yet still dreaming, you must have seen me with that stuff and gotten the prince and white horse idea from there. And I always thought you…" He grew redder still. "You looked like a princess yourself." "Me?" Angel felt her face glowing and cut her eyes away. "Gosh, I can't believe it. I've always thought I was--" "Ugly?" Angel bobbed her head. "Ha! No way! I mean, I knew you thought that ‘cause of those stupid kids. You didn't believe me when I told you it wasn't true, either. I guess that's partly ‘cause I never had the guts to say anything different or better to you than ‘you're not ugly.' But ever since kindergarten, I've thought you were…" He smiled sideways, his expression and voice becoming sheepish. "…the prettiest girl in school. So I've always kinda liked you. Then we started hanging out in the woods, and… well… the older we got, the prettier you got. And the better we got to know each other, the more I liked you." Angel smiled widely. "Peter, those are the sweetest things anybody's ever said to me. But if you've felt that way this whole time, why didn't you tell me before?" His expression glazed, then darkened. "'Cause of our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Wall." In her mind's eye, Angel could see the middle-aged, prune-faced woman now. She always wore drab, black or gray dresses and her mousy hair piled atop her head in a tight bun, and she was intimidating in both appearance and manner. But Angel hadn't seen Mrs. Wall in years, and she was pretty sure Peter hadn't, either. "I don't get it." "I didn't, either, and I'm not a hundred percent sure I do now." He pulled away from Angel and crossed his arms, seeming afraid that disclosing the memory might somehow make it happen again. "The very last time I kissed you, when you'd just opened your eyes and I was still leaning over you, Mrs. Wall caught me. She snatched me up and carried me into the hall." Angel remembered how, during her final sleeping dream about the prince, his face had rocketed up and backward from hers, as if he'd been jerked away by something from above. Her sleepiness that day and the passage of subsequent years had convinced her she'd dreamed her prince had been carried off by a great, black vulture. Now she realized the vulture was really Mrs. Wall in her black dress, stealing Peter away. Peter shut his eyes. Angel sensed he was mentally watching the memory unfold in the same way she had watched her suicide attempt. She didn't know what it had been like for him to witness her reliving her memory, but witnessing him reliving his became quite painful. A tragic, frightening darkness crept into his face, voice, mannerisms, and entire being as the incident became progressively more uncomfortable and terrifying for him to talk about. "She sat me down in the hall and closed the classroom door. Then she got this really hateful look on her face and started jerking me by my right arm. Real hard too, so damn hard, Angel, I swear to God my arm was sore for three days afterward. Oh God, she scared me to freaking death. At first, I figured she was just pissed ‘cause I was running around while I was supposed to be napping. But that wasn't it, ‘cause she said something weird, so weird I can still remember her exact words." Peter bit down on his bottom lip until it turned white. "What?" "She said, ‘Keep your hands off her, you filthy boy!' I didn't know what in the hell was going on! I told her I wasn't trying to hurt you, that I liked you. But that made her madder. She told me she knew exactly what I was trying to do, that I was trying to start something bad and dirty, something that was never meant to be. She said it didn't matter if I liked you or not, we weren't meant for each other, and I was to never go near you again. I didn't, until the summer we met in the woods. I've never told anybody about this." He opened his eyes and shook his head. "That was really weird, and really mean, too, scaring a poor little kid like that. How would she know whom we're meant for? And what's it to her?" She paused. Peter's eyes had glazed over again. "Why do you think she said and did those things?" "I don't know," Peter said with deliberation. But to Angel, he sounded like he really did know, or had some vague clue, and wasn't telling her. Peter must have picked up on her skepticism because he quickly said, "It doesn't matter. The point is, that memory haunted me so much, it kept me from telling or showing you how I felt. Okay, sure, part of the reasons I didn't tell you were normal ones, like I was kind of shy and embarrassed, and afraid you wouldn't feel the same way or it'd mess up our friendship. There have been a couple of times I almost got up the nerve to face those fears. Every single time, though, that memory scared me. I know it's kind of crazy to be afraid for so long ‘cause of our kindergarten teacher. But to this day, something about her just freaks me out, you know? Like maybe she can still get to us somehow and hurt us." "I don't think that's crazy. If I were you, I bet I'd still be freaked out, too." "Anyway, the only way I felt comfortable enough to let you know how I feel was through our game. For some reason, when we play those games, it's like some kind of outlet for me. It's like it's the one way we can be ourselves, yet not ourselves, and conquer all the bad things in our lives. And nobody or nothing can stop us. But that probably doesn't make sense." Angel recalled the many times those games had made her feel stronger, offered her a temporary escape, and given her a sense of defeating her problems. The many times those games and stories had become real for her. "Actually, it makes perfect sense." He responded with a slow nod, but his mouth and eyes remained downcast. Angel couldn't remember ever having seen him so melancholy. Smiling, she timidly eased her arms around his shoulders. "So, what happened to the prince and the princess?" "Oh." Peter's bright smile re-emerged, and he pulled her closer. "They lived happily ever after." He touched his lips to her forehead. Angel lowered her eyes. She moved away so Peter couldn't see her changed mood. He picked up on it anyway. "What's wrong?" "The ending. It just isn't realistic," Angel said somberly. "Nobody ever really lives happily ever after." Overhead, a rumble of thunder sounded, seeming to confirm her theory. Peter placed his hand on the back of her shoulder. In a voice filled with certainty, hope, and the optimism so typical of him, he said, "They do sometimes." Angel realized they weren't just talking about Peter's last story anymore, or even stories in general, but the part of his story that had become their reality, with the end still unwritten. When she thought of her life and how little good had come of it, and of Lance and his medieval rules about boys, it was impossible for her to share Peter's hope. "Maybe, but it's rare. And I doubt there will ever be any happy endings for me." Another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, followed by a flash of lightning between the treetops. "Don't say that," Peter urged. "Something's gotta start working out for you--for us. It's just got to." "Why's it ‘gotta'?" Angel demanded with pessimism. "'Cause dammit, nothing else is!" Peter cried in frustration. He kicked the throne on which he'd been sitting. The instant his foot moved away, lightning struck the stump.  CHAPTER 20: FORBIDDEN FRUIT A tremor shot through the ground, jarring them both. Angel felt a shock similar to what she had often experienced from static electricity, except stronger. She cried out, while Peter yelled, "Jesus Christ!" and jumped back. The stump split down the center. Smoke poured from the open crevice, but no fire ensued. Angel raised an eyebrow. "All-l-l-r-i-i-i-ghty, then." She paused and studied Peter. He had that blank look on his face, like he'd wormed his way back into that brooding shell within himself. "Peter, I know you better than I know anybody, so I know something else pretty major is going on with you. Something you still haven't told me. What is it?" "Nothing," he said, biting his lower lip. "C'mon, after everything we've told each other today, can't you talk to me--" "No, not about this. Not yet." He took a breath. Sadness, longing, and need filled his eyes. "I just want everything to stop being so messed up, that's all." "You're sure you don't want to talk about it?" "Like I said, I can't now." He stared at the ground. Raindrops began to pelt them. "We should probably get outta here." "It's not raining that hard. It'll probably blow over soon." Peter shrugged and looked at his watch. "You gotta be home in a few hours anyway, and I need to get home before Dad has a hernia." He moved to leave, trudging toward Camelot. Despite Peter's joke, everything in his face and stance told Angel he wrestled with an internal storm of deep thoughts and emotions, most of them negative and painful, tearing him up inside. Angel knew he didn't really feel obligated to go home. Rather, he wanted to escape from those emotions and from sharing them with her. He had been so kind and done so much to help her, she couldn't stand to let him leave without at least trying to help him, too. Since he didn't want to confide in her any further, though, talking evidently wasn't the answer. With no clue of what else to do, she ran behind Peter, weaved her arms around him, and gave him a backward hug. "I'm sorry." "Why?" he asked, turning in her arms to face her. "I told you, none of this is your fault." "What I mean is, I'm sorry for you and whatever else you're going through. If you ever want to talk about it, I'll be here for you." Angel softly pecked him on the lips. With a partial smile, Peter pulled her nearer to him. "You're so sweet." He replaced his lips on hers. This time, they pressed more firmly and lingered longer than they had before. They moved across hers in nimble circles and nibbles that electrified her. Despite her lack of experience kissing, she found herself automatically reciprocating Peter's motions with similar ones. Briefly, she opened her eyes to see if he enjoyed the experience as much as she did. All exterior signs of his conflictions had dissolved. Only his look of longing remained, and that seemed to deepen with each passing kiss. Between kisses, Peter whispered, so faintly Angel almost didn't hear, "I want you…" Angel caught her breath just enough to whisper back, "Want me to what?" Peter chuckled. "Nothing." He resumed moving his mouth across hers for a few minutes. Then his lips traveled across her cheek and inched down her neck. As he kissed her, he loosened his embrace and ran his fingertips along the sides of her face and neck, then up and down her bare shoulder and arm. Angel felt his thumb brush against the side of her right breast. She shivered. Peter immediately stopped kissing her, dropped his hands, and lowered his eyes. "I… I wasn't trying to… I didn't mean to do that." His face flushed, and he turned away. "I'm sorry." "I know," Angel whispered. "It's okay." Without warning, all of the pain and negative memories and emotions Angel had experienced throughout her life welled up and flooded her insides like dark, icy water. It felt like she was crying inside. That made her need and want to be close to Peter, to be touched and loved by him, as much as he seemed to desire the same from her. Her heart pounding, she walked around to face him and reached for his hand. Into her brain sprang an image of a rabid Lance, scowling and hissing, "Sinful woman!" along with the sound of her mother's words, "Never under any circumstances let a boy touch you anywhere, especially your chest… " A flood of guilt followed. Forcing those things out of her mind, Angel reset Peter's hand on her chest. He looked at her again, startled, then returned his mouth to hers. His lips pressed hers, softly at first, then, as he caressed her breast, his kisses became harder and deeper. He closed his fingers, gripping first one breast, then the other. Through her clothing, Angel felt the pressure of a physical hardness growing between them, the same thing she'd felt that evening with--no, she didn't want to think about that and taint what was happening between her and Peter. It didn't matter. Scarcely sooner than she'd felt it, Peter seemed to notice it, too, and he pulled away. Angel felt herself trembling all over. "What's the matter?" She thought of her mother's warning again and lowered her eyes. "I did something wrong, didn't I?" "No, it isn't you. It's me." Peter looked at her in a way that both frightened and excited her. He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, shook his head, and took a couple of steps backward. "I have to stop while I still can." "What do you mean?" "Do you know what happens between two people who love each other? A man and a woman, I mean? Or when they don't love each other, but a guy forces himself on a girl, like Connor did to you?" He searched her face, as if seeking some sign of knowledge. "I realize your mother and Lance keep you sheltered, but did your mother ever talk to you about any of this stuff?" "Not much." Angel looked at her feet. "But I know what happens… well, sort of." She blushed. "I've just never done… it before." "Me, neither." "Really?" Angel asked with disbelief. She had always viewed Peter as a human rock of worldly knowledge who had experienced all things she hadn't, even the mysterious, forbidden "it." Taking her own turn at analyzing his face, she said, "What about Candy Freeman?" Candy was a petite, blonde, former junior high cheerleader who had been, as Peter once put it, "endowed with much greater assets on her chest than in her head." "No way! My God, Angel, if I didn't like you so much, I'd be pissed. And if a guy said that to me, I'd probably deck him!" "Well, Candy was very, very pretty. Lots of guys thought she was the finest girl in school. And she obviously had a huge crush on you." All during middle and junior high school, Candy had openly flirted with him. "Then there was what you said that day in the library…" "Ah, geez, not that again!" He rolled his eyes. "I thought everybody got that already!" "Everyone got it, but a lot of kids didn't believe it. I'm not sure I do, either." The memory of that day in the library came wisping back to Angel with much less effort than her suicide attempt memory. Though less traumatic, Angel found it much more heartbreaking, especially in light of everything that had just happened between her and Peter… * * * * During the first week of March that year, the eighth-grade health class had been taught a short, supplementary unit on something not included in the school-issued textbooks. The subject matter was so controversial that the school sent home forms for each student's parent or guardian to sign, allowing or denying permission for their child to study it. Most parents and guardians checked the "permission granted" box, but Lance was among the handful who checked "permission denied." So during the week in which the unit was taught, Angel and the other "denied" eighth graders were ordered to report directly to the library instead of health class. There, they were sentenced to a term of blatant busy work--writing a three-to-six page research report on any subject discussed within the health textbook, but using materials other than the textbook as sources. They were placed under the supervision of the crotchety, gray-haired junior high librarian, Mrs. Reed, who didn't bother to hide her annoyance at their impeding upon what was normally her planning hour. On their first day in the library, Mrs. Reed assigned her charges to a single large table so she could see them all at once, warned them to "keep quiet or else," and busied herself with shelving a cartload of books. Angel was the second student to get to the library that Monday; Peter was the first. It amazed her to see him there, considering how lenient he claimed his parents were about letting him do stuff. She guessed whatever was being taught was as sinful as Lance had said. Six additional exiled eighth-graders joined them. The first was Hirschell Rubinstein, a skinny little brown-haired, brown-eyed Jewish boy whose parents were devoutly religious and almost as strict as Lance, thus restricting him from participating in pretty much everything they did in school, even in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Next, together as usual, came Irvin and Mervin Fisher, identical twins with sandy, bowl-cut hair who wore aquarium-thick, black-rimmed glasses and looked a great deal like that Marvin kid from the old chocolate syrup TV commercials, even down to customarily having milk mustaches. Then in flitted Lisa Burns, a flaxen-haired, peaches-and-cream socialite who fit in everywhere; who always wore dresses and tights, along with matching hair ribbons that held every single long strand perfectly in place; who never spilled her lunch on her clothes, walked or talked ineptly, or even sneezed or coughed. Following behind Lisa was Brenda Lambert, a golden-curled, pock-faced, plump girl who wore glasses and who was a few rungs below Lisa on the social ladder. Like always, Brenda stationed herself beside Lisa so she could suck up. And last but not least came Candy Freeman, who strutted through the door late to make an entrance. To Angel's dismay, Candy perched herself on the chair next to Peter's and scooted as close to him as possible. Of course, when Angel had first arrived and been ushered by Mrs. Reed to the assigned table, Peter had patted that same chair in an invitation for her to sit next to him. But Angel had frowned and shook her head, fearing it would be too obvious and risky in the presence of their arriving classmates. Once Candy took her place beside Peter, however, Angel mentally kicked herself for not chancing it. After all, there probably wouldn't have been any harm in it. Because by the following summer, every kid sitting at that table would be gone… except for Angel and Peter. Instead, Angel got stuck at the opposite corner of the table to the left of the Fisher twins, who kept punching each other, gouging her with their milk-sticky elbows and fingers almost every time they did, and making farting noises with their mouths and armpits. Angel stared wistfully at the giggling girls. Like always, they all talked and fit in together but avoided her like the plague. At the moment, what she wished most was to trade places with Candy, who kept thumping Peter's shoulder, tickling him with her pencil, scribbling her name inside hearts on his notebook, tugging at his parted bangs, and whispering in his ear. Peter snickered a few times, made several polite protests, and in general did nothing visibly to encourage Candy, but she wouldn't stop. Angel was grateful each time Mrs. Reed came over and urged them back to work, which temporarily settled Candy down. Unfortunately, as soon the librarian refocused on other tasks, Candy would resume her flirting. Angel tried to focus on the human heart's role in the cardiovascular system, discussed at length within the book that lay open before her. She couldn't, not with that irritating Candy fawning all over her… friend like that. Not long after the kids had first pulled reference books from the shelves and reseated themselves at the assigned table, pretending to work, but really socializing, Hirschell remarked, "It's so stupid they're making us sit in here instead of being in class." "I'd rather be in here than in class," Candy argued. "In fact," she said, turning a page in her reference book on alcoholism and hooking her arm through Peter's, "I kind of like it in here." Peter turned red. "I can't do my work like this." He unlatched his arm from Candy's and propped it on the table. Candy pounced on it with her hand, lacing her fingers between his. Peter wormed away, locked his fingers around his pencil, and began to doodle on his notebook without looking at anybody. "I agree with Hirsch." Brenda tossed her curls and carelessly drew stars inside her reference book on eating disorders. "They're totally excluding us." "And it's not like we don't know what they're talking about in there," Lisa put in, laying down her book on drugs. "Yeah," agreed Hirschell over his book about nutrition. "Man, Hirsch don't know, neither!" Mervin guffawed. He slammed shut his book on cigarette smoking and elbowed Hirschell, who sat to his right. "Do you, Hershey Bar?" "Ow! I do so!" "Then what is it?" Mervin demanded. "All right!" Hirschell's face became as red as Peter's had a moment ago. "I don't know!" Everyone laughed except for Angel, Peter, and Hirschell himself. Then Candy said, "Don't feel like the Lone Ranger, Hershey. I bet old Pasty over there doesn't know, either. Do you, Pasty?" Angel looked down at her book, her cheeks burning. "See, told you," Candy declared as if she'd just discovered gold. She threw a gum wrapper in Angel's hair, which Angel had worn down that day. "Stupid old Homely Ho!" All of Angel's classmates except Peter laughed. Angel pulled the wrapper from her hair, wincing. Chewed gum was wadded inside, so a few strands of hair came out with it. Angel tossed the mess into a nearby trashcan and went back to her book. Candy's pen ran out of ink. She raised her hand to throw it at Angel. Peter caught Candy's arm, jerked the pen from her hand, and threw it at the trashcan; it landed with a clang inside. "Candy, lay off!" Mervin broke into a fit of snickers. "Hey y'all, Peter said ‘lay.'" "Ha-ha, yeah, I heard him, too!" Irvin cried. He placed his open book on terminal diseases on top of his head, stuck his fist inside his armpit, and flapped his arm, making additional disgusting farting noise. "He said ‘lay off'! Peter's gonna ‘lay off Candy'!" With Irvin's vigorous arm motion, the book fell from his head and smacked against the floor. "Shut up!" Peter hissed, returning to his book on mental health. Mrs. Reed simultaneously whispered, "Ssshhhh!" from across the room. "Jesus Christ," Candy complained to Peter. "Who died and made you her guardian and keeper?" "Nobody." Without looking up or batting an eye, Peter added flatly, "I'm everybody's guardian and keeper."  "Anyway, back to the subject," Lisa said. "We all know what they're talking about in there. They're talking about…" "SEX!" Irvin cried aloud. All except for Angel burst into laughter, evoking another shush from the librarian. In an annoyingly off-key voice, Mervin began to softly sing, "I want your sex. I want your love. I want your… SEX!" Irvin jumped in with an off-key melody of his own. "S-E-X-Y, you ain't got no alibi, you sexy…" He reached across the table, grabbed Lisa's hand, and directed the remaining lyrics at her in an odd sort of serenade. "…A-A, you sexy, oooh !" Lisa jerked away. "God, don't touch me, you sticky geek!" Angel listened but kept her eyes focused on her book, hoping no one would pick up on just how clueless she was.  "Anyway," Brenda chimed, imitating to a tee Lisa's catch phrase, "we should be in there. It's not like we're babies and don't know what it's about. Or won't find out." Without looking up, Peter flipped a page in his book and said, "Who cares? I don't need to be in there. I already know a lot more about sex than what they're teaching anyway." Angel's classmates let out some awe-filled whoops and whistles. The librarian shushed the kids again, then turned her attention to a seventh grader who had approached the desk. Candy grinned. "And just how do you know so much about sex, Peter St. Thomas?" He raised his eyes from the reference book and looked her dead in the face. " Your Body Basically." At that, the twins, Lisa, Brenda, and Hirschell broke into hysterics. Peter's cheeks glowed like fire, and he half-laughed, half-yelled random objections of, "Wait, wait! I didn't mean it that way. It's not what it sounds like! C'mon guys!" The others only laughed harder and broke into renditions of "Peter and Candy sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G" and "Peter loves Candy!" They also made snide remarks like, "Petey and Candy's gettin' busy," and "Ooh-la-la, look who's doin' the nasty!" Candy, meanwhile, draped her arm over Peter's shoulders and purred to him, "Whatever you say, big boy, if that's the way you want to tell it. And if you ever wanna make it for real, just let Candy know, and she'll give you something sweet!" That evoked more whoops from the group. Angel forgot about trying to hide behind the book. She gaped at Peter and Candy with vague understanding of the implication: the two of them were a couple. A serious couple--as serious as a couple could get. Her heart slid down her esophagus and dissolved within her gut. Her lunch bubbled at the surface of her throat, threatening to come up. "It's not like that!" Peter insisted. He caught Angel's eye. "I swear." Angel glued her eyes on the book's illustration of the ventricle chamber of the heart. Peter went on, "It's an anatomy book! Your Body Basically . That's the title!" "Yeah, right!" Mervin snickered. "And I'm a TV star!" "No, for real!" Peter said. "Look, I'll prove it!" Peter reached into his backpack and pulled out a hard-cover book with a red jacket that pictured the silhouettes of a man and woman standing back-to-back. Printed in black letters across the top was the title, Your Body Basically . At the sight of the book, everyone let out gasps and sighs of admiration, except for Angel. She sighed in relief. "Cool!" Irvin exclaimed. "Where'd you get it?" Lisa asked, wide-eyed. "Sommerville Public Library," Peter said coolly. "You mean your folks let you check it out?" Brenda exclaimed. "Pppphhhttt! No!" Peter sputtered. "I snuck it out." When everyone looked at him in shock, he said, "Aw heck, I didn't steal the darn thing! I mean I just snuck it past my old man, checked it out when he wasn't looking. In fact, I'm taking it back today after school. That's why I've got it with me." "What all's in it?" Hirschell asked, gaping. Peter became cool again. "Everything you ever wanted to know about the human body but were afraid to ask." Mervin half-asked, half-jeered, "Including sex?" Peter leaned forward, flashed Irvin a knowing grin, and said under his breath, "Especially sex." "All that's in a book?" Hirschell said. "I'd have never thought of such a thing." "Man," complained Irvin, "and to think I've been refusing to read all this time ‘cause I thought it was boring and stupid." Mervin said, "Oh, man, Peter, you gotta let me borrow that book!" "No way, dude," Peter said. "I'm not letting you have a book checked out in my name. You can check it out in yours and sneak it out fair and square, like I did." "You know, I don't really believe you, Peter St. Thomas," Lisa said haughtily, "book or no book. I think you and Candy really have it going on after all." Angel's heart dropped again, this time wedging itself between her ribcage. Candy grinned slyly. "I'm not denying it." Angel's heart tore away from her ribs, plopped back into her burning stomach, and began to sizzle in the acids like bacon frying in a skillet. "Who gives a crap?" said Irvin. "I just want to see what's in that book!" "Yeah!" said Mervin. "C'mon, Pete, let us look, just for a sec!" About that time, the librarian got rid of the seventh grader and rushed over to them, infuriated at their commotion. She sent them each to separate tables and threatened to call in the principal if they didn't be quiet and behave… * * * * Now, Peter reeled Angel back to the present when he remarked, "I thought everybody got what I said in the library when I showed them the book. That was the title." "Well, with the way you're always making puns and all," Angel explained, "some of us, including me, thought you were hinting that you and Candy--" "It was a book title, and nothing but a book title." "So you weren't the one who… who…?" Angel ransacked her memory for the correct words. "Who what?" Peter asked. Candy had gone to Grimshaw Junior High until spring break of that year, when her family had suddenly moved to some town far away. Since that meant one less person to pick on her, Angel was grateful, but otherwise didn't think too much about it, until one day near the end of the school year… * * * * Angel had gone back to the girls' locker room between classes to get a forgotten textbook. There, she stumbled upon three cheerleaders gossiping about Candy. They were the same girls who had tortured her in the bathroom in third grade; they'd gone on to become cheerleaders in junior high, too. Heather was saying, "Anyway, that's the story. Candy and her dirty little secret's the real reason the Freemans had to move." The girls tittered. Angel grabbed her book and tried to sneak past the girls without a confrontation, but Melissa noticed her. "Hey, Pasty's listening in!" No sooner had the words left Melissa lips than all three girls surrounded Angel. Stephanie waved a fist. "Get lost, Wallflower." She lit a cigarette, puffed, passed the package and lighter to Heather, and exhaled a gust of smoke. "Or I'll kick your ass." "Who gives a shit?" Heather replied, firing up her own cigarette. "She's too naïve to know what we're talking about anyway. Aren't you, Baby Face?" "I'm not naïve!" Angel protectively clutched her textbook to her chest and fought the quiver in her voice. Even though her memory of the cheerleaders' cruel joke was still repressed at the time, Angel was nonetheless deeply intimidated by them. Heather said to Stephanie and Melissa, "See, watch." She turned to Angel, and as if they'd been confidants all their lives, said, "I was just telling Stephanie and Melissa that Candy Freeman got knocked up." Angel tried to push past the girls, but Stephanie shoved her backward. "She's talking to you, Homely Ho!" Stephanie cried, the cigarette bobbing up and down between her lips. Heather tossed the package and lighter to Melissa, then blew smoke in Angel's face. Angel coughed. As if Angel were deaf and dumb, Heather raised her voice and practically yelled in her ear, "I said ‘knocked up,' Pasty! Know what that means?" Angel had never heard the phrase before and had no idea what it meant. Nor did she care. She only wanted to escape. Staring blankly back, she shrugged and again tried to leave. Melissa smacked her across the back of her skull. "She's pregnant, you idiot!" Angel whirled and raised her hand to Melissa, but Stephanie grabbed her by the collar and pointed the burning cigarette between her eyes. "Don't even try it, or else. There's three of us and one of you, so don't think we--" "She doesn't know what pregnant means, either!" scoffed Heather. "Do you, Pasty?" Tired of being made into an idiot, Angel huffed, "I do so!" She remembered hearing the word a few years ago, when Mrs. Chatman was carrying her baby inside. "It means she's with child!" The girls looked at her like she'd just answered an impossible question on a test. Melissa said, "Well, I'm surprised. I guess the little bitch isn't totally ignorant after all." "'With child'?" Stephanie repeated. "How nineteen-fifties. Where did you hear that, your mommy?" Angel didn't answer. She wasn't going to embarrass herself by admitting she really had heard it from her mother. Heather said, "Bet she's too stupid to know how Candy got ‘with child.'" "I've got to go…" Angel shirked away from Stephanie and tried to move past the girls once more. They shoved her back inside their human circle. Heather demanded, "How, Angel? How did Candy get--" Why wouldn't they just leave her alone? On the verge of tears, Angel half-yelled, half-cried, "God made it grow inside her! All right?" The three girls erupted into cackles. Between snickers, Stephanie said, "Oh, yeah, sure, God made it grow. Or more like, it grew after a six-inch god grew inside her." The girls got another good laugh from Stephanie's joke. Then Melissa rolled her eyes at Angel. "God, you're so stupid! Candy's pregnant ‘cause a dude got her that way! That's what ‘knocked up' means. And she's not even marri--" "For Christ's sake, don't waste your breath, Melissa!" Heather exclaimed. "She won't get any of that, or how bad it is for a girl like us to get that way, ‘cause she's too fucking retarded!" Angel began, "I am not re--!" Melissa cuffed Angel across her head a second time. Angel howled, then jumped away from Stephanie, whose foot came within half an inch of meeting with her buttocks. "Get outta here, you goddamned little albino freak!" Stephanie cried. "Before your whining gets us caught and I have to kick your ass for real!" The girls finally moved aside enough to let her pass. Angel started to run, but Stephanie snagged her shirt collar and whirled her around. "One more thing--if you tell anybody you saw us in here, we'll come after you when you're by yourself, hold you down, and burn you long and slow with our cigarettes." When Angel got home from school, she asked her mother what "knocked up" meant. At first, her mother tried to con her with ridiculous explanations, like that it could mean knocking hard on a door or that a person had gotten beaten up really bad. Not buying any of it, Angel countered with the cheerleaders' words that it meant a girl was having a guy's baby and it was something bad. At that point, her mother told Angel what she sensed was only a half-truth. Cecilia said "knocked up" could mean a girl was having a baby. Not because she and the guy prayed to God for it and were being blessed like the Chatmans, but because they had committed unspeakable sins, and God was sending it to them as punishment. Angel wanted to know what those sins were, and how someone as loving and caring as God could send someone a baby as punishment. Her mother told her to go out and play. She wouldn't listen to any further questions on the subject, either. Later that same day, Angel cornered Grandma and attempted to get a more thorough, accurate explanation. Grandma looked at Angel the same way she looked at people whenever she told them she had one of her "splitting headaches" and had to lie down--whether she really had a headache or not. "You're telling me all of this about some girl who was in your class? And you heard it from other girls in your class? Girls your age?" "Yeah. So is what Mother said true, about God punishing sinners by giving them babies?" "My Lord, children in this day and age," Grandma muttered, placing a cold, damp cloth over her forehead and fanning herself with a Virgin Mary and Jesus fan. "And to think, when I was young, we courted with chaperoned dates on the front porch at our parents' houses, and we didn't even think about kissing a boy until…" She groaned. "Don't ask me these kinds of questions anymore, Child. I'm too old-fashioned and just too old period for such nonsense. You're going to have to be satisfied with what your mother says or find out more on your own. So please, I have a splitting headache and must really lie down…" * * * * Now, Angel finished her question to Peter. "You're not the one who ‘knocked up' Candy?" "Huh?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Where did you hear the phrase ‘knocked up'? And who told you that happened to Candy?" "Never mind. I just know. So is Candy having your--?" "God, no, Angel!" Peter cried. "I wouldn't be that irresponsible! Besides, I didn't even really like her that much as a person, much less enough to do that! That's not the way I felt about her." His tone softened. "But… well, uh… that's… kinda how…" He gave her another delicate yet lengthy kiss. "No, that is the way I feel about you." Again, he looked at her in that longing way before backing off. "That's why I have to stop now. Before I go too far, and do something you don't want me to." He turned away. Angel walked around to face him. She put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, "What if you don't stop?" Her lips grazed his cheek, her eyes closing. Behind her closed lids arose Lance's face, a relentless, seething spirit among an otherwise exorcised haunt. She opened her eyes to extinguish his image. "That's exactly why I have to. ‘Cause you don't even know how…" Peter shifted away his eyes. "I mean, what all it involves." "I know a little." Her mouth twitched upward. "Probably more than you think." "With your mom and Lance?" Peter shook his head. "How?" Angel's smile shone full force. " Your Body Basically." "No way! How'd you get your hands on that?" "Same way you did," she said demurely. "I snuck it out of The Sommerville Public Library, right after you snuck it back in." Angel had gotten her mother to take her to the library by saying she needed some information for a report. She located the book, waited until her mother started talking to someone in the library, and switched the book's dustcover with that of an equivalent-sized book on plants. Her mother never knew the difference, nor did the book checker, a frazzled young girl wearing thick glasses and a badge that read "Library Assistant Trainee." After arriving home with Your Body Basically , the first thing Angel did was shut herself in her room and try to look up "the curse" Cecilia had told her about. She couldn't find it, even after searching under "C" in the index. Harkening back to the discussion of the other topic that was a mystery to her, Angel flipped in the index to "S." That time she had been successful, and soon became immersed in the odd-yet-fascinating-and-highly-detailed drawings and text within the section titled, "Heterosexual Intercourse." Now, Angel continued, "Unfortunately, I never got too far in the book because Lance caught me with it." She remembered how Lance, without warning, had slung open her bedroom door, though she could have sworn on a stack of Bibles she had locked it. He had flown into a rage, beaten her harder than he ever had, and drug her to the living room fireplace. Despite her howled protests that the book belonged to the library, he incinerated it before her eyes, saying, "See how the fire consumes this filthy work, girl? In this same way, your filthy body and soul shall burn within the fiery pits of Hell if God or I ever again catch you looking upon such smut. And if you dare defile yourself by trying to imitate any of it, I assure you, the fire will burn upon you much hotter and longer." Peter smiled. "Good old Lance." "So I know a little more than you thought, but not everything, I guess not as much as you and most of the kids." She looked down, embarrassed. "Sorry." "Don't be. I think it's sweet. And like I said, I think you're sweet, one of the sweetest people I've ever met. So I really, really like you. And it's not that I really want to stop--" "Then don't." Angel leaned toward him. Their lips touched, again and again. Peter's breathing grew heavier. He never stopped kissing her, yet didn't do anything more, though Angel felt the slightest tremble within his frame, along with the same hard pressure between them as before. "We could end up with a baby like Candy Freeman and… whoever." "I don't care," Angel whispered. The rain continued to fall around them in soft, warm drops. Yet it no longer seemed to matter to either of them. "I don't want you to have regrets…" Peter's mouth moved over hers. "Or feel like I've taken advantage of you…" "I could never feel that," Angel said between kisses. "I know you. I trust you. You'd never do anything to hurt me." Peter's lips dotted every inch of her face and neck in warm, wet circles that set her skin afire. At the same time, his fingers skimmed along her scalp, and she felt them loosen her ponytail and pull down her hair. He ran his hands through the long locks. Their breathing quickened. Peter's hands wandered to the bottom of her halter-top while his mouth moved next to her ear. "Now do you believe in happy endings?" "I…" Angel gasped. She felt his fingers slide under her shirt. They traced the skin beneath in a thrilling tickle, then hooked the shirt's edges and began to lift. Before Angel could answer, she heard a loud screech and sensed something rushing through the air toward them. Her eyes opened. "Peter, look out!"  CHAPTER 21: WAS BLIND, BUT NOW I SEE Peter's head snapped around. "Crap!" A gigantic black buzzard, its bill opening and shutting with loud caws, its clawed toes open and curled, swooped unusually low, maybe six feet above the ground, and zoomed at full speed toward Angel and Peter's heads. Its eyes glowed red with black slits, just like those of the rat and the thing outside Angel's window. She jerked Peter to the ground. They ended up huddled in a human knot with him on the exterior, his arms and legs wrapped outside hers, her arms and legs around his chest and waist. They cowered in that manner until the vulture flew toward the brook. "That was weird as hell," Peter said, standing and brushing off his clothes. Angel did the same. "You okay?" "Yeah, you?" "Just a little freaked out. Those ugly things don't usually come that close to the ground, especially right at people like that, and in the rain, too." A loud series of screeches sounded from above. Peter and Angel tilted their heads upward. Through the openings in the trees' thick foliage, Angel saw more screaming buzzards flocking across the sky, heading in the direction of the brook. "Something's dead somewhere," Peter remarked. "Something big. That's why that buzzard practically crashed into us." He untied Camelot and mounted her. "I'm going to investigate." Angel leapt onto the horse behind him. Camelot galloped at a fairly speedy pace until they reached the brook, where she stopped and whinnied in protest. "She's a small horse, Angel. She can't go very fast for very far with both of us riding her, remember?" Angel jumped off. "Fine, I'll go on foot." "No, wait here until I see what it is." Peter dismounted Camelot and led her through the water, then remounted. Angel followed anyway. When she stepped onto the opposite bank, the wind began to blow in strong gusts. Peter's floral crown blew off her head, dropped into the brook, and drowned in the downstream current. Angel's nostrils filled with an unfamiliar stench, like a combination of waterlogged, week-old garbage and rotting meat--the scent of death. It was so overpowering, she gagged. Peter looked over his shoulder and saw her. "I told you to wait back there." "I'm not a baby." The wind blew harder, and the stench invaded her nostrils even more. Angel held her nose with one hand and pointed with the other. "It's coming from downstream," she said, indicating the area to the left of the clearing, where the brook filtered deeper into the woods, then disappeared from sight among the trees. Peter dismounted, tethered Camelot to a tree, took Angel's hand, and cupped his free hand to his own mouth and nose. Following the scent downstream, they ran through the rain in the same direction Angel had run from Connor, going deeper into the woods than they had ever ventured together. The place where Connor had caught Angel came into sight. There, something had washed to the surface from the brook's bottom and lay half in the water, half on the bank. Buzzards covered it, squawking and pecking at the thing and at each other. Most dove their heads up and down, hungrily snatching tidbits of flesh. Others ripped away big chunks or strings of the creature. They raised their bills skyward, snapping the meat enough times to gulp it before another buzzard could steal it from their mouths. "Stay here, Angel." Disgusted, Angel obeyed. Peter closed in on the buzzards. They scattered, screeching and shedding feathers in all directions. The birds' banquet had been the remains of an animal, which lay flat on its side. Its head was gone. A large portion of its flesh had decayed or been eaten away. Blood saturated its fur. It was a white animal, with a small, black, clover-shaped mark on its left ankle. "LUCKY!" Angel broke into bawls. "I know, I know, I'm sorry." Peter moved closer as lightning flashed, illuminating them in white light. "Holy shit!" "What?" Angel wailed between sobs. "Nothing," he muttered, his back to her. "Just the lightning." He alternately rotated his head from Lucky to the trees and ground in his immediate radius. With each turn of Peter's head, Angel glimpsed his profile--his furrowed brow, his darkened eyes, his locked jaw, and the way his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. Angel wiped her tears with her hands and started toward him. "For real, what is it?" "No! Stay back!" He whirled, ran over to her, and softly pushed her. "Go home, Angel! Go home, now!" "No way! You saw something else, and I want to know what!" Her mind flashed back to Friday evening. "When Connor chased me here, I saw something on the tree trunks, but I couldn't tell what it was. That's what you saw, too, isn't it?" She tried to push past him, but he clapped his hands on her shoulders and held her back. "I'm not leaving till you let me see!" "Oh, God," Peter muttered, his eyes skyward. Finally, he looked at her. "Trust me, you really don't want to see. Sneak out tonight when everyone is asleep, and meet me in our usual place. I promise, I'll tell you everything. But please, just listen to me for now, and go home." Peter gave her another nudge. "And don't tell anybody about this." Sobbing, Angel dashed out of the woods and sped down Blackwood Road toward home. Blinded by her hysterical tears and the drizzling rain, she didn't see Jeb Chester coming up the road, holding an old garbage bag over his head, until she barreled into him. "Whoa!" Jeb grabbed her by the shoulders. "Slow down, young Angel! What on earth--?" "You're not supposed to talk to me, remember?" she snapped between sobs, indicating his bruised face. She tried to break away, but Jeb maintained his grip. "Let me--" His stone-sober eyes met hers. "It's your goat, isn't it?" Angel stared at him, shocked. "How'd--?" Into her head sprang Peter's words-- Don't tell anybody about this.She resumed struggling to move past him. "I don't know what you mean." "The dead animal by the brook. You found it, and it was your goat, right?" The rainfall began to slow. Angel nodded. "How'd you know?" "I saw it earlier. Then I saw you crying, and put two and two together and made four. ‘Course, it don't pay for folks around here to know you can add like that," he said cryptically and paused. "You're a good kid. Hate it you had to see that. Uh-uh-uh," he clucked his teeth. "That's what happens, though, when a body ain't disposed of properly. They're getting sloppy." Angel wiped her eyes. "You know who did this?" "God almighty, I know a lot of things I wish I didn't." Jeb started to pull a flask from his jacket, then slid it back, patted it in place, and sighed. The rain stopped. "Who?" Angel demanded. "Who was it?" "Never you mind. It ain't gonna bring your little pet back." "I don't care!" Angry and desperate, Angel grabbed him by his wet jacket sleeves. "I want to know who did it!" "Like I said, it don't pay for a body to know too much about these things around here." Jeb tried to ease away from her. "I've gotta go." "What's the problem with everybody in this town? Why are they so darned scared to talk, especially to me? What're they hiding?" Jeb shook his head. He tried to unlatch her fingers from his sleeves. "We should get out of this rain." "It's not raining anymore!" Angel clenched him tighter and began to shake him. "Tell me who killed Lucky!" "You shouldn't--" A black pickup rounded the bend and slowed alongside them. The window rolled down, and the driver stuck his head through. Peter's father! Angel felt so shaken, she almost peed her pants. Next to Lance, Dr. St. Thomas was the person she least wanted to see right now. "What's going on here?" he asked, shifting his truck into park. He cut his eyes at Angel--hard, dark, cold--the opposite of Peter's warm, ocean eyes. "Angel Fallow? You all right?" Her limbs turned to spaghetti. She had to fight for her voice. "Y-y-yes, sir. I'm f-f-fine." "Then what's the matter? You look like you've lost your best friend." He pointed at her fingers, still clutching Jeb's jacket. "This bum giving you trouble?" Angel jerked her hands away from Jeb as fast as if she'd touched a hot stove. "No, Dr. St. Thomas. Just a misunderstanding, that's all." His eyes swung to Jeb and narrowed. "That so, Jeb?" "No, sir," Jeb said. "No misunderstanding. I was only telling young Angel to stay out of the road so she wouldn't get hit by a car, that's all." Angel nodded weakly in agreement. "And I was just leaving." Illustratively, Jeb began to back away. "See that you are," Dr. St. Thomas said. Jeb turned and hurried down the road. Dr. St. Thomas turned back to Angel. "You sure you're okay?" Again, she nodded. "Then why the tears?" He was the last person that could know why she was crying, especially since she and Peter were involved. Her mind struggled for a lie. "I was almost hit by a car. Mr. Chester pulled me out of the way. That's why he was telling me to stay out of the road." "The driver didn't stop?" "No." "What'd the car look like?" "I really don't remember. But it didn't hit me, so I don't guess it matters." She wished he'd go away and leave her and her fictional driver alone. Dr. St. Thomas gave her a doubtful look. "Say, you seen my boy around here?"  Oh, holy crap!!! Angel feigned ignorance. "Your boy?" "Peter." Angel responded with a feeble shrug. "I know you know him." She gulped. "Huh?" "From school. He's in your grade. You have classes with him, I'm sure. Not to mention he goes to the same church as you. You can't tell me you don't at least know who he is." Angel sighed inwardly in relief. "Oh, yeah. I haven't seen him." "Right," he said with disbelief. Ready to flee from the sticky conversation and Dr. St. Thomas's chilling eyes, she quickly said, "I gotta go. I need to get home." "Well, you're soaked to the skin. Hop in, and I'll give you a lift." Dr. St. Thomas patted the passenger seat. "No!" Her reaction didn't root just from fear of his interrogating her about Peter. Nor was he a stranger. In addition to knowing the veterinarian from church, she'd often accompanied Lance and her mother to take their many sick farm animals to his clinic. What ate away at her now was Peter's earlier assertion that an intangible something wasn't right about his father. Despite her previous skepticism of Peter's theories, that same intangible something about the good doctor now irked her, too. And it told her that under no circumstances should she get in his truck. "Sorry," she said, then added more calmly, "I mean, no thanks." "You sure? You're shaking like a leaf. My truck's dry, and I'll turn on the heat to warm you up." He patted the seat again.  Go away, already! "No, thank you, sir," she repeated. "I'm not far from home, and besides, I like walking. It's good exercise." "Good exercise?" He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Like you have to worry about that, pretty little figure like yours." Angel felt herself flush all over. Self-consciously, she folded her arms over her wet shirt. "And with that smooth, innocent face and all that long, blonde hair, I bet you drive all the boys wild--" "Dr. St. Thomas!" She forced herself to smile, though she grew more uncomfortable by the second. He continued to smile, yet some of the light faded from his face and voice. "Especially my boy Peter." Angel's stomach flipped upside down. "What?" "I suppose he thinks his old man's blind and stupid, too. But I've seen the way he eyes you in church, even no more than I go there with him and his momma." The jovialness had completely vanished. Dr. St. Thomas had turned deadpan. Peter had told her his father was suspicious of them. Now, he seemed to be hinting at that. Maybe he was playing a mind-game, with the object being to get her to tell the truth. She tried to subdue the tremble creeping into her frame and voice. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir." "I'm sure you don't. You're a good girl, right?" It sounded more like an embittered statement than a question, and he'd almost spat the word "good." Not knowing how to respond, she picked at a hangnail. "I'm not allowed to associate with boys." "I know. And I told Peter that. But I don't think it's getting through his fool head." A bit of his former lightheartedness returned to his demeanor. He chuckled. "Too much testosterone, I reckon. Well," he said, shifting the truck into drive, "you take it easy now. And if you happen to run into Peter, tell him I said he'd better get his butt home, pronto." At long last, he drove away. Angel started to go home when a hand fell on her shoulder. She cried out and shrunk away. "Hey, take it easy, there. It's just me." She turned to see Jeb standing on the shoulder nearest the woods. "Mr. Chester! Where'd you come from?" "I cut back through the woods. You all right, young ‘un?" "Just a little jumpy, I guess." "And well you should be in Grimshaw." Through her mind echoed Peter's voice-- "Have you ever noticed anythingstrange about Grimshaw?" "Why'd you come back?" "I wouldn't have normally, if it'd been anybody but you. But you've always been so nice to me, and your daddy was, too. I felt like I should come back and check on you." "What for?" He shook his head. His arm dove into his jacket for his flask. "I heard that feller offering you a ride. I'm glad you had the good sense to turn it down." "Why? He's not a stranger." "I ain't talking about not riding with strangers." He opened the flask and took a sip. "I mean, you need to stay away from that man, period." Again came Peter's voice-- "How about my folks?… Something's different about them in a way that's not right."Angel shivered and folded her arms over her chest in a self-hug. "Why, Mr. Chester? What do you know about that man and this town that you're not telling me?" A rumble sounded from the direction of Angel's house. Another vehicle appeared on the distant horizon, too far away to be identified. Jeb turned and began to run in the opposite direction. "I can't be seen talking to you no more, or I'm a dead man." "Mr. Chester, wait! Tell me--" He looked back over his shoulder but never stopped running. "All I can tell you is, stay away from that man, and beware of everybody and everything in this town, or--" Mr. Chester did a nosedive into the forest just before the vehicle, a semi, barreled past. "Or?" Angel called. Jeb poked his head out from around a tree trunk and peered around, as if to make sure the coast was clear. "Or you'll end up just like little Lucky." He ducked among the trees and disappeared. Feeling confused, threatened, and in general, upset all over again, Angel began to run toward home, a fresh geyser of tears erupting down her face. When the house came into view, she spotted Grandma rocking in a chair on the front porch. As sick as Grandma had been, Angel had expected her to be in bed. Certainly, she hadn't anticipated having to face her before she even got in the house. If she didn't get real cool real quick, she knew Grandma would pick up on something being wrong. Slowing to a walk, she sniffled, took a few deep breaths, and rubbed her hands across her cheeks to wipe away her tears. "You're back early today, child." Angel nodded and climbed the steps. Grandma caught sight of her face. "And you're awfully flushed." "It's just from running home to try to get out of the rain." "Then why the dreary face?" Grandma leaned forward. "You're upset over what was in that box, aren't you?" "No, Grandma. Peter forgot to bring my father's stuff, is all. And he's in trouble with his folks, so he had to go home early and can't come back today." It was a partial truth, anyway. Grandma raised a wary eyebrow. "You're sure he really forgot and can't come back? Or do you think maybe he left everything at home deliberately? To try to do what's best for you and protect you, like I am?" The same idea had crossed Angel's mind. But she was too upset and exhausted to think about that anymore, much less discuss it. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to peel off her wet clothes, soak in a bath, and cry. Shrugging, she placed her hand on the doorknob. Grandma sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter much one way or the other. Least it won't if I decide to come forward with what I know. That's what I'm thinking about doing." Angel whirled around. "You mean you're going to tell me what's in that box? What you've been hiding?" "I'm not sure I'm going to tell you directly. It's something that would be very hard for me to say to you. What I mean is I am thinking of going to others, others who can do something about it. It'll cost me everything. But I'm an old woman. I don't have much longer to live now. At least I can die knowing I tried to do the right thing. Besides, maybe it could actually help you somehow, too." That statement made Angel believe more than ever that her father was still alive. She decided to try one further plea. "You know, Grandma, by this time tomorrow, I will have found out the truth from Peter--at least most of it. So why don't you go ahead and tell me what you know and how it could help me?" "No more questions, child. I'm just thinking about this. I haven't decided for sure." During the conversation, Angel's eyes fell upon the grove of trees across the road. That's when she spotted something black among the leafy green foliage. The top of it narrowed into a point, like the top of a hood. Then it moved. A person . She pointed across the road. "Grandma, look!" "What, child?" "Don't you see…?" The shape had disappeared. "See what, Angel?" "Someone was out there, Grandma." Her voice trembled. "I think they were watching us." "Probably just your imagination, dear." "No. They moved and everything." Grandma yawned. "Must have been an animal, then." Angel didn't believe that. Shuddering, she retreated inside the house.  CHAPTER 22: REVELATIONS That night, Cecilia and Lance went out after telling Angel to go to bed. She climbed under the covers and feigned sleep until they left. Grandma went to bed right afterward and began snoring within minutes. Several moments later, Angel reached the woods and crept along the path and into the clearing. But she didn't see Peter. She had been in the woods other nights after dark, but during those times, Peter had been with her, and that was before all of the scary things had happened. Consequently, she viewed her nocturnal surroundings through new eyes, noting how the night gave the woods a totally different aura from the beautiful, familiar fantasyland she knew in the daytime. Instead of the sun's rays streaming through the treetops, random moonbeams fell on the plants and trees, transforming them into indistinct, black shadows. Patches of moonlight also shone on the brook--usually sunlit and bubbling with a lifelike, happy air--making it dark, and strangely, quiet and still, as if it held secrets. The thick leaves hid most of the sky, and the tall tree trunks appeared to lean inward, closing in on her. Angel shivered and began to call out, "Peter? Peter! Pe--" A hand closed around her shoulder. She screamed. Another hand flew over her mouth to cut off the sound. She struggled to get away. "It's just me! Calm down!" The hand dropped from her mouth. Angel whirled. "Peter, you scared me to death! Why'd you do that?" "Keep your voice down," he whispered. "I was trying to get you quiet. I think we're alone, but we can't be too careful. Someone might be listening." Angel lowered her own voice to a whisper. "What are you talking about? What's going on?" He gestured toward their usual place next to the brook, where they sat. For the longest time, he appeared spiritually lost somewhere far beyond the dark water. "Angel, you know how I told you earlier today that my family's been acting really weird?" Angel detected a haunted edge in his voice. It scared her to death. She nodded. "Now, I think I--no, I know I know why." "Why?" "I first started to suspect something when my father saw that newspaper article last week about the murdered boy, Stephen Hope. He freaked out." Peter paused. "But it wasn't like he freaked ‘cause a child was brutally murdered. He acted like he'd been caught at something. When he read The Grimshaw Daily that evening, he saw a small write-up in it, too. That freaked him out even worse." Angel gasped. "What's wrong?" Peter asked. "Something you just said was very important! Something about the newspaper! Something flashed through my mind!" Angel wrinkled her brow and tried to recall the memory. It refused to come. She kicked at the ground in frustration. "I can't remember! God, I know it's important! Why can't I remember?" "It's okay." Peter stroked her hand. "Don't push yourself. If it's important, I know you'll get it." "I guess you're right." She sighed. "Go ahead. I'm sure whatever you have to say is much more important." "The next thing I knew, another one of those meetings was going on at my house. But this was one of the biggest I'd ever seen. It seemed like half the town was there, congregated in our living room." "Like who?" "Like people we know from school and places in town and stuff. A few of the Grocery Store Weirdoes, those farmers Doyle Fell and Reggie Tell, the ones who sell produce down the street from the Feed Trough, Sheriff Tatum, and Brother John Weekly. Like with the other meetings, a lot of the people from our church were there, people who have always appeared to be good, God-fearing folks. They were pacing, whispering, and acting just as freaked out as my father. I asked my dad what was going on, but he gave me some lame excuse about a church meeting and sent me to my room." "How do you know it wasn't really a church meeting?" "'Cause I witnessed part of it. I only stayed in my room long enough for Dad to forget about me. Then I watched through my keyhole, and when the coast was clear, I tiptoed into the hallway, hid under a table just outside the living room, and eavesdropped. Everybody was still being all hush-hush, so I couldn't hear much, until Brother John pulled my dad and Tatum aside. They came in the hall and stopped inches from the table I was hiding under! The tablecloth's thick and goes down to the floor, but I was still scared shitless they were going to catch me. Thank God, they didn't, ‘cause if they had…" Peter raised his eyebrows. "I think I'd have been in for something much worse than grounding or a whipping, if you know what I mean." "No." When Peter made the cartoon motion of sliding his finger across his throat, she let out a small laugh, "Oh, c'mon." "Does it seem like I'm kidding?" Angel thought about her earlier encounter with Dr. St. Thomas. "I guess not." "Brother John was totally pissed. He kept saying they were in ‘all this mess' ‘cause they'd started going outside Grimshaw for their resources instead of keeping things local like ‘He' first instructed. I had no idea who ‘He' was or what they meant by ‘all this mess' or their resources. Not then, anyway. After that, my mother called my father into the next room to take a phone call. When he came back, he announced, ‘The time has come.' That's when everybody, including my parents, up and left. Just left. My parents didn't come home till late that night." Something about the phone call also seemed important to Angel. But she had no idea what it was, either, so she kept it to herself. "Then we found Lucky. I told you to go home so I could keep you from being involved when I called the police to submit Lucky as evidence of satanic rituals." "Evidence of satanic rituals?" Angel asked. "What was satanic? Just because he was decapitated doesn't necessarily mean--" "Angel, his heart was cut out, and there was a pentagram carved in his side." She put her head in her hands. "What does this have to do with your family? With us?" she asked shakily. "You don't still think Grimshaw has something to do with that cult, do you?" "That's exactly what I think--no, what I know . Don't you get it?" Peter clutched her shoulders and shook her to drive home his point. "My father's the town vet, remember? That's where Lance took Lucky when he was supposedly claimed. I think Dad just staged that whole phone call thing and told Lance that story so he could take Lucky to use in the rituals. Think about it. My father acting all guilty over the newspaper articles. The big meeting at my house. Finding Lucky dead--" "None of that proves anything!" Angel objected. Denial felt easier right now. "The meeting could have had to do with something else. Maybe your dad wasn't lying. Maybe it really had to do with church. There were a lot of good, God-fearing people there, you said!" "I said they've always appeared to be good, God-fearing people. What better way to hide involvement in something like this than to go to church every Sunday and make yourself look like you're a Christian, just the opposite of what you really are? Sitting in a church no more makes you a Christian than sitting in a garage makes you a car." "So all those Grimshaw people at that meeting, including the ones from our church…" She shook her head. "It can't be." "It has to be. They're part of the same cult that murdered Stephen Hope and sacrificed Lucky. The rituals have been taking place right here in these woods! When we found Lucky, we stumbled onto their sacrificial grounds. God, Angel, you didn't see that place, but I did--" "I ran over there when Connor was after me, but I didn't get a good look. I did see an open area, a pile of firewood, and some crimson picture-paintings on the trees, but I couldn't tell what they were." "I saw the firewood, too. There was a big, black circle around it, like the grass has been scorched from a bunch of fires. Or maybe it was deliberately burnt that way for ceremonial purposes. And those crimson pictures weren't paint. They were blood, and the pictures were satanic symbols and messages. Pentagrams, triple-sixes, demons, ‘hail Lucifer,' all kinds of sick crap like that. There were even paintings of upside-down crosses. It reminded me of the other day in church. Now, I'm surer than ever that the cross at church turned ‘cause the Devil was present there that day. "There's more." Peter stopped and took a deep breath, then placed his hand on Angel's shoulder. "I haven't been completely honest with you about your father." Angel's face illuminated. "Is he still alive?" The illumination dimmed. "He doesn't have anything to do with this cult stuff, does he?" Peter said gravely, "Angel, he's dead." "You don't know that." "I'm sorry, but it's true. I'm as sure of that as I am that my name is Peter Solomon St. Thomas. And he had plenty to do with the cult." "Wh-wh-what do you mean?" "He found out about them. Somehow, they discovered that he knew, and killed him." Angel fought tears. "How do you know?" "I knew something wasn't right when I checked the outside of his truck--" "But you told me you didn't find anything!" "I lied. Someone cut his brake lines. His accident was no accident at all. They wanted him dead." "No, no. It can't… you have no proof." "Yes, I do. First, your father's crime book. I went through it after I got home from the depository. There was a section in it on cults, and a chapter on satanic cults. In that part of the book, and only in that part, he highlighted passages. It's like he was studying about it." "That's what you were up reading last night?" "That, and another part of my proof." Peter stood and pulled an old, thin spiral notebook from Camelot's saddlebag. "Your father's journal." With trembling hands, Angel took the notebook. Peter handed her a small flashlight, then sat down beside her. Scribbled across the notebook's cover were the words, "Ansel Fallow, June 1975." She placed her feet flat on the ground and bent her knees, forming a lap podium on which she placed the journal, and opened it to the first page. Peter said, "Most men don't keep journals, especially nowadays. But your dad did because he sensed his number would be up soon. It was his way of ensuring he'd be able to speak from beyond the grave. He probably never dreamed the person who would hear it would be his own daughter." Angel nodded. Holding the flashlight in her left hand and running her right index finger beneath the text, she began to read…  CHAPTER 23: FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE Thursday, June 19  Recently, I've seen some strange people and things in the Grimshaw woods at night. Unbelievable as they may seem, I'm not crazy, lying, imagining things, or making a mistake. What I've seen is real , and I could eventually be in danger because of what I've witnessed. My wife Cecilia is wondering why I'm going out alone so much at night. She no longer buys my phony excuses. While I hate lying to her, I don't feel I can tell her about what I'm seeing without putting her in danger. I believe what I've seen could have something to do with the disappearance of one of our local girls, Belle Underwood. If that's true, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't investigate, for I keep thinking of how I'd feel if it were my Angel who had been taken. Angel's moving finger paused. Those words touched her. Peter must have somehow sensed that, for he put his hand on her shoulder. "Your dad was a good man. It's obvious there." "Yeah." He squeezed her shoulder. "He loved you a lot. That's obvious, too." "Yeah," she repeated, then resumed reading…  So tonight, while my wife and daughter sleep, I'm starting this journal to keep a record of what I've seen, just in case anything happens to me as a result, God forbid. What follows is a summary of the things that have happened during our search for Belle the last few days, and things I alone have witnessed that made me decide to keep this journal. From this day forward, I will make daily records of any relevant people and things I observe. Belle, age ten, disappeared almost a week ago on Friday night, June 13, at around 7:30. She was playing in her backyard one minute, the next she was gone. The police said they couldn't do anything till she'd been missing for 24 hours. The Underwoods didn't want to wait that long. They organized a search party of family members and friends. I volunteered to help. We spoke with neighbors, checked the roads and around downtown, and started searching the woods. But before we could check thoroughly, we had to stop due to a thunderstorm. If Belle was abducted, and I suspect she was, that delay might have allowed her kidnapper(s) more time to get away. Furthermore, the storm would have destroyed any tracks they might have left. Saturday morning, we met again at the edge of the woods. We searched the whole day, but found no sign of Belle. When the 24-hour period ended that evening, the police took over the search. Some of us offered to help, but Sheriff Tatum told us we had done enough and should just go home and go to bed. A few of the officers were a little irritated at us for forming our own search party. They implied we were trying to do their job and said they didn't like us interfering in "police matters." The police continued searching throughout the day Sunday, but didn't find any signs of Belle or any clues of what happened to her.  I felt so bad for the Underwoods, I decided to look for Belle myself after I got off work on Monday. I searched the woods throughout the rest of the day and into the night. I saw no signs of her, but I did see a suspicious-looking individual who might have been involved in her disappearance. That night, I heard footsteps and shone the flashlight in their direction. I saw someone dressed in a black cloak, a few feet away. Because it was dark and the cloak had a hood, I couldn't see the person's face. I could tell only that he (assuming it was a he ) was a short, petite person, about the size of my wife. I called out, "Who are you?" Angel's finger slowed once more. Into her memory popped what she had seen across from her house earlier, the dark figure wearing a hood. "What is it?" Peter asked, glancing at where her finger had almost stopped. "Nothing." She could fill him in later, after she finished reading.  The stranger started running away. I ran after him and repeatedly called, "Wait! Who are you?" But he kept running. He lost me in the dark. I've lived in Grimshaw my whole life, but this guy sure knows his way around the woods much better than I do. So maybe he isn't a stranger after all… * * * * Tuesday, I went to Sheriff Tatum's office and filed a report about the stranger. I told Tatum I thought there's a good possibility this person was involved in Belle's disappearance, and he probably isn't really a stranger. Tatum said there was no evidence connecting the stranger to the kidnapping but promised to question him if the police found him. He reminded me I was interfering in police business and should stay out of it. I could tell he wasn't taking me seriously. In fact, I feel like I completely wasted my time giving him a statement. After I saw that going to the police was pointless unless I had solid evidence, I went back to the woods Wednesday night, hoping I'd find something, or at least get a second look at the stranger. That's when I witnessed an act that both scared and disgusted me. This time, I came upon two more strangers dressed uniformly in the same black cloaks and hoods. They didn't see me, so I hid in some nearby bushes and watched. One held a burning lantern, while the other suspended a large, live rat by the tail. They used what looked like a pocketknife to cut the rat from end to end, then drained the blood into a flask. Afterward, they took turns drinking from the flask until the blood was gone. Angel gasped and let out a tiny gag. The edited-for-TV horror movies she'd seen had been stripped of most of their blood and gore, so she hadn't built up any tolerance for such descriptions. "It's gross, I know," said Peter, reading over her shoulder. "And it gets a lot grosser, too." His voice grew concerned. "Are you sure you're okay to go on? I can just give you the gist of it if--" "I have to read it, Peter. This is all I've got left of my father. No matter how bad it is, I've got to read every word." "All right, I understand." But he placed a protective arm around her shoulders and kept it there while she continued…  I still feel those cloaked people are somehow connected to Belle's disappearance. But I was afraid to try to apprehend such strange beings when there were two of them and only one of me. It was at that point I decided to start this journal to document any suspicious things. Earlier today, I bought a handgun (which I'm licensed to carry, of course), bullets, and a camera designed for night shots with no flash. I also bought a book on crime that has chapters on kidnapping and cult activities. I strongly suspect the act I witnessed last night was part of some sort of cult ritual. * * * * Friday, June 20 Tonight, I realized the cloaked figures I came across on Monday and Wednesday are definitely members of a cult. I witnessed several more of them performing another ritual, more horrific than the first. I had been in the woods late, searching for anything, finding nothing. Around midnight, I was about to call it a night when I smelled smoke and saw firelight. I hid among the trees and bushes and got closer, but not too close. Near the stream that runs through the woods, fifteen people wearing black cloaks stood in a circle around the fire. They started chanting something in a language I couldn't understand, maybe Latin. From somewhere deep in the trees, six of them brought out a white kid-goat… Angel gasped. "Oh, God, just like Lucky!" "I know, Angel," Peter whispered, tightening his arm around her. Her hands trembled. Still, she had to keep reading. With Peter at her side, holding her close, going back to the journal seemed somehow a little easier.  …kneeled, and held the goat before the leader. The rest of the ritual was so ungodly, I can barely bring myself to pen it. First, the leader, a big guy, even taller than me, brought out a huge blade, a machete, I think. He held it up and said, "Sacrifice of pure mind in the image of Pan," then slashed the goat's neck, decapitating it. As blood splattered inside the hoods of the six holding the goat, everyone laughed gleefully and repeated in a unified chant, "Sacrifice of pure mind in the image of Pan." One of the six holding the goat opened a burlap bag lying alongside the fire and placed the severed head inside. Another of the six sliced an incision in the goat's carcass. The leader removed his black gloves, reached inside the incision, and ripped out the goat's heart. He raised it high in the air like an Olympic torch. I know what I'm about to write defies logic, but so help me God, I swear I watched it happen. The blood-soaked heart, at first still, began to beat within his hand! Then, as if someone had struck a match within it, the heart spontaneously illuminated and glowed in a fiery, yellow light! The leader squeezed the heart. Blood spurted onto his fingers and again inside the hoods of the six kneeling around the carcass. The leader said, "Sacrifice of pure heart in homage to Lucifer," and the others repeated after him. The heartbeat stopped, and the light went out. Two of the people next to the goat held open the burlap bag, and the leader dropped the heart inside. Four of the six kneelers picked up the goat and held it before the leader at his chest level. One of the remaining two picked up the bag, and both of them stood. The leader handed the empty-handed one the machete, then reached into his cloak and pulled out a scalpel. He used it to carve into the carcass what appeared to be a pentagram and said, "Sacrifice of pure body and blood in the name of Pan and Lucifer," again with the others repeating after him. The figure holding the bag opened it, and the leader poised the scalpel over it until six drops of blood dripped inside. They closed the bag and lowered the carcass. I photographed it all, but I don't think they saw me. I have no idea what they did with the bag of parts, or how or where they disposed of the remainder of the carcass because the ceremony appeared to break up, so I left. I sure didn't want to stick around in case any of them came in my direction on their way out of the woods. Throughout her reading of the ceremony, Angel's terror and revulsion had grown. She kept trembling harder and harder, and Peter's arm kept tightening around her. She never fully realized how much she was shaking and how clammy her palms had gotten until the flashlight slipped from her hand and bounced across the ground. Peter rose, picked up the flashlight, and sat down, this time behind her, with his legs on either side of her. He held the flashlight over her shoulder with his left hand and wrapped his right arm around her waist. Only with his arm around her again could Angel continue…  Saturday, June 21 This morning, I returned to the woods and eventually retraced my steps to where the ceremony had taken place, near the brook in the downstream area. A circle had been burnt in the grass, and pentagrams and other weird symbols had been carved into the nearby tree trunks, or painted in blood. I've been reading about cults in my book. This one fits the description of the most frightening kind--Satanists. If I'm right, I'm certain they're to blame for Belle's disappearance. But how will I ever know for sure?  After I returned home from that place, I phoned Tatum to try to get him to come out and see it. First, he laughed and said he thought I was telling him "some far-fetched whoppers." After that, he blew up and gave me a final warning about interfering in police business. He said if I kept it up, he'd throw me in jail. I don't know if he can legally do that. Of course, he's sheriff of Woodland County, so I guess he can do whatever he wants. I considered trying to use my photos for evidence, but decided not to. I've no way of proving they're connected to Belle, which I'm sure Tatum would immediately point out to me. I told him I'd stay out of it, but I plan to keep investigating until I get some proof. Once I do, he'll have to listen to me . * * * * Sunday, June 22 I witnessed a second group ceremony tonight. It was a repeat of Friday night's ritual, again with a live goat, and again with the phenomena of the heart beating and glowing. I took more photographs. Angel asked shakily, "Peter, do you really believe all this?" "That your father observed these rituals?" "No, the stuff about the heart beating and glowing." For a moment, he didn't respond. "A week ago, I never would've believed it. But now, with everything that's happened…? I don't know what to believe anymore." "Me, neither." She returned to the journal…  Monday, June 23 There was a third group ceremony tonight, and I took more photos. This time, the sacrifice was a ram. The same rituals of killing and mutilation were repeated. The only difference was that, rather than the animal sacrifice being declared in the "image of Pan and Lucifer," it was declared in "the image of Asmodeus and Lucifer." According to my book, "Asmodeus" is a three-headed devil-god of lechery. One of his heads is the head of a ram. * * * * Tuesday, June 24 Tonight, I bore witness to an act more heinous than I could've ever imagined, worse than all of the things I've already seen put together. I wanted evidence to connect the cult to Belle. Well, I got it, and now I hate myself for wishing it. I witnessed the same ritual I've seen almost every night--the chants to Lucifer, decapitation, and mutilation, all in the same sequence. Only this time, oh God, it was little Belle Underwood herself! Angel cried out. Peter shushed her and tightened his arm around her waist, so it became almost difficult to breathe. But she wanted and needed him that close now. "Shshshsh," he whispered. Keeping his right arm around her, he set down the flashlight. With his left hand, he stroked her hair and touched his lips to the top of her head. "It's okay, it's okay." Angel swallowed and picked up the flashlight. Peter went on stroking her hair while she forced herself to keep reading…  I'd hoped to find evidence to link the cult to Belle, but never in my wildest nightmares did I anticipate it happening like that. Poor little Belle screamed and screamed as they murdered her before my eyes, and I was able to do NOTHING to stop it! Oh God, forgive me, I wanted to. But there were just too many of them! They outnumbered me by at least fifteen. I didn't know what to do. I don't know much about guns, since this is the first one I've owned. But I do understand that my handgun is the type made merely for defending oneself against a few people, not rescuing someone from a huge group of sadistic maniacs. I couldn't have shot the lot of them with such low and slow firepower. I curse myself for not having the foresight to get a better weapon, like a machine gun, after I learned the cult had so many members. If I had, maybe I could've saved Belle. Believe me, I wanted to save her. At the same time, I knew I'd likely die trying. And Belle would've still died, too. I couldn't risk that because of my wife and, especially, my newborn daughter. I have to make sure I'm around to raise my little girl, make sure she grows up with both parents in her life. Maybe I was selfish. But I had to think of my own flesh and blood first. Drops spattered the notebook page, but Angel was too absorbed in the journal to notice where they came from. Only when Peter reached over her shoulder and dabbed her cheeks with a tissue did she realize her father's words had moved her to silent tears. Peter asked, "You okay?" "No, not really." Angel sniffled. "But I'm not going to stop."  I don't know why they held Belle captive for so long before killing her. Maybe it was because they were doing things to prepare her for sacrifice. Maybe it was because they were waiting for everyone to give up searching so hard. Now that she's gone, I can only hope the photographs, and maybe this journal, will help bring these sick murderers to justice. * * * * Wednesday, June 25 Today, I dropped off my film in Sommerville to be developed. It should be ready tomorrow. Except for Tatum, I haven't told another living soul about what I've seen. Something tells me I needed to keep it that way. So I'm not saying anything to anybody but the cops. When the photographs are developed, I'm taking them to the sheriff's office. That should be all of the evidence Tatum needs. * * * * Thursday, June 26 I'm writing my last journal entry before locking this notebook in a secure place, accessible by only one other person whom I feel I can trust to keep it safe. For that person's protection, I choose to keep her name anonymous. Legally, the place belongs to her, but she has kindly allowing me temporary access to it (God bless her) without knowing what it is I'm putting inside, and promising not to look. Once I pick up the photos from the lab, I'll put the negatives in the secure place, then take the photos to the sheriff's office. Unless I act quickly and cautiously, the owner of my hiding place may be the only one who'll ever learn what I know. I've not been back to the woods since Belle's murder because I fear for my life. Somehow, I think the cult has found out I've witnessed their rituals. Since my previous entry, I've been harassed through hang-up phone calls, vandalism to my truck, and the slaughter of some of my livestock.  As you probably have guessed, if you're reading this without my being around, I'm probably dead. For the record, I would never commit suicide, abandon my family, or fake my death. Therefore, none of those explanations should be accepted if I suddenly turn up dead or otherwise missing. Nor would I convert to evil. I love animals, children, and God too much to join the likeness of that cult, no matter what the consequence of refusal. If they should happen to threaten the lives of the people I love, especially my wife and daughter… well, I was too afraid to risk dying for Belle, but I wouldn't hesitate to die for them, if need be. I've never seen the faces of any of the cult members, so I don't know their identities. But I'm certain they are Satanists who have no qualms about killing anyone who gets in their way. Anyone like me.  CHAPTER 24: REVELATIONS II Angel's heart sank in final acceptance--her father was dead, killed by an evil that continued to pervade their world. Her tears no longer came in drops, but in rivers. "I'm so sorry," Peter whispered. He handed her another tissue and switched off the flashlight. "I wish it weren't true. But it is, everything your father said. The developed negatives of his pictures prove it. I didn't want you to see them, though. They were too gruesome." Peter lifted the journal from her lap, rose, and put it and the flashlight in his saddlebag. "I already scribbled your dad's name out of that crime book and anonymously dropped it and the pictures off at the Sommerville PD." He returned to Angel's side. "The only reason I didn't give them the journal, too, was I knew it could be traced to you, maybe to us. Plus, I wanted you to be able to see the truth for yourself." "Why didn't you show me the journal earlier? And why did Grandma keep it from me?" "She was probably trying to protect you from the pain of knowing your father was murdered. Maybe she was like some other people around here, afraid coming forward would lead to something bad happening to her, or to you and your mother. I'd say that's a legitimate fear. But in my case, I kept the journal from you for the same reason I didn't tell you about the brakes being cut. I was trying to protect you, too, until I was sure your father's journal was for real, and that the cult activities are going on now. Between Lucky's remains and the developed negatives, I got all the proof I needed. This cult does exist, they murdered your father ‘cause he knew too much, and they've been sacrificing animals and children for fourteen years or longer, right here in these woods. Your father's only missing link was that the cult was made up of Grimshaw citizens. With the amount of time that's gone by without them being caught, I'm sure the cult has gotten bigger and stronger." "So that's what Brother John was talking about in the meeting?" Angel asked incredulously. "Who was the ‘he' John said instructed them? Their leader?" "Maybe. Or maybe the Devil." "The Devil? Ah, c'mon, no way…" Peter ignored her skepticism. "As far as the stuff about ‘outside resources,' I think John meant the cult's now getting publicity and coming close to getting caught ‘cause they've started sacrificing children from outside Grimshaw. Think about how many children have died or disappeared suddenly--Stephen Hope of Sommerville, Brother John's long-lost daughter Sarah Weekly, and Belle Underwood. And think about the kids from our health class who were in the library with us that day." Angel did. The Fisher twins had been the first to go. Near the end of March, their decapitated and heart-robbed bodies were discovered in Sommerville, Irvin Fisher in the Styx River, Mervin Fisher behind a nearby hillside. Then a week later, during spring break, Candy had left because she'd gotten "knocked up." In April, prim-and-proper Lisa Burns's charred remains were extracted from the driver's seat of her parents' car, found in flames after it had crashed into the wall of an abandoned, boarded-up house in Grimshaw. Lisa's parents claimed she'd stolen the car and gone for a joy ride. She was identifiable only through the car and her parents' testimonies, for according to the sheriff's office, she'd somehow been decapitated during the accident; her head was never found. Around the middle of May, butt-kisser Brenda Lambert was reported to have run away. Her parents had described her as a moody child. But her choosing that particular time to leave home seemed strange to her classmates, who knew she wasn't crazy about school and always lived for summer vacations. Especially this one, during which she was supposed to spend the summer in Florida with her grandmother, who would be taking her to Disney World. At the end of the school year, the Rubinsteins moved, and Hirschell transferred to a school in a different town. Hirschell told his classmates his parents wanted to be in a location less secular and with more organizations that emphasized their Jewish faith. Their biggest reason for leaving was all of the "recent unpleasantness" around them. They thought the school, not to mention the town, was somehow cursed. No one had placed much credence in the Rubinsteins' departing opinions, considering the family had always deemed the school and Grimshaw as being too pagan. Peter said, "All of them, except for Hirschell and Candy, either died or disappeared suddenly. Over the last fourteen years, the same things have happened to lots of other local kids. Among many, no bodies or any other traces of them were ever found." "But the causes of death were determined for the children who were found. What other connection is there? What do they have to do with Belle Underwood and this cult?" "In a small, rural, remote town like Grimshaw, the truth could easily be covered up with stories. Especially if some of the doctors and cops are cult members. Have you ever wondered how the Grimshaw morticians always get bodies ready for burial so quickly, and why there are so few autopsies done? I think their being tied to the cult is the reason. And how are the children connected? We saw Stephen's picture in the paper, and we knew most of the others or saw their pictures in the papers, too. Think about what they looked like." Angel's heart began to race. "They all had blonde hair and blue eyes." "Devil worshippers," Peter stated with an embittered laugh, "love to sacrifice children with blonde hair and blue eyes. They think those features signify ‘purity.'" He spat the word "purity." "My God, that's like Hitler or something." "Personally, I see only a very fine line between Hitler and Satan. Sometimes I think Hitler was the world's only version of the Devil incarnate." Peter paused, then half-laughed. "The difference is that blonde hair and blue eyes made you safe from Hitler. Around here, it's a death ticket." The moon, which shone into the clearing, lit up their immediate surroundings. Angel's eyes settled on her reflection in the brook. "Oh God," she said, feeling like she would vomit. Peter's eyes followed hers. "I know what you're thinking, and you're right. We both fit the physical profile…" Something she had forgotten reemerged in her mind--little Devin Chatman's strange remarks in the grocery store. "Peter, when those townspeople were at your house, were Mr. and Mrs. Chatman there?" "Yeah. Sure as hell explains what Devin's always saying to you about blonde hair and blue eyes being special, huh?" "But when we went to the grocery store Saturday, Devin mentioned his parents had said I might not be special anymore if Connor hurt me bad enough. I didn't understand what he meant." Peter thought for a moment. "Of course! Another thing I read is that Satanists also think purity is signified by virginity. That's why they like to sacrifice younger children--they're more likely to be virgins. So when the Chatmans said you ‘might not be special anymore,' they must have been talking about whether you were still a virgin." Angel's skin burned like fire. Feeling extremely awkward, she picked at a twig of grass. "By ‘virgin,' you mean whether Connor and I did… it ." "Yeah, like husbands and wives," Peter said without looking at her. "Sorry to be so personal." "Do you still think the cult murdered Connor?" He nodded. "I don't get how he fits into this. I mean, he didn't have blonde hair and blue eyes, and he wasn't mutilated like Lucky and Stephen. The same with Hirschell Rubinstein. He didn't have blonde hair and blue eyes, plus his family just moved. And what about Candy? I know she had blonde hair and blue eyes, but I think the Freemans really left because Candy was having a baby. It doesn't seem like any of those three were sacrifices at all." "Oh, they weren't. The Rubensteins were probably like a lot of folks around here--they had an idea something was going on, but it was easier and safer to protect themselves and run than to do something about it. Connor was killed simply because he was a threat to your virginity. Think about his death, how they gutted him and strung him up in a tree by his intestines. It was like they were putting him on display. So in addition to getting rid of him as a threat, they were setting an example, a warning to anyone who might try something like that. I think his parents might be cult members themselves, and that's why they ended up taking his death so well." "Peter, I hated Connor, especially after what he tried to do to me. But my God…" Angel put her head in her hands. A tear rolled down her face. "He didn't deserve to die like that! Another human being died because of me." "Guess you've got a better heart than me, pal, because I thought he was the only one of them who got what he deserved." He paused. "If it makes you feel any better, your attempted rape wasn't the only reason they killed him. It was just the straw that broke the camel's back. Because you weren't his first victim." Angel gasped. "How do you know?" "Remember how at the beginning of December last year, you were stuck in bed for a week with the flu? The first weekend you were sick, Grimshaw High had its last football game of the season--the biggest game--not just because it's the last, but because it's played against the Grimshaw High Dragons' biggest archrival, the Sommerville High Knights." Angel yawned. She had no knowledge of or interest in football. "What's that got to do with us, Connor, or this cult?" "The junior high cheerleaders traditionally cheer alongside the high school cheerleaders in that last game. If the game happens to be played away on Sommerville's field, the junior high cheerleaders ride on the pep bus with the high school cheerleaders. I was bored, and I knew you were too sick to sneak out, so I asked Mom and Dad if I could go to the game. They said ‘yeah.' I guess they figured there wouldn't be any harm in it and nothing could happen since so many people were going to be around and stuff." "Obviously, it could and it did, or you wouldn't be telling me this story. Then something involving the cult happened at the football game?" Angel asked skeptically. "More of something that would indirectly involve them later. See, I rode to the game on Camelot, and our seventh grade English teacher lives across from the stadium, so he let me stow Camelot in his barn. During halftime, I walked across the parking lot to check on Camelot. The pep bus was parked at the rear of the lot to keep out of the way, and coming back, I saw Candy Freeman heading for the bus. She was wearing her cheerleader uniform but lighting a cigarette and looked like she was in no hurry. So I kind of razzed her a little and said, ‘Hey, aren't you supposed to be on the field?'" "Flirt," Angel joked with a small smile, a tiny effort to break the tension. "Nuh-uh!" Peter half-snickered, and for the briefest moment, everything seemed light-hearted and easy again, like old times. Not that old times had been so light-hearted and easy for Angel, but they were in comparison to the darkness closing in around them now. "Anyway, she told me she'd gotten benched for something, but got tired of doing nothing and snuck out at halftime to smoke. She invited me to come onto the bus and have a cigarette…" Despite the severity of the situation, Angel couldn't help but raise her eyebrows in teenage jealousy. Peter caught it and almost smiled. "But as we both know, I don't smoke. And I wasn't any more interested in the girl than I was in the cigarette, so I politely declined. I said ‘see-ya,' she said ‘see-ya,' and we went our separate ways, with me heading for the stadium. Then I saw Connor going in the same direction Candy had gone…" "Oh no…" Angel gasped. "Oh, yeah. And even though the third quarter was starting, the people hanging around the restrooms and concession stands were going back in the stadium, and the parking lot was totally dead except for us three, stupid me just went on back in, too. If anything, I figured old Connor was up to small-time crap, like sneaking a chew of tobacco or slipping out to pester nearby farmers with cow-tipping or some other dumb hillbilly prank. "By the time I got back to the game, I saw it was a total washout; the Knights were absolutely slaughtering the Dragons. So after a few minutes, I decided to head out early, beat the crowd. Everybody on the Knights' side was going so crazy over the game, no one could hear anything outside the stands, especially not at the back of that huge parking lot. I didn't, either, until I was out of the stadium and about halfway across the lot. That's when I heard Candy screaming. I started running toward the bus. Suddenly, the screaming stopped. I heard her sob a couple of times, then everything went silent. I didn't know if she was dead or unconscious or what, so I ran faster. I was almost to the bus when Connor stepped out, zipping his pants. He looked at me, laughed, and said, ‘Sloppy seconds!' Then he took off running. "I was going to go after him, but I was really out of breath from running, plus I heard Candy bawling again, so I got on the bus to check on her. She was lying in the back, crying, and her uniform was a mess. It was obvious what had happened--the same thing that happened between Connor and you. Except that time, nobody stopped him." Angel exclaimed, "My God, that's terrible, Peter! Who else knew about it?" "Not many people. At least not at first. I think the family was so embarrassed they deliberately kept it quiet. I know all this ‘cause Candy leaned on me, talked to me between classes and stuff, and I kind of let her ‘cause I felt really bad for her. I guess that's why she ended up with a crush on me. I mean, I never really liked her, before or after what happened, because she was always mean to you, and I thought she was kind of an airhead. Still, nobody deserves to be raped, no matter how mean or stupid they are, you know?" "Yeah." "Anyway, she told me just before spring break they were moving because of the embarrassment, and her family was sending her to a special school for ‘wayward girls.'" Angel commented with empathetic anger, "I can see her being embarrassed, but her family? It wasn't anymore her fault what Connor did than it was my fault." "There's more to it than meets the eye. First, before the Freemans moved, I think they'd become part of the cult. At the meeting at my house, I caught wind of some remarks--'Anybody heard anything from the Freemans?' and ‘the loss of the Freeman girl.' I believe her parents were humiliated by the pregnancy mainly because they were part of the cult and planning to sacrifice her. But her pregnancy made it clear she'd lost her virginity, meaning she was ‘tainted' and useless as a sacrifice. As warped as it sounds, what that little shit Connor did to her probably saved her life." "If that's true," said Angel, "and she was a planned sacrifice, why didn't they kill Connor for raping her as opposed to killing him for almost raping me? Or why wasn't he put in juvie or something?" "Nobody believed Connor raped her at first," Peter answered. "In fact, they probably never believed it until he tried to rape you." "Why?" "For one thing, right afterward, Candy wanted to pretend nothing had happened and not tell anybody. She made me swear not to, either. I figured she'd been through enough and deserved at least my silence, so I agreed. I even took her on Camelot to an outdoor restroom at a gas station down the street, where she got cleaned up just enough to eliminate the exterior evidence. She went back to the game like nothing had happened." "After all that time, hadn't Miss Green missed her?" Angel asked, referring to the P.E. teacher and cheerleading sponsor. "Yeah. I hightailed it out after I made sure she was back inside all right, but the next Monday, Candy told me she'd fed Miss Green a story about how she got sick and took a nap on the pep bus. I'm sure Miss Green didn't buy that, but she decided not to make an issue of it based on Candy's ‘reminder' that ‘Daddy Warbucks' Freeman was a rich, influential member of the school board with little patience for non-tenured faculty who couldn't keep tabs on their students. So by the time Candy came forward, just before spring break, the physical evidence was gone. Plus, because she went so long without saying anything and did such a good put-up job of hiding her emotions and pretending nothing was wrong, it looked like she was making the whole thing up. "She didn't figure out she was pregnant until the week after sex ed. was over and the eight of us started going back to health class, I guess ‘cause she was so small-framed, she just didn't show much. Still, like I pointed out to her, she would show eventually, so she couldn't hide it forever. Well, I talked her into telling her parents, and I think the principal and a doctor or two also found out. But no one much believed she was raped. When the principal and Sheriff Tatum called Connor into the office to question him, he denied the whole thing, until they told him Candy was pregnant. Then he admitted it happened, but he acted like Candy had done it with him with full consent and even said she'd come onto him. "To make sure they believed him, Connor dropped the names of some guys whom he'd heard Candy had done it with voluntarily. They called those guys into the office for questioning, but told them nothing more than that Candy was pregnant, and they'd been fingered as possibilities for the father. After a few minutes of hot-and-heavy interrogation, all those guys caved and blabbed. For the first time, the reputation Candy had among the kids became known among the adults. And just because of that reputation, they took Connor's word over Candy's. The only thing they believed her about was Connor being the father. Based on how far along Candy was in her pregnancy, Connor was the only one it could have been." "But you witnessed the rape! Sort of…" "Yeah, and I told Candy I'd come forward with what I'd seen. Then the week before spring break, about an hour after school, we were in the halls talking. We ran into Connor. I really felt bad for Candy because Connor was getting off scot-free, and I'd always hated him ‘cause he was meaner to you than anybody. So he and I ended up in an argument, and I threatened him and roughed him up a little. Not nearly as much as I did in the woods that day, just kind of shook him and shoved him against the lockers, just enough to try to scare him into coming forward. Then, remember that photo of yourself you gave me?" "How could I forget after the flogging I got?" The photo had been her school spring picture from that year, a wallet-sized copy of which she had smuggled to Peter one day. Lance missed it. Even though he never found out exactly who had it, he knew she didn't have any friends and assumed she gave it to some boy to "wile him with her womanly charms." He beat her, threatening not to stop until she told him who had the photo. He'd given up only when she collapsed and lost consciousness. "Oh, God, don't remind me," Peter groaned. "I felt like crap about that for months. I still do. Anyway, while I was knocking Connor around, my wallet came out of my pocket, and your picture fell out. He swiped it, put two and two together, and blackmailed me. If I told on him about the rape, he'd tell on me and you and use that picture as proof. That's what I took out of his wallet last week after we fought." "So you didn't come forward because of me," Angel said. "I sure didn't want to. But after he was gone, I offered to anyway, just because I felt I should. I guess Candy took sympathy on me because she liked me and I'd been nice to her about what happened. So she told me she wouldn't tell anyone we were friends, and for me not to worry about telling on Connor yet, either. She said she'd try again to get her parents to believe her. A day or two later, though, when she found out her parents were moving and sending her to that school, she said there was no need for me to worry about coming forward. She would be in a town where no one knew her, in a school among a group of girls like her who would empathize with her situation. Connor being identified as her rapist wouldn't change anything, especially once she'd left Grimshaw behind her. I didn't offer a second time. I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to lose my friendship with you and get you in more trouble, especially over her." "So you're saying nobody ever believed Connor raped Candy until after he tried it with me, then they decided it must've been true. And the cult figured out that Connor was a threat to their sacrifices, so they killed him." "Exactly." Angel leaned back on her hands and sighed. "Gosh, all of this is so crazy, especially the stuff about Connor and Candy. It would have taken me half my life just to figure out all that." "Yeah," Peter said, sitting back in the same position. "It took me a while to see the connection myself. But between your dad's crime book and Sheriff Tatum's newspaper comments, I finally got it." Angel sat up. "That's right, you mentioned Tatum was in on that conversation with your dad and Brother John about ‘outside resources.' Oh, surely not… Tatum? Sheriff Tatum is in on it?" "I think so, especially after reading about how he practically defended Connor's death and put off your dad about Belle Underwood and the cult. A powerful alliance like county sheriff explains why the cult's been able to get away with this so long. It also explains why Tatum keeps getting re-elected, even though he doesn't do crap." "But he was working harder than ever when he was looking for Connor's killer! Why would he do that if he's a cult member and in on the murder conspiracy?" Peter shook his head. "It was a front. For the cult to get rid of Connor and make an example out of him, Tatum had to cover his own ass in front of the general public, even more so after the sheriff of Churchill County started asking questions. Tatum needed himself a murderer not connected to the cult. That's why he was trying to establish a connection between Connor and me. He suspected Connor and I had fought, but at the time, didn't realize it actually had to do with you. The man's just not that bright. All he knew was if he could make out like Connor and I had a history of not getting along, I'd have a motive for killing Connor, and he could easily make me take the fall. He was grasping at straws for a motive, and our fighting over you the other day was the perfect one. In trying to establish what he believed was a false murder motive, he had no idea he had hit upon the truth about our fight. Not at first. He probably wouldn't have ever found out, either, had it not been for me being late to that memorial service." "Well, if both Tatum and your dad are cult members, why didn't your dad go along with Tatum instead of making him back off you?" "I didn't get that at first, either. But my dad's comment about my future being ruined tipped me off. It was masked to sound like normal parent talk about college or something. But he was really talking about…" Peter's teeth clamped down on his lower lip. He sat that way for what seemed like forever, without moving a muscle. The moon lit his profile. Angel could have sworn she detected a tiny tear in the corner of his eye. "What was he talking about?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Peter closed his eyes. Angel knew he was fighting the urge to break down, though she didn't dare mention it. After several seconds, he reopened his eyes, unclamped his lip, and thawed from his freeze. He replied in a voice full of sarcasm, disgust, and pain, "My future as a sacrifice ." Angel wanted to cry for him, too. From what he had always told her, his parents acted so devoted to him. Of course, she knew Peter loved them both, but he had felt exceptional admiration and respect for his father. He let out a bitter laugh. "Oh yeah. My dad was just afraid if my purity was tarnished, if anyone actually believed I'd committed murder, his stupid cult wouldn't want me for sacrifice." Despite the warmth of the summer night, Angel felt every inch of her skin prickle. "My God, what you've been trying to tell me is that the cult is planning on using you and me for… for…" "Sacrifice," Peter finished for her. "I think they've had us both targeted for a long time. Especially you. I believe that's why our kindergarten teacher went off on me for kissing you and said we weren't meant for each other. And I believe that's why those other teachers and Tatum… aw, crap! Listen, don't get pissed at me, but… I've told a couple of our elementary school teachers and Tatum what Lance does to you." "What?!" Angel clapped her hand over her mouth. "Peter, how could you?" "I was trying to help. I didn't tell them we were friends or anything. I only said I'd seen bruises on you and heard your stepfather puts them there. But it didn't make any difference. The teachers just gave me the brush off, and when I tried going to Tatum, he ended up being more interested in how I knew than what I knew." "What'd he say?" "He asked if you had told me Lance abuses you and if we were friends. I said we didn't ever talk and I was just concerned ‘cause I'd noticed the bruises and heard rumors. Tatum told me to mind my own business and said I had no right to accuse law-abiding citizens of bad things based on rumors. I think the real reason he gave me hell is because he's in the cult. They realize that if Lance keeps beating the crap out of you and keeps you scared, he'll play right into their hands in ensuring you're a pure virgin sacrifice. On the same token, they also realize if word gets out that he abuses you, you'll be removed from your home and placed in an orphanage, probably several miles from here. That'd mean they couldn't get their hands on you, and another one of their sacrifices would be gone. I bet that's why the school fired Mrs. DuMore, ‘cause she tried to report what was going on. At least, I hope getting fired was the worst of what happened to her." "If they were going to sacrifice us, why haven't they done it already?" "I have no idea how they determine who's sacrificed and when. Maybe they were too busy with those other kids. Or maybe they just haven't had a chance to get us, especially the way old Lance watches you like a hawk. As big and strong and mean as he is, he'd probably be a handful for Satan himself. And I hate to play devil's advocate, but I see where he's coming from. Don't get me wrong, I still think he's an ass. But if he suspects even a fraction of what we've learned, I understand why he's so overly protective of you, besides him being a religious fanatic, of course." "But Lance wasn't around to protect me the day they got Connor. So why didn't they take me then?" "Could've been a lot of reasons. Maybe they had their hands too full with Connor. Maybe since you hit your head, they wanted to get you to the hospital and make sure you were still a healthy sacrifice. I think the main reason was they weren't sure whether Connor had taken your virginity. Now since word's out that he didn't, I'm sure they're waiting for their next chance to nab you." "God, I think you're right." Angel told him about her encounter with Jeb Chester, Dr. St. Thomas trying to coax her into his truck, and the black, hooded-looking shape she'd seen across the road from her house that afternoon. Peter didn't seem surprised. "Your dad's book said cult members typically wear black cloaks and hoods to hide their faces and camouflage themselves at night, not to mention that black's a color traditionally associated with evil. And as for my dad, he might not have been looking for me just because I'm grounded. Maybe he was planning to lock me up somewhere today, then sacrifice me tonight. And maybe when he saw you instead, he just thought…" Angel shivered. "Please, please don't say it." "What's Jeb Chester's story?" "I've been wondering the same thing. It's pretty obvious he knows something." "Maybe he's in on it." "I don't think so," Angel said. "I think he's just one of the ones you mentioned, one who knows something but is too afraid to say it. I think he's just trying to warn me." Peter shrugged. "I don't know. I don't trust anybody around here." Something else seemed to occur to him. "When I went home earlier, I got in trouble for sneaking out and got sent to my room, and I snuck out again through my bedroom window to get here. I'll bet Dad and Mom are out looking for me. Maybe the rest of them, too." He looked around warily. "Maybe they're out here somewhere--" "Please shut up! You're scaring me to death!" Scouring the dark trees, Angel moved in closer to him. "Let's get out of here." "And go where? The road? A field? If we get out in the open, they'll see us for sure." "Home. Let's just both go home, then," Angel said, although if those cult members were lurking about, she didn't know exactly how they'd get home, or if they even could. Maybe Lance and her mother were back by now. For once, Lance's overbearing protection sounded really good, even if it came at the price of a dance with his belt. "I'm not going home," Peter said resolutely. "You've gotta go home sometime, you know." "No, I don't." Peter looked at her in the same graven, hopeless way he had just before he broke it to her that her father was dead. "There's something else I have to tell you." "Oh God, there's more?" She wasn't sure how much more she could take. "I don't think my parents are just cult members." He paused and took a breath. "I think my father's the leader." "No way, Peter! Your dad's always been so good to you! It's hard enough to believe he's involved at all, but the leader?" "It fits and would explain everything, like the cult getting their hands on Lucky so easily, and the meetings at my house, especially Dad's big role in the last one. Plus, I'm almost positive he was the one who rescued you from Connor." "What?" Angel cried. "Remember I told you how, the day Connor attacked you, Dad sent me home but didn't show up until thirty minutes after I did? That was with me being on horseback and him driving a truck. After I was out of sight, I think this is what happened. He pulled off by the woods and went to check out the sacrificial grounds, maybe prepare for their next ceremony or something. That's when he came up on you and Connor. Being leader, he would've had the power to eliminate Connor right then and there. And I bet he did. He had blood on his veterinary scrubs when he came home and gave us some excuse about an emergency surgery. When we went out to eat, I found traces of red-orange hair on his truck seat, the same color as Connor's." "But if that's what happened, and Tatum is in on the cult, your dad would've told Tatum what happened, and he wouldn't have needed to ask me those questions. What about that?" Peter shrugged. "Maybe Tatum was just working on his cover-up. Or maybe Dad left Connor alive after all, and was holding him somewhere until Tatum could find out the story from you. You know, make sure Connor had really forced himself on you instead of the whole thing being at your consent. See, I'll bet Tatum handles all the legal stuff to cover up the cult's crimes. Whenever they want to wipe out a troublemaker, they probably have to get the go-ahead from him so he can help maintain their cover." Angel shook her head. "I don't know. Your father hardly strikes me as the leader type to begin with, especially of something like this." "So who is?" "Of the people we know, my first guess is Sheriff Tatum because of his power. My next guesses are Mr. Chatman or Mr. Wylie. They're both kind of big, gruff, and intimidating. If not, I'd say Gramps Oldfield. Maybe that's the reason everybody around here respects him so much. Gosh, I'd go as far as to say it was Brother John or Reverend Hardin or Reverend Wolf before I believed it was your dad." "Actually, I think the two reverends are satanic leader material, too, particularly Wolf, with his tacky sermon and the way he manhandled Reverend Meek this past Sunday. I'm sure the reverends are at least in on it. I've been sure ever since I heard Meek died while he was with them. See, I know Meek wasn't a cult member, or he would've probably been at the meeting at my house, like the other reverends." "And he wouldn't have tried to straighten the cross when Wolf and Hardin wanted to leave it upside down." "Right. I think Meek stumbled upon the cult, maybe just recently. Or it could be he knew about the cult all along and finally made up his mind to come forward. For whatever reason, the other two ministers must've suddenly perceived him to be a threat. So to keep him from talking, they either allowed him to choke to death, or probably caused him to." Angel still found that hard to believe. "Oh Peter, how could anyone make anyone else choke to death on food?" "Maybe putting something in the food or on it. It could've simply been something to make it too hot, like red pepper. I saw someone do that in a movie once, and it made the person who ate it start choking. I hate to sound cold, but who the leader is, and who killed who and how, doesn't really matter now. What we need to worry about is keeping ourselves safe. With both of us growing older and people getting nervous about us being together, the time for our sacrifice must be close, if not here already. Don't forget what your father said in his journal--these people are ruthless enough to eliminate anyone who gets in their way. Just like they did with him and Connor, and like they probably did with Reverend Meek and Mrs. DuMore." Peter paused. An air of uncharacteristic doom pervaded his features and voice. "I'm in even more danger than you." Already terrified beyond her wildest imagination, Angel shivered. "What are you talking about?" "Today, after you left, I went to a payphone and called the cops. Not the Grimshaw cops, though. I phoned the cops in Sommerville and talked to Sheriff Sharp, the one who's investigating the cult and who Tatum wouldn't work with. I think he's antsy about this jurisdiction issue, ‘cause at first, he told me Grimshaw's not his jurisdiction and I should call Sheriff Tatum. I told him I was either showing my evidence to him or to no one. So he agreed. I brought him and two Sommerville officers out here and showed them Lucky's carcass. They took it for evidence. But some reporter tailed us, and…" Peter finished slowly, "…he snapped a shot of me." "Oh God! Peter, they'll be after you!" "My mother, my father, the whole cult. I told Sharp I suspected my parents were in on it and might be a threat to me. But he gave me the brush-off. First, he said I had no evidence against my parents. Next, he said I'd have to let Tatum know if I had a domestic problem. Then he said he was going to have to report the evidence I provided to Tatum, too. He's full of it. He's not reporting crap to Tatum ‘cause he suspects Tatum's rotten, just like I do. Sharp was just blowing smoke so he won't be publicized as overstepping his boundaries, with this jurisdiction issue being in the papers and that reporter snooping around. "When I figured out Sharp wasn't going to put a gag order on that reporter or do anything to help me, I started in on the reporter. I wanted him to hand over his film so my picture wouldn't run. Of course, he refused. I kept pestering him till he said if I'd leave him the hell alone, he'd delay publishing my name and picture until the day after tomorrow. That gives me less than forty-eight hours. Afterward, when the article and my picture hits the papers, the cult will kill me. "I'm not sticking around to wait for them to off me like they offed everybody else. I'm getting the hell outta here." He stood, as if ready to leave right that second. "I'm getting as far away from Grimshaw as possible. And I'm never coming back."  CHAPTER 25: IN THE NAME OF LOVE Angel sprang to her feet. "You can't go, Peter! You just can't!" "I have to." Peter went to her side. "I know too much. If I stay, I'll end up a threat to you as well as myself." "No! There has to be a better way." "Like what?" "Like… an adult," she grasped. Peter shook his head and adjusted Camelot's saddlebags. "Sharp and the Sommerville P.D. were my only hopes of adult help, and they haven't got the evidence or the guts to override these jurisdiction issues. I don't have the time to wait for them to make a move." "But Peter, every single adult in Grimshaw can't be in on the cult, they just can't! One of them has to be able to help you--to help us --so you don't have to run away!" Peter leaned back against a tree and folded his arms. "Like who?" "What about Mr. Chester?" Angel asked. Peter rolled his eyes. "C'mon, I know he's not a devil worshipper. He just can't be! He's too nice. And it's not like he has any family or anything to lose." "What can he do to help us?" The shadowy growth to the right of the clearing shifted. "Oh God," Angel whispered, "please tell me that's the wind." Peter moved over to her and put his arm around her. Sticks and shrubs cracked beneath the pressure of first one, then two heavy footsteps. "I knew it," Peter said between clenched teeth. "Get out of here," Angel hissed. "Run!" Peter didn't move. "Not without you. On three. One…" Another footstep. "Two…" Peter locked his hand around hers. A silhouette appeared between the trees and moved toward them. "Three!" Peter sprinted toward the left edge of the clearing, yanking Angel behind him. "Wait!" They stopped as the bushes parted and Jeb Chester stepped into the clearing. He smiled wanly. "My ears were burning." Peter didn't move any closer or let go of Angel's hand. "How long have you been here?" "Long enough to know what you know." "Great," Peter muttered. "It's okay, Peter. We can trust him," Angel urged. She let go of Peter's hand and went to Jeb. "Can't we, Mr. Chester?" He chuckled. "I ain't gonna try to serve your heads and hearts on a platter, or turn you into anyone who will, if that's what you mean. But other than that, your boyfriend there's right." He gestured at Peter. "I ain't sure what good I can be to you." "How about information?" Angel said. "Am I right, Mr. Chester? There have to be more people in Grimshaw like you who aren't in on this. People who can help." "Wish I could say there were." Groaning, Jeb lowered his fat, aging body to the ground with great effort and folded himself into a sitting position. Angel sat before him. After a minute's hesitation, Peter reluctantly sat next to her. "Peter's right," Jeb continued. "They're two other types of folks in Grimshaw besides Satanists--the ones that don't know nothin', and the ones that know a little or a lot but are too scared to talk." Peter crossed his arms and said condescendingly, "So you're one of the scared ones." "Yep. Wasn't always that way. Then again, I wasn't always livin' in ditches like a damned rodent, either. There was a time I had a home, a family, a truck, even steady income from farmin' my own land. But then the drought and recession came in seventy-three, and soon after, the Grimshaw sect of Satanism formed. Two fellows dressed all in black approached me one night and asked me to join. I refused." He looked at Angel. "I went to Sheriff Tatum about it, not knowing he was as rotten as eggs in an abandoned henhouse. It wasn't long after, my wife died of a sickness nobody could name, and our two kids disappeared without hide nor hair of them turning up. Each time I'd try to go to someone with what I knew, something would stop me, like my pickup breaking down or my phone line mysteriously going out. Then afterward, something bad would happen. I'd lose someone or something. It was like the Devil was punishing me for trying to talk. In fact, I'm sure that's what was happening. Eventually, I quit trying to come forward, but it was too late. I started losing everybody and everything till I was out in the streets. Just me and my only little friend here." He opened his jacket and patted a flask of booze. "Why didn't you just leave?" Peter asked. "Why don't you now?" Jeb shrugged. "Reckon ‘cause I ain't got nowhere to go, and no money to go there with. Plus, I'm just too big of a drunk and a coward to have the gall or the gumption to leave and start all over." Clearly, Peter was still skeptical. "If you know so much, and were so damned disloyal that you deserved punishment from Satan, why haven't his followers killed you by now?" "Don't rightly know, son. I know they're out there, but I don't know the ins and outs of what they think and how they work. Don't reckon nobody does that's lived to tell about it. Could be I ain't high up on their priorities list, seein' as I ain't a little Anglo-Saxon child. But most likely, I think it's ‘cause they're making an example out of me to everybody else." Angel said, "You mean, kind of like, ‘If you try to stop us or tell on us, you'll end up losing it all like Mr. Chester.'" "Uh-huh. And it works. The folks that know about it but won't take part struggle to make ends meet, are outcasts, or both. But they know that beats losing everything and everyone they love. ‘Cause that's what always happens to anybody who tries to come forward. Either they lose it all, or they lose their lives, like Reverend Meek…" Jeb looked at Angel. "And your daddy. So folks who don't want to bow to the Devil either play deaf and dumb like nothin's happenin', or they hightail it out of Grimshaw when they find out about it. Peter, you were right about your schoolmate Hirschell Rubenstein. That's exactly why they left." "How do you know all this?" Peter asked. "Living outside lends itself to overhearin' a lot through open windows or careless passersby." Angel asked tentatively, "Mr. Chester, have you ever witnessed any of the rituals?" "Not all the way through. I always get the hell out. It's not like I wanna watch too much of that sick shit. Anyhow, there are only a few people I feel I could specifically name who ain't involved. But they either can't or won't be able to help. Some of ‘em would probably even snitch on y'all, just to gain favor or protection for themselves." "Do you know who the leader is?" Angel wanted to know. "Is it Peter's daddy?" Jeb shrugged in a noncommittal way. He plunged his arm inside his jacket, pulled out the flask, and took a drink. Angel turned to Peter and said in desperation, "What about my family? They can't be involved, especially not Grandma. None of them were at your house that day, right? And they wouldn't want anything to happen to us, or at least to me. Maybe we could go to them." Peter replied, "I'm not sure if your mom is in on this thing, but I'm sure Lance is one of those people like Jeb's talking about, one of the ones who knows a shitload and is too scared to tell. I bet that's why he says the Grimshaw church is too hypocritical and corrupt for him to stand." He raised his eyebrows at Jeb. "Right?" "I don't know," Jeb said, swigging from the flask once more. "The way things are with Lance, it's not like I can waltz right up to him and your mom, tell them how I know you, and ask for help." "Yep," Jeb agreed. "I wouldn't go to them if I were y'all." "That leaves only your grandma, and she's out of the question, too. Her health would probably keep her from taking much real action. If not, still, we both know she's been hoarding your father's stash since right after his death. She's too scared to talk to even you about it, much less go to the authorities." "But she's thinking about going to the authorities!" Angel said. "She said so herself just this afternoon!" "I don't have enough time to wait for her to decide that, either," Peter said, "or all the red tape that will be involved if she does. No, I either leave Grimshaw now alive, or leave later in a body bag--if they find my remains, that is. I have no other choice." Jeb put the flask away. "That's right, Angel. Your granny's a sweet enough lady, but she ain't doin' nothin'. She stands to lose too much. Peter's gotta get outta here, pronto." Angel threw up her hands. "Peter, what are you going to do, and how? You don't have any money." "I've got some allowance I've saved, plus I snuck home when my parents went out looking for me and stole some from them. I've even got a few things packed for the road." He indicated a small knapsack attached to Camelot's saddle. "How are you going to travel?" Angel objected. "On foot? You won't get anywhere fast. Public transportation? You'll be out of money in no time, plus you'll be spotted. Camelot? You'll stand out like a sore thumb. Steal a car?" "Maybe. Dad's let me drive a time or two, and I drive our tractor. I shouldn't have too hard a time operating a car. And I'm pretty sure I've watched enough TV and movies to figure out how to hotwire, too." "But you aren't old enough to have a license!" Before Peter could respond, Angel turned to Jeb. "You are, though, Mr. Chester." "Little girl, I ain't had a drivers' license in years!" Jeb exclaimed. "That doesn't matter. You're old enough to have one. Even if you can't get another one, you wouldn't stand out behind the wheel of a car like Peter." "He doesn't have a car, Angel," Peter reminded her. "But if you're gonna steal everything anyway…" She looked at Jeb again. "Please, Mr. Chester. Go with Peter. Help him. A kid with an adult is going to be a lot less conspicuous than a kid traveling alone. And they won't be looking for Peter with you." Jeb shook his head. "We'd never make it out of Grimshaw, especially together. They'd spot us immediately, then kill us both." "So leave separately and meet somewhere!" Angel cried, exasperated. "Sh-h-h-h!" Peter hissed. "Somebody's gonna hear us!" In tears, Angel turned back to Jeb. "Please. I don't want anything to happen to Peter. I… care about him too much. Please, for once in your life, be brave. If you don't do it for Peter, do it for yourself, to give yourself another chance. Or if you won't do it for yourself, do it for me." Jeb grunted. "I am gettin' tired of bein' scared of everybody and everything in this town. And I'm gettin' too old to be livin' out of ditches and off booze and table scraps." Peter said, "I could meet you at St. Mary's of Sommerville. That's her grandmother's church. I'm sure a little name-dropping would get their cooperation." "You can get there?" Jeb asked Peter. "On my horse. What about you?" "I know a little ‘bout hotwirin' myself, so I reckon I could get my hands on a pickup somewhere ‘round here. Especially in the middle of the night like this. What then?" Peter shrugged. "Just get there, and we'll figure out the rest, then." "I'll have to bide my time and pick the right opportunity," Jeb said. "Might take a while." "That's okay. I'll wait there." Jeb nodded. "Guess I'd better get outta here and get to it." "Be careful, Mr. Chester," Angel said. "And thank you." She gave him a hug. "Bless your heart, honey, you're welcome," he said, hugging her back. "But don't thank me. I don't even know yet if we'll make it." They parted. He and Peter made eye contact. Peter nodded and extended his hand. "Yeah, thanks." Jeb gave Peter a small smile and shook his hand. "Before you leave, see to it she gets home safely, hear?" "I will." "I'll let you two say your good-byes in private." Jeb tipped his hat to them. "See y'all ‘round." Then he left. Angel embraced Peter. She started crying all over again. "I'm going to miss you so much." "I know, I know, but…" "God, it's not fair!" It was like the cult had cut out her own heart. Not only had her forest and church sanctuaries been violated, not only had all hope of her father being alive been lost, but now she was going to lose one of the two people who meant the most to her. "I don't want you to go!" "I wish I didn't have to." Peter lowered his head. "But I have no--" "If this is goodbye, I want to say it right." She leaned forward and touched her lips to his, again and again. "So you won't forget me." "I could never forget you." He returned her kisses, hard and fast, pressing his lips more and more deeply into hers. Between kisses, he panted, "But I should go. I have to meet Jeb…" "He said it'd take him a while to get there," she whispered, moving her mouth over his. "Still, we shouldn't be doing this." He wrapped his arms around her. The tip of his tongue touched hers, sending a hot tingling of pleasure through every nerve in her body. He withdrew just long enough to say, "It won't solve anything…" before plunging in again. Her tingling grew as he lingered there longer this time, rolling his tongue around and under hers, before withdrawing again and adding, "And it's still the same risks as before…" His lips moved over hers, then down her face and neck. "…and worse, since I'm in all this trouble." "Who cares?" she argued, wrapping her arms around his waist. "After tonight, we may not live to take any more risks." "I know," he whispered. "And I need to be with you so much right now." He pulled her to him, closer and closer as they kissed. She felt his body grow stiff. Her muscles melted into putty, and her knees buckled. Peter lowered her to the ground. He hesitated, his body hovering just over hers. "You're sure?" "Yeah. But I don't know exactly what to do," she whispered, her skin flushing. "Don't worry," he whispered back. "I do. Just relax, and do what feels natural and right." Peter returned his mouth to hers. His fingers found the buttons on her top and unfastened them, one by one, his hands brushing against her skin. Anticipation and the mere sensation of the touch made Angel quiver. Then he undid her bra.  Never, ever under any circumstances let a boy touch you anywhere, especially your chest… Angel suppressed her mother's voice and its accompanying guilt. Peter's hands explored every inch of her bare breasts, causing her to sigh with pleasure. He stopped, startled. "You okay?" "Better than okay." "You want us to stop?" The question was full of concern, yet Angel could tell he hadn't really wanted to ask. She didn't. To prove it, she reached for the edge of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. Peter resumed exploring her breasts, this time with his mouth. His tongue circled her nipple, and she moaned as he devoured it with his lips. He pulled at her elastic shorts and slipped them, along with her underwear, over her hips. He paused to drink in her bare body. "God, you're so beautiful," he whispered. "Even more beautiful than I ever imagined." Angel felt herself redden. He kissed her lips once more, then dotted his mouth along her face and breasts while his hand traveled up her bare legs, his fingers stopping between her legs. She gasped, and her legs automatically moved apart.  "…especially your chest or privates, and especially beneath your clothing…" Go away, Mother, she told the voice in her head, and it faded as Peter began to rub his hand back and forth against her. Each motion of his hand, coupled with his ongoing nibbles at her breasts, caused her body to convulse in rapture. She took a moment to soak in the pleasure of his kisses and touches as well as to draw her courage. Then, with trembling fingers, she reached for his pants.  "If you're ever alone with a boy or man, and he unzips his pants, he is going to do something unspeakable to you, a thing more painful and terrible than you can imagine…" Cecilia's voice came more faintly this time, and disappeared altogether when Peter dropped his hand long enough to undo his zipper. He resumed his caresses while she worked her hand between the open denim flaps and touched him through the outside of his underwear. That simple contact made his already erect male part raise higher. She gently closed her fingers around it. It hardened, and Peter let out a deep sigh and groan. Angel peeled back the underwear and placed her hand on his bare body. The instant she did, his breathing deepened and quickened. She could hear his heart pounding as he asked, "Are you ready?" Intoxicated with the experience, Angel could manage nothing more than a nod. Peter eased her legs farther apart. "I'll try not to hurt you." He moved in closer and eased himself inside her. She cried out, pain shooting though her loins as he penetrated her for the first time. Again, he paused long enough to ask if she was okay. She really wasn't. It hurt like crazy. Yet she relished being so close to him, and besides, she sensed he couldn't stop now, even if she wanted him to. So she nodded, and he pushed in deeper. Then he began to rock back and forth inside her. The motion gradually replaced her pain with sheer ecstasy. They began to move together, faster and faster, periodically kissing and whispering one another's names. Finally, when the motion felt almost too good for Angel to stand any longer, Peter's warm liquid spilled inside her. He gasped and stopped moving. For a moment, he lay motionless on top of her. Then he kissed her again and pushed himself up with his hand. He leaned over her and met her eyes. "I love you, Angel. I always have." "I…" she began. "You're my best friend." God, that sounded totally weak after what he'd said and everything that had happened! But she couldn't bring herself to say it. It had all happened so fast, and she was just too overcome with the whole thing to be sure she felt the same. Either Peter didn't mind, or he did a darned good job of faking it. He smiled. "Yeah, you're my best friend, too." He rose, moved to the stream, and rinsed himself off. "It's getting late. We should get dressed." He pulled on his underwear and reached for his jeans. She nodded, sat up, and donned her undergarments. "Guess you want to get going." "Yeah," said Peter, stepping into his jeans and zipping them. "I should've left a while ago." Angel nodded again. She held herself together long enough to get into her clothes, then broke down crying. "You can't go, you just can't! I won't be able to stand it without you! Especially now that we've… Wait! You don't have to go, now! We just lost our virginity! The cult won't want us anymore, right? We're safe!" Peter smiled sadly and shook his head. "I snitched on them, remember?" he said, pulling on his shirt. "They'll want to kill me for that, sacrifice or not. Besides, what are we going to do, broadcast that we made love on the six o'clock news?" "You're right." Angel sat back and sighed. "Guess I'm desperate not to lose you." "You don't have to," Peter said, hugging her. "What?" "I was going to tell you earlier, but I didn't get the chance." He cupped her chin in his hand and tipped her head upward to face him. His eyes joined hers. "I want you to come with me." Angel gaped. "Peter, I… I can't!" "What do you have to keep you here? Your physical features make you a sitting duck. They're already starting to lurk around you. I hate to scare you, but they could kill you whenever they want." In ironic confirmation of Peter's warning, a screeching siren of an ambulance or police car echoed throughout the forest. Peter waited for the siren's wail to die away. "You have no life with that Bible-beating, child-beating stepfather, and a mother who won't do crap about it, and--" "And Grandma," Angel finished. "She's been really good to me, and I love her. I can't just leave her!" "Is that the only thing that's stopping you?" Angel nodded. Peter clasped her hands in his. "From what you've told me about her, I think she'll understand. She'll want what's best for you. She'll want you to protect yourself and get the hell out of here." Considering her recent talk with Grandma, Angel knew Peter was right. In fact, Grandma would probably think it was a darned good idea. Despite the confusion from her conflicted feelings, her resistance began weakening. "I don't know…" she said as another siren sounded in the distance. "Please, leave with me tonight. If we go right now, we can meet Jeb at the church, and the three of us can be long gone by the time that article runs. I don't want to leave you, but you know I can't stay. I mean, I wish things weren't so messed up. I wish we could go on formal dates, and I could bring you flowers, and romantic boyfriend-and-girlfriend stuff like that, ‘cause you deserve to be treated that way. But I don't need to go through all that to know how I feel. I've known it ever since we first met in kindergarten. And after we became friends and I got to know you, I was surer than ever. Angel, I love you, and I want you to come with me." Angel reeled. "Are you sure?" Peter half-laughed. Becoming solemn again, he took her hand and merged his eyes with hers. "What I feel for you is very real. If it weren't, I'd have never allowed what just happened between us. And I wouldn't be asking you to run away with me. I know I love you. That's the only thing left in this world I'm sure of." He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers in a kiss both delicate yet firm and long. "Will you leave with me?" Angel felt herself grow warm. Her heart overpowered her mind, and the remainder of her resistance melted away. "Yes, I'll go with you." "Great!" Peter said, obviously relieved and elated, so much so that he began to babble. "I already have my basic necessity stuff, but I should probably go home for my bike, and you should go back for your bike and stuff ‘cause we both can't ride Camelot, and we don't want to be seen leaving together. Wait, no, somebody could catch one or both of us and stop us. Let's see… oh, I got it! You can borrow some of my stuff until we get a chance to get you new stuff, and we'll just go on Camelot and take turns riding her. Or we'll both ride her, but only a little bit of the way since she can't carry us very far, then we'll walk a little to let her rest. And if we use Camelot instead of our bikes, we can cut through the woods. Yeah, that's it! We'll just stay in the woods till we get to Outland Way, then we'll head to St. Mary's, and…" His enthusiasm was so great, his manner so optimistic, Angel couldn't help but get caught up in his happiness, too. She smiled, getting all excited and actually beginning to believe they could make it, that something would work out for her for once. A voice called from the opposite end of the path, just outside the forest. "Angel! Angel, are you out there?" Panic-stricken, she froze and locked eyes with Peter. "It's my mother!" "Angel?" Cecilia called again, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Please answer me!" Angel's voice quivered. "I bet Lance has missed me and is too mad to come after me himself. So she's come to take me home. But when she does--" "No!" Peter cried, then scowled. "Crap! I didn't mean to--" "Who's there?" Cecilia demanded. Peter reverted to whispering, but his firmness remained. "No!" he repeated to Angel. "You're not going back there!" "Angel!" Cecilia called. "Who's out there with you?" They heard the sound of twigs crackling. "Come on!" Peter jerked Angel to her feet. "We can get away, and your stepfather will never be able to hurt you again!" "Angel! Please!" her mother called. The sound of her footsteps drew closer. Peter pulled Angel toward Camelot. "Get on, hurry!" "Angel, I know you're out here! I can hear you moving!" Her mother's voice sounded so urgent, Angel almost felt guilty. Almost. "You gotta come home! Now!" Peter almost threw Angel into the saddle, then climbed onto Camelot behind her. "Giddy-up!" He sent Camelot galloping toward the left edge of the clearing, in the direction of the cult grounds and Outland Way. "Angel, I can still hear you! Where…?" Over Peter's shoulder, she saw her mother step into the moonlit clearing, but the deep shadows of the dense trees masked them from her view. Cecilia swung her head from left to right, trying to figure out which way they had gone. "Angel, for the love of…" Angel would have turned around and never looked back had it not been for what her mother said next. "Angel, it's Grandma!"  CHAPTER 26: OMEN "What?" Angel called. She thought of the ambulance siren they had heard earlier. She whispered to Peter, "Stop!" He tugged the reins and muttered "Whoa!" in a disappointed voice. Cecilia squinted in their direction. Her voice broke into a childish wail. "I said it's Grandma! She's… you gotta come home!" Peter gazed at Angel with desperate hope, already diminishing. "Do you have to?" "You know I do. I'm sorry." She dismounted and started away. Peter leaned over and placed his hand on her arm. "There's still another day before that article runs. I could come back here tomorrow night, cut through the woods on Camelot. Will you meet me in our usual place?" "What about Jeb? He'll have a hot truck on his hands. He'll need to get out." "He might not even show. Besides, you're my first priority." "I don't know." They had come so close to being caught together that doubt crept over Angel. To think this, or anything else, could ever work out for her was probably crazy. "I don't know what's going on with Grandma. And since they've caught me tonight, it'll be hard to get out so soon." "But leaving during the day's too risky, and I have to go by tomorrow night. Will you be here?" "I'll try," Angel said without much hope. Reluctantly, she pulled herself away from him and ran toward the clearing. Peter and Camelot galloped off in the opposite direction. When Cecilia spotted Angel approaching, she sighed in relief. "There you are! I've been calling and calling you! Why on earth didn't you answer?" Stepping into the clearing, Angel put on her best halo facade. "I didn't hear you until just now." "Well, it scared me to death, and scared me worse when I heard another voice. Who was with you?" "Nobody." When her mother gave her a look of skepticism, Angel whispered with feigned fear, "I heard somebody else, too. But I never saw who it was. Kinda scary, huh?" "Yes," her mother agreed, believing her, yet at the same time becoming disinterested. She frowned. "I've no idea what you were doing past this clearing, and at night to boot, but your father--" "What happened?" Angel gasped, pointing. Cecilia was wearing flip-flops, faded blue jeans, and the old black-and-white, horizontal striped T-shirt she generally used only as a nightshirt. The shirttail was half-tucked inside, half-crumpled outside her jeans. In the light of the full moon, Angel saw blood smeared across the shirt's front. Cecilia peered at the shirt, then at Angel. "It's Grandma's. C'mon, we gotta go. Lance is angry, and Grandma… we gotta go." Angel followed her mother up the path to Lance's truck, which was idling on the roadside. During the short ride down Blackwood Road, Cecilia gave a brief account of what happened. Whereas she showed some exterior signs of being upset, she seemed amazingly composed, considering the tragedy involved her mother. While telling the story, she held herself together much better than Angel did while listening. "We came home and found you gone and Grandma on the floor in her bedroom. She's got multiple stab wounds in her chest and stomach. I don't know how many, but it's a lot ‘cause she's bleeding so much you can't even see them all. I tried to… to help her. That's why her blood's on me." "Oh, God." Angel's tears started to fall. "Is she going to be okay?" "She was almost gone when I left." Angel's silent tears gave way to loud, heaving sobs. She cried harder than she ever had over her beatings or Lucky or any of the other terrible things that had happened in her life. "Who did it?" Cecilia looked at her darkly. "Your buddy, Jeb Chester." "No way! He couldn't have ‘cause he--" "What?" "Nothing." Angel shook her head, crying harder. "How do you know?" "We caught him red-handed. We heard her screaming, and when we came in, they were in the hall. He was kneeling over her. The knife was in his hand. There was blood on his clothes." "There must be some mistake." Angel sniffled. "I mean, why would he do it?" Cecilia shrugged. "The screen's been cut on your window, and some of my jewelry was stuffed in his jacket pocket. We think he was trying to get stuff to pawn for liquor money--he was an alcoholic, you know. Grandma probably surprised him."  "Was an alcoholic?" "When Lance came in and saw him stooped over the body, he got out his rifle from behind the bedroom door and shot him." Cecilia pulled the truck into the driveway. Two Woodland County patrol cars were parked inside the gate. An officer got out of one of the cars, walked up the front steps, and went in the house. Also parked inside the gate were two Woodland County ambulances, both of their lights flashing and rear doors open. At the rear of the nearest ambulance, two paramedics stood alongside a gurney, covering a body. Just before they put the sheet over the face, Angel saw Jeb's glassy eyes, frozen open and lifeless. She screamed. "Hush, Angel," Cecilia snapped, maneuvering the truck into the yard, out of the way of the other vehicles. Meanwhile, the two paramedics loaded Jeb into the back of the ambulance and drove away. Lance paced to and fro across the front porch, a livid lion ready to pounce on his prey. Sheriff Tatum stood next to him with his notepad, writing something. He kept looking up and moving his mouth, like he was asking questions, but Lance wasn't responding. Tatum threw up his hands and sauntered into the house. Cecilia gestured toward Lance. "I wanted to stay with Grandma, but I came after you because I knew one of us had to. I didn't want it to be your father--" "He's not--" "--because he's very upset at you for being out alone at night. He figured you were in the woods, so you'd best not lie about it. We won't tell him you went past that clearing, though. That way, he won't get any madder." Lance started down the porch steps. From inside the house, another paramedic emerged, tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. Lance glanced at the paramedic, then at the truck. His eyes ignited, and for several agonizing seconds, they burned into Angel through the windshield. Then he turned and followed the paramedic through the front door. Angel leapt out of the truck, ready to bolt inside the house and to Grandma's side. She didn't have to. Two paramedics came out the front door, carrying a stretcher with Grandma strapped to it. "Grandma!" Angel screamed. The woman didn't respond. She was wrapped in white hospital linens, soaked red with blood. Her eyes were closed. The two paramedics lifted the stretcher into the rear of the ambulance. Angel made eye contact with one of them. "Is she…?" "Good as, kid. Sorry." The paramedics turned to close the ambulance doors. Before they could, Angel leapt into the vehicle and stooped next to the stretcher. "Grandma! Grandma! Can you hear me?" Grandma's lids fluttered. "Angel, darling, is that you?" "Yes," Angel said between tears. "Jeb Chester didn't do this to you, did he?" Grandma shook her head. "He heard me… said he thought it was you… tried to help me-e-e-e… but…" Grandma coughed up blood. "Don't worry about that part." After all, it was pointless to defend poor Jeb now; he was gone. "Just tell me who did it." "People… wearing… black." Angel thought of the figure skulking across the road earlier, and of what she'd learned about the cult members. "What people?" she cried, her heart racing. "Who did this to you?" Grandma's eyes closed. She didn't move. The intermittent beeps of a heart monitor droned to a single, unremitting tone. The monitor's blue line, which had been jumping across the screen in sporadic triangles, went flat. "Grandma!" The instant the word died in the air, a chill filled the ambulance. It prickled Angel's skin and stood her hair on end. A white, vapor-like entity rushed past her. The monitor's beeps began again, this time rapid as gunfire, and the blue triangles flashed on and zoomed by in a dizzying blur. The bulbs that lit the rear of the ambulance exploded, one after the other, in a series of loud bursts, leaving only the moon and a nearby street lamp to provide light. Grandma's eyelids flew open. The stretcher's straps snapped in half, and her body shot upright. She turned white--not the pale, natural white of a sick or dying human being, but ghost -white. Her unblinking eyes glassed over and bulged, seeming on the verge of literally popping out of her head. They fixed themselves on Angel, then rolled backward, so Angel could see nothing but their whites. The woman's arms shot forward, and her hands locked around Angel's shoulders. Angel, scared out of her mind, twisted and squirmed to get away, but Grandma's grip felt like iron and held her fast. A low, deep moan sounded within Grandma's throat, followed by a series of unintelligible noises that evolved into words. They toned deep, hollow, as if spoken from a place far away, sounding like nothing Angel had ever heard from Grandma--nor any other human being. "Angel! This place is unholy, no place for a child of God! Leave with Peter now! While you both still can!" Angel stopped struggling and perused Grandma. How had she known about Peter asking her to leave? The unnerving realization crept upon her that Grandma couldn't know, that she didn't know. The words had come from Grandma's mouth, yet she had not spoken them. Angel heard a rushing roar similar to that of a tornado swallowing everything in its path. A powerful gust of air blew through the ambulance, making Angel's T-shirt and cotton shorts billow about her body and her ponytail whip around her head and face. A blinding, white light flooded the ambulance. She squinted against both the turbulence and the light. Then came a whoosh, like something being sucked into a vacuum, followed by a zipping noise. The wind stopped, the white light extinguished, and everything around her fell still. Still as death. Grandma's eyes closed. Her hands dropped from Angel's shoulders. Her body jellied and slumped backward on the stretcher. "Grandma!" The body remained motionless, as if she had never moved at all but had been dead the whole time. Maybe she had been. Maybe the shock of the situation, of the whole evening, had caused Angel to imagine the entire thing. Logically, if it had really happened, wouldn't the other people have witnessed it? Stunned, Angel stumbled to the doorway. That's when she knew something had really happened. She heard none of the usual country evening sounds, like crickets chirping and owls hooting. The grass and trees stood stock-still, not a sign of life as small as an insect or even a faint breeze daring to disturb them. The paramedics stood rooted in place, in the same positions in which they had been when Angel had entered the ambulance. Her mother, who had shuffled onto the porch when the paramedics brought out Grandma, now leaned with her shoulder propped against the porch post, her eyes unblinking. It was like seeing a single frame of a paused movie, with life and time frozen in that one moment. Angel took a deep breath and jumped out of the ambulance. The thump of her sneakers on the ground reawakened the world. The familiar night noises and the breeze resumed, and the people around her began moving once more, as if they had never stopped. One of the paramedics gently pushed Angel out of the way so he could close the ambulance doors. Angel's horror and grief paralyzed her like everything and everyone else had just been, and she remained where the paramedic had moved her, staring blankly ahead, until the ambulance sped away. Then she saw Lance striding toward her and unbuckling his belt. Angel started to flee, but he grabbed her arm. "Don't you dare run from me, girl! You know better!" His right hand tightened around her arm while his left slid his belt out of its loops. "What were you doing in the goddamned woods tonight?" "Grandma was murdered!" Angel screamed, struggling to escape. Holding her fast, Lance sent the belt flying across her bottom and thighs. She froze, closed her eyes, and bore the painful blows. She'd learned long ago that if she twisted away, he'd keep going, no matter where on her body the belt might land. Lance repeatedly lifted the belt and let it drop in hard, rapid blows. "You were supposed to have been here with her! If you'd been here, you might could've done something! You could've gotten a neighbor or called Nine-One-One! It might not have happened at all! But instead, you snuck off." Her knees crumpling, Angel slid out of his grasp and collapsed. Stooping to her eye level, Lance got in her face, his breath like fire on her skin. "Your grandmother's dead, and it's all your fault! You're a sinner! And her death is God's way of punishing you." He had struck a nerve. Angel knelt, unable to speak or move. Was that true? Would Grandma still be alive if she hadn't snuck out and made love with Peter? Was she really being punished? He paused, his eyes shooting flames into her. "Get up, girl." She staggered to her feet. "I said, what were you doing in the goddamned woods?" "Nothing," she replied flatly. He slapped her across the face. "Don't lie to me! You were out there with a boy, weren't you?" "No," Angel replied, shifting her eyes from his. "Word has it you've been hanging around with Peter St. Thomas." Angel's mouth dropped. How did he know? She quickly recovered her wits. "No, sir." "Boys!" Lance threw up his hands. "Didn't that Connor kid teach you that boys are nothing but trouble, that you need to follow the rules of the Bible and your father and stay away from them?" He slapped her once more. "Now, Tatum's inside, and he and his officer need statements from us. Get in that house and answer their questions. Then go to your room, and don't ever let me catch you sneaking out again!" With her hand pressed over her throbbing jaw, Angel trudged up the porch steps past her mother. Cecilia seemed to have never thawed from her earlier freeze. Like a statue, she remained stationary in the same position, slumped against the post, still wearing the bloodstained shirt, her face stone, her eyes fixed and zombie-like. Angel wandered into the house, her mind in a dreamlike haze. With everything happening so quickly, and turning out so strangely and tragically, nothing seemed real anymore. In a blur, she bypassed some Woodland County officers, milling about the living room and kitchen. One tried to stop her to ask some questions, but she muttered an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. She wanted at least a few moments alone before dealing with them. Angel remained in her mental stupor until she started past Grandma's room and glanced inside. She halted dead in her tracks and screamed. It wasn't the yellow police tape, the overturned furniture, the broken figurines, the chalk outline on the floor, or even the bloodstains on the rugs that evoked her reaction. Rather, it was Grandma's large, white statue of Mary, like the one from the horror movie Angel had seen. As usual, Angel had half-expected her imagination's eye to see the bloody extensions jutting from Grandma's statue like they had from the movie's statue. What she saw instead was much more real, and much more terrifying. Painted in blood--fresh, wet, and shiny--across the statue's chest and outreaching arms were the words, "Satan walks in Grimshaw, always…" In the middle of the statue's abdomen was a crude painting of a curled-up fetus. The fetus's body was human, yet it had a long tail with a point on the end, and the head and growling face of a demon. Below the half-human, half-demon fetus was a continuation of the previous words: "…seeking rebirth as a human Antichrist." Two county officers, in the room gathering evidence and dusting for prints, looked up when Angel screamed. "What is it?" one asked. "The statue!" Angel half-yelled, half-sobbed, pointing. The officers looked at the statue. "What about it?" the same officer asked, as Sheriff Tatum ran in from the kitchen, followed by Lance and her mother. "The blood!" Angel cried. "Don't y'all see…?" Angel looked from the officers, who exchanged glances of utter bafflement, to Tatum, her mother, and Lance. Even though Tatum wasn't much taller than Angel, he crouched before her as if she were a small child. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "See what, honey?" Cecilia settled a hand on Angel's opposite shoulder, yet stood back a little, as if afraid of becoming infected with some contagious disease. Lance folded his arms, scowled, and repeatedly rolled his eyes, muttering, "Stupid girl." It hit Angel that she was the only one who could see the bloody paintings, just as she had been the only one who had seen what happened in the ambulance. Maybe, hopefully, she was imagining the whole thing. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. The paintings remained. Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach. "Speak up, girl!" Lance barked. "The sheriff asked you a question!" "Huh?" said Angel, looking at Tatum. "What do you see, honey?" the sheriff cooed. "Nothing. All the blood… I thought I…" she fumbled for an explanation. "I thought I saw some on the statue, that's all." "Stupid girl," Lance repeated. "Perfectly normal reaction, folks." Tatum smiled, standing up again. "It's downright gruesome in there, if you think about it, enough to make a young, impressionable child imagine all sorts of things." Angel tried to move past them and enter the room. She had the urge to touch the paintings, to confirm to herself whether they existed. But Tatum put his hand on her arm and jerked her back. "Let's get her out of here. Probably ain't a good idea for her to be seein' all this. Uh-uh, no tellin' what kind of damage that might do." As Tatum shoved her toward the kitchen, Angel turned cold eyes to him. "Damage to me? Or to you?" He chuckled nervously. "Why, both, of course, hon. This is a crime scene, you know. Us police officers can't have civilians tamperin' with evidence." He closed the bedroom door. "You run along to the kitchen, now, and let the nice officers ask you some questions, okay?" * * * * Later that night, after Tatum and his flunkies had gone, and Lance and Cecilia had gone to bed, Angel tried to get a second look at the statue. Grandma's closed bedroom door was locked. Strange, for the room could be locked and unlocked only by turning a little lever located on the interior knob. Maybe Tatum had locked it on his way out to keep her from "tampering with evidence." Or maybe there was a far "less logical" explanation. After everything she'd witnessed the last several hours, she believed anything was possible. That thought alone led her to conclude that the blood paintings were really there after all. Walking through her bedroom doorway to turn in, Angel at last made her decision. With Grandma gone, nothing remained to keep her here. Like Peter had said, she had no life or future with her family. Furthermore, she could think of only two possible reasons cult members had broken in--whoever had been watching her and Grandma earlier overheard the woman say she was coming forward with what she knew, or they had caught Lance and her mother away from home and believed they had found their opportunity to… It scared her too much to think that. Her eyes wandered across the room, and she saw her bedroom window for the first time since the murder. Pieces of cardboard had been stuck to the cut screen with masking tape to cover the hole the intruders had left. The significance at last sank in. They had not cut the screen on just any window, but her window. Yes, running away was what she needed to do, what she had to do. In fact, she felt her very life depended on it.  CHAPTER 27: THE SHADOW OF DEATH "Dammit!" Lance yelled, slamming down the kitchen telephone the following afternoon. "Another hang-up call. A family's in mourning, and people can't even leave them alone. They have to go pulling stupid stunts like this!" Cecilia sighed. "Maybe somebody just keeps getting the wrong number." That caught Angel's attention. She had been sulking over her supper plate, which held one barbecued rib and a serving each of mashed potatoes, pinto beans, and apple cobbler, just a few of the various down-home dishes brought over by sympathetic friends and neighbors. Angel ordinarily savored such southern cooking. Currently, however, she hurt too much to enjoy food, and picked at the plate only because her mother had forced it upon her, whining, "But Angel dear, you have to eat something ." Angel put down her fork. "Or maybe it's the murderers calling. Maybe they want to see if we're home or if the police are here." Lance jerked her out of her chair by her shirt collar and smacked her across the jaw. "Girl, you need to get this fool notion out of your head! The police have already confirmed it was a burglary." "But Grandma was murdered!" Angel screamed. "Stabbed to death!" "Of course she was!" Lance snapped. "Like everybody told you, Jeb Chester wanted to steal something to buy booze with and thought no one was home. Nothing premeditated or planned by a crazed killer." Lance let go of her. "That's what Sheriff Tatum said, anyhow." After everything she'd learned, Angel knew the cult had murdered Grandma. Since last night, what Peter had said about doctors and police officers covering things up, and Tatum being a cult member or even the leader, had been at the forefront of her mind. "Maybe Tatum's wrong." Lance rolled his eyes. "Stupid girl." He rebuked Cecilia, "Woman, you let her watch too much TV." Cecilia ignored his comment. "I'm going to take a shower." After Cecilia left, Lance accused, "You're just making up stories." "I am not!" Angel cried. "It's like I told you last night, Jeb Chester didn't do this. Grandma said some guys in black did." Lance gestured at a kitchen chair. "I sat here last night while you gave your statement, and you didn't say crap about guys in black." Angel folded her arms. "It's because I don't trust Sheriff Tatum. I had hoped I could confide in you and Mother. Obviously, I was wrong." Lance looked unmoved. "You're just trying to distract everybody from your own sins, like always." Last night's lovemaking with Peter flashed through her mind. She ignored it. "I didn't commit any sins!" "You were out doing God knows what, with God knows who." Lance's voice became threatening. "And God will let me know who and what." "I just told you, I wasn't doing anything wrong!" "You done wrong enough when you snuck out at night. You sinned by not honoring the rules of your mother and your father." "You're not my--" Angel lost her words when Lance swooped down and leaned toward her. She cowered. He fixed his midnight eyes on hers. He opened his mouth to say something nasty. His fiery breath burned her face. "I had to kill a man last night. That's all your fault, too!" God, he was such a jerk, always blaming her and trying to make her feel guilty for everything. She'd been nuts to think he would help. A knock sounded at the front door, breaking the trance. Lance stood upright. "More folks bringing food, I reckon." Just as he started for the door, the phone rang. "Dammit!" "Want me to get the phone or the door?" Angel asked. "You get the phone. It's probably just another hang-up call." He disappeared into the living room. Angel picked up the telephone handset. "Hello?" "Thank God it's you this time!" "Peter?!" Angel exclaimed in a whisper after she heard the screen door open and close and Lance walk out on the front porch. "I'm the one who's been calling and hanging up. I'm calling you from out of town right now, and I'm almost out of change for the payphone. Are you alone?" Angel heard Lance's muffled voice and that of another man from outside. "For now," she whispered. "I heard about your grandmother. I'm sorry." "Thank you," said Angel, keeping her eyes on the kitchen door. "Did you hear she was murdered?" "I spent last night at the place we talked about, and I overheard them saying Jeb broke in and killed her. Do you believe that?" "No." Angel lowered her voice further and filled him in on the rest. "Right before Grandma died, she told me Jeb was trying to help her, and that her killers were people wearing black." "I figured that." Peter paused. "I also wanted to make sure you're leaving with me tonight. I know the timing sucks. But after what happened last night and this morning, I can't risk coming back unless you're leaving with me. Are you?" Lance hollered from the living room, "Girl, get in here! Now!" Peter overheard. "Damn!" "What happened this morning?" Angel asked, hoping he might tell her before Lance came in. "You mean you haven't seen the--?" "I said now, girl!" Lance shouted. "Crap!" Angel whispered. "Gotta go!" "Wait! I have to know! Are you coming with me?" "Where the hell…" Lance flung open the kitchen door. "Who's that on the phone?" "Yes," Angel said into the phone. "Yes sir, that is our number. But no one by that name lives here. Good-bye." She hoped Peter had understood her subtle way of saying "yes," she would leave with him. "Gimme that!" Lance jerked away the handset. "Who is this?" he demanded into the receiver. "He hung up." "Yeah, he hung up before you took the phone." Lance narrowed his eyes. "I heard him hanging up after I took the phone." Angel looked away and fidgeted nervously. "Guess I was wrong." The suspicion in Lance's expression deepened. "Go on in the living room. The sheriff wants to talk to you." Great, now she was in for it. Lance had probably blabbed her "made-up story" to Tatum. She knew Tatum well enough to predict his reaction, which would be the same whether he was a cult member or not. He'd give her some stupid lecture about how little girls shouldn't let their imaginations run wild. Rolling her eyes, Angel followed Lance into the living room. But it wasn't Sheriff Tatum. It was Sheriff Sharp. Angel froze, stunned. Had Tatum changed his mind about working with Sharp? If so, maybe Tatum wasn't a cult member after all. Sheriff Sharp smiled warmly, but initially he didn't remember her. "You must be Angel." "Yes, sir." "Sharp's my name." He put out his hand and shook hers. "I'm the Sheriff of Churchill County. I've been investigating a murder in the city of Sommerville, the murder of a boy only a few years younger than you." "Stephen Hope!" Angel exclaimed without thinking. Oh no, she shouldn't have said that! Her heart began to pound. "I was there Saturday when you talked to Sheriff Tatum." "Ah, yes, I remember now," he said. "You're the same Angel who got such a scare from Connor Wylie. But I don't think I mentioned Stephen's name publicly then, so you couldn't have heard it there. I did reveal it to the press previously, though." He grinned at Lance. "What a bright young woman you have here, keeping up with things like that. Why, she must read the papers a lot." Lance narrowed his brow at Angel. "Actually, I've never seen her read the papers. Ever." Angel swallowed and apprehensively tugged at her ponytail. She had to be more careful. Otherwise, through slips like that, somebody could figure out the connection between her and Peter. Sheriff Sharp began, "Angel, first let me offer my condolences. I'm very sorry about your grandmother's death." "Thank you." "I'm also sorry to have to come out here at a time like this. But I have some important questions I need to ask you and your family. Now, I assume since you know about Stephen, you must've read about him in the paper after all. ‘Cause that's the only way you'd have of hearing about him. Right?" Angel squirmed uncomfortably. What should she say? She didn't want to accidentally give Peter away. On the other hand, she wanted to answer every question with as much accuracy and thoroughness as she could in order to help the sheriff in his investigation. "Well, Lance is right. I don't really read the papers, but I happened to see the headline in one of Lance's newspapers. I read the first paragraph or two." As if to confirm Angel's story, Lance plopped down in his recliner and began to sort through a week-old stack of newspapers that had been accumulating on the adjacent rug. Sharp asked, "Did you read about who we think may have murdered Stephen Hope?" Angel hesitated. "I didn't read that far." "We think Stephen may have been the victim of a cult. I wanted to question you and your family because I think this same cult might have been involved in your grandmother's murder, maybe even the murder of Connor Wylie. If that's true, and the murders are connected, we might be able to put together enough clues from all three to lead us to the killers." Lance lifted his eyes from the newspapers. "Sir, with all due respect, Sheriff Tatum's questioned her about the Wylie boy, both right after the assault and when she found his body. As for her grandmother, our local officers were here last night for hours. We found things missing, and they concluded this was just a theft gone wrong by a local drunk, Jeb Chester. Sheriff Tatum said--" Sharp put up his hand. "I'm aware of his theories. But I'd like to get the story from each of you myself. We all overlook things from time to time. An important thing or two could have been missed." Lance yawned. "Waste your time if you want. That girl don't know shit." He started thumbing through the newspapers again. Sharp turned to Angel. "Are you up to answering a few questions for me, hon?" "Yes, sir." "Good. We'll start with the most recent incident, the murder of your grandmother." He pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. Flipping the notepad open, he asked, "Where were you last night when the break-in occurred?" "The woods." He frowned at her. "That's an awfully bad place for a young girl to be at night." "Tell me about it," Lance agreed without unearthing himself from the papers. "I've been trying to get that through her thick head forever, but she just keeps sneaking out there anyhow." "Hmmm," said the sheriff. "Why were you there?" "I just wanted to take a walk and get a little fresh air, and I like being in the woods." Sharp nodded and made a note, and Lance remained buried in the newspapers. She had gotten past that question okay. "Was anyone else there with you?" Lance leaned forward and eyeballed Angel. "No," she said quickly. Satisfied, Lance returned his attention to the papers. "When you were out there, did you see or hear anything strange?" "No." "About how long would you say you were away from the house?" "About an hour," Angel estimated. "Maybe an hour-and-a-half." The sheriff nodded and continued writing in his notepad. "Tell me what happened when you got home." Lance looked up. "Sheriff, she didn't get home until long after my wife and I got home and called the ambulance. It was too late for her to have seen or heard Jeb Chester breaking in." "True," Sharp conceded. "But there might be missing, after-the-fact details only she can give us. Like something that was said, perhaps." "I can," Angel said eagerly. "My grandmother said something to me before she died." The sheriff raised his eyebrows. "Really? Did she tell you who attacked her?" Angel nodded. "She told me it wasn't Jeb Chester. She said she was attacked by people wearing black." The sheriff began writing furiously. "Oh, honestly, this has gone far enough!" Lance cried, throwing up his hands. Both Angel and Sharp stared at him, startled. "Is there a problem, sir?" Sharp asked. "There are plenty of problems," Lance growled, reddening all over. "For one thing, this girl doesn't know where the lies end and the truth begins. She got home after her grandmother was declared dead, meaning everything she just said is a lie. We've caught her in lots of lies before, too. She has an overactive imagination. Makes stuff up constantly. You can't believe a word she says." "That's not true!" Angel sputtered, enraged and embarrassed. "I'm not lying! I wouldn't lie about this!" Lance ignored her. He held up one of the newspapers. "For another thing, it says here that Sheriff Tatum ain't seen no reason for your jurisdiction to work with his. Is that true?" Wanting Sharp to investigate what she had said, Angel tried to distract Lance. "I said I'm not lying, Lance!" "Shut up, girl!" he snapped. "Before I knock you into next week!" Sharp raised his palms. "Okay, okay, everybody just calm down…" Lance jumped out of his chair and stuck his finger in Sharp's face. "Don't you tell me to calm down! Your timing is lousy, Sheriff! Our family's in mourning! Why, we haven't even buried my wife's mother yet! How can you expect any of us to accurately answer questions right now? Especially a distraught child who has just lost her grandmother and is clearly too traumatized to discuss it realistically?" Angel argued, "I'm not too traumatized to know the truth! And I'm telling it now!" Lance said through clenched teeth, "Traumatized people don't realize they're traumatized." He never turned away from Sharp but cut her a brief sideways look of rage. "And that's enough, girl. You know better than to sass your elders." Sharp raised an eyebrow at Lance. "Sir, I intended no harm. I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this while everything's still fresh in everyone's minds. If foul play is involved, I think everyone wants the truth to come out about it." Sharp narrowed his eyes. "Don't you want the truth to come out about it, Mr. Beasle?" "Of course, I do." Lance lowered his voice to a normal tone. But the redness in his face receded only slightly. "However, I'm a man who believes in raising my child to live by the Bible. And the Bible says that after God's law, one must follow man's law. Now, I asked you a question about whether you're operating within man's law. You got a warrant or a form or anything else to show me you got legal permission to question folks around here?" "No," Sharp admitted with a sigh, "I don't." Lance folded his arms. "Then I must insist you leave my property until you have full legal rights to investigate, and until a respectable mourning period has passed." "Fine," Sharp agreed reluctantly. "I'll see myself out." He opened the front door, thought of something, and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a business card, he said, "Here's my number at the Churchill County sheriff's office." He started to extend the card in Lance's direction, thought better of it, and handed it to Angel. Speaking more to her than to Lance, he said, "I'm also working closely with the Sommerville City P.D. at this time, and I can often be reached there. If any of y'all think of anything else or decide you want to talk to me, just try me at either of those two locations." "We will," said Angel, taking the card. She watched Sharp close the front door and drive away. After his car was gone, Lance snatched the card from Angel and ripped it to shreds. He then slapped her across the face, jarring her. "You won't be phoning him, you lying little bitch! In fact, I don't want to see you on that phone, period! Understand?" "Those people who murdered Grandma might be part of that cult!" Angel screamed. "Don't you want to know who's involved? Don't you care?" "You're lying, lying, lying! Always lying!" he yelled, punctuating each of his words with a slap across her cheeks. He dropped his hand, his face and eyes on fire. "I don't think Grandma said anything to you! The paramedics said she was breathing her dying breaths before they took her out of the house!" Before Angel could argue further, he made a revelation that chilled her to paralysis. "Now I know where you've been getting your little fantasies and wild ideas from. It ain't from Grandma, and it ain't from reading newspapers, either! I figured it out just now, when that crazy crap you're talking started sounding like the crazy crap in this newspaper!" Lance threw that day's issue of the Sommerville newspaper at her. "Recognize anything?" he asked sarcastically. With shaking hands, Angel picked up the paper. The headline read, "Further Evidence of Cult Activities Revealed." That hateful reporter had lied! He had run the article a day early. A black-and-white photograph of Peter was on the front page.  CHAPTER 28: WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER The sight of the photograph iced Angel's whole body, inside and out. She sensed what little color she had in her skin draining. Her blood felt clogged and congealed, no longer pumped through her veins by her heart, which seemed to have stopped mid-beat. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Only her brain functioned, and it shot her system with repeated volts of one single thought-- They will kill Peter. "I knew it!" Lance exploded. "You lying, sinful, little whore!" Bellowing, he paced the floor like an enraptured preacher, pausing periodically mid-step to shake his fist in the air or point an accusing finger at her. Experience told Angel what was coming, that she should try to run before he transcended from verbal to physical wrath. Yet consternation kept her immobile. "Your mother and I slave to put food in your mouth and clothes on your back, and ask nothing of you but a little housework, and that you stay close to home to protect you from the vile things out in the world these days! We don't ask nothing of you, just let you go and play in the goddamned woods the whole goddamned day to give your psychotic little mind an outlet! And what do you do to repay us? Abuse our trust by breaking our rules and meeting a boy! Staying out half the night with a boy! Lying to our faces when we ask you if you've been with a boy! No wonder they're chasing you around like you're a bitch in heat! No wonder you love the woods so much--'cause of that goddamned boy! You've been meeting him there the whole time, haven't you?" Lance snatched her up by her shirt collar and suspended her in midair, his biceps bulging. " Haven't you?" Lance shook her so hard that she thought she'd go blind. "It's him who's corrupted you, defiled you! He's the one getting you in trouble! He's the one filling your head with these foul, scandalous stories about cults and the Devil running amok in Grimshaw!" Lance stopped shaking her. Tightening his grip on her shirt, he lifted her higher and drew her closer. Her vision came back into focus on his face, now less than an inch from hers. Their eyes collided, equally enraged, equally unyielding. "Tell me, girl," he hissed, "what other foul, filthy things has he filled you with?" Seeing Peter's picture in the newspaper, and knowing the consequences of its publication, had turned something within Angel. And when that something turned, it replaced what little was left of her inner child with an adult, enervating most of her terror of Lance. She'd had enough of living in fear of him and his punishments. She no longer was afraid of him finding out she'd been with Peter or what he might do. All she cared about now was Peter's safety. Peter's life. Without so much as a shiver or a blink, she countered, "Nothing foul and filthy, but a beautiful thing. It's called love , Lance. Something that could never be felt or even imagined by a cold, cruel monster like you." "Why, you insolent little slut! I'm gonna kick your ass!" Lance slung Angel backward. Her spine smacked the wall. Framed photographs fell to the floor, one of Lance hitting her on the head. She slid down the wall. Lance fulfilled his vow and thrust out his foot. The right side of her downward-moving rump collided squarely with the steel toe of his boot. Angel hollered. He retracted his foot, and her rump crashed to the floor, landing on the exact spot where he had just kicked her. She reflexively clutched the area and hollered louder. "You ain't ever going to the woods again, and you ain't ever seeing that boy again neither, you hear? I'm gonna see to that with you, and I'm gonna make sure his daddy sees to it with him, too! In the meantime, in case you two try to sneak off together, I'm gonna make damn sure--" Again Lance booted her, this time on her left hip, as high up as he could hit it with her sitting on the floor. Her hollering increased a few more octaves, her left hand flying to her left thigh and her right hand still clutching her right hip. "--that at least you can't open your legs for him!" "What in the devil's going on here?" Cecilia appeared in the doorway. She wore a long black dress that nearly touched her ankles and a matching hat that shaded her eyes. Beneath the hat, a few strands of her hair were visible. Her locks had completely grayed. "Angel, what are you doing on the floor?" Lance replied, "Nothing. A Sommerville cop came by, and I caught your Jezebel in more lies." "My name is Angel ," she said indignantly. "And I'm on the floor because he beat the crap out of me again. And kicked me." Lance raised his hand to her unflinching face, until her mother put her left hand over her eyes and sighed. "Oh, Angel, Lance, can't this wait till later? This really isn't the time. We have to be at the funeral home in less than an hour for the visitation service." "Visitation service?" Angel struggled to her feet. Sharp pains shot through her hips, but she managed to stand her ground. "Already? There isn't going to be an autopsy?" "Darling, there's no need," her mother replied wearily. "Grandma died of stab wounds. That was evident, and it was confirmed by the county physicians." "But Mother, when first degree murder is suspected--" "It wasn't first degree murder! Just a break-in gone wrong! You heard it from Sheriff Tatum, you heard it from the other officers, and you heard it from your father. Why must you make a bad situation worse by making up stories?" Angel was too angry and frustrated to be bothered by Cecilia calling Lance her father. Why wouldn't they believe there could be more to Grandma's murder than Tatum had said? Peter had been right on target in his prediction of how her family would react when confronted with the possibility of a cult in Grimshaw. If Lance and her mother truly did suspect the cult's existence, they were like the others, too scared to do anything but deny it. Trying to reason with them seemed pointless. Cecilia said, "Get dressed, you two." She repeated mechanically, "We've got to be at the funeral home in less than an hour." Angel inspected her damages in the living room mirror. The blow Lance had delivered last night had left a bruise on her right jaw. Furthermore, today's slaps marked her face with red handprints, which might turn purple. She pointed to the marks. "You want me to go like this?" she demanded of her mother. "You want me to explain this to Grandma's friends and her church's members?" "You're right." Cecilia pulled the hat farther down over her eyes. "I guess we'll have to make an exception to the make-up rule, just for one night. That okay, Lance?" Angel placed her hands on her hips, glared at him, and thought, Yeah, right, when Hell freezes over. But he only snarled. "Fine with me. She's done been carrying on like a harlot. Might as well look like one, too." Cecilia said to Angel, "Yeah, ok, you can wear a little of my make-up, and no one will see. After you get changed, I'll help you put it on." With that, she turned her back on her daughter and left the room.  CHAPTER 29: A BLESSING IN DISGUISE They arrived at the funeral home at approximately 6:30 PM. It was daylight-saving time, so the sun had not completely set. Lance wore a black suit and tie. Angel didn't have anything black, but her mother had reassured her that white was also a color of mourning. Thus, she wore her white Sunday dress, now washed and pressed, with matching white hose and flats and a white ribbon tied around her ponytail. For the first time ever she wore make-up, which successfully hid the marks on her face. Coasting the truck into the funeral home parking lot, Lance said, "You listen up, girl, and you listen good. The St. Thomas family will probably pay their respects this evening. If I catch you so much as even looking at that boy, I'll skin you alive. Understand?" After talking to Peter earlier, Angel was sure he wouldn't be with his family. In fact, she figured he had been smart enough to abandon his plan to meet her in the woods that evening. He was probably long gone. For his sake, she hoped he was, though it likely meant she'd never see him again. Lance jerked her arm. "Understand?" "Yeah, I understand," Angel muttered, recoiling from him and exiting the truck behind her mother. The casket was closed, with a color, eight-by-ten framed photo of Grandma sitting atop. Angel had expected that. As with Connor's murder, she supposed Grimshaw's speedy morticians couldn't do much with less than twenty-four hours to prepare the body after such a violent death. She couldn't understand what her family's big hurry was to have the visitation service. Leaning toward the photo, she whispered, "I love you Grandma. I'll miss you very much." Guests soon arrived. Most were people Angel knew from the grocery store, church, and other places in Grimshaw. Angel perceived the familiar folks with a new wariness born out of last night's startling talk with Peter. She silently scolded herself for forgetting to get from him a complete list of the participants in that meeting at his house. Based upon the things he'd told her, any of these Grimshaw citizens could be a threat. She imagined them awaiting their opportunity to make her their next sacrifice, to carry her off to the woods, chop off her head, and gouge out her heart. Whenever someone looked her way or spoke to her, even for a second, she trembled all over. Angel felt comfortable around only two groups of people present. One being her own family, only a half-comfort since Lance's hand was a ticking time bomb that could explode without warning. The other being the group of nuns, priests, and other affiliates of Grandma's church, St. Mary's of Sommerville. Peter's parents were among the first visitors. Of course, he wasn't with them. Dr. St. Thomas approached Lance. Slipping behind them, Angel pretended to become caught up in some nearby wall paintings and eavesdropped. Lance asked Peter's father, "Where's your boy?" "That's what I'd like to know," Dr. St. Thomas replied. "He's supposed to be grounded, but he snuck out yesterday. Got on his horse and took off. We ain't seen him since." "I saw him this morning in the Sommerville paper, along with that article of his lies. Wish he was here right now." Anger crept into Lance's voice. "I'd like to have a few words with him." "That so?" Dr. St. Thomas didn't sound surprised. "What about?" Lance must have sensed Angel nearby. He nodded in her direction and raised his voice a little. "Your boy's been filling our girl's head with that nonsense he's blabbed to the press about cults and stuff. Getting her imagination to run wild. Now she's got the Churchill County sheriff in an uproar and is making all kinds of noise." Angel stared at Peter's dad. He stared back. His eyes narrowed, and his frown deepened. The veterinarian looked awfully ticked! Peter was right--Dr. St. Thomas was the cult leader! And if he suspected she knew it, he might send the cult after her. Darned old Lance! He was either totally oblivious to the cult or a complete chicken about the whole thing. If he really did suspect the cult's existence, he was not only denying it but accenting her as a nark. She guessed he was trying to save his own butt by downplaying whatever he knew or scoring brownie points with them.  For the love of God, Lance, just shut up! He shook his head and clucked his teeth. "I hope her imagination's the only part of her he's made go wild." Angel felt her skin flush from head to toe. Lance knew she could hear them. His comments were intended to humiliate her. That made her hate him more than ever. Without warning, he thrust his arm outward and locked his fingers around her arm. She grew even redder. What was he going to do, deck her right here at the funeral home in front of God and everybody? Instead, he pulled her between him and Peter's father, with her facing Dr. St. Thomas. Lance clutched her shoulders from behind. "Listen up, defiled whore! You see this boy's folks are worried sick about him. So, if you know where he is, tell his daddy right now!" "I don't know," she said honestly. She wormed away from Lance and turned on him. "I'm not allowed to talk to him. Remember?" He shoved her aside. "Get away from me, you dirty girl! And quit eavesdropping, or I'll tear your butt up!" "As far as I'm concerned," Angel retorted, "you can kiss my butt." What fun it was to see Lance's mouth drop! Before he could react, Angel placed her hands behind her back and strutted away. Her hips were starting to ache again from Lance's kick. She located an empty chair next to the front window and sank into it. Through the window, she watched the sun set and thought of her grandmother, how close they'd gotten, how short their time together had been, how fast her life had been taken, and whether they would be reunited in the afterlife. Angel already missed her like crazy. Her thoughts transcended to Peter. She already missed him, too. She wondered where he was now. A head popped up outside the window. Startled, Angel almost cried out. On the other side of the window, a stooped-over stranger, an old man with a white beard and mustache, leaned on a walking stick. He wore all black, from his simple suit to the flat-topped, wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. Even the lenses of his glasses were black. His attire looked sort of pious; he could have been one of the religious officers from St. Mary's of Sommerville, many of whom had dressed in similar all-black attire. Yet the cult members wore all black, too. Could he be one of them, here to nab her? The old man tilted his head upward, allowing the fading sunlight to fall upon his face. He raised the dark glasses long enough to wink one of his familiar aquamarine eyes at her. That's when Angel saw that the "old man" was no old man at all. "Go to the ladies' room," Peter mouthed, then lowered his glasses and disappeared.  CHAPTER 30: FEAR NO EVIL Angel visually scanned the room's occupants. Lance was still engrossed in conversation with Peter's father. Her mother was gabbing away with Mrs. Knolls and Mrs. Chatman. No one was paying attention to her. She heaved a sigh of relief. Her encounter at the window had gone undetected. She approached her mother. "I'm going to the restroom." Her mother nodded and waved her aside, never deterred from her conversation with the ladies. Moving as fast as she could on her injured limbs, Angel exited the visitation room and headed to the ladies room at the end of the hall. It was a simple facility not unlike a half-bath in a home, with one sink, one unenclosed toilet opposite the entrance, and a lock on the main door. Angel locked the door and crossed to the single window beside the toilet. She pressed her nose to the panes and spotted old-man Peter hidden beneath the outer sill, scrunched between the building's wall and surrounding shrubbery. Angel lifted the window and leaned out. "What are you doing here? Didn't you see the paper after we talked?" He popped up just enough to be on eye level with her and folded his arms on the outer sill. He slid down his glasses for her to see his eyes. "I saw it before we talked. That's why I kept calling your house and hanging up, and why I said I had to know for sure whether you were leaving with me before I risked coming back." "But they'll kill you if they find you!" Peter never dared to abandon his whisper, but grinned. "They gotta find me first. I've been hiding out in Sommerville since last night. That's where I was when I called you. I came back when I found out about the visitation. This restroom is in the back of the building. That's why I had you meet me in here, so no one would see us." Angel, too, maintained a whisper, soft yet firm. "You're still risking your neck being here. When you saw that paper this morning, you should have left town and not bothered with me. You could have been long gone!" "What, without you? No way! With your hair and eye color, I knew you would be in danger, too. I couldn't just leave you." He regarded her with determination. "I'm not leaving without you." "I don't want you to stay a second longer, so let's go now." She climbed onto the sill. "Here, help me down." "No, no, we can't go yet." He pushed her back inside. "I'm just here ‘cause when we talked, I could tell you didn't know about the article. I was afraid if you saw it, and I didn't contact you, you'd think our plan was off." "Why can't we go now?" "For one thing, you've already been in here a few minutes. They'll soon miss you, especially Lance. I'm sure he's keeping close tabs on you like always." "More than ever. He found out about us." "What? How?" Peter looked stunned. "Never mind, you can fill me in later. Besides, he isn't the only problem. We'd be spotted since it's not dark yet and so many people are around. Not only that, but as long as I've been missing, everyone's going to think I'm long gone and won't be looking for me. Especially not right here, right now--in this getup. But if you left with me now, even if you were in disguise, we'd be caught ‘cause they'd soon be hunting all over for you. We have to stick to our original plan. Sneak out tonight and meet me in the woods." "In the woods, at night, when that cult operates only a few hundred yards away? Don't you think that's too dangerous?" "It's the only way. The roads are too open. With Lance guard-dogging you and the cult after me, we'd get caught. But if we stick to the woods, we can bypass the roads up to the Sommerville city limit, and if we travel until next sunup, we can be miles from here by this time tomorrow. Besides, it's probably less risky than you think. With the article in the paper and the police looking for the cult, I doubt they'll attempt another ceremony this soon." "I hope you're right," Angel sighed, still feeling it was more hazardous than he implied. A knock sounded. Angel jumped. Her head swiveled toward the door, then back to the window. Peter had vanished. Another knock followed. "Uh, yes?" Angel said shakily. "Angel, honey, it's me." Her mother rattled the doorknob. "Let me in."  Oh, crap. There wasn't time to close the window. Okay, just stay cool . Angel cracked open the door. She stood before the tiny opening so her mother couldn't see into the restroom. "I'm sorry," she said politely. "Do you or one of the other ladies need to get in here?" "Oh, no sweetie. You've just been gone so long. Is everything all right?" She moved her head around, trying to see past Angel. "Fine. I'm just not feeling too good." "Oh?" Surprisingly, her mother sounded concerned. Her eyes shifted downward, inspecting Angel's figure and clothing, then narrowed. Her mouth alternately pursed and hung, and her face, a sudden myriad of unidentifiable emotions, paled. "Angel, it's… it's not your curse, is it?" "My what ?" "Your woman's curse. You're not having it now , are you?" "No!" Angel cried, mortified. She hoped no one, especially Peter, had heard. "I haven't ever had my… it before. I'm just a little nauseous. It's probably from too much grease in all that cooking. Once I throw up or something, I'll be fine." "Oh, good!" Cecilia smiled. "I mean, good that you'll be fine soon. Uh, do you need help?" "No, that's okay. I should be done in about five minutes." "Fine, dear, but don't dilly-dally. Your fath--Lance is wondering where you are." "Yes, mother," replied Angel, closing the door. She returned to the window. "You still here?" Peter reemerged, stifling a laugh. "Too much grease from the cooking? You're full of it!" "Hey, I had to say something. And she bought it, didn't she? But now I'm on the clock. Exactly when are we doing this thing?" "We need to allow time for it to get dark and everyone to finish supper and settle in for the night, mainly my parents and yours. Let's see, it gets dark about eight-thirty, and except for a couple of bars, everything in Grimshaw closes at nine. So we'll make it ten o'clock. Late enough and dark enough not to be seen, early enough to be out of Grimshaw by midnight." "What's so important about being gone by midnight?" Angel risked a few extra seconds to cut tension with a joke. "You afraid my fairy godmother's gonna turn me back into a peasant?" "Nah!" Peter snickered, rolling his eyes. With a small smile and slightly reddened face, he winked. "You'll always be a princess to me." Angel felt herself redden, too. Peter turned serious. "It's just to be on the safe side, after what your dad's journal said about one of the ceremonies taking place at midnight. Plus, call me superstitious, but midnight's known as ‘the witching hour.' I think it might be bad luck to be near the Devil's grounds then. So will you be there at ten?" "It might be tough, now that Lance knows about us." "I was afraid he'd be a problem. So the other reason I came here was to give you a little help." Peter reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, removed a packet of powder, and placed it in her hand. "What's this?" "Something that'll knock Lance on his ass." Peter grinned. "There are handwritten instructions on the back. Mix it into his food or drink, and your mother's, too. The packet contains three doses, so there's more than enough for them both. Since it's in powder form, it will work quickly. With this stuff in them, they'd sleep through the Apocalypse." Angel got scared. "It won't hurt them, will it?" "No way!" Peter waved his hand. "They'll probably rest better than they have in years. It's totally herbal. And it came from a man of the cloth." She pocketed the packet. "Where did you get it?" "Same place I got this disguise. I spent last night at St. Mary's of Sommerville. I did some namedropping, just like I told you and Jeb I would. I didn't tell them everything, not much more than was in the paper, anyway. When the good congregation found out I was a friend of Cordelia Love's granddaughter, they willingly offered their help. One of their priests is totally into medicinal herbs and stuff. I think he grows his own in a garden. He took a liking to me, so he loaned me this costume and gave me the sleeping powder, sort of like in Romeo and Juliet , when Friar Laurence got that sleeping drug for Juliet." He smiled warmly. "That's kind of who we remind me of, Romeo and Juliet." Angel's face fell. " Romeo and Juliethad an unhappy ending. They both died." "That's not going to happen to us," Peter declared with resolution. "Our story's going to have a happy ending. I promise." Angel somehow doubted that. Another knock sounded on the door. "Angel Lynn Fallow!" her mother called. "You've been in there long enough. I don't know what you're doing or why it's taking so long, but whatever it is, I don't like it one bit! I'm worried!" The knob rattled. "Do you hear me? Open this door right now!" Angel emitted exaggerated groans and gags, a cross between the bathroom noises Cecilia made during her monthly curse, and Lance if he'd had beans for supper. Peter doubled over in hysterics, burying his face inside his sleeve to stifle his laughter. Angel, carrying on her act of great discomfort, grunted, "Uh, okay, Mother. I'm… coming." She flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and whispered to Peter, "I gotta go. Bye." He took off his glasses and lowered his beard and mustache, then cupped his left hand to the side of his cheek and wiggled his right index finger, signaling he wanted to whisper one additional thing to her. She leaned toward him, and he put his mouth to her ear. "You look beautiful this evening. Very grown-up." He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward his. Their lips came together in a soft yet passionate kiss. "See you tonight." "See you." He put on the glasses, raised the beard and mustache, then dropped out of sight. Angel lowered the window, turned off the faucet, and opened the door. Her mother stood before her, hands on hips, hair falling over her creased brow to the point that it must have been blinding. She blew the bangs out of her eyes. "Well, it's about time! I swear, for a minute there, I thought you'd fallen in the toilet! Now after all this fuss, I certainly hope you're feeling better." Angel's mouth twitched in a small, confident smile. "Much, much better." She exited the restroom and followed her mother down the hall, the smile never leaving her face.  CHAPTER 31: THE DEVIL WOMAN "Angel, what are you doing?" her mother asked a few hours later. Angel plastered on a warm smile and turned away from the stove. "Making hot tea. I figured we all needed to relax a little. I thought this might help." "What a good idea, dear." "Would you like a cup?" "Yes, that sounds lovely." Angel smiled. She had mixed the herbal powder into the tea. She poured the brown, steaming liquid into a cup, then handed it to her mother and got another. "I'll pour Lance some, too." "How nice! You're being awfully sweet tonight." Cecilia blew the smoke off her tea, then took a sip. "Mmmmm, delicious." Her expression puzzled, she shoved her hair out of her eyes. "Why aren't you having a cup, dear?" "Uhhhh…" The phone rang, saving Angel for the time being. Cecilia set the teacup on the table and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Oh, yeah. Just a minute." She covered the mouthpiece and yelled, "Lance, hon! Telephone!" Lance bounded into the kitchen and snatched the phone from her. "Yeah? Just a minute, let me move to the other room." He shuffled through the door to the living room with the phone to his ear, its long cord stretching behind him. The cord tangled in the middle and Lance yanked. It dragged over the kitchen table, knocking into Cecilia's teacup. Angel grew nauseous as the precious liquid spilled across the table and dripped onto to the floor. Cecilia groaned. "I've gotta go to the bathroom. You better clean up this mess before Lance sees it." "Okay," Angel sighed. Good thing Peter's priest friend had included three doses. "Would you like me to pour you another cup?" "Uhm… sure. This time, leave it on the counter so it doesn't spill." Cecilia headed for the bathroom. Angel cleaned up the spilled tea, picked up the overturned cup, and checked the kettle. Just enough remained for another serving, which she poured for her mother. Hopefully, Lance would get off the phone soon and drink his cup, still cooling on the counter. Angel wanted the drug to have plenty of time to take effect. Cecilia reentered the kitchen. At the same time, Lance came in from the living room and hung up the telephone. Angel handed him the teacup. He took it and sniffed. "What's this?" "Oh, Angel made us hot tea." Cecilia sat at the table and sipped from the new, full cup. "To help us relax." Lance distractedly put down his cup. "I ain't thirsty." He frowned at Cecilia. "Go on and get changed." "Why?" she asked dreamily. "I'm not in any hu-u-u-r-r-r-r-ry." "Put down that damn cup and change, woman! We're going out!" "Tonight?" "No, next year! Of course tonight! Why not tonight?" She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Lance, I'm really worn out. The service took a lot out of me. Try to remember…" She broke with a yawn. "…my mother dust jied." "Dust jied?" Lance echoed, scratching his head. "Yeah. Let me stay tome who-night… earn in turly." "Tome who-night? Earn in turly?" Lance repeated, sounding like a drunken parrot. "What in the hell is wrong with you, woman?" She flashed Angel a dopey smile, picked up the teacup, and took another sip. "This is re-ea-l-l-l-ly good tea, swee'art." "Bah!" cried Lance. "That damn tea's relaxing you too much, making you drowsy and stupid-acting!" He snatched the teacup and hurled it, sending it shattering against the opposite wall. "No more of that! Now, get changed, and let's go!" "Whatever you say, dea-r-r-r-r." Smiling, Cecilia stood, swayed, and staggered out of the room. Scowling, Lance picked up his own cup and poured the tea down the sink. Though Angel was a little upset to see him dispose of the tea, she realized since they were going out, the drug would be unnecessary, and leaving would be easy. There came a knock at the front door. "Ah," said Lance. "That must be the babysitter." "Babysitter?" Angel cried. "No way!" She followed Lance into the living room. "I'm fourteen years old! I don't need a sitter." Ignoring her, Lance opened the door. In stepped a short, wrinkled woman with gray hair pulled atop her head in a tight bun. She wore a long, black cotton dress with matching flats. "Evenin', Mrs. Crabapple," Lance said. "Evenin', sonny," she said, flashing a half-toothless grin. Angel raised an eyebrow at the woman's drab attire. "Were you at the visitation?" Mrs. Crabapple cupped her hand to her ear. "What's that, missy?" "My wife's mother passed away last night," Lance explained. "The visitation was today." "So that's the death I heared about." She sneered at Angel. "No, young ‘un. I dress like this every day. Plain colors. Keep from attracting attention. Unlike what your daddy tells me you've been doing."  I'll never get out if they stick me with this old bat! Angel tried to reason with Lance. "Before Grandma came to live with us, you left me home by myself a million times, and I was much younger then, too. Why do I need a sitter now?" Lance replied icily, "Because you are conducting yourself like a devil woman now." He gave Mrs. Crabapple her instructions. "This one's bad about sneaking off. Don't let her out of your sight for a second. If she wants a snack, go with her to the kitchen. If she goes to the bathroom, see she leaves the door ajar, and keep watch from outside. Same thing when she goes to bed." "I'll do it, sir." Mrs. Crabapple sneered at Angel again. "You won't get out of my sight, young missy." "My name is Angel !" "Don't give a damn," Mrs. Crabapple snapped. "You blonde-haired harlots all look the same to me." Angel groaned as Cecilia entered the room. Lance opened the front door. Angel made one last appeal. "I can't believe you're leaving me alone with this--this-- woman!Mother! Lance! Please!" Lance countered, "You reap what you sow, girl." The door slammed shut behind them. The old woman plopped onto the sofa and ogled Angel. She had to think of something! If only so much of that tea hadn't been wasted! Maybe she could drain a few drops out of the kettle. She started for the kitchen. Mrs. Crabapple cleared her throat. "Just where do you think you're going, missy?" "To the kitchen to put away some dishes." "I think I'll just go with you." Angel rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She sauntered into the kitchen, the woman right behind her. While Mrs. Crabapple made herself comfortable behind the table, Angel lifted the kettle's lid. A bit of tea remained, but not nearly enough for a full serving. Perhaps if she added a little water, it would be enough to fill a cup and knock out the old woman. After all, only a small amount had had a pretty strong effect on her mother. Angel held up the kettle. "We've got a little tea left from earlier, Mrs. Crabapple. I was going to throw it out. Would you like to have what's left?" The old woman indecisively crinkled her brow. "It's really good." "If it's so damn good, girlie, why ain't you drinkin' it?" "I already had a lot earlier. If I have more, I'm afraid I won't sleep tonight. Too much caffeine and sugar, y'know?" "All right, Missy, pour me a cup. Reckon I need some of that so I can stay awake and keep my eye on you. But heat it on the stove, will ya? Like my tea hot." She frowned as Angel stuck the pot under the tap and turned on the water. "Whatcha waterin' it down fer, missy?" "Uh, it's a little strong." "Thought you said it was real good." "It is good. It's just a little strong," Angel replied through clenched teeth. "Nothing worse than tea that's too strong. Except maybe watered-down tea that's too strong."  God, that tea had better be ready soon! Minutes later, the kettle whistled. Angel poured the tea and put the cup down in front of Mrs. Crabapple. The old woman took a sip and made a face. "You watered it down too much, girlie! Ain't sweet enough!" Angel shoved the sugar bowl across the table. "Bon appetite." She rinsed the teapot, put it and the other dishes away, made a sandwich, and sat at the table. While she ate, she silently watched Mrs. Crabapple sip her tea. She had just finished her sandwich when the woman slid the empty cup across the table. On her way to the sink, Angel sized up the old woman. She didn't think the strained tea had worked until Mrs. Crabapple stood, stretched, and said, "I'm a bit tired." She staggered away from the table, stumbling a time or two. "Feel funny all of a sudden. Let's go in the living room where it's comfortable, missy, sit a spell. I'm kind of woozy." Smiling hopefully, Angel followed her into the living room. Mrs. Crabapple sat in a chair, and Angel settled on the sofa across from her, pretending to read one of Cecilia's homemaking magazines but spying on the old woman the entire time. Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty-five. After half an hour, the old woman still hadn't passed out, but gazed at Angel with half-closed lids. She checked her watch--quarter till ten. She had to get out of there. "Whatcha eyein' me fer, girlie?" Angel tilted her head in a gesture of listening. "Didn't you hear that, Mrs. Crabapple?" She stood. "What, missy?" "Ssshhhh! Listen." The woman stood, too, and stumbled, almost falling. Understanding lit her face. "You drugged me, girlie, didn't you? Put something in that tea! Ain't workin' on this old woman, no sir-r-r-e-e-e! I--" "Please, Mrs. Crabapple!" Angel cried. "Look out the window!" "What?" The woman leaned toward the sill. "Why, I don't see--" Angel shattered a flower vase across the back of the old woman's skull. Mrs. Crabapple dropped to the floor, out cold. Angel sighed. "God forgive me…" Just before Angel ran out of the room, she noticed one side of Mrs. Crabapple's dress hem had raised during her fall, exposing her entire left leg. She briefly considered trying to restore the old woman's dignity. She started forward, then backed away, shuddering. Tattooed high up on Mrs. Crabapple's thigh was a black pentagram, the face of a sadistic-eyed goat in the center.  CHAPTER 32: DELIVER US FROM EVIL Angel dashed into her bedroom. From beneath her bed, she pulled a solid white bed sheet, which she had tied into a bag earlier. Of course, white stood out at night, but she could find nothing else. After undoing the knot, she double-checked to make sure she had the basic necessities: a change of clothing, a light sweater, a few toiletries, and all the money she had to her name--seventeen dollars and seventy-seven cents. She pocketed the money before retying the sheet and leaving the house. Angel crept along Blackwood Road, half-expecting to meet a passing vehicle or a distant neighbor who would ask where she was going and what she was doing with her bundle. Peter must have been right about most of Grimshaw being asleep by this time; she didn't see or hear a soul. Still, tonight proved eerily quiet--still as death. The path through the woods came into sight. Alongside, on the road's shoulder, sat a patrol car, the passenger side nearest Angel. Her heart sank. Sheriff Tatum or another Grimshaw officer would recognize her and carry her straight home. Or worse, if Peter's theories were correct and the Grimshaw police were part of the cult… Angel squinted to make out the gold letters on the door--Churchill County Sheriff's Department. The good guys! She heaved a sigh of relief. She should be able to pass them with no threat to her and Peter's plans, much less their lives. Preparing for the driver to ask what she was doing, she worked on a plausible story as she made her way around the car and toward the path. Yet no one called to her. She risked glancing over her shoulder and through the windshield. No one was inside the car. She frowned. Not that she wanted any obstacles, but that struck her as peculiar. A few minutes later, she stepped into the clearing by the brook. Moonlight glowed between the thick trees, dimly illuminating most of the clearing. Her watch read 10:15, but she didn't see Peter. Maybe he'd encountered delays, too. The same weird feeling she'd had the previous night when waiting here for him chilled her again. Trembling, she half-expected, half-hoped he would come upon her from behind and touch her on the shoulder, just like he had before. "Oh, please hurry, Peter," she whispered into the darkness. She heard footsteps. Camelot ambled into the clearing. Peter wasn't on her back or anywhere around her. Angel's throat went dry. It wasn't like Peter to let go of his horse without tethering her. Not like him at all. She took a closer look. One of Camelot's saddlebags was unfastened and hung askew, on the verge of falling to the ground. The contents inside were awry. Camelot's saddle was unsecured, twisted, as if Peter had lost his balance and fallen off. Or had been jerked off… A dizzying nausea sprang into Angel's stomach and snaked itself through her heart. Panicked, she checked the sides and rear of the horse. No sign of Peter. She tugged her ponytail and shuffled back and forth alongside the brook, trying to figure out what she should do. A ripple in the brook broke the stillness. A hand shot to the surface. Its fingers closed around Angel's ankle. She opened her mouth to scream. Before she could, a head popped out of the water. "Help me," whispered a small, weak, familiar voice. "Oh my God!" She reached into the water and tugged at the hand. After significant effort, she managed to pull him onto the bank. In the moonlight, she saw blood spurting from his back, drenching his clothing. "Quiet, Angel, or they'll hear you!" whispered Sheriff Sharp. "You gotta get help." "What happened to Peter?" Angel quavered. "Those satanic bastards… they got him… then they got me." "Where'd they go?" Angel jerked away from Sharp. "I have to find them! I have to help him!" "No!" he hissed. "There are… too many of them! You… get help… my patrol car… use the… police radio… get…" Sharp's mouth stopped moving. His eyes glassed over. Ignoring the soreness in her upper legs, Angel flew up the path, her feet scarcely touching the ground, until she reached the edge of the woods. She flung open the patrol car door, grabbed the transmitter mouthpiece, and punched the buttons. "Mayday! Mayday!" she cried like she'd seen on TV. No reply. No static. Nothing. Then she noticed a wire dangling from the radio. Crap! They'd cut it! Furious, she slammed down the mouthpiece. This was all her fault! Peter had come back in the first place only to try to rescue her from further abuse at home and possible death from the cult. If not for her, he wouldn't be in this mess. "I don't care how many of you there are," she said into the darkness, "I will find a way to save Peter." Yet she had already wasted precious minutes. She dashed back to the clearing. Camelot whinnied and stomped the ground with her hooves. Angel turned toward the left edge of the clearing, in the direction she and Peter had journeyed the previous day and found Lucky's carcass. Tears stormed Angel's cheeks. "Oh, Camelot," she whispered as if the mare could understand, "they're out there with him, aren't they?" Actually, Camelot seemed to understand a great deal. She nuzzled Angel's cheek with her nose, trotted toward the left edge of the clearing, stopped, and whinnied again, as if to say, "Yes. They took him that way." Angel walked over to the horse. Smoke filled her nostrils, its dying bits drifting to her from far beyond the clearing. Angel took a few steps past the clearing and squinted into the darkness. Orange light flickered in the distance. Firelight. She made several cautious steps forward. In a circle around the distant fire stood countless people, dressed in black cloaks with hoods that shadowed their faces. Angel ducked into a group of nearby brushes and watched. From outside the far left edge of the circle, ten more cloaked figures approached, their arms extended above their heads. Together, they held someone who flailed wildly in an effort to get free. Angel was too far away from the procession to physically identify their captor, but a stomach-turning sixth sense told her who it was, even before he cried out and confirmed his identity. "Peter!" Angel gasped, then clapped her hands over her mouth. He stopped shrieking and struggling, stretched his neck, and peered into the shadows toward her. A few of the cloaked figures had heard her, too, and looked in her direction. Sure enough, just as Peter had guessed, she heard the voices of Grimshaw natives whom she had known all her life. "What was that?" Brother John asked. "What?" said his daughter Gaylette. "I heard something." "Me, too," agreed Sam Farmer. "So did my wife." "I didn't hear anything," said John Jr. "That's because it wasn't anything," said Mrs. Wall. "Lots of wild animals out here," commented Sheriff Tatum. "Probably just the wind," said Doyle Fell. Peter had been right about Tatum, and Mrs. Wall, too! Not to mention Brother John. Both his "sight for sore eyes" comments and his family scoffing at the church hymn made more sense now. She didn't know Sam or Doyle very well, but knew they hung around The Feed Trough Café with Brother John. It was easy to see how they could have influenced one another to join the cult. Peter raised his head as much as he could from his awkward position. At first, Angel thought he had seen her. But he began yelling at one of the cloaked persons, who stood alongside the procession holding him. "How could you do this to me? I'm your own flesh and blood!" The figure turned away from Peter and walked toward the edge of the circle, near to where Angel lay hidden. Only then could she identify the person--Peter's mother. Guilt-stricken shame filled her face, almost looking like that of a normal mother who genuinely loved her child. Initially, Angel believed she saw Mrs. St. Thomas's eyes moisten. But she must have imagined it. After all, how could a person heartless enough to murder her own son be moved to tears for him? Poor Peter! Angel had hoped he'd been wrong about his parents planning to donate him for sacrifice. Well, he was right about his mother, anyway. What about his father, though? Angel scanned the circle of people. She couldn't see any of the others' faces, but none of their builds even remotely matched Dr. St. Thomas's. Maybe Peter had been wrong. Maybe only his mother was involved. Peter ranted on. "You're as big of a spineless psycho as my so-called father! Where the hell did he go? Decided he couldn't face me? Is he too damned chicken shit to look me in the eye as they slaughter me? Or is he your leader? Yeah, that's it, isn't it? He's your leader! I knew it! I knew it!" Mrs. St. Thomas didn't respond and kept her back to him. None of the cloaked figures spoke up to identify themselves as his father, nor as the cult leader. Angel decided she agreed with what Peter had said from the start--Dr. St. Thomas was indeed the cult leader. If both the leader and Dr. St. Thomas were the only people not yet showing themselves at the ceremony, it was logical to conclude they were one and the same. The cult members turned toward the fire. Those on the circle's far-center edge parted to make room for another cloaked figure to join them. The new figure stood much taller than the rest and carried a giant machete, the blade stained with blood. When everyone except the people holding Peter dropped to the ground in a simultaneous bow, Angel knew the leader had arrived. But he didn't look chubby like Peter's father, and he was much taller. Of course, her mother had always said black made people look much thinner, which was why she said she wore black so much herself. Additionally, Angel had read and heard about people having short complexes, particularly men. Maybe whenever Dr. St. Thomas played his cult leader role, he felt the need to increase his height by wearing high-bottomed shoes or boots. Very high -bottomed, Angel decided, as she reviewed the leader's lofty figure. Maybe stilts. These thoughts passed so deeply and rapidly through her consciousness, she scarcely realized them. What concerned her now was not the leader's identity, but what he was about to do… Murder Peter! Murder him for sacrifice! Angel knew she had to act fast. But what could she do? She scoured her surroundings to find a great stick or stone, something to use as a weapon. She found nothing. She looked back toward the clearing. The distant dot of her white bed-sheet bag stood out like a light in the dark and gave birth to a plan. Angel tiptoed toward the bag. During her trek, she mentally reviewed Peter's three rules for succeeding at what she was about to try: "First, you gotta be totally unrecognizable, at least from a distance. Second, you gotta get past everybody as quickly as possible. Third, you gotta do one of two things--either lie low, or take everyone by complete surprise. I prefer lying low because surprising people is always risky as hell--you never know if they will be surprised. Or if they are, how their surprise will cause them to react. But sometimes, whatever you gotta do makes the lying-low method impossible. Those times, surprise is the only way you can go. Just make damn sure you get it right." Now was one of those times. And if it didn't work… No, it had to work.  CHAPTER 33: SACRIFICE Within minutes, the procession of ten stretched Peter onto his back between the fire and the leader, who stood erect and ready with the machete. Eight of them held Peter in place, two pinning each of his limbs. The leader approached and raised the blade above his neck. A nerve-grinding scream, much like the rebel yell of a Confederate charging into battle, echoed through the forest. Startled, Peter, his captives, and the leader lifted their heads. The other cult members whirled at the sound. A figure in white, its face hooded and hidden like those of the cult members, charged a white horse in a maddened gallop at their protective circle. Undeterred by the cult's intimidating robes, massive leader, or bloodstained machete, the figure proceeded on its path. "What the hell is that?" Sam demanded of Doyle. "Oh, boy! I'll tell you what, I'll tell you what!" bellowed a third of Brother John's buddies, Reggie Sayers. "God's done gone and got mad and sent an angel to stop our rituals, that's what!" "Satan is displeased with us!" declared Brother John's fourth buddy Tim Bowers. "Run!" cried Gaylette, yanking her blind father's arm. Screaming, the cult members scattered in separate directions. Even the tall, intimidating leader with the giant machete stepped off. Peter leapt to his feet. The white figure headed for him. Panicked, he started to run, but it quickly gained. The figure slowed the horse long enough to extend a hand from beneath its white wraps and capture hold of his shirt collar. Reggie pointed. "Looky there, it wants the boy!" "Let it have him," said Doyle, "long as it leaves us alone!" Peter struggled against the figure's grip. "Peter! It's me !" "Angel?" * * * * With a burst of adrenaline strength she'd never before possessed, Angel lifted Peter by the shirt and set him down in front of her on Camelot. She dug her heels into the horse's sides and jerked the reins, yelling, "Giddy-up!" Camelot whinnied and took off at break-neck speed. As Camelot's gallop quickened, the sheet flew off Angel's body and crumpled to the ground. The departing Satanists stopped and gaped at her. From deeper within the woods, an additional black-hooded member who had not been present before rushed forward. "Why, you goddamned fools! That's Angel Fallow!" It was Peter's father's voice. "Get them!" Tatum ordered. The Satanists ran after them. "Faster, Camelot!" Peter cried, tugging at the reins. "See how fast she goes? They're on foot. They'll never catch us on horseback, not as fast as Camelot is!" He pointed at their predators. "See, we're already way ahead!" Angel twisted partially backward. Sure enough, the cloaked figures were shrinking in the distance. She faced forward again and found Peter staring over his shoulder at her in amazement. "God, even I didn't recognize you! How on earth did you pull that off?" She grinned. "By doing everything the master of disguise himself taught me." Peter grinned back. "Wow! You weren't scared?" "Are you kidding? I was scared out of my mind! I still can't believe they fell for it!" They both took one last glimpse behind them at their pursuers, who soon faded from sight. Then they looked ahead again. Peter pulled at Camelot reins to urge her on. "Faster, Camelot, faster!" Evidently, his lingering shock caused him to forget they were riding for their lives, that they figuratively and literally weren't "out of the woods" yet. He gushed on and on, his words rapid, his tone happy. "I knew you'd make it here tonight, Angel! I wasn't a damn bit worried when they got me ‘cause I knew you'd be smart enough to save me. I owe you my life and my love. I do love you! I'm not afraid to admit it anymore! I'll never marry any girl but you because you're really cool, the only girl I could stand to be with forever, would want to be with forever. I know we're too young to legally get married, but I bet I could get us some fake IDs, and we could go to a chapel or something--" "Peter," Angel said in a quiet, urgent voice. Either he didn't hear or didn't want to. "We're going to make it out of here! It's going to be the happy ending I promised you. Didn't I tell you dreams come true? Just like you wanted, just like you used to dream about in kindergarten, with--" "Peter…" Angel repeated. She didn't know if her restrained tears were for herself, or for him and his faith in that impossible dream, which she now hated herself for sharing with him. Maybe the tears were for them both. "--the white horse and everything--" For the first time, Peter had called his horse white. For the first time, Angel saw it as gray. Peter kept babbling, conscious of nothing but the fantasy. "I'm taking you away on my white horse, taking you away from Grimshaw and Lance and everything else to marry me and live with me in my castle forever and ever. I don't really have a castle, but I don't guess that's important right now, but later--" "Peter!" "Yes?" He spun his head around. While he appeared confused by her anxious tone and expression, his wide, hopeful smile never waned. That broke her heart all the more. "What's the matter? Isn't that what you want? I mean, I love you, and I know you've never actually said it, but I thought you--" "I do. It's not that. It's…" Angel took a deep breath. It grew harder to hold back tears. "Camelot can't go on." Peter had been too bedazzled and caught up in the moment to notice what Angel had observed. Camelot heaved and panted, and had almost come to a complete stop. Noticing his horse's fatigue for the first time, Peter half-laughed, "What's the matter with you, Camelot? Aren't you a better horse than this? Go! Giddy-up!" He tugged the reins and dug his heels into her sides. Obediently, Camelot sped up for a few seconds but soon began to slow. Her mouth opened in loud, audible gasps, each step she took agonizing to watch. Ultimately, she stopped altogether and stood still, her sides heaving. "C'mon, Camelot! Giddy-up!" Peter yanked the reins. The horse refused to budge. "She's just a small horse," said Angel, repeating his own words from what now seemed like long ago. "She can't go very fast for very far with both of us riding her." "Fine, we'll go on foot." He started to dismount, but Angel gripped his arm and pulled him back into the saddle. "You stay on Camelot," she argued. "No one could make it on foot with that many of them. There must be at least thirty people chasing us." Baffled, Peter gawked at the horse, then at Angel. "So what'll we do? They'll catch up with us any minute!" With a deep sigh, she leaned forward and hugged Peter as tight and as close as she could. "Knowing you has meant the world to me. I'm sorry I didn't say it or fully realize it till just now, but…" Angel moved away to face him. "I do love you, Peter." She placed her lips on his. Their eyes closed, and their lips met in the tenderest yet most passionate and extended kiss they had ever experienced. A kiss that, for one beautiful minute, sent Angel on a breathtaking journey back through her and Peter's all-too-briefly shared paradise. When it ended, and they reopened their eyes, Peter said, "I love you too, Angel." He frowned in confusion. "But what're we gonna do?" "You can do whatever you want. You're smart and talented," said Angel, climbing off the horse. "I've never been smart or talented, and we both know," she asserted, baring her naked right wrist, "my family has screwed me up completely." "That's not true." Again, Peter started to dismount, but again, Angel pushed him back into the saddle. "You're going to be a great writer someday." Angel smiled at him. Her pent-up tears broke free and rained down her cheeks. "Who knows? Maybe one day you'll write about all this, maybe even about us, if you don't forget me." "Forget you? I told you before, I'd never--" Peter's features contorted with abrupt realization of Angel's intentions. "No! No way! I'm not leaving you!" Angel didn't see the Satanists, but could hear their shouts and running feet drawing closer. There was no time left. "Giddy-up!" Angel yelled at the top of her lungs, slapping Camelot on the rump. She succeeded in frightening a surge of life into the exhausted animal. The horse rushed forward, too fast for Peter to slow her or jump off. "Whoa, Camelot! Whoa!" screamed Peter. But Camelot sped onward through the woods in her mad tantivy. "Angel!" Peter cried, craning his head backward in desperation. "Good-bye, Peter," she whispered, watching her prince and white horse speed through the woods. More tears streamed down her cheeks. Peter and Camelot blurred, then disappeared from her sight forever. "There's Angel!" cried Tatum. "It's not time for her! He said he wanted to wait for her till after the boy! And to see if she's still pure!" That was Peter's father. "He won't care," Tatum insisted. "He'll take her now just ‘cause she's seen too much!" Angel tried to run. But her injured rear and hip panged from the running she had already done that night. Besides, like she had told Peter, escape on foot with that many pursuers would be impossible. Part of them came from behind. Others strayed to the side, then cut in front of her to block her path. They closed in on her in sort of an uneven circle, so in whatever direction she ran, a "human" barrier barred her way. She felt like she was stuck in a horror film, in which no matter what direction she chose to flee, she would inevitably run into the killer. At least this isn't for nothing, she concluded as a cult member tackled her from behind and knocked her to the ground. At least Peter will survive. Angel's tackler flipped her over; it was Connor Wylie's father. She tried to worm away. But Mr. Wylie ensnared her wrists, and Mrs. Wylie hurried over and pinned Angel's feet, both of them holding her down while awaiting the others to help. Though Angel had suggested Mr. Wylie might be the cult leader, she now had trouble accepting the callous breaking of the parent-child bond. "How?" she demanded. "How could you two be a part of the cult that murdered your son? How could you let them do it?" Briefly, both their expressions registered guilty surprise. With a tinge of regret that sounded no stronger than an owner who had put her rabid dog to sleep, Mrs. Wylie replied, "We didn't want it that way, but it had to be done." Mr. Wylie's response sounded even colder and more twisted. "Don't feel guilty, Angel. It wasn't just because of you. We couldn't risk Connor trying to hurt our other little girls in the same way." His words had a hauntingly familiar ring. When else had she heard something like that before? As Angel futilely kicked and flailed, and others swooped down to aid in restraining her, she saw Peter's father pacing alongside her, muttering. Tatum sneered at Dr. St. Thomas, "Well, well, look what the ailin' cat drug in--the long lost Dr. Pussyfoot!" "Fuck off, Tatum!" Tatum grinned. "Why, you were gone so long, we had to start without you, Dr. Pussyfoot. If it hadn't been for the stunt this gal pulled, you'd have missed out on your boy's big moment. Where the hell were you?" "Cutting the wires on the radio in that sheriff's car. Then my flashlight battery went out, so I had trouble finding my way back. But you can thank Satan I had the balls and the brains to do it, what with the way this one snuck up like she did." He pointed at Angel, his face contorting in anger. "If she'd gotten on that radio, she could've blown our whole operation. ‘Course, she almost did, anyhow." He flew into a fury, his voice taking on a whining, pouting edge, like that of a child throwing a tantrum because he'd been cheated out of a contest prize. "How could you bumbling idiots let this happen? How could you fall for her stupid trick and allow them to get away? This ain't the way it's supposed to be, and you know it! My son was supposed to be before her! Especially after he figured out everything and became a danger to us! You know He won't be happy about this!" Tatum sounded almost as childish when he shot back, "Since Peter's your son and you want him so bad, go get him." "No! You know she's one of the better ones! The one made for us, the one we've worked for the hardest and waited for the longest! I ain't missing her!" That remark struck Angel. Dr. St. Thomas was more upset over the possibility of missing her sacrifice than over being deprived of the "honor" of contributing Peter? What made her sacrifice so much more special to him than his own son's? "Oh, quit your belly-achin', George," Tatum snapped. "She's here, your son's gone, so we don't have no choice. And if you wanna talk about not bein' happy, wait till you see what He will do if your boy makes it out of Grimshaw alive with what he knows, particularly what he's seen. Now, He's finally about gotten over how you pissed Him off fourteen years ago dawdlin' around and almost lettin' your best pal, Ansel Fallow, get outta here instead of immediately handin' him over. And you finally about got back in everybody's good graces ‘cause you came along right after He pulled Connor off the gal, talked Him into not killin' Connor, brung Connor to me to hold at the jail, and had Him take the girl to the auxiliary hospital so I could find out exactly what was what. Now, you gonna piss Him and the rest of us off all over again ‘cause you're sittin' here with your thumb up your ass like you did fourteen years ago, this time lettin' your own kid get away?" Despite Angel's shock and fear, her mind reeled with the revelations. George St. Thomas had been her father's "best friend" and the person who handed him over to the cult. And it was the cult leader, not George, who had pulled Connor off of her and later killed him. Angel was confused. If the leader had brought her into the clinic, how had Tatum gotten everyone to believe the story that he'd brought her in himself? Could it be the doctors and clinic workers were in the cult and went along with it when they phoned her family? She supposed Peter was right. After all, he had been right about almost everything so far. Except about his father being the leader, of course. Now she realized the leader, her rescuer, and Connor's killer were one in the same. The leader wasn't Tatum, or Mr. Wylie. In fact, she could tell by the way Tatum and Dr. St. Thomas were talking that the leader wasn't among this group. He obviously had not lowered himself to joining in the chase. George muttered, "Fine, I'll go after him, Sheriff Shithead." "Talk to me like that one more time, Pussyfoot," snarled Tatum, "and I'll have Him see to it you're back in the sweathouses slavin' for pennies with the Christians. Now," Tatum turned to the others and commanded, "you, you, and you, go with Georgie-porgie. Make sure it gits done." By now, so many captors held Angel to the ground that her arms, legs, and body had been rendered completely immobile, and she could no longer struggle in the slightest. Listening to George and selected others retreat, she did the only thing she could--closed her eyes and prayed, more for Peter's life than her own. "Can't say as I blame ol' Pussyfoot for wantin' to stay. I was afraid I wouldn't get to see this one before I die." Angel's eyelids popped open at the familiar voice, her brain grasping what Gramps Oldfield had meant by his strange "see her before I die" remark in the grocery store. "Yes, Gramps," agreed Gene Lee. He and Tony Quinton were also those holding her down. To Angel's disgust, Gene actually pinched her cheek, just like he and Tony had numerous times during her most recent trip to the supermarket. "We've always said she's the blossom of Grimshaw!" Angel began screaming as she identified more and more faces of cult members whose voices hadn't already given them away. It occurred to her that she should have suspected a lot of them from the get-go. Their bizarre words and behaviors now made perfect sense. Knowing the leader wasn't with them, Angel grew more and more puzzled with each face, for one by one she eliminated every person she'd suspected as their ringmaster. Now Angel got why Dick Knolls always eyeballed her in the grocery store, and knew why his wife had been such a "nosy Rosy" over the years about her. Mr. and Mrs. Chatman were of course in the bunch, clarifying their interest in blonde hair and blue eyes. Like she and Peter had also guessed, both Reverend Wolf and Reverend Hardin stood among the hooded figures, making it painfully clear why both so often preached Hellfire and damnation. God rest Reverend Meek, the only good one of them, who definitely must have been their murder victim. She saw Dr. Inman, the physician who had treated her after Connor's attack, along with the Dr. Forrest, who had talked with her years ago about her bicycle wreck-suicide attempt. Other Grimshaw medical professionals were there, too. Not surprisingly, she saw the speedy mortician. Also present was most of the Grimshaw faculty, including the kindergarten teacher Mrs. Wall, and every one of her grade-school teachers except Mrs. DuMore, several of her junior high teachers, and her elementary school principal, Principal North. No wonder he had done nothing to help her in third grade, then fired Mrs. DuMore--or worse--for trying to. Furthermore, beneath one extra-wide, two-hooded cloak, which looked to be made of two separate garments sewn together, were the conjoined Hybrid twins. That's why they had been so concerned about her after Connor's attack. They had all worried about her "future" as a sacrifice, just like Peter's father. They were corrupt hypocrites, just like Lance had said of the people of the church, just like Peter had said about all of them. She wondered how many of these people Peter had seen or heard, and if he'd live to tell who they were. As ten of them lifted her above their heads, her thoughts shifted to how evil, demented, and psychotic this whole thing was. That they were. She stopped screaming when she realized no one would help her. "My God! How can y'all be part of this? Any of y'all?" A few chuckled or made remarks about how she sounded like her father right before they'd killed him. The majority didn't initially respond and veered their eyes from hers. After they started back to their sacrificial ground, however, holding her safely above their heads and out of eyeshot, a few got up the gall to answer her. A hint of bitterness sounded in a number of their replies, but most contained a mixture of happiness and pride. Sick happiness and pride, of course. Angel knew they could kill her in an instant if they wanted to. Of course, they were going to, anyway. So why bother to hide her disgust? Perhaps that disgust was what gave her the courage and the insight to verbally rebut their comments. Not to mention that she knew she was the only advocate among them of God and good and everything that was right. Gene spoke up first. "Christians reject Tony and me on account of our chosen lifestyle. Here, among the followers of Satan, we are accepted." "My sister and I have also found acceptance here," Hilda said, "whereas among the other, so-called ‘normal' members of society, we're rejected and made fun of because our birth defect makes us different." "Hail Satan!" Tony cried. "Hail Satan!" a few voices repeated. Angel said, "Believe me, if anyone knows what it's like to not fit in or be accepted, it's me. Day after day, I've been made fun of by my classmates ‘cause I'm different. I've never fit in. Ever. But you don't see me worshipping Satan and hacking innocent kids and animals to pieces. I don't have the right to, and neither do you!" "What makes you think so?" Reverend Hardin asked. "I don't think it. I know it… no, I feel it! Because it's evil. Because it goes against God and Christianity and everything that is moral and good!" "In my twenty years as a minister," Reverend Wolf countered, "I've seen more proof of Satan's existence than I ever have of God's." "I don't care what proof you've seen or haven't seen, or how many years you've seen it!" Angel remembered a time very recently when she'd insisted upon proof and reasons. Too late, she realized neither was that important when you believed and felt something deep within yourself. "I feel the existence of God in my heart. And he doesn't need to prove himself to those who truly believe in and love him." "Yeah, right," Reverend Wolf sneered. "If God does exist, Satan is a much stronger force. Evil is always a stronger force than good." "That's not true!" Angel cried, appalled. "Good is always stronger than evil! God is always right, and always the better, stronger force over the Devil!" "Oh, that's what I used to think." Brother John laughed, leaning on Gaylette's arm while they walked with John Jr. alongside Angel's captors. "Until the Devil made me see. I was blind before he took my eyes, and he took them so I would see." To the tune of "Amazing Grace," he sang out, "Was blind but now I see." Then, apparently struck with some spontaneous, silly fit of madness, he broke away from Gaylette and began to dance in a circle like a bumpkin at a hoedown. He alternately clapped his hands and slapped his knees, singing the lyrics to a rapid tempo of his own invention. "Was blind but now I see, was blind but now I see, was blind but now I…" Everyone laughed except for Angel and John's daughter. Gaylette grabbed him and hissed, "You hush up, Father!" When the laughter died down, Gaylette said to Angel, "Years ago, when God was doing nothing to help my father and family, the Devil saved us from starving to death. He still helps us, all of us. An occasional sacrifice, even a human one, even a family member , is worth it." With Gaylette's emphasis on the term "family member," Angel knew Peter had been right about the fate of poor Sarah Weekly. Gaylette continued, "And when Eric and Derek grow older, they'll see that and join the followers, just as John Jr. and I did." "Preach on, Sister Gaylette!" Principal North declared. "Praise Lucifer!" Ms. Wall cried. "Our Almighty King!" "Praise Lucifer, our Almighty King!" chimed the others. Angel could move no part of her body except her head. She shook it in response. "No matter how hard your life was, there's no excuse for murdering a human being, especially a member of your own family. I almost pity you, all of you. Except your actions and the evil you stand for revolt me too much. Nothing none of you can say or do can justify your cruelty, or your renouncing God to follow the Devil. To believe that you can is just plain sick. All of you are just plain sick." "If your God is so strong, where is he now?" Mr. Wylie demanded. "Why isn't he helping you?" Though a tear rolled down Angel's face, and dread and pain filled her heart, her soul surged with undying faith. "I don't know. But I do know God works in mysterious ways, and I believe in my heart the day will come when y'all will have to answer to him for what you've done. You will pay, if not during my lifetime or yours, then after you die, when you each face your day of judgment-- alone. That's when you'll suffer for your allegiance to evil. I'll always have faith in that, no matter what you do to me." "That's quite all right," Reverend Wolf said. "In fact, it's very good for you. You see, we know you're a good, wholesome Christian child. We know you don't believe the way we do." He chuckled, his deep, malicious laughter and voice similar to that of a melodrama cartoon's villain. "We know you weren't raised that way." Everybody laughed. Angel didn't get it--what was she missing? Reverend Wolf chuckled and went on, "That's why we like you so much, my dear." They had brought her back to the unholy ground, to the seething fire, to the mysterious, cloaked leader holding the machete. Along the edges of the moonlit blade, Angel could have sworn she saw traces of pumpkin-colored hair, remnants of Connor's murder. A few feet away from the leader stood another cloaked figure, smaller and shorter. The second figure stood motionless with the head titled upward, as if awaiting something. When the procession approached with Angel, the smaller figure drew closer to the leader. Angel paid little attention to the smaller figure, her focus, instead, on the leader himself. Only when she saw him did her destiny fully hit her. Within minutes, her life would be over. There was a time she had been so miserable, she actually wished to die. Now, however, Peter's love had introduced her to warmth, hope, and a promise of happiness she had never before felt nor believed possible, so that her fourteen years suddenly felt unjustly short. Seized with both a new desire to live and the innate human fear of dying, Angel writhed, kicked, and screamed in a last, panicked attempt to free herself. She struggled until they lowered her to the ground in front of the leader, and eight of the monsters pinned her there. Her efforts proved as futile as Peter's earlier ones. They began chanting in some foreign tongue. Soon they would take her head, then the rest of her after she died. From her position at the feet of the leader and his smaller companion, Angel could see inside their hoods. First, she discerned the face of the companion, whose eyes had always been cold, but now seemed colder than ever. Angel's jaw dropped. She couldn't believe it! Yet now, it all made sense. She'd always heard that her entire life would flash in front of her before she died. That happened. But specifically, memories of hints she should have picked up on bombarded her. First came memories of Grandma, what the woman had meant when she'd said she was "looking out" for Angel. Why she said she was being selfish with the deposit box information to try to protect her family. Why she was so desperate for Angel and Peter to marry. The reserved attitude about her death. The early visitation service. Then came Angel's mother Cecilia. Her weak submissiveness. Her embarrassing question in the funeral home. Her shirt with Grandma's blood on it. The reason she had never told Angel that Ansel had disappeared after the accident. The mysterious, black fabric in the attic trunk, which also hid the other evidence of what really happened to Angel's father. Now Angel realized what that fabric was. Angel muttered in only half-surprised revulsion, "My God, how could you?" Cecilia gave her a callous smile. "Why, darling," she said coolly, "your father reacted the exact same way when he saw me." At first, Angel could do nothing but shake her head in appalled response. Not only had this woman helped murder the man who had married her and fathered her child, not only was she handing her only daughter over for slaughter, but she was proud of it! Now Angel knew why she could never feel close to her mother, and why it had always felt, conversely, like the woman didn't care about her the way a mother should. Despite the overwhelming feelings of vehemence, pain, and betrayal, Angel did not fly into a rage like Peter had with his mother. Instead, she uttered two simple comments. "I always knew you were cold. But I never realized you had ice in your veins." Though Angel's response wasn't nearly as lengthy or full of fire as Peter's, it got to Cecilia--at least as much as anything could get to anyone as merciless as she'd become. She lowered her head and averted her eyes, displaying much of the same weak, apologetic guilt and submissiveness she had whenever she stood idly by while Lance beat Angel. Last, Angel saw the face beneath the tall leader's hood, the face of the man who would bring her death. Another pair of familiar eyes--darker, colder eyes--greeted her. Her astonishment rendered her speechless. But the leader's identity also made perfect sense. The rest fell into place. Why no one could or would stop the ruthless beatings she'd endured. What Grandma had really meant about not letting Lance hurt Angel and worrying she couldn't survive at home for another four years. Why Tatum had gotten away with the story that he'd been the one to rescue Angel and bring her to the hospital. Everyone's concern about whether Angel could identify her rescuer. The remaining puzzles involving Connor also became clear. How nothing more than a "Bible study" so easily persuaded the Wylie's that their anger at Connor's death was "an error in their ways"--that was one Bible interpretation that must've been twisted like no Wolf or Hardin sermon ever could have been. Why Lance originally lost his temper with the Wylies, then felt obligated to attend Connor's memorial service out of respect. The telephone conversation between Lance and the Wylies after Connor's disappearance, the one in which Angel assumed they were arguing about pressing legal charges against Connor, rather than the much more severe consequences Connor suffered. Lance telling Tatum to "take care" of Connor. There were the remarks about how she'd been raised. What her mother meant when she said she couldn't stand the pain of raising another child like Angel. The cult laughing when Reverend Wolf made the remark about how Angel had been raised. Why Peter's father viewed Angel as special and "made for them"--it was because of who made her for them. There were the events that occurred the afternoon Lucky supposedly "returned to his owner." Lance's distraction by the newspaper and the phone call he'd made after reading it. The way Lance and Cecilia's fast exit bothered Angel. The big meeting at the St. Thomas place. Why Peter's remarks about the newspaper upsetting his father and his father getting a phone call had rung a bell. And of course, there was Sharp's recent slaughter by the cult--how they'd found out he was on to them, and who had likely given the subsequent order to kill. And finally, the enigma of Lance himself was solved. His beating the crap out of her. The reason he said he didn't believe her about the cult. His blowing up when she tried to answer Sharp's questions. His seemingly uncanny influence over people. His insisting that she study the Bible, attend church, and stay away from boys. His rule forbidding her to be out after dark, chiefly in the woods. He had masked that rule as based upon fear for her safety, but it was actually based upon fear of what she might see, whom she might see. An innate intuition told Angel this was the real reason Lance couldn't stand to set foot in the church, and the cross turned upside-down and the church became "hot as hell" the one and only day he made an exception. Most of all, Angel understood why Lance was so concerned about keeping her body and soul pure. Yes, Peter had been right about a lot of things. Not everything, though. Maybe he was also wrong about Hitler being the world's only version of the Devil incarnate, Angel thought, as just for a second, she saw the leader's eyes supernaturally light up in a bright, red glow of evil bestiality. Those innumerable realizations zoomed through her mind in seconds, just before the tall, cloaked leader said, "It's your time, Angel." She let out a bloodcurdling scream as the blade rushed at her neck, guided by the cult's most horrifying possible choice for their leader--Lance. Amidst the horror and darkness surrounding Angel, one ray of light shone, which enabled her spirit and heart to go on in an existence far greater and more powerful than any physical life man could take from her. That light came from one last, comforting hope, based on a love more selfless than most mortals will ever know-- At least it's not all for nothing. At least Peter will survive…  EPILOGUE Camelot sped forward in chaos. Either because of the scare Angel had given her, or for another reason, the horse had taken on a mind of her own. She galloped through the forest, too fast for Peter to jump off without breaking his neck. In a newborn unyieldingness, she refused to obey her master's commands to stop, slow, or turn around. Instead, she appeared to have made the decision, if an animal is capable of doing such a thing, to carry Peter out of the woods and to safety--whether he liked it or not. While something inside Peter told him that Angel's spirit could never die, he didn't know if he would make it back in time to save her mortal life. He didn't even know if he could save himself. But his heart already swelled with fury, bitterness, and agony because she had made such a sacrifice for him, and because he had not figured out what she was doing in time to stop her. It should have never come to that. It should have been him, instead; he should have dismounted and sent her off on Camelot. He cursed himself for not thinking of it before she had. As Peter sped through the night on Camelot, he made a solemn vow, to God, to Angel, and to himself. "I swear," he called aloud, "if I ever get the hell out of Grimshaw, and see the light of another living day, I won't stop till I get every single one of those sick Satanist bastards--even if I die trying."   Macey Baggett Wuesthoff Macey Baggett Wuesthoff was born in Florence, Alabama. She attended undergraduate school at the University of North Alabama, where she was presented with the Phi Kappa Phi Student Scholars Award for written research. Additionally, she spent one of her last semesters as a public relations intern writer and succeeded in getting several of her articles published by the local and regional media. In 1999, she graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor's degree in Language Arts, secondary education. In June 2001, Macey's horror story "In Death's Face" placed second in the Philadelphia Writers Conference Short Fiction Contest and was published in the 2001 Philadelphia Writers Conference Anthology . In June 2002, one of her few nonfiction works, a feature article on her personal struggles with endometriosis, also earned a second place award at the Philadelphia Writer's Conference, this time in the category of magazine writing. This article was published in the 2002 Philadelphia Writers Conference Anthology. Sacrifice is Macey's first novel to be placed under contract, but she has written various other horror novels and stories as well. She currently resides in Savannah, Georgia, with her husband, Nathan, and their Chihuahuas, Medea and Pandora. More on Macey can be found on the web: www.maceyshouseofhorror.com