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Fat Brian tried to run past Ms. Rathman into the building but she caught the collar of his shirt and hauled him backward.

  “Hold it, young man.” She peered down suspiciously and inspected the dried blood on his face and shirt. “What in the world happened?!”

  “I fell down on the basketball court,” said Brian. He stared at the floor when she lifted his chin and turned his head to the side.

  “I’ll have a look at that when we get inside,” she said. “In you go.”

  He trotted past her as she waved at the rest of the students to come inside.

  Kyle and his two bodyguards muscled past Tommy right as he was walking through the doorway.

  “Easy there, boys,” said Ms. Rathman, half paying attention. She was busy counting heads to make sure no one had stayed outside. “Where’s Amy?” she asked.

  Tommy was standing in the doorway and turned around to look behind him. He was the last one in line.

  A voice called out from the hallway, “I saw her over by the basketball court, Ms. Rathman.”

  “Tommy, be a dear and get her, would you?”

  Before he could answer, Ms. Rathman scooted him outside and closed the door in his face. He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets before walking off toward the court. Stupid Kyle and his stupid friends. Tommy wished his dad hadn’t told him who he thought started the fire in the first place. More importantly, Tommy wished he hadn’t been dumb enough to blab about it to someone at school.

  He rounded the corner of the building and walked straight ahead, toward the basketball court. The far side of the cracked concrete slab butted up against the woods. The children liked to scare each other with tales of ghosts and monsters that lived in the forest and that would grab anyone who entered. As a result, a member of the school’s faculty would comb the edge of the woods once a week to bring in any stray basketballs they could find—orphans that the kids had been too afraid to retrieve. Half a dozen was not considered a high number of rescues.

  “Amy?” Tommy called out.

  Amy Cooke had dark brown hair and clear brown eyes, and Tommy thought she was the prettiest girl in class. So what if she thought Kyle was cute and wanted to be his girlfriend? So what if he had heard a rumor that the two of them got caught kissing in the bathroom at school? Tommy thought that one day he might have a chance with her if she would just take the time to get to know him.

  “Amy, come on,” he said.

  Tommy walked onto the basketball court and looked around. There was a small stack of bleachers on one end of the concrete rectangle, but he could tell she wasn’t hiding underneath. Why would she hide, anyway? It was going to get colder outside and Ms. Rathman always ran the heater for them when they went back to class.

  He jogged across the court and stopped at the edge. The woods were silent and unmoving before him, as if the cold breeze that ruffled his shirt had heard the students’ ghost stories and refused to enter the haunted forest.

  “Amy?” he called into the shadows. The canopy was so thick above the trees that no sunlight reached the leaf-strewn ground. He couldn’t go back without her. What if she was in trouble? What if someone grabbed her?

  Then what could I possibly do to help her? thought Tommy. He looked around on the ground and saw a large branch lying in the dirt. He picked it up and brushed off a clump of grass. It was about as big as a baseball bat but nowhere near as sturdy.

  It would have to do.

  After a hesitant glance at the school—hoping he would see Amy waving to him from the doorway but instead seeing no one—Tommy stepped off the basketball court and plunged into the woods.

  * * *

  He could tell instantly that something wasn’t right. Tommy felt his soul leave his body as soon as he lifted his foot from the safety of hard concrete and brought it down on loose, moist dirt. A coldness seized him that he imagined was normally reserved for a person in the last moments just before death. The flimsy stick he gripped tightly with both hands felt like a toothpick. The sounds of wind and civilization died behind him as he took his first slow steps forward.

  “Amy?”

  His voice was softer than it had been on the basketball court. The noise carried infinitely farther, however, and bounced off the tree trunks all around him. Dead leaves crunched underfoot as he moved into the dense forest.

  His next word came out as a whisper. “Anybody?”

  Run, said a voice deep within his mind. Run now.

  He put up a halfhearted fight with the voice and tried to spout off a list of heroic virtues that would help him in future conversations after he saved the prettiest girl in class, but quickly lost. Tommy dropped the stick and turned to flee just as he saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. His muscles stopped responding to his brain’s orders. Legs that usually carried him around the middle school track faster than anyone else in class froze to the ground, rooted uselessly to the earth.

  It was the monster under his bed.

  He knew it even though it was impossible to know. The beast had found him; tracked him somehow from his home to his school. And now it was going to kill him, just as it had probably already killed Amy. Tommy felt a pang of guilt amidst the terror through which he was suffering; he led the monster here, and now Amy was dead. Someone died because of him.

  “Oh no,” he said, and ran.

  Tommy ran as fast as he could. His legs churned beneath him and he would have been only a brief flash of movement to anyone that was watching. Tree trunks flew past his vision so quickly that it was impossible for him to tell them apart from each other.

  The monster was behind him and easily kept pace. Tommy dared not look back; one wrong move would slam him into a tree trunk. If the impact didn’t kill him, he knew the monster hot on his heels would be happy to finish the job.

  Ms. Rathman’s distant voice drifted to him through the woods. “Tommy? Tommy!”

  “Ms. Rathman!” he shouted. “I’m in here!” His words died directly in front of him, as if a literal blanket of silence had descended over the dark forest. He wanted to shout more but was forced to save his breath. The quick sprint had turned into a prolonged chase and Tommy was quickly running out of energy.

  He saw daylight ahead. The basketball court materialized around him as he burst from the treeline. White-hot light assaulted his vision but he kept running regardless, no longer caring if he collided with an obstacle.

  “Ms. Rathman!”

  She was waiting by the door when he ran up. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, panting for breath.

  “Amy—she’s not—not out there,” he said between gasps. Tommy turned to look back at the woods. The monster was nowhere in sight. “Did you see it?”

  “See what, Tommy?” Ms. Rathman looked over him toward the basketball court. “I don’t see anything. Are you sure she’s not out there?”

  He stared at the treeline, expecting at any moment for the beast taken straight out of his nightmares to come barreling forth. “I’m sure.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Ms. Rathman. “Well, I guess I have to call the sheriff then, or something. Are you sure you didn’t see her? It isn’t like Amy to run off like this. I hope she’s not hurt. Oh, dear.”

  Ms. Rathman stepped aside and Tommy walked past her into the school. She followed him in and headed toward the office, mumbling to herself the whole time. Tommy kept his eyes on the woods beyond the basketball court until the pneumatic door swung silently closed and sealed him inside. He was still fighting to catch his breath but all of his thoughts were on Amy. He hoped—more than anything else in the world—that she was still alive.

  11

  Karen Raines turned her police cruiser onto the long, unmarked road off Dawn Avenue that led to The Last Valley Church. The road had never been paved, regardless of the constant written and verbal requests made by Pastor Moses St. Croix. He claimed that without a paved road, anyone who did not have a truck or SUV, or anyone that needed to walk to church every Sunday, would not be
able to attend.

  His argument was sound, even though Karen believed a paved road would only result in a minimal increase in weekly devotees. Still, as her old cruiser bounced slowly over exposed rocks and dipped down into deep pot-holes, she wished someone on the city council would listen to the preacher.

  The radio attached to the bottom of the car’s dashboard squawked to life. “Raines, this is Foster.”

  She leaned forward and unhooked the radio’s hand unit. “Foster, I’ve been calling you all morning. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Sleeping one off. I knew you’d understand.”

  Karen shook her head. “We were supposed to hit the church together.”

  “Too late now. Amy Cooke’s gone missing over at the school,” he said. “I’m checking it out.”

  “Missing?” Karen asked. She knew Amy’s parents from several town meetings.

  “The teacher thinks she got snatched. One of the kids is telling a story about being chased by someone out in the woods. She’s probably necking behind the school with one of her boyfriends, but I’m gonna go check it.”

  “Copy that. I’m almost to the church now. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “This is late notice,” said Walt, “but I dragged Mike Laubin to the office and locked him up.”

  “No wonder I couldn’t find the creep!”

  “I saw him duck into the gas station. He put up a fight so I’m going to leave him at the station for a day to cool off.”

  “Good. I still want to talk to him,” said Karen. “Roy wasn’t at his ranch and he still hasn’t checked in, so hopefully St. Croix will be able to tell me something useful.”

  “Copy that.”

  The radio went silent. She clipped the receiver to the dash unit and settled back into her seat. She had wanted Foster to meet her at the church in case the preacher gave her any trouble. He was nice enough to his parishioners but became defensive and occasionally even belligerent whenever the sheriff or one of the deputies approached him near the church. Asking a few questions of the man was never as simple as Karen would have liked. She buried the feeling that Foster lucked out by receiving the call from the school.

  After the preacher invariably told her he knew nothing about the sheriff, Karen planned on driving out to the source of the black smoke to see how far the fire had spread. If all the volunteers in the local fire department hadn’t already left Falling Rock for the winter, it would have been extinguished by then. The risk of fire in the snow-covered mountains was so low during the winter months that the entire fire department had long ago adopted a policy of vacationing for the entire winter break. As it was, Karen was starting to think she would have to call over to Denver for some assistance.

  The woods around her parted to reveal the church, which stood alone in the middle of a wide field. It looked almost picturesque in the daytime; its tall white steeple reached up toward the blue sky, a white crucifix on top, and the stained-glass windows lining the walls were kept crystal clear by the pastor. The only thing that betrayed the building’s age was the peeling white paint that ran down the sides of the wood-paneled walls. Either the pastor didn’t have enough money to afford new paint or he just hated painting altogether. Upon close inspection the effect gave the church an old look that made Karen feel like she was stepping out of her car and onto a prairie settlement.

  She looked around the field. A drooping clothesline ran from a corner of the church and over to a rusty metal pole sticking out of the ground. A pair of pants and a couple of shirts flapped gently in the breeze. The edge of a large tool shed was visible behind the church; a shiny new lock was clasped to the handle of the sliding door.

  She reached back into the car and picked up the radio receiver.

  “Dispatch, this is Raines.”

  The scratchy voice of Janet Hayes spoke on the other end of line. “Have you found him yet?” The old bird hadn’t slept a wink in more than a day. She was going to worry herself to an early grave if the sheriff didn’t come back from wherever he was hiding. Janet’s paranoia was starting to nip at Karen’s heels as well. At first Karen was convinced that Roy was off on one of his fishing trips and was too busy reeling in a massive haul to bother calling the station, but a vague feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach was quickly turning into a more concrete sense of dread as the hours passed and the sheriff did not return.

  “No, Janet. Nothing yet. I’m at the church now. Just letting you know.”

  “Okay. You be careful.”

  “Copy that, Janet.” Karen tossed the receiver onto the seat and walked over to the church. She wasn’t sure of the proper protocol on any other day than Sunday, so after climbing the steps at the front of the building, she simply knocked loudly on the solid oak door. “Pastor Moses!” she called.

  No answer.

  She twisted the large metal handle and pushed the door inward. It swung easily on its hinges and bumped lightly into a small pedestal standing next to the entrance. On top of the pedestal was an empty brass bowl with the word GIVE etched into the outer surface. Her boots thumped loudly as she walked across the wood floor.

  Dust hung in the air and twirled lazily in the shafts of light that shot through the stained-glass windows. It was eerie being in the church alone. Without feeling the true need to do so, Karen unbuttoned the small safety strap that rested across the butt of her revolver and placed her palm on the grip.

  “Anyone home?”

  The church was empty. She went through a door behind the curtain at the back of the sanctuary and searched the small living quarters—the only other room in the entire building—but found nothing except an upturned bed and a hole in the floor. Karen knelt down and moved her hand around in the blackness of the hole, touching nothing but dirt. The pastor didn’t seem to have much in the way of worldly possessions; besides a couple pieces of furniture, nothing in the room stood out as being remotely valuable.

  Perhaps Moses had suspected someone would come for him and took his belongings when he fled.

  Karen left the church and walked around the back of the building, searching for anything else that might give her some idea of where the preacher was holed up. The large tool shed stood silently against the woods behind the church. She crossed over to it and jiggled the sturdy lock in its setting. After inspecting the weak metal latches to which the lock was clasped, Karen mentally signed a search warrant to inspect the premises and withdrew her slender nightstick from its holster on her belt.

  She inserted the stick between the rusty metal latches and the corrugated wall of the shed and levered down hard. The screwed-in latches groaned in protest but popped off and fell to the ground after a few seconds of strain. She kicked them aside and slid her nightstick through its loop on her belt.

  The door was stubborn but she managed to shove it to the side, grunting with exertion and digging her feet into the dirt as she pushed. She waved a hand in front of her face to clear away some of the kicked-up dust and stepped into the shed.

  The walls were lined with all sorts of tools. Several pieces of old farm machinery sat rotting in one corner. The middle of the space was completely taken up by a covered car. Karen walked over and pulled back a blue tarp that had carefully been tugged down over the vehicle.

  It was the sheriff’s cruiser.

  Karen let the tarp fall slowly to the ground as she inspected the car. The outside was intact; no signs of an accident except for an old dent in the fender and no bullet-holes in the siding. She pulled her flashlight out of her belt and shined it into the car.

  There was blood.

  So much blood that Karen knew instantly the sheriff must be dead. Only if it’s his blood, she tried to assure herself. Whose blood could it be, then? Maybe the pastor’s. Her flashlight traced the dark streaks inside the car down to the driver-side baseboard. A single black shoe rested against the gas pedal.

  “Oh my God,” she said quietly. It was Roy’s shoe; one of his shiny black loafers he could always be seen p
olishing between sips of black coffee at the station.

  She had to get back to her cruiser and call it in. The whole town needed to be warned that there was a madman on the loose. How could she phrase it so that Janet didn’t fear the worst? It was most likely impossible, Karen decided; she herself feared the worst.

  She jogged back to her cruiser and grabbed the receiver. “Dispatch.”

  Janet picked up instantly. “Anything, Karen?”

  “Yeah. Look.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “Umm…look. So, St. Croix isn’t here.”

  “That bastard,” said Janet. “He ran off. I knew it, the bastard—”

  “I found Roy’s cruiser.”

  Janet held her breath. “Was Roy inside?”

  “No. Janet, look. We need to issue a warrant for St. Croix, do you understand?”

  “What’s in the car, Karen? What did you find?”

  “I’m sure Roy’s fine,” Karen lied, “but I need you to get the paperwork started on that warrant, okay? I need you to focus on that right now. I’ll call Walt and meet up with him. We’ll bring in the pastor and find out what happened to—we’ll find out what he knows about Roy.”

  “Oh, no,” said Janet, her voice a distant whimper. “Oh no oh no oh no…”

  “Janet, listen to me. We’re going to find Moses and then we’re going to find Roy, okay?” She heard a sniffle on the other end of the radio.

  “Okay. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”

  Karen hopped into her car and slammed the door. “I’ll let you know as soon as we find him.”

  “The bastard,” Janet added.

  Karen fired up the engine and drove back to the dirt road. She took the turns much faster on the return run, blazing straight over potholes and allowing her tires to bounce on jutting rocks. She grabbed the radio receiver.

  “Walt.”

  A pause.

  “Go ahead.” Foster’s voice sounded more urgent than usual, probably because he detected the strain in Karen’s voice.

  “I have a terrible headache.” She reached down to the radio and turned the channel dial all the way to the right. Long ago they had come up with a code phrase which indicated to the other deputies that they needed to talk in private; by jumping ten channels above the normal dispatch frequency, they could speak to each other safely without Janet and the sheriff eavesdropping.