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involved with this kind of thing before. The trouble at the Gates’ farm—”
    It took all of his effort not to scream. “Leave it to me, Marianne. I’ll look into it for you. If it makes you feel any better, other people in Orangefield have reported the same kind of thing you have.”
    And almost all of them ended up dead.
    Her hands had stopped trembling and were cradling her coffee cup.
    His forced smile widened even more. “You’ll do what I say?”
    She suddenly nodded. “All right. But what was that thing I saw?”
    His smile was locked into place, and he let his tired eyes crinkle in what may have looked like merriment. “It may be something, or nothing at all. Let’s call it a ‘Sam Sighting’ for now, if you want.”
    In all innocence, she said, “What if I keep seeing it?”
    “Just . . . don’t worry. It won’t hurt you.”
    A lie. You don’t know that.
    “Do you feel better now?” he asked.
    She looked down at her coffee cup, nearly empty, and nodded, then smiled. “Better than I have in . . . a while. Thank you, Detective Grant. I . . . usually end up talking to my sister, and she’s . . . well, a bit overbearing.”
    Grant forced himself to laugh in concurrence.
    “Are you seeing a doctor?” he asked.
    “Doctor Williams.”
    Grant nodded. “I know him. That’s good, Marianne.”
    Without realizing it, he had risen and was ushering her out of the house. At the front door he stopped her and gently took her arm.
    “If you need me, anytime, night or day, call me.” He fished one of his ever-present business cards out of his wallet and gave it to her. “All the numbers are on there, at the station, home and cell. Don’t hesitate. I’ll . . . protect you, Marianne.”
    “Protect me?”
    He forced a smile back onto his face. “Don’t worry. I’ll call you to make sure you’re all right.”
    She took the card and suddenly raised herself on her toes and pecked him lightly on the cheek.
    “Thank you, Detective.”
    “I need to ask you one more time, Marianne. Are you absolutely sure it was your husband with you that night?”
    Her eyes were unblinking. “Yes.”
    “All right.”
    She was out the door and gone into the night.
    He closed the door, locked it.
    Samhain.
    Ignoring the dirty cups in the kitchen, the coffee still warming which would taste bitter in the morning, he stumbled to the basement stairs and forced his feet to descend them. He sat in his lounge chair and, after looking at the curtained casement window, stared at the television.
Stagecoach
on AMC had been replaced by another, inferior western, riddled with commercials he didn’t even register.
    Weird shit.
    Slowly, methodically, he emptied the Dewar’s bottle, hammering himself down into sleep, and false peace.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
     
    “Bud?”
    The voice was deep, not at all friendly, and Bud Ganley didn’t even bother to stick a hand out from underneath the truck and give the finger. After all, he was earning a buck now, and didn’t owe anyone anything. This clown could wait. If it was a cop, screw ’im, if it was a customer, screw ’im, too. Whoever it was, he could talk to the boss, Jim Ready. Bud was just the hired help.
    “Bud Ganley?”
    “Eff off,” Bud said from beneath the truck, continuing to work on mounting the rebuilt engine. He’d been sloppy with the chains and the block and tackle, he knew, but if he got it in place soon everything would be fine. If he didn’t have this truck finished and ready to go today, Ready would really fire him for sure.
    “I’d like to talk to you, Bud.”
    “I said—” Ganley began to snarl, but suddenly it became very dark around him and he was no longer beneath the truck in Ready’s Garage.
    “What the—”
    “I was polite, and that didn’t work. So, now I’m not polite.”
    It was so dark he thought he was in the middle of the woods somewhere. But it had been broad daylight, eleven-thirty in the morning, almost lunchtime, so this couldn’t be . .