The Dark Ones

by Anthony Izzo

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

The Shadows Are Preparing To Strike. . .

Throughout history, the forces of darkness and light have battled for control of mankind. Living among us, The Guardians are capable of drawing light into a deadly weapon against The Dark Ones--those who inhabit the shadows, conjuring instruments of torture from the darkness itself.

Sixteen years ago, guardian Charles Pennington buried the leader of The Dark Ones under an abandoned brewery in Buffalo, New York. Now Lars Engels has returned from hell, and The Dark Ones are gathering in numbers and power. Spreading their cloud of death across the region, they seek out the one soul who can stop them. . .

Heading to Buffalo in search of her birth mother, Sara Pennington, granddaughter of Charles, is about to discover her true identity--and her ultimate fate. A guardian of intense power, she was taken into hiding as an infant. Now, she is the only one who can save the world from going to hell. . .

"Izzo drags you into the shadows but doesn't leave you in the dark. A keeper." --Scott Nicholson on Cruel Winter

Anthony Izzo received his Bachelor of Arts in English from D'Youville College. He currently resides with his wife and two children in Upstate New York where he is working on his next novel. When not writing, Tony enjoys reading, music, and playing guitar.

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Engel awoke in the darkness. Moist earth pressed against his nostrils. He breathed no more, so he had no fear of suffocating, even though he felt the dirt packed into his nose. The wet feel of the grave dirt weighed on his eyelids. The darkness was all encompassing, and he could not move his arms, which were folded across his chest and held in place.

He was back, ready to walk the earth again. The Light had diminished and now he was awake. He only needed something to free him from the grave.

His taste for blood and death was immediate, like an itch he could not scratch. It had been the same during the Dark Ages, when they would bring a cowering maiden before him and tie her down. In a frenzy, sometimes breathing like an aroused lover, he would swing the hammer, breaking shoulders, elbows, kneecaps, but never vital areas of the body. The crowd would mostly cheer. Some would cry, others would vomit on the cobblestone square. When the victim’s body was nothing more than a tangle of broken limbs, he would weave the broken arms and legs through the spokes and hoist the wretch onto a pole, wheel and all. The crows would take care of the rest.

He had felt no pity for his victims. When he was a child, his mother told him his eyes were like two stones, cold and hard. His father, watching him butcher the family livestock, commented, “That boy, he enjoys spilling blood.” It was no surprise to anyone, then, the path he took in life.

Now, he wished to bring that same pain on the ones who put him in the grave. The Light, which kept him prisoner, was extinguished, and he knew soon he would be free.

My Dark Master, set loose my children. Find those who wronged your servant. Bring slaughter upon them. This I ask of you.

His Dark Master. Satan, the Devil. Known by many different names on earth, the Devil himself had chosen Engel to lead his army. You have a thirst for blood and no pity in your heart. You will bring darkness to the earth. A legion of angels could not stop you. You will rule beside me, and the earth will belong to hell and its Dark Ones. So the master had told him upon his descent into hell.

In his tomb, he waited. Eager to please the Master.

Laura Pennington awoke in a fit. She had had the dream again, the one about Megan. Around her the covers were twisted and her pillow hung half off the bed. She had been thrashing in her sleep. She looked at the sleeping pills on the nightstand and shook her head. There was no way she was downing them again, even if they did help her sleep. Sleep was not the accurate term. The pills had practically put her in a coma, one from which she awoke with heavy limbs and fuzzy thoughts. A night’s sleep wasn’t worth the sluggishness induced by the pills.

Besides, she had to be sharp. Being an ER doc meant having little or no time to think. If it came down to deciding which drug to administer or needing steady hands to perform an intubation, she did not need sleeping pills slowing her down. The dream this past night was the same. Megan was asleep in her cradle and it squeaked gently as Laura rocked it back and forth. Sixteen years ago, as a nineteen-year-old mother, she had set the cradle next to the bed for fear of SIDS, and she awoke fitfully at every yawn or quickened breath the baby took. In the dream, she heard Megan gurgle, looked over, and watched the baby smile her toothless grin. It seemed terribly real, and if there were smells in dreams, she would have smelled the scent of powders and lotions and the baby shampoo she had used on Megan.

Now, lying awake, the fitfulness of her sleep seemed to contrast with the pleasantness of the dream. The dream itself was not bad, it was the urge that came over her when she awoke. I won’t do it, she thought. Won’t.

The baby seemed so real, so concrete. In Laura’s first few minutes of waking, she fought the desire to get up and look. She rolled over, hoping to doze off, not having to get up for another half an hour. She pulled the sheets up tight to her ear and listened to the soft tick of the wall clock in the apartment’s living room.

Do it, you fool. Go ahead, torture yourself.

She threw the covers aside, slipped into her robe, and padded out to the living room. There was no cradle. Only the sofa, her television, and an apothecary-style coffee table. What did she expect? Megan was sixteen years gone, and only a fool believed that she would be there, that the abduction never happened and a cooing baby girl would be waiting in a cradle for her mother to pick her up.

Maybe I need a psych consult, she thought.

The Megan dream was a version of one of Laura’s childhood dreams. Every so often, she’d dreamed of Christmas presents under the tree. Barbie dolls, Strawberry Shortcake, and an E-Z Bake Oven, all new and unwrapped, just waiting. She had gone so far as to sneak downstairs at six a.m. before her father awoke to go to the office. She was always crushed when it wasn’t actually Christmas. But the images of presents had been so vivid, as were the emotions that came with Christmas morning, that she had to check. She was always disappointed. The dream of her long-gone baby daughter brought the same disappointment. That feeling like it should be real, like she had been cheated, upon waking and finding that the strong memory had vaporized into nothing.

Thinking too much again. About Megan, about things she couldn’t change. After Megan’s disappearance, medical school had offered a refuge for her, someplace she couldn’t think about Megan, with nonstop studying, popping uppers to stay awake, professors who told you you were crap and couldn’t cut it, and later on residents who treated you like a subhuman species. The ER had been a good place for her. You thought on your feet, no time to dwell on a long-gone little girl when the medics brought in a blood-soaked gangbanger or a kid practically turning blue from an asthma attack.

She decided to get moving. She showered and shaved her legs, thinking in the shower about Dad and his wacky behavior lately. He’d been on a quest to save the Iroquois brewery from demolition, and the old building was nearing its date with the excavator, with no pardon coming from the Common Council. It was like he was possessed. He’d been featured on Channel 2, interrupted numerous Common Council meetings, and nearly been arrested twice for seeking a private audience with the mayor. She hoped when the building was nothing but bricks and dust his lunacy would subside and he would go back to playing eighteen holes at Byrncliff twice a week and bitching about the greens fees.

After her shower, she got dressed and threw her scrubs in a small duffel bag. She then fixed herself a bowl of oatmeal and washed it down with cranberry juice. Time to get to the hospital, another day among the sick and the hurt. But it beat the alternative, which was dwelling on the wound Megan’s disappearance had left in her.

She threw on a leather jacket, grabbed her bag and keys, and left the apartment.

David Dresser hurried toward Lexington Christian Church, a newspaper tucked under his right arm. It was early fall, and leaves whirled around his feet, stirred by a chilly breeze. He turned right into the church parking lot and spotted Reverend Frank’s white Escort. As he approached the rear door of the parsonage, he peered back over his shoulder. He was not a nervous man by nature. In his early twenties, he had spent days camping in the most isolated wilderness with little more than a tent and a buck knife. Once a black bear had come within ten feet of his campsite and Dave had squatted by the fire, watching the bear until it lost interest and ambled back into the woods. He fancied himself a cool customer, not prone to ragged nerves or bad sensations, but he couldn’t deny the feeling of dread that tickled his spine. He expected to whirl around and see a dark shape duck behind a tree, trying to remain unseen.

The parsonage was a gray Dutch Colonial, and next to the back door was a redwood deck. Reverend Frank had left his Adirondack chair out. On a warm day you could spot him from the street, arms hanging over the edges, a magazine flopped across his belly. David was never so anxious to see the man as he was now.

He knocked on the door.

Reverend Frank appeared, his gray hair spilling out from underneath the familiar Baltimore Orioles cap. Thankfully he took it off before service, although David suspected if the good Reverend had his way, the cap would go with him to the pulpit.

“Did you run over? You’re sweating,” the Reverend said.

“The meeting room. Now.”

The Reverend took a key ring from a peg hanging near the door. David followed him to the church, and while he unlocked the door, David kept watch on the street. They had always been safe in the daytime, but after seeing the newspaper article, David wasn’t so sure.

They entered the church lobby and descended the steps. David could smell the faint aroma of garlic and onion, left over from the spaghetti dinner two nights before. The two men went through the church meeting hall, where rows of steel chairs and tables were still set up from the previous night’s dinner.

Reverend Frank took out his key ring and opened a door off the kitchen. He and David slipped inside, David noticing the metallic, dusty smell and the soft hum of the church’s furnaces. Behind the furnaces were a card table and four chairs. He still felt safe in this room, and he remembered suggesting it for their meetings. Mainly because it lacked windows.

The Reverend sat down, and David sat opposite him. Dave set the newspaper on the table and unfolded it. Then he pointed to an article midway down the front page. The headline read, IOWA FAMILY BRUTALLY MURDERED.

The Reverend took a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket, scrunched up his nose, and picked up the newspaper. David watched him, trying to gauge the man’s reaction.

The news had been a hell of a welcome back for Dave, who had spent the last two days on a drywall job in Bixby. A woman named Eleanor Cade had paid him a grand to gut her living room and drywall and mud it. No finish work. He had taken the job. It was easy money, and Mrs. Cade had kept a steady supply of sweet iced tea and turkey sandwiches coming. After roofing work had dried up, he had needed the money, and was willing to travel to find work. Leaving town meant leaving Sara behind, which was not a problem, because unlike other sixteen-year-olds, he could leave her alone and not find the house trashed from some wild party. Reading the article had made him fear for her. She would not be left alone in the future.

The Rev set the paper down, removed his glasses. “You go home yet?”

“I stopped at a convenience store on the way into town. I spotted that at the counter.”

“The whole Little family. Murdered. You’re sure it’s Them that did it?”

“Frank, there’s some sick people out there, but this?”

“Then it’s a warning,” the Reverend said. “They’re coming.”

“Will the Everlight keep Engel in the grave?”

David had never seen the Everlight, which Frank had described to him as a black, smooth stone. It could ward off the Dark Ones by emitting pure white light, and it had also kept Engel sealed in his tomb. There were two left in the world, one with Engel, and the other in a small Pennsylvania town.

Frank said, “If the Dark Ones are loose, the power of the Everlight holding Engel may be diminishing.”

Officer Rollie McPherson popped a stick of Black Jack gum in his mouth and chewed, hoping to work up some saliva. Ever since he had gotten the call to investigate strange noises out at the Little farm last night, the inside of his mouth had tasted like he’d chewed dust for dinner. He had known Harold Little, seen him at the farmers’ market in the town square on Saturdays. Little’s girls, Maura and Tina, had often come up and asked questions (“What’s that on your belt? Is that a real gun? You ever shoot anyone?”) when he stopped at the stand to buy corn.

So when it had come over the radio, he had gone out there with a sick feeling in his belly. It wasn’t cop instinct or anything like that. He didn’t think he possessed that skill (if it existed), and he would most likely spend his days writing out speeding tickets. Instinct was for detectives and maybe Bureau guys. But that was okay. Instinct or not, a part of him hadn’t wanted to go to the farm. He had pulled up to the driveway, and through the open car window, he heard the dry cornstalks rustle.

The Littles had a Lab named Sharkie that usually made its home on the porch, but as he approached there had been no barking. It had been just after two a.m. and he had crept up on the house with the cruiser’s lights off.

The front window was dark, the curtains drawn. He climbed out of the cruiser, hand on the butt of his revolver. Somewhere out back, a loose board clapped in the breeze, maybe a plank on the barn. He stepped onto the wraparound porch, where two pink bikes with streamers on the handles lay against the house. Everything looked normal so far.

He rang the bell, and when no one answered, he started getting nervous. He went around back, shining his Maglite so he didn’t step in a rut and bust an ankle. In the back of the house he found trouble. The screen door flapped back and forth in the breeze, and its center looked as if someone had punched a hole in it. The inside door was also open, the glass broken in a spiderweb pattern.

Now, he pulled his sidearm and crept into the house. In the kitchen, he found two chairs tipped over, and sugar from a dumped canister had scattered across the counter. He listened, and heard only the drip of water from the kitchen sink faucet.

Rollie assumed the bedrooms were upstairs, and he ascended the steps, where he found the spilled contents of a trash can, mostly tissues. He guessed it had been dragged out from a bedroom or bathroom.

At the top of the steps he got a whiff of something like spoiled meat. He looked in the first bedroom on the left. This one was done up in Powerpuff Girls decorations. The bedclothes were in a heap on the floor. There was no sign of the girls.

He found the other two bedrooms in similar disarray and began to think that the Little family had been taken somewhere against their will.

He was about to go and radio for help when he heard a scream. From the pitch, he thought it was a woman’s scream, but could not be sure. It sounded like someone was tearing the guts out of the screamer.

He ran downstairs. He flew out the back door and in the darkness could see the outline of the barn silhouetted against the sky.

Rollie stopped about ten feet from the doors. One of them creaked open, and all of the sudden he felt like that scared ten-year-old boy who was too afraid to fetch his father’s jigsaw from the basement. His insides seemed to curl up on themselves.

He looked at the opening as if the blackness might eat him up and make him disappear like the Littles. If someone was on the other side of that door ...

Glock in hand, he made himself move ahead. He took out the flashlight with his free hand. He opened the barn door. A small dust cloud kicked up. He looked inside and pointed the beam.

He saw the girl’s face, looking at him upside down. Bruised and bloody, the mouth open, the eyes bulging, he couldn’t tell if it was Tina or Maura. The girl’s back arched where the sharpened stick jutted from her belly. There were others. He trained the light on each of them. The other Littles had been impaled on spears, slick fluid running down the poles accompanied by the smells of blood and shit.

He ran to his car and got on the radio. As he sat in the car and called into headquarters, he saw the cloud. Black as the sky around it, rolling backward across the cornfield behind the barn. Never seen anything like that before.

Now, he leaned on his patrol car, which was parked at the end of the Littles’ driveway. He crossed his arms and watched the assortment of news vans parked across the road.

A good looking, dark-haired woman, whose last name he thought was Olivencia, a TV reporter, crossed the road and came toward him. Her skirt was just short enough to give you a glimpse of thigh, and she took long strides on long legs.

“Excuse me, Officer ...”

“McPherson. And you need to go back across the road.”

“Just one question.”

“Please go back.”

She stepped in close to him. She had on some good-smelling perfume, that was for sure.

“If I could just ask one question.”

“You can try.”

“Is it true what the papers are printing? About the way they died?”

Rollie stooped down low, until his head was right at her ear level. “You didn’t hear this from me. They were all impaled, even the family dog, and Ms. Olivencia? If I live to be ninety-eight, I’ll never forget the sight of those little girls with their mouths in a permanent scream.” He stood upright, and glancing at the reporter, he noticed her pretty brown skin had turned a shade lighter.

Dave got up and shut the door to the furnace room. He wished he had his Smith & Wesson with him, but it was at home in his dresser drawer.

The Reverend took off his glasses and hung them on his shirt pocket. “You should get home and check on Sara.”

“But you agree, it was the Dark Ones.”

Reverend Frank stroked his mustache. “It was Them, and yes, they are sending us a message. We have to get to Buffalo. I’ll contact Charles.”

“What will you tell the congregation?”

“Sabbatical. Us ministers work other days but Sunday, you know. We need our rest.”

“I thought that was the greatest job in the world, work one day a week. That and the garbageman.”

Reverend Frank stood up. “We’ll need to notify the others.”

“The Dark Ones will be looking for Sara,” Dave said. “I’ve got the .357 at home, and I could pick up a shotgun for some extra pop.”

Reverend Frank grinned. “You think that will do much good?”

“It will slow them down, draw less attention than the Light.”

“You have any loose ends to tie up?” the Reverend asked.

David thought for a moment. He was so used to moving Sara around the country that he never really had any obligation to anyone but her. Packing up and leaving would not be a problem. “I told Mrs. Hannity I’d replace the trap on her sink, but she’ll have to wait.”

“We could be gone ... a long time.”

“How will Sandra react?”

“Probably worry. She still thinks we have poker games down here and I don’t want the parishioners seeing.”

“She’s never even gotten a hint of what we’re up to?”

Reverend Frank shook his head.

Frank had concealed the true nature of the meetings. David had managed to keep Sara in the dark as well until recently, when Sara had started asking questions about her mother; David told Sara her mother died in childbirth. He kept photos around of Janine Coldgrass, one of his old girlfriends. She had dark hair and blue eyes like Sara, and it wasn’t too far of a stretch to imagine her as Sara’s mom.

“We can take my truck. Meet you here in an hour?” Dave asked.

“When will you be back?” Robbie asked.

Sara Dresser looked at her boyfriend and smiled. She loved the way his hair spiked up in back, the way his varsity football jacket slouched on his frame, the way he kept pushing his glasses up onto his nose. She loved holding his hand and driving in his beat-up Escort, the White Stripes blasting on the stereo. And she hated that she had to leave him.

“Don’t know.” She picked up her bag and exited the glass doors of the bus terminal. Outside, several Greyhound buses were parked at an angle, engines rumbling. She smelled diesel fumes in the air, and every once in a while, air brakes hissed and one of them pulled out.

“What will I tell your dad?”

“Tell him I’m on a bus headed toward Buffalo. By the time he catches up to me, maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for.”

“Sara, I mean, Jesus. It’s dangerous out there. What if some creep on the bus takes an interest in you?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And why would they do that?”

He smiled and said, “Because you’re so fine.”

She wanted to grab him and plant a kiss on him right now, but it would make things harder. It might make her decide to get in his Escort and drive back home and tell Dad what a mistake she made. “Wouldn’t you want to find your mom if you could?”

“I’ll miss you.”

“Do you care if I find her?” Sara asked.

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

“Then you’ll let me go. And try holding off on telling my dad. He’ll call you, though, soon enough.”

Robbie slipped up beside her and put his arm around her. She put his arm around his waist, slid it under the jacket and his shirt, and rubbed his lower back.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Robbie said.

Thank God I could. And I love you for it, she thought. Sometimes she loved him so bad it ached. “Thanks for bringing me.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You know where to find this woman?”

“Got the name and address in my bag.”

A bus rolled into the terminal parking lot and Sara saw BUFFALO on the sign over the windshield. She and Robbie stepped back and the bus pulled into the space. Now, more passengers had crowded around them, among them a tall elderly man with a cane and a heavyset woman who held the hand of a little girl with pigtails. The bus driver, clad in a blue cable-knit sweater and brown slacks, stepped down from the bus. “We board now for Buffalo, folks.”

He proceeded to the side of the bus, where he opened up the luggage storage compartments. Sara rolled her suitcase over and placed it in a pile with other bags. She kept a carry-on duffel that had her cash, some CDs, an iPod, and most important, the printouts and articles she had found on Laura Pennington.

She returned from setting the bag down and now she looked at Robbie, who stood with his hands in his pockets. God, she loved him. It filled her up, ate her up. She thought about him in the shower, before bed, at the breakfast table, and especially in Mr. Montoya’s social studies class, or the vortex of eternal damnation, as she liked to think of it.

She moved in close to him and said, “Thanks for the ticket, too.”

“Be careful. And call me when you can.”

She kissed Robbie quickly and then wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. The wool letterman’s jacket scratched her cheek, but she wanted to stay there. A moment later, she let go and stepped back from him.

“Miss you,” he said.

“Miss you, too,” she said.

She turned around, afraid that she might lose her courage. The bus driver had loaded up the bags and now stood at the door to the bus. Sara handed him her ticket; he looked it over, nodded, and gave it back to her.

She boarded the bus and took a window seat halfway down on the right. She set her bag on the seat and took off the suede jacket she was wearing. Looking up, she saw Robbie, who gave her a forlorn wave and then walked toward the bus terminal looking like he had a cannonball on each shoulder.

Poor Robbie. I’ll be back. But Robbie didn’t seem convinced.

Sara settled in to her seat, clutching her bag. So far, only four others had gotten on the bus: the old guy with the cane, the heavyset woman and her pigtailed daughter, and a young black guy in chinos and a Duke T-shirt. They all took seats to the rear of hers, and for that she was relieved. She didn’t want company.

The bus backed out, and she watched the terminal roll away. She had twelve hours of watching brown and green farmland ahead of her, so she decided to try sleeping, but after leaning her head against the window, all she got was a stiff neck. Instead she unzipped her bag and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline read: LOCAL DOCTOR OFFERS SUMMER SAFETY TIPS FOR KIDS. She looked at Dr. Pennington’s picture. That was a beautiful woman. If the boys at Lexington Senior High could see Dr. Pennington, they would forget chasing slutty Gina Trask. They’d probably all willingly get in line for hernia exams if Dr. Pennington was the school doctor.

She supposed she had some of the doctor’s good looks. The blue eyes, the kind of shiny black hair that only seemed to exist in shampoo commercials—although Sara always kept hers in a ratty ponytail. She liked comfortable and casual. Today, she had thrown on a pink T-shirt and olive drab cargo pants. Robbie was always pointing out clothes that he thought would look good, but usually required showing more cleavage than a Pam Anderson poster.

No, she could not completely match Dr. Pennington’s good looks. She tucked the article back in the bag.

It was more than the article, though. it was the letter, folded in thirds and written on yellow stationery. That was what drove her to head for Buffalo. The words in the letter echoed in her mind: Laura must never know that Sara is her daughter.

After locking up the church and bidding David farewell, Reverend Frank hurried through the parsonage. In his bedroom he took out a black suitcase and stuffed in pants, shirts, underwear, socks, deodorant, his toothbrush, his Bible with the gold leaf on the front, and a spare ball cap. He zipped the bag up and set it next to the bed.

The weight of his duty began to hit him. Guardian. Of the earth and God’s kingdom. They had a mission to fulfill: Use the Everlight to kill Engel and prevent the forces of hell from claiming the earth. But could they do it? The Everlight gave the Guardians their power, and it was a formidable weapon, but he still felt small compared with the size of the task ahead. It was a task better suited to angels, but unlike Christ, Frank could not call down twelve legions of them to fight the Dark Ones. It was the duty of the Guardians alone.

He proceeded to dial the number for the Disciples’ Church in Hooverville, one town over.

Samuel Mansfield, the pastor at Hooverville, picked up.

“Sam, Frank Heatly here.”

“How are you?”

“I need a favor.”

Mansfield chuckled. “You ever call me any other time?”

“Can you cover my ten o’clock service?”

“Next Sunday?”

“I was thinking the next four Sundays.”

“Everything okay?”

“It’s a bit of an emergency, family thing.”

“June’s cancer come back? Anything I can do?”

“Nah, Junie’s fine. Back to being a big sister, nagging me about my weight and all. So what do you say?”

“Can I go over the limit, say fifteen minutes?”

Rule breaker. Any more than ten minutes at the pulpit and you’re giving a sermon to zombies. “At your own risk, my friend.”

“I’ll chance it.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

I wish there was. “Appreciate it.”

He said good-bye and hung up the phone. When he turned, Sandra stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She eyed the bag, and then Frank. “What’s this?”

“That’s a suitcase, my dear.”

“I know that,” she said. “Where are you going with it?”

“I have to leave.”

“You won a cruise and didn’t tell me?”

Frank took a steno pad and pen from the nightstand, flipped open the pad, and sat on the bed. “Wish that were the case.”

He began writing a general letter to the parish, which he had composed in his head while on the phone with Sam.

“Come on, Frank, what is it?”

“You’ll need to tell the parish I’m taking a sabbatical.” Sandra stepped forward. She peered over, trying to get a look at what he was writing. “They have to vote on that. Your sabbatical.”

“It’s for emergency reasons. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Are you wearing that hat too tight?” she asked.

“My mental state is undiminished, I assure you.”

“What about services?”

“Mansfield is covering for me. Hopefully he won’t put them to sleep with his sermon.”

Sandra nodded. “He has been known to be a bit dry.”

“Dear, the Gobi Desert is dry. That man is parched and cracked.”

She sat on the bed next to him. “Is it June? Is she sick?”

Frank shook his head.

“Are you sick, do you not want to tell me?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“Your cholesterol is two hundred and thirty.”

“Cholesterol is a state of mind.”

“Not according to your last blood test,” Sandra said.

He signed his name at the bottom of the note, tore the sheet from the pad, and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly and read it over. Then she said, “What will I tell people?”

“Just as the note says. Something urgent has come up and hopefully I will return to worship with them as soon as possible. The church is in good hands. The Elders will take care of things.”

“You still haven’t told me what this is about.”

And I’m not going to, he thought. If he showed her that article about the massacre in Iowa, and then told her it was somehow related to his trip, she would put a padlock on the front door. “Urgent business.”

“You’re not gambling, are you?” Sandra said. “Have you gone beyond poker? You can tell me.”

Frank turned to her. He placed his hands on her bony shoulders. He saw moisture in her eyes and it felt like hell seeing tears and knowing he caused them.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

He leaned forward and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “I love you. And I hope so.”

“Frank?”

Had to be honest, didn’t you? “I have every intention of coming back.”

“What if something breaks, the hot water tank goes, or that roof starts leaking again, you know, near the chimney?”

He patted her on the leg. “Millard’s number is in the