Resurrectionists

A Greystone Tale

Lou Paduano

Eleven Ten Publishing

BUFFALO, NEW YORK

Copyright © 2016 by Lou PaduanoAll rights reserved. This book or any portionthereof may not be reproduced or used in anymanner whatsoever without the express writtenpermission of the publisher except for the use ofbrief quotations in a book review. Eleven Ten PublishingP.O. Box 1914Buffalo, NY 14226 Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction.Names, characters, places, and incidents eitherare the product of the author’s imagination orare used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actualevents, locales, or persons, living or dead, isentirely coincidental. Edited, formatted, and interior design byKristen Corrects, Inc.Cover art design by Kit Foster Design

First edition published 2016 ISBN-13: 978-1-944965-04-4

Other Books by Lou Paduano

Signs of PortentsTales from Portents (February 2017)The Medusa Coin (September 2017)

Table of Contents

Chapter OneChapter Two

Chapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter Six

Chapter SevenChapter EightChapter Nine

Chapter TenChapter ElevenChapter Twelve

Chapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter Fifteen

Chapter SixteeenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter One

Kelli Andrews couldn’t sleep. It wasthe same routine every night: an hour ortwo of deep sleep…and then thenightmares started. Work, the kids, bills,the never-ending holidays. Plenty tochoose from but the best were the mixand match set that spanned childhoodfears with the mundane nature of her life.

Emptiness greeted her rousing, the

other half of the bed vacant. Marc wasmissing again. Kelli sat up, rubbing thedreariness out of her eyes. The clockbeamed in bright red. Barely 5:00 in themorning, the sky still black. She wonderedhow long he had been away, if he evencame to bed.

She thought this was over, thatMarc worked through this. The latenights. The disconnect from everyone andeverything. Sleepless nights of channelsurfing and roaming the neighborhood.Almost daily since the death of his

mother three months earlier.

Kelli persevered, although she hadno choice in the matter. Two kids noteven in double digits and a job to keepthem in their modest yet suffocatingmortgage. A breakdown was not in theoffering for her, though she could haveused a nice stretch in a padded cell, ifonly for a decent night’s rest.

Death affected everyone differently.She hadn’t shed a tear over the last fewmonths, the loss a blessing after years ofsuffering from debilitating illnesses and

physical pain. But her husband of twelveyears took the passing hard.

Things changed a month ago. Areprieve, a return to normalcy—or soKelli thought. Seeing the empty bed, shewondered if she was trying to convinceherself more than anyone. Out of need.For the kids. For herself.

Her ankles popped as her feetconnected with the soft carpet. Despitethe nightmares, she was surprised howlong she had slept without interruption.It showed, her back struggling to

straighten, her balance precarious on hertrek to the hallway. She preferred the ideaof another two or three hours of rest buther bladder won out.

The door squealed upon openingand she held her breath. Waking the kidswas not an option, especially with thechance of a little more sleep still in thecards even after a trip to the bathroom.And the hunt for Marc. She would checkthe couch first. He was most likely passedout, drool running down his chin. Therewas the chance he was still awake, teary-

eyed and lost in memory, the television adistraction from the photo albums thathad become a permanent staple of thecoffee table lately.

Halfway across the hall, inchingslowly like a covert operative, Kellistopped. A figure stood at the end of thehall—a small shadow centered among thedarkness. Matted brown hair and wearingSpider-Man pajamas, her son startled herwith his presence.

“Grandma’s here,” he said, hisseven-year-old voice booming in the early

morning graveyard that was their home.

Kelli shook her head. “What?Quinn, baby, it’s too early.”

Quinn walked up to her. His handslipped into hers and he pulled her downthe hall. The bathroom faded from view,like the nightmares of the last few hours.

Kelli struggled to keep up with theboy’s enthusiasm, her mind even slower toquestion their destination. They owned asmall home, compact and single story.The hallway that led to their bedroomsand the single full bath (which would

never be enough for all four of them) fedinto the living room, which connected tothe kitchen. The sound of movementfrom the latter caused her to hold back atthe threshold of the former.

Quinn looked to her, puzzled,pulling harder. “Come on, Mommy.”

Her confusion didn’t subdue hersenses. She recognized it: the sound ofeggs frying on the stove and the smell ofbacon sizzling on the griddle. It woke herup, the cloud of her deep sleep fading.Her smile returned.

Marc was back. Really back. Forgood this time. So ambitious, making upfor lost time, he set to work makingbreakfast. A little early—by about twohours—but the effort behind it allbolstered her. Helping to keep her goingafter the burden of the last few months.

Her delusion ended quickly.

Lily, her four-year-old daughter, satat the kitchen table. Quinn joined her,smiling and giggling, their plates full offood that would never be eaten. Next toher sat Marc, munching on a slice of

bacon.

“What’s all this?” Kelli asked,confused by the sound of cooking whileeveryone sat around the table.

The confusion ended with herarrival. A figure rounded the corner,stepping into the light, carrying twoplates of eggs—over-easy and dabbledwith enough pepper to clear your sinuses.A staple of only one person KelliAndrews knew.

Her mother-in-law stopped,pointing at the empty table chair. “Take a

seat, dear. You look pale. Have you beeneating enough?”

Kelli froze, unable to think. Unableto speak. Her husband grinned, digginginto his freshly prepared breakfast.

“Isn’t it great, honey?”

His wife failed to agree. As shestared at the dead woman in her kitchen,she only had one response.

Kelli Andrews screamed.

Chapter Two

Detective Greg Loren was late. Asusual. The pattern that started byhappenstance had grown into the man’scustom. A habit, one more and more inhis own control, yet completely out ofreach. The same could be said of hispersonal grooming, to which the bareminimum was completed. A comb to hisovergrown hair. No razor to his face. He

opted for a ratty T-shirt from the laundrypile rather than make the trek to theLaundromat down the street. Thankfullymost of the shirt was covered by the onesuit jacket in his closet that didn’t reek ofold cigarettes, the reminder almost toopowerful for the former smoker. Lorenwas a mess of a human, the fact morethan obvious with a quick glance in themirror—if he bothered to look at one.

He was late.

At least I remembered to brush mydamn teeth this time.

The steps of the CaldwellCourthouse spanned half a block. Romanpillars of stark white separated theentrance, each one engraved with thefamous speeches of the city’s founders.From William Rath, the man who firstnamed Portents back in the 1890s, toWilbur Caldwell himself, the first judge, aman who built the law in the city fromthe ground up as structurally sound asthe building. True men. Proud men. Menthat stood for something more thanthemselves, making their stories capturedand relayed for generations. What Loren

stood for was lost in a gray cloud thathad covered him for what felt likemonths.

Except today. Myron Jacobs, ascumbag of the worst degree, was due forhis day in court. A day to put an end tohis criminal career, thanks to the work ofLoren. The detective was not going to letit slip away. Despite being unable toconnect Jacobs to the homicide thatLoren had tried to pin to him, Loren’sinvestigation brought to light Jacobs’drug dealing operation. Loren needed the

win, one way or the other. Even late tothe show, this was his time to shine.

It ended quickly.

As he reached for the front door ofthe courthouse along NorthernBoulevard, Loren was halted by a familiarface. The door opened before him and thetired eyes of Captain Alejo Ruiz greetedhim.

“Hold up, Greg.”

“Ruiz? I know I’m late but—”

Ruiz stopped him, pulling him

away from incoming traffic. Loren caughta glimpse of District Attorney Sitwelland her colleagues glaring at him duringtheir transition away from the doors. Thepair stopped at a nearby bench, Ruiz’sarms crossing his chest.

“You’re always late.”

Loren grinned, sitting at the bench.He fiddled with his tie, ironing out themassive wrinkles with his fingers. “So it’sa fashionable thing then. Great.”

“No.” Ruiz sighed. “It’s anannoying thing and not great. But today it

doesn’t matter. Or maybe it does. Whatthe hell do I know anymore when itcomes to you?”

Loren was surprised by the tonethat hung on his every word—bitterness.Sadness. Concern. But worst of all, thething Loren swore he never wanted tohear from those around him.

Pity.

The fault lay with him. He had notbeen an easy man to be around lately.Especially one to supervise, on or off thejob. His anger ran hot, his moods soured

on a dime. The reason—like the graycloud around him, like the perpetuallateness for every event big and small—escaped him. In fact, the reason foreverything seemed to escape him, includingtheir pow-wow outside the courthouseinstead of celebrating the conviction of akiller like Jacobs.

“What are you talking about,Ruiz?”

“Jacobs walked.”

Loren flinched. “Bullshit.”

“Greg—”

“Your sense of humor has alwayssucked, Ruiz, but I don’t see what’s funnyabout—”

“It’s not a joke,” Ruiz replied. Hetowered over the sitting detective,blocking the haze of the morning sun.

“I had him dead to rights,” Lorensnapped, hands clenched tight to his side.“The evidence was solid.”

He spent weeks on the case, neverable to connect him to the death of a

young woman from the Knoll. It was anold girlfriend of Jacobs. No murderweapon. No witnesses. Loren was aboutto lose him. About to let a killer walk.Not an option for him.

So Loren had turned to Jacobs’other enterprise. Drugs. Tracking downthe evidence, nailing down sources—allless than reputable, but with the rightincentive they were willing to flip onJacobs to reduce their own sentences.Most of it was circumstantial…but thenLoren located Jacobs’ stash—and his

records. All came together to lock thearrest in place.

“The evidence is gone,” Ruiz said,unable to look at the stunned detective.“Misplaced. Lost. Tucked under somerock never to be seen.”

“It was in lockup. You saw it.”

“I did.”

“Then who the hell—?” Lorenstopped, catching the concern on hisfriend’s face. His head fell into his hands.“Dammit. They’re blaming me.”

Ruiz nodded. “They are.”

“Did you—?”

Ruiz waved him down. “I defendedyou but that doesn’t mean crap to thesepeople. Sitwell is going over my head.She’s been running her ‘tough on drugs’platform and this looks to be a swift kickup her backside more than anyone else interms of public profiles. She has to saveface. And you…?”

“I get it,” Loren muttered. “It flowsdownstream.”

“They’re talking about an internalreview,” Ruiz said. “Since this isn’t thefirst case that’s been blown.”

Loren knew the implication: “thefirst case that hasn’t been blown by you,”Ruiz really meant. It was the second suchinstance in the last three months. Bothconnected to Jacobs and appearances evenworse.

Loren didn’t care. He was focusedon the review. “Mathers?”

“Will be there in his Sunday best,”Ruiz said.

“Great.”

Ruiz’s look softened; he had theeyes of a father, not a superior. “I’ll dowhat I can.”

“Ruiz,” Loren said, shaking hishead.

The middle-aged Hispanic wavedhim down. “Stop. I will. But whateverthis is lately—whatever is going on withyou—it doesn’t play well for you. Youwant to talk, you know where to find me,Greg. I hope you do.”

Loren turned away. “I’m fine,Captain.”

“Right.”

Loren watched the worried captaindepart, his head low and hands burieddeep in his pockets. For as much as theDA might have lost face this morningwith Jacobs, Ruiz was in worse shape. Nosurprise, with Mathers ready to jump allover him at the first opportunity.

Something needed to change.Loren needed answers, not only to whathappened to the evidence in question, but

also about his lack of direction of late.The depression. The anger. All of it.

“Detective?”

A shadow fell over Loren—tall andthin, stretching over the grizzled face ofthe melancholy detective. Loren peeredup to see the man whose gray hair hadpredominantly replaced a thick head ofbrown. Assistant District AttorneyRichard Crowne stared down at him withsoft, blue eyes.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Loren said, shifting tothe side of the bench. Richard joinedhim, knees popping under his tightlypressed pants. “What can I do foryou…?”

“Richard. Or Rich, even. The titlegets a little overblown.”

Loren smirked. “It is a mouthful.”

“It is,” the attorney agreed. “Mybusiness card barely fits my phonenumber because of it.”

“Not that you need people calling

you.”

“Please.”

Loren chuckled. The pair hadplayed the same tune for years. Friendshad that effect, though the term wasalmost foreign to the detective. They werenot companions in the traditional sense.More like bound together through ashared experience. The one that seemedto link Loren to more people than herealized.

Loss.

Richard Crowne lost his wife,Jennifer, three years earlier. She took abullet meant for her husband and hewatched her die. Loren worked the case.The killer ended up with life and nochance in hell at parole. Their timetogether, going over suspects and findingthe one that hated Crowne most of all,cemented their bond.

Loren knew friendship wasn’t thereason behind the visit today. “Is thisabout the case?”

“Is what?”

“You? Here right now? Is it—?”

Richard shook his head. “No. Noway. Well, yes. But not the way you’rethinking. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Take your time.”

Richard cleared his throat, settinghis briefcase to the side of the bench. “Iheard what happened in there andthought you might need a friend.Someone who understands sleeplessnights and empty hallways. When I lostJennifer—”

“I appreciate it, Richard,” Lorenshot back, stopping the man’s sentiment.“I’m fine. Promise.”

“I see,” Richard said. His voice wassoft, understanding immediately. Richardstood, reaching for his briefcase. “Greg.If you ever—”

“I don’t.”

“Right then. Detective.” Richardnodded and started down the stairs,following Ruiz’s route downtown towardthe Central Precinct—where Lorenneeded to be next. To figure things out.

The missing evidence. Jacobs.

This was supposed to be a goodday.

Loren rubbed his eyes, his handsmuffling the loud string of cursesescaping his lips. He let the words settlein an attempt to find peace in them.Unsuccessful, Loren stood. The CaldwellCourthouse stood in the shadow of thehazy sun, tall and proud like the menbehind its construction. Mocking Loren.

The frustrated detective left thesteps of the courthouse, scanning the

block on Northern Boulevard. Centralwas three blocks to the east along Evans.Central meant work. Responsibility. Lorenturned west, spotting a hole-in-the-wallbar called McDuffie’s.

Responsibility could wait.

Chapter Three

Pine Woods Cemetery was notSoriya Greystone’s usual stompinggrounds. She preferred to stay away fromthe dead as often as possible. The conceptof the end stirred up uncomfortablememories, a lack of control that she clungto desperately to maintain her confidence,her poise, her true power.

She had no choice in the matter,

however. In typical fashion she screwedup and paid for her mistake. Running inthe darkness of the graveyard thatencompassed eight city blocks, she chasedafter her quarry. Young and much fasterthan she imagined, he carried a thin,wooden carving knife with an ornatelycrafted handle. Thick spirals dug into thewood in the shape of a crest.

It started with a murder. An olderman found dead in his rat-infestedapartment. Small puncture marks, tightlygrouped, littered the corpse. Little blood

spatter marked the scene or the body.And no blood left in the body.

Exsanguination. That put it firmlyin Soriya’s wheelhouse.

One other detail put her on thehunt for the young man racing throughthe cemetery: the knife. Out of all thepuncture marks, one clear cut ran alongthe man’s arm—fresh. Moments before hisend. The old man, George Newborne,was targeted. It was personal.

That gave her a clear path, one thatled her to Christian Fuller. Ten years ago

his parents were killed, the murderernever caught. Or at least never jailed.Newborne was arrested for the crime butnever went to trial. Insufficient evidence.Not to Fuller. Not to the lone survivorof such a horrific event.

Soriya cursed, scraping alongheadstones in the dark. Blood ran alongher arm in a thin stream down her wrist.This should have been handled better. Itwould have too if Loren had shown up.They were supposed to confront Fullertogether. But her calls to him went

unanswered, right to voicemail. Lorendidn’t want to be bothered. Couldn’t bebothered. It was starting to be a patternwith the man. Her so-called partner.

Still, she could have handled things.Fuller was a creature of habit. A stop atthe local deli every Wednesday on his wayhome from work for the same overloadedsandwich. All she had to do was intercepthim. She got cocky—she always gotcocky. When he noticed her, he bolteddown the block for the cemetery as thesun descended toward the horizon.

Idiot.

Fuller stopped, breathing hard. Heleaned on a nearby tree, lurching forwardas Soriya approached rapidly. The bladerose up in his hand, and the youngwoman skidded to a halt on the soft earth.

“Drop the blade,” she yelled, handinching for the pouch along her right hip.Pink ribbons skidded loose down her leftside.

“I did what was right,” Fuller said.Tears filled his eyes—the scared, lonelykid returning.

“You killed a man,” Soriya replied,inching closer.

“He murdered my parents!”

“You don’t know that.”

Fuller shook his head, the bladejust over his left arm. “I do. I’ve alwaysknown.”

“Then you should have gone to thepolice.”

“No. He was mine.” The blade fellto his arm, Fuller’s eyes wide.

“Don’t!” Soriya called out.

Too late. Blood soaked the woodenblade, running down to the ornatehandle.

“And so are you,” Fuller finished.A spatter of blood fell to the ground.The earth shifted and moaned from theact, the sacrifice given to it. The blademight have made the cut on Newborne’sbody, but it didn’t kill him. Somethingelse did. The blade was just a summoningtool. The puncture marks made it clearfor what.

Vampires.

The ground ripped open aroundSoriya. Fuller watched for only a secondbefore fleeing the scene. Soriya noticedthe blood dried to her skin down herright side.

“Great.”

From out of the earth they came.Large red eyes and snapping jaws full offangs. Their bodies the size of babies,their skin like porcelain, but deadly. Andhungry for blood. Her blood.

Jenglot.

Some believed they were oncehuman. Others believed the Jenglot weredolls brought to life through asummoning. Or through blood. ToSoriya, the truth appeared to be acombination of the two theories. Not thatthis was a time for study—not by a longshot.

The Jenglot screamed, their voiceshigh and shrill. Soriya ducked under thefirst, the ribbons from Kali swatting thenext away. Fighting infants never made it

on her bucket list and she sure as hellwasn’t going to fall to them. Oneclomped down on her ankle, causing herto scream. She kicked the beast away,slamming it hard against a nearbytombstone.

“This is why I don’t want kids,” shemuttered.

Fuller was a hundred feet awayalready—well on his way to an effectiveescape. With eyes locked on her targetSoriya continued to fight through themass of vampiric infants.

Smiling the whole time.

Fuller never saw the arm stretchedout in front of him. He had been toobusy looking back at his victim. By thetime it came into focus it was too late. Heslammed into the arm and fell back hardon the ground. The blade skittered away.Arthritic fingers snatched the woodenweapon before Fuller could recover.

“No!” the young man shouted.

Too little, too late. Mentor snappedthe blade in half.

The shift came about instantly. TheJenglot, too numerous to defeat, shrankback away from the bleeding yet stillswinging Soriya. Little mouths screechedin anger, their pint of blood denied themwith the breaking of their link to theworld. They crawled back through theopen chasms in the ground surroundingher, the holes closing up behind thedemons’ retreat.

Soriya wiped her brow, staggeringto greet her teacher. Mentor bent low,binding Fuller’s hands tight behind his

back.

“I had him,” Soriya said. “Youdidn’t have to—”

Mentor sighed. “Just say it, child.One time.”

“Thank you,” she said throughgritted teeth.

He stood, a slight groan escapinghim. His right leg was acting up again.“You’re welcome.”

Fuller glared up at her, eyes full offury. She decked him across the cheek and

he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“I was fine, though,” she said,shaking the aftershock from her knuckles.

“It looked that way to me.”

“You heard what he—”

“Yes,” Mentor said. He picked upthe pieces of the broken blade, tuckingthem into his coat pocket. “Though howhe came upon the blade is a mystery. Ihaven’t seen one like it since theLuminaries left their library.”

“You could ask him,” she said with

a grin, knowing the answer. “When hewakes up, that is.”

Mentor shook his head. “I’ll learn.In time. Someday you will regard patienceover the thrill of the chase.”

“Loren was supposed to….” Shestopped, catching the glare. “I know.”

“Yet you persist with the man.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

Mentor shrugged then stopped. Hebent low, hand resting on the headstoneclosest. “Strange.”

“Mentor? What is it?”

His hand ran along the ground,pulling up dirt. Small grains of soiltrailed between his fingers back to join itsbrethren. “This grave.”

“One of many.”

Mentor threw her a look and sheyielded. “Years old, but look: fresh dirt.Recently seeded even.”

“I don’t understand. What does itmean?”

“I’m not sure,” Mentor replied. He

stood slowly, leaning hard against thestone. “I believe someone dug up thisbody and is trying to hide the fact.”

Soriya glanced around nervously.She hated cemeteries. She hated beingsurrounded by the dead, reminded of theend to come. The everlasting stillness ofeternity. But to disturb that peace? Whowould do something like that?

She circled the stone, peering intothe darkness surrounding them. Themultitude of the dead. Her foot slidalong the ground and felt an edge.

Deeper shadows circled them.

“Mentor?”

He turned, following her gazebefore joining her. They both looked intothe open grave beside them then turnedto four others littering the groundsnearby.

“Whatever they’re doing,” she said,“I don’t think they’re hiding it anymore.”

Chapter Four

Everything was black.

He wanted to scream, to shout intothe darkness that surrounded him, but hefound no voice. He could not move, hiseyes unable to adjust to the thick shade.He was lost.

A sound caught his ear. Thedarkness shifted, growing lighter, yet the

cloud remained around him. A fog settledover him then lowered further and hecould see objects. Out of focus like thescents surrounding him. Becomingclearer with each breath. Lilacs. Like theones Beth kept in a window box off thefront window. Her excuse to keep an eyeon the city.

He was on the rooftop. Theirrooftop. He had only been up there a fewtimes, always at Beth’s will. He never tookto heights. Saying no to his wife wasnever an option, however. He hated to

disappoint her.

Yet he did. In the end.

Obscure images sharpened, theworld screaming into focus. She stood onthe ledge, always on the ledge. A redsundress with yellow lilies along the trim,running up her curves. Her blonde hairshimmered in the light, resting on hershoulders.

Beth.

She turned and smiled, the smilethat took her away from him. “Greg.”

Greg Loren woke with a start. Hervoice rang in his ears and his handsfought to cover them, to block out thesound. It had been the same nightmarefor weeks. Always ending the same—withhis refusal to listen any further.

Afraid to listen further.

The couch groaned beneath him.His back followed suit, aching from thesag in the cushions. The wood frame ofthe ancient furniture begged for areprieve that would never come. Thetelevision beamed soft light on his face.

Another nameless comedy no one wouldremember in six months. Primetimetelevision at its finest.

Loren rubbed his eyes, his handsscraping along his thickening beard. Heneeded a shave and a shower. He wouldsettle for the latter. First, he went for thewindow, a stick of gum substituting hismorning cigarette ritual. Filthy habit.Morning was a misnomer, though.

It was night.

He was late for work again, theafternoon spent at the bar across from the

courthouse, another mistake piled on therest. Like the Jacobs case. Like everythinglately.

He didn’t care.

Nor did he care about the fourmissed calls chiming on his cell phone,the buzzing echoing along the coffeetable in the center of the room. Soriya.Late for work meant late for their plannedmeeting, one forgotten among the pitcherof beer and the sports talk blaring fromsix televisions suspended over the bar. Hecouldn’t keep an appointment but knew

every off-season move made by theBlackhawks over the last week. Priorities.

Soriya didn’t need him. His role inher investigation was superfluous, theleads all stemming from her work, not hisconnections in the department. She wasbetter off without him. The same withRuiz.

Ruiz.

He needed to get to work. Neededto figure out where his head was at withthe job. With everything. Loren shambledaway from the window, not bothering to

draw the curtain.

The bedroom sat at the back of theapartment, the shadows always staring athim during his trips to the toilet. Its usehad become that of a giant closet, thefloor taken over by laundry baskets ofunwashed clothes. The bed remainedmade, had been for months, which wasalso the last time he decided to dry-cleanthe comforter and wash the unusedsheets.

A monument to his former life.

He tried to sleep there once, tried

to move beyond the loss of his wife. Itdidn’t take, couldn’t take. The couch washis refuge, but even that plagued himnow, the nightmares still fresh in hismind.

“Greg.”

Beth called for him. Almostbegging him…but for what?

He should have left it all behind.The apartment, the furniture, everything.Years ago. But he didn’t, couldn’t. Notwith the chance of some link to his wife,some clue into what happened to her so

long ago. Some sign that answered all hisquestions about her death.

Loren moved for the shower,throwing off his ratty T-shirt, knowingone would soon replace it from thelaundry basket of unwashed clothes. Theshower would be enough. Enough todrown out the sound of his wife’s voice.For a little while at least. Never for long.

The past refused to abate.

Like his nightmares. And the angelcaught in them.

Chapter Five

Richard Crowne missed his wife.

Their marriage was the bright spotin a troubled life of obligation andpersonal responsibility. Jennifer found away to lighten the mood, to crack theright joke at the right time with the rightpeople. No matter the situation, shefound no discomfort. Nothing she wouldnot do to help her husband thrive in his

increasingly political position in the city.

A bullet ended that.

They were headed to dinner, asimple engagement, one planned for justthe two of them. Unfortunately, therewere hands to shake, questions to beasked, and the flow of favors to pocketfor a later date.

But it started with dinner andcatching up. She did most of the talkingat these occasions. His preference. Heloved being able to just listen to someone,rather than analyze their every word,

monitor their posture, catch everyinflection for nervous tics, for tells of aless than truthful nature.

Never with Jennifer.

Outside the restaurant, dinner wasforgotten when the crashing sound of thebullet sliced through their laughter. Ittook him by surprise, the sharp pain inhis right shoulder. He fell, reeling back,Jennifer falling with him, locked in hisgrip. She cried out for him, covering hisbody. More thunder ripped through theair, once, twice and a final third time.

He only saw her. Her brown eyes.Her ruby lips. The way her black hairsparkled under the starlight. She rubbedhis cheek, the cold of her fingertipsshocking him, dulling the pain in hisshoulder. A single tear dripped downfrom wide orbs of light and then theyclosed.

He screamed her name. He shookher off and cradled her close. She hadshielded him from the final assault. Shesaved him at the expense of her life.

He screamed for a long time.

Three years did little to change hisfeelings. The loss. The pain in his rightshoulder when the weather turned bittercold. He missed her, and nothing wouldever change that.

Hands patted his back as he tookhis position in the closest pew of thechurch. Smiles from well-wishers, passingon messages of good luck with each nodand utterance. The church was busierthan usual. It always was when theyperformed the ceremony.

The Andrews family sat across

from him, a family reunited with a recentloss of their own. They were surroundedby others, patrons both recent and fromthe start of the project, all with a look ofwonderment on their faces. Richardshared the same look.

It was time.

The altar was ready, the figure uponit covered by a white sheet. The roomhummed, the great machines beneath thechurch whirring to life. It caused a slightvibration along the stone pillarsstretching to the roof. Richard followed

them to the ceiling. Ornate glass replacedmasonry, allowing everyone to peer outinto the night sky of Portents throughtinted glass stained blood red.

A hand fell upon Richard’sshoulder. He turned to see the hoodedfigure before him, only his thick, blackbeard noticeable under the dim lights.The Founder. The man who started theendeavor, the man who found Richard,and who saved him from the torment ofhis life without Jennifer.

They met at a fundraising gala

downtown in passing, sharing stories ofloss. From that first connection, Richardhad come to know the Founder as afriend and more. It all led to thismoment.

Richard’s moment.

“It’s time, Richard,” the Foundersaid, and the world stopped. “Are youready?”

Richard could not find the words.A simple nod escaped him, his eyes castto the figure on the altar. The figure hewaited three years to see again.

He was ready. He had been sincethe first crack of thunder. Since learningabout the church from the Founder. Sincehe first witnessed the work being done bythe Church of the Second Coming.

Since he first saw one of them rise.

He tried to move on, tried not tolet his wife’s death stop him from living.But he couldn’t. He missed her too much.He needed her back.

It was time for her to return.

Chapter Six

Greg Loren never dreamed ofbeing a paper pusher. Never once in histhirty-five years of life did he feel the pullto the corporate world, the sit behind adesk and shuffle reports around to lookbusy sort of situation. Never. Yet as thestapler clanked under his tightened grip,he felt like nothing more than a corporateshill.

Paperwork was a necessary evil. Ofcourse it was in a world piled high withaccountability. The police, especially inthe modern age, where every mistakefound its way into the national spotlight,had to cover their asses as much as thenext guy. Witness testimony stamped andapproved next to arrest profiles, andsituational reports left the exhausteddetective feeling empty.

And hungry.

The malaise washing over Lorenwas the worst part. He dreamed of the

job as a kid. Working the beat thengetting his shield. Nothing could havebeen better. Saving lives. Catching killers.Better than any television show coulddepict. All completely real and made forhim. Yet he failed to remember the nameof the dead kid with the smear ofcheddar cheese topping on his pants orthe killer with the munchies. Gone. Lost.Like Loren. Another piece missing of thepuzzle and the grizzled detective had noinkling why, or how to snap back into theworld.

No one questioned him. Not evenafter manhandling the stapler for the lastthree minutes across from the breakroom. There were stares. There alwayswere. Ever since Beth. Ever since heseparated himself from the pack, a self-imposed social exile.

Another mistake. Another regret.Sometimes, anyway.

“Greg, old buddy,” a voice calledout, joined by a hand slapping his arm.The stapler fell to the table, scattering apile of paperclips along the surface and

to the floor below. Loren gritted his teeth,glaring at the appendage locked on hisshirtsleeve.

“Standish?” he asked in a lowgrowl. “The hand?”

Robert Standish sneered, his fangsshowing. He was a beached whale withthe grin of a shark. His gut protrudedatop the tireless efforts of his belt,jiggling with his laughter.

“Always the same, Greg,” Standishreplied. He stirred a cup of coffee, theheat causing little beads of sweat along

his brow.

Standish was Loren’s formerpartner, their time together better leftforgotten. They met under unusualcircumstances, but his initial impressionof the man never left.

He did not trust him, and he sureas hell did not like him.

Standish chuckled. “Except notquite the same from what I’ve heard.Trouble in paradise?”

He pointed to Ruiz’s office at the

end of the hall. For as long as Loren hadbeen stationed at Central in the DetectiveBureau, Ruiz’s door remained open.Minus the occasional meeting or angryphone call, it was a policy with the man,an invitation to keep the lines ofcommunication open at all times.

It was closed now and had been allshift, since their time at the courthousethat morning.

“A misunderstanding,” Lorenmuttered with a shrug. “Your concern istouching.”

Loren started for his office, pulledback by the man. “Hey now,” Standishreplied. “No one likes to see it happen.”

Loren stopped, looking back at theman curiously. “And you have, haven’tyou, Standish?”

Standish went through a similarbout of missing evidence syndrome onthree separate occasions. The reviewboard found no evidence of wrongdoingon the overweight detective’s part, and thecase was dropped and forgotten by allexcept for Loren, who transferred away

from the man as quickly as possible.

Loren’s decision stung Standish atthe time, the connotation of the man’sguilt due to the request. Loren didn’t care.The work came first, and being draggeddown by the ineptitude of a partner witha shady history was not how he intendedto spend his days.

Only now he was the inept one inthe eyes of the department, wasn’t he?

“Still standing though, ain’t I?”Standish shrugged, throwing a friendlyelbow. He leaned in closer, the smell of

coffee sickening Loren almost as much asthe man’s grin. “How about you, Greg?”

Loren nodded, collecting his work.“I’d be lying if I said this has been fun,Standish.”

“Greg,” Standish said, reachinginto his back pocket. He pulled out anopen envelope. “You dropped this.”

“What?” Loren snatched it fromhis hands. A letter from the sixth floor,which meant only one location: thecommissioner’s office.

“Two days isn’t much time to figurethings out, but with a friend like Ruizthere, I’m sure you don’t need to worry.Not you.”

Standish held the word Ruiz outwhen he spoke, as if even attempting theHispanic’s name gave him hives. It alwaysbothered Loren, the man’s ignorancetoward everyone who didn’t line up withhis preferences. Racial. Gender.Everything. Loren’s concern lay firmly onthe letter in his hands. Two days until hisreview. He hadn’t even thought of a

defense, the need for one not evenentering it. Two days to figure out howthis happened to him again and why.

Including why Standish knew aboutit first.

Loren held the letter between them.“Stay the hell out of my mail, Standish.”

Loren stomped down the hall,dropping his report in the bin outsideRuiz’s office without looking. Standish’ssneer drove him further and faster untilhe reached his office door. His headrested against the wooden frame, the

letter tight between his fingers. It listedthe commissioner and Mathers as headingup the inquiry. No help from Ruiz. Not agood sign.

The knob twisted lightly in hishand. He rubbed his eyes deeply.“Dammit. What else?”

When he opened his eyes there shewas, sitting on his desk, feet dangling overthe tiled floor. Soriya Greystone tilted herhead, smiling all the same.

“Not the best way to start, but let’ssee where the night goes.”

Chapter Seven

What are you doing here?

The same question repeated in hishead as Loren turned the wheel of thecruiser into the parking lot outside PineWoods Cemetery. He had cases. Quite afew, in fact, yet he had dumped them foran errand with Soriya. One out of hiswheelhouse—not that he minded theswitch from murderers. Homicide was a

way of life but not the sum total.

Didn’t mean he wanted to make ahabit of chasing grave robbers either.After hearing Soriya’s discovery, herinterest in tracking down the culpritsinvolved, Loren jumped at the escapefrom his own work. Swept up in herenthusiasm, the same way it had been forthe last four years. Soriya’s interest meantthat there was something to it, somethingdifferent, something unique. A balm fromhis crumbling life.

“You haven’t said much,” Soriya

said. She sat impatiently in the passengerseat of the requisitioned patrol cruiser,her head almost completely out thewindow to feel the air. She hated drivingaround the city, so used to barreling alongthe streets, be it from the sewers below orthe rooftops above. Out in the open airnonetheless. Loren hated feeling like ananchor around her, but he also lived inthe real world. That meant cars, traffic,and road rage—the fundamentals ofPortents.

He remained silent, looking around

the parking lot. He spotted the securityoffice at the far end and clicked off theheadlights.

“Not that you have to,” shecontinued, ducking inside as Loren rolledthe window up. “But I have grownaccustomed to your banter over time.”

“Bad day,” Loren replied. Theengine went dead, the keys rattling againsthis palm. “And no, talking about it is notwhat I’m after.”

“I figured that one out.”

The night air was pungent, full-bodied. Rain was coming and soon. Notthe place Loren wanted to be when ithappened. Pine Woods filled the horizonin front of him, the light traffic rushingbehind him. He had attended a numberof services at the cemetery, mostly forwork. He knew the layout, understood themanpower involved in keeping up withthe grounds. The lapses in security wereno surprise, not with the amount of landto cover and the lack of boots on theground. No excuse, however, and he wasgrateful Beth rested comfortably four

miles east at Black Rock.

Beth. His shoulders slumped withher name. He sighed, turning away fromthe dead. “Why bring this to me? I’m sureMentor would have preferred—”

“Anything to keep me on theleash.”

“True,” Loren said, rememberingthe old man’s penchant for controllingsituations, including how he wasaddressed. Mentor. Like something from adamn comic book. “Not that you wouldlisten.”

“Exactly.” She smirked.

“Not an answer though.”

She stopped short of the door tothe security office. “Questions needasking. You ask them nicer than me.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are you sure you’re—?”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, pushingpast her for the door. “Let’s say hello.”

It opened before his second knock.In the doorway stood a white-whiskered

old man in full uniform, one hand hikingup his belt with each breath.

Loren cleared his throat, badge inhand. “Detective Loren and myassociate.” He shifted away from Soriya ashe spoke, feeling her glare on hisbackside. “We have some questions.”

The old man’s face dropped, hischeeks jiggling as he spoke. “You know,don’t you?”

“You might say the word is out.”

He nodded, stepping aside. “Best

come in then.”

Loren and Soriya stepped in andthe door closed. Cold air hit them like awall, blowing from the fans set up in allfour corners of the shed. Two computerstations sat in the center of the smalloffice, camera feeds lining the back wall.A back room jutted off to the right, mostlikely a locker room for equipment,uniforms, and the occasional nap. Loreneyed the coffee maker then settled for aslice of gum with a roll of his babybrowns. He missed smoking.

“The first one was about a weekago,” the old man started. The nameplacard tacked to his chest read Sheppard.His eyes were sullen, his voice low, as ifothers might be listening. “Since thenwe’ve noticed older ones. Fresh soil overold bones.”

“How many are we talking abouthere?”

Sheppard’s eyes fell. “Eight.”

“With no reports?” Loren askedloudly. Soriya remained silent, pacing theoutskirts of the shed. “How is this not on

the news?”

“We couldn’t….” The old manstopped, shuffling to a seat in front of thesecurity feeds. He continued the perpetualfight between his pants and gravity. “Wenotified the families and asked theirpermission to keep this internal. To tryand flush out whoever could do such ahorrible thing. To upset the community—”

“You mean your clientele, don’tyou?”

“Not mine,” Sheppard answered,

shaking his head. “I just work here.”

“As security. Not likely if this keepsgoing on.”

“But it is,” Sheppard said. “And notjust here.”

Loren turned to the old man, eyeswide. “What?”

“I thought…” the security guardmumbled. He shuffled through a pile ofreports by the computer, trying to avoidthe detective’s ire. “When you asked, Ifigured you knew already.”

“I don’t.”

“We don’t,” Soriya joined in, andthe old man jumped from his seat, awayfrom her.

“Multiple cemeteries have been hit.Multiple times.”

Loren and Soriya shared a glance.“How many are we talking about here?”

Sheppard wiped the sweat from hisforehead. “Close to thirty last I heard.”

Thirty. Thirty people dug up andextricated from their final resting places.

How? And for what reason?

“Soriya?” Loren asked, knowingshe too held the same set of questions.There was a reason she was interested.Lines drawn between what was acceptablein what she deemed her city. Murder wasunderstood. Theft, a part of nature. Evenwith the unusual circumstances typicallyhandled by the pair. But grave robbery?Unsettling the dead? A heinous act sharedby the look on her face and in herclenched fists.

“I need names,” Loren said, sensing

her urgency. “For all of them.”

“I only have our own,” Sheppardsaid, moving back to his pile of papers,jostling the computer desks with his girth.“I’d have to make some calls.”

Loren lifted the receiver and held itout to him. “Do it now. I need that list.”

Chapter Eight

Riverfront bridged the pier anddowntown. Residential neighborhoodsrolled uphill, trees lining the roads.Modest homes ran in tight packs onnarrow streets, growing more and moreextravagant with each turn towarddowntown.

Forbes Avenue ran the gap, CapeCods interspersed with ranch-style

domiciles. All well maintained, thecommunity lush with greenery along theproperty lines. All uniform yet withunique flair. A garden walk-up for one,hanging baskets on the next, allaccentuating the lighter side of Portents.

It took a full day to receive the listfrom Sheppard. A day lost to nightmaresand aggravation. A phone call from threeunion reps about his upcoming review,something Loren still hadn’t cared to putmuch thought into. He patiently declinedtheir involvement, at least with the first

two. By the time the third came in, hesimply hung up. He knew those on theother end of the phone were protectingtheir own interests more than anything.The only one that could help Loren washimself and he couldn’t be bothered.

Especially when the list arrived.

The count came to thirty-two.Sheppard was barely able to pass alongthe information let alone believe it. Lorenwas happy to leave the old man with thatthought, hoping the internal investigationmight actually become a priority in their

eyes. Loren had his own thoughts on thematter, but they amounted to little. Morequestions than anything, part of thereason he made the trip to Riverfrontwith Soriya in tow.

Not that she was happy about it.

“How many is this?” she whined,her shoes squeaking around him,drowning out the sound of his ownchewing. Watermelon flavor. Filthy habit.“I lost count an hour ago, Loren.”

“Three.”

She stopped outside the shortwhite picket fence. “Liar.”

He sighed. “Literally three.”

The first two went nowhere. Nosurprise to Soriya who pointed it out witheach step to the next stop. Loren wassurprised though. People, althoughdeceased, were missing. Their loved onesseemed detached from the news,unwilling or unable to discuss the matter.It didn’t make sense. He thought for surethe father who lost his daughter in a caraccident or the man down on Forbes

whose mother passed three monthsearlier would have something to share.Even if only a minute of their time.Instead, he and Soriya met slammingdoors and nothing but resistance. Hopingfor some sign, some insight into thebizarre wave of crime afflicting the dead,they walked toward the next name on thelist.

Much to Soriya’s chagrin. She hatedthis part of the work. The actual work.When there wasn’t some threat in frontof her to punch and kick, some monster

running around for her to sentence withthe damn stone attached to her hip, shewas a ball of tension. Always seeing theworst—always waiting for it, too. Sad partwas she tended to be right.

Loren opened the fence andushered her inside. “Try and suck it up,Soriya.”

“But this is—”

He waved her off, noting theshadow in the front window watchingtheir approach. “No more talking,Soriya.”

A gentle knock was quicklyanswered by a short woman with thickglasses. She kept the door ajar onlyslightly.

“Yes?”

“Susan Barton? Detective GregLoren and my associate—”

“Bodyguard.”

Loren tossed the smug woman alook before returning to Susan with adisarming smile. “Colleague. We werehoping to ask you a few questions about

your late husband? Thomas?”

“I don’t see—”

“I understand his remains aremissing,” Loren continued, pressingcloser to the slowly closing door. “Wereyou aware of this?”

Her eyes fell. “They called me. Yes.”

“And you were fine with it?”

“They were looking for myTommy,” Susan said, fixing her glasses tothe bridge of her nose. Her eyes remainedlow, away from the questioning detective.

“Did they find him?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Loren said.He leaned on the frame beside the door,catching Soriya’s wavering eyes, watchingover the house curiously. “Could we stepinside, ma’am? There are just a few moreitems to go over here.”

“No.”

Loren shook his head, surprised atthe sudden chill in the air. “I’m sorry?”

“As well you should be,” Susanreplied sharply. “This is a private matter

and should be handled as such.”

“Mrs. Barton, please—”

The door slammed shut, and thelights flicked off. Their time was finished.Loren stepped back, hands on his hips.

“That went well.”

“Want me to kick the door down?”

Loren sighed. “I have enoughproblems right now. Thanks.”

Three strikes on the night andtwenty-nine more potentials on the list. If

the first three responded like SusanBarton, what chance did they have withthe rest? And why shut him out at all?What was he missing?

“She’s hiding something,” Soriyasaid, leading them off the porch.

“You said that about the last two,”Loren muttered, looking back at theclosed door, wondering if he shouldknock again. He shook his head, leavingthe porch for the stone walkway.

“Because it’s true.”

“It could be anything, Soriya. Theycould be hiding the fact that their home isa pigsty. Maybe hiding a lover they don’twant mentioned in an official policeinvestigation—which this is not by theway, because I don’t handle graverobberies. Not yet, anyway. Or maybe, justmaybe, these people are grieving and thiswhole thing opened up a ton of oldwounds for them.”

Soriya huffed, arms crossing herchest. “You don’t believe that for asecond. Any of it.”

“I don’t know what to think aboutthis case. Come on.”

She refused to budge, stamping herfeet on the ground. “To the next one?How will that go any better?”

“What do you propose?”

“Anything but this,” she yelled. Herarms swung out in exasperation. “Doingsomething to prevent another. Just doingsomething.”

“This is doing something. You don’tlike it is all.”

“Don’t give me the line, Loren.”

“This is the job, kid.”

“Yeah. That one.” Soriya turnedaway, the breeze catching her hair andwhirling it around her like the ribbonsdown her left arm. Dancing in the dark.“Fine. You follow your list.”

“And you?” Footsteps approachedand he caught sight of a woman walkingdown the street.

“I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Loren turned back and Soriya was

gone. Lost to the shadows, like always.“Great,” he muttered. “Dammit, Soriya.”

Frustrated and hungry, Lorenshuffled down the stone pathway to thesidewalk and the white picket fence. Soinviting, yet an illusion, like the answershe sought. The woman out for a strollstood on the other side and he almostcollided with her, lost in thought.

“Sorry.”

“My fault,” she said in little morethan a whisper. Dried tears clung to herreddened cheeks. Her jacket sat opened,

the shoelaces of her sneakers whippingaround with each step. She leftsomewhere in a hurry.

“Ma’am? Can I—?”

“You spoke to my husband. MarcAndrews.”

“I did but—”

“He wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’ttell you, but I will.”

“Tell me what?” Loren asked.

“About the bodies,” she said. She

peered up and down the block nervouslythen leaned close to the detective,whispering, “They’re bringing them backto life.”

Chapter Nine

Loren smiled to the brunettebehind the counter, then dropped a fiverin the empty tip jar. A mumble of thanksleft her lips before she went back tocleaning the spotless counter. Theexhausted detective took a sip from hissteaming cup of darkness, letting it burnall the way down. Then he grabbed thecup next to his and carried both to the

booth on the far side of the diner and hiswaiting companion.

Kelli Andrews. The wife of MarcAndrews, the man he had interviewedearlier that evening. He said he had losthis mother for the second time in the lastthree months—but he hadn’t, accordingto the distraught woman in the windowbooth.

He placed the cup in front of Kelli,sliding across from her, the benchsquealing under his weight. “Don’t ask meif they got it right. I had enough trouble

trying to pronounce it.”

Kelli smiled. It was a sad smile thataged her in the bright lights of the diner.Her hands cupped the half coffee, halfwho-knows-what mixture—how theycame up with these drinks was beyond thedated detective. She took a long sip.Loren watched her closely while dumpingthree packets of sugar in his smallbeverage.

“Thank you, detective,” Kelli said,sliding the cup back to the center of thetable.

“It’s Greg. And you’re welcome.”

Her shoes tapped a beat under thetable, her eyes unable to peel away fromthe clock on the far wall for more thanten seconds at a stretch. Kelli Andrewswasn’t supposed to be here. The moretime allowed to lapse meant more timefor her to realize that fact. More time tofall in line with the rest of Loren’sevening.

“Kelli, I know—”

She waved him off. “I know how itsounds.”

They’re bringing them back to life.Loren tried to hide his own feelings onthe matter, but failed miserably. “Bringingpeople back from the dead? Only one wayit sounds, unfortunately.”

“I’ve seen it,” she pleaded, beggingto be believed.

“Your mother-in-law, right?”

She nodded. “Three months ago.She went in her sleep. Peaceful. She hadbeen in such pain that her death was ablessing. Not to my husband, though. Hebecame detached. Got lost for a bit. Little

to no sleep. Long walks in the dark. Iworried about him.”

With good reason. Portents wasn’tsafe after the sun went down, thoughmost didn’t realize the true reason why.Loren stirred his coffee absentmindedly.“Something changed?”

“I didn’t know what at first. He wasjust back and I was so thankful for it. Thekids were too. Laughing and playing. Hemet someone down our street, he said.”

“You’re talking about SusanBarton?”

“Yes,” Kelli said after anothersatisfying sip. “But nothing scandalous,which I hate to admit was my firstthought.”

“In this day and age—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Shelost her husband a year ago. Heart attack.Talking with her helped him. I thought itdid, anyway. There were still the longwalks, the sleepless nights, but it wasdifferent now. Like he had a purpose. If Ihad known….”

She trailed off, staring out into the

darkness. Loren joined her, giving her thetime, enjoying the silence. Few cars spedby outside. One sat parked on the far sideof the street. A beat-up Chevy. It lookedfamiliar. Loren took a long sip of liquidfuel, shaking off the lack of sleep. Thelast thing he needed was to start feelingparanoid, even with the connections Kellimade.

“Kelli.”

She shook her head, tears in hereyes. “I saw her. In my kitchen. Hebrought her back with these people he’s

met. They are bringing them all back. Butthat’s impossible…isn’t it?”

Loren’s hand reached for hers. “Letme take you home. I can ask yourhusband a few questions. Straighten thewhole thing out.”

“That won’t be necessary, Greg.”

A shadow grew along the table.Both turned to see Richard Crowneapproach, followed by two large men intrench coats. Another pair took upposition at the entrance of the diner.

“Richard? What are you—?”

Kelli’s eyes flared. “You.”

“Kelli?” Loren asked, eyes shiftingbetween her and the newcomer, his suitworth more than the detective made in sixmonths. “You know this man?”

“He’s one of them,” she spat,pulling back to the wall. “One of thepeople with my husband. At theirchurch.”

Richard grinned, his hands out andwaiting for the woman in the booth.

“Mrs. Andrews, you’re distraught. Pleasecome with us. Your family misses you.”

Despite her silent refusal, her headshaking frantically, one of the men behindRichard moved for her. He snatched herwrist, clutching it tight, and pulled herout of the booth.

“Richard, what the hell are youdoing?” Loren tried to stand, Kelli’sterror filled eyes stabbing at him. A handfell on his shoulder, forcing him back onthe bench of the booth, the other silentmember of Richard’s crew keeping him in

place.

“Sit, Greg,” Richard said, calmlyjoining him at the table. “This doesn’tconcern you.”

“Detective, please…” Kelli beggedwhile being pulled across the restaurant.One of the men by the door joined thefirst to assist. No one else budged in therestaurant. The staff looked the otherway. The tip jar was overflowing.

“You’re not well, Mrs. Andrews,”Richard called out, trying to calm thefrantic woman. “We want to help.”

Kelli kicked and screamed, her criesechoing even through the closed dooronce outside. The final member ofRichard’s crew joined he and Loren at thetable, leaning close to their ringleader.

“Take her home,” Richardwhispered. “I’ll be there soon.”

The man nodded, joining his silentbrethren outside in the parking lot. Kelli’sscreams faded. Lost in the darkness.Loren felt the pressure on his shoulders.He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.

“I apologize, Greg. Not what I

wanted you to see.”

“Too late for that,” Loren snapped.“What’s to stop me from carting your assdown to Central? You and your goons?”

Richard smiled. The woman behindthe counter walked up and delivered acup of coffee. The attorney’s eyes neverleft Loren as he pulled the cup close for along sip. “An offer.”

“Pass.”

“You’ll want to hear me out, Greg.You of all people.”

Loren gritted his teeth. “You’repart of this. Digging up corpses.”

Richard shrugged. “A crude act,but necessary. For the work.”

“What work?”

“The work of God, Greg,” Richardreplied, leaning close, his eyes shiningunder the lights of the diner. “The workof miracles. Miracles like you’ve neverseen.”

Loren said nothing, fighting theurge to reach across the table and grab

his so-called friend. He needed answers. Itwas why he was in the diner in the firstplace. But this? Miracles of God? Did heeven know the real Richard Crowne?

“I know that look,” Richard said,reading his face. “I shared that look forawhile but then I realized the truth. Itsaved me, Greg. It can save you too. Willyou let me save you, Greg?”

“What the hell are you talkingabout, Richard?”

“I can show you.”

Richard nodded slowly, and Lorenfelt the pressure on his shoulder dissipate.The silent man stepped away from thetable, his brisk steps carrying him out thedoor to their waiting car. When hereturned he stopped at the entrance,holding the door for someone.

A woman stepped inside, a thincoat around her slender frame. Her heelsclicked with each step along the tile floorof the diner. Catching sight of her atonce, Loren peered back to Richard inconfusion then back to the woman. His

mouth fell open, and Richard’s smile grewwide.

“Impossible,” Loren muttered.

The woman slid into the booth.Her fingers slid between Richard’s and hepulled her close. “You remember my wife,Jennifer?”

Chapter Ten

The squealing sound echoingthrough the street outside the diner wasnot the late night traffic skirting up theKnoll for the Expressway. Nor was it thepedestrians hooting and hollering at theirfreedom under the bright moonlight,lashing out against curfews and rules. Itwas the sound of Robert Standish’s headslamming against his steering wheel.

He had been following Loren allnight. After reading the review letter, itwas an easy choice to make: follow theman and see if he had any fight left inhim. Everyone saw the changes over thelast few months—hell, probably the lastfew years. Loren always had a short fuse,ever since the loss of his wife, but theway he systematically wrote off everyfriend in the department—with theexception of that damn captain—Standish knew a winning bet when he sawone.

His bookies told him so all thetime.

Loren was a man lost, onedeserving to be knocked down further.From their very first meeting, one thatended with an unconscious Standish onthe floor of the Second Precinct, paybackwas in the cards. Their partnership servedas little more than his first opportunitybut Loren always managed to skirt awayfrom conflict. Again, the influence ofRuiz. Protection from above. But now?

It was Loren’s turn to play the fool.

The lout. The loser.

Standish followed his targetnonetheless. Insurance. Whatever caseLoren managed to snag with the help ofthe harlot that was there the night the twoofficers first met—giving Standish a welton his cheek, one never forgotten—itkept Loren moving, distracted.

Good. Or so Standish thought.

Until the diner.

Loren’s first guest—a woman,attractive but plump along the thighs and

a bigger rump than Standish preferred—made him curious. They appeared toshare a heated discussion, but wereinterrupted by another player. Standishstared at him, then banged his headagainst the steering wheel in frustration.

Richard Crowne. Assistant DistrictAttorney Crowne.

A mouthful, but one that resonatedwith the officer. What was he doingthere? Meeting Loren secretly in themiddle of the night off the beaten path?Why?

“What the hell are you two talkingabout, Greg, old buddy?”

Did he know? Could he havefigured it out? Standish cursed hisenthusiasm at finding the review letter, atconfronting Loren just to dig the knifedeeper into the man’s gut. The idiot.

Standish started the car. He neededto move, to think. Jacobs still owed himfor the save at the courthouse. Standishwanted his money, and closing accountsseemed to be the best play. Especially ifLoren figured things out.

Loren was not supposed to beengaged. He was supposed to be distant,detached and lost. He needed him thatway. He needed him seen by thedepartment as a man at the edge, thehairpin trigger about to explode.

It was time for Loren to fall.

Standish put the car in drive andshifted into the light traffic up the Knoll.Inside the diner, the district attorney andLoren were lost in conversation. Planningand plotting. Standish sneered.

It was time to make a few plans of

his own.

Chapter Eleven

Soriya Greystone hoped Lorenenjoyed her performance. The dramabehind it, the over-the-top yelling in thedead of night so everyone heard,especially the woman in the small CapeCod in the Riverfront district. Mostly,though, the young woman tucked behinda thick row of bushes hoped Loren sawthrough it all.

Susan Barton was hidingsomething. After three poorly receivedinterviews, Soriya was convinced of thefact. She needed answers, and the righttrack to get them ignored Loren’sprocedures. This is the job only went so far.Even Loren could have told her that, butinstead he half-assed the work. The wayhe had for weeks, if not months. Theywere going to have to talk about that.Eventually.

At the moment, however, Soriyahad better things to do. Loren’s departure

with a strange woman gave Soriya thetime necessary to double back on thehouse and curl up in the shadows. Afterhours of waiting her body ached forrelease, joints stiff from the lack of anymovement. Mentor asked for patience.She gave him patience.

It paid off. In spades.

Susan Barton slipped out into thenight, a light shawl covering hershoulders and neck. Another figurejoined her, tall and lanky, his back to thesnooping woman in the bushes. He wore a

wide-brimmed hat and heavy coat,escorting her up the walkway and downthe street.

“I knew someone was in there,”Soriya said, inching out of the bushes.“But why hide him?”

Was Loren right? Was she simplyashamed about moving on with her lifeafter the loss of her husband? Were therest the same? Their loved ones forgottento the past, allowing them to reclaim theirown lives?

She kept her distance, always close

enough to keep the pair of midnightstrollers in sight. Another mistake like theChristian Fuller case was the last thingSoriya needed. I can be patient, Mentor. I’vegot patience coming out of my ass on this one.

They stopped seven blocks away atan unimpressive corner lot home to amodestly built church. It appeared rundown from the front, its use limited interms of services. Yet Mrs. Barton andher companion were not alone in theirapproach to the holy place. Dozens ofothers gathered, arm in arm with loved

ones. They greeted each other with smilesand open hands, guiding others to thedouble-door entrance.

Soriya remained outside, letting theworshipers enter. She climbed to the roofof the small coffee shop across the street,getting the lay of the land. Despiteappearances, the church was moreinvolved than Soriya imagined from theground. The roof opened up, shielded byglass stained in a deep crimson red withblack grids throughout. Work had beendone to the place recently. New stone

archways. Elaborate carvings along thetowers to the rear.

“It’s a little late for a churchservice, isn’t it?” Soriya asked. “MidnightBingo league?”

She left the safety of the roof,sneaking quietly over to the church.Soriya ducked along the side of thestructure, opposite the small parking lot,and found a side entrance. It had beenchained shut, bolted with a large lock. Shegrinned. Her finger grazed the stone ather hip, the light beaming from its

surface.

Strength rippled up her arm. Thelock snapped in her hand. The chainloosened and the door opened gently toavoid the loud wrenching noises.

After ducking inside, Soriya foundherself on a lower level to the church.The dull hum of machines, their fanswhirring to remove excess heat from theroom, drowned out all other noise. Soriya

turned away from the noise, passing alavatory on the left before coming to astairwell. Chatter from the patronsgathered above, little more thanmurmurs. She followed the sounds,sticking close to the wall.

Susan Barton stood at the top ofthe stairs, her companion close to herside. They held hands, squeezing eachother.

“Tommy, I missed you so much.”

“I know,” the man replied, his facestill shadowed from Soriya.

Susan smiled, pulling him towardthe main hall of the church. “Don’t everleave me again.”

“Never.”

They kissed before entering thechurch proper. Everyone else waitedinside. The doors closed behind her,engulfing Soriya in darkness. She inchedto the glass dividing the entrance with thenave of the church. She stayed low, afraidof interruptions from both sides.

“Tommy?” she muttered, scanningthe pews. “Her husband’s name was

Thomas.”

Soriya’s eyes flared, everythingcoming into focus. Marc Andrews, theman that had stonewalled them prior toSusan Barton. He stood with his twochildren and an older woman. Not hiswife. He had lost someone too—hismother, Loren had said.

Beyond them, upon the vestibule,was an altar. The stone resting upon itappeared scarred from age. Ancient. Outof place from the rest of the room,imported from somewhere else. Behind it,

carvings littered the wall, all indiscerniblefrom the rest except for one in the center.A dove. Rising from the ground.

Rising.

“Oh, no,” Soriya said, falling backfor the stairs. She needed to get out ofthere. She wanted answers but never hadshe imagined what secrets they werehiding.

“What are you people doing?”

Chapter Twelve

The review ended early. Ruizassumed any meeting with Mathers andthe commissioner included a cateredlunch and possibly dinner—all this mixedin with off-color humor not fit for printand the occasional circle jerk. Only afterthis would they actually work. WithLoren’s involvement, however, Matherswas all business. He hated the detective,

one of the few to earn his ire, if for noother reason than he was Ruiz’s friend.

It went as expected. For the mostpart. Ruiz did what he could, said what hecould, pushed back when he could, but itwouldn’t be enough. Mathers preacheduntil his face looked like a cherry, quotingBible passages as if they had a clearbearing on events. Ruiz hoped the lectureplayed as horribly as it looked but knew itwould be enough to win the attention oftheir superiors. What didn’t help matters,what surprised Ruiz more than anything,

was Loren’s silence.

The beaten captain watched hisfriend depart the proceedings and stop atthe closest drinking fountain. Lorenlooked terrible, as if sleep decided to takea vacation from his schedule with noreturn date in sight. Personal groomingjoined the strike, the man’s beard unevenand itchy just from the look of it. Hishair dangled over his face as he drankfrom the lukewarm dispenser. Hesplashed water on his cheeks, rubbing hiseyes deeply. He settled on the wall

adjacent, popping a stick of gum betweenhis lips.

Ruiz rolled his eyes, stomping overto Loren. He pointed down the hall. “Myoffice. Now.”

Loren followed slowly, and Ruizheld the door open for him beforeslamming the thin oak shut. The silentdetective crashed on the couch to theright. Ruiz paced maniacally around theenclosed space. Each pass unsettled thepiles of paperwork on his desk, filesfalling to the floor in a heap.

“That pompous ass,” Ruizmuttered, hands behind his back. “Thatwasn’t a hearing, it was a damn execution.Mathers. If I could wrap my handsaround his throat….”

Loren snapped the gum betweenhis teeth. Ruiz hated the sound, andcringed with each pop. The detective kepthis head low, between his knees, handsclasped in front of him. His eyes weredistant. Lost.

“We’ll fight this, Greg,” Ruizcontinued, his pace slowing. “I’ll dispute

it until I’m blue in the face. Somethinggoes missing on his watch and we’re toblame? Bull. Commissioner can have mybadge before I roll over for that prick.”

Still nothing from his friend. Ruizlet out a long sigh, circling the desk. Hepulled his chair around, settling on thedeflated cushion that caused more painthan comfort most days.

“Where are you right now, Greg?”

Loren stopped snapping his gum.“What do you mean?”

His eyes were an abyss. Dark asnight. His friend was falling and therewasn’t a damn thing Ruiz could do.

“You just took it,” Ruiz replied.“You. No patented snark. No sarcasm.Not a damn word.”

Loren settled deeper into thecouch. “There wasn’t anything to say.”

“Are you kidding me? There waseverything to say!” Ruiz shouted. “Theywant to railroad you out of here. Put agiant sign on you that says, ‘Here’s theproblem in the department but it’s all

good now. We fixed it.’ Evidence bedamned.”

Loren shrugged, turning to thewindow. Gray skies settled into the areaovernight. The first drops of rain greetedthem. The storm arrived, building witheach passing cloud.

“Still nothing?” Ruiz asked,astonished at the lack of fight in hisfriend.

Loren stood, reaching for the door.“Ruiz.”

“Sit down,” Ruiz commanded. “Asson the damn couch.”

Loren’s hand fell away. He sat,chewing his gum. He wasn’t pleased. Ruizfailed to care at the moment.

“Out with it,” Ruiz said.

Loren shook his head, handsrunning the length of his thighs. He kepthis eyes everywhere else, refusing to makecontact with the man in the center of theroom. He spoke with a distant voice. “Doyou…do you think people can come back,Ruiz?”

“Come back? Greg, what are you—?”

“From the dead, Ruiz,” Loren said,finally looking at the captain. “Witheverything we’ve seen in this damn cityover the years, I mean…is it possible?”

“What?” Ruiz straightened in hischair. His previous concern was quicklyturning to fear. “Greg, I don’t know whatyou’ve been—”

“I saw something,” he said.“Someone. She couldn’t have been therebut she was. I don’t…. How is it

possible?”

“It isn’t, Greg. It can’t happen.”

“I know,” Loren said. He stood,hands wringing before him as he settledby the window, looking out at the gloomcovering the city. “You’re the church-goer.My faith couldn’t fill a thimble, but you?All their talk about resurrection?”

“Those are stories,” Ruiz said. “Iknow, God strike me down. The idea ofthe Second Coming? Just a story.”

Loren turned back to him. “That’s

where you draw the line? Heaven andHell work for you but the Day ofJudgment is a fantasy? How do you get topick and choose?”

Day of Judgment? This wasn’t only acuriosity to Loren. This was studied,which meant this was more than aquestion keeping the detective from sleep.This was real. To him, anyway. To Ruiz,though, it was a clear sign talking thingsout wasn’t going to be enough. His friendneeded help.

“My faith, my choice. So watch it,

Greg,” Ruiz started. “What I believecomes next is for me and me only. Justlike your faith is your own. That whitelight? That better place with old friends,family, and loved ones? I know it’s there.”

Loren’s hand spread along thewindow. He stared into the gloom. “Andif it’s not?”

“It is,” Ruiz answered. “No doubt.But people coming back? Not possible.Dead is dead.”

Loren turned away, lost in the rain.

“Are you listening to me, Greg?”

He turned back, head low. “Yeah.I’m listening.”

Ruiz stood joining him at thewindow. “I know what something likethat would mean to you.”

“To anyone.”

“You’re pushing too hard again.When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m—”

“Fine. I know. You’re always fine.”

Loren nodded, his grin false. Hestarted for the door. “I should go.”

“We’ll fight Mathers on this, Greg,”Ruiz called, his friend turning away oncemore, his sad look lost in the shadows ofthe day. The gloom was more a reflectionof Loren than the rain outside. The doorclosed behind him, soft steps carryinghim down the hall. “If you have any fightleft.”

Chapter Thirteen

“It can’t be real.”

The muttering continued for hourswith Soriya Greystone rummagingthrough the myriad of texts laid aroundthe Bypass chamber. Grabbing a stackfrom Mentor’s bedroom, the youngwoman nervously paged through eachone in the larger room, the dull hum ofthe floating orb failing to soothe her.

After finishing with one, Soriyadropped the book on the pile, a termused loosely as each slid from the top,creating a dumping ground. Each failedto provide her the comfort she sought.The answers to explain what she had seenthe night before.

“It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

Another text dropped with a crash.Useless. Empty. She tried to catch herbreath, her heart pounding in her chest.There had to be an answer, some insightshe had failed to glean from her time in

the church, surrounded by those people.And their loved ones.

The dead.

“It can’t—”

“Soriya?”

Mentor stood in the door to hisbedroom, hand rubbing his stiff right leg.She tried to keep quiet at first, noticingthe old man resting uncomfortably on hiscot in the corner. The search took priorityand his presence was forgotten. Sheneeded it to remain that way, his look of

concern frustrating her further.

She turned back to the texts.Religious tomes, architectural studies onthe city, anything that might clue her inon the process behind the church, on theraising of the dead—somethingimpossible.

“It can’t be real!” she screamed. Thebook in her hands, ratty from years ofuse, flew through the air in a fit of anger.It soared toward the waking man, afastball cutting through the dim light ofthe chamber. Mentor deftly caught the

projectile with a resounding snap of hisfingers, flipping to the cover.

“Feel any better?”

“I don’t,” Soriya started, catchingthe anger in her voice. She kicked overthe remaining pile of books, letting themjoin their brethren in the growing heap.She sighed, her hands running the lengthof her dark hair. She crouched down,collecting the treasures accumulated bythe man watching her closely. She startedto pull them up one by one, returning ahandful at a time to the bedroom. “I’m

fine.”

Mentor stood silently, letting hercontinue. One pile after the other, thelone book caught in his grasp, the titlestill drawing him in. When she finished,there was a brief pause, then she movedfor the stairs and the world above.

“Where are you going?”

“To work,” she snapped, the lack ofsleep showing. Her head fell low and shestopped short of the stairs. Mentor’s handsqueezed her shoulder lightly.

“What is it?”

There were tears in her eyes andshe quickly wiped them away. “You toldme. You said it wasn’t possible.”

“What?”

She pointed to the book in hishand, at the image of Christ’s tomb at theChurch of the Holy Sepulchre. “To bringsomeone back.”

“Is that…?” Mentor tried to ask,surprised by the question. She pulledaway from him, heading back to the

center of the chamber and the orb ofgreen light. “Soriya?”

“Did you lie to me?” she asked, hereyes sharp. “Because I was a kid? To makeme stronger? To make me forget them?”

Her parents. Her family. Hell, herentire former life. All lost the day of thecar accident, her memories shattered to ablank slate. She always wondered, alwayswished, for some glimpse, some snapshotof remembrance. Some way to know whoshe really was, who she was supposed tobe.

Mentor moved close, his voice soft.“I would never—”

“Because I didn’t,” she spat, theangry tears of a child struggling to tearthemselves from her eyes. “I never did.Never will. My parents—”

She stopped and wiped her eyes.The Bypass stood before her and shestepped closer, her hand grazing the rift.Mentor had told her about it so manytimes, how the floating orb linked toevery where and every when. How itlinked everyone in a thousand different

ways. All possibilities. The past and thefuture.

Where we all end.

When she was a child she spenthours pondering their fate—her family,her parents, more than anyone else.Where they went in the end. How theywere doing. If they ever thought of herlike she did them. So many questionswrapped in the mind of a child. Wishingfor answers.

“If I could see them, Mentor,” shewhispered, turning away from the

possibilities tucked under the veil of theBypass, “just once.”

He smiled, his thin gray eyes tired.He pulled her close. “You will, Soriya.Someday. But to bring someone back….”

She turned away. “It’s notimpossible. I saw it.”

“The graves.”

Soriya nodded. “Loren and I—”

His eyes widened. “Does thedetective know as well? What is beingdone?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

His glare answered the question.

“You think—”

Mentor shook his head. “I thinkloss affects all of us differently, my child.”

“You think he’ll bring her back.”She turned to the Bypass once more,watching the thin shadows flit along itssurface. Dreaming the dreams of a child.“You think I’ll help him do it.”

“For the right reasons.”

Soriya nodded, remembering thelesson. “The kid in the cemetery. Fuller.You said the same thing.”

Mentor held out the book for herwhen she faced him, the page opened andfolded over for her to see. Her eyeswidened at the image of the doveadorning the sepulcher and at the rockwall beneath. It bore the same markings,the same look and age as the altar at thechurch she had seen the night before.

“You have a choice to make,Soriya,” Mentor said. “Not for yourself

or Loren. For everyone. Can you do that,no matter the cost?”

Soriya took the book from him andthe answer within, wishing she had onefor the question asked. Hoping she wouldwhen the time came.

Chapter Fourteen

Richard Crowne was content. Evenwith the chill of the night air biting hisexposed skin, even with the ache in hisright arm from holding the lantern steadyfor close to an hour, his smile remained.He was joyful at the work at hand…butmore than that, he was thankful at thefact that he did not have to do that work.

Two men shoveled dirt in a large

mound, covering the ground on eitherside of him. They worked without pause,without the banter of camaraderie. Theearth gave way under their mercilessdigging, their purpose outweighing thelateness of the hour.

Richard kept watch, scanning thecemetery grounds. The lantern in hishand stayed low to offer as much light aspossible. The rain dripped on them, theclouds overhead rolling in quicker,getting darker with each new wave. Thefull measure of the storm would arrive

soon. They would be gone by then, aslong as they remained unseen.

The payouts helped at first.Security guards were never wellcompensated, and had to take multiplejobs to afford a decent living in the city.An extra thousand here and there to lookthe other way was always appreciated.You simply had to ask. Payouts, however,only went so far. Pressure to end thestring of robberies throughout thecemetery network of Portents meant therisk was too great to continue greasing

the wheels.

Speed and efficiency came next,distracting the staff with other membersof their congregation. The bereaved wereunable to be consoled without assistance.Two such individuals stood at theentrance, keeping guards facing adifferent direction.

It wouldn’t always be like that.Richard knew it better than most, hisexcitement at stepping out of theshadows palpable. The need to hide theirmiracles drew to a close. The world would

soon understand what they could offer.

Richard couldn’t wait for theunveiling. Soon everyone would see thegift of the church, the power of theiraltar, and what it offered those lost. Noone needed to suffer or be alone anymore.They would all witness the miracle, as hedid.

First, there was someone else whoneeded it. Their gift, the power behindtheir faith. A friend in need, Richardconsidered him. A true friend thanks totheir shared loss. He had been given a

glimpse of their work. Even though heran from Richard’s explanations and thesight of his wife in the diner, questionsplagued his friend—questions thatdemanded answers.

It took some convincing for theFounder to agree. But he knew Richardwas right. Richard had been right tofollow the nameless, hooded figure to thechurch all those months earlier. Faith andtrust all leading to the truth.

To the miracle of resurrection.

Richard heard the sound of a

shovel hitting metal, the clang drawingthe hands of the men to tremble, hopingto avoid any further noise. They peeredup to the assistant district attorney, whonodded. No more time need be wasted.

Richard looked around thegrounds of Black Rock Cemetery,stepping to the head of the plot. Hecrouched low, his hand grazing thetombstone, fresh as the day it wasinstalled. His fingers settled into thegrooves of the lettering, feeling eachturn. He needed her to prove to Greg

Loren, his true friend, the power theycould share with the world.

Richard smiled. Soon Greg wouldsee. Soon everything would be right withhis world.

As soon as he had Bethany Lorennext to him.

Chapter Fifteen

Another sleepless night. He neededto be at work. He needed to help Soriyatrack down leads, or at least share theones that had popped up in her absence.Instead, Greg Loren sat at the edge of hiscouch, the light of the television keepinghim transfixed. Zoning.

No, not exactly zoning. More likeobsessing. Richard’s intervention at the

diner screwed him up more than headmitted. What it meant, the return ofRichard’s wife, how her presenceimpacted Loren and everyone else? Theimage of her was too much for him toprocess with any speed or clarity. Heneeded time. Time to figure everythingout, to figure out the church that hadbrought back Kelli Andrews’ mother-in-law as easily as Richard Crowne’smurdered wife of three years. Everythingcircled back to one thing. The same thingit always did when it came to Loren.

Beth. Always Beth.

Loren slammed the power buttonon the remote, dropping the living roominto darkness. He shuffled to the windowin the front of the apartment, ignoringhis dismal appearance in the mirror overthe mantel. It was raining, a fierce,blowing rain, pounding against the sideof the apartment building. The rhythmicpatter drowned out his neighbors, thenoise of the city, leaving him in solitude.

Was it truly possible? Could shecome back? Could he ask her to do that?

To give up the afterlife for him? To makehim whole again? Would she even beenough at this point? He had fallen so farover the last four years. Even work wasthreatened now by his own apathy, hisown inability to fight. To put in anyeffort. Like nothing mattered or had sincehe lost his wife.

Not lost. Taken. Beth was taken.Couldn’t he have her back? Was that toomuch to ask?

His head settled against thewindow, feeling the cold right through

the thin pane of glass separating them.He needed another beer. More than that,he needed a cigarette. A pack of them. Atrip to the corner store wouldn’t be tooextreme.

Loren scanned the block andstopped at a car parked across the street.His brow furrowed.

I’ve seen that car. At the diner last night.But—

A man stood beside the Chevy,staring up at the second-floor apartmentand the shadow of Greg Loren. He tried

to look casual, checking his watch, but therain took that out of the equation. Noone would want to be out in this weather.Especially with their car right there.Loren recognized the man’s balding headand burgeoning gut. He had seen himenough at the station.

“Standish?”

Robert Standish checked his watchonce more then started up the block,slowly. He tucked his coat tighter toimpede the rain. Loren waited a shortmoment, then raced to the front door,

slipping on his jacket.

By the time he made it to thesidewalk in front of his apartmentbuilding, Standish was a block over. Hewas still in sight, walking with a slightshuffle. Loren followed, double-checkinghis six at every opportunity.

He maintained his distance,tracking his former partner down theKnoll and away from the expressway. Notthe best part of town—the residentialneighborhoods giving way to mom andpop stores long since closed for the night.

Deep alleys and more shadows forcedLoren to slow his pace, marking eachmovement in the dark.

Why didn’t I bring my gun?

They traveled like this for eightblocks, Loren curious why Standish didn’tdrive, and instead chose to fight throughthe rain. Caution? Or something else?

Standish cut across the street atFourth for an alley next to a recentlyshuttered salon.

Loren peered around the corner,

tucking close to a dumpster, most likelyused to clear out what remained from thedefunct shop. Standish held his back tothe mouth of the alley but his companionwas in full view of the peeking detective.

Myron Jacobs.

“Son of a bitch,” Loren muttered.The scumbag that walked two days earlier,thanks to evidence that suddenly decidedto pull a Houdini.

“Did you bring it?” the tall blackman with the thick sideburns asked. Hisvoice loud, carried over the rain. He was

always yelling. A point of pride for him.

“This isn’t some corner deal,Jacobs.”

Loren inched to the edge of thedumpster, fighting to hear Standishthrough the rain.

“And I ain’t playing with you, cop.Did you bring it?”

Jacobs stepped closer to Standish,hoping to intimidate the older, out-of-shape officer. He was greeted with a gutshot that sent him reeling to the floor of

the alley. Standish, though not known forhis fitness, carried enough muscle underhis bulk for the job at hand.

“Who saved whose ass from jailtime, pal?” Standish asked. Loren heardthe grin behind the man’s words. “Say it.”

Jacobs struggled to his feet, nursinghis stomach. “You did.”

“Damn right. Show some respect.”

Jacobs laughed, spitting hard at hiscompanion, barely missing his shoes. “Toa cop on the hook to half the bookies in

town? Tough sell.”

“You stupid son of a—”

Standish wound up once again, andJacobs fell back a step.

“All right, all right!”

“The money,” Standish shouted.“Now.”

Jacobs fell back in the alley,reaching beneath a pile of old placardsand billboards tossed aside like refuse. Hecame back with a black bag. “Here. Whatabout my—?”

Standish reached into his coat,pulling out a large envelope. He tossed iton the ground beside Jacobs. “You’ll findthe evidence in a locker at the Southsideterminal. Information and the key areinside. And a bonus.”

“What are you talking about?”

Standish slung the black bag overhis shoulder. “Leave town tonight.Ticket’s inside.”

Jacobs retrieved the envelope. “Andif I don’t?”

When he looked up Standish washolding his gun. Jacobs stepped back oncemore, hands up yet clutched tight to theenvelope drowning in the rain.

“Then I show you the other prizeyou’ve won. No one’ll even blink at adead junkie in the street.”

Jacobs nodded. The message wasclear.

“Pleasure doing business with you,Jacobs.” Standish turned for the mouthof the alley. Loren tucked close to theground, sliding deeper into the darkness.

“Go to hell, Standish,” Jacobsyelled over the storm.

Standish laughed, pulling the blackbag tighter to his back. “Like I’m notalready there.”

The cop shuffled away from thealley on the other side of the dumpsterbefore heading back up the Knoll to hiswaiting car. Loren shifted toward theabandoned building, part of the shadows.Jacobs followed soon after, hugging tightto the small locker key.

Loren wished he had his badge and

his gun, but mostly his gun. Something totake the man down, to give Jacobs thejustice he deserved. Instead, he watchedthe man slip into the night once more,free and probably hightailing it fromtown if he was smart enough to heedStandish’s warning.

Loren did have one thing, though:anger. And finally someone to focus everyounce of it on.

Chapter Sixteen

Greg Loren was hunting.

Eyes shifting like a cat in thejungle, Loren stalked slowly through thesecond floor of the Central Precinct.Stares flowed his way like water, theleftover gloom from the rain a memorywith the new day. Worried looks. Glancesfrom people who had become little morethan strangers over the last few years.

They didn’t care about him. No onetruly did anymore. They didn’t rush to hisdefense at the idea of evidence goingmissing. No one stepped up to the plateto bat accusations away from Mathers andthe commissioner. If they had actuallytried to understand Loren and the paincovering him like a second skin, theywould have seen the truth. They wouldhave seen everything as clearly as he didnow.

Standish. It was Standish all along.

He studied Loren, tracked him like

an animal, monitoring his every move, hisevery mood. He knew about the review,and he needed Loren to worry about it, tofocus every thought on the upcomingmeeting rather than the truth behind themissing evidence.

He was the man behind everything.

Finally he caught his quarry.Standish stood, circled by his brethren,outside of Ruiz’s office. They carriedtheir coffees like their conversation: looseand light. A distraction from the job,laughing and living, while Loren was

circling the drain. Because of Standish, allbecause of Standish.

Loren rushed over to him,forgetting everything else. He pushedthrough the crowd, cries ringing out overspilled beverages and soaring paperwork.All failed to pull him from his target.Standish’s eyes widened for a moment,right as Loren snagged the man’s collarand forced him against the wall.

“How long, Standish?” Lorenscreamed.

“Greg?” Standish uttered, eyes

flaring with concern. “What are you—?”

Loren pulled him close then shovedhim back into the wall, a grunt escapingthe man’s lips. “How long have you beenin his pocket?”

“Who?”

Loren’s right hand dropped fromStandish’s collar. He pulled back hard andfast then shot forward, the punch leveledagainst the man’s gut. Standish fell,cursing through spit. Loren reached downand pulled him back to the wall.

“Jacobs,” Loren snapped. “Youknow damn well you are.”

Standish’s eyes flitted around theroom to see a dozen officer’s eyes staringback at him, watching the show butrefusing to intervene.

“You’re wrong,” Standish said,wincing from the shot to his side.

“Lying piece of shit.”

Another punch, this oneconnecting with the side of Standish’sface. The force of the blow spun him

around, his bulky frame threatening totopple over. Loren kept him upright. Hetook a deep breath before drivingStandish’s body to the ground whilemaintaining a grip on his left arm. Hetwisted it hard, pulling it up, feeling theresistance tighten.

“What are you—?”

“Say it,” Loren yelled. “Tell themabout what you’ve done!”

Standish was sweating, shaking hishead. “I don’t—”

Loren screamed, pulling on theman’s arm until it snapped. Standish wassmiling and Loren didn’t know why. Butthen Standish’s screams of pain joinedLoren’s shouts of anger, the older man’sleft arm dangling uselessly by his side asLoren pulled him back up.

“SAY IT!”

Blood covered the man’s lip and hespat crimson to the floor. He leaned closeto Loren, a smile on his face. “You’ll burnfor this, Greg,” he whispered. “All I didwas light the match.”

Loren dropped Standish, fallingback on his heels.

The meeting with Jacobs, waitinguntil he was seen outside the apartment.It was all a set up—all for this, for theonly reaction Loren could give. This one.In public. Surrounded by the only peoplehe had left in the world.

“You son of a bitch.”

Loren grabbed Standish’s collaronce more, squeezing tight. Frustrated,he threw him aside like garbage, thebeaten and bloodied officer staggering

through the bullpen. Standish tried tocatch himself, his left arm throwing offhis center of gravity. His right shot up intime, but could not stop the impact as theoverweight officer smashed through theglass of Ruiz’s office door.

“No,” Loren muttered, rushingover to the man. What did I do? Handswrapped around his arms, pulling himback.

“Detective!” Pratchett screamed,the tall officer struggling to restrain him.Another pair raced to Standish, pulling

him free from the glass, shuffling shardsoff exposed skin. They helped him to anearby desk.

Ruiz rushed out of his office.“What the hell is going on?”

There were no answers, only thebroken aftermath of the chaos. Waywardglances and mumbling, all pointingtoward the restrained Loren. Ruiz turnedaway, catching sight of Standish, dazedand bleeding in the middle of thebullpen. “Well? Call a damn ambulancealready!”

The spectators extricatedthemselves from the equation before Ruizhad the chance to remove them. Lorencould only see Standish’s sneer until Ruizbroke the connection, stepping betweenthem.

“Ruiz—”

“Go home, Greg.”

“Captain,” Loren pleaded, pointingtoward Standish.

Ruiz refused to look. “You’re done.Get out.”

Loren felt his heart stop. His throatclosed up. It was over.

Ruiz looked at him with dead eyes.“Pratchett, escort him from my building.Now.”

Chapter Seventeen

Soriya Greystone watched it allunfold. The fight, the screams and therantings of one man—Greg Loren.

It wasn’t possible. Listening to hisanger, seeing the fists fly withoutprovocation. Loren, even at his lowestmoments, maintained some civility withthe world. Even drowning in grief, lost aseasily as his wife had been, Soriya knew

him to be a good man who did the rightthing over all other desires.

Tucked behind the ajar door to hisoffice, Soriya hoped to pull him back totheir case, to share her findings about thechurch she found and the work beingdone there, to motivate him to help.

Doubt always plagued Loren. Theloss of his wife was his greatest motivatorbut also his greatest weakness. Theanchor wrapped around his ankle,dragging him into the murky depths.Soriya truly and totally believed their

time together changed him—for thebetter, so the past might melt away.

There were bad times inherent inany relationship. An anniversaryremembered, a memory sparked by alocation—all triggers of the guilt inLoren’s heart. She knew he didn’t feelguilty for his wife’s death, but in notbeing there for her until he was too late,in not being able to solve the mysterybehind her fall. She knew the open casewas a gaping hole in his heart.

Seeing him fall before her, dragged

toward the elevator by two officers, hiseyes wide with horror, his screamsechoing along the tiles. There was nothingleft of him.

He couldn’t help her now. Maybenot ever again.

Soriya closed the door, moving forthe window. She ducked out on the ledgeand slid shut the window behind her.

“Dammit, Loren,” she muttered,more angry with herself than with theman she respected. Her friend. Herpartner.

She needed him but that was offthe table. The church, the flock ofresurrection-crazed people in her city,needed her attention now. More thanLoren.

They needed to be stopped. Nomatter the cost.

Chapter Eighteen

It was cold but Loren felt nothing.He paced the grounds outside the CentralPrecinct, lost in the shadow of WilliamRath’s fifteen-foot statue in the circle thatseparated the precinct from Heaven’sGate Park. Pratchett remained by thedoors, his eyes heavy with concern. It wasa look Loren thought was lost to the past,one he never wanted to see again from his

colleagues, from people he called friends.Yet it was one that had shown up muchtoo often of late.

Pity.

He blew it. He had the chance tomake things right but his anger won out.Each footfall as he stomped along thepuddles from the night before attemptedto shake the rage from him, but it circledback. Standish played him. Out of all thecircumstances imagined, the scenarios ofwhat might happen to him during hismalaise, he never believed it possible.

Standish, of all people, beat him.

He recalled his appearance outsidehis apartment the night before, standingin the rain, begging to be seen; he recalledthe slow walk down the Knoll to meetwith Jacobs. Even the meeting spot,which gave Loren a perfect view and closeenough to listen to every word. Baitinghim, knowing how off his game he trulywas. Standish used him perfectly; all itcost him was a broken arm and a fewbruises.

Loren couldn’t believe it. He

screamed, hands balled up in fists againsthis side before he collapsed on a nearbybench. He was exiled from work, his finalrefuge to forget the past. It was the onlylife he had left and he had lost it, lettingrevenge and rage trump everythinglearned over the course of his career.Using his fists instead of his brain. Likehis old man.

“What the hell are you doing,Greg?” He pulled hard on the thickstrands of overgrown hair. “What thehell did you just do?”

The constant concern over losinghis job, mostly due to his lacklusterperformance from the last few months,brought him to this moment. Rather thanfix the problem—to turn Standish inusing the evidence at hand, Jacobs for oneand the payoff for the other—he screwedup. So worried about keeping his job yethe did more to ensure its loss in the lastfew minutes than any review panel ormissing evidence could have.

“Greg?”

Loren didn’t look up at first. The

voice was distant and it took a second forhim to realize it was coming fromsomeone else and not his own innermusings. When he did, Richard Crownestood before him, tall and proud,satisfaction on his face.

“Oh, I don’t need this,” Loren said.His hair fell away from his face, his handmoving for the bridge of his nose.Richard, refusing to take the hint, joinedhim on the bench.

“Everything all right? Are you—?”

Loren stood, turning away from the

man. The brief glimpse of his grin wastoo much. On top of their conversationthe other night, on top of Standish andeverything related to his review in theprecinct, he didn’t need any more.

“I’m fine,” Loren snapped. “Goinghome.”

“I wanted to—”

“No.” Loren interrupted, thenstopped. It crept back, rippling under theskin—the anger. So much confusion fromthe last few days. “Not now, Richard.Maybe not ever. I don’t want to hear

about it.”

He exhaled slowly, stepping out ofthe shadow of the monument to the past.His steps quickened, pressed by the wind,a shrill breeze that carried the messagefrom Richard Crowne all the easier.

“I have your wife.”

Loren turned, eyes bloodshot andwide. “What?”

Richard stood in front of thebench, hands outstretched. Calm andcollected. Loren felt nothing of the sort.

He rushed to the man, fingers wrappingtight around his collar to pull him close.

“What did you just say?”

Richard’s smile remained. “Beth. Ihave her.”

The grave robberies. Richardadmitted to them at the diner. Why hadn’tLoren stopped him then—slapped thecuffs on him and carted his crazy assaway? Out of friendship? An unspokenloyalty for the loss they shared? Orsomething more? After seeing Jenniferstanding beside the table, there had been

nothing but doubt. Why hadn’t he donemore?

“What did you do? Where is she?”

Richard cleared his throat, patient.Loren squeezed tighter, his knuckleswhite. Then he let go, stepping back. Theattorney nodded his appreciation,straightening his jacket.

“I’ll take you to her, of course.That’s why I came. You should be therefor her.” Richard Crowne smiled. “Whenshe wakes up.”

Chapter Nineteen

He called it the Church of theSecond Coming. Loren asked him to stoptalking after that. It was enough to hear,that and the fact that they were holdinghis wife…hostage? Was that the rightword? Or was it leverage? For what?Loren had yet to file a report or get awarrant to investigate Richard Crowneand his so-called “Resurrectionists”

further.

Still, he followed Richard to thechurch. Men, women, and childrengathered quietly, flowing like the tide tothe front doors of the great hall. Theysmiled and shook hands, a truecommunity tucked away beneath theshadow of the city. The congregation leftthe lobby for the nave, hopeful eyeswatching the exhausted and overwhelmeddetective carefully.

Loren stopped just inside the frontdoors. Security blocked him on all sides

but maintained their distance. A gift fromRichard—one of the many offered, itseemed. Having someone in the districtattorney’s office on your side definitelyhelped in their efforts to steal the deadfrom their places of rest. Thirty-two atlast count. No, thirty-three now.

“I want to see her,” Loren said. Thealtar at the far end of the hall was empty.A white sheet covered it from view, butLoren was still able to make out thestonework at its base. It looked old, outof place with the rest of the materials

used in the church, like it had beenbrought in from somewhere else. Thecarvings, ornate and decorative, coveredthe pulpit though Loren had no clue whatthey represented including the large doveon the back wall rising from the ground.The moon showered the congregation inlight, blood red from the stained glass.

Richard’s hand pulled him back.“You can’t. Not yet.”

Loren grabbed the man’s hand andtwisted, forcing Richard to the wall.Security rushed them but the calm

attorney shook his head.

“This is a delicate procedure,”Richard continued. “We take painstakingsteps to ensure everything goes well forthe ceremony. Now, please. Greg.”

Loren let go. “If you’re lying—”

“I’m not,” Richard said, brushingoff his suit.

Security remained, anxious, waitingfor the newcomer’s reaction. Loren knewthe score. “Not like I have much choicein the matter, do I, Richard?”

“Of course you do. We’re the same,Greg.”

He was pointing to the main halland the woman in black near the altar. Itwas Jennifer, Richard Crowne’s wife,smiling and waving at them like shehadn’t been dead and buried the last threeyears.

“Without Jennifer I was so lost.Having her back is a blessing.”

“One you’re forced to hide,” Lorensaid. He walked over to the glassseparating them from the rest of the

assemblage, hands pressed hard againstthe cool surface. He felt the hum ofmachines, coming from below, runningthe length of the church, getting louder,more steady with every passing second.

“For now,” Richard said, joininghim. “Not forever. This place is a gift forthe world. We are witnesses to the SecondComing.”

“I don’t see any messiahs.”

“Seeing is not necessary to believe,”Richard said, arms outstretched. “Howelse could we do this? Science only takes

us so far. Rebuilding the body. Preparingfor the ceremony. But this place? Ourfaith? All of it carries us the rest of theway. By God’s will. How else can it beexplained?”

“How did you find out about thisplace, Richard?”

His hand fell on Loren’s shoulder.“A man approached me in my time ofneed. A complete stranger, yet he offeredme a hand in the dark. He found thisplace. Built all this. A beacon to theheavens. He called to us one by one,

healing our wounded hearts, ending ourgrief, asking nothing in return but ourfaith. And our trust, in him and thework.”

It was right in front of Loren. Thesmiles and joy on the face of thecongregation, waiting patiently towelcome a new member. They were nolonger the lost and the grieving. Theywere rebuilt as much as those returned.

“It’s unbelievable, Richard,” Lorenwhispered. He wiped the tears from histired eyes. “If I hadn’t seen it. Seen

her….”

Jennifer stepped through the doors,joining them in the dimly lit vestibule.She took her husband’s hand.

“But you have,” Richard said.“How could I not share this with you?”

Loren turned away, leaning hard onthe wall.

“Greg?”

He nodded. “I need a minute.Could I—?”

“Of course,” Richard replied,ushering him to the stairs near theentrance that led to the lower level.“There’s a washroom down the stairs.Greg—”

“I know,” Loren said. Security eyedhim cautiously. “Just a minute. Please.”

Richard nodded. The four largemen monitoring their conversationbacked off slowly. “Take your time. We’llbe ready soon.”

The echo of the steps carried himto the lower level. The humming was

louder, the sound of movement joining itat the far end of the hall behind a seriesof closed doors. Loren ignored them,rushing into the restroom. He turned thehandle over the sink, a torrent of waterstreaming into his cupped hands. Hesplashed it over his face, fighting back thetears and the exhaustion. The confusionand the choice being offered. A choice hedidn’t know how to make. Beth was withhim, here in the church. She could comeback as easily as Jennifer had. She couldbe there for him again, building him up,bringing him back.

Saving him.

“What are you doing here, Greg?”he asked the shadow in the mirror.

“That’s my line.”

Loren spun around to the stall inthe corner. Soriya Greystone stepped out,a smile on her face. “How?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied,checking the door. “This place isswarming with security. We don’t havemuch time. Come on.”

She pulled him away from the

mirror and into the hall. He stepped away,his voice low. The shadows of securitylittered the stairwell behind him.

“Soriya? Where?”

She pointed down the hall to thehumming sound. “The altar seems to beconnected to a lab below. I was headingthere when I heard you coming.”

“That must be where they preparethe bodies.”

Soriya nodded. “Sever theconnection and no more resurrections.

Or whatever they think this is.”

“Just like that?” he asked, unable tomove. Of all the things they had seen inthe last few years working together, doubtnever crept into her voice. She believed ineverything, had seen everything there wasto see in the city. Her city. She doubtedthis of all things.

He didn’t.

“Loren?”

He shook his head, stepping backfor the stairs. “Think about the good it

could do, Soriya.”

“It isn’t right, Loren. You knowthat. Now let’s—”

“No.” Loren pulled out hissidearm, taking aim at her.

“Loren, what are you doing?”

Security rushed down the stairs,following the sound of their argument.They hesitated behind the armeddetective.

“Stopping you,” Loren answered.He took another step back and the guards

took over, rushing the young womanfrom all sides.

“Loren,” she cried out. “Don’t dothis!”

Loren simply watched, tucking hisgun away. The guards were effective, theirnumber in the confined spaceoverwhelming the brutal attacks of theyoung woman. She managed to take outthe first two quickly, but by then thesecond pair were on top of her. Theyrestrained her, her flailing limbs subdued.Her eyes pleaded for an answer, some

explanation from him. For his betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Soriya,” he said. “I haveto do this. I have to save Beth.”

Chapter Twenty

“You did the right thing, Greg.”

Loren wasn’t as sure, slowlyclimbing the stairs. Security dragged asolemn Soriya Greystone behind him, hereyes begging for his help, before beingpulled away. Her wrists were bound andshe shuffled along with their proddinguntil they were out of sight.

Richard’s hand fell on Loren’sshoulder. “Greg?”

“I never thanked you, Richard.”Loren turned to his friend. “That waswrong of me.”

“You don’t—”

Loren shook his head. “You’re agood friend.”

Richard smiled. The pair turned forthe double glass doors and the entranceto the nave of the church. All eyes wereon them. “Are you ready?”

He had been ready since her death.Since he lost every connection with theworld. Beth kept him grounded but alsolifted him up, letting him soar higher andhigher. She made him better. He neededto feel that again. He needed to feel heragain. No matter the cost.

They walked up the center aisle.Each step brought them closer to thealtar. On both sides Loren was met withcongratulations from well-wishers. Smilesfrom complete strangers yet not strangersat all. Bound together through their

common experience. Their grief, theirloss, and their reborn hope.

Inching closer to the first pewbeneath the altar, Loren noticed thechange. The white sheet continued tocover the ancient stone in its center butnow a figure could be seen beneath it.The shape of a body.

“Is that—?”

“That’s her,” Richard said, proudly.

“Can I?”

“After the ceremony. You’ll have

eternity.”

Loren nodded, quietly ushered intothe pew. He thought of praying butcouldn’t find the words. He didn’t knowwho to ask in the first place. Was thisGod’s will or the will of the people? Hedidn’t know the first thing about whatwas happening, only that it was necessary.It was all that mattered to him—his girlback in his arms, forever.

“He’s wrong, Loren,” Soriyawhispered. She sat, restrained in the pewbehind them, fighting through the guards’

grip to get closer to her friend—the manhe was supposed to be, anyway.

“Why is she here?” Loren askedRichard.

“I asked them to bring her. To seefor herself the miracle. To be a witness.”

Loren shook his head. “I don’t—”

“We have nothing to hide,” Richardsaid with a sincere smile.

“You have everything to hide,”Soriya snapped. Audible gasps filteredthrough the crowd. “Loren, you have to

listen to me.”

“No,” he snapped, refusing to lookat her. “I have to do this. I have to saveher.”

“You are damning her,” Soriya said.“Not saving her. Look around you. Lookat the so-called saved.”

He kept his eyes on the altar, thefigure beneath the sheet. “I don’t—”

“Look at them, Loren. Really seethem.”

He did. In each of their faces he

saw their happiness, their joy. Being back,being with the ones who missed them somuch, truly content.

“They’re happy, Soriya.”

“They have to be,” Soriya yelled,pulled back by the guards. “Have youheard them say a bad word? Share anegative thought? Argue? They aren’twhole. No one comes back whole. Youwant to save Beth? What would she want?Have you even asked yourself that? Youhave to stop this, Loren. Please.”

He looked again. This was his

friend, the woman that had carried himalong for the last few years. She saved himat his lowest point and he returned thefavor by betraying her. But she waswrong. She had to be wrong.

Except he could see it. In their eyes,tinted black under the dark red shadowof the moon above. They were not thesame as the men, women, and childrenthat grieved for them. They were notconnected to them. Not the same.

“That’s enough,” Richard said,standing. “Get her out of here. We’re

starting, Greg. You’ll have your wife backsoon and everything will make senseagain. I promise.”

The guards pulled Soriya down thepew, her cries to Loren chilling him. Acloaked figure moved over the coveredform of Beth. The Founder, Richard hadcalled him. He was the man who built thisplace, who funded the machineshumming beneath their feet. Science andfaith as one.

Loren turned to Richard, the man’ssmile saddened by the words of Soriya.

He gripped the hand of his wife tighter,needing it more and more as a crutch.The past was unable to fade, to give roomfor a future. Jennifer said nothing in herdefense. She simply smiled beside herhusband, without a thought or a care asto the three years she spent buried. Deadand gone from the world.

“No,” Loren muttered.

“What?” Richard asked.

Loren stood, rushing for the centeraisle.

“Greg, what are you doing?”Richard called after him. The cloakedman on the altar paused, the machinesbuzzing louder and louder.

“Loren?” Soriya asked, the guardspulling her away. Loren’s sidearm was inhis hand. He said nothing, letting theweapon throw out his demand, to whichthe pair of guards acquiesced, fallingaway from the bound woman. He turnedSoriya around. His pocketknife slicedthrough the bindings.

“Loren, what are—?”

“Do what you have to,” Loren said.

Soriya nodded. The guards rushedthem, and Soriya knocked them back witha stiff roundhouse kick. She flew downthe aisle for the altar. Richard tried tostop her, eyes wide with panic, the samepanic that kept the crowd locked in theirseats, unsure and unable to act. Lorenshook his head at the attorney, gun raised.

“Greg? Why?”

“Because she’s right, Richard,”Loren said sadly. “This is wrong.”

“We can bring her back.”

Loren shook his head. “That’s notmy choice. I won’t be selfish like that. Nomatter how much I want to be.”

Soriya leaped up toward thecovered sheet, forcing the Founder backwith the swat of her hand. He fell backthen pounced at her, hands up in a rage.He bore a thick beard and dark eyes, theonly things visible within the darkness ofhis hood.

Soriya didn’t flinch; she wasfearless, just as Loren knew her to be. She

waited for his assault, dodging his blowthen swept her fist up, catching his chin.The force drove him back, his hood flyingoff and his head slamming into the imageof the dove. He slid down and did notstand again. Soriya moved for the bodycovered in the white sheet.

“Loren!” she yelled down to him.

Richard charged Loren, grabbing atthe detective’s shirt desperately. “Tell herto stop, Greg. We can make this right. Juststop her. Please.”

“I need you to say it, Loren,” Soriya

said, “I…I won’t do this if you tell me tostop.”

Richard’s grip on his collartightened. Loren heard the pleas of thosesurrounding them. The desperate,holding onto the grief of their losses.They were miserable, unable to live—likehim.

“Do it,” Loren said. “Please. Justdo it already.”

Soriya nodded. She stood back, thestone locked in her grip. Light beamedalong its surface, filling the great hall of

the church.

The humming of the machinessputtered and wheezed, sparks flying inall directions. Fire erupted from beneaththem; the building rocked as if from anexplosion. The hum of the machinesended, destroyed, but the fire continued,spreading further and faster all aroundthem.

The patrons of the Church of theSecond Coming raced for their lives,rushing down the aisles to the exit.Richard stayed behind, no longerpleading with Loren, his hands falling tohis sides, his eyes full of terror.

“No.”

Soriya lifted Beth’s covered bodyfrom the altar, before it was consumed byflames. The Founder shuffled down thepulpit, joining his flock in their panic.The dove rising from the earthdisappeared behind a wall of flames.

In that instant, with the altarenflamed, everything changed. Thereturned fumbled and faded. It hitJennifer first, the closest to the fire. Hersmile went crooked, her eyes closingbefore she collapsed to the ground.

“Jennifer!” Richard choked.

The others fell quickly, littering thechurch with bodies. More kindling toburn. Richard ran to grab his wife, pulledback by Loren. The detective forced himdown the aisle, kicking open the doors forthe others to flee from the growing cloud

of smoke. By the time they made it to thestreet, Loren realized Soriya was gone.

So was the Founder.

Richard collapsed in the center ofthe road, the cries of the grievingcongregation louder than theapproaching sirens. Loren crouchedbeside his friend, the man who hadattempted to save his life. His hand fellon his shoulder, tears joining the otherson his cheeks as the two men watchedtheir world burn.

“I’m sorry, Richard,” he said softly.

“I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Loren waited for the end to come.

Three days passed since the fall ofthe Church of the Second Coming. Threedays of arrests, interviews, and amountain of questions asked on bothsides of the table. The perpetratorsbecame the victims, their hope andhappiness lost in the fire that consumedthe church. Most had nothing to offer the

police; their thoughts were turned to theirlosses. Their grief, much like Loren’s,returned in full.

Most were released quickly. Theyplayed no part in the mass robberyscandal making its way through the majornews organizations. Stories of the deadreturning, of loved ones long sincepassed walking among the rest of the city,were squashed early even by the mostfervent followers. A secret kept betweenthem. Who would believe it anyway?

All record of the church was

buried deeper than the mechanism thatbrought their loved ones back to life. Themachine, their faith, whatever it mighthave been. Loren still didn’t know.

When all was said and done, theFounder, though still in the wind, was theone to take the fall. His name unknown,his stories denied even by the membersof his church in the aftermath of the fire,the Founder became the bogeyman thecity needed for the crime of stealingloved ones from their place of rest. Asketch showed a white man with a thick

black beard, and it littered the walls ofevery precinct in the city, displayed onevery newscast for days—all withoutresolution.

Out of all the congregation, Lorenremained concerned about only one intheir flock, but even Richard Crowneescaped unscathed—in the eyes of thelaw at least. Professionally, Richardquietly tendered his resignation from thedistrict attorney’s office. Loren went tovisit him at his home only to find a ForSale sign on the front lawn. Loren wanted

to search for him. To try and help himunderstand things even the tired detectivefailed to fully grasp.

Unfortunately, he had biggerconcerns.

Sitting patiently, hands foldedbetween his knees, Loren stared at thefloor. Black loafers shifted from right toleft, a slow pace around the confinedspace of the office. Ruiz’s office. Thecaptain called him in early for his shift,his first official one since the incident thatleft Robert Standish in the hospital with a

broken arm and a concussion. The glasson the door had been boarded up withcardboard and a roll of duct tape. Ruiz,his friend for so many years, looked athim with sadness in his gray eyes.

“I don’t have a choice,” he finallysaid, his hand resting on the letter on topof his desk. “Not after Standish, aftereverything. You’re to be suspendedimmediately.”

It felt like a hot poker slippedbetween Loren’s ribs at the sound of theword. Suspended. His work life had met his

home life in one unavoidable collision ofmistakes. It was his own fault—the pathhe had chosen months earlier. His anger,his malaise, and the errors in judgmentthat came with the pair.

Ruiz sat, hand to his brow, unableto glance at him directly. The same waythings started at the courthouse only aweek earlier. “A panel met to review yourconduct over the last few months. I’msure you’re not surprised to hear that. Ihad a few choice words over it but withwhat they came back with…let’s just say I

couldn’t say much. They’ve recommendedleave and therapy—something you’veneeded for a long time.”

Loren heard it in his friend’s voice:the disappointment, the never-ending pity.

“You agreed with them.”

“I did,” Ruiz said with a nod. Heleaned forward, hands drawn and open.“Of course I did, Greg. They wanted yougone. For good. No matter what InternalAffairs has found on Standish, which itturns out is quite a lot. Jacobs was hauledin trying to board a plane, more than

happy to flip on his so-called savior.Doesn’t matter here, though. This isabout you, Greg. You need help.Professional help.” He scoffed. “Not thatyou’ll take it.”

Loren stood and walked to thewindow. The sun slowly sunk behind theobsidian tower at the center of the city.Sunsets were few and far between lately. Itwas once always a priority, when Beth wasalive. They made it a point to watch pinkand purple hues dancing across the sky,which bound them together before he left

for work. Even after he lost her, he triedto catch it, thinking for an instant she waswith him, holding his hand, smiling atsharing the moment. There were so manythey never had the chance to share.

“I will,” he whispered.

“What?” Ruiz asked, surprised.

Loren turned to his friend,nodding. “It’s the right call, Ruiz.”

Of course it was. After everything?All the mistakes? After turning on Soriya,the one person who had stuck with him

through and through, all for his ownselfish needs? Part of him would have lether die rather than lose Beth all overagain. If not for her being there, forbeing his strength for so long, Lorenwould have been lost to the world yearsago. But after the anger and the distanceshown on the job and off? To all thosearound him, including Ruiz?

It was the right call.

Loren unclasped his holster andremoved his sidearm. His badge andweapon slid between his fingers. He

placed the items on Ruiz’s desk, pattingthem lightly before letting them go. “I’llbe back for these. When I’m ready.”

Ruiz stood, leaning hard on thedesk. “This isn’t what I wanted, Greg.”

“It’s what I deserve,” Loren replied.

The door to the office pulled open,the sound of the bureau quieting at thesight of him. Soft stares, quiet looks ofcontempt rushed over him. He turnedback to Ruiz, saddened.

“This and a lot more, Ruiz. A lot

more.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

They should have been celebrating.The church was destroyed. Everythingwas back in its place. It sounded to SoriyaGreystone like the perfect excuse for anight off and some fun. Instead, a chillbeyond the strong gusts of wind ranthrough her.

Atop the Rath Building, shewatched him depart. Sullen and broken,

Greg Loren cast a long shadow over thequad, longer than the great statue at itsheart. He walked slowly, head down andhands deep in his pockets, lost in thought.

She wanted to call out to him, topull him back from his grief, to comforthim. To do something.

A hand stopped her.

“Don’t.”

She didn’t turn to face Mentor; hereyes locked on her partner and friend.

“I have to,” she said quietly. “He

needs me.”

Mentor shook his head, his handunyielding. “You need him.”

Her eyes fell away. The shadow ofLoren faded from her view as heapproached Heaven’s Gate Park beforedisappearing beyond its borders. She bentlow, picking at the stray stones litteringthe roof ’s ledge.

“He lost everything, Mentor,”Soriya said, clutching a small pebblebetween her fingers. She flicked it away,watching the stone tumble to the street

below, the sound of its end muted againstthe rush of humanity. “When someonefinally gave him some hope, a future tohold, I pulled it away. I took it from him.”

Mentor sat beside her at the edgeof the roof, staring out at the city beforethem. “It was the right thing to do—theonly thing to do. And it was his choice.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

Mentor smiled, taking her hand inhis own. “In time.”

The shadow was gone now, Loren

lost to the night. Soriya wondered if shewould ever see him again. Would theyever share a joke or break a case togetheragain?

She wished she could hold onto theway things were for just a little longer.

“And Loren?”

Mentor said nothing to this, lettingout a soft sigh before standing. He helpedher up, the strain visible on his aging face.He didn’t need to answer.

It was the same.

Time. All they needed was time.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Greg Loren set his badge next tohis gun and closed the center drawer ofthe desk. His fingers stayed on the knob,lingering in thought and motion, untilthey fell away. The chair slid back intoplace, blocking the drawer.

It was time to leave.

The decision took months—

months of intense therapy, group and oneon one sessions with a number ofprofessionals. Ruiz was right. He neededto talk things out, reevaluate, grow. Itcentered him, refocused his world, or thelack thereof. To a point.

One more step remained, however.Even after being cleared to return towork, despite Mathers’ objections and theloss of all respect from his fellow officers,something remained out of place. Heearned back the gun and badge, Ruizhappily turning them over as well as his

old office. A gift from his captain and hisfriend. The familiar routine ofeverything, falling back into place.

Except it was different.

Loren was different.

Or needed to be, anyway. Afterfalling so hard, after making an almostfatal mistake at the Church of the SecondComing, Loren knew that change wasnecessary. Coming back was not theanswer. Staying hadn’t been the answerfor almost four years.

It was time to leave.

Ruiz took the news poorly. Wordswere spoken in anger, mostly out of arenewed concern for the other. Both sidestried to persuade their counterpart andboth failed. But the decision remainedLoren’s alone.

Chicago waited for him. A job,though similar to his current standing inthe department, brought a change ofscenery and with it a chance at somethingnew. New friends. New relationships. Andhis family as well.

A chance to start over.

Loren dropped the last of his filesin a single box on the desk. The boxconsisted of almost a decade of his life.A lone file remained loose. He took it inhis hands, thumbing through the thickdossier carefully. His wife’s file.

Four years had passed withoutresolution. He agonized over the detailsevery day. The case became his life andnow it sat in his hands, the anchor aroundhis ankle pulling him back into the deep.Loren set the file down and closed the

box. He patted the cardboard lightly,running his hand along the edges. Thenhe turned and headed for the door.

He didn’t need it. The box wasPortents, through and through. Hismistakes and his regrets, the guilt over hiswife. The pain he dulled with work, withSoriya Greystone and the world sheintroduced to him, and more. A lot morethat he exorcised with therapy over thelast six months. There was no need torevisit it.

Not for his new start, not in

Chicago.

His hand reached for the door, buthe was unable to turn the handle. He bithis lower lip, wishing for a piece of gumto distract him. He looked to the box onthe desk and started back. Opening theflap, he removed the single file on top, hiswife’s name and a case number adorningthe tab. He tucked it under his arm andheaded to the door, the handle turningeasily in his hand.

On the desk, the lid of the boxremained open. As it always would for

Greg Loren.

About the Author

Lou Paduano isthe author ofthe Greystoneseries of novelsincluding Signsof Portents andTales from

Portents. He livesin Buffalo, NewYork with hiswife and twodaughters. Signup for his e-maillist for freecontent as wellas updates onfuture releases atwww.loupaduano.com.

ENJOYED THEBOOK?

WOULD YOU LIKEANOTHER FREE

TALE?

Of course youwould!

Enjoy a second

sneak peek at theupcomingcollection,Tales fromPortents!

GET YOUR

FREEBOOKNOW!

BE SURE TO LEAVEA REVIEW!

Reviews helpothers find theirnext favoritenovel. Pleasetake a fewminutes toreview this bookso that othersmight feelinclined to take alook. It is greatlyappreciated. You can leave a

review at thefollowinglocations:

And be sure toshareResurrectionistson social media:

AVAILABLE NOW

https://www.amazon.com/Signs-Portents-Greystone-Lou-Paduano/dp/1944965009

Portents is a citylike no other—and one thatDetective GregLoren can’t waitto escape. Sincehis wife’s deathyears earlier,Loren haslooked forwardto the momenthe can leave thecity of Portentsfor good—andnever look back. But fate has

another plan forLoren. Calledback to duty,Loren findshimselfembroiled in aseries ofmurders that hasshaken the city.Together withSoriyaGreystone, ayoung womanwith unearthlypowers, Lorenmust workquickly to findthe otherworldlybeing that is

killing citizensof Portents oneat a time. Lorenis tasked withdeciphering themysterious signsleft at each ofthe crimescenes…even ifit meanstraveling toworlds not hisown to do so.

COMINGFEBRUARY 2017

Six tales ofmonsters, the deadrising, and theterrors of Portents. The beastsDetective Lorenand SoriyaGreystonebattled in Signsof Portents werejust a hint ofwhat lurks in thecity. Tales fromPortents exploresthe city’simmersive

history,including storiesof Loren’sdescent after hiswife’s death—and hisopportunity tohave her risefrom the grave.Among thepages, Soriyabattles gremlins,navigates lessonswith Mentor,and meets thewerewolfLuchik. Follownew characterswith expansive

histories as theycome face toface with thehorrors ofPortents—bothhuman andotherwise. From theGreystoneCollection, Talesfrom Portentsnavigates thecases that makeeven DetectiveLoren lie awakeat night.

COMINGSEPTEMBER 2017

Death has come toPortents. Three monthsafter the Nightof the Lights thecity has changed.Detective GregLoren strugglesto find his placein the world,while hispartner, Soriyafinds herconfidenceshattered in aninstant.

Something iswrong with theGreystone. There isn't timeto worry aboutit, however. Anew menacestalks the streets,slaughteringinnocentsmercilessly. Whois controlling it?Who has foundaccess to themysteriousMedusa Coin?And what does

it mean for thecity? Faced with aninsurmountablechallenge willLoren andSoriya be able toovercome thisnew threat orwill they fallwith the rest ofPortents?