It was at times like this that he wished he’d chosen another line of work, one that didn’t involve battling the absolute scum of the earth. He’d have made a good carpenter, for instance. He was halfway decent at training horses, though he lacked Cord’s almost supernatural talent. Hell, at the moment, he would have gladly flipped burgers or tended bar.

Trouble with that reasoning was, somebody had to stand in the breach and block the flow of darkness as best they could. As controversial as being an officer of the peace was in this notch of history, as ineffectual as Eli and many other cops felt sometimes, what would the world be like without good cops—and the vast majority of them were good—always ready and willing to fight the common and uncommon evils that would otherwise creep over the whole human race like black mold.

The objective, Eli knew, was overwhelming. Even impossible: a fool’s quest. Don Quixote in an SUV with a badge painted on the side.

And yet, like that crazy knight of old, Eli had to keep tilting at windmills, if only because occasionally—just occasionally—his lance happened to strike down a monster instead.

Whether he liked it or not, that was his calling.

He had no choice but to live it.

“Some of the reports are back from the lab in Kalispell,” Eli said, rallying himself from the mental mire he’d stumbled into, reading Freddie’s ravings and considering the futility of confronting yet more evil.

“Fill me in,” Dan said.

“The gun—the one we found in the barn, on that cot—was definitely used to kill Ms. Ulbridge. Ballistics matched.”

“Okay,” Dan replied. “What about prints?”

“No prints. Freddie must have wiped the thing down.”

“Any gunpowder residue on his hands or clothes?”

Eli shook his head. “According to Sam Wu, over at Alec’s office, before he hanged himself, Freddie took a shower. Dressed himself in clean clothes.”

“Fairly typical for suicides,” Dan affirmed.

“Yeah,” Eli said thoughtfully. “But something about this bothers me, Dan,” he confided. “It’s almost too clear-cut. Last week, when I went to tell Fred, Sr., and Gretchen that their boy was dead, I had this odd sense that I was missing something. And I’m not over that.”

“You going to Freddie’s funeral?”

“Yes,” Eli replied. “But not as a mourner. The Lansings would probably lose it if I showed up for the ceremony, so I’ll be watching from the director’s office, via the security cameras.”

“Any chance I could join you? A second pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

“I would be grateful if you did,” Eli answered.

Dan raised his bulky, muscular self to his feet. “I’ll be there,” he said.