Virgil nodded. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“The police are covering it up, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But this wouldn’t be the first crime they’ve covered up.”

Ronnie frowned. “What else are they covering up, Virgil?”

“We can’t talk here,” the old man said. “Too many eyes, too many ears. Come back to my house. I’ll make tea.”

They followed Virgil’s car to a quiet street on the edge of town with a big garage and a neatly kept garden out front. It was a short trip, made longer by how slowly Virgil drove.

“I love old people,” said Kelly.

“You’re weird,” said Warrick.

“They remind me of how my grandparents used to be. All wrinkly and decrepit.”

“Charming,” said Linda.

They got out of the van, joined Javier at the front door as Virgil let them all inside. Two went straight through to the living room, jumped up on the couch and went to sleep. The living room was normal. The rest of the house was not.

Posters of old movies lined the walls, props and costumes were displayed in glass cases, and old screenplays were packed on to every bookshelf.

“I knew I recognised you!” Warrick cried. “You’re Virgil Abernathy! I used to watch your reruns all the time! I am such a huge fan! I wrote you a letter once and you sent me back an autographed picture! Warrick Wyman! You remember me?”

“I, uh, I think so,” said Virgil. “Maybe, yes. Warrick, good to finally meet you.” He smiled to the others. “Oh, I had a show, back in the seventies.”

“Not just any show,” said Warrick, “you had the best show. When Strikes the Shroud was the king of shows. This was even before The Night Stalker, wasn’t it?”

Virgil nodded, allowing a little pride to creep into his voice. “We started a year before Kolchak and ended the year after. In our final season, we were moved to the Friday night slot and that was a death sentence, so when we were cancelled nobody gave a damn. But there was a time when the show was pretty hot stuff. Come on into the kitchen.”

He led them in, and put a kettle on the stove.

“What the hell are you doing here, man?” Warrick asked.

“My daughter lives a few towns over,” Virgil said, taking down a half-dozen mugs. “Came here to be closer to her and her kids.”

Javier cleared his throat. “I, uh, I was on the show, too.”

Warrick slapped his own forehead. “Oh my God! Javier Santorum! Dude, you were, like, the best villain ever!”

“Well,” said Javier, chuckling, “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I was a pretty good bad guy.”

“You had such a great voice,” said Warrick. “What was that thing you always said? ‘Fear is a choice no one makes, but—’”