“Fine.” Alex stepped away from the La-Z-Boy and stood in front of the television. When the picture abruptly came back to life, his shadow was not visible on the walls. “I’ll be with you if I can. If they let me.”

Chris watched his brother and Johnny Carson at the same time, for his view was unhindered. He simply looked through Alex’s torso, which was becoming more and more transparent as he watched. “Alex,” he whispered, “what’s it like to be dead?”

Alex “laughed.” “You always ask me that, Hoss.”

“Yeah. And you never answer.”

Alex stopped laughing and faded from view.

Part I: The Hunt

Part I: THE HUNT

1

Chapter One

It was midautumn in Indiana, and the countryside showed it. The trees clung to their garments of red and gold and copper and refused to let even one leaf flutter away without a fight. Still, some leaves did fall when the wind picked up, only to be blown across fields and pastures and swept into backyard drifts for children to dive into. The air was crisp and clean and carried the scent of woodsmoke. It was chilly out, but not too bad for late October—what the locals called sweatshirt weather, the perfect time for a pickup game at the church field or a ritual get-together, with steaks and dogs sacrificed on the patio gas grill.

But, strangely, few people took advantage of the day—few even paused to acknowledge those attributes. A pall of sorts had settled over them and the rest of the Midwest, and with its approach the fall no longer seemed so bright or beautiful. Now, all the people could see were the shapes of things to come, the naked trees and gray, shaded skies, the stark shadows, the white isolation of winter. “Enjoy this while you can,” was the downcast phrase of the day. “It won’t last long. You can feel it.”

Of course, this creeping melancholy was not new to the region. It returned each year at about this time, and most people took the dismal nature of the season in stride or dismissed it entirely. But this year it seemed somehow different—more imminent, more . . . threatening? Perhaps, this year, there was something in the air after all.

A long-bed Dodge van wheezed along Highway 50, headed east. It was an older model, ’76, and showed its age; it wore each ding and dent and scratch like a battle scar, and its fenders were losing the war to an angry creep of rust. The engine ran rough and would probably need a tune-up soon, if there was enough money. The driver’s window was down, letting cool air spill in and music back out. The cassette was a worn copy of John Prine’s best, turned up nearly all the way to drown out the whine of tire rubber on pavement.