How many citizens knew its darkest secrets? How many had stood at the little St. John girl's funeral knowing her blood had been spilled to keep those evil women alive?

And what was the tradeoff? What did Barrows Bay receive for turning a blind eye to this madness? Why did they revere Ruby Savage as their tin pot savior? What were these creatures of the stones, these demons wearing human skin—the Chadrach?

Why was Ruby sent away to Saints of Mercy? And why did someone set his house on fire after she was gone?

He needed to know. It was no longer about his book. This was life and death.

County Road 8 became King Street as they reached the bungalows on the edge of town. The families within ate and conversed and watched television as Sheila and Martin passed by unnoticed.

"It's so quiet," she said.

No cars passed as they walked. No dogs barked. No honking horns or raised voices from afar. At the first intersection it was quiet enough to hear the red four-way traffic lights flick on and off.

"Creepy," he said. "That's what it is."

She agreed with a cautious nod.

They passed darkened storefronts, most closed as early as six in the evening. Martin's shrine still stood in the bookstore window, though a FOR LEASE sign hung in front of his poster-board face. He glanced over the titles, books spanning his entire career. It all felt so distant and unimportant now. Like someone else's life.

At the center of downtown, boisterous laughter and muted rock music drifted out from the Legion Hall.

A man in cowboy garb stood on the steps, smoking a joint. Martin recognized him from the night Ruby St. John died. The cowboy looked up and scowled when he saw them. He tossed the roach on the sidewalk and ground it into the concrete with the heel of a snakeskin boot. AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" thundered into the otherwise silent street as the man returned to the darkened bar.

"I guess the Rhinestoned Cowboy wasn't happy to see us," Martin said.

"Isn't it rhinestone?"

"It was a joke. Because of the weed."

"Ah," she said, not feeling much like laughing.

The little white Catholic church shone against the darkened sky up ahead, illuminated by two spotlights in the hedges on either side of the doors. It stood just off the main street, just before the road sloped up toward Sinjin's grocery store.

"Looks like the church might be the only other place open in the whole damn town," he said.

"Might be a good spot to lay low," Sheila suggested. "Aren't they obligated to provide sanctuary?"

"It's worth asking."

They continued toward it. The traffic lights overhead buzzed from green to red. Somewhere in the night, raccoons squealed, fighting over a tasty morsel of trash. What sounded like a garbage can lid hit the concrete and spun until it fell.

Sheila drew back the squeaky, weathered-brass door knocker and struck it against the plate three times. It echoed within the small church.