Title Page

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Dedication

TO PHILIP EISNER

A great friend and writer,

fellow traveler through the darkness …

… and the light

Preface

The document you are reading does not—cannot—exist. If you’re reading this, your life is at risk. Or I should say, your life is at even greater risk than it was already. I’m sorry to burden you with this. I don’t wish you the kind of harm that came to me and the others from Creek’s Cause. This is what I’ve managed to piece together since it all began. I wrote it down knowing that words are more powerful than bullets—and certainly more dangerous. All is probably lost already.

But maybe, just maybe, these pages will give you a chance.

I hope you’re up to it.

Epigraph

The day after the day after tomorrow, in a state nestled among others …

Entry 1

ENTRY 1

It was past midnight. I was still working in the barn when I heard the rolling door lurch open. I started and lost my grip on a block of hay. It tumbled off the baling hooks.

It was creepy out here with the wind whipping across the roof, fluttering loose shingles. Bits of hay strobed through the shafts of light from the dangling overheads, and the old beams groaned beneath the load of the loft. I was plenty tough, sure, but I was also a high-school sophomore and still got spooked more often than I’d want to admit.

I turned to the door, my fists clenched around the wooden handles of the baling hooks. Each hook is a wicked metal curve that protrudes about a foot from between the knuckles of my hand. The barn door, now open, looked out onto darkness. The wind lashed in, cutting through my jeans and flannel shirt, carrying a reek that overpowered the scent of hay. It smelled as if someone were cooking rotten flesh.

I clutched those baling hooks like a second-rate Wolverine, cleared my throat, and stepped toward the door, doing my best to deepen my voice. “Who’s there?”

Patrick swung into sight, his pump-action shotgun pointed at the floor. “Chance,” he said, “thank God you’re okay.”