There was a strange half-light in the barn. Dust motes filled the narrow spears of light coming through the upper windows, only shards of glass sticking up in some of the frames. He lay there quietly a moment, his eyes adjusting. He saw bales of hay so old they looked petrified, stacked haphazardly, rusted machinery-mainly odd parts-and two ancient wooden troughs.

Then he noticed it. In the far corner was another door not more than twenty feet to the right of the front double barn doors. A tack room, he thought, and it hadn’t been shown on the drawing. Then he made out the outline of the Honda, tucked in the shadows at the far end of the barn. The two brothers were in the tack room, no doubt about it. And Donny and Rob Arthur? Please, God, let them still be alive.

He had to know exactly who was where before he called in the other agents. It was still, very still. He got to his feet and ran hunched over toward the tack room door, his gun fanning continuously, his breathing low and steady, his steps silent. He pressed his ear against the rotted wooden door of the tack room.

He heard a male voice, clear and strong, and angry, suddenly louder.

“Listen, you Little Bloods, it’s time for you to get in the middle of the circle. The Ghouls want you; they told me to hurry it up. They want to carve you up with their axes and knives-they really like to do that-but this time they want to tuck you away in their carryalls and fly away with you. Hey, maybe you’ll end up in Tahiti. Who knows? They haven’t wanted to do this before. But it doesn’t make any difference to us. Here come the Ghouls!” And he laughed, a young man’s laugh, not all that deep, and it sounded quite happily mad. It made Savich’s blood run icy.

Then another man’s voice, this one deeper. “Yep, almost ready for the Ghouls. We don’t want to disappoint them now, do we? Move it, Little Bloods.”