“Shit! What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

“What’s the problem, Ben?” I asked back over my shoulder as we began ascending the next flight of stairs.

“Well, I know ya’ know Arthur McCann with the county police,” he offered.

There wasn’t a Pagan in St. Louis who didn’t know McCann. He was a devout Christian with a badge who claimed to be an expert on occult religions, and he used his position within the police department to preach his own brand of intolerance and hatred. I’d had more than one run-in with him myself.

“Yeah, sure,” I answered.

“Well, stick him in a skirt and give him a little authority and you’ve got Barbara Albright.”

A loud burst of static sounded ahead of us, overcoming the background chatter that had been issuing from the officer’s radio. The tinny hiss was followed by a questioning voice, “Unit Fourteen?”

The officer thumbed his microphone and answered, “Fourteen.”

“Fourteen, Lieutenant Albright wants to know if Detective Storm has arrived on scene yet. Over.”

“That’s affirmative,” he returned. “I’m bringing them up right now. Over.”

“Fourteen, be advised that Lieutenant Albright is requesting that Detective Storm come up alone. Copy.”

“Say again?”

“Fourteen, switch up.”

The officer reached to his belt and twisted a control knob on his radio, changing to a clear frequency, then spoke again. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Yeah, Shelton, she doesn’t want any civilians up here,” the voice answered.

“Tell him they’re consultants,” Ben instructed. “They’re logged and cleared for the scene.”

“Yeah, Detective Storm says they are consultants, and they’re cleared,” the officer relayed into his microphone.

A short burst of static followed then was replaced by silence. We had halted midway up the second set of stairs when the original call came over the radio, and we now waited in the cold darkness a half dozen steps below the second floor.