While the first boy worked, the other two laughed anxiously as they put their backs against another headstone.

Unseen by the trio of youths, Remo's face grew cold.

Increasingly this kind of desecration was becoming common. In years gone by it would have been big news if a cemetery was vandalized. Certainly statewide. Maybe even nationally. Now it barely rated a blurb on the local news.

Remo decided that it was high time someone spoke up for all the voiceless dead out there.

His expression more fixed than any name carved in granite, Remo slipped through the shadows toward the boys.

"Hurry up," one of the youths urged, laughing. He already had his shoulder braced against the next stone in line. His companion quickly joined him. As before, the two boys pushed in unison.

Although they put all their weight against it, this time something was different. This time when they shoved, the headstone seemed to shove back.

With a pair of startled grunts, the two boys toppled over onto their backs. The wind rushed from their lungs.

"What're you doing?" the kid with the spray can asked when he saw the others rolling on the ground. Not terribly imaginative, he was painting yet another swastika.

"Something pushed us," one of the others said, getting to his knees. There was a slight quaver in his voice.

With a frown the first boy stopped spraying. He looked to the headstone the others had been working on.

It was just an ordinary hunk of rock. All around was nothing but shadows and wind and swaying pines. They were the only living things at Wildwood Cemetery.

"Don't pussy out," the first youth growled at the others. He returned to his spraying.

The two kneeling boys glanced at each another. "You must've pushed me," one accused.

"What the hell do you mean?" challenged the other, his nerve returning. "You pushed me."