“Not really,” Terry said. “It’s late October. It gets dark early. The days are growing shorter.”
Nodding, Ken zipped up his jacket and shivered.
Not only are they getting darker and shorter, he thought. They’re getting colder, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evening rush-hour traffic was in full swing, moving at a crawl along Route 30, through the heart of York County. Construction signs substituted as mile markers. One of Maria’s first impressions upon moving from New Jersey was that orange traffic cones seemed to be Pennsylvania’s state plant and road workers were the state animal. They were everywhere. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she crept by fast-food restaurants, run-down shopping malls, abandoned industrial complexes, shuttered factories, and dilapidated ware houses. Like the traffic cones, all were part of the natural landscape of this stretch of highway.
She watched, shaking her head in dismay as other drivers talked on their cell phones, applied lipstick and mascara, and in one particularly disturbing case, read a comic book—all while driving. Cursing, Maria gave the finger to no less than five different drivers, for offenses ranging from tailgating to cutting in front of her.
Despite the annoyance, she was actually glad that traffic was moving so slowly. Her head felt foggy from the lack of sleep, and her eyes were red and gummy. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep behind the wheel at sixty-five miles per hour. If it happened at the current pace, she could just gently bump into the car ahead of her.
Exhausted as she was, Maria was worried that if she went to bed, she might sleep through her alarm clock’s annoyingly shrill wail and miss everything. She still had her doubts that Levi could actually get them face-to-face with Adam Senft, despite everything she’d seen. But if there was a chance, then she wanted to be there. So when she arrived back at her apartment, instead of going to sleep, she made a fresh pot of coffee. While it was brewing, she stripped out of her clothes and took another shower. The combination of caffeine, hot water, and scented body wash stimulated her senses, waking her up. Wrapping herself in two oversized, fluffy towels—one for her body and another for her hair—she decided to log online and check her e-mail.
When she’d left that morning, Maria was certain that she’d hit a dead end as far as tracking down Ramirez, the police detective who’d been involved with the first Adam Senft– connected homicide, as well as the murders of several of Senft’s next door neighbors, one of whom had been found inside Senft’s home. To her surprise, a new lead on his whereabouts was waiting in her e-mail inbox. Maria subscribed to several different online services that were frequented by journalists and private investigators. For a nominal fee, they would track people when other avenues failed. While she’d been at the psychiatric hospital, they’d found something for her—a new landline phone number supposedly connected to Ramirez, with a Fort Myers, Florida, area code.
Maria checked the clock in the lower right-hand corner of her computer monitor. It was just after six. If Ramirez worked a day job, he should be home by now—if, indeed, this was his home number. Crossing her fingers, Maria snatched her cell phone off the coffee table and dialed. A man picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi. My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from—”
“I’m not interested. Take my name and number off your list.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up.”
“I said, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not a telemarketer,” Maria explained.
“You’re a bill collector, then. And I’ll tell you what I’ve told all the others. No, I can’t send you any money because I’m fucking broke. I can’t pay what I don’t have.”
Maria took a deep breath, trying to keep her tone patient and friendly.
“Sir, I’m not a telemarketer or a debt collector. If you’ll just let me speak?”
“Well, then who the hell are you? The only people that ever call me are bill collectors and salesmen. Or wrong numbers.”
“My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from York, Pennsylvania. I’m looking for Detective Hector Ramirez.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you Detective Ramirez?”
“Not anymore. Nobody’s called me ‘Detective’ in a long time. What do you want, Miss Nasr?”
“Well, I’m writing a book about powwow magic and the murders associated with LeHorn’s Hollow. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions regarding Adam Senft, the mystery writer.”
“Don’t you ever call here again.”
Maria was so stunned by his vehement reaction that it took her a moment to realize Ramirez was no longer on the line. She glanced at the phone, trying to figure out if the call had been dropped or if he’d disconnected. She guessed the latter.
“Goddamn it.”
Maria redialed. This time, Ramirez picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Ramirez, I think we might have gotten disconnected. I just—”
“Hell, yes, we got disconnected. That’s because I disconnected the call! I mean it, lady. Don’t call here again.”
“Wait!” Maria shouted before he could hang up again. “Listen, I just want to interview you, sir. I respect your privacy. I’m not out to disparage you over how the case was handled or anything. I’m just curious as to what you believe really happened.”
“You want to know what I believe?” Ramirez laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe that there are things in this world that don’t make a lick of fucking sense. Things that should not be—that we’re not supposed to know about. I saw it once during that bank robbery in Hanover, and—”
“Bank robbery?”
“Shut up! It’s got nothing to do with your book or the hollow. But it’s got everything to do with what I’m saying. I saw it then and I put it behind me. But it fucked with my beliefs—in God and in mankind and in what was real and what wasn’t. And then Shannon and Paul Legerski went missing and I canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing potential witnesses and I met Adam Senft. If it hadn’t been for that…”
Maria stayed quiet, jotting notes while the man rambled. She hoped he’d begin making sense. His cadence was short and clipped. Forceful. It was obvious that this had been festering inside him for quite some time. She got the sense that he wasn’t even talking to her anymore.
“That night—the night of the fire. I’ll never fucking forget it. How could I? When Senft and his buddies came marching across the field, armed to the teeth with shotguns and spell books, like some blue-collar Van Helsing. Even his dog was in on it. And I helped them. What was I supposed to do? People were dead. Their wives were missing. So I went out there into the woods. Me and Uylik. We went with them. And I was responsible…for that officer’s death. The trees…”
His words turned into unintelligible sobs.
Maria stammered, unsure of how to proceed.
“Um…Mr. Ramirez? Hector? I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
“The trees were alive! Don’t you understand? They fucking moved around. They killed Uylik. And Senft’s friend—Swanson. A lot of people died that night. All because of Senft and his goddamned Goat Man.”
“But, sir, your own investigation concluded that Adam Senft wasn’t involved. The State Police and the district attorney agreed with your determination. Those murders were committed by the LeHorn’s Hollow witch cult, of which Paul and Shannon Legerski were members.”
“There was no cult. It was a fucking monster! Half man, half goat. And I’m not talking about those murders, anyway. I’m talking about belief. What was I supposed to do after I saw all of that? Magic spells and devils and men ripped apart like soft marshmallows. I damn sure wasn’t raised to believe in that. So how was I supposed to react? How could I do my fucking job when I knew what was really out there? You asked me about my beliefs? I had them confirmed and then shattered that night. At the same time. Senft, too. Isn’t any wonder he killed his wife. He saw her there, around the fire in the woods, rutting in the dirt with that…thing.”