PSU pays respects to professor;

police pursuing leads in death

J. McDonnell

Editor

More than forty students and professors paid their last respects to biology professor Dr. Harold Francis Saturday afternoon at a memorial led by Dean of Sciences Dr. Gerald Burk. Meanwhile, investigators continue their probe into the mysterious death.

Burk's eulogy highlighted Francis' work both in and out of the classroom. "His work and enthusiasm live on in those who he has taught, those whose turn it is to do great things with ideas that came from a great mind," Burk said.

The third floor of the campus library remains closed as forensics experts comb the crime scene officials call "puzzling." Head librarian Heather Herrera confirmed rumors that the door to the attic, where Francis' body was found, was locked when the library closed Nov. 4 and also locked the following afternoon when a student noticed a blood stain on the third-floor ceiling, leading to the body's discovery. Herrera also said all keys are accounted for. Mesquite Ridge police confirmed that none of the library's key holders are suspects and that investigators still have found no sign of forced entry.

Investigators have determined that the murder took place inside the attic, but the question of how Francis or his killer gained entry to the attic is as baffling as any other surrounding the crime, according to police spokeswoman Nancy Long.

Both city and university police remain convinced that Francis' death is an isolated incident, but Vice President of Student Affairs Jimmy Sloane said that the additional security Parker State hired last week will remain on campus at least until the end of the month, and likely until the end of the semester.

Investigators searched for clues in both Francis' office and his home. According to Long, police gained little insight into the killings. She had no comment regarding rumors that coded notes were found in Francis' office and subsequently lost, nor the rumors that strange specimens were found at Francis' home and claimed by personnel from Fort Bauser. Representatives from Fort Bauser did not return calls for comment as of press time.

"Good evening," came a voice from the doorway of Mac's office. The editor looked up to see an attractive and well-dressed middle-aged black woman. "I'm Donnette Daniels from The Scoop."

Mac saved the article she was typing and turned off the computer screen. What the hell was The Pooper Scooper doing in her office?

"Mac McDonnell. Editor. What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if you all had heard anything regarding an incident reported in Saturday's Tribune. The one where a man saw a strange creature in his delivery truck."

Mac very visibly stifled a laugh. "Given that we just had a professor murdered on campus last week, I'm afraid we've got more serious issues to cover here. As it is, it's actually outside my publication's scope because I really don't see what some off-campus post-Halloween prank has to do with this school."

"Perhaps the fact that your student union was the last stop the driver made before he discovered the creature?"

"So, what? You think maybe the monster's another starving college student who has to hitch a ride to get downtown?"

"I heard about the professor's death. It's reported he was ripped to pieces. What do you think could have done that to him?"

"Something very physically ... real. I don't know anything about any strange creatures. Now if you don't mind, ma'am, I've got a paper to publish."

Donnette nodded. "I'll leave you my card." She did, and then she left.

"What was that?" Nick asked softly. "Does she know we saw something?"

Mac dropped her tough act expression. "I don't know. I think she was trying to scare information out of us. But now I'm as spooked as that poor Morgan kid."

* * *

Morgan, in the kitchen at home, was feeling a little safer than she had a week ago. She was paying the grad student to tutor her -- though Morgan was a good student herself, the scholarships she depended on to keep her in school required near-perfect grades -- but at last it seemed she had found someone to confide in, someone who didn't treat her like a freak.

"I'm really glad you came to the funeral," Rebecca Jones said, stirring her hot cocoa, her honey-blonde hair brushing along her shoulders as she looked over notes. "It really helped me to have you there."

Morgan smiled just a tiny bit as she poked the marshmallows down into her drink. Hot cocoa seemed especially good on a stormy night. "I want to tell you a secret. I've kept it in and it's been eating at me to get out."

"What's that?"

"I'm the one who found Dr. Francis."

"Are you serious?"

"It's odd. It was very ... surreal. Like something out of a movie. I didn't freak out like I would have expected to. But what did scare me is this: There were a bunch of books scattered around where he was laying. Not books that were supposed to be in the attic, books that were supposed to be in circulation. And they were the sort of things that I had read. And one of them had a slip of paper sticking out that was not there when I shelved the book the day before, and it had my name on it."

Rebecca's jaw dropped. "Oh, dear Lord! That's ... wow, that's really scary."

"The thing is, I don't know how that book got into the attic. Did Dr. Francis have it with him? If he did, why would he be writing anything about me? I wasn't even one of his students. I mean, he came into the library a lot and we'd talk, but I don't think he even knew my name. Did the killer bring it? You know, they haven't figured out even why anyone would want to kill Dr. Francis. Are they after me, too?"

"Did you tell the police?"

"At first I didn't, because I was panicking and I thought maybe some crazy way they'd decide I was involved somehow. I do have a key. But I didn't even really know the guy, and even if I weren't a little shrimp, I couldn't -- I couldn't have done that to a dead bug. When I did tell them, they told me they'd look into it, but they couldn't tell me anything because they said it would compromise the investigation."

"Oh, gosh, Morgan. That's horrible."

"And it just keeps getting weirder. All those books, which I had read, were all about the paranormal. 'Cause, y'know, I think it's kind of interesting. The one that had my name in it? Turns out it was written by Dr. Francis."

"No way!"

"Yep. He was a paranormal researcher before he became a college professor."

Rebecca shook her head. "Paranormal? Wow. I guess Dr. Burk was right about most of us not knowing him very well."

"So ... I've been pretty shaken up about that."

"No kidding. I'd be terrified." She sipped her cocoa. "If there's anything I can do for you, Morgan, just ask."

"Thanks. I've been pretty cautious. I asked not to be left alone in the library at night, and they okayed it. They think it's because I'm traumatized about what I saw. Which is kind of the truth." She stared into space for a while. Then suddenly she asked, "What do you believe in, Rebecca?"

The older girl hesitated. "That's a pretty broad question."

"It seems like everyone is so certain about what they believe. They're Baptist or they're Catholic and they've got it all laid out for them. Or it's science and everything falls into a genus and species or law of physics or a spot on the periodic table. It's like the world is made up of poets who write sonnets or haiku or limericks and while they can write about whatever they want, it all falls into a pattern, and it feels like I'm the only one stuck writing blank verse."

Rebecca sighed. "Well, it sounds like you and I aren't much different. It seems like just as I'm getting used to the world being one way, everything changes and I have to learn a new set of rules."

"Oh?" Morgan asked, her curiosity roused.

"Well, it's a long story. If we don't get to studying, you're not going to be ready for that botany quiz tomorrow."

* * *

Randy approached the small building slowly, taking a good gander at it. It had once been a tiny house. The many coats of white paint couldn't hide the decay. Shingles lay scattered around the pavement. It sure didn't look like a church, even with the big blue crosses painted along its walls like a child's crayon drawing. But there was the big, faded wooden sign with black letters: Church of the Last Watch. And underneath: Paul James, minister -- Meeting every night at 8 p.m. Well, it was that time, and there were lights on inside. Randy pushed the door open.

Most of the interior walls had been knocked out, giving the church a larger meeting space, but it still wasn't half the size of most churches Randy had seen. Before him, perhaps a dozen people sat in a circle of metal folding chairs around a standing, hard-faced man perhaps Randy's own age, maybe a little younger. All eyes fell to the newcomer as he entered the room.

"Good evening, brother," the preacher said. "I'm Brother James. You're just in time. Won't you take a seat and introduce yourself?"

Another from a seemingly endless stack of folding chairs was placed at the circle for him, and, thanking them, Randy sat. "Name's Jackson. I'm from Borger."

"Borger?"

"In the panhandle."

The preacher nodded. He looked like he wanted to ask another question, but didn't. Instead he said, "Glad to have you with us, Brother Jackson." He turned his attention to the whole of the small congregation. "Tonight, brothers and sisters, I want to talk about men who aspire to be God. There are scientists who tinker with the very particles of life as if they were toys. They seek power. They seek control. They creep forth like the serpent with their soothing words, proclaiming that they have made the world better through their monstrosities, only to let us discover too late that their craft has done irreversible damage.

"For longer than any of us might guess, these deceivers have changed our lives by tiny increments, so subtly that we have accepted these changes without question. This has been their design. They modify plants, why not let them modify animals? They modify animals, why not let them modify human beings? This, brothers and sisters, is their sinister meandering pathway.

"They want to clone what God has made unique and individual. They want to 'improve' what God has shaped by His own hand. Who is to say that genetic engineering is not the very mark of the beast?

"Thus be warned, brothers and sisters, be warned and resist in every way you can. We will shortly begin a letter-writing campaign to let grocers know that we want no part of these mongrel foods, particularly when the fruits of the earth are made sterile so as to hurt the family farmer, forcing him to buy every year seed that should be rightfully his from the crop before until he is forced out of business."

Randy listened thoughtfully to all of this. Though his father's interest had always been the study of strange creatures, his mother had come from a farming family, and Randy had grown up in an agricultural community. He wondered about the warnings he'd gotten against visiting this church. The preacher was pretty paranoid about the topic, of course -- that "mark of the beast" comment seemed to be going a bit far -- but there was also some truth in what he said. Even the news showed that genetic engineering was moving so quickly, it was hard for the ethics of it all to keep up, and farmers had enough troubles without operating at the mercy of greedy corporations.

"Now here's what the scientists and the government and even the news won't admit. Some of these gene splicers are designing creatures that have never been seen on the face of the earth before. Creatures with the intelligence of human beings, but with no soul. I personally am not certain they are able to spawn these monsters without the aid of dark forces. Either way, these are the demons of the twenty-first century, and we must be ever on our guard against them."

The preacher took a seat at the head of the circle.

"Brother James," a woman asked, "is this what the monster in the paper is? A genetically-engineered demon?"

"I would not be surprised. I was thinking about that biology professor who was torn apart in such a violent way. Perhaps he was himself a genetic exploiter, and his creation destroyed him."

"It would explain why the demon was never seen before," an older man added.

"Did you invite the witness to visit us?" the preacher asked.

"Nobody answered at his house," the older man answered. "But I left one of our flyers."

"Perhaps we ought to explain a bit to Brother Jackson. Are you familiar with the demon sighting that happened downtown last week?"

"That's why I'm here. Saw one of y'all's letters in The Tribune. I'm something of a monster hunter myself, figured I might be able to help y'all out."

Several among the small congregation exchanged looks, and Brother James's eyes lit up. "Well, we would certainly be most grateful. It is surely a dangerous beast running loose in our city. Welcome to the C.R.O.S.S. -- Christians Rising to Oppose Satan's Spawn."

* * *

Exhausted and soaked with rain, Acelyn sat crumpled in the alley grime, leaning against a cold brick wall and sobbing. So far, since her frightening meeting with the truck driver, she had managed to remain hidden from humans -- though a number of dogs had caused her close calls, and one had left her with injuries. By picking through trash, she had managed to scavenge enough to stay the grumblings of her stomach somewhat. It had been four days since she had left the safety of the science building, and she remained lost. Her hopes of saving the others from starvation grew dimmer with every futile night.

She looked up when she noticed a light had fallen over her. There was a shadow, too, the shape of a man, but with the light behind him his features were impossible to see.

"You will be sick if you stay out in the cold and rain. Why don't you come inside?"

Whoever he was, he did not seem in any way suprised or frightened to encounter a creature such as herself. Perhaps, she thought, just like in Frankenstein, the monster would be taken in by a blind man. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, keeping her wings clenched tightly to her back. "Thank you," she said quickly. She warily followed the man into a small brick building that stood only a few yards away. Simon's Pawn, the sign read.

She had seen pawn shops on television before, and the store looked much the way she might have expected it to. Musical instruments, jewelry, video games, small electronics, books, a few expensive-looking antiques. She turned toward the man and found he was old, maybe older than Father. His wiry black beard was sprinkled with white and his dark face was lined with dozens of creases, but his luminous, light brown eyes sparkled. He was not blind. He was dressed tidily in a black suit and a sensible tie. "My name is Simon Crowe," he said. "Who are you?"

"Acelyn Francis. Aren't you --"

"I presume you're lost? Where did you come from?"

"The university," she admitted, unable to think of another believeable answer.

He raised an eyebrow. "Strange place for a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?"

"That is what you are, correct? You're certainly no demon. Too timid. At any rate, you seem surprised that I'm not shocked at your appearance. I'm a wizard."

It took a moment for Acelyn to process this statement. The last reference to wizards she'd heard was in that movie Father had rented with the English children who were going to school to learn to ride on flying brooms and to mix magic potions. She laughed.

"You don't believe me?" Simon Crowe asked, unoffended and smiling.

At first, she could not stop giggling. It felt like it had been forever since the last time she had a reason to, and it felt good. "I do not believe in magic," she said at last.

"Strange thing for a gargoyle to say."

"I only look like a mythological creature. I was created through genetic engineering. There is no hocus pocus about me."

The man closed his eyes and turned his palms upward, level with the bottom of his rib cage. Gray-purple smoke seemed to rise from between his palms until it formed a sphere about the size of a quarter under his chin. From out of this sphere shot tiny sparks of light, and then the smoke stretched out into a slender cylinder. The top of the cylinder began to glow, then erupted in a small flame. The cylinder solidified into a lit white candle, which immediately became subject to gravity and dropped. Simon Crowe quickly caught it and handed it to Acelyn. "Still don't believe in magic?"

She studied the wax-dripping candle before her. "I admit I cannot explain what you've done, but I have seen similar illusions on television."

"Television! That is no camera trick or computer animation you're holding, young lady."

At once the candle grew very cold. The drops of wax hardened, and the flame turned blue. It stopped flickering, and in an instant had turned to ice. It was too cold for Acelyn to bear. She dropped the candle to the floor, where it shattered into crystalline shards.

"Ever seen David Copperfield do that?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed and speechless.

"Now, you mentioned genetic engineering in your creation. You've got me curious. Tell me about yourself."

Acelyn hesitated. Nobody in the outside world was ever supposed to know about her. She'd be captured, tested, dissected. Her father's work would either be destroyed or used for unethical purposes. That's what he'd always told her. That's what she'd always seen in sci-fi movies, which of course were fiction, but didn't art imitate life?

On the other hand, she had a realistic acceptance of her naivety when it came to everything beyond television and books. She could not live in the world alone, nor could the others back in the lab survive without her care. Furthermore, there were other dangers for those back in the lab -- sooner or later they were likely to be discovered if she could not monitor their concealment. The only hope for any of them was help, and so far this strange man seemed to be the only candidate.

"My fa-- the man who created me was a biologist and geneticist who was very interested in creatures of the imagination. He was doing advanced experiments in genetic engineering long before the rest of the world had ever heard of it, and his personal projects all resemble creatures that do not actually exist. Besides me, there are lizards with wings that look like tiny dragons, combinations of small primates and ocean-dwelling mammals that vaguely recall mermaids -- we call them hannivers -- and various other creatures. I am the only one of much intelligence, and I must find food for the others and protect their hiding place, or they will not last much longer."

"Where is your creator?"

"He is dead, according to the newspaper. I ventured out of the lab when he did not visit for several days, and when I read that he was dead, I knew I had to find food and take care of the others myself. But I am lost. I've been trying to find my way back to the university since Friday."

Recognition crossed the old man's face. "Dr. Francis? I've been reading about his murder. I'm very sorry."

Tears that Acelyn had been swallowing threatened to surface. "Thank you."

"You know," Simon Crowe said slowly, "I've been thinking about hiring an assistant to help me with the pawn shop. Do you think you would like to stay here? Keep the books and tidy up in exchange for room and board?"

The gargoyle perked up. "May I?"

"I expect the other creatures could stay, too."

She let out a long sigh, the weight of many fears flowing away in a rush. "Thank you, Mr. Crowe. I am very grateful."

* * *

Autopsy sheds little light on professor's death

The Mesquite Ridge Tribune

A toxicology test for Dr. Harold Francis, the Parker State University professor found dead on campus Nov. 5, shows several unknown substances in the professor's blood, according to Mesquite Ridge Police Department spokeswoman Nancy Long.

Francis' body was discovered in the attic of the PSU library in a state police described as "shredded." Doctors at St. Joseph's Hospital say it is not clear whether the extensive slashing was done before or after death. The autopsy report shows that the wounds are consistent with those that might be made by "a crude, homemade knife or large animal claws."

Police investigators say they still have no suspects or possible motives in the killing.

Initial reports suggested volumes of coded pages found in Francis' office may be notes regarding personal experiments. However, "the Mesquite Ridge Police know nothing about any coded papers related to Dr. Francis," Long said.

The animals alleged by a source to have been taken from Francis' home by Army officials also remain a mystery, as both police and Fort Bauser officials say they know nothing about any specimens.

It was early morning, and the rain had finally ended. The only damp came from the dew on the grass and on the last few wildflowers that clung to the Texas earth despite the autumn chill. Morgan wandered through the park, headed toward her secret place. The morning's paper, thankfully, did not mention the fact that the police had called her the night before. All they told her was that it appeared someone had begun to write her a message, but been interrupted. They would not say who they thought the message was from, or what it was about. This only frightened her more. She needed to escape.

Though there were trees scattered here and there through the park, there was one place far from the jogging path where they grew thicker. It was here that Morgan could be fairly certain she would remain undisturbed.

Pushing her thin body between the trees, she set her old, worn backpack down and took out the salt. She sprinkled the salt on the ground, moving in a clockwise circle. Coming back to the beginning, she marked the northernmost part of her circle with a fist-sized chunk of granite. "Spirits of the north, of earth and winter, hear me!" she said.

Walking to the east, she planted a stick of incense, lighting it with a cigarette lighter. "Spirits of the east, of air and spring, hear me!"

To the south, she placed and lit a candle. "Spirits of the south, of fire and summer, hear me!"

She placed a ceramic bowl on the westernmost point and filled it with bottled water. "Spirits of the west, of water and autumn, hear me!"

Morgan stepped back to the center of her circle. "Friendly spirits, I call on you. Great Mother, I call on you. I pray you protect me from these strange and unknown dangers. I pray that I may learn what message was meant for me. And I thank you that you have sent me a new friend." She pulled a quartz crystal necklace from her pocket. "This is a gift for my new friend, Rebecca. I ask that you will bless it to protect her as well." She held the sparkling crystal in the sunlight a moment while she coated it with a mixture of herbs and essential oils, then returned it to her pocket.

"I leave you this offering; please accept it and my thanks." Morgan placed on the ground before her a small paper plate with mushrooms and honey. A strange combination, but it was what her research had recommended.

"I thank you for hearing me. I keep you no longer." Walking counter-clockwise, she removed the water dish, the candle, the incense and the stone, at each point thanking the spirits for their time. With the toe of her shoe, she smudged the salt circle out of existence. The offering she left behind. Then she hurried out of the park, because it was nearly time for class.

* * *

Rebecca was in a hurry as well. She'd left her lesson plans in Dr. Stephens's office. She knocked. No answer. No problem, though -- she had a key. Flipping on the light, she surveyed the piles of papers on Dr. Stephens's desk. What a mess. Rebecca began pawing through the papers, hoping she'd find her plans before her botany class gave up on her and left.

What was this? Under Stephens's usual scattering of graded and ungraded papers was a stack of what looked like bound reports. They were meticulously neat, hand-written in a strange script. It looked familiar. She'd seen writing like that somewhere before. Where?

Then it clicked. Years ago, before she was born, her parents had gone on a missionary trip to India. Rebecca had seen the photos many times. That was where she had seen those letters -- on Indian signs. It was Sanskrit. She felt a twinge at the memory. She hadn't spoken to her parents in years. Not since they learned her secret.

"I trust you have a good explanation?" Dr. Anthony Stephens snapped from the doorway, startling her. He looked unusually agitated.

"I was trying to find my lesson plans," Rebecca answered, subdued. "I didn't know you knew Sanskrit."

Dr. Stephens scanned the desk, found the lesson plans and shoved them into Rebecca's hands. "You've got a botany class to teach this hour, if I'm not mistaken."

She scurried out of the office without further argument, nearly knocking over an elderly man in a blue suit in her hurry to class. She was somewhat relieved on entering the room to see that the class had not yet ditched her. The department did not look kindly on graduate assistants who gave undergrads the impression of unprofessionalism.

But throughout the lesson she found it difficult to concentrate. She could not get her mind off the papers in Sanskrit, or Dr. Stephens's uncharacteristic sharpness. He wasn't the warmest professor at the best of times, but he had never spoken to her in such a manner before.

"Dr. Stephens?" she asked, knocking on the open door even though the professor could clearly see her. "I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't trying to spy."

The professor looked up, the triangular part of his forehead not hidden by pale blond bangs and his little round glasses glinting. He smiled slightly, though as always looking like a crocodile as he did so. "Oh, don't worry about it, Rebecca. It's simply that I have some confidential information here, and while I trust you, I can't give the appearance that I'm leaving it around for just anyone to see."

"Oh," was all she said.

"Actually ... why don't you close the door and have a seat."

Once she had, Dr. Stephens handed her one of the bound Sanskrit documents. "Maybe you've seen in the news where they keep talking about secret notes kept by Dr. Francis. These are those notes. He kept them in code because he knew his findings would be considered controversial in more conservative circles and he wanted to wait until he had absolutely faultless evidence before he made those findings public. Now the only way to keep his work from being lost is to decode those notes. But it's slow going, and I'm extremely busy. I was hoping you might be willing to help me out. If you could transliterate the characters into English letters, I'm sure I can crack the code."

Rebecca nodded slowly. She wondered how in the world he had gotten his hands on those notes, as she'd had the impression from the papers that any such thing had already been claimed by the police, or maybe the Army. She didn't ask, though.

"I have charts that show how to interpret the characters. And of course I would pay you for your time."

She wasn't so much interested in the money as she was curious about what Dr. Francis wanted to keep so secret -- and what Dr. Stephens was in such a hurry to find. She accepted the job.

* * *

Only one of the hannivers remained. The pygmy dragons were barely clinging to life. However, the basilisk -- though temperamental, as Acelyn had warned he might be -- seemed healthy. So healthy, Simon feared the rooster-lizard would crow and draw attention to himself before the wizard had smuggled him out of the building. But with caution and a bit of magic, all the remaining specimens made their way safely into Simon's Oldsmobile.

Acelyn, with sunglasses to hide her eyes and a shawl carefully placed to keep her wings out of sight, waited in the passenger seat behind the darkly-tinted window. She read the paper, doing her best to be inconspicuous.

"I don't know how I overlooked this before. The newspaper says there were other specimens taken from Father's home. I think we should go there," she told Simon as he finished loading the car. "There may have been something they overlooked."

The wizard sighed, already tired from the unaccustomed labor. "Do you know where the house is?"

Acelyn, anticipating the question, held up the phone book Simon kept in the back of his car. She had already found the address.

Once the creatures were relocated to the pawn shop and tended to, they headed for the professor's home. The short November day was well on the way to sunset when they arrived. The little cream house sat between two larger brick homes in a poorer but quiet neighborhood. The slightly overgrown lawn stood in contrast to the otherwise clean and tidy property. "Are you sure this is the place?" Simon asked. "I would have expected a professor to have a somewhat more upscale house."

"My father's work was not funded with grants, obviously." The gargoyle, clinging tightly to the shawl, looked carefully around before climbing out of the car.

"How are we going to get inside?" the wizard asked quietly upon catching up with Acelyn on the sidewalk.

"Magic, I had assumed."

"Runs the risk of someone noticing. Let's go around back and puzzle it out from there."

There was a low brick fence around the backyard, low enough to climb over without much difficulty. Here their shoes squished into the soggy ground, so they stepped quickly over to the porch.

"Not surprisingly, this door is locked. We have a bit more privacy here, though. Perhaps I can magic it open in peace."

"Look." Acelyn pointed to muddy tracks running across the grass from the far side of the yard to an open basement window.

"One of your professor's creatures?"

"Perhaps. Ought we try to enter through that window?"

"This body is too old to go crawling into basements, and I suspect your wings are too big to allow you to get through."

Acelyn crouched to peer inside. "Hello?" she called. "It is difficult to see what is in there, Mr. Crowe. Could you conjure up some light?"

"Here. I have a flashlight on my keychain."

"There are more muddy tracks. Lab equipment. Empty cages -- at least they appear to be empty. There is something small and furry sleeping on the floor." The gargoyle poked the light and her head inside. She gasped.

"What? What is it?"

"It is not asleep. It is a cat, and it is half-eaten."

"Acelyn, maybe we should leave."

"Wait. I have just seen something move."

"YOU GO!" came a croaking voice from inside.

"Acelyn!" the wizard shook the gargoyle's shoulder, alarmed.

"Grendel? Grendel, is that you? I thought -- Father told me you had died. Do you remember me? I'm Acelyn. Come out, Grendel. Please."

"YOU GO!" The creature began flinging glass flasks toward the window.

Acelyn jumped aside. "What can we do?"

"Leave."

"It is not safe to leave him here. For him … or for cats."

Simon sighed. Closing his eyes, he began to mutter a string of strange words, and the growling from the basement ceased, soon replaced by snoring. "He'll sleep for a while," the wizard explained. "Long enough for us to make a quick search of the house and, hopefully, find a solution."

* * *

"What are you, a journalist or a detective?"

"At the moment, I am an investigative reporter, so I'm both."

"I think I liked it better when you were just a grouchy editor."

"Don’t try to suck up to me. I'm already buying you pizza for chauffering me around. Just keep your camera lens peeled."

Mac and Nick had spent the afternoon sneaking around, trying unsuccessfully to access the library's third floor, poking around on the liberal arts secretary's computer for not-quite-authorized purposes, and eavesdropping in the science building. Now they were back at the cemetery again.

"What is it we're looking for here?"

"Clues. Or the thing we saw in the tree."

"We can't stay long. I have to pick up my little brother in about an hour."

Mac sighed. "Okay." She headed for the sycamore, noticing that nearly all the leaves had dropped in the few days since the funeral. Of course, the windy storms had probably moved the process along to some extent. Peering up into the branches, she could see that now there was almost nowhere to hide in that tree, and no person or large animal was making the attempt today. Mac walked around the trunk, looking the bark up and down. "Nick, get your camera over here."

As the boy approached, Mac pointed to a series of gouges running up the tree. "What the hell did that? A mountain lion?"

Nick began snapping shots of the marks, both close up and further back. "You know, Saturday I did wonder if it was a mountain lion. But it's really, really unlikely one would find its way into town. And they don't have five toes."

"Do you know what does have five toes?"

"Bears. Which do leave big claw marks on trees, but are just as unlikely to be in Mesquite Ridge. I don't think you'd find either any closer than the Wichita Mountains."

"How do you know so much about animal toes, anyway?"

"Boy Scouts."

"Figures. You probably made Eagle, didn't you? Can you tell anything else from this tree?"

Nick gave the sycamore one more good look. "Yes. About being an Eagle Scout, I mean. But I'm not getting anything else from this tree."

"Well then, let's move on while we still have time."

The students turned to find themselves face-to-face with an older, stocky man with hollow cheeks and yellowed, watery eyes. "People," he said.

"Pardon?" Mac asked.

"You wanted to know what has five toes. People do."

"Ah ... yes. Of course. Thank you. Excuse us, please, we're running late."

"Late, yes." He glanced at the tombstones to his right. "So many here are 'late.' But time means nothing to them now. Someday you will not be in such a hurry, children."

Mac grabbed the sleeve of Nick's jacket. "We really must be going, goodbye."

The two tried to be casual as they ambled back to the Escort. "Why do weird things keep happening when I'm with you?" Nick asked.

"Welcome to journalism."

Back at the university, the two went their separate ways: Nick, to pick up Robby from basketball practice; and Mac to the library, steno pad in hand, where she was still determined to dig for information.

• How did prof. and/or killer gain access to lib. attic?

• Method of killing?

• Motive?

Those were the big questions, of course. Being neither a forensics expert nor a person with access to the library's top floor, the first question seemed unanswerable for the time. As for the second, she had no better information than the autopsy report. But the third was something she could speculate about just as well as anyone else. Why would someone want to kill a little old biology professor so shy he didn't even take yearbook photos? Unless there was more to him than anyone, even Dr. Burk, could guess.

Maybe someone wanted to steal something from the professor. An inheritance? Research? Tenure? Perhaps revenge was the motive. A flunked student? Surely not. A jealous lover? Even less likely. Suppose the killer meant to bury a secret? Now that might be a possibility. Then again, Dr. Francis had been studying genetics; maybe he had crossed the boundary into controversial territory, and someone wanted to stop him.

Mac signed on to one of the library computers and ran Harold Francis through Google, just out of curiosity. There was a St. Francis Harold, the PSU Biology Department page (of course), a number of genealogy links that didn't match the guy she was looking for, and various other people -- who had never taught biology in Texas -- named Harold Francis. She sighed, and wondered if the little goth girl was around somewhere. Maybe she'd be willing to talk now.

As the editor went searching for her reluctant source, she came across a blonde student she recognized as one of the graduate students who taught science classes. She'd been at the funeral service. And she'd been sitting -- Mac remembered now -- with the little goth. Worth a shot. "Excuse me," she said, "I'm sorry to pester you. You're in the science department, right? I'm Mac McDonnell with the campus paper, and I'm writing an article about Dr. Francis. I was just hoping to get some insight on what he was like, and about his work in genetics."

"Ask Dr. Burk," the blonde said curtly, not looking up from the sheet of squiggly characters she was studying. "Or look up his articles in the periodical database."

"Ah, the database, of course! Thanks very much." Returning to her computer, Mac called up the resource and set to work. She was rewarded with a few dozen articles -- but the writings (as well as many of the titles) were completely over her head. One item Mac could make sense of was an editorial in Greener Genes lauding Dr. Francis's refusal to work with certain biotech companies on moral grounds. (Apparently, he'd been on the magazine's watch list.)

And then she came to the article on Bigfoot.

* * *

Scott,

Spoke with truck driver re: creature. Mother provided sketch. Met crazy redneck "monster hunter" who has come to Mesquite Ridge looking for creature. Also, crazy church group writing letters to local paper. Contacting them today.

D.D.

"No, sir. My dad went to his grave feeling disgraced and smelling of whiskey. I just aim to prove he was right all along. I don't claim to know the hows or the whys."

"Fascinating."

Donnette came to the open doorway at the end of the hall of the tiny church, where she'd heard men's voices. "Excuse me, have I come at a bad time? I'm --"

"Dawn! This is sure a surprise. How's the Camry?"

"Unfortunately, still waiting for a part, Mr. Jackson."

"Aw, that's a shame. And you know you can call me Randy. Say, how'd you know to find me here, anyway?"

"Actually, I was hoping to talk with someone with the church regarding a story I'm working on."

The other man finally spoke. "Are you with The Tribune?"

"Naw," Randy jumped in, "Dawn here's a travel writer from out of town. You're in luck, Dawn, Brother James here is the pastor."

Brother James nodded. "How can I help you?"

Here Donnette found herself unsure how to proceed, not at all pleased with the possibility that Randy Jackson might see her assignment as another reason to pursue her. "We could arrange to visit later if you're busy."

"Nah," Randy said, "I was just yabbering about cryptozoology."

"I'm free 'til the eight o'clock meeting," the pastor added.

So she plunged in. "Speaking of cryptozoology, I have to admit I'm very curious about all the talk of demons I've been hearing in this town."

"It is my belief that the corruption of the wicked and the complacency of those who call themselves good have practically invited forces of evil into our world."

"Would you say these forces take on physical form?"

"I would, and I do, though most often they come forth in more subtle forms. Why don't you stay for the meeting tonight? I've come across some very interesting information regarding that demon they reported about in The Tribune."

"Oh?"

* * *

Acelyn and Simon had thoroughly searched Dr. Francis's house. On the ground floor, there was nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary had ever taken place there. It looked just as one might expect the home of an older bachelor with simple tastes to look. The curtains and the dishes and things looked very old. Probably they were the same ones he'd had since leaving his parents' house. Acelyn would have found it difficult to describe how she felt, if she'd been asked. Here she was, for the first time in her sixteen years, walking through the home of the man she thought of as her father. If she had really been his daughter, this was the place where she would have grown up. But it felt like a place where a stranger had lived. She would not have been able to put into words precisely why she felt angry.

Acelyn stole away from Simon, who was flipping through every book and scanning every document he came upon. She sought the source of whatever it was that emitted Father's scent. She found it in a blanket, folded away on a shelf in the bedroom closet. She pulled it down and wrapped it around herself, sniffing it and sobbing quietly. And then she realized something else had fallen out of the closet along with the blanket.

It was a scrapbook. In it, Father had carefully documented Acelyn's own creation and development. The earliest pages were kept in meticulous, dry, scientific detail, with the sort of photos that might turn up in a textbook -- if anyone ever wrote a textbook on the genetic engineering of mythical creatures. As the account progressed through her life, however, it began to read more and more like any child's baby book. Dr. Francis had even kept Acelyn's first lost tooth and a clipping from her first haircut. Some drawings in crayon. Cheery snapshots. Declarations of pride.

There are those who would paint me as a mad scientist if they knew the nature of my work, began one passage toward the end of the book. And I cannot deny that the ethics of what I do are questionable. I do worry about Acelyn, about the quality of her life as she grows into adulthood, about what will become of her should she outlive me. If I could have foreseen how very human she would be, I never would have undertaken her creation. I cannot pretend it is not cruel to make a person who must be forever locked away from the world. But I am grateful to have my little girl in my life, and I believe -- I hope -- she is happy to be alive.

"Ready to look downstairs?"

Acelyn gasped. "Oh, you startled me. Um, yes. I am taking these with me." She held up the blanket and scrapbook.

They made their way carefully into the basement. There was no guarantee that Grendel still slept. In fact, he was no longer there. The gargoyle groaned. "We ought to have examined the basement first."

"I'm sorry, Acelyn. I wouldn't have thought he'd be alert so soon after a spell like that. I still don't know what you intend to do with him, though. I don't think there's any suitable way to contain him at home. He seems quite dangerous."

"I am sure he is dangerous. He is also a ten-year-old child. We cannot allow someone else to capture him."

The two searched the basement, knowing there was probably little point -- if it was true that military agents had swept the place, then there was likely little of interest to find. They simply confirmed what Acelyn had observed earlier. No living things remained, just empty cages -- Dr. Francis would have called them "habitats" -- of varying sizes. Some standard lab equipment: test tubes, microscopes, that sort of thing. Half a cat.

"I wonder who else Father kept here."

"Did you mean to say 'who', rather than 'what'?"

"Well, Grendel is a 'who,' not a 'what.' Even if he is not very articulate or stable, he is as much human as I am. In fact, the human genes for both of us came from Father, so in a way, he is my brother. Grendel once lived in the lab with me and the others. One morning I woke up and he was no longer there, and Father told me he had died. I am very puzzled as to why he did not simply tell me he had moved Grendel. It would be a logical thing to do, considering how much noise he could make."

Simon turned his gaze toward the feline remains, examining the shredded body at a distance. "I hate to ask you this, but, considering what he did to this animal, is there any reason not to believe he may have done the same to your creator?"

"I --" she did not complete her immediate remark of indignation. Instead, she considered the question.

Somewhere outside, not too far from the basement window, a small animal cried out.

* * *

The old bus rattled to a stop near a theater -- once, the theater, but it had been closed since before Rebecca was born. Downtown Mesquite Ridge, despite half a dozen half-hearted revitalization efforts, had been in decline for decades. The Tribune office, the Mexican grocery, a handful of bars and pawnshops and the police headquarters were the stable, permanent fixtures, and they were easily outnumbered by crumbling shells of buildings long abandoned. It was a wonder the city's all-but-nonexistant public transit even made it out this way. Nobody ever seemed to be on the bus when it stopped at the old theater. Just Rebecca.

She gathered up her brown satchel and stepped off the bus, under the buzzing streetlight. The breeze blew her skirt around her ankles. This was the sort of place her parents would never have set foot.

Rebecca thought about her parents as she walked, as she had thought about them all afternoon while she worked on the Sanskrit papers. She replayed again and again in her mind the terrible moment when her secret was discovered, and her life changed forever.

They would not have imagined what had become of her. If they had not cast her out, they would have sent her to Abilene Christian University, seeking, as women were said to do there, her MRS. Any ideas of pursuing an advanced degree would have been scorned. And God forbid she go into science. To her parents, the only worse field would have been gender studies. So she supposed in a way, she had been lucky that she had not been forced to follow in her mother's footsteps, endlessly teaching (things she no longer believed, in Rebecca's case) Sunday school, quickly married off to some guy ultimately of her father's choosing. The price she had paid for escaping her parents' rule had been terrible, though, and she was still at the mercy of another's wishes -- in some ways more lenient, in some ways much more strict. Sometimes, unspeakable.

She turned a corner and entered her neighborhood. It was a street of homes that were, like the rest of downtown, crumbling, but that had been grand in their day. The wealthy families that had inhabited them had long since moved to Dallas, if they were fashionable, and to newer areas of Mesquite Ridge, if they were sentimental. Rebecca's home was surrounded by vast houses, but she had no neighbors. Old and isolated. Just the way her patroness liked it.

Rebecca entered the house and found downstairs dark and empty. She headed up the ornate and creaky staircase to her room, where she took care to hide the Sanskrit notes. Then she went back down to decide what to have for supper.

Flipping on the light, she was startled to find a middle-aged man standing in the kitchen. "Garrett! You scared me!"

The truth was, Garrett had always scared her.

The man shuffled to face Rebecca, and stared at her with his wet and yellowed eyes. "Dinner," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I had schoolwork to do. I'll fix something quick, okay?"

Garrett staggered out of the kitchen. He had never been well in the time Rebecca had known him, and now he was probably near the end. She dove into the fridge to look for something simple, and tried not to think about how that would be her one day.

* * *

Commotion. Sounds of struggle. Grendel's squalling and a man's angry voice.

The gargoyle bolted for the stairs.

"Acelyn, wait!" But she was gone, and Simon had no choice but to follow. He caught her just as she was about to open the back door. "You want to be seen?"

Acelyn scowled, but peered through the blinds covering the window in the door. "I cannot see anything."

A vehicle door slammed. Tires squealed as the vehicle peeled out. Now the two made a dash for Simon's car. The night was too dark and their quarry too distant for them to make out anything more than the fact it was a van they chased.

The van zoomed through a red light. By the time Simon reached the intersection, it was far too late to follow. They were near the mall now, and the streets here were busy even at this time of night. They'd lost him.

"Oh, Grendel! He will be dissected!"

"If he has been captured for study, it's very likely whoever has him knows they would learn more by keeping him alive."

"And what will become of him in the meantime? My unfortunate little brother!"

Simon did not respond.

"He was not always hostile and frightening, you know," she added, crying now. "He was a baby once, like everyone is. I used to help feed him. Play with him. Try to teach him to articulate himself. Then I believed he was dead. Now I do not know his circumstances at all, and that is worse."

When the light turned green, the wizard sped along for several minutes, but they could see no trace of where the van might have gone. He turned toward downtown.

"Why are you changing course?"

"He's gone, Acelyn."

"No!" She made to open the door of the moving car.

Simon said a word, and there was a crackle of static as the door zapped the gargoyle's hand. "Don't be stupid. You're sure as hell not going to find him running around in the open. All you're going to do that way is get yourself captured, too. What we need is a scry, and we have to go home for that."

"I," Acelyn returned icily, "am far from stupid."

"I'm sure you're an intellectual marvel. But that is not going to keep you alive out here, understand?"

Acelyn trembled with fury. She didn't think Mr. Crowe really wanted to save Grendel. He certainly didn't seem to be trying very hard. Also, she had never been spoken to in such a manner!

* * *

Morgan found herself running through crunching snow, weaving between bare black trees, and realized that she was a wolf. She came eventually to a bare hill, where she found another wolf waiting for her in the moonlight. She recognized the second wolf at once, but wolves do not call each other by name. Together they ran into the woods, chasing and playing. They hunted, taking down a deer together, and together they fed, the warm blood of their kill a contrast to the frosty winter air. When they'd had their fill, the other wolf then led Morgan to their den, dug into the ground near the hill. There they curled up together, and Morgan, though surprised by what she was feeling, fell happily asleep.

Morgan woke, and trembled. A thought had occurred to her, and it disturbed her. She didn't know if it disturbed her because it was so strange, or because she was surprised it had not occurred to her before. But she soon concluded it was a thought best put out of mind. It simply could not be.

Tiptoeing through the little house, she found the kitchen light already on. "Do you want some cocoa, baby?" her mother asked, poking at the marshmallows in her own. "There's still hot water in the kettle."

Morgan helped herself. "Pains again?"

"Again," her mom sighed. Linda White worked two part-time jobs to provide for herself and her daughter, and neither offered her insurance. Nor were they quite poor enough to qualify for government aid. It had been a struggle to get Morgan the braces she'd needed in junior high. They considered themselves fortunate their glasses prescriptions did not necessarily have to be updated every year. Now Linda was subject to inexplicable pains, and after a few doctor visits had proved inconclusive, she found herself financially unable to pursue treatment any further. "Did you have a bad dream?" she asked, to change the subject.

"A strange one. I turned into a wolf."

"It's all those spooky books you read. You didn't chase the cat, did you?" her mom teased.

"No," Morgan said, smiling. "I made a friend."

"Oh, that's good." Linda yawned. "Hm. Excuse me. Guess I'd better try to sleep while I can." She rose.

"Feel better, mom. Love you."

"I love you too, baby."