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"How do we stop it?"
"By getting her out of this graveyard."
"That'll end it?"
"I hope so. Now, when we leave these woods, the spirits will return but, as you saw, they intend no harm. You simply have to move through them, as you moved through that sorcerer illusion in the funeral home."
"Got it. If we head south, we'll hit the road. There's no fence, so we can--"
A howling cut me off. Not the howls of the spirits, but the distinct howl of a dog on a scent.
"The hounds of hell, I presume," Cortez said.
"I wouldn't bet against it. But I think those are tracking dogs, probably with the police."
"Ah, I forgot about the police. Problem number sixty-three, I believe."
" Sixty-four. The unconscious bodies scattered around Katrina Mott's grave are sixty-three. Or they will be, when they wake up." I took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's think. There's a stream to the west. Dogs can't follow a trail through water. Plus, it's in the opposite direction, so we'll get a head start."
"West it is, then." He hauled Savannah's limp form over his shoulder. "Lead the way."
So we ran ... away from the gun-toting state troopers, through a swirling mass of spirits, pursued by baying hounds, surrounded by the screams of the damned. You know, I think the mind has a saturation point, beyond which it just doesn't give a damn. Spirits? Hounds? Cops? Who cares? Just keep running and it'll all go away.
This whole running-away business is getting tedious, so here's the condensed version: Run to water. Tramp through water. Fail to evade hounds. Throw fireballs at hounds. Make mental note to send sizable donation to the SPCA. Reach road. Jog to car. Collapse, wheezing, beside car. Get dragged into car by Cortez. Mutter excuse about childhood asthma. Make mental note to join a gym.
"Do you have the dirt?" Cortez asked.
"Dirt?"
I cannot describe the look on his face. The shock. The disbelief. The horror.
"Oh, that dirt." I pulled both bags from my pocket. "Got it."
I relinquished the driving to Cortez so I could stay in the backseat with Savannah, who was still unconscious. Good thing, too, because, while I consider myself an excellent driver, I have little experience at it, having always preferred to walk or ride my bike. The upshot being that, had I been behind the wheel, I would have been ill-prepared to handle what happened next.
Cortez pulled onto the road, not turning us back toward the highway, but heading farther down the dirt road, away from the cemetery front gates. Before we reached the first crossroad, sirens sounded behind us. I twisted to look out the rearview mirror and saw a state police car bearing down on us, lights flashing.
"Shit!" I said. "Don't pull over!"
"I wasn't about to. Are you both buckled in?"
"Yes."
"Hold on, then."
With that, he turned off the headlights and hit the gas.
CHAPTER 37
THE CONSCIENTIOUS
CAR THIEF
Margaret's car was an Oldsmobile. An old Olds, probably from the mid-eighties. This meant that it went like a bat out of hell, but didn't corner so well, as Cortez discovered the first time he sailed around a bend and nearly went into the ditch. On the plus side, the Olds, being a wide-bodied car, was also good at off-roading.
Yes, I said " off-roading," as in leaving the road and cutting through a farmer's field. Imagine it, please. It's past midnight, with no discernible moon or stars, the headlights are off, and you're rocketing across a rutted field at forty miles an hour. Let me assure you, for sheer terror, it ranks right up there with getting your breath sucked out by a koyut.
How we managed to get to the other side without flipping over is beyond me. The car never even slid. Before we'd gone fifty feet into the field, the police cruiser backed off.
