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Andrew Porter was alive and still just as
demented—if not more so—than before. It had merely taken him ten
months to come out of hiding.
    Now that he had surfaced, I found myself
wishing that I had been a better shot.
     
    * * * * *
     
    “It’s a bit of a climb,” the patrol officer
ahead of us said over his shoulder. “We have to go up to the fourth
floor, then over to the roof access.”
    My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness
inside the building as we climbed the debris-strewn concrete
stairs. The faint nasal bite of urine, both stale and fresh, joined
in a pungent reek with feces and rotting trash to foul the gelid
air.
    “Careful there,” he warned, directing the
beam of his flashlight on a crumbling step.
    We picked our way around the hazard, single
file—Felicity in front of me and Ben bringing up the rear.
    “There’re a lot of homeless that crash here,
what with the ministry across the street handing out free lunches
and all,” the officer continued, offering up an explanation for the
background stench. “Actually smells quite a bit worse over at the
freight elevator shaft.”
    “Any of ‘em in here when you arrived?” Ben
asked.
    “No, not when I got here,” he answered.
“Stockton was first on the scene though.”
    “He up there?”
    “No, he’s the green one downstairs tossing
his cookies.”
    “Friggin’ wunnerful,” Ben spat with more than
just a note of sarcasm. “He say if he saw anyone?”
    “Just the dead guy.”
    Ben grunted his displeasure before moving on
to his next question, “Who’s runnin’ the scene?”
    “That would be Lieutenant Albright.”
    “Whoa.” Ben all but halted on the stairs.
“Not Barbara Albright… Tell me you’re not talkin’ about ‘Bible
Barb.’”
    The uniformed officer stifled what might have
been a knowing or perhaps a nervous laugh. Maybe even both. It was
hard to tell. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
    “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.
    The pop and crackle of interference once
again broke the silence and the