Lori Handeland - Excerpts


	Thunder Moon \| Hidden Moon Voodoo Moon \| Cobwebs Over the Moon Thunder Moon By Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, January 2008 Chapter 1 A storm beneath the Thunder Moon is both rare and powerful. My great-grandmother believed on that night magic happens. She neglected to mention that magic could kill.
	Mid-July in northern Georgia was an air conditioner salesman's wet dream. In theory, the creek behind my home should have been balmy. In practice, it wasn't. Nevertheless, I dropped my robe and waded in, then I lifted my face to the full Thunder Moon and chanted the words my e-li-si, my grandmother, had taught me. “ I stand beneath the moon and feel the power. I will possess the lightning and drink of the rain. The thunder is your song and mine.” I wasn't sure what the chant was for, but it was the only one I remembered completely, so I said those words every time I came here. The repetition calmed me. The memories of my grandmother were some of the few good memories I had. According to her, a chant spoken in English was worthless. Only one spoken in Cherokee would work. Unfortunately, she'd died before she could teach me more than a smattering of the language. I'd always meant to learn more, but I'd never found the time. She'd left me all her books, her notes-what she called her “medicine.” But I couldn't read any of the papers she'd gathered into a grade school binder, so they accumulated dust in the false bottom of my father's desk. I'd loved her deeply, and I mourned her every day. I missed her so badly sometimes a great black cloud of depression settled over me that was very hard to shake. “ Someday,” I whispered to the night. “Someday I'll know all those secrets.” Lightning flashed, closer than it should be. The moon still shone, though clouds now skated across its surface. Thunder rumbled, a great gray beast, shaking the hills that surrounded me. The Blue Ridge Mountains had always been home. I could never desert them. The mountains didn't lie, they didn't cheat or steal, and most importantly they never left. The mountains would always be there. They were as much a part of me as my midnight hair, my light green eyes and the skin that was so much darker than everyone else's in town. My ancestors had been both Indian and African, with a good portion of Scotch-Irish mixed in. My toes tingled with cold, so I rose from the water and snatched my white terry cloth robe from the ground. I slid my arms into it, and the silver glow of the moon went out as if snuffed by a huge heavenly hand. The wind whistled through the towering pines, sounding like an angry spirit set free of bondage. I stood at the creek and watched the storm come. I liked storms. They reflected all the turmoil I'd carried within me for so long. However this storm was different than those that usually tumbled over my mountains—stronger, quicker, stranger. I should have started running at the first trickle of wind. Lightning flashed so brightly I closed my eyes, yet the imprint of the sky opening up and the electric sheen spilling out seemed scalded into my brain. The scent of ozone drifted by, and the thunder seemed to crash from below rather than from above. I opened my eyes just as the lightning flared again far too soon. A horrible, screeching wail followed, and a trail of sparks tumbled from the sky in the distance. “ I got a bad feeling,” I murmured, then watched the roiling sky for several minutes until the cell phone in my pocket began to buzz. I don't know why I'd brought the thing. Half the time I couldn't get a signal out here. The trees were so high, the mountains so near. Often I got back to the house and realized I'd dropped the phone either at the creek or somewhere along the path. Nevertheless, I was too much my father's daughter to ever leave home without it. Dad had been the sheriff in Lake Bluff, Georgia, too. “ McDaniel,” I answered, wincing as needles of rain began to fall, the wind picking up and driving them into my face. “ Grace?” The connection crackled, the voice on the other end breaking up. Lightning flashed again, and I wondered if I should be out here with a cell phone pressed to my head. *Probably not.* I started for the house and— *Baboom!* Thunder shook the Earth. The wind whipped my long, wet hair into my eyes. The world went electric silver as lightning took over the sky. “ Grace! You there? Grace!” I recognized the voice of my deputy, Cal Striker. Cal had spent most of his life in the Marines, then he'd retired after twenty and tried to relax back in the old hometown. Except Cal wasn't the relaxing type. After tours in the Gulf War, Afghanistan and most recently Iraq, I could understand why the pace in Lake Bluff had driven him bonkers. He'd begged me to hire him for the open deputy position. I'd been happy to. “ Right here, Cal.” I wasn't sure if he could hear me. Above the wind and the rain and the thunder, I could barely hear me. “What's the matter?” *“ We've got—” Crackle. Buzz.* “Over on the—” Snap. “— problem.”** Hell. What did we have on the where that was a problem? With Cal it could be anything. From a kitty-cat up the tree to a domestic disturbance complete with shotguns, Cal handled every situation with the same calm surety. Cal was a big fan of Chuck Norris, which had led to no small amount of teasing from the other officers, and someone had taken to leaving Chuck Norris jokes on Cal's desk. I thought most of them were hilarious. My deputy did not. “ You're breaking up, Cal. Say again.” Hurrying in the direction of home, I skidded a bit on the now slick trail, hoping I wouldn't fall on my ass and wind up covered in mud. I didn't have the time. I burst into my backyard and cursed. The house was dark. The storm had knocked out the electricity, probably all over Lake Bluff. The phones would be ringing off the hook at the station. I don't know why people thought the sheriff's department could do anything, but whenever when we lost power, the switchboard lit up to tell us all about it. “ Grace.” Cal's voice was much clearer now that I'd escaped the interference of the towering pines. “Look to the north.” I turned, squinted, frowned at the slightly orange glow blooming against the midnight sky, right about where that weird flash of sparks would have landed. “ I'm on my way,” I said, and hurried into the house. With no electricity and no moon spilling in through the windows, the place seemed foreign. Corners of furniture reached out and smacked my shins. I could stop and light a candle, try and find a flashlight, although it probably wouldn't have any working batteries, but I was possessed by a sense of urgency. I kept seeing that orange glow in my head, and I didn't like it. Forest fires were extremely dangerous. They sweep down the side of a mountain and right through a town. They've been known to jump highways and waterways, leaving behind acres of blackened stumps and devastated dreams. I stumbled up the stairs to my room, found a towel, tossed the damp robe into the tub, then put on the same uniform I'd just taken off. As I shoved my .40 caliber Glock into the holster, I stepped onto the second floor landing. The window rattled, and I turned in that direction, figuring the wind had shifted. A great black shadow loomed, and my fingers tightened on the grip of the gun. Wings beat against the glass; a beak tapped. I couldn't catch my breath and when I did, I emitted a choking gasp that frightened me almost as badly as the bird had. Then the thing was gone, and I was left staring at the rain running down the windowpane. How odd. Birds didn't usually fly during bad weather. Heading downstairs, I dismissed the strange behavior of the wild life in my concern for Lake Bluff and its citizens. Hopefully the deluge had put out any fire caused by the lightning, but I had to be sure. I ran through the rain and jumped into my squad car, then headed down the long lane that led to the highway. Once there, I hit the lights and the siren. I wanted everyone who might be stupid enough to be out right now to see and hear me coming. My headlights reflected off the pavement, revealing sheets of water cascading over the road ahead of me. The trees bent at insane angles. My wipers brushed twigs, leaves and pine needles off my windshield along with the rain. I glanced in my rear view mirror just as a huge tree limb slammed onto the road behind me. “ Great.” I fumbled with the radio. “I have a 10-53 on the highway just north of my place. Tree limb big enough to jack knife a semi.” “ 10-4, Sheriff.” My dispatcher, Jordan Striker, was mature beyond her twenty years and as sharp as the stilettos she insisted on wearing to work. She was Cal's daughter, and while the two of them didn't see eye to eye on much, they shared a sense of responsibility to the community that I admired. Jordan's mom had hung around Lake Bluff after the divorce, but the instant Jordan turned eighteen, she was gone. I never did hear where. Jordan dreamed of attending Duke University. She had the grades but not the money, which is how she'd ended up working for me. “ I'll send a car as soon as I can,” she continued. “Everyone's out on calls. Storm's something else.” “ Try the highway crew. We need to get that tree off the road. Some dumb ass who doesn't have the sense to stay in during a mess like this will run aground on the thing, and then we'll have a pile up.” “ The world is full of dumb asses,” Jordan agreed. As I said, wise beyond her years. I continued toward the place where I'd seen the orange glow. The sparks had appeared to fall near Brasstown Bald, the highest peak in the spine of mountains known as Wolfpen Ridge. Despite the name, there were no wolves in the Blue Ridge, hadn't been for centuries. Static spilled from my radio, along with Cal's voice. “Grace, take the turn just past Galilean Drive. Careful, it's a swamp back here.” I followed his directions to the end of what would have been a dirt road but was now a mud puddle. Illuminated by the flare of headlights from his squad car, Cal wore a yellow rain slicker and the extremely ugly hat that came with our uniform. A hat I never wore unless I had to. With a sigh I slipped into my own slicker and slapped the wide brimmed, tree-bark brown Stetson wanna-be on top of my still damp hair. “ Where's the fire?” I asked as I joined Cal at the edge of the tree line. “ Not sure. I saw it. So did you. Hell, so did everyone in a mile radius. But by the time I got here, nothing.” Considering the wind and the rain, the fire had probably gone out. However, the proximity of the town required us to be certain. All we needed was for the thickness of the trees to protect one small ember, which would smolder and burst into flames the instant we turned out backs. “ You sure this is the place?” Cal nodded. He wasn't a particularly tall man, maybe an inch more than my own five-ten, but he was imposing. Still ripped, despite two years out of the Corps, I doubted I could even get my hands around his neck, if I was so inclined. Cal wore his light brown hair in the style of the USMC, and his face was lined from tours spent in countries that had a lot more sun and wind and sand than we ever could. “ Ward Beecher called it in,” Cal continued. “Said all the trees were ablaze. He smelled the smoke.” I frowned. Ward Beecher wasn't a nut. He was the pastor of the Lake Bluff Baptist Church. I doubted he was much of a liar either, and he lived not more than half a mile from this spot. “ There's nothing now.” I walked around the clearing. The trees, the grass, the ground were all dripping wet; I couldn't find a single charred pine needle. “ 'cept this.” Cal indicated an area in front of his car. I joined him at the edge of a fairly large hole, which reminded me of photos I'd seen of meteor sites. Except there wasn't a rock of any noticeable size to be had. “ Could have been here forever,” I said. “ Mebe.” He didn't sound convinced, but what other explanation was there? The hole was empty. Unless— I went down on one knee, ignoring the mud that soaked through my uniform-I was already drenched-and studied the ground. “ You think someone was here before us?” Cal asked. “Took whatever it was that fell?” I didn't answer, just continued to look. I was the best tracker in the county. My father had made certain of that. But sometimes, like now, being the best wasn't any damn good at all. “ The rain's washed away the top layer of dirt,” I said. “An elephant could have come through here, and I wouldn't find a trace of it.” I straightened, my gaze drawn to the tree line just as a low, bulky shadow took the shape of a wolf. I didn't like that one bit. We'd had a little problem with wolves last summer. Werewolves to be exact. I hadn't believed it either—until some really strange things had started happening. Turned out there were werewolves all over the place. There was even a secret government society charged with killing them. I'd thought they'd all been eliminated or cured—no one had died a horrific, bloody death in months. But maybe I was wrong. Excerpted from THUNDER MOON Copyright Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press ISBN 0312949189 Buy Thunder Moon Join Lori's Full Moon Club \|\| Join Lori's Email Fanlist menu
	Hidden Moon By Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, July 2007 Chapter 1 I came home to escape one hell and stepped straight into another. I guess I deserved it. I had walked out at eighteen and never looked back.
	The Cherokee call the mountains where I was born Sah-Ka-Na-Ga, or the great blue hills of God. I’d always thought the phrase an exaggeration; now I wasn’t so sure. In my present state of mind, the Blue Ridge Mountains did seem a little bit like heaven. “But then a lake of fire looks good compared to this,” I muttered, scowling at the mess that nearly obscured the top of my desk. “Have you ever seen a lake of fire? It isn’t pretty.” To my surprise, Grace McDaniel stood in the doorway. We’d been best friends in high school. Then I’d gone to college and taken a job at a television station in the big, bad city of Atlanta, while she’d stayed behind. Grace was now the sheriff in Lake Bluff, and I was the mayor. Talk about the sins of the fathers . . . Phones rang in the outer office. My assistant had informed me I had three people waiting, before she’d taken off to God knows where to do Lord knows what. Everyone said Joyce Flaherty had been the assistant to the mayor since there’d been a mayor in Lake Bluff, Georgia. Considering the town had been settled by the Scotch-Irish well before the Revolution that would make Joyce downright supernatural. If the statement had been true. In reality, Joyce had been my father’s right hand during the thirty plus years he’d been in charge here, and now she was mine. The woman had an annoying habit of doing my job, then telling me about it later. But she knew the job so much better than I did. “Problem?” I asked. Grace didn’t often show up at my office; she called, left a message, sent a report. We’d been friends, but now . . . Well, Grace seemed a little pissed at me, and I wasn’t sure why. “You might say that,” she murmured in a slow, smooth, southern accent. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the cadence—one I’d trained out of my own voice years ago—until I’d come home. Grace glanced over her shoulder, then stepped into my office and shut the door. I waved at an empty seat, but she shook her head and began to pace, her nervous energy crackling in the small, enclosed space. Grace was the least likely small town cop you’d ever come across. Tall and strong, like the Scottish ancestors we both shared, she also possessed the high cheekbones and stick straight, ink black hair of the Cherokees who’d roamed these mountains for centuries before they’d been dragged west during the embarrassment we’ve all come to know as the Trail of Tears. The slightly smoky shade of her perfect skin also hinted at the intermingling with a slave or two somewhere on that family tree. A common enough occurrence in these parts since the Cherokee had once owned African American slaves, too. Grace could have been a fashion model, but she was as unaware of her beauty as I was unaware of how to be the mayor. And she loved Lake Bluff more than she loved anything or anyone; she’d never leave it like I had. Suddenly she stopped pacing and rested her palms on the front of my desk. “You need to come with me.” A thinker and doer, Grace made a decision and then she executed that decision. Sometimes—hell, most times—I wondered why she wasn’t the mayor. Except in Lake Bluff, people followed the path of their parents, and if they didn’t want to, they got out of town. “There’s a caravan of Gypsies camped at the lake,” Grace said. I blinked. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘caravan of Gypsies.’” Her lips curved. “Nothing wrong with your hearing.” The way she said it made me think there was something wrong with other parts of me. There was, but Grace didn’t know that. No one did. “Claire.” Grace sighed. “What happened to you in Atlanta? You used to understand sarcasm, give as good as you got. You used to be fun.” “Now I’m the mayor,” I muttered. “There you go.” My eyes met hers and she winked. “We’ll have you back to yourself in no time.” I’d never be the self I’d been before I’d left, but maybe I could at least stop jumping at shadows now that I was home. The shrill brrrring of the phone made me start up from my chair, heart pounding. Or not. Grace made an impatient sound. Had she ever been afraid of anything in her life? “Don’t answer it,” Grace ordered. I lifted a brow. “You’ll only have to deal with some bum-fuck nonsense, and I need you to come with me.” “Bum-fuck nonsense?” God I’d missed her. Grace shrugged. “You know how it is around here. Jamie’s cow got into Harold’s corn. Lucy’s cat beat up Carol’s dog. Some dumb ass kid got his head stuck between the bars of the jungle gym and screamed bloody murder for an hour.” “That sounds more like your bum-fuck nonsense than mine.” I stood, relieved when my phone stopped ringing at last and went to voice mail. “Fine.” Grace opened the door. “Then you won’t have to listen to someone whine about their property lines, their taxes or the unfairness of the city by-laws.” That would be my bum-fuck nonsense all right. Pausing at Joyce’s desk, I scribbled a note, checked my cell phone to make certain it was on and jerked a thumb toward the rear exit. We’d almost reached the back door when someone called, “Mayor?” I began to turn, and Grace shoved me between the shoulder blades. I stumbled in my three-inch off white pumps, the perfect compliment to my pale peach summer suit, then nearly fell on my face when the back door burst open, spilling us into the summer sun. “Ah,” Grace cast an amused glance around the parking lot, “remember when we smoked pot out here in high school?” “Grace!” “What?” She slid dark sunglasses over her light green eyes. “Someone might hear you.” “So what if they did? It’s not like we got high yesterday. We were sixteen.” “It would leave a bad impression,” I said stiffly. “You’re supposed to be the law around here.” “You want me to arrest myself for something I did ten years ago? Sorry, but the statute of limitations on that crime is over.” Grace set off, her long, lithe legs eating up the distance more quickly than mine ever could. Not that I was short, just shorter, three inches shy of Grace’s five-ten. And I wasn’t lithe by any means, I was more . . . round. Not fat—at least not yet. But I had to work at it—low fat yogurt, low fat dressing, dessert only on very special occasions—like the second coming. Grace reached the squad car and slid behind the wheel. I clambered into the passenger seat, snagging my hose on the door and cursing. “If you didn’t wear the stupid things,” Grace muttered, “you wouldn’t ruin them. This isn’t Atlanta.” I glanced at Grace’s tan slacks and equally tan blouse, complete with a stylish Lake Bluff Sheriff Department patch. “Don’t say it,” she warned. “Say what?” “That someone in an outfit like this has no business giving fashion advice.” “Okay.” I faced front. “I won’t say it.” Grace gave me a long look over the top of her sunglasses, then she just drove. I’d returned to Lake Bluff three weeks ago for my father’s funeral. He’d only been fifty-five, and while he’d never watched his weight, or his intake of cigarettes and whiskey, his death had still been a shock. That I’d agreed to remain and fulfill the rest of his term as mayor had been an even bigger shock, yet here I was. I stared out the window as we left town and headed onto the highway that led to Lunar Lake. The present incarnation of the town had sprouted on a hill a few miles from the lake—hence its name. No matter where you stood in Lake Bluff, the view was incandescent. The majority of the population—just under five thousand souls—made their living in the shops, restaurants and small, quaint hostels that lined the main streets. And a goodly portion of that living came to us during our yearly Full Moon Festival. People traveled from miles around to enjoy the weeklong celebration, which culminated on the day and night of August’s full moon with a parade, picnic and fireworks. We were expecting a huge turn out this year since a rare total lunar eclipse would occur that night. Each year two to four lunar eclipses occurred, but only during a small percentage of them would the earth totally cut off the sun’s light from the moon. As far as I knew the Full Moon Festival had never coincided with such an event. Therefore we would not only be hosting the usual summer tourists, but also stargazers—amateur and professional—would arrive to observe nature’s performance. Since many of the scheduled events took place at the lake, I understood Grace’s concern about the Gypsies. We wound down the two-lane highway—paved with asphalt, surrounded by gravel—into the valley where Lunar Lake gleamed. In between the rich evergreen of the trees, the sun sparked golden shards off the clear surface. On the other side of the valley, the mountains rose toward a sky the same shade as the lake. “ So,” I turned away from the sight, “do you get a lot of Gypsy caravans through here these days?” Grace pulled onto the hard packed dirt trail that led to the lake. “Not a one.” “Are there any Gypsies left?” “I think they went extinct about the same time as the Indians.” “More sarcasm,” I said. “Goody.” Her lips twitched but she didn’t crack a smile. She so rarely did. “Gypsies are everywhere, Claire. Most people just don’t notice them.” We came around the curve in the road, and Grace slammed on the brakes. For an instant I thought we’d traveled back in time—Romania in the 1700s perhaps? I don’t know what I’d expected to find. Tents? Hippie throwbacks? A homeless convention? I had definitely not expected to see a jumble of horse drawn wagons and a crowd of brightly dressed . . . Gypsies. *“Well, you said* there were still Gypsies,” I murmured. Grace glared at me, or at least I thought she glared. I couldn’t see her eyes past the tough cop sunglasses. As soon as we’d come into view, everyone stilled. When Grace and I climbed out of the squad car, they stared at us as keenly as we stared at them.** They appeared as if they’d escaped from the Disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame. The men wore black pants and colorful blousy shirts, the women long, rainbow hued skirts and white peasant style blouses with scarves covering their heads. Gold bracelets, beaded chains and hoop earrings sparkled everywhere. Several wagons were fitted with bars, and animals paced inside, though the conveyances were too far away, the forest too thick and shadowed to determine any species. The horses that drew the wagons were huge—Clydesdales maybe, though they didn’t resemble the Budweiser crew, except in size. These were dappled gray instead of brown, and upon closer inspection possessed broader chests and stockier rumps. “Lake Bluff Sheriff’s Department.” Grace removed her sunglasses, hooking the earpiece in her shirt before striding forward with her hand on the butt of her gun. Those nearest to her shrank back. The babble of another language rose from the ones behind them. “Bull in a china shop,” I muttered. I might have changed, but she hadn’t. Putting on my best CNN anchor smile, I moved up beside her. “I’m Claire Kennedy, mayor of Lake Bluff. Can I ask what you’re doing here?” The babbling slowed to a trickle, although everyone continued to stare. A few actually made the sign of the cross, or near enough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were afraid of me. Or maybe they were just afraid of Grace. “Take your hand off your gun,” I whispered. “Not.” “You’re scaring them.” “Being scared of the sheriff is a healthy thing to be.” I pressed my lips together. At my change in expression the indecipherable babble started up again. I raised my voice. “Is there anyone in charge?” “Someone who speaks English?” Grace added. “That would be me.” A ripple began near the back—sound, movement, an aura of deference as they bowed their heads. The crowd parted and a man appeared. “Holy shit,” Grace murmured. I choked, not just at her words but also at the sight of him. Holy shit about summed it up. He wore the black pants common to the other men, and shiny knee high black boots, but his chest was bare and shimmering with sweat or lake water, hard to tell without a taste. I blinked at the thought, one I hadn’t had for a very long time. Smooth, bronzed skin flowed over lean muscles and a ridged abdomen. A breeze blew in from the mountains and he tensed, biceps flexing, at the sudden chill in the air. But it wasn’t just his body that left me speechless. With eyes like blood beneath the moon and a face that was all sharp edges at the cheeks, chin and nose, how could I be faulted for staring? Someone handed him a towel, and he rubbed the cloth over his chest, the movement both efficient and suggestive. My stomach skittered, and I had to force myself not to look away from his suddenly amused gaze and follow the path of his hands. He lifted the towel to his slightly curling ebony hair, just long enough to brush the spike of his collarbone. When he scrubbed at it droplets flew, and the strands played peek-a-boo with the silver cross dangling from his left ear. He threw the cloth behind him as if expecting someone to catch it, which they did, before handing him an impossibly white shirt. While he drew it over his head, I glanced at Grace who rolled her eyes. “Sheriff,” he greeted, with an accent so Irish I smelled clover. “Mayor Kennedy. I’m Malachi Cartwright.” He bent slightly at the waist. “Call me Mal.” “No need to get chummy,” Grace said. “You won’t be staying.” Cartwright’s eyebrows lifted, along with one corner of his mouth. “Won’t we now?” he murmured. Excerpted from HIDDEN MOON Copyright Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press ISBN 0312949170 Buy Hidden Moon Join Lori's Full Moon Club \|\| Join Lori's Email Fanlist menu
	from the Halloween Anthology 'No Rest for the Witches' Voodoo Moon by Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, October 2007 *Devil’s Fork-2 miles* “Yee-ha,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe I was headed to a town called Devil’s Fork. But they appeared to have a serial killer, and that’s where I came in. *Special Agent Dana Duran, FBI. Do not* call me Scully.** I wasn’t an X-Files fan even before the nickname. I’d never understood why anyone would waste an hour watching something that was so utterly far fetched. I preferred just the facts. That’s right; Joe Friday was my hero. I’d touched down at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans at six p.m., nabbed a rental car and headed northeast, per my Map quest directions. Being near the end of October, the sun had already disappeared, though the air remained warm and a little bit sticky. I skirted the city proper and headed over the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway toward St. Tammany Parish. On this side of the lake sat several upscale suburbs that drew young urban professionals who worked in either New Orleans or Mississippi. The school systems were better, the traffic less dense and the crime on the low end. Except in Devil’s Fork over the past three months. The road I traveled had never seen a streetlight. The mammoth pine forest bordered by Honey Island Swamp shrouded the area in darkness. I began to wonder if I’d taken a wrong turn. I’d left the suburbs several miles back. Then I blinked, and I was driving down a city street. One-minute trees, brush, unknown wildlife, the next Devil’s Fork National Bank. The town was pretty large, which was a shock out here in the middle of diddlysquat. Devil’s Fork wasn’t a suburb. No cul du sacs, fast food joints or supermarkets. Instead the buildings were old, weathered, though still well maintained. From the Internet propaganda I’d read before getting on the plane, Devil’s Fork catered to the fishing crowd. They had all the essentials—small grocery store, gas station, the aforementioned bank, plus several specialty shops and cafes where I assumed the wives or significant others spent their time while the fishermen fished. Farther down, near the far end of Lafayette Street, sat the police station. Oddly, there was no one out. Sure it was dark, but it wasn’t late. Usually at least one or two people took a stroll, walked their dog. If it weren’t for the occasional light in a window, the smattering here and there of a pumpkin, witch and bat in deference to the upcoming holiday, I’d think I’d come across a ghost town. I parked in front of the police station, which still had an old-fashioned hitching post. Hadn’t seen one of those in . . . forever. Opening the door, I walked in. Hello, Mayberry RFD.


	Thunder Moon \| Hidden Moon Voodoo Moon \| Cobwebs Over the Moon Thunder Moon By Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, January 2008 Chapter 1 A storm beneath the Thunder Moon is both rare and powerful. My great-grandmother believed on that night magic happens. She neglected to mention that magic could kill.
	Mid-July in northern Georgia was an air conditioner salesman's wet dream. In theory, the creek behind my home should have been balmy. In practice, it wasn't. Nevertheless, I dropped my robe and waded in, then I lifted my face to the full Thunder Moon and chanted the words my e-li-si, my grandmother, had taught me. “ I stand beneath the moon and feel the power. I will possess the lightning and drink of the rain. The thunder is your song and mine.” I wasn't sure what the chant was for, but it was the only one I remembered completely, so I said those words every time I came here. The repetition calmed me. The memories of my grandmother were some of the few good memories I had. According to her, a chant spoken in English was worthless. Only one spoken in Cherokee would work. Unfortunately, she'd died before she could teach me more than a smattering of the language. I'd always meant to learn more, but I'd never found the time. She'd left me all her books, her notes-what she called her “medicine.” But I couldn't read any of the papers she'd gathered into a grade school binder, so they accumulated dust in the false bottom of my father's desk. I'd loved her deeply, and I mourned her every day. I missed her so badly sometimes a great black cloud of depression settled over me that was very hard to shake. “ Someday,” I whispered to the night. “Someday I'll know all those secrets.” Lightning flashed, closer than it should be. The moon still shone, though clouds now skated across its surface. Thunder rumbled, a great gray beast, shaking the hills that surrounded me. The Blue Ridge Mountains had always been home. I could never desert them. The mountains didn't lie, they didn't cheat or steal, and most importantly they never left. The mountains would always be there. They were as much a part of me as my midnight hair, my light green eyes and the skin that was so much darker than everyone else's in town. My ancestors had been both Indian and African, with a good portion of Scotch-Irish mixed in. My toes tingled with cold, so I rose from the water and snatched my white terry cloth robe from the ground. I slid my arms into it, and the silver glow of the moon went out as if snuffed by a huge heavenly hand. The wind whistled through the towering pines, sounding like an angry spirit set free of bondage. I stood at the creek and watched the storm come. I liked storms. They reflected all the turmoil I'd carried within me for so long. However this storm was different than those that usually tumbled over my mountains—stronger, quicker, stranger. I should have started running at the first trickle of wind. Lightning flashed so brightly I closed my eyes, yet the imprint of the sky opening up and the electric sheen spilling out seemed scalded into my brain. The scent of ozone drifted by, and the thunder seemed to crash from below rather than from above. I opened my eyes just as the lightning flared again far too soon. A horrible, screeching wail followed, and a trail of sparks tumbled from the sky in the distance. “ I got a bad feeling,” I murmured, then watched the roiling sky for several minutes until the cell phone in my pocket began to buzz. I don't know why I'd brought the thing. Half the time I couldn't get a signal out here. The trees were so high, the mountains so near. Often I got back to the house and realized I'd dropped the phone either at the creek or somewhere along the path. Nevertheless, I was too much my father's daughter to ever leave home without it. Dad had been the sheriff in Lake Bluff, Georgia, too. “ McDaniel,” I answered, wincing as needles of rain began to fall, the wind picking up and driving them into my face. “ Grace?” The connection crackled, the voice on the other end breaking up. Lightning flashed again, and I wondered if I should be out here with a cell phone pressed to my head. *Probably not.* I started for the house and— *Baboom!* Thunder shook the Earth. The wind whipped my long, wet hair into my eyes. The world went electric silver as lightning took over the sky. “ Grace! You there? Grace!” I recognized the voice of my deputy, Cal Striker. Cal had spent most of his life in the Marines, then he'd retired after twenty and tried to relax back in the old hometown. Except Cal wasn't the relaxing type. After tours in the Gulf War, Afghanistan and most recently Iraq, I could understand why the pace in Lake Bluff had driven him bonkers. He'd begged me to hire him for the open deputy position. I'd been happy to. “ Right here, Cal.” I wasn't sure if he could hear me. Above the wind and the rain and the thunder, I could barely hear me. “What's the matter?” *“ We've got—” Crackle. Buzz.* “Over on the—” Snap. “— problem.”** Hell. What did we have on the where that was a problem? With Cal it could be anything. From a kitty-cat up the tree to a domestic disturbance complete with shotguns, Cal handled every situation with the same calm surety. Cal was a big fan of Chuck Norris, which had led to no small amount of teasing from the other officers, and someone had taken to leaving Chuck Norris jokes on Cal's desk. I thought most of them were hilarious. My deputy did not. “ You're breaking up, Cal. Say again.” Hurrying in the direction of home, I skidded a bit on the now slick trail, hoping I wouldn't fall on my ass and wind up covered in mud. I didn't have the time. I burst into my backyard and cursed. The house was dark. The storm had knocked out the electricity, probably all over Lake Bluff. The phones would be ringing off the hook at the station. I don't know why people thought the sheriff's department could do anything, but whenever when we lost power, the switchboard lit up to tell us all about it. “ Grace.” Cal's voice was much clearer now that I'd escaped the interference of the towering pines. “Look to the north.” I turned, squinted, frowned at the slightly orange glow blooming against the midnight sky, right about where that weird flash of sparks would have landed. “ I'm on my way,” I said, and hurried into the house. With no electricity and no moon spilling in through the windows, the place seemed foreign. Corners of furniture reached out and smacked my shins. I could stop and light a candle, try and find a flashlight, although it probably wouldn't have any working batteries, but I was possessed by a sense of urgency. I kept seeing that orange glow in my head, and I didn't like it. Forest fires were extremely dangerous. They sweep down the side of a mountain and right through a town. They've been known to jump highways and waterways, leaving behind acres of blackened stumps and devastated dreams. I stumbled up the stairs to my room, found a towel, tossed the damp robe into the tub, then put on the same uniform I'd just taken off. As I shoved my .40 caliber Glock into the holster, I stepped onto the second floor landing. The window rattled, and I turned in that direction, figuring the wind had shifted. A great black shadow loomed, and my fingers tightened on the grip of the gun. Wings beat against the glass; a beak tapped. I couldn't catch my breath and when I did, I emitted a choking gasp that frightened me almost as badly as the bird had. Then the thing was gone, and I was left staring at the rain running down the windowpane. How odd. Birds didn't usually fly during bad weather. Heading downstairs, I dismissed the strange behavior of the wild life in my concern for Lake Bluff and its citizens. Hopefully the deluge had put out any fire caused by the lightning, but I had to be sure. I ran through the rain and jumped into my squad car, then headed down the long lane that led to the highway. Once there, I hit the lights and the siren. I wanted everyone who might be stupid enough to be out right now to see and hear me coming. My headlights reflected off the pavement, revealing sheets of water cascading over the road ahead of me. The trees bent at insane angles. My wipers brushed twigs, leaves and pine needles off my windshield along with the rain. I glanced in my rear view mirror just as a huge tree limb slammed onto the road behind me. “ Great.” I fumbled with the radio. “I have a 10-53 on the highway just north of my place. Tree limb big enough to jack knife a semi.” “ 10-4, Sheriff.” My dispatcher, Jordan Striker, was mature beyond her twenty years and as sharp as the stilettos she insisted on wearing to work. She was Cal's daughter, and while the two of them didn't see eye to eye on much, they shared a sense of responsibility to the community that I admired. Jordan's mom had hung around Lake Bluff after the divorce, but the instant Jordan turned eighteen, she was gone. I never did hear where. Jordan dreamed of attending Duke University. She had the grades but not the money, which is how she'd ended up working for me. “ I'll send a car as soon as I can,” she continued. “Everyone's out on calls. Storm's something else.” “ Try the highway crew. We need to get that tree off the road. Some dumb ass who doesn't have the sense to stay in during a mess like this will run aground on the thing, and then we'll have a pile up.” “ The world is full of dumb asses,” Jordan agreed. As I said, wise beyond her years. I continued toward the place where I'd seen the orange glow. The sparks had appeared to fall near Brasstown Bald, the highest peak in the spine of mountains known as Wolfpen Ridge. Despite the name, there were no wolves in the Blue Ridge, hadn't been for centuries. Static spilled from my radio, along with Cal's voice. “Grace, take the turn just past Galilean Drive. Careful, it's a swamp back here.” I followed his directions to the end of what would have been a dirt road but was now a mud puddle. Illuminated by the flare of headlights from his squad car, Cal wore a yellow rain slicker and the extremely ugly hat that came with our uniform. A hat I never wore unless I had to. With a sigh I slipped into my own slicker and slapped the wide brimmed, tree-bark brown Stetson wanna-be on top of my still damp hair. “ Where's the fire?” I asked as I joined Cal at the edge of the tree line. “ Not sure. I saw it. So did you. Hell, so did everyone in a mile radius. But by the time I got here, nothing.” Considering the wind and the rain, the fire had probably gone out. However, the proximity of the town required us to be certain. All we needed was for the thickness of the trees to protect one small ember, which would smolder and burst into flames the instant we turned out backs. “ You sure this is the place?” Cal nodded. He wasn't a particularly tall man, maybe an inch more than my own five-ten, but he was imposing. Still ripped, despite two years out of the Corps, I doubted I could even get my hands around his neck, if I was so inclined. Cal wore his light brown hair in the style of the USMC, and his face was lined from tours spent in countries that had a lot more sun and wind and sand than we ever could. “ Ward Beecher called it in,” Cal continued. “Said all the trees were ablaze. He smelled the smoke.” I frowned. Ward Beecher wasn't a nut. He was the pastor of the Lake Bluff Baptist Church. I doubted he was much of a liar either, and he lived not more than half a mile from this spot. “ There's nothing now.” I walked around the clearing. The trees, the grass, the ground were all dripping wet; I couldn't find a single charred pine needle. “ 'cept this.” Cal indicated an area in front of his car. I joined him at the edge of a fairly large hole, which reminded me of photos I'd seen of meteor sites. Except there wasn't a rock of any noticeable size to be had. “ Could have been here forever,” I said. “ Mebe.” He didn't sound convinced, but what other explanation was there? The hole was empty. Unless— I went down on one knee, ignoring the mud that soaked through my uniform-I was already drenched-and studied the ground. “ You think someone was here before us?” Cal asked. “Took whatever it was that fell?” I didn't answer, just continued to look. I was the best tracker in the county. My father had made certain of that. But sometimes, like now, being the best wasn't any damn good at all. “ The rain's washed away the top layer of dirt,” I said. “An elephant could have come through here, and I wouldn't find a trace of it.” I straightened, my gaze drawn to the tree line just as a low, bulky shadow took the shape of a wolf. I didn't like that one bit. We'd had a little problem with wolves last summer. Werewolves to be exact. I hadn't believed it either—until some really strange things had started happening. Turned out there were werewolves all over the place. There was even a secret government society charged with killing them. I'd thought they'd all been eliminated or cured—no one had died a horrific, bloody death in months. But maybe I was wrong. Excerpted from THUNDER MOON Copyright Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press ISBN 0312949189 Buy Thunder Moon Join Lori's Full Moon Club \|\| Join Lori's Email Fanlist menu
	Hidden Moon By Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, July 2007 Chapter 1 I came home to escape one hell and stepped straight into another. I guess I deserved it. I had walked out at eighteen and never looked back.
	The Cherokee call the mountains where I was born Sah-Ka-Na-Ga, or the great blue hills of God. I’d always thought the phrase an exaggeration; now I wasn’t so sure. In my present state of mind, the Blue Ridge Mountains did seem a little bit like heaven. “But then a lake of fire looks good compared to this,” I muttered, scowling at the mess that nearly obscured the top of my desk. “Have you ever seen a lake of fire? It isn’t pretty.” To my surprise, Grace McDaniel stood in the doorway. We’d been best friends in high school. Then I’d gone to college and taken a job at a television station in the big, bad city of Atlanta, while she’d stayed behind. Grace was now the sheriff in Lake Bluff, and I was the mayor. Talk about the sins of the fathers . . . Phones rang in the outer office. My assistant had informed me I had three people waiting, before she’d taken off to God knows where to do Lord knows what. Everyone said Joyce Flaherty had been the assistant to the mayor since there’d been a mayor in Lake Bluff, Georgia. Considering the town had been settled by the Scotch-Irish well before the Revolution that would make Joyce downright supernatural. If the statement had been true. In reality, Joyce had been my father’s right hand during the thirty plus years he’d been in charge here, and now she was mine. The woman had an annoying habit of doing my job, then telling me about it later. But she knew the job so much better than I did. “Problem?” I asked. Grace didn’t often show up at my office; she called, left a message, sent a report. We’d been friends, but now . . . Well, Grace seemed a little pissed at me, and I wasn’t sure why. “You might say that,” she murmured in a slow, smooth, southern accent. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the cadence—one I’d trained out of my own voice years ago—until I’d come home. Grace glanced over her shoulder, then stepped into my office and shut the door. I waved at an empty seat, but she shook her head and began to pace, her nervous energy crackling in the small, enclosed space. Grace was the least likely small town cop you’d ever come across. Tall and strong, like the Scottish ancestors we both shared, she also possessed the high cheekbones and stick straight, ink black hair of the Cherokees who’d roamed these mountains for centuries before they’d been dragged west during the embarrassment we’ve all come to know as the Trail of Tears. The slightly smoky shade of her perfect skin also hinted at the intermingling with a slave or two somewhere on that family tree. A common enough occurrence in these parts since the Cherokee had once owned African American slaves, too. Grace could have been a fashion model, but she was as unaware of her beauty as I was unaware of how to be the mayor. And she loved Lake Bluff more than she loved anything or anyone; she’d never leave it like I had. Suddenly she stopped pacing and rested her palms on the front of my desk. “You need to come with me.” A thinker and doer, Grace made a decision and then she executed that decision. Sometimes—hell, most times—I wondered why she wasn’t the mayor. Except in Lake Bluff, people followed the path of their parents, and if they didn’t want to, they got out of town. “There’s a caravan of Gypsies camped at the lake,” Grace said. I blinked. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘caravan of Gypsies.’” Her lips curved. “Nothing wrong with your hearing.” The way she said it made me think there was something wrong with other parts of me. There was, but Grace didn’t know that. No one did. “Claire.” Grace sighed. “What happened to you in Atlanta? You used to understand sarcasm, give as good as you got. You used to be fun.” “Now I’m the mayor,” I muttered. “There you go.” My eyes met hers and she winked. “We’ll have you back to yourself in no time.” I’d never be the self I’d been before I’d left, but maybe I could at least stop jumping at shadows now that I was home. The shrill brrrring of the phone made me start up from my chair, heart pounding. Or not. Grace made an impatient sound. Had she ever been afraid of anything in her life? “Don’t answer it,” Grace ordered. I lifted a brow. “You’ll only have to deal with some bum-fuck nonsense, and I need you to come with me.” “Bum-fuck nonsense?” God I’d missed her. Grace shrugged. “You know how it is around here. Jamie’s cow got into Harold’s corn. Lucy’s cat beat up Carol’s dog. Some dumb ass kid got his head stuck between the bars of the jungle gym and screamed bloody murder for an hour.” “That sounds more like your bum-fuck nonsense than mine.” I stood, relieved when my phone stopped ringing at last and went to voice mail. “Fine.” Grace opened the door. “Then you won’t have to listen to someone whine about their property lines, their taxes or the unfairness of the city by-laws.” That would be my bum-fuck nonsense all right. Pausing at Joyce’s desk, I scribbled a note, checked my cell phone to make certain it was on and jerked a thumb toward the rear exit. We’d almost reached the back door when someone called, “Mayor?” I began to turn, and Grace shoved me between the shoulder blades. I stumbled in my three-inch off white pumps, the perfect compliment to my pale peach summer suit, then nearly fell on my face when the back door burst open, spilling us into the summer sun. “Ah,” Grace cast an amused glance around the parking lot, “remember when we smoked pot out here in high school?” “Grace!” “What?” She slid dark sunglasses over her light green eyes. “Someone might hear you.” “So what if they did? It’s not like we got high yesterday. We were sixteen.” “It would leave a bad impression,” I said stiffly. “You’re supposed to be the law around here.” “You want me to arrest myself for something I did ten years ago? Sorry, but the statute of limitations on that crime is over.” Grace set off, her long, lithe legs eating up the distance more quickly than mine ever could. Not that I was short, just shorter, three inches shy of Grace’s five-ten. And I wasn’t lithe by any means, I was more . . . round. Not fat—at least not yet. But I had to work at it—low fat yogurt, low fat dressing, dessert only on very special occasions—like the second coming. Grace reached the squad car and slid behind the wheel. I clambered into the passenger seat, snagging my hose on the door and cursing. “If you didn’t wear the stupid things,” Grace muttered, “you wouldn’t ruin them. This isn’t Atlanta.” I glanced at Grace’s tan slacks and equally tan blouse, complete with a stylish Lake Bluff Sheriff Department patch. “Don’t say it,” she warned. “Say what?” “That someone in an outfit like this has no business giving fashion advice.” “Okay.” I faced front. “I won’t say it.” Grace gave me a long look over the top of her sunglasses, then she just drove. I’d returned to Lake Bluff three weeks ago for my father’s funeral. He’d only been fifty-five, and while he’d never watched his weight, or his intake of cigarettes and whiskey, his death had still been a shock. That I’d agreed to remain and fulfill the rest of his term as mayor had been an even bigger shock, yet here I was. I stared out the window as we left town and headed onto the highway that led to Lunar Lake. The present incarnation of the town had sprouted on a hill a few miles from the lake—hence its name. No matter where you stood in Lake Bluff, the view was incandescent. The majority of the population—just under five thousand souls—made their living in the shops, restaurants and small, quaint hostels that lined the main streets. And a goodly portion of that living came to us during our yearly Full Moon Festival. People traveled from miles around to enjoy the weeklong celebration, which culminated on the day and night of August’s full moon with a parade, picnic and fireworks. We were expecting a huge turn out this year since a rare total lunar eclipse would occur that night. Each year two to four lunar eclipses occurred, but only during a small percentage of them would the earth totally cut off the sun’s light from the moon. As far as I knew the Full Moon Festival had never coincided with such an event. Therefore we would not only be hosting the usual summer tourists, but also stargazers—amateur and professional—would arrive to observe nature’s performance. Since many of the scheduled events took place at the lake, I understood Grace’s concern about the Gypsies. We wound down the two-lane highway—paved with asphalt, surrounded by gravel—into the valley where Lunar Lake gleamed. In between the rich evergreen of the trees, the sun sparked golden shards off the clear surface. On the other side of the valley, the mountains rose toward a sky the same shade as the lake. “ So,” I turned away from the sight, “do you get a lot of Gypsy caravans through here these days?” Grace pulled onto the hard packed dirt trail that led to the lake. “Not a one.” “Are there any Gypsies left?” “I think they went extinct about the same time as the Indians.” “More sarcasm,” I said. “Goody.” Her lips twitched but she didn’t crack a smile. She so rarely did. “Gypsies are everywhere, Claire. Most people just don’t notice them.” We came around the curve in the road, and Grace slammed on the brakes. For an instant I thought we’d traveled back in time—Romania in the 1700s perhaps? I don’t know what I’d expected to find. Tents? Hippie throwbacks? A homeless convention? I had definitely not expected to see a jumble of horse drawn wagons and a crowd of brightly dressed . . . Gypsies. *“Well, you said* there were still Gypsies,” I murmured. Grace glared at me, or at least I thought she glared. I couldn’t see her eyes past the tough cop sunglasses. As soon as we’d come into view, everyone stilled. When Grace and I climbed out of the squad car, they stared at us as keenly as we stared at them.** They appeared as if they’d escaped from the Disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame. The men wore black pants and colorful blousy shirts, the women long, rainbow hued skirts and white peasant style blouses with scarves covering their heads. Gold bracelets, beaded chains and hoop earrings sparkled everywhere. Several wagons were fitted with bars, and animals paced inside, though the conveyances were too far away, the forest too thick and shadowed to determine any species. The horses that drew the wagons were huge—Clydesdales maybe, though they didn’t resemble the Budweiser crew, except in size. These were dappled gray instead of brown, and upon closer inspection possessed broader chests and stockier rumps. “Lake Bluff Sheriff’s Department.” Grace removed her sunglasses, hooking the earpiece in her shirt before striding forward with her hand on the butt of her gun. Those nearest to her shrank back. The babble of another language rose from the ones behind them. “Bull in a china shop,” I muttered. I might have changed, but she hadn’t. Putting on my best CNN anchor smile, I moved up beside her. “I’m Claire Kennedy, mayor of Lake Bluff. Can I ask what you’re doing here?” The babbling slowed to a trickle, although everyone continued to stare. A few actually made the sign of the cross, or near enough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were afraid of me. Or maybe they were just afraid of Grace. “Take your hand off your gun,” I whispered. “Not.” “You’re scaring them.” “Being scared of the sheriff is a healthy thing to be.” I pressed my lips together. At my change in expression the indecipherable babble started up again. I raised my voice. “Is there anyone in charge?” “Someone who speaks English?” Grace added. “That would be me.” A ripple began near the back—sound, movement, an aura of deference as they bowed their heads. The crowd parted and a man appeared. “Holy shit,” Grace murmured. I choked, not just at her words but also at the sight of him. Holy shit about summed it up. He wore the black pants common to the other men, and shiny knee high black boots, but his chest was bare and shimmering with sweat or lake water, hard to tell without a taste. I blinked at the thought, one I hadn’t had for a very long time. Smooth, bronzed skin flowed over lean muscles and a ridged abdomen. A breeze blew in from the mountains and he tensed, biceps flexing, at the sudden chill in the air. But it wasn’t just his body that left me speechless. With eyes like blood beneath the moon and a face that was all sharp edges at the cheeks, chin and nose, how could I be faulted for staring? Someone handed him a towel, and he rubbed the cloth over his chest, the movement both efficient and suggestive. My stomach skittered, and I had to force myself not to look away from his suddenly amused gaze and follow the path of his hands. He lifted the towel to his slightly curling ebony hair, just long enough to brush the spike of his collarbone. When he scrubbed at it droplets flew, and the strands played peek-a-boo with the silver cross dangling from his left ear. He threw the cloth behind him as if expecting someone to catch it, which they did, before handing him an impossibly white shirt. While he drew it over his head, I glanced at Grace who rolled her eyes. “Sheriff,” he greeted, with an accent so Irish I smelled clover. “Mayor Kennedy. I’m Malachi Cartwright.” He bent slightly at the waist. “Call me Mal.” “No need to get chummy,” Grace said. “You won’t be staying.” Cartwright’s eyebrows lifted, along with one corner of his mouth. “Won’t we now?” he murmured. Excerpted from HIDDEN MOON Copyright Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press ISBN 0312949170 Buy Hidden Moon Join Lori's Full Moon Club \|\| Join Lori's Email Fanlist menu
	from the Halloween Anthology 'No Rest for the Witches' Voodoo Moon by Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press, October 2007 *Devil’s Fork-2 miles* “Yee-ha,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe I was headed to a town called Devil’s Fork. But they appeared to have a serial killer, and that’s where I came in. *Special Agent Dana Duran, FBI. Do not* call me Scully.** I wasn’t an X-Files fan even before the nickname. I’d never understood why anyone would waste an hour watching something that was so utterly far fetched. I preferred just the facts. That’s right; Joe Friday was my hero. I’d touched down at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans at six p.m., nabbed a rental car and headed northeast, per my Map quest directions. Being near the end of October, the sun had already disappeared, though the air remained warm and a little bit sticky. I skirted the city proper and headed over the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway toward St. Tammany Parish. On this side of the lake sat several upscale suburbs that drew young urban professionals who worked in either New Orleans or Mississippi. The school systems were better, the traffic less dense and the crime on the low end. Except in Devil’s Fork over the past three months. The road I traveled had never seen a streetlight. The mammoth pine forest bordered by Honey Island Swamp shrouded the area in darkness. I began to wonder if I’d taken a wrong turn. I’d left the suburbs several miles back. Then I blinked, and I was driving down a city street. One-minute trees, brush, unknown wildlife, the next Devil’s Fork National Bank. The town was pretty large, which was a shock out here in the middle of diddlysquat. Devil’s Fork wasn’t a suburb. No cul du sacs, fast food joints or supermarkets. Instead the buildings were old, weathered, though still well maintained. From the Internet propaganda I’d read before getting on the plane, Devil’s Fork catered to the fishing crowd. They had all the essentials—small grocery store, gas station, the aforementioned bank, plus several specialty shops and cafes where I assumed the wives or significant others spent their time while the fishermen fished. Farther down, near the far end of Lafayette Street, sat the police station. Oddly, there was no one out. Sure it was dark, but it wasn’t late. Usually at least one or two people took a stroll, walked their dog. If it weren’t for the occasional light in a window, the smattering here and there of a pumpkin, witch and bat in deference to the upcoming holiday, I’d think I’d come across a ghost town. I parked in front of the police station, which still had an old-fashioned hitching post. Hadn’t seen one of those in . . . forever. Opening the door, I walked in. Hello, Mayberry RFD.