Fort Reiley

By Jerry Hanel

Harrison Kass, a tabloid reporter, travels to a sleepy little town in western Oklahoma to dig up an amazing legend. Well, quotes about one, anyway. What he finds is more than he bargains for. Adam Moor, the town patriarch, has a secret. All of Harry's prying dislodges the secret and Adam vows to convert Harry into a Citizen – a parasitic infection that will take over his mind and body. Tara Roberts, the local vet, isn't what she seems. She comes to Harry's rescue and helps him survive infection. Together they must find the only man on record who knows how to free Harry from his condition before he succumbs to the Turning and becomes another of Adam's mindless minions.

"Jerry Hanel has done it again... deep characters and a story that never stops moving."
Kevin Domenic, Author of The Fourth Dimension Trilogy

"Wow... Jerry has created another amazing world in which anything can happen."
Glenn Bullion, Author of Demonspawn and the Cursed series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Hanel
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502270917

Jerry Hanel

Jerry Hanel is the author of such wild lovable characters as Brodie Wade and Harrison Kass. He is a member of Oklahoma Writer's Federation and Crossroads Writer's Group. While he enjoys throwing his poor heroes into chaos, he loves seeing how they can fight back and find redemption and grace. Find out more about Jerry at his website, and sign up for his newsletter for more information, freebies and discounts.

Book preview

Dedicated to my parents

... who taught me right from wrong, and how to defeat the monsters, especially the monster called the human condition.

I love you very much.

PROLOGUE

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days as well as later, when the sons of God slept with the daughters of other humans and had children by them. These children were famous long ago.

—Genesis 6:4

Art woke, unsure how long he had been unconscious. The bullet in his chest – lodged just under his collarbone – reminded him that he was still alive. It hurt like hell. He had been shot in the face and chest and had lost a lot of blood. Wiggling his fingers, pain shot down his arms. As a scientist, he knew this was a good sign. If he could just stop the bleeding, he might – just might – survive. His eyes tried to focus on the Sears sign just above his head, flickering for dear life after sustaining its own barrage of gunshots.

Steady, Art. Concentrate. Stay alive. The pain is good, he reminded himself. It means that your brain is registering reality. Just keep the blood inside. Get your hands moving. You're going to bleed out if you don't put some pressure on those wounds.

Small rivers of warm blood flowed from the hole in his jaw, soaking the collar of his shirt. With considerable effort, he lifted one arm. It took an eternity to go from his side to his face, weighted down like lead. The back of his head pressed against the cold bricks that supported him. The cool cement felt good in the summer heat. He managed to raise his left arm and press the collar of his shirt against the right side of his face, or what remained of it. The bone shifted and made a grinding noise in his ear.

Crap! It's shattered.

If this was the end, he regretted it. He almost had the creature tamed... he almost found the answers to the questions that had haunted him for years. Is death the end? What lies beyond? Can it be cheated? He thought he had the answers to all of these at one time. But not anymore. Not since that man came back from his tiny town. Not since that madman found him hiding like a rat in the city.

Lying in the cool shade, alone and quiet for the first time in days, he allowed himself a little laugh. It gurgled in his throat. The city wasn't as big now as he had remembered it. There was no blending in now. No hiding. No pretending to be someone he wasn't.

And his friends? Where were they? Running, he hoped. Securing themselves from the death that followed them. There was little chance of him walking out of here, much less getting away from that beast, but he had to keep trying.

With several labored grunts, he tried to stand and get away, but his left leg wouldn't obey. It hung limp, as a large blotch of red seeped from under him. He pressed his shirt collar harder against his face, despite the sharp pain it produced, and struggled up the rough brick wall until he stood on his one good leg. He wanted to live.

Art's head felt heavy and his arms slumped down to his sides. His body was failing. With a labored breath, he tried to summon the strength to move, the will to walk.

Gunshots rang out in the distance, clanging against steel. Had Harry made it to safety?

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. God, if you're there, get them to safety. That thing is too much for them. We've dug too far... too deep. Forgive us. Forgive me.

A laugh nearby caused him to flinch.

Eyes closed, but still breathing. A man in all-black appeared from around the corner. His voice was arrogant and condescending, laced with a British accent. As he stepped around the brick wall, Art could see his shooter clearly, the gun in his hand still smoking from recent activity. Wafts of chemical still hung in the air, but this beast showed no sign of slowing. He was very tall with long, stringy blond hair and a pale complexion. His skin looked waxy with black smudges around his hands. Art hadn't seen this man in years, but the smudges said everything: he needed a new host, and soon.

Lips moving, but no sound. Are you praying, Art? I didn't think you believed in God. I guess after all these years, you wonder what I believe, don't you? You know... I do believe that there is a God. We have been at war for quite some time.

Art looked up into those crazy, blue eyes as the man stepped within inches. Those sharp, piercing eyes. Like they read the imperceivable writing etched on your soul.

You should have left well enough alone, Arthur. You of all people. You should have known. You should have just come back to Fort Reiley and settled down. I would have forgiven your betrayal. I would have spared you. I would have made you more than you can imagine.

The weight of the air seemed to almost double as the tall man stood next to him. Art despised the very presence of this man—no, this thing. This was no man. It was a parasite. There was nothing worth saving in that shell. Whoever that man once was had died many, many years ago.

The man in black knelt close. I know you discovered Thomas’ secret. I read your journals. Tell me what you know, and I will spare you. I will end your misery.

Art had no intention of telling this beast anything, even if his jaw would let him. No. The secrets would die with him. It was up to the others, now. He spat blood into the man’s face.

I see, the man said in his usual condescending tone. Then it's time to find your beloved answers. He chuckled and leaned in close. The smell of the green gas solution on his trench coat overwhelmed Art and burned his nostrils. He turned his head to gulp fresh air as the man whispered in his ear.

Death is only temporary Arthur. Say hello to God for me. Because when he's done with you, it's my turn.

The Sears sign exploded in a shower of light and sparks above them throwing them into unnatural darkness in the daylight. First was a loud pop, then a sudden sense of freedom. The pain was gone, and for a moment, Art sat in the absolute black. He thought that this thing had actually lived up to its claims of immortality... but then he felt the warm blood pouring down his face from the bullet hole between his eyes.

Chapter 1

Oh, crazy, for thinkin' that my love could hold you...

I'm crazy for tryin'

and crazy for cryin'

And I'm crazy for lovin' you.

—Crazy, by Patsy Cline

Ten days prior...

INTERSTATE 40 STRETCHED on forever, and on this hot August day a lone yellow VW Super Beetle sputtered along its length. At ten a.m., the heat index was already pushing into the triple digits as lonely song from Patsy Cline wailed from the radio.

Harrison Kass looked for a secret. The secret wasn't something that was visible. In fact, it had remained hidden for hundreds of years... and, if rumor was true, it had somehow ended up in the middle of the dusty, barren plains of western Oklahoma.

Just ahead, between the boredom and dust was a small dot on the map. Yet another town to visit, and yet more people to question. Harry would be in and out, and if luck was on his side and his little VW would scoot fast enough, he could be home before Friday.

He turned off the radio and fiddled with the side vent windows in the VW, trying to direct as much of the warm air over his sweat-drenched body as possible. He had never taken his prized VW to have the after-market air conditioner put in. It would have ruined the resale value. This was an original Beetle with original paint and original everything. And now it was taking him to some forsaken oven to find a quote in the boiling August heat.

Some tabloids would have just written garbage, claimed a bogus quote, and called it a day. But The Visionary was different. They may print fantastic stories, but each story was the absolute truth... at least according to the quotes.

If anyone knew anything, it was his job to get them to talk. He reminded himself often that he was Harrison Kass, investigative reporter, as though the title somehow outweighed the sleazy person he'd become. As if it outweighed the mistakes of his past, and the lies of his present.

He hadn’t always been known as Harrison Kass. Long ago, he was known as Jason Lippman. All it took was one rash decision, made in a drunken fit of rage, to alter his life forever. Now, he called himself by his pseudonym; an alter ego that held the clean, unmarred persona of a reasonable man. Well, one that liked a drink or two, but everyone had a weak spot.

He had chosen that name specifically for the way it sounded. Harrison, because he loved the actor Harrison Ford. He always played the honorable man. The hero. The good guy. And people said that Harry's physical characteristics somewhat resembled the beloved actor. They were both just at six-foot tall and broad-shouldered with a square jaw and charming, crooked smile.

Kass, because it was his mother’s maiden name – a woman he had never known but had always admired. She died two years after his birth, but Harry’s father had never once said an ill word of her. She was a saint and could do no wrong.

But Harry wasn’t a saint. And he hadn’t become as honorable as Harrison Ford’s altruistic screen personas. He hadn’t even become good at his job. No, he'd received this assignment by being mediocre. In this line of work, the best reporters only traveled if it included a night at a four-star resort or they could milk a first-class flight to a comfortable location in the name of the story. And the worst writers never saw the light of day, stuck behind a desk editing drivel until they quit from boredom and insanity.

And here he was, right in the middle, driving to nowhere to get a quote.

He used to like being a reporter for The Visionary News and Reports. But who was he kidding? No matter how you spun it The Visionary was, and always would be, a tabloid—a rumor-mill designed for spreading lies, half-truths, and any otherwise half-baked idea that would be unbelievable enough to sell to the moronic masses. Elvis sightings were his mainstay, followed closely by UFO abductions and a distant third by stories on biblical prophecies being revealed in breakfast foods.

Harry started off thinking the job would be a change of pace from working obituaries and classifieds of the big papers. But with his past and black-market social security number, he had very limited options. He was hiding from everyone by writing under a pseudonym and using cash for as much as he could. If anyone found out what he'd done, he would be put away for life. No. He liked his little hidden world, and hoped that it would last long enough for him to find some other, more tolerable, hole to hide in.

As the sweat rolled down his neck, he swore to himself. If he had to invent one more story, pay for one more quote... if he had to bend the truth even one more time, he was going to just walk away.

I'm getting too old for this, he mumbled.

The heat was making him irritable. He had already ruined any credibility he might have had as a real journalist by working for a tabloid and running from his past had left him empty inside, with nothing but this job to fill his days. All he wanted now was a credible, truthful, unbiased story for once: something solid, factual, and still interesting.

And something cold to drink.

Pulling off the main highway onto the paved county roads, he quickly found himself alone. Very rarely an old rattletrap passed him on the dust covered stretch of pavement. The only relief from the crushing heat came from the hot air blowing in from the open windows. It evaporated the sweat from his shirt giving him only the slightest comfort.

Two more miles, Charlie, Harry said to his VW Beetle. He'd named his cars since he bought Elanore, his green Ford LTD, with his first three-hundred-and-fifty dollars. He’d owned several more cars since then, none costing more than six grand. That is, until he bought Charlie.

Charlie was a prized, 1973 VW Super Beetle. It had factory paint and original interior. He had purchased it, not because it was inexpensive, but because it was a collector's edition and in mint condition. This was the most expensive car he’d ever purchased, but Charlie was worth it. And now it took him to search one of seven small towns in western Oklahoma all because of one lonely old man and his delusional rants.

Tenny Saunders, an old man in a senior living center in St. Louis, had begun rambling about a mysterious existence in the dust-laden plains of Oklahoma. But he was none-too-ready to share this little secret at length and kept whispering into the phone They'll know. They always know. Then he would beg Harry to listen and find some missing girl... which of course he wouldn't name over the phone. Because, as he continued to rant, they'll know.

After another hour-long session on the phone, the old man grew too tired to speak, and Harry thought it best to call again in a couple of days. Unfortunately, Tenny died of heart failure just twelve hours before their next scheduled interview. Now he had to go in search of this man's home town to dig up a quote. He could bring home a story if one really existed, but the quote was paramount.

Harry pulled his little VW into the gas station in Fort Reiley, Oklahoma. It was a small town just outside of nowhere and right between no-man's-land and eternity. Actually, it sat just north of Butler, and south of the Canadian river, but it felt very remote.

The gas station was a little white building with one car bay attached. It was a fair reflection of the entire town... just smaller. Although, if the town got much smaller, it would only be the station itself. The station sat just off the main road that ran through town. A single pump planted in the center of the graveled lot seemed to be the only decoration the place needed. The rusted signs on the pump denoted diesel from one hose and unleaded through the other.

A small greasy attendant popped his head out of the station door and squinted through the sunlight.

Howdy.

Hello, Harry shouted back, but the attendant was gone again.

Harry was reasonably tall and fit and it felt good to get out and stretch. The air in the shade of the metal canopy above was a few degrees cooler than the air in the VW, and he enjoyed the sensation of a breeze brushing across his sweat-soaked back.

He slid the fuel nozzle into the VW's tank and locked the trigger so it would continue to pump as he looked around. There were at least three vehicles beside the garage. Harry thought they may have been on blocks, but the weeds were above the door-handles, covering everything below the rusted-out racing stripes, obscuring whatever base that held them up.

You're new in town, ain't ya? The attendant returned wiping his hands on a blackened rag. Harry wondered if that oily rag was making the man's hands clean or dirty. You got friends and family around here?

No. I don't have friends or family anywhere. I'm just passing through. Harry smiled at his first contact. Perhaps the man would just scream out a few quotes, and he could drive away, off to wrap up this nonsense and go on to something bigger.

Harry tried to sound relaxed as he began his routine to pry just the right words. First, get the locals to work with you. Buy something and converse about it. This air-cooled engine doesn't like the heat coming off that black asphalt. And my legs are too long to be cooped inside that bug much longer. I thought we could both use a break. Do you have anything cold to drink in there?

You've come to just the right spot, my friend. The man jutted his greasy hand out to offer a handshake. Reese Hawkins' the name. What's yers?

Harry winced. How many different germs would he contract? Be nice to the locals, he reminded himself.

Harrison Kass. He grimaced and tried to force a smile as a layer of cool grease squished between his fingers. Just, call me Harry.

Well, Mr. Harry, I got the coldest beer in town. I just stocked the case myself.

Been sober for eight years. Besides, I'm driving, so I don't need a beer. Just gas and a soda.

Well, the soda's cold too. Stocked in the same unit.

Great. Do you have anything in there that will take away this heat? What's the temperature today?

One-oh-five, I reckon. Thermometer inside says ninety-eight, but it's inside, a'course.

Of course, Harry nodded along.

So, what brings a young-un like yerself out here if it ain't family? You an investor?

He hesitated. People loved to read the gossip, but rarely wanted to become the gossip. Harry decided it best to remain semi-anonymous for the time being. I'm a writer. I'm just doing some research through the plains of Oklahoma.

It wasn't a lie. Reporters were writers, of sorts.

This here town's full a-history, if it's history yer after. But if you gotta git, don't let me slow ya down. I understand when you have to pass through. We're used to people just passing through. Seems that's all they do these days. Too bad, though.

Do you get a lot of researchers and writers?

Reese shook his head. Naw. Just farmers and salesmen, mostly.

This small talk was getting him nowhere. Harry watched the old-style pump in action. The spinning numbers clicked and clacked in a hypnotic pattern. This was going to be easier than he expected. The people seemed simple and unguarded. He wanted to talk to a credible source of information who would just say a few magic words.

If yer research takes more than a day or so, well, we don't have no motels 'round here, but Teresa runs a right-nice bed and breakfast. I don't remember no one in there the past few weeks, so I think she has a room to let. She's always glad for a guest.

Harry had no intention of staying in Nowhere, USA. He wanted to get the quotes, shake some hands, and get back to the paper before the weekend edition.

I'm in a bit of a hurry. My boss is expecting me back in St. Louis.

Goodness. You're a long way from home, son.

The phone in the main office jangled with an actual bell-and-hammer sound.

Well, if you got things out here, 'scuse me a second. The attendant turned back toward the station door.

The summer heat sat on the blacktop and made the lower half of the houses on the other side of the street appear to dance. It had been a very long time since Harry had been this rural. He'd grown up on a small farm in eastern Oklahoma. But at eighteen he had moved to the city to publish his first book. Although it was a colossal failure, writing had him hooked.

Besides, he reminded himself, his slim frame wasn't cut to haul hay and raise cattle like his father, and the evidence of Gweneth was sure to come to the surface if he moved back to Tulsa. No. He was better off staying a reporter in St. Louis.

The grinding and humming of the pump ended, the dials stopped spinning and the trigger on the handle clacked, telling Harry that the little car was full again. He replaced the pump handle and the cap to the fuel tank then turned to go inside to pay. Maybe he would find some credible people inside and he could just leave.

Watch your step! A wad of blue hair appeared under his nose as he reached for the door. Under that wad of hair, there was a little old lady who stood with her arms out, purposely blocking him as he tried to open the screen door. She looked up at him between her wrinkled forehead and the top of her glasses. She carried a thin black cane in her trembling right hand.

She is so old, Harry thought as a waft of something nearly bowled him backward. She even smells like a medicine factory. The odor reminded him of the formaldehyde solutions he'd played with in high school biology.

I'm sorry. He caught his breath and backed up. I didn't see you. Please allow me... He opened the door to let her pass.

You hear that Reese? This-uns got manners. She turned and patted his arm, then his chest. It's okay son. Jus' testin' you.

Testing? Ma'am? Harry felt like he was in grade school again with the wrinkled Mrs. Armstrong hunched over his desk asking him to recite the last word she'd said. I'm sorry... did I miss something?

Don't mind her none, Harry. She ain't right in the head. Reese smiled and tapped his temple. Git on home now Mrs. Ellis. I'll come by your place and fix your sink later.

So, your name is Harry? She chuckled and coughed, ignoring Reese. That's a nice name. You can call me Mrs. Ellis. And, no. You didn't miss anythin', son. It's just at my age, you try to find the good-uns. You don't want to live this long or longer findin' a bad one. She shook her cane at him and lowered her eyebrows, looking menacingly at him again. You'd better too, if you want it to be good, especially if you want to live forever.

Harry's ears perked. She may have information for his latest topic. A quote to be had, at least.

Are you planning to live forever, ma'am? He began to feel almost giddy. Could they be handing him the story on a silver platter? Mrs. Ellis, he mentally noted the name. That was almost good enough of a quote. Now if he could just hear a few more magic words. All he'd have to do was get it down, document their names, and he'd be gone... back to find another story he could really write about. At least he'd be out of this miserable heat.

Dang right! Mrs. Ellis smiled as though her point had been made. She jabbed her cane on the floor with a thud and proceeded to the door, shouting over her shoulder as she hobbled. You just stick around, Harry. You'll see.

Margret! You hush, now. Reese scowled at Mrs. Ellis as though she had said a four-letter word. Git on home. Your sister is worried sick about you, I'm sure.

Mrs. Margret Ellis, Harry adjusted the name in his mind. If he needed to use her as a quote, he'd have to get her name right.

Aww, you hush, Reese. Ya old geezer. She slammed the screen door, mumbling as she hobbled down toward the sidewalk. You ol' spoiled-sport. Always ruinin' a woman's fun. Why I have half a mind...

Feeling empowered with this little conversation, Harry ventured to push for a little information. Just give me what I'm looking for and I'm out of here. Three little words. He sauntered over to the soda case and picked up a cold can of Pepsi.

The attendant couldn't have been more than fifty. Maybe sixty, if he aged well.

Geezer, Reese? Really? You don't look like a geezer. Not unless you kept a magic fountain in the lift bay over there.

Reese smiled a knowing smile, then pushed a final button. The register rang and ejected its drawer. That'll be sixteen-thirty, Mr. Harry... and my age is my business.

Harry handed Reese a twenty. He felt a grin spread across his face as Reese counted his change. Perhaps this wasn't such a bad place after all. Maybe there was an answer to be found here, despite the dust and the hicks.

He almost regretted that he was backsliding into scumbag mode, but he just wanted to go home. One more story, he thought. Just one. A little more cash and a couple more lies, then I'll drop this act. I'll put my past mistakes behind me and venture out for a real job. No more excuses. No more hiding from Gweneth. He turned to the greasy attendant who put his cash into the antique register. Surely that had all blown over, anyway.

So it's full of information, is it? Harry asked.

Reese looked up, surprised. What is? Oh the town? Yeah. We're rich with history... but if you gotta be goin', then I guess you gotta go. Like I said, we're used to people just passin' through.

Can you get me the number to that bed and breakfast? Harry pulled out his pen and paper and prepared to write. I might like to learn some of that history before I go.

Reese stared blankly, as though Harry had spoken in French, then his lips curled into a grin. The number? Shewt! I can do ya one better. I'll call Teresa myself. It's Monday, and she makes some mighty good meatloaf on Mondays.

Harry chuckled at how easy this was going. You know Reese... meatloaf sounds fantastic.

Reese was all too happy to oblige. Within ten minutes and a few promises of cash, Harry had a place to sleep, a hot meal being prepared, and an oil-change scheduled for the next day. He didn't see a backlog on the oil racks, but there shouldn't be a problem to wait until tomorrow. The price was more than fair, and Charlie could use one. And if this little transaction greased the wheels of conversation, then it was well worth the price. What the heck. It would give him time to ask the locals about the myth that he was trying to uncover.

The Fountain of youth... here in the forgotten dust lands of western Oklahoma? Surely there would be more exotic places to hide such a treasure. Who'd have thought it? Harry sure didn't. But then again, it would be a perfect place for it to hide all these years. It would make a good story anyway, whether it was true or not. All he needed was for someone to say those three magic words Fountain of Youth so he could quote them and go home.

Chapter 2

Roger ain't slept nor eat for days. I'm worried about him, Ma. He doesn't seem to be his self. We'll be home in a month. The fields at Fort Reiley didn't pan out. There been a drought this year. A guy named Adam has been filling Roger's head with nonsense about it. I'm going to get Tenny and me out of here as soon as the season is over. I just need to make enough money to get us home. I miss you and can't wait to get home. Give Laura a hug for me. I miss you all so badly.

—Excerpt from a letter from Aaron Saunders back to his family in Chicago, dated June 15, 1935.

Aaron Phillip Saunders. Died of internal injuries due to a farm implement accident four days ago. No known next of kin. His personal effects will be sold at auction on Saturday.

—Obituary from The County News, June 26, 1935

Bed and Breakfast

REESE PROMISED TO DRIVE Harry to Teresa's Bed and Breakfast and to start working on the VW at first light. Harry didn't like the idea of leaving Charlie behind. There weren’t very many unaltered 1972 Super Beetles left on the planet, and he owned one in mint condition. But Reese insisted, claiming that it was just about lunch time, then he had to fix Mr. Flannigan's tractor so he could finish plowing before the storms roll through. He promised that he would see to Charlie at first light.

She's in good hands, Mr. Harry. I'll have her back to ya right away. Reese wiped his hands on the oily rag. Let me lock up and I'll take ya on over. She isn't afraid of the dark, is she?

Who?

Your VW, here, Reese laughed.

His cars always had names, but Harry had never thought of them as alive, happy or afraid. To him, it was just a name to express their own style.

To be honest, I've never asked him, he said.

Him? Aw, come on now... ever'one knows that cars are picky, finicky animals. They gotta be part of the female race, Reese said as he locked down the register.

His name's Charlie. It's not weird that I name my cars, is it?

Nah... just as long as he doesn't talk back to ya and ain't scared of the dark. Boy, my wife was. Used to scare her to screamin' when I turned off the hall light at night. I never got a wink o' sleep for ten years with that blasted thing shining in my face.

Was? You're divorced? Harry didn't really care, but figured it was a good conversation. He hoped that he could guide the conversation toward older people in town.

Even better, Reese said with a wide grin. She's dead. She was murdered years ago. Interrupted a burglar.

That wasn't at all what Harry had expected, and he was at a loss for new questions. His plan to direct the conversation drifted away on the hot summer breeze. I'm sorry, was all he could manage.

Don't worry. Reese almost beamed, as if the news made him happy, not saddened. Marriage wasn't hell, but it sure wasn't paradise neither. Decided it wasn't worth tryin' a second round. Never did hitch up again. 'Sides, ain't no one 'round here would take me. Reese pointed toward the door. My car's 'round back. I'll finish lockin' up and meet ya there.

Harry stepped back out into the August heat and past his VW, still at the pump. The news of murder was very interesting. Perhaps he could spin an old-fashioned murder story into something bigger if the fountain legend fell through.

Just be nice to the locals, Harry reminded himself again as he patted the yellow fender.

I'll be back for you soon, Charlie. Sit tight.

Harry pulled his bulging backpack from the rear seat of his car and walked behind the dingy shop. In the middle of a dark patch of bolts and oil-stained dirt stood an old jalopy. It was a Frankenstein's monster of parts pulled from many other cars. No two panels on the car were the same color. One primer gray, one brown, one yellow, etc.

Ain't she pretty? Reese called behind him. He searched for a key on a zip-cord attached to his belt before climbing in to the beast's belly. She's like I like my women. Fast and loose.

And ugly, Harry thought as he sat on the passenger side.

The monster roared and billowed black smoke as Reese revved it, obviously missing a muffler.

Woo hoo! Purrs like a kitten, don't she? Reese yelled over the noise with a proud smile.

Harry just nodded and smiled back.

Frankenstein, as Harry decided to name it, had no air conditioning, so they rolled the windows down to let the hot air blow across them. It wasn't much relief from the heat of the interior, but it was better than nothing. The drive across town was noisy but educational, as Reese ranted about each building over the din of the engine.

They passed Cricket's Dry Goods, O'Hare's Farm Store, and the post office, all in the same building. The school was two blocks further; a set of two brick buildings surrounded by rusting playground equipment and a dusty baseball field. A small white church with a tall pointed steeple sat on a little patch of well-mown grass across the street from the school, and the houses in between ranged from little pristine brick structures, to small rotting wood shanties.

Seven blocks from where they started, which was all the way across town, Reese pulled Frankenstein up to a white two-story farm house. It seemed incredibly out of place with the trailer on the lot to the left, and the shanty on the lot to the right. Peering behind the house, Harry saw acres and acres of empty land. It was as if this house somehow marked the edge of reality for Fort Reiley.

Welcome to Teresa's Place, Reese chimed as the engine died down.

Harry got out of the old jalopy and inspected his overnight location. The two-story farm house was well maintained. A white picket fence and a pristine, green lawn surrounded the structure. Rows of blue and white flowers lined the edges of the large bay windows in perfect window boxes. Harry drank it all in as he followed Reese up the long walkway.

An older lady opened the door and smiled as they reached the top step. Her curly gray hair, simple farmer's dress and apron gave her the appearance of a model for a tourism postcard from the simple life.

Welcome. You must be Harrison Kass. She motioned them inside, Please, come in, come in. It is so good to have guests again, Mr. Kass.

Please, call me Harry. He wiped his shoes on the doormat and stepped just inside the door in front of Reese.

I appreciate the stay, Mrs... it was then that Harry realized he didn't know Teresa's last name. In all of the conversation up to this point, he never asked. He scolded himself for not being thorough enough. He knew better than that. He reminded himself of his three guiding rules: Rule number one, always get a name. Rule number two, you can't make a quote without a full name. Rule number three, be nice to the locals. Well... at least he had one right.

Roberts. Teresa Roberts. But please, everyone around here just calls me Teresa.

Yes ma'am, he said with a nod.

Well, I'll leave this young-un with ya. Treat him good. Reese clapped Harry hard on the shoulder. Harry was surprised by the amount of force in those scrawny, grease-covered arms.

Waving a quick goodbye to Reese, Harry glanced at his shoulder to see if it was stained. Surprisingly, it wasn't. He turned back to his host and tried to regain his composure.

Where should I put my bag?

Follow me. She beamed with pride as she escorted him through the house with an almost regal flare.