The Dominant One

By Michelle Ian

You find out your childhood friend might just be a serial killer. What would you do? Try to kill him? Or report him to the police that you know won't be able to contain him?

 

Gabriel Connolly struggles with what's right. Then, when he's faced with pure evil, and realizes he has no choice, he tries to drown his soul-less friend in a river. But evil doesn't die.

 

And that's just the start of Gabriel's new nightmare. You can't cheat death, that's the catch. Even worse, Gabriel realizes he may have passed on supernatural gifts to a heartless killer.

 

As fiendish plans and unspeakable atrocities are set in motion, Gabriel learns that he alone may hold the key to a series of terrifying events: a secret cabin in the woods, a hidden tomb housing a trail of dismembered corpses, the young killer who lingers in a coma intent on cheating death. And at last, a depraved madman hellbent on saving his only son's life. Can Gabriel take back the gifts given and triumph over the wicked? And most importantly, will death lay claim in the end?  

 

The Dominant One is a sinister standalone suspense. If you like conflicted heroes, violent plots, and supercharged villains, then you'll love Michelle Ian's eerie genre bending suspense horror.

 

"Reality, memory, and the dark side of dreaming collide in The Dominant One by Michelle Ian, a spiraling work of supernatural horror that hooks hard from the very first chapter. A wise protector with a hidden power finds himself on a desperate rescue mission in the Arizona mountains, haunted by the fatal fallout of his own tragic heroics. With a hypnotizing plot and enthralling, suspenseful prose, this is a sinister masterpiece of modern horror, with surreal sequences of mind-bending descriptions, dream-world battles, a corpse-swallowing void, and a psychotic killer who can terrorize outside of space and time. A disturbing escape, Ian knows precisely how to craft a thriller to make one turn the pages even as the book gets darker and more foreboding." Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★½

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Ian
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223196211

Book preview

Prologue

Ahypnagogic jerk is an involuntary twitch occurring just before one falls asleep. According to those who suffer from this phenomenon, it’s often followed by a falling sensation. Why this happens is still a mystery.

Creep

Logan Malone jerked awake in the hazy, black confines of his room. His system reacted to the jolt of panic as if struck by a sudden bolt of electricity. His back went rigid, and his legs kicked out before him in a peculiar sort of dance. At first, he found it hard to catch his breath, so he lay patiently, staring up at the ceiling, hoping the feeling would pass. He released the bedsheet and brought his hand to his chest. From beneath his palm, his heart drummed like a furious fist. Another nightmare, he surmised, as his pulse slowly returned to normal. Still, this seemed wrong. He couldn’t register being asleep long enough to produce such a state, but he supposed it was possible. He searched his memory for any clues about his dream. There were none. Most people didn’t remember their dreams. He had read that somewhere, but this was ridiculous. This was not the first time he’d awoken this way, his heart racing, and his skin slick with a feverish-like adrenaline. It was happening more and more.

If this were a dream (and what else could it be?), nothing else seemed to make sense. Was his consciousness trying to tell him something? He didn’t know. There was one thing in particular that bothered him more than any other. Logan zoned in on it, already working out the time frame from his mind, and there it was. He had only been asleep for a mere few seconds; of that, he was sure. He glanced at the bright blue numbers on the large digital clock on his nightstand. Logan closed his eyes at precisely 9:43, and it was now 9:46. He subtracted the estimated, but conservative, two-plus minutes it took to reset his system’s normal state—it was basic math, after all—when another thought occurred to him. This thought, however, was infinitely more terrifying.

No, he said out loud, forcing the affirmation so he could not only hear it, but the universe could as well.

This was nothing more than a byproduct of an overextended imagination coupled with an equally exhausted mind. Tired. Yes, that’s it. That’s what you are, kid; just plain old, tuckered out, as his mother would surely say. He needed to move on from these self-imposed nightmares. Once he did that, these stupid dreams would no longer plague him, and he could get a decent night’s sleep. These last few weeks had been hard for him, but he had gotten through it. The monster that had tormented him in real life was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. It was a stroke of unbelievable good luck, and even if it weren’t, what did it matter? Gone was gone. Someone that deranged and perverse was better off where he was, forever lost in his own nightmare. It’s what that creep deserved for what he did to me. As for Logan, it was simple. He needed to recharge his engine. The body cannot give without take. Deprivation would eventually cause it to burn out. Again, it was simple math. As he lay there sorting through the constant reel of the last few nights, he couldn’t help but become increasingly uneasy once more. Then the thought, the same one he pushed away just a moment ago, came steadily creeping back. It threatened to devour all rational sense, leaving nothing in its place but relentless paranoia. What if it’s not a dream? What if it’s something else? Say it, Logan… go on… it’s already there, right on the tip of your tongue. You just have to speak the words.

Is there anyone there? he said, and then instantly regretted it. He rolled his eyes in the darkness, both disgusted and ashamed of giving in to this foolish desire. For what purpose? To scare himself? Why would he even want to? He gave a quick scan of his room. This action was nowhere as ludicrous as checking to see if there was a monster hiding under his bed, or lurking inside his closet, but it was close. He followed the sliver of moonlight, illuminating the frame of his window. At least it was still closed, so that left only one other way in—his bedroom door. However, this was also a dead end. He accepted this reasoning based upon a single definitive fact—the house alarm. Since his father had left, his mother had made this her nightly task. Logan was even willing to bet she could set it blindfolded if she had to. That’s right, Nancy Malone would never forget. There would be a better chance of the Browns making it to the Super Bowl than that ever happening, he thought with a faint chuckle before turning himself over.

Is… there anyone… there? an eerie voice spoke.

Logan froze. The voice resonated in his ears like a fine-tuned microphone, penetrating the surrounding space. He couldn’t scream; his throat held his breath captive. His pulse marked each second, pounding in his eardrums as he waited for whatever horrible thing to come next. To his surprise, nothing came. His face burned, first with apprehension, then with humiliation. He had once again let his juvenile imagination take control. There he lay, not unlike a possum feigning death, as an imaginary hand tightened over his voice box like a vice grip. What if he hadn’t imagined it? What then? The thought of moving was for now an impossible task, almost as impossible as growing a set of wings and flying away from there. 

Logan shifted his gaze toward the farthest corner of the room—the darkest corner. He stared at the impenetrable black sheet, trying to decipher what shapes lie hidden beneath. The voice seemed to emanate from there, or so he thought. He pressed his bedspread firmly to his chest, his body damp with sweat. He refused to give up this make-believe barrier. Minutes ticked by, and still, he waited for something sinister to emerge from the invisible curtain to take him away. That did not happen. In an act of sheer will, he forced the blanket down, past his hips. It was a good start, he decided, before he made himself yet another deal. Any sound or movement, no matter how insignificant, and he would call out for his mother. Damn the consequences. She would hear him, and she would come. Nancy Malone had proven herself long ago to be the champion of light sleepers. A minute shift in the earth’s axis, miles beneath their feet, would no doubt rouse that woman from unconsciousness. For this, he was grateful, though not always, especially on those lonesome nights when the urge had struck, and he would have no choice but to retire to the bathroom down the hall to take care of business. Suddenly, the idea of calling out for his mommy in the middle of the night in search of the bogeyman had once again sharpened his senses. 

Not real… All in my mind… No one there… Not real. He repeated the words over and over in one continuous loop, deeming the voice as nothing more than a momentary glitch, an auditory hallucination of his own fatigued mind. And the more time he spent awake, freaking himself out, the less time for a restful sleep. 

Then it happened. Amid this ill-fated and mistimed declaration, a swift streak of movement burst past his periphery, this time from the opposite side of the room. He jerked sideways in his bed, and his hand shot out beside him. Logan reached, fumbling for the desk lamp next to the clock, nearly knocking it clean from his hand as he flailed for his shot in the dark. Finally, he seized it by the base before snatching it up with his fingertips and flipping the switch upward, casting the room in an instant circle of light. Panting, Logan leapt from his bed, the lamp still clutched inside his hand.

"Mom," he shouted, as he wielded the light like a machete, swinging it back and forth, cutting through each section until the room spun and a fleet-footed dizziness swept in. With narrowed eyes, he allowed himself barely a moment before realizing there was one last place left to look. It’s hiding under your bed, Logan. Maybe it was. It’s always the last place you think to look.

He placed the lamp down and took an exaggerated step back before dropping to one knee. His bedspread lay crumpled at his feet. On the count of three, he nodded without knowing, then reached out his hand toward the quilt.  

One… Two… Three… Three… Three… Now!

The bedding shot up and over his shoulders in a whirling cascade of motion and released from his grip as if he were performing a magic trick. All the while, Logan watched in an almost stupefied fascination for the monster to emerge. Beneath his bed hid nothing—nothing at all. He kept searching, convinced that something would at any moment appear. Logan plopped onto his ass. You’re looking for something that’s not there. Without thinking, he shifted his attention to his bedroom door. Where was his mother?

He called for her. Hadn’t he? Yes, he must have, but if he had, she’d be standing here beside him, red-eyed and ill-tempered. A chill came over him. It spread across both arms and down the entire length of his spine. What was happening? He didn’t know, couldn’t even begin to take hold of the ever-mounting questions tormenting him. Why was he jerking awake, night after night, and why couldn’t he remember his dreams? Then there was this, hearing voices, seeing things he knew were not there, and now, the absence of his mother. She should be here. As sure as God made little green apples. He heard the words as if she spoke them, remembering that moment like it had happened just yesterday. They had walked hand in hand from his kindergarten class. Bobby McPhee’s mother was late that day. Logan, in hindsight, hadn’t remembered her coming at all, leaving the little boy standing all by himself, wide eyed, and searching against the wall.

You’ll always come, won’t you, Momma? he asked her.  

As sure as God made little green apples, she replied with a smile, but what if what’s going on in here is going on out there? He unlocked his feet and bolted straight for the door. 

Stop it! Just stop it! You already have a rational explanation why this is happening, Logan! He chastised himself for yet again, falling back on to the supernatural. You’re being stupid! Let it go or you’ll drive yourself crazy! Tears filled his eyes, but he did not stop them. Instead, he let them come. Reveling in the pain as they overflowed past both cheeks in a single, continuous stream. He bowed his head and rested it against the door frame. He can’t hurt you anymore. It’s over. Logan repeated the words until they filled him, and he could neither see nor hear anything else. He can’t... hurt you… anymore. You’re afraid to close your eyes because you’re afraid he’ll be there. What he did to you was awful, but it’s in the past and you’re going to be okay. As sure as God made little green apples. He laughed, already feeling the exhaustion of the next day settle in. 

Across the hallway was his mother’s room. She always slept with her door open. It was quiet and submerged in darkness. The supernatural aside, it wouldn’t hurt to at least check on her, he decided, as he pushed the door open and tiptoed past her entryway. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing she hadn’t heard him, for he knew what she would think. A boy your age, still acting like a baby. You should be interested in girls not chasing monsters, and while we’re at it, you could do a lot better in the friend department too, kiddo.

Prey, that’s what the creep had called him. In life, you’re either the predator or the prey, Logan. So, what’s it going to be for you? He wiped the tears from his eyes, trying his best to combat the memory. When the terrible thing had been happening, his mind let go, as all he could do was lay there and wait for it to be over. Then he came, an older boy, one who seemed to know the monster, to save him. 

In the end, it was the creep who had become the prey. He owed his life to this boy and so he had made him a promise, a promise he would never break. He would keep what happened a secret. Logan never asked the boy his name. Didn’t want to know. Thought it best that way in case someone found him out. He would never tell—never! He would take the blame himself first.      

Mom? Logan spoke the word with barely a whisper. He had no intention of waking her but to tell her he was okay. It was, at that moment, important to him. You must be as tired as I am? Logan smiled wearily.

Sleep well, Mom. I love you. He hovered a moment longer while she slept, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and he felt at peace. He retreated backward toward her door.

I’m going to get some sleep tonight if it kills me, he announced with a firm pump of his fists as he made his way back to his room. And with one last look around for good measure, he jumped back into his bed and turned off the light.

You’re out of my head, creep, he stated, the declaration as reassuring as the pillow beneath him. He closed his eyes and bunched the bedspread all around him. Just as he had with his mother, he focused on the rise and fall of his own chest, counting out each breath as his body went slack and his mind drifted toward sleep. Eventually, his hold upon the blanket loosened and the darkness behind his eyelids became a silent and welcomed blank.

CREEP! The menacing voice came again.

Logan reacted to the voice that boomed inside his head with a maximum effort. His eyes shot open, and his mouth bore a diaphragm-fueled scream. Only none of those things happened. 

The world Logan knew was no longer. He passed through it, a helpless spectator to an atrocity that transcended even the wildest of imagination. As his actual body slept, the other part of himself, the part that existed without the flesh, bone, muscle and organs, was already fleeting. Logan, in sound mind, would have likened it to being drawn into a parallel dimension. His gamer friends would have described it as being sucked into a black hole, a mirror universe of sorts. Either way, it was terrifying. Within this place existed an invisible force. Its hold infinite, a boundless energy stripped him from his corporal being, as a snake would its skin. Something had attached itself deep within Logan’s core. And the weight it sank was unfathomable. He closed his eyes, but the joke was on him, for he could still see. His vision morphed into that of a supernatural viewer—a third eye to a place that showed him both the inside and the out. Logan’s head passed through his pillow, and he glimpsed its inner making. He had no choice but to accept it, as his sight moved past the thin cotton layer of his fitted blue sheet and onward through his mattress. He watched in complete horror as it swallowed him whole, bursts of thick, white filling. Panic had him cold in its grip as next came the needlepoint, like threads of the wooden bed frame. 

Another pull, and with it another view. This time, it was the underneath of his bed, his mother’s fuzzy pink slippers peeking out at him from the bottom of his door frame. A moment of hope quickly turned to dust. His will was no match for the force that claimed him. Oh, god, how badly he wanted her. He called out to her, wailing and praying for a miracle that would never come. She vanished, and in her place, the downstairs ceiling. It appeared to him from up above, worn from age and in need of a fresh coat of paint. In a flash, that had gone too, along with the house and the life that he knew. That in which he passed; now, an empty black space, he could see or hear nothing else. It was everywhere, on everything. He was dying. Yes, maybe this is how death went? You just kept falling and falling until there was less and less of you left. Soon, I’ll just fade away and disappear. The thought brought with it a type of relief. 

Then it came, that final jerk, but with it, not the end. Logan traveled farther down to what appeared to be an endless black corridor. On the opposite side of this tunnel, a doorway outlined by pinpoints of light so faint, he wasn’t sure they were there at all. To his disbelief, the invisible weight that had fastened itself deep inside his core suddenly let go. He searched the surrounding corridor. Should he try to stand, to escape? Was there a beginning and did it have an end? Before he could get his footing, a figure appeared from above. It hovered for a moment and slowly took shape. Its face slowly came into focus, not unlike the film of one of those old-time Polaroid pictures. Then all at once, he knew. It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Every question, each fear, and the dread that invariably followed to the jerking awake night after night—they were warnings. His subconscious mind was keeping him from sleep. His hallucinations were not hallucinations at all, but a foresight on what was yet to come. It bled into his waking world, but he just couldn’t see it. He didn’t have enough time; and now, lost in a nightmare under someone else’s control, he finally understood. They would never let him go. With the realization came laughter, its voice reverberated like a shockwave throughout the corridor. It pierced his very soul. As the face became clearer and the creep got closer, Logan couldn’t help but wish he was dead.

A minute prior, Nancy Malone stood patiently by, watching from her son’s doorway with amusement and agitation. He was too old to behave like this, of that, she was sure. She took a tentative step forward to check if he was, in fact, really sleeping before going all the way in. He was also, she determined, far too old to be calling out for his mother. To think a boy his age would still be afraid of the bogeyman. It was no wonder he had no friends. She sighed, narrowing her eyes. He had argued he had plenty of friends, but she just couldn’t bring herself to accept the kind of friends who spent most of their existence behind a computer screen. When she was his age, she couldn’t wait to be outside with her friends. However, her friends were the kind you could reach out and touch. The only thing he could reach out and touch were his game controllers. As it was, it took all her strength to not run right out of the room with both hands clutched over her face every time he logged onto whatever barbaric schlock fest his merry band of misfits deemed fit.

Nancy pursed her lips and checked the inventory of his room. It seemed hopelessly lacking, devoid of a soon to be sixteen-year-old’s personality. There wasn’t a single trace of him anywhere, no sports teams, music idols, or heaven forbid, even a picture or magazine gearing him toward the opposite sex. Without wanting, her eyes led her onward, straight to the back wall of his room, to his gaming station that sat erected like a shrine. Its mere presence was cold and alien-like to her. I have myself to thank for that. She thought with a sour note, remembering the Christmas she had allowed her self-absorbed and unapologetically absent ex-husband to buy off his son’s affection instead of earning it. She couldn’t remember the last time he had called to say hello or set up a weekend visit. Just like my father. Nancy chided herself, for she vowed to marry a man with an altruistic heart but chose—she paused with a scoff—an exact carbon copy of my dad. I have myself to thank for that as well. She turned her back to the past. You knew better than to marry a man like him. An image of her darling ex-husband flashed before her eyes. Her shoulders drooped as she resigned herself to this newfound awareness. Well, that clinches it. Tomorrow, she would sit Logan down for a serious talk. It was time he started living. Her son would have friends, the ones made of flesh and bone and not a computer-generated image, maybe even pick up a hobby or sport. No more hiding from the world. Nancy took a few more steps toward his bed and approached him quietly from the side. Logan’s restlessness this past month was no doubt the effect of too much gaming. That would have to change. Most of the games were way too violent, anyway. They would give anyone nightmares. She would do what she needed to fix that. Nancy brushed her hand over the top of her son’s forehead and uttered a silent but heartfelt goodnight. Who knows, she mused, a lot could change in a month. And what better way to commemorate a birthday than to celebrate it with a party of new friends? Yes, her Logan would be just fine and, better yet, he’d be happy. She would make sure of that, as sure as God made little green apples.

Sometimes, It Feels Good To Burn

Gabriel Connolly sat baking in the crisp Arizona heat with his face poised toward the sun. The temperature-gauge on his dash flashed a steamy 96-degrees. He considered putting the top back on as he turned his attention toward the AC. But he quickly decided against it when the light changed over to green. 

Sometimes, it felt good to burn. He wiped the moisture from his upper lip and readjusted his sunglasses. If he were at home, he would’ve been lying in his bedroom, fan blowing, with nothing on but his underwear and the windows wide open. But he wasn’t at home. Home now felt like it was a million miles away. Gabriel’s friend sat in the passenger seat beside him. The muscles beneath his smooth, tanned skin twitched. His long black hair, which trailed behind him in the wind, pulled tight into a ponytail that hung down the center of his back. He seemed to stare into nowhere.  

Behind them, Sadie, his Wolf and Shepard mix, let out a faint whimper as she stretched out across the seat. He glanced into the rearview mirror to catch the dog’s attention, but caught only his own reflection. His complexion in the sunlight reflected a pale, stained porcelain, and his ultramarine eyes glistened a bloodshot red. No surprise there, he thought. The exhaustion he felt nearly consumed him. Gabriel rubbed at the base of his neck and pushed the hair back from his face, untangling the mass of dirty-blond strands with his fingertips. His body ached as though he had been in a fight, and he supposed he had. Barely a week had passed this month since he registered a full night’s sleep. When the nightmares had come, it threw his world off kilter. Since then, every dream taunted him, and every morning thereafter produced an uncompromising fatigue.

All right, girl. Take it easy. Gabriel said softly to her as he scratched at the canine’s head. She would feel better once they were there. They all would. 

Gabriel’s best friend, Bodaway Walker, Bodie, for short, watched Gabriel out of the corner of his eye. Gabriel grinned, and with a sarcastic arch of his eyebrow, lifted his finger to the car radio.

Turn it up? he signed the words in a composed but lazy sort of swing before placing his hands back onto the steering wheel. His friend glared at him, not in the least bit amused. Not that Gabriel expected him to be. Bodie had been born with damage to his auditory nerves. The meningitis, which came later, settled what remained by taking with it both his hearing and vocal cords. His was a world lived deep under water. It was a raw deal, the worst of its kind. Gabriel believed that life without sound proved complicated enough. Learning to communicate with his best friend didn’t have to be. And so, he taught himself how to sign along with the help of his friend. They were heading out of Oro Valley and going up north to Apache Junction. Bodie had once called Apache, his home. His cousin Elan still did. 

Elan had lived less than a mile away from the Superstition Mountains, where they had spent nearly every weekend since Gabriel could drive. They enjoyed the freedom and the still beauty of the trails and, just beyond that, a seemingly endless stretch of the accompanying valley. 

Bodie sat brooding in his seat, lost in his own thoughts. His expression was atypical, tight-jawed and a slight bit uneasy. When Gabriel’s first attempt to talk went nowhere, he decided on another approach—pain. A swift, slick knuckle punch to the boney part of Bodie’s upper arm would no doubt do the trick, and it did. Sadie lifted her head and growled as his friend reeled from the surprise blow. 

Easy, Sadie, everything’s fine. Gabriel spoke the words with ease. With Sadie, he understood. Her devotion to his friend was nothing short of inspiring.       

Bodie turned and ran a thumb down the bridge of the canine’s snout to soothe her. It never failed to do so. One of these days, I’m going to let her bite you, Bodie signed, finishing the warning with an abrupt middle finger. 

Sadie, you just going to lie there, honey? Sadie rose from her seat and licked the side of Gabriel’s face. You wouldn’t bite me, would you, old girl? The dog snorted her retort and turned back around.

You going to tell me what’s wrong? Gabriel said, as he turned to face his friend. Bodie had learned to lip read the short and sweet of most things. He hesitated, then pointed to his cell phone. 

Not answering my texts, Bodie replied.

Now it was Gabriel’s turn to be quiet. What was there to make out of this? There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot there, but it didn’t matter. Bodie was concerned, and that was no small thing. Bodie wasn’t the type to make peaks into valleys, and now it was his turn to watch Gabriel. The start of a headache needled its way in. He took a step back and sorted through each variable. His thoughts, though tangible, were tender to the touch as he eyed the facts from every angle. He was close and yet… Then the answer, or should he say the proof, to what his friend had been digging for made itself known. Bodie wanted to be in the know. He’d been acting weird since they left that morning, and now Gabriel understood why. Exhaustion racked both his body and mind. No wonder he couldn’t see the signs. The know was Bodie’s term for what he coined Gabriel’s spirit in the sky, proclaiming his friend from that day forward as a sort of spiritual Google, an ethereal roadmap to the stars. 

Just type your supernatural query into the search engine and press go. He tightened his hand over the steering wheel. He wasn’t a believer. Gabriel possessed the gift of intuition no more than those scammers on TV, with their stylized tarot cards and crystal balls, possessed the gift of sight. Still, there it was, that same sharp tug in his gut, followed by a swelling in his chest that settled like a knot between each rib. His thoughts jumbled, like words on a crumpled piece of paper. The feeling wasn’t strong, but it was plenty unpleasant. He leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath in. The air was slick with condensation. The heat not only dampened their skin but their spirits while it accompanied them along the highway. Then there were the dreams, although for the past few weeks, they played more like nightmares. But that information would remain classified. His friend was far too sensitive to that mumbo-jumbo as it was. He sure as hell didn’t need Bodie worrying about some bullshit, left-over manifestations of his own troubled mind. Gabriel refused to acknowledge them. They didn’t do anyone any good, and if he stopped giving it heat, then eventually it would burn itself out.   

Not this again, man. Hey, I’m the white guy here. I thought you ‘indigenous types’ had your own kind of sixth sense? Gabriel paused, then pointed to his head. Oh, wait, I know. The ‘Apache’s guide’ to the galaxy.

Bodie smirked before signing his reply. I follow the way of the pompous and self-centered white man. I need no compass and I’m only a third Apache. Does that count?

Close enough, Gabriel said, working his hand over the back of his neck and massaging the knobby area just above his spine. When’s the last time you spoke to him? He could’ve guessed the answer, but still had to ask, the question in itself a necessary evil. Bodie put up his three middle fingers and made a circular motion in the air with his hand. 

Wednesday.

All right, today was Saturday. It was true; it had only been a few days, less than a week, really. So, what was the big deal here? Elan himself had even given them a spare key to the back door so they could come and go whenever they pleased. No invitation necessary and no questions asked and yet, Gabriel couldn’t ignore it, that nagging feeling, the unsightly speck upon the windshield. He unclenched the tension in his jaw before he dared speak again, but Bodie beat him to the punch. 

You’re not telling me something? I can see it on your face. Bodie raised his eyebrows and leaned in to him. 

The only thing on my face is perspiration from you sweating me. You’re digging for something that’s not there. Everything’s fine. Gabriel threw all five of his fingers out from under his chin and waited for what was sure to come next. 

Bullshit! Bodie maneuvered his fingers into a pair of makeshift bullhorns. Gabriel wanted to argue, to deny it. But, in matters such as these, it seemed best to let it go.