Hangman's Curse: The Veritas Project (Veritas Project, 1)

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONE: CHAPTER ONE: B aker High School quarterback Jim Boltz wiped his hands on his jersey, angrily this time. He'd almost fumbled the snap again, the third time in the first quarter. His hands were slick with sweat. They were shaking. He clenched them into fists. "Y'okay, Jim?" asked the center. "M'okay!" he snapped back. He was looking bad; he knew it and his team knew it. He had to get it together, had to quit missing, dropping, forgetting. This was an important game, Baker against Whitman. The Baker High School stadium was filled to capacity. He took his place in the huddle, his stomach in knots. "Okay, uh, double-wide right, tight end left, 755 fly, on one. Ready . . ." "We just did that play," said Dave, one of the wide receivers. Jim stared at the turf. He was thinking about breathing. Howie suggested, "How about power-I right, play action 242 . . ." Jim's brain finally snapped into gear. "Uh, yeah, yeah, uh, tight end down and out, on two. Ready . . ." "Break!" they all yelled. The huddle broke and they headed for the line of scrimmage. Jim forgot the play. He tagged his fullback and got a reminder. "Ready, set, red twenty-one, red twenty-one, red twenty-two, hut, HUT!" He got the snap, faded back, looked for his receiver, saw a face in the stands . . . The face was pale. The eyes were cold and cruel, and they gazed at him unblinkingly. Jim's hand trembled. He almost dropped the ball. "Why's he standing there?" Coach Marquardt growled from the sidelines. Still in his midtwenties, Marquardt was all meat, no fat, and tough enough to scare any kid within range of his glare. "Boltz! Wake up and throw the ball!" Jim threw the ball. It wobbled in a pitiful, lazy arc over the line of scrimmage and bounced far short of the receiver. The play was over, and it was sheer luck the ball wasn't picked off by a linebacker. This time, Gordon, the center, got right in his face. "Jim, what's the problem? Hey, I'm talking to you!" Jim was eyeing that face in the stands. "Sleazy little wimp!" The center turned to follow Jim's gaze. "Who?" "He's gonna pay for this." Gordon was still looking. "Who?" Jim turned toward the huddle. "C'mon." It was fourth down on Whitman's 24-yard line and Baker had four yards to go for a first down. Jim took some deep breaths. It had to be exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress of playoffs coming up. With two more wins, they'd go to the state championship game on Turkey Day, the big one. That could be doing it. Maybe it was a touch of the flu, or something he ate. It could be anything. Anything but- Fear. Uh-uh. No way. Not me, not here, not now, and not from that little creep in the stands . He looked at those distant black eyes and mouthed the words, I'm not afraid of you! Ian Snyder sat hunched like a vulture in row twelve on the far end of the bleachers, dressed in black, the only color he owned. The seats all around him were vacant. After three miserable years in high school, he was used to it. He was enjoying every moment of watching Baker High's star quarterback fall apart. The searing, demonic smile never left his face. Oh, you're scared, all right. I can see it in the way you keep looking this way and keep blowing this football game. I've got you right where I want you, don't I? "Abel Frye," he whispered, his eyes gleaming like the silver pendant that hung from his left ear. "Abel Frye." Jim Boltz shook off the weakness, clamped his hands together to keep them steady, and called for one more pass play, a last-ditch attempt to make that first down. The Baker Hawks went to the scrimmage line; he took the snap, faded back- His arm faltered in midthrow. Someone was standing in the end zone. Abel Frye . The name reverberated like an iron bell through his brain, taking command of every thought, every intent, numbing every nerve. Beneath the upstretched arms of the goalpost stood a gaunt, decaying figure washed pale by the floodlights, shreds of a tattered shirt moving like vapors in the breeze, the head cocked grotesquely against the right shoulder as if the neck were broken, a golden-eyed hawk perched on the left shoulder. The youth looked dead, his face a chalky white, and yet his eyes met Jim's and then his pale, gray lips parted in a hideous grin. They knew each other. This was an appointment. "YES!" said Ian Snyder, leaping to his feet, arms high in jubilation. Those who noticed had no idea what he was so excited about. The hawk's wings burst open as it leaped off the bony shoulder. With head low and eyes crazed with killing, it came straight for Jim Boltz. Every thought fled from Jim's mind. He had no awareness of the game, the football in his hand, or the opposing tacklers breaking through. The only reality for Jim Boltz was fear. Searing, mind-conquering fear. The hawk grew larger as it came closer, wings beating furiously, talons open. Jim Boltz turned and ran. Coach Marquardt came unglued and almost crossed the sideline onto the field. "What in Sam Hill is he doing? BOLTZ! TURN AROUND!" Assistant Coach Raddison could only gawk, but he did put a hand on Marquardt's shoulder in the hope of containing his temper. Their star quarterback was outrunning Whitman's tacklers, running faster than they'd ever seen him run, but in the wrong direction. The Baker crowd was on its feet, roaring, shrieking, waving, trying to get Boltz's attention. The Whitman crowd was on its feet as well, but hysterical, pointing, laughing, having a great time. Jim's receivers reached the end of their patterns, turned, and then stood there, bewildered and incredulous as their quarterback shrank in the distance and both teams fell into confusion. Coach Marquardt signaled "time out" and crossed onto the field, cursing and fuming. Raddison grabbed his arm. "Vern, the play isn't over!" " What play?" Marquardt jerked free. "It's happening again. Can't you see that? BOLTZ! I'm gonna put your rear in a blender! You hear me?" Raddison saw Jim Boltz collapse and roll into the end zone, get to his feet again, collapse again. The ball tumbled free and a Whitman tackler dove on it. The referee blew his whistle and the play was over. Raddison had seen this before. "Oh, no." He hollered, "First aid! Let's go!" and then ran after Marquardt. "TIME OUT!" Marquardt hollered, signaling, and he got it. A Whitman tackler trotted up to the Baker quarterback, still on the ground. "Hey, congratulations, you just got us two points!" The quarterback was writhing on the ground, whimpering, screaming. "What dollar in the kenzo slater, make it uptown and drive it, down way!" The tackler had extended his hand to help his opponent off the ground, but now he shied back. "Hey, you all right?" Boltz was twitching, twisting, staring wide-eyed at nothing and plainly terrified. "Does it, does it, no, unload and white the ground! Chevy maker in the postgame!" He threw up his arms as if fending off an attack from . . . something. "Wow," said the tackler to a teammate, "he's, he's-" "He's wacko, that's what he is." "Abel Frye!" Boltz screamed, inching and clawing along the ground, eyes staring upward. "Abel Frye!" Then he was on his feet, starting to run. Marquardt and Raddison overtook him and brought him to the ground, holding him down, trying to contain his lashing arms and kicking feet. "Give us a hand here!" Raddison shouted, and players from both sides came to help hold Jim down. "Where's the doc?" Marquardt shouted, searching. Then he slapped Jim Boltz on the helmet. "Cut it out, Boltz!" A medic came running, emergency kit in hand. The field was filling with parents, schoolmates, fans, the curious. "Please stay off the playing field," said the announcer over the loudspeakers. Nobody listened. The medic took charge. There was no need to check for pulse or breathing; the poor kid had plenty of both. "Let's get him inside. Careful, now." "Make way there!" Marquardt was on one arm, Raddison on the other. Between them, Jim Boltz began to weaken, his voice ebbing from a scream to a whimper. As they reached the passage to the locker rooms, his head began to droop and he muttered two last words before he passed out: "Abel Frye . . ." Marquardt cursed and looked at Raddison. Raddison nodded grimly. "You're right. It's happening again." As the puzzled and murmuring football crowd gravitated toward the field, Ian Snyder turned and stole quietly up the stairs to the exit, his hands in the pockets of his long black trench coat. Yeah, he thought , now Boltz will be just like the others. In all the confusion, no one gave his presence in the stands a second thought. In Washington, D.C., far from the Capitol dome, was an old red-brick office building with office space and apartments available for rent. On the fifth floor, at the end of a narrow hall with a noisy steam radiator, was a plain little office with its title painted in small black letters on the door: The Veritas Project. Just inside that door, Consuela, the secretary, sorted through conventional mail at her desk. Seated at a computer nearby, Carrie, the assistant, scanned through e-mails from all around the country. Between their two workstations was another door, and beyond that door was the cluttered office of Mr. Morgan, the boss. Mr. Morgan was sitting at his cluttered desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He was reading a field report he'd just received via the Internet: "Springfield/Montague/Phase Two." What he read pleased him, and he smiled, nodding his head. Morgan was middle-aged, bald, bespectacled, and generally unimpressive in appearance. His name and face were not widely known in this town, and his office was in an obscure, hard-to-find location. He preferred it that way. A project like Veritas could benefit from being quiet, unknown, and behind-the-scenes. He was well connected with the right people, and that was all that mattered. His telephone bleeped and the voice of his secretary said, "Mr. Morgan, the President on line one." He picked up the receiver, pressed the button for line one and responded, "Mr. President." The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable. Mr. Morgan was hearing from the foremost leader of the free world. "Mr. Morgan, I understand we have trouble brewing in Baker, Washington." "Yes, sir. I heard from the high school counselor just this morning." "Mr. Gessner." "Yes. So you've read my report already?" "Every word of it. And I agree. Veritas should have a look at it. Where are the Springfields now?" Mr. Morgan glanced at the report he'd just finished reading. "Montague, Oregon. That drug abuse prevention program." "How long before they're finished with that?" Mr. Morgan looked at his watch. "Well . . . it could be as soon as half an hour, if everything goes according to plan." In a quiet old neighborhood where ancient maple trees overshadowed the street with their shady branches and pushed up the sidewalks with their roots, where the yards were small and neat except for an occasional neglected bicycle or forgotten skateboard, a late-model station wagon pulled slowly to a stop along the curb. Inside, the driver looked warily at the gabled gray house several doors down the street. "That's it." He was a high school kid, sixteen or seventeen, thin, and nervous. Beside him sat another high schooler, a girl. Neither appeared to have slept, eaten, or bathed in days, and both were dressed in weird, pricey clothing that carried the same message as their dour expressions: Let the whole world drop dead. In the rear seat, a young man with a grim, wary expression peered out the window and asked, "Are they ready?" "If they aren't ready for company we won't get through the front door," said the driver. "I called 'em and they said it was all clear." "So let's do it." They got out of the car and crossed the street quickly, while looking up and down the street and toward the surrounding houses in case anyone might be watching. An unkempt, slightly heavy blond woman in jeans and oversized shirt answered the front door on the third knock. She recognized the boy and girl. "Hey, Luke. How you doing, Leah?" She eyed the stranger warily. "This must be Marv." "This is Marv," Luke confirmed. "The buyer I told you about." She studied Marv's face, her suspicion never waning. "How long have you known him?" "We buy from him all the time. He's okay," said Leah. The woman flung the door open. "Well, come inside before somebody sees you." They walked into a modest living room. The carpet was worn, with several years' worth of cigarette holes. The furniture looked old, smelled old, and nothing matched. A big cat lay curled on the couch and looked up at them for only a moment before lowering its head again in disinterest. "Let's see your money," said the woman. "Convince me." Marv reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. "You're not dealing with a small-timer." She was impressed at the sight of the hundred-dollar bills. "So Luke and Leah tell me." Her expression softened. "I'm Nancy. My husband Lou's down in the lab right now." He smiled, only slightly. "So let's see your goods. We'll make this quick." He followed her into the kitchen where she reached into a drawer and produced a plastic bag containing white powder. "One hundred grams of crank, finished up just this morning." Now it was Marv's turn to be impressed. "You must have some kind of lab." "We don't talk about it." He started counting out the big bills. "I'll take it." "You'll take half. The rest is spoken for." "Okay, half." "We gotta go," said Luke. "If I get caught skipping class one more time, somebody's gonna get wise." "Go out the back way," she instructed. "Use the alley." The two kids ducked out the back, leaving Nancy and Marv alone to close the drug deal. "So, fifty grams," said Nancy, taking a triple-beam balance from a cupboard. "Wow," said Marv, "nice scale." Then he noticed the "SCHOOL DISTRICT 212" label still attached to the side and chuckled. She smiled. "I have friends in the school district." He boasted, "So have I. I work Mannesmann High, Cleveland, Kennedy, Lincoln Junior High, even Dwight Elementary." She raised her eyebrows. "You do get around." She placed a coffee filter on the scale and began carefully pouring out the powder, watching for the scale to tip at fifty grams. "So how come I never heard of you before?" "I'm smart," he replied. "How come I never heard of you before?" She stopped pouring. She had fifty grams. "I'm smart, too." She carefully poured the powder into a bag, then waited for Marv to place the hundred-dollar bills in her hand. When he did so, she gave him the bag. "Thanks," he said. "It'll take about a week to sell this, and then I'll-" There was a commotion on the back porch. A door banging open. Stumbling footsteps. An angry voice. Marv was about to bolt for the front door, but Nancy said, "It's Lou." The back door burst open and the two high schoolers stumbled into the kitchen, shoved along at gunpoint by a big, stubbly-faced man. "Lou!" said Nancy. "What gives?" Lou shoved the two kids up against the counter and then growled in a roughneck, East Coast accent, "Found these two outside, snooping through the kitchen window with these!" He threw a tiny video camera and a set of earphones on the kitchen table. Nancy looked at the gadgets, then at the kids, in horror. "We heard a rumor about some kids working undercover. It's you?" Lou pointed the gun at Marv. " 'kay, Marv-or whoever you are-party's over. Better join your friends." He motioned with the gun toward the frightened Luke and Leah. "What are you talking about?" said Marv, half raising his hands. "They brought you here with 'em, and guess what? They're working for the cops. That means you're working for the cops." Marv was totally flustered. "No, man, I don't know anything about this." Nancy's eyes were suddenly cold and cruel. "You were good. Real good. You had us fooled!" "But, but I'm not with them!" Marv protested. Lou came closer, raising the gun to the level of Marv's eyes. "Oh, riiiight, like I don't know a sting operation when I see it? Open the jacket. You're probably wired." Marv spread his jacket open. "No! No wires! No microphones, nothing! I'm clean, I tell you. I don't know these kids." Lou was insulted. He spoke sideways to Nancy, "He says he don't know 'em!" "I mean-" "You drive up with 'em, you come into the house with 'em, and you don't know 'em? Eh, give me a break!" Nancy glared at Marv in murderous rage. "So what are we going to do, Lou?" Lou grabbed the video camera and earphones off the table, dashed them to the floor, and shattered them under his heel. He grabbed Leah by the arm as she screamed in pain, then aimed the gun at her. "How much do the cops know? How much have you told 'em?" She didn't answer, but only squirmed in his iron grip, her face contorted with pain. "Let her go," Luke blurted. "We haven't told them anything. We were supposed to take the recording back to the drug task force." Then he added with a tone of warning, "And if they don't hear from us within an hour they'll come looking for us." "Elijah," the girl screamed, "don't tell them that!" Lou nodded, a sly smile forming on his lips. "Hey, that gives us time, doesn't it Elijah? So what's your name, sweetheart?" "Elisha." She pronounced it Eleesha. "Elisha Springfield." "So Elijah must be your brother." Elijah confessed, "That's right." Lou smiled menacingly. "So it's all in the family." He waved the gun at Marv. "So who's this, your cousin?" "You gotta believe me," Marv pleaded. "I'm not with them! I'm just here to do business!" Lou aimed the gun in his face and pulled the hammer back. "You got two seconds to convince me." "Jackie Morelli, over in the central district-you can call him. He knows me." Lou shook his head. "Don't know him." "Eddie Baylor? Runs Hogie's Tavern over on Torrance Boulevard." Lou was unimpressed. "You gotta be making this up." Marv was getting desperate. His voice was rising in pitch and he was talking a lot faster. "Okay, okay. Jimmy Dorning, over at-" "Where are you getting these nobody names?" "Just let me finish! He lives right next to Lincoln High School. He's my contact over there and we've made good money-I'm talking thousands, tens of thousands, and no rip-offs." Lou cocked his head slightly as if he were just beginning to believe. "What about Steve Vernon? You know him?" "I know him. I don't like him, but I know him. He's buying from Gomez and trying to get Gomez to cut me out." Lou raised one eyebrow as if impressed. "You know Gomez?" "Yeah, you kidding? Everybody knows Gomez." "You work for him?" Marv hesitated to answer. Lou brought the muzzle of the gun a little closer. "I don't ask questions twice, kid." "Okay! Okay!" Marv finally burst out. "I work for him!" "How long?" "A year. Maybe two." "How'd you meet up with him?" "He helped me out." "Yeah, just like all his little flunkies. So where's his lab?" "He has an old rental on Taylor Avenue." Lou's grip on the gun tightened. "He's at his mother's place!" "No, no, no!" Marv raised his hands pleadingly. "He moved just last week! Go ahead, check it out! 401 Taylor Avenue!" "So if you work for Gomez, why are you buying from us?" "Because . . ." Marv couldn't finish. "You're setting us up!" "NO! NO! I just . . . I just gotta get away from Gomez, that's all." Marv began to wilt. "I can't take it anymore." "So go home." Marv seemed close to tears. "Don't have the bread. Gomez takes it all." Lou eyed Marv curiously. "You mean, you do all the selling, but Gomez takes the money?" "That's the deal. He puts me up, gives me a bed, maybe some food, and I work for him." Nancy's voice was almost compassionate. "Dealing drugs just to stay alive. So what happens to Gomez if you get caught?" Marv shrugged. "I dunno. Says he doesn't know me, I guess." Lou sniffed in disgust. "Some friend." Marv wiped a tear from his eye. "Yeah. Some friend. I'm just trying to get out on my own, that's all. I wouldn't even cut in on Gomez's turf. I'd go somewhere else. I just need something to get started, you know?" Lou thought it over for several torturous seconds. Finally, he relaxed and raised the muzzle of the gun toward the ceiling. "Okay, Marv, okay. I guess you do know some people." CRASH! The front door caved in and the house filled with green-jacketed, helmeted police, all leveling guns. "FREEZE! POLICE! ON THE FLOOR! ON THE FLOOR! GET DOWN! SPREAD 'EM!" Nancy screamed, Lou dropped his gun, the kids fell to the floor and cowered. Marv ran for the back door, but Elijah Springfield hooked his feet in a leg lock and brought him down. More cops came storming in the back door, yelling, shoving, grabbing, flipping Marv over, holding him down, cuffing him. "DOWN! DOWN! DOWN! C'MON, MOVE IT!" They slapped handcuffs on Lou and Nancy, then on Elijah and Elisha. In mere seconds, all five were facedown on the floor, subdued and guarded by the armed police now towering over them. An officer found the fifty grams of methamphetamine in the pocket of Marv's jacket. They took him first. With a huge officer grabbing him under each arm, he sailed up from the floor and through the house before he could even get his feet under him. He went out through the front door, the sweeping blue and red lights of the police cars flashing across his dazed face, and then he was gone. The door slammed shut. "Don't move," a burly sergeant warned the others. Lou and Nancy didn't move. They just waited. Elijah and Elisha remained on their bellies, looking even more dour than usual. Outside, the doors of a police car slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, its lights making one final sweep through the living-room windows. Seconds later, a police officer poked his head in the door and said, "Suspect is en route." Lou and Nancy, still facedown and handcuffed, smiled at each other. Elijah sighed with relief and muttered, "All right!" Sergeant Bill Perkins removed his helmet. "Whew! You guys okay?" Lou moaned a bit-he was kidding. "I think I'm going to be sore tomorrow." Officer Jim Dunlop got out his set of keys and unlocked all the handcuffs. Lou, Nancy, Elijah, and Elisha, wrists free, got to their feet. "Good work," said Perkins. Then he called toward the pantry, "Did we get all that on tape?" The pantry door swung open, and Officer Kyle Warner, video camera in hand, made an "okay" sign with his thumb and finger. "Great performance, guys." Perkins spoke into his portable radio, "Okay, we have the Gomez location: 401 Taylor." He signed off and smiled. "Our friend Mr. Gomez is in for a visit, along with Morelli, Baylor, Dorning, and, uh . . ." Officer Warner helped him out. "Steve Vernon. We needed a lead on that guy." "And now we've got it!" Perkins extended his hand for a congratulatory shake. "Nate, Sarah, thanks a lot." Nate and Sarah Springfield, who had been posing as "Lou" and "Nancy" for the past two months, shook his hand. "But Nate," said Perkins, who really was from the East Coast, "the Philadelphia accent could use a little work." "You'd know," Nate responded with a laugh, his own accent reflecting his Montana roots. Perkins shook hands with Nate and Sarah's sixteen-year-old twins, Elijah and Elisha. "You okay?" They were both breathing a lot easier and smiling for the first time, as if they didn't really want the whole world to drop dead after all. "Oh, we're intact," said Elijah, gathering up the pieces of his shattered fake video camera. "I worked three days on this." Elisha removed a black wig and shook loose her shoulder-length blond hair. "But what about Marv? What's going to happen to him?" "We're making it look as much like a real drug bust as possible," Perkins said. "You had me convinced," Nate said. "Well, hopefully, word will get around that Marv's out for good, and that should keep the local gangs and drug dealers from trying to come after him. We have a family from one of the churches who is willing to take him in on a mentor program. It's a strict environment with plenty of rules, but that's why the prosecutor's willing to work with us. It works." Perkins smiled. "A strict environment with total accountability, but with the love of a family and the love of God." "Has anyone been able to find Marv's real family?" Sarah asked. "We'll need Marv to help us out on that one." Perkins wagged his head in dismay. "Sometimes runaways have a home to return to, and sometimes . . . well, we'll just have to see." "It's just so hard to believe," said Nate. "How old is Marv, anyway?" "He can't be more than fourteen," said Perkins. "Gomez finds them young, hungry, and alone." "Well, he won't be hungry and alone anymore." Perkins smiled. "Not if we can help it." "So . . . ," Nate's eyes scanned the room. "Let's go, folks. We need to give this house back to the owners so they can get back to renting it. Gather up the gear-and whose cat is that?" While Perkins and Dunlop discussed who might own the cat, the Springfields opened cupboards and drawers, removing dishes, silverware, groceries, and dishtowels they'd placed there to make the kitchen look lived in. They also removed microphones strategically hidden behind the window shades, the ceiling light fixture, and under the counter. "Oh, by the way, Nate," said Sergeant Perkins, "Morgan called. He needs you to call him back right away." "Thanks," Nate replied, stepping out onto the back porch and opening his cell phone. He punched in a number, the phone beeping with each entry. A woman's voice answered after one ring. " Veritas Project." "This is Nate Springfield." "Ah, hello, Nate. Hang on, I'll connect you." In only a few seconds, a man's voice came on the phone. "Nate. How'd it go?" Nate looked toward the kitchen and the cleanup going on. "We have Marv." "Wonderful!" "He was the last drug slave working for Gomez, so that clears that out. And now we finally got the information we needed on Gomez and the others, so there goes the drug ring-hopefully." "Excellent! And what do you think of their antidrug program?" Nate smiled. "The reports we got were on the money. The police and prosecutors are joining up with the community and the churches too, and they're working the problem at a heart level. I guess they're finally starting to see that if you change the heart, the life will change with it. They've seen it work." "Think it'll work for Marv?" "Well . . ." Nate gave it some thought. "It worked for those other two kids Gomez owned. As for Marv, well, we've gotten to know him a while, and I think he has a good chance of turning things around. We've got a Christian family lined up to take him in. We'll just have to let God do the rest from there." "So the Truth works." Nate had to chuckle. "Well, yeah, if you give it a chance. The problem is, if you really want the Truth, then you have to have God along with it, and that gets a little sticky. If you can persuade the courts and communities to give God's ways a try, then yeah, the Truth works-and that's what I intend to report to the President." "Good enough. Now get ready for another one. We just got word of something brewing in Baker, Washington. Some kids are getting sick and demented, and no one knows why. Could be drugs, could be toxic contamination, could be a disease-or it could be something nobody's even thought of. Drug Enforcement's been called, and so have Environmental Protection and the Centers for Disease Control, but they're all backlogged and it's going to take them weeks to get on it. Nate, the President wants you in Baker now. There are . . . well, let's say there are certain undercurrents at that school, certain issues that the other agencies won't be looking for. The President is counting on you to get this thing solved before these other people have a chance to muddle it all up with politics and press releases. As always, Nate, for the record . . ." "I know," Nate had heard this disclaimer so often he had it memorized. "The President wants to know the reasons, not just the facts. The Veritas Project has nothing to do with his administration. The job is strictly unofficial, strictly up to me if I want to take it." "You've got it." Morgan laughed. Nate took out his pen and pad. "Go ahead." "We were contacted by a counselor named Tom Gessner from the high school. . . ." Shortly afterward, Nate read from his notes, sharing the potential new assignment with his family as they stood in the now-empty kitchen. Sarah was intrigued. "There's definitely a spiritual aspect to it." Elijah looked a little "iffy" about it. "Yeah, but I'll bet it means going to school again." Elisha wrinkled her nose. "Another school case?" "Ehh, so whatza matta?" Nate asked, his East Coast accent returning. "You got somethin' against school?" "Oh, Dad, pull-eeezzz!"