In her heart of hearts, she hoped she would get an opportunity to whack someone with her baseball bat.

As darkness fell on Pine Cove that evening, Augustus Brine was filled with an uncharacteristic feeling of dread. In the past he had always seen sunset as a promise, a beginning. As a young man sunset had been a call to romance and excitement, more recently it signaled a time of rest and contemplation. Tonight it was not sunset, the promise, but sundown, the threat. With nightfall the full weight of his responsibility fell across his back like a leaden yoke, and try as he might, Brine could not shrug it off.

Gian Hen Gian had convinced him that he must find the one that commanded the demon. Brine had driven to the Head of the Slug, and after enduring a barrage of lewd advances from Mavis Sand, he was able to pry out of her the direction the dark stranger had gone when he left the bar. Virgil Long, the mechanic, gave him a description of the car and tried to convince him that his truck needed a tune-up.

Brine had then returned home to discuss a course of action with the king of the Djinn, who was engrossed in his fourth Marx Brothers movie.

“But how did you know he was coming here?” Brine asked.

“It was a feeling.”

“Then why can’t you get a feeling of where he is now?”

“You must find him, Augustus Brine.”

“And do what?”

“Get the Seal of Solomon and send Catch back to hell.”

“Or get eaten.”

“Yes, there is that possibility.”

“Why don’t you do it? He can’t hurt you.”

“If the dark one has the Seal of Solomon, then I too could become his slave. This would not be good. You must do it.”

The biggest problem for Brine was that Pine Cove was small enough that he could actually search the entire town. In Los Angles or San Francisco he might have been able to give up before starting, open a bottle of wine, and let the mass of humanity bear the responsibility while he sank into a peaceful fog of nonaction.

Brine had come to Pine Cove to avoid conflict, to pursue a life of simple pleasures, to meditate and find peace and oneness with all things. Now, forced to act, he realized how deluded he had become. Life was action, and there was no peace this side of the grave. He had read about the kendo swordsman, who affected the Zen of controlled spontaneity, never anticipating a move so that he might never have to correct his strategy to an unanticipated attack, but always ready to act. Brine had removed himself from the flow of action, built his life into a fortress of comfort and safety without realizing that his fortress was also a prison.

“Think long and hard on your fate, Augustus Brine,” the Djinn said around a mouthful of potato chips. “Your neighbors pay for this time with their lives.”

Brine pushed himself out of the chair and stormed into his study. He riffled through the drawers of the desk until he found a street map of Pine Cove. He spread the map out on the desk and began to divide the village into blocks with a red marker. Gian Hen Gian came into the study while he worked.

“What will you do?”

“Find the demon,” Brine said through gritted teeth.

“And when you find him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are a good man, Augustus Brine.”

“You are a pain in the ass, Gian Hen Gian.” Brine gathered up the map and headed out of the room.

“If it be so, then so be it,” the Djinn shouted after him. “But I am a grand pain in the ass.”

Augustus Brine did not answer. He was already making his way to his truck. He drove off feeling quite alone and afraid.

Augustus Brine was not alone in his feeling of dread at the onset of evening. Robert returned at sunset to The Breeze’s trailer to find three threatening messages on the answering machine: two from the landlord, and one ominous threat from the drug dealer in the BMW. Robert played the tape back three times in hope of finding a message from Jennifer, but it was not there.

He had failed miserably in his attempt to crash and burn at the Slug, running out of money long before passing out. The job offer from Rachel wasn’t enough either. Thinking it over, nothing would really be enough. He was a loser, plain and simple. No one was going to rescue him this time, and he wasn’t up to pulling himself up by his own bootstraps.

He had to see Jenny. She would understand. But he couldn’t go looking like this, a three-day growth of beard, clothes he had slept in, reeking of sweat and beer. He stripped off his clothes and walked into the bathroom. He took some shaving cream and a razor from the medicine cabinet and stepped into the shower.

Maybe if he showed up looking like he had some self-respect, she would take him back. She had to be missing him, right? And he wasn’t sure he could spend another night alone, thinking about it, going though the nightmare.

He turned on the shower and the breath jumped from his body. The water was ice cold. The Breeze hadn’t paid the gas bill. Robert steeled himself to endure the cold shower. He had to look good if he was going to rebuild his life.

Then the lights went out.

Rivera was sitting in a coffee shop near the police station sipping from a cup of decaf, smoking a cigarette, waiting. In his fifteen years on the force he estimated that ten of them had been spent in waiting. For once, though, he had the warrants, the budget, the manpower, and probable cause, but he had no suspect.

It had to go down tomorrow, one way or another. If The Breeze showed up, then Rivera was in line for a promotion. If, however, he had gotten wind of the sting, then Rivera would take down the drunk in the trailer and hope that he knew something. It was a dismal prospect. Rivera envisioned his task force swooping in with sirens blaring, lights flashing, only to chalk up a bust for unsafe vehicle, perhaps unlawful copying of a videotape, or tearing the tag off a mattress. Rivera shivered at the thought and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. He wondered if they would let him smoke when he was working behind the counter at Seven-Eleven.

When the jaws of the demon had clamped down on him, The Breeze felt a moment of pain, then a light-headedness and a floating feeling he had come to associate with certain kinds of hallucinogenic mushrooms. Then he looked down to see the monster stuffing his body into its gaping mouth. It looked funny, and the ethereal Breeze giggled to himself. No, this was more like the feeling of nitrous oxide than mushrooms, he thought.

He watched the monster shrink and disappear, then the door to the old Chevy opened and closed. The car sped off and The Breeze felt himself bouncing on the air currents in its wake. Death was fine with The Breeze. Sort of the ultimate acid trip, only cheaper and with no side effects.

Suddenly he found himself in a long tunnel. At the end he saw a bright light. He had seen a movie about this once; you were supposed to go toward the light.

Time had lost meaning for The Breeze. He floated down the tunnel, for a whole day, but to him it seemed only minutes. He was just riding the buzz. Everything was copacetic. As he approached the light, he could make out the figures of people waiting for him. That’s right: your family and friends welcome you to the next life. The Breeze prepared himself for a truly bitchin’ party on the astral plane.

Coming out of the tunnel, The Breeze was enveloped by an intense white light. It was warm and comforting. The people’s faces came into view and as The Breeze floated up to them, he realized that he owed every one of them money.

While night fell on some like a curtain of foreboding, others were meeting the advent of darkness with excited anticipation. Creatures of the night were rising from their resting places and venturing forth to feed on their unsuspecting victims.