Two more bleats cut through the drone: higher, frightened. Nora knew what was coming; she wanted to cover her ears but knew she couldn't.

"This needs a witness." She began to rise.

Caitlyn clutched at her. "No. Wait, please."

Nora shook her off. "This is what we came for."

"Please. They'll see you."

"Nobody's going to see me."

"Wait—"

But Nora was up and running across the field at a crouch. The grass was wet and slick underfoot. She flattened herself against the back wall of the old church; crept along it toward the small yellow window; paused; then glanced in, heart pounding.

Porcelain sink, brown with age; broken china chamber pot; commode of splintered wood. An ancient, empty privy.

Damn. She slid down, face against the cold, rough timber. The fabric of the ancient place seemed to exude an unusual odor: musky, smoky. Close as she was now, the sounds within were a lot louder. She pressed her ear to the wall, listening intently.

She couldn't make out the words, couldn't even tell what language, although it was clearly not English. French? Creole?

Along with the chanting, she could hear what seemed like the soft slap of bare feet, fast and rhythmical. A lone voice rose above the insistent ostinato: wavering, shrill, tuneless, yet clearly part of the ritual.

Another long, frightened bleating: high, terrified. Then sudden, total silence.

And then the shriek came, cutting the air, a pure animal expression of surprise and pain. The sound was almost immediately choked off by a thick gargling, followed by a long, drawn — out rattling cough, and then silence.

Nora didn't have to see to know exactly what had happened.

Just as suddenly, the chanting resumed, fast, exultant, with the voice of what was certainly a kind of priest rising above, wailing with glee. Mingled with that were the sounds of something else: something grunting, breathy, and wet.

Nora gulped down mouthfuls of air, feeling suddenly nauseated. The sound had cut her to the bone and unexpectedly revived that terrible moment when she saw her husband, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood on their living room floor. She felt paralyzed. The earth whirled around her, and spots danced before her eyes. Caitlyn was right: this was a bad idea. These people, whoever they were, would not take kindly to an intrusion. She gripped the brick wall for a minute or two, until the feeling passed, and then she realized: they had to get out — now.

As she turned, she caught sight of something moving in the dark, at the corner of the farthest building. A lurching, shambling movement; a blur of sallow flesh in the spectral moonlight; and then it was gone.

With a thrill of dread she blinked hard, opened her eyes again. All was silent and dark; the chanting had ceased. Had she really seen something? Just when she was concluding she hadn't, it appeared again: glabrous, strangely bloated, dressed in tatters. It moved toward her with a motion that seemed somehow both random and yet full of horrible purpose.

As she stared, Nora was irresistibly reminded of the thing that had chased her through the room of whale skeletons two nights before. With a gasp, she lurched to her feet and ran across the field.

"Caitlyn!" she gasped, stumbling into the reporter and grabbing her jacket, her lungs burning. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"

"What happened?" She was instantly terrified by Nora's terror, cowering on the ground. "Go!" Nora grasped her shirt and hauled her bodily to her feet. Caitlyn stumbled as she tried to get up, and Nora caught her.

"Oh, my God," said Caitlyn, staring back, suddenly paralyzed. "Dear God."

Nora looked back. The thing — its face puffy and distorted, impossible to make out in the dim light — was now moving toward them with a horrible disjointed motion.

"Caitlyn!" Nora screamed, pulling her around. "Go!"

"What—"

But Nora was already running up the dark gully, pulling the reporter along by her arm. Caitlyn seemed drugged by fear, slipping and falling on the leaves, turning to look back again and again.

Now the thing was moving more swiftly, coming at them with a loping motion that was full of sinister design. She could hear its slobbering, eager breathing.

"It's coming," said Caitlyn. "It's coming after us."

"Shut up and run!"

Oh, God, Nora thought as she ran. Oh, my God. It can't be Fearing — can it?

But she was all too sure that it could be.

They reached the top of the gully. The gate and fence lay just ahead.

"Haul ass!" Nora cried as Caitlyn slipped and came dangerously close to falling. She was sobbing and gasping for air. Behind, the sound of something treading the ground came up swiftly through the dark. Nora pulled Caitlyn back up.

"Oh, Jesus…"

Nora hit the fence, pulling Caitlyn after her, throwing her against the fence and heaving her upward with as much strength as she could manage. The reporter scrabbled against the chain link, finding a purchase and pulling herself up. Nora followed. They slipped over the top, dropped to the leaves, began running again.

Something crashed into the fence behind them. Nora stopped, turned. Despite the hammering of her heart, she had to know. She had to know.

"What are you doing?" Caitlyn cried, still running like hell.

Nora jammed her hand into her shoulder bag, yanked out the flashlight, turned it on, aimed it at the fence…

… Nothing — except a convex bulge in the rusted steel where the thing had hit, and the faint residual motion of the fence from the blow, creaking back and forth, until silence reigned.

The thing was gone. She could hear Caitlyn running, her footfalls receding up the old lane.

Nora followed at a jog, and soon caught up with the heaving, exhausted reporter. Caitlyn was doubled over, heaving and gasping, and then she vomited. Nora held her shoulders while she was sick.

"Who… what was that?" she finally managed to choke out.

Nora said nothing, and helped Caitlyn to her feet. Ten minutes later, they were walking down Indian Road, back in familiar Manhattan, but Nora — unconsciously fingering the charm around her neck — could not shake the feeling of horror, of the thing that had chased them, and of the death — cough of the doomed goat. One terrible thought kept recurring, a single irrational, useless, sickening thought:

Did Bill sound like that when he died?

Lieutenant D'Agosta sat in his cubbyhole office at One Police Plaza, staring at the glow of the computer screen. He was an author, he'd published two novels. The books had gotten great reviews. So why was it that writing an interim report was so damn difficult? He was still burning from the reaming — out that the commissioner had given him the prior afternoon. Kline had gotten to him, no doubt about that.

He turned from the screen, rubbing his eyes. Feeble morning light came in the room's single window, from which he could glimpse a sliver of sky. He took a slug from his third cup of coffee, tried to clear his mind. After a certain point, coffee seemed to make him more tired.

Was it really only a week since Smithback was murdered? He shook his head. Right now, he was supposed to be in Canada, visiting his son and signing paperwork for his impending divorce. Instead, he was chained to New York and a case that only grew more bizarre with every passing day.

The phone on his desk rang. That's all he needed: another distraction. He plucked it from the cradle, sighing inwardly. "Homicide, D'Agosta speaking."