shotgun was smoldering. Any moment now the adhesive was going to dissolve and the flashlight would slip off. “You have to hurry!”
The Taken moved toward them from both sides of the stage, thundering up the stairs and over the front apron.
Wake dodged a thrown sickle, the blade barely missing his face, when the flashlight fell off onto the stage. The light went out. He shot the nearest Taken, but it had no effect.
The Taken rushed in just as the stage lights popped on, blue and red stage lights, hot white spotlights, even the large rotating searchlight at the top of the stage. Waves of Taken fluttered apart like dead flowers in the searing lights, flaring into dust across the stage. The heavy metal soundtrack kicked in, a mega-decibel guitar duet blaring into the night, and dozens of skyrockets launched from behind the stage, exploding above the field, perfectly synchronized with the music, beat for beat. The field, which had been thick with Taken a moment earlier, was empty now.
Barry played air guitar as the music reached a frantic crescendo, strumming away as Wake stared at him.
“Al! This may be the most awesome moment of our entire lives!” called Barry as he duck-walked across the stage, still grinding out phantom power chords.
Exhausted, Wake lay down on the stage, watching the fireworks overhead, a shower of stars falling slowly though the night.
Nightingale eagerly examined the stack of papers Wake had been carrying. It was incomplete, a collection of random pages, disjointed and strange. But there was enough: he saw his own name in there, among others. His hands shook. Finally, it was proof. He had been right all along. He didn’t understand even half of the manuscript, but somehow it all rang true, impossibly true. He took out his hip flask when he reached the page that described how he reached the page that made him take out his hip flask. It wasn’t the booze that made his mind reel.
CHAPTER 20
BARRY SAT DOWN beside Wake on the stage, blue spotlights playing across their tired faces. Heavy metal still boomed from the speakers, but the last of the fireworks had faded minutes ago. Still no sign of any more Taken, the field deserted except for the crushed cornstalks and silent scarecrows. Wake reloaded the shotgun anyway.
Wake tried the flashlight again but it was dead. “Maybe there’ll be fresh batteries in the farmhouse,” he said, checking that the revolver was loaded. He offered it to Barry, but Barry shook his head.
“Al… we’ve been really lucky so far,
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” mocked Wake. “Except this kind of thing might be a little out of the sheriff’s job description.” He stood up. “I’m sure Breaker’s a straight-up police when it comes to a barfight or a husband and wife going at it with the kitchen implements, but what with the Taken and the Dark Presence and Alice at the bottom of the lake, we might be asking her to accept a little too much on faith.” He slapped his head. “Oh, wait, I forgot, there’s FBI Agent Nightingale.”
He dug out the microcassette player he had taken from Hartman’s office. “Here’s Nightingale at the front gate to the lodge, asking Hartman about you.”
“Me?”
Wake pressed a button on the player.
Wake turned off the player. “Somehow I don’t think we want the steadfast and reliable Agent Nightingale rushing out here to help us. The last time I saw the guy he tried to shoot me.”
Barry stood up, his nylon parka rustling. “So, what do we do?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
“What we started out to do,” said Wake. “We’ll go to the Anderson brothers’ house and look around for the message they left for me.”
Barry looked at the nearby farmhouse. “Maybe… maybe there’ll be fresh batteries in the cupboard or something.”
“Great idea.” Wake walked across the stage. “Let’s check the barn first. There might be a truck we can take after checking the house.”
Barry hurried to catch up. “You know, Al, the Old Guards of Asgard, they were a pretty good band.”
“You’re not going to start playing air guitar again, are you?”
“When we get out of this,” said Barry, “I don’t want you mentioning that to anyone.”
Wake rocked out, using the shotgun as a mock guitar.
“Very funny,” said Barry.
The barn was a large, classic wooden structure that the Andersons had painted bright purple once upon a time. Now it had weathered so that it was the color of a fresh bruise. It took the two of them to swing the doors open, creaking on their rusted hinges.
Wake fumbled around for a switch and was stunned when the lights came on. The Andersons must have a direct-payment plan with the electric company, and a fat bank account to cover it. No car in the barn, just a mess of sound and stage equipment, including a full-size Viking ship dangling by chains from the rafters.
“Wow,” said Barry, staring up at the ship. “These guys were really into this Viking crap, weren’t they?” He put a horned helmet on his head. “What do you think?”
“Tres chic,” said Wake.
Barry explored the rest of the barn while Wake looked around the workshop. Plenty of power tools, which he wasn’t interested in, but there were a couple of battery-powered lanterns that still worked. He picked up a blowtorch, shook it. Still gasoline in the tank. He considered carrying it with them, but it was awkward and would have only been effective at close range. Wake remembered the three Taken in coveralls that had rushed him on the stage, the one that had gotten close enough to hit him with a pipe wrench. It wasn’t just the pain of the blow that Wake remembered, it was the… cold, the utter, soul-sucking emptiness that emanated from the Taken. No, Wake didn’t want to kill Taken at close range again. Once was more than enough.
“Al!”
Wake dropped the blowtorch, grabbed the shotgun.
“Come here, you got to see this!”
It wasn’t fear in Barry’s voice, it was excitement.
Wake walked over. “What’s up?”
“Check this out,” Barry said proudly.
Wake stared at the complicated assemblage of copper tubing and glass bottles that surrounded a large, copper tank. Fifty-pounds sacks of corn were stacked haphazardly in the corner. It looked like rats had gotten into
