Blood Debt

ruts, obviously laid since the last rain.
    He flipped a mental coin and went up the new road; the tracks had to be recent, the last rain had fallen over lunch, the skies opening, emptying, and clearing between ordering the food and eating it.
    Eight minutes in, he stopped at what seemed to be an abandoned logging camp.
    "Jesus H. Christ, you could bury an army in this mess." Bodies buried in the wilderness were usually found because the area had been disturbed. This particular area couldn't get more disturbed—the men who'd hacked their living space out of this piece of forest had not been gentle. Tire tracks, old and new, crisscrossed the artificial clearing, and the boot marks told him nothing. "Great. Where's the ident crew when you need them—I want some plaster molds of those treads, and I want this whole place dusted for prints."
    He snorted and shook his head. He could dig up every patch of fresh dirt he found, or he could…
    "You lookin' for me?"
    Grinning broadly, Celluci turned. "I'm looking for anyone who can get me unlost." The man in the red shirt was a little bigger than he was. That didn't happen often. And doesn't it just figure that it's happening now. He had the familiar proportions of men who spent their time in prison lifting weights—an impressively muscular upper body on regular guy type legs. Big brown eyes seemed out of place in the midst of his belligerent expression although the nine millimeter semiautomatic pistol he held, almost engulfed by one huge fist, matched perfectly. Still hoping he could talk his way out of whatever he'd gotten into, Celluci stared in astonishment. "Hey! What's with the gun?"
    "You were parked watching the clinic. You followed me here. You tell me."
    "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a guy from Ontario who got lost looking for the park lodge."
    "Toss me your wallet."
    "Oh. Oh, I see. I'm in the middle of fucking nowhere and I'm being mugged." Celluci jerked his wallet out of his back pocket and threw it on the ground at the other man's feet. The leather folder holding his police ID was still in his pocket. He had a chance. "You want the keys to the van, too? It gets lousy gas mileage, so be my guest."
    "Shut up." Mild eyes never leaving Celluci's face, the gunman squatted and scooped up the billfold. He flipped through the compartments, peered at all the credit cards, never quite distracted enough for Celluci to make a move.
    Then he stopped and shoved one finger deep into an inner recess and hooked out a photograph. His lips rearranged themselves into a triumphant sneer, and something glittered deep in the puppy-dog eyes. "This your granny standing next to you, Officer Celluci?"

    Nine
    EVEN before the day had fully released him, Henry could feel the cold tracing frosted patterns on his skin in a macabre parody of a lover's caress. Opening his eyes, he almost thought he could see the icy currents drifting in the air like winter fog.
    It knew he was awake. He could feel it waiting.
    Brows drawn down in annoyance, he turned on the lamp, and sat up.
    It wasn't waiting. They were.
    The second ghost was a little younger; late teens rather than early twenties. A metal ring glinted in one nostril. The ivory skull printed on the sleeveless black T-shirt grinned at Henry as though it appreciated the irony of a death's head worn by the dead. As far as Henry could tell, he was anatomically correct—this second specter had retained his hands.
    "Blessed Jesu…" At the last instant, he realized he shouldn't have spoken aloud, but by then it was too late.
    No audible sound emerged from either mouth stretched open far beyond the boundaries skin and bone would have allowed. As they howled, the soul heard the torment the ears could not.
    Henry's heart began to race until it beat at nearly mortal speed, but a sudden anger provided a barrier against the waves of despair. How dared they make him responsible for the lives around him! How dared they buy his help with blackmail! How dared they…
    A strangled moan from outside his sanctuary broke through where the spirits couldn't. It dragged him off the bed and across the room.
    Tony… Henry fumbled with the bolts, amazed to find his hands shaking, more affected by the shrieking dead than he was willing to admit. He spun around to face them, but they were gone; only the effect of their cry remained.
    Ripping the last lock right out of the wood, he yanked open the door.
    "Tony!"
    Curled into a fetal position in the