Richard Montanari - Broken Angels

Byrne knew they were not far from the crime scene, but there was nothing they could do from here. They were way out of their jurisdiction. He called Ike Buchanan at home. Ike would contact the district attorney of Berks County.

Byrne took the map from Nadine Palmer. "We appreciate this. Thank you very much."

"Hope it helps," Nadine said.

Vincent was already out the door. As Byrne turned to leave, a rack of postcards caught his eye, postcards depicting displays of fairy-tale characters-life-size exhibits with what looked like real people in costumes.

Thumbelina. The Little Mermaid. The Princess and the Pea.

"What are these?" Byrne asked.

"Those are vintage postcards," Nadine said.

"This was a real place?"

"Oh, sure. It used to be a sort of theme park. Kinda big in the 1940s and 1950s. Pennsylvania had a lot of them in those days."

"Is it still open?"

"No, sorry to say. In fact, they're tearing it down in a few weeks. It hasn't been open in years. I thought you knew about it."

"What do you mean?"

"The farmhouse you're looking for?"

"What about it?"

"StoryBook River is about a quarter mile away. It's been in the Damgaard family for years."

The name slammed into his brain. Byrne ran out of the store, jumped into the car.

As Vincent sped off, Byrne took out the computer printout Tony Park had compiled, the list of patients from the county mental-health clinic. In seconds, he found what he was looking for.

One of Lisette Simon's patients was a man named Marius Damgaard.

Detective Kevin Byrne understood. It was all part of the same evil, an evil that had begun on a bright spring day in April 1995. A day when two little girls had wandered into the forest.

And now Jessica Balzano and Nicci Malone were caught in the fable.

There's a darkness that lived in southeastern Pennsylvania's woods, a pitch-blackness that seemed to consume every trace of light around it.

Jessica edged along the bank of the running stream, the only sound the flow of the black water. The going was excruciatingly slow. She used her Maglite sparingly. The thin beam illuminated the plump snowflakes falling around her.

She had picked up a branch earlier, and was using it to probe ahead of herself in the darkness, not unlike a blind person on a city sidewalk.

She continued onward, flicking the branch, toeing the frozen ground with each step. She came to a huge obstacle in her path.

Directly ahead was an enormous deadfall of trees. If she were to continue along the stream, she would have to make it over the top. She was wearing leather-soled shoes. Not exactly designed for hiking or climbing.

She found the shortest route, began to scale the tangle of roots and branches. It was covered with snow, with ice beneath that. More than once Jessica slipped, falling backward, scraping her knees and elbows. Her hands felt like they were frozen solid.

After three more attempts, she managed to hold her footing. She made her way to the top, then tumbled down the other side, crashing onto a pile of broken branches and pine needles.

She sat there for a few moments, exhausted, fighting tears. She clicked on the Maglite. It was almost dead. Her muscles ached, her head was throbbing. She frisked herself again, looking for something, anything- gum, mint, breath freshener. She found something in her inside pocket. She was sure it was a Tic Tac. Some dinner. When she maneuvered it out, she found it was far better than a Tic Tac. It was a Tylenol caplet. She sometimes took a few of the pain relievers with her on the job, and this one must have been a leftover from a previous headache, or hangover. Regardless, she popped it in her mouth, wiggled it down her throat. It probably wouldn't do much for the freight train roaring through her head, but it was a small bead of sanity, a touchstone of a life that seemed a million miles away.

She was in the middle of the forest, it was pitch black, she had no food or shelter. Jessica thought about Vincent and Sophie. Right about now Vincent was probably climbing the walls. They had made a pact a long time ago-based on the inherent danger of the their jobs-that they would not let dinnertime pass without a phone call. No matter what. Never. If either of them didn't call, something was wrong.

Something was most assuredly wrong here.

Jessica stood up, wincing at the array of pains and aches and scrapes. She tried to get control of her emotions. Then she saw it. A light in the near distance. It was faint, flickering, but clearly manmade, a tiny pin dot of illumination in the huge black picture of night. It might be candles or oil lamps, perhaps a kerosene heater. Regardless, it represented life. It represented warmth. Jessica wanted to cry out, but decided against it. The light was too far away, and she had no idea if there were animals nearby. She did not need that kind of attention now.

She could not tell if the light was coming from a house, or even from a structure of any sort. She could not hear the sounds of a nearby road, so it probably wasn't a commercial enterprise, or a vehicle. Maybe it was a small campfire. People camped in Pennsylvania year round.

Jessica gauged the distance between her and the light, probably no more than a half mile. But it was a half mile she could not see. There could be just about anything in that distance. Rocks, culverts, ditches. Bears.

But at least she now had a direction.

Jessica took a few shaky steps forward, and headed toward the light.

Roland was floating. His arms and legs were bound with strong rope. The moon was high, the snow had stopped, the clouds had lifted. In the light reflected from the luminous white earth he saw many things. He was floating down a narrow canal. On either side were large skeletal structures. He saw a display of a huge storybook, open at the center. He saw a display of stone toadstools. One exhibit looked like the decayed facade of a Norse castle.

The boat was smaller than a dinghy. Roland soon realized he was not the only passenger. Someone was sitting directly behind him. Roland struggled to turn around, but he could not move.

"What do you want from me?" Roland asked.

The voice came in a soft whisper, inches from his ear. "I want you to stop the winter."

What is he talking about?

"How… how can I do that? How can I stop the winter?"

There was a long silence, just the sound of the wooden boat tapping the icy stone walls of the canal as it moved through the maze.

"I know who you are," came the voice. "I know what you've been doing. I've known all along."

A black dread descended upon Roland. Moments later the boat stopped in front of a derelict display to Roland's right. The exhibit contained large snowflakes made of moldering pine, a rusted iron stove with a long neck and tarnished brass knobs. Leaning against the stove were a broom handle and oven scraper. In the middle of the display was a throne made of sticks and twigs. Roland could see the green of the recently snapped branches. The throne was new.

Roland struggled against the ropes, against the nylon belt around his neck. The Lord had abandoned him. He had sought the devil so long, only for it to end like this.

The man stepped around him, to the front of the boat. Roland looked into his eyes. He saw the reflection of Charlotte's face.

Sometimes it's the devil you know.

Beneath the quicksilver moon, the devil leaned forward, gleaming knife in hand, and cut out Roland Hannah's eyes.

It seemed to take forever. Jessica had fallen only once-slipping on an icy patch on what seemed like a paved path.

The lights she had observed from the stream came from a one-story house. It was still a good distance away, but Jessica saw that she was now in a complex of dilapidated buildings, built around a maze of narrow canals.