"What?" Rory felt faint. He took a step back. "How do you know that?"

Brewster glowered at him. "Don't you listen, boy? Evil's come back to the town. I wondered that when you showed up. You were the last one to come here. And then I could feel them coming." He paused dramatically. "Now we got to get rid of them." He gestured at the dock. "Got to drown the body, then they can't come back."

"That man was a Nephilim," Rory said, regaining some composure.

The store door crept open and Myrtle peeked her head out. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"Now you're getting it." Brewster ignored her and threw Rory a toothy smile. "But you know, you can't just kill 'em and leave 'em. You have to trap the spirit in the body. Get a noose around their neck, and strangle 'em. That's the best." They looked at the old man like he was from another planet, but he continued on, oblivious to their stares. "Or you can knock them out. Did that to that one," he gestured toward the lake. "Not the best; you hit 'em too hard, you might draw blood, but I was lucky. Once you take down the host without spilling blood, that keeps the spirit from getting away. Then you drown the body."

"He's right, Rory." Myrtle came out onto the porch. She pointed to the journal, still clutched in his hand. "Barton had that part figured out."

She took the journal, flipped carefully through it and read a pa.s.sage: I know now that water is the key, just as it was in the Good Book, how G.o.d destroyed them in the Flood. I shot one in the head, and saw the spirit leave, cursing me. Some can be tempted to drink pure water from the well in town, but only pure water. Others are too strong-willed for this. I had to resort to other means. I was able to sneak up on one, using recently learned tracking skills to go undetected. In this manner I strangled him with a garrote. Once this was accomplished I waited, but the spirit did not leave the body. Then I weighted down the body and put it into the lake. This is the way to destroy them forever. I have much to do.

"I found that while you and Anna were in the back room, but you took off before I could tell you."

Rory took in the deep blue water, sparkling dark in the sunshine. How many times had he rowed across it, and all those times, never knowing what lurked beneath the surface. "The lake's a graveyard," he whispered. Brewster grunted in an approving manner. "But getting them to drink water? It's impossible."

"Or strangling them?" Clinton was staring at the lake, his jaw open in wonder.

"It's impossible," Rory repeated, troubling over the influx of information.

"No," Brewster shook his head. "The old miner did it and so can we. Then you can do what you want to with the body, trap the spirit forever."

"That's why the spirit left the body of the man I killed. Because I shot it." Rory turned to the mountains, toward the spot where his b.l.o.o.d.y battle took place. He raced to put his thoughts into a logical order.

"Yep, I saw that body." Brewster pursed his lips. "That was a good shot. Too bad it didn't work."

Rory looked at the two men. "It makes sense on one level. In the Biblical story, G.o.d used the Flood to wipe out the Nephilim. And the research I found says they hate and fear the water. Why wouldn't they, if it was used to permanently exile them?"

"But why would they drink the water if it's bad for them?" Clinton asked. "It doesn't make sense."

Rory mulled over what he'd been reading in the back room. "Water's a destructive force for them, but in and of itself, water can also be pure. And legend has it that well water is pure because it comes from deep within the earth, not like collecting rainwater in cisterns, or even the lake water, which is contaminated by runoff. The book of Jeremiah, in the Old Testament, talks about G.o.d's people forsaking him. They try to collect water from broken cisterns, and G.o.d rebukes them for not turning to Him, the Living Water. You see? It's paradoxical. Well water is pure water, living water that the Nephilim think they need for cleansing and ascension. But the pure water is also the very thing that destroys them."

Clinton had a look of disbelief on his face, but Brewster only nodded pensively. "That's why we ain't had any rain lately. They burn the moisture right outta the sky, burn it outta the air itself," the old man said. "Otherwise they wouldn't survive."

"Of course." Rory felt a rush of excitement building within him, the journalist's feeling of the story coming together. "I read an article about a drought here a hundred years ago, when the Nephilim invaded the town."

"Yep. A good rainstorm would keep them at bay." Brewster studied the stark blue sky. "There ain't a cloud around. Too bad." Rory and Clinton found themselves looking up as well.

"Now what?" Clinton asked.

"Why not just run?" Rory suggested. "What would happen if we left?"

Brewster shook his head. "They'll come after us. Then we'd unleash them on others. Besides, we can't leave because they're spreading out. Some of them are waiting down the road. We'd never get past them."

"How do you know?"

Brewster stared hard at Rory. "I know how they work," he said. "Things are set in motion now. It's too late to run."

"So what do we do?" Myrtle interrupted.

Rory locked his gaze with Brewster, searching those black eyes for signs of lunacy, his gut telling him the old man was right. "We hunt them down, immobilize them, and then drown them," he finally answered.

Brewster raised a gnarled hand. "No, that's too hard. Look how long it took me to get one body to the lake. How long do you think it'll take to find them, get close enough to knock them out or strangle them, and haul their bodies down here? And we have to get them in the lake before sundown."

"Why?" Rory asked.

"Once the daylight is gone, the spirit can leave," the old man said.

"He's right." Myrtle held up the journal. "Barton talked about that. He wrote that once the daylight is gone, the spirits escape back to the darkness where it came from."

"Back to the darkness," Rory repeated. "A darkness that's physical and metaphorical."

"But how are we going to get them if we don't go after them?" Clinton asked.

"We'll lure them down into the Crossing. Lure the ones we can into drinking water from the old town well. The others we can lay a trap for, sneak up on them, use something to strangle them, then put their bodies in the lake."

"That might work," Rory said.

"Oh sure. Just like that." Clinton said in a voice laced with sarcasm.

"You got any better ideas?" Rory hurled back.

"We can do this," Brewster said with confidence. He took in both men with a steely gaze. "But we got to get them down here."

Rory paused to calm himself. "How?" he then responded, avoiding Clinton's eyes.

"We'll call them," Brewster said. They both looked at Brewster with utter skepticism. He waggled a hand at them as if he'd read their thoughts and dismissed it. "We'll make a ruckus, right here on Main Street. They'll have to come."

"Why?"

"Because they need you." Brewster clamped a bony hand on each of their shoulders.

"He's right," Myrtle agreed, turning to Rory.

"That'll have them running here. We'll lure those that we can to the well," Brewster reiterated. "Once they know there's pure water available, at least some of them will want to come and drink. The others we'll knock out or strangle." Ignoring the skeptical gazes, Brewster hefted his jeans up around his skinny waist and started walking toward the dock. "We got work to do."

CHAPTER 60.

As Brewster and the others came into the store, Anna and Nicholas were gathered near the front window, their stony faces etched with apprehension. It was apparent they had seen Brewster shove the body into the lake moments before.

"What were you doing?" Anna asked, eyeing Brewster guardedly. She was accustomed to the old man hanging around the Crossing, was used to his peculiar ways, but she'd never see him as focused as now.

"You killed that guy," Nicholas spoke in a wary tone.

"Got one of them," Brewster said bluntly. "And we got more to do. You got rope around here? We'll need it to tie something heavy to the bodies." He walked down one aisle and back up another.

"That was one of those? A Nephilim?" Anna asked, ignoring his question. This was happening way too fast. She'd seen Rory kill a man, had lost her father, and now this all in less than twenty-four hours. Confusion swirled through her.

Brewster nodded. He moved over to the front window and peered out. "We need rope," he said again.

"There's some over here." Anna retrieved some packages of rope from a shelf near the door and handed it to Brewster. "Rory, what did you find out?" she asked. She stepped aside to let Rory and Clinton sit down. Rory sat in the chair that her father usually sat in, the one nearest to the front door where he could keep an eye on people while he visited with her. The memory filled her with sorrow.

Myrtle had leaned back against the counter and was staring at Brewster, her brow wrinkled thoughtfully. "What are you doing here?" she finally asked him.

Brewster turned and squinted at her. He was already opening the package of rope. "You want me to leave?"

"No, of course not." Myrtle busied herself with sorting some papers, her face pink with embarra.s.sment. "I didn't mean that at all. I just figured since we hadn't see you around lately, that maybe, you know "

"You thought they got me," he dared her to rebut him.

"Yes."

He narrowed his intense gaze on her. "Nope. I've been busy, though. I got a couple of them already."

"You drowned more than the one?" Clinton asked in surprise.

Brewster nodded as he pulled a pocketknife from his pocket and cut a section of rope. "Yep. Got one early this morning. But he wasn't one of the necessary ones."

"What does that mean?" Anna said.

"They have certain roles to perform, in order to make the ceremony work," Myrtle answered. "It's in the journal."

"The necessary ones," Brewster emphasized.

"How do you know that?" Anna was studying the old man closely.

He puckered his lips and stopped cutting rope. "I know things. And my granddaddy did, too. He told me a few things about the Nephilim."

"But your granddaddy said spirits or something chased him," Anna said.

"What do you think these are?" Brewster snorted. "Granddaddy knew about the Nephilim because the miner told him."

"He did?"

"Yep. Barton came to my granddaddy one day and told him about how the town was being taken over. But my granddaddy thought that Barton was crazy, and my granddaddy ran him off. Then more people started disappearing, and one day those demon things chased my granddaddy "

"It wasn't at night?" Anna asked, still bewildered over the stories she'd heard through the years.

"No, it was daytime," he said defiantly. "People got the story wrong. Those things chased my granddaddy and he holed up in his cabin until nightfall. Then he left town and didn't come back. Later he heard that no one was left at all."

"Why didn't they chase him?" Nicholas asked.

"They lay low at night, seems they are most effective in the heat of the day."

"So let's find them tonight and get them then," Clinton suggested.

Brewster shook his head. "They're still extremely dangerous, and would likely destroy you before you ever saw them. And it'd be harder for us out there searching in the dark. Only thing the night means is that they're not actively hunting us."

Anna went ashen. "Did the journal say that Barton fought them only during the day?" she asked Myrtle.

"Nothing I read says he tried to take them on during the night," she answered.

"But he fought the Nephilim until he committed suicide," Rory said.

Brewster turned to him. "Barton killed himself in the mine, right?" He scrutinized Rory carefully.

Rory returned the look with his own appraisal, as if he was still surprised by Brewster's cunning. "Yeah, he did. He had a broken leg, maybe some other injuries. And he shot himself in the temple. I saw the bullet hole. But why is that important?"

"He was wounded, huh," Brewster mused.

"Yes."

"And you're here." He looked Rory up and down, still studying him. They all waited for Brewster to speak, as if waiting for a word from G.o.d. "Barton didn't want the Nephilim to get him, or his blood." He scratched his stubbly chin. "But I suspect they did anyway." He looked directly at Rory when he said this.

"What do you mean by that?" Anna asked Brewster. He threw a bony hand at Rory, indicating that he should answer.

"It seems that over a hundred years ago, when the Nephilim left," Rory said, "the blood of their hosts was spilled into the ground. When the blood is spilled, a new host person, specifically a role player, can be recreated at a later time "

"How can the blood do that?"

Rory shrugged. "I don't know. But somehow the essence of the person is left behind, to be regenerated again. Then the Nephilim can come, inhabit the host, and perform the releasing ceremony." He then explained the ceremony to her. "See how it fits in with the picture?"

"What picture?" Brewster asked.

He related what he and Anna had discovered about the townspeople in the old newspaper articles.

"Whoa," Nicholas said, stretching the word out. "So it's like we're called here or something?"

"That's a good way of putting it." Myrtle mused. "I've always felt drawn to this place, almost like it was beckoning me here."

The skin on Anna's arms p.r.i.c.kled. "Dad said the same thing. He said this place was part of his past, and he would always be a part of it."

"And you felt drawn here, right?" Brewster stared at Rory, who nodded.

"But I'm not related to Barton." Rory paused. "At least, not that I know of."

"You must be," Brewster said.

Nicholas' jaw dropped open. "My father felt drawn here, too," he said. "That's why we came out here every summer, because he said he felt like this place was calling him. I always thought he was just saying weird stuff, you know, how the mountains are so great you just have to come back." He stared at Rory. "But why would my father be drawn here, instead of someone else?"