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vulnerable he was.
    There was no set of guidelines for such a thing. What would he do if he found them, or it? The crucifix and small bible would certainly help and the vial of holy water was necessary, but he had no concrete plan. How could he have a plan? It was a problem to solve as it unfolded. He became frightened, very frightened.
    Slowly he moved through the underbrush, cautiously placing each step down. It wasn’t long until the sound came again, this time near him. Adrenaline pumped to his heart. He ran, faster and faster through the brush, bouncing off small trees, careening through thickets and brush not seen until too late.
    He could not feel his clothing tearing or his skin torn by the brush and tree limbs that reached out for him. He ran faster, hoping nothing was following.
    Finally, the church steeple appeared with the dark field of the cemetery beside it. The headstones stood like uneven stone teeth waiting to gobble any unsuspecting soul that venture near.
    The priest continued his run through the cemetery and along the pathway up to the back door. He burst into the kitchen, startling Mrs. Donnelly. She screamed, dropping the cup of tea, sending it crashing to the floor.
    â€œBefore you ask,” Father Ahern said while gasping for air, “the answer to your pending question is no, I did not find what I was looking for.”
    â€œLook at you, Father, your clothes in a shambles; your arms bleeding. What has happened to you?” Mrs. Donnelly asked, near shock. “You look as though you’ve wrestled with a lion.”
    â€œI would have feared a lion less, Mrs. Donnelly. The darkness frightened me, hence, I ran. Obviously my clothing and flesh have suffered the consequences.”
    â€œFrightened of what?” The aged housekeeper sat next to him.
    â€œI really have no answer, Mrs. Donnelly, but I can assure you that I was frightened.
    â€œFather,” she said, taking his hand, as a mother would console her son. Her eyes were tired but sincere. “Is this fear that overwhelmed you tonight connected with your nightly excursions?”
    â€œI don’t understand?” he answered, knowing what she meant and what she was trying to get out of him.
    â€œWhat you search for night after night. Does it have to do with what happened to you tonight? The fear that sent you running through what looks like every thorn bush in the forest, is what you have sought all these years the cause of that fear?”
    He stood with his back to her; he did not want her to know of the evil he hunted. She was close to learning the truth and it would put her in harm’s way. No, he would not tell her.
    â€œMrs. Donnelly,” he said, “what I felt this evening was no more than childish fear of the dark, nothing more than that.”
    â€œChildish fear of the dark indeed!” she stammered, bending to the floor to pick up pieces of the shattered teacup. She knew he was lying and felt betrayed that he would not confide in her.
    â€œI am going to change and shower,” he said, leaving the kitchen, “please bring a cup of tea to my study.”

Chapter Thirteen

    Murphy needed fresh air and time to think. He left the office, turning off the lights as he went. On the sidewalk, he pondered the events of the day while walking without direction.
    He found himself opposite Kelly’s where the usual banter spilled out into the night. Murphy’s mind persisted in reminding his body how weary he was. He considered resting and to cease pushing himself for answers.
    There was still a lot to do: begin the process of forms and reports, and arrange for Andy’s family to retrieve his remains. Yet he craved sleep along with answers to mounting questions of things that seemed to be getting worse. He had to keep a clear head.
    Passing Whiting Field, Murphy saw the shadowy shape of the bleachers. An image of little Cathy Collin’s mangled body spilled from the overturned barrel