Chapter One

Trevor Morrigan chalked his pool cue as he eyed the patrons of Rockwood Billiard Hall, trying to match a face with the picture in his back pocket. He kept his ears open for the telltale signs of weapons being drawn through the sounds of colliding acrylic and hiccupping laughter. He kept his eyes open for exit strategies. The place stank of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, his oxfords making little popping sounds as they came unglued from the carpet’s pockmarked no man’s land of discarded bubblegum and God knows what else.  

His sharp blue eyes scanned the usual ghosts haunting a place like this on a Tuesday night—the ones that gave up wives and kids to wallow in their own self-misery. Those ones that always failed to see that all it takes in this world to be happy… is to just be goddamn happy. Sure, he had bad days like everyone else, though his bad days tended to be self-inflicted more often than not, but he knew that right around the corner was—

“Hey, dipshit!” The greasy trucker flicked the ash from his cigarette in Trevor’s direction. “It’s your break! I don’t have all night to wait on some vacuum salesman to figure out which end of the stick to shoot with.”

Trevor smiled. His twelve-grain dug into his ribs, the weapon nestled between tan trenchcoat and dress shirt. He longed to rip it free and pistol whip this yokel…right in his buck-fucking teeth, Jesus!

“Whoa! What’s up doc!” Trevor asked enthusiastically—if the oily clown could hurl insults, Trevor could do the same. “Put those teeth on safe! No need to come at somebody for daydreaming armed with those Chiclets.”

The Rat King was not amused. “You—”

Trevor stifled his tirade with one raised hand. “Ease up, friend, I’m teasing. I’ll buy you a beer with the money I’m about to steal from you.”

Stuart Little grumbled into his nearly finished pint and sat down, flicking the ash from his cigarette on the pool hall floor.

Trevor sidled up beside the table, analyzing the freshly racked pool balls, humming to “New Coat of Paint” by Tom Waits, and silently thanking whoever put this classic on the overhead speakers.

A hundred years later, and it still sounded as beautiful as the day it was written. He thought back to those beatniks as he broke, watching pool balls tumble like wayward vagabonds—little adventurers of primary colors, cascading and jostling off one another as the first solid found its home. Pure freedom…corner pocket.

Trevor spent the next few minutes humming the tune, dropping his assigned balls in six pockets, one by one, quoting Bukowski to himself and watching the trucker turn darker shades of red.

“And that, my eager little beaver…” Trevor smiled as the eight-ball rolled into the side pocket. “… is game.”

Trevor’s opponent hadn’t even had a chance to finish his cigarette, and every one of his pool balls was still on the table.  “You hustled me!”

“No, my friend, I warned you.” Trevor set the pool stick back in the rack, swiping the wad of cash at the end of the pool table. “I said I was rusty; I should have finished two turns ago.”

And that’s not even my personal best.

The trucker drew a pocketknife from somewhere in all that flannel. “I ain’t payin’ no two-bit hustler.”

“Easy up, Ponyboy, no need to get all antsy.” Trevor tossed a few of the bills back in the man’s direction. “I’ll give you half back… fair?” He had half a mind to deck this guy in his face for making a scene, but decided that some reimbursement was better than that gorilla of a bouncer coming over and fist-fucking his face.

The clown brandished his letter opener again. “All of it!”

Fuck.

The ape man got up from his stool at the shout and waddled in their direction. Seriously, how did this guy wipe his ass? Arnold’s shirt was so tight his muscles looked close to committing a jailbreak, his nipples holding the shivs to their freedom. “Problem here?”

It speaks

“No problem at all, just a little collateral damage.” Trevor figured he’d start small.

“Collateral damage?” The bouncer craned his neck to the side, confused.

Trevor grinned. He might be able to pull this off. “Well, you know, I had to go Commando on this Predator.”

“Commando?” The bouncer scratched his head.

Oh Jesus, yes.

Trevor knew he could go all the way now.  “Yeah, man! It wasn’t a completely Total Recall of how to play, but I managed to Terminate this hillbilly before he could tell any True Lies.”

“You forgot to mention he was your Twin.” A new voice—deep and resonant.

Trevor turned in the direction of the Barry White impersonator, and came face to face with a man the size of a literal brick shithouse. He tried his best not to be taken aback by it… but fuck. Standing a head taller than the bouncer, the newcomer wore nondescript clothing and sported a clean-shaven head and face. Against the backdrop of his enormous frame, he sported the intricate scars and oppressive air of a Faction Elder.

Trevor had found his mark; the picture in his pocket was a mirror image of this man. He thumbed over his shoulder toward the buck-toothed trucker. “If he’s my twin, he must be all the shit that’s left over.”

The behemoth roared, slapping at the side of his thigh in approval. He nodded over his shoulder. “Fuck off, Kirk, before this kid beats you with that piece he has in his shoulder holster.” Buck-tooth Kirk put the shiv away, wide-eyed at his attention. Hamish then looked at the bouncer. “I got him from here, Gibson, go get a beer on me. ” The bouncer nodded, beads of perspiration standing out on his bald head, then turned away and walked quickly to the bar. Trevor tried not to let his surprise show at the fear the bouncer and buck-toothed Kirk had shown in the Easter Island statue’s presence.

The man held out his hand. “Name’s Hamish.”

Trevor clasped the big man’s hand and shook it. “Trevor.” The name was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. His eyes went wide, and he did his best not to shit himself. Had he just used his real name with this guy? Primacy agents used code names to maintain secrecy and protect their friends and family. With one word, Trevor had just put everyone he knew in danger.

This whole fiasco’s off the books anyway, so hopefully this doesn’t get anyone killed.

“Wasn’t expecting you to be honest, friend.” Hamish smiled, sporting a few blank spaces where teeth should be.

Trevor’s grin was more of a grimace. “Honestly? Neither was I.” He rubbed the back of his head, a nervous habit he’d picked up from Rake. “Can I buy you a beer?”

“I haven’t turned down a drink yet—not even from a Primacy enforcer.” Hamish held up a calming hand at Trevor’s bulging eyes. “…and before you go reaching for your piece, I’m retired.”

Trevor chuckled, patting his twelve-grain as it rested in his shoulder holster. “Thank god. Because I don’t think it’s got enough kick to drop your big ass.”

A few minutes later, the pair were in a booth, two pints in front of each of them, and Trevor thought of how to best broach the subject.

Hamish took the lead… again. “I’m assuming, based on the fact that you didn’t pull your grain-shot from its holster when you saw me, that you’re here for one of two reasons.” He picked up his mug, and with the other hand held his thumb up. “One: you’re looking for Moira Millers’s famous chicken pot pie recipe.” Trevor chuckled at the joke, and Hamish went on, holding up his pointer finger. “Or two: The Primacy heard about my retirement and came scouting.”

Trevor took a sip of his beer, trying to pace himself. It was still early in the night with much to do before the sun rose. “Wrong on both accounts, I’m afraid. Though my orator would kill for that recipe.” It was Hamish’s turn to chuckle. He let the big man finish, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Though what I want to talk about has to do with said retirement.” Hamish shifted uncomfortably, and Trevor’s grew apprehensive; he’d lost some of his confidence from earlier.

Sighing, he pressed on. “I was put on a particular case, one my partner and I haven’t been able to crack, and I wanted to see if you’d be interested in assisting.”

Hamish roared with laughter. He certainly was a pleasant man, despite what had happened to him. “You mean to tell me, a Primacy enforcer, a once sworn enemy of mine, is asking for help on a case?”

Trevor tried not to feel offended by Hamish’s guffaws, but heads were turning at the sound—it seemed this man wasn’t known for humor. “This case is… close to you, Hamish.”

The laughter stopped, and Hamish’s eyes went cold. The other eyes in the room went back to their beers, letting Trevor know this was how the denizens of the pool hall knew Hamish Miller.

“I’ll let you finish what you came here for…” Hamish leaned in close. “But whatever you planned on happening here tonight; it ain’t.”

This next part would be the hardest. Trevor pulled some stills from his jacket pocket, putting them face-down on the table. “What do you know about Smiling Pig farms?”

Hamish face twisted, confused. “The old farmhouse outside of town?”

Trevor nodded, taking a pull from his beer. “The same.”

Hamish shrugged. “Only what I just told you.”

“What if I were to tell you, that we—well, I—found out that a certain… something, is hiding out in there?”

It clicked: Hamish’s eyes, once hard, now looked like they could obliterate galaxies. “I’m listening.”

Trevor spread the pictures out, placing them one by one in front of Hamish. Face down—it was too soon to do otherwise. This had to be done with precision. “Hamish, before I begin, I want to let you know how sorry I am. For what you’ve been through…” He flipped the first photograph. It was a closeup of a home in a quiet suburban neighborhood—a window-screen ripped from its hinges.

“For what I’m about to show you.” Trevor flipped the next photograph. It was the picture of an adolescent’s bedroom, posters of comic book heroes on the wall, two empty beds, blood on the carpet in a streak, like someone had swiped at the ground with a handful of crimson paint.

Hamish shook, turning red, causing the surrounding members of the pool hall to abandon their beers and head home—where loved ones waited with open arms, celebrating the return of their defender and savior.

“And most importantly, for what I’m about to ask of you.” The last photo, grainy and partially obstructed, was of the lanky arms and hunched posture of a near-humanoid abomination. It was the basis of the Wendigo myth, used by The Faction to butcher and maim, to dismember and torture, to devour…

To send a message.

A knife slammed down on the image, the point going perfectly through the torso of the shroud’s visage. The pool hall was completely empty now, devoid of life. Even the bartender had decided it was best to close early, leaving it to Trevor and Hamish to lock up when they were done.

Trevor kept going, sensing danger but ignoring it. “I’ve been tracking it down for a little over two months now; long enough to figure out its patterns. I just need some help—”

“Where’s your partner in all this?” Hamish’s eyes were probing.

Trevor did his best not to bristle at the subject. “He’s… unavailable at the moment.” He didn’t have the heart to tell Hamish about Scott. Not yet.

“And you can’t wait for him to be available?” The large man raised an eyebrow.

Trevor sighed, then downed the rest of his pint before continuing. “It seems like you’re trying to shoot it straight with me; would you agree?” Hamish stayed silent, so he went on. “Then I’ll shoot straight with you; my partner has… retreated into himself… in the aftermath of his divorce… she was his whole world, Hamish.” Hamish’s eyes softened, misting at the corners, and he bit back a choking hiccup. “Just as yours was…”

The knife was ripped from the table and resting against Trevor’s throat before he could react. Hamish’s eyes screamed death. “Choose your next words carefully, muckraker.”

Trevor disliked the derogatory word Faction elements used for Primacy enforcers, but the knife in his throat kept his protests stifled. He let Hamish’s fury subside for a while longer, not daring to move. Finally, slowly, he pressed his fingers into the knife’s blade, slicing into the end of his fingertips as he gently pushed it back and away from his carotid artery.

“I saw the rest of the photos, Hamish; the ones I know The Faction wouldn’t show you… if anyone deserves an opportunity to strike at this thing, it’s you. And, if we’re staying honest, I couldn’t give a fuck who you worked—or even work—for. What you’ve experienced… the grief you endure…” Trevor’s voice trembled. His empathy for those around him left him consistently drained. He could feel, underneath the waves of heat that emanated from the large man’s aura, the pain of a father who lost his children to nightmares…

And a wife who succumbed to her grief, unable to shake the nightmares of her own.

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “I’d kill for that man; no questions asked.”

The knife clattered to the table, hitching breaths, the twisted grimace of a man trying to hold it in, to hold it back, to not let this stranger see him break…. Then, against his will, Hamish broke, no longer able to hold back the tide as it swept away his fortitude.

Trevor let the hulking monstrosity grieve, doing his best not to show how the tears of such a dangerous man moved him. It was beautiful, watching God’s wrath endure the delicate balance of human fragility, howling at the moon, baying against the wife and children who wouldn’t be home, waiting with dinner on the table at the end of his self-deprecation.

So beautiful… and so frightening.

Trevor recanted his earlier statement. Happiness wasn’t a choice; not always. Sometimes, no matter how hard you reached for it, joy died with the people who had given it to you.

After a while, Hamish wiped his eyes and apologized. Trevor held up a hand and shook his head, keeping eyes on the elder. “Don’t be sorry, Hamish… be furious.” He pulled out his twelve-grain—sleek and metallic, a filigreed work of art—and slid it toward Hamish, barrel pointing at his own chest.  “I can’t replace what you’ve lost…but I can help you get back at the thing that caused it.”

Hamish’s hand hovered over the pistol, thinking back to times when he and his cronies stared down the barrel of one of these…of digging white hot tungsten from flesh, of the carnage that these weapons had dealt him over the course of decades. “Fifteen years…”

“I’m sorry?” Trevor felt cold sweat; he didn’t like that look.

The Faction elder picked up the twelve-grain, the weapon dwarfed in his enormous hand, feeling its weight, then that smile…

Jesus, what a smile…

It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t happiness. It was the look of a man committing brutal, wet torture in his mind. Trevor went through the same motions; ripping away clothing to expose the bruised flesh, rolling out his instrument bag, the steel gleaming in the harsh white light of surgeons, then that sweet shot of elation—and a chaser of revulsion—as he slowly flayed his art project alive.

Hamish stared at the weapon in his hand. “Fifteen years… of brutality at the beckoning of my masters. Fifteen years of ‘as you will it’ and ‘so shall it be,’ never questioning, always obedient—” Hamish’s eyes met Trevor’s. –for the cause.”

Trevor knew those words, because he lived them, every damn day…

So different, yet so similar.

Hamish pointed the twelve-grain at Trevor’s face, and time stopped. For a few tense moments, neither man moved. Then Hamish unlatched the barrel and dumped the breach, letting the tungsten rod fall to the table with a clang and roll to a stop at Trevor’s mug of beer. He spun the weapon so the barrel now faced his own chest and handed it back to Trevor. “And the cause let that… thing… murder my boys.”

Trevor smiled, then reloaded the twelve-grain and slid it silently back in its holster. “When can you be ready to leave?”

Hamish downed the last of his first beer then, maintaining eye contact with Trevor, polished off his second in one, long, sweet gulp. He belched and stowed the knife.

“Now I’m ready.”

Trevor looked around the pool hall, still bereft of people, then raised an eyebrow at Hamish. He’d uncorked the lamp; now it was time to see what kind of nightmare he’d set loose.

“Care to take a few roadies?”