Tammy Tuttle, who’d been looking up, turned suddenly, raised her knife, and yelled, “Get back down, Little Bloods! Don’t you dare anger the Ghouls. Get back in the circle, now! GET BACK DOWN!”

The boys scrabbled farther away from the circle. Tommy Tuttle was on them in an instant, jerking them back. Tammy Tuttle drew the knife back, aiming toward Donny Arthur, as Savich leaped up from behind the bale of hay and fired. The bullet ripped into her arm at her shoulder. She screamed and fell onto her side, the knife flying out of her hand.

Tommy Tuttle whipped about, no knife in his hand now but a gun, and that gun was aimed not at Savich but at the boys. The boys were screaming as Savich shot Tommy through the center of his forehead.

Tammy Tuttle was moaning on the floor, holding her arm. The boys stood, clutched together, silent now, and all three of them looked up toward those whirling, white cones that danced up and down in the clear light coming through the barn doors. No, not dust devils, two separate things.

One of the boys whispered, “What are they?”

“I don’t know, Rob,” Savich said and pulled the boys toward him, protecting them as best he could. “Just some sort of weird tornado, that’s all.”

Tammy was yelling curses at Savich as she tried to pull herself up. She fell back. There was a shriek, loud and hollow. One of the cones seemed to leap forward, directly at them. Savich didn’t think, just shot it, clean through. It was like shooting through fog. The cone danced upward, then twisted back toward the other cone. They hovered an instant, spinning madly, and in the next instant, they were gone. Simply gone.

Savich grabbed both boys against him again. “It’s all right now, Donny, Rob. You’re both all right. I’m very proud of you, and your parents will be, too. Yes, it’s okay to be afraid; I know I’m scared out of my mind, too. Just stay nice and safe against me. That’s it. You’re safe now.”

The boys were pressed so tightly against him that Savich could feel their hearts pounding as they sobbed, deep, ragged sobs, and he knew there was blessed relief in their sobs, that they finally believed they were going to survive. They clutched at him and he held them as tightly as he could, whispering, “It will be all right. You’re going to be home in no time at all. It’s okay, Rob, Donny.”

He kept them both shielded from Tammy Tuttle, who was no longer moaning. He made no move to see what shape she was in.

“The Ghouls,” one of the boys kept saying over and over, his young voice cracking. “They told us all about what the Ghouls did to all the other boys—ate them up whole or if they were already full, then they just tore them up, chewed on their bones—”

“I know, I know,” Savich said, but he had no idea what his eyes had seen, not really. Whirling dust devils, that was all. There were no hidden axes or knives. Unless they somehow morphed into something more substantial? No, that was crazy. He felt something catch inside him. It was a sense of what was real, what had to be real. It demanded he reject what he’d seen, bury it under a hundred tons of earth, make the Ghouls gone forever, make it so they had never existed. It must have been some kind of natural phenomenon, easily explained, or some kind of an illusion, a waking nightmare, a mad invention of a pair of psychopaths’ minds. But whatever they were that the Tuttles had called the Ghouls, he’d seen them, even shot at one of them, and they were embedded in his brain.

Maybe they had been dust devils, playing tricks on his eyes. Maybe.

As he stood holding the two thin bodies to him, talking to them, he was aware that agents, followed by the sheriff and his deputies, were inside the barn now, that one of them was bending over Tammy Tuttle. Soon there were agents everywhere, searching the barn, corner to corner, searching every inch of the tack room.

Everyone was high, excited. They’d gotten the boys back safely. They’d taken down two psychopaths.

Tammy Tuttle was conscious again, screaming, no way to keep the boys from hearing her, though he tried. They held her down on the floor. She was yelling and cursing at Savich as she cradled her arm, yelling that the Ghouls would get him, she would lead them to him, that he was dead meat, and so were those Little Bloods. Savich felt the boys nearly dissolve against him, their terror palpable.

Then one of the agents slammed his fist into her jaw. He looked up, grinning. “Took her out of her pain. Didn’t like to see such a fine, upstanding young lady in such misery.”

“Thank you,” Savich said. “Rob, Donny, she’s not going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear it to you.” Sherlock came to him, and she looked angry enough to spit nails. She didn’t say anything, just put her arms around the two boys.