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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

1

THEY SWUNG TO witness Chip Priewe’s demented features, to see him pointing with the pistol and backing away. Soon everyone was looking, gazes upturned. The high wind which buffeted the trees and tore across the shadowed ground had caught Michelle’s cremains up, and up, keeping them aloft. Lifting and throwing them around with leaves and other bits of debris. Denying them respite—

Out of this blizzard of swirled grit and ash, uncannily, shapes were forming.

“The trees!” Priewe screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. His lunatic eyes shone moon-bright. “Oh, Christ. Hanging . . . in the trees. Can’t you fucking see them?”

They did: apparitions in the night-dark limbs of the cottonwood. Something glimmering in the sleety rain. Thunder crashed and everyone jumped, lightning skittering throughout the clouds. The police chief howled.

Shadows were coming to life in the tree branches, undulating with an inner light. Changing particle and position, reconfiguring. But
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