I waved him off. Bobby didn't know me. I could be pretty resourceful when I had to be. I pressed the button and talked to Wes. "I've been to the Land of the Dead, Wes."

There was a long pause before he answered. "Come again."

"The Land of the Dead," I said. "I've been there."

"Must not be all bad," he snickered. "You lived to tell about it."

"It's no picnic," I said. "Listen, the bad guy... The Destroyer, the old guy in the basement, he's based on a real guy... I mean a real guy from our world." I paused to let him talk.

"Go on," he said.

"Albert Fish, he's sick and twisted. Used to kidnap kids and eat them."

"Fish? Albert Fish? I know that name... Yeah," he said excitedly. "Albert Fish. I know him. Know of him anyway. Had an uncle who was obsessed with serial killers. Ol' Albert had his heyday between World War I and World War II, if I remember right."

"What else do you know?" I asked.

"Too much. Uncle used to creep me out with stories about that guy. Fish is the reason New Yorkers started locking their doors."

"He used to write horrible letters to the parents of his victims. Tell them every detail of how their children died. That's how he got caught... Grace," he said at the end of a gasp. "She's the girl. The one in the basement. The one you saw in the second floor bedroom."

"Yeah," I said. "Did you know that Fish was here, in the thirties? He worked as a painter."

There was a pause. "No, but it wouldn't surprise me. He bragged about eating kids in every state. Claims he got four hundred or so of them."

What a grand feast, I thought, and then shook the disgusting idea out of my head. "How could he get away with something like that?"

"Simple," Wes said. "He'd usually kidnap little ones that society didn't want nothing to do with."

"What do you mean?"

"Retarded," I heard little Bobby say.

Wes said, "Kid's like Nate and Stevie and..."

"And the other Storytellers," I interrupted.

"That's right. It was a different time. People would normally institutionalize kids who weren't... normal. Hide *em away. Fish probably thought he was doing everybody a favor."

I wondered how different it really was. "But Grace wasn't like Stevie and the others."

"I said he usually kidnapped the mentally handicapped. He went off script a few times. That's probably what did him in."

I watched Archie walk across the room bouncing the Throwaway version of his son in his arms. His attitude about the toddler had changed quite a bit. He was holding him like a father holds his son.

I thanked Wes for the information and tossed aside the radio. As soon as I did, I focused my attention on my hunger and the two meals in the room with me.

"So we've got to take down this Flish," Archie said.

"We don't have to," I said. "I do. You, Bobby, and that thing you're holding need to get on the road while it's light out."

"His name is Max," Bobby smiled.

"That's right," Archie said.

I snickered. "Seriously?"

"You got a problem with that?" Archie snapped.

"None of my business," I said.

"You're not a father," he said. "You don't know."

I held my hands up to signal my surrender. "Okay, whatever. If you want to pretend that thing is your son, have at it."

"It's not a thing!" Archie screamed. "My son is not a thing!"

"Don't push me, Archie," I said fighting to keep my calm. If I let go of my anger, one of two things could happen. I could turn full Delon and kill him before he had time to blink, or I could tear his guts out and eat his chewy, delicious insides.

It was his turn to snicker. "Kid, I am older than you and I am Creyshaw. You best not push me."

I gripped the side of the chair and tried to squeeze the frustration out of me. I didn't know if I could hold on much longer.

He grunted and sucked in a big deep breath. He slowly let it out. "We need to be working on this thing together, Oz."

"We can't... it's not safe for you or Bobby. Bobby is all you should be worried about."

He said, "I got news for you. Ain't no such thing as safe in this world. You know that saying *the devil you know?' Well, brother, you're the devil I know. You and the others. I'll take my chances here. Smart thing for you to do is use me in some way."

I couldn't tell him, but he was right. "Suit yourself," I said untying my leg from the chair. "You want to help. Find out what you can about Albert Fish."

"Sounds like Wes is your man for that."

"He knows some, but I need to know more. I've got seven days to figure him out."

"This Land of the Dead," Archie said. "How do I get there?"

I was about to say that I didn't know when Bobby jumped in.

"Only the dead can go to the Land of the Dead."

I furrowed my brow and shook my head. "But I've been there, and I'm not dead."

Bobby looked away.

I stood up and said it more emphatically. "I'm not dead."

He shrugged. "Dead is dead."

I looked at Archie hoping he would interpret. He was as confused as I was. "What do you mean, Bobby? Oz isn't dead. He's here. He's alive."

"I know," Bobby said as if it was too ridiculous to consider. "But he used to be dead. Once you're dead, you're always dead even if you're alive. That's what Dr. Bashir told us."

"I used to be dead?" I said still trying to understand.

"You got caught in a ripcord," he replied.

"A ripcord?" Archie asked looking at me. This time he wanted me to translate what Bobby was saying.

"A ripcord..." It came to me as the words left my mouth. "Riptide. I got caught in a riptide when I was eleven." The memory came rushing back to me. "I drowned."

"You drowned?" Archie said, still not getting it.

"I died. They revived me on the beach. I was dead." I flopped back down on the chair. "So, I'm the only one who can go to the Land of the Dead..."

"Only the dead can go to the Land of the Dead..." he stopped and turned to Throwaway Max as he cooed. "And the never was. They can go, too."

"That doesn't really help me," I said. "The Throwaways aren't much help."

Bobby shrugged.

"Wait a minute," Archie said moving quickly toward Bobby. "This is a story, isn't it? Like with Carl and the Myrmidons. This is a story."

"It's always a story," Bobby said.

"Then you know what happens?" Archie asked.

Bobby shook his head. "I was too scared to read the whole thing. I didn't like it. Sad stuff happens."

We questioned Bobby about the story, but he didn't have much more to offer. He never would say what the sad stuff was, and I couldn't press him on it because the more I did, the more frustrated I got. Frustrated was not a good state for me. I told Archie if he wanted to help, he could get Bobby to spill the beans on everything he knew. It was just too risky for me to stick around, so I radioed in and got everyone else's location. Except Gordy. He wasn't answering, but I really couldn't worry about that.

I was confident no one was in the basement. Gordy wouldn't choose to seclude himself down there. As if I was about to face a firing squad, I slowly made my way down to the main floor with Kimball and stopped in front of the staircase that led down to the basement.

The gray man was down there. He was waiting for me. This was probably his plan all along. Separate us and lure us all down to the basement where he could eat us one by one.

This thought ran through my head as I took the first step and then tumbled all the way down the stairs. I landed with a thud on the floor and heard the sound of metal on metal... like someone was sharpening knives. When I attempted to stand, the world began to spin. I flopped on my back and watched my world turn black.

"Detective King," the stout older man said. "Chief Inspector, actually. Manhattan."

The man was introducing himself to a young dark-haired uniformed police officer. "Seen your picture in the paper, Detective King. I'm Officer Roland, Perry Roland."

I was in a police station witnessing the scene like a ghost, just like I always did in The Land of the Dead. The dead boy and I sat on a bench watching the two men talk.

Detective King turned his hat in his hand as he talked. His face was serious and worn. My grandfather would say that he looked as though he was in a never-ending state of unsettled.

"I appreciate you coming all the way to Staten Island, sir," Officer Roland said.

King cleared his throat. "Following every lead I can on this thing. The Budds have become like family to me."

"Yeah, well I know this could be a stretch, but..." The younger officer looked almost embarrassed. "A boy went missing here in '24. Francis McDonnell was his name."

"I remember. I assisted the dental records when they found the body," Detective King said. "You think it has something to do with the Budd case?"

"Not me, sir," the officer said. "The boy's father... he works at this precinct."

"The boy's father is a police officer?" The hardened detective looked like he had just been punched in the stomach.

"Yes, sir, and he won't give up on the idea. He's convinced your Mr. Howard is the same man who took his boy."

"I see," Detective King said in a way that indicated he was highly skeptical. His face said even more. He thought the father was desperate to find answers and grasping at straws.

"The description does match your suspect," Officer Roland said. "Older gentleman, mustache, thin."

"If I remember right, you were looking for a foreigner in this case."

"Yes, sir. Witness saw the boy with a man speaking in a foreign language. Italian, she thought, but she didn't know for sure."

King pursed his lips and picked at some lint on his hat. "Our man's a red-blooded American. No accent, nothing to indicate he's a foreigner."

"I know." The police officer pulled out a small notepad and handed it to Detective King. "I copied this from the case file."

Detective King read what was written on the notepad. "What's this?"

"That's what the witness said she overheard the man saying."

"And?"

"It's not Italian."

"So, she guessed wrong. It's Spanish or German or French or some other language. You should take it to a linguist. Still doesn't have anything to do with the Budd case."

"I did take it to a linguist."

"Good," the detective said putting his hat back on. He was clearly through with this dead end.

"It's not any language."

"Then the witness heard it wrong."

"Maybe," the police officer said. "But this professor I talked to thought it was something else."

"Which is?"

"He thinks the woman overheard our suspect speaking in tongues."