13
Flanders pulled his focus back out the window, “I tell you we catch this sonabitch, I’m gonna have ta be the judge then and there.” A black Tahoe unsettled the gravel outside. “Looks like we might not get that chance,” Carl replied. They both walked outside, an annoyed disturbance washed over their faces. Out from the vehicle emerged two men wearing cream jackets and white-wool outback hats. A sense of unease moved down the detectives’ spines. As the figures drew closer their sleuth-trained eyes quickly picked up on the oddity of the men’s pale skin. Then those eyes arranged into focus, four midnight moons–piercing daggers.
Into the soul, those specters could peer.
“We’ll be taking it from here.”
His mouth was a toothless pitch transported from the void. Neither Flanders or Carl could manage a word; or even a change of facial expression.
It was that instinct to The fear.
