After checking his mirrors for far too long to see if he had been followed, Dev noticed a small white envelope under the windshield wiper. He knew someone had been watching him earlier. He reached out the window, snatching it angrily from its place. He debated on throwing it on the ground then noticed it had a wax seal. Who sealed letters with wax nowadays? He stuffed it into his inner coat pocket.

Nothing made sense on a case that was already leaning toward being a hard one. He pondered the facts he had with his earlier presumptions as he got on the road to make his way to the first night guard. The victim, who hadn't donated the blood at the scene and wasn't necessarily killed there, hadn't provided any clues. The blood could be from man or animal or a combination of the two and now seemed less than helpful. The manner in which the body was displayed showed the killer, or killers, had a flair for theatricality and perhaps a bit of remorse since they hadn't actually nailed the man to the ceiling in cruciform. He glanced to the book in the passenger seat. The only evidence available and it wasn't in a language he understood.

His gaze fixed on the book, his mind wandered. A dimly lit room, three figures cloaked in darkness and shadow surrounding him. He was lifted into the air but the figures hadn't moved. He felt as lashes were affixed at his wrists, ankles, hips and shoulders. He tried to resist but couldn't move. He was dead but watching the events unfold.

A car horn from another motorist ripped him from his daydream. He corrected his car back into his lane, a cold sweat trickling down his back.

What had that been? Never in his life had he been so far from reality. He gave himself a good smack on the cheek and lit up a cigarette. Perhaps the Captain was right to be afraid of this case. He picked up the book and put it in his glove compartment to keep it from his sight. Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, he continued toward the first guard.

-

It was a little after Noon when he pulled up to the first address on the list provided by the plant manager, Sam Bevins. Dev hesitated before knocking on his door, shaking the strange day dream and near accident from his mind. He straightened his coat, cleared his throat and knocked. He paced around the porch giving Mr. Bevins some time to answer, after all, the man had only gotten off work about six hours prior. He knocked again.

"Mr. Bevins? This is Detective Devlin Brígh of the Kansas City Metro Police. I just have a couple questions for you about this morning." Dev knocked again. "Mr. Bevins?" He heard the briefest of shuffling and then the door opened a crack.

"Listen, mister. I work unusual hours and I'm not interested in buying whatever it is you're selling. So if you'd stop knocking on my door so I can get back to sleep." Sam Bevins began closing his door.

"No! No, I'm not a salesman. I'm a detective with KC Metro. I know that you were sleeping but I have some questions for you." The door opened again.

"Ah, damn, I shoulda known someone would be by while I was sleeping to talk about it. Come on in, I'll make us some coffee." Mr. Bevins opened the door and walked toward the kitchen. Dev entered and closed the door behind him. The house was fairly dark, with extra curtains pulled over the windows. Probably to aid in sleeping while the sun was up. He could smell the coffee before he heard the percolator. Mr. Bevins was dressed only in pajama pants, his aging footballer's physique hiding behind a beer belly. He shuffled around the kitchen still half asleep as the coffee finished, retrieving a mug and a glass.

"Do you take anything in your coffee?" Mr. Bevins motioned sat at a dinette and set down the glass of coffee across from him. "Sorry, I only have the one mug."

Dev shook his head no. He didn't want to impose more on the man. "Thank you, its quite alright. I'm sorry to wake you but I need to ask you while the information is still fresh." Mr. Bevins nodded.

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"Just some basic questions: Did you notice anything, or anyone, attempting to enter the property at all last night?"

"No."

"Do your rounds take you near to where the body was found?"

"Nope."

"Is there any thing that sticks out in your mind as out of place or different than usual?"

"No. Wait."

"Yes?" Dev looked up.

"There was a woman before the plant closed, right as Stevens and I were coming in. Pretty little thing but kinda, I don't know, mad or somethin'."

"Why did she stick out? Can you describe her?"

"Well, let's see. She was shorter than average, and she had on this black dress coat that covered up most of her. Coat looked expensive though, a lot more expensive than people at the plant wear at least. She had really pretty black hair," Bevins mused. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "She was asking when the plant closed and how many guards we had. It was such a strange question for such a nice lookin' lady to ask. Why would she need to know?"

Why, indeed? Was she a party to the murder? Dev didn't put much faith in coincidences. She had to be connected, if only as a patsy to get the info on the plant's closing time.

"Thank you, Mr. Bevins, you've been a big help." Dev stood and reached out his hand to shake. He saw himself out and rushed to his car. A lead. A lead in the form of a person of interest. He rushed back to the station, completely forgetting about the second guard.

-

Dev pulled into the station house's parking lot with a screech. He started getting out of his car and paused. Why did the mention of a woman have him so flustered? He still had another witness to interview and very little evidence. He pulled his leg back into the car and closed the door, thinking. He lit up a cigarette and glanced at the glove compartment.

He saw himself reaching to open it, the journal lay inside. He gently withdrew the book and held it by the steering wheel. He opened the cover - NUMEN - emblazoned across the first page. He traced the letters with his index finger. What did they mean? A burning sensation in his other hand drew his attention away.

It was night. His arm hung out the driver's window, cigarette butt stuck between his fingers. It had burnt down to nothing, charring his fingers in the process. Where had the time gone? Just moments ago he had

retrievedthebookfromtheglovecompartmenthehelditlikeachilditwasimportanthehadtoprotect

Dev threw himself from the car. What was happening to him? That lapse had been so jarring. The missing time from afternoon to whatever time of night it was sent his head spinning. He closed his eyes and tried to rationalize. He was just tired. He had had to much coffee and cigarettes, not enough food. He needed a good meal and sleep.

But how could he drive knowing he might fade out of reality like he had not only here in the lot, but on the road earlier he remembered. He looked back into his car and saw himself cradling the book. He opened the door and started getting out. His face was wrong, distorted. Warped. Its jaw and teeth jutted out the side of its head. The eyes deep pits of the black abyss. Its nose and ears were gone and its hair moved around the scalp with every step. Dev, outside the car, fell back onto the ground, crawling backwards away from himself. His double held the book out before him, its knuckles overlarge and the fingernails were cracked and blackened, resembling claws. It brandished the book like a weapon.

Warped Dev flickered and vibrated as it advanced. There was a feeling of dread mixed with static electricity rolling off it in waves. Dev felt like he was suffocating. He clutched at his chest, his heart pounding, and felt something strange in his coat pocket. He tried to remember what it was and smelled a faint scent of flowers, reminiscent of the popular ladies perfume L'Air du Temps. The warped figure recoiled, its hands fanning the fragrance, dropping the book. It continued retreating into the car and finally closed the door. The interior was veiled in shadow and Dev could no longer see his altered self.

The envelope on his car. He reached into his coat pocket, the perfume in the air. He opened the envelope and inside was a blank postcard. He flipped it over and saw a short note scrawled in delicate script:

Use this to read the book. I'll contact you soon. J.N.

From his back, the book just looked like a book again. No sudden daydreams, no time skips, no nightmares. He got onto his hands and knees crawling toward to the book, paying careful attention to the slip of paper in his hand. He picked the book up and opened it. He was fine.

He didn't understand what was happening to him, but he held onto that paper like it was his only lifeline as he was sinking into a sea of terror and madness. He got into his car and made his way home.

He had a book to read.