THE NIGHT WAS DEEPLY, unnaturally dark. And it was darn cold, even for a night in late October. All around them rectangular and cylindrical shapes danced in the shadows caused by the street light filtering through the enormous trees standing sentinel over Crown Hill Cemetery. They’d chosen that particular cemetery because, founded in 1864, it was the oldest cemetery in Indianapolis.
Plus, as Pleasance had declared, it was deliciously spooky.
When Alastair glanced upward, bats skimmed the soft night breezes, filling their rat-like bellies with late season mosquitoes.
“Bats? Are you serious? At this time of year? Shouldn’t they be in their caves by now?”
Alastair had a thing about bats that went way back. Way, way back, to the time the family had gone spelunking in Southern Indiana, when
