The office chair doesn't swivel and it shouldn't. 

Edwin doesn't draw attention, even if he wanted to. He propped his elbows against his knees as he listens intently to the bustling cacophony of paper rustling, phone ringing, and donut-munching officers bellowing in laughter as their steamy coffee swishes in ceramic cups. Glancing at the empty desk, the table clock ticks Tuesday, 6:30am. Beside it reads a dusty silver-plated name tag: Wyatt Johnson. He attempts to wipe the dust off but it's a failing attempt.

It's been three days since he's seen Wyatt, which means he hasn't seen Josslyn. If they brought her in for questioning, it could only mean he missed her as she walked out the door. In fact, her energy has diminished to a faint pull. If this keeps up, he'll have to call off Phillip's search to look for her. He's doomed without her immediate presence. They've lived and died together seven lifetimes and this time won't be any different. He isn't going without her.

Where are you, Josslyn? The surrounding noise fade to a droning dissonance. 

Wyatt. I detest that man.

But Edwin knows that Wyatt needs to serve his purpose; to do as he's done to protect Josslyn: Run blindly into the fog, suffer her burns and scars, deter even the most vile villains from harming her. He needs Wyatt to provide the only thing he can't provide: a physical body. Edwin may not trust Wyatt entirely, but he trusts Wyatt's intentions - just enough.

Certainly if Wyatt hasn't shown up, it could only mean that he's taken her somewhere – somewhere far. Edwin's only hope is that Josslyn's safe; that Phillip hadn't somehow reached her first. But what if Josslyn – no, he shakes his head. He's been pushing that thought aside. There's no way she'd do him wrong. If anything, Wyatt ought to keep his damn hands to himself – that is unless it requires him to touch her, to save her.

He sighs. The thought of his wife with another man is heart wrenching; a risky bet he'd never take unless he absolutely had to. And when she returns home the way she left, he'll take her away. They'll flee Oregon and never have use for Wyatt again.

"Found him!" A pudgy officer shouts into the Chief's office, "Just got off with the dispatcher; a civilian sighting at the gas station, Oakway and Southwood."

"Hmm! The fucker's been hiding closer than we think. We better hurry." The disheveled, grey haired Chief rises off his leather chair, swinging his jacket over his back, "this son-of-bitch's been hard as fuck to track down. Send for Sergeant Collan to send backup." They both make way toward the exit. 

"Chief, since when do you step into the front line of duty?" asks the puzzled pudgy officer.

"I'm dealing with a tycoon's son. I've got no choice but to come along. Besides, at 6 foot 5? We'll need manpower to bring this fucker dow – what the!"

Cups are knocked off tables, coffee splatter and stains grey carpet, pens bounce off the floor, as paper jets off desks. A trail of mess makes its way toward the exit of the police department. The heavy glass door swings opens and slams shut by itself. Wyatt Johnson's swivel chair circles round and round and round.

Oakway and Southwood. Oakway and Southwood. Gas Station. 

Edwin pants hard and cuts left into backyards, wielding his own shortcut, kicking hard at the dewdrops clinging onto blades of grass. The cushion of soft soil propels him faster toward his destination. 

There, straight ahead is Eugene's busiest gas station. Reaching his destination, he stands in the middle of the bustling crowd. His chest rises fast, heartbeat ringing in both eardrums, and sweat rolling off the tip of his nose as his eyes dart in search for Quasimodo.

There he is, sitting on the trunk of his parked sedan, casually smoking a cigarette without worry, a complete state of san souci - as though nothing can break him. But me.

Phillip narrows his eyes as he hears the sound of sirens fast approaching. He creaks a sly smile; his eyes flare devilishly with enthusiasm. The cat has found the mouse. He flicks his cigarette at a kid who had unfortunately crossed path with what remains of the smoldering cylinder tobacco leaves.

He laughs maniacally.

Edwin briskly makes toward his prey. The noises around him fade away. His heart races as he sees an aged rusty crowbar lying on the pavement, simply waiting to become a deadly weapon. He runs toward it and grips it in his palm. It slips through his hand. He attempts again. Again. Again. 

"Argh!" Found the fucker, can't even kill him!

He glances back at Phillip, who now fumbles for something in the trunk of his car. Pulling out a pistol, he inserts it inside the waistband of his jeans. Edwin cranes his neck. There, in Phillips trunk is an empty body bag, ropes, and masking tape – no doubt meant for Josslyn. He slams the trunk, climbs inside his car and begins to reverse out from the parking space. A swift right turn into the highway and the police strikes out, the inning is over.

Edwin becomes light leaded as a surge of adrenaline catapults his energy into high gear. His oxen breath - hot, and burning for the charge ahead. His rage rising from the pit of his stomach, and matches that ofhurricane Katrina's ferocity. Fear? No fear. No escape. This man must die.

"Phillip!"

Phillip's break lights immediately flash as his car halt with a loud screech. Everyone in the gas station turn their heads in a curious state of 'who said that?'

An epiphany emerges and Edwin embraces it.

He feels it. The Plane, a flat two dimensional surface, is wiped clear to widen the space between the perfect balance of emotions, an equilibrium sitting perfectly between the cusps of fear and anger where no instinct overpowers the other – something Edwin's never experienced before, the delicate control and maintenance of balance. Don't think. Don't fear. Don't panic. Do, like breathing – second nature without compulsion and realization.

He grips the crowbar one more time, this time it lifts off the ground without effort. He walks briskly toward the gray sedan then he sees it: the soft aura glowing over the weapon.

His eyes widen.

His fingers begin to take physical form, his knuckles - white - taut from its sheer grip. His strong wrist, then his elbow, the aura glows brighter and brighter. He doesn't fear it, he doesn't run from it like last time. He hears the gasps from the masses around him, the screams erupting from witnesses's mouths. He doesn't care. He moves forward, eyes fixated on the sedan, intent on taking over Death's occupation.

Slowly, rising like blood seeping through a tube, his feet, jeans, and torso begins to emerge in corporeal form. The aura expands, glowing so bright as to compensate for the overcast sky.

Terrified children cling onto terrified parents; people begin to stumble over each other, creating a disbursement of terror and panic. Flashes burst open as cell phones capture horrific images. Cars screech toward the main road, speeding away. The contagion spreads like a ripple, sending an eruption of pandemonium among the masses running from a one armed, headless man - a paranormal thing  emerging from nightmare into reality.

Edwin doesn't flinch. He can't afford to. It's now or never.

Bam!

He swings the crowbar into Phillip's driver side window, sending an explosion of glass into the air. He reaches inside the car, unlocks the door and releases the handle as a terrified Phillip scampers to escape through the other door. Edwin grips his ankle, dragging him out of the car. He thuds onto the hard pavement, huffing, puffing, and trembling in fear at the distorted figure towering over him. Edwin kicks him in the stomach, sending him into a ball. Taking a golfer stance, he swings the crowbar over his shoulder and drives it down, whacking Phillip on the back.

Phillip screams as he glares upward, raising his hands to protest against this demon, this thing he knows without doubt attacked him in Vegas and at Red's place. 

"Help me!" Phillip yells as police cars rush into the gas station.

The crow bar strikes again, this time slamming into his jaw, sending teeth flying loose, blood spewing from both mouth and nose. His head wobbles as a strong grip flips him onto his back. The gun that had nestled in his waistband suddenly lifts into mid air. 

"No!" He tries to crawl away but he's pinned down. The beating has rendered him defenseless and weak. The barrel of his own gun now presses firmly against his chest.

Edwin clenches his jaw. I'll spare your father the sight of a bullet hole in your brain, but you never had a heart to begin with so this shouldn't hurt.

Edwin cocks the gun, ready to pull the trigger.

"Freeze! Drop your weapon!" The Chief yells. Five pistol barrows point  down on Edwin's back.

Shit!  If he pulls this trigger, they'll pull theirs. In corporeal form, he's good as dead. Edwin's lips press into a line.

"I said drop your weapon!" He drops the gun.

"The crowbar! Drop it!"

Not yet. Edwin flushes the sharp end against Phillips throat. Phillip whimpers, he'd rather go to jail any day than face this ghost. Straining his blurred vision, he sees one hand gripping onto his shirt collar. The hand attaches to one arm which then attaches onto a torso then a neck, then the head that has now fully formed with hair that drapes down to the monster's chin. But the face – the face is still forming. Philip's eyes widen in fear.

It speaks!

"I know who you are," resonates a husky voice. "I will find where you live, and if you ever come near my Redhead again, I will kill you."

"Turn around and drop the crowbar now!"

Edwin gulps with trepidation. He slowly rises with both hands raised in air, he faces toward the brick wall, his back is against the crowd. Panting wildly, he searches an escape from all the peering eyes. Now that he's corporeal, he doesn't know how to switch back to invisibility. 

"Turn around now! I will not ask again!" 

Shit! I'm trapped. He knows he's surrounded and he only has one choice.  Slowly, very cautiously, Edwin turns around and finally faces the world.

"Holy shit!" yells the Captain. 

His team fall back and gasp in fear at the one arm, half faced man. The crowd of gawking eyewitnesses shriek in unison as a cacophony of screams begin to drown out police orders.

Edwin's eyes dart in all direction. They see me. They will take me away from Josslyn. He breaks into a panic. Intense fear suddenly overwhelms all his senses.

Whoosh!

He vanishes into thin air, the crowbar clanks loudly on the cement pavement but it drowns under the resonance of mass hysteria.

***

It must be a pothole.

Josslyn awakens to the sudden deep thump in the road. She groggily rubs her eyes and strains to see the green numbers flushed into the dashboard of Wyatt's car. Tuesday, 6:30am? At this rate, they should already be back in Eugene. Upon his insistence to return home, they've been on the road since 11pm last night and she was simply too physically and emotionally tired to stay up with him.

She rubs her shoulder, the central pit hole where her stress resides. "Where are we?"

Wyatt's lips press into a taut line and she senses his hesitation.

Glancing outside her window, she notices familiar shifting terrain. Dry, yellowish, dreary with low shrubbery to a sudden climb in altitude with rising pines and gaping mountain lakes. The Beaverheads - a massive, two people per square mile remote countryside that she's too familiar with.

"Where are you taking me? Where are we?" She demands.

Wyatt stares at her. "Montana."