As I headed to my van, I sent messages to Father Stoddard, Shadow, Ingrid, and Bhaarrt, asking them to come to the hospital to help pull Bill back from where he was mentally. Shadow replied first, saying she didn’t remember enough about the book and knife…only how they had felt. She had to be at work soon, so she passed.

  Double-checking that I’d been as lazy as I thought, I popped open the van’s back and found the shovel still there. At least I’d cleaned the dirt off it from last time.

  Following my phone’s GPS with the coordinates from the slip of paper in my pouch, I recognized the general area. Parking in the same spot as before, I walked across the still damp grass under the trees, my phone guiding me like a compass needle.

  About fifty feet in, the tree came into view. I remembered hiding it under that trunk. The square patch of disturbed earth was still visible. The grass above it was withered and yellow, the sod I’d laid back down never having taking root. So much for trying to cover it up. Or maybe it was the Evil in the objects that caused it. I’ll likely never know, or care. I just wanted them gone.

  Re-digging, my shovel struck something solid. A few more shovelfuls uncovered the edge of a plastic bag. No aura of wrongness, no chill of Evil with a Big E. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  I dragged the bag free, soil clinging to the plastic, then filled the hole again and pressed the sod down with my boot. Anyone who looked would know something had been there, but I no longer cared. I cleaned off the shovel before putting its cover back on.

  By the time I got back to the hospital, Bhaarrt’s truck had taken the spot I’d used earlier, so I parked beside it. Upstairs, when I stepped into the room, all three were already there. Wild Bill watched them silently, his face showing just the faintest crack of his old personality.

  I handed the bag with the lead box to Father Stoddard as he rose from Bill’s bedside. “Father. Please check if this is the box you blessed a few days ago to protect the contents from harming others.”

  He nodded, peeled away the plastic, and turned the box over in his hands, looking for the marks, he had made. “Yes. It’s the same. But it’s no longer evil.” He showed us the symbols etched into the dull gray surface. “These are the holy water signs I drew. They’ve etched themselves into the lead.”

  Hitchcock watched us silently from the bed. His face showed some interest.

  “Bhaarrt, Ingrid,” I said. “Check the box. Then please open it if you can.”

  “Will? You think it’s safe to open?” Bhaarrt asked, one brow lifting.

  “Yeah, I do. Did you bring tools, or are you just going to bite it open like a sandwich?” I grinned.

  “Bite what open?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway.

  Sheriff Harper stepped in, hat under one arm. The room felt crowded now, nurses gave us side-eye through the crack of the half-shut door.

  “Hi Sheriff,” Bhaarrt said. “This is the thing Wild Bill and the World Boss wanted.”

  “The evidence Will took from NeedLess?” Harper asked.

  Both Bhaarrt and I nodded.

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  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure. Just don’t drop it. It’s heavy,” Bhaarrt said, passing it over. “Two hands.”

  “Ufff. You’re right,” Harper grunted. He hefted it once, then handed it back. “Can you open it? Do we still need the lead around it?”

  “Yeah. I brought some tools. Should be able to break it open enough.”

  The nurse ducked out, returning with a few towels. She spread them on the floor, and Bhaarrt set the box down. Using a hammer and chisel, he ignored the welds and simply scored through the softer lead. The repeated sounds rang out…sharp, metallic strikes that seemed too loud for a hospital. Wild Bill turned his head, eyes narrowing as he watched. Even with the door closed, I was sure the noise carried down the hall.

  Bhaarrt pried open one end and cut a shallow line down each side, then bent the lead back. Inside was duct-taped cardboard. Tilting the box, the contents slid out onto the towels with an anticlimactic thump.

  “Ingrid, Father Stoddard. What do you feel from it?” I asked.

  Both reached out their hands, palms hovering over the bundle. After a few seconds, they shook their heads.

  “Nothing,” Father Stoddard said. “The last time, I could feel it even through the lead. The holy water I traced bubbled. Now… I think it would just make it wet.”

  “I agree,” Ingrid said. “I don’t feel anything. Since I helped wrap it, I should unwrap it.” She rummaged in Bhaarrt’s bag, came up with a box cutter, and carefully sliced away the tape, probing gently for the knife’s edge before cutting further.

  Two minutes later, the knife and book lay on a towel, while the scraps of tape, cardboard, and plastic went into a waste can. The knife still bore faint brown flecks of dried blood. The book’s cover read The Book of Going Forth By Day, by an author I didn’t recognize.

  “Well?” I asked. “How safe are they to handle?”

  Father Stoddard crossed himself, whispered something under his breath, then answered. “I don’t feel any evil. I studied the Egyptian Book of the Dead in seminary. Interesting, but nothing inherently wrong. There are dozens of different copies in libraries. This isn’t the same thing.” He glanced at Ingrid. “Spiritually, I’d call both harmless. The knife…it’s just a knife. I’ve seen similar in parishioners’ collections.”

  He looked at Ingrid.

  Ingrid nodded. “I agree. No trace of what I felt before. Unless that World Boss comes back and fills them with evil again, they’re ordinary. Sheriff Harper can keep them as evidence if he wants, but their danger is gone.”

  While they spoke, I cast DETECT MAGIC and DETECT MANA. Both returned nothing. Just mundane objects now.

  I picked them up, one in each hand, and held them out toward Wild Bill. “Do you still want them?”

  He stared at me, eyes unreadable. Wish my MENTALIST powers included mind reading… maybe someday, with a high enough level. For now, I only had silence.

  Raising an eyebrow, I asked again. “Bill?”

  “They were always that way, weren’t they?” His voice was soft, almost human again.

  “They may have once been,” Father Stoddard said. “But when William first brought them, they radiated evil. I trust this is the same box.”

  We waited. His face was still, empty.

  “No. That need is gone,” Bill whispered. “It left when I died. You should have left me dead for that mortal sin.”

  “Satan controlled you. It was not your choice,” Father Stoddard said firmly. “I spoke with my Bishop. He told me if it was not your choice, it was not sin. He said the miracle of raising the dead is holy. A forced suicide…even one to protect others…is not a sin in the eyes of the Church. The conclave of Cardinals is discussing this very thing.”

  “It was my choice,” Bill answered. His monotone had the weight of iron. “I didn’t want to be a tool of evil. A part of that thing.”

  “The Game isn’t evil,” I told him, my voice quiet. “It’s what we do with it that matters. We need good people to stand against the ones who aren’t. We need you. You still have the reason you came here. That task isn’t done.”

  I stopped for a moment, looking for his reaction. I didn’t see any.

  “Maybe that’s why Father Stoddard could raise you. Maybe that’s why Ingrid could heal you. Your body is mended. Now you must heal your mind and return to your purpose. Are you going to run away from the mission you were sent here to do?”

  He didn’t answer. His expression gave me nothing. “I hope something got through.”

  Turning, I handed the knife and book to Sheriff Harper. “Do with them what you want. I hope he recovers.”

  I looked back at the others. “Father Stoddard, Ingrid, Bhaarrt…thank you for coming. If you can think of anything else that might help, please try it.”

  I stepped out of the crowded hospital room, letting the door click shut behind me.

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