Hell in Heaven

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That's what the sign at the exit said. Heaven, Washington, elevation 5,100 feet, population 136. Except that the last digit had been crossed out and replaced with a seven, followed by an exclamation point in black spray paint.

Matt hadn't intended to stop this morning. His plan was to ride straight on through the day, stopping only for gas when he saw a station, keep going until he was too tired to stay on the bike. These mountains were beautiful, but he wasn't here for the scenery. He was on a mission.

He'd started out hitchhiking, but quickly got frustrated at how much time he was spending standing on the sides of empty roads. So he used three-quarters of his cash to buy a slightly dented, ten-year-old Buell Blast motorcycle from the widow of its last owner and headed out Route 20 on two wheels. That took him across the Cascades in the northern part of the state and kept him away from the big cities. He didn't know where he would find Mr. Dark, but he was pretty sure that a man – if that was what Mr. Dark was – who thrived on evil would find himself more comfortable in a major metropolitan area than Matt, whose one foray to Seattle for his 21 ^ ^st birthday had left him stunned by the number of people who could be packed into one small place.

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