The instant he stepped inside the dark barn, Joe Welch knew he'd found the source of his urgent sense that something was wrong.
Someone was in the barn. Someone who had no business being there. The thoroughbreds were restless, moving agitatedly about in their stalls, not quiet like they should be so late at night. One -- he thought it was Suleimann -- whinnied to him softly. There was an indefinable heaviness in the air: the weight of an unseen presence. He could feel it, tangible as the scent of smoke that still lingered outside from the burning of a pile of brush that afternoon.
Standing in the rectangle of...