“How you doing, Harry?” Jake asked. Vic and Rosalie exchanged tense glances.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you, Jakey, I’m feeling pretty fine. But, tonight I saw a wolf-man wearing your darned hat. I saw a giant dog kill that cut-rate hood Eddie. And Olivia, well, apparently, she’s a vampire-but nothing like what you see in the movies, let me tell you! At first, I thought I was high-who knows what that lovely, wicked Sadie has been giving me?-but I hadn’t fixed. And it all seems so clear now. Like that time, up in Salem, when you-”

Time for Jake to step in. “Yes, Harry, my Family is full ofwerewolves and vampires, but not like in the movies. We’re the good guys.”

“Gee.” Harry sighed. “That’s swell.”

“Olivia?” Vic said quietly. “You got the mix a little off. A little rich on the truth-telling serums and light on the memory blockers.”

“Hey, it’s a complicated case,” she said, weaving a little. She was drained and giddy from the night’s work. “But I’ll take another crack at it.” She smiled blearily and regarded Harry. “C’mere, lover boy.”

A week later, Harry was back in Washington, whistling his way down Pennsylvania Avenue, his second-best suit cleaned and spruced up, a brand-new fedora cocked jauntily on the back of his head. There was a spring in his step that would have been out of place during wartime, save that everyone who saw him was suddenly filled with encouragement. Everything about his attitude shouted: We can do it!

Something had changed him in Boston. Maybe it was solving the case, maybe it was seeing his old friend, maybe it was getting hit on the head in that filthy alley, but Harry hadn’t had the urge to use since then. It was days before he even noticed. Before Boston, he would have described himself as possessed by opium.

No more of that, now. Never again.

He’d already convinced his boss, Mr. Roundtree, to keep him on the job. In a month or two, Harry’d be back on track to run his own projects. Heck, he’d win the war from this side of the Atlantic!

He was still whistling as he entered the Department of Justice. He’d be hunting and pecking his way through another night at the old Smith Corona, and his fingers would be sore and stiff from jabbing the heavy keys. But his work-with Jake’s help-had been a significant break, uncovering a major conduit for drugs and industrial-military espionage in the Northeast.

Something stopped him in his tracks. It took one minute to realize he wasn’t ill, another to wonder what the problem was. But there was no problem. It was the image of the family sitting at the cloth-covered table, joined in company, sharing food, giving praise. On the left-hand side was a large, scruffy, shepherdlike dog, his head happily uptilted to the woman serving coffee.

He had passed the murals every day, had never really taken the time to examine them. Too tied up with work and then the pursuit of the needle, he’d barely bothered to look up. He did now. Amazing.

It was the dog that caught his attention. He wasn’t much for dogs, didn’t like the way they slobbered and jumped all over you-

In the alley. In Boston. Something had attacked MacLaren’s men. Harry had been rattled, his head half-caved in, but he hadn’t been high, and he knew what he saw. A wolf, standing on two legs, wearing a suit and one damned ugly hat-

The hat had been Jake Steuben’s. He’d have recognized it anywhere.

As Harry stared at the mural, he remembered it all.

Jake had pulled a Lon Chaney in the alley, turned into a wolf-man. And Jake’s friend Olivia had bitten him in the neck, just like Dracula. Only Harry was in better shape than he had been in years, and clean, to boot.

The first thing he thought was: Oh, no. I don’t want to want to have to get high again…

And when he realized the idea left him with distaste, rather than that burning desire, he took a deep breath and considered. He’d done shady things to feed his addiction, seen horrors on the job. And now he realized Jake and his family were something out of a Saturday matinee.

But he’d trusted Jake with his life on more than one occasion. And Jake had always come through. Olivia had taken the most terrible burden from him, given him his life back.

Jake and his family were the good guys. They were patriotic and discreet, too. Had to be.

Harry decided that there was nothing monstrous about them. He was eternally grateful to them.

It took him a while to find out the name of the mural-Society Freed Through Justice, by George Biddle. It stuck him as particularly appropriate. He wondered why the artist had included the dog. Wondered how many more-Fangborn?-there might be out there.

Harry thought long and hard. If Jake and his family could defeat MacLaren, and save a lost cause like Harry, imagine what they could do with a little help from the Federal Bureau of Investigation…

He made an appointment to discuss the matter with Mr. Roundtree. He had a feeling that after hearing what they could do, these Fangborn would suit his boss down to the ground.

Riding High by Carolyn Hart

I hovered above my beloved hometown of Adelaide, Oklahoma, enjoying a late summer evening and the sparkle of lights on the terrace of the country club. Women in summer frocks and men in dressy sportswear mingled at a party. I wished I could plunge down and have a glass of wine and some Brie and crackers, and chat up that good-looking young man illustrating his golf swing.

Hovering? It’s easy for me. No, I don’t have a personalized jet pack. The reality is both less and more startling.

I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, a green-eyed, freckle-faced redhead, who loves laughter, good times, gorgeous clothes, and adventure.

You did note the modifying late? In short, I am a ghost.

Shh. That’s just between us. My supervisor at the Department of Good Intentions refuses to describe those temporarily on Earth as ghosts. Wiggins is vehement that we are Heavenly agents assisting those in trouble. In his view, ghosts have quite a shady reputation on Earth. You know, clanking chains, pulsating protoplasm, dank drafts even when all the windows are closed.

Ghost or emissary, I loved coming back to Earth to be of help. I should perhaps be frank-I’m known for frankness, too-and admit I’d had a few challenges attempting to become one of Wiggins’s regulars. Wiggins is a dear fellow but set in his ways. On Earth, he’d been a stationmaster. Since his idea of Heaven was a well-run train station, the Department of Good Intentions resided in just such a station, and emissaries were dispatched to earth on the glorious coal-burning Rescue Express, charged with providing a helping hand but-great emphasis here-circumspectly. Wiggins impressed upon all emissaries the necessity of observing the Department’s Precepts for Earthly Visitation:

1. Avoid public notice.

2. No consorting with other departed spirits.

3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.

4. Become visible only when absolutely essential.

5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.

6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.

7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”

8. Remember always that you are on the Earth, not of the Earth.

I suppose that all seems simple to you. Certainly the strictures are straightforward. I cannot say emphatically enough how great an effort I have always made to observe these rules.

However, I am chagrined to reveal that on previous earthly visits I careened from one contravention of the Precepts to another.

Not this time.

I would put that in capital letters (NOT THIS TIME!) except I don’t want to appear proud. Pride is not becoming to a Heavenly emissary. Boasting would indicate that I was too much of the Earth. Please don’t take umbrage. We all know that earthly creatures exhibit pride, greed, avarice, anger, and all manner of unworthy behavior.