Free Of Saints and Shadows (1994) by Christopher Golden

call about that garage killing last night. Roger Martin, remember? Anyway, it seems he’d been working late on a rush job for his manager, not uncommon according to her.”
    “What was the job? What corporation?” Peter asked, more out of habit than interest.
    “Some church thing is all I know. Anyway, he went to the Publik House for a drink after work, which his wife says is unusual. He was coming back for his car when he got hit. We’ll know more about it when the janitor comes around. The docs are pretty sure now that he will.”
    “Thanks, Ted. Keep me posted.”
    “Peter? You okay?”
    “ Fine , Ted. Maybe a little tired. Sorry.”
    When he hung up the phone, Peter was much more relaxed and genuinely sorry to have been so short with Ted. He was in a bitter frame of mind as the alarm clock buzzed, startling him. He swore and knocked it from the bedside table. Its plastic window cracked as it landed, and he cursed again.
    Stop it, he told himself, and forced his lungs to draw a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. He fought to contain the emotion that was overwhelming him. Rage and fear and grief gnawed at his heart. Steeling himself against these emotions, he walked to the window and opened it, swinging the shutters wide and breathing in the cold night air.
    The night air? The alarm had gone off. He knew his vision or whatever had come to him in the early hours of the morning, not long after he’d gone to sleep. It seemed so immediate. And even though he didn’t really need to sleep, or at least very little, he still felt tired somehow.
    He smiled grimly. No rest for the wicked.
    He turned back into the room and surveyed his art collection, his eyes perfectly capable of clear sight in the dark room. The paintings were incredibly dissimilar, not a repetition of theme or style in the room. Some were calm and sensual, others angry and violent, and the sculptures showed the same variety. Away from it all, standing on a marble base in the corner, was a traditional bust. His father, he had once explained to a young woman amazed at the remarkable resemblance he bore to the subject of the sculpture. Now, today, he thought, he would have to claim it was his great-great-great-grandfather.
    The Publik House. That was the last place that Roger Martin had been seen alive as well as the last place Janet Harris had been seen. A coincidence, almost certainly, but something to store in his mind.
    He stood there staring about the room for quite some time. Then, feeling calm but with a heavy heart, he went about preparing for the night. He had to meet Meaghan at eight o’clock and he was running late. He hoped that she had done as he’d asked.
    Peter stood by the window watching the snow fall. He was dressed and ready to go, but the snow, though beautiful, had him worried about traffic—it must be bumper-to-bumper in the storm. He looked at the cracked clock face and saw that it was a quarter to eight. It would take him at least twenty-five minutes to reach Meaghan’s place if he had to fight the storm and Boston’s own brand of intimate traffic relationships. Even in a raging blizzard, many a Bostonian would be happy to roll down his window to let you know that you “fuck ya muthaa.”
    Only because he counted on Bostonians to be less well armed than residents of Los Angeles or New York, Peter felt comfortable flipping these pleasant folks the bird, or when he was in a particularly cynical mood, rolling down his window to shout back, “You’re an excellent judge of character.”
    No. No traffic tonight; he couldn’t deal with it right now. With all that had happened already that day, he might just lose control. He zipped up his jacket and went out, but rather than take the elevator down, he walked the three flights to the roof, stepped out onto the windswept surface, and closed his eyes as the snow flew in his face. He could feel the cold, but it didn’t bother him.
    As the storm screamed around him he walked to