TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE: THE FLAME DEVIL

CHAPTER TWO: THE BLACK WOLF

CHAPTER THREE: DANNY “BEAR” ROSS

CHAPTER FOUR: ERNIE SINGLETON

CHAPTER FIVE: HOLLY ULVERSTONE

CHAPTER SIX: WESTMORELAND

CHAPTER SEVEN: LePAGE

CHAPTER EIGHT: LISA NOWLAND

CHAPTER NINE: THE HIERARCHY OF HELL

CHAPTER TEN: THE SEARCH FOR HOLLY

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE GLEN HARTWELL MASSACRE

CHAPTER TWELVE: CALHOUN STREET

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: FINAL CONFRONTATION

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: REGRETS AND CONFUSION

THE FLAME DEVIL

CHAPTER ONE:

THE FLAME DEVIL

Stanley Ashmore was panting, on the brink of exhaustion, when finally he reached the outskirts of Westmoreland.   His heart pounded in his ears, loud enough to deafen him to the sounds of his pursuer.   However, Stan knew that he was still being followed, knew that the pursuer would never give up until he was dead.

In his youth, Stan had been quite an athlete, at least by the standards of an Australian country town.   But for the last thirty-five years, he had been slowly going to fat, sitting behind a teller’s window at the State Savings Bank in BeauLarkin.   So, Stan was now in no condition for running.

Yet running was just what he had been doing, seemingly for hours.   Running through the dense forest of wattles, pines, and eerie, sweet-smelling grey-white eucalyptus trees, all the way from Mount Abergowrie on the northern edge of Glen Hartwell, to the outskirts of Westmoreland, nearly five kilometres away.

“A ghost town,” said Stan between panting breaths, looking out at the narrow streets of decaying, weatherboard houses.

Stan hesitated for a moment, catching his breath, and then decided that perhaps a ghost town was as fitting a place as any to hide … considering what was chasing him.

“Can’t … go … much further … anyway,” wheezed Stan.   He stumbled out of the forest and started down the pot-holed bitumen road.

Westmoreland is nothing more than twenty or so single-fronted weatherboard houses, a bank, and a general store lined up along Cockerall Road (which is paved), and Phillomena and Harvey Streets (which are both nothing more than dirt tracks).   Stan stopped at the corner of Cockerall Road and Phillomena Street and looked down the dirt track for a moment.   ‘Bitumen burns, dirt doesn’t!’ he thought, wondering whether it might be safer to head down along the dirt path.   Then, knowing that his pursuer could take the fire along the dirt road, Stan continued up along Cockerall Road, looking first left, then right as he ran.