A/N: Alright, this is the sequel to 'Sympathy for the Devil'. Nobody makes an appearance in this chapter; I'd call this a prologue if I didn't hate the way it messes up chapter numbers. So, here goes... the second chapter is handwritten and should be up over the next couple of days. Keep in mind that there's still time to vote on the poll on my profile.

November fourteenth dawned cool and clean over Ferris, Iowa.

Sixty-four-year-old Molly McClure was long awake, unlike the other resident of her home—her husband, Sam, wouldn't be out of bed until the sun was well up (probably seven-thirty or eight; the sun was rising later and later as each day went by, though Molly didn't mind). Sam usually accompanied her on walks, but his arthritis had started to affect him more and more as the days grew colder, so Molly told him to just lie abed and let her and Rusty have their walk.

There were ordinances about having dogs on the Ferris square, but Molly didn't really pay attention to them; any police officer that stopped her had probably been taught English by her and wouldn't say a word about her and Rusty. Plus, they knew that her Irish Setter was about as old as they were—the white around his muzzle was more than enough to prove that; that dog wasn't a danger to anybody.

The woman and her old dog meandered along the sidewalks in front of the shops; she knew where she was going, and she imagined that Rusty did, too, since they took this same route every Sunday, and had for the last twelve years, rain or shine, hot or cold—and that was why she was more than a little surprised when he started tugging a little at his leash, pointing that fine Setter nose at the entrance to the alley behind Gordie's Bar and Grill. Molly, having been raised by a hunter father and among hunter brothers, knew that nothing a hunting dog pointed his nose at would be pretty—even if Rusty was long past his prime of hunting, he still had his training, and that training was to find what stuck out.

He pulled at his leash, whimpering and letting out gravelly barks every now and again; Molly finally sighed and followed him, letting slack on the leash. It was strange, though—he would sniff at the ground, then come back to her, whimpering, then sniff again, always in the same direction, back towards the dumpster. Now that she looked, she could see something—it didn't look like a dead rabbit or even another dog, which she'd been expecting. She took another few steps closer and drew back with a gasp of horror and revulsion as realization crashed down on her: she was staring at a body. A human body—the Anderson boy, she realized; he was lying face-up and he hadn't been dead long.

"My God," she whispered, fighting the urge to be sick.