The PowWow

We cruised down the highway toward Dad’s place—though, strictly speaking, Jeremiah Yaats wasn’t our dad.

My brother and I were orphans, and Yaats—for no real reason anyone could point to—brought us home and raised us. Jacob would call it divine intervention.

I can’t say I disagree.

We were raised in a loving home with Jeremiah and his wife, Rebecca, steeped in the Word from the beginning. Most kids I’ve known from homes like that go the opposite direction the second they get a taste of freedom—party hard, run fast, don’t look back.

Jacob and I never did.

We saw what Jeremiah and Rebecca gave up for us. Every day. We understood.

Divine intervention, sure.

But also… divine expectation.

Years of binge-watching Supernatural, Buffy, and Angel didn’t exactly hurt either. Those shows wired something into us—a sensitivity to the shadows at the edges of things.

Jeremiah, to his credit, didn’t shut that down, but rather leaned into it.

He’d take what we watched and turn it into something real—strip it down, rebuild it through scripture, show us where fiction brushed up against truth and where it went off the rails entirely.

It made sense, eventually, that we became paranormal investigators.

Jeremiah finds the cases and we go see what there is to see.

And when we can—we bring light into places that don’t want it.

I got more out of the entertainment and Jacob got more out of the instruction afterward.

Hey, I’ve got my imperfections.

And believe me—so does Jacob.

He binge-watched every Star Trek series and movie ever made, which is a serious character flaw, don’t you think?

I glanced over at him as I drove the Highlander through light traffic.

Seat all the way back and legs stretched out.

It was why he rarely drove. The man didn’t fit behind most steering wheels without looking like he was trying to escape the vehicle.

He looked… pensive.

Like a collapsed star—pulling everything inward.

“What’s got you tied up?” I asked.

His voice rolled out like gravel over concrete.

“Strength and speed.”

That got my attention.

“Strength I understand,” he continued. “I could do what happened.”

That didn’t surprise me.

“The speed…” he said, trailing slightly, “…is unnerving.”

Jacob admitting something was unnerving sent a chill down my spine.

I nodded slowly. “I’ve got the speed. At least—I know I’m fast enough. But yeah… this is different.”

Jacob frowned slightly. “That’s not quite it.”

I glanced at him, then back at the road.

“The speed matters,” he said, “but it’s not what unsettles me.”

The word landed heavier.

Unsettled, from Jacob, carried weight, it was Fear’s quieter cousin.

“How so?”

He glanced at me, like he didn’t particularly enjoy being made to explain himself.

“It’s not how much strength it takes,” he said. “It’s how much strength—combined with that speed—is required to do it that cleanly.”

I let out a slow breath.

“Precision,” I said. “The control. What was done to Espinoza…”

Jacob’s lip twitched, tacit approval.

“See?” he said. “You do get it.”

Yeah.

I wish I didn’t.

I pulled the Highlander into the driveway of a two-story home tucked neatly into the suburbs. Gray and white brick. Clean lines. Quiet street.

Home.

The garage sat off to the left, framed by a wide stretch of concrete. Iron fencing ran along the property, opening out into the backyard where Rebecca kept her garden.

Jeremiah called it Eden.

Which felt a little on the nose, but… he wasn’t wrong.

It was beautiful.

Peaceful.

And right now—

It felt a long way from the alley.

The front door opened before we reached it.

Rebecca Yaats stood there like she’d been waiting—which she probably had. Small, warm, and somehow always exactly where she needed to be.

“Boys,” she said, smiling.

That smile faltered—just slightly—as her eyes moved between us.

She could read a room faster than anyone I’d ever met.

“Come in.”

We stepped inside.

Warmth hit first, then the smell—coffee, something baked, something sweet. The kind of smell that told your body it was safe before your brain had time to argue.

The living room was dim, but not dark. Lamps instead of overhead lights. Two dark leather couches faced each other across a heavy wooden coffee table, worn just enough to prove it had been used.

It was safe, a haven. You know, home.

Jeremiah sat in his usual chair, a book open in his lap—not reading it. He looked up as we entered.

“Levi. Jacob.”

His voice was calm. Steady. He was a rock, a much smaller, yet much more formidable rock than Jacob.

“Sir,” I said.

Jacob nodded once.

Rebecca was already moving, guiding us toward the couches.

“Sit,” she said, already fussing. “You look exhausted. Both of you.”

Her hand brushed Jacob’s shoulder as he passed—lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Things in a home stay the same, actions do too. Rebecca doted on Jacob, I think because he kept his own counsel so tightly, along with his self control. She wanted to fix him, get him more light hearted, maybe more like me.

Jacob sat, carefully folding himself onto the couch like the furniture might lose the argument if he didn’t cooperate.

Rebecca disappeared toward the kitchen before we could protest.

“Coffee’s ready,” she called.

Jeremiah closed the book slowly, setting it aside.

“Let us pray,” he said. “May the Lord grant us discipline… and discernment.”

We bowed our heads.

For a few quiet moments, the room stilled in a different way—not tense, not heavy.

I spoke softly. Jacob didn’t say much—he rarely did—but I knew he was there in it.

And almost immediately, I felt it.

Peace, multiple times stronger than the peace of feeling home. I felt settled as if the noise of life had quieted around us.

Jeremiah lifted his head.

We followed.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Comfortable, yet attentive. That was Jeremiah.

I glanced at Jacob, seeing him still and focused, a lot like Jeremiah. Who knew the Rock of Gibratar was chipped out of larger stone?

Jeremiah’s eyes moved between us.

“Tell me what you saw.”

Not what happened.

What you saw.

Important distinction.

I exhaled slowly.

“Two officers,” I said. “Both dead near their cruiser. Windows smashed. Evidence suggests they were killed inside, then pulled out through the broken glass.”

Jeremiah nodded slightly.

“Necks,” I continued. “Both snapped. Clean. Instant.”

Rebecca returned, setting a tray down—three mugs, steam curling upward, and a plate of tiny cookies that looked like they had no business being that good.

She pressed a mug into Jacob’s hands before he could object.

“Drink,” she said softly.

Then she hovered nearby, listening, but mostly watching Jacob, like she always did.

I took a cup.

“Footprints,” I said. “Bare. Through glass. Through water. Some with blood.”

Jeremiah’s brow furrowed slightly. His gaze dipped briefly to Jacob’s feet.

“Bare,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded once.

“And the third body?”

I leaned back slightly, coffee forgotten. The earlier feelings of nerves began to nibble at me.

“Detective Espinoza,” I said. “And… it’s not like anything we’ve seen.”

Jeremiah didn’t interrupt, he just listened with laser like focus, yet a comforting presence.

“He was intact,” I said. “Skin unbroken. No lacerations. No entry wounds.”

Rebecca stilled behind Jacob.

Even she understood what that meant.

“But inside?” Jeremiah asked quietly.

“Everything broken. Long bones. Ribs. Arms. Legs.” I swallowed. “Organs crushed. Completely.”

Silence stretched.

Jeremiah’s gaze shifted to Jacob. “And you?” he asked. “What did you see?”

Jacob took a breath.

“Control.”

One word. Jacob could pack volumes of books into one word. Annoying.

Jeremiah nodded. “Explain.”

“It wasn’t just strength,” Jacob said. “It was application. Sequential. Precise. No wasted movement. The detective…deliberate damage.”

Rebecca’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder out of encouragement or concern, or both.

“And the officers?” Jeremiah asked.

“Speed,” Jacob said. “Beyond reaction time. Entry through the window. Immediate incapacitation. Transition to the second target before response.”

I glanced at him. A lot of words for him. Fear began creeping on me more.

Jeremiah leaned back slightly. “You said bare feet.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. He filed that away in his head.

“This was not rage.”

“No,” I said. “Not even close.”

“This was demonstration,” Jacob added.

Jeremiah looked at him.

“Of what?”

“Superiority.”

“Pride,” he said quietly. “One of the gravest sins.”

Jacob nodded.

Jeremiah’s gaze moved between us.

“You’re describing something that is not merely violent,” he said. “It is intentional. Disciplined. Focused.

“That’s what bothers me,” I said. “Anyone can lose control. This… this is someone who has it.”

Jeremiah nodded slowly. “And wants you to see it.”

Silence again.

Rebecca finally sat, though her attention never really left Jacob.

Jeremiah leaned forward once more. “Tell me about the detective.”

“There was symmetry,” Jacob said. “Beneath the bruising.”

Jeremiah’s eyes sharpened.

“Placement?”

“Chest. Central. Structured.”

Jeremiah nodded slowly. “Did it take anything?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Beyond the woman.”

Alicia.

“We don’t know,” I said. “We were at the morgue, not the scene.”

Jacob rumbled, “It took pleasure in it. The victim was alive for part of it.”

The earlier chill came back, joining the internal fears chewing on me.

Jeremiah leaned back for a bit, thinking. Then he looked at both of us.

“You need to go back.”

“To the scene?” I asked.

“No.”

“To the examiner. Then the scene, if needed.”

Naomi.

“Why?”

“Because whatever did this,” he said, “was not only powerful…”

A glance at Jacob.

“…it was careful.”

He folded his hands.

“And careful things leave details careless ones do not.”

And just like that, a plan. That was Jeremiah.

“Ask her to look again,” He said. “Not for cause of death, but for intent.”

“For intent.” I repeated.

I stood, setting the empty mug down, my mind spinning and whirling with questions for the doctor.

“Alright.”

Jacob stood with me.

Rebecca was already there, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

“Be careful,” she said softly.

Jacob nodded.

Jeremiah watched us. “Bring the light,”

We stepped back out into the night.

The world didn’t feel quite as peaceful anymore.