Family. The Job. The Thrill of the Kill. No one gets out alive.
George Covington loved three things: his family, his job, and the dames he killed every night. Detective Smith hated three things: his family, his job, and the scumbags who killed dames every night. The only thing they had in common was the witch from Salem who pulled the puppet strings from the shadows.
As the witch resurrected George’s victims to build herself an army of ghouls, Detective Smith had to make the most important decision of his life—help a killer to take down the witch, or help the witch to take down a killer. One option could leave the detective with an endless trail of corpses, forever marring his dignity and staining the city’s golden reputation. The other option could reward evil with the immortality it craved, unleashing an unstoppable rampage on the world and in the afterlife.
Whose side will Detective Smith take? Or can he play each side long enough, without getting killed, to rid the streets of both the killer and the witch forever?
11:18 p.m. Subject is checking into the Desert Palms Motel, accompanied by an unknown female ...
Snapshot in the parking lot. Man and woman embrace. Betrayal, I see it every day, like my own reflection in the mirror staring back at me. Another case, another bottle of booze, life is no longer a mystery to me … Because I’m the private eye, hot on your trail; the top gun for hire. You’ll find me lurking in the shadows, always searching for a clue. I’m the bulletproof detective. I got my eye on you ...
What’s a little sin under the covers, what’s a little blood between lovers? What’s a little death to be discovered, cold stiff body under the covers? I’m digging you a desert grave, underneath the burning sun. You won’t be found by anyone. Vultures circle in the sky, and you, my dear, are the reason why.
… I was always easily influenced.
Family. The Job. The Thrill of Discovery. No one gets out alive.
George Covington loved three things: his family, his job, and the dames he killed every night. Detective Smith hated three things: his family, his job, and the scumbags who killed dames. The only thing they had in common was the witch who pulled the puppet strings from the shadows.
11:18 p.m. Subject is checking into the Desert Palms Motel, accompanied by an unknown female. Snapshot in the parking lot. Man and woman embrace. Betrayal … I see it every day, like my own reflection. Another case, another bottle of booze, and another client who won't be satisfied until I uncover every speck of dirt they think is there. I'm a private eye, hot on the trail; the top gun for hire. I lurk in the shadows, searching for the clues you think you erased. I'm the bulletproof detective, and I have you in my sights.
What's a little sin between the sheets, and a little blood between lovers? What's a little death to be discovered, waiting for you under that white sheet? I'm digging a desert grave just for you, underneath the burning sun. You won't be found ... not even by the vultures circling in the sky. You, my dear, are the reason why I was always easily influenced.