The devil saw the most magnificent of God’s creations, and like everything else he saw, he wanted to imitate it for himself. Thus, in the beginning—the new beginning—did the devil create mankind. But a new species of mankind. Born from the birth canal of rainwater, filth, and fungi, was a species of man, made in the image of hell.

  There would be no tree of life, only the root of opposites. In a single species, would be the beautiful and the hideous, the grotesque and the sublime, the male and the female, the welding of all duality mashed into one. And he saw that it was good and so smiled upon it…

  —The Children’s Story Book of Heaven

  Sheriff Lynn hummed along to the scratchy radio, its upbeat banjo and fiddle cutting through both the midnight rain and his black mood. A man’s whining voice crooned:

  Ain’t got no use for your red rockin’ chair, I ain’t got no sugar baby now, I ain’t got no honey baby now…

  The sheriff’s fingers tapped the steering wheel in rhythm as the guitar twanged on. His lucky rabbit’s foot swung lazily from the ignition keychain, adding its own jangling rhythm.

  Who’ll rock the cradle who’ll sing this song who’ll rock the cradle when I’m gone, who’ll rock the cradle when I’m gone…

  The road turned to gravel as Alex pulled up to the empty lot where the boys played ball. He parked at the edge, just as another police car pulled in beside him, followed by a pickup truck. He grabbed his hat and stepped out. John, his deputy, joined him from his own car. Hank and Mike, from city maintenance, climbed out of the truck.

  “What’s the deal, Alex?” Mike asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

  “Got a call from Melany Schreiber earlier. Her boy—think his name’s Henry—said he and his friends found a manhole in the lot. They opened it up and went down in it.” Alex nodded toward the pitcher’s mound, where the hole yawned dark and wet.

  “Jeez,” muttered Hank, shaking his head. “These holes are like Easter eggs. Forgot this one was even here.”

  “Damn kids,” grumbled Mike. “They can’t resist picking scabs. Always count on them to find things meant to be left alone.”

  “Oh, we did the same kinds of things at their age, Mike,” Alex said. “Besides, according to them, they didn’t dig it up. They found it like this.”

  A sudden silence took hold of the men, the rain a steady backdrop as they thought about what that could mean.

  “Well,” Alex said, clearing his throat. “Let’s go take a look.” He handed one end of a rope to John. “Here, hold this.”

  John took a position next to the manhole cover, rope in hand. Alex took the rest of the coil and paid it out as he walked toward the fence line. On the way, he stepped over a rusted metal plate partially submerged in a rain puddle.

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  Second base, he thought. The sight made him smile, bringing him back to his own childhood. He thought of the lot where he and his friends had played ball. That lot, for him, was his very own Sistine Chapel, his own window into heaven.

  Reaching the fence line, Alex pulled a roll of bright red electrical tape from his pocket and wrapped several loops around the spot on the rope that marked the distance from the manhole to the edge. He walked back to the manhole, coiling the rope again as he went.

  “All right, let’s open her up.”

  Hank was already waiting with a crowbar pulled from the maintenance truck.

  He fixed the end of it into the slot on the edge of the cover. Then with a grunt and a pop, the manhole cover came loose. Alex and John pulled it off to the side.

  John leaned over the hole, listening. “You hear that rushing water?”

  Alex picked up the big waterproof flashlight and shone it down the hole. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said, “We’ll just be careful. And we’ll need boots.”

  Henry grinned. “My mama always taught me to come prepared for any situation,” he said. “I got four pairs in the truck.”

  “I always knew you were a mama’s boy,” said John, shaking his head.

  “All right, let’s get this over with.”

  Alex was the first to descend. Halfway down, he glanced up at the circle of stormy sky above. The thought struck him: how bright the sky suddenly seemed, compared to the oppressive darkness of the hole. His foot slipped, and he caught himself, snapping his attention back to the ladder.

  Reaching the bottom, Alex stepped aside, waiting for the others. He stared at the water swirling around his boots, his thoughts oddly drifting to Charles Darwin and the origin of species. The way streams could connect isolated ecosystems came to mind, enabling gene flow between distinct populations. His high school biology teacher’s voice echoed faintly in his head. He imagined the distinct populations as belonging to both Bend and the labyrinth, linked by this hidden waterway.

  Soon, the others joined him at the foot of the ladder.

  “Is there a breeze down here?” asked Hank, shivering slightly. “Do you feel that?”

  “Air pressure,” Mike said curtly. “The storm above and us opening this hole are messing with it.”

  “I’ve been in plenty of these holes,” Hank muttered, “and I’ve never felt a breeze before.”

  Alex ignored their chatter, securing the rope to the ladder rung. “We don’t go any further than this rope lets us,” he said. Then, turning to face downstream, he shone his flashlight at a distant grating. “The girl said it was past those bars down there.”

  Their boots splashed through the stream as they walked. Reaching the grating, Alex noted they still had some slack on the rope. Hank crouched and began unbolting the bars.

  The grating had fused to the wall after years of corrosion. Once the bolts were out, it took all four of them to wrest it free. The metal shrieked as it scraped along the ground, finally tipping to one side.

  John stepped cautiously to the edge and shone his flashlight below. He froze. His breath hitched, and he staggered backward, slipping into the rushing water.

  “John!” Alex said sharply, steadying him. “What is it?”

  John’s face was pale. “God!” he gasped. It was all he could manage.

  Alex grabbed the flashlight from him and stepped forward to look for himself.

  The beam illuminated a horrifying sight. Bodies. Hundreds of motionless bodies. They were clothed, uninjured, and eerily still, their blank eyes staring into nothingness.

  They were stacked upon each other in a grotesque heap.

  As Alex stared, the faint echo of sloshing sounded from below, a chilling counterpoint to the stillness of the bodies.

  Alex’s stomach turned as the light revealed something even worse. He recognized them. These weren’t strangers. They were people from Bend—friends, neighbors, coworkers.

  And then it hit him.

  They weren’t just bodies.

  They were copies.

  And Sadie’s was only one of them.