"Why does he want to meet us in the middle of the woods?" Crodway asked, brushing back a branch in the dark.

"Obviously, there are a lot of eyes around. Once we get the pants, we just bring them home. No one can prove where we got them. No one can say shit," Laslow said.

Crodway was not assuaged. The forest was impenetrably dark save for the beams of their flashlights, and he suspected that Laslow didn't know where he was going.

"You'd better not get us lost in here. Coach has got Madford looking for us making sure we're not getting in trouble. This is definitely trouble."

"Relax," Laslow said. "We're almost at the clearing."

Crodway didn't answer. This whole thing was Laslow's idea. Sure, he could use some new pants. Laslow said they were rare and had never been seen in the United States before. That's what Mr. Gludcrul had told him. But he was out here mainly because Laslow would otherwise be out in the woods alone, and he was already dangerously close to the bench after throwing three picks in last week's game. Crodway, who already spent his Saturdays desperately trying to prevent opponents from hitting his quarterback, figured that he might as well try to stop him from getting completely lost in the woods.

"I don't see his car yet," Laslow said. "Dude, you should see this car," Laslow said. "Rolls. Phantom. He said he'd maybe let me take it for a spin if we get the win."

But they were at the clearing and there was no one there. It was eerily still, like the trees themselves were trying desperately to avoid detection. There was silence. Then a rustling. The sound seemed to come from behind them then from the left. But when they aimed their flashlights into the forest surrounding them, they saw nothing.

"Five minutes, Laslow, then we have to go," Crodway said.

There was nothing. And then there was something. Some formless shape seeming like it had materialized from the trees, something almost imperceptible but definitively there and something that was definitely moving towards them. They turned to run but no matter what direction they turned it was in front of them moving closer and closer.

-----------

Detective Carl Tratt was five minutes from the end of his shift when the call came in, five minutes from a warm house with a warm, brown bottle and instead he was squatting in the frost in a forest clearing looking at two bodies. A professor found them on what he told the officer was his "morning constitutional," which made Tratt dread having to the professor later on. He was told what he'd find when he'd come in but he was still not prepared for this. The bodies were desiccated, almost shriveled. Neither seemed to have much blood in them, but there was none at the scene.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to them?" he asked the Paul Quatch, the medical examiner.

"I've never seen anything like it. No blood. No wounds. No trauma. I have no idea what the hell could have done this."

Tratt's phone rang. He listened for a few minutes and frowned, then hung up and paced around.

"Quatch, that was the office. Coach called in this morning. They've got two football players missing. One of the roommates saw them grab some flashlights on the way out. Says they were on the way to get some pants."

"Oh no," Quatch said.

"That's right," Tratt said, sighing. "They've already called in Duckett. He's on the train from Indianapolis."

"Well better get your cloak cleaned and your amulets shiny," Quatch said.

Tratt had never met the NCAA investigator Buck Duckett, but he heard about him. It was bound to happen when you worked in a college town. Most of the time, you would just hear about Duckett poking around in a trash can outside an athletic facility or harassing some big time booster at a country club. But Duckett was also an encyclopedia of college football's dark underbelly. He knew all of the secret deals, he knew the networks of people funneling money into the sport. It was rare that any of that dealing crossed from an NCAA infraction into the realm of an actual crime, but when it did he was a useful person to talk to. But no one on the force wanted to.

The fact is that any conversation with Buck Duckett could swerve in bizarre directions. The rumors were that Duckett believed in all sorts of strange, spooky stuff: monsters, spirits, demon cults, that sort of thing, and word spread among campus police that he could be found doing incantations or reading from scrolls. He creeped everyone out. Now, because some kid had mentioned pants to a detective, he was rolling up on Duckett's doorstep.

------------

"Chief, this is ridiculous. The guy's not even law enforcement. He gets people suspended for eating a burrito that someone else paid for," Tratt said. They were in the office, and the blinds were drawn.

"Tratt, my hands are tied. This is the only thread we have, and we're pulling on it," Chief Stunch said. "You know if these kids were looking for pants, he's the best shot at finding out who they were getting from and why they were in that clearing. If you have any better ideas, let me know."

Tratt fumed. He had nothing else. "Fine, I'll talk to him. But I can't investigate a murder and keep an eye on this guy. You know what he does. He slinks around. He talks to people. He hides in dumpsters and he has false mustaches. I can't watch him constantly," Tratt said.

"Well you'll have to keep him close to you, then. He's here," the Chief said. He picked up his phone. "Bring him in."

Duckett glided through the door. He was not what Tratt was expecting. He thought that Duckett would be wearing a cloak or at least some sort of skull necklace. He was expecting him to have a sack of poultices or amulets. But the man who walked in was dressed in a crisp suit with a tie and an anachronistic men's hat and carried a briefcase. If anything, this was more disconcerting. He looked like an FBI agent from the 1950s.

"Buck Duckett, NCAA," Duckett said.

"Carl Tratt," Tratt said. "We found two bodies in a clearing. Likely football players. Quarterback and a center. Seemed one of them might have had a line on some pants."

"Thanks for coming, Duckett," Chief Stunch said. "I'll leave you two to it. Tratt should have everything you need." He left the room.

"You know of anyone throwing money around who likes to do pants drops in the forest?" Tratt said. "Is that the MO of any operators?"

Duckett opened his briefcase and picked up a file folder and slapped it on the table. "Errol 'Jimmy' Budesnon III." He grabbed another one. "Bud 'Poke' Hanragason. Tad Hadley. Hudd 'Scrote' Thomas."

"That's a lot of pants guys," Tratt said.

"No, it's just one. I haven't figured out what his name is here yet."

"You're telling me there's a booster doling out pants and changing his name and no one has caught on yet?"

Duckett just stared at him. He closed the briefcase and removed his hat. A deep scar ran down his head parallel to the his scalp on the left side leaving a trench in a square buzzcut.

"You know who I am and what I do," Duckett said. "I know you don't want me here. I know you all think I'm a kook. I understand that. But I also know that this is the first time he's ever left the bodies like deflated sacks in the woods."

Tratt paused. He hadn't mentioned the state of the bodies or that the baffled medical examiner's office was already on the phone with some out-of-state experts.

"This booster is not just changing his name. When he leaves, it's as if he never existed. Just a disappeared athlete and what appears to be no memory. Holding galas for the coach and showering them with money and then he's gone. The locker room is renamed. You see that enough times and you start to believe there's something more sinister going on here than pants," Duckett said.

He took a large dusty book out of his briefcase. It took me sixteen years to find this thing and it damn near cost me my skull. I've been tracking this thing since those fullbacks disappeared. I think I know what we're dealing with. But I'm going to need your help. He opened the book. Lesser Pants Daemons.