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  He shrugged.

  He scraped a fork over his plate, frowned, and almost smiled when he realized he’d already eaten.

  Hadn’t tasted a thing.

  Hadn’t known he’d been chewing.

  It didn’t bother him that the word had gotten to them so fast. Either they had already been close by and couldn’t help but hear all the shooting, or they were … he scratched his chin, found the word … linked somehow. Like identical twins. One knowing instantly when something’s wrong with another. It was something he had never had to think about before.

  James might know.

  He reached out to a tiny white table, picked up the white receiver, and dialed. Still humming.

  It was the child, the woman, and he smiled at the high ceiling at the memory of her face.

  “It is Maurice Lion, child,” he said in his best don’t be afraid voice. “May I speak to James, please?”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. … Reverend—”

  “Maurice,” he told her, singing his laugh. “As long as you don’t call me what James does once in a while, I think we’ll be just fine with Maurice.”

  “Oh, well, yes. Sure. Thank you … Maurice.”

  “James,” he prompted gently.

  “He can’t right now, Maurice. He’s taking a shower. Can I give him a message?”

  “Not at all, it isn’t urgent. I’ll see him later, no doubt, in the normal course of the day.” He crossed his legs. “And are you all right this morning, child?”

  She hesitated before admitting, “A little shaky, I guess.”

  “Surely. It’s never easy, you see. And for someone like you, it’s … shocking.”

  “Yes.”

  He waited.

  She said nothing more.

  “Will you ask him to call me, perhaps? I’ve the Lord’s work today, a quick run into Knoxville, but I’ll be around most of the time. You tell that boy to remember who’s not too big for a whomping.”

  She laughed and promised.

  He laughed in turn and hung up, and spent the next hour cleaning his shotgun and renewing the blessing he gave it before each hunt. The hour after that, in a plain and long white robe, he prostrated himself in the first-floor chapel. praying loudly, practically shouting, until he felt his throat begin to bum. Then he showered, dressed again, and walked into the huge living room just in time to answer the phone. White. On a small white table beside a large white wicker chair.

  “Maurice, goddamnit, when the hell are you going to get one of those answering machines. I thought you were dead. for God’s sake.”

  He shook his head as if the waitress could see him. “For God’s sake, I am not dead, Nola.”

  “Jesus, give me a break, okay?”

  “If you wish, I’ll ask Him.” He grinned at her stammering, laughed aloud when she held the mouthpiece away and cursed soundly, as if she were trying to spare him, although she knew damn well he could hear.

  “Look,” she said at last, “I had a visitor last night.”

  He nodded. “And me, too, child.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “I didn’t look,” he admitted. “I had no reason or desire to.”

  She told him she had figured it was the other Modeens, since it only made sense they’d want to take care of Jim for what had happened to Ruby. He agreed without reservation, and agreed again when she suggested none of them spend the coming night alone. Bad enough there was a gathering somewhere in the state; they didn’t need a minor war raging on their own land.

  Something like that, with someone like James, would not go unnoticed, not for long.

  By the time they were finished, her anger had settled, calm returned, and a voice he always likened to thick syrup the tempting color of sweet honey. He could listen all night to the words that voice produced, and envied the men who had spent all night listening.

  Then: “One more thing.”

  “Of course, child.” Knowing that “child” was the most irritating thing he could call her, and so did it every chance he got.

  She ignored him. “It sounds good, you know? Saying it was the others messing with us last night. But I can’t get something dumb out of my head.”

  He made a noise; he was listening.

  “Only one came around to my place, Maurice. There are four left, I figure, but I only heard one.”

  “Maybe they were—”

  “One,” she insisted quietly.

  He closed his eyes, and tried to think, to bring back the night, and the sound at his door.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I think … I don’t know.”

  “One,” she repeated; a second later she was gone.

  “One,” he said to the large empty room, and looked through the window just in time to watch the oval shadow of a cloud ripple across the lawn.

  She knows it all, Jim thought without any sense of admiration; give it to her, Scott, she pretty much knows it all.

  After letting him use the bathroom, the door open wide and her in the hall, and rinse his face with cold water, she made him lie in the tub, head inside, feet on the floor. Then she hobbled his ankles with the clothesline so his stride was no more than half a foot if he pushed it, and brought the rope up to his bound wrists, forcing him to walk in a mild crouch that nearly broke his back.

  In the kitchen she made sandwiches, cheese and ham, and gave him two, without a plate. He had to brace his soles on the chair’s bottom rung so he could raise his hands high enough to meet his lowered mouth.

  The heat had grown worse. All the windows closed, the air still, the sun already glaring in a washed-out sky. He could feel the damning lethargy already starting to slow him down, mind and muscle.

  “Who called?” he asked.

  “Friends,” she answered, hoisting herself onto the counter by the sink. “I told them you were taking a shower.”

  “Any messages?”

  “You’re supposed to call them later or they’ll skin you alive.”

  She grinned.

  He looked away.

  The food tasted like sawdust, the water she gave him tasted laced with iron.

  “Sooner or later,” he said, “one of them’s going to come over.”

  “Janelle,” she guessed immediately. Shrugged when he stared. “She’s got the most time to waste. Maurice says he has the Lord’s work to do, and that hooker waitress probably has things to do in that restaurant dump.” Another shrug. “I’d bet that boy never does anything his sister tells him not to.”

  For the first time he felt the heat, across his cheeks and in his chest.

  He said nothing; he ate and drank.

  “By the way,” she said, jumping lightly to the floor. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I called my sister last night.”

  Dorry Wardell was still in her teens, with all the awkwardness that implied, a little shyness, and a tendency to repeat every instruction she received so she wouldn’t forget it. Nola didn’t mind her, because Cider kept her mostly on the register so she’d be restricted to “Have a nice day,” and “Was everything okay?” In fact, they got along pretty well, what with Dorry keeping her up on the latest music and dress fads, while Nola worked with her on her makeup and appearance, a fair job considering the girl’s naturally pale complexion, bony figure, and childlike voice.

  Today, however, her patience had been left behind.

  She couldn’t get hold of Jimmy, Maurice was as always a goddamn prick, and Cider told her she wouldn’t be able to leave early on account of there was this church-outing group stopping by in the middle of the afternoon, and he’d be damned if he was going to leave all the tables to Dorry.

  “Sweet kid,” he said, his expression making the words a lie. “If she weren’t my niece, I’d fire her tomorrow.”

  “So why the hell don’t you get someone else, for God’s sake? It’s been months since Maureen left.”

  “I’m working on it, I’m working on it.

  ’Cou
rse you are, she thought; ’course you are. And used the back kitchen exit to get her into the tavern. She sat at the bar, leaned over, and pulled a beer from the small fridge, rolled the can over her forehead, opened it, and drank.

  It tasted sour.

  She shuddered.

  Looked at the mirror behind the bottles and thought she’d better clean that thing some day; and she thought that if Jimmy didn’t get back to her soon, there might not be another day around to clean it.

  “Oh, nice talk,” she told her reflection, and opened another can. “Real nice talk.”

  She had taken but two sips when she realized where she was.

  In a place that, if she screamed, not even Cider in the kitchen would hear her.

  “Damn them,” she muttered as she slid off the stool. Damn them for taking one of her refuges away.

  And just before she left, she said, “And damn you, too, Jimmy Scott.”

  The one thing Jim feared was Rachel losing her temper; the one thing that concerned him was he losing his. So far, he reckoned he had done a pretty fair job keeping his voice even when he had to speak, his expression blank whenever she looked at him. She appeared puzzled by his lack of reaction—not one escape attempt, not a single moment of pleading, or bargaining, or blustering threats. He doubted she thought him cowed or subdued, but she couldn’t quite get a handle on his behavior.

  She had him in his chair, angled so he could look out the window, and watch her on the couch without much effort.

  He didn’t need to.

  He had taken every opportunity to observe and judge her since the night before, and had decided to his disgust that he didn’t know as much about her and her kind as he had thought. If a stranger walked in now, unaware of anything but what he saw, he’d think no more than she was a very disturbed young woman with a gun.

  But the gun was only smoke; he’d have no concept of the real danger he was in.

  Jim had known from the beginning that was their strength.

  Stop to help someone stranded on the roadside, open the door to someone needing to use the phone or to ask simple directions, and what you see is what you see. Even if you were part of the paranoia of the time, suspecting serial killers and mass murderers in every twitch and jerk of someone whose looks you didn’t care for, you couldn’t possibly know you’d be better off with Ted Bundy.

  But they knew it.

  Disbelief was their armor, and their most effective weapon.

  He shifted, and tried not to wince at the chafing at his wrists or the strain on his back. If she kept him like this much longer, freedom wouldn’t allow him to do much more than fall flat on his face.

  are they human?

  i think so

  He still didn’t know.

  “Cut me loose,” he said at last.

  She affected a wide-eyed mild shock, and laid on the accent. “Mr. Scott, whyever would I want to do something foolish like that?”

  He turned to the window. More clouds drifted over the horizon, low and dark like newly formed mountains.

  “You said it yourself—Jonelle or someone might stop by.” He looked at her. “You don’t want to have to kill them.”

  She uncoiled from the couch and sashayed over, shaking her head. “And why wouldn’t I, Mr. Scott? Jim? Seems to me I have the right. Now.” Behind the chair. “After all, y’all killed my Momma, didn’t you? Wasn’t that part of your marvelous plan to rid the world of … what do you call them, Jim? Monsters? Don’t you want to get rid of all the monsters?”

  He ordered patience. “Not quite.”

  Her weight against the chair, her hand lightly brushing his shoulder. “Jim, you’ve been thinking too much.”

  “We killed her for you, Rachel.”

  The hand froze.

  He waited for a blow, a squeeze, the cock of a hammer; what he got instead was a schoolteacher’s good boy pat on the head, the hand trailing through his hair as she moved back in front of him and leaned close so he could see her eyes.

  “So you did,” she whispered. “So you did.”

  Her lips parted slowly, and he couldn’t help but see her teeth. White, near actress perfect, brighter by the dark of the lips that framed them, pursed, and drew away again to let him see what he hadn’t noticed before—the points. They weren’t animal fangs, nothing quite so melodramatic as a vampire’s fangs, but each tooth he could see ended in a distinct tiny point.

  He drew back instinctively.

  She drifted around to the side, and he could feel her breath on his cheek, moist and warm.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She kissed him.

  He suppressed a shudder.

  Another kiss, a little longer.

  Feeling the touch of her hair, the soft touch of her lips as they kissed his cheek a third time, and his temple; as her tongue, lightly rasping, traced the outline of his ear.

  The teeth.

  “Thank you.”

  He braced himself

  And nails that scratched across his nape as she circled behind him, laughing softly, hardly a sound.

  His eyes closed and he refused to breathe until the touch left him, and she dropped into the chair opposite, hands gripping the ends of the armrests, legs crossed. Sunlight through the window was so bright, it might as well have been shadow; all he could truly see were those eyes, and those teeth.

  “You came out of nowhere,” she began.

  All those people, running one place to another, hundreds of thousands of them clumping together like sheep, like deer. The only time they have an idea of what’s out there is when they’re in bed, just before they fall asleep.

  But they forget it by morning.

  It’s so easy, most of the time.

  Most of the time it’s so easy.

  Then suddenly there you were. Charging out of the herd, knowing just what you were doing, where to look, how to do it.

  You scared Momma to death, you know.

  You never stopped.

  Time would go by, and there’d you be again.

  Charging out of the herd.

  You just never stopped.

  It isn’t like there’s as many of us as there are of you. There isn’t. Not by half. Even if you count us all. Just enough to cull the herd, just enough to survive, Nature’s balance, like I said.

  But you made us be more careful than we were used to. We had to roam the hills most of the time instead of the highways. Those interstates out there—Lord, you’ve no idea how easy they made things for us, getting from one place to another with hardly a wink between. Not the cities, of course; maybe once a year, maybe twice, but no more. They’re too big, too tempting, too available. They make us lazy.

  And when we get lazy, we get caught.

  No; we get killed.

  Momma was strong, she wanted you dead, but she couldn’t get the others to do anything about it. Half of them were too scared, most of the rest didn’t want to get you more angry than you were. They sure wouldn’t come here. To your territory. That’d be like sticking your hand on a buzz saw, thinking you’d only get a scratch. But Momma kept on, and kept on, and pretty soon she started driving some away, they paid her no mind, and that made her madder.

  Made her weaker.

  Not weak enough, though.

  We had a fight a while ago, a hell of a battle with no one taking sides. I lost, and she decided it was best I ended up dead. Ruthann, my little sister, she’s no competition, but I surely was. I spent two months running, Jim. Two months. I never was in California, but I was in Texas, Colorado, down Mississippi until just a week ago. No pack would have me. They knew I wasn’t about to turn a new leaf. Much as they didn’t care for Momma, won’t cry when they hear, they were scared of her too.

  So I decided to head up to Virginia, hide a little, lick my wounds, see what came next.

  They caught me outside Nashville, just like I told you.

  Momma was crazy.

  She was afraid of me, and she wanted me so bad,
it drove her out of her mind.

  That’s why she came here.

  Jesus, I hated you when you shot Willum down.

  I wanted to do it myself.

  Maurice was right. It was no accident I came to your door that night. I figured, since I couldn’t kill her on my own, you surely would. And I was right. Now you have to do the same to Ruthann.

  Mercy, it’s hot in here.

  Are you hot, Jim?

  I sure am.

  And you don’t have to look at me as if I’m as crazy as she was. Don’t ever underestimate me, Mr. Scott. I’m my Momma’s daughter, and don’t you forget it—I know how to use what’s at hand to get what I have to get.

  I guess I should have been an actress, after all.

  I was pretty damn good, don’t you think?

  You could look at it this way, if you want to—in less than a week, you’ll have gotten rid of seven Modeens. Seven’s a lucky number, Jim. Seven gone, then I’m gone.

  After that, all you’ll have to do is watch out for the night.

  With his gun in one hand, cocked and at his throat, she cut the line, leaving him to work the knots and wraps himself.

  “What if l say no?” he asked, massaging the blood back into his wrists.

  “They’re coming whether you say no or not.”

  “You haven’t thought this through, you know. To do what you want, I’ll need at least one weapon for myself, maybe Maurice or Peter to back me up. What’s going to stop me from killing you at the same time?”

  She held up the gun.

  He didn’t blink. “What if I don’t care?”

  “Before, or after?”

  He frowned.

  She showed her teeth, just a little. “Before, I’m not worried at all, not a bit. You’re not going to pass up a chance to get rid of a Modeen. And certainly not three of them at one time.”

  “You’re awfully damn sure of yourself”

  Her voice leveled. “Charging out of the herd, Jim Scott. You can think what you want, but you can’t help but charge out of the herd.”