Page 74 of The Children of Eve

“Let’s not get carried away. We don’t want to go raising a clamor for no good reason and come off as frightened old fools.”

Hul Swisher reversed into a turnoff so the truck was facing the road before he killed the lights. The lot held only three vehicles when they’d emerged from the Old Hatch: the Swishers’ truck, Little Lyman’s Honda Accord, and a black Mercury Marauder so well-preserved that it must have spent most of its life under a tarp. The only clue to its owner was a box of Bibles on the rear seat. The Marauder had to belong to the little freak in the tweed suit. As for the Bibles, they just made the Swishers suspect him even more. It wasn’t that they weren’t religious—the Swishers were Christians of a loose kind, which meantthey prayed only when they were in trouble—but anyone who possessed more than one Bible wasn’t in the religion business, just the sales one.

Four cars came by from the direction of town over the next fifteen minutes, but none was the Marauder. Hul, at least, started to relax.

“No sign of him,” said Hul. “He stayed where he was or left for elsewhere. Whatever he’s here for, it’s not us.”

His wife scowled.

“You don’t think that, if it was us he was after, he wouldn’t take the time to find out where we lived or be smart enough not to come racing out on our heels?”

“If he knew where we lived, why would he be watching us at a bar?”

Which was a fair point, Harriet had to admit. Still, the man made her agitated. He resembled a figure that had stepped out of someone’s bad dream.

“Let’s go home,” she said, “but keep an eye on what’s behind.”

Hul did, all the way, and detected no signs of pursuit or surveillance. To make sure, he didn’t immediately pull up in front of the house but made a circuit of a mile. No unfamiliar cars were parked nearby, and certainly not the Marauder. Hul’s phone, which was linked to the home alarm, displayed no alerts.

“I believe we’re clear,” he told his wife.

“For now. But they’re out there, you can count on it. That Bern fella, he knows his beans.”

“Just because they’re seeking doesn’t mean they’ll find.”

Harriet patted her husband’s liver-spotted right hand.

“I hope so,” she said. “If they do, it’ll go hard on us.”

Beside her, Hul’s eyes closed briefly. It was, she thought, a wonder he’d managed to get them home without falling asleep at the wheel, given how much sedative she’d slipped into his last bourbon, but healways drove, and she didn’t want to make him suspicious. With luck, he’d be safely asleep within the hour, leaving her to do what Devin Vaughn had instructed.

Harriet opened the car door and stepped into the cool of the night.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

CHAPTERLII

Deputies Wen, Schuler, and Negus were lined up in front of the barn. Facing them was a quartet of Dolfes, three men and one woman, with more almost certainly on the way because the Dolfes came in packs: one for all and all for one, like hillbilly musketeers. Unfortunately, right now this felt to Wen less like a scene from Dumas and more like the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. He didn’t think the Dolfes would be foolish enough to use the weapons they carried, not without provocation—but with them, it didn’t take much incitement.

Yet the Dolfes were not ignorant. Hard, yes, and intolerant of outsiders, but their children all finished high school, and some even progressed to college. Wen had only once been up to the big house, which was still home to the patriarch, Donald Ray, and was surprised to find one room fitted out as a library, complete with a ladder on rails. Elsewhere, he’d spotted statuary, antique vases, and a plethora of Native American artifacts, while the walls were adorned not only with a gallery of Dolfes, living and dead, but also with more general subjects, including a smattering by Virginia artists whom Wen recognized, among them a dog study by Thomas Verner Moore White and a pair of landscapes by Horace Day.

But balanced against this perhaps unanticipated display of artistic appreciation was that family history of violence, proven or suspected.The three deputies were currently facing Donnie Ray’s eldest son, Roland, his daughter Clementine, or Clemmie, and two of his nephews, Joe Dunn and Andy, the latter more commonly known as “Stomper” after a fondness for using the heel of his boot in fights. The three men were armed with pistols. Clemmie carried a Winchester rifle. For the moment, the pistols remained holstered, and Clemmie’s rifle was slung on her shoulder. All four Dolfes were in their thirties, Roland and Clemmie being products of Donnie Ray’s second marriage, his first having ended childless after that wife, Missy, died in a stable fire that had left Donnie Ray with lifelong scars, physical and psychological.

“You’re trespassing, officers,” said Clemmie. “Unless you have a warrant, in which case you ought to have served it before entering our property.”

Although Clemmie was younger than Roland, the latter routinely deferred to her, as did the rest of the Dolfe family, Donnie Ray excepted, and even he paid attention when she spoke. Clemmie wasn’t married and had so far shown no urge to alter that status. If she was wedded to anything, it was to the family and their land.

“This isn’t your property,” said Wen.

“As good as,” said Roland.

“?‘Good as’ cuts no ice with the law,” said Negus.

Wen noticed that Negus had tucked his thumbs into his belt, his fingers forming a V around the bulge of his crotch. At least it would give Clemmie something to aim at.

“Stow it, Howie,” said Clemmie. “What you know about the law could be shat out on a square of toilet paper. Even your fucking uniform doesn’t fit right.”

Negus opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t come up with anything better than “Fuck you too, Clemmie,” before adding, “And it does so fit.”

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