“Sally and me were good drinking buddies for years. I was the only one in town that hated the feds and the New Church as much as she did. Who else was she gonna talk to? I do admire that woman. But here’s the best joke. Travis used to be a member of the New Church, and everybody thought he was the FBI mole.”

“What about Fred Laurie? He skipped town, too. Could he have killed his own brother?”

“I would like to know what happened to old Fred. Though I’m not all that curious in any official capacity. I’ve got enough murder on my plate right now.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s dead all right. He didn’t take any clothes, and he didn’t have any money. Where was he gonna go? Maybe there was more than one gun in the woods that night. Maybe he just annoyed the wrong person. Augusta walks that land every night, checking the feeders and counting her owls. She wouldn’t have tolerated Fred out there with a gun.”

“Augusta? You’re crazy. That old lady couldn’t – ”

“Now don’t you sell your cousin short. Remember, Augusta has killed before.”

Lilith smiled, as though this were a cozy memory of baking brownies instead of a murder in the family. “She was a pistol in her younger days.”

“She still is. So try to stay on good terms with her.” The ground fog was dispersing, and his feet scattered the wisps as he moved along the path. He was wondering how far to trust his deputy. “I’m meeting that New York cop for a beer at the Dayborn Bar and Grill around noon. You know the place?”

She nodded, but failed to mention her recent visit there and the long chat with Riker. The bartender had been unable to tell him what the conversation was about. The man could only say for a fact that Lilith could down a drink even faster than her father.

She kicked up some gravel as she walked alongside him. “Dad spent some memorable nights in that bar.”

“That he did. I remember the night you were born. Your father came in with four boxes of cheap cigars, and the place just stank for days after that.”

He and Lilith’s father had celebrated all night long. Toward morning, Guy Beaudare had begun to cry; it had suddenly occurred to him that the entire universe, from the Big Bang to the last evening star, was one great conspiracy of heaven to birth the beautiful and perfect Lilith. A drunken young Tom Jessop had taken exception to this theory, as Kathy Shelley had been born several years earlier.

“Every man in that bar was relieved when your father left town. We were so sick of hearing about the latest cute thing you’d done. And I never met a man with so damn many wallet photos of the same kid.”

No need to mention that he had matched Guy, story for story, ‘Lilith’s so smart’ for ‘Kathy is smarter.’ And then Kathy had disappeared, and the sheriff had not listened to Guy’s stories anymore. He had learned to drink alone, shunning all talk among men with children, believing that Kathy was dead.

As the sheriff and the deputy were walking toward the bridge, Lilith was saying, “If those two split up, you want me to keep an eye on Henry Roth or Charles Butler?”

“Neither. There’s something else I want you to do.”

The sky was lightening in the east, clouds flaming in advance of the sun. A blue jay opened its eyes to the tasty sight of a beetle and devoured it alive and squirming. Overhead, a hawk was circling on the air, watching for groundlings. Every waking thing in St. Jude Parish was scurrying into motion, hunting food or running from sudden death.

A new day.

CHAPTER 18

The air was foul, and the only light came from bright holes in the rotted fabric covering the windows. Mallory pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes and threw up the sash. A cold breeze gusted over the sill and whipped through the room to set a storm of dust motes spinning in the bright shaft of sunlight. Now she could clearly see the bat droppings on the floor and the insects crawling off to the more hospitable shadows in the corners of the room.

Mallory’s strong aversion to dirt and disorder had become numbed on the upper floors of Trebec House. She was also losing her fanatic compulsion about time. Force of habit no longer drove her to reach for the lost pocket watch ten times a day. She only knew that it was still morning, and only by the low-riding sun shining in the east window. As she laid a bundle of clothing down on a cedar chest, she caught a movement in sidelong vision and turned to face the intruder in a far dark corner of the room.

It was a woman standing barefoot in the shadowy glass of a full-length mirror. She wore an antique poet’s blouse and pale blue jeans. Time was slipping by Mallory, seconds melding into minutes as she drank in this soft, feminine image so like her mother. The face in the mirror was stained with glistening tears.

Footfalls in the hallway brought her back to the solid world. Mallory’s hand passed over her face to erase the evidence of crying.

But there was none – her face was dry.

She stood very still, staring down at her hand. There was no trace of -

The footsteps were coming closer.

Get a grip.

“The temperature is dropping like mad,” said the old woman, coming through the doorway, her arms filled with clothing.

Apparently, canny Augusta could ferret out the invisible tracks of phantom tears, for her voice was gentle now. “You’ll need a coat. I’ve got one here. I think it’s your size. Now those running shoes were just ruined. Couldn’t do a thing with them.” She held up a pair of riding boots for Mallory’s approval. “How do these suit you?” The fine leather was black, and the detailing was western.

“Perfect. And I already found a coat.”

Augusta cast a dubious eye on the garment draped over the cedar chest. This long black coat had been more fashionable in the days when overland travel was on horseback. It did fit well with the period blouse, but Augusta had hit on its more useful quality. “Yes, that would blend well with the dark, wouldn’t it? I can’t believe that old duster is still hanging together. It’s a lot older than I am. Well, it’s yours if you like it so much.”

The old woman opened an armoire and began to pull out boxes from the top shelf. “There’s a hat that goes with it, if I can only remember where it was stored. My grandmother wore it when she went riding.” A large round box came apart in her hands, and the black hat tumbled to the rug. Augusta picked it up and turned it over in her hands, smoothing out the low flat crown and the wide brim.

“It won’t cover up all that bright gold hair.” She reached back to the shelf. “But I guess we can do something with this.” Augusta held up a black bandanna.

Mallory pulled back a pair of red drapes from another window. Light washed through the room, killing every corner shadow. She turned to the mirror again and appraised the white linen blouse. The romantic flow of material was far from her own severely tailored tastes, but the billowy lines hid every trace of her bandages. She pulled on the harness for her shoulder holster and winced as the leather strap crossed her wound.

Augusta stood behind her and spoke to the reflection. “You’ll have to find some other way to wear that gun. That left shoulder is gonna be sore for a while. You won’t have full strength or mobility for another week or so. But I guess I pulled that yellow cat through worse wounds than you had.”

Continuing a conversation that had begun over breakfast, Mallory asked, “Why did Ira’s father commit suicide?”

“Suicide? Oh, now don’t go making more of that than it was. Ira’s daddy never was the best driver in town. That car had a lot of dents in it long before it ever hit that phone pole.” She pulled open a dresser drawer and rummaged through the musty clothing. “Maybe we can fix your holster to a regular belt.”