Distant thunder rumbled in the west. And the gray sky was bright for one split second.

“It’s over now,” said Charles. “That’s the original angel.”

Riker stepped closer to look at the child in the woman’s arms. He turned back to Charles, who nodded. “It’s Mallory. Six years old, going on seven.”

“She’s really into this, isn’t she? The bastards must be going nuts wondering when she’ll make her move.” Riker drew the collar of his suitcoat close about his neck and folded his arms against the cold.

“I suppose it’s a bit unsettling,” said Charles.

“Unsettling? A woman tried to kill herself.” Riker was shivering in his flimsy suit.

“Don’t throw that up to me again. And don’t ask me to turn on Mallory.” Charles sat down on the grass, suddenly very tired. “Why must you do this to me?”

“I have to get her away from here before Babe Laurie’s crowd finds her. Travis placed Babe on the scene of the stoning, so Mallory has the best motive in town. The sheriff probably – ”

“You’re tired, Riker, and off your game. You should know by now that nobody cares what happened to Babe Laurie.”

“Except the people from the mob that killed her mother.” The first drop of morning rain found Riker and stained his suit with a small circle of a darker gray. “They’ll wonder how she knew Babe was one of them. They’ll see her as a threat.”

“A very smooth recovery. Much better logic.”

“But no sale?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

The rainfall was light, but the incessant birdsong stopped, and every more sensible creature ran for cover.

“Charles, the sheriff wants her to go. This might crush the brat’s ego – couldn’t hurt to try – but I’m not so sure the jailbreak was Mallory’s idea.”

“You think the sheriff set her up for that?” Not likely. On the day of the jailbreak, the sheriff had seemed very determined to get her back again – assuming that the sheriff wasn’t lying.

Riker shrugged. “There’s no warrant for her arrest. Interesting, huh? No cop outside this parish knows she’s missing or wanted. If we take her out of here right now, I don’t think anybody’s gonna come after us.”

Assuming that Riker wasn’t lying.

“She has a right to investigate her mother’s death,” said Charles.

“And when she’s got the complete list of names? What then?” Raindrops streaked Riker’s face. They looked like tears.

But they’re not. Only the rain.

It was coming down harder now, pelting the leaves of the surrounding trees. Riker’s hair was wet. “You can’t go on blind faith. You got no idea what she’s planning. Suppose more people die?” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the gold pocket watch. “Here, take it. The sheriff wants her to have it back. And then he wants her to go.”

Charles quickly grabbed the watch and closed his massive hand around it in a tight fist to keep it from the rain. “Why can’t you be on her side? All she wants is a little justice.”

He was walking away from the detective, crossing the circle of tombs, half blind with the rain slanting into his face.

Riker said to his back, “I gotta figure she came back to destroy maybe twenty, thirty people.” His voice was rising to cross the distance between them. “I don’t want you to be too disappointed in the kid… when she actually pulls that off.”

And Charles kept walking.

“Does anyone know where the sheriff was when Babe Laurie died?”

“Charles, you don’t really think he did that.” Augusta presided over the kitchen table. It was laid with plates of sweetbreads and bowls of steaming concoctions, mingled aromas of saffron and chicken, sweet-meats and vegetables. Augusta was spooning a broad array of food onto Charles’s plate. “Tom Jessop wouldn’t take time out of his day to talk to Babe, let alone kill the man.”

“But the sheriff has a history of violence. I understand he beat up Fred Laurie for taking shots at the dog.”

“Oh, that was years ago. Now Tom was there, but I was the one who beat up on Fred.”

“You, Augusta?”

“With a shovel. I hit him in the gut with the first blow and whacked his hands with the next one. Tom was busy checking the dog for holes. He looks up at me and down at Fred, and he says, ‘Augusta, that’s rude.’ But he didn’t say anything when I hit Fred alongside the head. Tom isn’t given to repeating himself.”

He looked at Henry, the source of this story, but Henry was concentrating on his food. Charles turned back to Augusta. “I’m sorry. I was misinformed.”

Deliberately?

And now Charles became lost in speculation. Henry could have been shielding Augusta. Or she might be shielding the sheriff. One of them was less than truthful. And now he pondered the etiquette of lies within this company of liars he had joined. And then he considered the well-intentioned lie versus the lie for personal gain, the general ranking of sin.

“So Fred told people Tom did that?” Augusta did not look pleased. “Well, that isn’t right, giving Tom all the credit.”

Now Henry lifted his face and his hands to say to Charles, “I thought you were more interested in the old murder. Getting hit with one rock doesn’t have the same cachet as a stoning by a mindless mob.”

“A mob is not mindless,” said Augusta, passing Henry a plate of butter. “You don’t remember that lynching in Arkansas?”

She turned to Charles. “Three boys were jailed for murder. One of them had a change of heart and run off before the man was shot and his wife was robbed of her jewelry, but all three were arrested. Next day, a rumor spread all over town that the woman had been raped – though she never was. That night, a mob dragged the boys out of the jailhouse and lynched them – all but the one. They were putting the rope around his neck when someone in the crowd yells out, ‘That boy had no part in the murder.’ The rope was taken off, and the mob returned him to his cell.”

“She’s right, Henry,” said Charles. “The mob has a goal and a guiding intelligence. It even has an awareness of right and wrong. But something has always bothered me about this mob. It’s just wrong somehow.”

“The lack of noise? The lack of passion?” asked Henry.

“Yes. It was done in cold blood. That’s one oddity. But I don’t think Travis or Alma knew what was going to happen before they got to the house.”

“It wouldn’t make sense to do a cold murder in a group,” said Augusta, “unless they were all in on it. Otherwise someone would talk.”

“That is a problem,” said Charles.

“Not a problem at all.” Mallory stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a carrier cage full of white doves. “They have a lot in common.” She set the cage on the slate counter. “One murder charge for all of them, whether or not they threw the rocks. Bloodshed makes the bond real tight.”

Augusta set out a plate for her, saying, “Now how did you charm those doves into the cage?”

“I threatened to break their little legs if they didn’t cooperate.” She sat down at the table. Her back was turned on the cat sitting on top of the refrigerator. “How’s it going?”

Augusta ran one finger down the list. “Henry’s favorites are the women. But if you don’t count Alma, every one of them has an admirable mean streak. Not a weak sister in the pack. I could make the same claim for most of the men.”

“Most?”

“Well now, this name is a surprise.” She pointed it out for Henry. “Are you sure about this one?”

“I’m positive.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he had any violence in him at all.”

“He’s the one I want,” said Mallory.

The cat was only staring at the captive doves, her eyes wide, and perhaps disbelieving.

“You don’t know he did anything,” said Augusta. “Alma never threw her stone, and Travis only stoned your dog.”

“If you believe them.”

When Charles turned back to the cat, it was standing on top of the wire cage, staring at the docile doves, which apparently had never seen a cat before. There was a great deal of eye contact, but no violence yet.