"You didn't hear anything?"
"Like what?"
"A loud conversation?" I suggested. "A scream?"
"Or someone getting whacked with a softball bat?"
I debated whether or not to tell him that it was possible that Norella Buchanon had been the victim of the brutality. Later, I decided, when we had some sort of confirmation.
"Okay," I said, "we can let this go for the moment. I'm not satisfied with your story, but I'm willing to concede that it makes sense. Don't go off by yourself anymore."
Jarvis returned to the lawn. It was possible that I was not endearing myself to the teenagers, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever had a snowball's chance of winning their confidence. I was, after all, not only a member of the adversarial generation, but also a cop. In this case, two strikes and I was out.
I waved at Mrs. Jim Bob, then drove away before she could dethrone herself. As I reached the highway, I saw what I supposed was Crank Nickle's farm at the intersection. The fences were in disrepair and the barn appeared to be standing by only spit and a prayer. The house was a tribute to tattered tar paper. Mangy hounds sprawled on the porch barely opened their eyes as I drove by.
I hoped they had enjoyed the previous night's activity, although I suspected it would have taken a presidential motorcade and a slew of Secret Service agents to rouse them.
Ruth, when she'd been forced to get out of bed, had worked with Sarah at the church. I decided to stop there, then go by the café and speak to Rachael before I tackled Judith again.
The Baptist church was situated between a body shop and a seedy building with a portable sign that advertised a flea market every other weekend. A few members of the congregation were still conversing out front, but no one openly gawked as I pulled around to the back.
Several pickup trucks with oversize tires were parked near a door. I parked well away from them and went inside, where I found myself in a kitchen. Three hulking boys, neckless and most likely witless, were loading Styrofoam containers onto cookie sheets under the instructions of a Beamer with a noticeably sharp tongue. Same shaved head, lack of eyebrows, and ghoulish lipstick, of course, but in this case dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt beneath an apron. She was shorter than Judith and broader than Rachael, but those were the only differences I could detect.
"I've had it with you, Byron," she was saying. "You miss one more stop and Chief Panknine's gonna have you picking up litter alongside the highway until Christmas-if you're lucky. Any questions about your deliveries?"
"No, ma'am," he mumbled.
She turned to the other two. "I'll make a point of visiting with all of our patrons later today. If so much as one of them is missing a green bean or a sliver of cake, you'll find yourselves in orange jumpsuits, hoeing turnip fields at the state prison. You should be back in an hour, with all the names checked off your lists. Got that?"
After more mumbling, the hulks left with their loads. I waited by the door for a moment, then advanced. "I'm Arty Hanks," I said. "The sheriff asked me to investigate the murder that took place yesterday afternoon."
"You mind if I start cleaning up while we talk? Once the boys get back, I'd like to leave. I've been here for five hours, preparing forty meals for shut-ins. My back's killing me."
Sarah may have assumed that I'd pitch in, but I sat down on a stool.
"I'm here to ask you about Ruth," I said.
"She was useless, when she even showed up. She'd peel one carrot, then start gabbing about some soap opera. Do I look like someone who watched soap operas? I worked in a factory, second or third shift most days. I was a lot more concerned about the deductions on my paycheck than I was about a bunch of actors and actresses with capped teeth, perfect hair, and the morals of alley cats."
"Ruth hadn't been here long, right?"
Sarah began to fill the sink with steamy water. "I don't know why she was allowed to come here in the first place. We were all told what was expected, but she carried on like she'd thought she was coming to a fancy spa. Well, my knuckles are scabbed and my ankles are so puffy they look like bread dough. The masseuse ain't called to make an appointment."
"So Deborah warned you?" I asked.
"I knew what I was getting into. Nobody pressured me." She submerged a roasting pan and began to scour it. "I've got another three weeks here, then I'll start working at the motel. I pity the next Moonbeam that has to deal with those boys and a bunch of snivelers who want peas instead of beans, molded lime salad instead of cole slaw, biscuits instead of cornbread. It wouldn't hurt them to show a little gratitude every now and then, but all they do is bitch."
Somehow, we had moved away from the topic into volatile territory. I waited a moment, then said, "Did Ruth say anything about her background?"
"She didn't have one, any more than I do. It's part of the deal."
"You gave up your past because of your religious convictions?"
"Yeah, that's right. My children are being taught the fundamentals and learning the value of physical labor. They have chores in the garden, not time to waste on television and video games. My daughter is making a scrapbook of pressed wildflowers. My son likes sketching down by the creek. They complained at first, but they've adjusted real well."
"How about Ruth's children?"
Sarah looked over her shoulder at me. "I should know? I get up at dawn, take a cold sponge bath, and walk here to start preparing the meal. I'm usually ready to go back in the middle of the afternoon. If Anthony sees me, he'll give me a ride to the top of the road, but that doesn't happen very often. When I get there, I barely have the energy to deal with my own kids, much less worry about any of the others."
"So why are you doing this?" I asked, having noted a distinct lack of spirituality in her recitation. "You said you knew what you were getting into."
"Yeah, I did."
I waited for a moment, but she seemed more interested in scrubbing cake pans than elaborating. "Where were you recruited?"
"I'm not allowed to talk about that. My children are safe for the time being, and so am I. I ain't gonna say anything else about it."
"No, of course not," I murmured. "How did you and your children get to Dunkicker?"
"In a rusty white Honda Accord with a faulty transmission and a cracked windshield. Now I think you'd better leave. If Deborah finds out I've been talking to you-well, I need the Daughters of the Moon for my children's sake, and mine, too."
"How would Deborah know we'd been talking?"
"Just go on, please. I've got pots and pans to wash, and the oven needs cleaning. After that, I'll have to wipe down the counters, mop the floor, and put everything away so I can be ready to leave when the delivery boys get back."
I got off the stool, but paused by the door. "I have to ask this, Sarah. What about the father of your children?"
"We're divorced. He never paid child support, but always expected me to produce the children every other Friday evening so he could spend the weekend poisoning their minds. The last time he had them, my daughter came home and asked me if I was really a whore like Daddy said. Helluva guy, huh?"
"So you took your children and left?"
"I already told you that I don't want to talk to you anymore. Either grab the mop or let me work in peace."
I drove to the PD. The door was unlocked, but the adage about barn doors and horses applied. We certainly didn't want to prevent Duluth from returning, should he find the urge to spend more quality time on a urine-stained mattress no thicker than a paperback novel.