“Sooner or later, they all do.”
“I hear you’ve got quite an act, Mal.”
“Well, I’ve been working on it for thirty years.”
“You don’t look much over thirty now.” According to the roadies, Malcolm was only a few years his junior. In the better light of an Owltown bar, he had searched for signs of a face-lift, but found none. “What’s your beauty secret?”
“Clean living,” said Malcolm, tilting back the flask. “Got another cigarette?”
Riker fished in a side pocket where the package had fallen through the torn lining. Impatient, Malcolm plucked a cigarette from the air. He snapped his fingers, and a flame appeared to spurt out of his thumb.
Riker was about to say he had seen Charles Butler do that same trick a hundred times.
Well, he had definitely had enough to drink for one night.
Not wanting to lose face with a fellow boozer, he put the silver bottle to his lips but didn’t drink before he handed it to Malcolm. But after a few more passes, the flask hadn’t lightened any. And now Riker realized he had been drinking alone tonight.
Shit.
Either that or Malcolm was the Second Coming.
“The roadies tell me you can turn water into wine.” And cops into babbling idiots.
“Yes, sir. Now that’s a real crowd pleaser.”
“But they think you’re really making wine out of tap water. These guys go on the road with you. They do the setups for the act, right? So how can they believe it’s for real?”
“Most every religion demands faith in impossible acts.” He pointed to the crucifix on the tomb next to them. “People believe that man on the cross was begotten by a god. He could heal the sick and raise the dead. How magical.”
The pointing finger moved on to another stone house. “That’s the tomb of a local woman in the same trade.” The walls were marred with graffiti and the base was littered with colored bits of broken glass, ribbons and pins. “The drawings are voodoo symbols. The things on the ground are religious offerings. She’s a hundred years dead, but some people believe she’s still got the power.”
Malcolm stood up, his arms lifting into a crucifixion pose, and his hands spread wide on the rising wind. The air was blowing cold, and his long hair flew back to reveal the shape of his skull. As he spoke, his smile was dazzling – even in the dark. “This part of the world is ripe with magical thinking.”
A more pragmatic, enlightened thinker of the late twentieth century, Charles Butler, Ph.D. stood at the edge of the cemetery, holding a jar of blood – still warm from the recent sacrifice of a chicken’s life.
He waited in uneasy silence. Finally Malcolm walked down the gravel path and through the circle of trees with one arm thrown around Riker’s shoulders. Evidently, the seduction was a great success, for Riker was laughing as the salesman of wonders led him away.
Charles turned to face Henry Roth, and together they moved on to the avenging angel and proceeded to bind her wings with rope. They worked quietly through the next hour, exchanging one piece of sculpture for another. They worked faster toward the end of the hour, for it was getting light, and the believers would be coming soon.
How disappointed they would be.
Henry wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked back to the tomb of Jason Trebec and turned an old-fashioned key in the lock on the door. He stored his tools alongside the chicken blood and a block of dry ice.
Charles was staring down at the sad face of barren Nancy Trebec.
“Henry, do you think Babe Laurie could have been sterile?”
“Possible. Most of the Lauries are as prolific as rabbits, but Babe’s only child was a bastard.”
“What do you think of a bastard child as a motive for murder? Suppose Babe took it out on the boy, Fred’s son? Maybe Fred retaliated?”
“Ugly things have been done on account of bastards.” He looked up at the bas-relief of a man’s crumbling face above the door. “Jason Trebec once hauled his wife into court and tried to have Augusta declared illegitimate.”
“Do you believe Augusta was a bastard?”
“No, and neither did the judge. The resemblance was so obvious. If this stone portrait was in better shape, you could see it, too. I think Jason just wanted an annulment so he could get on with the business of begetting a son by another woman.”
For a long time after Henry had gone home, Charles was still searching the stone likeness of Jason Trebec, looking for traces of Augusta. He found them in the shape of one uncrumbled eye and what remained of the mouth.
He turned away and walked along the path heading east. The sun was a pale white disk behind the cloud cover. The birds had begun to sing again, but he discerned another sound above the racket, footsteps on gravel. He glanced over one shoulder.
Riker was back, slogging down the path, as though his legs weighed a hundred pounds each. The sky was light gray now, and so was the detective.
“Hey, Charles. Given any more thought to helping me with my problem?” Each word was very distinct. The man took great pride in never slurring his speech, no matter how much he’d been drinking.
Charles regarded the slack face, the poor color, and wondered why his old friend didn’t fall down. Between the liquor and the chain-smoking, Riker had never been in the best of shape. “You need to get some rest.”
“I take that as a no.” Riker was suddenly in thrall to the angel recently restored to her pedestal. “Oh, Jesus. Charles, you gotta stop this. It’s weirding me out.”
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.