other forming a perfect figure
4. Miss Emily was asleep on the armrest by her head. I tucked a quilt around Val, then went out to the kitchen and poured
myself a solid dose of bourbon.
I'd made pasta earlier, and the kitchen still smelled of garlic. The back door was open. A moth with a body the size of my
thumb kept worrying at the screen door. Frogs and night birds called from the lake.
J. T. had all but fallen asleep at the dinner table. Used to being busy, she said. Not being wears me out, plus there's the
shift thing. She insisted on cleaning up, then the minute it was done went off to bed. That the bed was hers was something I'd insisted on, despite voluble protests, when she came to stay with me. I'd taken the couch. And now the couch had been retaken,
by Val. And Emily. The house was filling up fast.
"Is Eldon okay?"
Wrapped in the quilt, Val stood in the doorway. Miss Emily bustled around her to go check on the kids.
"A little the worse for wear—but aren't we all." I told her what had happened. "Thought you were going home."
She sat across from me, reached for my glass and helped herself to a healthy swallow.
"So did I. But the more I thought . . ."
I nodded. There are few things like home invasion to rearrange the furniture in your head. "Give it time."
She yawned. "That's it, enough of the good life. I'm going back to bed."
"To couch, you mean."
"There's room for both of us."
"There's barely room for you."
"So where will you sleep?"
"Hey, eleven years in prison, remember? I can sleep anywhere. I'll grab a blanket or two, take the floor in here."
"You sure?"
"Go to couch, Val."
"Don't stay up too long."
"I won't, but I'm still a little wired. I'll just sit here a while with Miss Emily and family."
"Night."
I poured another drink and sat wondering why Miss Emily had chosen to live among people, and what she thought about them.
Hell, I wondered what I thought about them.
Satisfied the kids were all right, Miss Emily had climbed to the window above the sink, one of her favorite spots. Glancing
up at her, I saw her head suddenly duck low, ears forward.
Then I saw the shadow crossing the yard.
I was out the door before I'd thought about it, taking care not to let the screen door bang. A bright moon hung above the
trees. My eyes fell to their base, seeking movement, changes in texture, further shadows. Birds and frogs had stopped calling.
Never thought they'd show up this soon.
I eased across the porch and onto the top step, looking, listening. Stood like that for what seemed endless minutes before
the floorboards creaked behind me. I turned and he was there, one sinewy arm held up to engage my own.
"Nathan!"
His grip on my wrist loosened.
"Someone been up in them woods," he said, "going on the better part of a month now."
"You know who?"
He shook his head. "But early on this evening, one of them came in a little too close to the cabin, then made the mistake
of running. Dog took out after him, naturally, came back looking pleased with hisself. So I tracked him down this way. Blood
made it some easy."
We found him minutes later by the lake, lying facedown. Early twenties, wearing cheap jeans and a short denim jacket over
a black T-shirt, plastic western boots. Blood drained rather than pumped from his thigh when I turned him over.
Nathan shook his head.
Dogs hereabouts aren't pets, they're functional, workers, brought up to help provide food and protect territory. Nathan's
had gone at the young man straight on, taking out an apple-sized chunk of upper thigh and, to all appearances, a divot from
the femoral artery.
"Damn young fool," Nathan said. "Reckon we ought to call someone."
"No reason to hurry." I took my fingers away from the young man's carotid. When I did, something on his forearm caught light.
I pushed back his sleeve. "What's that look like to you?"
Nathan bent over me.
"Numbers."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I REMEMBERED THEM from childhood. I was six
4. Miss Emily was asleep on the armrest by her head. I tucked a quilt around Val, then went out to the kitchen and poured
myself a solid dose of bourbon.
I'd made pasta earlier, and the kitchen still smelled of garlic. The back door was open. A moth with a body the size of my
thumb kept worrying at the screen door. Frogs and night birds called from the lake.
J. T. had all but fallen asleep at the dinner table. Used to being busy, she said. Not being wears me out, plus there's the
shift thing. She insisted on cleaning up, then the minute it was done went off to bed. That the bed was hers was something I'd insisted on, despite voluble protests, when she came to stay with me. I'd taken the couch. And now the couch had been retaken,
by Val. And Emily. The house was filling up fast.
"Is Eldon okay?"
Wrapped in the quilt, Val stood in the doorway. Miss Emily bustled around her to go check on the kids.
"A little the worse for wear—but aren't we all." I told her what had happened. "Thought you were going home."
She sat across from me, reached for my glass and helped herself to a healthy swallow.
"So did I. But the more I thought . . ."
I nodded. There are few things like home invasion to rearrange the furniture in your head. "Give it time."
She yawned. "That's it, enough of the good life. I'm going back to bed."
"To couch, you mean."
"There's room for both of us."
"There's barely room for you."
"So where will you sleep?"
"Hey, eleven years in prison, remember? I can sleep anywhere. I'll grab a blanket or two, take the floor in here."
"You sure?"
"Go to couch, Val."
"Don't stay up too long."
"I won't, but I'm still a little wired. I'll just sit here a while with Miss Emily and family."
"Night."
I poured another drink and sat wondering why Miss Emily had chosen to live among people, and what she thought about them.
Hell, I wondered what I thought about them.
Satisfied the kids were all right, Miss Emily had climbed to the window above the sink, one of her favorite spots. Glancing
up at her, I saw her head suddenly duck low, ears forward.
Then I saw the shadow crossing the yard.
I was out the door before I'd thought about it, taking care not to let the screen door bang. A bright moon hung above the
trees. My eyes fell to their base, seeking movement, changes in texture, further shadows. Birds and frogs had stopped calling.
Never thought they'd show up this soon.
I eased across the porch and onto the top step, looking, listening. Stood like that for what seemed endless minutes before
the floorboards creaked behind me. I turned and he was there, one sinewy arm held up to engage my own.
"Nathan!"
His grip on my wrist loosened.
"Someone been up in them woods," he said, "going on the better part of a month now."
"You know who?"
He shook his head. "But early on this evening, one of them came in a little too close to the cabin, then made the mistake
of running. Dog took out after him, naturally, came back looking pleased with hisself. So I tracked him down this way. Blood
made it some easy."
We found him minutes later by the lake, lying facedown. Early twenties, wearing cheap jeans and a short denim jacket over
a black T-shirt, plastic western boots. Blood drained rather than pumped from his thigh when I turned him over.
Nathan shook his head.
Dogs hereabouts aren't pets, they're functional, workers, brought up to help provide food and protect territory. Nathan's
had gone at the young man straight on, taking out an apple-sized chunk of upper thigh and, to all appearances, a divot from
the femoral artery.
"Damn young fool," Nathan said. "Reckon we ought to call someone."
"No reason to hurry." I took my fingers away from the young man's carotid. When I did, something on his forearm caught light.
I pushed back his sleeve. "What's that look like to you?"
Nathan bent over me.
"Numbers."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I REMEMBERED THEM from childhood. I was six
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