'I'll cover for you.' 'You're a good girl.'
'That's debatable,' Janine said. She glanced down at today's event schedule, posted on the counter. 'So where did you meet this guy? Not here?'
'Oh, no. We met at church.' Sally Mae lowered her voice. 'He's one of the men who volunteered to work on the church for the Second Coming.'
Janine's smile froze on her face. She stared at the older woman, not sure how to respond. 'Oh,' she said noncommittally.
'He's going to introduce me to Jesus.'
Goose bumps arose on Janine's arms. 'Well, you'd better get going,' she said. 'I can handle things here.'
Sally Mae put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.
''Thanks. I owe you.'
Janine stood behind the counter, unmoving, and watched as the other woman grabbed her purse and, way ing, walked out the door.
She looked down at her stomach and, for the thousand time that day, placed her palm on it.
' It was a somber rather than festive Columbus Day. A three-day weekend for many people in the state, Columbus was the only holiday between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, and a lot of local businesses counted on the extra influx of tourists to get them through the season.
But though the tourists were here today, the businesses weren't. An inordinate number of stores were closed, and there was a general feeling of confused disorder along both the Highway 370 and Highway 95 shopping districts.
There were also a hell of a lot of crosses propped up in the closed storefront windows, and the funny thing was that Robert was not sure if the crosses were being displayed to ward off vampires or as a show of faith in Jesus Christ. People were not about to tell him which one it was, either. The sheriff had never been the most popular man in town--generally speaking, when he came in contact with people it was because they had done something wrong--but he was usually treated with respect. Not these days, though.. =; ........ - -. Things had changed. ,
He stood next to his cruiser in the Basha's parking lot, looking out over the forked intersection of 370 and 95. The afternoon was hot, and the highways were crowded, the gas stations and the parking lot of the Circle K filled with campers and motorcycles, boat and jet ski trailers. People from the Valley. Weekend warriors. Most of them would be off-roading. A few might even decide to stay in the area and spend the day at the river.
With a sinking feeling, he tried to imagine what would happen if a man or woman or, worse yet, a child from Mesa or Tempe or Phoenix, was found lying in the brush, drained of blood.
Robert stared at the mini-traffic jam on Highway 370 immediately in front of the shopping center. He felt as though things were out of control, and he was at the whim of events he could not influence. There was no way in hell that his men could keep tabs on everyone. They could only hope that there were no attacks. No deaths.
He'd ordered all policemen on duty today, Saturday, and Sunday to eschew the usual ticketing of minor violations and concentrate instead on preventative law enforcement: making sure that high-risk areas of the town and surrounding desert were adequately patrolled, keeping track of anyone or anything suspicious. Rossiter had told him that attempting to keep tabs on recreationers was a fool's errand, but despite what the FBI agent said, Robert felt obligated to try. This was his town, goddammit, and he couldn't be expected to stand around and wait for someone else to get killed without trying to do something,
Earlier in the week, he'd told his men to cooperate with the feds, but his manner must have spoken louder than his words because that cooperation had been grudging at best. He was sure that someone, somewhere down the line, was going to piss and moan about his attitude, and as he stared at a line of brake lights and listened to the sound of angry car horns, he wondered if there would be repercussions. His job certainly wasn't in danger--the town's police force and the FBI ran on different tracks in regard to personnel matters--but he had no doubt that Rossiter, could drown him in a shit storm of bureaucracy. Hell, maybe he would be better off if his job was taken away. It would force him to get out of this town and do something with his life.
Robert waved to Mona Payne, who passed by on her three-wheeled bike.
Once again, he thought of the rtunor a few years back that satanists had been meeting by the river. He'd heard the story from Garden Teague, not the world's most reliable source, and he'd put the old man's account of robed figures, bonfires, and ritualistic chanting down to the DTs. If Garden had seen anything, he reasoned, it had been some high school football players trying to score with their dates around a campfire, and it was only his inebriated mind that had cast it in such a
Now he was not so sure.
He knew that the rumors had never entirely gone away, and that people other than Garden Teague believed them. On slow nights, he and Frank Teller had made occasional trips out to the river, just to check out the situation. They'd never found anything, had never even come across the smoldering remains of a campfire, but he found him serf wondering now if perhaps Garden had really seen something. Maybe there were a group of satanists in Rio Verde who were into human sacrifice and blood drinking. It was certainly more plausible than the idea that a vampire was running around loose.
Vampire? ..... Robert ran a hand through his thinning hair, took another look at the traffic, then got into his cruiser, started the engine, and waited for a break between vehicles to speed across the highway. He cut through the dirt alley on the side of the Dairy Queen and turned right on Copperhead, pulling into the parking lot of the public library.
As usual, the place was empty. Mrs. Church, the librarian and the only other person in the building, was sitting behind the front desk reading a Sue Grafton novel. The only noise was the faint sound of an air conditioner.
People in Rio Verde didn't read much, Robert knew. They weren't illiterate, Mrs. Church had told him once, they were post literate They knew how to read--but books simply were not part of their lives.
Robert wasn't sure he agreed with her, but the fact remained that aside from a core group of senior citizens, the only people who consistently used the library were students with report deadlines.
It had been a while since he'd been in here himself, but when he opened the door and stepped inside, it was like stepping into a familiar home---his grandparents' perhaps so strong were the emotional echoes and sense of belonging. As always, the comforting odor of books was mixed with that faint lemony scent of furniture polish he'd never encountered anywhere else. On the walls were posters for the library's summer reading program, the Reading Olympics. The same posters had been used for the past thirty years. He remembered winning a bronze medal in the summer before sixth grade for his vacation yea ding efforts. Rich had won a gold medal. 'It's been a while, Robert Carter.'
He looked up at Mrs. Church, who had put down her novel and was smiling at him. He nodded sheepishly, feeling like a ten-year-old in the presence of the old librarian. 'You haven't been in here in quite some time.'
'I've been buying my books,' he said to defend himself.
She laughed, and her laugh wasn't intimidating at all. 'I wasn't criticizing you, Robert. I know you and your brother both read.'
He stepped across the shiny waxed floor to the front desk, boots echoing on the tile.
The librarian stood. 'You want some books on vampires, don't you?'
That was one thing he'd never gotten used to: Mrs. Church's ability to know, before you asked, why you'd come in here and what you wanted. As children, he and Rich had speculated on that subject. Rich's theory had always been that their mother called ahead and told the librarian what books the two of them were interested in that week. But, Robert had argued, why would their mother go to such lengths? It made no sense. He'd thought it was some form of ESP.
'Yes,' he said. 'Vampires.'
'It's a popular subject this week. I'm not sure we have any books left. Why don't you check that middle aisle in back of the card catalogue. Top shelf, right side. We have our nonfiction volumes there. I assume you're looking for nonfiction?'
'Yes.'
'Check there.'
In all of his visits to the library over the years, Robert could not remember ever having used the card catalogue. Each time he had wanted a book on a particular subject, or even a specific work, Mrs. Church had always
