The light turned green, and Cynthia peeled into the intersection. “What do you mean?”
“He’s probably never been shot with a regular bullet. I’m sure he knows all about the silver bullets and full moons and stuff, but that’s the movies. I don’t think he’d trust his life to something he saw in an old movie. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t know if he’s bulletproof.”
“Not know? How could he not know?”
“You’ve had a tattoo on your back your whole life. What can you tell me about it?”
“Um, it’s magic?”
“What’s the spell called? What does it do? Where did it come from?”
“Okay. I don’t know anything about it, except that it hurts when Charles has his seizures. But do you think Emmett is the same way? Just doing what he’s doing in the dark?”
“We’ll see.”
Cynthia swerved her car suddenly and slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop next to the curb. There were a lot of cars parked behind us.
“Frank and Miriam’s house is a couple doors back.”
We climbed from the car and walked toward a modest two-story house with a tidy flower garden in the front. The bay window was blocked by cream-colored drapes. It looked like a little old lady’s house. The car in the driveway was a huge Yukon that someone had painted tangerine orange.
I walked to the front door and rang the bell. Beside me, Cynthia sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this.”
The door swung open, and I found myself looking down at a little woman with steel-gray hair and a pair of cheap, safety-goggle sunglasses over her regular glasses. She shifted her position to bar my way.
Cynthia leaned toward her. “We need to speak to Miriam right away.”
“Who is it, Cassie?” a woman called. Cassie took one look at me and started to close the door.
I hit it with my fist, thumping it open.
I walked into the living room. Miriam Farleton sat on a little chair at the far end of the room. Seated all around here were seven old women, all dressed in what looked like their Sunday clothes. Cassie, at the door, made eight. Miriam’s eyes were red from crying, but her cheeks were dry. I guessed these were friends who’d come by to comfort her. Not one of them was less than thirty years her senior.
The ladies gasped as I bulled into the room, which was full of lace, delicate furniture, and little ceramic figurines. I was afraid to touch anything-I might have put a grubby manprint on it. “I’m sorry to barge in this way,” I said, “but there isn’t a lot of time.”
She didn’t respond. The woman sitting next to her struggled to her feet. She was a stocky little lady, and her hands were large and strong. She stepped between the mayor’s wife and me. “I don’t think you were invited here today,” she said, glaring at Cynthia. “Either of you.”
I tried to talk past her, acutely aware of the bullet hole in my shirt. “Have you seen today’s paper? I think your husband is in danger.”
“Threats, is it?” the stocky woman said. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call-“
“Who?” Cynthia asked. “Emmett Dubois? Emmett is going to kill Frank if you don’t let us help!”
This time the gasp from the room was followed by a lot of whispering. Great. The whole town would know what was going on by dinnertime. I turned to Miriam again and held up the newspaper. “Can we please talk privately?”
Miriam stood. “Yes.”
“Miriam,” the woman said, “you shouldn’t be alone with strangers right now.”
“Why don’t you join us, Arlene,” Miriam said. “If that’s all right?” I nodded. Arlene and Miriam led us through a swinging door.
The kitchen was pastel blue and decorated with duckling wallpaper. I wondered if there was a room somewhere in this house for Frank.
I showed the headline to Miriam and Arlene. “This,” I said, “is essentially a declaration of war against Henstrick and the Dubois brothers. Lemly put your husband’s neck in the guillotine. Yours, too.”
Miriam held the paper, skimming over the story. “Oh, Peter,” she said. She looked tired.
“What do you aim to do?” Arlene asked. I suddenly recognized her. She was the one who’d given Bill Terril a birthday card to sign in Sara’s bar-she had a grandchild at boarding school in Georgia. Small town.
“Reverend Wilson is already putting people outside Frank’s room to protect him, but that’s a short-term solution. We need to get him out of town to a place where they can’t find him. And we need to do it secretly.”
I glanced at the doorway. Miriam and Arlene followed my glance and understood. Arlene patted Miriam’s hand and started toward the door. “I’ll shut down the rumor mill for a little while. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through the door way.
Miriam looked me in the eyes. “Why don’t we call the state police,” she said quickly, “or the FBI?”
“He’ll go to prison, you know,” Miriam said. I could hear Arlene reading the riot act in the next room, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. “Emmett opened an account in Frank’s name in Oregon. He’s been putting money in it every month, as though it was a payoff. Frank and I didn’t even know until Emmett sat us down and showed us a bank statement. He made it look like Frank is part of the whole thing. The FBI is going to go after my husband just as hard as they go after Emmett.”
