Page 15

1975 Juliana, Georgia

The girl who entered Dr. Bobby Minette’s office, which was situated between the pool hall and the five-and-dime on the square, signed in with the name Sugar Smith. The nurse, Holly-Ann, looked at the signature and sniffed in delicate disapproval.

“Payment up front, sweetheart,” she told the girl. “Cash only.”

The girl’s name was obviously made up, but it was of no consequence. She was not a Minette, Dalzell, or Cleburne. Nor was she even a second-tier Street, St. John, Childers, Tilton, or Calhoun. She was not from Juliana at all; that much was clear. She was just one of those hippie drifters, flower children who floated around the country, taking dope and protesting the war and getting irresponsibly knocked up.

Holly-Ann instructed the girl to pee in a paper cup, then led her to the last exam room at the end of the hall, where she told her to undress and put on the flimsy cotton gown. When Dr. Bobby entered the room, he sent Holly-Ann out. Dr. Bobby told Sugar to lie back on the exam table and she did. She asked if he wasn’t supposed to take her blood pressure or temperature or something first, but Dr. Bobby just patted the girl’s knee.

“No need,” he said, looking down at her. “Now, are you sure about this? There’s no going back.” He took the tone of a kindly uncle, but his eyes were flat and expressionless. She was just a piece of no-count trash who’d gotten herself into the kind of trouble she couldn’t fix without a shortcut. It was an epidemic these days, the way this generation just tossed human life into the dumpster.

“I’m sure,” Sugar Smith said.

He instructed the girl to hold out her arm, and after two failed attempts, inserted the IV needle into a nice, fat, blue vein. He’d have to look into that slight hand tremor of his that had started up. He hung a bag of clear liquid from the metal stand and looked at the clock on the wall. She’d be groggy in less than a minute.

About thirty seconds later, the door opened, and two men slipped in. Sugar turned her head, strands of greasy brown hair falling over her glazed eyes, and blinked at them. “Whoo’re youu . . . ?” she slurred.

“Just a few visitors,” Dr. Bobby said briskly. “Nothing to worry yourself about, honey.” He nodded at the men. Ox Dalzell and James Cleburne, descendants of the original founders, just like him.

Dr. Bobby had called them the minute he’d seen Sugar Smith’s obviously fake name in his appointment book, requesting the one service he didn’t typically like to provide. But this time he would say yes; the timing was just too good. The pressed log business wasn’t what it used to be and, worst of all, the housing market had slowed to a mere trickle, leaving lumber rotting in piles of the one remaining Minette Mills yard. With the recession, the oil embargo, and inflation gone through the roof, well, there was just no getting around the fact that Juliana’s economy really could use a boost.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the task ahead. Truth be told, he had moments of doubt that Juliana Minette really looked down from heaven on the old guard and rewarded them for their devotion. But the previous solution he’d suggested (a spectacularly expensive stained glass window in the Baptist church inserting little Juliana into the Baby Jesus’s manger scene) had not turned their fortunes around, and so James and Ox had finally convinced him that an offering had to be made.

It was long overdue, the men had said. Since the offering at the mill back in the thirties, there had only been a handful of sacrifices. Roughly one per decade, if you wanted to get specific. The one in the forties, a hunting accident involving the town drunk, had been a relatively tidy affair. The one in 1964, the unfortunate drowning in the Etowah of one of those teenage hooligans who raced his car through the square, was a bit trickier to navigate. This one should be a cinch. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Dr. Bobby inserted a syringe into Sugar’s IV. She winced then widened her eyes. After a beat, she moaned softly. “Ohhh . .. right on, maaaan . . .”

Dr. Bobby rolled his eyes. On the other side of the exam room, Ox and James pursed their lips, sighed, and waited.

Sugar spoke again, this time with great difficulty. “Sshhuh I put my fee in the shtu . . . shtu . . .”

“Stirrups?” Dr. Bobby supplied. “If that would make you more comfortable, go right ahead.”

A puzzled look flickered across her face, then she seemed to forget her question and made a grunting sound. Only one foot twitched and just the slightest bit. This was his sign. In quick succession, Dr. Bobby inserted two more vials into her IV and then, after waiting another minute and a half, he pressed his stethoscope to Sugar’s chest. He listened for a moment, then nodded and stepped back, stripping his gloves and dropping them into the trash.

He put a hand over his heart. “Gentle Juliana,” he said.

“Gentle Juliana,” Ox and James repeated, then kissed the chains that hung around their necks.

The three shook hands and agreed to return later that night to bury the body, probably down at the abandoned mill. But they would have to be careful and quick. This would be the first sacrifice that couldn’t be chalked up to an accident.

“Give our love to Dixie,” James said to Dr. Bobby.

“She pregnant yet?” Ox asked.

“Only been married a month, fellas. Don’t want to make her feel like a broodmare.”

The three men laughed.

“My love to Margaret, too,” Dr. Bobby said to James on their way out. He almost said to Ox, “And to Barbara,” before he remembered that Ox’s wife, still childless, had reportedly started acting like a loony—seeing winged horses and demonic creatures—and Ox had had to file for divorce.

Dr. Bobby glanced over his shoulder, one last look at Sugar. Her eyes were open, but she looked at peace. That was good. An acceptable sacrifice for Gentle Juliana—he didn’t know why he’d even bothered with that damned stained glass window. Offerings were really not that difficult to make. He left the exam room, locking the door behind him, and went to tell Holly-Ann he was ready for the next patient.