Page 51 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)

CHAPTER LI

Harriet Swisher waited until Little Lyman’s place had receded from view before speaking.

“Hul, you think that was one of the people we was warned against,” she asked, “the ones the Mexican sent?”

“Might be,” Hul replied. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong around here, that’s for sure.”

“Looked like he belonged nowhere but the circus.”

“He did smell like a carny,” said Hul, “all tricksy. A low man.”

“Ought we to sound the alarm?”

“Let’s not get carried away. We don’t want to go raising a clamor for no good reason and come off as frightened old fools.”

Hul Swisher reversed into a turnoff so the truck was facing the road before he killed the lights. The lot held only three vehicles when they’d emerged from the Old Hatch: the Swishers’ truck, Little Lyman’s Honda Accord, and a black Mercury Marauder so well-preserved that it must have spent most of its life under a tarp. The only clue to its owner was a box of Bibles on the rear seat. The Marauder had to belong to the little freak in the tweed suit. As for the Bibles, they just made the Swishers suspect him even more. It wasn’t that they weren’t religious—the Swishers were Christians of a loose kind, which meant they prayed only when they were in trouble—but anyone who possessed more than one Bible wasn’t in the religion business, just the sales one.

Four cars came by from the direction of town over the next fifteen minutes, but none was the Marauder. Hul, at least, started to relax.

“No sign of him,” said Hul. “He stayed where he was or left for elsewhere. Whatever he’s here for, it’s not us.”

His wife scowled.

“You don’t think that, if it was us he was after, he wouldn’t take the time to find out where we lived or be smart enough not to come racing out on our heels?”

“If he knew where we lived, why would he be watching us at a bar?”

Which was a fair point, Harriet had to admit. Still, the man made her agitated. He resembled a figure that had stepped out of someone’s bad dream.

“Let’s go home,” she said, “but keep an eye on what’s behind.”

Hul did, all the way, and detected no signs of pursuit or surveillance. To make sure, he didn’t immediately pull up in front of the house but made a circuit of a mile. No unfamiliar cars were parked nearby, and certainly not the Marauder. Hul’s phone, which was linked to the home alarm, displayed no alerts.

“I believe we’re clear,” he told his wife.

“For now. But they’re out there, you can count on it. That Bern fella, he knows his beans.”

“Just because they’re seeking doesn’t mean they’ll find.”

Harriet patted her husband’s liver-spotted right hand.

“I hope so,” she said. “If they do, it’ll go hard on us.”

Beside her, Hul’s eyes closed briefly. It was, she thought, a wonder he’d managed to get them home without falling asleep at the wheel, given how much sedative she’d slipped into his last bourbon, but he always drove, and she didn’t want to make him suspicious. With luck, he’d be safely asleep within the hour, leaving her to do what Devin Vaughn had instructed.

Harriet opened the car door and stepped into the cool of the night.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”