THIRTY-THREE
Byrne walked to the top of the hill, weapon in hand. There was a tree line about a hundred yards away. There was no sign of the dogs.
He holstered, walked back down, stood at the base of the foundation where the old shack had stood, listened to the silence. He had grown up in the city, had spent most of his life in one. The mind-numbing quiet of a place like this was profound.
His mind was not quiet for long.
Who are you, Ruby Longstreet?
Byrne crouched down near the footer, an old track-style foundation made of packed earth and stones. He picked up one of the white stones and knew where he had seen one like it before. It was in the victim’s mouth at St Regina’s. He rolled the smooth rock in his hand, felt the malign presence of this place, a history that was fearsome and dark.
Who are you, Ruby Longstreet?
Byrne glanced skyward. The air was cold, but the sun warmed his face. He stood, walked around the frozen pond and saw, just at the bottom of the rise, the handful of homemade crosses, a half-dozen in all. This was the family plot. He wondered if Elijah Longstreet was buried beneath his feet.
Byrne looked at the edge of the overgrown area, saw an old realtor sign, rusted and battered by time and weather. He turned it over. There, painted on the back, was a telling legend.
Ida-Rae Munson had not been kidding. The Longstreets were not the most popular family in these parts.
But he had known that. It didn’t take an Ida-Rae, or a county zoning archive, or even God to tell him that. He knew it as soon as they turned onto the property. He felt it.
The father had the devil in him and the boy came out evil.
In his mind Byrne saw the end. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in more than two decades invited the darkness in.
Inside the darkness were two graves.
And although he could not see names on the headstones, he could see the date of death. It was less than a week away.