A fractional nod.

  “But you could sleep with his wife?”

  “It was—” Red blistered his cheeks. “I don’t have to talk about it, do I?”

  “Yes, you do,” Hazard said.

  “No,” Somers said. “Not now. Not unless you’ve got something important we need to know.”

  “I want to be the judge of that,” Hazard said.

  “Is there something we should know?” Somers asked.

  A tiny twist of Clyde’s neck. Even the tip of his nose, protruding between the folds of black wool, looked like a hot coal.

  “I want to hear,” Hazard insisted again. “He might not know if it’s important.”

  “He’d know,” Somers said. “And you might not know.”

  “I—”

  “Hey, Ree?”

  “I would know if—”

  “Race you!”

  Hazard growled, but before he could respond, Somers tossed one of those knee-melting smirks over his shoulder and hurried Clyde into a run, laughing as they cleared the corner of the house.

  His steps slow and steady, Hazard went after them. Clyde wriggled until his head popped free of the enormous coat, and a grin split his ugly, freckled face as he whooped and tried to outrace Somers. A fat cottontail froze as the boy and man rushed past, and as soon as their shadows cleared, it hopped into the brush. Where it had passed, the growth of grass and tangled weeds had lost its coat of dew, as though the rabbit had stamped itself on the vegetation and left an imperceptible impression. The breeze tugged at Hazard’s shirt, prickled his skin. On the edge of the property, apple blossoms rustled pink and white. Their smell reached Hazard. He could still smell the shit from the truck, but he could smell the blossoms too. Maybe that was his life, now. Maybe the shit would be there, but something better would be there too.

  Because really, he wasn’t thinking about the apple blossoms or the manure. He wasn’t thinking about the shattered glaze of dew, or the frightened cottontail, or the breeze tossing his hair. He was thinking about a ginger boy, a blond man, a toddler with dark eyes. He was thinking about how she had felt in his hands, against his chest, weighing a perfect amount that no scale could calculate. She had been warm. She had breathed her tiny breaths onto his cheek. She had smelled like baby shampoo and curry and something indescribable, something that Hazard associated with children but couldn’t name. And that ugly boy in the too-big coat, had someone held him like that? Had someone felt his weight, felt him pressing down on his chest, and felt like that weight, so small, was somehow tremendous too—tremendous and wonderful, like the heart and the lungs and the ribs were too frail and might burst from all that wonder? Had his hair smelled like baby shampoo? And the others: Britney? Peyton? The adults, Sister Naomi and the others, they might have had a chance. But had the girls? Had anyone felt those things for them?

  And suddenly, terribly, Hazard wondered if his own father had felt those things. He shoved the thought aside, but too late. It stung, poisonous and deep, and he had to fight to draw that breath, and the next breath, and the next. Had Frank Hazard ever felt his hands shake when he held his son? Had Frank Hazard hoped great things for his only child? And if he had, when had he stopped?

  Somers, his cheeks dappled with red, grinned from where he slumped against the Interceptor. Clyde had taken up an identical position at the other end of the car, attempting to mimic Somers’s casual, elegant slouch. The ginger boy looked, instead, like he might have a kidney stone except for the fact that he was just so damn happy. His smile threatened to crack his ugly mug.

  “Too slow,” Somers said.

  “I’m a grown man. I’m not racing you.”

  “Because you’re too slow.”

  “He looks slow,” Clyde said.

  “He is.”

  “Have you seen any of the others?” Hazard said, ignoring them. “That blonde woman? Or the men? Kelley Jane?”

  “Nobody. Do you want to try the house?”

  As though in answer to Somers’s words, the farmhouse door swung open, and Sister Naomi emerged into the crisp April day. In sunlight, her robe was the color of worn tube socks, and she wore a puffy blue jacket in answer to the day’s chill. She came towards them, shoulders stooped, about as substantial as dandelion fluff.

  “You’re looking for the rest of them,” she said when she reached them.

  “We’re just following up,” Somers said.

  To Hazard’s surprise, Naomi ignored his partner and directed her attention towards him. “You think we’re fools. You think that one of us is the killer and that the rest of us are blind. Or perhaps that we’re complicit.”

  “You don’t know what I think.”

  “I do. I know you. I’ll take you to them. What do they call it in a TV show? An alibi? I’ll show you where they were on Saturday. I’ll prove to you that no one hurt Brother Jeshua.” She smiled, her teeth grey and filmy and reminding Hazard of steel that could chew through bone. “And when Brother Jeshua rises again, you’ll see that no one can hurt him. No one.” Without waiting for a response, she moved to the Interceptor’s door and raised an eyebrow. “I assume one of you will help me into the car?”

  Somers took a step towards her, but she waved him off.

  “You can damn well climb in yourself,” Hazard said.

  “Sister Naomi,” Clyde said, “I can—”

  She shook her head.

  “You expect me to believe you’re some kind of invalid?”

  “I expect you to be polite.”

  Hazard wrestled with his anger before stomping over to her. Yanking open the door, he gestured towards the seat. Then, he took her by the arm—gently, he repeated to himself, gently, gently, she’s probably hoping you’ll hurt her—and helped Sister Naomi step into the Interceptor. When she was seated, Hazard shut the door. His hand ached with tension.

  “What’s that about?” Somers said.

  Hazard didn’t bother answering. He got into the Interceptor, and a few minutes later, they were driving down the overgrown road.

  BROTHER PAUL AND I WERE selling baked goods at the Price Chopper in St. Elizabeth,” Sister Naomi said. Her words fractured the silence inside the Interceptor, and Somers suddenly found himself drawing in air, thinking maybe he’d been holding his breath. No, he couldn’t have been. Not for fifteen minutes or whatever it had been. Nobody could. But damn; it sure felt like it.

  Part of that was Hazard. The big, brutish detective occupied most of the front of the Interceptor. The SUV was a good-sized vehicle, and Hazard had pushed back the seat as far as it would go, and he still looked like an action hero that some kid had crammed into the wrong toy. Hazard, as far as Somers could tell, hadn’t so much as blinked an eye since they’d started driving. A fuse was burning under the surface. A slow, steady burn. For now, just looking at him, you might not know anything was wrong. But it was burning. And pretty soon, boom. Jesus, Somers hoped he was taking a dump, running to the store, hell, he’d even muck out Walden’s stables—do anything, so long as he was a mile off from Emery Hazard when it happened.

  “You said that Jesse was in St. Elizabeth too,” Somers said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And the others?”

  “Sister Sapphira and Brother Dan were in a consignment store in Osage Beach. And Sister Claudia and Sister Anna had the van that day.”

  “Who has Walden’s car?” Hazard said. His voice was calm. Not smooth. You’d get one hell of a rug burn from that tongue. But calm.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Walden had a car, didn’t he?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where is it?”

  “I assume his wife, the blessed Sister Mary—”

  “No. The car was gone when we got to Walden’s house yesterday.”

  “I don’t know, then. I wasn’t at the house. Maybe he parked it somewhere else.”

  Somers glanced at Naomi in the rearview mirror. She had knotted handfuls of her robe, and her face was turned to the window. Well, maybe she didn’t know. But she sure as hell didn’t like not knowing.

  “If Claudia and Anna had the van,” Somers said, “is there anywhere to track where they went?”

  “Those two are little lambs.”

  “More like sheep,” Hazard said.

  “They wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “It still would be important to check,” Somers said.

  “You’ll have to ask one of the brothers. Men know so much more about automobiles and technology and those sorts of things. And with today’s gadgets, it’s wonderful having men around who can—”

  “Bullshit,” Hazard said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re smarter than any of them. Don’t play stupid.”

  For a moment, Hazard’s words crackled in the silence.

  “I can’t tell if you’re trying to offend me,” Naomi said.

  “Nobody can,” Somers said.

  To his surprise, Naomi laughed—a dry, whispery laugh like onionskin rubbing together. “I suppose that makes me feel better.”

  “It shouldn’t,” Hazard snapped.

  That only made her laugh harder.

  They went first to Osage Beach, where they found Sister Sapphira and Brother Dan in a consignment shop called, simply, Tracy’s. The shop itself was a rectangle with a few rolling racks of clothing and a chipped particle board sales counter. Farther back, a door opened onto what looked like a back room; the pulsing glow of a TV screen illuminated the area, and taped laughter swelled. Everything smelled like burned popcorn, and Somers guessed that Tracy—if she existed—was taking a break in back.

  At the front of the store, Sister Sapphira and Brother Dan occupied a desk that had been converted to a display table. Several samples of lacework, knitting, embroidery, and vinyl lettering stood out. Apparently they were hoping that Tracy’s customers might fancy adding a personal touch—maybe even something classy like the lace—to their purchases. Sister Sapphira, bleached hair so frizzed she probably could have scrubbed the floor with it, slumped in her seat, eyes glassy. Yesterday, she’d looked like life had hit her hard. Today, she looked like life had been driving an eighteen-wheeler when it hit. Brother Dan, for his part, was exactly as Somers remembered him: a quivering wreck, the sunlight through the window aging him ten years and bouncing off his bald head.

  “We were here all day,” Sister Sapphira said when Somers asked. “Weren’t we Brother Dan?”

  Brother Dan’s head bobbled.

  “Is there anyone else that can confirm that?” Somers said.

  “Tracy can. Brother Dan, go ask Tracy to tell these men what they want to hear.” Head still bobbling, Brother Dan scurried towards the back room and the canned laughter. “He’s infatuated with her. She’s really quite the beauty, and I’m afraid it hit Brother Dan hard.” Without changing expression, Sister Sapphira fixed Naomi with a look. “You’re helping them?”

  “I’m proving that none of us were involved in what happened.”

  “What about you?” Sapphira said to Clyde.

  The ginger boy had returned Hazard’s jacket, and now he wrapped his stick-like arms around his chest and stuck out his jaw, but he didn’t say anything.

  “He’s doing the best he can,” Naomi said. “They’ve got his head all turned around.”

  “They do not,” Clyde said. “I know what’s what.”

  Naomi nodded and clucked.

  “You want to find your killer,” Sapphira said, and she had a smile like a cocktail waitress, toothy and yellow and trying to con an extra buck for the tip, “he’s right there.”

  “What’s his motive?” Hazard said.

  Somers waited for the answer. Abuse, of course. It was obvious that Walden had been hard on Clyde, had subjected him to some kind of punishment that none of the others had mentioned. Or maybe Sapphira meant he’d been manipulated. Maybe she would say something about how Kelley Jane had turned the boy against her husband. And still Sapphira hadn’t said anything. She just sat there, the lines in her fleshy face like canyons, deeper as her lips spread over tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Jealousy.”

  “Who was he jealous of?” Hazard said.

  “Brother Jeshua.” Sapphira took in their faces and laughed. “Sister Naomi, you didn’t tell them? I’m shocked. You were always so vocal about your disapproval. You were always so quick to tell us why it was so wrong.”

  “What was said among our congregation is private.”

  “Not when it comes to murder. Our little Lazarus here would gladly have stuck a knife in Brother Walden if he thought it would get his beanpole inside Sister Mary. You know he has a thing for her? Well, that little boy dick is long and thin as a twizzler, and he’d love to have it up inside Mother Mary.”

  Clyde turned pink, and his scrawny chest heaved.

  “You should be ashamed,” Naomi said. “There’s no call for you to embarrass—”

  “He wasn’t embarrassed when I walked in on him climbing his own beanpole and fishing through her panties. He wasn’t anywhere close to embarrassed. You’d think he’d just won the jackpot the way he was crying and moaning. Rocking on the floor like that, this boy probably got splinters so deep in his ass he’ll still be picking them out at Christmas.”

  “I didn’t—” Clyde tried to say, but he was crying. “Sister Mary wouldn’t—”

  “Come on,” Naomi said, drawing Clyde under her arm and guiding him towards the door. “We don’t have to listen to her.”

  The bell chimed. Sapphira’s smile had soured, and the crevices in her thick, overripe features now made her look old.

  “We knew that there was a relationship—”

  “A relationship? That’s a joke. Little Lazarus would have had an easier life if Kelley Jane had just gotten around to fucking him. He’s probably rubbed his pecker off waiting for her to get around to it.”

  That was interesting, Somers thought, and he tried to keep the surprise from his face. Sapphira, at least, believed that Lazarus had never had a sexual encounter with Kelley Jane Walden. She didn’t know about their activities in the loft the day before. How long had the relationship been going on, Somers wondered. Kelley Jane had implied that they had had more than one sexual encounter. How had they kept it secret from the group? And based on Kelley Jane’s sophistical justifications for free love, why had they bothered to keep it a secret?

  Hazard’s voice was a low rumbled. “You don’t seem like a religious woman.”

  “I’m taking a break.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until Brother Dan gets back.”

  Somers glanced at the back of the store; still no sign of Brother Dan.

  “I told you, he’s in love. He’s probably reading scripture to her. He’s convinced that she’ll believe as soon as she understands.” Sapphira snorted.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Nobody who wears that much spandex can believe in God. Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “Why are you here?” Somers said.

  “I’m working.” She gestured at a denim jacket embroidered with the words Crazy about Christ. “We’re evangelizing and supporting ourselves while we do it.”

  “No, why are you with this group?”

  “I believe Brother Jeshua is the reborn Christ.”

  “Bullshit,” Hazard said.

  Sapphira’s eyes widened mockingly. “How dare you?”

  “Why are you really with them?” Somers said. “You don’t talk like a believer. And you don’t sound like you have much respect for the rest of them.”

  “Respect? For a teenage boy who’s terrified of being a teenage boy just because he pops a woodie? For old, dumpy women with pusses so rusty they probably need to be sandblasted? For those teenie girls who just need a daddy that’ll spank them and screw them? For fanatics like Dan and Paul and Jesse, who couldn’t get women, so now they get hard-ons for God? Tell me which one I’m supposed to respect.”

  “Why are you with them?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  At that moment, Brother Dan returned with a woman who was being dragged into middle age kicking and screaming. Highlights, eyelash extensions, press-on nails a mile long, and spandex. Just like Sapphira had said: Tracy wore a spandex one-piece meant for a much smaller woman, and it left nothing to the imagination.

  “Can I help you, detectives?”

  “We’re just following up on a few things,” Somers said, giving her his best smile. She reciprocated. She reciprocated a little too much, actually, and one of those extravagant nails slid under a spandex strap, teasing it away from the tanning-bed skin. “Were you at work Saturday?”

  “Of course. I work very hard.” And what she didn’t, what she didn’t need to say with words because she was saying it with her voice, with the way she arched her back, with that mile-long nail plucking at her spandex, was that she did other things hard too. Real hard.

  “All day?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you confirm that these two were here all day?”

  “What?”

  “These two. Sister Sapphira and Brother Dan. Were they here all day Saturday?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “We just need an answer.”

  “Yes. They were here.”

  “They didn’t leave at any point?”

  Her threaded eyebrows came together, and her mouth made a flamingo O. “This is about that murder.”

  “We just need to hear if they left at any point.”

  “They went to lunch.” That flamingo O quivered with excitement. “One at a time. I think they walked. At least, that van never came back for them, not until the end of the day when I was closing up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yes. Oh my, yes.” Threaded eyebrows shifted. The long nails drifted across her chest, tightening the spandex over her breasts until the space-age fabric looked like it might have reached its limits. “I might have some security videos that show what happened in the store if you’d like to see them.”

  “That might be helpful. We’ll take them with us.”