The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,108

green folder.

“Mrs. Greene is strong in her faith,” Slick said. “But she doesn’t have the education we have. Her background is different. Her culture is different.”

Patricia laid out four printed letters from the Town of Mt. Pleasant.

“They found Francine’s car in the Kmart parking lot back in 1993,” she said. “Remember Francine? She did for James Harris when he moved here. I saw her go into his house, and apparently no one ever saw her again. They found her car abandoned in the Kmart parking lot a few days later. They sent her letters telling her to come pick it up from the towing company, but they just sat in her mailbox. That’s where Mrs. Greene found them.”

“Stealing the mail is a federal crime,” Slick said.

“They had to break into her house to feed her cat,” Patricia said. “Her sister wound up declaring her dead and selling the house. They put the money in escrow. They say she has to be gone for five years before that money gets paid.”

“Maybe she was carjacked,” Slick suggested.

Patricia pulled out the sheaf of newspaper clippings and laid them out like playing cards, the way Mrs. Greene had done. “These are the children. You remember Orville Reed? He and his cousin Sean died right after Francine disappeared. Sean was killed and Orville stepped in front of a truck and killed himself.”

“We did this before,” Slick said. “There was that other little girl—”

“Destiny Taylor.”

“And Jim’s van, and all the rest,” Slick gave her a sympathetic look. “Taking care of Miss Mary put you under a terrible strain.”

“It didn’t stop,” Patricia said. “After Destiny Taylor came Chivas Ford, out in Six Mile. He was nine years old when he died in May 1994.”

“Children die for all kinds of reasons,” Slick said.

“Then came this one,” Patricia said, tapping a police blotter clipping. “One year after that, in 1995. A little girl named Latasha Burns in North Charleston cut her own neck with a butcher knife. How would a nine-year-old do that if there weren’t something terrible she was trying to get away from?”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Slick said. “Is every child who passes in some terrible way Jim’s fault? Why stop at North Charleston? Why not go all the way to Summerville or Columbia?”

“Everyone started leaving Six Mile because of the Gracious Cay development getting built,” Patricia said. “Maybe it wasn’t easy to find children who wouldn’t be missed anymore.”

“Leland paid fair prices for those homes,” Slick said.

“Then this year,” Patricia continued, “Carlton Borey up in Awendaw. Eleven years old. Mrs. Greene knows his aunt. She says they found him dead in the woods of exposure. Who freezes to death in the middle of April? She said he’d been sick for months, the same as the other children.”

“None of this adds up,” Slick said. “You’re being silly.”

“It’s a child a year, for three years,” Patricia said. “I know they’re not our children, but they’re children. Are we not supposed to care about them because they’re poor and black? That’s how we acted before and now he wants Blue. When will he stop? Maybe he’ll want Tiger next, or Merit, or one of Maryellen’s?”

“This is how witch hunts happen,” Slick said. “People get all worked up over nothing and before you know it someone gets hurt.”

“Are you a hypocrite?” Patricia asked. “You’re using your Reformation Party to protect your children from Halloween, but are you lifting a finger to protect them from this monster? Either you believe in the Devil or you don’t.”

She hated the bullying tone in her voice, but the more she talked the more she convinced herself that she needed to ask these questions. The more Slick denied what was right in front of her eyes, the more she reminded Patricia of how she’d acted all those years ago.

“Monster is a very strong word for someone who’s been so good to our families,” Slick said.

Patricia turned Miss Mary’s photograph over.

“How is he not aging, Slick?” she said. “Explain that to me and I’ll stop asking questions.”