The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,120

I couldn’t help it, it just sounded so absurd, and I laughed. I don’t need to tell you how men get when you laugh at them. His face turned red, and he reached into his wallet and pulled out something and stuck it in my face and said if he was lying then how did I explain that. And, Detective, that’s when I got scared. Because it was Francine’s driver’s license. I mean, who carries around a thing like that? If he hadn’t hurt her, then where did he get it?” She paused, as if listening. “Oh, yes, sir. He put it right back in there. He’d had so much to drink he might not even remember showing it to me.”

She stopped and waited.

“You think that’ll work?” Mrs. Greene asked.

“They don’t have to get a warrant or anything like that. All they have to do is stop by his house and ask to look inside his wallet. He’ll have no clue it’s in there, so of course he’ll show them. Once they see it, they’ll ask for permission to search his attic, he’ll refuse, they’ll leave someone with him while they go get a warrant, and then they’ll find Francine.”

“When?” Mrs. Greene asked.

“The Scruggs are having an oyster roast this coming Saturday out at their farm,” Patricia said. “It’s six days away but it will be crowded, it will be public, people will be drinking. It’s our best chance.”

Patricia didn’t know how she’d get into his wallet—she didn’t even know if he carried one—but she’d keep her eyes open and stay on her toes. Kitty’s oyster roast started at 1:30. If she got it into his wallet early enough, she could call the police that afternoon; they could even come to the oyster roast and ask to see inside his wallet there, and this could all be over in less than a week.

“A lot could go wrong,” Mrs. Greene said.

“We’re running out of time,” Patricia said.

It was already the end of the month. That night was Halloween.

* * *

—

The doorbell started ringing around four on Halloween evening, and Patricia oohed and ahhed over an endless stream of Aladdins and Jasmines and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and fairies in tutus with wings bouncing up and down on their backs.

She had fun-sized Butterfingers and small boxes of Sun-Maid raisins for the children, and Jack Daniel’s for their fathers, who stood behind them, red Solo cups in hand. It was an Old Village tradition: moms stayed home and gave out candy on Halloween while dads took the kids trick-or-treating. Everyone kept a bottle of something behind their front door to top off whatever the dads were drinking. The dads got progressively louder and happier as the shadows got longer and the sun went down on the Old Village.

Carter wasn’t among them. When Patricia had asked Korey if she wanted to go trick-or-treating she’d been treated to a withering glare and a single contemptuous snort. Blue said trick-or-treating was for babies so, Carter said, if neither of his children wanted him to take them, he’d go right from the airport to his office and get ahead on some work for Monday.

Around seven, Blue came downstairs, opened the dog food cabinet, and took out a paper shopping bag.

“Are you going trick-or-treating?” Patricia asked.

“Sure,” he said.

“Where’s your costume?” she asked, trying to reach him.

“I’m a serial killer,” he said.

“Don’t you want to be something more fun?” she asked. “We could put something together in just a few minutes.”

He turned and walked out of the den.

“Be back by ten,” she called as the front door slammed.

She had just run out of Butterfingers and given the first box of raisins to a deeply disappointed Beavis and Butthead when the phone rang.

“Campbell residence,” she said.

No one answered. She figured it was a prank call and was about to hang up when someone inhaled, wet and sticky, and a ruined voice said:

“…I didn’t…”

“Hello?” Patricia said. “This is the Campbell residence?”

“I didn’t…,” the voice said again, dazed, and Patricia realized