The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,56

out of town,” Mrs. Greene said. “Get her someplace else by hook or by crook. Six Mile isn’t safe for children anymore.”

CHAPTER 15

Patricia only knew one person who owned a white van. She dropped Kitty off at Seewee Farms and with a heavy sense of dread drove to the Old Village, turned onto Middle Street, and slowed to look at James Harris’s house. Instead of the white van in his front yard, she saw a red Chevy Corsica parked on the grass, glowing like a puddle of fresh blood beneath the angry late-afternoon sun. She drove by at five miles an hour, squinting painfully at the Corsica, willing it to turn back into a white van.

Of course, Grace knew exactly where to find her notebook.

“I know it’s probably nothing,” Patricia said, stepping into Grace’s front hall, pulling the door shut behind her. “I hate to even bother you, but I have this terrible thought gnawing at me and I need to check.”

Grace peeled off her yellow rubber gloves, opened the drawer of her hall table, and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” Patricia said, taking the notebook and following Grace into her kitchen.

“Let me just make some room,” Grace said.

The kitchen table was covered in newspaper and in the middle stood two plastic tubs lined with towels, one filled with soapy water, the other filled with clean. Antique china lay on the table in orderly rows, surrounded by cotton rags and rolls of paper towel.

“I’m cleaning Grandmother’s wedding china today,” Grace said, carefully moving the fragile teacups to make room for Patricia. “It takes a long time to do it the old-fashioned way, but anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

Patricia sat down, centered Grace’s notebook in front of her, then flipped it open. Grace set her mug of coffee down, and bitter steam stung Patricia’s nostrils.

“Milk and sugar?” Grace asked.

“Both, please,” Patricia said, not looking up.

Grace put the cream and sugar next to Patricia, then went back to her routine. The only sound was gentle sloshing as she dipped each piece of china into the soapy water, then the clean. Patricia paged through her notebook. Every page was covered in Grace’s meticulous cursive, every entry separated by a blank line. They all started with a date, and then came a description of the vehicle—Black boxy car, Tall red sports vehicle, Unusual truck-type automobile—followed by a license plate number.

Patricia’s coffee cooled as she read—Irregular green car with large wheels, Perhaps a jeep, Needs washing—and then her heart stopped and blood drained from her brain.

April 8, 1993, the entry read. Ann Savage’s House—parked on grass—White Dodge Van with drug dealer windows, Texas, TNX 13S.

A high-pitched whine filled Patricia’s ears.

“Grace,” she said. “Would you read this, please?”

She turned the notebook toward Grace.

“He killed her grass parking on it like that,” Grace said, after she read the entry. “Her lawn is never going to recover.”

Patricia pulled a sticky note from her pocket and placed it next to the notebook. It read, Mrs. Greene—white van, Texas plate, - - X 13S.

“Mrs. Greene wrote down this partial license plate number from a car she saw in Six Mile last week,” Patricia said. “Kitty went with me to take her a pie and she scorched our ears with this story. One of the children at Six Mile committed suicide after he was sick for a long time.”

“How tragic,” Grace said.

“His cousin was murdered, too,” Patricia said. “At the same time, they saw a white van driving around with this license plate number. It niggled at the back of my mind, thinking where else I’d seen a white van, and then I remembered James Harris had one. He’s got a red car now, but these plates match his van.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Grace said.

“I don’t either,” Patricia said.

James Harris had told her his ID was being mailed to him. She wondered if it had ever arrived, but it must have, otherwise how had he bought a car? Was he driving around without