minutes they turned and loped down the other side of the hill.
Jessica and Byrne stood still for a full minute. Had the dogs left? There was no way of knowing, and Jessica would be damned if she was going to go to the top of the ridge and take a peek.
‘Partner?’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I love the hell out of you, you know that, right?’
‘I do,’ Byrne said. ‘And it means the world to me.’
‘But if you don’t mind, could you do me a favor?’
‘I will surely entertain the notion.’
‘Could we maybe get the fuck out of here?’
‘I think we’re okay,’ Byrne said. ‘I think they left.’
Jessica wanted to believe he was right. She wasn’t so sure.
For the moment her thoughts returned to the case, and to Ida-Rae Munson’s words:
Word was she had a devil-child.
In the context of the horrors they had seen in the desecrated churches, the words certainly took on a new meaning. She just didn’t know what that meaning might be. Either way, it was time for some old school, shoe leather police work. She just didn’t want to do it here.
‘I think we should go back to the town,’ Jessica said. ‘Maybe there’s some forwarding address for this Ruby Longstreet, some attorney who handled the property. I want to see the records of this place.’
Byrne reached into his coat pocket, gave Jessica the deputy’s card. ‘Nice kid. Believe me, he’ll fall all over himself to help you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll wait here.’
Jessica looked at her partner. ‘You’re going to stay here.’
‘Yeah.’
‘In the middle of nowhere.’
‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘You might want to fix your hair.’
Jessica did a quick comb-through with her fingers. ‘Better?’
‘Better.’
‘You sure you want to do this?’
Byrne just nodded.
Jessica backed her way to the car, listening for the sound of eight heavy paws loping up the hill. She heard nothing. She opened the driver’s door.
‘Kevin?’
Byrne looked over.
‘The dogs?’
Byrne raised a hand, waved. He’d heard her.
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.
THIRTY-FOUR
Shane Adams couldn’t get onto the grounds at the Roundhouse unobserved, but here it was different. Here, behind the apartment building in which Kevin Byrne lived, he was shielded from the street. Unfortunately, the Dumpster in the alley behind the building was full, and looked to contain trash from six different rowhouses, and one low-rise four-suiter. He’d never be able to pick through it, find what belonged to Byrne, and spirit it away. Not in broad daylight.
He left the alley, rounded the