It was my idea.

“They knew you’d come?” I asked.

“Me or someone like me. Your father had me on the phone before you were off the property.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father said. “Of course you do. Besides, he’s here for the family as well.”

Parks spoke. “A body was found on the property, Adam, discovered in an out-of-the-way place that few people know about. They’ll be looking at everyone, and they’ll be looking hard. Some people may try to take advantage of the situation to pressure your father.”

“You really believe that?” I asked.

“It’s a six-tower nuclear facility and it’s an election year. The forces at work are beyond anything you can imagine-”

My father interrupted. “You’re overstating things, Parks.”

“Am I?” the lawyer asked. “The threats have been graphic, but up until yesterday they were just threats. Grace Shepherd was attacked. A young man is dead, and none of us know the reason why. Putting your head in the sand now won’t make it go away.”

“I refuse to accept that corruption spreads as thickly in this county as you’d have us believe.”

“It’s not just the county, Jacob. It’s Charlotte. Raleigh. Washington. Nothing remotely like this has happened in decades.”

My father waved the comment away, and Dolf spoke up. “That’s why you called Parks, isn’t it? Let him do the doubting for you.”

“There will be an investigation,” Parks said. “This is the match dropping, right here. It’s going to get hot. Reporters will be all over this place.”

“Reporters?” I asked.

“Two came to the main house,” my father said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“You should put a man on the gate,” I said.

“Yes,” Parks said. “A white man, not a migrant. Someone that cleans up well and knows how to be respectful but firm. If this is going to be on the news, I want the face of Middle America staring out.”

“Jesus.” Dolf sat down in disgust.

“If the police or anyone else wants to talk about anything, you direct them to me. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what you’re paying me for.”

My father looked at Dolf. “Do it,” he said.

Parks pulled a chair from the card table by the window and dragged it across the rug. He sat in front of me. “Now, tell me about last night. I want to know what they asked you and I want to know what you said.”

I told him, and the other men listened. He asked about the river, about Grace. He wanted to know what was said between us. I repeated what I said to the cops. “It’s not relevant,” I told him.

“That’s for me to judge,” he said, and waited for my answer.

It was a small thing, I knew, but not to Grace; so I looked out the window.

“This is not helpful,” the attorney said.

I shrugged.

I drove into town to buy something nice for Grace, but changed my mind by the time I hit the city limit. Danny did not attack Grace; that had finally sunk in. That meant that whoever did was still out there. Maybe it was Zebulon Faith. Maybe not. But shopping would get me no closer to an answer.

I thought of the woman I’d seen in the blue canoe. She’d been with Grace moments before the attack. She’d been on the river. Maybe she’d seen something. Anything.

What was her name again?

Sarah Yates.

I stopped at the first pay phone I saw. Someone had ripped the cover off of the phone book, and many of the pages were torn, but I found the listings for Yates. There was less than a page of them. I scanned for a Sarah Yates but there was no such listing. I ran down the names more slowly. Margaret Sarah Yates was on the second column. I had no plan to call.

I drove to the historic district and parked in the shade of hundred-year-old trees. The house was all about tall columns, black shutters, and wisteria vines as thick as my wrist. The door was armored by two hundred years of lead paint and had a brass knocker shaped like a swan’s head. When the door opened, it was as if the wall had shifted. The crack that appeared and then widened was at least twelve feet tall; the woman standing in it looked more like five. A smell of dried orange peels rolled over me.

“May I help you?” Age had bent the woman’s back, but her features were sharp. Dark eyes appraised me from beneath light makeup and white, lacquered hair. Seventy-five, I guessed, trim in a tailored suit. Diamonds flashed at ears and throat, while behind her, an antique silk runner stretched off into a world of serious money.

“Good morning, ma’am. My name is Adam Chase.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Chase. I admire what your father is doing to protect this town from the greed and shortsightedness of others. We need more men like him.”

I was momentarily undone by her frankness. Not many women would stand and chat with a stranger once tried for murder. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to contact a woman named Sarah Yates. I thought that she might live here.”

The warmth dropped off of her face. The dark eyes hardened and the teeth disappeared. Her hand moved up on the door. “There is no one here by that name.”

“But your name-”

“My name is Margaret Yates.” She paused, and her eyelids flickered. “Sarah is my daughter.”

“Do you know-”

“I have not spoken to Sarah in more than twenty years.”

She put some of her weight on the door. “Ma’am, please. Do you know where I can find Sarah? It’s important.”

The door stopped moving. She pursed dry lips. “Why do you want her?”

“Someone I care about was attacked. It’s possible that Sarah saw something that could help me find who did it.”

Mrs. Yates considered, then waved a hand vaguely. “She’s in Davidson County, last I heard. Over across the river.”

I could shoot an arrow from Red Water Farm and hit Davidson County on the other side of the river. But it was a big county. “Any idea where?” I asked. “It really is important to me.”

“If this porch were the bright center of the world, Mr. Chase, then Sarah would have found the place farthest from it.” I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. “The darkest, farthest place.” She took one step back.

“Any message?” I asked. “Assuming that I find her.”

The small body sagged, and the emotion that touched her face was as soft and quick as a moth’s wing beating once. Then the spine locked and the eyes snapped up, brittle and tight. Blue veins swelled beneath the paper skin, and her words popped like dry grass burning. “It’s never too late to repent. You tell her that.”

She crowded me and I stepped back; she followed me out, finger up and eyes gone crazy-bright.

“You tell her to beg our Lord Jesus Christ for forgiveness.”

I found the stairs.

“You tell her,” she said, “that hellfire is eternal.”

Her face overflowed with some unknowable emotion, and she pointed at my right eye as the fire in her voice snapped once more then died. “You tell her.”

Then she turned for the great mouth of a door, and by the time it inhaled her, she was a much older woman.

I drove down shaded lanes and left the armored walls behind me. Thick lawns dwindled to weed and earth as I hit the poor side of town. Houses grew short and narrow and flaked, then I was through and onto long roads that ran wild into the country. I crossed into Davidson County, the bridge humming beneath me. I saw the long, slow brown, and a fat man with no shirt drinking beer on the shore. Two kids with stained lips picked blackberries from a thicket on the roadside.

I stopped at a bait shop, found an S. Yates in the phone book and tracked down the address. The drive pierced a dense tree line eight miles from the nearest traffic light. I made the turn, and the drive straightened into a long descent toward the river. I came out of the trees and saw the bus, which sat on blocks under a gnarled oak. It was pale purple with faded flowers painted on the sides. In front of it, fifteen acres had been cleared and cultivated.