There was a pause, a palpable pause. The three law officers fell still around the hole that had finally gotten deep enough.

I’d been leaning back. I straightened. Tolliver’s head rotated, and so did Twyla’s.

“My grandson?” she asked. I’d been expecting the question.

“No,” I said. “They picked the northernmost burial to start at. I’m so sorry. Your grandson is there, Twyla, at the first flag we put in. I wish I could make it better. I wish he wasn’t out there.” I didn’t know how else to put it.

“You can’t be sure.” Her voice was hesitant. I hadn’t known Twyla Cotton more than a couple of hours, but I knew that that wasn’t her normal attitude.

“No, of course.” I was sure, though. This strange skill is all I have, really. That, and Tolliver, and my two half sisters. So I’m careful of my skill, and I never say anything unless I’m sure. The boy I’d seen in the upslope grave was the same boy in the pictures at Twyla Cotton’s house.

“How…how did these boys die?”

That was the question I’d been dreading.

“I really can’t…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “I really can’t,” I said, making it declarative.

Tolliver winced and looked away at the ribbon of road traveling up and around the bend. It didn’t take much imagination to know he wished he were traveling that road, getting away from this place. I wished I were, too. I was sick with horror. I had seen so much death I’d thought I was impervious to anything new, but I’d discovered today that was far from the truth.

“You can leave,” Sandra Rockwell said, and I jumped in my seat. She’d come over to the car and pulled open the door. “Go back to Twyla’s, and wait for me there. I’m going to call in SBI, right now.” The State Bureau of Investigation. They would be invaluable to a little force like this, but that’s not to say they’d be real welcome. Sandra looked angry, she looked sick, and she looked scared.

Twyla started up the car, and we drove up the mountain a little ways until we got to a turnaround. She made a careful turn, and drove down, past the ruined house and its ghastly yard, down to Doraville. She parked in her garage, and got out of the car slowly, as though she’d added years to her bones while we were gone. Unlocking the house, she led the way ponderously into the kitchen, where we all three stood in awkward silence.

“I think she meant us to stay here, too,” I said. “I’m sorry. I wish we could go back to the motel and get out of your way. You need some time off.”