This was more a job for Xylda Bernardo than me, I could tell already.

I told the sheriff so.

“What, that crazy old woman with the dyed red hair?”

“She looks crazy,” I agreed. “But she’s a true psychic. And what we’ve got here isn’t dead people.”

“Not corpses?” It was hard to say if Rockwell was disappointed or relieved.

“Oh, I think we’ve got corpses. They’re just not human. There’s death, but I can’t find it. If you don’t mind, I’ll call her. If she can tell you what’s here, you can give her my fee.”

Rockwell stared at me. The cold had bleached the color out of her face. Even her eyes looked paler. “Done,” she said. “And if she makes a fool out of you, it’s your own fault.”

Xylda and Manfred got there pretty quickly, all things considered. Xylda came into the barn wearing her ratty plaid coat, her long dyed bright red hair wild and tangled around her head. She was a big woman in all ways, and her round face was lavishly decorated with powder and lipstick. She was wearing heavy support hose and loafers. Manfred was a loving grandson; most young men his age would run screaming before they’d appear in public with someone as crazy-looking as Xylda.

Xylda, who was carrying a cane, didn’t greet us, or even acknowledge we were there. I couldn’t remember if she’d needed one a couple of months ago or not. It gave her a rakish air. I noticed that Manfred kept his hands lightly on her waist, as if she might topple over all of a sudden.

She pointed with the cane to one of the slightly mounded areas in the dirt floor. Then she stood absolutely still. The men who’d come in with her—everyone who’d been outside, with the addition of the boy and the man I was sure was his father—had been eyeing her with derision, and a few of them had made comments not quite softly enough. But now they were silent, and when Xylda closed her eyes and appeared to be listening to something no one else could hear, the level of tension rose almost palpably.

“Tortured animals,” she said crisply. She spun with as much agility as you can expect from a rather old and hefty woman. She pointed the cane at the boy. “You’re torturing animals, you little son of a bitch.”

You couldn’t accuse Xylda of mincing words.

“They cry out against you,” she said, her voice falling to an eerie monotone. “Your future is written in blood.”

The boy looked as if he wanted to break and run when those old eyes fixed on him. I didn’t blame him.