And Crow came to him while he was in his great circular marble bath, which was situated in the center of his ramshackle house deep in the bayous. It was the house he had lived in for many, many years, the place from which he had battled the evangelical preachers so drunk on their own power they relished lording it over their sheep-like followers. He had spent decades fighting their invidious lies, couched in half-truths. He had felt like a lone voice in the wilderness, which, in fact, he was. Not altogether by his own choice.

The three female acolytes swam around him like Homer’s sirens, their long, fiery hair darkened by water to the color of fresh blood. Their sheer gowns were plastered to their lithe bodies, more erotic than if they had been nude. Their beautiful milky-skinned faces, one lightly misted by freckles, were all turned to him as flowers turned to the sun. Their hands were on his flesh, moving—always moving. They were happy—he was happy.

A commotion turned his attention to the bath’s door. A young man in a policeman’s uniform strode in, unbidden, unannounced, but not unanticipated. His name was Kneckne. He was new. He didn’t know the score.

His hand was on the butt of his service revolver. “You the man they call Preach?”

“I am,” said Preach.

Officer Kneckne approached the tub. “There’ve been complaints about this place, about you.”

“What sort of complaints, son?”

Kneckne frowned, his eyes taking in the three sirens. “Lewd and lascivious acts; profane acts against God and Nature. Evil things.”

Preach smiled. “I don’t see anything evil around here. Do you, son?”

“Why, sir, yes, I do.” He stood at the edge of the tub, unsnapped his holster. There was a film of sweat on his upper lip and a dangle of snot in one nostril. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Sir, I see you’re an ignorant man. You don’t understand the laws of the land. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Knechne didn’t know the score, and now he never would.

Preach uttered a single word under his breath and the three acolytes rose up, as one, grabbed Knechne while he was still gawping at their near-nakedness, and pulled him under the water. He thrashed, his arms and legs beating a tattoo, sending waves lapping over the sides of the tub, but his head never reappeared.

The acolytes weren’t sirens; they were death-dealers. Preach had taught them how to kill; they performed their task by instinct, unhindered by thought or choice.