“ ‘Yeah.’ He went back to his juice. ‘I was afraid she’d wake up. I almost couldn’t do it I was so scared.’ He rubbed the goose bumps from his arms. ‘She was almost pretty, you know, I mean, I could see where . . .’

“ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know.’

“ ‘So we wait until morning and then put a stake through her heart, right?’

“It wasn’t until that moment that I realized the insanity that had taken over this town. Here’s a young kid, probably fourteen, talking about putting a stake through Angelina’s heart. He prob­ably wanted to cut off her head and stuff her mouth with garlic, too. God. But then, I shouldn’t have been surprised. The whole town was on a witch-hunt. Superstition abounded, there were hexes and charms hung over every doorway and around every person’s neck. There were people who predicted—for money, of course—who would be next; I even heard that some were ripping open chickens to read their futures in the entrails. I tried to ignore it all, but when Will said that, it hit home. I knew we had to proceed very, very carefully to avoid a catastrophe.

“ ‘No, Will, things aren’t done that way. She’s a person, just like you and me.’

“ ‘No, she ain’t.’

“ ‘She’s just sick, that’s all.’

“He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. ‘So what’re we going to do?’

“ ‘She’s locked up tight, you say?’

“He nodded.

“ ‘Well, then we’ll wait until tomorrow and unlock her. And then tomorrow night, when she wakes up, we’ll talk to her.’

“ ‘You’re nuts.’

“ ‘I know her, Will. You saw for yourself how small she is. You don’t think you and I can handle her?’

“He looked at me with big eyes, and I saw a little of myself in him. ‘I don’t think anyone can handle her,’ he said.”

37

37

The night wore on. I lay in a foreign box, immobilized and furious—helpless and hopeless, and I waited. I waited. My fingers became intimately familiar with the little gold cross as I lay there, waiting.

I waited through the night. No one entered the house, no one drew near. I fanned my consciousness out, roaming the house, the neighborhood, searching for Boyd, for surely he was behind this degradation. The mounting swirl of fear maddened me in my impotent state.

Can’t you face me, Boyd? Must you send a child to do your work in the daytime, to chain me as I sleep? You follow me, hunt me, dog my trail for years, Boyd, with your self-serving attitude, and when the final moment comes, you care not to see for yourself?

I have little interest in your piddling ways, Boyd. Better men than you have died under my loving touch, and were grateful for it. Release me and let us meet.

If you dare.