“Good night, Brother Kennesaw. God be with ye.”

Truman Rainwater climbed into the cab of his truck. The air brakes released, and he pulled away, the sound of the engine rising and falling, quickly at first, and then in a lengthening cadence, as he went through the lower gears and picked up speed.

I walked to my car and slid in beside a dozing Patricia. She roused when the dome light came on. Stretching and yawning like a big feline, she looked at me with smiling eyes.

“That was quite a date, Tanner. I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

“It is kind of draining, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” she said. “Like being wrung out and hung up to dry. Why don’t you get us back to town and we find some food? I’m starving.”

“On the way,” I replied as I cranked the engine. Putting the car in gear, we pulled away from the churchyard and onto the rutted dirt road that ran somewhere between Hopelessness and Destitution.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

A FINE DRIZZLE FLOATED LAZILY ON the night air, leaving a mist just thick enough to shorten the range of the headlights and obscure the sides of the road. At the next intersection I turned right, toward the small crossroads town of Guyton, where we could pick up old U.S. Highway 17. I thought it would shave a few miles off our route back to Savannah.

It was as black as a night can be, the darkness punctured by our headlights, and shoved aside only here and there by the dim porch lights of the few houses we passed. We were on a long, straight portion of dirt road when, in my rearview mirror, a set of headlights appeared. They held steady for half a minute or so, and then began to close rapidly.

Soon the lights were right behind us, right on my bumper. They were set high, the lights of a pickup. They held there for a few seconds before falling back a couple of car lengths. Then they charged up again—flashing repeatedly from high to low beam. I opened the console, took my pistol in hand, and stuck it under my right thigh.

“What’s that all about back there?” Patricia asked as she turned and glanced out the back window.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Get your pistol ready. I’m in no mood to play stupid redneck road games.”

Patricia got her gun in hand just as the truck swung out to pass, flashing its lights and now honking the horn. I dropped my window, picked up my pistol, and let it rest just below the window frame.

I held my speed—you never try to run from a road confrontation—and then our pursuers accelerated sharply and pull up alongside. I laid the muzzle of the pistol on top of the window frame and angled it upward.