Martin and Sheila decided at the same time and stepped in side by side, followed by Clarabelle with the rifle. Within moments they stood around her beaten, mud-spattered red pickup. She got the keys out, climbed in behind the wheel and opened the passenger door. Barclay climbed in.

"You two okay in the bed?"

Barclay winked. "From what I hear they're more than okay."

Martin pulled down the gate and climbed in. He held out a hand to Sheila. She ignored it, climbing up easily beside him.

The engine rattled to life and Clarabelle pulled out of the lot, raising gravel dust. As they peeled out onto King Street, Barclay slid open the back window. "Clarabelle said you was there when the old broads killed that little girl, that right?"

"Sheila was," Martin said.

"An' you saw 'em kill her?"

"She wasn't dead." Sheila spoke in monotone, clearly not interested in conversating with the murderer. "They told us she was breeched. That she didn't make it. But when they swaddled the baby I heard her cry."

Barclay nodded. "That's witch magic. Some of 'em call it a glamour. A spell or illusion. Makes you see what they want you to see 'stead of what's there."

Clarabelle caught Martin's eye in the rearview mirror, glancing away from the road. "They can read minds," she said. "Force people to do stuff they don't wanna do. Make yous see whatever they want ya to see, and wear your skin like a people suit. But they can't all do everything. Seems like each one got a partic'lar trick they're good at. The blind woman could read minds. Geraldine can see things, make you see em too. The one with the hat and the pink Caddie and all them cats, she was what you might call an influencer." Again, her eyes left the road. "I don't know about th'other one, but your mama—" She shook her head. "—she's the meanest damn one of em all."

"She's not my mother."

"That's right, she ain't. I went to school with your real mama. Girl named Rosalee, friends just called her Rosy. We wasn't friends or anythin, me an' her. She was a year ahead of me. Pop'lar girl. Cheerleader. Always been an outsider, myself. Figure that's why I can see what most other folk from around here can't."

The killer watched her with the smile of a proud father.

"So how do we go up against something like that?" Sheila asked.

"We don't," Barclay said. "Not at first. Marty's gotta soften her up." He turned all the way around in his seat. "Clarabelle says the old woman took a shine to ya, must've from the second you popped your li'l head out of that pretty young cheerleader's hooha. That's how come she took you as her own 'stead of carvin you up and eatin ya for Christmas dinner, pass the gravy, God bless us everyone."

Barclay's patter grated on him, but Martin had to admit the story made sense. The Midwives—or the Chadrach, the creatures beneath their "people suits"—required a sacrifice. How often, he didn't know. The child provided sustenance, reinvigorated them, renewed their youth.