It explained why his mother had been so strong the morning after the ritual. He hadn't just imagined it. It also explained why Mavis—it could only have been her, the old woman in the hat—tried to burn down the house after Ruby was taken away to Saints of Mercy. Ruby was protecting him, for some reason. Once she was gone, the others could have their long-awaited feast.

If not for Norma, I'd be dead, he thought. Poor, sweet Norma.

He hoped she wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. He promised himself to do everything he could to get her out of that house in one piece.

"The other two," Sheila said. "Helen and Geraldine. How do we find them?"

"Way I figure," Clarabelle said, "you go after the Mother, the other two'll come runnin. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if—"

She slammed on the brakes. The truck dovetailed, burning rubber and throwing Martin and Sheila up against the cab.

"Speak of the goddamn devil," she said.

Helen Birch stood in the headlights in the middle of the road, dressed in a tattered blue Snuggie that covered everything but her winter boots. Her heavy-lidded eyes glared at the truck but there was a dulled quality to them, as if she was sleepwalking.

"Mrs. Birch?" Clarabelle leaned out the driver's side window. "Whatcha doin in the road?"

Helen said nothing. Just stood there, grinding her teeth, nestled in her Snuggie.

"Aw, the hell with it."

Clarabelle pounded her foot on the accelerator. The truck swerved and lurched forward.

The old woman made no move to get out of the way. Clarabelle gripped the wheel so tight her knuckles went white, and the grille struck Helen dead on. The old woman didn't make a sound as her bones cracked and her body hurtled over the hood, tearing the passenger side mirror off as the pickup roared away from the scene.

Martin watched the old woman, supine in the middle of the wet street. She made no move to get up. He didn't think she was dead. Stunned, maybe.

"Jesus," Sheila said, mirroring his thoughts as the old woman's body receded in the gloom behind them.

23

Home Is Where the Hurt Is

CLARABELLE LEIGH STOPPED the truck at the corner of Martin's street and turned off the running lights. The big gingerbread Victorian at the end of the road stood with its first-floor windows bright against the dark trees and darker ocean. A sight once warm and inviting, now as sinister as a vampire's castle.

"We'll be keepin an eye on ya, so don't try anything funny," Barclay said. "Ain't that right, snookums?"

Clarabelle picked up the rifle from her lap and chambered a round. The killer grinned.

"Ya'll stick to the plan, hear? Get her in a window, unobstructed. Clarabelle'll take it from there."

Martin started up the sidewalk, Sheila at his side. The thought of the rifle scope at his back caused the hair on the nape of his neck to prickle. He wasn't sure if Clarabelle would shoot him if he screwed up but he couldn't take the risk.