The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires(82)

“You catch more flies with sugar than vinegar,” Slick said. “So on Sunday I’ll throw a party that will make everyone forget about Halloween: my Reformation Party. I’m going to present the idea to St. Joseph’s tomorrow. See, we’ll take the children to the Fellowship Hall—and of course Blue and Korey will be welcome—and we’ll make sure there are activities for the teenagers. They’re the ones most at risk, after all, but instead of monster costumes they dress up like heroes of the Reformation.”

“The who?” Patricia asked.

“You know,” Slick said. “Martin Luther, John Calvin. We’ll have medieval line dancing and German food, and I thought it would be fun to have themed snacks. What do you think? It’s a Diet of Worms cake.”

Slick handed Patricia a picture she’d cut out of a magazine.

“A worm cake?” Patricia asked.

“A Diet of Worms cake,” Slick corrected. “When the Holy Roman Empire declared Martin Luther a fugitive for nailing his ninety-five theses to the church door? The Diet of Worms?”

“Oh,” Patricia said.

“You decorate it with gummy worms,” Slick said. “Isn’t that hilarious? You have to make these things entertaining and educational.” She plucked the clipping out of Patricia’s hand and studied it. “I don’t think it’s sacrilegious, do you? Maybe not enough people know who John Calvin is? We’re also going to try reverse trick-or-treating.”

“Slick,” Patricia said. “I hate to change the subject, but I need help.”

“What’s the matter?” Slick asked, putting down the clipping and scooting to the edge of her seat, eyes fastened on Patricia. “Is it about Blue?”

“You’re a spiritual person?” Patricia asked.

“I’m a Christian,” Slick said. “There’s a difference.”

“But you believe there’s more to this world than what we can see?” Patricia asked.

Slick’s smile got a little thin.

“I’m worried about where all this is going,” she said.

“What do you think about James Harris?” Patricia asked.

“Oh,” Slick said, and she sounded genuinely disappointed. “We’ve been here before, Patricia.”

“Something’s happened,” Patricia said.

“Let’s not go back there again,” Slick said. “All that’s behind us now.”

“I don’t want to do this again, either,” Patricia said. “But I’ve seen something, and I need your opinion.”

She reached into her purse.

“No!” Slick said. Patricia froze. “Think about what you’re doing. You made yourself very sick last time. You gave us all a scare.”

“Help me, Slick,” Patricia said. “I genuinely don’t know what to think. Tell me I’m crazy and I’ll never mention it again. I promise.”

“Just leave whatever it is in your purse,” Slick said. “Or give it to me and I’ll put it through Leland’s shredder. You and Carter are doing so well. Everyone’s so happy. It’s been three years. If anything bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now.”

A feeling of futility washed over Patricia. Slick was right. The past three years had been forward progress, not a circle. If she showed Slick the photo she’d be right back where she started. Three years of her life reduced to running in place. The thought made her so exhausted she wanted to lie down and take a nap.

“Don’t do it, Patricia,” Slick said, softly. “Stay here with me in reality. Things are so much better now than they were. Everyone’s happy. We’re all okay. The children are safe.”

Inside her purse, Patricia’s fingers brushed the edge of Mrs. Greene’s folder, worn soft by handling.

“I tried,” Patricia said. “I really did try for three years, Slick. But the children aren’t safe.”

She pulled her hand out of her purse with the folder.

“Don’t,” Slick moaned.

“It’s too late,” Patricia said. “We’ve run out of time. Just look at this and tell me if I’m crazy.”

She laid the folder on top of Slick’s papers and placed the photograph on it. Slick picked up the photo and Patricia saw her fingers tighten and her face get still. Then she laid it back, facedown.

“It’s a cousin,” she said. “Or his brother.”

“You know it’s him,” Patricia said. “Look at the back. 1928. He still looks the same.”

Slick drew in one shuddering breath, then blew it out.

“It’s a coincidence,” she said.

“Miss Mary had that photograph,” Patricia said. “That’s her father. James Harris came through Kershaw when she was a little girl. He called himself Hoyt Pickens and he got them involved in a financial scheme that made them a lot of money, and then bankrupted the whole town. And he stole their children. When people turned on him he blamed a black man and they killed him, and he disappeared. I think it was so long ago, and Kershaw’s so far upstate, he didn’t imagine he’d be recognized if he came back.”

“No, Patricia,” Slick said, pressing her lips together, shaking her head. “Don’t do this.”