For every evil under the sun . . .

A pearly sun wavered through the hazy glimmers of dawn, offering the first whispers of dry weather. Weeks of near-constant rain had spongified much of the grounds behind the elementary school, flooded the drainage ditches, extended the bayou by a quarter mile in all directions. Surette hadn't seen that kind of rainfall in years. Mayor Jacobs finally reached out to state services for aid in mitigating damages. One of the children in the smaller houses backing up against the waters had nearly lost an arm when an alligator sidled up out of the swamp and squatted beneath their plastic slide. Shoppers had cleaned out the toilet paper and milk from the Dollar General as if preparing for doomsday. Alan Robichaux had his work cut out for him with heightening incidents of drunk driving and teen chicanery—seemed all the folks went a little crazy when the weather stayed south for too long.

In the early morning light, a silver sedan pulled out of a driveway and headed East.

There is a remedy or there is none . . .

The young man driving hadn't showered in over forty-eight hours. His thick black hair was stiff with old product, and his clothing consisted of gym shorts and a sweatshirt. The reddish mark on his forehead and nose had long dried and mostly flaked away; he'd meant to wash it off but had forgotten. So had his mother.

Tomás adjusted the rearview mirror to see the woman in the back seat, eyes closed. Elena needed rest after the restless night they'd spent at home, waiting, hoping . . .

Driving past St. Basilio's, the young man scanned the front doors up to the church's steeple. Bells should be ringing, soon; they rang at six AM every morning. And yet something told Tomás there'd be no bells today. He wasn't sure how he knew, only that he perceived a sort of hollowness leaking from the church's inside out. He'd not personally known the priest, there, and after what he'd seen the night before, he had no desire for religion. His only thoughts were to keep driving until Surette was nothing more than a speck on a map to him. Maybe someday, if he worked up the courage to address the memory, he'd be able to tell the right people what had happened, though because it'd appeared most of the town was involved, he doubted anything would ever come of his admission. Surely they knew how to cover their tracks.

If there be one, seek till you find it . . .

Tomás shifted his gaze to the boy leaning against his mother's shoulder. Eddie had fallen asleep practically upon sitting down.

There'd been a knock on the door sometime around three in the morning. Tomás had begged his mother to stay back, warned that it might be another prank . . . or worse. He'd prepared himself, grabbed the biggest knife he could find and crept up to the peephole. Peering through the fishhole lens, he'd at first seen no one, but when he'd whipped open the door, half-suspecting another fishing-line ding-dong-ditch, Tomás had been stunned to find his brother on the porch, for the most part looking exactly as he had the day he'd disappeared.

Elena had held him and wept, and she hadn't let go of the child for anything. For his part, Tomás had said little. The boy was definitely Eduardo, all of his eleven years shining through his gentle smile, and yet he had no memory of where he'd been or how he'd lost his eye.

Tomás studied the sealed lid of Eddie's hollow socket. The warped flesh appeared to have been stitched together. Angry red lines spidered from the wound; it would need medical attention as soon as they could get out of town.

But Eddie was alive. And he was home.

If there be none, never mind it.

The Flores family headed toward open road, driving by the older and wealthier neighborhoods, and just as they were passing Algernon Street, a siren cut the air, and a police car zipped past. Though Tomás's attention was momentarily grabbed, he forced himself to keep driving. No good could come from staying in this town any longer, and as much as he'd liked Maggie, she'd been too involved in the horror that'd gone on the night before.

Down Algernon, all the way at its very end, a series of police cars and firetrucks spun their lights in silence. The humid morning air, cut here and there by brightening sunlight, hung in a haze about the men and women who'd assembled on the sidewalk outside the St. Jameses' house. Saw horses and police tape set up at the start of the stone footpath kept gathering spectators back, but even the police were wary of going beyond it, for the ground itself looked waterlogged and unsteady. Appearing to undulate like a bleak mirage in the distance were the remains of a once-grand building half-consumed by the earth. A stately white pillar had managed to keep erect, and the two magnolia trees on either side still stood firm, although their flower petals were falling in a steady snow. Though no one was as yet willing to approach the scene, those who looked closely, who had the right mind for seeing such things, would've sworn they'd caught a glimpse of a little girl in a white dress running barefoot beneath those showering limbs, a beautiful black dog at her side.

The End