At least the boys had come home. Finally. Somehow, some way, Glory had eventually managed to track them down, and both Micheal and Aaron had returned. Lindell had been unable to express his gratitude and only bombarded his oldest sons with expletive-laden tirades. He lectured them on family and loyalty and all manner of other virtues, and they took it all, patient as saints, remembering why they'd left home to begin with and determined to get away again as soon as possible.

Aaron was the oldest of the St. James brood. Tall and stocky, hair thick and dark as his mother's and a jaw made up of two ninety-degree angles, he'd managed to pull some fortunate genetics from one of the family lines, and the labor and construction jobs he'd worked had sculpted the rest of his twenty-something self into quite a fine specimen. Unfortunately for the young women he dated, his personality didn't live up to the promise of his appearance. Though Aaron had likely acquired his looks from his mother, his father's behavior had left an indelible impression upon him, shaped his views on the opposite sex and on the world at large, and it was his chosen onus to traverse life with a gargantuan chip on his shoulder. Micheal, on the other hand, while heavier in build, barely pushing five-eight, and adorned with an untameable crop of dull blond hair he drew attention to by wearing it wild as a lion's mane, was of a friendlier, more hearty nature. Neither brother could boast much of an intellect, and yet both had made decent paths for themselves out on their own.

Cassidy was missing; Tyler was dead; Kim had confessed. The whole core of the St. James family had vanished, just like that, practically overnight, and Glory, for her part, had mellowed considerably when the boys had arrived. Immediately after her daughter's arrest, she'd "lost her head," or so Lindell had termed the raving fit she'd thrown out on the lawn as if to top her husband. Miss Marianna, ancient old neighbor though she was, had erupted to life like some long-dormant volcano, spewed enough brimstone and spark to scare off all the mourners (who surely hustled off the local bars to sate their appetites for new gossip) and pulled Glory back into the house where she'd shoved her onto the couch and forced half a bottle of bourbon down her throat. Truth was, Glory wasn't even particularly upset over losing Kim. Not exactly. Her oldest daughter had been useful to her, but she'd never felt much motherly love for the girl. No, losing Cassidy had been bad—that child had possessed a certain attitude toward life, a will to boast and push back. Glory had once been that way, and she admired the reflection of her once-bold self. To lose that daily reminder of energy and resistance had crushed the woman. And then Tyler? His end had been worst of all, not just because of the violence and suddenness of it but because, for as much as Glory detested the boy's likeness to his father in both look and behavior, she'd always had a propensity to appreciate her boys over her girls. And Tyler's end had been so real, so complete. So final.

But at least her older sons had returned. Lambs to the fold, prodigals, as Father Hugh probably would've probably called them had Lindell allowed the priest to come around, but rather than throw a party in gratitude for his returned offspring, Lindell St. James had been partaking in plenty of self-serving celebrations.

"How much you got?"

Lindell rolled off the woman he'd just emptied himself into, fell onto his sweaty back into the dirty sheets. "God damn—you don't waste no time. Ever heard of a conversation, a little talk?"

"Not unless you want to pay for that, too."

"Hell no. Goddamned trying to strip me of all my money."

The woman turned back to him, her large, bare breasts sagging nearly to the waistband of the jeans she'd pulled on but hadn't yet zipped. She placed her hands on the mattress, hovered right above Lindell's face. "You sure liked stripping me," she wheedled, as if they'd just met, as if he hadn't just fucked her five ways in the last hour. "And I promise I'm a good talker, baby."

Lindell snarled, swatted her tits aside and rolled out from under her. "Guarantee you aren't interesting enough for my money."

Affronted, the woman leaned back, huffed. "What, and you're Shakespeare or something?"

"Goddamn, Christine. Shakespeare would be boring as shit. You trying to take me back to high school with that?" He sat upright, drew up against the headboard, and lit a cigarette, no shame whatsoever in his flagrant nakedness.

Squeezing into her top after wrangling her bra onto her upper half, the woman gazed at Lindell almost fondly. "I don't remember high school being too bad."

"Probably cause you don't remember it much at all, always cuttin' and gettin' high."

"I remember you were with me most of those times."

Lindell inhaled, exhaled, sent a cloud of smoke out into the dank room. He crossed his feet at the ankles, rubbed them together. "Yeah, well. Couldn't keep up with you after I got respectable."

"Gettin' married don't make you any more respectable than anyone else, especially considering what you married."

"Now don't go talkin' bad about Glory," Lindell ordered, jabbing his cigarette-wielding hand toward the bleached blonde. A hazy sort of look crept across his features. Quietly, he added, "She's been through hell, lately. A mother shouldn't lose so many kids all at once."

Christine tongued the inside of her cheek, the taste of the man on the bed still in her mouth. She unfolded the arms she'd folded a moment earlier, shuffled her weight one side to the other. She didn't know what to say, sort of wanted to be done with the man, and yet kicking him out at the moment felt . . . cruel. "What are you gonna do about your daughter?"

Lindell watched as the woman sat herself on the edge of the mattress. He didn't like the pitying look in her eyes. "Don't know." He turned aside, toward the window, held that cigarette close to his lips, thought, then looked back to Christine. "Which one do you mean?"

"Kim."

"Yeah, thought you meant that one." Something unsaid hung in the air, something perhaps about the daughter that was lost, probably for good. He took a drag and blew it out, again. "Kim done it to herself. She confessed."

"You think she did it, really? Her own brother?"

A darkness quivered at the corners of Lindell's mouth, in the pupils of his eyes. "Funny thing about Kim," he said quietly, staring at nothing in particular, "is how people tend to underestimate her. Her own parents included."

Moments passed during which neither spoke. Lindell finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray sitting next to him on the bed. Though the blinds were down, a sickly pale orange crept through the broken slats, and a small desk lamp—one of those old bumpy milk-glass, twist-switch ones—glowed fainty, offering enough light for the two adults to see one another without having to take in the flaws brightness would define.

After a bit, though, Christine had tired of pretending to study her nails. "You remember when we were kids?"

Lindell tilted his head back against the headboard, his narrow throat vulnerable to the world. "What about it?"

"I remember there was some family whose kids went missing. Can't remember their name, though. But we must've been . . . maybe kindergarten or first grade. They were older than us."

"Yeah. I know what you're talking about." This was the second time in recent days someone had mentioned that old news to him, first Frank Benoit and now Christine? He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with his long fingers.

"Their whole family—all of them died. Didn't they? And it was the dad that did it."

Lindell didn't respond.

"Course, no one will ever know, now. I thought he went to the insane asylum or something. Probably dead by now, and then there were those axe murders? The sister, remember that? She killed some people and jumped off a balcony. God! Everyone used to say their old house was haunted. You remember that? That LeBlanc place?"

"Wouldn't know. Not like I get over to that part of town."

"Yeah, but everyone said it. Cursed, probably—not haunted. But someone lives in there, now, so maybe not." Christine wandered through her memories. "Someone does live there, don't they? You know when they moved in?"

"Fuck, woman. Hell if I know." Lindell at last made to move, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, got up and started to search for his hastily strewn clothing. The last thing he wanted to think about was that old LeBlanc house. He had a distinct understanding of who and what was in that place, acquired through means he'd rather not share. "I gotta go. Can you drive me into town? Drop me at the gas station?"

Watching him as he moved about the room, Christine grew irrationally peeved. "You owe me extra, you know."

The man straightened as he was pulling on a boot. "What the hell for? I don't recall you jerking me off while you blabbered on, just now!"

"The conversation! I told you—"

"Oh, fuck off, Christine. Don't try your whore tricks on me like I'm one of those dumb pricks you pick up. Don't be a bitch; just drive me into town, already.."

Though she sucked in her lips, balled her fists atop her knees, and trembled ever so slightly, the woman predictably relented. She got up and grabbed her purse, sifted through the paraphernalia on her dresser and found the carkeys. "I hate you, you know that?"

"Yeah," Lindell retorted, slipping past her into the hallway, "feeling's mutual. Come on."

No words passed between the two as they drove, and Christine tore out of that gas station lot fast enough to burn rubber after she'd dropped Lindell off. He could only laugh; he had enough history with that woman to know they'd find themselves in a similar situation a few weeks out. Over the years, Lindell had picked up too many women in bars and off the streets to count (even tried out a man from time to time), but there was something about Christine that made her more enjoyable, a safer pick than anyone else. Her profession by default didn't bother him in the least, seeing as that was what he tended to use her for, anyway. When he and Glory were getting along well, he didn't have much use of others, but things had gotten so bad Lindell no longer felt right asking Glory for intimacy, and a man deserved his distractions, after all.

Heading toward the glass doors, Lindell was distracted by a call from his left and paused to see his son, Micheal, approaching him. A sour taste suddenly crossed his tongue, and he found himself forcing a grim smile. As often as Lindell had bemoaned the fact that his sons had left him, their return had been half a disappointment. Aaron had turned out all right, Lindell figured, even if his eldest was ungrateful about his upbringing, but Micheal? Lindell sighed. Micheal was soft, and of all the things a man could be, soft (according to Lindell) was the worst.

"Hey, Dad!" Micheal's bluff countenance shone, his fuzzy cheeks as rosy as if he'd dabbed on a bit of rouge. "Fancy seeing you here, huh?"

Lindell visibly cringed, though he hardly knew his own face.

"Where you been? Mom's been looking all over. Wants you to go with her to see Kim."

"What? Why?"

They'd paused right outside the door, and an exiting patron swore at them, at their hindering proximity. Lindell gave him the finger but stepped aside for whomever might next find him and his son in the way.

"She says the lawyer will be there, to talk about Kim's defense."

Lindell grumbled. "That woman! I fucking told her not to bother. A confession's a confession. They're going to put her away regardless. What's the point gettin' anyone's hopes up?"

Micheal swept the tawny locks from his face. His father watched in disgust. Why couldn't the boy take care of that beard, or that hair? Goddamned circle of fuzz around his whole head, like he was some kind of human sunshine.

"You ever think about cuttin' that?"

"This? My hair?" Micheal leaned slightly away from his father in mock scandal, then laughed.

Lindell didn't quite think it was a laughing matter. He turned toward the doors, started walking. "You can tell your mother I will not be joining her. They want to go off on a fool's errand, fine. But I won't be a part of it." Darkly, looking down at the money he'd pulled from his jacket and beginning to count, he added, "Tyler deserves his justice," before running nearly smack into someone.

About to offer a startled apology, Lindell cut himself off at seeing the face of whomever had exited the gas station—it wasn't someone he recognized, though really he wouldn't have known for the amount of black insects swarming the person's face.

"Jesus Christ!" was all he could manage, but the person passed him by before Lindell could judge whether what he'd thought he'd seen was accurate. Micheal, behind him, only greeted the person with his humble, cheerful manner. Must've been—must've been imagining things, Lindell told himself, wondering whether that cigarette he'd smoked earlier had been what he'd thought it was.

Shaking his thoughts free with a shoulders-to-knees shudder, Lindell carried on into the station, but what he saw there caused him to stop in his tracks quicker than he'd done outside. Everywhere he looked, fat black, buzzing things crawled. They were not flying, not more than to leap briefly into the air to resettle; no, they were coating the surfaces of the foodstuffs on the aisles, spread across the service counter and the register, moving in streaks up and down the walls, coating the hanging signs, and, worst of all, crusting the faces and hands and chests of the attendant and customers, who themselves seemed oblivious to their predicament. Indeed, the humans within that gas station went about their business, ringing people up, chatting with one another, perusing items and picking them up to take closer looks, and for every mouth that opened, flies filled it. Only the people's eyes, the whites and irises, were visible, gleaming like the centers of cheese danishes through the writhing, black-furred faces.

The gas station attendant, noticing Lindell's abrupt standstill, his frozen stance, turned toward the newest arrival. He waved, sending black specks flinging through the air, and then an indentation in the mass formed where the attendant's mouth was as he garbled something unintelligible, words that blended with the ferocious buzzing and whirring rising to a torrent against Lindell's ears—

"Hey, Jeff!"

Lindell cried out as he spun toward his son, who'd come up beside him. Micheal looked normal—praise God! and . . . yes, looking back into the store, everything was . . . was normal.

"You all right, Lindell?" Jeff, the attendant, asked for the second time, his pockmarked face as bug-free and familiar as ever.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lindell muttered under his breath, unable to offer anything more to Jeff or his son or to anyone else staring awkwardly his direction. He shoved out the glass doors and back into daylight.

A single fat, black fly followed him, floated at his ear, droning its cloying whine until the man raised a hand and grabbed the thing right out of the air, squishing it between his fingers.