48

An old man stood beside the banks of a muddy river, fishing with a push-button Zebco. He was black, and his skin shone in the bright sun. He had deep creases in his face, seams in old leather, and he wore a pair of athletic shorts, oversized fishing boots, and nothing else. A scar ran across his chest, all the way down to his waistband, where it vanished underneath his mesh blue shorts.

He saw me coming and nodded, his face contorting into something like surprise. It was a likable expression, and I decided this was the kind of man with whom you could spend an hour with and wonder where the time had gone. His surprise opened up into a gap-toothed grin, and he turned the crank on his Zebco, reeling in nothing, just a dangling hook. He caught the hook expertly, pinching it between his fingers before sticking the pole between his legs and bending to pick up a live worm out of his bucket. He stabbed it, pressed the button on the rod, and threw a beautiful cast out onto the slow-moving river.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, “I thought you was a wolf.”

“A wolf?”

He nodded but didn’t explain.

“I’m just a man,” I said. “Didn’t know there were wolves around these mountains.”

He shrugged. “They come and go.”

I grunted, not sure how to respond to that.

“Why you coming from that direction without no gun?”

I shook my head, really confused now.

“You ain’t been hunting?”

“No sir. I’ve been in the cave back there.”

“The cave, oh boy, that cave is a killer.”

He was reeling his line in again. This time, I thought he might have a fish. He popped the line and turned the crank faster.

“Goddamn it,” he said as the hook came out empty again.

“What do you mean, the cave is a killer?”

He leaned his rod against a nearby tree and turned to look at me. “It ain’t safe for no man. It’s where them Wolf Brothers go.”

“Wolf Brothers?”

He nodded. “You might have seen ’em. They run all over these mountains like they got a fire stuck up their asses. Used to be you’d see ’em once or twice a year, coming to try to pluck some virgin out of one of them trailers, but lately them boys have been on a mission.”

I thought of the Hill Brothers. Was it possible he was talking about them?

“Why do you call them that?”

He shrugged. “Gotta call them something. They weren’t born with no mama, no daddy. Folks say they raised themselves up in some barn. Had to kill mice and birds and ate ’em raw. Nowadays, they just come out of the mountains like spirits, or maybe demons. Yeah, they come out of the dark hollows like demons, that’s what. People say they’re the sons of Old Nathaniel. You know Old Nathaniel?”

“Yeah, I know Old Nathaniel.”

“Then you know the kind of evil I’m talking about. Say, you still ain’t told me what you were doing in them caves.”

“I’m looking for somebody.”

“Somebody in the caves?”

“That’s right.”

He whistled, seemed to think it over. “What did you say your name was?”

“Earl Marcus.” I held out my hand, realized it was still beaten up pretty badly, and wiped it on my torn shirt.

He took it anyway, not squeezing too hard, which I appreciated. “I’m Zachariah Eason,” he said. “Who you looking for?”

“Her name is Harriet Duncan. It’s sort of a long shot. She would have been last seen in this area twenty-eight—”

“Don’t know her.”

“Oh.” Why had he cut me off? “Well, it’s been a while. Maybe there’s someone else living around here that might—”

“I don’t think so.”

I studied him closely and felt pretty sure he was lying to me.

“I gotta get going,” he said.

“Did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Just can’t help you. Never heard of Harriet Duncan.”

Except he had heard of her. I was sure of it. Zachariah was a bad liar.

“Has somebody else been around asking for her?”

“Nope.” He picked up his fishing rod and nodded at me. “Nice to meet you, Earl. I’d stay away from them caves.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. He hurried off, heading toward the wooden bridge that crossed the river and led to the trailers. I watched him go. When he made it halfway across the bridge, he looked back. I waved, but he didn’t return the gesture.