CHAPTER 55

ON THE WALKWAY at the foot of Lulana’s front-porch steps, with the sweet scent of jasmine on the early-night air, Carson said to the sisters, “It’s best if you don’t tell anyone a word about what happened at the parsonage.”

As though distrusting the steadiness of her hands, Lulana used both to hold the praline pie. “Who was the giant?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Carson said, “and if I told you, I wouldn’t be doing you a favor.”

Coddling the second pie, Evangeline said, “What was wrong with Pastor Kenny? What’s going to happen to him?”

Instead of answering her, Michael said, “For your peace of mind, you ought to know that your preacher long ago went to his final rest. The man you called Pastor Kenny there tonight…you have no reason to grieve for him.”

The sisters exchanged a glance. “Something strange has come into the world, hasn’t it?” Lulana asked Carson, but clearly expected no answer. “There tonight, the coldest expectation crept over me, like maybe it was…end times.”

Evangeline said, “Maybe we should pray on it, sister.”

“Can’t hurt,” Michael said. “Might help. And have yourselves a piece of pie.”

Suspicion squinted Lulana’s eyes. “Mr. Michael, it sounds to me like you mean have ourselves a nice piece of pie while there’s still time.”

Michael avoided replying, but Carson said, “Have yourselves a piece of pie. Have two.”

In the car again, as Carson pulled away from the curb, Michael said, “Did you see the white Mercury Mountaineer about half a block back on the other side of the street?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like the one in the park.”

Studying the rearview mirror, she said, “Yeah. And just like the one down the street from the parsonage.”

“I wondered if you saw that one.”

“What, I’m suddenly blind?”

“Is it coming after us?”

“Not yet.”

She wheeled right at the corner.

Turning in his seat to peer into the dark street that they were leaving behind, he said, “They’re still not coming. Well, there’s bound to be more than one white Mountaineer in a city this size.”

“And this is just one of those freaky days when we happen to cross paths with all of them.”

“Maybe we should have asked Godot for some hand grenades,” Michael said.

“I’m sure he delivers.”

“He probably gift-wraps. Where now?”

“My place,” Carson told him. “Maybe it would be a good idea, after all, if Vicky moved Arnie somewhere.”

“Like some nice quiet little town in Iowa.”

“And back to 1956, when Frankenstein was just Colin Clive and Boris Karloff, and Mary Shelley was just a novelist instead of a prophet and historian.”