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ding beauty that verged on the sinister。 In the mountains you wouldn't need a hyperspace machine； in the mountains they kept giant possums for yard dogs。
So one day Steve forsook the touch…football game…it was kind of a stupid affair anyway； less concerned with the actual rules of football than with knocking down as many kids as possible and grinding their faces into the dirt…and took his own walk in the woods。 He walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets； feeling awkward； half…hoping he wouldn't meet the new kid； who probably only wanted to be left alone； who surely thought he was just a roughneck jerkoff like the others。 The woods were sun…dappled and quiet； but Steve kept walking into old strands of spiderweb that stuck to his face and made him think tickly legs were racing down his back。 He was about to give it up and go play football after all when he heard a quiet 〃hey〃 from above his head。
Steve looked up into the calmest blue eyes he'd ever seen。 No wonder this kid didn't mind insults or pinecones。 Set in a face that was far too delicate； framed by wisps of rain…pale hair； those eyes were nevertheless at peace。 Steve wondered what it felt like to have eyes like that。
The kid was perched fortably in a tree； his legs stretched out along a low branch； his back snuggled against the trunk。 He raised an arm and pointed to a spot along the path just past Steve。
At first Steve didn't see anything。 Then all at once it came clear； the way an optical illusion will suddenly resolve itself： an intricate and enormous web that spanned the path； and hanging head…down at the middle of the concentric gossamer circles； a particularly large； juicy…looking brown weaver。 Another couple of steps and Steve would have walked right into it。 He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder。
〃Spiders are spinning all over the woods；〃 said the kid。 'That means it'll be cold soon。〃
This went against the rationality that Steve so loved。 It sounded childish。 What could spiders have to do with the weather？ 〃How do you know？〃 he said。
〃My grandmother knows all that stuff。〃 The blue eyes did not challenge Steve to believe。 The kid had an air of quiet sureness； there was nothing cocky about him； nothing arrogant； but he seemed to know he spoke the truth。
Steve was interested despite himself。 Anyway； a kid from the mountains was surely entitled to his share of weird folklore。 〃Yeah？〃 he said。 〃What else does your grandmother know about？〃
〃Lots of stuff。〃 The kid hesitated。 〃If you want to meet her； you could e visit us sometime。 We live out on Burnt Church Road right by the dead end。〃
It should have been hard to extend that invitation； being the new kid with no real friends； not knowing whether Steve might just laugh at him and walk away。 And it should have been difficult for Steve to accept。 But already there was an easiness between them that surpassed any words they had exchanged。 Standing on the path in the sun…dappled September woods staring up at the skinny kid in the tree； the kid he had not yet known for ten minutes； Steve felt fortable； as if he could say anything。 It was not quite deja vu； it was not so unsettling； but it was somehow familiar。 When he remembered it now； Steve thought that it was not so much like meeting a friend as like recognizing one。
He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and stared ahead into the sparkling night。 Christ； but he was tense…first his bad mood and the whiskey； then the spooky shit on the hill。 His nerves were as fight as the thrumming of the wheels on the road。 Ghost mumbled something； but when Steve glanced over at him； Ghost was still sleeping； his eyes soundly shut and his hands lying limp in his lap。 He was dreaming again。 Ghost always dreamed； but only sometimes did his dreams e true；
Now they were ing into the outskirts of Missing Mile； the place called Violin Road； where dark pine branches hung over the dusty gravel road； where the land was peppered with heaps of old scrap metal and chicken Coops and family graveyards that sprouted from the tired grass like sad little crops of stone。 Whenever Steve drove out here in the daytime； he saw kids with ragged clothes and faded eyes playing on rickety jungle gyms； digging holes in the dirt of the scrubby yards； standing aimlessly； their heads swivelling to follow the T…bird as it went by。 Once he had seen a group of small kids hunkered down around a dead possum by the side of the road； poking it and turning it over with sticks； looking for maggots。 That had been a hundred…degree August day； and Steve had caught a noseful of ripe possum as he'd driven past。
But now； under the cold September moon； the trailers and rusty cars and trash heaps seemed to fade； to grow insubstantial。 Only the grass and the low…hanging trees appeared to shimmer and e alive。 Steve wondered who lived here； scratching out a place to exist； holding the kudzu and the wide empty sky at bay。 Were they farmers gone broke trying to beg crops from this dirt that had gone barren fifty years ago？ Were they field hippies； aging bohemians who thought living off the land meant a couple of scraggly tomato plants and Dannon yogurt from the 7…Eleven two miles up the road？
Steve glanced down at the gas gauge。 Nearly empty； but the change from the Pepsi machine would buy a tankful tomorrow。 The T…bird was damn thirsty these days。 Piece of shit； he thought with affection。
They were almost home now。 Steve would sleep in his once…cheerful wreck of a room； swathed in filthy sheets； trying to fend off nightmares。 In the morning Ghost would make whole…grain banana pancakes and bring him a beer。 The presence of Ghost in the next room； drunk and dreaming； would be a fort。 It had been a long night。
Chapter 5
Fifteen years later； Christian's bar was not so very different than it had been on that last night of Mardi Gras； that night of blood and altars。 That delicious night。
One of the stained…glass windows had been broken in a fight； on a rare evening when the bar was crowded and the liquor flowed too freely and tempers reached a sodden white…hot pitch。 Christian never found a replacement for the antique glass。 The window was covered with black cardboard； it kept the sunlight out during the daytime； kept the shadows in at night。
Upstairs； in Christian's room； the bloodstains Jessy had left on the carpet grew pale brown and edgeless as Christian walked over them in black leather boots； in slippers； with his bare； long…toed； knobby feet。 Fifteen years of his footsteps wore Jessy's blood away。
The wood of the bar lost its sheen； grew dull； scarred。 Christian forgot to replace the light bulbs in the imitation Tiffany lamps…a curse of excellent night vision。 The tawdry； alcoholic； glorious life of the French Quarter went on way up Chartres； far away。 No one ever came in before ten。
Later； Christian often thought that the man who called himself Wallace should have appeared at Mardi Gras。 There would have been a symmetry to that； a sort of correctness。 But of course life was messy； Christian had lived long enough to know that。 The man came to the bar one night early in September； during a late heat wave。 He had rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt； and the cloth at his armpits was circled with sweat。 At first Christian thought he was an old man； by the usual standards at any rate； a very old； sad； tired man。 Then he looked again and saw that the man could not be much older than fifty。
But this was a man who carried himself as if expecting blows； a man turned inward； looking out at the world through guarded eyes。 His clipped curly hair was only beginning to go from brown to gray。 He had a face that might once have been kind…deep careworn lines； brown eyes that had seen too much pain。 There was still warmth in those eyes； but it was warmth dampened with weariness and watchfulness。 Christian thought that whatever this man chose to drink； he would take it straight； and he would take a lot of it
〃Scotch；〃 said the man。 〃Chivas Regal。〃 Christian poured it over ice。 The man held the glass up to the light； frowned into its amber depths。 Then he brought it to his lips and tossed the whiskey down in one practiced motion。 Christian heard the ice chitter against the man's teeth。 The man spat it back into the glass。 Then he looked at Christian and said； 〃My name is Wallace Creech；〃 and held out his hand。
〃Christian；〃 said Christian； taking the hand。 He looked straight into Wallace's eyes。 Wallace stared back； unflinching。 Most people started at the touch of Christian's fingers and withdrew quickly； rubbing their hands against their clothing to rid themselves of Christian's icy touch； glancing away from the cold light of Christian's eyes。 But Wallace looked steadily back； grasped Christian's hand harder； and said； 〃A fine name。〃
Only then did Christian notice the small silver crucifix that hung on a chain around Wallace's neck； glinting in the dim light of the bar。 〃I'm afraid I'm not；〃 Christian told him。
〃I beg your pardon？〃
〃I don't belong to a church。 I'm not religious。〃 It is possible to live too long for such forts； Christian thought。
〃Ah；〃 said Wallace knowingly。 Christian expected him to reach into his pocket for a tract。 Over the years； Christian had been given hundreds of them and had found hundreds more left on the tables； or under them。 Everything from the smudgily printed； misspelled credo of a snake…handling cult from the Louisiana swamps to a lurid pamphlet called Rock Music Is Worse than LSD！ Christian was curious as to what drew people to these religions； their obsession with their own mortality intrigued him； and he read all the tracts。
But Wallace didn't offer him a tract。 Instead； he changed the subject abruptly； asking； 〃Have you had this place long？〃
Christian felt a touch of shame。 He had misjudged the old man。 From the looks of him； Wallace needed all the faith he could muster。 The pain seemed to pour from him。 He must be lonely； just trying to make conversation； and talk was part of a bartender's job。
〃Twenty years；〃 Christian told him。
〃You must have been a very young man when you opened it。〃
〃I am older than I look；〃 said Christian； smiling slightly。 His face had not changed； had grown no older； had lost none of its narrow cold beauty since the last night of Mardi Gras fifteen years ago； the night he had slept in the arms of Molochai； his belly heavy and warm with Molochai's blood。 Christian had not aged for a very long time。
〃So I gather；〃 said Wallace dryly。
Christian paused； looking into Wallace's face。 Wallace's expression was no different than before； the eyes were the same； the hurt； frowning eyes； the lines bracketing the mouth as weary and patient as before。 Christian dismissed the remark as meaningless…the man only wanted someone to talk to。 He was lonely。 Religious people always seemed lonely； perhaps that explained their need to be among great crowds of people who believed as they did。 Such a great fort； to be among others of your kind； and such loneliness when there were none。 How could humans ever believe themselves truly lonely when there were so many of them？
〃Another drink？〃 Christian asked。
Wallace tossed back a second shot of Chivas； then surprised Christian by asking。 〃Is business always this slow？〃 Then； realizing what he had said； he tried to apologize。 〃I didn't mean to be rude…I was only curious。 It's a nice place； a good location； the French Quarter…〃
The man was babbling； and Christian realized that for some reason Wallace Creech was terrified。 The empty glass in his hand rattled against the bar； the ice made cold little chinking sounds。 The man seemed on the point of belting。
Christian dumped the melting ice cubes； scooped in fresh ones； poured another shot。 This one was a double； but he watched Wallace put it away with the same practiced motion； not even grimacing。 Here was a seasoned drinker。
〃Why are you here； Wallace Creech？〃 Christian asked softly。 〃What do you want？〃
Wallace's hand went to the cross at his throat。 Then； as if trying to conceal the gesture； he ran a finger around the inside of his collar； loosening it； though the top button was already undone。 'There was a gir