Free Deep South by Nevada Barr Page B

they were almost white, lending dark blue eyes an appearance of wisdom and acuity.
    Judgment passed, Anna opened the door before he had a chance to knock.
    He looked startled, then, to her surprise, embarrassed. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, not looking at her but at his boots.
    "I'm Sheriff Davidson. I'm looking for Phil Otis. He in?" Sheriff Davidson had a nice voice. Enough drawl to soothe but not so much as to be annoying. "Did he used to live here?" Anna asked.
    "Yes, ma'am. He was the ranger down here."
    "He's been replaced," Anna said. "Now it's me."
    "Well then, it's you I need to talk to, so I guess I've come to the right place." Anna invited him in, offering a glass of bottled water because it was all she had, but he declined. "Much as I'd like to, I can't stay," he said. "We got a report from the Clinton police this morning of a missing girl. In cases like this-local kid, good reputation, probably not a runaway-we don't wait to look into it.
    Somebody said a bunch of the kids came down to the old graveyard here after a dance they had. I was just wondering if you could shed any light on the subject."
    "She's home safe and sound by now." Anna told him an abridged version of the night's debauch.
    A smile creased his face, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. Anna found herself smiling back, checking his left band for a wedding band. There was none. The response was pure reflex, Anna guessed, brought on by Molly's impending nuptials. It bad been so long since Anna'd had a serious relationship she feared she'd be like a dog chasing cars: she wouldn't know what to do if she caught one.
    "Now, that's good news. I figured I was going to spend the day on a wild-goose chase. May I use your phone, let the Clinton PD know Danielle's been located?" He was across the room and punching in numbers before the last bit of information sank in. "Hold it," Anna said abruptly. "Hang up. My little drunk's name was Heather."
    "Drat," the sheriff said. He gave Anna a description of the missing Danielle. She was struck by the overwhelming likeness of the young.
    But for hair color, the child described could have been Heather, right down to the skimpy black dress. At sixteen, life has yet to leave many identifying marks stamped into the flesh.
    Anna returned to hanging her pictures, but the sheriff's visit left her mind unsettled and she couldn't figure out why Missing teenagers were a dime a dozen. A majority of them found their way home, maybe morally compromised, but physically in one piece.
    Having put down her hammer and nail, she perched on the edge of her grandmother's unwelcoming Victorian settee and let her mind clear, so that she might see this thing lying under her thoughts like a cocklebur under a saddle blanket. Taco came over and began ilicking her ankles to assist the process. Despite the distraction, Anna found what was bothering her. Sheriff Davidson said the missing high school girl's name was Danielle Posey. When Anna first found Heather retching into the graveyard weeds she had mumbled, among other things, "Running. Danny running.- Danny-or Danni-could be short for Danielle. Running from what?
    Just because the tuxedo-clad clowns bad not assaulted Heather did not make them nice boys. Nice boys didn't abandon girls in graveyards, drunk or sober.
    "Come on, Taco," Anna said. "It's time for a walk." In the light of day, the old church and graveyard took on a different aspect. Anna could tell this would turn into one of her favorite haunts. A sense of history, undisturbed by the machinations of the modern world, hung over the place as palpably as the veils of Spanish moss hung over the old stones. Decay had set in above ground as well as below.
    Stones were broken, sinking, moss-covered, but even amid this slow reversion to the earth, an ongoing spark of the human heart showed in the bright flowers, mostly plastic but carefully arranged, that adorned the markers. People dead more than a hundred years and yet