Free Compulsion by Martina Boone Page A

was practically kidnapped by the Watsons. Psycho much? Why didn’t you get us out of there sooner?”
    “You were doing fine on your own. Anyway, you might as well get used to being grilled like a steak. There are plenty more where Emma Jean came from.”
    “Psychos?”
    “Colesworths. And busybodies. Town’s full of both.”
    Eight’s thumb tapped the steering wheel in time to the music while he followed the road around the Devil’s Oak. Barrie watched the families: camera-happy fathers, frazzled mothers, sullen teenagers, elementary schoolers with chocolate ice-cream lips. She and Eight hadn’t gotten the photograph for Mark, but she didn’t care. She’d had enough of questions she couldn’t answer.
    They turned on a side street, then doubled back toward the perimeter road. A cute girl in shorts emerged from a QuickMart carrying two green mesh shopping bags as Eightslowed to turn the corner. Spotting the car, the girl waved and called: “Hey, Eight! Is that her? Y’all come on over here!”
    Barrie prayed Eight wouldn’t stop.
    He slowed until the car was barely moving. “Hey, Jeannie. It sure is, but we’ll have to catch up with you later.”
    How was it possible to feel claustrophobic in an open car?
    Barrie gave the girl a wave and concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths. Of course people would talk about her. She was the new girl. Mark had predicted this was how it would be. But it was early June, and in a few weeks she would be old news. By the time Labor Day rolled around and school began, the curiosity would have died. Until then she was trapped in hell and descending deeper.
    They turned back onto the main road, and Barrie had to laugh. There in front of them, incongruous among the weathered clapboard storefronts, stood a black building with flames painted up the facade, perfectly mimicking her thoughts. A battered sign above the door read: THE RESURRECTION TAVERN: RIBS SO GOOD, YOU’LL THINK YOU’VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN.
    “Looks more like the devil’s playground,” Barrie muttered.
    “What?” Eight glanced over.
    “Nothing. I’m sensing a religious theme in town.”
    Eight grinned in a way that would have made Mark comment about the devil and temptation. “Besides it being hell tolive in, you mean? There’s a story for everything on Watson Island.”
    “And the story is?” Barrie found herself smiling back at him.
    “The devil used to take a nap under the oak every day, until a thief came along and stole his favorite pair of shoes. Old Satan had to borrow the hooves from a goat to get home, but every summer, when it’s as hot here as it is in hell, he comes back to dig for them—which accounts for the holes people find on the beach around here.”
    “Holes? Like someone’s digging? But why?”
    “Treasure hunting, for one thing—”
    “Because Thomas was a pirate?” Barrie eyed him warily.
    “A privateer.” Eight gave her a slow, easy smile. “Our ancestors were respectable pirates, thank you.”
    “ Our ancestors?”
    “Thomas Watson and Robert Beaufort. Well, John Colesworth, too, but no one would call him respectable.”
    “That’s kind of hypocritical, don’t you think? Doesn’t seem like we have any right to judge who’s respectable.”
    “How well did you like Emma Jean?”
    Barrie flushed and knew exactly how Pru must have felt in the kitchen with Seven the night before. Beauforts were infuriating. “Did you take me to the Devil’s Oak knowing I was going to meet Emma Jean? Is that it?” She pokedEight in the arm. “You thought I would reconsider meeting Cassie.”
    “Hold on.” Eight threw her an incredulous glance. “I had no idea Emma Jean would be there. It’s not just a question of respectability. Our ancestors may have been privateers, but Beauforts and Watsons have always been law-abiding citizens. The Colesworths sold guns to the Indians, ran slaves through the Middle Passage, and tried privateering again in the Civil War. They smuggled