43
If, as Deacon said, Vanda was in me that night, she was in each of us, most of all in Noel. The woman pointing his gun at Deacon was her mother’s daughter, a figure of impervious calm. Deacon was still crouching, like a man facing an attack dog, trying not to make any sudden moves. He spoke in the same soothing voice.
“Easy there, honey. That thing’s loaded, and you might hurt somebody.”
“Don’t worry. I know how to use it.”
“We were just messing around, and maybe I got a little carried away, but it’s nothing to get excited about?”
“Really? You must be Deacon.”
I wondered how long his legs could support him in his crouch, but he didn’t move, except his head. He looked Noel over, top to bottom. His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
“It’s been a long time, but I hoped you’d recognize
