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the motel,” Manfred said. “She insisted on coming with me. We drove in last night. I think we got the last motel room left in Doraville, and maybe the last one in a fifteen-mile radius. One reporter checked out because he got a more comfortable room at a bed and breakfast, and Grandmother had told me to drive to that motel fast and go into the office in a hurry. Every now and then, she comes through in a helpful way.” His face grew somber. “She doesn’t have long.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but that was a stupid question. Did it really make a difference? I knew death quite well, and I’d seen it stamped on Xylda’s face.
    â€œShe doesn’t want to be in a hospital,” Manfred said. “She doesn’t want to spend the money, and she hates the ambience.”
    I nodded. I could understand that. I wasn’t happy about being in one, myself, and I had every prospect of walking out of this one in one piece.
    â€œShe’s napping now,” Manfred said. “So I thought I’d drive over to check out how you were doing, and I found the Dynamic Duo asking you questions. I thought they’d listen to me if I said I was your boyfriend. Gives me a little more authority.”
    I decided to let that issue ride for the moment. “What are you-all doing here in the first place?”
    â€œGrandmother said you needed us.” Manfred shrugged, but he believed in her, all right.
    â€œWouldn’t she be more comfortable at home?” It made me feel very guilty to think about the aging and ill Xylda Bernardo dragging herself and her grandson to this little town in the mountains because she thought I needed her.
    â€œYes, but then she’d be thinking about dying. She said to come—we came.”
    â€œAnd you knew where we were?”
    â€œI wish I could say Grandmother had seen it in a vision, but there’s a website that tracks you.”
    â€œWhat?” I probably looked as dumbfounded as I felt.
    â€œYou’ve got a website devoted to you and your doings. People email in to report sightings of you.”
    I didn’t feel any smarter. “Why?”
    â€œYou’re one of those people who attracts a following,” Manfred said. “They want to know where you are and what you’ve found.”
    â€œThat’s just weird.” I simply didn’t get it.
    He shrugged. “What we do is weird, too.”
    â€œSo it’s on the Internet? That I’m in Doraville, North Carolina?” I wondered if Tolliver knew about my fan following, too. I wondered why he hadn’t told me.
    Manfred nodded. “There are a couple of pictures of you taken here in Doraville, probably with a cell phone,” he said, and I was floored all over again.
    â€œI can hardly believe that,” I said, and shook my head. Ouch.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” Manfred asked. “What happened here?”
    â€œIf I’m talking to you and not a website,” I said, and the look on his face made me instantly contrite. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just freaked out about the idea that people are following my whereabouts and watching me, and I didn’t have a clue about it. I don’t think you’d ever do that.”
    â€œTell me how you came to get hurt,” he said, accepting my apology. Manfred settled into the chair by my bed, the one Tolliver had been snoozing in.
    I told Manfred about the graves, about Twyla Cotton and the sheriff, about the dead boys in the cold soil.
    â€œSomeone here’s been vanishing guys for years, and no one noticed?” Manfred said. “This is like an Appalachian Gacy, huh?”
    â€œI know it’s hard to believe. But when the sheriff explained why there hadn’t been a public outcry about the disappearances, it seemed almost reasonable. The boys were all at that runaway age.” There was a