who the evacuees were or precisely where she had found them, but before the sketchy cell connection had been lost she had asked him to find host families for children who had been victims of human trafficking.
The shock of this revelation was considerable; Poppy’s disappearance was even worse. Deutschman had done as much checking as he could—not much, in the chaos after Katrina and Rita—before Poppy’s friends had come home with tales of teenaged girls and boys who’d been kept in a New Orleans brothel. Poppy had taken four of them with her; the others had been turned over to the care of local church groups.
Southern Baptists had been on the wrong side of the slavery issue. Deutschman decided neither he nor his flock—nor anybody he could buttonhole long enough to explain things to—would be indifferent to this resurgence of trade in human beings. Allied with most of the other Baptist denominations in PoCo, Calvary had organized a fundraising and awareness campaign.
“It would work,” Evan said slowly, “except for two things. It’s not just Baptist churches that burned, and the charity didn’t get organized until late last October.”
Louvena nodded. “Old Believers burned on the ninth of September.”
“Timing,” he muttered.
“Like I told you, we got four Baptist churches, St. Andrew’s Episcopal, and the Lutheran, all magic. Except for the Methodists.”
“Could be cover,” he mused. “A smoke screen—”
“That’s three puns, and that’s two too many,” she told him severely.
“Camouflage,” he corrected himself, bowing an apology.
“I said it wasn’t much,” Louvena reminded him. “Just somethin’ to ponder.”
“I will. Thanks. Now, let’s go inside and find you that champagne.”
“I hope it’s Californian, and not that prissy French stuff,” she remarked as they headed back toward the front door. “Nothin’ good ever came out of France except the books of Mr. Balzac. And maybe a couple of those haystack pictures.”
“Most people prefer the water lilies.”
“Huh. Very pretty, but what use are they? Haystacks, now—that’s the practical beauty of the gifts of the land brought forth by people’s hard labor. The water lily didn’t do nothin’ but grow. You look at those paintings, they’re all soft colors and make you feel nice and restful—but they don’t make you think because there’s nothing there to be thought about.”
“Except maybe weeding the pond?”
He sidestepped her slap at his ass, laughing. But mention of Monet coupled with a glimpse of white-blond hair nearby reminded him of the night of the Lutheran fire.
THE SECOND WEEK IN DECEMBER, the Ayalas had invited the Lachlans over for coffee and dessert. Erika’s note mentioned that she was trying out new recipes for pie and needed opinions on which to take to her mother’s in Atlanta for Christmas, her three boys having all the usual culinary discernment of teenagers—which was to say none at all. They simply inhaled whatever was put in front of them, and occasionally remembered to say thanks.
The house was just outside the county line, and quite a drive from Woodhush. Erika turned out to be a fragile blonde a little younger than her husband, with big hair and too much mascara. Evan hid a grin, knowing that around tiny women Holly always felt like a complete galumph, terrified of stumbling over thin air and breaking treasured family antiques. Sure enough, her body language changed completely as she sidled into the house, her usual caution with long limbs and big feet turning perfectly pathological. Erika’s sons by her first husband—Troy, Titus, and Tristan—showed up just long enough to be introduced, then vanished upstairs to their video games in the third-floor attic that Gib had turned into a family room. Much of the first floor had been gutted to make a single barnlike great room with formal dining at one end, kitchen in the middle, and living room that doglegged the
The shock of this revelation was considerable; Poppy’s disappearance was even worse. Deutschman had done as much checking as he could—not much, in the chaos after Katrina and Rita—before Poppy’s friends had come home with tales of teenaged girls and boys who’d been kept in a New Orleans brothel. Poppy had taken four of them with her; the others had been turned over to the care of local church groups.
Southern Baptists had been on the wrong side of the slavery issue. Deutschman decided neither he nor his flock—nor anybody he could buttonhole long enough to explain things to—would be indifferent to this resurgence of trade in human beings. Allied with most of the other Baptist denominations in PoCo, Calvary had organized a fundraising and awareness campaign.
“It would work,” Evan said slowly, “except for two things. It’s not just Baptist churches that burned, and the charity didn’t get organized until late last October.”
Louvena nodded. “Old Believers burned on the ninth of September.”
“Timing,” he muttered.
“Like I told you, we got four Baptist churches, St. Andrew’s Episcopal, and the Lutheran, all magic. Except for the Methodists.”
“Could be cover,” he mused. “A smoke screen—”
“That’s three puns, and that’s two too many,” she told him severely.
“Camouflage,” he corrected himself, bowing an apology.
“I said it wasn’t much,” Louvena reminded him. “Just somethin’ to ponder.”
“I will. Thanks. Now, let’s go inside and find you that champagne.”
“I hope it’s Californian, and not that prissy French stuff,” she remarked as they headed back toward the front door. “Nothin’ good ever came out of France except the books of Mr. Balzac. And maybe a couple of those haystack pictures.”
“Most people prefer the water lilies.”
“Huh. Very pretty, but what use are they? Haystacks, now—that’s the practical beauty of the gifts of the land brought forth by people’s hard labor. The water lily didn’t do nothin’ but grow. You look at those paintings, they’re all soft colors and make you feel nice and restful—but they don’t make you think because there’s nothing there to be thought about.”
“Except maybe weeding the pond?”
He sidestepped her slap at his ass, laughing. But mention of Monet coupled with a glimpse of white-blond hair nearby reminded him of the night of the Lutheran fire.
THE SECOND WEEK IN DECEMBER, the Ayalas had invited the Lachlans over for coffee and dessert. Erika’s note mentioned that she was trying out new recipes for pie and needed opinions on which to take to her mother’s in Atlanta for Christmas, her three boys having all the usual culinary discernment of teenagers—which was to say none at all. They simply inhaled whatever was put in front of them, and occasionally remembered to say thanks.
The house was just outside the county line, and quite a drive from Woodhush. Erika turned out to be a fragile blonde a little younger than her husband, with big hair and too much mascara. Evan hid a grin, knowing that around tiny women Holly always felt like a complete galumph, terrified of stumbling over thin air and breaking treasured family antiques. Sure enough, her body language changed completely as she sidled into the house, her usual caution with long limbs and big feet turning perfectly pathological. Erika’s sons by her first husband—Troy, Titus, and Tristan—showed up just long enough to be introduced, then vanished upstairs to their video games in the third-floor attic that Gib had turned into a family room. Much of the first floor had been gutted to make a single barnlike great room with formal dining at one end, kitchen in the middle, and living room that doglegged the
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