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The girl regarded him with her bottomless gaze。 There was something wrong with the symmetry of her face。 Her eyes were unevenly spaced； her forehead too low； the line of her brow crooked。 Christian realized he was looking into the face of profound retardation。 This was one of the few gazes that could meet his own： it did not fear； because it did not know。
He thought briefly of taking her into the car。 The smell of roadkill； dry and fetid as it was； made him edgy with hunger。 The nourishment from the boy at the river's edge was fading out of him。 But he disliked the sight of her crooked mouth and the various knobs of her body。 Christian had often gone hungry because of his weakness for beauties。
Wanting to leave the little girl behind； he touched the toe of his boot to the gas pedal。 But in the rearview mirror he saw her empty eyes staring after him。 The mangled rat swung from her hand。
The town was a few miles down the read。 In parison to the trailers and scrubby dirt yards of Violin Road； the buildings here looked square and sturdy。 The shops on the main street were colorful in the lethargic heat of the day。 A boarded…up storefront cast a baleful blind eye every few blocks； but such things did not bother Christian。 He was looking for dark windows； for neon beer signs lit deep within shadowy interiors。 There must be a bar。 Somewhere in this town must be a place where the townspeople could drink； fight； pass all the long hot nights； spend their paydays away。 Any redneck bar would do。
Christian was beginning to wonder whether he might not be in one of the dreaded dry counties of the South when a blue beer light caught his eye at last。 The door of the place was a thick slab of pine carved with twisted letters： THE SACRED YEW。 He eased the Bel Air over to the curb。 There was always work for a good bartender。
Kinsey Hummingbird was an excellent bartender。
He was also the confidant of troubled youth from Missing Mile and surrounding counties。 Bad kids； depressed and terrified kids； kids who found themselves adrift in the Bible Belt…all came to Kinsey as if he were some sort of benevolent Pied Piper。 Before he opened the Sacred Yew； he had been a mechanic at the garage where his father had worked before him。 It was not unusual to see Kinsey's long thin legs sticking out from under a car while some forlorn teenager sat nearby talking to Kinsey's sneakers。 The metalheads； the hippies born decades too late； the sad ones swathed in black…all came。 Kinsey Hummingbird was their guru； Kinsey Hummingbird was their oracle。
When his mother died in the terrible fire out at the mill； Kinsey received a substantial settlement and was able to open the Sacred Yew； or as the kids referred to it； 〃the Yew。〃 Sometimes he looked at his club and felt a twinge of guilt that his mother's gruesome death had paid for it…she had fallen from a blazing catwalk and been impaled screaming on a row of spindles…but the truth was that Mrs。 Hummingbird had always disliked her only son and had never troubled to hide it。 Kinsey spent most of his own childhood trying to figure out what he had done to make her feel so mean。 The Bible she spent all her free time reading said to love your neighbor。 Seemed like it would say something about loving your own son too。
Kinsey was a whittled beanpole of a man； well over six feet with that apologetic stoop so many tall thin men have。 He always wore a cap with a feather in it pushed back over his stringy hair。 The club was his private dream。 Frequently he stared around at it in awe； expecting it to disappear before his eyes； hardly able to believe he had made it happen。 The insurance money had paid for it； but he had built the stage； he had begun booking the bands； he had concocted the little menu of finger sandwiches and homemade soups so that the club would qualify as a 〃restaurant〃 and kids under eighteen would be able to e in without getting carded； though they had to show their IDs to buy beer。
The Sacred Yew was a place for Kinsey's children。 After the first precarious year he made money； but that was not why he did it。 He wanted the kids to have someplace to go。 He wanted them to have someplace where they could be happy for a while。
But sometimes it was a backbreaking job。 Long ago he had learned that to make it go smoothly； he had to attend to every detail himself the booking； the ordering； even the decor。 When there was no one else to do it； he also had to make the soup and sandwiches and tote all the kegs and cases of beer。 A week ago he had fired his latest assistant bartender for serving beer to a fourteen…year…old； trying to put the make on her。 The boy was astonished when mild…mannered Kinsey Hummingbird blessed him out； came within an inch of slugging him； then gave him his walking papers。 But the Yew could lose its license for a thing like that。 Nobody fucked with Kinsey where the Sacred Yew was concerned。
So he had been tending bar solo for a week。 Steve and Ghost from Lost Souls？ helped him out sometimes…Ghost； whose grandmother had left him her house and all the money he would ever require to live on； would do it gratis。 But just now they were busy practicing a bunch of new songs。 They played at the club once a week or more； and they were his biggest draw。 People came from as far away as Raleigh and Chapel Hill to see them。 They were getting good； and he wanted them to practice。
But Kinsey was tired。 So when the guy walked in and said he'd tended bar in New Orleans for twenty years； Kinsey hired him on the spot。 He wasn't fazed by the funereal clothes and the cold pale face； or by the fact that the guy was even taller than him and maybe skinnier。 When you ran a club； you met plenty of weirdos。 This particular weirdo struck him as a good bartender。
〃Christian； hm？ Were your folks Holy Rollers？〃 That could drive anybody to a life of bartending。
The guy shook his head。 〃It's a family name。〃
〃Whatever；〃 said Kinsey amiably。
That same night； Christian fell back into the routine of popping bottle tops； tapping kegs and drawing foamy draft beer into plastic cups； replying to small talk without really hearing it。 The bar seemed primitive： Kinsey served no liquor or even wine； only beer； and not many varieties of that。 Without shots to set up； without Sazeracs and Hurricanes to mix； Christian felt he was hardly working。
Gradually and gratefully he came to realize that this was no redneck bar。 He saw children in black； which he had not expected in a small southern town； and he watched them and began to know their faces。 But he would wait。 Some of these children might be drifters or flotsam from the state university in Raleigh； but he could not afford to be greedy too soon。 He had waited before。 Soon someone would e to town； alone and a stranger； someone he could take safely。
His wages from the bar would not be quite enough to pay for the trailer he rented…it was on Violin Road； but it was cheap…and the gasoline to drive to work each night。 On his way north he had seen wooden stands by the side of the road。 They sold flowers； fruit； trinkets。 Behind his trailer was a scrap heap and a great thicket of roses rioting wild。 Ch