Blackwater Val
Tommy searched for a joke there, but thought better of it.
“I’m getting the feeling we’re being watched,” said Richard uneasily.
“Oh, we are. You can bet your ass.”
Amid the leaning ramshackle homes stood one that looked different, with dried cornstalks and grapevine wreaths, and twisted grapevine symbols adorning its clapboards, not much more than a shack itself really, but with flagstones and an immaculate yard in front and no junk or torn trash bags anywhere to be seen. Tommy gestured. “That’s where we’re going. Furnace Street.” Before Rich could question, he went on: “She needs cleanliness to do what she does. No clutter. No filth.”
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