Bad Blood

think it was the first time she’d ever been out of New York City. I wanted to apologize for not making artisanal goat cheese in my spare time.”
    Virgil said, “Mmm, artisanal goat cheese.”
    That made her laugh, and she scratched again, which Virgil thought was pretty erotic. She said, “You know what I like about you, Virgil?”
    “Whazat?”
    “You really listen to me. So many guys don’t really listen to women.”
     
     
    A WEEK HAD GONE BY since the chaos of the shoot-outs, the first arrests, the fires, the sequestering of children from World of Spirit families. The church situation was more complicated than Virgil had known it to be—there were World of Spirit families that did not participate in the church’s sexual activities, and those families usually met for services separate from the branch of the church led by the late Emmett Einstadt. Those families had known of the child abuse, though, and so were not entirely out of the woods.
    The commissioner of Public Safety, Rose Marie Roux, and Virgil’s boss, Lucas Davenport, had come down the next day, and Roux had offered priority service with the BCA labs on any evidence collected during the follow-up. Teams were going through the burned houses, based on the report from Virgil and Schickel on the immolation of Junior Einstadt. Only a few bone fragments were found, and only one, a piece of jawbone, had anything that looked like a bullet hole. The whole question of proving the dead men’s participation in the assault on the Rouse place was up in the air.
    The governor, sounding as though he’d had one too many manhattans, called Virgil late one night and asked, “Is it possible for you to stay out of trouble for one year in a row? I mean, the whole goddamned state’s embarrassed by this. It’s almost like we’re Massachusetts, or something.”
    “Well, hell, Governor, if you can’t spin it better than that—”
    “I can spin it better than that—this proves our system works, that we’re ever-vigilant when it comes to child welfare, et cetera. Hey—are you pimping me?”
    “Maybe,” Virgil said.
    “Huh. Well played, Virgil. Come see me when you get back. I got a new pair of Tres Outlaws cowboy boots you should see.”
     
     
    THE AG’S OFFICE had looked at the investigatory chain that led from the first tip about Karl Rouse taking lots of Polaroids, to Kathleen Spooner’s confirmation of child abuse by the Rouses, through the search warrant, and had given that chain its stamp of approval. A continuing stream of information from Kristy Rouse had included the identification of all the participants in child sex in the photos, and including background watchers of the sexual activities, had eventually led to the arrest or charging of most of the members of the church.
    Twelve families had simply vanished. They were being sought. Twenty-two adult males had also fled, leaving their families behind. Several of the families and individual males were known to have crossed into Canada. Kristy Rouse told AG interviewers that some World of Spirit families had moved to Canada years ago and started a colony there, but she didn’t know exactly where. Alma Flood confirmed it, but also said she didn’t know exactly where, but she thought Alberta.
    Canadian authorities were inquiring after them, but since Alberta was considerably bigger than France, and full of rapidly growing industries with tens of thousands of outsiders, progress could be slow.
    Assets had been frozen. The World of Spirit members had been on the land for a long time, and had generally prospered. Most of their farms covered a square mile or more, often had small or no mortgages, and the land was worth $4,000 an acre. The average net value of more than two million dollars each brought defense attorneys flocking to Homestead, and a general strategy was beginning to emerge: blame the males.
    They were generally toast anyway, the thinking went, and if the wives and children could blame the husbands, they might stay out of prison and hold on to the land, less the cost of their legal defense, of course.
    Virgil ran into Tom Parker, the attorney he’d spoken to his first day in town, and his associate, Laurie, whose last name Virgil never discovered. Parker said, “I’m gonna get you made an honorary member of the Warren County Bar Association. I mean, holy cow, Virgil. If we don’t get run over by all these outsiders, we’ve got ten years’ work for every guy in