Niceville

him once.”
    She frowned and made a dismissive gesture.
    “Not the point. That happens to everyone, even in a disorderly mêlée such as yours. Even in a formal duel, attended by seconds, it happens. John Gwinnett Mercer, my grandfather, exchanged seven pistol balls with London Teague in an encounter having to do with the untimely passing of London’s third wife, Anora Mercer. Anora was John’s godchild, and held in high regard by all who knew her, so I am told. I do not like to retail private family matters, but it is true that the Teague family and our line, the Mercers and the Ruelles, have had a very long-standing enmity, going back many generations, all the way back to Ireland. The Teagues conspired with Major Sirr during the Irish rising in 1798. This has never been forgotten, although the Teagues have given many new offenses since then.”
    Here she broke off again, and studied Merle’s face in silence for a time, as if trying to come to a decision about him.
    “Well, about that fight, London and my grandfather came to their stand at Johnny Mullryne’s plantation in Savannah, pistols being the weapons, since London, being challenged, had the selection. The New Irish Code requires that, once leveled, the pistols must be discharged within three seconds, aiming longer than that being considered unworthy of a gentleman. You must also remember that these old smoothbore pistols were not accurate weapons, which in a way explains the way the fight went.”
    She stopped here, took a sip of her cider, shaking her head, as if grimly amused. Merle, caught up in the story, sat motionless.
    She went on.
    “Seven rounds were exchanged this way, at twenty yards, a very drawn-out affair for a pistol duel, since after each exchange of fire the seconds are required to step in and urge the gentlemen to concede that honor has been served …”
    She paused here, smiled at him, went on.
    “But oh no. Not them. Not
those
two. So on and on it went.”
    She stopped again here, and went away somewhere, and Merle had the absurd feeling that she was remembering a fight she had seen herself. In a moment, she came back.
    “Well, both men lived, although John was scored by a ball along his cheek that blinded his eye and he got another in his thigh and London received a ball in the left hip—his leg withered all that winter and he never walked again. By the Irish rules, honor had been fully satisfied with such serious wounds, and the seconds should have ended the matter right there.”
    She sighed, ran a hand through her shiny black hair, and sat back, giving him a long look over the rim of her cider glass, a cool sea green appraisal.
    “Well, I can go on, can’t I? I do apologize. On the subject of the Teague family, I am afraid I can be a bit of a bore. As I said, there is a long and bitter history between our families, as this old story shows. It came down through the decades, and it lives on with us today, all these years later, while the modern world spins all around us like a top, and we Ruelles stand unmoving, a fixed point, stuck in the past. So. Enough of this. My point is, Mr. Zane, you stood your ground.”
    Merle, stung by her compliment, feeling unworthy of it, had a sudden urge to come clean with her.
    “You have a radio on, Glynis. I can hear it. You
must
have heard what happened in Gracie yesterday. You have a phone too, I think.”
    “Yes. I have one. I don’t like the telephone very much. The bell is disconnected. If I want to call out, I do. I don’t like the idea that somebody can ring a bell in my home anytime they like and expect me to come running and answer it. I do get the news from the radio, but it’s all about the wars and buildings falling down and hurricanes in theGulf and how the economy is going bust again and what some celebrity whore is doing for the holidays. You do have the air of a man on the run, Mr. Zane. Did you kill someone for money?”
    He was going to give her a complicated reply, but something about her made that seem a low and greasy thing to do, so he just said, “Yes, I did.”
    “I see. Who’d you kill?”
    “Police officers.”
    Her face hardened.
    “Federal men?”
    “No. State policemen.”
    “Over the money?”
    “Yes.”
    “A bank?”
    “Yes.”
    “The one in Sallytown?”
    “No. The First Third in Gracie.”
    “I don’t know that bank. Is it national?”
    “Yes. I think so.”
    “So it’s a federal matter. Where’s the money now?”
    “The man who