Deep South by Nevada Barr Page B

catlike quality of the nocturnal hunter had been part of her makeup since she could remember. Even as an adult she took childlike pleasure in sneaking and creeping, being invisible to her fellow humans. But it was three in the morning and this dark was an inky, stub-a-toe, sprain-an-ankle kind of dark. The worst she had planned for the reverend's midnight marauders was a stiff talking-to and a couple of phone calls if nobody was sober enough to drive home. Hardly the stuff to lose the rest of a night's sleep over.
    Had her prey remained quiet, she might have gone away. But they stirred and the hunting urge returned. From above and a ways awayhow far, Anna couldn't tell, dense vegetation changed the quality of sound-came a tbunk. Two solid objects colliding. Then the word "shit" and "let's get the fuck out of here." Somebody wanted to get away. Instinctively Anna wanted to catch them. Moving into the woods, she trod noiselessly on a thick carpet of wood chips a kindly Park Service laid down for a path.
    Cypress or cedar, they gave off a faint pleasant smell. To her left was a split-rail fence. Touching the top rail, she used it to guide her footsteps into the lightless interior of the forest. A litigation-weary park service could be trusted not to leave anything sharp or dangerous on a marked trail, so she moved quickly The ground beneath her inclined.
    Cobwebs stuck and tickled on her face and arms. Faint sounds echoed her passage in the woods to either side. The skittering of small creatures foraging, the scuttle of a tiny night beast alarmed by her presence.
    Subtly the smell of the forest altered. An earthy odor permeated the air, and, almost imperceptibly, the nature of darkness changed.
    Wide-eyed to catch even the faintest hint of light, Anna stopped and looked up.
    The canopy of trees had opened. She was at the base of a steep bank, maybe fifty feet high. Roots thrust out from its face. Trees clung precariously to its upper edge. Above, black against a sky made light with stars and a silver of moon, was the silhouette of a building with a tall central steeple. The old church.
    Made of soft and crumbling soil, the embankment would be treacherous.
    Anna stayed on the path. With a memory of light to go by, she covered the last angle where the trail doubled back up the hill toward the church, Methodist according to a weathered sign. A road curved nearby along with a tiny paved lot for cars.
    Because of the thick curtain of trees to either side, the Natchez Trace created an illusion of isolation, wilderness. In reality, civilization in the form of roads, houses and fields pressed close on both sides.
    Seen by night, Rocky Springs Church loomed black and monolithic.
    Even so, Anna could tell it was a classic: simple and symmetrical in the way of many early American churches. Tomorrow-to day-after sunup, she promised herself a trip back. Now she used the old building for its shadow. Keeping close to the brick walls, she moved quietly to the back of the church, nearer where she thought the voices bad come from.
    There she leaned against the still-warm brick and watched. Her reasons were twofold: to get an aural or ocular fix on her miscreants and to absorb the surreal scene that had unfolded as she rounded the corner.
    Behind the church, in a clearing beyond a decrepit fence with a wire gate, was an ancient graveyard. Stones lay broken on the ground. Those still standing bad sunk into the earth, swallowed by the graves they marked. Moss, black in the weak light of the moon, erased names, dates, lives. On the far edge of the clearing, pushing into the night of trees, were monuments of marble, towers of once-white stone, ten and twelve feet high.
    Beyond them a walled area, overgrown with vines, was just visible: a family plot, exclusive even in death. In the strange warm embrace of the night, trees close on every side and Spanish moss hanging in dense veils silvered by the faint breath of moonlight, for a heartbeat Anna was