Jenny Plague-Bringer(44)

“I told you that,” the detective replied. “You should listen to his offer.”

“What will he offer us?” Juliana asked.

“I wouldn’t know.”

A gray-haired black man in a dark suit and high, starched collar opened the gate for them, and the detective drove up the brick driveway to park in the circular turnaround, centered on a flower garden and a water fountain. The driveway was flanked by ornamental gardens full of more blossoming, cheerfully bright flowers. Towards the sides of the house, the flower beds turned into kitchen and herb gardens.

The man who’d opened the gate glanced at Sebastian and Juliana, then nodded at the detective.

“He’s expecting us,” the detective said.

“Yes, he is. This way.” The man led them up the front steps and opened the heavy front door. They entered a two-story entrance hall dominated by a massive granite fireplace that lay cold and dark. The room was paneled in dark oak, and heavy draperies blocked the large windows. A wide Persian rug occupied the parquet floor, and a grand staircase circled up along the wall to the second story. A few candles burned in the glittering crystal chandelier overhead, but the room was left in darkness and shadows. Juliana felt as though she’d stepped into a massive, finely appointed tomb.

They followed the man deeper into the house as the front hall narrowed and darkened. The place didn’t smell like a tomb, at least—it smelled like baking bread, green vegetables, and spices. Juliana’s mouth watered. In these difficult times, she was lucky to eat one meal a day.

The servant led them straight through to the enormous back porch, shaded by the equally large veranda above it. A fine dining table had been set out, with a dozen hand-carved wooden chairs facing a dozen place settings with spotless white china and silver.

The long dining table was empty except for a man who sat at the head. He wore a black suit with a white silk shirt, tailored perfectly to his lean, fit body. He was immaculately groomed, like a king, every hair in place, his fingernails spotless, his golden cufflinks glittering. Two very dark-skinned young women in skimpy dresses waved large paper fans, which cooled him from the South Carolina heat and blew away the countless tiny insects that swarmed in the air.

Juliana had a strong visceral reaction when his dark, deep eyes looked at her. It wasn’t clearly a good or bad feeling—it was delicious and guilty at the same time, like the times when she’d let Sebastian reach his hand under her dress.

“This is Jonathan Barrett,” the detective told them. “Mr. Barrett, those kids I’ve been looking for. Sebastian, Juliana. Those are their stage names, anyhow.”

“You’ve brought my guests. Good work,” Jonathan Barrett said, rising from his chair. He looked over Juliana and Sebastian, then gestured to chairs on his left side. “Just in time for dinner, too. Please sit, both of you. Are you hungry?”

Juliana nodded. The answer to that was always “yes.”

“They’ll serve you in the dining room, if you’d like anything,” Barrett told the detective, who tipped his hat and returned inside. Barrett looked them over again, slowly, as if absorbing them into the darkness in his eyes. “Did you have a good journey?”

Sebastian and Juliana looked at each other, neither wanting to speak first.

“It was good,” Sebastian finally said. “I’ve never ridden in such a fast automobile.”

“Excellent.” As Barrett spoke, two large, much older black women brought out food in such copious amounts that Juliana could have drooled all over the table. A basket of puffy rolls the size of her fist, a cake of cornbread, a pot of boiled greens with peppers, slabs of ham preserved in salt. They filled wineglasses with a strange orange-colored drink. Barrett raised a glass of it. “I should warn you, this punch is made with real Caribbean rum, nearly impossible to find with the absurd dry laws. We add the juice of watermelons and peaches grown right here.” He nodded out to the sprawling land beyond the back porch.

The back yard sloped down to a peach orchard with small irrigation canals, where workers were picking the last fruits of the season. Beyond that, a hill rose up behind the house, where some kind of construction was underway. Juliana squinted her eyes, trying to see better. It looked like they were erecting a brick wall around several rows of tall, thick granite columns. She couldn’t fathom what they were building. It clearly wasn’t a barn or a smokehouse; the materials were far too heavy and expensive. A church, maybe.

“My family necropolis,” Barrett said, with a sharp smile. Juliana found the smile unsettling and strangely appealing. The man radiated an aura of power, as if his presence charged the air around him with electricity.