It surprised him, though, when Magdalena showed up in person just as he stood up from the computer. She was not alone. Sheriff Arthur Smith was with her, and he wasn’t in uniform.
Manfred liked Arthur, who not only seemed more flexible than most lawmen but also seemed like a decent person. Manfred also knew that Arthur had been married three times already, since Arthur had told him that. In fact, the third divorce was only a month past. Magdalena had been married, too, at least once. Manfred was not optimistic that their couplehood would endure.
However, Manfred told himself sternly, it was none of his business, and Arthur and Magdalena were certainly old enough to chart their own course.
“How you been doing?” Arthur asked, and Magdalena said, “You sure made my mom’s week.”
For a good five minutes, they talked about the ring discovery. Manfred could have predicted every word of the dialogue, just like a bad movie. Normally he would have been at least moderately glad to see the two, but tonight he had other fish to fry. And urgently. It was almost dark. And lately, dark had meant a higher chance of a suicide at the crossroads.
Manfred glanced at the window, trying to conceal his impatience. He’d been carrying Xylda’s warning around with him all day, and it was a heavy burden. He needed to spread the word. If he hadn’t been so eager to get back to normal after his road trip . . .
“Okay, how the hell did you know about the ring?” Magdalena demanded, not for the first time. Manfred sighed, but he’d known she’d demand a “rational” explanation for one of the cleanest and clearest readings he’d gotten in his life. “I don’t know how you could have done that! Mama’s been looking for that ring for years.”
“I guess she hasn’t sewed on a button in that long,” Manfred said. “Your aunt showed up and told her that was where the ring was, in the button box. Believe me, I was just as surprised as your mom. She’s a wonderful lady, by the way.”
Magdalena’s face softened. “Yes, she is,” she said. “My dad died young, and she did a good job raising us.”
“That neighbor of hers,” Manfred said awkwardly. “Linda.”
“What about her?”
“She’s pretty sick.” This was something he didn’t want to talk about, but he felt he had to warn Magdalena. Agnes Orta was going to take Linda’s death hard.
“She’s young,” Magdalena said, smiling, but without conviction. She knew there was a reason he’d brought up Linda’s health.
Manfred just shook his head. Her smile vanished. After a tense moment, she nodded, just a jerk of her head.
Arthur broke the silence by asking Manfred how things had been going in Midnight. “Any more suicides?” he asked, trying to lighten up the conversation. He couldn’t have imagined that just made it worse.
“That would be pretty stunning, wouldn’t it?” Manfred said.
Arthur laughed. “Even in Midnight, that seems pretty unlikely,” he said.
Manfred offered them a drink, pretty sure Magdalena and Arthur would turn it down and see the offer as a signal to depart. Sure enough, Magdalena thanked Manfred but turned down the drink. Soon after, she and Arthur rose to take their leave. They were going to stop by the Cartoon Saloon for a sandwich and a beer, and then catch a movie in Marthasville.
When their taillights were out of sight, Manfred walked over to the pawnshop. As he’d expected, Lemuel was behind the counter. The old book was open in front of him and a spiral-bound notebook was beside it. Lemuel was busy writing when Manfred came in, but he put down his pen to regard Manfred. “What brings you out this night, neighbor?” Lemuel asked in his rusty voice.
“I got a warning today,” Manfred said. “A true warning.”
Lemuel’s cold gaze intensified, which made Manfred shiver. It felt odd and unpleasant to be the object of Lemuel’s interest.
“Tell me about it.”
As concisely as possible, Manfred related his grandmother’s warning. “She said it was waking up,” he said.
Lemuel said, “I think we are very close to catastrophe.”
“Do you know what lies underneath the crossroad?” Manfred asked.
“I suspect I do.” Lemuel laid his hand on the book.
Manfred wanted to tell Lemuel to hurry up, but a strong sense of self-preservation stopped him.
“Since I have to finish the translation, it’s slow work.” Lemuel’s tone made it clear this was not an apology, but an explanation. “I dare not skip anything. It’s too important. A crossroad is a place where hunting trails cross, a place where criminals are executed, or a place where shrines are set up. This crossroad may be all three, but I have to be sure what we’re dealing with.”