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；　Rosena　McGee；　29；　and　a　son；　Fredric　McGee；　3。　Surviving　is　another　son；　name　and　age　unknown。
　　
　　A　state　trooper　mented　at　the　scene；　〃We　believe　drugs　were　involved　。　。　。　With　these　kinds　of　people；　they　usually　are。〃　Another　trooper　remarked　that　this　was　the　first　multiple　murder　in　Missing　Mile　since　1958；　when　a　man　shot　his　wife　and　his　three　brothers　to　death。
　　
　　Kinsey　Hummingbird　of　Missing　Mile　repaired　the　McGees'　car　a　few　weeks　before　the　murders。　〃I　didn't　see　anything　wrong　with　any　of　them；〃　Hummingbird　said。　〃And　if　I　had；　it　would　be　nobody's　business。　Only　the　McGees　will　ever　know　what　went　on　in　that　house。〃
　　
　　He　added；　〃Robert　McGee　was　a　great　artist。　I　hope　somebody　takes　good　care　of　the　little　boy。〃
　　
　　No　one　would　speculate　on　why　McGee　chose　to　let　his　eldest　son　live。　The　child　has　been　taken　into　custody　of　the　state　and　will　be　placed　in　an　orphanage　or　foster　home　if　no　relatives　are　located。
　　
　　Twenty　Years　Later
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　One
　　
　　As　he　walked　to　work　each　afternoon；　Kinsey　Hummingbird　was　apt　to　reflect　upon　a　variety　of　things。　These　things　might　be　philosophical　（quantum　physics；　the　function　of　Art　in　the　universe）　or　prosaic　（what　sort　of　person　would　take　the　time　to　scrawl　〃Robin　Fuks〃　in　a　freshly　cemented　sidewalk；　had　they　really　thought　the　legend　was　important　enough　to　be　preserved　through　the　ages　in　concrete？）　but　never　boring。　Kinsey　seldom　found　himself　bored。
　　The　walk　from　his　house　to　downtown　Missing　Mile　was　an　easy　one。　Kinsey　hoofed　it　twice　a　day　nearly　every　day　of　his　life；　only　driving　in　when　he　had　something　too　heavy　to　carry…a　pot　of　homemade　fifteen…bean　soup；　for　instance；　or　a　stray　amplifier。　The　walk　took　him　past　a　patchwork　quilt　of　fields　that　changed　with　every　season：　plowed　under　dark　and　rich　in　winter；　dusted　with　the　palest　green　in　spring；　resplendent　with　tobacco；　pumpkin　vines；　or　other　leafy　crops　through　the　hot　Carolina　summer　and　straight　on　till　harvest。　It　took　him　past　a　fairytale　landscape　of　kudzu；　an　entire　hillside　and　stand　of　trees　taken　over　by　the　exuberant　weed；　transformed　into　ghostly　green　spires；　towers；　hollows。　It　took　him　over　a　disused　set　of　train　tracks　where　wildflowers　grew　between　the　uneven　ties；　where　he　always　managed　to　stub　his　toe　or　twist　his　ankle　at　least　once　a　month。　It　took　him　down　the　wrong　end　of　Firehouse　Street　and　straight　into　town。
　　Missing　Mile　was　not　a　large　town；　but　it　was　big　enough　to　have　a　run…down　section。　Kinsey　walked　through　this　section　every　day；　appreciating　the　silence　of　it；　the　slight　eeriness　of　the　boarded…up　storefronts　and　soap…blinded　windows。　Some　of　the　empty　stores　still　bore　going…out…of…business　signs。　The　best　one；　which　never　failed　to　amuse　Kinsey；　trumpeted　BEAT　XMAS　RUSH！　in　red　letters　a　foot　high。　The　stores　not　boarded　up　or　soaped　were　full　of　dust　and　cobwebs；　with　the　occasional　wire　clothes　rack　or　smooth　mannequin　torso　standing　a　lonely　vigil　over　nothing。
　　One　rainy　Saturday　afternoon　in　June；　Kinsey　came　walking　into　town　as　usual。　He　wore　a　straw　hat　with　a　tattered　feather　in　its　band　and　a　long　billowing　raincoat　draped　around　his　skinny　shoulders。　Kinsey's　general　aspect　was　that　of　an　amiable　scarecrow；　his　slight　stoop　did　nothing　to　hide　the　fact　that　he　was　well　over　six　feet　tall。　He　was　of　indeterminate　age　（some　of　the　kids　claimed　Kinsey　wasn't　much　older　than　them；　some　swore　he　was　forty　or　more；　practically　ancient）。　His　hair　was　long；　stringy；　and　rather　sparse。　His　clothes　were　timeworn；　colorfully　mismatched；　and　much　mended；　but　they　hung　on　his　narrow　frame　neatly；　almost　elegantly。　There　was　a　great　deal　of　the　country　in　his　beaky　nose；　his　long　jaw　and　clever　mouth；　his　close…set　bright　blue　eyes。
　　The　warm　rain　hit　the　sidewalk　and　steamed　back　up；　forming　little　eddies　of　mist　around　Kinsey's　ankles。　A　puddle　of　oil　and　water　made　a　swirling　rainbow　in　the　street。　A　couple　more　blocks　down　Firehouse　Street；　the　good　end　of　town　began：　some　shabbily　genteel　antebellum　homes　with　sagging　pillars　and　wraparound　verandas；　several　of　which　were　fixed　up　as　boardinghouses；　a　7…Eleven；　the　old　Farmers　Hardware　Store　whose　parking　lot　doubled　as　the　Greyhound　bus　depot；　and　a　few　other　businesses　that　were　actually　open。　But　down　here　the　rent　was　cheaper。　And　the　kids　didn't　mind　ing　to　the　bad　end　of　town　after　dark。
　　Kinsey　crossed　the　street　and　ducked　into　a　shadowy　doorway。　The　door　was　a　special　piece　of　work　he　had　missioned　from　a　carver　over　in　Corinth：　a　heavy；　satin…textured　slab　of　pine；　varnished　to　the　color　of　warm　caramel　and　carved　with　irregular；　twisted；　black…stained　letters　that　seemed　to　bleed　from　the　depths　of　the　wood。　THE　SACRED　YEW。
　　Kinsey's　real　home。　The　one　he　had　made　for　the　children；　because　they　had　nowhere　else　to　go。
　　Well　。　。　。　mostly　for　the　children。　But　for　himself　too；　because　Kinsey　had　never　had　anywhere　to　go　either。　A　Bible…belting　mother　who　saw　her　son　as　the　embodiment　of　her　own　black　sin；　her　maiden　name　was　McFate；　and　all　the　McFates　were　psychotic　delusionaries　of　one　stripe　or　another。　A　pale　shadow　of　a　father　who　was　drunk　or　gone　most　of　the　time；　then　suddenly　dead；　as　if　he　had　never　existed　at　all；　most　of　the　Hummingbirds　were　poetic　souls　tethered　to　alcoholic　bodies；　though　Kinsey　himself　had　always　been　able　to　take　a　drink　or　two　without　requiring　three　or　four。
　　In　1970　he　inherited　the　mechanic's　job　from　the　garage　where　his　father　had　worked　off　and　on。　Kinsey　was　better　at　repairing　engines　than　Ethan　Hummingbird　had　ever　been；　though　deep　inside　he　suspected　this　was　not　what　he　wanted　to　do。
　　Growing　older；　his　friends　leaving　for　college　and　careers；　and　somehow　the　new　friends　he　made　were　always　younger：　the　forlorn；　bewildered　teenagers　who　had　never　asked　to　be　born　and　now　wished　they　were　dead；　the　misfits；　the　rejects。　They　sought　Kinsey　out　at　the　garage；　they　sat　and　talked　to　his　skinny　legs　sticking　out　from　under　some　broken…down　Ford　or　Chevy。　That　was　the　way　it　always　was；　and　for　a　while　Kinsey　thought　it　always　would　be。
　　Then　in　1975　his　mother　died　in　the　terrible　fire　that　shut　down　the　Central　Carolina　Cotton　Mill　for　good。　Two　years　later　Kinsey　received　a　large　settlement；　quit　the　garage；　and　opened　the　first…ever　nightclub　in　Missing　Mile。　He　tried　to　mourn　his　mother；　but　when　he　thought　about　how　much　better　his　life　had　gotten　since　her　death；　it　was　difficult。
　　Kinsey　fumbled　in　his　pocket　for　the　key。　A　large；　ornate　pocketwatch　fell　out　and　dangled　at　the　end　of　a　long　gold　chain；　the　other　end　of　which　was　safety…pinned　to　Kinsey's　vest。　He　flipped　the　watch　open　and　glanced　at　its　pearly　face。　Nearly　an　hour　ahead　of　schedule：　he　liked　to　be　at　the　Yew　by　four　to　take　deliveries；　clean　up　the　last　of　the　previous　night's　mess；　and　let　the　bands　in　for　an　early　sound　check　if　they　wanted。　But　it　was　barely　three。　The　overcast　day　must　have　deceived　him。　Kinsey　shrugged　and　let　himself　in　anyway。　There　was　always　work　to　do。
　　The　windowless　club　was　dark　and　still。　To　his　right　as　he　entered　was　the　small　stage　he　had　built。　His　carpentry　was　unglamorous　but　sturdy。　To　his　left　was　the　art　wall；　a　mural　of　painted；　crayoned；　and　Magic　Markered　graffiti　that　stretched　all　the　way　back　to　the　partition　separating　the　bar　area　from　the　rest　of　the　club。　The　tangle　of　obscure　band　names　and　their　arcane　symbols；　song　lyrics；　and　catchphrases　was　indistinct　in　the　gloom。　Kinsey　could　only　make　out　one　large　piece　of　graffiti；　spray…painted　in　gold；　wavering　halfway　between　wall　and　ceiling：　WE　ARE　NOT　AFRAID。
　　Those　words　might　be　the　anthem　of　every　kid　who　passed　through　that　door；　Kinsey　thought。　The　hell　of　it　was　that　they　were　afraid；　every　one　of　them；　terribly　so。　Afraid　they　would　never　make　it　to　adulthood　and　freedom；　or　that　they　would　make　it　only　at　the　price　of　their　fragile　souls；　afraid　that　the　world　would　prove　too　dull；　too　cold；　that　they　would　always　be　as　alone　as　they　felt　right　now。　But　not　one　of　them　would　admit　it。　We　are　not　afraid；　they　would　chant　along　with　the　band；　their　faces　bathed　in　golden　light；　we　are　not　afraid；　believing　it　at　least　until　the　music　was　over。
　　He　crossed　the　dance　floor。　The　sticky　remnants　of　last　night's　spilled　beer　and　soda　sucked　softly　at　the　soles　of　his　shoes　with　each　step。　Idly　brooding；　he　passed　the　restrooms　on　his　right　and　entered　the　room　at　the　back　that　served　as　the　bar。
　　He　was　brought　up　short　by　the　stifled　screech　of　the　girl　bent　over　the　cash　drawer。
　　The　back　door　stood　open；　as　if　she　had　been　ready　to　leave　in　a　hurry。　The　girl　stood　frozen　at　the　register；　catlike　face　a　mask　of　shock　and　fear；　wide　eyes　fixed　on　Kinsey；　a　sheaf　of　twenties　clutched　in　her　hand。　Her　open　handbag　sat　on　the　bar　beside　her。　A　perfect；　damning　tableau。
　　〃Rima？〃　he　said　stupidly。　〃What　。　。　。　？〃
　　His　voice　seemed　to　unfreeze　her。　She　spun　and　broke　for　the　door。　Kinsey　threw　himself　over　the　bar；　shot　out　one　long　arm；　and　caught　her　by　the　wrist。　The　twenties　fluttered　to　the　floor。　The　girl　began　to　sob。
　　Kinsey　usually　had　a　couple　of　local　kids　working　at　the　Yew；　mostly　doing　odd　jobs　like　stocking　the　bar　or　collecting　money　at　the　door　when　a　band　played。　Rima　had　worked　her　way　up　to　tending　bar。　She　was　fast；　funny；　cute；　and　（Kinsey　had　thought）　utterly　trustworthy；　so　much　so　that　he　had　let　her　have　a　key。　When　he　had　another　bartender；　he　didn't　have　to　stay　until　closing　time　every　night；　on　slow　nights　someone　else　could　lock　up。　It　was　almost　like　having　a　mini…vacation。　But　keys　had　a　way　of　getting　lost；　or　changing　hands；　and　Kinsey　didn't　entrust　them　to　many　of　his　workers。　He　had　believed　he　was　a　pretty　good　judge　of　character。　The　Sacred　Yew　had　never　been　ripped　off。
　　Until　now。
　　Kinsey　reached　for　the　phone。　Rima　threw　herself　across　him；　grabbing　for　it　with　her　free　hand。　They　struggled　briefly　for　the　receiver；　then　Kinsey　wrested　it　free　and　easily　held　it　out　of　her　reach。　The　phone　cord　caught　her　purse　and　swept　it　onto　the　floor。　The　contents　spilled；　skittered；　shattered。　Kinsey　tucked　the　receiver　into　the　hol