“Who’s there?”
The mother’s voice came through the tarp, stripped of all warmth, stripped of all maternal gentleness. It was a hoarse, feral snarl of pure, terrified defiance.
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“We don’t have any money! The property owner knows we’re here! He gave us permission until Tuesday! Get away from the tarp!”
Arthur Vance took a slow, deep breath, stepping back two paces into the sleet so that his silhouette would not loom threateningly over the rim of the container. He let the heavy plastic bags of food rest against his knees, keeping his empty hands visible at chest height.
“Ma’am,” Arthur said, his baritone calm, low, and level as a mason’s line, carrying that unshakeable, rhythmic authority that had kept two hundred ironworkers safe on high-steel trusses. “My name is Arthur Vance. I was sitting three booths behind you at the Dutch Pantry on Route 30 forty minutes ago.”
