They couldn't be poisoned. They'd die in the walls, and wouldn't that be a stinking mess? A couple of restaurant owners had taken to sitting up all night with.22 rifles, blasting the rodents as they made an appearance.

After businesses closed, people gathered outside the darkened windows of Savannah restaurants to watch the rats come out to play. Watch them scurry across tables, knocking down salt and pepper shakers, their eyes glowing. But then, residents had to get then-entertainment somewhere. Local theaters rarely screened decent movies, and the music scene… well, there wasn't one, unless you counted the requisite

blues and jazz that was more the equivalent of free chicken wings.

Spring and warmer weather also brought murder, with the city already breaking last year's record, not that anybody was bragging. Well. Some people may have been.

At the intersection of Abercorn and Gordon, David paused and checked his pager. E. Sandburg, just as he'd suspected. She'd left a message: "Meet me at the morgue."

Quaint.

He headed home, passing a group of young girls jumping rope, chanting a reminder of where he was:

Lady in a black veil Babies in the bed Kissed them on the forehead Now they're both dead.

Red Xs on their gravestones Black Xs on their lips Silver dollars where their eyes should be Mama put a hex.

His apartment was on the third floor of a building called Mary of the Angels.

Once it had housed children orphaned by a yellow fever epidemic that had ripped through Savannah in 1854. After that, it had been the final home to tuberculosis patients during a time when TB was a death sentence.

"Oh, David. This is horrid," his sister had announced when she'd visited the area on a business trip. "Was this the only apartment you could find?"