Reese came by for a swim just as I was ready to jump in myself. He said that a power crew from Virginia was working its way out from Cotton Grove.
“The way they’re moving, we might get our lights back by midnight.”
“And not a minute too soon,” I said fervently as I floated on my back and let the warm water relax me.
“I’ll tell you one good thing about Fran, though,” he said, drifting along beside me.
“Yeah?”
“We’re not gonna have to listen to any more Hazel stories any time soon, are we?”
I laughed. “And fifty years from now, if I catch you telling Fran stories to your grandbabies, I’ll punch you hard.”
* * *
Darkness fell much as it did a hundred years ago, quietly and utterly. The night sky was radiant with stars undimmed by electric yard lights or the streetlights going in across the creek where a new housing development’s being built. Fireflies glowed with flicks of soft golden yellow while crickets sang to the stars.
It was the dark of the moon, yet the countryside seemed luminous to me. I blew out my candles and walked out to the pond, then skirted the edge and followed the rutted lane that was a double line of white sand against the darker grass.
Near the end of the pond, I smelled smoke and followed my nose till I saw fire reflected off bushes beyond the cut in the undergrowth. As I passed through the cut into the open field, I saw Daddy burning a brush pile and I couldn’t help but smile. Other men burn brush in the daytime but Daddy’s always done his burning at night. I watched him stir the flaming branches with his pitchfork. Sparks jetted thirty feet upwards like a fiery fountain against the velvet darkness.
Blue and Ladybelle came out to greet me, and as I walked into the circle of light, Daddy said, “Looks like roman candles, don’t it?”
For the next half hour, we circled the fire, pushing the longer branches in as their twiggy tops burned away. It was hot, sweaty work, but the flames kept our clothes dry. The smell of green leaves burning was unbearably nostalgic. Most of the time, I’m an adult, able to bear what has to be borne with an adult’s stoicism. But there are times when I miss Mother so much it’s like a physical hurt that’s never healed. She used to love bonfires, too.
Eventually, as the fire settled down, we sat on a nearby fallen log, talking of nothing important, watching the fire burn lower.
Without really thinking, I said, “You paying John Claude to represent the Love boy?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re still messing with whiskey, aren’t you?”
There was such a long silence that I was almost afraid that I’d made him really mad. On the other hand, if he is still bootlegging, it threatens my professional reputation.
At last he said, “Your mama never understood why I couldn’t leave it alone. She thought it was the whiskey itself, but it won’t. You never seen me drunk, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“No, it won’t the whiskey. And after a while, it won’t even the money.”
Another silence.
“What, then?” I asked.
“I guess you might say it was the excitement. Running the risks. Knowing what I could lose if I got caught. That’s something your mama never rightly understood.”
He turned and looked at me a long level moment by the dying fire. “You understand though, don’t you, shug?”
Now it was my turn to sit silently.
He nodded and poked the fire again. Another burst of bright sparks gushed upward in swirls of red and gold against the night sky.
Through the ravaged trees to the north, an answering glow suddenly appeared, a brilliant whiteness against the treetops.
It was the floodlights of a power crew working its way into the dark countryside.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I am indebted to many for their help and technical advice, in particular: District Court Judges Shelly S. Holt, John W. Smith, and Rebecca W. Blackmore of the 5th Judicial District Court (New Hanover and Pender Counties, NC).
Belated thanks to Gail Harrell, Regional Library Supervisor of the Southeast Regional Library, who let me plug my laptop into her office socket when Hurricane Fran took away my electricity for a week.
Thanks also to Irv Coats, the generous and knowledgeable proprietor of The Reader’s Corner, who always hands me the perfect source book.
AN OUTPOURING OF PRAISE FOR STORM TRACK
“An enchanting regional series. . . . Deborah is the voice of sanity and the soul of wit.”
—Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review
“Down-home setting and racy plot combine to make it a very tasty whodunit . . . in this entertaining regional mystery series.”
—USA Today
“This series is like sweet iced tea on an August day in North Carolina—near impossible to resist.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Maron turns in an entertaining and perfectly creditable performance. . . . It works.”
—Washington Post Book World
“Her characters spring to life. . . . [This book is] a very nice surprise.”
—Boston Globe
“Stellar . . . the best of a good series.”
—Toronto Globe and Mail “Compelling . . . Maron has an unfailing ear for dialogue.”
—Tennessean
“An absorbing, fast-paced tale. . . . The plot is devious, with both the true motive and means concealed until the end.”
—Greensboro News & Record (NC)
“Engrossing. . . . Maron is a mistress of the mood—setting a tone that captures readers like a lure on a hook.”
—Salisbury Post
“Seventh in a series, STORM TRACK is yet another look at how the Old South is changing into a sometimes unrecognizable New South. Maron’s light touch creates vivid characters, and she never forgets the puzzle.”
—Dallas Morning News
“A rousing combination of natural disaster and narrative creativity . . . is highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Maron’s finely crafted novels about an ever-urbanizing North Carolina are like gathering around one of those legendary storytellers of the South as they spin story after story. . . . In Maron’s case, she lets her heroine, Judge Deborah Knott, weave tales about her expansive family in novels that are as personal as they are engrossing.”
—Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“I know of no writer who is better at conveying a sense of place than Maron. North Carolina has never been more vibrant than in STORM TRACK. . . . Maron won an Edgar for her first Deborah Knott novel; this one is even better.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Maron can be counted on to deliver a nicely wrapped story full of people you love and love to hate.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“Wonderfully drawn, full human beings who may be eccentric, and occasionally dangerous, but never clichés.”
—London Free Press
“Maron has another triumphant relationship mystery that will send new fans seeking other Judge Knott novels.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A human drama of the highest sort, guaranteed to keep you riveted. Maron does a masterful job of plotting her mystery against the growing storm, keeping the tension running at high octane.”
—Romantic Times
“As always, Maron gets her North Carolina rhythms and speech just right. She also keeps the suspense going right into Hurricane Fran’s winds and rain and falling ancient oaks. . . . The only complaint to make about STORM TRACK is that it has to end and we have to wait another year to again enjoy Judge Knott and her family and neighbors, in all their charm and lethal behavior.”
—Winston-Salem Journal
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Storm Track dk-7 Page 21
