Just as he crossed the road and got ready to jump on the trail toward the Killing Pit, an old pickup truck crested the hill. It was a two-tone beige Ford and looked like it had come
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off the assembly line in the fifties. An older gentleman with shoulder-length graying hair was driving. He was a diminutive man, and his eyes barely made it over the crest of the large steering wheel. He stopped the truck in the middle of the road, and Clifton made a halfhearted wave. The man hand-cranked the window and said, "Hello there, Buster Brown. You and your dog need a ride to town? Looks like a storm's coming round." He poked his head out the window and glanced through his thick glasses up toward the sky.
It was only when Clifton heard the voice that he realized that the driver wasn't a man at all, but actually a woman. She had a baseball cap tucked down tightly on her head, she wore a baggy shirt that revealed no chest as far as Clifton could tell, and her face was plain with no makeup. A dream-catcher hung from the rearview mirror, the web and feathers swaying back and forth like a miniature pendulum. Clifton had a feeling she might be one of the Hell's Hill Hippies who lived in the mountains on the fringes of Crocket's Mill. He'd heard about them, and had occasionally seen them in town, but those sightings were rare. It was widely known that a troupe of six or seven women--though some said up to a dozen-- lived together on a sixty-acre plot up on Hell's Hill. They ran an organic farm and were more or less self-sufficient. Rumors had been flying around forever that they grew marijuana up
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in the hills, but since different groups had been living there, off and on, for the past twenty years without incident, Clifton kind of doubted it.
But what wasn't rumor at all was that the Hell's Hill Hippies had one rule that they strictly enforced: No men allowed. They believed strongly, and took pride in the fact, that they could survive just fine without a man's help. But apparently, judging by the current offer of a ride, they had no problem helping a man if the situation presented itself. Clifton's mind, which he could tell was running a little slower than usual, processed the different possibilities. He could almost feel the rusty gearwheels trying to turn in his head, the teeth grinding without proper lubrication. If he took the shortcut, it would probably take about the same amount of time as it would if the woman drove him in to town. And with the way he was feeling at the moment, the less walking he had to do, the better. Besides, he sort of wanted to see what was going on in Crocket's Mill. Was the town in a frenzy? Had they boarded up all the windows because there was a monster on the prowl?
"Okay, thanks," said Clifton. "A ride would be great."
The woman motioned with her thumb toward the bed. "Just drop the gate and your dog can ride in back. Then hop on in."
Clifton did as instructed and with only a little prodding,
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just like when they'd taken the skiff, Bosco jumped in. When Clifton sat down and closed the heavy door behind him, it let out a shrill squeak, causing more pain to shoot through his head. Between him and the woman was a cardboard beer box filled with egg cartons. The woman saw Clifton eyeing them. She put the truck into gear and said, "I'm taking the eggs into Samford. We sell them to a whole food place over there. You ever had a fresh egg? I mean one that was just laid?" Clifton shook his head.
"There's not much on this earth that's better than that. The yolks come out a rich gold, almost orange like a sunrise. Not yellow like the eggs you get from the store. I'd offer you a couple but I can't break up the dozens."
Clifton looked at the stacks of cartons sitting in the beer box. "That's okay, I'm not really hungry for a raw egg at the moment anyway." In fact, just the thought of it, along with the jostling of his body as the truck hit the ruts, made him feel sick. "You must have a lot of chickens."
The woman carefully set a hand on the edge of the box to steady it as the rough road caused the Styrofoam cartons to squeak. "We do. Got a whole coop full of them. This box here has eighteen dozen eggs in it. Right now we're getting that much about every two or three days. They're laying real good lately."
Clifton leaned his forehead against the side window and
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watched as the clouds spit little drops of water against the glass. He again wondered why in the world anybody would willingly subject themselves to alcohol. It had tasted horrible, and other than a brief period when he had felt happy and downright silly, he didn't see what the attraction was. And certainly, with the way the aftereffects were treating him, he promised himself once more that he would never drink again. He closed his eyes and thought about getting home. He would make some phone calls to the police station in Samford and then hopefully take a nap.
"You heard about what's been going on in town? Crazy stuff."
Clifton opened his eyes and sprang to attention. He tried to produce a little saliva from the layer of cotton in his mouth, but it was impossible. He swallowed and said, "I heard a girl got kidnapped."
The woman kept her eyes on the road while talking out the side of her mouth, just like Popeye had done in the old cartoons. For some reason, this intrigued Clifton though he couldn't say why. "Yeah, the little girl's still missing. No trace of her so far. But they did find a body."
Clifton again tried to produce some saliva so he could speak. He felt blood pulsing in his ears, felt the lobes getting itchy and hot. But he also felt relief. "What do you mean they found a body? It wasn't the little girl's?"
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"No, like I told you, they haven't found her yet. Least that's what they're saying so far. But this morning the radio said that yesterday the police got an anonymous tip to go check out Charlie Day's place. You probably know him. The ice cream man? A black fella? Sweet as pie."
Clifton nodded, but the apprehension filling his body made it almost impossible to speak. "Yeah, I know him."
The rubber of the windshield wipers made an annoying bumping sound as the woman tried to clear the few freckles of rain dotting the dry windshield. "So they go out there last night and find Charlie dead in his living room. The radio didn't say what happened, but they did say it wasn't from natural causes. Said it was being investigated as a homicide. They did say they thought it was linked to the little girl's disappearance. Said the ice cream truck was in the driveway but that his car was missing. So be on the lookout for a yellow Lincoln. Don't really see how anybody could miss it."
The relief of a moment ago instantly disappeared. He felt worse than he had when he'd first woken up. But not because Charlie was dead. Of course he felt bad about that, but what struck him more than anything was something else she'd told him. The radio said that yesterday the police got an anonymous tip to go check out Charlie Day's place. Assuming the kidnapper guy was still in the vicinity, and assuming he was most likely watching the television or listening to the radio, then
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he wouldn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out who gave the anonymous tip. And if that was the case, then Clifton could be in even more danger than he'd ever imagined possible.
"What about a suspect? Do they know who did it?"
"They didn't give any names, but they did give a description of a guy they're looking for. White male, six foot, late twenties. Got a lot of tattoos. So be on the lookout for him too. The whole thing's crazy. I've been living in these hills for years and never heard of anything like it. You hear about stuff like this in the big cities, but I never thought it would happen in Crocket's Mill. Never."
As he listened to her describe the man, the image of Maria being stuffed into the broom closet haunted him. Those wiry arms lifting her, the look in her eyes, the silver tape across her mouth. It all haunted him. For a moment, Clifton thought he might be sick.
"You know what's funny?" said the woman as she looked into her rearview mirror. "What's that?"
"Look at your dog back there." Her eyes were switching back and forth between the mirror and the road. "See what he's doing?"
Clifton turned to look at Bosco. His front leg
s were perched on the bubble of the wheel well, his snout pointing directly
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into the breeze. His mouth was open and he looked like he was smiling as the wind pushed the black fur away from his face. Little sprinkles of water beaded on his coat like raindrops on the hood of a freshly waxed car.
"Isn't it funny how dogs love to stick their heads out a window and let the wind rush over them? You can be going sixty-five down the highway and it won't bother them at all. They're happy as can be. Like they think they're the Red Baron or something. But then if you're sitting at home and you grab the scruff of their neck and blow in their face, they go crazy. They hate it. They'll freak out like they think you're torturing them."
Clifton turned back around and gave a halfhearted smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"I don't know--it's just one of those things I think about sometimes."
When she got to the end of the road and nosed the front of the truck to the stop sign, she clicked her turn indicator. "Like I said, I'm heading over the bridge into Samford. Which way you going?"
"I'm going that way," said Clifton, pointing toward Crocket's Mill. "Thanks for the lift."
The woman looked over the tops of her glasses toward the dark clouds. They spat flecks of rain with more frequency now, but it still wasn't out-and-out raining yet. "I hate leaving
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you out here when the sky's about to open up. It won't take me any time to run you into town."
"That's okay. I don't live far from here." He cocked his head and looked out the windshield as he grabbed the door handle. "Looks like I've got just enough time to make it. Thanks again."
"You be careful."
Clifton closed the door and had turned to head toward town, his mind now chock-full of fear, when the truck's horn sounded. When he looked back, he couldn't hear what she was saying, but he did see her gesturing toward the bed of the truck. Bosco. Jesus, I forgot Bosco. He shook the alcohol-soaked cobwebs from his head, gave the woman a little wave and smile as if to say, Oops, stupid me, and then let the gate down. Bosco stood on the end, his tail wagging, but hesitated like a puppy at the edge of a boat dock. Clifton grabbed the ends of the jump rope, gave a little tug, and Bosco leapt onto the gravel.
As the truck pulled out, Clifton got a lungful of exhaust. Perhaps, he thought, as punishment for forgetting Bosco. "Let's get home," he said. "You must be starved. Hopefully, Mr. Henderson left you out some food."
Maybe it was the increasing wind, maybe it was the dark clouds overhead, or more likely it was because the little town
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of Crocket's Mill was dealing with a murder and a kidnapping, but whatever it was, there was a gloomy, ominous feel in the air. For one thing, even though it was late morning, traffic was almost nonexistent on Kamron. And as he got into the center of town, he saw almost no one on the sidewalks. But at the police station, there was a flurry of activity. Cop cars were parked all over the place. There were Crocket's Mill squad cars, Samford cars like the one he'd seen the night before, silver and blue state police cars, and several unmarked ones too. There was even a television van from Roanoke parked on the corner. A cameraman and a perfectly made-up woman holding a microphone stood on the sidewalk. She held a card over her hairsprayed head, apparently not too happy about the wind and drizzle.
Clifton stayed on the opposite sidewalk when he passed the police station, trying to avert his eyes from everything going on. But it was hard to do. He also kept looking around for any sign of the ice cream man. He was sure the guy was waiting around every corner, ready to jump from an alley and grab him.
Just past the station, the first rolls of thunder echoed off the surrounding mountains. White needles of lightning zigzagged over the ridges. Telephone wires began swaying gently above the sidewalk as the breeze picked up. Bits of paper, a
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Popeyes wrapper, and small leaves and pine needles whipped at Clifton's feet. A plastic Coke bottle clattered and rolled toward Bosco's paws, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead, he stuck his snout directly into the wind, his moist black nose twitching as he tried to decipher the overload of information blowing at him.
When Clifton looked up at the mountain ridge in the distance--which he actually couldn't see anymore because a bruised purple cloud enveloped the peak--something on a telephone pole caught his eye. And then as he glanced behind him, he realized that every telephone pole lining the street looked the same way. Someone had already put up signs asking for information about the disappearance of Maria O'Kane. If Clifton had been paying attention when he had walked through town, he would have noticed that there were signs on the doors of every store, too.
He approached the piece of paper that was stapled on to the pole closest to him, staring at the picture as the corners flapped in the wind. It was her all right. A miniature version of Julie. The girl he'd seen come crashing out of that broom closet. The fear in her eyes. The muffled screams behind the duct tape.
The photo was already beginning to smudge as a fine spray of rain fell over it. And then, just as Clifton was turning away, a larger drop hit the picture, just below the little girl's eye.
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Clifton turned away and felt sick once more, the irony not escaping him as that tear dripped down her face, smearing the ink and partially erasing her.
***
As if it was meant to be, as if Mother Nature had held out for as long as she could, the rain didn't let loose until Clifton reached his corner. So he and Bosco had only a quick sprint until they were underneath the shelter of the carport. But they weren't alone. As Bosco shook his body to dry out, some of the water flew against the metal quarter panel of the Dodge. What the heck is she doing home? How'd she get out?
Like a giant flashbulb, a blue curtain of light suddenly covered the neighborhood, instantly followed by a booming clap of thunder. It cracked so loudly that the tin roof above his head rattled. Bosco immediately hunched down and alligator-crawled underneath the chassis of the car, disappearing from view. The rain was now coming down in translucent sheets. It fell so hard that only the outline of Mr. Henderson's house could be seen across the way. The trunks of the trees were bent nearly parallel to the ground, and now, even under the protection of the carport, Clifton was getting soaked. A grayish spray enveloped the neighborhood, and a rush of whitewater
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poured from all of the downspouts like raging waterfalls. He figured Bosco would be fine for the time being, so he opened the side door and walked inside.
His mother sat at the kitchen table, her elbows resting on the edge, her face smothered by her hands. Clifton shook his head in the same way Bosco had just done, then rubbed a hand over his coarse bush of hair to remove any excess. If nothing else, the cold rain had woken him up a little. "What're you doing here?" he asked, his voice flat and without any hint of compassion. "Thought you'd still be locked up."
A few gasps of breath managed to filter through the cracks of her fingers as she said something inaudible.
"I can't understand you, Mom."
Clifton stood next to the table, looking down at her. His body gave a quick shudder, maybe from a chill when his wet skin met the cool of the air conditioning, maybe from just being disgusted with her. When she removed her hands, a set of goosebumps erupted along his neck and arms. Long strands of ratty, greasy hair partially veiled her sunken face. Her complexion was haggard, pale, almost green. Dark half-moons of fatigue were smudged beneath her eyes, and her hands noticeably shook as she reached for her box of cigarettes. She lit up and then thumbed the lighter, rotating it several times in her hand before methodically setting it on top of the box just so, which he'd seen her do a thousand times before, but for
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some reason this time it struck him as strange. He'd watched Swamper do it in the same exact manner the night before. She took a drag and then pressed the heels of her hands into her eye-sockets to stanch the tears. "I said, I got bailed out." She sniffled and
seemed to calm a bit.
As much as Clifton wanted to be angry with her, wanted to be disgusted by her, wanted to make her feel horrible for what she'd done, instead, now as he saw how pathetic and defenseless she was, saw her hands tucked to her chest as a billow of smoke rose from them, saw her frail body huddled in the chair and trembling like a rat riddled with poison, he couldn't muster the energy. She was his mother after all. He loved her regardless of everything. And besides, it didn't look like there was anyway to make her feel lower or more ashamed than she already was. There was no way to make her hurt worse. So instead of beating a dead horse, he walked next to her, put his arm around her shoulders, and gently squeezed. She vigorously stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray as if it had tried to cause her harm, as if she had a vendetta against it, and then tilted her head into Clifton's chest and began sobbing. Between breaths she said several times over, "Thank you, baby."
Clifton held her for a few minutes, staring out the window as the rain continued to pound, as a pool of chocolate water formed in front of Bosco's doghouse. When she calmed, he
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let go of her and took a seat in one of the straight-back chairs. "So what happens now?" he asked. "The cop that came over here last night said this wasn't the first time. You never told me about getting arrested before."
His mother's already anguished face twisted into a look of even deeper pain. "Those other times were fluke things, Clifton. I hadn't even had that much to--"
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