"Nope, nothing about her. But I'll tell you this, those descriptions you gave the police are still exactly what they're telling people to be on the lookout for. So you should be proud of what you've done. They still aren't releasing a name, but they sure are describing just like you said."
Swamper's report gave Clifton the confidence he needed to go ahead home. If the car had been found all the way over
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in Roanoke, more than forty miles away, then he felt pretty sure that the man was nowhere near the Crocket's Mill area any longer.
However, he did take the gun with him. As much as he hadn't liked carrying it before yesterday, he now admitted that it had helped save his life. And he chose to take Bosco, too. The more protection the better, he decided. If Mr. Henderson happened to see them, then he'd deal with it. But Bosco was going.
***
He took the long way into town because he wanted to see if anything interesting was happening. In a way, he also hoped he might see Julie, though he kind of doubted it. He'd thought about her a lot over the last week, trying to imagine what she and her family must be going through. He even thought about calling her, but he didn't have any idea what he would say.
But as he'd suspected, he didn't see Julie. When he passed the police station, he slowed for a moment, thinking about the dispatcher he'd hung up on. She had practically begged him to come down there. He looked at the glass door, which almost beckoned him, and he immediately started sweating. His hands got so wet that he had trouble holding the end
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of the jump rope. He turned his head away and went on. I can't do it.
When he got to his mailbox, he emptied it and then reached into his pocket for the letter that he'd planned on sending yesterday. It was wrinkled and had smudges of dirt on the outside, but he put it in the box anyway. If she only knew what that letters been through. He raised the flag on the side of the box and then headed up the driveway toward the house, shuffling through all of the mail. Mostly it was flyers and junk mail, which he promptly deposited into the empty trash can in the carport. But there was one addressed to him from his mother, which he planned to open as soon as he entered the house.
But opening the door wasn't quite as easy as that. He had the key in his pocket, but that wasn't the problem. What if the man had somehow gotten back to Crocket's Mill? I remember you. Do you remember me? A chill ran up his arms, and it took him a moment to shake the thought. Stop it. The car was found in Roanoke. That's an hour away. He's on a bus by now.
Regardless, he made sure that Bosco entered the house first. He watched the dog closely to see if he acted concerned, but all he did was sniff around the legs of the table, licking the floor for crumbs. The air in the kitchen was hot and stale, and Clifton raised a few windows and left the front door open in
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order to get some air circulating. He filled a water bowl for Bosco and set it on the linoleum, then sat down at the table to read his mother's letter. He split the envelope apart with his index finger and unfolded the pages. A warm feeling went through him when he saw her neat handwriting.
July 24, 1988
Dear Clifton,
Thank you for the letters you've written me so far. I'm Sorry for the delay In responding to you, but things have been a bit tougher than I thought they were going to be. But don't worry, I'm good. I wean it. I' really good. I didn't have any idea what kind of sorry shape I was in until I got here and Started talking with the doctors, the counselors, and the other patients. And I'll tell you
What, if you thought our life has been crazy, you should hear some of the
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Stories I've heard in here. Unbelievable. But I'll save those for when I get out.
There's one counselor here who has been really great to me. Her name's Laura. She's about my age, and just like me, she lost her husband when she was young. Except she lost him to an overdose of heroin. She was pregnant at the time so she has raised her daughter by herself, just like I raised you. So we have a lot in common and she's made my experience a little more bearable. By the way, her daughter is the same age as you and she's a real cutie! Wink, wink. May be I can set you two up before I leave.
But enough about me. How's my baby? Are you getting along okay with daddy? I miss you so much I can't even tell you. I'm sorry for how neglectful I've been over the years. I don't know what was wrong with me. The doctors say
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I've been in a prolonged state of depression ever Since your daddy died , and I've been numbing myself to the pain ever Since with alcohol. Using it to try and help forget my pain and anguish. But all I was doing was hiding and not facing reality. And in the. process, I let you down. You can probably see where some of the ink is getting smudged now. That's from the tears that I can't seem to stop. I've never cried so much in my life as I have since I've been in here. Not even after your daddy died. Laura says that If they collected all the tears that are shed in this place in a year, they could probably start up their own ocean. I think I've probably cried at least a small sea's worth on my own. But believe it or not, the crying is good. It helps. I'm getting rid of the pain. I'm getting rid of the anger.
Laura says that it could probably be a good idea for both you and me to go
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to some counseling together once I get out. I know we've never really talked about what happened to your daddy, but may be it's about time that we started. Believe it or not, I think I'm even willing to forgive those police officers for what they did. It wasn't right and there was no excuse, but I'm finding compassion in my heart that I never knew I had before. For so long I hated them wanted them dead. Wanted to kill them myself. But I don't feel that way any longer. I know it's only been about a week since I got sober, but I' telling you, Cliffy, I'm going back. It sickens me when I think about what I've let myself become. How I didn't take care of you. Here come the tears again! I wouldn't blame you at all if you hated me.
You've always been such a sweet boy Clifton. You've always stuck by me when
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you had no reason to do so. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love you and I'm sorry. Things are going to be different once I get out. I promise. I'm ready to start over again. As crazy as it sounds, I think getting arrested was the best thing that ever happened to me. It probably saved our relationship.
Well, I guess that's about al I have to say right now. If I keep writing, al these tears are going to mess it up so bad that you won't be able to read any of it! Please keep writing to me as often as you can. You have no idea what it means to me. I wait eagerly for the mail every day in hopes there is something from you. Only three weeks to go and then it'll be time to start over. I was thinking that it might be nice to go to the beach for a few days before school starts. You and I haven't gone anywhere
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together in forever and , horrible mom that I am, I realize you've never even seen the ocean! Might be nice to sit in the sand for a few days, don't you think? We don't have much money, but we could probably scrape up enough to go for a few days. May be daddy would even want to come along. Do you think he'd like to do that? He always loved the ocean he used to take me all the time when I was little. Anyway, that's another story altogether.
Oh, and don't worry, I still have a job when I get back. As much as I've complained about that place in the past, they've been wonderful through all of this. I guess there's something to be said for working for a big company. They have a program for employees who get into trouble like I've gotten into, and it is paying for my treatment here. I'm also getting a partial paycheck and will continue to draw one for up three
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Months before I have to go back to work. It's kind of like disability.
So I've got a lot to be thankful for. But mostly I'm thankful for you, Cliffy. I love you more than you can imagine. Please keep daddy out of trouble and tell him hello for me. Life is good, my baby. Keep writing and I'll see you soon.
I miss you tons and love
you more,
Mom
As Clifton refolded the letter, one of his own tears fell on the paper, combining with all of his mother's old ones. He put the letter back in the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. He thought her words already sounded like the mother he'd remembered having years ago.
***
BOSCO pulled hard on the leash as he directed Clifton toward Windswept Hills and the woods, almost as if he wanted to
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get away from Mr. Henderson's house as quickly as possible. Clifton didn't protest or really care, again feeling confident that if the Lincoln was found all the way in Roanoke, then he didn't really have anything to worry about. But regardless, he tapped the bottom of his shirt to reassure himself that the gun was still there.
As he walked down the road, he didn't really pay much attention. Instead, he reflected on his mother's letter and how good she had sounded. He also replayed the conversation that he and Swamper had had on the end of Old Henry's dock after Tricky Bob stopped by and gave them their pay.
"Swamper, I should've shot him. He was standing right there. I had the gun pointed right at his chest."
Swamper's jaws worked a piece of crispy pork as he said, "Well, that might've done more harm than good anyway."
"How? I mean, if I'd shot him, the police would probably already have him in custody. Then they could find Maria. The only harm it would've done is that maybe I would've wounded him. Or maybe killed him. And I don't see that as really doing harm anyway. Who cares about him?"
Swamper continued working his jaws and then spat a fatty bolus into the water. A swarm of minnows instantly converged on it as it bobbed on the surface, sending out grease rings in tiny concentric circles. The bravest few of the school
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began nipping at the clump of fat, and then more followed in turn, feeding like miniature piranhas on the leg of a wild goat. "I don't mean harm to him. I mean harm to you. If you'd shot him, and whether he lived or not, you'd have had to live with that for the rest of your life. I don't think that would've settled too well with you."
"What do you mean? You saying I can't handle it?"
"Well," said Swamper. He licked the tips of his fingers and took a sip of Coke. "I guess, in not so many words, that's exactly what I'm saying. And don't get me wrong, that ain't a bad thing. In fact, it's a good thing. I think you got a lot of your mama inside you, which is also a good thing. Your mama had a lot of her mama inside of her too. Neither one of them had a bad bone in their body. They always looked for the good in people, never the bad. Me, on the other hand, I never trusted nobody. I rarely forgave a man, even if he just looked at me funny. Sometimes I wish I'd taken a page from their book. Probably saved me a lot of hassle over the years."
Clifton looked at Swamper with a sideways glance. "What's that got to do with me not shooting the guy?"
"I guess I'm trying to say that it's best that you didn't. I think in the long run you'd have felt bad about it. Probably regretted it, especially if he died. No matter what kind of a son of a bitch he is, I don't think you'd want the weight of a
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dead man on your conscience. The cops'll get him. Hell, they might have him already. You did the right thing by getting down here and calling. Once again, you did your part."
"Yeah, maybe. But a big part of me keeps saying I'm nothing but chickenshit. Nothing but a big pussy."
"The hell with that. I'd say it takes more of a man not to shoot a gun than to actually shoot one. Like you told me earlier, you weren't sure if that little girl was in the car. What if you'd missed? What if you'd sent a hunk of lead into the car? What if you'd accidentally shot her? Then how would you feel? No, sir, I'd say you showed what kind of a man you are by not shooting. By being able to think that quickly on your toes. A lesser man would've just started blasting away. A chickenshit man, as you say, would've been the one to start pulling the trigger without no regard for anyone else. A chickenshit man would've only been interested in saving himself. You were more interested in protecting someone else. That's a real man, Clifton. I swear, sometimes I think I've learned more from you in a month and a half than I did in the last sixty-five years combined."
Clifton looked down between his feet as they swung over the water, feeling slightly embarrassed. He'd noticed that Swamper had a knack for making him feel that way. "Yeah, but what about hanging up on the dispatcher a few minutes ago? She wants me to go down there. Said if I looked at mug
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shots and could positively identify the guy, it would be a huge help. Could break the case, she said. But I don't want to do it. I don't want to go down there. How's that not chickenshit?"
Swamper finished the last of his Coke and set the empty bottle on the dock's edge. He swept his hands against one another to remove the crumbs, then fumbled in his pocket for his pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. "Well, that's a tough one. I can see where they're coming from. But I can see where you're coming from too. That's a decision you're gonna have to make on your own. But I ain't gonna judge you either way." He paused for a moment while he pushed the roller of the Zippo down the leg of his jeans and lit his cigarette. "My daddy always told me to never judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes. That way, if you find out he's an asshole, you're already a whole mile away and you got yourself a brand-new pair."
***
AS Clifton stepped over the curb at the end of the cul-de-sac and entered the woods, his mind kept repeating that conversation. He couldn't help but smile as he thought about Swamper's joke, but then he thought about everything else. Had he really not shot at the man because he was worried about missing? About possibly hitting Maria if she was in the
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car? Or was that bullshit? Was he just fooling himself? Fooling Swamper? Trying to convince himself that he'd done the right thing. Maybe he'd just been chickenshit, plain and simple. And what about going to the police station? He'd been right across the street just a little while before. But he hadn't done it. He couldn't do it. Ever since he'd hung up on the dispatcher, that was the thing that kept gnawing at him more than anything else. That he couldn't do it. Maybe tomorrow.
Bosco tugged so hard on the leash when they got to the edge of the woods that he started hacking. His tail stood erect, the tip curling over toward his back. Clifton reached down and removed the jump rope. He'd barely gotten it free when Bosco took off. Clifton heard something dart through the leaves ahead of Bosco, and immediately his heart jumped. But he saw a flash of tan and the white of an alert tail zip through the straight-standing poplars before it disappeared, with Bosco hot on its tracks. Clifton smiled, feeling the happiness and excitement that Bosco was experiencing at the moment.
When Clifton entered the woods and began following the trail, he walked only twenty feet or so before he saw something out of place lying on the side of the path. He stopped and looked for a moment before approaching, trying to figure out what it was. In a way, it looked like a brown snake stretched out on the ground, but part of it was hung up on
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some scrubby pines, giving the appearance that its hind end was floating in midair. And it didn't move. Clifton took a step forward to see if the thing would try to get away, but once again it didn't move. He took another step forward. And then another. Once he realized that whatever it was wasn't alive, he took a few more steps until he stood over the top of it. In the distance he heard Bosco shuffling through the leaves. It sounded like he was on his way back. "Come on, Bosco," he yelled as he bent down and picked the thing up.
It was the velvet of deer antlers, and it was the softest thing Clifton had ever remembered touching. He wondered if it could be from that same deer he'd seen weeks before. The one that almost got killed. He rubbed it through his hands, then touched it to his face and smoothed it against his cheek. There was a gamey, musty smell to the velvet, but it wasn't unpleasant. It just smelled like the woods. Clifton held it against his cheek until Bosco walked up, panting
and almost smiling. The dog's nose twitched as he carefully sniffed the tip of the hanging velvet. "What do you think, Bosco? Do I look like a movie star?" He tossed the strand behind his neck and then wrapped it once around his throat like a woman might do with a scarf or mink stole. "Come on, boy. I'll bring it home and let Swamper take a look at it." Bosco wagged his tail as if saying he thought that was a good idea.
When the trail forked, Bosco took the right branch toward
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the Killing Pit. For a minute, Clifton thought about staying left and going down and taking a swim at the Palisades. He didn't really have anything else to do. But he figured that with everything that had been going on lately, he should get back so Swamper didn't worry. He could always jump off the end of the dock and take a swim there if he wanted to.
The rocky outline of the Killing Pit had just come into view between the leaves of the rhododendron grove when the hair on Bosco's neck bristled. He halted, leaving one paw curled and suspended in midair. His ears perked to attention and his snout pointed toward the sky, the tip of his moist nose wrinkling as he tried to interpret the information on the faint breeze. Clifton stood frozen behind him, trying to ascertain anything that he could, but he came up empty. He didn't see, hear, or smell anything out of the ordinary. At least not at first.
As he stood motionless at Bosco's right flank, trying to hone all of his senses, he thought he might have heard a voice. Maybe even a pleading voice. But he also thought he might be going crazy with paranoia once more. Then the next time he thought he heard it, he happened to be watching Bosco; the dog's ears had twitched. "What is it, boy? What do you hear?"
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