Cooter and I follow them outta the cave. Whatever coolness the rain brought, it’s evaporating along with the night. Steamy clouds are rising off the treetops. “They’re gonna be all right,” I tell Cooter as we watch them head down the trail that’ll end close to the cottage. “Billy’ll take care of her. Them.”
Cooter, on the brink, says, “I feel so helpless.”
Being better acquainted with that feeling than most, I know nothing I can say to him will make him feel better, but a hand on the shoulder can be steadying. We watch quiet together ’til Clever and Billy are almost outta sight of the naked eye and Cooter swallows hard and points off to my right, asking, “What’s that moving around over there in those thin trees?”
I lift the binoculars up to my eyes, adjust the wheel.
“It’s them, ain’t it?” he says, panic coming into his voice.
Cooter can’t perceive that this is far worse than he knows, ’cause he’s not looking through the glasses. But I can see that our true loves are riding too near the posse, who’re coming toward the cave on that parallel trail. Looks like only yards away. If Clever gives out a birthing shriek, the Boys’ll be on ’em like wolves on sick calves. And I don’t care what Billy says, I know the sheriff. Even though he’s not chasing after the two of them, he’ll make them suffer if he catches them.
Backing up, tripping, Cooter says, “We gotta get.”
“Not quite yet,” I say, lifting the.22 out from my back. Mr. Howard Redmond in his excellent Creating Diversions chapter states: There will be times when an operative may be forced to draw the attention off of himself/herself/others by creating what is known as a diversion.
“Ya gonna shoot one of ’em?” he asks. “Ya better use the rifle.” He limps back over to Billy’s bedroll and slides the gun out with a sharp snap. I don’t really need something this powerful for what I’m intending to do, but the rifle feels like home in my hands. It’s the kind Grampa taught me on. A Remington. “Aim at that one with the big ears, wing ’em maybe,” Cooter coaches as I wedge the 600 into my shoulder.
I reconsider for a moment. That’d be a twofer, all right- warning Billy AND giving us more time to skedaddle. But you know how pissed off animals can get when they’re wounded?
Through the scope, I can see their black lathered horses down to the nose hairs as I squeeze the trigger back easy, aiming at the treetops.
“Ya missed. Go lower and to the left,” Cooter gasps, running his hand down his endangered neck.
No matter how NQR I am, my Billy knows I wouldn’t be drawing attention unless it was a matter of EXTREME emergency. Like if the enemy was bearing down on him. So he’s doing just what I hoped he’d do. Veering off the trail he’s on over to another one that lets out at the edge of town. Being accustomed to making quick decisions in the field of battle, my Billy’s made his mind up to take Clever straight to the hospital himself. Atta boy.
Of course, the diversion shot got their attention, too. The sheriff’s pointing our way, waving to Deputy Jimmy Lee Boyd, who’s riding in front of him. The Boys are in the lead.
Peering through the scope again, I can see that the one Brandish-not the one that’s got only holes for a nose, the other one with the oozing skin craters-he’s tall in his stirrups and has his rifle up, too. We got a bead on each other. Until he slowly, slowly lowers his gun. Grins with his gums. Run, he mouths. Run.
Land of a Hundred Wonders
The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Following Directions:Paying close attention to directions given by others is important if an operative wishes to keep his relationships running smoothly. So me and Cooter and Keeper are doing just what Mr. Redmond AND the oozing Brandish Boy directed. We’re running. Smoothly as this overgrown back trail will allow, anyways. We’ll follow it past Miss Lydia’s, where it hairpins back to town. If all goes as planned, me and Cooter should show up at St. Mary’s Hospital just in time to sing, “Happy birthday to you, dear Rosie Adelaide.”
Riding single file down the hill, then beneath this canopy of trees that welcomes you to the beginning of it all, I can’t help but perceive that there’s something different about this light. It’s not falling in a careless way across the branch tips and creek water. No. The light here is humble, like it’s worshipping. Can’t blame it really.
Land of a Hundred Wonders Cemetery is surrounded by an iron-wrought fence with spear-point tops and a sign green with age. Especially during summer evenings, there’s almost always somebody doing rubbings here since we got some well-known graves, like the one belonging to Benis M. Frank. Born 1801, died 1801, a baby grave. Two stones down from Benis is where Miss Lydia does her nightly CRYING UPON, which is a sharing communionthat the living can do with the dead. Laying her body down on top of her dead boy’s mound, she weeps and weeps until the grass beneath is moist with her missing. I also perform CRYING UPON with her some nights. The two of us together, me holding her burned-up hand in mine, we get down on my mama’s grave and that makes me feel so regretful. I’ve let you down, Mama. I know now that I shoulda chose entering that public Scrabble tournament they hold on the first Sunday of every month over in Appleville to impress you with my Quite Rightness instead of the writing an awfully good story plan. Near as I can remember, you were fond of Billy. Ya don’t expect me to report to the whole town that he’s the one murdered Mr. Buster, do ya?
“No time for ruminatin’. We gotta keep movin’,” Cooter says, trotting past me.
This graveyard is where Grampa will be buried. I hope later rather than sooner. Right over there next to Gramma Kitty and Mama.
“Hey,” Cooter hollers back at me. "Y’ all right?”
I’m really not, but like Grampa always says, “Go ahead and cry… nobody’s listenin’.”
“We could use her phone to call over to the hospital. Ya think she’s home?” Cooter says, when I join back up with him. He’s trying to lighten the mood. Everybody knows Miss Lydia never sets foot off her property. She’s sworn to tend to the spirits day and night. “Cannot fall asleep at the wheel,” is what she’d tell ya.
“Man, the place looks a lot worse than the last time I was over here,” Cooter says, gingerly lifting his hurt leg over Dancer’s back and sliding down.
It’s true the shutters are half off the house. The paint back-bending. And a couple of the boards on the front porch are missing, but that’s only because Miss Lydia doesn’t care that much about what she calls “the Corporal,” which I have figured out has not a thing to do with the army, but means the outside of things. No. What she’s mostly concerned with is “the Private,” which means the inside of things.