"Good," Hammet said. "By the way, we was wondering if we could sleep on your floor the rest of tonight. Baby's got snuffles, and Sukie don't look all that good, neither. If either of them commences to crying, we can stick 'em outside to shush 'em real fast. We won't bother you hardly at all."
David Allen realized his jaw was going up and down but he wasn't making any noise-that he could hear, anyway. Hammet gave him a grin, then went back to the living room and turned on the radio receiver. By the time David Allen numbly followed, Hammet was explaining how Mr. Macaroni had also rigged up this here box where you could find rockets what prematurely crashed in the woods. Course it weren't as good as the ones you used to talk to foreigners in their houses, even if you didn't know what they was saying. For David Allen, the scariest thing was that it almost made sense.
The moon came out about the time I reached my reserved parking space on the back side of the ridge. I took the little package of carob chip cookies that Rainbow had pressed on me, threw a few branches over the jeep, grabbed my flashlight, and trudged up to my campsite, yawning so hard my eyes watered and my jaw felt like it might pop out of its sockets. There was no indication I'd been visited by raccoons, bears, skunks, or anything else that might merit concern. Filled with gratitude for that small blessing, I crawled into the tent and secured the flap. My sleeping bag was damp, and my beeper cut into my side as I wiggled around to find a tolerable position, but I was too tired to do more than unclip the damn thing and lob it across the canvas floor.
As I drifted asleep, I did wonder why Ruby Bee and Mrs. Jim Bob had ceased their relentless campaign to speak to me via LaBelle. I must have wasted a good ten seconds on that one.
Madam Celeste stared into the blackness of her bedroom, unable to dismiss the face. The death mask. The wide, unblinking eyes. The flies on the clotted blood. The open mouth. The terror. For the first time in twenty years she longed to be Sarah Lou Dickerson, a gawky, knock-kneed, grimy girl in a faded dress donated by the righteous church dogooders. Living in a miserable trailer on a rocky patch of mountainside. Being whipped on a regular basis by her pa, when he wasn't doing other nasty things to her. Watching her ma get older and grayer, until she looked worse than the wash on the line.
Grinolli had saved fifteen-year-old Sarah Lou from that, but he'd turned out to be worse than her pa and she'd had enough sense to exit with the first truck driver who'd stopped at the crossroads. Vizzard had been the savior. Although he'd been forty-five years older, he'd been rich and kind-as long as she serviced him (and at his age, it wasn't exactly a daily chore like milking cows; it was more like churning butter once a week). He'd taught her to read and write, and introduced her to a woman who'd understood how Sarah Lou kept seeing things that weren't there and having scary dreams that came true.
She'd been right sad when she'd had the dream about Vizzard choking on the chicken wing, but she knew she couldn't alter the future, so she cooked what she had to cook and served what she had to serve. Despite having the ambulance number handy, she'd found herself a widow with a reasonable inheritance. She'd used it for what she called her junior year abroad, although the studies took place in dim parlors rather than in snooty art museums. Vizzard had been worth the trouble.
But now, haunted by the face that would not go away, she wondered how she would have made out with Grinolli in the dreary apartment above the body shop, or with Vizzard if she'd risked cosmic displeasure and insisted on tuna casserole for dinner. Or if she'd allowed Mason to talk her into trying Atlantic City. Mason did seem to enjoy the bright lights, but they both knew he would go wherever she told him to go. Purse strings were longer than apron strings.
They'd ended up in Maggody, which bore a strong resemblance to Hickory Ridge and all its narrow-minded shabbiness. And as she stared at the ceiling, she figured she knew why. Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard had no theories, but Madam Celeste ("World-Renowned Psychic as Seen on the Stages of Europe") had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. The shadow on the ceiling bore a passing resemblance to a chicken wing. There wasn't anyone to consider serving tuna casserole this time.
13
Imagine, if you will, the gossamer rays of pink and orange streaming from the eastern horizon as the sun begins its journey across the sky, lavender now but soon to change to a delicate clear blue. The early birds hop from leaf to leaf, trilling bright little songs of optimism and goodwill, of promised sunlight, of rebirth. Squirrels scamper about on the branches. Raindrops sparkle like rubies and sapphires as the morning light catches them. Idyllic, no?
Now we must mar the bucolic beauty by the addition of one tired, rumpled woman. Her hair has been pinned up without the benefit of a mirror, and her clothes are wrinkled and somewhat dirty. Her face has not enjoyed the improvement of lipstick or mascara. Her shoes are muddy. Yes, it is the upholder of law and order in a small Arkansas hamlet, a police officer dedicated to the apprehension of a vile murderer at any personal sacrifice, the defender of the faith, all that. She is standing by a clearing, her hands curled into fists and her face frozen in a decidedly unattractive expression of disbelief, horror, and outrage (to list only a few). She is so angry that her body quivers like a plucked violin string. Her eyes are dry from the unblinking stare. Her mouth is slightly agape, but her lips do not move despite the little noises that emanate from deep within her. At last we hear two words.
"Holy shit."
This is said not in a loud voice, but in a coarse whisper. The fact that the words are intelligible is to be both noted and commended, because the woman has been incoherent for several minutes. As well we all would be…
…because they had chopped the marijuana plants. The clearing was nothing but rows of stubble. The sons of bitches had come during the brief time I was gone, and they had stolen their plants. Not exactly from under my nose, since my nose had been occupied with the delivery of a baby. But pretty damn close.
I sank down and leaned against a tree, ignoring the immediate sensation of cold wetness that engulfed my rear end. It could not be. I'd been on the stakeout since Friday night, expecting, or at least hoping for, some activity either Saturday or Sunday. But during daylight, for Pete's sake! They had to be escapees from a loony bin to drive up the trail in the dark. Kevin and Dahlia hadn't made it in full sunlight; I'd survived only because I had a sturdy four-wheel jeep and enough sense to creep so slowly I could have been lapped by a snail.
And then there was the sheer coincidence-which was too much. I'd waited around for twenty-four hours, vigilant and alert and all that professional stuff. Had they so much as driven halfway up the trail, I'd have been ready for them. Had a foot snapped a twig, I'd have had my camera focused. But no one had appeared. I'd waited until dark and gone into town for maybe nine hours total. The sons of bitches had come and gone during those nine hours. Not a minute too early, not a minute too late. Just as though I were an airplane and they were air-traffic controllers watching my blip on a radar screen. And I'd gone blip, blip, blip down the road and all the way home.
I dragged myself to my feet and went over to the trail. I could see the water-filled ruts their vehicle had left. The tracks from my vehicle ran over theirs, however, so it was clear that they'd come while I was gone. There were two sets of footprints, but no one had dropped a calling card. I glared at the trail and ground my teeth for a long while, then went back to the cleared clearing and ground my teeth some more. I said some things that scorched little tufted ears. I went all around the perimeter to search for evidence, then methodically examined every inch of stubbly ground. On my hands and knees.