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.
After I finished not finding so much as a turtle dropping, I thought of some more things to say, some of them about my night visitors and some about my dereliction and its resultant disaster. Some about my avowal to the sheriff that I'd catch the sons of bitches who had murdered Robin Buchanon with their lethal toy. Harve had taken a risk by allowing me to stake out the marijuana patch without any backup. We both knew what the standard procedure was, but I'd been so damned eloquent and sincere and charming that he'd let me do it.
I'd blown it. I went to my campsite, made another cup of instant coffee, and gulped it down. It was so hot, it scalded my tongue and brought tears to my eyes. That's what I told myself, anyway, as I angrily rubbed my cheeks.
"Hallelujah, it's getting light," Ruby Bee said as she looked through the window. The yard was disgraceful, all scratch dirt and weeds, but the woods beyond looked right pretty in the fresh sunlight.
Estelle twisted in the rocking chair so she could see the window. "Well, it's about time. I don't know when I've spent such a miserable night. I hate to think how many splinters I have in places I don't care to mention. We would have been a sight more comfortable in the station wagon. I could have taken the front seat, and you could have stretched out in the back."
"While freezing to death, I suppose. I told you to go lie down in the bedroom. You're the one who got all nervous and insisted we both sleep in chairs by the stove."
"I didn't think the bed looked hygienic," Estelle countered, "and it was real crude of you to insinuate until all hours of the night that I believe in ghosts. I am not some hysterical widow woman; I merely have standards. The quilt on that bed is dingier than unbleached underwear. You never know what kind of diseases Robin carried, along with bugs and lice. I simply mentioned that the chairs were apt to be cleaner. Of course my station wagon is always clean." Ruby Bee thought of all kinds of things to say, including references to the undeniable truth that Estelle snored louder than a tractor on an incline, and the likelihood that the station wagon had been destroyed by bears by now. Instead, she went over to the table and tapped the Bible. "Then we wouldn't have found this. It was the reason we came here, wasn't it? How would you have felt if we'd slunk back to town empty-handed, with Arly waiting to ask how Baby's doing?"