The shade at the bottom of the hills was a relief, but Duane was sweating freely under his plaid flannel shirt by the time he climbed the grade to the Black Tree Tavern. There were a few cars there already. His dad's pickup wasn't one of them, but Duane guessed that the "breakfast" had already moved from the Parkside Cafe to Carl's Tavern in town.
The overcast began to break up by the time the boy and dog had turned west on Jubilee College Road, and the distant water tower shimmered in heat waves. Duane glanced at the fields of corn on either side, comparing their growth to the fields at his own farm-these were a few inches taller-and checking out the yellow signs along the barbed-wire fence to see what the brand and hybrids were. The sunlight was a solid thing now, heavy on his face and shoulders, and Duane cursed himself for forgetting his cap. Witt poked along, occasionally sniffing out an interesting scent trail and careening off blindly into the dust-covered weeds in the ditch alongside the road. The fence would usually stop his investigations and the collie would come limping back to where Duane waited patiently. Duane was less than a quarter of a mile from the water tower and the turn in the road into town when the truck came. He smelled it almost as soon as he heard it; it had to be the Rendering Truck. Witt raised his head, blindly trying to find the source of the scent and noise, and Duane caught him by the collar and pulled him over to the side of the gravel road. Duane hated it when trucks passed while he was walking here; the grit stayed in his eyes and mouth and hair for hours. If too many vehicles passed him, he might even have to take a bath one of these days.
Standing at the edge of the weeds, Duane noticed how fast the truck was coming. It had to be the Rendering Truck-how many trucks were there around here with peeling red paint on the cab and the high slats behind? The windshield was a mirror of sky glare. The thing was not only roaring along at fifty or sixty miles per hour, it wasn't moving to the center or left of the road as most vehicles would. Duane thought of flying gravel and he pulled Witt farther back, onto the verge of the shallow ditch itself.
The truck roared right, whipping weeds under its massive bumper and heading straight for Duane and the dog at fifty miles per hour.
Duane didn't take time to think. He bent, lifted Witt in a single motion, and leaped across the low ditch, almost colliding with the barbed-wire fence. He barely managed to hold on to the panicked and wiggling collie as the truck missed them by three feet, throwing dust, stubble, gravel, and junk from the side of the road into the air around them.
Duane could see the corpses of several cows, a horse, two hogs, and what looked to be a pale dog in the back as the Rendering Truck swerved back onto the gravel road and continued on in a cloud of dust.
"You son of a bitch!" he shouted, stepping out onto the gravel but still holding the terrified old dog in his arms. His hands were occupied, he couldn't shake a fist, so Duane spat after the truck. The gob of saliva was dust-colored.
The truck reached the water tower and turned left, the squealing of tires quite audible as it hit the asphalt there.
"Stupid bastard," muttered Duane. He almost never cursed, but he felt the need now. "Cretinous cowturd motherfucker." Witt was whining and wiggling in his arms, and Duane suddenly realized how heavy the old dog was and how hard Witt's heart was pounding. He could feel the throbs against his forearms. He stepped out onto the packed ruts in the road, set Witt down, and calmed him with long, slow strokes and gentle words.
"It's all right, Witt. It's OK, old friend," he crooned. "That dumb old stupid piss-ant preliterate asshole of a simple-minded custodian didn't hurt us, did he? No." The soothing tones were calming the dog, but his pulse was still visible against his ribs.
Actually, Duane hadn't seen Van Syke at the wheel-he was too busy lifting Witt and backing into barbed wire to check in the cab as the truck roared by-but he had no doubt that the crazy custodian-cum-dead-varmint collector was at the wheel. Well, everybody would know about this soon enough. It was one thing to scare a bunch of kids by dropping a dead monkey in the creek; it was something else to try to kill one of those kids.
Duane suddenly realized that Van Syke-or whoever it was-had tried to kill him. It hadn't been a prank. It hadn't been some sort of insane warning. The truck had aimed at them, and only the vehicle's speed and the certainty of turning over after hitting the low ditch at that speed had kept the driver from moving over the required thirty-six inches to get them. Somebody would've come along and found my body in the weeds, thought Duane. And Witt's. They'd never have known who did it. Just some careless kid and a hit-and-run driver. Duane remembered the barbed wire and felt his back. His hand came away red with blood. Worse than that, there were two large rips in his shirt that he would have to sew up.
Duane continued to pet Witt, but now the boy was shaking worse than the dog had been. With his free hand, Duane dug in his pocket, found a biscuit for Witt, and then got out the candy bar for himself.
The Rendering Truck roared around the corner by the water tower.
Duane stood and stared, the chunk of Butterfingers un-chewed in his mouth. It was the Rendering Truck; he could clearly see the red cab and massive bumper ahead of the cloud of dust. It was going slower now, but was still traveling at least thirty miles per hour. Fast enough to turn Witt and him into instant roadkill when one considered the three tons above those wheels.
"Oh, shit," Duane whispered reverently. Witt whimpered and pulled at Duane's grip on his collar.
Duane dragged the dog to the left side of the road as if headed for the fields on the south side. The ditch was weed-filled but very low there, almost flat. No hindrance to a vehicle.
The Rendering Truck swerved right, filling Duane's side of the road. It had covered half the distance now and Duane could make out the silhouette of a driver in the cab. The man was tall but hunched forward, intent on driving ... on aiming.
Duane grabbed Witt's collar and dragged the panicked collie across the road-his forelegs were locked and straight, gravel slid beneath his paws-and tugged him into the ditch. The Rendering Truck cut left, coming off the road, bouncing across the ditch until its left wheels were almost scraping the fence. Weeds whipped under the front bumper and the dust cloud filled the air.
Duane glanced over his shoulder, hoping without hope that another car would come the other way, that some adult would intervene . . . that he would wake up.
The truck was less than a hundred feet away and seemed to be accelerating.
Duane realized that he couldn't get back across the road in time with Witt, and even if he could, the truck could get them while he was trying to climb the fence there.
Wittgenstein barked and jerked, snapping at Duane's wrist in his frenzy. For a fraction of a second, Duane considered letting the collie go-letting him fend for himself-but then he realized that Witt wouldn't have a chance. Even in the adrenaline of panic, the old dog's joints were too stiff, his eyesight too poor.
The truck was twenty yards away and closing. Its left front wheel struck a rotted fence post and snapped it out of the ground. The wire fence hummed like a shattered harp.
Duane bent, lifted Witt, and in one smooth move threw the dog as far over the fence and into the field as he could. Witt landed three rows of corn in, slid on his side, and scrambled to get his feet under him.
Duane had no more time to watch. He grabbed a skinny wooden post and heaved himself up. The entire fence wobbled and sagged. Barbed wire cut into Duane's left hand. His foot was too big for the square of wire he'd stuck it in and his sneaker was stuck.