With her question, a vague idea was born in his mind that he might be able to turn the incident to his advantage. Abandoning the child, simply walking away on her was out of the question; he might have done it if she were older and a boy — if she were her brother Lee, for instance. But he couldn't leave her there in the deserted car. He realized that it could be many tedious weeks, perhaps even bitter months before he could work his way back to the Gulf coast — and there always remained the danger of starving or freezing before reaching it. On the other hand if he stayed in the North, stayed here, there was the very real possibility that he could talk his way into a warm and comfortable house for the winter — with food on the table three times a day. He just might be able to use Sandy, and the body of her brother, as his entrance into that farmhouse.
It was well worth trying. He sat up.
“The first thing to do,” he said to the girl, “is to go back and get Lee. Then we'll find your house.”
“But I don't know where he is!” she wailed.
He put out a hand to ruffle the stockingcap pulled down over her hair. “Aw, that'll be easy for me. All we have to do is follow your backtrail. Say — I'll bet you didn't know I was a scout in the army!”
She gazed at him, round-eyed. “Was you really?”
“Yep. Used to track Germans all over the place.”
“Japs too?”
He smiled at her and nodded. “Japs, too. I tracked them all. Let's be moving along now — your dad will be worrying about you.” He opened the door on the opposite side of the car away from the two bodies and helped her out, to lead the way along the erratic, running trail she had left.
The small patch of woods in which she had hidden were not too far distant nor difficult to find. He didn't waste time in trying to follow her wandering footsteps through the woods, but instead began an encircling motion designed to carry him in a complete arc around the trees. A quarter of a mile from where he began, he located the trampled snow where the girl and her two pursuers had entered the woods. Standing there, sighting across the snow, he saw the body as a patch of dark clothing against the white.
“You wait right here,” he told Sandy. “I'll get Lee.”
She leaned against a cold tree and watched him go.
A part of Lee Hoffman's body had been stripped bare and the flesh cut away. Gary paused for long minutes, staring down at it, gripping his lower lips between his teeth. In an absent sort of way he had speculated on this, had foreseen it if the quarantine lasted long enough and the contaminated survivors grew hungry enough. There had been authenticated reports of it happening among marooned Japanese soldiers during the last war — when the food gave out, the prisoners suffered if there were any, and if not, then one of the soldiers became the unwilling victim. The strongest and the most unprincipled will stay alive in some way, even when that way is winnowed down to cannibalism.
Sooner or later, Gary reflected bitterly, it had to happen east of the Mississippi. Thanks to the damned army and their quarantine, their river patrols. And now here it was.
He stooped low over the body of the boy and wrapped it in clothing, covering it completely so that the girl would see nothing amiss. Hoisting the body over one shoulder and swinging the shotgun in his free hand, he turned and called to Sandy She came running
“Is he… is he dead?”
“Yes. Let's take him back home now.”
Her lips quivered and he saw that she had been crying while she waited for him. “I'm lost… I don't know where it is.”
“Now stop that stuff! Didn't I tell you I was a scout? A first-class scout?”
“Yes…”
“All right then, Sandy, just trust me. Does your farm have any big barns? A tall silo, maybe? Something we could recognize from a distance?”
“Sure, we got them.” She tried to keep her eyes from the burden on his shoulder.
“Then here's what we'll do: see that hill over there, the high one with the two pine trees? Let's climb up there and look for your place — you can shinny up the tree to see better. Okay?”
“Okay.” She fell in behind him, eyes downcast.
Gary completed his plan of action as he walked. When they neared her home, he would send the girl in ahead of him with the news. She was better than a white flag, she and the body across his shoulder, and he would not be shot before he had the opportunity to speak his piece. The farmer, no matter how hostile, would hold off a few minutes on the strength of the girl and the body of his son. After all — what could be more disarming, more sincere than an utter stranger bringing the two children home? Gary smiled to himself.
“Just stop right there,” Hoffman ordered coldly.
Gary waited without answering. The man stood at the gate to his yard, an old shotgun in his hands. Behind him in the open doorway of the farmhouse Gary glimpsed the farmer's wife, Sandy, and a smaller boy. Fright coupled with alarm was on the woman's face; she didn't look at the newcomer but at the boy's body across his shoulder.
“Put the boy down,” Hoffman said. “And your gun.”
Gary did as he was told, and backed away a few paces.
Hoffman was a middle-aged man, red of face and weather-beaten from his profession. His eyes were clear and sharp, cautious and distrustful. He approached the body and sank to his knees, keeping the gun on Gary.
“Be careful,” Gary said then. “Something happened to the boy.”
Hoffman shot him an angry glance. “What do you mean?”
“I didn't find the boy until it was too late — until the little girl led me back to him. You'll see what I mean when you unwrap him — but be careful! Don't let your wife see it.”
Puzzled but still brimming with anger, the farmer shifted his position to block the view from the doorway and reached out a quivering hand to pull away the coat from the body. He stared at his son's lifeless face and then slowly let his eyes drift along the body.
“God Almighty!” His head jerked up to ask a question but when his lips formed the words no sound came. He knew the answer. Finally—“Who did this?”
“A couple of no-good bastards,” Gary told him without emotion. “They were after the girl when I caught them.”
Tears had formed in the man's eyes. “So help me God, when I get my hands on them…!”
“There's nothing you can do to them now, except spit. I said I caught them.”
“You…?”
Gary pointed to his automatic. “That.”
The farmer stared at him without really seeing him, and then carefully wrapped the clothing about the body and picked it up. “Bring the guns,” he said to Gary and turned his back. “Come on up to the house.”
Gary followed him in.
Hoffman carried the body into an inner bedroom, the entire family trailing after. Left alone, Gary looked about the room in which he found himself and sat down, remembering to take off his ragged cap. It seemed to be a combination living room and dining room, opening directly off the kitchen. Something was cooking on the kitchen stove, something that bubbled and hissed, carrying to him a taunting odor that excited his hunger and caused the saliva to flow in his mouth. He held himself in the chair with difficulty, his eyes attempting to see the stove and the kettle around a corner. The room was comfortable and warm and he thought it had been years since he had known anything like it; there was a rocking chair and a long leather couch at the far end, three or four other chairs scattered about and some ancient magazines piled on the floor. From behind a closed door came the sounds of grief.
He pulled his eyes away from the kitchen doorway and tried to shut off the smell of cooking. The wallpaper around him was old and creased with yellow lines, yet it did not detract from the comfort and ease the room suggested. In the center of the floor stood a heavy oaken table from which the family took their meals, and the faded oilcloth covering it contained hardened, dried spots of spilled food. The little girl's doll lay on the table. Gary looked across the doll and discovered the radio.