“Dewayne and Eugene Loach happened.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“I do.”
"It ain't that easy, Boone."
"Being right never is."
“Ready,” Cedar said when she returned.
I walked her out to the car and kissed her goodnight. When she was out of the driveway, I’d get in my truck and follow her home. Lamar was right about being safe, but Cedar wouldn’t like me white knighting her.
“Before I go,” she said, “remember we’re meeting with Dr. K tomorrow. Time to put the final touches on my Olympiad project.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Doesn’t matter what day it is.” She gave a kiss on the cheek. “You made a promise, and you’re sticking to it.”
6
It was well after dark when Cedar turned down her driveway. I pulled onto the shoulder until she went inside, and the porch light came on.
Ten seconds later, my cell rang.
“Hey, Cedar. I was just think—“
“I’m safe. You can go home now.”
“What are you—?”
“Don’t play dumb. The headlights of a ’72 Ford truck are distinct. Plus your left lamp is dimmer than the right. You should get that checked.”
“Hope you’re not mad.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. “But it’s nice knowing you care.”
“I do. A lot.”
“Get some sleep. Big day of data collection tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The porch light went out.
I dialed Abner and got voicemail. “Hey Doc, Boone. Need to reschedule our thing tomorrow. Call me back.”
I pulled onto Highway Twelve and pushed the speedometer to sixty-five. There were no streetlights in this part of the county, which was still farmland due to frequent flooding, making the night even darker.
It was so dark that I missed seeing a huge branch in the middle of the lane.
Whump!
The branch slammed against the undercarriage, and there was a metallic clank, followed by a clacking noise. On the dash, the oil pressure needle dropped like the second hand on a watch.
“Don’t do this to me, girl.”
I pulled back on the highway toward Galax, praying some place would still be open. By my estimate, the truck had less than a quart of oil left. I wasn’t going to win the race. Then I remembered a small store on the left somewhere ahead. After four years in the Navy, my bearings were off, so I wasn’t sure if the store was just around the corner or miles away.
After cresting a hill, I stuck the transmission in neutral and shut the engine off to keep it from seizing. I rolled through a stop sign without stopping and rounded a bend.
A light shone ahead above a small, hand lettered sign.
“Yes!”
I guided the wounded truck into the store’s gravel lot. After parking, I opened the hood to let light in and the peered underneath the engine. The branch had punctured the line, and oil was dripping from the hole.
Nothing a little duct tape couldn’t fix.
Entering the store was like stepping into a time capsule: It was crowded with an assortment of dry goods, hunting supplies, hardware, clothes, cleaning supplies, and groceries. They had the usual bread and milk, along with a cooler in the corner and a display of cigarettes behind the cashier.
A cardboard sign was taped to the register: No Spanish Spoke Here, Amigo.
The guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.
He didn’t have a care in the world, until I walked over.
“Nice sign,” I said.
“It serves its purpose.”
“Need some oil. I’ve got a leak.”
“Ain’t got none.” He licked his fingers and turned the page. “You’d have to ask Red.”
“Who’s Red?”
“My cousin.”
“Where is he?”
“Ain’t here right now.”
“I noticed.”
I picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display shelf and set them next to the register. Then added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.
“Can’t sell you no oil.” The clerk said picked the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. “Red won’t let me take no money.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”
I dropped the card on the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out my last name.
“Red!” The clerk disappeared behind a dingy curtain. “We got trouble!”
I heard voices, and when the curtain opened again, Eugene Loach and the twins stepped out. They weren’t tall men, but they were put together like potbelly stoves, barrel chested with forearms the size and density of cast iron pipe. They all red T-shirts with the rebel flag and the slogan, “Heritage, Not Hate.”
Considering the sign on the register, I found it hard to believe that heritage was their motivation.
“We’re closed,” Eugene said.
“I need motor oil. I’ve got a hole in my line.”
“We’re all out.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “‘Cause I put five quarts on the counter. Seems like you’ve got something against me, and I don’t even speak Spanish.”
Eugene cracked his neck. “I think it’s the other way around, Possum.”
“Why? I’m not Mexican, am I?”
Eugene motioned for the clerk to ring up the order. “Sell him the oil. Cash only. Debit cards are just another way for banks to stick it to the working man.”
The clerk did as he was told.
“My brother was right about you,” Eugene said. “You’re too nosy for your own good. Now get off my property and don’t ever come back.”
“No problem.” I backed outside with my purchase. “One question: You guys don’t speak Spanish. How do you feel about Japanese?”
Eugene slammed the door in my face, threw the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to closed.
It took a few minutes for me to duct tape the leak and refill the oil, but the repair was a success. I started the engine. The oil gauge drifted to full and stayed there.
I was pulling the door shut when I noticed a red minivan parked beside the store. The license plate was in the shadows, so I unclipped my keychain light and crept over to the rear bumper. This, I was sure, was the same van used during the attack on Luigi. If only he would press charges, Hoyt could send the whole crew to jail.
Get over it, I told myself. Luigi wasn’t going to press charges, and Hoyt would need more than a license plate number to get a conviction.
My cell rang with Abner's number. “Hey Doc, I just left a message on your home number about tomorrow."
“Ain’t there. I’m in Winston. On the way to meet with the hyphenated lady.”
“You mean Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith.”
“The one and the same. Hoyt had the body sent to her for identification, and I offered to lend a hand. Meet me there.”
“Where is there?”
“Basement of McClain Hall. Get here as quick as you can.”
“Winston’s an hour from here,” I said. "And I've got an oil leak."
“Better drive fast then, or you’ll miss all the fun.”
7
I drove fast.
Fifty-two minutes after patching the oil line, my truck reached McClain Hall on the campus of Carolina Tech. I drove around the service entrance. Abner’s car was parked beside a SUV with a faculty sticker.
“Dr. Windsor-Smith, I presume.”
I locked up and noticed a light in the basement windows. That would be the forensic anthropology lab. It had belonged to Abner before he retired. The dean gave it to the Hyphenated Lady, as Doc called her. Despite the circumstances, there were no hard feelings between the two of them.