homeschool kid.
Rat
or
Fluff
, or whatever he’s called.”
“Cotton?” Mack asked.
Sugar nodded. “Quick kid.”
“And Charlie said he’d see me later?”
Another nod from Sugar. “At the motel.”
Sweating, coughing, ash-dusted boys were straggling out of the field toward the cars. A few held small brown rabbits by the scruff while they kicked in the air.
Surge, grinning, cradled three thumping rabbits against his stomach with one arm. A hissing possum dangled by the tail from his other hand.
“Sheriff,” Mack said. “I’m sure I’ll see you later. Right now, I have some debts to settle. At least your missing-boy case is closed.” He pulled out his wallet and walked toward his players.
“Not sure it is,” Spitz said. He jerked his sun visor down into place. “He’s still missing, ain’t he? Maybe he’s my body snatcher. Weird enough kid.”
“Oh,” Hydrant said. He shook his head slowly and held up his right hand. “He weird all right. ’Bout bit off my pinkie finger few months back. Weird.”
Mack didn’t answer. As he handed out bills, rabbits were released at his feet—hopping over his shoes and even hiding under his car. But he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, searching for Charlie, trying to see whatever it was Charlie was seeing, whatever it was Charlie had already seen.
The harvesters shifted into gear and rumbled forward.
Charlie jogged along behind Cotton. The pace wasn’t hard, but his lungs still felt the heat of the burn, and smoke residue tickling at his throat made him want to double over and hack.
Cotton turned down another long dirt road beside yet another long, deep canal. Charlie turned after him and saw two gators slide quickly under the water.
“You hear about the church?” Cotton asked. He slowed and came even with Charlie.
Charlie sniffed and licked his lips with a dry tongue. He could manage a couple words between pounding strides.
“We were there.”
“No,” Cotton said. His breath was easy and even. But he hadn’t been in the smoke. Or maybe he had. “After. Big blood-map painted on the church. Cops think it’scraziness, but I know it’s a map. And a tree. Ironwood tree planted in Coach’s grave. That part
is
craziness.”
“How do you—” Charlie said.
“Know it’s a map?” Cotton finished. “ ’Cause I read.”
“Map of what?” Charlie got the question out before hacking.
“The mounds,” said Cotton. “I recognized the shapes from a book.” Cotton turned around and began running backward beside Charlie. “Last night, I went back for my bike. It was bent-up, so I just left it. That grave-robbing resurrection man was gone, couldn’t smell no stink monster anywhere, but blood was up on that white church in all those circles and crescents and lines and craziness and I was pretty sure I’d seen it before, and I even knew where I had. So I went and busted into the library.”
“What?” Charlie asked. He had been slowly accelerating, trying to get Cotton to turn back around.
Cotton grinned, turned, and fell into step beside Charlie.
“Break in all the time. Little purple building with a flat roof and a busted latch skylight just my size. Looks like a gas station outside but nice enough inside. Sleep there sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Coz,” Cotton laughed. “If you were running away from a stack of books, where you figure no one would ever look?”
Charlie smiled despite his burning lungs.
“Secret is,” Cotton said, “I ain’t never running from piles of books. I run from the books she be putting in the piles.” His eyebrows went up. “You ever hear of the Brontës?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Well, don’t,” Cotton said. “Ever.” Cotton slowed to a walk and then paused, getting his bearings. Charlie leaned over his knees.
Beyond his own breathing, he could hear … nothing. The fields were quiet. Looking back, he could see the smoke and distant circling birds. Forward, the scruff of swamp
Rat
or
Fluff
, or whatever he’s called.”
“Cotton?” Mack asked.
Sugar nodded. “Quick kid.”
“And Charlie said he’d see me later?”
Another nod from Sugar. “At the motel.”
Sweating, coughing, ash-dusted boys were straggling out of the field toward the cars. A few held small brown rabbits by the scruff while they kicked in the air.
Surge, grinning, cradled three thumping rabbits against his stomach with one arm. A hissing possum dangled by the tail from his other hand.
“Sheriff,” Mack said. “I’m sure I’ll see you later. Right now, I have some debts to settle. At least your missing-boy case is closed.” He pulled out his wallet and walked toward his players.
“Not sure it is,” Spitz said. He jerked his sun visor down into place. “He’s still missing, ain’t he? Maybe he’s my body snatcher. Weird enough kid.”
“Oh,” Hydrant said. He shook his head slowly and held up his right hand. “He weird all right. ’Bout bit off my pinkie finger few months back. Weird.”
Mack didn’t answer. As he handed out bills, rabbits were released at his feet—hopping over his shoes and even hiding under his car. But he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, searching for Charlie, trying to see whatever it was Charlie was seeing, whatever it was Charlie had already seen.
The harvesters shifted into gear and rumbled forward.
Charlie jogged along behind Cotton. The pace wasn’t hard, but his lungs still felt the heat of the burn, and smoke residue tickling at his throat made him want to double over and hack.
Cotton turned down another long dirt road beside yet another long, deep canal. Charlie turned after him and saw two gators slide quickly under the water.
“You hear about the church?” Cotton asked. He slowed and came even with Charlie.
Charlie sniffed and licked his lips with a dry tongue. He could manage a couple words between pounding strides.
“We were there.”
“No,” Cotton said. His breath was easy and even. But he hadn’t been in the smoke. Or maybe he had. “After. Big blood-map painted on the church. Cops think it’scraziness, but I know it’s a map. And a tree. Ironwood tree planted in Coach’s grave. That part
is
craziness.”
“How do you—” Charlie said.
“Know it’s a map?” Cotton finished. “ ’Cause I read.”
“Map of what?” Charlie got the question out before hacking.
“The mounds,” said Cotton. “I recognized the shapes from a book.” Cotton turned around and began running backward beside Charlie. “Last night, I went back for my bike. It was bent-up, so I just left it. That grave-robbing resurrection man was gone, couldn’t smell no stink monster anywhere, but blood was up on that white church in all those circles and crescents and lines and craziness and I was pretty sure I’d seen it before, and I even knew where I had. So I went and busted into the library.”
“What?” Charlie asked. He had been slowly accelerating, trying to get Cotton to turn back around.
Cotton grinned, turned, and fell into step beside Charlie.
“Break in all the time. Little purple building with a flat roof and a busted latch skylight just my size. Looks like a gas station outside but nice enough inside. Sleep there sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Coz,” Cotton laughed. “If you were running away from a stack of books, where you figure no one would ever look?”
Charlie smiled despite his burning lungs.
“Secret is,” Cotton said, “I ain’t never running from piles of books. I run from the books she be putting in the piles.” His eyebrows went up. “You ever hear of the Brontës?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Well, don’t,” Cotton said. “Ever.” Cotton slowed to a walk and then paused, getting his bearings. Charlie leaned over his knees.
Beyond his own breathing, he could hear … nothing. The fields were quiet. Looking back, he could see the smoke and distant circling birds. Forward, the scruff of swamp
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