have bought in quart jars. Short one was Boots, for the zip-up imported footwear always polished to a high shine. Light reflected off Greaser’s hair or Boots’s boots could blind you.
Boots had Mr. Ditch Witch, Greaser had Hedge Man. They’d persuaded them to lay down the appliances and were bringing them together as we arrived. Close-up disputes like that, it’s always a kind of square dance, swing them apart, bring them together, open it up again. As we climbed out of the car, the two had just shaken hands and were talking. Next thing we knew, they’d grabbed up a garden hoe and a leaf rake and were going after one another again, Robin and Little John with quarterstaffs on that narrow bridge. Should have been on riding mowers, galloping towards one another, lances at ready.
Randy looked across the top of the car shaking his head and said he knew all along it was gonna be one of those days. About that time the hoe caught Greaser hard on the side of the head. He’d moved in to intercede, baton high to protect himself, then half-turned to check on the other guy’s position. Went down like a burnt match.
“You see that?” Randy said later. “Hair didn’t move at all. What is that shit he puts on it?”
The citizen let the blade of the hoe fall to the ground, handle in his hand. Jesus, what had he done. But the one with the rake was still charging toward him, teeth aloft like a giant bird claw. Then his left foot stepped over a garden hose, we saw Boots run between them, suddenly Boots was behind the guy, still had hold of the hose, now he was pulling it tight—and the guy slammed to the ground.
Randy stood shaking his head. “Sure hope he don’t aim to hog-tie him, too.”
“I’ll call it in,” I said.
Doctors stitched it as best they could, but the hoe had opened it up even better, and Greaser wound up with a scar that ran an inch and a half or so down his forehead over the left eye. He took to pasting a lock of hair in place over it.
“Missiles take out civilization as we know it,” Randy said, “that hair of his’ll still be perfect.”
Chapter Thirteen
WEDNESDAY HAD GONE BY, that was the day Bates came and collected me and the night I stayed at Val’s, then Thursday, when I’d interviewed the two kids and Doc Oldham. Now it was Friday. I’d slept on the office couch, awake at 10:35, 11:13, 2:09, 3:30, 5:18, 6:10. (Ah, the digital life. Never any doubt where you stand.) From time to time the radio crackled. The faucet in the bathroom had an on-again, off-again drip. Now someone was hammering boards in place over the windows.
No, someone’s knocking at the door. And Don Lee is heading that way. Coffee burps and burbles in the maker, aroma spreading insidiously through the room like an oil spill. I’m fascinated by the fact that the door to the sheriff’s office is locked. One of those weird things in life that seems to be the setup for a punch line you never quite get to.
A woman came in as I struggled up from the couch. She wore a tailored, narrow-waisted business suit the like of which don’t seem to be around much anymore. The suit was green. So were her eyes. They went from Don Lee to me and back. Obviously she wondered if I shouldn’t be in one of the cells, instead of out here.
“Sheriff Bates?”
Behind her soft urban lilt was a hill-country accent, East Virginia maybe. Getting along in years, and it hadn’t stuck its head up to look around for a time, but it was still there. Don Lee said who he was and asked if he could help her.
“Sarah Hazelwood.” She held out her hand to shake his, not something you saw a lot with women in this part of the country even now. “From St. Louis.”
“Not originally, though,” I put in. God knows why I’d escaped the couch’s hold by then. Her eyes met mine at a level. That was a harder hold.
“We’re from where we choose to be. And what we choose to be.”
Turning back to Don Lee, she went on.
“I’m looking for my brother.
Boots had Mr. Ditch Witch, Greaser had Hedge Man. They’d persuaded them to lay down the appliances and were bringing them together as we arrived. Close-up disputes like that, it’s always a kind of square dance, swing them apart, bring them together, open it up again. As we climbed out of the car, the two had just shaken hands and were talking. Next thing we knew, they’d grabbed up a garden hoe and a leaf rake and were going after one another again, Robin and Little John with quarterstaffs on that narrow bridge. Should have been on riding mowers, galloping towards one another, lances at ready.
Randy looked across the top of the car shaking his head and said he knew all along it was gonna be one of those days. About that time the hoe caught Greaser hard on the side of the head. He’d moved in to intercede, baton high to protect himself, then half-turned to check on the other guy’s position. Went down like a burnt match.
“You see that?” Randy said later. “Hair didn’t move at all. What is that shit he puts on it?”
The citizen let the blade of the hoe fall to the ground, handle in his hand. Jesus, what had he done. But the one with the rake was still charging toward him, teeth aloft like a giant bird claw. Then his left foot stepped over a garden hose, we saw Boots run between them, suddenly Boots was behind the guy, still had hold of the hose, now he was pulling it tight—and the guy slammed to the ground.
Randy stood shaking his head. “Sure hope he don’t aim to hog-tie him, too.”
“I’ll call it in,” I said.
Doctors stitched it as best they could, but the hoe had opened it up even better, and Greaser wound up with a scar that ran an inch and a half or so down his forehead over the left eye. He took to pasting a lock of hair in place over it.
“Missiles take out civilization as we know it,” Randy said, “that hair of his’ll still be perfect.”
Chapter Thirteen
WEDNESDAY HAD GONE BY, that was the day Bates came and collected me and the night I stayed at Val’s, then Thursday, when I’d interviewed the two kids and Doc Oldham. Now it was Friday. I’d slept on the office couch, awake at 10:35, 11:13, 2:09, 3:30, 5:18, 6:10. (Ah, the digital life. Never any doubt where you stand.) From time to time the radio crackled. The faucet in the bathroom had an on-again, off-again drip. Now someone was hammering boards in place over the windows.
No, someone’s knocking at the door. And Don Lee is heading that way. Coffee burps and burbles in the maker, aroma spreading insidiously through the room like an oil spill. I’m fascinated by the fact that the door to the sheriff’s office is locked. One of those weird things in life that seems to be the setup for a punch line you never quite get to.
A woman came in as I struggled up from the couch. She wore a tailored, narrow-waisted business suit the like of which don’t seem to be around much anymore. The suit was green. So were her eyes. They went from Don Lee to me and back. Obviously she wondered if I shouldn’t be in one of the cells, instead of out here.
“Sheriff Bates?”
Behind her soft urban lilt was a hill-country accent, East Virginia maybe. Getting along in years, and it hadn’t stuck its head up to look around for a time, but it was still there. Don Lee said who he was and asked if he could help her.
“Sarah Hazelwood.” She held out her hand to shake his, not something you saw a lot with women in this part of the country even now. “From St. Louis.”
“Not originally, though,” I put in. God knows why I’d escaped the couch’s hold by then. Her eyes met mine at a level. That was a harder hold.
“We’re from where we choose to be. And what we choose to be.”
Turning back to Don Lee, she went on.
“I’m looking for my brother.
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