hand, over to the edge of the floor where the dilapidated wooden paddle wheel had almost completely rotted away.
“She must have been so frightened,” said Gayle, looking around the ruins.
“No,” I said. At least I could add that much. “She never knew she was here, honey.”
I repeated what Scotty Underhill had told me about Janie’s head wound, though not his theory that she’d been put down like a sick and dying animal.
“As far as your mother was concerned, it was all over immediately. Her brain was so damaged that she can’t have known a thing after the moment she was first injured.”
From across the wide loft, Michael said, “So even if she hadn’t been shot, she would have died?”
“Not necessarily. And maybe not very soon. Modern medicine, and all that,” I reminded him. “But she would have been a vegetable.”
Gayle flinched at the thought.
“Yes,” Michael agreed. “There are some things worse than-”
Ka-pingg!
Suddenly the wall above his head seemed to explode, sending sharp chips of stone flying every which way. A split second later we heard the actual crack of a rifle.
Michael’s hand flew up to his face and came away bloody just as a second bullet hit the tin roof with an explosive clatter.
Instinctively, we all ducked down behind what was left of the wall.
“Hey! Hold your fire!” roared Michael. “There’re people here! Hey!”
Silence.
After a few minutes, we stood up warily. I expected to hear shouts of apology through the thick trees, but none came.
“Goddamn poachers!” Michael growled.
He mopped at the cut on his cheek with his handkerchief and his face was pale beneath his tan. It was just a scratch from where one of the stone chips had hit and the bleeding wasn’t serious, but the nearness of the bullets had shaken all three of us.
“You could have been killed,” Gayle said.
It was bad enough that someone should be out hunting this time of year. “Someone that careless with where his bullets go needs to be reported,” I said, more shaken than I wanted to admit.
“Nothing’s in season now, is it?” Michael asked, still dabbing at his face.
“Nothing I know of. Which is probably why they’re halfway back to the highway by now. I’ll bet they think you’re the game warden.”
Sure enough, from far in the distance, we heard someone crashing away from us through the underbrush towards Old Forty-Eight. Michael whistled for the dog, but she didn’t respond.
The mood was as shattered as the mortar and stone where the bullet had struck. Gayle had seen all there was to see anyway, and Michael seemed to have nothing else to add, but I hesitated after they started for the steps.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Was there anything else of Janie’s when you got here?”
“What do you mean?” He looked blank. “Like a purse or car keys or something?”
“Or a scarf or sweater or a baby bottle?” I’d promised Scotty Underhill I wouldn’t mention Janie’s red vinyl slicker to anyone.
Michael shook his head. “Nothing.”
“It was in the paper,” said Gayle. “My empty bottle and extra diapers were in a diaper bag with her purse on the backseat of the car when they found it parked at Grandaddy’s on Thursday morning. Her keys were still in the ignition.”
There wasn’t much conversation on the way back across Possum Creek. As we went up the slope to Michael’s place, I said, “The way you’ve nailed those posts and crossbars up for the roses, they look almost like crosses.”
“Yes.”
His quiet concurrence effectively silenced me. I never know quite what to say when I’m confronted with unexpected religiosity.
“No place should be unexpected,” my internal preacher scolded. “Is God not everywhere?”
Fortunately my awkwardness was short-lived. Lily finally caught up with us, panting heavily in the warm afternoon. As Gayle and I crossed the barnyard, she thanked him for taking the time to come with us.
“I appreciate you telling me what you remembered,” she said.
“Not at all,” he murmured.
I’d taken out my keys and stood with them next to his pickup, trying to put my finger on what was different.
Then I realized that Denn’s Volvo wasn’t the only thing gone.
“Wasn’t there a rifle on that rack before?” I asked, gesturing toward the pickup’s rear window.
He stared me straight in the eye. “No.”
I stared right back. “I think there was.”
He was back behind his plate glass wall.
“Maybe you do need a divorce lawyer,” I said gravely. I glanced at the Pot Shot sign over the shop door and his eyes followed. “Unless that was an advertisement?”
He stayed behind the glass wall, but an ironic smile flickered through. “We don’t need business that badly.”
Gayle’s eyes were big as saucers as we drove away. “You think Mr. McCloy shot at us?”
I shrugged. “Michael Vickery thinks so. And I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but that dog didn’t bark.”
12 all my friends are gonna be strangers
Dwight Bryant was waiting for me in his official Colleton County sheriff’s department cruiser when I drove into my parking spot beside the office next morning.
“Come ride and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” he said. “We need to have a little talk.”
“There’s a whole pot of coffee waiting inside. I’ll buy you a cup,” I said, trying to think what I’d done now. “How long’s this little talk going to take?”
“Depends. Half-hour?”
“Okay. Just let me tell Sherry.”
I went on into the office, dumped my briefcase on my desk, told Sherry I was going to take a quick ride with Dwight Bryant (“What’ve you done now?” she asked), and carried two foam cups of black coffee out to the cruiser.
Dwight’s a few years older than me, and from the time he was a kid, he’s hung out with my brothers so much that he tries to boss me around just like them. Has just about as much luck, too, but none of them quit trying.
Bunch of slow learners.
Dwight’s also an ex-basketball player who’s muscled out over the years and he filled up his whole side of the patrol car. With his sandy hair and craggy face, I had to admit he looked pretty sharp in his summer tans. The head of a detective unit usually wears regular clothes, but that doesn’t stop Dwight from putting on his uniform at least once a month to cruise around the county checking things out. Probably a carryover from his years in the military. He was with Army Intelligence in D.C. when his marriage to Jonna went bust and he came on back home.
As soon as I was properly buckled in, we rolled out of Dobbs heading west. Dwight turned down his radio till the calls and codes were barely audible, and breathed in the coffee’s fragrant aroma.
“Y’all have the best coffee of any law firm in the county.”
“Thank Julia Lee for that. She picks it up at some fancy store in Cameron Village.”
