Land of a Hundred Wonders

I collapse against the oh-so-familiar sugar maple that lets you know you’re halfway to Hundred Wonders. I haven’t been able to do that since the crash. Recall something so clear from so long ago, like that stinging nettle memory. I’m shocked. This remembering doesn’t feel good like I thought it would. Like getting to sleep between your own cool sheets after coming home from a long, hot trip. No, it doesn’t feel that way at all. It feels scary and sorta foreign. Like I’m paying a visit to a strange place and that strange place is me. I rub my cheek against the maple bark. Focus, Gib, focus. You’re all right. Probably just recalling a dream. You’re just worn down, is all. I open up my leather-like and remove my blue spiral. Shine the flashlight on my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO list, which always gets me back on track.

1. Solve the murder of Mr. Buster Malloy and write an awfully good story so Mama can rest in peace eternal and I can get Quite Right.

2. Check out apartment listings in Cairo.

Yes! That’s exactly what I should be doing instead of running around these woods with Clever, trying to stay two steps ahead of that obnoxious sheriff and that scheming Yankee, thinking my memory’s coming back. I should be looking for clues to solve the murder and starting up my search for Egyptian housing.

But I can’t do that without proof. The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation; Proof:A reporter cannot state facts unequivocally unless he or she has proof of said crime. Proof is similar to evidence, but not the same. Proof is what is obtained once a reporter sifts through the evidence.

I don’t recall picking up the pictures from Bob’s Drug Emporium, but here they are in a still- sealed envelope with RUSH stamped across the top.

Clever whispers loud from outta the bushes, “Ya got a tissue or something?”

Am I remembering? Or is my brain playing fever tricks like it did in the hospital? I check my forehead. Warm, but not sickly so.

“Gib!”

“Drip dry, for crissakes!”

I got to focus. I got to. Forget about the remembering. Get to the pictures.

First off in the stack, there’s a real nice shot of Grampa in his lake chair, Keeper at his side, also snoozing. Just like in the hospital. I need him so badly to be here with me. To say, “I’d call this an interesting turn of events, wouldn’t you?” That’s what he always tells me when something unexpected springs up. But what would he say to me right this minute? Nose to the grindstone, Gibby girl. Yes, yes, that’s what he’d say.

Maybe something’ll turn up in the pictures that I took of dead Mr. Buster. Maybe the murderer left an item behind that’d right off let me know who he is, like… I don’t know… something that I’d recognize as belonging to that person. Like if Grampa murdered him for instance, I’d see a fishing lure half buried in the sand, or if Willard did it, I’d see a Mallomar wrapper stuck in the Geronimo tree branches. Ya know, something real telling like that.

There are a lot of snapshots of the lake in the envelope. Five bird pictures. Two of crows, which happen to be my favorite. Two cardinals, who have the same crappy disposition as Clever’s mama. A redbreast. The one of Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee at the pump. Every hair on my body is rearing up. Where ARE they? I rifle through the packet. Where are the shots I took of Mr. Buster lying on the beach, dead as can be?

“What ya got there? Pictures?” Clever says, coming out of the bushes. She kneels down next to me, yanks them out of my hand. “This is a nice one of Grampa and Keep.”

Feels like a beehive got into my head. My brain’s buzzing. I have to know, so I ask, “Do you recall the day ya got your driver’s license and…” Suddenly, I feel too ascared for her to say-Why, yes, that’s exactly what happened, or what if she says, Why, no, that never did. Damn, Gib, looks like your NQRness is spreading faster than Miss Florida’s behind-so I chicken out and go instead with, “Ya know how everybody is searchin’ for Mr. Buster?”

“Hmmm.” Clever’s not really paying attention, too busy sniffing the photos, which she’s always loved the vinegary smell of.

“Well, I found him.”

“Ya already told me and Miss Florida that,” she says, so damn uppity that I’m real relieved that I didn’t mention that 57 Outdoor nettles memory to her.

“Did I also tell ya that he was dead when I found him?”

“Ya did,” she says, STILL not believing me.

“Jesus in a jumpsuit, Clever!” I say, knocking the pictures outta her hand.

“What?” she says, indignant.

“Listen to me good. Mr. Buster IS dead. I found him lyin’ over on Browntown Beach stabbed in the heart four times with his head about twisted off.”

Maybe it’s how testy I say it, I can tell Clever finally believes me by the look of pure excitement on her face. “Mr. Butter is gonna be planted in the marble orchard? Oooeee! Let’s get over there and take a look at him.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause his body’s disappeared.”

“No kiddin’. Well, knowin’ you, ya took a picture, right?” she asks, gathering the photos off the ground and searching frantically for Mr. Buster’s parting shot.

“That’s the thing. I did take pictures, I know I did, but now I can’t find ’em and nobody’s gonna believe NQR me without-”

We both hear it at the same time. Branches stirring, birds shushing. I cover the flashlight beam with my shirt, clamp my hand over Clever’s mouth.

Rustle… snap… rustle… snap… snap.

Damn. It’s gotta be the sheriff and Willard. We got to stay still, not even breathe. I take a sip of air. I gesture for Clever to do the same.

Nuthin’ but night for a bit, but then out of the blackness comes, “Gibby?”

Clever and me let out our breaths in a great haaa, and I say into the trees, “Well, for godssakes, Billy. You ’bout scared the skin right off us!” I didn’t even consider it was him. He’s usually so sneaky-footed. “Where the hell ya been?”

Swooping down from a thick branch, he lands in a squat in front of us.

“Little Billy!” Clever rushes to give him a hug and almost bowls him over. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Clever’s certainly acting Exuberant: Extremely joyful and vigorous, forgetting how Billy doesn’t much go in for touching. If I could see his face, I know it’d be the color of ripe raspberries.

Me? I’m not feeling so joyful or vigorous. Where’s he been all day? He’s supposed to be guardian angeling me and this is the first I’ve seen of him since I told him I wanted to run my tongue down his juicy neck the other afternoon. What the heck got into me? Musta been this devil heat seeping into my pores and making me all hot sexish because yes, that’s what those hungry feelings were, all right. Not sure how I know that, but I do.

“We heard you,” I scold Billy. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” In the military, he was a sniper, which meant his life depended on him being wily until he could get a bead on somebody with the intention of shooting them dead.

“I got some new boots,” he apologizes down to the creaking leather.

“Good for you,” I say, giving him a disappointed look, which is not at all like me since I got firsthand knowledge of how bad that kind of look can wound. And so does Billy. It’s the same look his daddy’s always got papered on his face.

“You all right?” he asks, toeing the dirt.

“No thanks to you,” I tell him with a huff.