The Pines

here. Nowhere to walk to. Not much chance of a ride. Staggering slightly, he turned and wandered toward the shade of the fire tower.

The cicadas had begun in the surrounding woods. Glinting red along their tops, fir trees began to sink into the gloom. Pacing around the tower, he winced and spat blood on the sand.

The last of the few patrons having left without her noticing, Athena sat alone in the diner. What remained of the daylight failed to penetrate the murky windows, and Sims never turned the lights on this early. To think she’d actually come here to cheer up.

At the grill, old Sims scraped grease into an iron trough with a spatula and glanced over at her. He wiped his hands on the apron.

“Want something else?” She jerked her head up. Sims looked down at her, yellow teeth gleaming in the poor light. His right hand held a steaming coffee server. “Some more?” She nodded, and he poured the stale coffee.

Suddenly, he laid his hand across her arm. “I just want you to know how much I always liked Wally, an how sorry I was to hear ’bout Lonny.” His grip was trembling and clammy. “Some folks ’round here, they says things ’bout you, but I always stick up for you. Just the other day, I says to…”

He smelled dead, and the T-shirt was a horror. She nodded, trying to endure this politely. He stroked her arm with two fingers.

And then his words seemed to come to her from a long way off. Catching only snatches, hints of sound, she struggled to listen. “…nice girl…little getting use to is all…” The pressure pounded in her ears. What’s happening? It throbbed behind her eyes. What’s happening to me? The churning started low in her intestines and burst hotly upward like a flare. As she hunched over in the booth, Sims’s voice rose thinly in shock and concern. Through her swirling agony, she sensed the physical world waver and ripple about her. Then the rending of her bowels ceased as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind no trace of nausea.

“Barry?” Steve looked around.

He’d gotten tired of honking the horn and had left the car door open and the motor running.

“Yo, Barry?” He walked around to the other side of the tower. Where could he be? He wondered if someone could have happened along and given him a ride. But he must have known Steve would come back for him.

The last of the twilight faded rapidly, and he stood under the tower, wondering what to do.

Something dark dripped onto his hand. And again. He looked up. He stared a long time, only slowly comprehending what he saw. An unraveled version of Barry dangled from the platform overhead.

Monday, August 10

He had to do something. Impotent and cold, the rage congealed in his gut. When Anna died, he’d been helpless. But he would do something about this. He would.

He had to.

But it wasn’t his fault. Earth throbbed beneath the rhythmic beat of his tires, and he squirmed in denial. The pounding headache had returned, and he doubted now that it would ever leave. The woods retreated behind him, and as he drove, he dwelt on his visit to Barry’s wife.

Barry’s widow. He’d left her not half an hour ago. Poor Cathy. She’d seemed so glad to see him, glad to see anyone. Not that she’d cried—a numbness had claimed both their faces—but she’d kept saying her father would be over later. And she’d kept muttering something that sounded like “be all right—just need a little rest.”

Poor Cathy. She shouldn’t have been alone in that house. There was time enough to be alone.

“We used to try,” she’d said. “But then we found out his—what do you call it?—his count was too low. That really bothered him. I think he would’ve made a good father. Was that the phone? My dad might call before he comes. Did Barry ever say anything to you? About me and Larry? You can tell me, Steve.”

His mind wrenched away from the morning. What happened? Gears ground with a chattering whine as he shifted into the next lane. Did Barry climb that ladder trying to escape something? Was he dragged up there? Tires shrilled. You’re a cop—be a cop. The car yawed. Find out what killed your partner. Roadside vegetable stands gave way to suburbs. Do something about it.

Houses with small garages and rectangular lawns began to dominate the coarse countryside, and soon these gave way to liquor shops and roadside adult bookstores that advertised live nude sex shows. As opposed to dead, clothed ones, he wondered. There seemed to be a gas station every hundred yards or so. A sign pointed the way to a school for retarded adults. Traffic grew dense as he approached a strip mall, and still the pines ran in thin packs by the highway.

The way she’d carried on. Steve shook his head. Just as though she hadn’t known what a two-timing louse Barry had been. He flinched at that—thinking ill of the dead. Thinking ill of someone he’d caused to be dead.

The inside of the battered Volkswagen smelled of beer and old sweat. No, the headache would never leave now.

He supposed at the very least he’d be fired, and he wondered if he’d be officially suspect in Barry’s death. Buzby hadn’t asked many questions yet, questions about where he’d been, about why Barry had been unarmed. But he would ask…and soon.

Flies battered the screen door from both sides, their bodies like black hailstones.

Athena stood in the doorway as an old woman might, one trembling hand against the screen. And dry-eyed, she watched as swallows swooped and darted through the yard.

The phone rang. Probably Doris again. She didn’t move. She clutched a filthy cleaning rag in her hand and listened to the gentle stirring of the wind.

Flies pattered.

While his grieving daughter waited for his visit, Frank Buzby swaggered about the clearing in his cowboy boots. His sideburns were untrimmed and whitish, his face and neck sunburned a deep red. As always, he held himself with the self-conscious stance of an aging bodybuilder.

The lieutenant came over to speak to him again, and Frank made an effort to look solemn. The death of one of his officers—and his son-in-law, to boot—had made Frank the focus of a lot of official consideration, and he relished it. Several troopers milled about the fire tower, their voices drowned by the croaking barks of the bloodhounds. The dog handler restrained the beasts only with difficulty. The smallest hound, an ugly, bristling animal, whined loudly.

Suddenly the dogs fell silent. Then—given their head—they belled for the woods.

Shouting a gruff order, the lieutenant beckoned his men toward the pines, and Buzby followed.

The fire tower stood silent and abandoned. The blue-and-whites sat empty on the road. No one heard the call coming in over the car radio.

Through static, the voice of a rookie blabbered about having found a naked corpse staked on the ground. He begged for immediate assistance. “…badly decomposed…maggoty…can’t even…what sex it…” A sound like choking mixed with the static.

“You mean you bought that blouse before you was married and it still fits?” Pam sounded more dismayed than astonished. After all, astonishing things had been happening lately: the kitchen was spotless, and Athena was all dressed up. Pam was getting used to surprises.

Sponging down the table for the third time in half an hour, Athena kept one eye on her sister-in-law. Pam had adjusted so well, so oddly well, to Lonny’s death. Perhaps immersing herself in Athena’s problems kept her mind off