Vic laid the chain out on the stone, and rolled Cameron's body on to it. Then on a sudden inspiration, he unbuckled Cameron's alligator belt, opened his trousers, and pushed an elongated stone part way into his trousers, fastened them again and fastened the belt and buttoned the jacket. He laid two of the heavier stones against Cameron's ribs, and brought the two ends of the chain up over them. The chain was like a flexible ladder, some twelve inches wide, and he had a choice of where to lock the fastener. It was a dog-leash type of fastener, and it went over any length of the chain. He drew the chain as tightly as possible over the rocks and fastened it obliquely to a link. Then he took a look into the water, found the darkest point just off the corner of the flat on which he stood, and rolled the heavy body off. He was painfully conscious of the sharp, jutting corner of rock going into Cameron's spine as he rolled off, and it seemed to him that Cameron arched his back against the dig of the stone.
Cameron went down with a hollow, bubbling sound into the greenish-black water, and out of the corner of his left eye, as Vic watched the place where Cameron had sunk—though after two seconds there was nothing but swirling bubbles to see—Vic was aware of a pale step of limestone about three feet under the water, its side flush with one side of the rock on which he stood. It looked like the long, severe line of a tomb. God knew what kind of gigantic steps had been cut below the water. The place where he had rolled Cameron off was about forty feet deep, Vic remembered hearing someone say once when he had stood here with Melinda and Trixie. But directly below, he saw as soon as the water stilled, was another step—a still ghastlier morgue slab—perhaps fifteen or twenty feet down. He could not see anything resting on it, and he hoped Cameron had glided off.
Roger was barking gaily. He slid his forefeet to the edge of the stone, stuck his muzzle into the water, then drew back again, shaking his head and wagging his tail. He looked at Vic, grinning as much as a boxer could grin, and wagging his stub of a tail as if to say, "Well done!"
Vic stooped and washed his hands in the water. Then he walked back to where Cameron had lain, saw blood on the rocks, and started to scuff over them with his shoe, dragging little jagged pebbles and limestone dust over the spots until at least they could not have been seen from the top of the cliff. But it seemed to him hat to go on about his business was more important than to cover up his trail at this particular time, so he whistled to Roger and they set off up the path again.
Back at his car, Vic wiped his shoes carefully of dust, took a look at them for scratches and blood, and then checked the sides of his car. His car had been through many overgrown lanes, including this one, however, in the summer months of fullest foliage, and the fenders and sides had many scratches, if anyone cared to examine the car for scratches. There was no new deep scratch from this trip today.
"Hop in, Roger!" Vic said, and Roger, who loved cars, hopped obediently into the front seat and stood up looking out of the open side window. Vic drove back slowly through the narrow road, honking providently at the sharpest corner in case another car had been approaching, but there was no car, and he would not have been in the least alarmed if there had been, he thought. It probably would have been someone he knew or had a nodding acquaintance with, and they would have offered politely to back out of each other's way, and Vic would have ended by backing, and he would have smiled and passed the time of day and gone on.
Vic drove to Ballinger, to the square, vine-covered high school building where a half dozen school buses stood parked at the side of the gravel driveway. Parents were still arriving in cars and on foot, but they were hurrying as if they were late. It was five minutes to twelve. Vic parked behind one of the buses and went into the side entrance of the building, where the other parents were going, producing the white card that Trixie had given him nearly a week ago. Admit two, said the card.
"Hi, there, Vic!"
Vic turned around and saw Charles Peterson and his wife. "Hello! Is Janey singing?"
"No. She's got the whooping cough," Charles said. "We're here to see a couple of her friends who're in it and make her a report."
"Janey's sick because she can't sing today," Katherine Peterson said. "I certainly hope Trixie doesn't come down with the whooping cough. She spent two afternoons with Janey in the last five days."
"Trixie's had it," Vic said."Have you tried Adamson's Elixir? It tastes like raspberry syrup and Janey'll love it."
"No, we haven't," Charles Peterson said.
"Comes in an old-fashioned bottle. You can get it at the little drugstore on Church Street. The main drugstore won't have it. We had to ration it out to Trix or she'd have drunk the whole bottle at once.
