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 sayâWhy, yes, that's exactly what happened, or what if she says, Why, no, that never did. Damn, Gib, looks like your
NQR
ness is spreading faster than Miss Florida's behindâso 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 withoutâ”
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
.
“I meant, are you handling Grampa being in the hospital?”
I must have a confused look on my face 'cause Clever says, “He got that heart attack?”
It comes back to me in a sorrowful
swoosh
. What if he doesn't get better? What if . . .
“Soon as I heard, I went up to check on him,” Billy says. He's got a nice voice. Deep, but not scarily so. Sorta like Grampa's. “Miz Tanner told me he's doin' as well as can be expected.”
Feeling awfully bad about my previous wretched tone, I reach into the special slot in the briefcase where I keep them and peel off four well-deserved gold stars. “You are a good Sumerian, ” I say, pressing them onto his shirt pocket. Up close like this, he smells of sweat and a certain dog. “How's Keeper holdin' up?”
“Don't waste your time worrying about
him
,” Billy says with a foxy grin. “Got all the nurses eatin' outta his hand.”
Oh, poor, poor Billy. I worry about him so. Besides his overall jumpiness, he's afflicted with
Flashbacks: An intensely vivid mental image of a past traumatic experience
that make him think he's someplace he's not, and that these people called the gooks are coming for him with bayonets and jungle thread, and off he runs like a panicked animal. Or sometimes he sobs hard. Or gets awfully mixed up, like he is now. He should know by now that Keeper has paws, not hands.
“Guess what, Billy?” Clever trills. “I'm gonna have a baby.”
“I can see that.” Not being of a judgmental nature, Billy smiles and says, “That's nice,” like she just told him she's gonna have a haircut, which wouldn't be a half-bad idea. She's starting to look kinda witchy, if ya ask me.
“And we're on the lam,” Clever adds.
Just as I start to explain it all to Billy, the horned owl, with the kind of well-timed interrogation technique that I can only dream of musterin', jumps in with,
“Whoo.”
“The sheriff is chasin' us down. Willard, too,” I say, suddenly wanting Billy to pet me. A lot. All over the place. What the heck?
Focus, Gibby, focus.
I tick off on my fingers:
“
The What:
The treasure map.
The Where
: In my briefcase.
The When:
Right this minute.
The Why:
Must be valuable as hell.”
Billy scrunches his face up, which is mighty adorable. “A treasure map? What kind of treasure?”
We've gotten comfortable in a powwow circle. When me and Clever were escaping out the bedroom window, I slipped one of the squat candles into my shorts pocket. I've lit it up and the shadows are two-stepping under our chins. This reminds me of something. I can't recall what, but I can feel the edges of a memory forming. Billy sure looks appealing with those cheek-bones that remind me of a sheer cliff and popped cherry lips and . . .
“I don't know what the treasure is. Willard never said. But I think Gibby is right,” Clever says, in a juiced-up way. “It's buried someplace on the Malloy land, and you and me and her are going to go dig it up and use it to buy diapers and food for the baby so I don't have to give it up to a social. Show 'em, Butch.”
Between the candle, the full moon, and the flashlight, we're doing okay vision-wise. I remove the map from my briefcase and spread it out on the ground. Billy's hair is lovely in the firelight. I would adore caressing it, I know I would. Just wrap those ringlets right around my fingers.
“Oh, man,” Billy says.
“What?” Clever nudges closer, like she owns him or something.
“See that? These rows are a different color ink. They're red and all the other rows”âBilly runs his hand over the mapâ “they're black.”
What the heck is wrong with me? I'm about to write the story that'll go down in the anus of Cray Ridge history and all I can seem to think about is touching Billy's tummy to see if it's as hard as it looks. “What do you think those red rows are?” I ask, struggling to get involved the way a trained reporter
should
. “Prime burley tobacco? Do you think that's what the treasure could be?”
Maybe this all has something to do with Mr. Frank Reynolds from New York City since that's where Willard is from. Even though he finally ended up telling me, it woulda been just a matter of time before I perceived where he hailed from on account of his accent, which resembles that Streisand gal's in the movie
Funny Girl
, which was not at all funny, by the way.
Holy smokes. I bet Bishop Malloy, Mr. Buster's son, who Willard is being clandestine with, is going to steal that tobacco off the farm and take it to Mr. Frank Reynolds in New York City for a reward, on account of Mr. Reynolds's concern about cigarettes causing cancer. Just like one of those rattler roundups that Grampa told me they have down in Texas. Bring in a sack of sidewindersâya get ten bucks reward. That has to be Willard's plan. Rustle up the tobacco and haul it north for cash money. Yes, I'm absolutely certain that's what he's up to.
Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute.
Am I jumping to conclusions AGAIN?
What if Willard doesn't work for Mr. Frank Reynolds at all? What if . . . what if . . . he works as an operative for Mr. Howard Redmond, also from New York City, who has sent him to Cray Ridge to check up on my investigative techniques?
I grab my camera out of my briefcase, ready to snap a picture of the treasure map. Just to make sure. In case Willard
is
reporting back to Mr. Howard Redmond, I want to be extra thorough.
But when the flash cube pops, I see more than I bargained for. Peering through the trees at us is Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway. An up-to-no-good grin on his greasy lips.
The No Good, the Bad and the Ugly
"Well, my oh my. Who
do
we have here?” Sneaky Tim Ray says, coming out in the open and dropping to his feet a burlap sack he's got slung over his shoulder. He's been doing some hunting and has come up with a coon. Maybe a possum. It's the first time I've seen him since Teddy Smith gave him that hayloft whuppin'. An oily rag is barely concealing the black socket that should be filled up by his glass eye. His nose looks farther east than it used to. And some confused soul's been kissin' on his neck, leaving strawberry-colored lip prints behind. Dang. If Grampa was here, he'd exclaim right about now, “Boy looks like somethin' the dog's been keeping' under the porch.”
“What ya got in the sack, Holloway? Your brain?” Clever taunts. (She is not at all afraid of him, or anything else for that matter, because, really, what does she have to lose?) “What the hell ya want?”
“Ain't 'bout what I want.” Sneaky Tim Ray tugs on the rope that's holding the bag closed. After rootin' around some, he yanks my Keeper out by his front legs. “ 'Bout what y'all want.”
“Jesus,” I yell. Billy's gotta hold me back when Sneaky Tim Ray circles his hands around Keep's throat.
Clever shouts, “Hand over the dog, ya one-eyed fool.”
Keeper doesn't seem right. He's logy looking. Isn't he s'posed to be at St. Mary's guarding over Grampa? “How'd you get ahold a him?” I ask, completely confused.
“Well, the Lord do work in mysterious ways, don't He, darlin'? There I was over to the hospital payin' a visit to a lady friend of mine,” he says, puffin' up. “And who should I find sittin' outside one of them rooms but this here mutt.”
When Billy pounces off the ground toward him, Sneaky Tim Ray pliers his hand around Keeper's neck tight enough to make his legs go rigid. “One step closer, soldier boy, and this dog'll be headin' off to the happy huntin' ground.”
“Wwwhat do you wwwant?” Billy says, gripping and ungripping his fists. He wants to get at this louse so bad, but he can't, and it's causing his stutter to flare up.
“Wwwhat I wwwant is that mmmap,” Holloway mocks.
“Give it to him,” I command to Clever.
“But . . . but . . . what about the treasure and the baby andâ”
“He's got Keeper!” I holler.
“A course,” she says, popping open my briefcase and removing the map. “Don' know what I was thinkin'.”
“Leave it there on the ground,” Sneaky Tim Ray instructs, smug.
Keep hasn't moved for the longest time.
“Whatcha do to the dog?” Billy is not tripping over his words anymore. I knew it'd be just a matter of time before his torrential temper poured into his head and swept away his fear.
“Back off, Brown,” Sneaky Tim Ray warns, sensing the shift in Billy.