Page 142 of The River We Remember

The question of the day, and one for which he had no answer.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve got to go.”

He hung up before she had a chance to say anything more, a chance to talk him out of what he’d known from the beginning had been a very bad idea.

“Creasy?” Del said.

“He’s still out there.”

“Then we still have work to do.”

“Look, it’ll be dark soon. What’re we going to do then?”

Del’s mouth set in a grim smile, and Scott knew he’d been thinking about this and had an answer.

THE SUN WAS setting when Del drove the motorbike off the main road and onto the track that led to the bloodstained ground at the tip of Inkpaduta Bend. They came to a small gathering of birch trees along the western edge of the Bend, where Del killed the engine and they both dismounted. Del pushed the bike into the trees. Scott followed, carrying the things they’d retrieved from the campground at Fort Beloit—a bedroll, a sleeping bag, and a pack, which held, among other things, snack food they’d purchased from the concession stand.

“We can build a fire here and nobody’ll see it,” Del said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow, we’ll look for that fuggin’ Creasy again.”

Scott didn’t say anything. What he hoped was that a night out in the wild like this might cool Del off and, in the morning, he might listen to reason.

They laid the bedroll and sleeping bag beneath the birches on the bank of the river. The base of Fordham Ridge lay in shadow now, but the sun, as it set, poured red-gold over the fields on top. Inkpaduta Bend was a pretty place, Scott thought. And quiet. And far from the menace of the bars they’d spent the afternoon invading. He was tired and ready to lie down for a while and rest, and he told Del so.

“That’s okay, Madman. You go ahead. I’ll gather some firewood.”

Del walked off, and Scott lay down. He hated himself for what he was doing, the worry he knew he was causing his mother and grandmother. But he believed that he had no choice. What concerned him even more was the question of what Del might do, or try to do, if they actually found Tyler Creasy. He hoped the man had fled Black Earth County, even if that meant Creasy would still be out there, a threat that might come back into Del’s life. But maybe, because of the man Creasy was, he’d get himself into trouble somewhere else and it would fall to others to bring him to justice and put him away where he’d do no harm. Scott closed his eyes, thinking that if he were Creasy, he’d just run as far as he could from the trouble he’d caused. That thought gave him some measure of comfort, and before he knew it, he was sleeping.

He was awakened by a shaking of his arm and Del’s harsh whisper in his ear: “Madman! Madman!”

Scott looked up into Del’s face. “Wha—?” he began, trying to clear his brain.

“He’s here, Madman,” Del whispered. “That fuggin’ asshole Creasy. He’s here.”

That woke Scott completely. He sat up. “Where?”

Del put a finger to his lips and signaled for Scott to follow.

In the darkening twilight, they crept through the tall grass and wildflowers. They came to a narrow thicket of sumac, and Del went down on all fours. Scott did the same and they crawled forward.

Among the trees on the other side of the thicket, Scott saw what Del had already seen, a pickup truck, the same truck that only a few days earlier had hauled them both, along with Holly Coleridge and Nicole Blake and four inner tubes, to the Alabaster for the float trip that had made Scott a hero.

“Where is he?” Scott whispered.

“Gone,” Del said. “At least for now. Wait here.”

Scott watched his friend run to the truck and open the passenger door. Del rummaged inside for a minute, then closed the door and came quickly back. He held out his hands to Scott, and in them was a shotgun.

“Take it,” Del said.

“I don’t want to, Wolfman.”

Del shoved it at him. “Take it,” he ordered.

Scott did. The firearm felt so heavy he wasn’t sure he could hold it up for long. “What are we going to do?”

“Wait for Creasy to come back.”

“And then what? Just shoot him?”