Page 54 of The River We Remember

“The man’s dead. You think that’s funny?” he said.

Scott was so caught off guard by Bluestone’s appearance that his voice failed him, and he couldn’t reply. Del, on the other hand, said, “No, sir. Not funny. Not him. We just…” But under the hard glare of Noah Bluestone’s eyes, charcoal in the dim light but full of reflected fire, Del trailed off before he could answer fully, before he could try to explain what was probably inexplicable.

“Put out that fire,” Bluestone said. “Then get yourselves home.”

“Yes, sir,” Scott said.

He stood quickly and kicked the burning sticks apart, then he and Del tossed loose dirt onto the flames until the fire was dead. They turned back to where Bluestone had materialized from the night and had stood menacing above them. To their great surprise, he was gone. It was as if the night had simply closed the door on Noah Bluestone.

“Let’s get out of here,” Del said.

The boys hurried back to the motorbike and away from Inkpaduta Bend, the fierce growl of the little engine drowning out every other sound around them.

SCOTT LAY IN bed that night, after his mother and grandmother had had their say. They’d been more worried than angry, and they’d reminded him, as always, of his heart, his less than perfect heart. Now he stared up at the ceiling and thought about the great stain that was the lingering shadow of brutal death, and he thought again about the death of his own father and Del’s. These things had been myth before, stories told to them, meaningful but, in the end, weightless. That soak of blood had made death terribly real and terribly heavy. In a way, it connected Scott with his father as nothing else ever had. His father had been more than a story. His father had been flesh, bone, blood. Scott’s own flesh and bone and blood and even his imperfect heart were gifts his father had given him. Then his father had died, fallen from the sky, probably scared and probably burning and probably in great pain. And absolutely human. Like Scott. Like Del. And even like James Patrick Quinn.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE CALL FROM Doc Porter came the next day, Monday, midmorning. Because Brody was in the process of arresting the culprit who’d stolen Bob Magruder’s pickup two days earlier, Asa Fielding took the message. A little later, Brody brought the offender in—a seventeen-year-old named Douglas Anderson. The kid was surly and also scared. Anderson’s father had called Brody out to the farm and shown him the stolen pickup parked behind the equipment shed. He hadn’t seemed at all upset when Brody explained that he had to take the kid in and book him.

“A night or two in jail, do him some good,” the father had replied, giving his son a cold look.

When Brody had the kid in a cell, Asa said, “Did he explain himself?”

“Says he stole the pickup because Magruder won’t let his daughter date him. Thinks Douglas is too wild.”

“Can’t date the daughter, so he steals the father’s pickup?” Asa shook his head. “Kid logic. Want me to call Williams?” He was speaking of the county attorney, Alexander Williams.

“Yeah,” Brody said and sat down at his desk to get the paperwork done.

“Oh,” Asa said as he lifted the phone. “Doc Porter called. Wants you to call him back. Says it’s about Quinn and it’s important.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Nope. Apparently wants to tell you himself.”

Brody waited while Asa talked to the county attorney.

“Williams wants to see the kid in his office,” Asa said when he hung up.

“When?”

“He says now’s just fine.”

“You mind taking him?”

“Happy to.”

Asa went through the door to the cells, and when he returned, he had Douglas Anderson in tow. The kid looked like he might have been crying.

“When you both come back,” Brody said to his deputy, “get Douglas some lunch from the Wagon Wheel.”

“Lunch?” the kid said.

“We try not to starve our prisoners,” Brody told him.

Asa left with the kid, and Brody made the call to Porter. As he was dialing, the jailhouse door opened, and Connie Graff strode in. Brody lifted a hand in silent greeting, then spoke to the coroner.

“Asa said you wanted to talk to me, Doc. About Jimmy Quinn.”