And Kill Them All by J. Lee Butts Page B

prevent such a terrible outcome, Lord. Sincerely pray the entire family was delivered into the safety and comfort of Your divine care and affection. Now, my friend and I come to You in humble supplication and ask that You gather their sad spirits to Your righteous bosom and see to their heavenly comfort for the rest of eternity. We appeal for that eventuality in the name of the only Son You sent to cleanse us all of our earthly sins and pave our way into Your presence. Amen.”
    Still felt right uncomfortable. I shifted, back and forth, then stuffed my hat on a soggy head. Turned Tatum’s direction, seeking something of a complimentary reaction from my longtime compadre by way of acknowledgment for my prayerful efforts. The expected nod and grin of approval he usually provided proved nowhere in evidence.
    Openmouthed, unspeaking, and flush-faced, Boz pointed a shaky finger toward the knife-edged ridge of sloped, lifeless dirt some sixty or so yards away. The shallow bowl’s steep rim almost completely encircled that riverbank hollow of lush greenery, violent death, and freshly departed souls where we stood and gazed up slack-jawed.
    Staring down on us from the forty-foot-high crest of crumbling earth stood a girl—fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Hell, what little I knew of young girls at the time, she could’ve been a lot older or a lot younger.
    Gal swayed like a creekside weeping willow in the hot breezes that hissed over the sun-scorched earth beneath her feet. Wisps of shoulder-length, straw-colored hair fluttered across a pretty, grime-smeared face. Her flowered cotton dress flapped around equally filth-encrusted legs.
    Under my breath, I mumbled, “Lord above, Boz. Looks as if she’s trying to chew a thumbnail all the way up to her elbow. Snapping and biting like a rabid dog. Spitting out the bits.”
    His flabbergasted gaze locked on the ghostly, ethereal apparition, Tatum shook as though in the throes of malaria and muttered, “Sweet merciful Jesus, how’s this possible?”
    Air rushed from between clenched teeth when I hissed, “Looks most like the child’s been living underground. Killers had to have missed her. She escaped. Found a hidey-hole somewhere close, I’d be willing to wager.” Pretty sure I might’ve sounded as if I was questioning my own reasoning.
    Boz moved to take a step in the specter’s direction only to witness the girl turn and vanish from view. By unspoken agreement, we heeled it for a steep, slanted wash nearby. The craggy, earthen cut was the only ascending access within close proximity that led to the crest of the dirt bluff.
    I managed to scramble to the sheer bank’s disintegrating summit a few steps ahead of Boz. A quick survey of the rough, table-like expanse of Turkey Mesa, as it spread away from the river, revealed that the child had scampered near a hundred yards, stopped, then stared back at us again.
    Boz huffed and puffed his way to a spot beside me. Wheezing from the unexpected exertion, he sucked air like a winded racehorse. He waved and, between gasping breaths, called out, “You come on back now, girl. Won’t harm you. We’re here to help.” He got no response.
    I shrugged, then said, “We’d best go round her up, Boz.”
    Soon as we started her direction again, the urchin bolted like a frightened deer. For half an hour the fleeing child scuttled over the rock-strewn, rattlesnake-, cactus-, and scorpion-littered landscape with us clumsily clambering along behind. The chase finally brought us to the entrance of an ugly, deep, funnel-like gash in the earth’s hoary hide. An abbreviated, canyon-like wound that our prey had no chance of escaping.
    At the bottom of the narrow ravine, the cornered waif wedged her back against the fissure’s farthest and highest wall. Arms flung wide against her earthen prison, she crawfished from side to side in agitated terror. Let out a piteous