she asked.
“Well …” He straightened and peered to the west. “Hmm. They should be over there.”
Her fear level rose a little higher. “You don’t know where they went?” Her voice was shrill. Some of the boys looked up at her, then at one another. Then around, as if, like Father Alan, they’d just realized that two of their party were MIA.
“I saw them over there,” one of the kids said, pointing east, toward the hills.
Father Alan grinned ruefully. “They must have gotten distracted. You know how kids are.”
Tough times
.
“Yeah,” she said. “How long ago did they go?”
The same kid shrugged. “An hour?”
“It wasn’t an hour,” Father Alan insisted.
“It’s been a while, Father,” another boy piped up.
She started walking across the dirt as she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a bellow.
“Clay!” Her voice echoed off the mountains.
There was no answer; picking up speed, she ran-walked past a wave of prairie grass, looking back over her shoulder at the priest and the boys, all of whom were watching her. She got that creepy-crawly feeling that parents and guardians got, the one that moved you past assuming your fears were exaggerated to contemplating the fact that things did go wrong. She put on the turbo; her boots crunched over the sandy ground in a rapid-fire rhythm, like bullets from a semiautomatic.
Move faster
.
“Clay!”
These are not our tough times
, she thought.
My family has had more than its share. Not Clay
.
An unreasoning anger toward Earl flared through her nervous system. Goddamn it, if he couldn’t tell her all of it, why did he tell her any of it? It went to show you that God was a sadist—
And then she heard the roar of an engine. She squinted as dust kicked up, and she made out the shape of an all-terrain vehicle, and two boys on it, Clay doing the driving. Forrest Catlett sat between him and the handlebars, making the vehicle top-heavy and unstable. No helmets, no nothing, just two reckless boys, yelling their heads off.
Clay hung a sharp U-turn and hit the turbo, going much, much too fast, blasting along as she closed up the distance. The ATV wove past a barrier of sawhorses and ripped through yellow caution tape. She didn’t know if Clay meant to do it, or if he had lost control of the ATV … which was now headed toward a huge boulder.
“Oh, God!” Grace screamed.
“The range is hot!” someone shouted. “Ma’am!”
She ran so fast she was flying, scrabbling across a rock bed, losing her footing, tumbling over her boots. And in her mind’s eye, for one flash of an instant, she was running toward the Murrah Building after McVeigh and Nichols blew it all to hell, and Clay’s mom had been blown apart. A hundred and sixty-eight lives lost; and she had helped carry out the bodies, finding Mary Frances herself, and Clay was so tiny and small and helpless—
This can’t happen to us
, she told herself, at the exact moment that the Tripoli group started yelling at her. There was a huge bang; as she looked over, she saw that their rocket was taking off. She had run through their launch site. She moved fast, to get clear, and there was more yelling.
She looked up. The rocket had turned and was arrowing back toward the ground, gyrating and tumbling, snaking out of control. She ran toward Clay, waving her hands to stop; Forrest flapped his arms crazily. They kept going.
Clay clipped the side of the boulder; the ATV rocked onto two wheels, nearly tipping over on its side.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Grace yelled, charging.
The rocket crashed to earth, kicking up huge amounts of dirt. Grace kept running; three men caught up with her and fanned out into a half circle around the ATV as it began to zigzag like the rocket. The men gave chase, like rodeo clowns trying to slow down a bull. Grace stumbled over rocks and brush. Flooding with adrenaline, she closed the distance between herself and the ATV and leaped at it, grabbing onto the rear
“Well …” He straightened and peered to the west. “Hmm. They should be over there.”
Her fear level rose a little higher. “You don’t know where they went?” Her voice was shrill. Some of the boys looked up at her, then at one another. Then around, as if, like Father Alan, they’d just realized that two of their party were MIA.
“I saw them over there,” one of the kids said, pointing east, toward the hills.
Father Alan grinned ruefully. “They must have gotten distracted. You know how kids are.”
Tough times
.
“Yeah,” she said. “How long ago did they go?”
The same kid shrugged. “An hour?”
“It wasn’t an hour,” Father Alan insisted.
“It’s been a while, Father,” another boy piped up.
She started walking across the dirt as she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a bellow.
“Clay!” Her voice echoed off the mountains.
There was no answer; picking up speed, she ran-walked past a wave of prairie grass, looking back over her shoulder at the priest and the boys, all of whom were watching her. She got that creepy-crawly feeling that parents and guardians got, the one that moved you past assuming your fears were exaggerated to contemplating the fact that things did go wrong. She put on the turbo; her boots crunched over the sandy ground in a rapid-fire rhythm, like bullets from a semiautomatic.
Move faster
.
“Clay!”
These are not our tough times
, she thought.
My family has had more than its share. Not Clay
.
An unreasoning anger toward Earl flared through her nervous system. Goddamn it, if he couldn’t tell her all of it, why did he tell her any of it? It went to show you that God was a sadist—
And then she heard the roar of an engine. She squinted as dust kicked up, and she made out the shape of an all-terrain vehicle, and two boys on it, Clay doing the driving. Forrest Catlett sat between him and the handlebars, making the vehicle top-heavy and unstable. No helmets, no nothing, just two reckless boys, yelling their heads off.
Clay hung a sharp U-turn and hit the turbo, going much, much too fast, blasting along as she closed up the distance. The ATV wove past a barrier of sawhorses and ripped through yellow caution tape. She didn’t know if Clay meant to do it, or if he had lost control of the ATV … which was now headed toward a huge boulder.
“Oh, God!” Grace screamed.
“The range is hot!” someone shouted. “Ma’am!”
She ran so fast she was flying, scrabbling across a rock bed, losing her footing, tumbling over her boots. And in her mind’s eye, for one flash of an instant, she was running toward the Murrah Building after McVeigh and Nichols blew it all to hell, and Clay’s mom had been blown apart. A hundred and sixty-eight lives lost; and she had helped carry out the bodies, finding Mary Frances herself, and Clay was so tiny and small and helpless—
This can’t happen to us
, she told herself, at the exact moment that the Tripoli group started yelling at her. There was a huge bang; as she looked over, she saw that their rocket was taking off. She had run through their launch site. She moved fast, to get clear, and there was more yelling.
She looked up. The rocket had turned and was arrowing back toward the ground, gyrating and tumbling, snaking out of control. She ran toward Clay, waving her hands to stop; Forrest flapped his arms crazily. They kept going.
Clay clipped the side of the boulder; the ATV rocked onto two wheels, nearly tipping over on its side.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Grace yelled, charging.
The rocket crashed to earth, kicking up huge amounts of dirt. Grace kept running; three men caught up with her and fanned out into a half circle around the ATV as it began to zigzag like the rocket. The men gave chase, like rodeo clowns trying to slow down a bull. Grace stumbled over rocks and brush. Flooding with adrenaline, she closed the distance between herself and the ATV and leaped at it, grabbing onto the rear
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