told himself to watch the telephone wires and follow them. The telephone wires were like lines on a blueprint, and he’d always been good at reading blueprints.
He told himself to hurry.
He tried to remember if his shadow had been falling in front of or behind him.
He was very thirsty.
He needed to get home.
The light looked different. There was less of it than he remembered.
He decided to take a shortcut and left the street and started following the shoreline of the inlet in North Shore.
Off to his right, three gray and white pelicans skimmed, circled, and dropped straight down into the inlet, breaking the water like divers. Farther out, five small boats trolled, running in wide figure-eights. Beyond them was the east shore of the inlet, and beyond that the Atlantic.
Just ahead, atop a long sloping backyard was a large two-anda-half-story house planked in weathered pine.
Jack recognized it. It was Stanley Tedros’s place. Jack had done work on the house. They were neighbors. Jack lived less than a half-mile away.
Stanley would give him a glass of water, and then Jack would walk home. Everything was all right.
The ground rose at a steep angle from where it met the water, and the lot next to Stanley’s backyard was wild and overgrown. Jack slowly picked his way up the slope. He was conscious of the light leaving the afternoon.
There was the sound of a boat approaching, its outboard throttling back to a low rumble.
There was wisteria growing everywhere, matting the ground, grabbing his shoes, wrapping around the trunks of the live oaks and magnolias and pines. It was like a huge spiderweb.
The motor on the outboard trailed off and died.
He cut left, then right, then left again, slowly working his way through the overgrowth across the lot toward Stanley’s house. His calves and lungs burned.
Below and to his right were a small dock and boathouse. Stanley Tedros tied up his boat and began unloading his fishing gear.
Jack ran into a wall of holly. When he tried to push through, the leaves sliced at his hands and forearms. The pain was sharp and surprising, like paper cuts. Jack backed off and moved to his right.
He stumbled, then stopped next to some crepe myrtles to catch his breath.
There were long shadows on Stanley’s lawn.
Stanley Tedros began walking up from the dock.
Jack told himself to move, but he couldn’t. His legs were trembling.
Someone called out Stanley’s name, and Jack was pretty sure it wasn’t him.
Stanley stopped in the middle of the yard and lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He looked toward the back of the house.
A glass of water.
Jack would feel better after that.
His breath was still high and fast in his chest, so he stood very still at the edge of the overgrown lot and waited for his legs to return, and he watched a short man with short gray hair walk down the lawn toward Stanley.
TWENTY-ONE
CROY WENDALL WAS LATE, and it seemed like everything in the universe was trying to remind him of that. The dashboard clock in the car. The sign flashing the time and temperature at Nation’s Bank. His wristwatch. His pulse. The afternoon sun, itself, in the slant of its light.
Nothing in his day so far though had gone right. First off, at breakfast, Missy had finished the box of Lucky Charms, and Croy had to settle for Shredded Wheat. Then Jamie had wanted to go talk to Mr. Balen about doing some more crimes to Mr. Sonny Gramm. Jamie had already spent his share of the money they got for smashing up the Mustang, and he needed some more. Croy had to put Jamie off on account of he was already doing a job for Mr. Balen and Miss Corrine by killing the old man, but Croy couldn’t tell Jamie that because he promised Mr. Balen he wouldn’t. Mr. Balen didn’t want Jamie helping on the killing because Jamie had never killed anyone. Mr. Balen said in matters like this, experience counted.
When Croy had said he couldn’t go with Jamie to see Mr. Balen, Jamie had wanted to know what Croy
He told himself to hurry.
He tried to remember if his shadow had been falling in front of or behind him.
He was very thirsty.
He needed to get home.
The light looked different. There was less of it than he remembered.
He decided to take a shortcut and left the street and started following the shoreline of the inlet in North Shore.
Off to his right, three gray and white pelicans skimmed, circled, and dropped straight down into the inlet, breaking the water like divers. Farther out, five small boats trolled, running in wide figure-eights. Beyond them was the east shore of the inlet, and beyond that the Atlantic.
Just ahead, atop a long sloping backyard was a large two-anda-half-story house planked in weathered pine.
Jack recognized it. It was Stanley Tedros’s place. Jack had done work on the house. They were neighbors. Jack lived less than a half-mile away.
Stanley would give him a glass of water, and then Jack would walk home. Everything was all right.
The ground rose at a steep angle from where it met the water, and the lot next to Stanley’s backyard was wild and overgrown. Jack slowly picked his way up the slope. He was conscious of the light leaving the afternoon.
There was the sound of a boat approaching, its outboard throttling back to a low rumble.
There was wisteria growing everywhere, matting the ground, grabbing his shoes, wrapping around the trunks of the live oaks and magnolias and pines. It was like a huge spiderweb.
The motor on the outboard trailed off and died.
He cut left, then right, then left again, slowly working his way through the overgrowth across the lot toward Stanley’s house. His calves and lungs burned.
Below and to his right were a small dock and boathouse. Stanley Tedros tied up his boat and began unloading his fishing gear.
Jack ran into a wall of holly. When he tried to push through, the leaves sliced at his hands and forearms. The pain was sharp and surprising, like paper cuts. Jack backed off and moved to his right.
He stumbled, then stopped next to some crepe myrtles to catch his breath.
There were long shadows on Stanley’s lawn.
Stanley Tedros began walking up from the dock.
Jack told himself to move, but he couldn’t. His legs were trembling.
Someone called out Stanley’s name, and Jack was pretty sure it wasn’t him.
Stanley stopped in the middle of the yard and lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He looked toward the back of the house.
A glass of water.
Jack would feel better after that.
His breath was still high and fast in his chest, so he stood very still at the edge of the overgrown lot and waited for his legs to return, and he watched a short man with short gray hair walk down the lawn toward Stanley.
TWENTY-ONE
CROY WENDALL WAS LATE, and it seemed like everything in the universe was trying to remind him of that. The dashboard clock in the car. The sign flashing the time and temperature at Nation’s Bank. His wristwatch. His pulse. The afternoon sun, itself, in the slant of its light.
Nothing in his day so far though had gone right. First off, at breakfast, Missy had finished the box of Lucky Charms, and Croy had to settle for Shredded Wheat. Then Jamie had wanted to go talk to Mr. Balen about doing some more crimes to Mr. Sonny Gramm. Jamie had already spent his share of the money they got for smashing up the Mustang, and he needed some more. Croy had to put Jamie off on account of he was already doing a job for Mr. Balen and Miss Corrine by killing the old man, but Croy couldn’t tell Jamie that because he promised Mr. Balen he wouldn’t. Mr. Balen didn’t want Jamie helping on the killing because Jamie had never killed anyone. Mr. Balen said in matters like this, experience counted.
When Croy had said he couldn’t go with Jamie to see Mr. Balen, Jamie had wanted to know what Croy
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