gloomily. "I've got parade detail."
Greene laughed.
* * *
The parade was over.
The floats—4-H and Channel Five and Little Dancers Studio—were coming down in the courthouse parking lot. A couple dozen kids carrying band instruments walked back to their parents and their cars. Men with lawn chairs and women with covered dishes drifted across the street to the park where the Rotary Club was firing the grills.
For the past three hours, Maddox had dealt with lost children, lost purses, lost tempers. He had ice cream on his uniform pants and sweat in his hat band.
And he was having, he realized with a sense of shock, the best time he'd had on the job in years.
He slowed a kid on a speeding bicycle shedding red, white and blue crepe paper. The ground was already littered with crumpled cups and busted balloons. Some poor public servant had a hell of a mess to clean up tomorrow. But it wasn't his mess. Maddox felt good.
He ambled toward the dunking booth, watching girls with braided hair and boys with balloons race across the wilted grass.
And then he heard the pops, coming from the line of trees on his right, and the whole scene cracked and twirled like a broken kaleidoscope.
Running children and screams. Falling children and blood. A woman teacher on the ground, covering an eleven-year-old girl with her body, while a skinny kid too young to drive sighted down his rifle…
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Fireworks.
Maddox shuddered. He wasn't there, in that Atlanta schoolyard. He was in Cutler. It was the Fourth of July. And there were some stupid kids with fireworks behind the cover of the trees who were due to get the lesson of their lives.
He strode over the littered ground, armpits drenched in sweat, relief burning like rage in his belly.
There were eight of them, a dozen if he counted the hangers-on: boys, ranging from almost ten to pushing fifteen, laughing and squatting by the stream that bounded the park. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe they were launching their rockets over the water, and he wouldn't have to spend the rest of the afternoon tramping through the pines and poison ivy to search for smoldering fires.
The gurgling water and the boys' own noise covered the sound of his approach.
"My turn."
"I got it."
A tall kid in a baseball cap pushed away the boy at his elbow. "Watch out. I'm gonna light it."
"Don't," Maddox ordered from the top of the bank. The older boy swore, and the circle rippled like water. The underbrush crackled as somebody bolted, and another child, all legs and a flash of white T-shirt, jumped for the opposite side of the stream.
"Stay there," Maddox warned. "Police."
The jumper froze and then turned, white-faced and defiant. Terrified. Nine-year-old Mitchell Cross.
Aw, hell. That made everything just perfect. Maddox glared at the sullen circle from under his hat brim. "You boys know you're breaking the law?"
The tall kid balancing in the stream straightened slowly, not sure what to do with his height or his eyes or the rocket in his hands.
"My dad says fireworks are legal now," he said, trying for cool.
"Not these. Not in
North Carolina
. Not on public property, and never unsupervised. Hand 'em over."
"But my dad said—"
Maddox raised his eyebrows. "You want to involve him in this discussion? Maybe make an announcement over the PA?"
The kid fidgeted. Folded. "No," he muttered.
"Right. Turn out your pockets, I'll take what you've got. Now," he barked, and flushed the stiff and staffing boys into action.
He watched stuff bounce on the rocks and get lost in the weeds: rockets and cherry bombs, mortar tubes and strips of firecrackers… It would take forever to collect.
"Fine. Now get out of here. Not you," he added as Mitchell prepared to slink off with the rest. "You can help me pick up."
The boy said something to his shoes.
"What was that?"
Mitchell's chin jerked up. "I said, you can't tell me what to do."
Maddox sighed. "I can, you know. I'm bigger than you. I'm older than you. And
Greene laughed.
* * *
The parade was over.
The floats—4-H and Channel Five and Little Dancers Studio—were coming down in the courthouse parking lot. A couple dozen kids carrying band instruments walked back to their parents and their cars. Men with lawn chairs and women with covered dishes drifted across the street to the park where the Rotary Club was firing the grills.
For the past three hours, Maddox had dealt with lost children, lost purses, lost tempers. He had ice cream on his uniform pants and sweat in his hat band.
And he was having, he realized with a sense of shock, the best time he'd had on the job in years.
He slowed a kid on a speeding bicycle shedding red, white and blue crepe paper. The ground was already littered with crumpled cups and busted balloons. Some poor public servant had a hell of a mess to clean up tomorrow. But it wasn't his mess. Maddox felt good.
He ambled toward the dunking booth, watching girls with braided hair and boys with balloons race across the wilted grass.
And then he heard the pops, coming from the line of trees on his right, and the whole scene cracked and twirled like a broken kaleidoscope.
Running children and screams. Falling children and blood. A woman teacher on the ground, covering an eleven-year-old girl with her body, while a skinny kid too young to drive sighted down his rifle…
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Fireworks.
Maddox shuddered. He wasn't there, in that Atlanta schoolyard. He was in Cutler. It was the Fourth of July. And there were some stupid kids with fireworks behind the cover of the trees who were due to get the lesson of their lives.
He strode over the littered ground, armpits drenched in sweat, relief burning like rage in his belly.
There were eight of them, a dozen if he counted the hangers-on: boys, ranging from almost ten to pushing fifteen, laughing and squatting by the stream that bounded the park. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe they were launching their rockets over the water, and he wouldn't have to spend the rest of the afternoon tramping through the pines and poison ivy to search for smoldering fires.
The gurgling water and the boys' own noise covered the sound of his approach.
"My turn."
"I got it."
A tall kid in a baseball cap pushed away the boy at his elbow. "Watch out. I'm gonna light it."
"Don't," Maddox ordered from the top of the bank. The older boy swore, and the circle rippled like water. The underbrush crackled as somebody bolted, and another child, all legs and a flash of white T-shirt, jumped for the opposite side of the stream.
"Stay there," Maddox warned. "Police."
The jumper froze and then turned, white-faced and defiant. Terrified. Nine-year-old Mitchell Cross.
Aw, hell. That made everything just perfect. Maddox glared at the sullen circle from under his hat brim. "You boys know you're breaking the law?"
The tall kid balancing in the stream straightened slowly, not sure what to do with his height or his eyes or the rocket in his hands.
"My dad says fireworks are legal now," he said, trying for cool.
"Not these. Not in
North Carolina
. Not on public property, and never unsupervised. Hand 'em over."
"But my dad said—"
Maddox raised his eyebrows. "You want to involve him in this discussion? Maybe make an announcement over the PA?"
The kid fidgeted. Folded. "No," he muttered.
"Right. Turn out your pockets, I'll take what you've got. Now," he barked, and flushed the stiff and staffing boys into action.
He watched stuff bounce on the rocks and get lost in the weeds: rockets and cherry bombs, mortar tubes and strips of firecrackers… It would take forever to collect.
"Fine. Now get out of here. Not you," he added as Mitchell prepared to slink off with the rest. "You can help me pick up."
The boy said something to his shoes.
"What was that?"
Mitchell's chin jerked up. "I said, you can't tell me what to do."
Maddox sighed. "I can, you know. I'm bigger than you. I'm older than you. And
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