trimming back underbrush.” She glanced ahead at the road into the park. It narrowed at its first curve and picked up a border of long-needle pines and a fringe of saw palmettos. “He’s coming in now.”
A four-wheel ATV ground to a stop in a grassy area across the road. A lanky young man unfolded his legs from under the wheel, stood, set his cap firmly over dark brown hair and approached Brandy’s car. High cheekbones and an angular forehead formed planes around his deep-set eyes.
He bent to the level of the driver’s window. “Mrs. Able?” Brandy nodded. “Best you follow me. My granddad lives near the Hawthorne Trail between Gainesville and the Prairie.”
Brandy agreed, and a half an hour later drew up beside Grant at Boulware Springs Park. They walked east on a paved path so wide that they were not shaded by the laurel and turkey oaks that rose on either side. Bikers passed, bending low over their handlebars, as well as hikers with sweaters tied around their waists. Brandy decided not to mention Hunter’s murder. Grant would have too many questions, and she didn’t want to take the time. A few modest houses lined the walkway on their left. Grant opened a chain link gate to one of them, and Brandy followed him past myrtle oak and saw palmetto into a yard overgrown with wiregrass and rattlesnake weed.
“Hope we don’t run into Aunt Liz,” he murmured. “Granddad’s daughter and caretaker.” His lips curled in a wry smile. “Your interest is in Zeke Wilson. She’s the chief keeper of the town marshall’s flame. Aunt Liz had a bad experience with a journalist who wrote a magazine article some years ago. She distrusts all reporters.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Could be the same journalist who offended Mr. Stark. Brandy looked beyond a neglected concrete birdbath at a screened porch. An old man sat there in a wheelchair.
“Granddad likes to watch people pass along the Hawthorne Trail.”
Brandy had read about a series of sinkholes that sprawled across the Prairie basin, many water-filled—all that remained of Lake Lachua, once large enough for a small steamboat. Truck farming and ranching took a toll on the Prairie before the Gainesville Garden Club rescued it in the 1960s and 70s.
Grant added, “Now, you know, Granddad’s ninety-three.”
Before Brandy could respond, he opened the screen door. Both stepped onto the porch and Grant approached the wheelchair. “I brought this young lady to talk to you, Granddad. Remember?”
The cadaverous figure didn’t move. Savage Wilson had a narrow, hawk’s face, eyes like crevices in rocks, and sunken cheeks. His long fingers rested on bony knees covered by trousers shiny with wear. An oxygen tank rested beside his chair, the plastic tubing coiled. Brandy was aware of the sour smell of a very old, unwashed body. But there was motion in his electric blue eyes, and they darted toward Brandy. Yet when she held out her hand, the old man still didn’t move.
Did he remember she was coming? Brandy dragged a plastic chair from against the wall and sat directly opposite him, not close enough to threaten. Grant leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed. A slight smile flicked his lips.
“I want to ask you about your father when he was town mar-shall,” Brandy said quietly.
The old man’s thin voice sounded hollow. “Wilsons and Savages—my papa and mama’s people—lived here since the early 1800s.” His voice took on an injured tone. “Ranching, building dikes. Developed the Prairie, they did. Citrus groves, too, before the big freezes in the 1890s. Pioneers, you could call’ em. Things aren’t like they used to be in the old days.” He paused, then swept one hand toward the Trail. “Before I got so laid up, I could walk down there a-ways and take a path toward the Prairie and set on a bench. I’d watch that there nearest sinkhole. Set real still, you might can see deer and turkey and red-tailed hawks. Can’t see the
A four-wheel ATV ground to a stop in a grassy area across the road. A lanky young man unfolded his legs from under the wheel, stood, set his cap firmly over dark brown hair and approached Brandy’s car. High cheekbones and an angular forehead formed planes around his deep-set eyes.
He bent to the level of the driver’s window. “Mrs. Able?” Brandy nodded. “Best you follow me. My granddad lives near the Hawthorne Trail between Gainesville and the Prairie.”
Brandy agreed, and a half an hour later drew up beside Grant at Boulware Springs Park. They walked east on a paved path so wide that they were not shaded by the laurel and turkey oaks that rose on either side. Bikers passed, bending low over their handlebars, as well as hikers with sweaters tied around their waists. Brandy decided not to mention Hunter’s murder. Grant would have too many questions, and she didn’t want to take the time. A few modest houses lined the walkway on their left. Grant opened a chain link gate to one of them, and Brandy followed him past myrtle oak and saw palmetto into a yard overgrown with wiregrass and rattlesnake weed.
“Hope we don’t run into Aunt Liz,” he murmured. “Granddad’s daughter and caretaker.” His lips curled in a wry smile. “Your interest is in Zeke Wilson. She’s the chief keeper of the town marshall’s flame. Aunt Liz had a bad experience with a journalist who wrote a magazine article some years ago. She distrusts all reporters.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Could be the same journalist who offended Mr. Stark. Brandy looked beyond a neglected concrete birdbath at a screened porch. An old man sat there in a wheelchair.
“Granddad likes to watch people pass along the Hawthorne Trail.”
Brandy had read about a series of sinkholes that sprawled across the Prairie basin, many water-filled—all that remained of Lake Lachua, once large enough for a small steamboat. Truck farming and ranching took a toll on the Prairie before the Gainesville Garden Club rescued it in the 1960s and 70s.
Grant added, “Now, you know, Granddad’s ninety-three.”
Before Brandy could respond, he opened the screen door. Both stepped onto the porch and Grant approached the wheelchair. “I brought this young lady to talk to you, Granddad. Remember?”
The cadaverous figure didn’t move. Savage Wilson had a narrow, hawk’s face, eyes like crevices in rocks, and sunken cheeks. His long fingers rested on bony knees covered by trousers shiny with wear. An oxygen tank rested beside his chair, the plastic tubing coiled. Brandy was aware of the sour smell of a very old, unwashed body. But there was motion in his electric blue eyes, and they darted toward Brandy. Yet when she held out her hand, the old man still didn’t move.
Did he remember she was coming? Brandy dragged a plastic chair from against the wall and sat directly opposite him, not close enough to threaten. Grant leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed. A slight smile flicked his lips.
“I want to ask you about your father when he was town mar-shall,” Brandy said quietly.
The old man’s thin voice sounded hollow. “Wilsons and Savages—my papa and mama’s people—lived here since the early 1800s.” His voice took on an injured tone. “Ranching, building dikes. Developed the Prairie, they did. Citrus groves, too, before the big freezes in the 1890s. Pioneers, you could call’ em. Things aren’t like they used to be in the old days.” He paused, then swept one hand toward the Trail. “Before I got so laid up, I could walk down there a-ways and take a path toward the Prairie and set on a bench. I’d watch that there nearest sinkhole. Set real still, you might can see deer and turkey and red-tailed hawks. Can’t see the
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