total loss.
He pushed his legs into his sweatpants, his arms into the matching jacket. He pulled the zipper up all the way, bringing the collar to his ears. He’d be too hot, but the mosquitoes would feast on any skin he left uncovered. He already had a bite between his shoulder blades. To keep the bloodsuckers out of his eyes, he put his sunglasses on, making the already dim forest dimmer still. Hetraded his high-gloss leather loafers with their tassels for his New Balance sneakers.
Taking his tire iron, he pried the license plates off the front and back of the car. It was hot, sweaty work, and what he really needed was a screwdriver. Finally they came free. Again using the tire iron, he dug a hole several inches deep in the sandy soil. He laid the plates in it and covered them.
He heard one of the countless streams that laced the Pines gurgling nearby. He forced his way through the underbrush to its edge. The water ran a clear brown. Cedar water, turned tea-colored by organic compounds leached from the soil. He knew that for all its strange color, it was some of the purest water to be found anywhere. He lowered himself and drank. He rinsed out an old Gatorade bottle he found in his gym bag and filled it.
The mosquitoes buzzed him in dark, undulating clouds. Grimacing, he reached into the water, drew out some mud, and plastered it all over his face and neck. Anything to keep the biting marauders at bay.
He collected some more mud and carefully coated all the chrome on his car. The last thing he needed was for some adventurous hiker to see a reflection and investigate.
He arranged the undergrowth carefully to camouflage the vehicle. Then he walked ten feet away and looked back. He could see nothing, and he knew it was there. For the first time since the accident, he felt a rush of genuine hope. No one would find the car for years, if ever.
Gym bag in hand, he began the long walk back to 206. He hadn’t remembered how dark it got under the pines and oaks. And there were the noises of the night creatures. He found himself looking over his shoulder at each rustling of leaves, each crunch of ground cover. He knew there were timber rattlers in the Pines, slithering across the floor of pine needles and fallen oak leaves. Did they slither around at night? Some people said there were cougars too, though no one had seen any for years.
A blood-chilling scream ripped the air. He felt his heart drop to his shoes. The cougar? A woman being murdered? The Jersey Devil itself? He and McCoy and every other kid in the area had scared themselves silly with tales of midnight encounters with the famed Jersey Devil, meetings from which no one ever returned.
Reason told him it was only a screech owl, but still the hairs on his arms stood up straight and his heart, returned to his chest cavity, pounded wildly.
When he finally got to 206, he was hot, sweaty, and in a foul humor. He had several mosquito bites on the back of his neck, and one on his left calf in spite of the elastic on the leg of his pants. It was driving him nuts, but every time he bent to scratch, his jacket separated from his pants and the mosquitoes attacked him.
He began to thumb a ride. If he could get out to Route 30, he could get back to Seaside easily. He should be home in plenty of time to do all he needed to do tonight. He couldn’t deviate from habit. It would raise too many questions.
He hadn’t had to depend on the kindness of strangers for years. Now he remembered why: Lots of strangers weren’t very kind. They zoomed by, kicking sand and cinders into his face. Finally a fat man in an old blue Ford pickup stopped.
“If you don’t mind riding in the back, I’ll take you.”
If it weren’t for the Doberman chained to the truck bed with a chain that reached to within four feet of where he was plastered against the tailgate, he might have enjoyed the ride in the soft night air. With relief he slid to the ground when they reached 30 and watched the dog
He pushed his legs into his sweatpants, his arms into the matching jacket. He pulled the zipper up all the way, bringing the collar to his ears. He’d be too hot, but the mosquitoes would feast on any skin he left uncovered. He already had a bite between his shoulder blades. To keep the bloodsuckers out of his eyes, he put his sunglasses on, making the already dim forest dimmer still. Hetraded his high-gloss leather loafers with their tassels for his New Balance sneakers.
Taking his tire iron, he pried the license plates off the front and back of the car. It was hot, sweaty work, and what he really needed was a screwdriver. Finally they came free. Again using the tire iron, he dug a hole several inches deep in the sandy soil. He laid the plates in it and covered them.
He heard one of the countless streams that laced the Pines gurgling nearby. He forced his way through the underbrush to its edge. The water ran a clear brown. Cedar water, turned tea-colored by organic compounds leached from the soil. He knew that for all its strange color, it was some of the purest water to be found anywhere. He lowered himself and drank. He rinsed out an old Gatorade bottle he found in his gym bag and filled it.
The mosquitoes buzzed him in dark, undulating clouds. Grimacing, he reached into the water, drew out some mud, and plastered it all over his face and neck. Anything to keep the biting marauders at bay.
He collected some more mud and carefully coated all the chrome on his car. The last thing he needed was for some adventurous hiker to see a reflection and investigate.
He arranged the undergrowth carefully to camouflage the vehicle. Then he walked ten feet away and looked back. He could see nothing, and he knew it was there. For the first time since the accident, he felt a rush of genuine hope. No one would find the car for years, if ever.
Gym bag in hand, he began the long walk back to 206. He hadn’t remembered how dark it got under the pines and oaks. And there were the noises of the night creatures. He found himself looking over his shoulder at each rustling of leaves, each crunch of ground cover. He knew there were timber rattlers in the Pines, slithering across the floor of pine needles and fallen oak leaves. Did they slither around at night? Some people said there were cougars too, though no one had seen any for years.
A blood-chilling scream ripped the air. He felt his heart drop to his shoes. The cougar? A woman being murdered? The Jersey Devil itself? He and McCoy and every other kid in the area had scared themselves silly with tales of midnight encounters with the famed Jersey Devil, meetings from which no one ever returned.
Reason told him it was only a screech owl, but still the hairs on his arms stood up straight and his heart, returned to his chest cavity, pounded wildly.
When he finally got to 206, he was hot, sweaty, and in a foul humor. He had several mosquito bites on the back of his neck, and one on his left calf in spite of the elastic on the leg of his pants. It was driving him nuts, but every time he bent to scratch, his jacket separated from his pants and the mosquitoes attacked him.
He began to thumb a ride. If he could get out to Route 30, he could get back to Seaside easily. He should be home in plenty of time to do all he needed to do tonight. He couldn’t deviate from habit. It would raise too many questions.
He hadn’t had to depend on the kindness of strangers for years. Now he remembered why: Lots of strangers weren’t very kind. They zoomed by, kicking sand and cinders into his face. Finally a fat man in an old blue Ford pickup stopped.
“If you don’t mind riding in the back, I’ll take you.”
If it weren’t for the Doberman chained to the truck bed with a chain that reached to within four feet of where he was plastered against the tailgate, he might have enjoyed the ride in the soft night air. With relief he slid to the ground when they reached 30 and watched the dog
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