screamed.
She screamed.
And the wolf ’ s eye became the bulging eye of Elizabeth Billings. The handle of the pitchfork still quivered in his hand. By the light of the moon he saw the pitc hfork thrust through her chest, one tine through her heart and two others through her lungs. Droplets of red stained the large green leaves, the orange pumpkins.
Panic tore at him with sharp teeth. What should he do now?
Confess? Tell someone? Maybe they would forgive him.
Forgive him? They would crucify him! Destroy his farm! Burn his house!
His farm, Tucker ’ s farm — all he had left. He couldn ’ t lose it! He wouldn ’ t let them take it. No — he had to hide her. Som e where.
Only temporarily. Until he could thin k of something else.
Think!
His barn! He had old, dry straw ten feet deep up in his loft!
He had to kill her!
He could bury her there, in the straw.
She would have told everyone!
She would keep in the dry straw. No one would ever find her.
Ruined him!
Fore ver.
Forever!
Someone rapped on his door, timid and yet insistent. Scow l ing, Tucker moved through the dim kitchen. At the window, he recognized the pinched face of the Methodist minister, Malcolm Litch. Tucker sucked on his teeth to swallow away the bad t aste in his mouth.
He flung the door outward, almost hitting the minister, not unintentionally.
“ Ah, good day, Mr. Tucker!” Litch beamed. The voice held a false tone from years of practice talking to people who didn ’ t particularly like him.
Tucker frowned at the hawk-faced man and said nothing.
“ Um, it ’ s almost Hallowe ’ en, you know, Mr. Tucker…”
A long pause. “ So?”
“ And, uh, it is traditional — the Hallowe ’ en barn dance. Of Tucker ’ s Grove?”
“ You can ’ t use my barn this year, Mr. Litch.”
The minister looked flustered. “ But your wife always —”
“ I have no wife, Mr. Litch. She ran off… or don ’ t you r e member?”
The minister seemed to swallow his lips as he fidgeted, then he steeled himself and wrenched the conversation back to his business. “ Plea se, Mr. Tucker — yours is the only barn around that isn ’ t being used.”
Tucker narrowed his eyes, guarded. “ And what makes you so sure my barn is empty, Mr. Litch? Have you been out there, snooping around?”
“ Why, no!”
Tucker continued to glare at him. Litch s huffled his feet. “ The dance does bring in some money, Mr. Tucker… if that makes any difference to you. The town council has decided to let you keep half of it this year, for allowing us to use your barn, as usual.”
Tucker snorted. The minister filled his e yes with a plea that somehow lacked sincerity.
Tucker suddenly wanted to get rid of this man, this parasite. Make him leave. “ All right, Mr. Litch, but you damn well better clean up your mess! And don ’ t let me see you around any more than I have to.”
Litch beamed. “ And the pumpkins?”
“ What pumpkins?”
“ It is also traditional for the Tuckers to donate the pumpkins for the Jack-o ’ -Lanterns. The children, you know. I ’ m sure your wife… uh, I ’ m sure you have some planted in your garden.”
“ You can have the damned p umpkins! Send someone around with a wagon tomorrow and we ’ ll load them up.” Tucker drew in a deep breath of disgust. He stood in the door frame, but the minister seemed reluctant to leave.
“ Is there anything else , Mr. Litch?”
The minister pursed his lips, as if trying to put himself at ease. “ A shame about Elizabeth Billings, isn ’ t it?”
Tucker leaned back into the shadows. “ A girl from town, is she? What happened to her?”
Litch shrugged. “ Nobody knows. She just vanished. Her pa r ents came back from Bartonvil le one night two weeks ago, and she was gone! Young Timothy Miller is almost frantic — he says he spent time with her, secretly, at sunset. Then she left for home… and nobody ever saw her again!”
Tucker frowned in distant thought. “ Maybe the
She screamed.
And the wolf ’ s eye became the bulging eye of Elizabeth Billings. The handle of the pitchfork still quivered in his hand. By the light of the moon he saw the pitc hfork thrust through her chest, one tine through her heart and two others through her lungs. Droplets of red stained the large green leaves, the orange pumpkins.
Panic tore at him with sharp teeth. What should he do now?
Confess? Tell someone? Maybe they would forgive him.
Forgive him? They would crucify him! Destroy his farm! Burn his house!
His farm, Tucker ’ s farm — all he had left. He couldn ’ t lose it! He wouldn ’ t let them take it. No — he had to hide her. Som e where.
Only temporarily. Until he could thin k of something else.
Think!
His barn! He had old, dry straw ten feet deep up in his loft!
He had to kill her!
He could bury her there, in the straw.
She would have told everyone!
She would keep in the dry straw. No one would ever find her.
Ruined him!
Fore ver.
Forever!
Someone rapped on his door, timid and yet insistent. Scow l ing, Tucker moved through the dim kitchen. At the window, he recognized the pinched face of the Methodist minister, Malcolm Litch. Tucker sucked on his teeth to swallow away the bad t aste in his mouth.
He flung the door outward, almost hitting the minister, not unintentionally.
“ Ah, good day, Mr. Tucker!” Litch beamed. The voice held a false tone from years of practice talking to people who didn ’ t particularly like him.
Tucker frowned at the hawk-faced man and said nothing.
“ Um, it ’ s almost Hallowe ’ en, you know, Mr. Tucker…”
A long pause. “ So?”
“ And, uh, it is traditional — the Hallowe ’ en barn dance. Of Tucker ’ s Grove?”
“ You can ’ t use my barn this year, Mr. Litch.”
The minister looked flustered. “ But your wife always —”
“ I have no wife, Mr. Litch. She ran off… or don ’ t you r e member?”
The minister seemed to swallow his lips as he fidgeted, then he steeled himself and wrenched the conversation back to his business. “ Plea se, Mr. Tucker — yours is the only barn around that isn ’ t being used.”
Tucker narrowed his eyes, guarded. “ And what makes you so sure my barn is empty, Mr. Litch? Have you been out there, snooping around?”
“ Why, no!”
Tucker continued to glare at him. Litch s huffled his feet. “ The dance does bring in some money, Mr. Tucker… if that makes any difference to you. The town council has decided to let you keep half of it this year, for allowing us to use your barn, as usual.”
Tucker snorted. The minister filled his e yes with a plea that somehow lacked sincerity.
Tucker suddenly wanted to get rid of this man, this parasite. Make him leave. “ All right, Mr. Litch, but you damn well better clean up your mess! And don ’ t let me see you around any more than I have to.”
Litch beamed. “ And the pumpkins?”
“ What pumpkins?”
“ It is also traditional for the Tuckers to donate the pumpkins for the Jack-o ’ -Lanterns. The children, you know. I ’ m sure your wife… uh, I ’ m sure you have some planted in your garden.”
“ You can have the damned p umpkins! Send someone around with a wagon tomorrow and we ’ ll load them up.” Tucker drew in a deep breath of disgust. He stood in the door frame, but the minister seemed reluctant to leave.
“ Is there anything else , Mr. Litch?”
The minister pursed his lips, as if trying to put himself at ease. “ A shame about Elizabeth Billings, isn ’ t it?”
Tucker leaned back into the shadows. “ A girl from town, is she? What happened to her?”
Litch shrugged. “ Nobody knows. She just vanished. Her pa r ents came back from Bartonvil le one night two weeks ago, and she was gone! Young Timothy Miller is almost frantic — he says he spent time with her, secretly, at sunset. Then she left for home… and nobody ever saw her again!”
Tucker frowned in distant thought. “ Maybe the
Similar Books
