I stared at both men. Stunned. I hurt on the inside, bruised and shaken, but Jenny had told the right story and the relief soothed me like ice water on a burn.
‘If you say so, pastor,’ Samuels said in that careful, heavy tone Mr Wakefield had used.
‘I say so.’
‘Well I guess you and your sister can go.’ Samuels threw the pen down. ‘I’ll be calling on you, John, if I have any more questions.’
‘And I’ll be here too for any follow-up interviews, right, sheriff?’ the pastor said and stood up, motioned for me to follow.
Samuels didn’t see us out. Didn’t shake the pastor’s hand like he’d done with Gloria’s father. Jacobs closed the door behind us but stopped me from joining Rudy and Jenny.
‘John. Are you all right? Samuels was out of line.’
First time in a long time anyone had asked how I was. It softened the bruises, returned my sense of calm. ‘He’s just doing his job I guess. I’m okay.’
‘No offence, bud, but I’m not buying it. You’re pale as potatoes, as my mother used to say, and I don’t think you’ve begun to understand what you’ve been through. Seeing a dead body, that can mess with your head. I’d like to talk to you some more about it, if you want to. I know how close you are with your mother and sister, and your friends, but sometimes it helps to speak to someone else. Someone outside your group.’
I glanced over to Jenny, still chatting away with Rudy. I thought back to last night and how she’d acted down at the lake, the way she’d looked at Mora’s body. That strange fascination in her eyes. For the first time in my life I didn’t understand my sister and that scared me. Maybe talking would help. The pastor knew his stuff and had God on his side. If anyone could help my head sort out this mess, it was them.
‘I think I’d like that.’
‘How’s Tuesday? I’ll write you a note to get you out of your last lesson,’ he winked.
Study hall. ‘Yes, sir, that’ll be fine. Thank you, again, pastor. For sitting with Jenny too. She’d have been scared on her own and I hate her being scared.’
‘Anytime,’ he said, looked at me like he was watching a bird with a broken wing take flight.
I went back to Jenny and she jumped up. ‘Can we go?’
‘Yeah. Rudy, you coming?’
Rudy shook his head. ‘Not until dear old Dad comes to get me so I can have my turn in the little glass room. Won’t that be just stellar?’
Rudy slid down the chair, folded his arms and stared at the far wall. Wide eyes. He was trying to keep it together but fear always shows. It’s a black shape behind tissue paper. Rudy was all tissue paper when it came to his father.
‘See you later?’ I asked. Later meant after dinner, down at the Roost, with a couple of Camels and Gloria’s portable radio.
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Rudy said. Something in his tone made me think he wouldn’t come. Made me think I wouldn’t either.
‘Don’t worry,’ the pastor said and sat two chairs down from Rudy. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him until his dad arrives.’
Jenny and me said our goodbyes and left the station. Stepped out of cool central air into thick heat and the smell of Main Street. Exhaust fumes and greasy steam from the Backhoe diner, the occasional floating scent of flowers from Al Westin’s grocery store. Noon sun prickled my scalp and the top of my nose and I didn’t realise how dry my mouth and skin had become. Shrivelled up in the cold, false air.
Jenny took my hand when we got half a block from the station. Already slick with sweat. ‘That was scary.’
Before I could respond, reassure her, I caught sight of a battered Chevy tow truck driving too fast up Main. I knew that truck. A rusted hook swung from a cable off the boom. The hood was faded yellow but the rest of it was blue. On the door was the chipped decal, half missing from a replacement back panel. Buchanan Auto Salvage. Inside, Rudy’s father sucked on a can of Budweiser, eyes on anything but the road.
‘Shit,’ Jenny said, watching the truck, and this time, I didn’t snap at her for cursing.
The truck swerved across Main, cut up a station wagon. Its horn echoed down the street. Bung-Eye flipped the driver the bird and chucked the empty can out the window. Then the truck passed us. Bung-Eye’s good eye found us. The heat disappeared from the sun and chills went up my back. He pointed out the window, right at us, and formed his hand into a gun. Bang, he mouthed and winked his milky, dead eye.
Then he took a left and disappeared into the back of the sheriff’s station.
I shook off the chill. Shook off that look in his eyes. That look that said, I know who you are. I know what you’ve been doing.
‘Should we go back?’ Jenny said.
‘No, we shouldn’t,’ I said and she didn’t argue. I didn’t want to be in the same room as that man. Everyone knew Bung-Eye and knew to stay out of his way.
Rudy didn’t come to the Roost that evening but we all four met up at the Backhoe first chance we could. Sunday afternoon. The diner windows were thrown wide and the streets lined with people watching the parade, waving flags, blowing whistles, cheering as the Fourth of July floats slid down Main Street. The high school marching band following behind the last float – the Larson Lions, decked out in blue and gold uniforms and shining helmets – tooting ‘Oklahoma’ and twirling batons. The fireworks were set to go off from the football field at nine but the four of us didn’t feel much like banging the drum.
Rudy showed off a shiner and a limp from his father so Gloria bought us two milkshakes to share as apology for telling Mandy about the body. Our momma, when she found out, didn’t much care, never even scolded us. I felt for Rudy, always did when he turned up bruised. Momma could make a slap sting to high heaven and her words could crack bones, but Bung-Eye was something else, some horror kicked right out of Hell for bad behaviour. We got through it. We didn’t talk about it, not really, and that was for the best.
It didn’t matter, not in Rudy’s big-picture thinking, because it wouldn’t last. The four of us were on a fast track out of Larson, that’s what Rudy, Gloria and Jenny kept saying. Few more years and it’d be sayonara to all those fists and snipes. Only snag in Rudy’s great escape plan was me. I didn’t want to leave.
The diner was jammed. The four us squeezed around a two-person table, Jenny and Gloria sharing a chair, Rudy on a stool.
Gloria said something but it was lost in the noise from the band passing.
‘I said we should do something!’
‘About what?’ Rudy shouted back.
We leaned over the table, heads almost touching, the only way to be heard.
‘You know …’ she said, leaned further in, ‘about her.’
‘What can we do?’ I asked. It felt wrong to be talking about this. Here.
The person who killed her was probably in this diner, or on the street, or in the parade. I choked back a mouthful of milkshake.
‘We could …’ Gloria’s words were lost as a dozen mill workers poured into the diner singing and spinning football rattles.
Behind them, Gloria’s mother appeared in a tight red dress. The mill workers whistled, spun their rattles faster. She ignored them. Her eyes found Gloria and she waved, holding a paper flag, her hand laden with rings and bangles.
‘I’ve