‘Fine. Fine.’
Rudy let out a whoop. ‘Let’s do this! What’s first?’
The question was directed at me.
‘Oh right, you want me to solve the murder?’ I glared at them, at Jenny.
‘You’re the practical one, Johnny,’ Gloria said, nudged my shoulder with a smile.
The others had the ideas, I worked out how to make them happen. It was me who drew up plans, with a stick in the dirt, for constructing the Fort, me who worked out how to dam the river and make Big Lake. Now it was me they looked to again. Identify a dead body, solve a murder, catch a killer. Easy as that. Jesus.
I rubbed the back of my neck, slick with summer sweat. ‘In the books the detectives always go back to the beginning.’
‘Where’s that?’ Jenny asked.
‘Where all this started,’ I said. ‘Big Lake, of course. We should follow the river upstream and see if we can find the place she was dumped. Maybe we’ll find something the cops missed.’
‘When?’ Gloria asked, looked at Rudy and Jenny.
I stole a look at my sister. She was almost trembling, her fingers working in the dirt, clawing thin furrows, raking at broken leaves. She didn’t seem to notice her nails darkening with mud. After the rock fight, and now Jenny itching in her skin to investigate a murder, I didn’t have the heart for searching tonight. But I couldn’t say, my sister is going mad, I need to get her home.
So I made an excuse. ‘It’s too late now. We’re out of daylight. Tomorrow, after school. I’ll meet you outside when I’m done with the pastor. Jenny and me have to get home now.’
Jenny frowned, went to argue but thought better when she saw my expression.
‘Momma will be waiting,’ Jenny said.
‘Tomorrow then?’ Gloria nodded.
I sighed out the word, ‘Tomorrow.’
Jenny and me left Rudy and Gloria as the sky turned gold. Must have been close to eight when we cut through the forest onto the back Barton road, the dirt track that ran behind Wakefield land. Word was the road led all the way to Paradise Hill, through the scrubland east of Larson. There were all kinds of hidden roads around here, all kinds of paths you could take and never be seen. We turned west on Barton without having to think. You don’t go east. Another one of those Town Truths.
We went slow because of Jenny’s leg.
‘I don’t want to go through town, Johnny,’ she said, halfway along the track.
‘Me either. We can loop up to the railway line, cross up by the Hackett place.’
She held out her hand for me to help her. I took her weight, just as blood began to seep through the dressing on her knee. I hurried us, the starlings would soon be flocking.
This route home would take us an hour longer than going through town but it was worth it. The Hackett land had a hill, a rare and precious feature in Barks County. It was the Island, salvation in a sea of wheat. Our path took us right up and over.
From the top of the Island the land swept down onto a flat plain. The view always reminded me of that moment when you lift and flick a blanket to lay it neatly on the bed. The moment it curls upward, the perfect, effortless curve, made by the air and the weight of the cloth.
The top of the hill gave one of the only full views of Larson for miles. The white, bulbous water tower dominated the east side of town, the Easton grain elevator rose up in the north, and spiked in the centre of town, the wooden church spire. Then Larson spread out in squares, Main Street and Monroe and Cypress, until it gave way to swaying corn and fences, hemming us in. But up here, on the Island, it was as if the world had fought back and drove a fist up through the rock and soil, made this little piece unworkable, unchangeable, left it for the wildflowers and meadow grass to flourish. I stood at the top with my sister and breathed in the higher air, like I was breathing in a taste of another world.
‘Johnny,’ Jenny grabbed my arm, ‘Johnny look, the birds.’
I turned to where she was pointing, down the slope, far off to where the field met the road. There, above power lines and fences, a great flock of starlings pulsed in the sky. Dark specks wheeled across the field, outstanding against the colour of the evening. They dipped down to the top of the wheat then surged upward as one. A rolling boil of wings and thrumming bodies. It was gasoline flicked into water, the swirling pattern of it changed with every blink, every ripple.
‘I love them,’ I said.
‘I do too.’
‘Why did you go back to the body?’ A sudden burst of nerves grew in my gut. Why did you say that, Johnny? Where did that come from?
You know where.
Jenny turned to me, cheeks reddening, squirming embarrassment in her eyes. ‘I …’
‘I’m sorry. I just … I need to know.’
Her jaw clenched. ‘I wanted to see …’ tears rolled down her cheeks, every word was forced, ‘I wanted to see what would happen to me if a fight ever … if she drank too much … I don’t know. It was dumb. Forget it.’
She turned away from me and back to the birds.
I hated what she said, it hurt some primal part of me and my instinct was to round on her. How can you say that? How can you think that? She loves you. She loves you more than you realise. You’ll see. But I stood still, silent, and a deep sadness washed over me. I took my sister’s hand and held it tight.
The flock danced for ten or so minutes then settled on a nearby stand of ash trees, foregoing the pylons and fence poles, instead filling the branches. A great big screw you to human handiwork.
With them settled, and unmoving, the sky was dull again, the land just flat and my sister seemed calm inside, smiling like the girl I knew. We started down the hillside, another mile and we’d be at the edge of Royal land.
When we got home the house was quiet. Momma’s truck was parked where it should have been instead of skewed in the middle of the yard. The dent from last week knocked out by some friend in town. Moths swarmed around the porch light and, inside, only the family room lamp was on.
I opened the front door to the yeast stink of beer and a gentle, rhythmic snoring from the armchair. Jenny, still angry at Momma, made quickly for the kitchen. She poured a glass of water with a couple of ice cubes from the freezer box, then hobbled upstairs. She didn’t care about making noise. Momma wouldn’t wake. I got myself a glass of water and, once Jenny was safely upstairs, I went to check on Momma. The TV fizzed on a blank channel and a line of smoke trailed up from the armchair.
Momma lay with her head on her shoulder and half a Marlboro burning to ash in her fingers. An empty six-pack of Old Milwaukee tall-boys on the floor.
‘Hi, Momma, I’m home,’ I whispered, trod lightly to her, picked the butt out of her hand. The pillar of ash collapsed onto the floor. An hour later and they’d have been scraping charred Momma off her chair.
When I shut the TV off she stirred. Didn’t open her eyes but knew I was there.
‘Hi, baby,’ she said, slurred and thick with sleep.
‘Hi, Momma.’ I took her empty hand in mine. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’
‘Mmhmm.’
She let me pull her to standing. Put her arm around my shoulders and leaned hard on me but I could take it. She was my momma, my bones were built for carrying her. I don’t think she opened her eyes the entire way down