kid in sweatpants walked toward them. “Sorry,” he said.
Ray handed him the ball. “It’s cool.” The kid tucked the ball under his arm and jogged back to his friend.
Ellen looked at her watch. “Shoot. I’m fifteen minutes late.” She stuffed the cigarettes and lighter into her purse. “Listen, do you want to get together and talk about this tonight?” She opened a pack of gum and tossed two white squares into her mouth. “I can meet you somewhere.”
He nodded. “Sure. Oh—wait. I can’t. I promised the librarian I’d meet him.”
Her eyes widened. “Denny Huffington?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Sort of. He was a couple years ahead of me in high school. I think he thought I was just a little dumb blonde. But William loves him. He convinced Denny to carry his robot book. Two copies, in fact.”
“I can cancel. It’s no big deal.”
“No. Did you tell him about any of this?”
“No. Well, some of it. He was helping me look for the camp. But we didn’t find anything.”
“Then why don’t I meet up with the two of you?”
Ray shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Ellen smiled.
Denny was waiting when Ray arrived at the Purple Burro. “I think I found something,” he said. “Well, maybe. It’s not much, but I wanted you to see it.” He pulled several sheets of paper from a folder. “This was from the local paper. May 1972. Which also happens to be one of the biggest years for the lights.
Lots
of sightings.”
Ray’s stomach tightened.
Denny handed him the paper. “A woman named Dottie Walker had a column, ‘Dottie’s Dotings.’ It was as bad as it sounds—mostly so-and-so had their sixth baby, or gee, wasn’t the church pancake breakfast the finest ever. But check it out.” He pointed to a neatly bracketed paragraph on the photocopied page.
People around town are all stirred up by the convoy that came through this past weekend, a line of white semi trucks and vans and even some yellow school buses with Maryland and Virginia tags. Pouty Bickle says a few of them gassed up at his station, but they weren’t in a mood to gab. Some folks seem to think the vehicles were taking kids to see the big telescopes at Green Bank, but others think it’ssome top-secret project to defend us all against the Russians. I suspect the mysterious convoy caught wind of next week’s Clogging Festival down at the Odd Fellows hall and they’ll all be dropping by for Sally Pennington’s famous biscuits and gravy
.
Ray realized he was holding his breath.
“Does that ring any bells?” Denny asked.
“Maybe. Is that it?”
“No, no.” He held up another piece of paper. “Same column, two weeks later.” His breath smelled like peppermint. “Here.”
Well, the mystery convoy is a mystery no more, thanks to Sheriff Thornton, who tells me it was heading to a camp for what they call “gifted” kids somewhere up north of town. Sheriff says they don’t expect to be bringing the kids around, so don’t go looking for a smarty-pants youngster to balance your checkbook for you
.
Denny stared at him expectantly.
“Anything else?”
“No.” He pulled at his beard. “But it’s a start. I’ve started looking through property records. It’s weird—I thought I knew everything there was to know about this place, and I’d never heard anything like this.”
“Do you have any idea where this camp was? Do you have a map?”
“Sure.” He unfolded a map of the town. Ray reread the “Dottie’s Dotings” columns. A camp for gifted kids. He’d never been singled out as gifted and only made decent passing grades until high school. But the camp she wrote about had to be
his
camp—the year was right. And the school buses …
It had been hot, nasty hot, and he and Kevin had been sitting in the backseat, bouncing high into the air with every bump in the road. Kevin had been sticking his cupped hand under his armpit and making fart noises. Ray had laughed so hard he thought he’d pee
Ray handed him the ball. “It’s cool.” The kid tucked the ball under his arm and jogged back to his friend.
Ellen looked at her watch. “Shoot. I’m fifteen minutes late.” She stuffed the cigarettes and lighter into her purse. “Listen, do you want to get together and talk about this tonight?” She opened a pack of gum and tossed two white squares into her mouth. “I can meet you somewhere.”
He nodded. “Sure. Oh—wait. I can’t. I promised the librarian I’d meet him.”
Her eyes widened. “Denny Huffington?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Sort of. He was a couple years ahead of me in high school. I think he thought I was just a little dumb blonde. But William loves him. He convinced Denny to carry his robot book. Two copies, in fact.”
“I can cancel. It’s no big deal.”
“No. Did you tell him about any of this?”
“No. Well, some of it. He was helping me look for the camp. But we didn’t find anything.”
“Then why don’t I meet up with the two of you?”
Ray shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Ellen smiled.
Denny was waiting when Ray arrived at the Purple Burro. “I think I found something,” he said. “Well, maybe. It’s not much, but I wanted you to see it.” He pulled several sheets of paper from a folder. “This was from the local paper. May 1972. Which also happens to be one of the biggest years for the lights.
Lots
of sightings.”
Ray’s stomach tightened.
Denny handed him the paper. “A woman named Dottie Walker had a column, ‘Dottie’s Dotings.’ It was as bad as it sounds—mostly so-and-so had their sixth baby, or gee, wasn’t the church pancake breakfast the finest ever. But check it out.” He pointed to a neatly bracketed paragraph on the photocopied page.
People around town are all stirred up by the convoy that came through this past weekend, a line of white semi trucks and vans and even some yellow school buses with Maryland and Virginia tags. Pouty Bickle says a few of them gassed up at his station, but they weren’t in a mood to gab. Some folks seem to think the vehicles were taking kids to see the big telescopes at Green Bank, but others think it’ssome top-secret project to defend us all against the Russians. I suspect the mysterious convoy caught wind of next week’s Clogging Festival down at the Odd Fellows hall and they’ll all be dropping by for Sally Pennington’s famous biscuits and gravy
.
Ray realized he was holding his breath.
“Does that ring any bells?” Denny asked.
“Maybe. Is that it?”
“No, no.” He held up another piece of paper. “Same column, two weeks later.” His breath smelled like peppermint. “Here.”
Well, the mystery convoy is a mystery no more, thanks to Sheriff Thornton, who tells me it was heading to a camp for what they call “gifted” kids somewhere up north of town. Sheriff says they don’t expect to be bringing the kids around, so don’t go looking for a smarty-pants youngster to balance your checkbook for you
.
Denny stared at him expectantly.
“Anything else?”
“No.” He pulled at his beard. “But it’s a start. I’ve started looking through property records. It’s weird—I thought I knew everything there was to know about this place, and I’d never heard anything like this.”
“Do you have any idea where this camp was? Do you have a map?”
“Sure.” He unfolded a map of the town. Ray reread the “Dottie’s Dotings” columns. A camp for gifted kids. He’d never been singled out as gifted and only made decent passing grades until high school. But the camp she wrote about had to be
his
camp—the year was right. And the school buses …
It had been hot, nasty hot, and he and Kevin had been sitting in the backseat, bouncing high into the air with every bump in the road. Kevin had been sticking his cupped hand under his armpit and making fart noises. Ray had laughed so hard he thought he’d pee
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