Blood Echoes by Thomas H. Cook Page B

the last vestiges of boyhood.
    Now they were all dead, and for the first time, the very traditions that had made the Alday family strong—particularly the sexual division of labor common to agrarian life—began to weaken it, while other, even more sinister, elements began to gnaw ceaselessly at its vital center, like a worm at the core. The saga of the farming Aldays had ended, and the saga of the “Alday victims” had begun.

Chapter Eight
    D uring the early hours of May 15, the heartrending business begun just outside the Alday trailer as Sheriff White spoke to Bud Alday continued one phone call at a time.
    At approximately 3:00 A.M. the telephone rang in the home of Patricia Alday Miller, Ernestine’s thirty-two-year-old daughter.
    â€œPatricia, this is Mama,” Ernestine said in a voice that remained very firm, unshaken. “Something’s happened. You need to come home.’’
    â€œHome” meant the family homestead on River Road, and the tone in her mother’s voice convinced Patricia that something dreadful must have happened. Quickly she roused her husband, the two of them throwing on the clothes they’d worn the day before, and headed for the door. On the way out, Patricia instinctively looked in on her sleeping children, the warmth of their room, the look of their bodies safe beneath the blankets already suggestive of a security and contentment she would never know again.
    Outside there was a chill in the air, though enough light had broken for her to see a clear sky overhead, the promise of another bright spring day. The prospect of enjoying it had already dimmed in her mind. Her mother’s voice had replaced it, cool, strained, female. Why didn’t Daddy call?
    She tried to press any further direct questions from her mind as the truck backed out of the driveway and headed toward River Road. On the way, the truck racing through the early morning mist, she kept her eyes straight ahead while her mind moved through a grim catalog of possibilities, images of death and injury in a steady stream of horrible conjectures. “It only took a few minutes to get to River Road,” she remembered later, “but it was the longest drive I ever took.”
    At last, as they neared her brother Jerry’s trailer, Patricia could see several cars lined up and down both sides of River Road. Her husband slowed down as the truck neared the trailer, then stopped dead on the road in front of it.
    From her place in the passenger seat, Patricia could see Sheriff White standing a few yards from the trailer itself. He saw her, too, and strode down to where she sat nervously in the truck.
    â€œThey’re all dead, Patricia,” White told her solemnly. “And Mary’s missing.”
    Patricia couldn’t speak. She stared mutely at White, totally unable to imagine the “dead” he was referring to. The only name he’d mentioned was Mary’s, the fact that although the others were dead, Mary was not among them. Her first thought would later astound her with its irrational oddity: What has Mary done to my family?
    The truck eased on through the line of official vehicles toward the Alday homestead on River Road, Patricia now entering a state of near paralysis, her mind unable to arrange the disjointed information it had received during the preceding minutes.
    Once at home, she found Ernestine seated at the dining table, utterly still, her hands folded in her lap, her gray hair neatly combed, as it always was, with little to betray the unimaginable blow she had received nearly an hour before.
    For the next few minutes, as Patricia listened in disbelief, Ernestine related the evening’s events, the nightlong search for Ned and the others, then the discovery of their bodies in the trailer. Through it all, she remained entirely controlled, holding her emotions in with a monumental determination.
    â€œMama was determined to be strong for the rest of