hand.
Kevin jogged in from third base. "Is that Van Syke?"
Lawrence came off the bench and stood next to Dale as they both squinted toward the truck, the bills of their wool baseball caps pulled low.
"I don't know," said Dale. "Can't see in the cab because of the stupid glare. But Van Syke usually drives it in the summer, doesn't he?"
Gerry Daysinger had been waiting on-deck behind Dale. Now he held his bat like a rifle and made a face. "Yeah, Van Syke drives it… most of the time."
Dale glanced at the shorter boy. All of them knew that Gerry's dad sometimes drove the Rendering Truck or mowed the cemetery… odd jobs around town that Van Syke usually took care of. No one had ever seen Mr. Van Syke with a friend, but Gerry's dad sometimes hung around with him.
As if reading their thoughts, Daysinger said, "It's Van Syke. My old man's up at Oak Hill today working on a construction job."
Donna Lou walked in from the mound, her mitt still over the lower part of her face. "What's he want?"
Mike O'Rourke shrugged. "I don't see any dead things around here, do you?"
"Just Harlen," said Gerry, flicking a clod of dirt at Jim as he loped in to join the group.
The Rendering Truck sat there, ten yards away, the windshield opaqued by glare and the thick layers of paint on the cab looking like caked blood. Through the slats on the side, Dale could catch a glimpse of hides gray and black, another hint of hoof near the tailgate, something large and brown and bloated just behind the cab. The four legs jutting skyward belonged to a cow. Dale pulled the bill of his cap lower and could see white bone showing through rotted hide. The air was thick with the buzzing of the flies that hung over the truck like a blue cloud.
"What's he want?" Donna Lou asked again. The sixth grader had hung around with the Bike Patrol boys for years-she was the best pitcher on their pickup teams-but this summer Dale had noticed how tall she'd grown… that and the curves under her t-shirt.
"Let's go ask him," said Mike. He tossed down his glove and started walking toward the opening in the backstop.
Dale felt his heart lurch. He didn't like Van Syke at the best of times. When he thought of him-even in the context of school with teachers and Dr. Roon within shouting distance-he had the image of long, spidery fingers with dirt under the nails, dirt-lined wrinkles on the back of a blister-reddened neck, and yellow teeth which were much too large. Like the teeth on the rats at the dump.
And the thought of walking closer to that truck-that smell -made Dale's insides quiver again.
Mike had reached the fence and was going through the narrow gap there.
"Hey, wait a minute!" called Harlen. "Look!"
A kid was riding down the dirt road and now the bike swerved into right field and crossed the, dirt infield in a spray of clods. Dale saw that it was a girl's bike, and that the girl riding it was Sandra Whittaker, Donna Lou's friend.
"Oh, peww," said Sandy as she brought the bike to a sliding halt near the group of them. "What died?"
"Mike's dead cousins just drove up," said Harlen. "He was just going over to give them a hug."
Sandy gave Harlen a look and dismissed him with a flounce of her braids. "I've got news. Something weird's going on!"
"What?" said Lawrence and adjusted his glasses. The third grader's voice was tense.
"J.P. and Barney and everybody's over at Old Central. Cordie's there and her weird-looking mom. Roon's out there. Everybody. They're looking for Cordie's stupid brother."
"Tubby?" said Gerry Daysinger. He rubbed his runny nose with his hand and wiped it on his gray t-shirt. "I thought he ran away on Wednesday."
"Yeah," panted Sandy, talking to Donna Lou now,"but Cordie thinks he's still in the school! Weird, huh?"
"Let's go," said Harlen, running for the row of bikes near first base. The others followed, pulling handlebar grips away. from the fence, tucking baseball gloves on their handlebars or onto bats thrown over their
Kevin jogged in from third base. "Is that Van Syke?"
Lawrence came off the bench and stood next to Dale as they both squinted toward the truck, the bills of their wool baseball caps pulled low.
"I don't know," said Dale. "Can't see in the cab because of the stupid glare. But Van Syke usually drives it in the summer, doesn't he?"
Gerry Daysinger had been waiting on-deck behind Dale. Now he held his bat like a rifle and made a face. "Yeah, Van Syke drives it… most of the time."
Dale glanced at the shorter boy. All of them knew that Gerry's dad sometimes drove the Rendering Truck or mowed the cemetery… odd jobs around town that Van Syke usually took care of. No one had ever seen Mr. Van Syke with a friend, but Gerry's dad sometimes hung around with him.
As if reading their thoughts, Daysinger said, "It's Van Syke. My old man's up at Oak Hill today working on a construction job."
Donna Lou walked in from the mound, her mitt still over the lower part of her face. "What's he want?"
Mike O'Rourke shrugged. "I don't see any dead things around here, do you?"
"Just Harlen," said Gerry, flicking a clod of dirt at Jim as he loped in to join the group.
The Rendering Truck sat there, ten yards away, the windshield opaqued by glare and the thick layers of paint on the cab looking like caked blood. Through the slats on the side, Dale could catch a glimpse of hides gray and black, another hint of hoof near the tailgate, something large and brown and bloated just behind the cab. The four legs jutting skyward belonged to a cow. Dale pulled the bill of his cap lower and could see white bone showing through rotted hide. The air was thick with the buzzing of the flies that hung over the truck like a blue cloud.
"What's he want?" Donna Lou asked again. The sixth grader had hung around with the Bike Patrol boys for years-she was the best pitcher on their pickup teams-but this summer Dale had noticed how tall she'd grown… that and the curves under her t-shirt.
"Let's go ask him," said Mike. He tossed down his glove and started walking toward the opening in the backstop.
Dale felt his heart lurch. He didn't like Van Syke at the best of times. When he thought of him-even in the context of school with teachers and Dr. Roon within shouting distance-he had the image of long, spidery fingers with dirt under the nails, dirt-lined wrinkles on the back of a blister-reddened neck, and yellow teeth which were much too large. Like the teeth on the rats at the dump.
And the thought of walking closer to that truck-that smell -made Dale's insides quiver again.
Mike had reached the fence and was going through the narrow gap there.
"Hey, wait a minute!" called Harlen. "Look!"
A kid was riding down the dirt road and now the bike swerved into right field and crossed the, dirt infield in a spray of clods. Dale saw that it was a girl's bike, and that the girl riding it was Sandra Whittaker, Donna Lou's friend.
"Oh, peww," said Sandy as she brought the bike to a sliding halt near the group of them. "What died?"
"Mike's dead cousins just drove up," said Harlen. "He was just going over to give them a hug."
Sandy gave Harlen a look and dismissed him with a flounce of her braids. "I've got news. Something weird's going on!"
"What?" said Lawrence and adjusted his glasses. The third grader's voice was tense.
"J.P. and Barney and everybody's over at Old Central. Cordie's there and her weird-looking mom. Roon's out there. Everybody. They're looking for Cordie's stupid brother."
"Tubby?" said Gerry Daysinger. He rubbed his runny nose with his hand and wiped it on his gray t-shirt. "I thought he ran away on Wednesday."
"Yeah," panted Sandy, talking to Donna Lou now,"but Cordie thinks he's still in the school! Weird, huh?"
"Let's go," said Harlen, running for the row of bikes near first base. The others followed, pulling handlebar grips away. from the fence, tucking baseball gloves on their handlebars or onto bats thrown over their
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