was on the plate took care of him. Paying, he found out the diner opened at six in the morning. Ward put in his order now so he could grab it and run up to collect Megan.
He dragged himself down the long corridor to the lobby and then up the single flight of stairs to his room. As he did, he was only dimly aware of the low-beams rushing toward the foothills.
C HAPTER E IGHT
For the first time in weeks, Scott Randolph didnât feel alone.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Randolph reflected about John Ward and how he wasnât like the men who sat at Papa Vitoâs and grumbled about life and wrote things like aMEriCCA on the place mats. He also wasnât like those people who had jobs and didnât want to make waves. He wasnât politically sensitive to the point of paralysis. Ward had smelled something wrong and came up to investigate and took up the cause of a man he didnât know. That was rare these days. Randolph knew that pride and fellowship were simply dormant in his fellow townspeople, and he missed it.
A hint of milky white light, like the first arc of moonrise, hit and then played swiftly across the ceiling above his bed. Randolph listened. The only lights he ever saw up here were police choppers looking for hikers who had failed to come home. He didnât hear a rotor or an engine. If it was a vehicle, it was gone. Sometimes kids would come up to the field to make out, but the lights were followed by the distant sound of music or beer bottles being hoisted from a cooler. He heard none of that. He considered investigating but his eyes had other ideas. They shut slowly.
A few minutes later the pigs began to snort. Randolph was instantly awake. It wasnât their usual sound, when one of them wanted a corn cob another had taken or tried to nose into a spot where another was sitting. It wasnât an aggressive sound, but, like this evening with the ATVs, they were grunts of annoyance. The farmer raised himself on an elbow. The barn was far enough from his room so that he couldnât ordinarily hear them moving about, bumping against the wood of the stalls, flopping over in the soft earth, or moving through the hay. But he heard something that suggested movementâcreaking, the sucking of muddy earth, faint, faint whispers of activity.
Then Randolph heard a squeal that could only be one thing. A pig was hurt.
He threw off the blanket and jammed his feet into the slippers beside his bed. In the same motion he grabbed the shotgun leaning against his night table. The gun was always loaded. As he hurried to the bedroom door that opened into the back of the property, he flicked off the safety with his thumb. The door squeaked as he opened it but anyone who was inside the barn wouldnât hear it. There was no moon but he knew every inch of his land. He stepped from the small wooden stoop onto short grass made brittle by a parching summer. His eyes were on the barn, on the open door through which someone had entered.
Which was why he didnât see the man standing on the other side of the door. He only felt, for a moment, the tire iron as it came down on the base of his skullâ
Â
It was still dark when Randolph woke. The back of his neck was cold; it was more than a cool night breeze washing over it. A sharp, throbbing ache stretched from ear to ear. When he tried to move, electricity fired through the back of his skull. He lay still, his eyes looking out at the barn. He struggled to remember. It was just the way he had last seen it, the door on the north end opened inward. Only now, there were no sounds coming from within.
He put his palms on the ground, felt the shotgun still lying beside him. He moved his hand from it, pushed up very slowly while he raised his head from the grass. He moved his head tenderly from side to side, as he would if encouraging a newborn piglet to breathe. He didnât have a lot of mobility. There was a lump the size of a lemon. He was able
He dragged himself down the long corridor to the lobby and then up the single flight of stairs to his room. As he did, he was only dimly aware of the low-beams rushing toward the foothills.
C HAPTER E IGHT
For the first time in weeks, Scott Randolph didnât feel alone.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Randolph reflected about John Ward and how he wasnât like the men who sat at Papa Vitoâs and grumbled about life and wrote things like aMEriCCA on the place mats. He also wasnât like those people who had jobs and didnât want to make waves. He wasnât politically sensitive to the point of paralysis. Ward had smelled something wrong and came up to investigate and took up the cause of a man he didnât know. That was rare these days. Randolph knew that pride and fellowship were simply dormant in his fellow townspeople, and he missed it.
A hint of milky white light, like the first arc of moonrise, hit and then played swiftly across the ceiling above his bed. Randolph listened. The only lights he ever saw up here were police choppers looking for hikers who had failed to come home. He didnât hear a rotor or an engine. If it was a vehicle, it was gone. Sometimes kids would come up to the field to make out, but the lights were followed by the distant sound of music or beer bottles being hoisted from a cooler. He heard none of that. He considered investigating but his eyes had other ideas. They shut slowly.
A few minutes later the pigs began to snort. Randolph was instantly awake. It wasnât their usual sound, when one of them wanted a corn cob another had taken or tried to nose into a spot where another was sitting. It wasnât an aggressive sound, but, like this evening with the ATVs, they were grunts of annoyance. The farmer raised himself on an elbow. The barn was far enough from his room so that he couldnât ordinarily hear them moving about, bumping against the wood of the stalls, flopping over in the soft earth, or moving through the hay. But he heard something that suggested movementâcreaking, the sucking of muddy earth, faint, faint whispers of activity.
Then Randolph heard a squeal that could only be one thing. A pig was hurt.
He threw off the blanket and jammed his feet into the slippers beside his bed. In the same motion he grabbed the shotgun leaning against his night table. The gun was always loaded. As he hurried to the bedroom door that opened into the back of the property, he flicked off the safety with his thumb. The door squeaked as he opened it but anyone who was inside the barn wouldnât hear it. There was no moon but he knew every inch of his land. He stepped from the small wooden stoop onto short grass made brittle by a parching summer. His eyes were on the barn, on the open door through which someone had entered.
Which was why he didnât see the man standing on the other side of the door. He only felt, for a moment, the tire iron as it came down on the base of his skullâ
Â
It was still dark when Randolph woke. The back of his neck was cold; it was more than a cool night breeze washing over it. A sharp, throbbing ache stretched from ear to ear. When he tried to move, electricity fired through the back of his skull. He lay still, his eyes looking out at the barn. He struggled to remember. It was just the way he had last seen it, the door on the north end opened inward. Only now, there were no sounds coming from within.
He put his palms on the ground, felt the shotgun still lying beside him. He moved his hand from it, pushed up very slowly while he raised his head from the grass. He moved his head tenderly from side to side, as he would if encouraging a newborn piglet to breathe. He didnât have a lot of mobility. There was a lump the size of a lemon. He was able
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