nodded dumbly. Mom worked at the gnawed skin of her fingers.
Ronnie was eager to go home. By the time the nurse showed up with a fake smile and a wheelchair, he was sitting up in bed, feeling dizzy but no longer nauseated. As the nurse wheeled him to the eleva-tors, he was floating away again. The outside air tasted strange and thick.
Ronnie was surprised to see that the sun was set-ting. He felt as if years had passed, not hours, since he'd fallen. Pinkish gray clouds wreathed the horizon above the dark mountains. Mom had pulled her big black Coupe De Ville by the hospital doors. Dad eased him into the backseat and they were on their way home. They had gone about two miles when Ronnie remembered Tim.
"Where's Tim?" he managed to ask. He was sleepy again, a molasses-head.
"At Donna's. They went back to the graveyard to find his glasses."
So Tim had survived the encounter at the red church. The Encounter. Sounded like a title for a cheesy monster movie. Whatever. His thoughts were getting wide again.
He wanted to be asleep by the time they drove past the red church.
He was.
"Didn't see nothing," Lester Matheson said. His face was crooked from decades of chewing his to-bacco in the same cheek. He ground his teeth side-ways, showing the dark mass inside his mouth, occasionally flicking it more firmly into place with his tongue.
"Last night, either?" Sheriff Littlefield turned from the man's smacking habit and looked out over the rolling meadows. A herd of cows dotted the ridge, all pointed in the same direction. Like their owner, they also chewed mindlessly, not caring what drib-bled out of their mouths.
"No, ain't seen nothing up at the red church in a long time. Course, kids go up there to mess around from time to time. Always have."
Littlefield nodded. "Yeah. Ever think of posting a 'No Trespassing' sign?"
"That would only draw twice as many. I'd never keep nothing out there that I couldn't afford to get stolen."
Littlefield shifted his weight from one foot to an-other and a porch board groaned. The Mathesons lived in a board-and-batten house on the edge of two hundred acres of land. Even Lester's barns seemed better built than the house. It was roofed with a cheap linoleum sheeting that had visible patches in the material. The windows were large single panes fixed with gray strips of wood. The air coming from the open front door was stale and cool, like that of a tomb.
The sun was disappearing into the angle where Buckhorn Mountain slid down to the base of Piney Top. The air was moist with the waiting dew. Pigs snorted from their wooden stalls beside the largest of Lester's two barns. Crickets had taken up their night noises, and the aroma of cow manure made Littlefield almost nostalgic for his own childhood farm days. "Have you ever seen Boonie hanging around the graveyard?"
Lester scratched his bulbous head that gleamed even in the fading light. His hand was knotted from a life of work, thick with blue veins and constellations of age spots. "Well, I found him in the red church one time, passed out in the straw. I just let him sleep it off. As long as he didn't smoke in there, he couldn't really hurt nothing."
"Have you noticed anything unusual around here?"
"Depends on what you mean by 'unusual.' The church has always been mighty unusual. But I don't have to tell you that, do I?"
"I'm not interested in ghost stories," Littlefield lied.
Lester emitted a gurgling laugh and leaned back in his rocker. "Fine, Sheriff. Whatever you say. And I guess Boonie just happened to get killed in one of them gang wars or something."
"Perry Hoyle thinks it was a mountain lion."
Lester laughed again, then shot a stream of black juice into the yard. "Or maybe it was Bigfoot. Used to be a lot of mountain lions in these parts, all right. Back in the thirties and forties, they were thick as flies. They'd come down out of the hills of a night and take a calf or a chicken, once in a while a dog. But they're deader than four
Ronnie was eager to go home. By the time the nurse showed up with a fake smile and a wheelchair, he was sitting up in bed, feeling dizzy but no longer nauseated. As the nurse wheeled him to the eleva-tors, he was floating away again. The outside air tasted strange and thick.
Ronnie was surprised to see that the sun was set-ting. He felt as if years had passed, not hours, since he'd fallen. Pinkish gray clouds wreathed the horizon above the dark mountains. Mom had pulled her big black Coupe De Ville by the hospital doors. Dad eased him into the backseat and they were on their way home. They had gone about two miles when Ronnie remembered Tim.
"Where's Tim?" he managed to ask. He was sleepy again, a molasses-head.
"At Donna's. They went back to the graveyard to find his glasses."
So Tim had survived the encounter at the red church. The Encounter. Sounded like a title for a cheesy monster movie. Whatever. His thoughts were getting wide again.
He wanted to be asleep by the time they drove past the red church.
He was.
"Didn't see nothing," Lester Matheson said. His face was crooked from decades of chewing his to-bacco in the same cheek. He ground his teeth side-ways, showing the dark mass inside his mouth, occasionally flicking it more firmly into place with his tongue.
"Last night, either?" Sheriff Littlefield turned from the man's smacking habit and looked out over the rolling meadows. A herd of cows dotted the ridge, all pointed in the same direction. Like their owner, they also chewed mindlessly, not caring what drib-bled out of their mouths.
"No, ain't seen nothing up at the red church in a long time. Course, kids go up there to mess around from time to time. Always have."
Littlefield nodded. "Yeah. Ever think of posting a 'No Trespassing' sign?"
"That would only draw twice as many. I'd never keep nothing out there that I couldn't afford to get stolen."
Littlefield shifted his weight from one foot to an-other and a porch board groaned. The Mathesons lived in a board-and-batten house on the edge of two hundred acres of land. Even Lester's barns seemed better built than the house. It was roofed with a cheap linoleum sheeting that had visible patches in the material. The windows were large single panes fixed with gray strips of wood. The air coming from the open front door was stale and cool, like that of a tomb.
The sun was disappearing into the angle where Buckhorn Mountain slid down to the base of Piney Top. The air was moist with the waiting dew. Pigs snorted from their wooden stalls beside the largest of Lester's two barns. Crickets had taken up their night noises, and the aroma of cow manure made Littlefield almost nostalgic for his own childhood farm days. "Have you ever seen Boonie hanging around the graveyard?"
Lester scratched his bulbous head that gleamed even in the fading light. His hand was knotted from a life of work, thick with blue veins and constellations of age spots. "Well, I found him in the red church one time, passed out in the straw. I just let him sleep it off. As long as he didn't smoke in there, he couldn't really hurt nothing."
"Have you noticed anything unusual around here?"
"Depends on what you mean by 'unusual.' The church has always been mighty unusual. But I don't have to tell you that, do I?"
"I'm not interested in ghost stories," Littlefield lied.
Lester emitted a gurgling laugh and leaned back in his rocker. "Fine, Sheriff. Whatever you say. And I guess Boonie just happened to get killed in one of them gang wars or something."
"Perry Hoyle thinks it was a mountain lion."
Lester laughed again, then shot a stream of black juice into the yard. "Or maybe it was Bigfoot. Used to be a lot of mountain lions in these parts, all right. Back in the thirties and forties, they were thick as flies. They'd come down out of the hills of a night and take a calf or a chicken, once in a while a dog. But they're deader than four
Similar Books
