the little girl...."
"Not so little anymore," Sam said. Six years had passed.
"No, not so little..." The frown disappeared.
"May I talk to you for a few minutes?"
"Come in," Mrs. Howell said, opening the rusty screen door.
Sam went inside, Mrs. Howell saying, "I converted our front room to a workroom."
Sam could see a cutting table, a sewing machine, a clothes rack for hanging dresses and coats, and a three-way, full-length fitting mirror. But there was a couch to one side.
"Sit down, please."
Sam went to the couch, and Mrs. Howell took the swivel stool that was in front of the sewing machine. "I probably should have called you years ago to thank you for finding Alvin, but I was pretty upset with all that was going on," she said, tapping a cigarette out of a pack.
"You mind?" Mrs. Howell asked.
Sam shook her head, having rehearsed what she was going to say. Tobacco odor wasn't of consequence. "Mrs. Howell, I still have dreams about that afternoon. I had a bad one last night."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I know Alvin wouldn't want you to suffer."
"I see him in these dreams. One night about two months ago he said, 'Help me! Help me!' Last night he said, 'I know who killed me....' I think he's trying to send a message."
"Oh, child, I'm so sorry. I wish an adult had found him." Her pale face was knotted with concern.
"So do I," Sam said, letting out a long breath. "Mrs. Howell, do you have any idea who might have done it and why?"
The older woman slowly shook her head. "Deputy Truesdale asked me that twenty times if he asked me once. I have no idea. Though he was inclined to argue with people, I don't think Alvin had too many enemies."
At the time of his death, Sam had read that he'd been a truck farmer but had given it up quite a while before. He worked at the Albemarle Lumber Mill and raised gamecocks.
"I've always thought it had something to do with fighting the roosters," the widow said. "The men gambled, you know. They bet on or against his cocks. Sometimes big money, though Alvin never won much. I kept asking him to quit, but he was hooked. I truly felt for those poor birds and never went near a fight. I sold 'em all within a week after he died."
"You think he owed some gambler a lot of money?"
Mrs. Howell sighed. "I don't know. He knew I hated what he was doing so he usually kept a closed mouth...." She blew out a plume of smoke.
Sam looked around the room. There was no photo of Alvin Howell to be seen. As she recalled, they didn't have children.
"Have you gone to a doctor about these dreams?"
Sam nodded. "A few months after it happened. She said time would take care of it. It hasn't...."
"I do wish I could help," Mrs. Howell said, dismay evident.
Sam had figured it would be a useless mission to visit Mrs. Howell but had been willing to try anything. She rose now, saying, "Thank you for talking to me."
"You're welcome," Mrs. Howell said and escorted Sam to the door.
***
EARLY JUNE: Chip found himself bumping over Trail Eight in a white Toyota four-wheel-drive, all-terrain vehicle. "First thing we have to do is find tracks on the road or along the sides. Or see scat. That's plain poop," said Telford. He had his window rolled down and leaned out of the cab. "The good berry season will soon start. That's caviar and strawberry shortcake to a hungry bear. Like deer, they feed in early morning and late evening."
About ten minutes later, he stopped the camper-topped truck. "Mr. Big Bruin has been here, I'm sure." He eased back in reverse gear, then shut down the engine.
Chip followed him out.
"Tracks!" Telford pointed, then knelt down.
In the soft sand were paw prints at least three inches deep, five distinct toes and imprints of the soles in each.
"Bears are plantigrade, Chip, just like we are. Walk on their soles. Look closely, you'll see the tips of the claws. He can't retract them."
"Why do you say it's a he?"
"Look how deep the impression is. He'll go over three hundred pounds. Sows are half
"Not so little anymore," Sam said. Six years had passed.
"No, not so little..." The frown disappeared.
"May I talk to you for a few minutes?"
"Come in," Mrs. Howell said, opening the rusty screen door.
Sam went inside, Mrs. Howell saying, "I converted our front room to a workroom."
Sam could see a cutting table, a sewing machine, a clothes rack for hanging dresses and coats, and a three-way, full-length fitting mirror. But there was a couch to one side.
"Sit down, please."
Sam went to the couch, and Mrs. Howell took the swivel stool that was in front of the sewing machine. "I probably should have called you years ago to thank you for finding Alvin, but I was pretty upset with all that was going on," she said, tapping a cigarette out of a pack.
"You mind?" Mrs. Howell asked.
Sam shook her head, having rehearsed what she was going to say. Tobacco odor wasn't of consequence. "Mrs. Howell, I still have dreams about that afternoon. I had a bad one last night."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I know Alvin wouldn't want you to suffer."
"I see him in these dreams. One night about two months ago he said, 'Help me! Help me!' Last night he said, 'I know who killed me....' I think he's trying to send a message."
"Oh, child, I'm so sorry. I wish an adult had found him." Her pale face was knotted with concern.
"So do I," Sam said, letting out a long breath. "Mrs. Howell, do you have any idea who might have done it and why?"
The older woman slowly shook her head. "Deputy Truesdale asked me that twenty times if he asked me once. I have no idea. Though he was inclined to argue with people, I don't think Alvin had too many enemies."
At the time of his death, Sam had read that he'd been a truck farmer but had given it up quite a while before. He worked at the Albemarle Lumber Mill and raised gamecocks.
"I've always thought it had something to do with fighting the roosters," the widow said. "The men gambled, you know. They bet on or against his cocks. Sometimes big money, though Alvin never won much. I kept asking him to quit, but he was hooked. I truly felt for those poor birds and never went near a fight. I sold 'em all within a week after he died."
"You think he owed some gambler a lot of money?"
Mrs. Howell sighed. "I don't know. He knew I hated what he was doing so he usually kept a closed mouth...." She blew out a plume of smoke.
Sam looked around the room. There was no photo of Alvin Howell to be seen. As she recalled, they didn't have children.
"Have you gone to a doctor about these dreams?"
Sam nodded. "A few months after it happened. She said time would take care of it. It hasn't...."
"I do wish I could help," Mrs. Howell said, dismay evident.
Sam had figured it would be a useless mission to visit Mrs. Howell but had been willing to try anything. She rose now, saying, "Thank you for talking to me."
"You're welcome," Mrs. Howell said and escorted Sam to the door.
***
EARLY JUNE: Chip found himself bumping over Trail Eight in a white Toyota four-wheel-drive, all-terrain vehicle. "First thing we have to do is find tracks on the road or along the sides. Or see scat. That's plain poop," said Telford. He had his window rolled down and leaned out of the cab. "The good berry season will soon start. That's caviar and strawberry shortcake to a hungry bear. Like deer, they feed in early morning and late evening."
About ten minutes later, he stopped the camper-topped truck. "Mr. Big Bruin has been here, I'm sure." He eased back in reverse gear, then shut down the engine.
Chip followed him out.
"Tracks!" Telford pointed, then knelt down.
In the soft sand were paw prints at least three inches deep, five distinct toes and imprints of the soles in each.
"Bears are plantigrade, Chip, just like we are. Walk on their soles. Look closely, you'll see the tips of the claws. He can't retract them."
"Why do you say it's a he?"
"Look how deep the impression is. He'll go over three hundred pounds. Sows are half
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