Ozzie hadn’t anticipated a parade. Parked further away, this time to the west, he hunkered down in his seat behind a stand of never-say-die Cottonwood trees and glared over the sticky steering wheel. Cars and trucks, barking dogs, folding chairs, screaming kids, and a television crew—dish and all—rumbled to the scene of the tragedy.
Rural folks didn’t cotton to being rousted out of bed by tractor noise on a Saturday morning, let alone by a bunch of city looky-loos who’d come out to have their suspenders snapped. The morning was overcast, but the mood was merry. Caleb and Jinny braved both cold and the madding crowd to watch Tommy, of Tommy Hardy Towing—formerly Donny Hoskins Wrecking–attempt to maneuver his rig into position. Fearful that he might run over a dog or a stray child, Tommy strangled the parking brake, jumped out, pitched his cap on the road, and hollered, “Who told you this is a circus? This ain’t a circus. Somebody died here last night, so calm down, corral your kids, and move to the far side of the road so’s I can back-up without killing anybody or dropping the back-double-axles of my truck into the canal.” Tommy tried two more times and finally inched to within a foot of the canal. He climbed from cab and saw Caleb. “I hoped you’d be here Caleb, but where’s Sheriff P.? And howdy, Miss Jinny. Sorry about your friend.”
Harangued by a bald jock who acted like he was jigged-out on methamphetamines, it took Tommy three casts before he hooked and fished out the Ford. His was anything but a record catch, and it drew no applause. The crowd closed in. Tommy ran his gloved hand around the dripping wheel hub, spat tobacco juice on the icy road, wiped his speckled chin, and whispered, “Caleb, this is the darndest thing I ever seen. I figured the studs had been sheared off, but there they be, threads and all. I wish the sheriff was here, because, listen up.” He drew closer and cupped his hand so only Caleb would hear and smell his breath. “The reason being, I think somebody unscrewed the nuts on purpose.” He stood and looked down at the water. “Is the wheel in the canal?”
Caleb feigned surprise, shrugged, and silently shook his head. “No, the wheel isn’t in the drink.” And thankfully neither you nor Jinny noticed the spot-weld on the driver-side door. It’s Just as well. He patted Tommy’s shoulder, thanked him, ignored the press, and arm in arm with Jinny walked twenty steps toward the house. Pressed from behind, they stopped and turned toward the TV camera and microphone. Caleb raised his right hand and pled, “Please folks, go away and leave us to grieve. The boy was Jinny’s friend.”
The tow truck rambled east toward Abilene. Ozzie dropped his pilfered binoculars on the seat, rammed the key in the ignition, cranked the engine to life, jerked the wheel, and spun from behind the Cottonwoods. His timing was perfect. As he rolled slowly past Jinny, she turned and saw the car. Ozzie rolled down the window, pointed, and then cocked and parodied a shot at her head with his finger. The grim gesture, accompanied by, “Kiss, kiss, see you soon, Missy,” was not lost on Jinny. She felt like somebody had just pulled a plastic bag over her head. Turning, she ran to catch up with Caleb, who had stopped and turned.
“Papa, I’m staying home from school today. I don’t feel well.”
Dear Diary, It’s been a week, but I’m ready to write again. What a day. Curly’s truck was hoisted from the canal and dragged away early this morning. I was sad but what happened next made me want to scream. I saw the pale green Karmann Ghia traveling east on Wilcox Lane. It slowed as it rolled past our driveway, and I had nowhere to hide. The driver pointed his finger out the window and pretended to shoot me. It was like I couldn’t breathe. I was horrified. But how did he know me? Only Curly could have betrayed me. Only Curly, and now he’s dead. A knock came at the door. “Conor, what do you want? Okay, take it, but close the door, and stay out of my room.” Jinny waited until she heard a click, retrieved her diary from under the pillow, and continued writing. The car had Wisconsin plates. I am so rattled I don’t remember the numbers, but the driver must have been Ozzie. His face is badly scared. (I hope I spelled scared right.) Maybe it’s a burn, but it covers the left side of his face; his lip is disfigured, and he has no eyebrow on that side.
Jinny paused to blow her nose and then fought off the temptation to write no more.
I’m leaving out some facts. Guess I should back up to the beginning. One week ago Sunday, Curly and I got stuck in a blizzard; but by the grace of God we found refuge in his grandpa’s barn where he showed me a truck he was fixing up; then we climbed into the loft, talked about joining the army in July, and waited for the storm to let-up. We were both quite cold. The snow fell hard. Curly tried to kiss me. I wanted out really bad. I was about to punch out Curly’s lights when we heard the barn door being forced open, so we hid. Two men, dressed in black and covered with snow, pressed through the doorway. The taller man (Ozzie) dragged a large, black duffle bag behind him. Both men wore hoodies, and from the loft we could not see their faces. Ozzie wheezed as he breathed. The shorter man, whom I call Whiner, had a high-pitched voice and complained a lot. Based on what we overheard, we think—no, I think, since I’m the only surviving witness—Whiner had killed somebody. Ozzie gruffly ordered his partner to find a shovel and dig a deep hole in the stall at the south-east side of the barn. We could not see into the stall, but after a lot of shoveling we heard Ozzie swear then strike his companion with the shovel. After dragging and pushing something else in the hole --I think it was the bag--Ozzie pretended to be a graveside preacher and said, “May you rot in peace,” then shoveled for a while and skittered out of the stall like a cockroach. Curly and I were thirty or forty feet from pure evil. I could feel it. We were not discovered thanks to answered prayers. Curly threw up after Ozzie left the barn and drove away. We climbed down and hurried toward home without looking in the stall. Of course, as we ran we speculated as to what was in the bag and agreed to tell our folks everything—well, not Curly’s dad. After about a mile of slogging through the snow, we had to stop and rest because it was deep up there. I asked Curly why he kept rubbing his head. “Hail damage. But I can still think. If we tell our folks everything, won’t that put my mother and your parents in danger, too?” “Why would it?” I replied. “Well, Rabbit, we did witness a MURDER and hear a confessional.” My scare meter jumped fifty percent. I had never seen Curly so uptight. While we knelt in the snow staring at each other, he said: “What if Ozzie actually saw us and is parked down the road waiting? “ “And then follows us to see where we live?” I added. From where we knelt we could see nothing beyond falling snow. A lot of it. We agreed our folks were dealing with enough issues just now and decided to lay low and keep an eye out for the Karmann Ghia. The weather gave us a good excuse to stay indoors, except for my chores and church. We kept in touch by phone.
Yes, Mother, I hear you. You said, ‘five minutes.’”
The plot soon got thick as cold molasses, but it wasn’t sweet. I was surprised when Curly called to tell me his truck was running and to come for my ride because the barn was due for demolition (despite the weather). I guess he got help fixing the truck, maybe from Billy Myers, but Curly didn’t say. I snuck out. We met up and hightailed it to the barn. We both had the hebegebees as we approached the murder scene but saw no Karmann Ghia. As far as we could tell, the bales of hay hadn’t been moved from the stall. The smell was awful, and Curly’s truck still looked undrivable to me. Curly jumped in and turned the key. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I groaned. Finally, it turned over, started, backfired, and I broke the record for the standing high-jump. Then I hopped in before it died, and we bounced out of the barn and across the field. Curly parked behind his house, and we were mighty glad we didn’t see Ozzie. I walked home, which was stupid considering the danger, but at least it wasn’t the only stupid thing I had done that day. Gotta go. Supper time. More later, if I feel like it.
Following supper, all hands pitched in and cleared the table; Conor washed and Jinny grabbed a dishtowel, wishing all the while she could rub Ozzie from her memory. Albert was antsy. Jinny watched as he excused himself and exited the back door, then she heard the doors of the root cellar clatter open. Curious, she nonchalantly walked out on the screened porch and saw Albert backout of the cellar, close and latch the double-doors. He jumped when he saw Jinny staring at him but didn’t say a word. Accompanied by Blondie, his cocker spaniel, he sloshed through the snow toward the stile at the property line between homes, whistling as if he’d just kissed his first girlfriend goodnight.
Jinny opened the screen door and hollered,“Hey Uncle. You didn’t finish your story. Why didyour chums call you Slick Albert when you were a kid?” Ignored—but not by goosebumps—she stepped back inside and returned to the warm dining room where Conor sat in the corner perfecting his texting skills. The washed dishes were drip-drying on the plasticized wire rack while Gemma, Lance, and Isabelle busied themselves at the table, laboring over a landscape puzzle to the accompaniment of Caleb singing, O Sole Mio,in the shower. He only knew one phrase: “O Sole Mio.”
Jinny yawned, too tired to concentrate on Barron’s AP Calculus: 13thEdition. The book remained in the bag. Jinny was glad the bag wasn’t black. Forgetting that she had left her diary turned upside down on the bed, she reached for the Abilene Reflector-Gazette,still damp but neatly folded on the kitchen counter. Bold block letters drew her eyes to page A-1—Teen Drowns in Canal. Below the caption was an old photo of Curly from the waist up—cowlick, smiling, under-exposed, grainy, and grey. He wore a scruffy hunting jacket. A license dangled from the lanyard slung around his neck. The license had expired, too.
Discomfited, Jinny scanned the article. A local reporter had pieced together a lack-luster account of Caleb’s heroic effort, and O’Dwyerhad been misspelled five times. Unbeknownst to Jinny, several neighbors had phoned the newspaper—not to correct the misspelled surname—
but to ask why their smiling photo-ops taken near the tow truck hadn’t been featured. The receptionist had curtly referred them to a framed box on the bottom of page C-4. “Trivializing Tragedy Translates into Tacky Text. The Editor.”
The paper, like Tommy Hardy, failed to mention the spot weld and the missing lug nuts. But it did feature a photo of the wheel, asleep in the snow. Jinny noted that the article also failed to mention the black duffle bag. Good. As far as she knew, CSID had yet to unearth the male Caucasian buried in the Corker barn, but on page A-2, National News, another short headline caught Jinny’s eye. “Tiffin, Ohio: Royden Shank, age 58—Curator of The American Civil War Museum—was found shot to death and dumped in Cranmer Creek early Tuesday morning. Suspects at large. Associated Press.”
Perplexed, Jinny read the snippet three times before she folded the paper, set it on a chair, and turned so Gemma couldn’t read her countenance. She left the room. “Oops, sorry.” Jinny ran into Caleb, who stood in the hall looking into the oval mirror and combing what remained of his silver-gray hair.
“Perfect timing.” They embraced. Before letting go, Caleb whispered, “Step out on stoop with me for a minute.”
Jinny smiled, rubbed her forehead, and followed him out the front door. “I have good news. While in town this afternoon . . . boy its cold tonight, burr . . . to buy a half gross of chicken meal, the groceries, and to pick up my prescription, I flagged down Sheriff Poindexter and told him you had been threatened by a man in a green . . . what’s it called?”
“A Karmann Ghia.” Jinny’s eyes saucered. “Papa, you knew?’
“Yes, I sawthe guy drive by and say something to you, but I couldn’t figure out what or why. I knew it was a threat. Then Mama called for us and, well, you know. As I tried to piece things together in my mind, I knew I needed to consult with the sheriff. Curly’s death wasn’t an accident.” Caleb hesitated, leaned down, and eyeballed Jinny. “Something bad happened while you and Curly were trapped Corker’s barn last Sunday. Am I right?”
“Yes, Papa, but how did you know?”
“I shared my suspicion with the sheriff over the phone. Then when I saw him in town he asked me to tell you that one of his deputies spotted your vehicle parked behind Mattress Warehouse,over near the freeway.” Jinny wanted to run inside. “Now wait. Calm down. I’m not to the end of my story. They are holding the suspect on a murder charge related to a robbery back in Ohio. The guy’s been identified as Oswald Otwyler. And then there’s the body they found in Corker’s barn. I knew you and Curly had been up there. You told me the part about being trapped by the weather. When the deputy pulled Oswald out of the back seat, he was nearly hypothermic; but get this, he had a smoldering cigarette between his fingers. At least his mouth was warm. The long and short of it is that he has outstanding warrants out for his arrest up north in Wisconsin. He’ll be extradited. Do you know what that means?”
“No Papa, what?”
“It means he’ll be transported across state boundaries. Of course, the sheriff needs an affidavit from you stating what you saw, but since you are a minor till July you won’t be required to appear in court. I suspect the F.B.I. will get involved since the thug crossed state lines . . . I take that back. I shouldn’t demean the man. I don’t even know him.”
“And this won’t interfere with my plan to join the army?”
“You are serious, aren’t you?”
“No. I mean, yes. Conor and I stopped by the recruiting office, and they told me to come back in July when I’m eighteen.”
“Good. So now you can stand at ease, right?” Caleb kept the welded door and shackles evidence to himself, hoping he could just forget it. Much would remain a mystery—to him, at least. For now, Jinny kept knowledge of the black money bag to herself.
Her shoulders relaxed, a sign that the anxiety and stress of recent weeks could finally flag a ride out of Kansas—when the roads cleared. It was snowing hard.
“Papa, did the sheriff mention a bag?”
“No, no mention of the bag. Why?” Caleb shivered twice, distracted by the cold. “We’re freezing. Let’s get inside.”
But not inside the bag! Jinny determined to say no more and returned to her bedroom to thaw out. And write.
Well, I just spoke to Papa and at least I am half-way relieved. Jimmy’s body has been recovered, and the threat on my life—named Oswald Otwyler—is in jail. Hallelujah amen! If I knew Greek I’d write this last part in Greek. Curly’s curiosity got the best of him. And me. He and I drove back after school the next day, moved the bales, and dug up the black bag. It took us nearly an hour and the smell was unbearable. Leaving the open hole and Whiner half-exposed so the sheriff would find him, we loaded the bag in Curly’s truck, drove into his dad’s garage-shop, and closed the door behind us. To protect my family from repercussions, I will not here share what happened in Huey Corker’s shop, but it scared me out of my socks. Maybe someday I’ll dare to tell the rest. But not now. Here’s why: This afternoon Mama noticed a pencil tucked back under the kitchen stove. She fished it out with a fly swatter and shook it. The rattle reminded me of a snake, but its bite was worse. Conor turned three shades of green when she popped off the eraser and dumped out a bunch of pills of various colors. Some of them had “sky” stamped on their faces. She went on line. Ecstasy! Conor tried to run from the room but Papa harnessed and, without a word, walked him into the bedroom where voices became hushed. Needless to say, revealing my fears tonight seems poor timing. But as I lay me down to sleep I am left with many questions. Suspended in the unknown is that black bag. But where is it and who has it? How did Ozzie discover me and Curly? Did he have anything to do with Curly’s death? At least now I think I know who the guy is that Jimmy murdered. The Rest? Never mind, I don’t want to know. I must close. Someone is tapping. I think it’s Isabelle.