The Weirdo (22 page)

Dell leaned over, kissed her daughter's forehead, and retreated.

***

THE HYPNOTIST, a psychiatrist with an office on upper Granby in Norfolk, had brought Sam back to the predawn in the swamp three weeks ago.

"You're in that stump, and you've just awakened. What do you see?"

Sam was sitting on the beige couch, legs and feet up on it, back resting against the arm. Dr. Manchester was at her side. Standing a few feet back was Ed Truesdale. Chip, having convinced her to come, was in the outer office, waiting. Fewer people, the better, the doctor had said.

"I see a lot of shadows. One seems to be moving."

"What do you hear?"

"I hear splashing."

"Are you frightened?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I think they can help me."

"They? Is whatever is moving human?"

"I think so."

"Is this human coming closer?"

"Yes, I ah, oh, I ah..."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm scared."

"You weren't a few seconds ago. Why are you scared now?"

"I'm not sure. I remember a man was murdered in the swamp. I saw him. A long time ago."

"And you think this human might harm you?"

"Yes."

"And this human is still coming toward you?"

"Yes."

"Sam, I want you to tell me when this human is close enough for you to see his or her size."

"I see him now. He's very big."

"It's a him, a man...."

"I think so. And he's very big ... and he's carrying something...."

"What is he carrying?"

"A bundle..."

"In his arms?"

"Over his shoulder..."

"His left shoulder or right shoulder?"

"Left."

"What does the bundle look like?"

"It's draped over his shoulder like a rug...."

"Is it thick?"

"Yes."

"How thick?"

"I don't know how thick....I'm so frightened, so frightened..."

"You don't need to be, Sam. You're perfectly safe here in my office. No one can harm you here. I promise that."

"... so frightened, so scared..."

"Don't be! I'm here, and Deputy Truesdale is here. He has a gun. You have nothing to be afraid of. All right?"

There was a long pause. "All right..."

"Sam, is that bundle wrapped in something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I can't tell ... a blanket or ... Oh God, I can see a foot sticking out...."

"A foot is sticking out? Where?"

"At the end of the bundle."

"What do you think is in that bundle?"

"A body ... oh my God ... a body..."

"Sam, I want you to raise your eyes. I want you to look at his face. Raise your eyes and look at his face. Are you doing that?"

"Yes."

"What can you see?"

"Just a dark blotch. I can't see his face. His hat is hiding his face...."

"He is wearing a hat? What kind of hat? A baseball cap? A cowboy hat? A straw hat?"

"That kind that has a brim all the way around."

"A wide brim?"

"No, a narrow brim."

"Two inches wide?"

'Two or three ... it is a hat like hunters wear....My papa has a couple..."

Dr. Manchester glanced at Truesdale, who was frowning in amazement.

"But you cannot see his face?"

"No."

"Is he almost past you?"

"Almost..."

Manchester looked again at Truesdale, asking with his hands,
Is that enough?
"

Truesdale nodded.

"Are you comfortable, Sam?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to take a rest, have a glass of water?"

"No."

"Okay, then, could we talk about Alvin Howell?"

"Yes."

Manchester checked his notepad. Truesdale had requested him to re-create the afternoon Sam found Alvin Howell.

"You were nine years old the day you found him, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Let's go back to that day, Sam. Is it cloudy? Sunny? Raining?"

There was a pause.

"Are you with me?" Dr. Manchester asked.

"Yes. It's cloudy."

"And you are coming home on the school bus?"

"Yes."

"Where is the bus letting you off?"

"At the usual place."

"Where is that?"

"Where Chapanoke Road meets the highway."

"You get off the bus and start walking home...."

"I get off the bus and..."

Another pause.

"You get off the bus and..."

"I see a pickup truck turning out of Chapanoke and onto the highway...."

"Just as you get off the bus there is a pickup truck turning out of Chapanoke. Which way is it turning?"

"South."

"South. Away from you?"

"Yes."

"Do you see the license plate?"

"No. I just see the truck."

"Is it like any other pickup truck?"

"It is like an electrician's or painter's truck. It has racks for ladders."

"Is there a name on the door?"

"I can't see it. It has turned too far."

"What make is it?"

Another pause.

"It's a Ford."

"What color is it, Sam?"

"It's brown."

"A brown Ford pickup truck?"

"Yes."

"Now you start walking home?"

"Yes."

Truesdale murmured, "That's fine, Doctor. I know the rest."

Dr. Manchester quickly brought her back to the
present, assuring her she'd be in the best of health and suffer no consequences from their session.

"And you said you couldn't be hypontized." He was smiling at her.

"Was I?"

"For about twenty minutes."

"I don't feel any different."

"I certainly hope not," Dr. Manchester said.

Truesdale was looking at her quizzically, head cocked, arms folded. "Samantha, I have to apologize to you. I didn't quite believe your story about the man in the swamp."

"Did I see a truck the time Mr. Howell was killed?"

"Yes, I think you did. Brown Ford truck with ladders on it. Makes me believe it might have belonged to a contractor or electrician...."

On the way out of the office, Sam said to Truesdale, "Please don't tell my folks I did this."

"You can tell 'em when you're ready," he replied.

***

CHIP had said it was time to go see Jack Slade again, and in late afternoon the next day they were standing on the stoop of the old bus, Chip rapping on the door.

There was no answer, and no lights were on inside.

"I don't think he has a car," Chip said, looking over toward the filling station and Sloan's. "C'mon."

Sam followed him across the road to Crosby's, where he asked Grace if she knew where Mr. Slade was.

She nodded toward Sloan's. "This time o' day, if he ain't here, he's there."

The late October dusk was abnormally warm, and Slade was sitting outside Sloan's, his cane between his knees, unavoidable to anyone entering the store.

As they approached, Slade said to Chip, "You agin? If I had that face, I'd get me a mask."

"I've thought about it, Mr. Slade. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" He had an idea that nothing would please Slade more than to be questioned.

Slade eyed Sam. "Who's the girl? Don't know her."

"I'm Samantha, Mr. Slade. I live up at the other end of the swamp."

"You're a skinny one," Slade commented.

"Afraid so."

Chip said, "Any cockfights in the county?"

Slade shook his head. "Law closed 'em down three or four years ago. Why do you ast?"

"I've heard about them but have never seen one."

"They ain't pretty, but they're fun. I used to go all the time. Bet when I could..."

"Anybody still raising them?"

"Don't think so. Man named Alvin Howell, dead now, was the last one, so far as I know."

"You knew him?"

"Yeah, I knowed him. Only saw him at the fights,
though. He lived on the other side o' the swamp, up toward the Virginia line...."

Chip felt Sam's hard nudge and glanced at her.

She was looking at a brown, paint-spattered old truck that had just pulled in. There were ladders in its racks.

A towering, heavyset man in coveralls, wearing a floppy camouflage hat, alighted from it and began striding toward Sloan's.

Chip could almost hear Sam's heart beating above the sudden roar of his own, and he turned his body so that his face couldn't be seen. Slade said something else, but Chip wasn't listening for a few seconds.

Then he heard Slade say, "Evenin', Buddy."

As the big man passed by them, he replied, "How ya doin', Jack?" and strode on into the store.

Slade said, "I think yuh got to go to Perquiman County to see the roosters fight now...."

Chip managed to ask, "Who was that?"

"Buddy Bailey," Slade answered. "Matter o' fact, I used to go to the fights with Buddy. He'd drive me..."

"He live near here?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, 'bout four miles east on Coach. Why do yuh ast?"

"My papa's thinkin' about getting our house painted."

"That's what Buddy does, paints houses."

"Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Slade," said Chip nervously, touching Sam and nodding toward the Volvo parked by Slade's shadowy bus across the road.

They hurried toward it, Sam saying, "That's him!
I know it's him!
He's the man I saw that morning!"

Chip agreed. "He's the man Tom and I saw running away on Trail Six after he fired over our heads...."

They got into the Volvo and locked the doors, then drove off into the darkness.

"That wasn't a sleeping bag or trash he had, Chip. It was a drop cloth wrapped around a body."

They stopped at Dunnegan's on the way to Chapanoke to phone Truesdale, but the deputy was out. Chip left an urgent message.

***

JOHN CLEWT said, "You sure you want to go to that meeting?"

"I'm sure," Chip replied without hesitation.

"Could be rough."

Chip nodded. "I guess."

"You've thought it out?"

"Telford isn't here. Someone has to do it. I know his estimated bear count."

"Chip, they might not even let you speak. Do you realize that?"

"Because I'm seventeen and don't know my ass from my elbow?"

"Something like that," Clewt admitted.

"I think they'll let me."

Clewt gave up. "Okay, so long as you've thought it out."

The workday had begun in the spillway house. The sun was out, and morning light was coming strongly through the replaced plate glass in the living room. The fireplace was alive with flames. They'd had breakfast, and Clewt was getting ready to paint; Chip was about to depart for tracking on the upper trails.

"There's something else," Chip said.

"What?"

"Time I came out of hiding, don't you think?" Chip's face mirrored his words. On it was a soft look of resignation.

"Hiding?"

"Where better to hide than a swamp?"

Clewt remained silent, but his eyes spoke of discomfort.

"I hid in Columbus, Dad. I haven't told you that. Stayed away from school as much as possible. Sometimes for months. Gramps picked up my lessons every week. Sometimes I didn't leave the house for days. I'd walk at night. I'd wait until the sun went down, like an animal afraid to be seen in the light."

Clewt looked like he was searching for words.

"Gramps would say hiding wasn't healthy, and I'd get angry. When he got me that programming job, I
said I'd take it only if I could work at home. To tell you the truth, I came here to get away from them and keep on hiding. Gramps was right...."

Clewt looked like he might say something, but no words came out.

"You don't know how good this year and a half has been for me. I think I'm ready to show my face to a lot of people." He used his bad hand to tap his father's shoulder with affection. "See you this afternoon...."

He limped to the door and on outside.

***

LATE Friday afternoon, Sam's father, who had not spoken to her for two days, said, "You're goin' to the meetin' tonight." It was an order, bo'sun style.

"Papa, I don't want to go," Sam said earnestly.

Never before had he given her the silent treatment. It was worse than any tongue-lashing he might have delivered. She could feel his anger, see it. At least now he was talking.

"You're goin'! You've chosen sides in this, an' you've gotta hear what I have to say—as well as others."

"That's only fair, Samantha," Dell said.

What was fair about being forced to go someplace you didn't want to go?

"It's not going to change my mind, Papa," Sam said, a touch sullen and a touch defiant.

"Be that as it may, you're goin'." His voice was as hard as the steel he'd put into that bear trap.

Off and on, she'd thought about it from the moment she'd awakened. The hunters would chew Chip Clewt up and spit him out, she was certain, and when she called him last night she'd told him exactly that. One last time. She knew these men.

He'd said, "I've been chewed up and spit out before."

Not by people, she thought. "Is anybody coming down from Washington, from that organization?"

"They don't even know about it. Are you going to be there?"

She took a deep breath. "Yes."

***

THE COMMUNITY center in Currituck had the capacity for six hundred people, and Friday night it was half full, as Bo'sun Sanders had predicted. A few wives, including Delilah Sanders, were mixed in with the hunters, most of whom looked like
Field & Stream
men. They did not look like accountants or stockbrokers or computer programmers. They looked like farmers or construction workers or employees of the Navy Yard
up in Portsmouth. Wearing jeans and parkas, they had ruddy complexions from recently going after ducks and quail and rabbits. Some had potbellies, and some were as rail-thin as Sam's papa.

Several were still outside, smoking, sitting. Some still had their hats on. Baseball caps, stocking caps, floppy hunting hats. Outside in the parking lot there must have been two hundred pickups, almost all of them Fords or Chevys, with muddy fenders and mud-daubed license plates.

Chip was sitting in the front row, left side, in the chair next to the far aisle. He'd nodded when Sam came in with her mother and father. He was tense, she could see.