In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(84)
Tracy hurried inside the library, anxious to find out what Darren Gallentine had told his counselor. She asked the reference librarian for a private room and was told she could reserve one for an hour. The room was the size of the hard interrogation rooms at the Justice Center, just big enough for a small desk mounted to the front wall and two chairs. Tracy set the file on the table and retrieved a pen and notepad from her briefcase. Before opening the file, she took a moment to run her hand over the cover. It reminded her of that moment when she’d learned that Sarah’s remains had been discovered after twenty years of uncertainty and she’d rushed home to retrieve Sarah’s files from her bedroom closet, then found herself hesitant to open them. She had the same unsure feeling now, like stepping onto a roller coaster, excited to get started but anxious about what was to come.
She opened Darren Gallentine’s file and read.
Friday, November 5, 1976
Hastey Devoe popped the top on another beer can. “Come to Papa,” he said, touching the rim to his lips, tilting his head back and taking a long slug.
“You might want to go a little easy on the beer,” Eric Reynolds said. He was reclined on the hood of the Bronco, which was at the edge of the ring of light produced by Darren’s camping lantern. Eric took the final hit on a joint, held his breath a moment, and exhaled. “We do have a fairly significant game tomorrow night.”
“I’m hydrating,” Hastey said. “It helps keep me warm in this freaking cold.”
“Just saying you might want to show a little self-control tonight,” Eric said.
“It hasn’t hurt me in any game this season, has it?”
“No,” Archie said, “but you keep drinking a six-pack a night and you’re not going to fit your fat ass into your uniform pants much longer.” He laughed the dullard’s laugh, clearly stoned.
“If it wasn’t for my fat ass,” Hastey said, “none of y’all would have been reading your names in the paper every week.”
“Shit, why do you think I run off-tackle and get outside all the time?”
“Because you’re a big pussy and don’t like to get hit,” Hastey said.
“No, because your fat ass is stuck in the gap I’m supposed to run through,” Archie said.
“Doesn’t stop Darren,” Hastey said. “Does it, Darren?”
Darren Gallentine sat a few feet away, on a boulder. He was neither stoned nor drunk. He’d had two beers and wasn’t interested in drinking more. These nights were getting to be old. He reached out and turned the dial on the lantern, the light brightening, the propane hissing. He estimated the canister to still be half-full. He was amused by the banter and commentary, but he never participated much and, after a full season, the jibes were getting repetitious. Hastey’s brother Lionel had bought them a case of beer and a couple of joints, and they’d snuck out of their respective homes and driven into the woods. It had become their Friday night routine—and some Saturday nights after games, though they usually went to the clearing after games because by the time they arrived a party was under way and half the girls were drunk. They’d make an entrance in the Bronco, Hastey blowing that stupid foghorn, and everyone would cheer as they circled the clearing. They could do no wrong those nights, especially with the girls. Eric said it was like “shooting fish in a barrel” and that he’d been laid more often that football season than a Las Vegas whore.
“Why do you think they call Darren ‘the Dozer’?” Hastey said to Archie.
“Because he has to bulldoze your ass out of the way just to find the hole,” Archie said.
Darren smiled but didn’t respond.
“Maybe I’ll just lie down next time they hand you the ball,” Hastey said, tossing the empty can at Archie and missing. “Let those D-linemen pancake your ass.”
“Nobody’s lying down,” Eric said. He flicked the butt of the joint into the underbrush and threw his beer can against the trunk of the tree not far from where Hastey and Archie stood exchanging insults. The can ricocheted and spun like a helicopter blade, spraying beer out the top.
“Shit,” Hastey said, wiping the beer from his shirt. “What bug crawled up your ass? You just wasted a perfectly good beer.”
“I’m going to crawl up both your asses if you two don’t shut the fuck up,” Eric said.
“I’m just saying I don’t need to smell like beer when I walk in the house.”
“Hell, beer is your family cologne,” Archie said.
“Better than roses,” Hastey said, bending his wrist effeminately. “Your dad still work at the flower store?”
“It’s a nursery, you idiot.”
“Still flowers,” Hastey said.
“Will you both just shut up,” Eric said.
Darren sat up, ready to get home. He could see his breath, and the cold was starting to creep down his neck beneath his fur-lined jean jacket and seep through the soles of his Converse shoes. They called him “the Dozer” because at five eleven and 210 pounds he ran with his shoulder pads low to the ground and hit as many people as he could, shoving them out of the way. “You’re just mad because Cheryl Neal is out with Tommy Moore,” he said to Eric while continuing to strip bark off a tree branch.