Wrapped in Rain(24)

The mud covering Mutt's body served a dual purpose; it protected him from the mosquitoes and the cool night air. Mutt clutched his hands together and pressed his back farther into the mud, keeping the tremors at bay, but his face twitched as if wired to an electrical outlet and receiving intermittent signals. For three months, he had succeeded in quieting the voices. The longest stretch in ten years. But now, having been held back and denied a voice, they crowded in and rushed him like an angry mob. He closed his eyes and felt like he was standing on worn, warm tracks in a dark, dank tunnel and listening for the coming train. The screaming grew louder, and he knew that this time they were powerful enough to win. Somewhere they had gained strength, and their shouting told him that he could die right here. Paralysis set in, and not even the sight of a four-foot water moccasin slithering across his feet brought him out of his hypnotic trance. In the recesses of his mind, where the thoughts traveled less than a thousand miles an hour, where he hid the good memories, he found Tucker and Miss Ella. Mutt was not afraid to die; he just didn't want to go without saying good-bye. And it was there that he went to sleep.





Chapter 6


THREE MILES EAST OF THE CLOPTON INTERSECTION, VISIbility had dropped to less than ten feet, slowing the Volvo to fifteen miles an hour. Fighting the wiper controls, the woman in the red baseball cap turned around to look at her sleeping son, safely buckled in, surrounded by bubble gum. When she reached to pull the covers up around his shoulders, she inadvertently pulled on the wheel and steered into the soft shoulder on the side of the road. She corrected too quickly; rain and mud sucked the tires into the ditch, and the Volvo slid to a quick stop underneath the looming darkness of an Alabama forest. There was not a single light in sight. She rammed the stick in reverse and pegged the accelerator, but that only slung mud and buried the front end farther. She looked at her watch. 3:47 a.m.

Great, she thought, just great.

The face of her cell phone read, "No Service."

Oh, that's even better. With Jase sleeping peacefully, she leaned back, cut the engine, and thought to herself, It could be worse.



My windshield wipers were the only thing keeping me awake at a few minutes to four. Two miles from the Clopton intersection, the road dipped, bringing my headlights with it and causing them to reflect off the taillights of the Volvo. It sat at an angle, leaning peacefully in the ditch.



Can't be, I thought to myself. Then I passed it and peered out my passenger window. Can too.

The thought of driving by, of pretending not to see, of playing possum did occur to me, but then I thought of the backseat. "I know-'Do unto others,' the good Samaritan, and all that stuff, but it's really late."

Don't you get smart with me. You're not too old for me to take a switch to.

Miss Ella had been dead almost eight years-well, seven years, ten months, and eight days. And she didn't give two cents about my career success-at least not on the surface. If she were here, she'd be proud but would never tolerate it in me. Pride was the very thing she wouldn't put up with. Not if the sins of the father really are carried down on the son. And according to the gospel of Miss Ella, they are. How do you argue with that? I just shook my head. "Yes ma'am."

I pulled off the road, backed up, and left the truck running. With the downpour growing more violent, the road rippled with two inches of water. I slid the umbrella from behind the seat, along with a Mag-Lite flashlight, and walked toward the Volvo. Consciously, I did not take the camera. After three steps, my shoes were waterlogged and squishing. I shined the light into the front seat and saw the lady driver leaning her head against the window, eyes closed.

I knocked lightly with the tip of the flashlight, trying not to scare her. I failed. Screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her hands like wings, she cranked the car, slammed the stick into reverse, and gunned it. She redlined the engine and turned the steering wheel left to right to left again. In the process, she sprayed me with a thick coat of Alabama clay that stung my eyes. I couldn't see a thing. I staggered back, spat mud, and wiped my face on the front of my shirt. Drenched, I put down the umbrella and let the rain wash my face. I regained focus and watched in slow motion as the crazy woman reached inside the glove box and pulled out a big, shiny revolver like something Dirty Harry would carry.



At the first glint of silver, I took three steps backwards and then crossed the road and launched myself into the opposite ditch. Still screaming, the woman blasted through the window, emptying all six shots into the woods above and behind me. Muffled by the torrent, I heard the hammer click several times on the spent cylinder. While she continued squeezing, screaming, and clicking, the Volvo-having now been redlined for almost two minutes-coughed, blew up, and froze solid, sending steam out the sides of the hood. With rain pouring in through the hole in her window, the woman tossed the pistol into the passenger seat and jumped into the back with her son.

With my inner voice telling me to flee evil, I crawled out of the ditch and studied the car from the far side of the road. "Lady, are you crazy? I'm trying to help you!" I crossed the street with my flashlight in one hand and the closed umbrella in the other. If she so much as moved my direction, I planned to thump her in the head and leave them both right there. Boy or no boy, bubble gum or no bubble gum. I shined the light into the backseat, where it reflected off the whites of four eyes and the barrels of two Roy Rogers six-shooters.