Summer of Night

NINE

Duane McBride awoke before dawn on Monday morning and thought for a confused second that he had to get his chores done and meet the school bus at the end of the lane. Then he remembered that it was Monday-the first Monday of summer vacation-and that he'd never have to go to Old Central again. A weight lifted from his shoulders, and he went upstairs whistling.

There was a note from the Old Man: he'd left early to meet some friends for breakfast at the Parkside Cafe, but he would be home by early afternoon.

Duane did the morning chores. Finding the eggs in the henhouse reminded him of when he was a tiny little kid and terrified of the militant hens, but it was a good memory because it was one of the few he had of his mother-even if the memory was of little more than a polka-dotted apron and a warm voice.

After breakfast of two of the eggs, five strips of bacon, toast, hash browns, and a chocolate donut, Duane was ready to go outside again-the pump on the water tank in the back pasture needed cleaning and a new pulley-when the phone rang. It was Dale Stewart. Duane listened silently to the news about Jim Harlen. After Dale waited a second for a response that did not come, he went on to tell Duane that Mike O'Rourke wanted a meeting of everybody in his chickenhouse at ten o'clock that morning.

"Why not in my chickenhouse?" was Duane's response.

"Your chickenhouse has chickens in it. Besides, we'd all have to ride our bikes way out to your house."

"I don't have a bike," said Duane. "I'll have to walk all the way in. What about meeting in your secret hideout in the culvert?"

"The Cave?" said Dale. Duane could hear the hesitancy in the other eleven-year-old's voice. Duane didn't especially want to go back to the culvert today either.

"OK," he said. "I'll be there at ten o'clock." After Duane hung up, he sat in the kitchen for a moment, thinking of the chores he'd have to double up on that afternoon. Finally he shrugged, found a candy bar to give him energy on the trip, and went outside. Witt met him in the yard, tail wagging, and this time Duane didn't have it in his heart to leave the old dog behind. There was a high cloud cover that day that cut down on the heat a bit-it was in the low eighties-and he thought Witt might like the exercise.

Duane went back in the house, stuffed his pants pockets with dog biscuits, grabbed a second candy bar for lunch, and the two set off down the lane. Duane never thought about it, but from a distance the two made odd companions-Duane with his ambling, loose-jointed semiwaddle; Wittgenstein limping along arthritically, setting his paws carefully like a barefoot quadruped on hot gravel, and peering myopically at things he could smell but not quite see.

The shade at the bottom of the hills was a relief, but Duane was sweating freely under his plaid flannel shirt by the time he climbed the grade to the Black Tree Tavern. There were a few cars there already. His dad's pickup wasn't one of them, but Duane guessed that the "breakfast" had already moved from the Parkside Cafe to Carl's Tavern in town.

The overcast began to break up by the time the boy and dog had turned west on Jubilee College Road, and the distant water tower shimmered in heat waves. Duane glanced at the fields of corn on either side, comparing their growth to the fields at his own farm-these were a few inches taller-and checking out the yellow signs along the barbed-wire fence to see what the brand and hybrids were. The sunlight was a solid thing now, heavy on his face and shoulders, and Duane cursed himself for forgetting his cap. Witt poked along, occasionally sniffing out an interesting scent trail and careening off blindly into the dust-covered weeds in the ditch alongside the road. The fence would usually stop his investigations and the collie would come limping back to where Duane waited patiently. Duane was less than a quarter of a mile from the water tower and the turn in the road into town when the truck came. He smelled it almost as soon as he heard it; it had to be the Rendering Truck. Witt raised his head, blindly trying to find the source of the scent and noise, and Duane caught him by the collar and pulled him over to the side of the gravel road. Duane hated it when trucks passed while he was walking here; the grit stayed in his eyes and mouth and hair for hours. If too many vehicles passed him, he might even have to take a bath one of these days.

Standing at the edge of the weeds, Duane noticed how fast the truck was coming. It had to be the Rendering Truck-how many trucks were there around here with peeling red paint on the cab and the high slats behind? The windshield was a mirror of sky glare. The thing was not only roaring along at fifty or sixty miles per hour, it wasn't moving to the center or left of the road as most vehicles would. Duane thought of flying gravel and he pulled Witt farther back, onto the verge of the shallow ditch itself.

The truck roared right, whipping weeds under its massive bumper and heading straight for Duane and the dog at fifty miles per hour.

Duane didn't take time to think. He bent, lifted Witt in a single motion, and leaped across the low ditch, almost colliding with the barbed-wire fence. He barely managed to hold on to the panicked and wiggling collie as the truck missed them by three feet, throwing dust, stubble, gravel, and junk from the side of the road into the air around them.

Duane could see the corpses of several cows, a horse, two hogs, and what looked to be a pale dog in the back as the Rendering Truck swerved back onto the gravel road and continued on in a cloud of dust.

"You son of a bitch!" he shouted, stepping out onto the gravel but still holding the terrified old dog in his arms. His hands were occupied, he couldn't shake a fist, so Duane spat after the truck. The gob of saliva was dust-colored.

The truck reached the water tower and turned left, the squealing of tires quite audible as it hit the asphalt there.

"Stupid bastard," muttered Duane. He almost never cursed, but he felt the need now. "Cretinous cowturd motherfucker." Witt was whining and wiggling in his arms, and Duane suddenly realized how heavy the old dog was and how hard Witt's heart was pounding. He could feel the throbs against his forearms. He stepped out onto the packed ruts in the road, set Witt down, and calmed him with long, slow strokes and gentle words.

"It's all right, Witt. It's OK, old friend," he crooned. "That dumb old stupid piss-ant preliterate asshole of a simple-minded custodian didn't hurt us, did he? No." The soothing tones were calming the dog, but his pulse was still visible against his ribs.

Actually, Duane hadn't seen Van Syke at the wheel-he was too busy lifting Witt and backing into barbed wire to check in the cab as the truck roared by-but he had no doubt that the crazy custodian-cum-dead-varmint collector was at the wheel. Well, everybody would know about this soon enough. It was one thing to scare a bunch of kids by dropping a dead monkey in the creek; it was something else to try to kill one of those kids.

Duane suddenly realized that Van Syke-or whoever it was-had tried to kill him. It hadn't been a prank. It hadn't been some sort of insane warning. The truck had aimed at them, and only the vehicle's speed and the certainty of turning over after hitting the low ditch at that speed had kept the driver from moving over the required thirty-six inches to get them. Somebody would've come along and found my body in the weeds, thought Duane. And Witt's. They'd never have known who did it. Just some careless kid and a hit-and-run driver. Duane remembered the barbed wire and felt his back. His hand came away red with blood. Worse than that, there were two large rips in his shirt that he would have to sew up.

Duane continued to pet Witt, but now the boy was shaking worse than the dog had been. With his free hand, Duane dug in his pocket, found a biscuit for Witt, and then got out the candy bar for himself.

The Rendering Truck roared around the corner by the water tower.

Duane stood and stared, the chunk of Butterfingers un-chewed in his mouth. It was the Rendering Truck; he could clearly see the red cab and massive bumper ahead of the cloud of dust. It was going slower now, but was still traveling at least thirty miles per hour. Fast enough to turn Witt and him into instant roadkill when one considered the three tons above those wheels.

"Oh, shit," Duane whispered reverently. Witt whimpered and pulled at Duane's grip on his collar.

Duane dragged the dog to the left side of the road as if headed for the fields on the south side. The ditch was weed-filled but very low there, almost flat. No hindrance to a vehicle.

The Rendering Truck swerved right, filling Duane's side of the road. It had covered half the distance now and Duane could make out the silhouette of a driver in the cab. The man was tall but hunched forward, intent on driving ... on aiming.

Duane grabbed Witt's collar and dragged the panicked collie across the road-his forelegs were locked and straight, gravel slid beneath his paws-and tugged him into the ditch. The Rendering Truck cut left, coming off the road, bouncing across the ditch until its left wheels were almost scraping the fence. Weeds whipped under the front bumper and the dust cloud filled the air.

Duane glanced over his shoulder, hoping without hope that another car would come the other way, that some adult would intervene . . . that he would wake up.

The truck was less than a hundred feet away and seemed to be accelerating.

Duane realized that he couldn't get back across the road in time with Witt, and even if he could, the truck could get them while he was trying to climb the fence there.

Wittgenstein barked and jerked, snapping at Duane's wrist in his frenzy. For a fraction of a second, Duane considered letting the collie go-letting him fend for himself-but then he realized that Witt wouldn't have a chance. Even in the adrenaline of panic, the old dog's joints were too stiff, his eyesight too poor.

The truck was twenty yards away and closing. Its left front wheel struck a rotted fence post and snapped it out of the ground. The wire fence hummed like a shattered harp.

Duane bent, lifted Witt, and in one smooth move threw the dog as far over the fence and into the field as he could. Witt landed three rows of corn in, slid on his side, and scrambled to get his feet under him.

Duane had no more time to watch. He grabbed a skinny wooden post and heaved himself up. The entire fence wobbled and sagged. Barbed wire cut into Duane's left hand. His foot was too big for the square of wire he'd stuck it in and his sneaker was stuck.

The Rendering Truck filled the world with roar and dust and an oncoming wall of scabrous red metal. The driver was no longer visible as the windshield glinted blindingly. It was less than thirty feet away and bouncing on, ripping fence posts out of the ground as it came.

Duane left his sneaker where it was, pulled his foot free, heaved himself over-feeling the barbed wire rip at his belly-fell heavily into soft soil at the edge of the field, and rolled away across cornstalks even as he gasped for breath.

The truck missed him, snapping off the fence post he'd climbed and throwing wire and weeds and gravel into the air around him.

Duane got to his knees in the deep loam of the field. He was stunned. His flannel shirt was in tatters and blood from torn skin on his stomach dripped onto his corduroys. His hands were a mess.

The Rendering Truck bounced back onto the road. Duane could see the brake lights glowing like red eyes through the cloud of dust.

Duane turned to find Witt, saw him lying two rows over-still stunned-and then he looked back. The truck turned slowly, ponderously to its left, nosedown in the ditch. The rear wheels spun, throwing gravel like birdshot. Duane heard stones patter on the corn in the opposite field. The truck backed up, bounced into the low ditch across the road, moved its long hood in Duane's direction, and came on.

Staggering, weaving, Duane kicked aside cornstalks to get to Witt, lifted the listless dog, and waded off through the rows, moving deeper into the field. The corn was lower than his waist. Witt's tail dragged across tassels.There was nothing but this low corn for a mile to the north, and then only another fence and a few trees.

Duane kept moving, not looking back even when he heard the truck bounce across the ditch, heard the fence snap and tear a second time, heard the sound of cornstalks smashing under bumper and wheels.

It rained just a couple of days ago, Duane was thinking as he slogged on, moving at a glacial pace. Witt hung tired and heavy in his arms. Only the slight panting and movement of his ribs showed that he was alive. Just a couple of days ago it rained. The top inch or so is dust, but beneath it. . , mud. Please, God. Let it be mud.

The truck was in the field with him now. Duane heard the whir of the differential and the grating of gears. It was as if some huge, insane animal was coming after him. The smell of dead livestock was very strong.

Duane plunged on. He wondered if he should stop and face it-lunge aside at the last second like some nimble matador. Try to get behind the damn thing. Find a rock and throw it at the windshield.

He wasn't nimble. He couldn't dodge that way with Witt in his arms. He slogged on.

The truck was forty feet behind him, then twenty, then fifteen. Duane tried to run but could only manage a broad-strided walk. Corn whipped around him and pollen matted Witt's fur. He realized that a row he'd just crossed had been wide and wet, a crude irrigation ditch. He kept on moving. Behind him, the roar of engine and wheels on dirt turned into a whine, then a scream.

Duane glanced back. The truck was at an odd angle, left rear wheels spinning wildly. Mud and torn vegetation flew in an arc behind it.

Duane kept on moving, kicking aside stalks that threatened to scrape at Witt's eyes. When he looked back again, the truck was a hundred feet behind him, still at an odd angle but rocking back and forth now. Stuck in the mud there.

Duane fixed his vision on the line of scattered fields to the north and kept on moving. Beyond that fence was Johnson's pasture . . . and beyond that, to the north and east, the woods that ran all the way to the Black Tree. There were hills there. And a deep gully along the stream.

Another ten rows and I'll look back.

He was pouring sweat now, and he felt it mixing with the blood and dirt as a terrible itch between his shoulder blades. Witt stirred once, moved his legs the way he had since he was a pup when he was dreaming about chasing rabbits or something, and then relaxed as if willing to let his master do all the work.

Eight rows. Nine. Duane kicked aside corn and glanced back.

The truck was free and moving again. But backwards. It was backing out of the field, bouncing and jolting. But definitely moving backwards.

Duane did not stop. He continued to lurch toward the fence-less than a hundred yards away now-even as he heard the whine of wheels and differential change pitch, heard the distant scrape of gravel as the truck accelerated.

There's no way in here. No way it can head me off. I can get all the way to our own back pasture if I stay in the woods, away from the roads and driveways.

Duane reached the fence, gently dropped Witt across it, and lost more skin climbing barbed wire before he allowed himself a second to rest.

He squatted next to his dog, wrists limp on his torn knees, panting loudly and listening to the roar of his own pulse in his ears. He raised his head and looked back.

The water tower was clearly visible. Another quarter of a mile south, he could see the dark trees of Elm Haven. The road was empty. There was no sound. Only a slowly settling cloud of dust and the ravaged fence far across the field told Duane that he hadn't dreamt it all.

He crouched next to Witt and petted his side. The collie did not stir. His eyes were glassy. Duane lowered his cheek to Witt's ribs, held his own breath so his mad breathing would not drown out sound.

There was no heartbeat. Witt's heart had probably stopped on him even before they'd crossed the first fence. Only the old collie's urge to stay by his master had kept him breathing and struggling as long as he had.

Duane touched his old friend's narrow head, patted the thin fur there, and tried to close Witt's eyes. The eyelids would not come down.

Duane knelt there. There was a great pain in his chest and throat which had nothing to do with cuts or bruises. The pain became a terrible swelling, almost an explosion of emotion, but he could not swallow it or bring it up as tears. It threatened to choke him as he gasped for air, raising his face to the now blue sky.

Kneeling there, pounding his bleeding hands against the soil, Duane promised Witt and the God he didn't believe in that someone would pay for this.

Mike O'Rourke and Kevin Grumbacher were the only ones who showed for the Bike Patrol meeting that Mike had called. Kevin was nervous, pacing the length of the chickenhouse and fiddling with a rubber band, but Mike just shrugged. He realized that Dale and the others had better things to do than come to a silly meetings on a summer morning.

"We'll skip it, Kev," he said from where he lay sprawled on the sprung couch. "I'll talk to the guys sometime when we're together."

Kevin paused in his pacing, started to say something, and then stayed silent as Dale and Lawrence burst through the small door.

It was obvious that something had excited Dale: his eyes were wild, his short hair in disarray. Lawrence was also agitated.

"What?" said Mike.

Dale gripped the doorframe and gasped for breath. "Duane just called . . . Van Syke tried to kill him."

Mike and Kevin stared.

"It's true," gasped Dale. "He called me just when the cops were getting there. He had to call Carl's Tavern to get his dad to come home, and then he called Barney, and he thought maybe Van Syke would come while he was waiting at home, but he didn't, so his dad got home but doesn't really believe him, but his dog is dead. . . . Van Syke didn't exactly kill him, but in a way he did, because ..." "Hold it," said Mike.

Dale stopped.

Mike stood up. "Start at the beginning. The way you tell stories when we go camping. First things first. Is Duane OK and how did Van Syke try to kill him?"

Dale threw himself on the couch that Mike had just vacated. Lawrence found a cushion on the floor. Kevin stood where he had stopped pacing, motionless except for the movement of his hands as he unconsciously formed intricate patterns with the rubber band.

"OK," said Dale and took another few seconds. "Duane just called. About half an hour ago, Van Syke ... he thinks it was Van Syke but didn't really see him . . . somebody in Van Syke's Rendering Truck tried to run over him on Jubilee College Road. Not too far from the water tower."

"Jesus," Kevin said softly. Mike shot him a glance that silenced him.

Dale nodded, eyes slightly unfocused as he concentrated on what he was saying and as the real significance of it hit home. "Duane says that the truck tried to hit him on the road and then tore down the fence chasing him into the field. He says his dog died then . . . sort of scared to death."

"Witt?" said Lawrence. There was pain in the younger boy's voice. Every time he and Dale went out to Duane's place to visit, Lawrence would play for hours with the old collie.

Dale nodded again. "Duane had to cut across the Johnsons' fields and Corpse Creek and the woods there to get to his own place. And the weird thing is ..."

"What?" Mike said softly.

"The weird thing is, Duane said he carried his dog all the way home. He didn't leave him there in the field where he died to go back for him later."

Lawrence nodded as if he understood perfectly.

"Is that all he said?" urged Mike. "Did he say why Van Syke might have gone after him?"

Dale shook his head. "He said he wasn't doing anything except walking in here. I called him to tell him about the meeting. He said that the truck wasn't fooling around ... it wasn't like when J. P. Congden or one of those assho-" Dale glanced at his younger brother. "It wasn't like when one of those other old jerks sort of pretends to swerve his pickup to scare you. Duane said that whoever was driving the Rendering Truck was really trying to kill him and Witt." Mike nodded, apparently lost in thought. Dale combed his cowlick down with his fingers. "He had to hang up because Barney was just getting there."

Kevin collapsed the cat's cradle between his fingers. "And he was calling you from his home?"

"Yeah."

Kevin looked at Mike. "Does this have anything to do with what you wanted us to talk about?"

The tallest boy snapped out of his reverie. "Maybe." He glanced toward the yard where their bikes were lying everywhere. "Let's get going."

"Where?" asked Lawrence. He'd been chewing on the bill of his wool baseball cap-a common habit of his when nervous or distracted.

Mike smiled slightly. "Where do you think Duane's going to take Barney and his dad? If the truck chased him into the field, there's going to be a lot of wheel tracks and stuff." AH four boys ran for their bikes.

Barney was there. His green Pontiac with the faded gilt letters spelling cons able on the door was parked by the side of the road, as were Duane's dad's pickup and J.P. Congden's black Chevy. Duane and his dad were standing in the gap where the fence had been torn down, Duane speaking softly and occasionally pointing to the deep ruts in the field. Barney was j nodding and taking notes in a small spiral notebook. J.P. was ' smoking a cigar and glowering as if Duane were the suspect in all this.

Dale and the other kids spun their bikes to a stop thirty feet from the group in the field. Congden turned away from Duane's explanation, spat into the weeds, and shouted at the boys to go away. Mike and the others nodded and stayed where they were.

Duane's father was talking. "... and I want you to get out there and arrest him, Howard." Barney's real name was Howard Sills. "Goddamned idiot tried to kill my boy."

Barney nodded and made a note. "Actually, Martin, we don't have any evidence that it was Karl Van Syke ..."

Mike glanced at Dale, Kevin, and Lawrence, and they returned the look. They'd never heard Van Syke's first name before.

"... and your son said that he didn't get a clear look," Barney finished quickly, rushing to finish before Mr. McBride exploded again.

Duane's dad was getting red in the face, nearing that instant of explosion, when J.P. Congden shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and said, "Wasn't Karl."

Barney shifted his cap and raised an eyebrow in the justice of the peace's direction. From thirty feet away, Dale thought, Barney doesn't really look like Barney on the show. Sheriff Howard Sills was short and balding, and had a hint of Don Knotts' poor posture and wide-eyed stare, but really he didn't resemble the deputy on The Andy Griffith Show. But everyone called him Barney.

"How do you know it wasn't Karl?" Barney asked the fat man.

Congden shifted the cigar again and squinted at Duane and his dad as if the two were the kind of white trash with whom a justice of the peace shouldn't waste his time. "I know 'cause I was with Karl all morning," he said. He removed the cigar, spat again, and grinned. His teeth were approximately the color of the stogie. "Karl and me was down at Spoon River, doin' a little fishin' below the highway bridge."

Barney nodded. "Van Syke usually drives the Rendering Truck," he said, his voice flat. "I checked with Billy Day-singer and he said he hasn't driven it since last summer."

Congden shrugged and spat again. "Karl told me this mor-nin' that somebody stole the truck last night from where it was parked near the tallow plant.''

Mike O'Rourke glanced at the other boys. The tallow plant was an ancient, rotting structure north of the abandoned grain elevators on the way to the dump. It was the place where all the dead livestock and roadkill had been brought before it also had been abandoned. The smell lingered and sometimes it drifted all the way to Harlen's house on the northwest edge of the town.

Barney scratched his small chin. "Why didn't you report it, J.P.? You or Karl?"

Congden shrugged, obviously bored by all this. What little hair he still has sticks out behind his ears like wet weasel's fur, thought Dale, and the top of his head doesn't sunburn, it just glows in the sunlight like the belly of a carp.

"Like I said, we was busy," said the township's justice of the peace. "Besides, I just figured that some of these goddamned kids just took it as some sort of prank. How do we know that these little shits didn't do it?" He gestured toward the group of boys on their bikes. Barney looked up at them impassively. Congden raised his voice while jerking a thumb in Duane's direction. "And who says this kid wasn't part of it? Foolin' around with his friends? Wastin' our time so it looks like they wasn't the ones who fucked up and lost control, tearin' down Summerson's fence and everything ..."

Duane's father stepped forward over torn strands of barbed wire. His face was mottled, more purple than red now. "Goddamn you, Congden, you lying piece of capitalist dogshit. You know my boy . . . none of these boys . . . had anything to do with this. Someone tried to kill Duane, tried to run over him right here, and for all I know you're covering up for that miserable excuse of Australopithecine subhumanity named Van Syke because the two of you stole the truck. It's no worse than the stealing you do with the so-called 'speeders' you drag into court to keep you in beer money, you stupid ..."

Barney stepped between the two men and laid a hand on Mr. McBride's shoulder. The grip must have been more firm than it looked because Duane's dad grew pale, quit talking, and turned away.

"Aw, fuck him," said the justice of the peace and strode back to his car.

"Tell Karl to come see me," Barney said.

Congden didn't even nod as he slammed the door of the black Chevy and turned the key in the ignition. The specially tuned engine roared into life and the justice of the peace threw gravel twenty feet behind him as he roared back toward town. The boys had to move their bikes hurriedly into the ditch or get run over as Congden passed.

Mr. McBride talked for a few minutes, gesturing toward the field, shouting occasionally, and finally settling down to an agitated murmur as Barney took notes. Through all this, Duane had stood back a few feet in the field, arms crossed, eyes impassive behind the thick lenses of his glasses. When Duane's dad and the sheriff walked back to the road to talk, the boys dropped their bikes into the dusty weeds and hurried through the gap in the fence.

"You OK?" asked Dale. He wanted to touch the bigger boy, put his arm on Duane's shoulder, but protocol didn't allow it.

Duane nodded.

"Did he really kill Witt?" asked Lawrence. The eight-year-old's voice was unsteady.

Duane nodded again. "Witt's heart stopped," he clarified. "He was old."

"But somebody tried to run you over?" asked Kevin.

Duane nodded.

Duane's dad was calling for him. Duane uncrossed his arms and said softly to the boys, "Something's going on. I'll talk to you later today if I can get in." He waddled through the break in the fence and joined his father. Barney spoke to him a moment, finally laying a hand on his shoulder. The boys could hear, "Sorry about the dog, boy." Then Barney seemed to be cautioning Duane's dad about something. Finally the constable got in his Pontiac and left, pulling away slowly down the gravel road so as not to leave a cloud of dust for the others.

Duane and his dad stood there a moment, looking out at the field, and then they got in their truck, made a U-turn with several swings back and forth, and drove back out Jubilee College Road toward County Six. Duane didn't wave.

The four boys stood in the field a moment, kicking at the deep, muddy ruts and the swath of crushed cornstalks. They looked around as if the ghost of Duane's collie might come running through the waist-high corn.

"Hey," Kevin said at last, looking around. The fields were still. The sky was cloudy again. There was no movement, no sound. "What if the Rendering Truck comes back?"

They were on their bikes in eight seconds and pedaling toward town with spurts of gravel marking their wake. Dale held back so that Lawrence could keep up, but the eight-year-old's seventeen-inch bike was almost a blur as it passed Dale's larger bike, then Kevin's, and finally Mike's old red clunker.

They were safely under the unstirring elms and oaks of Elm Haven before they slowed, panting and leaning backward, arms dangling, hands off the handlebars as they coasted down Depot Street past Dale's house and Old Central. They let their bikes crash on the hill alongside the driveway to Kevin's house and they rolled on the cool grass there, still catching their breaths, their short hair matted and moist.

"Hey," gasped Lawrence when he could talk, "what's a capitalist?"