Old Enough | Chapter 6

Chapter 6
SUMMER TO SUMMER

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Neal got to wait in case the Old Man showed up. Two spike bucks and four does skipped around the pasture and stuck their noses in treats while people who liked to see wildlife alive watched but no Old Man, no Old Woman, no fawns. Alicia likes fawns. It got later. Delaney stayed missing. Alicia told Neal to take care until next time. Bud left. Neal was ready for home. Hey, he was tired. When the marshal went to get Mariah away from Mr. Sykeston, Neal fell asleep in the van. When he woke, it was daylight. If you're really tired, the shadows hold off until the next night.

Awake or asleep, a bad thing can happen while you're doing a good thing and you won't know it. Why? Because you're in another place. Neal, his mother and the marshal were shopping in Kansas City. They found a ball glove at the Country Club Plaza that cost too much but the marshal talked his mother into letting him pay 75 percent. Delaney was hunting squirrels in the north deer park of Fairwell Whitetail Farms. He found his grandfather by Little Walnut Creek. Mariah shared the details when they got home. She had other gross stuff besides dead Mr. Jasper to share. You can always tell with her. She lifts her eyebrows and waits to see what you'll do.

"What else, please?" demanded his mother who can handle Mariah when she pulls this and it's a good thing she can because nobody else can and somebody needs to.

"Look at the calendar," said Mariah. The date was June 17. The Open House had been on June 7. Seven's a weird number. At least Mariah seemed to think so. She talked about weird seven as she polished glasses and the mirror behind the bar. "Seven deadly sins, virtues, wonders, seven come eleven, seventh son of a seventh son." She wobbled her head as though she knew seven secrets and wouldn't tell one if you pulled out her toenails. Manno! He wished she'd shut up! "Seven Beauties," she said, "now there's a classic! Solid art from the glory days before chick flicks."

"Enough, Mariah!" Their mother rubbed the back of her neck. She told Neal to eat supper and get ready for bed. The marshal left. "No arguments!" she said, rubbing harder. Hey, was it Neal's fault the marshal had to go out again and Mariah was a nutcase and today they'd been in Kansas City instead of Milo? Stashing the glove under his pillow, he breathed leather and faced dead crow goats in the shadows.

In the morning on the way to report, he passed his sister weeding her flower patch. He kept going but Mariah's hard to ignore when she wants attention. "Death to the violets," she yelled and shook the hoe. "I'm your everloving sister; come say hello."

Last year Aunt Ida had given her a corner of the garden to do what Mariah calls naturescaping with the natives. So far, wild violets are the only success. Mariah doesn't use chemicals. For fertilizer she spreads around goose manure or chicken manure bought from Iris. In spring she'd made a big mistake and fertilized the violets because she thought they were organic hydrangeas. She washed off aphids and misted for mold and mildew. The violets grew as tall as sweet corn with ugly teensy purple flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Bates had to come over on purpose just to look at them and Aunt Ida told Mariah to stop cultivating Missouri weeds. First his sister went straight to the OED. Then she went on strike from gardening but she was back at it. She claims she got bad advice. She claims she'll try anything twice.

"That Open House was one serious dose." She leaned on the hoe and tapped Neal's shoulder with her long, skinny second finger. "Had it not been for Horace, I'd have gone completely berserk. Now the old mogul is found dead by his grandson. What's it all about, brother dearest? Ask your friend, the marshal, please. I, for one, am curious as can be." She tapped his shoulder again; Mariah's middle name is pushy.

"Ask your own questions," he said, racing for the cabins. You can get burned helping his sister when she's curious. "Land of Goshen! You're like a dog with a bone," says Aunt Ida. "When, oh, when will you all learn to turn loose, Mariah?"

The marshal didn't answer his knock so Neal hopped to the café on his left foot without messing up. You should practice your moves. He hopped in the door on his right foot and only messed up twice. He hops better on his left foot. You should practice harder where you're not as good. Of course, the boot's tighter on his right foot or maybe that foot's the longest. He could measure both feet for a true test.

In the café, the marshal sat at a table, jouncing his legs, one at a time, and drinking coffee. "Dead as a doornail!" he said to Neal's mother and Aunt Ida. "Come here and get yourself briefed," he said to Neal, pulling out a chair for him. Neal got to the table in time to hear his mother ask if this was wise or necessary. Every once in a while, she thinks Neal shouldn't know what's going on. She doesn't see that lack of information is a serious job loss. Since she's his boss, because for sure bosses are something kids have a bunch of, she probably forgets the marshal's also his boss.

"Juanita, death is reality and reality can't hurt the boy unless we let it." The marshal's left leg jiggled faster as he came to Neal's rescue. Did the marshal practice hopping when he was a boy? Neal could ask later. Now he could pray. Reality is true but his mother argues some true stuff is bad for kids. Neal doesn't argue but she's wrong. Anyhow, she looked unhappy but she told the marshal to go ahead and he did. Manno! It's not like Neal was trying to start a fight between his mother and the marshal. He just wanted to learn what had happened; that's all.

"Jake says Doc Oats figured he'd been dead a week, could have been fit or seizure but more likely it was stroke. Doc did everything he was supposed to do -- called the sheriff and coroner to pick up the body, called the reverend, Timmy the Digger and the judge. I told the sheriff Tom wasn't missed because we all thought he was in Kansas City. Guess he took a last walk in the woods; that's how it looks to me.

"What about Delaney?" Both Neal's grandfathers might be dead but he didn't find them that way. Wur! His mother opened her arms but he didn't want a hug. He wanted an answer. He waited with his eyes blinking. Before his route, he'd spent an hour with Aunt Ida selecting the best Jonagolds. Pete was back finally. Today he meant to tell Pete about their hero's misadventures; they'd need food because so much had happened to Delaney and still was and this still was and is a true fact.

"Delaney ran off when Doc got there. Bad thing for him to find. He'll need time to pull himself together but you like truth and it could have been worse. Doc says the varmints had been at work but hadn't done much damage, one way or the other."

"Hush, Will!" and okay, on true varmint damage, Neal might side with his mother.

"You're right. Sorry. Got carried away. Listen, agent, in a bit you and I will check in on Delaney. Meanwhile, he's got his brother and Horace Sykeston, Philomena and Elizabeth Carver. Only natural he should grieve some; still, except for family, he might prefer to grieve in solitude. I'm thinking it's too soon for us to intrude."

Aunt Ida bowed her head and wrapped her arms around Neal. "This was the Lord's way of calling the poor man home. Tom Jasper was in terrible pain. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. No one of us should be unhappy to see Doc Oats lay him out and the Reverend Patton lay him down to rest. It's all for the best."

Neal hunched to the right and hurried to his mother for a hug; he was way ready.

"I know what you're feeling, agent," said the marshal, "Tom's death will be hardest on Delaney. The man planned for many contingencies but his days ran out a tad fast. He secured the future and locked in the gains but failed to anchor the past."

The day before the funeral Neal and the marshal drove to the mansion to ask Mrs. Carver if she needed help. They parked the truck in back. She opened the door before Neal could knock so she must have seen them through the window. "Bless Tom Jasper's deer money for central AC!" she said as she let them in the cool kitchen. She wore an apron over her black dress. "I surely don't miss those dirty rattling boxes we used to make do with. Then again, I will forever wonder how my mother and grandmother lived through the dog days without them. Doesn't get near that hot now. They talk about global warming. Well, some places on this globe are cooling. Listen to me," and she put her hand over her mouth. "Sounds like I'm criticizing Juanita's business or how you all manage. I'm not myself these days, scarcely know what I'm saying. Too much history buzzing around in my head."

"We came to offer our help, Elizabeth; that's why we're here," the marshal said.

Neal was thinking about central AC. Quieter is better; better costs more money.

"Why don't you all keep me company while I fuss. That's the best help you all can give me. Just sit and let me go on." Mrs. Carver poured yellow lemonade for Neal and coffee for the marshal. She might want them to sit while she went on but she never quit moving. She looked in the refrigerator for cream and in the cupboard for sugar while she went on about root cellars and icehouses. She polished the top of the shining electric range with six burners and the front of the built-in oven and broiler while she went on about coal dust and wood burning stoves. She motioned them into the laundry room and they watched her fold napkins and tablecloths and sheets while she went on about clothes boiled in a washtub over an open fire. Neal had to use the bathroom. She showed him where it was and gave him a handtowel. After she shut the door, he heard her start up the washer and dryer while she went on to the marshal about outhouses and sponge baths and steam turned to frost.

"Oh, yes," she was saying when Neal got back to the kitchen, "I know my history and, right up to the last thin dime and wooden nickel, the cost. My daughter, the famous doctor with her University honors, complains about me waiting on white folks as though nothing has changed. Plenty has changed. Since I can remember, my life has been one change after another. Now Tom Jasper is gone and that strong old woman, past a century now, can't last forever. Time enough. Always is." She began to whip cream with a metal whisk, a very cool tool. "I distrust what isn't made from scratch, marshal. I distrust style; I guess, and believe in the original."

"Elizabeth's a deep one," the marshal said and all the way home he hummed and whistled and jounced but he said nothing more. In the Travel Stop parking lot, his foxy eyes were brown and black slits as he leaned over and opened Neal's door.

Saturday the Methodist Church, Milo Cemetery and school lots were full. Cars and trucks lined up on either side of Highway MO14 from the Main Street turnoff clear to the Harry Truman Bridge. Mr. Maynard showed people where to park in the ball field. If you care about fancy, schmancy, Neal saw a silver Audi and a red BMW.

"Might be the biggest funeral this town has seen," said Aunt Ida.

"No carry cart," said Neal's mother; "you poor men will bear casket to grave."

"Not that far," said the marshal; pallbearers are strong, Neal thought -- also brave.

"June 21," said Mariah, "is naturally divisible by 7. Is 7 the solution? Anyone?"

Neal got between his mother and the marshal. They were almost to the church. He wanted to spot Pete. He did not want to hear Mariah talk about her stupid sevens. He hated finding sevens everywhere. She had something creepy going on there!

She wore a long black skirt with black fringe knotted at the bottom, black boots and black draped over her head and shoulders. Their mother wore her black dress and the marshal wore his black suit, made in Hong Kong in 1979. His tie was gray. He carried gray gloves and looked like he should. Black is Neal's favorite color but there can be too much of a good thing and he wouldn't have minded a speck of yellow or red. He wore what he wears to church. He doesn't have funeral clothes. On a list of what he really needs, at the bottom is where funeral clothes would go.

"Sakes alive, would you all look over there and tell me what you all see?" asked Aunt Ida from under her black hat brim. "Are my old eyes deceiving me or is the town's population sign hanging cattywampus? Has someone run into it and run off without a by your leave? Whatever are things coming to? Lordie, I wish I knew."

"We'll have to fix that, agent -- maybe tomorrow; you be sure and remind me in case I forget," the marshal said. "Been meaning to ask, Aunt Ida, would you agree with me the town population always has been somewhere between 190 and 200?"

"195, give or take 30 either way," answered Aunt Ida, " but I tell you all true. Wasn't always old folks dying off or seeing off those who do. We had young folks hereabouts once. I know because I was one of them. Still, paying your respects to the deceased is another way to praise the Lord and that's the message for today. You all know what I miss? I miss viewing. There ought to be a decent place for the body and time set aside to view before the service. But Tom Jasper didn't want that. He had Judge Pride put 'no viewing' right in his will. Set in his ways, Tom, but a good man deserving of peace. May God rest his soul and St. Peter open the gate."

"Looks like record attendance," the marshal said, "from Jeff City and out of state."

Mr. Jasper would have liked that and what was being said about him. You get talked about a lot at your funeral. Oh, well. Also, no way was Neal telling Mariah but it was his seventh funeral. Actually, except for church and school, there isn't much else to do in Milo, especially during winter, which is usually when people die. They get born any time of year but not often. Neal heard Aunt Ida tell his mother that in the olden days fall and winter were the best times for canoodling. That was why the people like birds and animals got born in early summer or late spring.

You don't have to think about what you heard and that's good. Inside the church the pews were full so they stood in back with Pete and his family. The Clarks sat in front with men and women the marshal called East Coast strangers. "Resembling the tour group in Death on the Nile," said Mariah, "and, yes, I do mean the movie." Naturally everyone turned to stare. Like Ham Mariah says what she sees even if it's weird and no one understands what she means; unlike Ham she doesn't care.

So guess what was in her brother's head? Millions, of course. Neal did some math. The only relatives at the funeral were Mr. Jasper's grandsons and the matriarch if your mother-in-law counts as your relative and probably she does. There had to be 1,000 people in the church so that left 997. Subtract Lewis N. Clark and Trinity for 995. Were 20 or 30 East Coast strangers interested in paying millions for Fairwell property or in paying respects to Mr. Jasper? Were 975 or 965 others paying their respects? Probably not all of them. And what does it meant to pay respects? The matriarch was alive when Neal and the marshal paid theirs to her. Is that any different? You can look up words in the OED but not sentences. You can look up sentences on the Internet but what you find may be unclear. Meanings disappear.

Mariah handed Pete a pencil and paper. She's good at making it so he can draw no matter where they are. Is it okay to draw at a funeral? Mariah wouldn't be the one to ask. Anyhow, Pete drew the Reverend Patton with a sweep of white hair that puffed like clouds across his forehead. He drew while the reverend talked about what a grand man Mr. Jasper was and Neal and Mariah watched Pete. "I forget his name," Pete said to her. "I know it isn't preacher, pastor, padre, priest or father."

"Reverend's the answer to your search." Manno! Neal could have told Pete that. You'd think Mariah went to church every Sunday. "I can't believe you produced this using the hymnbook for an easel. In the right market I know it would sell."

"I just wish I had the right colors," Pete said. "Blue and green would be best. With orange and copper for the leaded glass windows and chrome lining for his vest."

Mariah talks a lot about art to Pete. You have to put up with it. Well, maybe you don't but Neal does. Very slowly the official pallbearers -- the marshal, Mr. Watch, Mr. Sykeston, Delaney, Bud's grandfather and Principal Preacham -- carried the coffin out of the church. Very slowly Neal, Pete and their families and the rest of the people followed them. Halfway to the cemetery, Delaney tripped and almost fell. The others tried to hold up the casket without him and almost dropped it. In the church Nurse Comfort played on. She'd been pleased to play the organ for the service; she didn't know about Delaney. Neal sure was glad the casket was closed and couldn't spill. No way would he want to see Mr. Jasper roll down the hill.

"Delaney's bad," said Pete. Hey, their hero couldn't stand on his own two feet.

"You want me to ask if you can come with the marshal and me? We're making a special trip to the mansion to check on Delaney. We might even do it on Monday."

"No, but I hope he's okay." Neal didn't bother to ask why Pete didn't want to come with the marshal and him so that he could tell for himself whether Delaney was okay or wasn't. That's just how Pete is; he either gives you his reasons or doesn't.

"I have a cavity; I have to make a trip to the dentist," Pete said.

"I have to go in November," and they high fived about pain in the mouth ahead.

Their mothers said hush. The marshal and Mr. Sykeston supported Delaney. Then they shifted, dragged and propped him against an old lamppost so five not six pallbearers could carry Mr. Jasper to his grave. Everyone followed except Delaney and Nurse Comfort. She came out of the church to wait with him and make sure he was all right. After the pallbearers set the casket on the rails over the grave, the marshal and Mr. Sykeston went back and the two of them brought Delaney through the people and left him next to Mrs. Carver who put her arm around him. Ham stood quietly on Mrs. Carver's other side between her and Nurse Comfort. Preacher Jones and Ms. Wong stood behind the four of them. The preacher's lips moved. The casket was lowered partway and held there while Timmy the Digger took more measurements and Reverend Patton said more good things about Mr. Jasper. The matriarch didn't throw dirt clods; Mrs. Carver helped her drop white lilies in the black hole. Delaney cried as everyone prayed for his grandfather's soul.

That night while his mother wiped down the café tables Neal sat in the corner on the floor pretending to read. Mariah claimed he was in a sour mood because Pete couldn't stay over and promised the book would improve his sense of humor and disposition. Well, guess what? He didn't think the riddles or jokes in her stupid book were a bit funny. Iris Kelly might have laughed but Neal didn't. Across the room at the bar the marshal and Mr. Watch sat with their heads together looking way different like always. Why? Well, Mr. Watch is 6'8" and bald as a billiard ball. You can say this because he says it himself. Also, he shaves his face. The back of his neck is strawberry red even in winter and his clothes are faded and raggedy. Once Neal asked Aunt Ida how the marshal and Mr. Watch got to be such good friends for life when they are so different and lived apart for so long? "60 and still kicking, the both of them," she answered, "poor farm boys made good, praise the Lord and pass the congregation." "You and Pete are hardly alike, little brother," Mariah had to add. A sister who gives her opinion when no one asks can make you very mad.

"Did you talk to Sheriff Jackson about the autopsy, Will?" His mother stopped wiping tables and began rubbing her neck. If Mariah was here, she'd tell her she needed a long, hot bath. She'd tell her this even if no one asked her opinion. Hey, sometimes you don't appreciate your sister. Sometimes you do appreciate her.

"Yup," said the marshal. "Sheriff says the coroner found evidence of stroke, seizure or fit -- same three possibilities Doc diagnosed. He asked if there was anything else to look for. That man has a way of heading downstream fast with interest. Unless there's good reason, I don't want to be the one to help stir up a hornet's nest."

"It did seem mighty sudden," said Mr. Watch. "Don't you all think so?" he asked his hands, turning them over and carefully examining his cracked nails; "I asked you all a question," he said, frowning, "and here's another one: howsabouta trim?"

"He was ill," Neal's mother moved around Mr. Watch's hands to stir bowls of dressings and sauces and real bacon bits at the salad bar where Neal hovered, hoping to snag a green olive; he could eat 100 green olives a day if she'd let him.

The marshal waved Neal over. He was off duty and being friendly. The thing is a special agent is never off duty. Not if you think about it. Of course, Neal had no orders and the café seemed safe enough with the marshal and Mr. Watch the only customers. When business is slow, his mother rubs her neck. You can count on it. She rubs her neck other times but definitely when business is slow. Mariah was off on one of her walks. Aunt Ida was up at the house. The two of them had gotten into a fight because Mariah wanted to mow after dinner and Aunt Ida told her she was crazy in the head. Then Mariah said if you're going to stuff yourself at noon, you better get out and about and work out afterwards. Aunt Ida took this as criticism of her for serving a big meal in the middle of the day which she said she is going to do so long as she is cook and that's that. The marshal said Mariah and Aunt Ida would be okay after a breather because each of them is too stubborn not to be. "As for whether Tom's death will hurt business," he said now to Mr. Watch; "you tell me."

"We'll just have to wait see what Horace does or doesn't do or what he can or can't do. That little feller may have a hitch in his getalong and he may not have an ounce of country smarts but he's fast on his feet, I pure guarantee you. Of course, Tom's property may be tied in wet knots on account of Philomena's holdings. Speed don't look promising." Mr. Watch poked his thumb at Neal's favorite sign: Budweiser Welcomes Hunters, with the Whitetail staring straight and true at you. "Hunters are good for business. They help Juanita stay open, at least the café. Don't hurt the junk turnaround either. At auctions I get hunters who are interested in no end of peculiarities and who bring me no end of peculiarities. Mighty surprising what hunters will pop for. They shop at the store and buy Bob's gas. It may not be a boom but it's business. Of course, there's always some who want they can't have no matter how small it is." Mr. Watch pointed with his chin and Neal looked across the room to where Lewis N. Clark and Trinity were eating baby back ribs. Both had napkins under their chins like bibs. Hers covered her white shirt; she had another lying in the lap of her black skirt. Both had dishes of Ozark pudding for dessert.

Look out! Lewis N. Clark and his daughter had gotten into the café and seated and served without Neal even noticing. Sometimes you miss what's important if you pay attention to someone talking. The marshal and Mr. Watch finished their Buds and moved to a table far from the Clarks but near the bar. His mother came in. Now she wore a frilly apron and her hair curled around her happy face. "The Kansas City weekend road warriors are coming through Friday on the way to Mexico MO and bringing spouses. Reservations for 20! Yes!" She smiled as she straightened the checkered cloths and put the silverware in place. She hummed a tune and danced back to the kitchen for Aunt Ida's peace roses in little pink vases.

There hadn't been time for a long, hot bath so Neal was glad to hear why she was happy. He gets nervous when people act one way and then another way and he doesn't know the reason for the change. Okay, maybe not all people but for sure his mother. While she was getting extra puddings, the marshal told Mr. Watch he had intentions of making life easier for her this year and every year until eternity. "Best looking woman I've ever seen, finest woman I've ever met. I'm dead serious, Jake!"

"Don't get high hopes," said Mr. Watch; "she's an Edruns, independent as they come;" well, Neal hoped the marshal's hopes would get high for everybody's sake.

Then for some reason because, hey, you never know, he remembered olives. He helped himself with a fork. His mother was in the kitchen so now was a good time. He speared only four in case later she counted. She might freak. She has serious olive limits. Sucking the good, salty green, he decided to ask Aunt Ida for dinner. An agent has to eat. Olives aren't enough. Look out! To get to the kitchen he had to walk past the Clarks. He lowered his head to skitter by. Hey, all you can do is try.

"Come here and settle a disagreement, pal. It's Neal, isn't it? Well, Neal, I have a question for you. What do you call your home state in which we are presently being served so handsomely with some of the finest cuisine in the world?" Lewis N. Clark leaned back in the chair. He held a pork rib with his pinkie sticking up in the air.

"Missouri," Neal said in the voice he uses rarely when he's unsure of the answer. He was sure but there might be a catch. He waited with the half-crunched olives locked under his tongue. No way was he moving closer to Lewis N. Clark. No way was he chewing until he could enjoy what was in his mouth. Good food can get totally spoiled for you because of who else happens to be where you happen to be.

"You see," Trinity Clark said, "Missourah not Missouree."

"Listen carefully, pal," said her father, "or rather Neal, and answer me this. Do you go up the wide Missourah or up the wide Missouree? Do you sing way down in Missourah or way down in Missouree?" He sniggered. He didn't want an answer, not really. Good, because Neal didn't want to give him one. Also, here's a true fact: Neal was not his pal. "It's like Iowa and Ioway in The Music Man, Trinity -- parochial hooey; Iowans say Ioway when they feel like it but refuse to tolerate Ioway from out-of-state visitors; certain Midwestern features are common."

Lewis N. Clark spooned hard sauce on his pudding and smacked his lips. Neal shifted left. Should he boogie? He wasn't sure if he could. If he could, he should.

"Budweiser, pork, beans, corn and possibly deer single out the Mizzouraugh mentality." Lewis N. Clark crinkled his scar and zonked in on his daughter. Neal almost felt sorry for Trinity. "Notice how, summer or winter, they put their feet to the ground," her father told her, "as though they know before they start the path will be long and arduous. This is critical to the make-up. They do not hurry, people from Mizzouraugh. I think their caution may relate to sudden weather changes, which is why they don't trust what they can't see and why they say show me." He began gobbling his pudding. Neal began moving one foot at a time. "Now why don't I fit you into this reality venture as a writer musician, Trinity? You need some creative endeavor to occupy you if you persist on this destructive path of a sabbatical from the university. We're going to air weekly and run through ten decades, 1900, 1910, all the way to 2010, showing the new decade and altered living conditions each week. Oh, listen, my dear, this could be big -- this could be precisely the kind of life-changing entrepreneurial experience you say you seek."

"Dad, you don't even own the property!"

"Give me time," said Lewis N. Clark, crinkling his scar and looking totally scary!

Neal charged and made it to the kitchen. He finally finished the olives. If you put off chewing, what's in your mouth gets big and swallowing takes time. This sounds urpy but it's a fact. Aunt Ida served him ribs and pudding with extra whipped cream. Yum! Then she started complaining about home schooling. Hey, what could he do? Oh, well, maybe she just needed to complain and he was there. "It's enough to make you wonder what's in folks' heads. Children ought to be with children who are not from the same family. I swan." Both Aunt Ida and the mayor hate home schooling; public education might be the one thing the two of them can agree on.

Neal took Monday morning seriously. He brushed his teeth at the bathroom sink, ran his route and did his house chores. It was eight o'clock when he knocked on the door to Cabin C. Molly woofed and dressed in sweats, the marshal let him in. "There's nothing to report," Neal told him. This happens. This happens often.

"So tell me why the artist is absent."

"He's at the dentist," and, wur, four months until Neal's appointment!

"Poor Pete."

"Yeah," and poor Neal who always has at least one cavity!

Together they took Molly to the woody lot behind the Sanchez Store where the jays, cardinals and flickers trickled through the trees -- blue, red, black, white and gray in green. The noise was awesome: cheeping, fluting, squawking, tweeting, whistling. "Defending summer territories," said the marshal. "No interlopers allowed. Stay away or get pecked to a peak. It's that time of year, agent, time to sport your best feathers and defend home on the range. Can't always bet your life on humanity but there are certain natural things in the world that don't change."

Back in the cabin, Molly slept, the marshal lifted weights and did push-ups and Neal watched Wagon Train on the Hallmark Channel, one of two channels in the satellite package Aunt Ida finds fit for human consumption. "Born in Nebraska and started out from nothing in Kansas City, J. C. Hall, and there was his daughter Rudy just as nice as could be," she says. Then she gets a mad look on her face like she thinks somebody's going to argue with her. Nobody ever does. The other channel Aunt Ida finds fit is the Disney Channel but she doesn't get so excited about Walt Disney who was born in Kansas City instead of Nebraska but maybe he started out from something or maybe she never met his daughter or maybe he didn't have a daughter or maybe his daughter wasn't a bit nice. You can get going with maybes. This is a true fact. Neal's favorite old Disney movie is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He doesn't have a favorite new Disney movie but you never know. His favorite old movie of all is Spiderman II but once it was Shrek and once it was The Incredibles. In the human world unless you mean friends or family, few things stay the same. So, like the marshal says, you learn to go with the changes: ages, boots, dreams, teachers, teeth, devices, favorite movies, games and names.

In the dark ravine, the bandit ducks his head and lights up. On the ridge Rowdy Bates and Trail Boss Gil Favor rest their horses and talk. They don't smoke and that's different. In old-timey movies and TV shows everyone smokes -- good guys, bad guys, also women -- and not just outdoors but in airplanes, beds, cars, trains, busses, restaurants, stores and elevators. It must have been hard to breathe no matter where you were but people don't act like it. They act like you better smoke wherever you are whenever you're able. The stream from the bandit's cigarette curls up in the sky, streaking the black and white screen with silver like the old-timey photo of Neal's grandfather in a tuxedo that sits on Aunt Ida's dressing table.

Neal clicked the mute button. He couldn't hear Rowdy Bates anyway. Sometimes the satellite sound is blurry. Now the marshal was in the shower and steam leaked from under the bathroom door. Neal listened to the water until the sound stopped. The marshal came out in his T-shirt and skivvies. He put on clean jeans and a denim shirt. He knotted a red kerchief around his neck and stowed everything away. "Tidy drawers," is what Neal's mother calls him; it's a nice thing to say.

He checked his watch, wallet, change and cell phone. "Good, no messages," he said. "Ready to hit the road, agent? Let's you and I get brave and see what the rest of today has in store." Neal clicked the off button and followed his boss out the door.

Rufus wasn't in the pen, which was good because he hates to be alone. They took Molly to the park where she disappeared. She was there, then gone; it was weird.

"She must have picked up a scent," said the marshal, turning and racing due north for the River. Neal didn't waste his breath answering; he needed it to race after.

He heard Molly baying and the marshal's cell phone ringing. Only the marshal, Mr. Watch and Mayor Pride have cell phones since in and around Milo you're mostly out of call range. Anyhow, someone was trying to call the marshal but he was busy, wasn't he? Of course, the person trying to call him didn't know this. After a loud roaring noise, Neal's ears popped. His legs ached. The bottoms of his feet burned like they were on fire. At the edge of the park before the bluff, they stopped and Neal flopped in the grass. Molly was circling the ground beneath a basswood tree. From a bobbing branch an angry boss fox squirrel looked down at her. She looked up at him, grinned and started her "hurry up, hurry up" bark. The squirrel shifted back and forth on his haunches, chattered and snapped his red tail. He was riled.


"That's a squirrel, girl," said the marshal and Molly just smiled.

"You know, agent, it's the same every time. Look how proud she is. Thinks she's done us a service. And it's my fault because I never have the heart to tell her different. 150 years ago when Walkers were bred out of English foxhounds brought to this country, some were raised to hunt fox and coon, which most folks including me won't eat. Some were raised to hunt for the table. Molly's a mix but training gets in the genes and her genes tell her what to hunt. You know she never bothers the foxes behind Aunt Ida's garden. Now she thinks she's procuring our dinner and we ought to thank her, do our job, make the kill and have ourselves a feast. She finds game for food not fun; she sees no sport in the killing of a bird or a beast."

Neal nodded. The marshall might be right about sport and killing but Molly sure did look like she was having fun. Actually, it was hard to pay attention to her or to the marshal with the squirrel being so hyper. When he complained about being picked for somebody's dinner, he sounded like an eggbeater in gravel. Neal was way glad they didn't have a rifle with them. Probably he too would hunt and kill and eat the killed meat some day. Well, he was in no big rush for this day, okay?

"Next time you ask first, girl, and I mean it" the marshal said and he took out his cell phone. "Uh-oh, agent, it's the mayor who's trying to reach me. Up until now today's been fine to middling fine but that could be over in a great big fat hurry."

The marshal told Neal and Molly to hustle because he wanted to be in his cabin when he returned the mayor's call. "You never know what she might ask," he said. "Best to be on your own turf with your own gear handy just in case." Molly didn't want to leave the squirrel and gave the marshal such a look! She pulled away when Neal tried to pat her and gave him the look, too. She gets mad at everyone in the whole world if she's mad at the marshal. Well, she's his dog and so this is natural.

When they got to the Travel Stop Neal's mother was outside washing windows. She came over for hugs. You can hear his mother walk. She doesn't wear clickety-clackety high heels. She wears soft desert boots and penny loafers. But she puts down her feet fast and sure and when they hit the ground, her steps sound like the Missouri River. Neal is sure the marshal appreciates this and so does he. Just because you can't carry a tune doesn't mean you can't hear cool sounds. Also, just because they watch his mother and listen to her walk around doesn't mean they're sitting in the audience and she's putting on an act. Every one of these is a true fact.

"Things should be easier on us chickens now," she said; "come talk over coffee."

"Be there as soon as we learn what Birdie wants;" Neal said he'd done his house chores so his mother let him go with his other boss to call the mayor from Cabin C.

The marshal cocked his eye and Neal knew to get ready with his pen and notebook. The marshal flipped on the speaker phone so both of them could hear the mayor. Oh, well, it's what they get their pay for. "And what can we do for you, mayor?"

"You can do your job. That's what you can do. Where have you been? I've been calling for hours. That cell phone is charged to the taxpayers. Do you turn it off or simply stand around and let it ring? The Clark girl disappeared yesterday morning; her daddy's beside himself and we need to organize a search and start searching."

"Hold up, mayor, the Milo marshal is on call 24/7 for specific emergencies. Finding a missing person is nowhere in my job description. Did you call Sheriff Jackson?"

The marshal pointed to the window. Neal understood and, with so much to write, was glad of some action. Standing on his chair, he parted the curtain over the AC. The fancy, schmancy silver Cadillac was not there. He shook his head no at the marshal. Ho, just like he'd gotten the point of pointing his boss got the head signal.

"Your sheriff was no help whatsoever," the mayor was complaining. " He acted like I was getting all excited over nothing. He actually told me to give it a week, that it was way too soon to suspect foul play. I dislike that man's tone and his attitude."

"He's a good man;" the fox face twisted like the marshal might get good and rude.

"So say you but leave it. Her father emailed her picture and description. I've made up a notice and printed copies for you to hand out while you spread the word. Be sure you talk to everyone. It doesn't look good for the town to have a young woman vanish. Action is needed. I'm conducting my Monday Information Tour with the latest worldwide death toll. Silence for the war dead is ridiculous and I mean to change that. There are new hog plant and bridge repair proposals. Afterwards the missing girl will fit in. Now hurry over here so your part of the work can begin."

"And where is daddy off to? Now that he's told the rest of us what to do?"

"Careful, marshal! Lewis N. Clark has the money and connections to put this town, county and state on the economic map for the market duration. He's home now but in touch by fax, phone and email. He has asked for our help and we must not fail."

"Can't be too worried if he's gone home; say, how old is the daughter anyway?"

"She's underage and I expect you to pick up these posters without further delay."

"Eating my breakfast first, mayor; that's how it is with us old seafaring men."

"Well!" the mayor huffed; the marshal hung up and raced Neal to the café kitchen.

Aunt Ida grumbled about late breakfast but she scrambled eggs and fried sausage patties. She said Neal's mother and Mariah had gone to clean Cabins D and E. "And here's the everlasting brightness in the dark," she said. "The good Lord in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to take Lewis N. Clark elsewhere. The man is hard to pray for; I tried often. But he's out of my mind in Maine so hallelujah and amen!"

"What about the daughter?" asked the marshal, helping himself to piccalilli for which he has a weakness and Neal doesn't. Aunt Ida was surprised at the question. "Oh, she travels with him here and there. She isn't such a bad little gal, to be fair."

"Sure the two of them left together?"

"Why, I saw them heading out myself last night right after supper."

They thanked Aunt Ida for breakfast. Breakfast helps make your strength last.

"Seeing as how you've done your chores, agent, run your route and made your report, you want to come along?" Well, actually, Neal had expected to go with the marshal or at least get an assignment. Hey, this was a case, wasn't it? He didn't say anything. What could he say? It was one of those times. They took Molly. In the truck, the marshal said no way was he helping Birdie advertise. "Never have, never will," he said, "but it's tough to know what she's selling. Suppose we'll learn. She's an open book, the mayor, if you read between sea lines. And avoid landmines."

Look out! The mayor was waving her water pistol and spraying the air. Okay, last year Miss Miller's class had visited the St. Louis Zoo and here's a true fact: the mayor's yard is an open, unprotected aviary. If you're a cat in Milo, Missouri, the mayor's yard is where you hang out. Mrs. Roper's pretty gray tabby with the green eyes trotted down the bank toward the truck. After her came Sunshine who stopped to meow. Milo cats are not afraid of the mayor. Water won't kill and her aim is poor. Mr. Watch says the mayor can't hit the broad side of a barn door.

"Might ask us to chase cats," said the marshal. "She's pulled that one before and no reason she won't pull it again; you stay here, agent, just in case this gets physical."

"Okay."

"You stay, too, Molly; you may think that's unfair but it's an order: Molly, stay!"

Wur! Molly hated the marshal to say stay. She turned her back on him and stared with ice cold stony eyes past Neal. Sunshine and the other cats trailed under the truck but Molly kept staring out the window, planning. She was planning how to make the marshal and Neal pay big, Neal felt; with Molly, you get these feelings.

Some dogs ride in the back in the bed. Not Molly. She always rides in the front. She sits as close to the marshal as she can, almost in his lap. While the truck moves, she watches the road. She might turn and look out either side of the cab or the rear window. Then she looks ahead again. Neal has never seen her blink. She behaves as though she can't take her mind off what she's doing for a second or they'll crash with no spare and four bad flats. Usually, when they stop, she's worn out and goes to sleep unless she notices something interesting like other dogs, squirrels or cats.

Neal gave up on Molly. Look out! The mayor was madder than usual. He watched her meet the marshal at the top of the steps. She didn't move so the marshal had to climb every single one. The mayor's face was redder. Her eyes were meaner. At least she couldn't fire her water pistol because both her hands were full of paper.

"You could have loosed that worthless dog on the cats. Who are you protecting? Frankly, I don't know where to start. The town needs animal management. I know that much! At the next meeting with the Council, you will find cat licensing, cat leashing and cat control on the agenda. Maybe new laws will motivate even you."

The marshal tugged on his earring, bounced his leg and shook his head; he looked back at Neal in the truck but hey, why look at Neal since what could Neal do?

The mayor thrust one handful of paper at the marshal. "Let me know what you hear and I'll do the same." She waved the other handful at him. "Today I deliver to Sykeston and Philomena, as guardian of the Fairwell twins, a new offer of $3.5 million, a reduced offer in consideration of real property complications. I imagine Philomena will turn up her nose but it could be Horace has influence with her. You don't need a copy; I'll keep you apprised of developments if and as they occur."

"That should be quite a chunk for you, mayor, if the sale happens." The marshal was looking down at his boot toes but the mayor stuck the first handful of paper under his nose so he had to take it. Well, he didn't have to but he did. Sometimes you're better off. You might not want to do something but if you think it over and especially if a mean lady like the mayor is acting meaner, you're better off doing it.

"As mayor, I work for the City of Milo," she said; "and will until the day I quit."

A fat gray squirrel leaped onto a tray with a squirrel-proof metal cone chained on top. He rattled the chain, nudged it aside and squeezed between the cone and tray to munch sunflower seeds snagged from the dish below. The mayor went nutso.

"Get, you nasty varmint! Get, I say. Get! You're no better than a cat! Scat!"

The marshal yanked open the door and jumped in the truck. He started the engine. "Am I forgiven?" he asked Molly. He rubbed her back and ears and scratched her head until she whined and her eyes got softer and nicer like they're supposed to be.

Neal read the black and white poster. He had to admit Trinity Clark was pretty in the picture, not beautiful like his mother and Alicia but pretty. Would there be a girl hunt for her? Would the Sheriff need to bring in a SWAT team and a chopper?

They drove to the end of Main and across the tracks. The marshal must want to talk to Mr. Watch. "A. P. Green firebrick lasts a century if properly cared for," he said for the gazillionth time. He believes Mr. Watch should have the ivy growing up the station walls torn down. "Bad news when A. P. Green closed shop," he said. "Juanita," he began to sing. Molly's ears were drooping and she was yawning.

She had to wait in the truck but there weren't any cats or squirrels around so she didn't mind. Molly doesn't care that much about missing Rufus. Neal and the marshal walked by the museum and into the Post Office. The marshal lifted him up and set him on the edge of the shelf for packages. He could see through the bars. Rufus chuckled and groaned and pushed his nose into Neal's hand. Rufus does care about missing Molly. He knew she was in the truck but Rufus always remains at Mr. Watch's side. This is a fact; some dogs will do this even if they aren't tied.

"Yo, Jake!" There was no answer. Neal leaned forward to where he could see Mr. Watch hunched down and sorting mail into red, white and blue cartons and blue and gray trays. Using one arm as a third leg with the other dangling, he worked his way over to the window. He pivoted in place like Mariah's garden wheelbarrow.

"Threw my durn back out, didn't I?" He wore green eye shades and wrist cuffs. "Well, didn't I?" he asked the window bars as he hauled up his top half. A deep line cut across his forehead like a sidewalk cement crack. Unless you knew Mr. Watch, probably you would not want to get too close to him and his durn thrown out back.

"When will you let Doc have a look, Jake? Get some relief? And while we're on when, when will you let Bud tackle the ivy? Every year the ivy gets harder on the brick." The marshal slid a poster across the counter. "One more thing, old buddy, you know anything about this unholy fanfare? If you do, now's the time to share."

"Yup." Mr. Watch nodded his bald head. He meant "yup" to knowing something about the poster not about seeing Doc Oats or hiring Bud. He hates like poison to see doctors and likes the ivy. "The judge was waiting when I got here this morning. Birdie does run that man ragged. She'd like to run all of us ragged, come to that. Otherwise, before we get to girls gone missing since yesterday, how you all be?"

"Good and outside of your back, how about you?" answered the marshal and you could tell he was trying not to let Mr. Watch see that they were in a big hurry.

"Can't complain and if I did, wouldn't do me any good," Mr. Watch told a brown envelope. "The back booger comes if spring's wet. It was and this is what I get."

"How can we help, buddy?" The marshal clenched his jaw; his voice was choppy.

"Shoot, don't you all trouble yourself. I'll be gone when I can't do my job well."

"For Pete's sake, Jake, don't take offense. You may not need help but I do. Now, I'm asking you what I asked Birdie this morning. How old is the girl anyway? Looked to me more woman than girl. Also, and here's a little something Birdie doesn't know but sooner or later will have to, Aunt Ida says father and daughter checked out last night. Says the girl was fine when they left together so her father's complaint is at least partly bogus. On Lewis N. Clark leaving, Aunt Ida says good riddance. I could put it stronger which should come as no surprise to you since you know how I felt about him hustling Juanita. Here's my point." The marshal gulped air. He'd been talking a long, long time -- even longer than usual. "Father and daughter gone are today's reality. Way I figure, can't be my business where either is so long as neither's in Milo, Missouri. What's your reaction if you follow me?"

"After the judge left I called Birdie and asked about the girl's age. She gabbled on about how the Clarks were town guests and a father's legal right to know his daughter's whereabouts. I said I reckoned there were two sides to any story and she got her tail feathers in an uproar. She'd already called the sheriff, she told me, and was putting you all on it and expected your progress report. When I said maybe she was going a mite too far too fast, she hung up on me. That's our Birdie. Ain't it?" Mr. Watch had been talking to a pencil but he questioned an old letter opener he held up by the point so it must have been dull. When he didn't get an answer, he threw the letter opener in the long drawer beneath the counter, stuck the pencil behind his ear, got his keys and triangled to the boxes. He still used one arm to help him walk but this time he stiff-armed the other to the side like a hoist. On the way back, he used the stiff arm to push a plastic mail crate ahead. He took a long time to make the round trip. He pulled himself up. Through the bars of the window he slid mail for the marshal and Travel Stop wrapped in rubber bands. Then he slid through a small package and grabbed the iron bars with both hands.

"Lewis N. Clark's a Republican," he said. He swung his shoulders back and forth. "There aren't many elephants hereabouts. That's what's got Birdie het up. If Clark didn't have money, she wouldn't care. She takes her loudspeaker statistics from an Internet anti-war site, gives the hometown and state of the casualty but not the party affiliation. She claims the heart and soul of a good swing state are designed to bring everyone closer so we can get along better. You all know something, when you all think about it, Birdie ain't easy to calculate." Mr. Watch frowned at his keys like maybe they could solve the problem. He picked them up and rattled them.

Neal half-listened to the rattle from Mr. Watch but watched the marshal who was busy turning the small package around and upside down and hefting it to see how much it weighed. He held it out for Neal and Mr. Watch to see and checked the weight again. "No return address," he said and waited for Mr. Watch to explain.

"No, but the receiver's address is plain as day and the postmark is clean and my own. You all can trust the contents or maybe you all can't. Maybe you all think a bomb got past old Jake. Tell you all what. Reckon you all best open this package outside. Tell you all what else. Reckon you all best leave young Neal here. Ain't that right, boy? Ain't that right, Rufus? Ain't that right, ivy whose only sin is growing, leastways so far as this sinner can see?" Mr. Watch was being funny. He didn't really believe there was a bomb in the marshal's mail. The marshal didn't laugh; he says bombs aren't funny and innocent people are blown to smithereens every day.

Laying the package on the shelf by Neal and using his penknife, he carefully slit the brown paper at either end. He pulled out a book and showed it to Neal and Mr. Watch. A lady named Magdalen Nabb wrote the book, The Marshal and the Madwoman. In a picture on the back she wears a black hat and smiles in shadows.

"Who would send this, Jake?" the marshal asked; "tell me everything you know."

"Shoot, you all got me by the lapel. Guess you all better learn to read and tell."

"What kind of book is it?" Neal asked; a book about a marshal might be interesting.

"Jacket says mystery novel;" the marshal frowned and tugged on his earring.

"Oh, quit your all's stewing," said Mr. Watch. "It's a present. Read it or don't. Listen, Will, if I was you all, I wouldn't pay Birdie too much never mind on this missing Clark girl business. Sheriff Jackson's your man. He'll getter done. If there's a crime to fix or crookedness to set right, you all can count on Sheriff Jackson."

"Yes, and I'll be hearing from him," said the marshal still studying the book. "He's no fan of the mayor's. Wish she'd leave him alone." He turned the book around, gave the pages several thumb flips. He squinted and silently moved his foxy lips.

"You all want to read later?" asked Mr. Watch. "I'm about to work loose and sit outside a spell and we can jaw a bit. Sun does wonders for a sore back. Judge Pride shared worrisome news about Tom's estate after escaping from Birdie long enough to file for letters testamentary with himself as administrator. Seems the property is so tied up the deer business might not open this year. That might have been expected but there's worse. Seems Horace has lost faith in making a living off deer now Missouri has so many they're a state nuisance. Funny how Horace kept faith until Tom died. They had no written agreement but Tom left him with ready management cash. Tom's will leaves everything to the boys and the matter of authority is one holy mess. As the boys' legal guardian, Philomena controls their interests and no one is about to call her incompetent. The Salt Lick County District Court will have to rule and that court ain't famous for speed in an easy case. We're in for the long haul, correct?" Mr. Watch asked his elbow over his shoulder. He only talks to things at the end, not in the beginning or middle. Also, he sounds way different when he doesn't use "you all" too many times to write down. If you listen long enough, you get used to people. Of course, people change and you only know how they were. You can only work out so much for yourself to make life easier.

Nurse Comfort came in for the Fairwell mail. She told Mr. Watch he should see her uncle or some other doctor. He said no and this took a while. The marshal asked about Delaney. Nurse Comfort didn't think Delaney was home so they put off their visit to see if he was okay. After Mr. Watch and the marshal jawed, Neal and the marshal went fishing. The marshal read to himself, his foxy lips moving and face hard. Neal fished but kept his eyes open; you can fish and stay on your guard.

The mayor delivered Lewis N. Clark's $3.5 million offer. The matriarch and Mr. Sykeston refused and the people were happy. Then Mr. Watch said they were selling all the whitetails the Easilys could round up to Mr. Clark as soon as he had a place to put them. Neal freaked. He hadn't seen Delaney since Mr. Jasper's funeral and it was all falling apart but Bud said Mr. Sykeston told his grandfather the sale of the herd did not mean the end of the Fairwell deer farm. New stock could and should be bought when they reopened for business because Whitetail stock has improved in Missouri and new blood is good. Bud said he didn't see they had a choice. He said they had to trust Mr. Sykeston. Also, he said Neal worried too much. Meanwhile, the mayor organized the round-up. First she bought 150 acres on the north side of the River across from Fairwell land for Mr. Clark. She's his agent so she buys land for him. Mr. Watch said it wasn't prime deer habitat, not enough cover to give them a good place to hide. But he said Clete Dobbs could turn it around if he set himself to it; in Noonday County Clete Dobbs and Dwayne Emmett now work for Mr. Clark but receive their paychecks from Mayor Pride.

"I'm standing here today and warning you so don't say I didn't," the mayor warned. She likes to warn people and remind them she did. She was warning the marshal and the Milo Council men and women. Neal didn't hear her firsthand. The marshal told his mother later; he said if there's a gathering, the mayor likes to command.

This might be hard to follow but you need to or you won't understand what came after or before. Easilys herded Whitetails into the River. With barges they shut deer off from east and west and drove them north. Neal and Pete watched from the park. It was awesome! The Reader carried pictures and an article. The Kansas City Star reporter got lost but The St. Louis Post Dispatch posted the story on the paper's website. Iris was there with Bill Patton, Jr., naturally. She and Pete did "rock, paper, scissors" for who'd buy licorice. Iris won, naturally. Pete ran to the store and missed some action. Neal would have to tell him later. "What's with this deer business?" Iris yelled in his ear; "talk about an excellent way to lose money!" Mariah borrowed his Bugoff in time to save Iris from a snootful. Hey, you aren't a criminal to think about stuff you don't do. "Thanks, bro! Seems the park has birds and toads but far more bugs than bugeaters," said his sister, slapping mosquitoes.

Deer scrambled up the bank on the other side of the River. Each deer, big or small, was ticked off on two lists. Mr. Sykeston counted for himself and the Fairwells. Clete Dobbs counted for Lewis N. Clark. The mayor refereed. Mr. Sykeston came out one doe long but the mayor said the buyer was generous. Bud gave Neal a copy of the count and he worked on it in his notebook, using his pencil and going over the figures in ink when he was sure they were right. Seven bucks with full racks at $1000 each = $7,000; 25 spike bucks at $500 each = $10,000; 45 does at $400 each = $18,000; 60 button bucks, yearlings and under at $200 each = $12,000 for a grand total of $47,000. $47,000 is a lot of money but it is not $3.5 million. Of course, $3.5 million is not $5.5 million. Millions are harder to believe than regular dollars. Gazillions are worse but millions are hard. What do million dollar offers mean? $47,000 is real money staying in Salt Lick County so what's wrong? Does the deer loss mean millions might vanish into Noonday County before along?

"Let me have that pen and a piece of paper when you're done. I want to try the barges and trees and the men and women with their hardhats and clipboards." Pete was chewing a red licorice stick. Neal helped himself to black and returned to check his figures. Pete never has drawing tools. Mariah calls him a typical artist.

"Developing a case?" asked Iris, poking and prying and peering under Neal's wrist.

Moving fast, he tore out paper for Pete and gave him a fairly new pencil. The pen and notebook he put safely in his pocket. The pen was brand new, a gift from the marshal, and he wasn't up for loaning it. Also, he'd been thinking about money not a case. If he thinks about a case, is he sharing with Iris? No is the answer to this!

She and her dumb cousin left. "Finally!" Neal said; "manno, am I glad!"

Pete looked up; "she has good ideas, you know; she's really not that bad."

"Not good for me!" Just when you relax, your best friend goes crazy.

In the café later Bud's grandfather said, "lot of work, gone and done. But here's good news: the Old Man wasn't seen from dawn to dusk, nary a sign of that one."

"And the Old Woman?" asked Mariah. Neal stared. He was surprised she cared.

"Don't you all worry about her. Last month she brought this year's triplets and three other old does and their fawns to Long Holler. I couldn't see any powerful reason to tell on her. Still free range so far as I know." Mr. Easily grinned and held up his stump. Mariah smiled. So did Neal. It was good news. Boyd's grandfather enjoyed the fun. Neal felt silly about their first meeting when he'd wanted to run.

Then Delaney shocked everybody, especially Neal and Pete. He got in big trouble for drinking and drugging since he wasn't old enough for alcohol and drugs aren't allowed no matter how old you are. Well, they are if you get them from a doctor but you can bet he didn't. Things got worse. People say things can't get any worse but they can. This is a true fact. He quit the Milo Mules. His name showed up every single week in the Reader's "Courthouse Doings". Judge Pride did what he could to get him released on probation. The marshal drove him back and forth to the Salt Lick County Juvenile Offices and court. Neal was not invited on these trips. Then Neal learned from Mariah who'd heard it from Mr. Sykeston that Delaney was being sent by his grandmother to a military school on the Atlantic Ocean. "I can't believe such places exist still," said Mariah in case Neal wanted to feel worse. On the same day Delaney flew east Nurse Comfort flew west. There was no going away party for either. There wasn't time. Before people knew they were leaving, Mr. Sykeston was driving them to the airport. He stopped at the café so Delaney could say good-bye to Neal and Pete. Preacher Jones and Ms. Wong hurried out with a new bible for Nurse Comfort. Aunt Ida wrapped some divinity fudge for her and said it was indecent and church wouldn't be the same without her. Well, okay, but Neal could give up music and candy handouts if his hero survived and returned home a healthier, happier man. Pete didn't think the two of them could do a thing except hope for the best; this seemed weak but, hey, Neal had no better plan.

Mayor Pride bugged the marshal about Trinity Clark all summer. "Drop whatever you're doing and hurry over to Slater," she'd order; or "get in your truck and head for the Fairville Junction. They've talked with her." Sometimes the marshal called Sheriff Jackson and sometimes he didn't. When he did, the sheriff said he should forget it because he was. He said the mayor should find herself some other cause.

School started. Pete and Neal were still with Miss Miller. Iris was in the combined third and fourth grades. Good luck to Mrs. Culpepper! Easilys combined Fairwell beans and corn for transport and sale. Bud's grandfather said they were seeing a good forage crop harvest. He said this could mean hard times ahead. Until further notice, only Bud hunted on the Fairwell Whitetail Farms. Well, legally anyway. The matriarch permitted Bud to bowhunt deer in exchange for mowing and trimming the grounds around the mansion. The marshal set it up. Mr. Sykeston said they might re-open for firearms next year. Everyone hoped so. Very few travelers came through and nobody thought much about Trinity Clark now summer was over.

But it wasn't. Indian summer came in October. That's when it's still hot. Well, not hot but you don't need your coat. Friday afternoon the marshal and Neal went out so the marshal could smoke. Mariah was holding onto the edge of the picnic table and exercising while she studied a Scrabble dictionary. She likes to do two or more things at once. His cell phone jangled and the marshal turned on the speaker.

"Oh, come quick, please," sobbed the mayor; "his pulse is growing weaker."

"What's today?" Mariah slammed shut the dictionary and raced Neal to the café.

"Friday." During the school year you know when it's Friday; he does anyway.

"Date not day, dummy," she complained, brows climbing to the sky.

"October 17," said the marshal who was waiting for Neal's mother; "why?"

Mariah didn't answer and she didn't sneak a look at Neal because he was watching for this. He was sure she would when the marshal loaded them into the Odyssey. The marshal needed their mother to help with the mayor, Mariah might be useful and Neal couldn't stay alone. Wur! Anyhow, when his mother followed the marshal up the steps, his sister stayed in the van. Neal didn't crowd his mother. The judge lay on the floor by the computer tower with the mayor standing next to him. Like he was a small broken doll, the marshal loaded the judge into the van and whisked everyone to the county emergency room. The mayor held the judge's arm and the two of them walked behind some frosty glass. The marshal called Mr. Watch from the waiting room. "Seemed I should hurry him over here, Jake; tell Doc, will you."

"Massive stroke," Doc Oats told Neal's mother later. The hospital people didn't tell her anything. They only talk to relatives. This is a fact. "He's receiving good care. Probably get sent home to Birdie next week." Doc Oats raised his shoulders all the way to his gray hair, which is cut pretty short so his shoulders touched the bottom of his head. Then he stuck out his hands on both sides with the fingers spread.

"If I was the judge I'd sooner hole up in the Boonetown Home for the Aged and Infirm or Habilitation Center for the Challenged where I could get some peace but I'm not the judge," Mr. Watch told his coffee cup. He shook the cup. It was empty.

"No, you're not," agreed the marshal while Neal's mother poured more coffee.

In November his mother got a call from Miss Miller who wanted Neal tested. He could not believe it! The only other student in the Milo Gifted Program was Iris. If he scored well, he'd have to travel to Boonetown, Columbia, maybe even Jeff City in an old station wagon with Iris and Principal Preacham for company. Wur! In Kansas City you get paid for grades. All you need is a C average for a $25 VISA card. Why doesn't Milo R-1 have this program? Iris would go nutso but Neal could make money, too. In the country it isn't always fair what you can do and can't do!

On math, science, reasoning and vocabulary Neal tested way high. Actually, could be he doesn't know how to score low or could be he wasn't wimpy enough to try.

"It's no surprise to me you're brilliant, chicken," said his mother. His sister grinned and blinked like an old barn owl. He could have slapped her silly. She knew how he felt about Iris. But then for Christmas she gave him 10 handheld educational games. From his mother he got new boots and a decent black backpack. From the marshal he got a new digital compass with clock, stopwatch, alarm, thermometer and low battery indicator. "How's that for a handheld device, agent?" the marshal asked after Neal had opened the box and was reading the card. "Hard to go wrong if you know where you are, weather conditions and correct time -- very hard!"

You can find location, weather and time on the Internet with one click. Well, three. He didn't tell the marshal this. Why not? Da-doyah! Hey, you can't find personal speed and power measurements on the Net -- not yet. Aunt Ida gave him a Bible with his name engraved in gold on the front and with tears in her eyes. He didn't get a box, pod, station or tendo but the gifts were cool. He thanked and hugged people all day. Hey, his luck might improve; the year might end sort of okay.

But you never know. You really don't. Iris got Scrabble for Christmas. They were still on vacation when she brought the game to the café and challenged Neal to a match. Wur! He'd seen enough of Mariah's one-handed game to know you draw seven. He understood the rules and scoring but no way was he playing any game with Iris. "Mavore cavomfavortavabavle with Junior Scrabble, are we?" she asked. Then she and Mariah sat at a table and from a safe distance, he watched his sister beat the living tar out of Iris which was almost as good as kicking her in her bony shins. They were playing when the marshal left. Neal chased after him only to watch the truck pull out of the lot. In an hour he returned with a foxy face and his own Scrabble game. Iris makes you spend money; hey, money's her middle name.

For his birthday, Neal did not get a handheld device to type reports with, work math problems with, log onto the Internet with, get telephone calls with, make telephone calls with, get email messages with, send email messages with, listen to music with, watch movies with and take digital photos with but you don't always get what you want. You just have to keep working until you do. Mostly Neal got clothes because his mother thinks he needs them. Also, he got a book in the mail from the marshal with a return address and card so there was no mystery. The marshal had Mariah buy The Voice of Bugle Ann on the Net for him. Who knows why he mailed the book to Neal? One of the education games broke. Okay, maybe Neal touched it a bit hard with his toe when it wasn't working right. Anyhow, they had to make a trip to Wal-Mart with the warranty. School and the Milo GP went on and on, mile after mile. School is okay but you get tired of anything after a while.

In spring he and Pete tried out for the Mules. The Mules were short on players and Bud thought they had a chance. School ended. Pete's brother Roy headed for St. Louis with grandparents who can only handle one grandchild at a time. Delaney was safely home. Nobody had seen him but Neal's mother said he was healing still. She said whole health never comes too soon. Neal and Pete made the team; Alicia came to watch a double-header; this year Neal's favorite month had to be June.

But June this year was terrible for Mrs. Culpepper who would be Neal's and Pete's teacher in September. That's right! They'd be back in the same room with Iris! Anyhow, on the first of June Mr. Watch drove down to the Culpepper farm in Long Hollow with a chaplain and a special delivery letter from the United States Air Force. The letter told Mrs. Culpepper that her daughter Lillian was missing. Mr. Watch said Mrs. Culpepper put her head in her hands and rocked back and forth. He said he didn't know what to do for her. The marshal drove Neal's mother, Aunt Ida and Preacher Jones to see her. They didn't know what to do for her either.

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