by Jean Rabe
Oren’s eyes grew dark and he mouthed something. He looked at Piper and then back at the old man.
Gary Frank opened his eyes.
“Is that why you killed him, Mr. Huffman?” Oren’s voice was even. “Because he’d scratched your boots? Taken them?”
“Yep.” Gary Frank started to cry. “Hadn’t meant to. I was bigger than him, fourteen, had five years on him. Was a lot stronger. I grabbed his neck and squeezed. I was so angry. My folks gave me those boots for my birthday. Cowboy boots. Our family didn’t have a whole lot of money. It was a significant present, and he’d treated them poorly. Did not respect me.”
He reached down and scratched the cat. “I squeezed too hard. He kicked me, and I was so angry. And then he stopped kicking, his head lopped to one side. I realized what I’d done, and that if I told Ma she’d say I was going to Hell for it. I hid his body in the bushes. And I took my boots back.”
The cat moved along to Oren’s ankles.
“I didn’t know what to do, and then everybody was hollering about Killian’s raft breaking up. I told people Neal Robert had been on that raft with them, all the boys playing Abraham Lincoln. Everyone believed me.”
“You buried him,” Oren pressed.
“Yep. I went back that night with a shovel, after my family slept. Snuck out all quiet. We didn’t live far from the bluff back then. I dug a hole. Thought I’d dug it so small and deep that no one ever would find him. Deep. Deep. Deep. My arms and fingers felt like they were going to fall off. I remember that, too, my aching fingers. I crammed him into the hole and covered him up. Picked a spot that didn’t have no grass on it. Lots of places in the park that fall was missing grass. I stomped it down, and then I got all clever and dug at other places. Didn’t want no one seeing the one spot I’d messed with. The rain helped. No one’d found Neal Robert.”
“For sixty-five years,” Piper said.
“Until you had to go and trip over him. Piss,” Gary Frank said. “I suppose you’re gonna arrest me.”
“Yep,” Oren said.
“What about my cat?”
“I like cats,” Oren said.
The service for Mark Thresher at the First Baptist Church lasted about a half hour, the luncheon after three times that long. Piper estimated there were a hundred and twenty paying their respects and reminiscing over spaghetti and garlic bread.
The graveside affair was attended by ten, invitation only. Four men from the Mason’s; an elderly man in a Navy uniform; Chuck Schleevogt, Paul Blackwell, and Sylvia D from the genealogy club; Ezekiel Whitman; and Piper stood at the grave.
The minister quoted from Corinthians. “Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”
Piper listened and stared at the headstone. It was about the dash, her first commanding officer had told her after a service for a young man in her unit. It wasn’t about the birth and death dates, but the dash between them, what you did with the dash.
Mark Thresher had done a lot, she knew.
“—and this mortal must don immortality,” the minister continued. “Then this shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’ Until we meet again Mark Henry Thresher.”
“Mark the Shark,” Piper softly corrected.
Acknowledgments
Threads in this book were embroidered by people who either entered contests in my newsletters or reviewed technical sections to make sure I “got it right.” I thank them for their help and inspiration: Carol Clarkson, nurse extraordinaire, for ensuring a gunshot victim was accurately treated; Derek White for sharing his Internet savvy; Vicki Steger for her eagle eyes; Mikael Arvola, Jim Butler, and Stephen Gabriel for building a computer platform in a character’s basement; Donald J. Bingle for his knowledge on estates; Jerry Humphrey for the use of his perfect airport; and Laura Craig, Miya Kressin, Margaret Cutter, and Joe Cook for creating a wealth of romance titles that I nested with a character Jennifer Brozek named.
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Spencer County, Indiana
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It’s a real place, about as far south in Indiana as you can go. The towns, roads, and some of the businesses I reference in this novel exist. There really is a Santa Claus—it is nestled between the Ohio River and Interstate 64; on my latest visit to the Christmas store there I picked up some walnut fudge and a Boston terrier ornament that I had personalized. Rockport is about twenty miles away. I’ve fictionalized the county, taking considerable liberties. I used to live in Indiana—Evansville, during my newspaper reporter days. Spencer County isn’t far from there. The place is a good home for Piper Blackwell and company.
Afterword
I write … a lot. Currently mysteries.
And I write with dogs wrapped around my feet. I get to wear sandals or bedroom slippers to work, and old, comfortable clothes. When the weather is fine I get to write on my back porch. I love summer.
I started getting published when I was twelve, studied journalism at Northern Illinois University, and then went to work as a news reporter…eventually for Scripps Howard, where I managed their Western Kentucky Bureau. Getting itchy feet, I moved to Wisconsin and went to work for TSR, Inc., the then-producers of the Dungeons & Dragons game. I wrote Dragonlance novels for several years. I’ve been on the USA Today bestseller list, wrote a book about spousal homicide with F. Lee Bailey, picked up three Silver Falchion literary awards, and won a chili cook-off.
I’ve written thirty-eight novels, most of them fantasy and science fiction, more short stories than I care to count, and I’ve edited a lot of magazines and anthologies.
But now it’s all about mysteries…thrillers, suspense, and uncozy-cozies. I had to change genres because my feet were itching again and I needed to do something different with my writing life.
I am a geek, a gamer, and a glass-fuser. I love dogs and museums and books, and I write about those things in my monthly newsletter.
Readers can sign up for the newsletter on my website: jeanrabe.com. I have an active Facebook page, where I probably post too many pictures of my dogs.
Also by Jean Rabe
From Boone Street Press
The Bone Shroud
The Dead of Winter
The Dead of Night
The Finest Creation
The Finest Choice
The Finest Challenge
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Upcoming
The Dead of Summer
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From WordFire Press
The Cauldron
Pockets of Darkness
The Love-Haight Casefiles (with Donald J. Bingle)
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Plus dozens more - find out more at www.jeanrabe.com!