“I have a better question. What are you doing here?”
“Don’t say nothing, Dale,” I warned. He stood quiet and still. Dale hates guns. “We ain’t a danger to you,” I told her. “Ain’t no reason to pull a gun.”
She blinked slowly. “No,” she said, lowering the weapon. “Of course not. I just … didn’t know who I’d find,” she said, her eyes moving to the Colonel’s quarters.
“It’s just us,” Dale said, breathless.
“Rising sixth graders,” I added, staring at the pistol. “Unarmed kids.”
She holstered the gun. “Well? What are you two doing at my crime scene?”
Surely she’d seen Slate—hadn’t she?
I faked a smile. “We’re looking for clues, like any detectives worth their salt. If we found anything, which we didn’t, we thought we’d turn it over to you. You could get a promotion out of it. We hope so.”
She stepped forward, her eyes hard. Dale and I backed up, into the Colonel’s quarters. “Starr might have missed something,” I continued. Her eyes flickered to the Colonel’s bunk and boots. “Plus I miss my family,” I continued. “I’m homesick.”
“I told you to stay where I could see you,” she replied.
Who did she think she was, using that teacher voice on us?
She kept herself between me and the door, her hand close to her pistol. I looked up into her eyes. It was like looking into the eyes of a snake. The Colonel had warned me not to trust Starr, but maybe it wasn’t Starr I needed to worry about.
Maybe it was Deputy Marla.
“I know it might look like we disobeyed you, but that’s black-and-white thinking,” I said. “Miss Lana says nothing’s really black and white, except zebras and old movies. Even dreams aren’t black and white unless you’re a dog.”
It was a cheap trick, but like most cheap tricks, it worked. I needed to think, and Dale has never, in the eleven years I’ve known him, passed up a chance to talk about a dog. He didn’t disappoint. “Queen Elizabeth II dreams quite a bit, Deputy Marla,” he said, relaxing. “You ever watch a dog dream?”
“I don’t have a dog,” she said, keeping her eyes on me.
“Sometimes Queen Elizabeth prances in her sleep,” he said. “Her paws flit. Or she grins and tosses her head like she’s in a field of butterflies. One time I think she caught a dream rabbit. I know she caught something, because she shook her head back and forth, but it could have been a squirrel. I’d rather not think it was a rat,” he said, lowering his voice. “Still,” he said, turning to me, “I don’t know where you get off saying Liz dreams in black and white. I mean, she didn’t actually tell you that, I’m pretty sure.” He hesitated. “Did she?”
“No,” I said. “I think Miss Lana told me, maybe. She listens to NPR and unless I’m mistaken, NPR is saying black and white for dog dreams.”
Deputy Marla interrupted. “Well, Miss Lana’s wrong.”
“You think dogs dream in color?” Dale asked, his face brightening. “Me too.”
“I mean Miss Lana’s idea of black-and-white thinking is psychobabble poppycock,” she snapped. “There are absolutes in life, and the sooner you learn that, the better. Take you, for instance,” she said, glaring at me. “I’ve caught you on the wrong side of the law. That means you absolutely have a problem.”
“On the wrong side of what law?” I asked. “All I did was come home.”
“All you did was lie to a law officer, escape protective custody, and disturb a crime scene,” she said. “That, plus dragging Dale into trouble.”
“Dale just came along to keep me company,” I said. “He’s polite that way.”
“He pedaled you over here,” she said. “That makes him an accomplice.” Her glance raked Dale. “Your daddy told me he saw you on the highway. He’s lucky I didn’t arrest him for drunk driving.”
Dale shifted. “Daddy’s home?” he said. “Where’s Mama?” He looked at me, his eyes scared. “I got to get back home.”
“What’s wrong?” she sneered. “You afraid of a storm?”
No, I thought. I’m afraid of you.
I took a step toward the door. “Well, this has been real nice, but we got a couple more errands to do.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, grabbing my arm. Her fingers pinched mean as a rusty bicycle chain. She gave me a sharp shake.
“You ain’t supposed to shake a kid,” I told her, clamping my elbows to my sides to keep the Colonel’s packet from sliding loose. “You can cause brain damage.”
She put her face close to mine. “Who called you at the house?” she demanded. “What are you doing over here?”
“Nobody called me. We ain’t doing nothing,” I said, and she shook me again, snapping my head back.
“Hey!” Dale shouted, moving toward her. “Leave her alone!”
Anger raced across her face like fire across a wheat field. “I’m tired of your redneck mouth,” she said, pushing Dale with her free hand.
“Calm down, Dale,” I said. “She won’t hurt me. She ain’t stupid enough to get herself a child abuse charge.” Doubt flickered across her face, and her grip loosened—barely.
Why so angry? Not because a couple of kids gave her the slip. I wiggled my arm to test her grasp. “How did you know where to find us?”
“I told you. Dale’s father.”
“Bull,” I said. “We didn’t tell him where we were going.”
“That’s right,” Dale said. “And I kept the bike on the pavement. So you didn’t track us either.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What I know is none of your business.”
Deputy Marla didn’t follow us here. She couldn’t have. She came on her own. Either she overheard the Colonel on the phone, or Slate tipped her off. She was mad because we got here first.
She shook me again, and the Colonel’s packet slid out from under my shirt. “What the heck?” she muttered, reaching for it.
“Dale!” I shouted. “Set! Down! Hut-hut-hut!”
He sprinted toward the door. I dropped back three paces as Dale did a neat buttonhook. The Colonel’s packet sailed up, over Deputy Marla’s hands, toward Dale’s outstretched arms. She whirled toward him and when she did, I picked up the Colonel’s steel-toed boot and swung it with all my might. She threw an arm over her face and ducked as she twisted on the waxed floor. Her feet flew up, and her head cracked against the corner of the bunk. She crashed to the floor like a sack of rotten onions.
“Shoot,” Dale gasped, skidding to a stop. “You killed her.”
“I did not,” I said, hoping it was true. She moaned. “See? She ain’t dead. Help me tie her up.”
“No,” he said, backing away. “You can’t hit deputies and tie them up. Even my people know that.”
“I didn’t hit her, I missed,” I said. “She fell down. Help me, Dale. Miss Lana needs us.” I rushed to the closet and plucked out both of the Colonel’s neckties. “Here,” I said, tossing the one with flamingos to Dale.
“The Colonel wears this?” he said, holding it at arm’s length.
I grabbed the light-up clip-on featuring Charleston’s Rainbow Row and tied it over Deputy Marla’s mouth. “Miss Lana, Christmas before last,” I told him. “Hurry!” We lashed her hands behind her with the flamingos and knotted her shoe strings together. Finally, I snagged the packet and the Colonel’s bayonet. By the time I scampered down the steps, Dale had already rounded the side of the building. “Dale!” I shouted. “You forgot your bike!”
He didn’t look back.
A gusty wind rattled the maples and shook the pines as I dropped the packet by Deputy Marla’s car. It’s harder to flatten a tire than I expected, but by the time I got to the car’s fourth tire I had my technique down: Place the point of the bayonet just so, and slam the handle with a landscaping stone. As the car sank to its rims, Joe Starr’s voice crackled through the radio: “Marla! Come in.”
I stared at it. If no one answered, he’d come to Miss Rose’s for sure. I grabbe
d the radio. “Hey Joe,” I said, making my voice low.
“Marla, is everything okay there? Why aren’t you by the phone?”
I tried to deepen my voice. “I’m securing the vehicle.” In a way, it was true.
Starr’s silence crackled. “I’m riding out the storm at Priscilla’s. You stay put, and keep those kids safe. Over and out.”
I hope she does stay put, I thought. I looked for the Colonel’s packet. “No,” I breathed. The wind had pried it open, and articles skittered toward the creek. I pounced, cramming all I could reach inside the packet, and looked at the sky.
“Hey Dale,” I shouted, running for the bike. “Wait for me!”
Chapter 24
Right Under Our Noses
Dale pumped like he could out-pedal the storm, me balanced on his handlebars, the storm’s flat, angry hands shoving us along the blacktop. Dale stood up on the pedals, panting as the front wheel began to squeak. There was something about that sound, the sound of metal, the whirring squeak. …
“Stop!” I shouted. “I know where Miss Lana is!”
He slammed on brakes, catapulting me off my perch. “Where?” he panted.
“Right under our noses.”
Dale looked down, then out across a pitching ocean of corn, its green leaves going silver beneath a rolling sky. “I don’t see her,” he said. “Get back on.”
“The Old Blalock place,” I said, pointing to a sandy path etching its way through the corn. “It’s the perfect hiding place. Ain’t nobody been there since Miss Blalock died last winter—nobody except us hunting daffodils, and maybe Redneck Red to check on the still everybody pretends he ain’t running. Miss Lana’s down that path. I know it.”
“Starr’s already searched the empty houses. Get on.”
“Deputy Marla’s already searched,” I said.
He braced against the wind. “Daddy might be home, Mo. I got to go.”
“Just a few minutes,” I begged, stepping in front of the bike. “Remember how Miss Blalock’s old water tower squeaks when the wind blows?” I said. “That’s the sound I heard when Slate called.” The wind raked his hair. “I got a foolproof plan. Take us five minutes is all. Five minutes to save Miss Lana’s life.”
He bit his lip. “I don’t know. I hear the Blalock place’s haunted, that everything’s just like she left it. And Lavender says Miss Blalock’s TV comes on at odd times, and she changes the channels herself.”
I snorted. “Don’t be a baby. Five minutes. You’ll be a hero.”
He sighed. “Five minutes, Mo, but that’s all.”
Ten minutes later we ditched the bike and hid behind a hydrangea. “Stay low,” I whispered, glancing at the wooden water tower in the side yard. “Slate’s been here sure as my name’s Mo LoBeau,” I added, nodding toward the tire tracks in the drive.
“Anybody could have left those tracks,” he said. “What’s your foolproof plan?”
“I’m getting to that,” I said, trying hard to think of one. “First I do my surveillance. Then I’ll explain my strategy, which is genius quality, believe me.”
His shoulders slumped. “You don’t have a plan, do you? I knew it,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “I knew not to come to a ghost farm with you during a hurricane.”
“Shhh. I’m casing the place,” I said, my gaze taking in the neat white house and lingering on the padlocked front door. “It’s locked tight, just like people say.”
“What was that?” Dale whispered. “Did you hear a TV?”
“No, I didn’t hear a TV,” I said. Still, an uneasy feeling settled cool hands against my neck. I swallowed hard and turned my attention to the side yard and the old water tower, with its bandied legs and potbelly. Its windmill had lost an arm, but it whirled to battle each gust of the approaching storm.
Faintly I heard it: screeEEeek. ScreeEEEEK.
“It was the water tower I heard, no doubt about it,” I said. “Only there’s no way you could hear it from inside Miss Blalock’s house. Slate wasn’t inside when he called.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Dale whispered.
“He must have been closer to the tower.” I glanced at the pump house. Its thick curtain of kudzu was torn. Someone had opened that door. “She’s in that pump house,” I said, my heart pounding. “Come on. We’re on Search and Rescue. If you see Slate, give me a signal.”
“I do a nice owl,” he suggested.
“Fine,” I told him. “If you see Slate, hoot like an owl. Now fan out.”
Dale shook his head. “There’s only two of us,” he said. “You got to have three to fan, and that’s at the very least.”
“Okay,” I said. “Forget fanning. We’ll surround the pump house. You go around back, and I’ll take the door.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s too snaky in back. I’ll go to the door. Snakes are mean enough in good weather; there’s no telling how they think with a hurricane coming.”
I took a deep breath. The Colonel says sometimes all a leader can do is see which way everybody’s going, and try to get in front. This looked like one of those times. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll both take the door. Follow me.” I crouched low and sprinted across the yard to the pump house, Dale on my heels.
“Miss Lana?” I whispered. “Are you in there?”
Scree-EEeeeek.
I grabbed the door’s rusty latch. “Miss Lana?” A shaft of light pierced the shed’s gloomy heart. Inside, I could just make out a case of old Mason jars, a rusted rake, and a wooden bucket rotted half through. “She ain’t here,” I said, my heart tumbling.
“No,” Dale said, kicking at an old Nehi bottle. “I’m sorry, Mo. Let’s go home.” Behind us, a tree limb thunked against the side of the house. “What the …” He glanced back at the house and screamed, the sound slicing me like razors as he dove to my feet.
“What?” I shouted, falling to the ground beside him. “Did you see Slate? I thought you were going to hoot like an owl.”
“It’s Miss Blalock’s ghost!” he cried, his face ashen.
“Where?”
“In the house,” he said, his eyes glassy with fear. “She flitted past the window.”
Thunk.
I squinted past the dancing broom straw. “That ain’t no ghost,” I told him. “Somebody’s in there.”
I sprinted across the yard, to the back porch.
Miss Blalock’s heavy back door scraped across the kitchen’s faded linoleum. The rumors were right. The kitchen stood just as Miss Blalock left it the morning she died: table set for one, a paper-dry daffodil in a Mason jar, a cast-iron frying pan on the stove.
“Miss Lana?” I whispered. The wind groaned and the roof rattled. “Let’s try the living room,” I murmured, looking away from the table. It looked too lonely, too abandoned, too close to being alive.
Dale grabbed my arm. “What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air.
I scanned the kitchen. Pizza boxes littered the counter.
“Pizza Hut delivers out here?” he gasped. He tiptoed to the boxes, opened the top one, and sniffed again. “Empty, but fresh.”
“At least Miss Lana ain’t hungry.” I crept to the living room. The room sat prim and proper. A torn curtain fluttered by a cracked windowpane. “There’s your ghost,” I said. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw something else: Blood. Blood on the floor, blood on a shattered lamp, blood on the faded wallpaper.
“Miss Lana!” I screamed. “Where are you?”
We tore through the creaking house, yanking open doors, calling her name. “She ain’t here,” Dale panted, his face pale as his forgotten ghost.
“Follow the blood,” I said, heading back to the living room’s wallpaper and placing my hand against her handprint. “There,” I said, pointing. We followed a faint smear of blood across the room, down a hall to a door. As I pushed the door open, the wind grabbed it, jerking me onto the porch.
Scuff marks scarred the dirt drive and disappeared in a crisscross of tire track
s. “She was fighting,” Dale said, his voice shaking. “Fighting’s good.”
The pecan trees flailed at a darkening sky, and an old fertilizer bag cartwheeled across the yard. The storm’s first raindrops spattered into the dust, the size of dimes.
“He’s moved her. We got to get some help,” I said.
“Come on. Mama’s closest,” he said, running toward his bike. “She’ll know what to do.”
Chapter 25
A Hurricane Party
“Mama!” Dale panted minutes later as we blasted through her door. “Help us!”
Miss Rose stood, phone to ear, in the living room. “Where on earth have you two been?” she cried, lowering the phone. “Where’s Deputy Marla?”
“Miss Lana’s hurt,” I gasped.
“Lana? Where is she?”
“Blood,” I said, my voice sounding far away. “At Miss Blalock’s place.”
“Who’s on the phone? Is it Lavender?” Dale asked, reaching out. “Let me talk.”
Lavender? I hugged the packet beneath my shirt and sobbed.
Miss Rose lifted the phone. “Lavender? They’re back and … Hello? Hello?” She dropped it. “The line’s gone dead.” She pushed me gently onto the settee. “Tell me what’s happened.” Dale sat beside me, and she pulled a chair close. “Take a deep breath and start at the beginning.”
I went through the story step by step. She listened, her green eyes searching our faces as the words tumbled out. “Where’s Slate now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The Colonel said he’d lead him away from Miss Lana, and save her. The next thing I knew, Slate was in our house. That’s all I know.”
She sat back and stared out the window. The wind charged across the tobacco field behind a ragged band of rain and slammed the house, rocking it. In the distance I heard a crash—a tree hitting the ground. The lights flickered. A lawn chair tumbled across the yard, to a barbed wire fence. “If the Colonel said he’d rescue Lana, he’s probably done exactly that,” she said.
“But you didn’t see the blood. On the floor, on the wall … We have to save her.”
She put her hand on mine. “We don’t know whose blood that was.”
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