"A basketball, gosh."
Cloudy began to laugh. "Yeah, it sure killed him good, and I learned my lesson. That was the best payin' job I ever had, and what I'd done was kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, see. If I had it to do all over again I'd make Useless take it a little slower like, so we'd both get a little more mileage outta the situation. But you know one thing I never did find out about him?"
"What?"
"How'd he get rid of all them empty bottles? I give him a new one every day, but he never give me no empties to smuggle out. I don't know how he did it. Maybe Marylou had somethin' to do with it, maybe she wasn't really so bad after all .... "
"How old was he?" Ned asked.
"Oh, just young, about forty or fifty, I guess."
"Was this here in Lynnhaven?"
"Over in Old Woods, that's right."
"By the creek where Peeler and I caught craw dads?"
"Over that way. All that way is the Old Woods, Mr. Tadpole. That's where Useless lived, till he escaped this world. They say he was swamp folks, you know, but that ain't true."
"Swamp folks?"
"Yeah, they're the people who live deep in the swamps, back of Old Woods. Nobody don't go in there too far, but they're some folks hid up there, leastwise they used to be. They're supposed to be pretty bad too, cut your throat and cook you up for dinner, that kind of thing, or worse. I don't know, but I tell you: nobody goes up there for a picnic. Now, Useless always seemed okay to me, but they say he had swamp blood in him. I don't know, I think he was just another oyster shucker. He—“
"They kill people up there?" Ned was more interested in hearing about the swamp people than Useless Boggs now. "Today? They still do that?"
Cloudy laughed.
"Oh, I bet if you was to go up through the Old Woods now you'd find the swamps all drained out and a bunch of white folks beatin' up golf balls and drinkin' cocktails instead. That's what I think. Probably ain't no more swamps there nowadays, and no swamp folks neither. I expect they're long gone in this world."
"Really?" Ned's disappointment was obvious.
While the boy's mind filled with images of the dread swamp people and the terrible things they got up to, Cloudy stood up, placed the impossible clock on the ground and stomped it to pieces. Enough is enough.
"On second thought," he addressed Ned, "I probably wouldn't go pokin' around up there Old Woods way. Just in case I was wrong, you know, and them swampers was still hangin' around .... "
* * *
6. The Farley Place (1)
What's the purpose of this little expedition, Michael wondered as he set off down the street. To put Linda's mind at ease, he hoped. An exercise in reassurance, that's all. Besides, it wouldn't do any harm for him to meet either or both of the two old-timers who had befriended his son. In fact, it was probably a good idea if he did. Not that he expected anything special to come of such a meeting. Michael was sure he would find out what he already knew, namely that these men were a pair of harmless old coots who entertained Ned with their fishing talk and country ways. Ned was most likely the only person around who would bother to listen to them.
That suited Michael just fine. In time, certainly when he settled into his new school in the autumn, Ned would make friends his own age and lose interest in the old men. Linda was always trying to steer Ned, to guide him this way or that, and Michael knew there was a danger of overdoing it. His job was to make sure a proper balance was maintained. Right now the important thing was to remember that only very recently Ned had been thrown into a completely new environment, different in every way from what the boy had known for the first nine and a half years of his life. Michael and Linda were there to help him land on his feet, which he seemed to be doing very well, but they would have to do it as unobtrusively as possible. Let Ned adjust to his new surroundings in his own way and at his own pace. These early weeks and months might be a difficult period for him, and they had to provide love and support as they were called for, but too much parental interference wouldn't help at all. Linda knows all this, Michael reflected, but she has a harder time restraining herself.
It was a shame, really, because all three of them should be getting the most out of their new life. Michael had waited patiently and worked hard for the day when he could buy the right house on a decent-size piece of land, and now that he had finally achieved that goal, he was determined to enjoy it to the utmost. He wasn't about to cheat himself of the experience, and anyway, he was sure it was the best thing he could do for Linda and Ned. Michael had been married to Linda long enough to know that it would take her, not Ned, longest to settle in and relax. She couldn't be jollied along or nudged, but the more she saw of a full, happy transition in her husband and son, the more she would come to feel at ease.
As for Ned, all the evidence so far seemed to indicate that he was having no problems at all. He sometimes had that funny, distant look about him, but then Michael had to admit that there was nothing really new about it. Ned had always been something of a dreamy kid. Of course, there had to be a certain amount of inner conflict and uncertainty in the boy but nothing serious. Ned was apparently responding well to the new house and to the town. Michael mentally repeated one of his favorite maxims: Kids are tough, adults are the ones who need help.
Another thing that Linda had not yet fully accepted was the fact that Ned was, by his own nature, one of those youngsters who tend to keep to themselves. He was bright but quiet rather than boisterous and outgoing. He might have trouble picking up the social graces when he got a little older, but so what? Michael had a feeling that Ned would always run by himself, not with a pack, and the thought was pleasing. If nothing messed him up, he should grow into a strong, self-possessed individual. Working in a bureaucracy helps you appreciate those qualities because they are just the ones you've lost yourself, Michael thought sardonically. The point was valid, however, and sometimes it annoyed him that he had to make it over and over again to his wife; but he understood what her problem was. Linda's touchy asthmatic condition and the fact that they could have no more children combined to create in her a desperate fear that Ned was somehow uniquely vulnerable. So she wanted to see him as healthy and active as possible, which was fine; and she was constantly encouraging the boy to become involved with sports, which was not so fine because Ned simply had no interest in them.
"You want him to be Teddy Roosevelt," Michael had once said half-jokingly to his wife. "Just let him be himself." The hurt look in Linda's eyes had told him he'd made a mistake, and ever since then Michael hadn't prevented her from airing her anxieties by urging Ned to take up athletics. But he was careful not to join her cause, telling himself that as long as he abstained from the discussion, if not actively taking Ned's side, the boy would keep his equilibrium.
Michael realized he must have walked too far and taken a wrong turn, as he was now circling down toward the town's main street. It wouldn't do to get lost in a place this small. He backtracked, and a few minutes later found the dead-end road he was looking for.
It was the first time Michael had actually seen up close the place that was so popular with his son. What could you expect of a baithouse? This crude structure seemed appropriate. He could see, out back, a small and dilapidated house-that must be where the old guys live, Michael thought. His eyes took in the other features: the vegetable patch, the jalopy that looked like it hadn't been driven since the day it rolled off the assembly line, the pile of old tires, crabbing gear and junk that had accumulated around the yard. Yes, just the sort of place that would worry a mother. But to a boy it would be fascinating, and even to an accountant father it was not so off-putting.
"Hello," Michael called out, wondering if he had chosen the wrong time to visit. There didn't seem to be anyone around.
Peeler came out of the baithouse a moment later. He knew at once that this man, casually dressed but in city clothes, was not here to buy perch eyes.
"Yes, sir, what can 1 do for you?"
; "Oh, hi. My name is Michael Covington. I'm Ned's father."
"Is that right? Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Covington, 1 truly am. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks," Michael said, noting the other man's warm smile and firm handshake. Nothing wrong there. "Nice to meet you. I gather Ned comes around here quite a bit. He talks about you all the time, so I thought I ought to come around and introduce myself."
"Glad you did, glad you did. That's a fine boy you got there, Ned is. Awfully fine."
Michael nodded. "He's a good kid. 1 just hope he doesn't get in your way or make a pest of himself when you're working."
"Not a damn bit. Ned drops by most every day, and we're always happy to see him. He's mindful and polite as can be."
"A credit to his upbringin' I'd say."
"Thanks, it's good to hear that."
"Got a million questions, of course, but what feller his age doesn't?"
"Yes." Michael realized that the old man had set one hook in him: how many questions did Ned ask his own father? Some, but not that many .... Well, trust a fisherman to exaggerate.
"No," Peeler continued, "he don't get in nobody's way, no how."
"I'm glad of that," Michael said, wondering whether he had just heard a triple or quadruple negative. "You're in the bait business, I see."
"We sell bait, that's for sure. Do some fishin' and crabbin' as well, and some repair work."
"Really?" Michael tried to sound impressed.
"Yeah, there's always somethin' to do," Peeler said. "If not one thing, then another comes up. No end to it."
"You're a jack-of-all-trades, it sounds like."
"You could say that, I guess." Peeler knew when he was being condescended to, but it didn't bother him. "And you work in Washington, I believe. That right?" He could put a little tone in his voice, too.
"Yes, it is."
"But you're not a politician?"
"No." Michael smiled. "Just an accountant."
"That's good, I don't think too highly of politicians."
"Who does?"
"Remind me of a bunch of angle worms crawlin' around in a knot at the bottom of a jar, a scummy mess. It seem that way to you?"
Michael laughed. "It does, sometimes."
"So, you bought the old Farley place."
"The Farley place?" Michael was puzzled. "We bought the saltbox on Chestnut Street."
"That's it."
"But we bought it from the Winslows, an elderly couple who were moving down to Florida."
"Yeah, the Winslows was there for a good few years," Peeler said. "And the Petits before them. But someways down the line that was the Farley place. I think they was the ones who built the house in the first place."
"Really? I don't know the whole history of it," Michael said, genuinely interested now, "but I was told that the house isn't actually all that old."
"No, it ain't."
"I mean, it's old enough, about eighty or ninety years, but not as old as a lot of saltboxes."
"But you like it, huh?"
"Oh, yes, we love it. Of course, it needs some fixing up. You know what they say: the only thing that works in an old house is you. But they're small things, and we're just really very happy to have found the place."
"That's nice," Peeler said, but he had a doubtful expression on his face.
"Is that what everybody still calls it? The Farley place?' Peeler nodded. "Why is that?" Michael asked.
"I don't know," Peeler said. "Just outta habit, I guess."
The conversation meandered on for a few more minutes, but it lacked a natural impulse of its own because, it was clear, neither man really had anything much to say to the other. Michael was checking out his son's elderly friend, a man with whom he would otherwise not come into contact. Peeler knew well enough what was going on, and he wert along with it. He just had to avoid saying anything outrageous. It would be a big mistake to give Michael Covington' any reason to keep his son away.
"Where's your partner?" Michael asked as he was about to leave for home.
"Cloudy? He's in town, I expect. He's got a room there and things to do." ,
"Oh." Michael immediately felt relieved.
"He ain't out here all the time, no," Peeler went on. "Cloudy's what you might call a half-assed partner, y'see, he helps me out some of the time, but he's got other work he tends to as well."
"Sorry I missed him, but I'm sure we'll run into each other one of these days."
"Sure you will.'
Michael left, pleased that he would be able to give Linda a reassuring account of his meeting with the old man. Peeler and Cloudy. She would be particularly glad to learn that they didn't live together in that tiny house. As for the rest, what was there? A couple of odd names, some colorful talk and a thicket of grammatical contortions. None of which was worrying. Ned undoubtedly heard worse in the school yard. Michael had to laugh though-these old-timers sure loved to play the part.
Peeler went back into the baithouse, snatched a can of Iron City from the tank and sat down in his favorite falling-apart armchair. He hadn't invited Ned's father in to sit down and have a drink because you just didn't do that with a taxman, even if he was on a social call (funny how he had neglected to say who employed him as an accountant!). But Peeler had to admit that Michael Covington was a reasonable enough man, of his kind. A bit better than he might have been. Good at his job, probably, but otherwise pretty useless, a city type who would always be a city type, no matter how much he tried to settle in out here. But not an offensive man. The important thing was that he apparently had no objection to Ned's spending time with Peeler and Cloudy. I may be a washed up old fart, Peeler thought, but I sometimes have a sense about things, and right now it tells me that something is coming, a change of a sort, and that it's important I have that boy near to hand.
Otherwise ...
* * *
7. In the Ruins
... there would be death here.
No one thing sparked the thought in Ned's mind, but he couldn't doubt it. He had followed the track bed of the old rail line and climbed the hill to reach this gloomy spot. It was the long way, Ned knew from a previous scouting mission, but it was his decision to approach the place from the back. The hill wasn't steep, but it was thickly covered with bushes and brambles, so the going had been slow, and there were always enough trees to obstruct the view ahead-making it hard to know how far he had wandered from a straight line on the way up. He had started this expedition shortly after lunch, but already the afternoon seemed to be winding down and he had only reached the outside wall. It was a mass of gray-brown bricks, at least ten feet high but rotting. The wall stretched away to the right and left as far as Ned could see. Even on a hot day like this the bricks were cold and clammy to the touch.
He followed the wall for what seemed a considerable distance before it curved sharply. Beyond that bend, Ned found a tree that had fallen down, its upper branches caught on the top of the wall. Blown over in a storm, probably, Ned thought. He figured it was the best point of entry he was likely to find, so he took it. Parasite suckers had claimed the tree, smothering it with hundreds of viney arms that made it difficult for Ned to find a place to put his feet. Slipping, wedging his sneakers into the tangled, decaying mess, he pulled himself up the trunk of the tree. Ned stopped when he got near the top of the wall. He reached out, but his whole body began to slide and he quickly clamped his fingers around a sucker as fat as a bullwhip. His position was precarious: he needed both hands and feet just to stay where he was. How could he get onto the top of the wall only a yard or so away? Not far, but too far, it seemed. Ned looked down and was alarmed to find that the distance of ten feet to the ground looked far greater from up here. Perhaps he could ease his way back down the tree trunk a few inches at a time. But when he tested his maneuver Ned rediscovered the principle of many old traps. The suckers all grew up the tree, of course, pointing in his direction, and it was virtually impossible to go back down against them. He couldn't see
what he was trying to do and his feet could find no hold. Ned felt like a foolish kitten stuck in the tree of curiosity, but he knew that no firemen would ever come to this place and get him down.
He looked at the wall again. Maybe it wasn't as much as a yard away. Besides. it was the only way to go. Ned hauled himself a little higher, narrowing the gap slightly. This would have to do; any farther and the clump of dead branches and slimy suckers would make it too tricky to use the top of the wall. Ned knew he shouldn't do it, but he looked down again. It was more like fifteen or twenty feet to the ground-no, he told himself, that can't be right. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. Still, it was obviously enough of a drop to break bones. Don't think about it.
What he had to do was this: reach out in one swift but sure movement, grab the top of the wall and pull himself onto it. The most dangerous part would come when he let go of the tree with his other hand and swung it across to the wall. Then all that would hold his body over the gap would be one hand and the toes of his sneakers pressing hard against the slippery suckers. One way or another, Ned was about to find out how strong he was.
But he almost didn't. The first time he gripped the top of the wall a brick tore loose in his hand. Ned let it fall at once and clung fiercely to the tree, waiting for the surprise, the shock to die down in him. For some reason he had given no thought to the possibility that the wall itself, that massive presence, might be unreliable. Now his whole calculation was thrown in doubt. Question: What would Ken Holt, boy detective, do if he were in this situation? Answer: Try again.
Ned did, and this time the bricks held. The rough edge of the masonry dug up the skin on his forearm, causing Ned to regret that he hadn't worn long sleeves. He barely paused, however, before letting go of the tree. His upper body arched across the open space, his toes pulled free of the suckers and pushed off, and after a brief scrambling flurry Ned was lying face down on top of the wall. A little sloppy, he thought, but who cares? He felt as if he had just conquered Everest, and for a while he didn't move, enjoying the sensation of having arrived where he was.
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