things of imagination equal only to other things of imagination. Now this changed.
Impossibly, Barbara knew at once what the trouble was. Bobby's manner, his quick strength,
the gun in his hands told her'. She heard the kitchen lights turned off, heard the opening and
closing of the river door, and understood. There was a prowler somewhere. This, more than
anything else that had happened, really frightened her.
Enduring the small tortures of children, even child-rapists, was one thing, but helplessness
before the unknown was another. Whatever noise had startled Bobby was made by a human
not an animal, a male not a female, someone powerful and not weak. It could be no other way.
Moreover Bobby, gun and all, would be no match for the man-in-the-dark of Barbara's sudden
imagination. He would be taken care of if necessary, and ~then the kitchen door would open
again. What would happen to her when the intruder finally learned what was going on here
was unimaginable, better not imagined. She held her breath to hear the sound of scuffling, the
sound of a gun-the sound of something-and heard nothing for an hour and then a second
hour. She looked at her wrists seeming miles away, neatly bound with Scout knots-clove
hitches if the correct terms were used-and felt that tomorrow, if there was one, she must
absolutely get away.
Gingerly, very gingerly, she exhumed the outlines
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of a plan she had invented earlier and been too "nice" to effect.
In the garden Bobby was late-awakened by the sudden heat of a risen, huge August sun;
he was cold, damp, dirty, and stiff with the barrel of the .410 glinting wetly where he had
laid it against the beanpoles (the gun was still dangerously cocked). He awoke with a start,
a physical jump, all of the past night's fears and suspense, all of the guilt at having had to
abandon guarding Barbara, immediately on his shoulders. A moment's consideration,
however, told him that everything was all right: he could feel it. The sky was pale green with
very tropical, moist clouds just warming their eastern faces to the light. The birds were
making their usual morning racket, and the river-when he cautiously stood and surveyed
the place-was flat-moving and peaceful. Most important, there was no concealment for
anyone now, no shadows, no darkness, no confusion. Was the Picker gone, too? (In Bobby's
1mind, it was definite now: there had been someone, and the person was a Picker.) Or was
the Picker still sleeping on the pine needles, a ragged shirt pulled up over him for dryness
and protection against mosquitoes?
He was gone. Bobby could feel that, too. The new day was clear of menace. Taking up the
shotgun, Bobby carefully lowered the hammer back into place, broke the piece, removed
the shells, and walked neatly down the rows of vegetables, up the river steps, and back
into the kitchen, his mind sleepily remembering.
What if the Picker had really come and found him asleep in the garden, gun all ready and
free for the taking and using? Or what if he had come and passed unseeing by as Bobby
bad planned? Would Bobby have shot him or shot in the air and bluffed him away? Would
Bobby have done anything at all? Really? It was yes-no, no-yes. He didn't know that nor
know what he would do when it was night again. And what if the Picker came around today
asking for work and somehow discovered-it wouldn't take a genius-that
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there was no one in this house but a bunch of kids keeping a girl tied up in bed? I don't know,
Bobby said, I just don't know.
In the living room, he carefully propped the gun up against the side of the fireplace, took the shells
out of his pocket and put them on the mantel before sinking down, exhausted. He was still there-
sleeping when Cindy, all tangled and sleep-eyed, came through on her way to the kitchen and her
morning treat of Pop-Ups.
"There was somebody here last night," he said when he had waked up a second time.
"Oh?" Cindy's mouth was full, her voice uninterested at first. Then, as all the slow, complicated
thoughts that Bobby had had hours ago began to occur to her, she stopped eating, and· very, very
carefully put her pastry down.
"Who was it?" She was subdued. And he told her.
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6
Freedom Five-all assembled in meeting-heard about the Picker with gravity but no panic.
John laid out a first plan: Cindy and Dianne would watch Barbara and the grounds around
the house and sound the car horn if they wanted help; Bobby and Paul would come with
him and investigate.
They went armed. John carried Dr. Adams' pump-action 20-gauge shotgun; Bobby his .410;
and Paul a scope-.22 loaded with shorts. Guns were familiar objects to them. Even twitchy
Paul went ducking with his father in the winter. All three kids had fired, and all three had
killed small game and a few birds. They were, in fact, a rather formidable little group if
their trigger-nervousness be taken into account.
They went down the private Adams road, past the vegetable garden, past the way to John's
house, and around the first tum to just beyond the marsh. Generally they were paralleling
the bends and turns of Oak Creek until they got to the area they called "the pines.'' Here
.1
the untended woods and wetland ran together in
an almost impenetrable thicket of trees and underbrush, each tangled with the other, each
fighting for survival, sunshine, and air. Failed trees stood dead, leaning against their
neighbors, unable to fall because of the crush, and vines twined up their trunks and
spanned their limbs and made green caves to hide in.
At John's wave they fanned out reconnoiter style, but the deception was useless. Dried
leaves and brush 145
broke under them and broadcast their movements. Squirrels chattered and ran, sending
showers of dried bark clattering down through the dimness. Jays scolded, and little invisible
things ran invisibly off to the left and forded marsh pools with small splashes. The boys
paused-each alone-peering into the green shadows and seeing anything their minds
suggested, but in the end each grayness turned out to be tree and each movement, light on
the foliage. At length John yelled from on the right.
"Found it!"
"What?" (Two separated voices) "Over here ... !"
What there was to find was a charred campfire. It had been built in a hole, hand-scooped out
for the purpose, and provided with an under draft which could be closed with a rock, and it had
been neatly covered over afterward; in the straw-dry woods, someone accustomed to living
outside had pretty much gone by the book. There was also-Bobby had been right-a rather thick
bed of the greener pine needles and branches. Beyond that, there were a few blurred
footprintswide- where the ground had been cleared for the fire, there were a few cigarette
butts (not filters), an empty stew can, and a couple of empty beer cans. Nothing more.
Freedom Five-except that it was now three stood in silence and absorbed this.
John bent over and laid his hand on the uncovered ashes. "Can't tell."
Bobby and Paul nodded; together they had all built and extinguished many Freedom Five