Feeling better—and actually hungry for the first time since the tattooed hand had come creeping around the shower curtain—Jack returned to the truck and rummaged in the glove compartment some more. He eventually unearthed a package of peanut butter crackers and half a roll of Tums. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but better than nothing. He started up the trail, munching one of the Nabs and carrying the Winnie in his left hand. There was a strap, but if he slung it over his shoulder, it would chafe his neck. Maybe make it bleed. His pockets, heavy with cartridges, swung and bumped against his legs.
He halted at the faded Indian sign (old Chief Wahoo testifying that Carolyn Allen sucked his redskin cock), struck by a sudden thought. Anyone coming down the byroad leading to the tourist cabins would see his Ram parked beside the service shed and wonder what was up with that. He considered going back to move it, then decided he was worrying needlessly. If the meddlers came, they’d park near the main entrance. As soon as they got out to look around, he would open fire from his shooter’s perch on top of the bluff, knocking two or maybe even three of them down before they realized what was happening. The others would go scurrying around like chickens in a thunderstorm. He’d get them before they could find cover. There was no need to worry about what they might see from the tourist cabins, because Mr. No Opinion and his friends were never going to get out of the parking lot.
3
The path up the bluff was treacherous in the dark, even with the help of the flashlight, and Jack took his time. He had enough problems without falling and breaking something. By the time he got to his lookout point, the first hesitant light was starting to seep into the sky. He shone his flash on the pitchfork he’d left behind the day before, started to reach for it, then recoiled. He hoped this wasn’t an omen of how the rest of his day was going to go, but the situation had its irony, and even in his current situation, Jack could appreciate it.
He had brought the pitchfork to guard against snakes, and now one was lying beside and partly on top of it. It was a rattlesnake, and not a little one; this was a real monster. He couldn’t shoot it, a bullet might only wound the goddam thing, in which case it would probably strike at him, and he was wearing sneakers, having neglected to buy boots in Tippit. Also, there was the potential for a ricochet that might do him serious damage.
He held his rifle by the end of its stock, slowly extending the barrel as far as he could. He got it under the dozing rattler and flipped it high over his shoulder before it could slither away. The ugly bastard landed on the path twenty feet behind him, coiled, and began sounding off, a noise like beads being shaken in a dry gourd. Jack snatched up the pitchfork, took a step forward, and jabbed at it. That rattler slithered into a crack between two leaning boulders and was gone.
“That’s right,” Jack said. “And don’t come back. This is my place.”
He lay down and peered through the scope. There was the parking lot with its ghostly yellow lines; there was the decaying gift shop; there was the boarded-up cave entrance, the sign over it faded but still legible: WELCOME TO THE MARYSVILLE HOLE.
Nothing to do now but wait. Jack settled in to do it.
4
Nothing before nine o’clock, Ralph had said, but they were all in the Indian Motel’s café by quarter past eight. Ralph, Howie, and Alec ordered steak and eggs. Holly passed on the steak but ordered a three-egg omelet with ranch fries, and Ralph was gratified to see she ate every bite. She was once more wearing the jacket of her suit over her tee-shirt and jeans.
“That’s going to be hot later on,” Ralph said.
“Yes, and it’s very wrinkled, but it’s got nice big pockets for my stuff. I’m also taking my shoulder-bag, although I’ll leave it in the car if we have to hike.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Sometimes the maids steal in places like this.”
Howie covered his mouth, perhaps to stifle a belch, perhaps to hide a smile.
5
They drove to the Bolton place, where they found Yune and Claude sitting on the front porch steps and drinking coffee. Lovie was in her little side garden, weeding from her wheelchair with her oxygen bottle in her lap, a cigarette in her mouth, and a big straw sunhat clapped on her head.
“All good last night?” Ralph asked.
“Fine,” Yune said. “Wind was a little noisy out back, but once I went to sleep, I slept like a baby.”
“What about you, Claude? Everything okay?”
“If you mean did I feel like there was someone creeping around again, I didn’t. Ma, either.”
“Well, there might be a reason for that,” Alec said. “Cops in Tippit had a home invasion last night. Man of the house heard breaking glass, grabbed his shotgun, scared the guy off. Told the police the intruder had black hair, a goatee, and plenty of tattoos.”
Claude was outraged. “I never budged out of my bedroom last night!”
“We don’t doubt that,” Ralph said. “It could be the guy we’ve been looking for. We’re going to Tippit to check it out. If he’s gone—and he probably is—we’ll fly back to Flint City and try to figure out what to do next.”
“Although I don’t know what more we can do,” Howie added. “If he’s not hanging around here and if he’s not in Tippit, he could be anywhere.”
“No other leads?” Claude asked.
“Not a one,” Alec said.
Lovie rolled over to them. “If you-all decide to go home, stop in and see us on your way to the airport. I’ll make up some sammitches from the leftover chicken. Long as you don’t mind eatin it twice, that is.”
“We’ll do that,” Howie said. “Thank you both.”
“It’s me should be thanking you,” Claude said.
He shook hands with them all around, and Lovie opened her arms to give Holly a hug. Holly looked startled, but allowed it. “You come back, now,” Lovie whispered in her ear.
“I will,” Holly replied, hoping it was a promise she would be able to keep.
6
Howie drove with Ralph riding shotgun and the other three in the backseat. The sun was up, and it was going to be another hot one.
“Just wondering how the cops in Tippit got in touch with you,” Yune said. “I didn’t think anyone in authority knew we were down here.”
“They don’t,” Alec replied. “If this outsider actually exists, we didn’t want to raise any suspicions with the Boltons about why we’re going in the wrong direction.”
Ralph didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what Holly was thinking at this moment: Every time you and the others talk about the outsider, it’s conditional.
Ralph turned around in his seat. “Listen to me now. No more ifs or maybes. For today, the outsider does exist. For today, he can read Claude Bolton’s mind any time he wants to, and unless we know differently, he’s in the Marysville Hole. No more assumptions, just belief. Can you do that?”
For a moment, no one replied. Then Howie said, “I’m a defense lawyer, son. I can believe anything.”