Page 140 of The River We Remember

“Marta,” Graff said in a tense voice, “I need to use your phone.”

“Of course. Colleen, will you take him inside to the telephone?”

Asa Fielding had been at his car, using the radio to keep Hank Evans apprised of what was happening at the Quinn farm, and Evans, in turn, had been giving updates to the other law enforcement agencies involved in the hunt for Tyler Creasy. Brody signaled to him, and Fielding hustled over.

“Asa, tell Hank that Creasy’s still out there. Have him alert the other officers. Let them know he’s armed and dangerous.” Brody turned to Marta. “I’m going to leave Deputy Fielding here with you and the kids. I don’t imagine Creasy’ll come back, but just in case he does.” He looked to Tom, who’d come with him from the barn. “I need a favor, a big one.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Scott Madison and Del Wolfe are out there somewhere hunting Creasy. They’re armed and they’re boys, Tom. I’ve been looking for them all afternoon. No luck. It’s more important than ever that we find them.”

“Got a suggestion?”

“Creasy likes to drink and he likes to do it in the company of cockroaches. I want you to hit the bars in the county where decent folks don’t go, see if Creasy’s been there or the boys. You know the places I’m talking about?”

“I’ve lived here all my life, Brody. I don’t frequent them, but I sure as hell know where they are.”

“If you happen to run across Creasy, no heroics. Just call the jailhouse. Hank’ll let me know.”

“What about the boys if I find them?”

“You’ll figure something.”

Graff came from the house, looking worried. “Kyoko’s not answering, Brody. I’m going over there.”

“Go ahead,” Brody told him. “And let me know.”

“Will do.” Graff sprinted for his truck.

“I’m going with him,” Charlie said. She turned to Marta. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Anyone who heard would have thought she was talking about the situation with Tyler Creasy. But Marta knew the truth and thanked her with a nod.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

BRODY DERN HAD been correct in his final speculation about the two boys. Scott Madison and Del Wolfe had, indeed, gone hunting for Tyler Creasy in the crossroads bars where the decent folks of Black Earth County seldom set foot. These were places with dark interiors and names like the Pickled Pig, Robber’s Roost, and the Lion’s Den. They rode the motorbike. Though Del hadn’t put a speedometer on his little makeshift machine, he’d always judged top speed to be maybe fifteen miles an hour. They filled the tiny gas tank three times. The last was in the village of Carthage, on the Alabaster well south of Jewel, almost to the Iowa border. Del stopped in front of a bar called Willy’s, and the boys went inside.

It was late afternoon by then. The place was nearly empty. Somebody had put a nickel in the jukebox and Buddy Holly was belting out “Peggy Sue.” The barkeep gave the boys the evil eye, and when they approached, he said, “Don’t serve kids here. Come back when you’ve growed face hair.”

Scott stood beside his friend. He found himself trying to identify the chords in the song on the jukebox, and in his head, he was watching his fingers slide over the strings of his guitar. He was also wishing he were home and sitting with Wendell and they were playing music together. The bar smelled damp and sour, and he knew it was no place for them. It scared him. The surly look of the man behind the bar scared him, too. Maybe what scared him most was that all afternoon Del had seemed oblivious to the hostility they’d encountered in every dive they’d entered. It wasn’t fearlessness, Scott believed, but recklessness. Yet scared as he was, he was glad to be there. If he were in Del’s place, he’d want a friend at his side when confronting a man like the one who glared at them now.

“Looking for someone,” Del said.

“Yeah? Who?” The barkeep had beefy arms with tattoos whose outlines looked like gangrenous veins.

“My old man.” It wasn’t exactly true, but Del had been using the line all day.

“And who would that be?”

“Tyler Creasy.”

“Creasy? That son of a bitch has a kid?” The barkeep gave a laugh, and his breath carried foul across the bar to where Scott stood, wishing only to be gone. “He the one messed up your face? Yeah, he was here. Got himself a snootful, left. Couple of hours ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

“Come on, Del.” Scott took hold of his friend’s arm.