Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"
Автор книги: Tim Young
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
And then, Angelica smiled and walked to bed.
With the talking heads saying the same things over and over, Blake sat and drank. And drank. As the whiskey swirled inside him and the footage of the hurricane raged on the screen, Blake slumped on the sofa, lying down to feel his back adrift on a raft in a wild sea from which there was no hope of rescue. He raked his mind for ideas of salvation, brilliant ideas that appeared as momentary islands of refuge, only to see the islands turn sour and become swallowed by the storm as quickly as they appeared, leaving nothing in their wake other than Blake, utterly alone. His head crashed on the armrest with the glass still in his hand as it lay on the floor. The very real visions from the television became horrific nightmares in his sleep. He dreamed not of being in the sea. Rather, he dreamed of being on a mountain. Of being handed a shovel from a demon on the mountain and being commanded in a twisted tongue to dig deep into the soil, to bury all the wrongdoings that he had done and to return to the soil what rightfully belonged there. To return all the poison that he had unleashed from the soil.
In the dream, Blake took the shovel and dug. He dug a hole deeper than himself, deep enough to bury the mountain of lies, greed and destruction that had poisoned his heart and his soul. The deeper he dug the freer he felt, the more joyous he felt. He dug to the haunting song of the mountain as a screeching raven perched high above. As he climbed from the hole he pushed everything into it that had caused him such suffering. The sheds, the fences, his truck, the lies, money, his football trophies—even Nick was shoved into the hole as Blake waved goodbye. He pushed and shoveled dirt back over the hole, filling it until he could stomp and dance on it.
When the music stopped in the dream Blake stood and smiled, surrounded not by what didn’t matter, but only by what did. There was only himself, Angelica and his son.
Chapter 27
Lonnie arrived at his desk in the sheriff’s office at 9:30 a.m. As he got out of his car, the humidity in the warm October air reminded him of a mission to New Orleans he had taken with members of his church immediately after hurricane Katrina. The moist air was tropical and smothered the mountains like a giant, wet towel.
“Mornin’, Lucy,” Lonnie said as he walked through the door.
“Mornin’, Lonnie,” she said. “Feels like we’re on a tropical island don’t it?”
“Yep. Don’t go breaking out your bathing suit though, we got work to do,” Lonnie said with a smile to his executive assistant. As he walked into his office and sat his Starbucks coffee cup on his desk, Lucy walked in to brief the sheriff on the day’s schedule.
The D.A.R.E. poster hung prominently behind the sheriff’s desk, taking fully half of the available wall space. Behind the desk in one corner was the Georgia state flag. In the other was the American flag. The desk itself was tidy, as usual. Pens in their holder, an empty inbox, a full outbox that Lucy would now empty. Other than that, lots of empty space for Lonnie to spread out whatever project he might work on.
“What do we got today, Lucy?”
“Nuttin’ you can’t handle, Sheriff. This package came in via FedEx a few minutes ago from Facebook out in California. And you got that luncheon at noon with the senior class at Rabun County High. Gonna tell ’em not to drink and drive, Lonnie? Or are you just gonna tell ’em to mind what ma says?”
Lonnie looked up to see Lucy’s sarcastic grin. She emptied the outbox, turned, and walked away without giving him a chance to respond, even if he wanted to. She knew he didn’t.
With precision, Lonnie sliced through the end of the 9 x 12 envelope with his letter opener, being as mindful as he would in examining evidence at a crime scene. He pulled out a thick stack of white paper that was stapled in the upper left corner. He estimated that there were probably sixty to eighty pages in the stack as he stared at the cover page.
CONFIDENTIAL
The information in this file is confidential material provided by Facebook solely in response to an officially sanctioned subpoena, court order, search warrant or other legal information request. The intended recipient is requested to handle the provided material in accordance with their organization’s protocol for handling sensitive or confidential information.
“Good grief,” Lonnie uttered to himself. “This’ll take all day.”
He flipped the pages, thumbing through all eight sheets of the subpoena itself before seeing the first page with any data worth looking at.
Neoprint for profile 149230525 taken on 2012-10-09 for dates (2012-07-01 thru 2012-10-08)
He read the details aloud as his eyes scrolled down the page. “Let’s see...Name, Jesse Simmons. Recent Login IP address, email addresses, member since January 2008, born November 11, 1989, screenname is mountainman, relationship status is...none.”
As Lonnie flipped the page he saw deputy Freeman Bishop walk through his door.
“Mornin’, Freeman,” Lonnie said, and returned to the document.
“Mornin’, Sheriff. Just heard that the National Hurricane Center said the hurricane has strengthened and may actually make landfall near Savannah,” Freeman said.
Lonnie dropped the picture of Jesse and looked up.
“Savannah? They haven’t taken a major hurricane since –.”
“1890s is what they said on the TV,” Freeman said. “At least not a major one.”
“What are they saying about this one?” Lonnie asked.
“Saying it’s looking like it’s gonna make landfall as at least a Category 4,” Freeman said.
“At least?” Lonnie asked as he rose, thinking he must be missing something.
“Yep, maybe even a five,” Freeman said. “They’re already asking folks to evacuate the islands down there. That’s a long way from here, Sheriff, but I figure a lot of folks will want to volunteer to help out if needed.”
“Did you happen to see what path they’re projecting the storm to travel?” Lonnie asked.
“Well, their map shows it hittin’ the Georgia coast tomorrow late afternoon or early evening, then heading up toward north Georgia or western North Carolina early Friday morning. Course they say there’s still a lot of leeway.”
Lonnie stood stoically visualizing the storm’s impact, both on the coast and on the mountains if the storm was really as strong as Freeman was saying.
“Them weather guys are always saying that, ain’t they?” Freeman asked.
“Saying what?”
“That there’s a lot of leeway. Lots of variables. That way they can be right no matter what way the wind blows.”
“I reckon so,” Lonnie said.
Freeman stood opposite Lonnie and looked down at his desk, seeing the picture of Jesse.
“Holy sh—” Freeman started and stopped, remembering that Sheriff Lonnie was also Pastor Lonnie. “What is that?” Freeman pointed to the picture.
“That, Mr. Bishop, is one of the missing boys we’re looking for, Jesse Simmons.”
“Yeah, but where is that? I mean, look at the size of that boar!” Freeman said. He invited himself around the desk to get a better look.
“Son of a–” Freeman began before biting down on his lip. “You don’t wanna go messin’ with them, Sheriff. I was huntin’ ’em one time, them wild boars, and if you get yourself cornered they’ll flat out kill ya.”
Lonnie looked at Freeman’s face. He was lost in the photograph the way a World War II veteran relives the horrors of Normandy when presented with an old black and white photograph.
“I been on some of them hunts,” Freeman said. “Was on one when one of the boars, just like that ’un, killed a fella.”
“What? Where was that?” Lonnie asked. He waited for Freeman to answer, but he remained lost in the photo.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Lonnie said. Freeman looked up and and narrowed his eyes with an intensity Lonnie hadn’t seen from him before.
“You better believe it!” Freeman said. “Arkansas. Five of us was on a huntin’ trip ’bout twenty years ago. 1993 I think. We’s all chasing after some pigs that had been ripping up cornfields. The fella that got killed was older...‘bout 65 I reckon, and he owned that cornfield we were huntin’. Don’t remember his first name but they called him Hopkins, which I sorta figure was his last name.”
Freeman paused and reflected on the story. Lonnie stood and listened as he reached for his coffee. “We seen this big ’ol boar in his cornfield. I reckon he was 400 pounds if he was an ounce,” Freeman continued. “I shot him with my 30.06 from about a hundred yards, hit him in the shoulder. Knocked him about a foot to the right then he took off a runnin’.”
Freeman grabbed the sheriff’s right arm and looked him in the eye. “I’m tellin’ ya that was a dag blam 150 grain bullet and it just flat out bounced off his shield!”
“Shield?” Lonnie asked.
Freeman loosened his grip and remembered where he was. “Them boars grow these thick shields, Sheriff, ’bout a two inch plate of cartilage over and around their shoulders. That way the tusks from the other boars don’t bother them none. Them shields can flat out stop an arrow, Sheriff, and if that boar’s big and mean enough, it can stop a 30.06!”
Lonnie sat down and brought the coffee before his lips, but didn’t drink it. He looked at Freeman’s intensity and waited for him to finish his story.
“Anyway, I hit this thing and it took off into the cornfield. We had a fella with a huntin’ dog and he sent it off after the boar. Then he and another fella chased after the dog while this fella Hopkins, me, and one other stayed back. After a couple of minutes we hear this scream from the cornfield and see that dog come running back. Then his owner’s coming behind with that other fella helping, limping and bleeding badly. That boar tore up that fella’s shin.”
Lonnie didn’t feel he really had the time for the long, drawn-out story, but it was too good to miss. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Freeman.
“It was starting to get a little dark so we all tried to doctor up that fella’s leg. All of us, that is, ’cept Hopkins. That old coot took off in the cornfield after that boar, all by hisself. Heck, we didn’t even know he’s gone ’til we heard this god-awful scream for help. Me and one other fella ran out to find him and he’s just laying there, blood gushing out from just above his knee.”
“We called the ambulance and it didn’t take ’em more than ten minutes to get there. But that boar had hit a major artery and that old fella bled to death right there in his own cornfield.”
Lonnie’s mouth hung open as he heard the story. “Well I’ll be,” was all that Lonnie could muster.
“It took us two more days but we found that boar,” Freeman said. “Killed him myself. And let me tell you, Sheriff, I stood twenty yards away and watched him die. He was good and dead for half an hour before I had the courage to walk over and check. This thing had two six-inch rippers...bottom tusks if you wanna call ’em that, coming out of his lower jaw plate, and two more six-inch tusks coming out the upper side of his mouth. They use them upper tusks to sharpen the lower ones and let me tell you, I ran my finger against it and them things is razor sharp! I felt that beast’s thick, bristly hair and looked in them swirling dark eyes.”
Freeman stood, shaking his head. “That thing, dead or not, nearly scared the life out of me. And he looked a lot like that thing right there!” Freeman put his finger emphatically down on the Facebook picture of Jesse standing behind Eduardo just after he had killed him.
“Where was that picture taken, Sheriff?”
“Don’t know, Freeman. This here’s a picture from the missing boy’s Facebook account. They—you know what Facebook is?”
Freeman looked at Lonnie and exhaled as if he had just been asked if he knew where the ground was. “I ain’t exactly no retard, Sheriff. I do got some kids, I’ll thank you to remember.”
Lonnie chuckled to himself, but was guarded to not let Freeman see. “Right,” Lonnie continued. “Anyway, Facebook sent us this printout of his personal account and this picture here caught my attention. Where does it look like to you Freeman?”
Freeman leaned over and examined the black and white photocopy closely. “Heck, Sheriff, that could be most anywhere. Some thick woods it looks like but that could be from Alabama to Maine.”
“Yeah,” Lonnie admitted. “Not much in that picture to help us except the front end of that old pickup behind him. What’s that look like to you Freeman? An old Chevy? C10 maybe?
Freeman looked again. “No, that ain’t no C10 sheriff. That’s an old F-100. Probably ’bout a 1965 model.” Freeman’s eyes fell to the text underneath the photo:
Created Saturday, September 1, 2012 11:24:19 EST. Comment posted Tuesday September 4, 2012 16:24:43 EST by WildPanther: “Glad we killed that sucker. R U coming back to work?”
“Who’s this other fella, Sheriff? This WildPanther?”
“That, Freeman, is what we need to find out.”
Lucy rushed through the door holding a piece of paper. “Sheriff, this just came in for you,” she said as Lonnie and Freeman kept looking at the picture. “From the U.S. Coast Guard.”
Lonnie looked up and grabbed the note and began reading it as he thanked her.
INTERNATIONAL
U.S. Coast Guard Responds to Medical Emergency in Bahamas
Wednesday October 17, 2012
Late on October 16, Operations Bahamas Turks and Caicos (OPBAT) operations center responded to an urgent request for emergency assistance from a doctor on San Salvador Island, Bahamas. The 7th Coast Guard District, headquartered in Miami, and Coast Guard Air Station Clearwater immediately approved the medical evacuation. An OPBAT helicopter is in route to San Salvador where the patient, Rose McBride, along with her husband and a doctor, will be flown to the Miami International Airport. A medical team is prepared to transport the patient to Jackson Memorial Hospital to receive treatment in the intensive care unit. Due to the impact of Hurricane Isabel, all phone lines are down in the Bahamas. The patient’s husband, John McBride, requests that you notify the patient’s sister, one Angelica Savage of 13 Hale Ridge Road, Clayton, Georgia of this emergency as she is caring for the patient’s daughters.
Lonnie looked at his watch and saw that it was already 10:30 a.m. He took the Coast Guard note, grabbed the Facebook package, and headed for the door. “Lucy, I have to run out to Hale Ridge real quick with this Coast Guard message so I can get back to the high school on time.”
***
Tammy stepped off of Hal’s front porch and walked slowly past the ashes of the prior night’s campfire. Hal had gone off hunting again and evidently had taken Rex with him. One of the hens came over and pecked at the ground in front of Tammy. She continued walking out of the camp, hoping to find Ozzie. Since his encounter with the coyotes the week before, Ozzie had distanced himself from everyone. Hal, Rex and even her. She didn’t know where he had been staying or sleeping, and suspected he had been sleeping during the day since she often heard him at night rustling in leaves from the ridge above, or chasing an animal off if something, anything, came to close to the camp.
Tammy wasn’t sure why Ozzie had taken to isolating himself, but felt it wasn’t her place to question it. He was just doing what he was made to do, just as she was. There was no reason to fight it, to go against the way nature made them. Tammy knew what her role was and what she wanted more than anything. She liked not having to think about it, but just going with the rules of nature. Of course, she didn’t know what it felt like to be Ozzie, to be a strong male, but she realized a curse of his assignment was the loneliness of isolation. She knew her role was to care, to nurture. Without question, Ozzie felt his was to protect and defend. That meant he had to stay on guard, to isolate himself and to be prepared. He did that not out of selfishness or a need for time alone. He did that for her, and she understood that.
She walked along the stream and studied the trail of trees and stumps that had large chunks gouged from their sides. Ozzie wouldn’t be hard to find, Tammy realized, as she examined one tree injury closely. It was fresh and bright and smelled of fallen pine needles. She followed the trail through the woods and down the stream hoping to find Ozzie. Hoping that he would be happy to see her.
A couple of hundred yards before the fig tree in the garden, Tammy stopped to listen. In the distance, she could hear him, sharpening his tusks as if he were grinding an ax blade. Every day he had been sharpening his tusks on anything the forest offered. Mostly stumps, she observed, as he was now doing downstream forty yards from her, unaware of her presence. For a moment, Ozzie stopped and scraped his hooves on the rocks. They, too, were honed and well sharpened. Tammy stared at Ozzie, marveling at how much he had grown in such a short period of time. His arched razorback and physical size was impressive. Indeed, his long sharp tusks and bulging shoulder muscles intimidated even her. But he had grown so much more mature. When she had seen him escape from his paddock, she recalled, she had seen something akin to a scared teenager. A child that had just suffered the horror of seeing his father murdered before his eyes. That day now seemed so long ago, as if it was the final remnant of a vague and distant dream.
Staying well back from Ozzie, Tammy stepped off the trail and hid behind a mountain laurel. She watched and marveled at him. And she worried about him. This was no child. He had become his father, the protector, the defender. And yet, there was something else. He wasn’t just preparing himself to protect. There was a restlessness in him as if he was searching for something, and Tammy was afraid of what it was. Ozzie turned and focused on a pine stump. He stared at it with the concentration a martial arts master applies to a cinder block he intends to slice with his bare hand. Pawing the ground, he began oscillating his head back and forth, opening his mouth and moving his upper and lower jaws in opposite directions to reveal his menacing tusks to the stump. Abruptly, he charged and rammed his head into the stump as if he in fact were a ram. Shredding the stump with his rippers and tearing it apart, freeing his rage over his mother’s imprisonment as the shards of pine flew from the stump, leaving a soft bed of shavings on the ground where the stump had been.
Panting breathlessly, Ozzie stood with bleeding gums. He tasted the blood and got a crazed look in his eye as he looked around, searching the woods for anything, anyone that was a challenge, a threat. A man. His breathing slowed and he thought for a moment. He turned and continued walking downstream breathing in the faint smell of man.
Chapter 28
A harsh morning sun magnified its light through the living room window and landed squarely on Blake’s right eye. He twitched his head and woke, instantly feeling the crick in his neck from sleeping with his head on the armrest of the sofa. He grimaced and threw his feet to the floor to right himself. The CNN newsroom still haunted Blake from the television and displayed the time as 9:34 a.m. EST in the lower corner. A team of weather forecasters stood in front of satellite images, discussing the devastation and path of Hurricane Isabel. The motion graphic read “Hurricane Isabel Upgraded to Category 4. Sustained Winds 123 MPH. Expected landfall Savannah Thursday late afternoon.”
Blake rubbed his eyes as he tried to wake up. He couldn’t believe he had slept so long, but the scrolling text at the bottom of the CNN screen brought the memories of the prior night into focus for him.
“Meat samples tainted with anthrax removed from restaurants.”
Blake jumped up, fully awake as he looked for Angelica. Both bedrooms downstairs and the kitchen were empty so Blake ran up the spiral staircase and looked first in the nursery and then in the rec room. No sign. Evidently Angelica had quietly taken the girls out without awakening him. He felt the back of his neck and rubbed his hand over the dressing she had placed on his wound, realizing what it meant.
She knows! Did she leave me?
Adrenaline shot through Blake’s veins as he considered the thought that terrified him. He moved quickly and walked out the door to see if she was outside. His truck was there so she hadn’t driven herself anywhere. He walked around the house and circled back to the small lawn in the front. The only sound was the trickling of the brook in front of the lawn that flowed from the mountain above. There was no sign of Angelica or the girls as he looked and listened.
His eyes focused on the opening between two Cryptomeria trees that Angelica had planted a couple of years prior. They stood as pillars framing the path she had cleared, the path that Blake had chosen to avoid until today. He walked to the entrance, and as he looked down the winding path, a flood of painful memories washed over him. Blake remembered how inadequate he felt, how much of a failure he felt he was when Angelica called and told him about the miscarriage. She had sobbed on the phone and told him what the doctor had said while he was in Savannah picking up pigs that would later demonize him. While she sobbed out the details of their loss, of her loss, all Blake could think of was how he felt. As if somehow it was his fault. That somehow his semen was weak or had penetrated poorly because of his sorry Cherokee genetics. As a boy, Blake’s father always blamed the Cherokee blood in their veins for their wretched life in the housing projects. “Me and you, son, have more Cherokee in our blood than anyone in this county,” his father would cry in drunken despair. “And look at what it’s brung us? This here’s our own reservation of poverty, all because our English ancestors mixed with Indians!”
As long as he could remember, Blake had been bitterly ashamed of having Cherokee blood. The thing that Blake hated more than anything about himself was the thing that Angelica loved the most about him.
When Angelica told Blake about the miscarriage, he couldn’t cry himself because Angelica was so distraught. She was the woman so she got to be emotional, he recalled. She was the one who got to feel inadequate, so Blake just shoved his feelings down as far as he could. And when she told him what she planned to do with Nancy’s remains he lost his lid, unleashed his feelings of inadequacy on her, which he suspected she might have misinterpreted as something else. Like perhaps he didn’t care. Now, Blake shook his head visibly as he tried to knock the memories from the forefront of his mind and bury them again. He had more pressing problems now to focus on.
For the first time he began down the path that meandered by the stream to the secret garden. The growth on each side of the path was dense and lush, but Angelica had kept the path itself neat and tidy. The winding path was peaceful and inviting as roots from trees on each side crisscrossed the path at the surface and formed something of a staircase for Blake to ascend in the sweet and humid air. After five minutes, Blake came to an opening so lush and full of life that the only word that came to mind was Eden. It was a sanctuary of life, a celebration of life, full of fruits, flowers and health. In the far left corner, near a bend in the stream, stood a lone and beautiful fig tree. “Nancy’s Tree,” Blake whispered to himself, his head nodding. Angelica hadn’t spoken about it in a long time and Blake knew that was his fault. Close to the tree was a raised bed that Angelica had obviously built herself. He saw a flash of movement from the right and turned his head to see what he could have sworn was an angel and her two cherubs walking among her flowers, fingering their leaves and petals. Angelica looked and caught his humble gaze, and kissed a smile to him.
Blake stepped into the secret garden for the first time. He walked to Nancy’s Tree, knelt and began to weep softly. At first, only a solitary gentle tear, as he was man enough to suppress the others. But then, the angel appeared and placed her loving touch on his left shoulder, opening the dam of tears to drench the soil. The angel knelt beside him as the girls played in the corner with a pair of frogs that Angelica had introduced them to. She draped her arm around Blake’s shoulders, taking great pains to not press down on his neck. He collapsed his head in her bosom and reached around to hold her as dearly and closely as if she was the most treasured being in the universe. He tried to look up to her, to meet her eyes, but the lead weight of shame pushed his eyes down and kept them subservient. Still, he began to speak through the tears. “I’m so, so sorry, Angelica.” The first words brought more tears from Blake, more stroking from Angelica, as she listened and tried to understand.
“I’ve just–” the tears took over, momentarily getting the best of Blake. This was no football game, no opposing crowd. He couldn’t block this out, couldn’t block out this pain. Most importantly, he couldn’t shift the blame to someone else. He had to accept the tears and the remorse. “I’ve just—been wrong about everything,” he said. “And you were right about everything, about how we should live our life. I’ve just done so much that’s wrong.” The stream of tears flowed as Blake was in the midst of a powerful confession, both confessing his sins and giving himself at the same time. Giving himself to God, he felt, but more important to him, giving himself to Angelica.
She held and stroked his head.
“There, there,” she said, just as all mothers and caregivers say in times of comfort, “it’s okay. It’ll all be all right.”
Blake fought through the tears, realizing that he hadn’t told Angelica everything. Hadn’t told her nearly everything. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve done some awful things. I’ve been—on the mountain, just back up that ways a bit, I’ve been–” Blake broke down, saying no more and keeping his finger pointed high on the mountain where he had built the sheds, built the fences that held the pigs. Pigs that had now unleashed this deadly plague, this trail of death that led straight back to him.
“There, there,” she said. Blake straightened up. He looked into Angelica’s soft eyes. The hard part was over, he felt. He had confessed, he had told her. The secrets were mostly out, but not entirely out.
“Angelica, I feel like I am the one who unleashed this storm. Everything you saw on TV last night, all that stuff with Nick.” He paused; not wanting to say what he knew was true. “That was me,” he said. “I just want to fix it, to get out of this mess so we can live our life just the way you want.” He took her hand. “Can we? Can you forgive me?” Blake forced back the storm of tears that swelled beyond the dam of his eyes.
Angelica stood as Blake knelt at her feet. She stroked one of Nancy’s branches with her left hand before turning her gaze back to Blake and taking his chin in her right hand. “Blake,” she said, “sometimes God calms the storm and sometimes He lets the storm rage to calm the child.”
She glanced at the girls to make sure they were content and looked back to Blake. “You do what you have to do, Blake, and God will sort you out. You need His forgiveness, not mine. I will be where I belong.”
Blake rose before her and cupped his hand behind her head and stroked her hair. He pushed his tears back and looked at the tree. “So, this is Nancy’s Tree?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said. “Isn’t she a beautiful young woman?”
Blake smiled. He had troubles that lay before him, he knew that. But he now had a peace within him thanks to Angelica’s amazing gift. “Yes, she certainly is,” he said. “What’s this contraption over here in the center?” Blake pointed to a large circle of stones at the center of the garden. Within the circle, thirty-six stones outlined four segments, creating pathways to the center.
“That’s my medicine wheel,” Angelica said. “I gathered the large rocks for the circle from the stream and planted various medicinal herbs in each of the four quadrants.”
Blake pretended to be interested, but was already confused. “What’s it for?” he asked.
Angelica smiled. “Oh you’d be surprised what I can use it for,” she said. “Our Cherokee ancestors relied on these for a great many things, but this morning I used it to harness healing energies.”
“Why?” Blake asked. “Heal what, who?” Angelica looked at Blake sternly and placed the palm of her hand against his chest. As she touched his heart she closed her eyes and spoke. “I feel,” she said, “trouble brewing around me, Blake. And I will summon the help I need to repel it and protect the innocent and those I love.” She opened her eyes slowly and pulled her hand from Blake’s chest. Blake stood motionless, as if he had survived a spell.
“Uh...listen,” he said, shaking his head in awe of Angelica, “I have one more thing I have to do to clean up this mess I’ve made. I have to take the farm truck and go now, but I’ll be back for dinner with you and the girls.” He leaned and kissed her on the forehead and began walking down the path. As he did, he turned to see Angelica standing in the middle of the circle, facing south with her arms held wide and her head tilted back. It reminded Blake of a human crucifix.
Hidden in the bushes thirty yards behind Angelica stood Ozzie, who had found his way down to the secret garden for reasons that were beyond him. He stood and watched the man and woman speak in twisted tongues, but the man had gone now and Ozzie began to wander. At the other end of the path Blake got into the F100 to ascend the mountain one last time.
Boom! Pow! Belch!
Ozzie stopped suddenly as he heard the monster cry, every hair on his back standing erect. Without hesitation, he spun around and sprinted in that direction. Blake gave the truck gas and ground the gears as he put it into reverse and took off down the driveway. Ozzie bolted out of the bushes and ran straight past Angelica, chasing his monster down the winding path.
