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A
Tinker looked pained. In a Garbo-esque gesture, she pushed the fine ruined hair back from her face with both hands.
A scuffle and a grunt from inside the house took A
A
“I’m fine,” Tinker replied and, to A
Great gulping sobs made a bellows of the thin back. Images of Heinz pickle relish jars jammed with fingers, ears, and eyeballs flashed through A
“Just leave me alone!” Tinker cried out. Springing to her feet, sending Bent’s sprawling onto the moss, she rushed inside the house.
A
Halfway back to the harbor she was overtaken by the roar of machinery. Tractors used by Maintenance were the only land vehicles allowed on the island and even they were ba
The driver was Pizza Dave, returning from his plumbing job. He was the fattest man A
As he drew level with A
“Afternoon,” A
He was saying something.
A
Dave’s fingers uncurled and several crumpled slips of paper fluttered out. “Found it tore up,” he hollered over his engine.
“What is it?”
“Can’t hear you. Found it,” he called. A
“How do you know?” A
“Gut feeling.” He laughed, passed his hand over an immense expanse of red double-knit. “Can’t ignore a gut this big.” He pushed the gear lever forward and roared on down the trail before A
She waited till the aggravation of sound had passed completely away, then crouched down on the trail and pieced together the bits of paper. It was a dot matrix printout. Any computer could have been used. In an odd mixture of metaphors it said: “Before you go looking for skeletons under other people’s rocks don’t forget your own dirty laundry can be dragged out of the closet.” Then the word “Hopkins” and the numbers “ 1978.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” A
Doubly so if a corpse or two was factored in.
A
A
FOURTEEN
The rest of the afternoon A
On a stony ridge, rising above the green canopy of summer leaves, A
Near six o’clock, refreshed, her mind clear, she started back.
She was third in line to use the phone at Rock. Sitting on the bench with a redheaded girl of twenty or so and a wide-shouldered natural blonde with jaw-length hair, A
The phone booth door opened. “All yours,” came a voice.
“You want to go next, Trixy?” the red-haired girl asked.
“You go ahead,” replied the blonde.
Trixy, the interpreter, Do
“You’re the North Shore Ranger,” Trixy identified her. She had a slightly fruity voice that could easily slip into a singsong pattern.