Scenarios

8

W ithin five minutes, Treacle was driving us back to Weaverville. I did not want to stay there among the ghosts old and new even long enough to hunt for my car.

The burns on my back and legs, the lacerations on my hands, were not serious enough to require medical attention, so we went straight to the sheriff's department. I gave the cop in charge a full account of what had happened on my two visits to Cooperville, of how Gary Coleclaw had tried to kill me and how the whole town had been covering up his guilt in the death of Allan Randall. I also told him what it was that had put me onto Gary: The stone cup with the wax residue inside. The room in the hotel with the pieces of rock on the shelves. Penrose's comments to Kerry and me that Gary was a "poor young fool, poor lost lad" and that he had "rocks in his head." A pun, Penrose had said after the latter remark. He'd meant that Gary had rocks in his head not because he was retarded but because he was a collector of unusual stones-arrowheads and fossils and the like. And Treacle telling me the stone cup contained bryophytes, reminding me of those rocks in the hotel room, making me think that the room might have been outfitted by someone with the mind of a child who used it as a kind of clubhouse where he kept the treasures he'd collected.

Gary Coleclaw was not taken into custody that night. He was gone from what was left of Cooperville when the police got there; so were his father and mother. The cops put out a pick-up order on the family, but it wasn't until three days later that a police officer spotted the three of them at a diner in eastern Oregon, and arrested them without incident.

Kerry and I were long gone from Trinity County by then, comfortably holed up in a private cabin near Shasta Lake. The sheriff's men had found my car hidden in the woods near Paul Thatcher's home and returned it to me, and we were allowed to leave as soon as I signed a formal statement. Raymond Treacle's promise of a Munroe Corporation check in the amount of five thousand dollars had gone with us.

I hadn't told the police-or Kerry or anyone else-of my fear of mob violence. I could not be certain I'd been right about what I felt that night; it could have been my imagination, a product of the darkness and the fire and the brush I'd had with death. And no matter what the residents of Cooperville might have done to me in the heat of their passion, I felt no more anger toward them. When I thought of the Coleclaws and Ella Bloom and Hugh Penrose, I felt only sadness and pity.

Still. Still, I couldn't help wondering: Would they have attacked me, maybe even killed me, if Kerry and Treacle hadn't shown up when they did? It was a question that would trouble my sleep for a long time, because there was no way now that I would ever know the answer.