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I got done setting the draw pins about 6:30 or
something, and thought I'd better go check out the
scene before supper. I go down the hill by Dr.
Chin's fallow, and it's like probably nine or ten
cruisers there already, blocking the
way. Blueberries and cherries everywhere.
These ones are the roughest for them. It's all
over, that unease, tired and traded between them,
over and through. Even they can't get used to
this. And the cones and baffles and tapes are
already up over it, but I don't need to see it to
know: it's happened again, and it's a weird one
this time. The ministry won't send two principals
out to these sorry sticks, for nothing. This
one's no leg-crawler.
And them two are talking to the captain, and
there's pointing and there's gestures, all that.
But she's just listening. This one won't be her
deal. No way, it's gone beyond that.
And there's constables down crouching over it, and
some on the radio. Crackle bee-de-boo crackle.
Some are looking over shoulders, hoping no one
sees their thousand yards.
And it's evening, but still so goddamn hot like it
always is now, that I can smell my own feet
stinking in my loafers. Or is that the sap from
Chin's oaks? Something's not right about
those. And the crickets are out, but not so many
as once there was. And they sound off,
too. Brrr-eee.
It gets hard to put a finger on this
stuff. Floating dread. But that on the road, that
dread's got a name. Guess I'll take comfort in
that.
