|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I reached down and touched the woman's hand. It was cold and stiff; she had been dead for several hours. The faded cotton robe was damp from its nightlong exposure to the blanketing fog. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Jake was sobbing. Absently, he tugged at the robe, trying to smooth it, and stroked her hair, trying to coax it back out of her unseeing eyes. All the while, tears trickled silently into the furrows of his craggy face. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I had a feeling down deep inside me that Jake Madden, a man who didn't claim much for himself in this world, had just lost something more precious than he dared to admit. Finally, he slumped back against the side of the trailer, buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a schoolboy. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Even in emotionally charged times, my mind has the disturbing tendency to logically chronicle facts. It bothers some people, but over the years I've learned to accept it. Such was the case now. Vernice Hutchins was dead, but as far as I could tell there wasn't a mark on her. And for some reason I was already convinced she hadn't died of natural causes. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It took Jake several minutes to regain his composure. When he did, he leaned over, picked up Vernice's lifeless body and carried her out to the four-by-four. He covered her with a blanket and crawled in the cab without saying a word. His face was |
|
|
|
|
|