She bent low, trying to stay out of sight, and realized she could still see the rear bumper of the old dirty pickup truck in the distant driveway, beyond the thick foliage of the dogwood trees. But she had to fake it, had to pretend to search for her bracelet, so that Tommie wouldn’t become frightened. She had to act the part like a performer onstage, even as the word truck began to flash in her mind like a strobe light, along with the obvious questions. The truck, the truck, the old dirty truck! Who was it? Why had he come?
If it was one of Gary’s henchmen, he wouldn’t be content to simply knock at the door. He would go inside and search. He’d see a small backpack slung over the kitchen chair. He’d see the plate with sandwich crumbs and a glass with milk residue in the sink, but what would that tell him other than that someone had been there? He’d have to venture upstairs, to their rooms, but since they’d brought almost nothing with them and the closets were filled with other people’s clothes, there was nothing he would be able to trace back to either Beverly or Tommie…
Except…
She froze at the thought of Go, Dog. Go!, Tommie’s favorite book, along with the Iron Man action figure.
Both were on the nightstand. If the man so much as peeked in the room—and it had to be a man, Beverly decided—he would no doubt find them, but the question was whether Gary would have noticed she’d taken them.
She wondered if the man was in the house now. Wondered if there was more than one man opening drawers and checking the refrigerator and hunting for books like Go, Dog. Go! and Iron Man action figures. She wondered if he wore black leather gloves and if he had a gun beneath his jacket while another equally dangerous man kept a lookout. She wondered whether he would wait for her or decide to search for her, and as she scanned the pasturelands beyond the creek, she knew there was nowhere to hide.
“Maybe it fell off while I was walking,” she said to Tommie. “You keep checking around here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
The words sounded shaky to her ears, but she forced herself to retrace her steps toward the ancient barn. She crept to the corner and peered around the side, at the house.
The truck was still in place, but a moment later she saw someone step down from the porch and walk toward the truck. It was definitely a man—she could tell by the way he moved; he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and work boots along with a baseball hat. He was also alone. She was certain he would suddenly stop and turn in her direction, but instead, he simply pulled open the door and climbed into the truck. Soon she heard the engine start, and then the truck was backing out. When it reached the gravel road, it headed in the direction opposite the town, toward God knew where.
She waited, then waited some more. But other than the sound of birdsong, there was nothing. In time, she crept toward the house. She wanted to make sure that no one was still inside, that it wasn’t a trap. She stepped up onto the porch and saw dusty footprints leading to the door, imprinted on the mat, and then heading back toward the porch steps.
When she opened the door, no footprints were visible; there were none on the linoleum floor in the kitchen or on the stairs, either. Upstairs, she saw Go, Dog. Go! and Iron Man on the stand next to Tommie’s bed. In the bathroom, her clothes hung from the shower-curtain rod, and her wig was near the sink, just where she’d left it. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
Still, she remained shaky as she hurried back to the creek. Tommie continued to kick through the grass and the dirt before noticing that she’d approached.
“Did you find it?” he asked.
“No. I guess it’s just lost.”
He nodded before picking up the jar. “How long can I keep them?” he asked.
The sound of his voice was soothing, even if she still felt far from normal.
“We’ll bring them back after dinner, okay?”
Back at the house, she opened Tommie’s backpack and studied the drawing that he’d made, hoping it would stop her from thinking about the truck and the man who’d shown up out of the blue. When she saw the image of their old house, with its flat roof and large windows, she felt sad but smiled anyway.
“This is great. You’re quite the artist.”
“Can I watch cartoons?”
“For a little while. While I make dinner, all right? Do you want me to bring your tadpoles to sit with you?”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled as they went to the living room. She turned on the television; luckily, cartoons were on.
“Don’t sit too close to the screen. It’s not good for your eyes.”