“Just a couple of follow-up questions,” Ralph said. “Small stuff.”
“Dotting i’s and crossing t’s, huh?”
“That’s right. Do you have an address?”
“Sure, to send the money. Got a pencil?”
What he had was his trusty iPad, open to the Quick Notes app. “Shoot.”
“Box 397, Rural Star Route 2, Marysville, Texas.”
“And what’s Mom’s name?”
Zellman laughed cheerfully. “Lovie. Ain’t that a good one? Lovie Ann Bolton.”
Ralph thanked him and hung up.
“Well?” Jeannie asked.
“Hang on,” Ralph said. “Notice I’ve got my think-face on.”
“Ah, so you do. Could you use an iced tea while you think?” She was smiling. It looked good on her, that smile. It looked like a step in the right direction.
“No doubt.”
He returned to his iPad （wondering how he had ever gotten along without the damn thing）， and found Marysville about seventy miles west of Austin. It was little more than a dot on the map, its single claim to fame something called the Marysville Hole.
Ralph considered his next move while he drank his iced tea, then called Horace Kinney of the Texas Highway Patrol. Kinney was now a captain, mostly riding a desk, but Ralph had worked with him several times on interstate cases when the man had been a trooper, logging ninety thousand miles a year in north and west Texas.
“Horace,” he said after they had finished with the pleasantries, “I need a favor.”
“Big or small?”
“Medium, and it requires a bit of delicacy.”
Kinney laughed. “Oh, you need to go to New York or Connecticut for delicacy, hoss. This is Texas. What do you need?”
Ralph told him. Kinney said he had just the man, and he happened to be in the area.
10
Around three o’clock that afternoon, Flint City PD dispatcher Sandy McGill looked up to see Jack Hoskins standing in front of her desk with his back turned.
“Jack? Did you need something?”
“Take a look at the back of my neck and tell me what you see.”
Puzzled but willing, she stood up and looked. “Turn to the light a little more.” And when he did so: “Ow, that’s one hell of a sunburn. You should go down to the Walgreens and get some aloe vera cream.”
“Will that fix it?”
“Only time will fix it, but it will take some of the sting out.”
“But a sunburn is all it is, right?”
She frowned. “Sure, but bad enough to have blistered in places. Don’t you know enough to put on sunblock when you’re out fishing? Do you want to get skin cancer?”
Just hearing her say those words out loud made the back of his neck feel hotter. “I guess I forgot.”
“How bad is it on your arms?”
“Not quite so bad.” No burn on them at all, in fact; it was just on the back of his neck. Where someone had touched him out at that abandoned barn. Caressed him with just his fingertips. “Thanks, Sandy.”
“Blonds and redheads get it the worst. If it doesn’t get better, you should get it looked at.”
He left without replying, thinking of the man in his dream. The one lurking behind the shower curtain.
I gave it to you, but I can take it back. Would you like me to take it back?
He thought, It will go away on its own, like any other sunburn.
Maybe so, but maybe not, and it really did hurt worse now. He could hardly bear to touch it, and he kept thinking of the open sores eating into his mother’s flesh. At first the cancer had crawled, but once it really took hold, it galloped. By the end it was eating into her throat and vocal cords, turning her screams into growls, but listening through the closed door of her sickroom, eleven-year-old Jack Hoskins had still been able to hear what she was telling his father: to put her out of her misery. You’d do it for a dog, she’d croaked. Why won’t you do it for me?
“Just a sunburn,” he said, starting his car. “That’s all it is. A fucking sunburn.”
He needed a drink.
11
It was five that afternoon when a Texas Highway Patrol car drove up Rural Star Route 2 and turned into the driveway at Box 397. Lovie Bolton was on her front porch with a cigarette in her hand and her oxygen tank in its rubber-wheeled carrier beside her rocking chair.
“Claude!” she rasped. “We got a visitor! It’s the State Patrol! Better come on around here and see what he wants!”
Claude was in the weedy backyard of the little shotgun house, taking in wash off the line and folding it neatly into a wicker basket. Ma’s washing machine was all right, but the dryer had shit the bed shortly before he arrived, and these days she was too short of breath to hang out the clothes herself. He meant to buy her a new dryer before he left, but kept putting it off. And now the THP, unless Ma was wrong, and she probably wasn’t. She had plenty of problems, but her eyes were fine.