Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 9
“I don’t know, Mr. Quinn, it seems kind of pricey.” The farmer turned his head and spat out a stream of tobacco juice, then resumed staring up the roof of his barn.
“Cheaper than your barn, Mr. Jessup,” Jefferson replied.
“Well, it’s been standing there purt-near twenty years and it ain’t been hit by lightning yet.” He turned, unhooking one thumb from his coveralls and pointing across his field. “That maple over there was struck, back in ’23.”
Jefferson turned to regard the big, dead tree standing out in the middle of a field for a moment, then looked back at the barn.
“Wellsir, they do say that lightning doesn’t strike the same thing twice. Now that tree’s been hit, well, there’s one less thing around here to take the hit from the next bolt, don’t you know.”
Jessup grunted. “Maybe so. Well, I have your pamphlet, Mr. Quinn. I’ll give it some thought. But just now I’d best get back to working on that tractor.”
“Fair enough,” Jefferson replied. “Fair enough. Always makes me nervous when someone jumps at spending money on a large investment, no matter how good it is. Makes me think he mighta robbed a bank or something.” He looked around the farm again, then the two turned and headed back toward the farmhouse. “Got a bit of a limp, there,” Jefferson said after a moment. “Seems like you farmers get bunged up on a pretty regular basis, is what I’ve seen selling these lighting arrestors.”
“Yeah, that’s true I guess, but this happened out in that damn marsh.”
“That so?” Jefferson asked, putting a curious expression on his face. “You out there looking for whatever got those two boys, were you?”
“Hell, everyone in town was,” Jessup muttered.
“Plenty of places to sprain an ankle out there, I reckon.”
“Wasn’t that. It was some kind of Goddamn animal took a bit out my foot.”
“I’ll be damned. Like a snapping turtle was it?”
Jessup spat a stream of tobacco. “They ain’t none of those in a salt marsh. Thought it mighta been a muskrat that went crazy or something, but…it didn’t look quite right.”
“Never heard of a muskrat biting anyone, anway.”
Jessup shook his head. “Anyway, looked more like a…drowned mole, I think, before I stomped it flat.” He shook his head again, then looked up. They’d reached Jefferson’s car, and Jessup looked like he’d paled a bit, thinking of the thing that had bit him.
“Damndest thing,” Jefferson said. “Anyone else get attacked like that?”
“No…just…Reeves…no.”
“Reeves got bit?”
“No…no, Reeves didn’t get bit. I don’t know why I…” He shook himself, and spat more tobacco. “Mr. Quinn, I need to get back to that tractor.” He squared his shoulders and walked off without another word.
Jefferson watched him got for a few seconds, then opened the door of his Ford and slid behind the wheel. He’d just lost himself a sale, for sure. Jessup’s brain would be working overtime to turn the encounter with the Sciribath into something innocuous, and that would include not thinking about the lightning rod salesman who’d brought the incident up. Just as well, since he only had the one lightning rod and some literature. It was a hassle, when someone actually tried to buy the things, setting up an appointment with a work crew that would never arrive.
He started up the car. Now he need to track down this Reeves. It would have been nice to have had a first name, like he had for Jessup from all the people telling the story of his getting bit, but he could tell pushing Jessup wasn’t going to work. It was a small town, though; couldn’t be that many people named Reeves in it.
He was sorting through the various people he’d gotten to know in town who might be useful to feel out as he made the turn off one dusty lane onto another. Behind him, a car made the turn a short ways back. Had it even been there a moment before? Neither the road he was on nor the one he’d been on before got a whole hell of a lot of traffic–he was surrounded by farms and trees. He stared into the rearview mirror for a few moments. It was definitely a Plymouth, maybe fifty yards back. Hard to know whether it was the same one he’d encountered a few days back; they were both basic black models anyway.
He saw an even narrower road joining the one he was on up ahead, and made the turn. A short ways down, he glanced in the mirror to see the Plymouth following. He’d made the turn as a test, and from a general notion that he shouldn’t be leading someone back to his hotel, but he suddenly realized that he was heading into even more lonely country, followed by someone who, it now looked like, didn’t care to remain subtle.
The Plymouth accelerated, drawing closer.
“Well, ain’t this going to be fun,” Jefferson muttered, and reached for the gearshift.
Copyright © 2012 SM Williams