Free Over and Under by Todd Tucker Page B

rage as I imagined them, two best friends living off the land, tending a campfire, checking snares, and cleaning their guns. It was such a strong feeling, and so unexpected, that it took me a second to recognize it. I was jealous.
    “I thought that fireman was carrying you,” said Dad suddenly. He looked up from his coffee, directly at me. Every line in his face was darkened, as if ash from the explosion had set into his wrinkles, exaggerating his age. “For one split second, I was absolutely sure of it. I couldn’t figure out why in the hell you would be down at the plant in the middle of the night.”
    He stifled a sob with a drink of coffee. Mom rubbed his shoulders.
    Everything changed after that.

Four
     
    The hunt was on for the “bombers,” as everyone called them, and we finally had a story on our hands big enough to demand coverage from the Louisville TV stations. On their morning news broadcasts, all three channels showed footage of the roadblocks manned by the state troopers until dawn, the abandoned pickup truck that belonged to Guthrie Kruer, the scorched hole in the factory wall, and, finally, a close up of the grimy ball cap picked up on factory grounds after the explosion. On the front, it read LOCAL 1096, and on the inside, in boyish ballpoint pen, it read M SANDERS .
    Activity was at such a fever pitch that morning that Tom and I had trouble deciding which aspect of the manhunt we wanted to personally witness. Reverend Nichols had announced he would host a revival meeting so that we all might repent, and lots of kids had gone down to watch the volunteers set up the huge tent down by the river. The sheriffs of both Floyd and Harrison counties pitched in with their helicopters, and the choppers were taking off and landing in the Little League field, throwing up massive clouds of brown dust we saw from on top of Cabin Hill.
    We decided in the end to go see the psychic fromLouisville who had shown up to help the investigation. We made our way to the modest crowd that surrounded her at the edge of factory property, in the front, in view of the picket line. She was a tall woman with frizzy gray hair and a flowing black dress. She delayed her vision for a few minutes so the crowd could grow to an acceptable size. She then asked for silence, took the famous ball cap from an embarrassed-looking deputy, and held it in one hand with her eyes tightly closed. After inhaling deeply, she pointed to the northeast, exactly opposite the direction we’d seen the bombers run. She handed out business cards while we applauded.
    After that, Tom and I decided to walk back to the cave to retrieve our bikes. The thrill of the psychic soon passed as we found ourselves alone in the quiet woods. Men had been pouring into the forest all day looking for the killers; we’d watched them enter in droves. But just a few steps into the woods Tom and I felt profoundly alone. It seemed the wilderness had no trouble completely absorbing all the fugitives, the search parties, and the curious. The sudden hush and the slower pace of travel on foot made us reflective.
    “When did you find out about Mr. Strange?” I asked.
    “The phone rang. Not long after we got back. The union was calling everybody, telling them about the explosion and an emergency meeting tomorrow. At the institute.”
    “Did your dad say anything?”
    “Nah. And I didn’t ask. He wasn’t even talking to Mom about it. After the phone call, he just sat on the porch until the sun came up.”
    “He said it was all talk last night.”
    “I guess he was wrong about that.”
    “Is he going to talk to the sheriff?”
    Tom shot me a look. “Why would he talk to the sheriff?”
    “Because…”
    “What about you?” he said a little sharply. “Is your dad talking to the sheriff?”
    “Why would he?”
    Tom shrugged. “Because he’s a manager? I don’t know. He’s probably in charge of the plant now. And it seems like your mom is always talking to the sheriff.