Free Southern Cross by Jen Blood Page A

to get in any trouble… All he wanted was some space. Sweats
and a ripe t-shirt would do just fine for that. He picked up his pace to a jog,
grateful for the fresh air and the quiet.
    About
a quarter of a mile from the truck, he heard something behind him—like a cough,
maybe, but not a cough. Like somebody clearing their throat. He turned, fast, a
shiver riding straight up his spine. This time, he knew Rick and Ida weren’t
there, because Diggs wouldn’t’ve let them follow. And Casey was working... He
should be alone.
    “Hey—anybody
out there?” he called. He spun on his heel, searching the trees for a sign that
someone was there. Not a soul.
    He
turned his back and set out for the truck again, but he couldn’t shake that
feeling that he wasn’t alone. It was late afternoon, the shadows reaching far
out from the trees. Everything was still. He rubbed his palms on his pants and
started running again, wanting only to get to his truck and the weed waiting in
his glove box.
    By
the time he got there, he was convinced he’d just been hearing things. He got
out his keys, glancing around to make sure nobody saw him.
    Stick
to the main roads , he heard his daddy say.
It was so clear, the old man might as well have been right beside him. Danny
fought the urge to look around for him. And wait ‘til you get where you’re
goin’ before you spark up . Your mama doesn’t need you to get in a wreck
now, of all things.
    “I
know that, old man,” he said out loud. He felt like a fool. Or like he’d gone
crazy, standing here in the quiet talking to his daddy—a man he’d seen put in
the ground not two hours ago.
    He
paused at the driver’s side door, frowning. His truck was an ’04 Toyota
Tacoma—the single cab, not the double. It was big enough to haul his mower when
he was doing yard work over the summers, and all his band gear the rest of the
time. The truck had been beat to hell before he got it, but since then Danny’d
treated that thing like it was his very own, overgrown, chrome-plated baby.
He’d inventoried every scratch, every bump and dent and ding.
    Which
meant there was no question that what he was seeing now was brand new:
    Just
above the door handle, keyed deep into his cherry red paint, was an upside-down
cross.
    Get
in the truck, his daddy said. Except he
didn’t say that, because he was dead. Still, Danny got in the truck. Lock
the doors. Danny did. Now go on back to the house and talk to Diggs.
Show him what they done to the truck.
    Danny
sat there in the driver’s seat for a second, torn. He reached for the radio.
Closed his eyes, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel. His chest
burned. Guns ‘n Roses’ “November Rain” came on. Danny put the truck in gear.
    He
pulled out, paused for a second by the long dirt road leading back to the
house, and then shook his head.
    He
turned the music up louder, and drove away.

Chapter Eight
SOLOMON
     
     
     
    Between
watching Diggs try to hold it together at Wyatt’s funeral, the street brawl after the funeral, and then being trapped in the Durham house with two dozen
Christian conservatives for several hours, I’d had it by the time Diggs finally
came to save me at nine o’clock that night. I was in the middle of a debate
over climate change with Buddy Holloway and three other guys whose names I
hadn’t caught when Diggs appeared at my elbow. I was winning that debate, for
the record.
    “We
should go,” Diggs said.
    “Your
Yankee girlfriend’s tryin’ to school the locals,” Buddy said. However flawed
his opinion of global warming might be, I liked him: he had nice eyes, a strong
laugh, and he had the southern gentleman thing down pat. Which, I’ll admit,
I’ve always been a sucker for.
    Diggs
didn’t bother correcting him on our romantic status, for which I was grateful.
Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth. “Well, if anybody could set
you hillbillies straight, she’d be the one,” he said. “But we need to