Free The Girl from Felony Bay by J. E. Thompson Page A

was guaranteed.
    I walked up the dirt track toward the house so deep in thought that at first I didn’t notice the pickup truck parked out in front. But Rufus saw it. Down by my side, he started to make a low growl, and I put my hand on his head and hushed him, pulling him away from the center of the track, where we were outlined in the moonlight, over to where the field of corn whispered in the night wind. The stalks had already grown higher than my head, and I could stand inside one of the rows surrounded by the sweet, toasted smell of growing corn and look out at the car and the vague shapes of two men standing in the yard just beyond it.
    I crept down the row and found a place where one of the stalks had fallen and I could cross silently to the next row. There I found another fallen stalk and crossed another row, pulling Rufus along beside me, patting his head each time he started to growl. The hiss of wind moving through the corn blanketed any sound we made.
    When I reached the last row of corn, I moved back toward the house and stopped. From here the voices of the two men were a little clearer, and I could make out the occasional word. I heard Uncle Charlie say, “Machine,” and then another voice say, “Keep ’em out.” That second voice I recognized because I had heard it just that afternoon. My stomach froze, and I felt both sweaty and cold at the same time.
    A second later the truck door opened, and then its engine started. It was louder than a normal engine; it must have had a busted muffler. I squatted in the corn beside Rufus as the truck backed up and made a K-turn. For a second its headlights panned across the cornfield and outlined the rows of stalks in sharp relief, and then they were pointing down the driveway. As the truck drove past, I caught a quick peek at the driver, with his messy hair and black whiskers. My suspicions were right. There was no mistaking Bubba Simmons.
    I continued to hold on to Rufus’s collar until Uncle Charlie’s footsteps on the front porch and then the slam of the door told me he’d gone back inside, but when I let go, Rufus didn’t move a muscle. I realized that he didn’t like Uncle Charlie any better than I did, and I gave his ears a scratch.
    We waited for a couple more minutes, then circled the house and walked in the back door, where Ruth was reading a magazine at the kitchen table. “Where you been?” she asked, as if she didn’t remember that I had called earlier to tell her I would be having dinner at Bee’s.
    â€œThe big house.”
    She sniffed. “Don’t get used to it. You don’t live there anymore, and you got dishes to do here, girl.”
    I bit my tongue, tied on an apron, and started rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher. There was no use trying to talk to Ruth when Uncle Charlie was home. I had realized some time ago that even if Ruth was nice on occasion, she was just as mean as Uncle Charlie when he was around.
    As soon as I’d finished the dishes, I walked to the doorway of the small den, where Uncle Charlie was watching television and drinking a beer. He glanced at me, and his face darkened.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGood evening to you, too,” I said.
    My heart was bucking in my chest. I told myself to calm down, but I had a hunch that I was about to open a big can of worms.
    â€œI was out walking today,” I began.
    Uncle Charlie stared at the TV, not bothering to acknowledge that he was listening.
    â€œUp toward Felony Bay, I saw a bunch of No Trespassing signs strung up on the trees.”
    â€œUh-huh,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s the story?” I asked.
    Uncle Charlie’s eyes got smaller. I could tell from his expression that he was trying hard to be cagey. “What’re y’all talking about?”
    â€œI mean why are signs there?”
    â€œâ€™Cause maybe the new owners don’t want y’all walkin’ on their