David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
With the barrel of the shotgun pointing at the man’s back, I noiselessly circled the room, following the outer wall past the closet, past the corner, until I was close enough to reach out and silently snatch the rifle. I put my head through the attached sling and hung it behind me, against my back. Then I pointed the shotgun at the stranger again.
“Who are you?” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my nerves.
The man continued to write.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
I cocked the shotgun, ejecting one unspent shell and loading another. A completely futile effort, but I hoped the sound would snap him out of whatever fugue held him.
The marker still moving, he said, “Where’s Cammie Brotherton?”
The man had a freakishly large forehead. His wiry hair looked like it had been cut with a knife and hung down over his face at varying lengths. His eyes had this blank, dead look. His beard was a tangled mess. I figured he was in his late forties or early fifties, but I found it hard to tell.
“She’s supposed to be here,” he said. “This is where she said she’d be. David wants me to say hello to her. Have you seen Cammie Brotherton?”
“Who are you?” I repeated.
The man glanced over at me, then went back to his writing. “You’re Eddie’s kid, aren’t you?”
With that, I nearly lowered the shotgun, but thought better of it. Something was wrong. The way he talked. Like someone speaking in the moments before they fell asleep.
“How do you know my father?”
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
“He and I go way back,” the man said. “Your momma, too.”
I thought about the names on my list, the people from the yearbook. All dead but three. If the man in the GTO was Jeffery Dalton, then, “You’re Dewey Hobson, aren’t you?”
He tilted his head as if the thought just registered with him. “Dewey Hobson, that’s right.”
I hadn’t heard Stella get up. She was standing in the doorway, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. We never did get to the laundry. She opened her mouth to say something, and I quickly shook my head. I handed her the shotgun and nodded toward Hobson. She understood, raising the barrel and pointing the weapon at him.
I showed him both of my empty palms, the rifle still dangling on my back. “I’ve been looking for you, Dewey. You and all the others. You’re a hard man to find. Do you know where my father is hiding?”
Hobson finished one wall and moved on to the next. If he saw Stella, he didn’t acknowledge her. “I’m here to see Cammie Brotherton. David wants me to say hello. Then I’m supposed to shoot her.” He pointed his index finger and thumb at me in the shape of a gun. “Pop, pop! Double tap, right in the forehead. Good and dead.”
“You talked to David?” Stella said. “What exactly did he tell you?”
Hobson said, “He told me to go to Cammie’s house and say hello for him, then kill her. Shoot her dead. He also said he loves you, Stella, and he’s cleaning up the whole mess, just for you.”
