He tucked his chin into the fraying collar of his oilskin coat and strolled casually toward town. The wide dirt road rolled over a tiny rise, then melted into Main Street.
Rows of false-fronted clapboard buildings lined the street on either side, their doorways linked by a wide wooden boardwalk. A few well-dressed people strolled from store to store, talking quietly among themselves.
A sign stood out from all the rest, grabbing Mad Dog's attention. MA'S DINER.
Smiling, he reslung the pack over his shoulder and stepped up onto the boardwalk, pushing through the diner's slatted wooden doors. The mouth-watering aroma of baking cinnamon buns and frying bacon greeted him, made his stomach grumble loudly.
He moved cautiously forward, eyeing the place. The tablecloths were clean and pressed, a bright red and white check that bespoke Sunday suppers and family gatherings. Dust-free globed lamps hung at regular intervals from the dark wooden beams, casting pockets of light along the oak floorboards.
Mas place was neat, respectable, and profitable. In short, a disaster. Odds were equal or better that hed be thrown out within moments. He had to get to the job board fast.
Mad Dog hurried toward the corner of the restaurant and squinted up at the weathered scraps of paper that were tacked to the wood-planked wall. The ads were just what he expected; the sort of ads hed been reading and answering for fifteen years. Apple picker wanted, work hard but steady; Hay baler needs part-time help, no drinkers, no women; Sutton ranch needs general hand to dig irrigation ditches—top dollar paid.
He scanned the words without much interest. He. was, just about to close his eyes and pick one when a phrase caught his attention. His gaze ricocheted back to the ad at the far right. The paper was curled and yellowed by the sun, as if it had been there a long time. Cautiously, almost afraid that it would vanish at his touch, he smoothed the paper and began to read.
General handyman needed for small orchard. Room, board, and minimal wages provided in exchange for manual labor. Good food and clean sheets available.
Inquiries should be directed to Professor Erasmus Throckmorton, Epoch Farm, corner of Palouse and Mesozoic streets. P. S. Good conversation skills a plus.
He grinned just thinking about clean sheets. And if there was one thing he could do, it was talk.
Hell, it was a job made in heaven.
He plucked the scrap of paper off the job board and crammed it in his pocket, then headed out of the diner. It was a long, hot walk out of town, but Mad Dog hardly noticed.
All he could think about were those damn clean sheets.
Jacob Vanderstay saw Mad Dog coming and he panicked. Hed followed too closely this time, he knew it. Darn!
He slammed his rail-thin, adolescent body against the splintery side of Hammans Mercantile and jerked the hat down over his eyes, trying desperately to be invisible.
Blood pounded in his ears like an oncoming train. He held his breath and prayed like crazy. Please dont let him catch me. Please . . .
Mad Dog strode past him without so much as a glance.
Jake sagged against the wall, feeling equal measures of relief and disappointment.
Mad Dog hadnt seen him . . . again.
With a sigh, he pushed away from the wall and shoved the hat back on his head. He scratched his sweaty forehead with dirt-caked fingernails and shoved a hank of coppery hair out of his eyes. Gosh, he was tired of this. Tired of skulking around in the shadows, eating disgusting food, sleeping on the cold, hard ground. He just wanted it to be over.
But it wouldnt be over until he confronted Mad Dog. And he was no closer to doing that than he had been four months ago when hed first started trailing the man.
He waited awhile, let Mad Dog get a good distance ahead, then Jake flung his sack over his shoulder and followed him out of town.
Mariah Throckmorton stood back from her work, studying it critically. The shelves above her fathers oak desk glistened with beeswax. Stark, white piles of paper created a perfectly ordered checkerboard atop the dark wood. In the exact center of the desk sat a crystal inkstand and pen rack and the Eureka Ink Eradicator. Fossils lined the shelves, their sharpest points peering over the edge like a hundred tiny noses. Everything was perfectly in order.
But somehow she was certain she could do it better, do something to make her father actually notice what shed done. . . .
She sighed. It would never happen. Her father wouldnt care, of course, wouldnt even notice how hard shed worked to keep his collection dusted, cleaned, and in perfect array. But it was something her mother had done for him, and now that she was gone, the task of keeping Rass organized fell to Mariah. And with her fathers whimsical, impractical nature, it was a considerable task indeed.
She tried to tell herself it didnt matter that Rass wouldnt notice her efforts. It shouldnt. She was thirty-four years old. How could she still be trying to impress a father who clearly didnt care to be impressed?
She moved back to the desk and pulled out the long drawer. Dozens of ragged erasers lay in a clumped heap. She removed each one and carefully began restacking them in the front left corner.
As she was setting the final eraser in place, she heard a faint, faraway rasping sound, like the creaking of an old mans joints. It came from the open window.
The eraser slipped from her fingers and landed with a muffled thwop. She closed the drawer with her hip and walked over to the window, pushing the white eyelet curtains aside.