Popcorn Thief by Leah Cutter Page B

your front porch?” Darryl
replied. “’Cause he can’t go home with me. You gonna give him a ride on the
front of your bicycle?”
    Franklin sighed. Darryl was right. He just wished he could
do something more.
    “He’ll be all right,” Darryl assured Franklin. “Now, let’s
get back on the trail.”
    Franklin let himself be persuaded. Billy would be fine. He’d
be able to take care of himself. He’d probably been doing it for a long time.
    “Where was that thing standing?” Darryl asked, trying to
distract Franklin.
    “Right where we are,” Franklin told him. “Like a goddamn cloud.”
    “Let’s go rain on its day then,” Darryl said.
    * * *
    Franklin was ready to go home. All the woods looked the same
to him at this point—same trees, same brambles, same damn heat and noise.
His water was gone, he’d soaked through his clothes with sweat—so bad it
was like he’d gone swimming in them. He was sure he had blisters on his toes,
on his heels, even on his thighs. And he was going to have to work in the
morning.
    “Come on, Cuz,” Darryl said. “Let’s just try it one more
time. Go back to Lexine’s cabin and search again.”
    Franklin shook his head. “I’m tired,” he complained. Then
the woods backed off a little and Franklin walked into an open space. “Is this
the clearing where we saw Billy?”
    Darryl gave him a look that just said Duh.
    “Instead of going back to Lexine’s, how about we go find
where Billy first saw the thing? Go to that hobo camp? ”
    “That’s a good idea,” Darryl said. He knelt down next to the
spot where they’d found Billy, then stood back up, peering intently. “This way.
Come on.”
    The trail seemed obvious, even to Franklin. His heart
lurched when he realized why: Billy had been in worse shape than they’d
realized, barely walking straight, breaking branches left and right.
    They should have stayed with him, or gotten him some help,
or maybe a lift into town, or something.
    Darryl walked faster. Was he feeling as guilty as Franklin?
    They smelled the camp before they saw it, the wind carrying
the stink of unwashed men. It was just four of them, camped in a gully,
surrounded by pines. Two of the men lay passed out, their filthy blankets over
their faces, while their bare feet and legs stuck out, unprotected. A third man
lay curled on his side, around his pack, like he was drowning and it would save
him.
    The last man sat propped up against a tree. He had a filthy
beard but a shaved head. A once white T-shirt rode up on his chest, exposing a
fat belly and tied-off pants. He waved at them before taking another swig of
something brown in an unmarked bottle.
    There wasn’t any sign of Billy.
    “Excuse me, sir,” Franklin said, trying to be as polite as
Mama would want him to be. “Do you know where Billy is?”
    “Who?” the guy asked. He scratched at his bare belly with
his blackened fingernails and belched.
    “White guy, brown eyes, hears voices,” Darryl said, bored.
He reached behind him and drew his gun out of his pack, then held it casually,
barrel down.
    The guy spit to one side. “He said he was being hounded by
the winds from Hell. But he’s always saying things like that. The creek’s over
that way. You might find him there.”
    “Thank you,” Franklin said as they turned to go. “What do
you want to bet they’ll all be cleared out by the time we get back?” he asked
Darryl.
    “Pretty safe bet,” Darryl said with a grin. “As they should
be. Woods aren’t safe,” he added seriously.
    The stream—an offshoot of Wolf River—lay like a
black ribbon between the trees. Rocks the size of cars lay casually piled on
the bank, as well as across the water.
    Billy lay in the middle of the stream, looking like he was sunbathing
naked on one of the big rocks.
    But this time, they was too late to save him.
    * * *
    “Should have known it’d be you finding the body,” Sheriff
Thompson told Franklin sourly. They stood out on the blacktop,