The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,128

my fists and hold my arms stiff and don’t look back, nor left, nor right. I feel the Lieutenant watching me.

No, he ain’t. No he ain’t, I tell myself.

Don’t look.

I round the corner and break into a blind run.

It’s then I see that the side alley ain’t empty. There’s a man loading boxes on a pushcart. He’s tall and lean and strong built, dusky like the shadows that cover us both. I know the sight of him even in the half light. You don’t forget a man who’s come close to killing you, twice over. Who would do it now, if he got the chance.

I try to stop and turn back, but the wash water runs down the alley in a little stream. I slip in the mud and go down.

Moses is on me before I can get to my feet.

CHAPTER 22

BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

It’s Thursday again, and I know, without even the first glimpse through the trees, that Nathan’s truck will be parked in my driveway. My mind sprints ahead of the Bug, which is now sporting a new bumper, thanks to Cal Frazer, the local mechanic, and nephew of Miss Caroline, one of our New Century ladies. He loves old cars like the Bug, because they were made to be repaired and kept in use, not discarded in the trash heap after the digital clocks and automatic seatbelts die.

A city police car pulls out of its hiding place behind a billboard and trails me, and for once I don’t break into a nervous sweat about whether I’ll get stopped over the bumper issue. Even so, a mildly eerie feeling lingers as we traverse each curve together. It’s like a movie scene in which the local law and small-town powerbrokers are indistinguishable from one another. They all have the same goal. To stop anyone new from upsetting the status quo.

As much as I’d like to keep the Underground project quiet until it’s closer to fruition, it’s hard when dozens of kids, a group of senior ladies, and a smattering of volunteers like Sarge are running around town scrounging for everything from courthouse records, old newspaper articles, family pictures and documents to poster board and costume materials. We’ve hit the first week of October, which puts the Halloween date for our pageant less than thirty days away.

I stop at the end of my driveway, just to see who’s in the police cruiser, since it’s way out here beyond the city limits. The driver is Redd Fontaine, of course. As the mayor’s brother, and a cousin to Will and Manford Gossett, he claims everything as his jurisdiction. He drifts by in no particular hurry, looking past me toward my house.

I can’t help wondering if he’s scoping out Nathan’s truck. The Bug and I hold our position, seeking to block the view until the police car passes by, then we roll on in. My pulse steadies at the sight of khaki shorts and a camo green chambray shirt peeking through the oleander where the garden saint hides. I know the outfit, even before I see Nathan on the porch swing. As far as I can tell, he has about five daily uniforms, all of them casual, comfortable, and in tune with south Louisiana’s hot, humid weather. His style is a cross between mountain guy and beach bum. He does not do dress-up.

It’s one of the things I like about him. I’m not all that fashion forward, either, although I am trying hard to make a good impression in my teaching career. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have was the oft-given advice of college career counselors. I think I want to be a principal someday. It’s a new revelation and one I’m still growing into. Secondary education suits me in an unexpected way. These kids make me feel that I have a purpose, that getting up and going to work every day matters.

The Bug nestles quietly into its usual set of driveway ruts and sighs into silence as I turn off the ignition. On the swing, Nathan sits with one elbow comfortably propped, his fingers dangling. He’s focused toward the cemetery, his eyes narrowed so that I momentarily