to the deed in some courthouse file cabinet. But once you have walked it, worked it, made love on it, or bled on it, that land becomes part of you. The Weldon barn was that way for Jet and me, until the three freaks trespassed there and left the serpent of fear behind them. That close call drove us out here, to Parnassus.
At the summit of the hill lies a geologic anomaly for this area, a circular, spring-fed pool a hundred yards across. Thanks to the Artesian spring that is its source, the water stays cool all year round. The banks are grassy, but deer generally keep them trampled down enough to access the pool in a couple of places. That pool has a long history, and more names than are known. The Indian name has long been forgotten. The French christened the spring Bellefontaine and used it as a bathing spot. The English used a name I don’t recall. The slaves on Parnassus called it “the drowning pool” for some reason lost to history, but the owner of the plantation named it Delphi Springs. The bastardized version became “Delfey Springs” (coined by Confederate raiders who hid out there), and that’s what high school kids had called it since long before our time.
As I stare across the fields, Max’s headlights finally disappear behind the hill, which is covered with oak, pecan, elm, and pine trees. In a few places only a thin fringe of pines lines the shoulder of the road, and a skid would send your car tumbling down the hillside. But for most of its length Max will be blind to everything crossing the fields below. The sun has dropped well below the horizon now. If I keep my headlights off, the falling darkness might give me sufficient cover to make the run safely even if Max circles the hill before I reach its base.
Jamming the Explorer into Drive, I gun the motor and tear across the flats toward the great dark hump. Forty seconds at seventy miles an hour carries me to the broad base of the hill. I figure Max is five hundred yards ahead of me. The road that climbs Parnassus is barely wide enough for one vehicle, and it encircles the hill the way roads climb the Smoky Mountains. At the crest, the road ends in a small turnaround cut into the woods. From there a narrow footpath leads to the pool. Max will reach the top before me, and if he shuts off his engine—and they get out of the truck—they’ll surely hear the Explorer climbing the hill.
Pressing harder on the gas pedal, I begin circling up the hill, keeping my eye on the ragged edge of dirt to my right. About eighty vertical feet from the crest, I stop the Explorer in the road. My first instinct is to back into the trees, but I decide to leave the Ford where it is. I don’t want Max racing back down with Jet while I’m climbing this damned hill on foot. The Explorer is wide enough to stop him from getting past, and best of all, Max doesn’t know the vehicle. Pocketing Dixie’s keys, I get out and look up the dirt road. The underbrush is too thick here to try to climb straight up through the trees. After making sure my pistol is snug in my waistband, I start running up the road.
Using a pace count I developed long ago running track, I cover four hundred yards in a minute and a half. This brings me to within forty yards of the turnaround. Slowing to a walk, I cross the last twenty yards as quietly as I can, in case Jet and Max are sitting in his truck.
The turnaround is empty.
There’s no way Max could have driven down the hill without me seeing him. Looking around the clearing, I see a place where the undergrowth has been pushed down by a vehicle. Max must have used his F-250 like a bulldozer and driven right up to the pool.
Instead of walking up on them from the footpath, I backtrack about seventy yards and start working my way through the trees, which should bring me out on the opposite side of the water from Max and Jet. This way, even if they detect my approach, they’ll assume the noise is being made by deer or an armadillo. Progress is slow and difficult. The brush under the trees is thick, thorn bushes plentiful. Also, the