He gestured wild, down toward the road.

Tizzy kept her jittery smile. Mercy, it was cold. These mountain gales just kept slamming away at her. "Where's Mister Birdnell's house, mister?" she asked, simply.

The gravity shifted down to Tizzy.

"I don't know."

She was contrite. "Well..." she'd try not to betray any heebie-jeebies, "...we're sorry we bothered you."

Tizzy began to stumble aimlessly away from the house. First she stumbled backward, then she turned to go. She prayed Matthew would follow. But where? She could not face such a tempest. Not a cold night listening to her limbs rattle and thinking, in that car, in these woods.

"...hey, Tizzy?"

"Matthew, let's go before we git wet."

But Mad Dice got pestered, and spewed up a storm: "Doodlysquat! Tizzy! I'm a-talkin to this man. I'll be fit and s.h.i.ttin ready to go when I'm through talkin to this man."

Matthew swung back around, and leered straight up into that dead, unforgiving stare.

The brute shifted weight, almost invisibly the tall one shifted on his broad porch. Almost escaping Matthew's senses but not escaping. Matthew lost steam but only for a blink. He puffed up his brave face then eyeballed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d again.

"I don't thank it's any o'yer G.o.ddam business how we got hyere," he sniped. "All I require o'you is some answers. Ole boy. Right?"

All around them, dusk became a deep suspended roar. The man's jaw went crawling bit by bit.

"What's yer name, anyhow? I wanna know who you are--" Matthew kept pressing. Tizzy never doubted his insane depravity again.

And the storm kept brewing, while a darkly profound puzzlement came over the stag-faced man. Then slowly, grimly, terribly, he smiled.

"My name is Bob," he was sighing. Something like a chuckle could be heard inside his drumbreasted chest. "And I don't know yer people. Seriously I do not."

Matthew just gloated up at him. Tizzy just kept away. Finally, this man Bob called out to her: "Who er you daughter?"

"Tizzy June Polk, sir," her teeth chattered. "I mean--" Oh Lord, there went her real honest-to-G.o.d name. "I mean, we best be a-goin--"

Bob eyed them both. "That's too bad."

c.o.c.ked on the top step, Matthew reached around and cradled a hand on the pistol in his back pocket.

"Well I'm a-tellin ye Bob. You could use some work on ye disposition. Am I right? Huh, now?" He moved into the man's shadow, rising full onto the porch, toe to toe with Bob. "Feller like you best know who yer a-f.u.c.kin with. Are ye with me on that?" Nodding, Matthew began to back off. A cavalier cut of his hand. "So yessir, mebbe so, mebbe we gone git outa yer way--"

"Matthew, I'm cold!" insisted Tizzy.

He winked at Bob. "Jist so happens, I'm a-wanted by the law--"

"Yeah?"

"And I'm rightly disappointed in ye, yes I am Mister..." the chucklehead dropped his voice, "...Bob."

The man watched Matthew settle his cods, turn on a heel--and stride right off the porch, his foot missing the step by inches. He fell splat on his face in the dirt. Tizzy gritted.

From shadow, Bob moved to the porch's edge. Tizzy took baby steps as Matthew tried to lift his head, gave a whimper then fell unconscious in a bed of hen scratches. Her baby steps stopped.

"Tizzy June--"

She lifted her face, to Bob, the fleshy stranger whose arms hung limp as tattoo-riddled sidebeef.

"--how old you be?"

"Th-thirteen."

"How long you been familiar with this kid?" he asked.

She couldn't find an answer, as thunder rolled. So she picked up the spectacles instead.

Bob hove Matthew's carca.s.s through the door of the house and dumped him on the floor like 100 pounds of chuck. A raw gust filled the threshold. Tizzy edged in behind Bob. She saw Matthew on the splint rug, the air thick with bits of chaff and twig. Coughing, Tizzy adjusted to a dim flickered room--and the biggest hound she had ever seen.

Before the stone fireplace stood a giant dog. Jowly, with great stumps for feet; it was darkly mottled, a spindling creature. Yet nearly as tall as Tizzy. The hound stood alert and agitated before a hot fire. On the hearth, the little ragged girl sat crosslegged and let the beast growl. Tizzy froze, pale of heart; Bob went to the door, but Tizzy was held fast by those searing black dog eyes. Bob shut out the weather. His fingers snapped at the hound.

"Uh-uh," was his gutter deep command, a quirk of his head.

Clumsily, the dog settled onto the hearth but kept a fix on Tizzy. Bob almost grinned.

"Uh-uhhh..." he stressed, gauging his beast with more than a glint of t.i.tillation.

Bob came from behind Tizzy. He lumbered across the room, avoiding everybody. Tizzy began to fret legions in his wake.

"We're sure hating to bother ya! But we cain't stay on though, not really it's a-gonna rain---it's a-gittin dark!"

Bob reset his tack. He mulled her over once, twice, then an inner demon struck him and he went like a shot, disappearing into a pitch black hallway. "Who'd ever believe?" he swore. His rumbling came from somewhere beyond the light.

With him gone, Tizzy gazed about the room. The place was ample but spa.r.s.ely done, hewn of rugged timber; only a heavy rocker, one ladderback chair and nary a stick of extra sitdown furniture, or a table in sight. There would be a kitchen. They must take meals on a kitchen table. She did not want to see the kitchen, no thank you. But she did see a standing Victrola, over in the corner. And, blessedly, Bob had not left Tizzy alone with Matthew's remains. Shimmering back at Tizzy were a couple of stony ancestors, an old sir and an old missus in an oval frame, hung over the Victrola. Their tint-photo portraits weren't smiling; their faces were hard to sort from the flicker. They'd been framed here for ages, no doubt. So Tizzy wasn't alone with the body, or with this tiny girl or this hound. Tizzy didn't like being stared at. She was no two-headed calf.

"Mmmmm..."

Suddenly, Matthew began to stir, the b.u.t.t of his pistol thrusting straight up from his rump pocket. Tizzy bent, gave him the poke and let fly a freaky whisper.

"Oh Lord, Matthew--git up--"

But Matthew sneezed, then slumped back into the floor, back into the land of lost boys. The little rag child slid him an idle glance. She seemed hardly aware of the deadbeat son. Thump, thump--thump, thump, thump, G.o.d drummed his fingers on the tarpaper overhead and Tizzy realized it was too late now. That was rain. It was raining outside.

And the stag was back. With even cruder graces than before, Bob returned from the hall dragging an oily, blunted old broom. His thick-soled boots stopped at the rug. Brooding over the boy's body, a mean, surly bile had risen in him.

"D'you thank I want you unner my roof? I don't want you unner my roof," he barked.

"And we sure thank you," was all she could muster. "G.o.d, I'm sorry mister. He's a-fixin to wake up. Ain't he?"

Bob reached down and plucked the pistol from Matthew's pocket; he stepped to a black doorway and tossed it in on the bed. Returning, Bob booted Matthew on the tail. "Git up, boy."

Matthew flinched. He began moving again. Tizzy hugged her arms tight, watching Matthew's split thumbnail rub at a raw knot--mister worldly fate's new tumor--freshly swollen at his scalpline.

"My haid..." he mumbled, turning over.

"Eats," Bob said. Bob was talking to himself, then to the broomstraw he was ripping apart: "G.o.ddam, they'll be wantin eats." Then straight at his visitors. "Y'all want grub?"

She had to admit, her stomach had been cranky for hours. Tizzy gave a silent nod.

"h.e.l.l yes," Matthew slurred, eyes closed. "I'm powerful hongry."

Bob knee-snapped the broomstick before it hit the fire. He lumbered back down the dark hall, returning minutes later with two tin plates, lukewarm grits and a hard biscuit each. Matthew was sitting up in no time, sopping his plate, cheeks stuffed with feed. Tizzy nibbled politely, knees together. She had accepted the granny rocker though it wasn't offered. Don't mind if I do, and, no, she never dropped her guard. Her eyes combed the room, from the surly host to the tiny girl to the hound. Two dark bedrooms opened off this front parlor. Lightning flashed within, from hidden windows. But, in here, these parlor curtains were drawn shut, each flash filtered through bleached burlap. A musty, bitter-pecan aroma clung to the place, like generations had grown ancient in here, grown toothless and mum and died in here. Came a blue white flare. A spectacular bullwhip crack, with thunder behind it. Stony faces turned electric for a moment. But the elder couple in that faded portrait over the Victrola, they bore no resemblance to this Bob, or the little girl either. And Tizzy's biscuit was so awful hard, with too much baking soda, she had to soften it in the grits to chew. As she dabbed, she tried to smile at the girl.

"Who're you?" Tizzy asked.

But the ragdoll child stood suddenly and left the room without a ripple.

Their host spake nothing. Bob sat sullen, straddling a chair, his gloomy meditation shifting constantly from hand to hand, from Tizzy to Matthew. The huge forearms flexed, taking out a buckknife, he sc.r.a.ped his keen blade repeatedly, shaving a callous from the left hand's heel. Matthew watched him. The boy was sopping grits, hunkered in the corner. The third eye on his forehead was a rosy shiner.

"Say, what about you Bob?" he smacked his lips. "What's yer other name be? Maybe I heard o'yer clan."

"Lloyd." Bob let the skin shavings filter to the floor.

"Never heard of no Lloyd bunch," advised Matthew. "How bout you baby?"

"Nope." Tizzy shook her head, chewing, looking peakish. But she forced a friendly smile upon Bob. Bob was having none of it. The droopy-lids avoided her, he kept his business on the buckknife and the job at hand. Thunderclaps landed on top of each other. Sometimes the grumblings sounded like they came from him, from somewhere deep in his gullet. The fleshy chops and cliffhanger cheekbones were heavily seamed, leathery, yet he had an insolent, almost girlish mouth. He blew a dry scale off his blade. The eyes retreated in this light, disappearing into dark caverns and a bushy brow; cut like a rafter, his forehead hid any human gleam from the fire. His breath came dry and regular, trying to find something beyond this room, something needed, something deep inside that callous. Tizzy thought he looked like he was riding a bad horse named Devil's Teapot, a secret horse, sitting hard in the saddle with his tongue cut out. To her, Bob's hair looked groomed but too greasy, too long and swept back, a big city barbershop trim gone to seed. He was unnatural for such a natural man. And for the first time, Tizzy realized his tattoos were butchered. They were more like tattoo sc.r.a.ps. Bleached-out, wrinkly red and blue-green etchings which had been almost removed, altered until they were a twisting, scarred mess of old cuts and hairy remnants of color. Those tattoos had died torturous deaths. Tizzy chewed. She was pretty sure that was a snippet of dragon's tail, blue and curling up from scar tissue, down toward his left elbow.

"Sure 'preciate the supper, mister," she peeped at last. "Is that yer little girl? Sure is a cutie pie."

Bob grunted. Matthew tried not to laugh, stuffing it down with biscuit. Tizzy scowled at him. So did the dog.

Bob spake.

"Got a wife. Is her daughter. She's just waitin fer her mama to come home."

"Tonight?" asked Tizzy.

"Not too likely. Soon though. We all waitin fer her mama to come back." And he smiled, like a reptile.

"I'd sure be proud to meet her, maybe we'll git a chance before--"

"h.e.l.l's bells," Bob was booming. "Reckon you two grommets kin bed down till daylight. I thank I'm knowin where that Birdnell lives."

The floor timbers groaned as Bob unstraddled and left them. Matthew slid close to the rocker, ran his thumb up Tizzy's leg. Tizzy swatted him off, arousing the giant dog's suspicions. Tizzy stopped rocking. Doors were opened, then shut, adjustments made out in the blacker regions of the house. But even the little old ladykiller kept his County specs trained on the hound. The hound didn't like him. He didn't like the hound. Matthew hoped he didn't have to plug this big, mottly, egg-sucking b.a.s.t.a.r.d before all was said and done. There, there, Matthew thought. Nice pupper, Matthew thought. And this flea king here, he seized each thought in turn. Matthew would bet his life on it. So would Tizzy. The dog didn't like her. The dog read her mind. Tizzy was actually glad to see Bob.

He put Tizzy in a side bedroom, just off the parlor. It had a lumpy bed with nice chenille coverlets plus a bureau, a mirror, and an outside door of its own. Quickly, Tizzy returned to the parlor, lingering as long as possible. Afraid to be alone. Bob gave a raft of blankets to Matthew, telling him to make his pallet on the sideporch swing. The hearth made for poor sleeping, Bob said. Centipedes crept from the wood cradle. Especially after the fire died, he said.

The little girl had returned by then, carrying a broken, jagged-edged bottle. Brown gla.s.s dangled from the Dr.Pilcher's medicine label. Bob instructed her to make ready for bed. The dog had been let out, so Matthew was feeling dicey about the outdoors, but chose the porch anyway. He kissed Tizzy and wished her sweet dreams mama before he went. Then, without a goodnight grump or a by-your-leave, Bob retired to the other black bedroom, his heavy boots knocking into unseen furnishments.

Tizzy was justly queasy when she finally closed the parlor door. Alone in this bedroom, she was afraid to blow out the lantern. Wind kept singing through the cracks. Many, many psalms later she removed her buckletop shoes. Another prayer and she lay down. It took almost two hours to persuade herself out of her dress, and only after Tizzy lost her own tussle with darkness did the lantern's flame gutter then snuff out. She slept, for a while. By midnight the rains had let up. Atop the roof, the gra.s.shopper vane no longer spun. The next wind was never far off on the mountain, of course. But the locust would keep while quicksilver rivulets went slithering from the eaves.

Matthew woke up, somewhere in the wee hours. He grew restless riding his swing, leery of any movement in the moonless yard, listening to the odd drip and the night chitters. In time he threw back his blanket, then slipped around to the side door of Tizzy's room. It was open. Inside, in the dark bed, he found her sitting up and munching on a snack.

"Sweet-potater, sweet-potater, how's my little sweet potater? Say, where'd ye git the pie, mama?" He tiptoed over, slipping onto the quilt beside her.

"I brung it with me. And you ain't suppose to be in here..."

"Brung it from where...?" He was already nuzzling her ear.

"Brung it to school with me, fer dinnertime," she smacked away the last stolen bite.

"Haw, no wonder you wasn't so hongry back at that feedstore."

He kissed her. She let him for a little while, then caught her breath.

"Gee."

"But you said you was. Why'd you say you was hongry on the road, little gal...?" His lips engulfed her again, he was snickering, so was she. When it wasn't a b.e.s.t.i.a.l abomination, kissing could be pretty funny, Tizzy felt. Why, sometimes it was okay. Until he got fresh, that is, until his hands started scurrying under the sheets, his split thumb fumbling for her nipple.

"Matthew, quit it," she whispered, shoving him off. "Behave or I'll holler."

"Tizzy hon," he whispered back, his breath hot. "I got me a bad rash. Mebbe you kin help me doctor it. It's a unhealthy condition and only my mama kin work the cure--"

"Hush, you are utterly--"

"Let's play married folks, now, you kin be my wife. Fer a little while."

"Matthew, stop yer grabbin, I ain't old enough to be no wife."

"Sure ye be. Merf Tuckabee's girl, Ruth, married that pot drummer last harvest moon. And she'uz only thirteen."

"She had to, you ignorant boy--"

"What's so ignorant about this?" He kissed her again, his tongue exploring. She began to explore back. But she fretted every inch of it. Maybe the bedsprings were too noisy. And what if their whispers were heard, or worse?

"You could be my wife, it's possible, I ain't tole n.o.body up hyere ye wasn't. I thank I love ye Tizzy." He was back at it, they traded breath, his nibbling lips shot small tremors through her.

"I ain't ready. You need a gold rang, and a preacherman..." she murmured, struggling to retain the blanket.

"Don't need no preacherman, baby, this is jist pretend," and he touched her where she'd scarcely been touched. Tizzy gasped.

"Buuut-ton---?"

They froze. It was him.

"b.u.t.ton---" The voice echoed outside, deep and mournful. Bob's voice.

"Where is he...?" Tizzy arms were still locked around Matthew's neck, her eyes black, shining with heat.