Chapter 13

 

At the top of the creek trail Amy and I paused to catch our breath. Amy shined the flashlight up the road. It cut a beam about three miles wide. I’d have to put one of those babies on next year’s Christmas list.

“The farmhouse is just around the corner,” she said.

I’d remembered. “Any current residents?”

“Just the rats.”

“Well, then, shall we?”

Amy wrinkled up her cute, altered nose and stared off in the direction of the old Delozier place. “Why not?” I could think of a whole bunch of reasons why not, starting with the rats, but I wasn’t going to be a big weenie and bring them up. Neither was Amy.

We left the car parked where it was. Amy led with way with her monster flashlight and, like real Girl Scouts minus our sit-upons and knapsacks, a-wanderin’ we went.

 

The house was a creaky, collapsing wreck. It looked like the Psycho house, only worse. The front porch was busy with the process of caving in, so we went around back. Amy had a key, but there was no need for it. The back door was swinging on one weathered hinge.

The Delozier place had never been much to look at, but things had fallen into a sad state. There’s something seriously unattractive about rampant decay. Amy hadn’t been kidding about the rodents. I could hear them romping through what was left of the walls. It sounded like there was a rat soccer match going on. 

“I hope Larry White was planning on doing a little remodeling,” I said.

 

Cautiously, we made our way through the old house, batting away cobwebs, sidestepping the gaping holes in the floorboard and piles of shattered glass. There were beer cans and fast-food trash strewn in the corners, probably left by kids screwing around, but even the garbage looked old.

“God, this is depressing,” Amy said.

She had that right.

“Should we check out the barn?” she said.

“Absolutely.” I pushed open the squeaky back door. The Delozier barn had shifted dramatically to the left, not unlike my better judgment hat, but somehow it looked more intact than the house. Maybe there was just less of it to fall apart.

We shoved one of the heavy sliding doors open, and Amy let her big beam wander around the dark interior of the barn. More rodent scrambling. Some unidentifiable farm equipment rusted away in the back corner of the barn.

The place still held the smell of hay and dust and animals and curing tobacco. Quite an aphrodisiac.

Amy’s beam lit up the hayloft ladder.

“Dare ya,” she said.

“I double-dare you.”

“Oh, brother.” She turned and started for the ladder.

 

When she was half way up the ladder, she turned and peered down at me.

“Hey, who’s the big weenie now?” she taunted.

Not that I needed much of a nudge, but that really did it. In a flash, I was right behind her.

 

We sat down together, high above the barn floor, and dangled our feet over the edge of the loft, just like old times. It was unbelievable, really.

“I don’t think I ever did master the art of the French kiss,” Amy said, looking at her shoes.

“That’s a shame.”

“I take it that means you did?” she said with a sly grin.

Would somebody please just come along and knock the fucking hat off my head? “Something like that.”

Amy elbowed me playfully. “You’re funny. You know that?”

I was feeling a lot of things, but funny wasn’t one of them.

“I’ll bet we’re sitting in the middle of some damn rat’s nest,” Amy said, reluctantly shining the light around the hayloft.

Something skittered for the far corner. For a moment I thought I felt something squirm under my butt.

“Well, what do you wanna do now?” Amy said.

I refrained from truthfully answering the question, something I should learn to do more of. Amy studied me like I was a mildly amusing riddle.

“You know,” I said, definitely having just felt something wriggle underneath me, “you might be right about the rat’s nest.” Then something most certainly rodent-like shot through the hay, not two inches from our behinds.

“Holy crap!” Amy screeched and scrambled for the ladder.

Once again, I was right behind her.