AFTER THAT NAP AND supper at the diner, I walked back to the park by the river. Getting there at seven-thirty would be plenty of time to watch kids play with sparklers and see who would win the adult potato sack race.
Judging from the insults being hurled about fifty yards behind me, the race hadn't started yet. Idly, I wondered why we still called it a potato sack race when plain burlap bags had been used for probably decades.
I hadn't brought a picnic basket, just a large jug of iced tea. Sandi had promised to bring some chips and salsa. Unspoken was that if she had learned more about Frost's death or my time in the closet, she would pass it on.
I spread a blanket on the ground, but didn't sit.
Maybe twenty yards out in the river, the company hired to conduct the fireworks had set up a portable, metal platform. River's Edge only buys one or two sky-high displays. They're too expensive. A lot of mid-sky fireworks still draw oohs and aahs.
The brisk air was thick with humidity, but not yet cool enough to be uncomfortable. That would come at dark, with more mosquitoes. Until then, my jeans would make me a bit warm, but at least I wouldn't need a ton of anti-itch meds in the morning.
Small tables rimmed the center of the park, boasting anything from homemade baked goods to embroidered flags to whittled flutes. Several of the latter were being played off-tune in various parts of the picnic area.
The Future Farmers of America had a display table describing its purpose. Whenever anyone got close to the four fresh-faced teens, they pointed to literature arrayed in front of them. Only adults stopped to talk.
I saw Brad and David's truck parked at the far end of the lot. The back end was raised. As people walked by it, they held their noses or fanned the air in front of their faces. Then they gave the truck a wide berth.
Though local people sold all kinds of things at the picnic area tables, most commercial vendors sold hot dogs, cotton candy, and small flags. In fact, I thought any commercial vendors had to be licensed. Why would Brad and David think they could sell manure at a Fourth of July fireworks event?
I deflected several sympathetic comments about Ambrose's arrest and kept scanning the area for Sandi. Finally she waved at me from near the Snack Shack, letting me know she'd join me in a minute.
The blanket I had placed on the grass had been mussed by people walking on it, so I straightened it. As I stood up again, I saw Brad lift a sack from the back of the truck and hand it to a guy in cutoffs and a red tee shirt. Brad, in a long-sleeved flannel shirt, was dressed for dirty work.
My first thought after who would buy crap at a fireworks show was that the mosquitoes were going to feast on the buyer's legs. My second was to wonder why he started to walk toward the field of picnickers.
Brad called something to him. The man laughed, turned, and started toward a nearby row of parked cars. His bag sagged in the middle, and I half-expected manure to spill on the parking lot. Or maybe it wouldn't because the bag sagged.
But a full bag of smelly manure wouldn't bend so much in the middle.
I remembered the woman who had argued with Brad and David at the Farmers' Market. She had wanted her bag delivered. It seemed like really poor service to make people carry their own… Their own…
Then it hit me. Fireworks! Brad and David didn't just sell stinky fertilizer. They were selling fireworks out of the back of the truck!
Except, wouldn't people notice? In bulk, fireworks smelled of black powder and sulfur.
But no one would smell fireworks in that truck because the scent of the bags of dung would cover any other odor.
I felt more excited than if I'd won the lottery. David and Brad were the competitors Nelson knew about. And their small panel truck would easily fit in our barn.
Two tow-headed boys about five years old ran in front of me, each holding a burning sparkler and laughing loudly.
A woman behind them yelled, "Mathew, Marcus! Stop running with those!"
The boys slowed to something close to a walk, still giggling.
My head turned toward the truck, and Brad met my gaze. I kept staring. Then I extended my arm and pointed at him. I lowered my arm and started walking toward the truck.
Brad must have realized my glower had nothing to do with fertilizer. He called something to David, but the latter was shaking a finger at two girls who had placed a conical firework about one foot high on the ground near the truck.
I focused on the girls. One was Rachel, whom I had earlier seen with her mom. She was wearing a tee-shirt with a cat on it, not unlike the one she'd petted when we met on the square.
The other girl was perhaps eleven or twelve, and I didn't know her. They didn't seem to like what David was saying to them.
Then I noted several other children by the truck. It seemed odd, until I remembered they probably knew Brad and David because their parents bought fireworks from the two men.
As I got closer, I realized the two girls planned to light their firework. The older girl bent over the yellow and orange cone.
"No," I whispered, and began to trot.
A flicker and sputtering red sparks said the firework had been lit. Rachel leaned close to it. That was stupid.
Where are her parents?
Brad had now jumped off the back of the truck and also yelled something at the girls.
A taller boy, maybe fifteen, had been about ten feet from Rachel. He turned to yell at Brad for hollering at Rachel. It was the older brother who had not seemed to like having Rachel trail him around the square. One of the two boys who raced kayaks earlier today.
Suddenly, Rachel shrieked and grabbed her hand. She tried to get her brother's attention by raising her probably stinging hand. He stood a few yards away, too busy yelling at Brad to notice.
Just sparks, it's only sparks.
I broke into a run. So did the older girl. She high-tailed it away from Rachel. Probably the girls weren't supposed to light the cones.
Other kids hurried away. They probably didn't want to get yelled at by Brad. Or their parents, who’d likely told the kids not to get near lit fireworks.
For some reason known only to him, Rachel's brother picked up the sputtering cone, which appeared about to go into full display, and pointed it at David, who ducked.
"Put the goddamned thing down," Brad yelled, but he didn't get close enough to try to grab it.
David stood up and leaned toward the boy.
The brother's red face had a contorted expression. With his back to Rachel, he dipped his arm. In an underhanded throw, he tossed the now sizzling cone at David.
David again demonstrated his ducking skills, and the cone, now spewing red and green sparks in a steady stream, landed in the truck.
Brad raised a fist and the brother, still seemingly unaware of Rachel, turned to run.
He thought he was throwing at a pile of dung. He doesn't know what he did.
I ran faster.
The yelling and Rachel's cries seemed to have aroused some attention. I thought I heard footfalls behind me. Probably a couple of parents running toward the truck.
David shouted, "Back away!"
Brad hollered, "Run!" And he did.
Rachel was rooted to her spot, crying ever more shrilly. Any adult at all close was rounding up their own kids.
I got to her, put one arm around her torso, and picked her up by the back waistband of her cotton pants with my other hand. I barely broke stride and ran like a gazelle, Rachel bouncing off my right hip.
We were only about twenty feet past the truck, when its fireworks began going off in earnest. Individually, they wouldn't have been too loud, but the percussion of the group bang inside a metal truck nearly pierced my eardrums.
Rachel kicked one foot. "Put me down! Mommy!"
Another twenty feet, and we reached the far edge of the picnic area, a good distance from the truck and not far from where I had placed my picnic blanket. I set Rachel on the ground.
She stopped screaming and reached behind her to pull her underwear out of her butt.
I glanced at her reddened hand. It surely stung, but wasn't a serious burn.
Rachel looked up at me. Both wide-eyed, we turned to watch a few of the exploding fireworks spew from the rear of the truck.
If I hadn't feared the potential explosion, the multiple colors and bright lights would have been fun to watch. I hoped against hope that the manure would block more from erupting from the panel truck. Or worse.
Screams and yells came from all around. A man's loud voice yelled, "It's terrorists!"
A bunch of people shouted him down. Probably people who had bought the illicit fireworks from David and Brad, I thought.
"We have to back up more," I commanded.
Rachel complied, staying next to me, now silent.
A man ran toward a Lincoln Navigator parked near the panel truck. He had keys in his hand.
"My God."
I had spoken softly, and Rachel asked, "Are you praying?"
The low rumble lasted only three or four seconds, just enough time for the Lincoln's owner to realize his life was more valuable than the car. He turned and sprinted far enough in two seconds to qualify for at least a state title, maybe the Olympics.
The explosion inside the truck thundered loudly, but it was the gas tank that added the sonic boom effect.
RACHEL'S PARENTS TOLD everyone within earshot that I'd saved their daughter's life. The term earshot wasn't really accurate, because I couldn't hear much of anything yet.
I kept backing away after each hug from her tearful mother.
Finally, Sandi rescued me by running up to say I had to help her with a story for the paper. She guided me by the elbow, with me walking backwards, until we were close to the Snack Shack.
My eyes stayed riveted on the remains of the now-smoldering chunks of metal that had been Brad and David's truck. The fire trucks had been on scene and used chemical flame retardant in addition to water. Any other night, they wouldn't have had as much of the retardant.
Because the two men had parked their truck toward the back of the lot, few cars had been near it. Even so, it looked as if the blast had shattered a lot of car windows. Shards of glass were everywhere.
Smoke had dissipated from the park, but the odor permeated my clothes and the air around us. It smelled like a cross between a bunch of stink bombs, a glowing fireplace, and an electrical fire. Kind of like when a toaster oven wouldn't turn off and the wires began to fray. But a lot worse.
People kept saying we were lucky no one got killed, but I hadn't seen David yet. I'd been too busy carting Rachel away from the truck to notice Brad and David when the explosion started.
"Melanie. Look at me!" Sandi's voice came through, dimly, and she sounded panicked.
I moved my gaze to her. "What?"
"Are you in shock? Are your ears okay?"
I touched my left ear. "The ringing's going down. Did you see David yet?"
"David Bates?"
I nodded toward the truck and back to Sandi. "It was his truck. His and Brad's."
Her eyes widened, and she looked toward the smoldering truck ruins. "I saw Brad."
We stared at the hunks of metal, saying nothing for almost a minute.
Aaron Granger's voice broke our reverie. "Uh, Melanie. Can you talk to me?"
He wasn't in uniform, but had his sheriff deputy's badge pinned to a now-dirty tee shirt that had a picture of a burning firecracker and said, "Play safe."
I cleared my throat. "Sure."
"People said you grabbed the girl. Can you tell me how you happened to be close enough to do that?"
I whispered. "The truck. When I saw it tonight, I realized they used the fertilizer to cover the smell of the fireworks. They were selling fireworks."
His seemed more puzzled than anything. "So why go over there?"
My eyes filled with tears, and I looked at Granger more directly. "I think Brad and David were probably storing them in my barn."
His expression went from realization to horror, and he bent over and vomited into someone's open picnic basket.