CHAPTER NINE

In the old shed behind his house, Randall Kern yanked the blue tarp off the gasoline cans. Dust leapt off the reddish-yellow metal containers and swirled in the afternoon sunlight before landing back on any surface it could find.

He preferred the old-style gas cans rather than modern red plastic. Yet these old-timey things were getting more difficult to find. Stepping carefully between the table saw and shelves cluttered with knickknacks, he added two more gas cans to his collection, which made forty.

Sharp dog barks came from the front of the house. Damn it. In the ten years since the disaster at Zephyr Land, no one had knocked on his door. No one even gave him the time of day anymore. After those bastards at Bello and Toale ruined his reputation, every ounce of Southern neighborly goodwill wilted up and died. No one came knocking unless they didn’t know better.

Meaning whoever stood at the door must be from one of those Bible-toting religions. Seemed new crops of ’em appeared every week.

“I’m coming, Catfish.”

When Randall returned inside the house from the backyard, his German shepherd hadn’t left the front door. Catfish stood tall, fur erect down the slope of his back. He barked loud, baring large white teeth.

“Who we going to scare away today?” Randall chuckled. He approached the front door, reaching for the dog collar to hold Catfish back. Then he opened the door.

Three little old ladies instantly widened their eyes at the dog. Their mouths formed three simultaneous Os as they turned their gaze on Randall.

“Sign says no soliciting,” Randall said. “What are you doing here?”

The middle woman with the round face spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t see any sign.”

Just like most people. Damn, he hated strangers knocking on his door. What right did they have? Push their agenda on him? Only person who better had come knocking was Ed McMahon. And he was dead.

Randall turned his head to the left and pointed. “The sign is right there…” But it wasn’t. “What the hell?”

“Like we said, there wasn’t a sign. We’re sorry to bother you. Perhaps we should go.”

Catfish inched forward. Randall kept a tight grip on the collar. “What did you do with my sign?”

The color washed away from their faces. “Nothing,” they said in unison.

“Crap.” He shut the door and ordered Catfish to go to his crate. Now to investigate what the hell happened to his sign. Stepping outside, he saw his No Soliciting sign broken into three large wood pieces on the lawn. “Damn neighborhood kids always messing with me.”

“We’ll mark your house as no soliciting,” the round woman said as they walked backward to get away.

“Tell all them other religions the same!”

Their waddling forms eventually faded from sight. Randall picked up his debris, glaring up and down the street. “Damn this place. Never was any good to me. Not then, not now.”

* * *

Randall marched through the aisles of Home Improvement Warehouse. An array of signs including Beware of Dog and No Soliciting were for sale in different colors.

Why couldn’t they have the one he really wanted? “Stay the hell away from my home.”

“Can I help you, sir?” a young kid asked with a plastic smile. Damn overachieving idiot.

“No. Got what I need.” Randall reached for the brightest red sign he could find, then went to the tools department.

Tracing his fingers along a hammer’s edge, his imagination returned to Chester and Andrew. Every time someone knocked on his door in this small Alabama town, it was a reminder of how many people no longer came to his door. A curt reminder of how those bastards had ruined everything.

Voices in the next aisle knocked him from his thoughts.

“The library finally had some visitors this morning.”

“That’s amazing. They ask for directions, or did they actually come to get a book?”

“Nah, they wanted to see old newspapers about Zephyr Land.”

Randall froze. His muscles clenched, he held his breath. It had been ten years since the accident. Who the hell would be asking questions now?

“The whole county knows the police and insurance inspectors deemed the derailment an accident. Those kids aren’t going to find anything new.”

“One of them got permission to be in the park. He’s working on some paper. Apparently the guy is an engineer.”

The lump in Randall’s throat boomed into his stomach. Not only were there tourists sneaking around and looking for info, but one was an engineer?

Not good. He tried finding out who had been talking on the next aisle, but when he casually walked past, whoever it was had left.

He looked up at the aisle pointers for different supplies. Maybe forty cans of gasoline weren’t quite enough. He’d get a few more. Just to be safe.