“No, I’m looking for—”
The square face, with its huge flat-brimmed hat, leaned down. The name tag on his chest caught the light, and Don saw the word PAFFORD. “I asked you a yes-or-no question, not for your life story. If you’re having car trouble, I’ll call you a tow truck and make sure you get to a garage. If not, I expect to find you gone when I come back by here. Understand me?”
Don blinked in surprise. “I was just going to ask for some help with directions. I’m trying to find the turnoff for—”
Pafford smiled. Don suspected it was for the benefit of the trooper’s dashboard video camera, because his voice was a snarl of contempt. “Get smart with me, son, and I’ll shove a Taser so far up your ass, your nose will light up like Rudolph’s. I ran your license plate; I know you’re one of them reporters making a big deal out of Bronwyn Hyatt. Around here she ain’t no hero, she’s just white trash from the hills who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. You makin’ over her just means every other half-nigger Tufa will think they can smart off to the law and get away with it.”
Don stared. He’d encountered all sorts of cops in his job, but never one so brazen in his prejudices. “Officer,” he said carefully, “I don’t believe I’m breaking any laws sitting here. I’m certainly not bothering anyone.”
“You’re bothering me. And if you look up and down this highway, you’ll see that’s the worst thing you could be doing, because ain’t nobody gonna come help you out. Now git before I lose my good nature, and you lose an awful lot of time and money to the Great State of Tennessee.”
Don’s hands shook as he turned the key and pulled slowly out onto the highway. The trooper stood watching, hip cocked, one hand on his gun. Don wanted to turn around and go back the way he came, but instead drove straight, forty miles out of his way, to make sure he didn’t have to pass the trooper again.
By the time he hit the junction to Highway B near the interstate, his anger had truly peaked. He thought of calling Sam at the Horn and getting a lawyer involved, but he had no proof of anything. After all, the trooper let him off with a warning, and the dashboard camera would show nothing out of line.
“Fuck,” he snarled. He was as angry as he’d ever been, just like he used to get as a young man. But this was no frat-house bully, he reminded himself. This was a cop, who could beat him senseless—or kill him—and get away with it.
He stopped at the intersection. There was no other traffic, and he took a moment to calm down. But it was hard to do; it felt like something long buried was now free and unwilling to go back in its box.
“You’re not chasing me off,” Don said to the air. “I’ll find that goddamned road. Just wait and see if I don’t. And if I see your blue lights again, I’ll make my own recording of what goes down, and we’ll see what happens then.”
But first, he decided, he needed some lunch. His anger had left him ravenous. He turned onto the access road that ran parallel to the interstate until he reached the exit with a Shoney’s restaurant. He parked and gathered his atlas and printouts; maybe he was just disoriented, and the turn was actually obvious. He’d make another run before giving up, and if he ran into that trooper again, he’d be sure to have his cell phone on to record the conversation.
As he entered the restaurant and waited for his eyes to adjust, someone called, “Don!”
He turned. George Landers waved from the cash register. Don went over and shook hands. “You’re a long way from Unicorn,” Landers observed. “Is one of our softball teams in a tournament I don’t know about?”
“No, I’m on double-secret assignment,” Don said with mock drama. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to write your obituary.”
Landers turned to the young man beside him. “Don, this is Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church in Cloud County.”
Don’s eyebrows rose. “There’s a Methodist Church in Cloud County?”
“Why does everyone react like that?” Craig said with a smile. “And no, technically it’s not. The county line is on the highway right past the church driveway, so we’re actually in Smithborough.”
“Ah,” Don said. “So it’s wishful thinking by the diocese.”
“District,” Landers said. “We’re not Catholic.”
“I stand corrected. At any rate, Reverend Chess, it’s nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands.
“So what’s with all the maps?” Landers asked. “Are you looking for old Colonel Drake’s Confederate treasure?”
“I’m supposed to interview Bronwyn Hyatt, the war hero. I went out to visit them, but I couldn’t find the turnoff.”
Landers turned to the younger minister. “You’ve been out there, haven’t you, Craig?”
“Yes. It wasn’t hard. The turnoff is on Highway 23 just past Jenkins Trail.”
“I know, that’s where I’ve been looking.”
“That’s odd,” Craig said. “The road they live on is a dead end, so there’s no other way to get there.”
Don nodded. “Yeah. The Tufa curse strikes again, I suppose.”
“The what?”
“Oh, it’s just something people say about the Tufa: that if they don’t want to be found, you won’t find them. Old wives’ tale.”
“There’s a lot of those about the Tufa,” Landers said. “Craig and I have just been discussing some of them. Well, good luck.”
Craig said, “Don, pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Don said.
Outside, Landers shook Craig’s hand and went to his car. Craig glanced back at the restaurant, and saw the reporter take a seat in a window booth. Like a lot of local people, the reporter bore the visible traces of Tufa ancestry, but seemed not to be one; certainly he lacked the flat, noncommittal stare the Needsville Tufas presented.
As Craig unlocked his own car, a loud rumble made him look up. An ancient pickup driven by a skinny middle-aged man parked in the handicapped spot near the door. A blue state placard permitting this hung from the rearview mirror. The truck bed was filled with children, the boys all skeletally thin like the driver, the girls round like Christmas ornaments. All had black hair, dead eyes, and suspicious expressions focused on Craig.
“Hi,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The father stepped out of the cab and said, “We teach ’em not to talk to strangers, mister. Can’t never tell these days.”
“That’s a sad truth,” Craig said, and offered his hand. “I’m Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”
The man’s hand was strong and wiry. Craig noticed the pinkie was missing. “Nice to meet you, Father,” he drawled.
“We’re trying to get a children’s program started at the church; we’d love to see you bring your family. It’s just across the county line in Smithborough.”
“Oh, I reckon we’re too busy for that sort of stuff,” the man said. “We live way up in the hills, anyway.”
Craig knew not to push the issue. He was a minister, not a missionary. All he could do was let them know his church was open to them. “Well, think about it, and if you can find the time, we’d be pleased to have you.”
The man’s wife, as large as he was thin, herded the children inside. As Craig pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on impulse away from the interstate, toward Needsville. To date, the Hyatts were the only Tufas who had been pleasant to him, and he had to admit the memory of Bronwyn Hyatt kept reappearing in his imagination, especially when he was in bed at night. The best way to exorcise such fantasies, he’d learned, was to confront them directly. Besides, they had invited him back.