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brother, but the fact that Petey Sanchez was lying dead in the weeds would not cost Pepper Nash a minute’s sleep. He would give it no more thought than if Adrian had punched Petey in the nose. Petey Sanchez? Fuck him. He got what he deserved. That psycho hit Adrian twice with a tree branch and Adrian punched his ticket, gave him a one-way trip to the big retard school in the sky. Sayonara, crazy boy. I’m glad the goofy sonofabitch is gone. And that would be that. How much for that maul, Fats?
    As it became apparent that our business at the rock was complete, Adrian turned and began walking toward the river. Pepper instinctively knew what his brother was going to do and said, “Wait, Adrian, don’t throw that away. It’s worth a lot of money.”
    Adrian stopped and looked at Pepper for a long moment, as though contemplating the risk versus the financial gain, then he took a few more steps and hurled the maul far into the Ohio. When it hit, the water plumed up on both sides and for an instant looked like a glass vase before fading into ripples that were soon consumed by the current.
    â€œDammit,” Pepper said.
    We walked across the furrowed field, stepping over young corn sprouts, heading for the wooden foot bridge that spanned the Little Seneca below Third Street. When we were halfway across, Adrian turned and asked, “Are you keeping that for a souvenir?”
    In my hand was Petey’s oak branch. I had taken it to remove any clues from the crime scene, but had been mindlessly using it as a walking stick. I inspected it for a moment, then dropped it over the side of the bridge and into the rushing waters of Little Seneca Creek, which was still running fast from the previous day’s rain. We all watched it float downstream until it went through the concrete culvert under the New York Central tracks and made its way to join the maul in the Ohio.

Chapter Four
    T he front door of Fats Pennington’s antique shop could be reached only by traversing a weed- and gravel-covered lot that was cluttered with rusting farm implements, a couple of old-fashioned gasoline pumps, a weathered church pew on which Fats sunned his considerable girth on slow days, several wagon wheels with missing spokes, and a battered wicker gondola from a hot air balloon that Fats swore had been used by troops under the command of Ulysses S. Grant to spy on the Confederates during the Tennessee campaign of 1863. “Only a hundred and twenty dollars to own a piece of history,” he once told me.
    As we crossed Third Street at the south end of town, Deak extended his hand and gave Pepper his spear point and a smaller white arrowhead. “Add these to your collection to sell Fats,” Deak said.
    Pepper frowned. “You want the money, don’t you?”
    â€œNah, you keep it.”
    Pepper shrugged and headed into the antique shop. We stayed outside in the lot amid the rusting farm implements and General Grant’s gondola. “That spear point is a prize,” I said.
    â€œI don’t care. I don’t want it in my bedroom. I don’t want to have to look at it and be reminded of this day.”
    Fred Webb, a biology teacher at the high school and the line coach on the football team, drove by in his pickup truck, honked, and waved without taking his hand off the wheel. The bus fromSteubenville went past us going south, blowing exhaust in our faces. It went to the gravel turnaround at the edge of town and came back, pulling up to the sheltered stop in front of the sand quarry to pick up Mrs. Bush, a nearly blind retired schoolteacher who felt her way up the steps with a mahogany cane.
    â€œIt’s going to be all right,” I said.
    Deak nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”
    In another minute the Nashes came out of the shop, Pepper dividing the bills between them.
    â€œTwenty-four bucks with the points Deak gave us,” Pepper said. “We’d have gotten a lot more if you