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but when she’d put Mom on the sofa in the place where I’d been sitting and stayed where she had been, there on the low table, it began to go all right. Mom really gave out with it, all about her “doing my best, to get it through his head what would happen to him if he dast to kill that girl.” You’d have thought Mom was the star of the show, and the woman was suddenly delighted. Then Mom blurted out: “But my boy is the one—except he didn’t tell it right. We’re mountain, and we don’t brag about what we do. But when the time comes to do it, we do it—as he done.”
    You could tell how pleased the woman was, and I was doubly pleased, from having my worry eased. Then she and her crew left, and Mom kept asking: “Was I all right?” I told her she was and patted her cheek, but right away I wished I hadn’t. She grabbed my hand and kissed inside the palm in that sticky way that she had. But the sound truck was hardly gone when a little Chevy showed up with three reporters in it—one from the Marietta Times , one from a Chicago paper, and one from some news service, maybe the Associated Press. They had cameras with them and took our pictures. Then they began asking questions, one of them with a recorder, so we had to start all over. By now Mom was doing it big and this time gave out with all kinds of stuff about how she’d looked for the money, “and pretty near drowned out there, when that johnboat all but tipped over—because I don’t swim, not a stroke.” Then they left, and once more I felt relieved, though what about I didn’t quite know.
    Then some people came in with a ham all cooked up, potato salad, baked beans in a casserole, and a can of shrimp—“as we know how busy you must be, and some lunch will come in handy.” But what they really meant was they wanted to hear about it. The radio had carried the news, at least that I’d killed Shaw, so the girl was safe. They were from a couple of miles upriver. At that time of year, nobody lived very near us. There were houses on both sides of the river, but of summer people who locked up their places in winter and hauled their boats out on trestles. So I put out some of the ham, beans, and salad, and Mom told it again, this time about finding the chute. But right in the middle of it, around one o’clock I would say, the phone rang. When I answered, it was a lawyer I know whose car I had gassed often and who seemed to like me. Fact of the matter, I thought he was responsible for me being picked to follow Mr. Holt as manager of the station soon as he leaves for California next summer when he retires. Bledsoe was his name. I knew from the tone of his voice he had something on his mind.
    â€œDave?” he asked very sharp. “Are you alone? Are you free to talk?” I told him: “Not right now, I’m not. Can I call you back?”
    â€œMake it quick, Dave.”
    He gave me his home number, and the people who could hear got the point and left. When I called him back, he said: “Dave, I heard something just now that may mean nothing at all, but on the other hand, it may mean plenty. But first, how do things stand with Edgren?”
    â€œWell, he was out—he and a deputy named Mantle. That’s his righthand man, apparently. He told us to stand by, that’s all.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFurther questioning.”
    â€œYes, but when?”
    â€œLater on today—five o’clock he thought. If the girl is able to travel.”
    â€œYeah, the girl. She’s what I’m calling about. Dave, I had a call just now from Rich Duncan, a client whose car was stolen, or so he thought. He’d reported the theft to the sheriff’s office. Then when he found his daughter had taken the car for a weekend with the boyfriend at a motel over in McConnelsville, he called me about what to do. So I told him get in there fast, to sign