“Oh, yeah. I saw the feds sneaking in there, every day, and then last night I saw the drug guys going in, so I figured the raid would be coming, and I went over to watch. Were you up there?”
“Yeah. Sort of out on the end of things, down the road. Saw a guy running away, and we never did catch him.”
“Yeah, that was probably Roy Zorn. I saw him take off as soon as the lights came on and you-all started yelling at them.”
“You know for sure it was Zorn?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t see his face, but he moved through the woods like Roy does.”
“Okay.”
Virgil stood up and dusted off his pants and asked, “Your folks up at the house?”
“My dad is. My mom died.”
“Sorry about that. Mind if I talk to your dad?”
“He was asleep when I left.” He looked up at the sky and said, “Probably awake now, though.” Virgil thought, Holy shit, he looked up at the sky to see what time it is.
The kid pointed out a driveway that came off the road down fifty yards or so. “You walk right up the drive, it’s a way, but it’s easy. Or you can drive up, when your buddy gets back.”
“He oughta be here in a couple of minutes,” Virgil said. “We can wait.”
“I’ll see you up there,” the kid said.
“What’s your name?” Virgil called after him.
“McKinley,” the kid called back, as he faded into the brush. “McKinley Ruff.”
—
JOHNSON JOHNSON SHOWED UP three or four minutes later, driving Virgil’s truck. Virgil took the wheel, and told Johnson about the kid as they bounced up the gravel driveway, past a mailbox that said “Ruff.” The driveway came off at right angles to the street, but then took a left turn and led straight west, past the pound, and four hundred yards deeper into the valley.
At the end of the track was a rambling house with a brown-stained rough board siding, a wide covered front porch, and a low-pitched roof covered with cedar shingles. A garden spread off to one side, heavy with the vine plants—squash, cucumbers, watermelon—and a half-dozen fruit trees were spotted around the side yard. A metal shed, which would probably take four cars, was set well back from the house and partly obscured by trees.
“Not bad,” Johnson said. “I could live here.”
McKinley Ruff was waiting for them on the porch, his rifle still cradled in his arm. “Reminds me of myself, when I was his age,” Johnson said. “If it wasn’t a gun, it was a fishing rod. Three whole summers like that, and then I discovered women. Which was a lot more dangerous than any gun. As you would know.”
“Not a bad-looking place, but speaking of peckerwoods, I have a feeling that the Ruffs could qualify.”
“We’ll see,” Johnson said.
They got out of the truck and walked up to the house and Virgil noticed that Johnson’s shirt was hanging loose, which meant that he was probably packing. Not a good time to object, Virgil thought.
McKinley Ruff said, “Dad’s inside, transposing. He said you should come on in.”
Virgil and Johnson glanced at each other: transposing?
They followed McKinley through the screen door and the heavy front door behind it, where they found the elder Ruff sitting at a plank table with a pile of paper in front of him. Standing in ranks along one wall were eight or nine guitars on guitar stands, two keyboards, and an older upright piano, a bunch of amps and other electronic music equipment, including a drum machine.