“Psychochristians,” Judy said. “Let’s go get the stuff. If they start yelling at us, we can yell back. I’ll think of some good things to say.”
Actually, Judy couldn’t think of anything to say. She hadn’t been able to think of anything when Mallory had come home in tears because Barbie McGuffie had backed her into a wall at recess to tell her that she was going to Hell, and her whole family was going to Hell, because they were atheists and worshiped the devil. Mallory hadn’t even known what an atheist was.
There had to be a way, Judy thought, there really had to be. There had to be a way to make these people see how ridiculous they were.
Lately, Judy had begun to think that she might really want to be an atheist, if only because it meant she was nothing at all like the longtime population of Snow Hill, Pennsylvania.
6
Gary Albright had been a cop in Snow Hill almost from the day he left the Marine Corps. He had been a legend since one long winter weekend in 2006. The legend part made him nervous, although he understood it, more or less. Mostly, he understood why people seemed to be in awe of his missing leg. He’d been in awe of Marines with missing limbs, once. It had seemed like the worst thing in the world that could happen to anybody. Gary had been an athlete in high school, on the football, basketball, and baseball teams of a small-town school that didn’t have the student population to throw up much in the way of competition. He’d understood that from the start. He hadn’t been pro-ball material, or even college-team material. He didn’t have a chance in Hell of marching off into the sunset after high school graduation and showing up in a Dallas Cowboys uniform. Still, he’d been in good shape, active and happy in his own body. The idea of having less of it—less of that body—was what had scared him enough to put off enlisting for three solid months.
This morning Gary was doing what he had been doing since the day they’d found him lying up there in the hills with his leg gone. He was going through the endless paperwork that was now required even of small-town police forces. Not that Snow Hill had much of a force. There was Gary, who had been named chief at the ridiculously young age of thirty-six after the old chief, the one who had been there since Gary was a kid, had been caught dealing marijuana to black kids in Harrisburg. There was Eddie Block, who served as patrolman for the west side of town. There was Tom Fordman, who served as patrolman for the east. It was a simple enough system, and since nothing ever happened in Snow Hill except domestic disputes and teen-agers getting stupid, it worked well enough.
Gary was working well enough, this morning. That was a good thing because he was feeling very tired. Even Humphrey had noticed it, and when Humphrey thought Gary was upset he was likely to get crazy. The town put up with having the dog in the police station—they had to put up with it; after the whole thing with Gary on the hill and the dog and the baby, nobody in town could have refused—but they wouldn’t put up with it long if Humphrey started shredding furniture on a regular basis. Fortunately, Humphrey was a very good dog. He only lost it when he thought Gary was losing it, too.
“I’m not losing it,” Gary said out loud, still staring down at the papers on his desk.
Across the room, from the desk next to the guard rail that was supposed to keep the public and the officers separated, Tina Clay looked up.
“Did you say something, Gary? Is there something I could get for you?”
Tina was one of those people who seemed to think that because Gary was missing most of his left leg, he couldn’t do anything for himself. It was one of those things he found impossible to understand; and there were a lot more things in that category. In truth, Gary found most human beings completely mystifying, and he was sure that this had made him less of a police officer than he should have been.
Gary looked over the papers again. “Thank you,” he said. It was always the best policy to be polite. That was one of the things he had not learned from his mother. “I don’t need anything you can get me. I’m wondering if we need to hire on some extra men for when the trial opens.”
“The trial,” Tina said. Then she sniffed. “I don’t know how you can be so calm about it. To think of those people. All of them. They’re not even from here, most of them.”
“Annie-Vic is from here,” Gary said calmly. “Henry Wackford is, too. Wackford Squeers has been on Main Street since before I was born.”
“Still,” Tina said. She was a middle-aged woman with sparse hair that had been tinted too implausible a shade of red, and thick folds of fat that were emphazised because her clothes were always at least a size too small. If Gary had been the kind of man who wondered about how he felt about things, he would have to wonder if he liked Tina Clay.