Five Miles to Paradise

11

Funny, how fast bad news travels.

Heck drove out to Palmer's place, woke him, and told him to fetch Mervyn and meet him back at the mill pond as fast as possible. All three would begin a thorough search for any trace of the old man.

"Yes sir, Sher'f, I'm on it," Palmer said, struggling to get his big foot into his work boot.

"I'll see you both there then," Heck said, getting into his car and heading back to the pond.

As soon as word spread that T-Bone had gone missing, four or five men showed up trampling up the scene like frenzied bulls in Bennet Fierabend's fancy dress shop. 

They milled about, talking softly among themselves. They leaned against the vehicle, opened the door of the old man's truck, and sat in the seat like it belonged to them, rummaging through the debris that littered the cab, fingering the old tools, and such.

Heck ruffled more than a few feathers when he calmly asked them to step back over by his car and leave T-Bone's truck alone. It was clear that any evidence that may have been in the cab or on the outside of the truck itself was ruined.

"Ty," Heck called.

"Yes sir. Make yourself useful. Go tell Nuel, we need him."

"Shore thing, sheriff."

Nuel Fielder arrived with his bloodhound a couple of hours later. Nuel was rubbing one of T-Bone's old rags near the wrinkled, soft brown muzzle of the dog.

The dog shot off like a .22 fired at close range.

"He's got something," Neul yelled.

Like I didn't know that, thought Heck, holding his tongue.

The scowl on Heck's face suggested he was raging mad, but it was just the fear knotted tightly in his gut that distorted his facial features. Although nothing looked out of place, Heck couldn't shake the feeling. He was missing something. It kept eating away at him like a month old bowl of chili in the pit of his stomach.

Yep, something bad had happened to Bone.

Something really bad.