Fear of Frying

to the deputy, “Shine that monster on his stomach. Yes, it’s a poison ivy rash, isn’t it.”
    Everybody stared at Bob’s washboard stomach. He kept blinking and trying to form a question, and they pushed into the cabin around him.
    “Mr. Rycraft,“ Taylor said, “would you mind getting dressed and try to show us where you fell in the creek?“
    “I—okay. I guess. Why?“
    “Because we want to see if that costume mask is still there,“ Taylor explained.
    Bob looked relieved. “Oh, that’s all? No, it’s not there. It’s here. I thought my girls might have fun playing dress-up with it.”
    They followed him to the closet. “Don’t touch it,“ Taylor said. He lifted it off the floor as if it were a time bomb, walked gingerly to the middle of the room, and delicately turned it over. The deputy shined the monster flashlight into the inside of the falcon hood. They all knelt and stared. The inside was lined with a black felt material, and even without a magnifying glass, they could see a few hairs stuck to the felt. Several long, coppery ones that must have belonged to the demonstrator from whom it was stolen, and a few short, straight, fair hairs.
    “Yes!“ Jane exclaimed. “And I’ll bet that’s why John Claypool was scratching at his shin, too. He and Bob ran into what’s probably the only patch of poison ivy on the campsite—John when he tried to throw the mask and cloak in the creek, and Bob when he fell in and found it.“
    “Don’t anybody touch this,“ Taylor said, and to the deputy added, “Call an ambulance. Tell them I need a sterile sheet to wrap this in. It’ll take weeks for the DNA testing, but I think I’ve got enough now to ask John Claypool some pretty pointed questions.”

Twenty-three
    Sheriff Taylor and the deputy set out for John and Eileen Claypool’s cabin. Bob stayed behind to wait for the sterile sheet, and Jane and Shelley followed the sheriff quietly and at a distance. If he ordered them to stay away, they’d have to. If he didn’t notice them, it was a different matter.
    Taylor went to the door and knocked. Jane and Shelley lurked in the shrubbery at the end of the short driveway of the cabin. There was one light on inside, but no one came to the door. The van in the driveway began slowly, silently rolling backwards.
    “Sheriff!“ Jane shouted, and she and Shelley leaped out of the way of the vehicle.
    Taylor whirled, spotted the van moving, and leaped forward. “Hold it!”
    Suddenly the engine started, the headlights went on, and the van backed up into the road. Taylor ran in front of it. With the headlights on, Jane could see the top of the head of the driver.
    Then the van shot forward, almost hitting Taylor, who dived aside at the last second. The van skidded, bumped into the sheriff’s car, which was parked at the side of the road, and headed down the road toward the lodge.
    Taylor leaped up from the mud and headed for his car. As the driver’s door was stuck from the impact of the van, Shelley, Jane, and the deputy managed to get in first. The deputy, in the front passenger seat, leaned back and kicked the driver’s door open. Taylor jumped in and gunned the engine. It took only seconds, but the van’s taillights were well ahead of them.
    “Where are they headed?“ Jane asked as Taylor sped out.
    He hadn’t known they were in the car, and his head nearly swiveled off his neck. “Christ! What are you two doing back there?“
    “I’m not sure,“ Jane said quite sincerely. She hadn’t really thought it out, she’d just jumped in the car out of instinctive curiosity, not sensible reflection. “Where are we going?“
    “Keep down,“ Taylor said. “I haven’t got time to let you out. He’s headed for the bridge. It’s in place and I imagine he checked it out before trying to get away.”
    The road curved; the car clewed half sideways on some of the curves, but the van was moving even faster. Then, inexplicably, the sheriff let up on the gas pedal. Ahead of them and sharply to the right, Jane could see the bridge—a shiny new structure with floodlights at both ends, it was perfectly flat. As she stared at it, the van took the last curve, slid sickeningly, and kept on sliding sideways as it started across the temporary bridge. There was a shriek of metal on metal as the back wheels dropped over the sides of the overpass and the van’s momentum kept it moving. Sparks flew up from the raw meeting of bridge and van undercarriage until