Scattered Graves

the gun that Diane’s eyes froze on. A big, highcaliber silver and black thing, one that would make a big entry hole and an even bigger exit hole. Her gaze shifted to the face of the man holding the gun. It was Curtis Crabtree. She glanced at his left hand, the one not holding the gun. It was wrapped in a bandage meant to immobilize the thumb. He probably had a bite mark on his ankle.
    Frank was just behind Diane. He had a hand on her upper arm, holding her tight in his grip. The three of them were stuck on the porch in the open doorway. No way to flee, not wanting to enter the house.
    ‘‘Well, I’ll be damned,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘Aren’t we in luck? Just the person we needed to see. Gage, when the boy gets here we’ll have everything we need.’’
    Gage? There was someone else in the room. Gage Shipman, the third-floor overlook troll. Great. Two hotheads with guns.
    Diane looked at Mrs. Wilson. She was dressed in a blue flowered robe and had rollers in her hair and a grave look on her face. Diane could see she was trembling. She didn’t blame her. She was about to start shaking herself.
    ‘‘Now, hold on here,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘What do you think you’re up to?’’
‘‘Getting us a truckload of money. Now, get in here.’’ Curtis backed up, pulling Mrs. Wilson with him. ‘‘Do it,’’ he barked at them, ‘‘or I’ll start shooting. Gage and me only need one hostage apiece, so a lot of you are just extra. Now, get in here and sit your asses down. You, put your gun on the table,’’ said Curtis, aiming his gun at the sheriff.
The sheriff complied and the three of them went in and sat down together on a sofa. Mrs. Wilson sat in a straight-backed chair.
Diane was sure the three of them—she, the sheriff, and Frank—were thinking the same thing, and hoped it didn’t show on their faces. Curtis and Gage didn’t know Frank was a detective and they hadn’t searched him for a gun. A bit of good luck. But it also meant they were probably high on something and weren’t thinking clearly. A bad situation.
The problem was, Frank’s gun was inside his zipped-up suede jacket. Not easily accessible at the moment, but it was there. A small kernel of luck on their side.
Gage Shipman grinned at Diane. He had Henry sit ting on the floor next to his chair, a gun near Henry’s head but not pointing at him. Arlen Wilson was sitting in an easy chair that was probably where he sat to watch television. He had blood running down the side of his face. Probably hit with a gun when the two men came in the house. He was dressed in his pajamas, as was Henry.
‘‘What exactly are you doing here?’’ said the sheriff.
Frank sat quietly with his arms folded. Diane guessed that he wouldn’t say much lest he be outed as a detective. She tried to think of some way to dis tract the two thugs so Frank could get at his gun. But one thing she remembered Frank telling her—it’s not the gun you have that’s important; it’s the gun the other guy has.
Curtis and Gage ignored the sheriff.
‘‘Who’s this guy?’’ Curtis pointed his gun at Frank.
‘‘Boyfriend,’’ said Frank.
‘‘You mean you’ve actually got a boyfriend?’’ Curtis said to Diane. ‘‘Well, no accounting for taste. What do you do?’’ he asked Frank.
‘‘Accounting,’’ Frank said.
‘‘Accounting?’’ He laughed as if that were a joke. ‘‘Hey, Gage, we have an accountant.’’ He emphasized each syllable. ‘‘Maybe he can help us count our money.’’
‘‘I told you, we don’t have any money,’’ said Arlen Wilson. ‘‘We’re just farmers. Just leave us alone. We ain’t rich folks.’’
‘‘I know, you dumb ass,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘Caleb is the one who knows how to get the money. I told you.’’ He slurred his words just enough that Diane was sure Curtis was high on something.
‘‘Caleb’s just a student,’’ said Mrs. Wilson. ‘‘He don’t have any money.’’
Curtis stood in the middle of the room, looked at the ceiling, and gestured, palms up. Diane was afraid the gun would go off accidently.
‘‘Is everybody in here stupid?’’ he said.
He went over to Mrs. Wilson and stared at her, nose to nose. She cringed back in her seat.
‘‘Look, you dumb old woman, I didn’t say he has money. I said he can get it. Get it? He can get it.’’
‘‘Stop calling my grandparents names,’’ said Henry. ‘‘They’re smarter than you are.’’
‘‘Yeah? Well if they’re