Done in Fifteen Years novel · Chapter 4 of 32

Chapter 4: The Cold Pit

I followed the gray pickup south out of Junction with my coffee between my knees.

Macey put her boots on in the passenger seat and narrated.

"He could be taking us to a cult."

"He could."

The hills went up and the road went down into canyons so green.

At Leakey we stopped for gas, and Deke paid for both trucks before I could get my can open.

Inside, in the cooler by the beer was one vacuum-packed brisket, twelve pounds, a little ugly on the fat cap.

I stood looking at it for too long.

Deke came up beside me.

"You're not going to cook that."

"I'm not going to cook anything," I said. "I'm a fugitive."

I bought it anyway.

Fourteen miles later Deke turned off the highway onto a gravel road, and the gravel road ran down to the river.

The Frio was so clear I could see every stone on the bottom.

On the bank, under four huge cypress trees, stood a long tin-roofed building with a porch the whole length of it.

The sign over the porch said VERNIE'S, DANCING SATURDAYS, in red letters with half the bulbs out.

A tiny woman was sweeping the porch with a broom taller than she was.

She had cropped white hair and cat-eye glasses on a chain.

She stopped sweeping and pointed the broom at Deke's truck before he'd even parked.

"You don't call, you don't write," she called, "and you show up in June with a woman and a child and a Kilgore's truck."

"It's a long story."

"It's always a long story with you." She lowered the broom and looked at Macey. "Are you hungry, sugar?"

"Extremely," Macey said.

"Then come in out of the sun. The rest of you can explain yourselves while she eats."

Inside, the dance hall was long and dim and smelled like old cedar.

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