Chapter 26: The Toy Run

The toy run was on a Saturday, and by seven in the morning the feed mill lot was full.

There were two hundred bikes in rows along the fence, with stuffed bears strapped to the handlebars.

Three box trucks stood open at the loading dock, packed to the roofs with donated toys.

Kids from the children's ward in Dayton were eating Lo's pancakes off paper plates at folding tables.

Lo moved between them with a coffee pot, and she had said almost nothing to anyone since Wade.

I had the envelope marked Ladies' Auxiliary inside my jacket.

I had taken it from under the third pew with my own hand, and it had not left my body since.

Candace's last message had come in a pie tin.

My aunt had carried it into the diner on Thursday, set it on the counter, and said, "Peach. She says to eat it warm."

Under the crust was a note on a napkin.

Saturday, eight o'clock. Six cruisers and Channel 10. He's going to open the floor under the third table. He thinks he'll find the cash.

I read it out at the table that night, and Brogan looked at me for a long time.

"You told him that on purpose."

"I told him on purpose."

"I like it better now."

At eight o'clock exactly, the cruisers came up the mill road with their lights going and no sirens.

There were six, and behind them a white van with a mast on its roof.

Clint got out of the first one in his dress uniform, with Walt's Seiko on his wrist.

The young deputy with the sunburned neck climbed out of the second, and his face was white.

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