Barney nodded. "Van Syke usually drives the Rendering Truck," he said, his voice flat. "I checked with Billy Day-singer and he said he hasn't driven it since last summer."

Congden shrugged and spat again. "Karl told me this mor-nin' that somebody stole the truck last night from where it was parked near the tallow plant.''

Mike O'Rourke glanced at the other boys. The tallow plant was an ancient, rotting structure north of the abandoned grain elevators on the way to the dump. It was the place where all the dead livestock and roadkill had been brought before it also had been abandoned. The smell lingered and sometimes it drifted all the way to Harlen's house on the northwest edge of the town.

Barney scratched his small chin. "Why didn't you report it, J.P.? You or Karl?"

Congden shrugged, obviously bored by all this. What little hair he still has sticks out behind his ears like wet weasel's fur, thought Dale, and the top of his head doesn't sunburn, it just glows in the sunlight like the belly of a carp.

"Like I said, we was busy," said the township's justice of the peace. "Besides, I just figured that some of these goddamned kids just took it as some sort of prank. How do we know that these little shits didn't do it?" He gestured toward the group of boys on their bikes. Barney looked up at them impassively. Congden raised his voice while jerking a thumb in Duane's direction. "And who says this kid wasn't part of it? Foolin' around with his friends? Wastin' our time so it looks like they wasn't the ones who fucked up and lost control, tearin' down Summerson's fence and everything ..."

Duane's father stepped forward over torn strands of barbed wire. His face was mottled, more purple than red now. "Goddamn you, Congden, you lying piece of capitalist dogshit. You know my boy . . . none of these boys . . . had anything to do with this. Someone tried to kill Duane, tried to run over him right here, and for all I know you're covering up for that miserable excuse of Australopithecine subhumanity named Van Syke because the two of you stole the truck. It's no worse than the stealing you do with the so-called 'speeders' you drag into court to keep you in beer money, you stupid ..."

Barney stepped between the two men and laid a hand on Mr. McBride's shoulder. The grip must have been more firm than it looked because Duane's dad grew pale, quit talking, and turned away.

"Aw, fuck him," said the justice of the peace and strode back to his car.

"Tell Karl to come see me," Barney said.

Congden didn't even nod as he slammed the door of the black Chevy and turned the key in the ignition. The specially tuned engine roared into life and the justice of the peace threw gravel twenty feet behind him as he roared back toward town. The boys had to move their bikes hurriedly into the ditch or get run over as Congden passed.

Mr. McBride talked for a few minutes, gesturing toward the field, shouting occasionally, and finally settling down to an agitated murmur as Barney took notes. Through all this, Duane had stood back a few feet in the field, arms crossed, eyes impassive behind the thick lenses of his glasses. When Duane's dad and the sheriff walked back to the road to talk, the boys dropped their bikes into the dusty weeds and hurried through the gap in the fence.

"You OK?" asked Dale. He wanted to touch the bigger boy, put his arm on Duane's shoulder, but protocol didn't allow it.

Duane nodded.

"Did he really kill Witt?" asked Lawrence. The eight-year-old's voice was unsteady.

Duane nodded again. "Witt's heart stopped," he clarified. "He was old."

"But somebody tried to run you over?" asked Kevin.

Duane nodded.

Duane's dad was calling for him. Duane uncrossed his arms and said softly to the boys, "Something's going on. I'll talk to you later today if I can get in." He waddled through the break in the fence and joined his father. Barney spoke to him a moment, finally laying a hand on his shoulder. The boys could hear, "Sorry about the dog, boy." Then Barney seemed to be cautioning Duane's dad about something. Finally the constable got in his Pontiac and left, pulling away slowly down the gravel road so as not to leave a cloud of dust for the others.

Duane and his dad stood there a moment, looking out at the field, and then they got in their truck, made a U-turn with several swings back and forth, and drove back out Jubilee College Road toward County Six. Duane didn't wave.

The four boys stood in the field a moment, kicking at the deep, muddy ruts and the swath of crushed cornstalks. They looked around as if the ghost of Duane's collie might come running through the waist-high corn.

"Hey," Kevin said at last, looking around. The fields were still. The sky was cloudy again. There was no movement, no sound. "What if the Rendering Truck comes back?"

They were on their bikes in eight seconds and pedaling toward town with spurts of gravel marking their wake. Dale held back so that Lawrence could keep up, but the eight-year-old's seventeen-inch bike was almost a blur as it passed Dale's larger bike, then Kevin's, and finally Mike's old red clunker.

They were safely under the unstirring elms and oaks of Elm Haven before they slowed, panting and leaning backward, arms dangling, hands off the handlebars as they coasted down Depot Street past Dale's house and Old Central. They let their bikes crash on the hill alongside the driveway to Kevin's house and they rolled on the cool grass there, still catching their breaths, their short hair matted and moist.

"Hey," gasped Lawrence when he could talk, "what's a capitalist?"

TEN

The attempt on Duane McBride's life was the topic of earnest discussion for half an hour or more, but after a while the boys lost interest and went off to play ball. Mike deferred his Bike Patrol meeting until after the game or when Duane finally came into town, whichever came first.

The city ballfield was in the field behind Kevin's and Dale's homes, and to get there most of the kids in town climbed the Stewarts' fence where the thick wooden post had a diagonal wooden crossbrace on this side. That turned the Stewarts' driveway and the west side of their long yard into a public thoroughfare for kids-which was fine with Dale and Lawrence-and the result was that their home was a constant meeting place for kids from around town. It also didn't hurt that Dale's mom was one of the few who didn't mind mobs of boys there-in fact, she went so far as to provide sandwiches and lemonade and other treats for the packs of kids.

On this day the pickup game started slow-Kevin and Dale versus Mike and Lawrence for the first hour, with the pitcher's-hands-out rule in effect-but by lunchtime they'd been joined by Gerry Daysinger and Bob McKown, Donna Lou Perry and Sandy Whittaker-Sandy could bat all right but threw like a girl, but she was Donna Lou's friend and both teams wanted Donna Lou-and then some of the guys from the ritzier end of town showed up: Chuck Sperling, Digger Taylor, Bill and Barry Fussner, and Tom Castanatti. Other kids heard the noise or caught a glimpse of the crowd and by early afternoon they were on their third game and playing with regulation-size teams and bench-sitters rotating in.

Chuck Sperling wanted to be captain-he always wanted to be captain; his dad managed Elm Haven's only Little League team so that Chuck could be captain as well as pitcher, even though Chuck threw a little less well than Sandy Whitta-ker-but today he was shouted down. Mike was first captain when they chose up for the fourth game, and Castanatti-a chunky, quiet kid who had the best bat in town (he was a good batter, but mainly he owned the best bat, a beautiful white-ash Louisville Slugger that his dad had got from a friend on the Chicago White Sox team), was the second to choose.