LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue

      Rural Southern Alabama, mid 1980s

      The boy is in his teens, slender and blond, kicking a pine cone down the red-dirt country road, dense woods to his left, cotton field to his right. Though the Alabama sun lays hard across the boy’s bare arms and legs, his skin is pale, like light bounces off, never sinks inside.

      A sound at his back turns the boy’s head to a bright truck grille a hundred yards behind. He steps to the road’s edge to let the truck pass. But it glides slower and closer until his nose fills with the oily stink of the engine. The truck pulls even.

      “Hey, I saw you in the newspaper,” the driver calls through the open passenger window, a man in his early thirties with tight-cropped hair, angular face, eyes behind wraparound mirror sunglasses. His face is built around a smile, his voice is pure country twang. “You’re that kid who got a perfect score on the STA, right?”

      The boy’s water-blue, almost feminine eyes drop with embarrassment. He mumbles, “SAT, Scholastic Aptitude Test.”

      “And now you got free college and all that. You do us proud. Wanna ride?”

      “I’m fine walking. But thanks.”

      The driver grins with bright, even teeth. “It’s gotta be ninety-five degrees. We can’t have our local genius getting heat stroke. Where you need to go?”

      “Town, then. The library.”

      The driver nods, pleased. The boy climbs in the truck. Hard muscles on the driver’s arm dance as he shifts. He drives for a quarter mile before swerving on to a dirt lane scarcely wider than the truck. Branches squeal against the vehicle’s sides.

      “Hey,” the boy yips. “You said we were going to town.”

      The truck bounces to a small clearing and jolts to a halt. The boy’s eyes dart from side to side. Insects buzz from the trees.

      “You recognize this place, son?” the driver says. “You been here before, right?”

      Something in the man’s voice has gotten harder. The twang has disappeared.

      “Listen, mister. I uh, I need to get back to –”

      “It was last year, son. A dead man was found tied to that big pine tree yonder. Someone took a long time to kill him. A real long time.”

      The boy’s hand sneaks to the door handle. He pulls the latch and dives against the door. The door doesn’t give. The boy’s terrified face turns to the driver.

      “Locked,” the man says, his voice calm. “Under my control. It’s all under my control. Look here …”

      The driver lifts his blue work shirt to reveal a pistol in his belt. Pictures and voices from the past align in the boy’s mind. He recalls who the man is, when they met, what was said.

      The boy closes his eyes, thinks, It’s over.

      The driver looks into the shadowed woods. “There was blood everywhere the day that man got torn apart. Someone said he didn’t know people had that much blood in them.”

      “You’re wrong, mister,” the boy protests, his voice high and tremulous. “I didn’t do anything. I never been here before. I swear I ain’t never –”

      “SHUT THE FUCK UP, KID!”

      The insects are silent. Birds freeze in the trees. It’s as if time has stopped. When the man’s voice starts again, so does everything else.

      “I’ve studied on that day a lot, son. More than you can believe. You know what I came up with in my thinking?”

      “What?” the boy whispers.

      “I’ve never heard of so much anger busting free. So much … letting out. You know what I mean by letting out?”

      A long pause. “No. Not really.”

      “Letting out is like floodwater piling up behind a dam. You can picture water rising behind a dam, right?”

      The slightest motion as the boy nods. The driver continues speaking.

      “The dam holds back the water – keeps it inside, under control. But a dam can’t stop the rain. So let’s say it keeps raining, day and night. The water rises and that held-back lake gets longer and wider and deeper. You know how that goes, don’t you? Maybe from experience?”

      “Yes.” The boy’s whisper is almost lost in the sound of the insects.

      “The dam’s a strong one and wants to hold. But that rain whips down day and night. Water keeps backing up, pushing harder. What do you think happens next?”

      The boy’s face quivers and his eyes shimmer with liquid. A crystal tear traces down his cheek.

      “It keeps raining. And the dam breaks.”

      The man reaches over and erases the boy’s tear with his thumb.

      “No, son. The dam opens just in time. And that’s how it saves itself.”