“I want you to find out if I killed that man and what happened to the woman. What were they doing there?”

“Which one?”

“You mean they might’a been there for different reasons?”

“No. I mean what is most important? If the man died or if the girl lived and is okay. Or why they were there.”

“If I killed him is the most important thing,” he said. “But I’d like to know it all. I feel like I got to know.”

“Did Alonzo say her name?”

“No.”

“Did she hit you or was she still tied up?”

This question caught Craig off guard. He thought for a minute, a minute more. It seemed as if the answer was a very important thing.

“She was tied up, yeah, with rope, but the rope was kinda loose; she might could’a pulled free.”

I sat back and pondered. This was one of those cases that I shouldn’t even have considered. But there was something . . .

“Why do you need these answers?” I asked.

“Because I can’t sleep. I haven’t had ten minutes since that morning.”

“How many days ago did this happen?”

“Three. Three days.”

“Look, man, you got in a fight, maybe stabbed some guy, and then got knocked out. You woke up and there was no body and no one who could have carried a big man like that outta there. He was probably her boyfriend and she helped him get away. That’s the way it usually is. A man and woman get into a fight. He slaps her around and she screams bloody murder, but anyone gets between ’em and she will turn on them. Knock ’em upside the head with a stone.”

“But why would she do that?”

“Why are young men like you killing women and children in Vietnam?” I offered.

Craig’s eyes furrowed. He was thinking about something. Those thoughts didn’t make it to words. Then he nodded. I felt that I had almost convinced him, almost dodged the bullet of feeling I had to consider taking up his cause.

“Um,” he hummed. “I hear what you’re sayin’, but could you do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Will you talk to my, my mother?”

“Your mother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“I think she could explain it better than I can.”

“Was your mother there?”

“No. But she knows me. She can explain to you what I’m askin’ for.”

“What can she tell me that you can’t?” I really was flummoxed.

“Just call her. Call her and you’ll see what I mean.”

There I was, now as at 7:04 in the morning waiting to see when the hippie came out with his long-necked watering can. Something about Craig Kilian intrigued me.

“And how was it you found me?” I asked.