“Th-the g-g-girl was wild. B-b-b-boy crazy—th-they say.” He bit his lower lip and looked down again.

I contemplated that response and its significance before asking a last question, or rather, posing a remark.

“So you heard, through some of your family, that the mother was upset, saying that her daughter had been killed and no one would help, and you brought her to me.”

Danny Ray looked at me steadily before saying, “I knew—you would talk to her.”

It was the clearest sentence I’d ever heard him speak.

I let this sink in before asking, “And what do you think, Danny Ray? What do you think happened to Tonya Causey?”

Danny Ray lifted his bottle and took a long swallow of beer before replying, with a sympathetic shake of his head, “I th-th-think she w-w-was in trouble.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a sad business, no matter what, isn’t it?” I said.

Danny Ray nodded his head in agreement. I stood to go, and Danny Ray got to his feet as well.

“Well, thanks, amigo, you’ve been helpful,” I said as I turned to follow the flower-edged pathway back to my truck.

Danny Ray walked with me and waited as I got in and closed the door. Just as I cranked the engine he stepped near and put his hands on the window ledge. His eyes, beneath the brim of his cap, shifted back and forth across my face several times before he said, “B-b-be careful, u-u-up there, K-K-Kennesaw. Panther Creek—it-it’s a b-bad place.”

“I will, partner. I’ll see you soon—and thanks for sharing your garden with me; it’s beautiful.”

Danny Ray stepped back as I shifted into reverse and pulled out of the drive. I glanced over as I started away and saw my friend wave a quick good-bye. I lifted a hand in return.

It was midafternoon when I returned to my home dock. I parked my truck under the trees at the top of the lot, and as I ambled down the boardwalk toward the docks I realized that it was well past lunchtime, and in spite of the beer and peanuts, I was hungry. Changing direction slightly, I headed to the far end of the docks where Captain Flynt’s Bucket o’ Blood bar and restaurant sat perched over the waterfront on its oyster- and barnacle-covered pilings.

The place was wearing its normal Sunday afternoon quiet attitude when I walked in. A couple of wayward tourists held down one corner of the bar, while Big Tee, the bartender, watched Alabama beating up on some other college team on the television. As I strolled past the bar I lifted a hand in greeting.

“Tyrone,” I said as Tee looked up. I pointed to the outside deck. “I’ll be out there.”