“I’d bet my eyeteeth those boys are down at the Sonic having a corn dog or something. Tell you what, why don’t you give it another few hours? If your boy ain’t back by dawn, call back, we’ll send the morning shift out right away.”

“But—”

Hubie hung up, wiped spicy mustard from his chin, and took the next call.

“KSO … what seems to be the trouble?”

“This is Teddy Smoot’s mother.”

“Teddy who?”

“Smoot. Second string QB. Number sixteen.”

“Oh. Right.”

“He’s gone missing.”

“Well, you know teenagers.”

CHAPTER 38

A BIRD’S piercing chirp yanked Thedford Blunt from the depths of a dreamless sleep.

He glanced bleary-eyed at the cuckoo clock above the television. Its spring-loaded inhabitant merrily announced the five o’clock hour from its perch between a pair of bat-wing doors. If there had been a gun within reach of the La-Z-Boy, he’d have shot the thing. It was something he’d been meaning to do for years anyway, ever since Loretta had packed up and moved off to live with her sister in Odessa.

At last the cuckoo took its leave for another hour. Thedford rubbed crusted eyes and tried to bring the TV into focus. A clap of thunder brought his attention to the window, where he saw that it was still dark out and raining heavily.

He still felt a little drunk, which meant that his hangover hadn’t kicked in yet, thankfully. He yawned and shifted stiffly in the chair. The dull throb at the back of his neck was an instant reminder of the blow he’d received the previous morning. Just the thought of what that quarterback punk had done to him stirred him with rage. One thing Thedford knew for certain—the little bastard was going to pay for it. Teenage shit-ass. Hell, they were all shit-asses these days. And none more so than his own son, who wasn’t worth a piss hole in the snow. Especially at times when Thedford needed him the most, like yesterday.

When he’d finally awoken in the barn just after 8 p.m., he’d been relieved to find that at some time during his drunken slumber, he had been freed from his restraints. The walk back to the house—uphill and across a dark, rain-swept pasture—had proven a difficult struggle in his delicate condition. His foul mood hadn’t improved any when he reached the house only to discover Willard perched comfortably on the porch swing, watching the storm roll in over the pasture as if he had not a care in the world. Not even for his father, who’d spent the entire day a captive in his own goddamn barn.