spent time in there during the last three picking seasons, only to emerge with scratched arms and snagged T-shirts and lips purple with the sweetest berries you ever tasted. Which is another way of saying that the blackberry thicket isn’t exactly easy going, but it is a great place to hide.
Bill and Jason disappear into the thicket.
Red Rover follows the boys.
* * *
It’s dark now.
No more royal purple or dark valentine red in the sky. Bill, Jason, and Red Rover are nested in a blackberry burrow that some animal—or some bum—must have abandoned. They stare up through a crosshatched roof of blackberry brambles, and the only thing they see that isn’t black is a ripe melon slice of moon.
The moon doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough to reveal tangled vine shadows on Bill and Jason’s faces, enough to expose the terror in Red Rover’s gleaming eyes each time Mr. Rose calls his name.
So far the little terrier has been quiet. Just as quiet as the boys. So far...
But Mr. Rose is coming closer now.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?’
The dog whines and Bill pulls him to his chest. Mr. Rose’s voice cuts through the blackberries the same way it cut through the cattails—high and keening, like a scythe. Forget Carol Ann’s ghost. Her dad’s voice is all it takes to frighten Bill more than he’s ever been frightened in his life.
Bill closes his eyes, but there’s no escape. He pictures Mr. Rose wandering around out there beneath the slivered moon, his face a mask of drying blood, his eyes hidden behind those blood-splattered sunglasses even in the dark of the night.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over...”
Bill’s eyes flash open. The dog whines. Bill grabs Red Rover’s muzzle. The little mutt’s shaking, his heart thudding against the crook of Bill’s elbow. The boy holds Red Rover tight and doesn’t let go, but he can’t stop the dog from whining.
“That mutt’s gonna give us away,” Jason says.
Bill knows that Jason is right, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Jason can’t run on his sliced-up foot. Bill can’t leave his friend behind. He can’t leave the dog, either. So all they can do is sit tight and hope that Mr. Rose doesn’t find them.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The dog squirms away from Bill.
Red Rover barks.
Not far from the burrow, Mr. Rose laughs.
“That’s a good doggy,” he says.
* * *
Ten or fifteen feet away, something hits the blackberry vines. Bill figures that Mr. Rose probably has a broken branch or something. He’s literally beating the bushes, trying to flush them out.
“Red Rover!” Mr. Rose says. “C’mon, boy! Cheryl Ann’s waiting for you! You want to see her, don’t you?”
Red Rover whines again, and Bill’s hand tightens around the dog’s muzzle. Bill doesn’t feel like a detective anymore. He doesn’t want to solve any mysteries. In the dark under a melon slice of moon, he’s suddenly scared of everything, because everything he imagines seems thoroughly plausible and undisputedly real. Mr. Rose. Cheryl Ann’s ghost. His own shadow, hidden somewhere in a dark pocket of night. All of it boils up in his brain in a hundred wild imaginings, each one real enough to hurt him, each one real enough to kill him if he just sits there waiting—
Mr. Rose calls again. The branch hits another tangle of blackberry vines. Every fiber of Bill’s being tells him that he should run, get out of here as fast as he can, run as fast as his legs will carry him and never look back... but he can’t do that. Not with Jason the way he is... and not with the dog trembling in his arms.
So he doesn’t move a muscle and he peers through the vines, watching the deer run for a sign of Mr. Rose. Shadows creep out there in the night, and one of them might be Cheryl Ann’s father gripping a twisted branch in his hands, but Bill can’t be sure.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
This time, the voice comes from
Bill and Jason disappear into the thicket.
Red Rover follows the boys.
* * *
It’s dark now.
No more royal purple or dark valentine red in the sky. Bill, Jason, and Red Rover are nested in a blackberry burrow that some animal—or some bum—must have abandoned. They stare up through a crosshatched roof of blackberry brambles, and the only thing they see that isn’t black is a ripe melon slice of moon.
The moon doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough to reveal tangled vine shadows on Bill and Jason’s faces, enough to expose the terror in Red Rover’s gleaming eyes each time Mr. Rose calls his name.
So far the little terrier has been quiet. Just as quiet as the boys. So far...
But Mr. Rose is coming closer now.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?’
The dog whines and Bill pulls him to his chest. Mr. Rose’s voice cuts through the blackberries the same way it cut through the cattails—high and keening, like a scythe. Forget Carol Ann’s ghost. Her dad’s voice is all it takes to frighten Bill more than he’s ever been frightened in his life.
Bill closes his eyes, but there’s no escape. He pictures Mr. Rose wandering around out there beneath the slivered moon, his face a mask of drying blood, his eyes hidden behind those blood-splattered sunglasses even in the dark of the night.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over...”
Bill’s eyes flash open. The dog whines. Bill grabs Red Rover’s muzzle. The little mutt’s shaking, his heart thudding against the crook of Bill’s elbow. The boy holds Red Rover tight and doesn’t let go, but he can’t stop the dog from whining.
“That mutt’s gonna give us away,” Jason says.
Bill knows that Jason is right, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Jason can’t run on his sliced-up foot. Bill can’t leave his friend behind. He can’t leave the dog, either. So all they can do is sit tight and hope that Mr. Rose doesn’t find them.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The dog squirms away from Bill.
Red Rover barks.
Not far from the burrow, Mr. Rose laughs.
“That’s a good doggy,” he says.
* * *
Ten or fifteen feet away, something hits the blackberry vines. Bill figures that Mr. Rose probably has a broken branch or something. He’s literally beating the bushes, trying to flush them out.
“Red Rover!” Mr. Rose says. “C’mon, boy! Cheryl Ann’s waiting for you! You want to see her, don’t you?”
Red Rover whines again, and Bill’s hand tightens around the dog’s muzzle. Bill doesn’t feel like a detective anymore. He doesn’t want to solve any mysteries. In the dark under a melon slice of moon, he’s suddenly scared of everything, because everything he imagines seems thoroughly plausible and undisputedly real. Mr. Rose. Cheryl Ann’s ghost. His own shadow, hidden somewhere in a dark pocket of night. All of it boils up in his brain in a hundred wild imaginings, each one real enough to hurt him, each one real enough to kill him if he just sits there waiting—
Mr. Rose calls again. The branch hits another tangle of blackberry vines. Every fiber of Bill’s being tells him that he should run, get out of here as fast as he can, run as fast as his legs will carry him and never look back... but he can’t do that. Not with Jason the way he is... and not with the dog trembling in his arms.
So he doesn’t move a muscle and he peers through the vines, watching the deer run for a sign of Mr. Rose. Shadows creep out there in the night, and one of them might be Cheryl Ann’s father gripping a twisted branch in his hands, but Bill can’t be sure.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
This time, the voice comes from
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