An Unnatural Kind: 3 & 4

3- Despair

Deputy Miller Hill moved toward the old Sweeter house long after the county lab rats had finished processing the scene, the smell of the swamp, as it was only a fierce gravity that could hold the dank, black waters at the town's edge.

He had heard the whodunnit theories a'plenty from the day shift, none of which took anything more into consideration than the only one living nearby that they would even consider might do anything along these lines wore a name that had been guilty before. Aside from that, John Walker was technically not a part of Crystal River, nor McMorran County for that matter. He didn't particularly care to think how many times that modus of thinking had misspent the trust that had been put into the badge by the people...

All they ever really wanted was an answer, and some measure of justice. It would not be the first time that he had wondered about the tales told about Shay Walker. Miller had heard plenty enough about all of those. He didn't suspect that the county recognized the advantage that they had in Sheriff John MacFadden. There was always the nagging feeling that if John had been in charge of the Walker investigation, there wouldn't have been much of a call for it to end with such bloodshed. John had a foothold into both worlds, a half-breed as the term used to be fairly common. He didn't know how the current politically correct version had worked out. Miller also really couldn't give two shits about it. He didn't hang around too many folk that suffered from an over-swell of tenderness and sensitivity. Not for long leastwise. No more than being a descendant of an old Crow medicine man made him want to put a bird's nest on his head, and go around talking like a living breathing fortune cookie; did he care to soft edit history.

Miller had been born on the Little Bay Reservation up near Manistee. Contrary to once popular opinion, not all of the original home team got along. Miller never bothered to trace back any further into his heritage than his eyes could see. Not even to try to figure out it was that a young Crow woman had ended up on a reservation shacked up with her peoples historic enemies. Actually, even among the more native Lakota tribesman, there was no particular love for the people that Miller had come down through. Among the Algonquin was something tantamount to a Jewish exile in Babylon. Miller didn't hang around the Little Bay for long, and McMorran County was about as close as he intended to get. It was not so much that he was holding some kind of grudge as that the history didn't interfere with his own choices for moving through a living, breathing world.

The locals that lived on The Pines had certainly taken notice when ol' John MacFadden had recruited him on to work at the Sheriff's office. Miller had heard plenty enough tales told about old Sheriff Vernon Carver to know something about how they felt about that, at least in the beginning. John had gone more than a little way to soften the blow of sheriff-the-only-good-indian-is-a-dead-indian. Shay Walker was one of those got hunted down by Carver's mostly notorious posses--at least as far as those living on The Pine were concerned. They had once driven for miles, to Sault Ste Marie, when they had any need of store-bought goods. What it cost them in gas, it saved them in troubles.

There were still a few in town that still had the old Sheriff Carver mentality. In public, they used words like Native American, and muttered some shit about those poor unfortunate children that had to live out on The Pines. John's fifteen year tenure had certainly thinned out that herd, mostly through just being a damn good sheriff. Miller had never been a particularly political mammal, but he was one of the old crew that Bill Evers had every intention of keeping once he got elected himself.

Bill wasn't John MacFadden, but he could work much better with the mayor and city council than Miller had half a prayer of even trying. Tom White was the currently seated Mayor for Crystal River. Miller had no idea why the city had elected the once upon a time county prosecutor, save that he had done more time as a politician than he had ever practiced law. As far as Miller could tell, his time in the county prosecutor's office, he was still just practicing. Being a peace officer in his time meant that you dang near had to try the case your damn self. The rest of the council was primarily made up of businessmen and retirees from various points unknown throughout the state of Michigan.

And this was pretty much what passed for progress in McMorran County. Miller had about as much use for them as he did for a bowl of horse's ass soup. Payday was about as near as he cared to get. Bill had to do a little more begging from them than John ever did, and they never questioned John on much about anything. It was a little wonder he was getting more moody as of late. He did more paperwork in a day than Miller ever cared to know existed.

He had originally moved away "down-below" as the locals referred to the Lower Peninsula. Some-several of the folk in McMorran County had never been any further south than Gaylord. Sort of like some most of the people before Columbus, some several of the townies and out-dwellers were fair convinced that the Detroit City limits started somewhere too damn close, and like the edge of a flat-world, only bad shit could come from pressing your luck. Detroit City, for them, was Sodom and Gomorrah all wrapped up into one swelling eye-sore of a criminal world that they did not particularly care to be a part. They got plenty enough of more than they wanted during the tourist season, which was more than a decent enough excuse to live in McMorran County. No Great Lakes shoreline, no casinos; and no reason for anyone that didn't live there to even cross the county line. Sure, tourists would occasionally come passing through, usually lost or passing through on their way to connecting the dots of shit that people would pay money to see. There had been some talk on the local tribal council about trying to build a small casino on the reservation lands. All John ever had to say about that was that was fine. He wasn't the one that would have curious strangers passing by his front yard like they were driving through some kind of free-range zoo.

That killed that idea off quick.

Miller had originally kept himself well away from The Pines. He didn't come by his natural charm by some sort of genetic fluke. He had done his people time while he was coming up, mostly playing the runt of the litter. It was only as he made his first arrest of someone that lived on the reservation that the subject of "his people" ever came up. The kid had filched a car and later dumped it. Miller had told the kid, after being asked, as if that might have any affect of changing the somewhat unhappy ending, who his people were. He told the kid he was from the asshole tribe of the nation of the who-gives-a-shit.

The kid, Ronnie Glass, thought that was funnier than shit. Miller was a little surprised when some of the local kids from The Pines had recognized him, though they had never laid eyes on him before. Some of them had even taking to coming up to him and taking pokes at him, like they were running up to boot a bear in the ass just to see what happened next. Once the fun in that wore off, there was still those smirking jaws and chuckles in his passing that brought out some form of good humor in them. But it was through John MacFadden that he first got to know them by name, and some several of the families that lived out on The Pines. It was always in the line of duty sort of thing, at least in the beginnings. Miller had spent quite some time already convinced that "his people" and him just didn't get on particularly well...

It was only as John had mentioned the old Shay Walker case that Miller became something other than the new favorite play-toy for the local Ojibwa kids. Miller had never officially reworked the case, but he didn't really have to for the doubts to start working at the "evidence" in the case. It wouldn't make any never-mind if he did. He had never actually been convicted the disappearances of Denise Budd and Amy Stanton. It would not change the minds of the townsfolk really. It was not that the entirety of them shared Vernon Carver's prejudices. It was a malingering resistance to believe that the faith that they had entrusted to the man may have, at least in this instance, been misplaced.

Coming to the notion that the people of McMorran County were not all total assholes was not near so much a shock to his system, as that he felt fair much the same about the people that lived out on The Pines. Hell, even up at Little Bay, he realized that it was not everybody on the reservation that treated him like shit. Get any group together, and you can lay serious money down that the first to speak was likely going to be some asshole or another. Miller's loner ways were not entirely as a result of those childhood taunts from those that, anywhere and anytime, would be bullies. Miller simply had a preference to the term assholes...

Which was how Sheriff Carver had struck him as well. There was some history between Carver and Shay Walker, and none of it was too damn good. There was a passing thought, mostly coming out from The Pines, that Shay might be someone someday, and not just another somebody. Carver, even as a kid, seemed to take that personally. The "eye-witness testimony" mostly came of Carver's old high school crowd. Old man Carver had passed away back in 1998. John had to go to the funeral, as the man had been his predecessor and retired from the position after thirty-five years of service as a lawman. His official record didn't have so much as a coffee stain in it, let alone anything that might actually question the authority of the position the people of McMorran had put into him. By way of a show of faith, John went. He was not about to tarnish the man's reputation without some hard evidence.

Miller had never suspected, at the time, that was John's way of saying find me some. He just knew that Miller would start looking into it. That John didn't care to be there was mostly secondary for him, as Miller had pretty much been a virtual stranger to those that lived out on The Pines before that time. John was a pretty dodgy bastard. He probably even knew that any evidence that there may have been to find at some earlier point and time had been cleaned up long before Miller would have gotten any access to it.

"It would have never sat well that you had any old ghosts to get in your way of figuring out what the truth really is," John didn't confess to that until much later on. "We have more than our fair share of assholes on both sides of that imaginary line," John admitted that over his morning coffee, as Miller was coming off shift and John was just coming on. "And the rest of the people, something like yourself, just have to figure out how to deal with them is all." He said with a shrug, and then a sip of his coffee. "Anytime you can make something how it should have been, or on a really rare good day, how it should be--that's the job in a nut-shell. Most of the rest of the time is paperwork."

There was a grand total of three things that Miller knew about Rachel Sweeter. He counted being related to both Dave and Lonnie Sweeter as one, and that was the only one that he knew to be fact. The other two were sourced by town-talk. He could say that he knew something about her that most did not, though even that was mostly speculation. That she got on here in town near-about as well as Miller had gotten on at Little Bay did give him some personal insight. Miller figured that the better share of the tales that followed up on her like a local legend likely got their start from the only fact that Miller knew for damn certain. Dave Sweeter was the town drunk, whom took most of the vileness of that back to home every night.

Miller had been called out to this house himself, prior to the murders. If Dave Sweeter wasn't among the dead, he would have made a damn fine suspect. That the townies had him down as one of their more lackluster citizens, was the kinder, gentler version. It became public knowledge that Dave beat his wife, and some fairly convincing arguments could be made that he had done the same to Lonnie. Miller always knew that there was something wrong with the kid, though the specifics really only accounted for those incidents that would force their paths to cross. Lonnie's impulse control was next to null, which included some unlawful bad habits. Miller was a bit surprised about what had led to his longest stint behind bars. That wasn't that he was surprised that Lonnie did it so much as Miller preferred to spend the least amount time necessary in the consideration of someone that would diddle up on his baby-sister.

It was Bill that had made the arrest. How in the hell he had ended up back anywhere near the family home was beyond Miller's train of thought. Bill was sheriff by that time, and pulled some double duty as Lonnie's parole officer. Bill had told him that Lonnie lived in an old cabin back on his grandma's old property-- which was about as far away as he could place him in the county without some tax payer investment. Tax payers tended to get a bit tight in the consideration of paying the way for a convicted pedophile. One of the prices that had to be paid for not catering to the tourists was that McMorran was one of the poorer counties. There were already far too many in McMorran County on the state dole, as far as most that weren't were concerned. Those that weren't also paid the taxes, and did most of the voting on where they would care to see that money spent.

Being a pervert was hardly the only issue to be considered with Lonnie Sweeter. Miller had only taken enough psychology classes at the community college to get some idea of how it might inter-relate to crime. He had sort of been hauled into a draft, as far as working for the city of Flint. He was looking for a job, and one of his neighbors was on the city police force. Coming up to work in McMorran County was near to like semi-retirement, by comparison; which was to say the work was not so bad, but the salary dump definitely accounted for having to worry about less crime. The night-shift premium helped him to get by, and his seven years with the Flint police force had given him plenty enough practice to handle becoming the supervisor for the graveyard crew of four officers.

Now he was making the big-bucks, which come out to be a tad better off than flipping burgers. Hell, down in Flint, he probably could have made more flipping burgers, with overtime considered in. There were a few jobs that Miller had done prior to becoming a peace officer, which is what they called it in McMorran County. There was no way in hell you could get away with calling it anything like that down in Flint. Peace was just a bit much to expect from a human being in a big city.

Miller used the key that they had taken from Dave Sweeter and unlocked the side door, stepping through the side door into a house that looked like it had been on the wrong end of shit avalanche. Dave or Helen, likely both, were the pack rats from Hell. The small dining room had an old cast iron wood burning stove with a stack of newspapers sitting beside it likely dating back to 1973. An old hutch sat along the wall next to the crapper, every shelf filled and nearly spilling over with various size, sorts and styles of dust collectors that fell somewhere between random and utter chaos, as could be said for the old wood paneled walls. From river and pastoral themes to the large crushed velvet painting of John Wayne. Miller started to move further inside after hitting the light, until his nose hit a scent that he had not really smelt since he had left Flint.

He could not explain the emotional reaction he felt at the scent of death. It certainly had nothing to do with being here. Dave Sweeter, and his old yellow pickup truck were something like a menace to society, and definitely a valid threat to any of the local kids that played in or near the street. Miller had busted him himself once, but Dave had stopped going down to Gus' Road-side after Gus Reyerson had suggested that he probably should pay some of his tab off. Dave lived off an old military disability, though Miller was not entirely certain what in the hell was even wrong with him. Miller knew that Dave Sweeter ruled his roost, something near the like that Stalin ran the old Soviet Union.

Going through the scene himself was a habit that he had gotten into while working down in Flint. Not that he thought the bunch from Chippewa County had overlooked anything that may even resemble evidence. It was kind of a sorry state of affairs that the pack of lab rats that got hired on to process a scene actually worked for four interconnected counties, and were likely underpaid to work for one. John had only actually had to use them once, and this was Bill's second time calling them in. The county  commission was definitely going to bitch about this time, as well, after they got the bill. Miller had figured out that somewhere pretty close to all knew their attackers. It also helped him to process the scene in his own head, something that pictures really didn't seem to cover. Miller was not officially on the case. The midnight crew were never technically assigned cases. Try to keep the roads safe and respond to any call that came down the pipe was the basic job description. There were no precincts, no divisions and only Bill Evers and his Deputy Sheriff Tom Bufford ever actually got assigned to any specific case. Bill would often leave him notes for various chores and circumstances that he wanted Miller to attend to himself, or send out one of the four to get it accomplished by morning. Working for McMorran County was like night and day, in comparison to working down in Flint.

Miller was assigned to the narcotics squad in Flint when he left. It wasn't the perpetual threats, nor the periodic near death experiences that had given him the urge for going. It was the kids.

Miller got a similar sort of vibe from this house, as if the children that had come up inside of the Sweeter house had basically grew up in something like a war zone. Miller had seen some crazy shit, as there was no other god damn way to describe it really. Miller had gotten past the urge to do something about it, as in something that would have veered over and eventually crossing over the legal codes. When you can steer yourself past the urge to put a bullet in man's skull after picking up some two or three year old's body--you can do the job. One of his early cases involved going in after a suspected dealer had cut off the hands of his two year old son.

Why? Because he kept getting into shit.

It was sitting back and waiting while some piece of shit crept into their daughter, step-daughter's room at night, waiting for a "bigger fish" to fry while the baby-fucker usually turned state's evidence. It was trying to calm an infant who had been douse in lighter fluid and set ablaze because the sonuvabitch didn't want to have to keep paying for diapers and baby-food.

It wasn't that Miller couldn't do the job. The real problem was that he could and did. Drinking helped him get to sleep for a while, and then it just stopped working. That didn't mean that Miller had stopped drinking. Near the end, he would sometimes go for days without sleep, seemingly passing through his days in a weird haze that seemed almost humidly thick, and a daily collect of debris that you could never really wash out of your skin. There was always this thought in the back of the head that something should be happening, though there were times that he went through months without having to look over the body of a child to focus on the drug connections, and he figured out that the win-loss columns never actually balance out.

Justice became something like a juggling act, until one day someone comes along and wants to lighten your burden, giving you some incentive to stop actually giving a shit. You knew you were getting closer to the top dog when that started happening. Miller could honestly say that he did not know anyone on the Flint police force that had taken a bribe. He could not honestly say that it never happened. And even on that rare, fortunate day that you actually got to make the bust on the guy that you had wanted all along... sometimes he gets off, sometimes they go away and someone new fills in the empty spaces. Sometimes they find him dead before the case even comes to trial, and to any of those that would have to suffice for something actually happening would inevitably bring you back to square one. The turn-over rate on the city police force was ridiculous, and Miller joined that statistic himself after staying there way too long to rescue and get his old humanity back. It was like taking some heavy blunt force trauma day after day, and you had to get back up and convince yourself that it was worth it to keep on setting yourself back up to take the hit again...

He had been working for McMorran County for four years now, and he suspected that this was likely as good as it was ever going to get. Full recovery was never an option, but you sure as hell recognized when something went bad, and especially when it had gone very bad... and crossing the borderline over into evil. It didn't matter if you believed in God or not, but you sure as hell began to believe in the Devil. You even began to recognize his scent, which had started kicking up a fuss once Miller had walked through the cluttered, and almost livable living room into a small bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Aside from a few stuff animals on the bed, you really could not tell that this was a girl's bedroom. Sure, the posters of some young guy sitting over the cheap stereo might have given you a clue, but most of what was taped up inside of Rachel Sweeter's room was music posters from bands that Miller had never even knew existed. With names like Succubus, Delirium and Angelic Descent; Miller didn't really require the dark and often blood spattered images to figure out what a long road from Elvis the world had traveled. From rebellion to some darkly manic form of angst, seeking out what just might devastate your sensibilities enough, that your youth and sensibilities might one day disappear. In Miller's day, they were still angry about these things. They still wanted change. In Rachel Sweeter's room, it was like a dog trying to hide its own scent in something that had died long ago.

Along with the dark Satanic were a bunch of unprofessional pictures that Rachel had likely drawn herself. There was an old one that had a fairy-like creature, endowed by her creator with something that seemed near-to like sexual exaggeration. There was another near it that held the image of a girl's face, passable to be Rachel herself, licking a bloody blade along the sharpened edge and some blood running down her chin. There was a water-color page hanging on another wall, its outline vague and yet just precise enough of a depiction to get the sense that this was the kind of angel that you really didn't care to meet.

In fact, there were several like it scattered among the other various dark sketches and charcoals that resembled the same sort for image. Some of them seemed as if the hand that had inspired them wanted this creature to be beautiful, and in others a dark and merciless creature. There were images of what appeared to be torture victims (all female) and others that were graphically sexual in nature... those were never pretty. Aside from the little fairy girl, which could likely have been drawn by someone much younger, was the image of a woman's face that Miller did recognize, despite the obvious distortions.

The face of Helen Sweeter stared back at him from the page, looking as she had been stricken by some sort of flesh-eating disease or... as if she were dead and rotting.

Rachel Sweeter was fourteen years old, starting last week.


4- Chill Reckonings

David Ogilvie had counted 2,087,421 steps since the last time that he had stopped, and remained in one place for any time. The numbers were not a measure of distance so much as they were his measure of passing time. He really didn't have any sort of set place that he was heading toward so much as he followed the road. It had taken him that number of steps to get here from the big, long bridge with the pretty Christmas lights all strung up along them. He could not remember how many he had walked before that, though he had written it down in his markings book. It was only one of the several treasures that he carried along with him, but what told him that it was time to stop walking was having enough food for him and Buster.

Buster was a senseless creature, which kind of maybe was why the dog foll'ered in af'er him. Buster had been foll'ering him for a really long time now. David had to kind of sneak on past the bridge people. He had no idea where he had walked to by name, and wouldn't really know much about it if he did know its name. For a soul-less creature, Buster weren't all bad. He was kind of smelly at the moment that David came up on a sign that said "Welcome to Junction Crossroads, Pop 1300, Home Of the 1994 Division II Football Champions."

David looked on beyond the sign into a road that turned around a stretched out bend. It looked near like the road ended at an old cinder-block garage, which had made David wunner if he should might head on back the way he had came. He may've done just that, if'n he tried never to do that. David ne'er really knew how fer ahead of the demons he were't. It had been a while hence he had come along right back into them. His daddy had always tol't him that he shouldn't e'er su'fer the Devil's companionship... tarry was a word he used. David could recall that word from when Gran'ma Deiadice used to read to him out the Bible. Gran'ma Deiadice was a very nice lady. David might have thought Daddy might have been wrong, but David weren't e'er smart enough to be sure, about her going to the Nethers and all. Gran'ma Deiadice were't a Rummin' Catlick, and Daddy claimed that they always worshipped idols. David hadn't come across no idols in Gran'pa and Gran'ma Deidice's house. There was Jesus' Momma out on the front lawn, and that big ol' picture she called the Last Supper, wit' Jesus in it. He had kind of really liked going to Gran'pa and Gran'ma Deiadice's house, until Momma passed away up into Heaven.

That was when Daddy and Gran'pa Deiadice took on some ire towurts one another. Gran'pa Deiadice had said that Daddy had done kilt Momma, though David knew that he ne'er done such a thing as that. When she had taken ill, Daddy had been a'prayin' o'er her all night and all day long. David were't prayin' too, but he didn't wanna get in too close to Momma when she were't ill like that. David knew'd he ha't some devils up'in him that surely wouldn't do Momma any much good.

He mis't Momma quite bit too much, too of'en maybe.

He was kin'er surprised when Gran'pa Deiadice ha't such an awfulest things as that about his Daddy. It was Gran'pa Deiadice that had took him to fishin' in his boat, and taught him about what wond'rous treasures could be found if'n you took the time to look. David didn't have no deteker to find them for him like Gran'pa Deiadice ha't up in his closet. He tried to show David how to work it, but David had been pretty li'l a'for't Momma died. Daddy ha't said tha's how it were't that the Lord wanted it to be, and he sure weren't gonna let no doctor put none of his poisons up in'er afore she went off to be wit' Jesus.

David kin'er knowed something about that, on account that he ha't had to go into a hospital for a time. He weren't towurt that, none-at-t'all. It ha't been a really long time hence he ha't seen Gran'pa and Gran'ma Deiadice. Daddy had tol't him that David coul'nt go and see 'em anymore, af'er Momma died. He had taken on some ire at David from that time onwurt, and it jus' seem to keep on gettin' wors't. Daddy tol't him that his devils were't working extra hard on him now, and sure as sunrise, might cart him off one day down in'na the Nethers, if'n he didn't mind him right.

David knowed more than he care't 'bout devils. He like to try to use a bunch of Bible words to try to scair't 'em off, such as ire, towurt and hence. It work't sometimes, as he couldn't really hear't em anymore af'er he said a Bible word. Sometimes though, he couldn't think on a proper sort of place to put them in'er his mouth, and jus' really couldn't talk at all. He try't to use big words such as cometh, and sayeth--but only the Lord in Heaven could do such things as that...

And to be truthful, there were times that he were't kin'er a'scair't to use the Lord's words. He was sometimes a'fret that the Lord might smite him down, on account of the devils that were't up'in his head. Sometimes, they really made him ire, and he would try to knock 'em out of his head. The doctors up in the hospital ha't said that they knowed what was really going on in his head, and that it weren't about no demons at all... which David knowed a'sure was a lie.

They ha't ask't him a whole bunch, only some of which David really un'erstout. It was when they had started askin' him about dirty stuff that David knowed they was tryin' to poison up and muddle his head with a bunch of bad stuff that the Lord would not like, none-tat-tall.

It was Momma that ha't taught him that word, none-tat-tall. She ha't said it, mostly when she was acing silly...

He really mis't his Momma quite bit.

She know't about Jesus and all too, but she would always tell David that he was a pretty good boy. David ha't wun'nert, sometimes, that maybe Momma didn't knowed the same Jesus that Daddy knowed. She were't raised up in a Rummin' Catlick house, but she went to Daddy's church to hear him preach. She tol't him that sometimes, though not very often, that maybe Daddy didn't always have things right. She tol't him to ne'er to tell Daddy about what she had said, but David weren't sure that Daddy could e'er say anythin' untruthful. He were't a man of God, and Momma... well Momma just loved David somethin' powerful. It probably weren't really a sin, e'en if David did have some devils up in his head. He ne'er seemed to have so many of 'em when Momma was around, and then it kin'er seemed as if he couldn't get shed of 'em once Momma was gone.

The hospital had mu'sa believe't that they had fixed something, on account that they had turn't him loose. Mrs. Griffin, who was there the day that he had to leave on Daddy's house, ha't tol't him about fundin. David really didn't un'erstan't what she meant about that, but he did un'erstan't that he was free to leave. He couldn't go back to Daddy's house anymore. Mrs. Griffin ha't said that Daddy and the house were't gone, which made David fig're that the Lord had cal't 'em both up. It was awful nice of Jesus to let Daddy keep his house.

David had went to see Momma a'fore't he left, and slept by the stone that marked where she had been buried up. He ha't thought that he might be able to stay there forever, but some man with a hat like Gran'pa Deiadice had come along to run him off. David weren't doing anything wrong or sinful, he just wanted to be by Momma. The man ha't tol't him that he couldn't come back there no more, which was when David started walkin'. And he had't walked by 498,065 steps afore't he first met Buster.

Buster didn't really have a name back then. Momma had use't to call him Buster whenever David got in mischief, which was pretty much all that Buster e'er did aside from walkin' aside David. "You better behave yourself Buster," Momma would say, but she weren't really ired up when she said it. Buster would sometimes upset David, such as when he had made some water on the front lawn of that church, or did his business in somebody else's yard. Buster occasionally tried to get into other folk's garbage cans, or back-sass David when he was tryin' to teach him right. David ne'er e'er hit on Buster, but he ha't scol't him back from doing some of the things that he just shouldn't ought to be doing. Buster didn't always lis'en to him right, on account that he was a senseless creature.

David sometimes kin'er envied the dog that the dog couldn't really do any kin'na real sinnin'. Which lasted fer about as long to David fer him to recognize envy fer what it is... which is a pretty terrible sin. David had learn't on it later, af'er the hospital time. He ha't thought that when he kin'er got upset when he seen a young boy and his Momma walkin' along.

David didn't envy the boy his Momma, so much as he would ha't truly wish't to have his own Momma back. And that just weren't as God wilt it to be, which was what made it a very bad sin. Most people looked down on David, kin'er like that boy's Momma did. David was pretty sure that they recognized about his demons in his head, which was why they't kin'er shoo him off with their mind. They'd jus' sort of get a scoldin' look in their eye, and David knew that he had better be gettin' on quick.

Ye don't suf'er the Devil's companionship.

Ye was another word that David liked to use sometime. Behold was one that he kin'er had trouble workin' into his common speak, though he knowed dang well when some somebody was beholdin' him to be movin' on.

David Ogilvie rounded the bend with Buster walking a couple yards ahead of him. David ha't to really keep a close eye on Buster whenever there were't kids or other dogs around. There were't a couple of times that David had jus' let him run off, and more than one time that he thought Buster was gone away for good. Buster had taken up with some young girl that had noticed him, and was pettin' on him like he was her dog. There was a couple of times that he almost got runned down. Once by a truck and another by car. David had scol't Buster something fierce about going into  the road without lookin' to see what might be comin' along down it. But it was the girl that were't the worst of all times, as she had just up took'n Buster home with her. If David were't a right sort of man in the head, he might have thought that the girl were't coveting what was his...

And then there were't the notion that came into his head that Buster might be better off livin' wit' her. She had a house, and could probably come across the enough food that neether of them e'er ha't to do without. David ha't near come to a point where he thought it might probably be alright if Buster ne'er e'er came back to him. One of the surest signs of a truly senseless creature was that Buster did come back. David was pretty happy at first, but then kin'er got mad at him fer not havin' the sense to realize that David weren't really good fer him. And then David began to wunner that maybe that were't the way that the Lord wanted things to be... and that kin'er made him happy again, aside from his queschinunins the way God decided things should be.

David kin'er slowed his steps once he had come to see the place more properly. There were't a few houses along the main road, with another cupler roads movin' off from the one he was still walkin' on. There was a place that kin'er looked like another house, 'ceptin' that it had a couple of old gasoline pumps out front of it, and a sign on the side that said Harlan's General Store. There were't nothing but an open field on the other side, wit' a high rolling hill that led back near't some woods and some high-line towers that ran up jus' afore the trees took over the ground. It weren't any kin'er city like David knowed were much bigger, and had a whole bunch more people livin' up in it.

David stopped for a moment afore he took off into the field, havin' to call Buster up for him to keep on foll'erin'. Folk really didn't care fer David to come in too close to where't they lived, mos' 'specially if they had any babies 'round the yard. They jus' didn't want their children to catch any of the devils that he ha't up in his head.

David consider't starting to count his steps again, though he kin'er knowed he might be stayin' in up 'round here for a while. He wanted to see the woods, and he thought that he might be able to make a place for Buster and him, that they could stave off fer walkin' all of the time.

Buster ran out ahead of him, dang senseless dog.

Uley