“Guess we’d better go tell the sheriff.” He turned to look at Loyal, who was watching a bird high in a nearby tree.
Creed waved to get his son’s attention. Loyal raised his eyebrows, lifted his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. Even Creed understood that one. This time he made sure Loyal could see him as he spoke. “We need to tell the sheriff.”
Loyal nodded his head while also making a fist with his right hand and bobbing it up and down. Creed mimicked the motion, and Loyal grinned.
“That means yes?”
Loyal smiled wider and made the motion again.
“Well, I’ll be dogged. That’s not too tricky.”
They grinned at each other until Creed remembered the dead man and sobered back up. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”
As they walked back to town, Loyal fingered the fancy little hair comb in his right pocket. He was pretty sure he’d seen Rebecca wearing it at church the Sunday before. He’d found the comb near the dead man and pocketed it before he’d really thought it through. He supposed he should show it to Father now. It might be evidence. He glanced at the strongly built dark man beside him and saw he was lost in thought. Loyal shoved the comb deeper in his pocket and took the opportunity to look more closely at his father. He wore his hair cropped close over his ears and a little longer on top with something shiny keeping it smoothed back from his forehead. Loyal guessed it wouldn’t move even if there were a breeze. He had a thin mustache, kind of like the one Loyal had seen Errol Flynn sporting in a movie magazine. Father wasn’t overly tall, but he took up space all the same.
Loyal touched his upper lip and drew his shoulders back to match Father’s posture and stride. It felt good to be walking together toward town with serious business to conduct. Maybe now that he was older, Father would spend more time with him. Maybe he would even learn some more signs so they could talk. And even if Father didn’t want to learn, Loyal figured he could read lips and write things down. They’d do fine.
He was almost sorry when they arrived in town—he could have walked a hundred miles beside his father—but it was important they tell someone about the dead man. He felt a pang of guilt about the comb. What if Rebecca could tell the sheriff something about what had happened? The dead man was likely what she and Michael had been running away from. He wrinkled his nose and guessed he should probably tell about seeing the Westfall kids. Maybe they should fetch Mother so she could talk while he signed. Loyal reached out to tug on his father’s shirt, but Father saw Sheriff White standing outside Rohrbaugh’s Store talking to someone and stepped away without noticing Loyal’s touch.
The sheriff turned and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t Creed Raines in the flesh. What are you doing down off the mountain? Come to make sure I’m still sheriffing right?”
Creed seemed to have forgotten him, so Loyal hung back, angling so he could see what the adults were saying.
“Afraid it’s bad news, Virgil. I’ve come to report a shooting.”
The sheriff’s face went all solemn. “Those Hacker boys at it again?”
Father rubbed his chin and grimaced. “Don’t know who did it, but there’s a man out there where the Tygart takes a sharp bend. He’s dead as mutton, and recently too. Got a couple of bullet holes in him.”
Sheriff White’s shoulders sagged. “Who is it?”
“Don’t recognize him. He might not be from around here.”
Virgil nodded and looked toward Loyal. “Your boy with you when you found him?”
Father glanced at Loyal and frowned. “Yes, but he doesn’t know anything more than I do.”
Loyal lifted his hands to say he saw the Westfall kids, but Father patted the air in a way Loyal took to mean he should keep his peace. It’s not like they would understand him anyway. He’d need paper and pencil or Mother to translate if he was going to tell them much of anything. He gave an exaggerated shrug and stuck his hands back in his pockets. His fingers closed over Rebecca’s comb and he hesitated, then grasped it tighter. He’d show it to them later.
The two men turned away and continued their conversation. Loyal craned his neck to see what they were talking about, only he couldn’t make it out as they were leaning close together. So he turned his attention to the store window, where Folgers coffee cans were arranged in a pyramid next to a sign for Coca-Cola. He was thinking about how good a cold soda would taste on this hot day when the sheriff touched his shoulder.
“Come with us,” he said, his lip movement exaggerated. Loyal wanted to tell him he could understand him better if he talked regular but knew it was no use.
He and Father started after the sheriff, who was climbing into his car along with one of his deputies. Loyal felt a surge of excitement. Not only was he going to ride in an automobile, but it was a black-and-white police car with a star on the door. Father had been sheriff once, but that was a long time ago—when he was little. He climbed into the back with Father and ran his hands over the smooth seat. He could feel the car jump to life, vibrating beneath his body. Then they were moving with air streaming in through the open windows.
Father jerked and looked at Loyal, and he supposed he must have made a sound. Sometimes he did that when he got excited and it would surprise people. It was funny, just because he didn’t talk, people tended to think he didn’t make any noise at all. They’d even taught him to speak at school, though he didn’t like to do it. It was hard, and speaking seemed silly when he could say so much more with his hands.
It felt like mere moments until they pulled off the road as close to the place where the dead man lay as they could get. Loyal fell in beside his father as they retraced their steps. Nearing the spot, Father placed a hand on Loyal’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes.
“Stay here.” He made the sign for “your,” but Loyal guessed he thought it meant “stay.” Loyal stuck the thumb and pinkie out on each hand and pressed his hands down to show he understood. Father looked surprised and mimicked the sign, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.
Loyal sighed and sat down. “Good boy,” Father said, and Loyal tried not to feel like a well-behaved dog.
After situating Loyal, Creed led the sheriff and deputy over to the dead man. It tickled him that he’d managed to talk to his son with those hand signs not once but twice today. He’d never really tried to do much with them before. He made signs of his own sometimes but hadn’t felt the need to learn the ones Loyal used. For the first time it occurred to him that those were signs other deaf people used, too. His son spoke a whole other language. Now, wasn’t that something?
Delphy was a whiz when it came to talking with her hands. She and the boy would “talk” with their fingers flying a mile a minute. He figured even if he did know the signs, he could never keep up with how fast they went. So, if he needed to tell Loyal something, he let the boy read his lips or got Delphy to sign for him.
But today was different. He realized he hadn’t been alone with his son since . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time. Probably not since he got so sick and the fever went to his ears. But Creed didn’t want to remember those days when he thought it was important to be somebody—to make sure his son grew up to be somebody. Now he saw Loyal on Sundays or special occasions, and Delphy was always there to smooth the way between them. But managing to communicate without her . . . he was surprised to realize he was enjoying it.