![]() ![]() The people who lived hereabouts were tough and pragmatic, including the thirtyish blonde who'd invited me here. I noticed that Lizzie Joyce wasn't wearing one. ![]() Though the temperature was in the fifties today, the wind was colder than I'd counted on. Since we were in north Texas, there was grass, but in February it wasn't green. ![]() A flock of birds was cackling in the oak's branches. This was an old cemetery, as Texas cemeteries go, established when the live oak in the middle of the graveyard had been only a small tree. There wasn't a fence around the little cemetery. When our little handful of people fell silent, the whistle of the wind scouring the rolling hill was the only sound in the landscape. It was the only other car I'd seen since I'd followed Lizzie Joyce's gleaming black Chevy Kodiak pickup out to the Pioneer Rest Cemetery, which lay outside the tiny town of Clear Creek. A car zoomed by on the narrow two-lane blacktop. We were standing on a windswept field some miles south of the interstate that runs between Texarkana and Dallas. "Do your thing." Her accent made the words sound more like "Dew yore thang." Her hawklike face was eager, the anticipatory look of someone who is ready to taste an unknown food. "ALL right," said the straw-haired woman in the denim jacket. ![]()
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