Adam kept saying, “Poor Mandy. Jesus, that poor little girl.”
Mitch kept saying, “It was Ryerson. Nothing like this ever happened around here until that goddamn psycho showed up. It was Ryerson, I tell you.”
Hod didn’t know what to say, what to think. He felt numb.
He felt as if somebody had scooped a big piece out of him somewhere inside. The place where it had been didn’t hurt yet. It would pretty soon, he knew that, but right now it didn’t. It was just numb, like the left side of his face had been numb that time he’d had the impacted wisdom tooth and the dentist in Bandon had shot him full of novocaine.
Della wasn’t numb, though; better for her if she was. She’d screamed when they told her, and then collapsed, and Mitch’s wife and his mother-in-law had come over and calmed her down and put her to bed. They’d got a doctor to come from Bandon and give her something, a shot of something-Mitch said don’t worry, he’d pay for it-and now she was resting in their trailer, with Marie Novotny and her mother right there to keep anybody from bothering her. They were taking care of Tad and Jason, too. The boys didn’t understand what it was all about, they were too young, but they knew something bad had happened to their sister and they’d both been bawling their heads off when Hod had left with Mitch and Adam.
And now here he was, sitting in Mitch’s living room-just the three of them, no more troopers, no more sheriff’s men, no more questions, and for the time being no more neighbors standing around gawking. Just him and his two best friends, drinking beer he couldn’t taste, listening to words that didn’t mean anything to him because of that big numb place inside that wouldn’t let him feel anything.
“Poor Mandy,” Adam was saying, “that poor little girl.”
“Troopers better arrest Ryerson damned quick, that’s all I got to say,” Mitch said. “Before anything else happens.”
“Mad dog like that,” Adam said, “he ought to be shot. No trial, none of that crap where a smart shyster can get him off. Just take him out and shoot him.”
“Shoot him or lock him up,” Mitch said, “just so he can’t hurt no other young girls.”
“Jesus, poor Mandy. That poor kid.”
“He’s a psycho, that’s what he is. Gets his kicks killing people, animals-just killing them.”
“Son of a bitch ought to be shot dead.”
“Hod,” Mitch said, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” Hod said, “I’m okay.”
“Another beer? Something to eat?”
“No, not right now.”
Mitch put an arm around him, the way he had two or three times today. “You sure you’re okay? You want to lay down or something?”
“No,” Hod said, “I don’t want to lay down.”
“Maybe be alone for a while? Go back to your place?”
“No. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Stay here with us, then, that what you want to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure you can. Stay as long as you want.”
“We know how you feel,” Adam said. “Don’t we, Mitch?”
“Sure we do. We know just how you feel.”
Mandy’s dead, Hod thought, my daughter’s dead. And he still couldn’t feel anything.