There was a car parked there. A dark blue hatchback with a dented rear bumper and an Austin parking sticker on the windshield.
While we stood there, the pump house door opened, and a rectangle of bluish light spilled out onto the gravel, along with a blast of noise twice as loud as before. A young man came out, pulling the door shut behind him. He was late twenties, thin, in a hooded sweatshirt despite the heat, with a laptop under his arm. He locked the door with a key and, out of habit, rattled the handle to make sure. Then he turned toward the car and saw us.
He froze. We froze. Splice, who has never once in his life frozen, wagged.
"Evening," Ozzie said.
The young man didn't say anything. He looked at the three of us on the trail, at the camera in my hand. Under the parking lot light I could see his face. He had his mother's chin.
"Boone," Lamont said, gently. "That you, son?"
Boone Ashworth looked at Lamont for a long second. His mouth opened as if he were going to say something. Then he closed it, got into the hatchback, and drove away down the service drive without turning on his headlights until he reached the street.
Lamont watched him go. "March sixth," he said quietly. "That's the weekend Glenda's boy moved home from Austin. She asked the board to approve a pavilion rental for his welcome-home party. It's in the minutes." He shook his head slowly. "His company shut down in February. She told me he was having a hard time."
We stood there for a while in the dark with the vent roaring at us. Nobody said anything. Then Splice sat down on my foot, which is how he tells me it's time to go home, and we went.
IX.
By Thursday at seven, there were more people in the Bluebonnet Trace clubhouse than there had been for the Christmas potluck.