“She’s eighteen,” Ma Chester told him. “But I guess she’s never grown up.”
Dillon couldn’t stand any more of it. He went outside. The hot sun was fast drying the heavy dew. The ground was steaming a little, and a faint white mist, extending as far as the eye could see, hovered just above the ground. The air smelt good and he was glad to get away from the staleness of the shack.
He walked over to the car and glanced inside. The back seat was stained dark with Myra’s blood. He wrinkled his nose a little. This was a hell of a morning.
Over the way he noticed a well, and he went over and drew a bucket of water. Then, finding some rags under the front seat, he began sponging the mess away. He had just got through and had got rid of the water when Roxy came out.
Dillon looked at him. “I’m goin’ to go nuts in this dump,” he said. “Just wait until that chiseler comes out here…. I’ll kill him.”
Roxy sat on the running-board of the car and lit a cigarette. “Hell,” he said. “It’s somethin’ to be safe, ain’t it?”
“That loony gives me the creeps,” Dillon muttered, shoving the back seat into place.
“Aw, she’s okay…. She’s just a kid really…. You look on her as a kid. She ain’t goin’ to worry you.”
Chrissie came out just then. She edged over to them. “You’ve made the seat all wet,” she said, looking into the back of the car. “Why have you done that?”
Dillon turned away. He spat on the ground. As he moved off, Chrissie said, “I don’t like him,” to Roxy.