Uncle Bill laughed, and the silence was so deep that his voice echoed and reechoed.
Breeze was glad the killing was over, for he’d rather hear the two men talk than to see Sherry kill.
The boat flowed evenly, almost silently, over the water’s smooth surface. Uncle Bill kept it close to the bank to avoid the full sweep of the current in the middle of the stream.
Great dark birds, startled by its passing so close to their homes, flew up out of the water with a loud flopping of wings, but there was little talk for the rest of the way.
The water slipped swiftly past them. The small whirling circles made by Uncle Bill’s paddle widened until they reached the bank’s willowy edges where vines and bushes wound tight together, choking and strangling one another as they wrestled for a narrow foothold.
When Uncle Bill paused and cleared his throat Breeze knew he was going to ask Sherry a question.
“How come you don’ like April, here lately?”
“Who say I don’ like em?” Sherry answered.
“I say so.”
Sherry’s white grin was cold. Hard. His answer slow in coming.