"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen."
"It's a trail." Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor. It ended suddenly near the wall.
"What do you make of it. Jimmy?"
A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess stared at Tremaine. "I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks," he said. "You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing tricks?"
"I think." Tremaine said, "that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few questions."
At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop of greased hair.
"Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine," said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung the cell door open. "He wants to talk to you."
"I ain't done nothin," Hull said sullenly. "There ain't nothin wrong with burnin out a Commie, is there?"
"Bram's a Commie, is he?" Tremaine said softly. "How'd you find that out, Hull?"