Let's Go Play at the Adams'

not an animal, a male not a female, someone powerful and not weak. It could be no other way.

Moreover Bobby, gun and all, would be no match for the man-in-the-dark of Barbara's sudden

imagination. He would be taken care of if necessary, and ~then the kitchen door would open

again. What would happen to her when the intruder finally learned what was going on here

was unimaginable, better not imagined. She held her breath to hear the sound of scuffling, the

sound of a gun-the sound of something-and heard nothing for an hour and then a second

hour. She looked at her wrists seeming miles away, neatly bound with Scout knots-clove

hitches if the correct terms were used-and felt that tomorrow, if there was one, she must

absolutely get away.

Gingerly, very gingerly, she exhumed the outlines

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of a plan she had invented earlier and been too "nice" to effect.

In the garden Bobby was late-awakened by the sudden heat of a risen, huge August sun;

he was cold, damp, dirty, and stiff with the barrel of the .410 glinting wetly where he had

laid it against the beanpoles (the gun was still dangerously cocked). He awoke with a start,

a physical jump, all of the past night's fears and suspense, all of the guilt at having had to

abandon guarding Barbara, immediately on his shoulders. A moment's consideration,

however, told him that everything was all right: he could feel it. The sky was pale green with

very tropical, moist clouds just warming their eastern faces to the light. The birds were

making their usual morning racket, and the river-when he cautiously stood and surveyed

the place-was flat-moving and peaceful. Most important, there was no concealment for

anyone now, no shadows, no darkness, no confusion. Was the Picker gone, too? (In Bobby's

1mind, it was definite now: there had been someone, and the person was a Picker.) Or was

the Picker still sleeping on the pine needles, a ragged shirt pulled up over him for dryness

and protection against mosquitoes?

He was gone. Bobby could feel that, too. The new day was clear of menace. Taking up the

shotgun, Bobby carefully lowered the hammer back into place, broke the piece, removed

the shells, and walked neatly down the rows of vegetables, up the river steps, and back

into the kitchen, his mind sleepily remembering.

What if the Picker had really come and found him asleep in the garden, gun all ready and

free for the taking and using? Or what if he had come and passed unseeing by as Bobby

bad planned? Would Bobby have shot him or shot in the air and bluffed him away? Would

Bobby have done anything at all? Really? It was yes-no, no-yes. He didn't know that nor

know what he would do when it was night again. And what if the Picker came around today

asking for work and somehow discovered-it wouldn't take a genius-that

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there was no one in this house but a bunch of kids keeping a girl tied up in bed? I don't know,

Bobby said, I just don't know.

In the living room, he carefully propped the gun up against the side of the fireplace, took the shells

out of his pocket and put them on the mantel before sinking down, exhausted. He was still there-

sleeping when Cindy, all tangled and sleep-eyed, came through on her way to the kitchen and her

morning treat of Pop-Ups.

"There was somebody here last night," he said when he had waked up a second time.

"Oh?" Cindy's mouth was full, her voice uninterested at first. Then, as all the slow, complicated

thoughts that Bobby had had hours ago began to occur to her, she stopped eating, and· very, very

carefully put her pastry down.

"Who was it?" She was subdued. And he told her.

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6

Freedom Five-all assembled in meeting-heard about the Picker with gravity but no panic.

John laid out a first plan: Cindy and Dianne would watch Barbara and the grounds around

the house and sound the car horn if they wanted help; Bobby and Paul would come with

him and investigate.

They went armed. John carried Dr. Adams' pump-action 20-gauge shotgun; Bobby his .410;

and Paul a scope-.22 loaded with shorts. Guns were familiar objects to them. Even twitchy

Paul went ducking with his father in the winter. All three kids had fired, and all three had

killed small game and a few birds. They were, in fact, a rather formidable little group if

their trigger-nervousness be taken into account.

They went down the private Adams road, past the vegetable garden, past the way to John's

house, and around the first tum to just beyond the marsh. Generally they were paralleling

the bends and turns of Oak Creek until they got to the area they called "the pines.'' Here

.1

the untended woods and wetland ran together in

an almost impenetrable thicket of trees and underbrush, each tangled with the other, each

fighting for survival, sunshine, and air. Failed trees stood dead, leaning against their

neighbors, unable to fall because of the crush, and vines twined up their trunks and

spanned their limbs and made green caves to hide in.