Poison Apples Read Online Free Page B

silently beside Stan, arms folded across the barrel chest, heavy legs wide apart as though the stance gave him more authority. Stan could hear his harsh breathing, the occasional cough. Rufus was a smoker; Stan had seen him once or twice in town, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth— though he never smoked on the job. He’d come to Stan with consummate credentials, had worked the orchard seven years before Stan acquired it. It was as though Stan were an interloper. Stan cleared his throat, began the interrogation.
    “You all know by now that two of our trees were cut down, destroyed. I want to hear from anyone who knows anything about this.” Stan glared at the assembled group. The only one who made eye contact was Millie; she seemed amused. No one spoke. Stan hated doing this, interrogating in this way. Back in Waterbury, when a student cheated on a test he’d send him at once to the principal, wouldn’t deal with it himself. He didn’t want to accuse anyone without proof. Absolute proof. You’re innocent until proved guilty, that’s the way he felt about things.
    And that boy, the one who killed Carol—the guilt was absolute. The blood rose up again in his chest. He couldn’t always make Moira see it his way, though. Carol’s death had driven a stake between him and his wife. He’d bought the orchard to help pull up that stake. And now someone, inside or outside this orchard, was driving it in again.
    “Well?” he said. “Cat got your tongues?”
    Rufus coughed. The twins shifted position, seemed less composed. The Jamaicans remained a solid core—until Number One man, Bartholomew, nudged the shorter, leaner man beside him. It was Zayon; Zayon was a Rastafarian, whatever that was—Stan always meant to ask the Jamaican about it. The dreadlocks reminded him of an ancient apple tree, the way the black hair was knotted up in ropelike clumps. It was all but impossible, he’d heard, to unravel them.
    “Those trees were deliberately slashed. Now I want to know who did it. I’m not accusing anyone here... .” Stan had to be careful with this. He adjusted his glasses where they’d slipped down on his sweaty nose. “But someone might have seen, heard something last night. I mean, other than a little thunder and rain. Or early this morning.”
    Again, there was silence. He’d been through this before, back in April, after the Roundup spraying. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be put in this position. He could feel the red pushing out on his skin, the familiar heaviness in his chest. But he had to go through with the questioning. He wanted to work this out himself—no police, no reporters who would alter the public’s view of the orchard. He’d ask each picker individually. Start with the locals. “Rolly and Hally,” he began, then checked himself— they were two young men, not one. But he always got them mixed up. “Hally,” he said, and the twin on the left stared back at him with wide blue eyes.
    “We sleep sound,” Hally said, answering for them both. “Didn’t even know there was a storm.”
    The other one said, “Nope. Slept right through it.”
    “Golding?”
    Adam Golding shook his head. He was a quiet, good-looking fellow. Stan didn’t care for the long hair, but at least Golding had the decency to tie it back. “Nothing. I was with them,” he said, nodding at the brothers. The trio slept together in the smaller of the two bunkhouses. “Though wait,” he said, and the heads swiveled. “I thought I heard the geese—I was half awake. But it could have been part of my dream.”
    Millie spoke up before Stan could question her. She didn’t live on the orchard; there was probably no point having her here. Still—you never knew. “I heard the storm. It woke Mother. She got under the bed!” Stan heard the others snicker. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about those trees.” She gave Stan a winning smile. There was something schoolgirlish about her,