I look up at the Whites. “Did Benny ever talk about the Kiffins’ dog?” I ask them. “A dog named Mr. Peanut?”
The stepfather gets a peculiar expression, and his eyes brighten with tears. He sighs. “Lori’s allergic,” he says, as if that answers my question.
“He was always complaining about the way they treated that dog,” Mrs. White helps out. “Benny wanted to know if we could take Mr. Peanut. He wanted the dog and said he thought the Kiffins would give it up, but we couldn’t.”
“Because of Lori,” I infer.
“It was an old dog, too,” Mrs. White adds.
“Was?” I ask.
“Well, it’s real sad,” she says. “Right after Christmas, Mr. Peanut didn’t seem to be feeling well. Benny said the poor dog was shaking and licking itself a lot, like it was in pain, you know. Then maybe a week ago it must have gone off to die. You know how animals will do that. Benny went out looking for Mr. Peanut every day. It just broke my heart. That child sure did love that dog,” Mrs. White adds. “I think that’s the main reason he’d go over thereto play with Mr. Peanutand he just searched high and low for her.”
“Was this when his behavior started changing?” I suggest. “After Mr. Peanut disappeared?”
“It was about that time,” Mr. White replies, and neither parent seems able to bear stepping inside Benny’s room. They cling to the doorway as if holding up the walls. “You don’t think he did something like that because of a dog, do you?” He is almost pitiful when he asks.
MAYBE FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, LUCY AND I HEAD out to the woods together, leaving the parents at the house. They have not been to the deer stand where Benny was hanged. Mr. White told me he knew about the stand and has seen it many times when he has been out with his metal detector, but neither he nor his wife can bring themselves to go out there right now. I asked them if they thought other people knew the spot where Benny diedI am worried about the cu-rious having tramped around out there, but the parents don’t think anybody knows exactly where Benny’s body was found. Not unless the detective told people around here, Mr. White adds.
The field where we landed is between the house and the creek, a barren acre that doesn’t appear to have seen a plow in many years. To the east are miles of woods, the silo almost at the shore and jutting up rusty and dark like a tired, thick lighthouse that seems to look out across the water at The Fort James Motel and Camp Ground. As I imagine Benny visiting the Kiffins, I wonder how he got there. There is no bridge across the creek, which is about a hundred feet wide and has no outlet. Lucy and I follow the footpath through the woods, scanning everywhere we step. Tangled fishing line is caught in trees close to the water, and I note a few old shotgun shells and soft drink cans. We have walked no more than five minutes when we come upon the deer blind. It looks like a decapitated tree house that someone threw up in a hurry, with wooden rungs nailed up the trunk. A severed yellow nylon rope dangles from a crossbeam and stirs in a light cold breeze that blows off the water and whispers through trees.
We stop and are silent as we look around. I don’t see any trashno bags or popcorn containers or any sign that Benny might have eaten out here. I get closer to the rope. Stanfield cut it about four feet from the ground and since Lucy is more athletic than I am, I suggest that maybe she could climb up into the stand and remove the rope properly. At least we can take a look at the knot on the other end. I take photographs first. We test the rungs nailed into the tree, and they seem sturdy enough. Lucy is bundled in a thick down-filled jacket that doesn’t seem to slow her down as she climbs up, and she is careful as she reaches the platform, pushing and tugging boards to make sure they can bear her weight. “Seems pretty sturdy,” she lets me know.