Rohdl, exercising a sort of logic, handed his empty bottle to Isobel. He left them, abruptly, walking with his head raised, his vision fixed on the contours of the hill, as it rose on the other side of the barn. Isobel shrugged, and tossed the bottle through the car’s open window. Powell was embarrassed. The stranger had got a long ways into the conversation.
“Mister,” he said, “I guess I don’t know your name.”
“No, that wouldn’t be likely,” the man agreed. “I was gonna tell you the rest of the story. Here’s Mr. Rohdl.” Rohdl walked back. He tapped Powell above the elbow, and beckoned. “You, Mr. Kenzie, and you, miss.” He gestured, also, to Isobel, and they followed, going parallel to the road, about twenty feet out. A rivulet that ran from the hilltop, met the ditch here; it had carved a channel too deep to cross.
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