CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Across the rutted yard, the two men sweated, struggled, and cursed as they dragged Bourne’s inert form towards the small outhouse, beside which Bessy stood waiting, the scattergun in her hands.
“Put him under a pile of old timber and tarpaulins,” she instructed. “No one ever comes in here.”
“They will once he starts to ripen,” said Frank, putting his hands into the small of his back and arching backwards.
“When that happens, we’ll move him.”
“We?” scoffed Weasel. “Lady, our involvement in this sorry mess ends after we cover him over.”
“That’s right,” joined in Frank. “You’re on your own from now on.”
“Check his pockets,” Bessy said, motioning with the scattergun. “You can keep any money but any papers, letters, plans and such, you give to me.”
“Plans?” Weasel got
