CHAPTER SIXTEENI headed farther west on Route 50 to Dwayne Sutterman’s place. On the way, I passed a flatbed truck laden with crated chickens. The odor suggested an overflowing septic tank on wheels. Upon closer inspection, I could see the chickens crammed so tightly their feathers fluttered between the slats like tiny flags of surrender.
“Poor birdies,” I muttered, as I slowed to turn off the highway. The truck zoomed on, its driver heedless of me or his passengers.
The Glades apartment complex was a step up from Curtis’s trailer park home. Part of it might survive if a tornado ripped through the area. The apartments were organized into four-story units of light brown brick with beige trim. I strolled the grounds of manicured grass, lined with boxwood shrubs and the occasional bed of da
