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.""For her money," Jan said slowly."So they could start their catering business?""Yes.""Dick.we can't just ignore this.We've got to do something.""What would you suggest?""I don't know, contact the police in Milwaukee.""And tell them what that can be proven? The Archersons didn't admit anything incriminating to us.Besides, there must have been an investigation at the time.If there'd been any evidence against them, they wouldn't have gotten Mrs.Cooley's money and they wouldn't be here celebrating.""But that means they'll get away with it, with cold-blooded murder!""Jan, they already have.And they're proud of it, proud of their own cleverness.I think they contrived to tell us the story on purpose, with just enough hints so we'd figure out the truth.""Why would they do that?""The same reason they latched onto us, convinced themselves we're kindred spirits.The same reason they're so damned eager.They're looking for somebody to share their secret with.""Dear God."We were silent after that.The tropical night was no longer soft; the air had a close, sticky feel.The smell of hibiscus and plumeria had turned cloyingly sweet.I swallowed some of my drink, and it tasted bitter.Paradise tasted bitter now, the way it must have to Adam after Eve bit into the forbidden fruit.The guidebooks do lie, I thought.There are serpents in this Eden, too.Early the next morning, very early, we checked out of the Kolekole and took the first interisland flight to Honolulu and then the first plane home.Trains, like werewolves and a few dozen other wide-ranging subjects, are a source of endless fascination for me.A couple of my novels have railroading elements; and I've edited two anthologies of train stories, one mystery/suspense (Midnight Specials) and one traditional Western (The Railroaders)."Sweet Fever," the second of two short stories built around this theme ("Night Freight" being the other), is a mood piece steeped in railroad and hoboing atmosphere, one reason why it is among the most anthologized of all my short fiction.Parenthetically I'll add that, as was the case with "The Monster," it came to me whole—title, plot, setting, everything—and is essentially a first draft written at white heat.Sweet FeverQuarter before midnight, like on every evening except the Sabbath or when it's storming or when my rheumatism gets to paining too bad, me and Billy Bob went down to the Chigger Mountain railroad tunnel to wait for the night freight from St.Louis.This here was a fine summer evening, with a big old fat yellow moon hung above the pines on Hankers Ridge and mockingbirds and cicadas and toads making a soft ruckus.Nights like this, I have me a good feeling, hopeful, and I know Billy Bob does too.They's a bog hollow on the near side of the tunnel opening, and beside it a woody slope, not too steep.Halfway down the slope is a big catalpa tree, and that was where we always set, side by side with our backs up against the trunk.So we come on down to there, me hobbling some with my cane and Billy Bob holding onto my arm.That moon was so bright you could see the melons lying in Ferdie Johnson's patch over on the left, and the rail tracks had a sleek oiled look coming out of the tunnel mouth and leading off toward the Sabreville yards a mile up the line.On the far side of the tracks, the woods and the rundown shacks that used to be a hobo jungle before the county sheriff closed it off thirty years back had them a silvery cast, like they was all coated in winter frost.We set down under the catalpa tree and I leaned my head back to catch my wind.Billy Bob said, "Granpa, you feeling right?""Fine, boy.""Rheumatism ain't started paining you?""Not a bit."He give me a grin."Got a little surprise for you.""The hell you do.""Fresh plug of blackstrap," he said.He come out of his pocket with it."Mr.Cotter got him in a shipment just today down at his store."I was some pleased.But I said, "Now you hadn't ought to go spending your money on me, Billy Bob.""Got nobody else I'd rather spend it on."I took the plug and unwrapped it and had me a chew.Old man like me ain't got many pleasures left, but fresh blackstrap's one; good corn's another.Billy Bob gets us all the corn we need from Ben Logan's boys.They got a pretty good sized still up on Hankers Ridge, and their corn is the best in this part of the hills.Not that either of us is a drinking man, now.A little touch after supper and on special days is all.I never did hold with drinking too much, or doing anything too much, and I taught Billy Bob the same.He's a good boy
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