The Weirdo

by Theodore Taylor Narrated by George Guidall

Overview

They call him the Weirdo. No one knows much about the 17-year-old bear tracker with the horribly scarred face-except that he lives in the eerie swamp where Samantha Sanders found a dead body. But one night Samantha wanders into the dark swamp and meets the Weirdo. She listens to his shocking story, looks into his gentle soul, and becomes his friend. And when she stumbles across another body, Samantha knows that the Weirdo is the only one who can help her. Together, they begin a search for the killer who is stalking innocent victims through the murky waters and dangerous marshes of the swamp. For over 25 years, Theodore Taylor has thrilled millions of young adults with his brilliantly crafted, chilling novels of suspense. The Weirdo is one of Taylor's best-an Edgar Award-winning mystery that combines heart-thumping suspense, realistic characters, and unforgettable images of the North Carolina swamplands.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"An eloquent debate pitting human and animal rights against each other is both informative and moving as this murder mystery/love story/environmental thriller weaves its uncommon spell. Deftly drawn characterizations, from the admirable to the loathsome, and an engrossing journalistic format are two of the many strong points that make this timely and compelling novel a winner."—Publishers Weekly
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Product Details

BN ID:	2940170617722
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	03/08/2013
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Samantha Sanders was nine years old the afternoon she found Alvin Howell dead. She'd spotted the bright blue cloth over at the edge of Powhatan Swamp just as she turned into her yard. Odd, because it hadn't been there when she went to school in the morning.

Putting her books down on the front porch, she crossed Chapanoke Road, jumped the ditch, and came upon the cloth quicker than she'd expected. It was half-hidden in the brush. Raising a branch, she saw a man's face, mouth wide open as if he was trying to yell, eyes swollen with fright. On his chest was a splotch of red.

Screaming, Sam stumbled back, falling down into the ditch water. Heart beating in her ears, she crawled out and ran for the house. Her hand shook as she lifted the hidden front-door key off its nail and struggled to get it into the lock.

Inside, she called the school district office, weeping now, trying to make herself understood. She wanted her mother, Dell Sanders. Her papa, a Coast Guard bo'sun, was out on temporary sea duty. Her brother, Steve, was at baseball practice.

Delilah Sanders came on.

"Mama, Mama, Mama...there's a dead man...."

"Where, Samantha?"

"Dead man..."

"Where, Samantha? Calm down. You're not making any sense."

"Dead man out in front of the house..."

"Are you sure?"

"He's there."

All light, listen to me. I'll call the sheriff. You lock the door and stay inside. Get some water, take an aspirin. All right, Samantha..."

"Yes, Mama. Come home, please come home."

"I'll be there just as fast as I can."

Dell arrived home twenty minutes later —- even before thesheriff's car came up the road, roof light flashing — and went about holding Sam and calming her down.

A moment later there was a sharp knock on the door. A deputy in plain clothes, identifying himself as Ed Truesdale, showed his ID card and asked, "Where is he?"

"My daughter said he's right across the road. Look for some blue just over the swamp ditch."

Truesdale, taking a gun out of his coat, hurried off in that direction as Dell and Sam watched silently. Sam clutched her mother. They saw him jump across the ditch, lift a branch, and stand there, looking down. Then he returned to his car to use the radio.

In a few minutes, he was up on the front porch again, asking if he could come in.

Dell said, "Sure. Would you like some coffee?"

Truesdale said, "Yes, thank you. Could you tell me who found him?"

"My daughter, Samantha. This is Samantha."

Looking ill, Sam stood a few feet away.

Truesdale said, "Miss Samantha, why don't you come over here an' sit beside me an' tell me what happened. I got a daughter little bit older'n you." He took a seat on the couch and motioned her over.

Sam went over and sat down.

"Where you go to school?"

"MacFadden, in Currituck."

"Be darned. I put two daughters through there. What grade?"

"Fourth."

"Good grade. Well, I've got a few questions, Samantha. How'd you know he was there?"

"The dead man?"

Truesdale nodded.

Sam told him she saw blue and went over to investigate.

"An' you didn't see the blue there this mornin' when you went off to school?"

"No, sir."

"When you went up the road this mornin' — I'm guessin' you take the bus..."

Sam nodded.

"...you see anybody? Any car pass you, in either direction?"

'No, sir."

"You see anybody on foot?"

"No, sir."

"You ever seen the dead man before?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"At Dunnegan's." That's what everyone called the nearby convenience store.

"You know his name?"

"No, sir."

"He is, or was, Alvin Howell. Lives, or did live, 'bout seven miles north, off Tucker Road." Truesdale scratched his head. "Uh, you ever see Mr. Howell come down Chapanoke before?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I guess that's 'bout all, Samantha, an' I do appreciate your help. Now, what you have to do is put this unfortunate incident outta your head forever. Hard to do, I know, but try, huh?" He smiled widely at her and stood.

Seven years later, no one had found out who killed Mr. Howell. The incident had deepened Sam's dread of the swamp.

Her papa had once said, "Only the Powhatan an' the one who did it knows." He was probably right.

Three-thirty P.M. The big Buick station wagon with Virginia plates made a rooster tail of ivory dust along the dirt road to the old white two-story farmhouse that sat on the northern edge on the Powhatan, west of the George Washington Canal.

The Sanders farm was on the North Carolina side of the border, the "hick" side, as stuck-up Virginians often said, conveniently forgetting there wasn't much difference between rural Tar Heels and rural hayseed Virginians.

Finally, the green wagon pulled into the front yard. Sam's Uncle Jack merrily tooted several times, causing her father's two penned hunting dogs to break the chill autumn silence. The din sawtoothed across the brown cornfields and over into the swamp.

Sam opened the front door and yelled for old Martin, the bluetick coon hound, and Rick, the black Lab duck dog, to shut their loud mouths. They enjoyed making noise when visitors drove up.

Then she hurried across the creaky porch and approached the new Le Sabre, saying, "Hi, Uncle Jack, Aunt Peaches..." looking in at the occupants.

"Hi, Samantha, you pretty thing."

He always said the same thing on seeing Sam. She knew different. If pretty was gauged by girls in fashion magazines or on the morning soaps, Sam wasn't pretty. In her own hard-eyed opinion she was as plain as freckled biscuit dough. So she always cringed inwardly when Uncle Jack gave his silly compliment.

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