McFall tapped his fingers. The cell phone on his desk buzzed and he flipped it open. “Excuse me,” he said, shoving his chair back and heading for the door.
Ronnie watched through the window as McFall walked down to the entrance of the development, where a car awaited him. The man—he’s not really a man, he’s a McFALL—had left his cell phone open on his desk.
Bait. No way would he leave it there otherwise.
Ronnie couldn’t resist, any more than his mother could resist Archer McFall, any more than countless generations of Days, Potters, Mathesons, and Abshers had been able to resist other McFalls.
Ronnie recognized her number. She’d been so proud of her new cell phone, the first thing she’d bought with her waitress tips. It had been proof to her that she was an adult.
The text said: “help. sweeny. greg he”
Sweeney? The guy was a little out there, but not even the sheriff had taken him seriously as a murder suspect. Everybody thought he was long gone, that he’d hitchhiked to Charlotte or Atlanta, where he’d huddle under pedestrian bridges and scavenge fast food from dumpsters. Besides, his last name was Buchanan, not Gregg.
She’d obviously typed the message in a hurry. Melanie wasn’t an A student, but she took pride in her spelling. She said language separated the trailer parks from the gated subdivisions. Was she in danger? If so, why had she texted McFall instead of her mother or the sheriff’s office?
McFall was coming back, accompanied by a woman dressed in a suit jacket and professional skirt who was carefully maintaining her balance as her high heels probed the gravel road. Ronnie recognized her from the newspaper; she was that county commissioner who’d made a big deal about the water plant the town wanted to build. A real friend of the river. Obviously, she didn’t know the river.
Ronnie retreated to where he’d been standing when McFall had left the room.
McFall made a big show of introducing the woman. “Ronnie, this is Heather Fowler,” he said. “She’s going to be helping us out around here.”
As he nodded a greeting, Ronnie noticed that her eyes were hidden by the same type of sunglasses McFall’s wife always wore. “Well, I better get going.”
McFall circled his desk, glanced at his phone, and clicked the screen to black. Ronnie waited for him to say something about the cryptic message.
“Don’t go far,” McFall said. “I need you to clear some brush at the Gregg farm. After we level the Buchanan place, we’ll be starting over there.”
The Gregg property was about a quarter-mile from the Day farm, separated by a strip of Absher land. McFall had pretty much gained control of all the valleys surrounding the ridge of his family homestead. His dad was the remaining holdout, and it didn’t sound like the hold was very strong. As Ronnie left the office, Heather Fowler was settling into the leather chair as if she were trying out a throne.
He went to the house where Elmer was working and asked him where Bobby was.
“Hell if I know,” the pudgy man said, as he worked beneath a kitchen sink with a pipe wrench balanced on his belly. “Didn’t come in last night.”
“Is he okay?”
Elmer shoved aside the water lines he’d been connecting, wriggled awkwardly out from under the sink, and sat up wheezing. “Guys your age, you know it all. Well, let me tell you, real life will slap you in the face soon enough. You think it’s all about honeys and music and freedom, but then the bills pile up, the doctor puts you on four different kinds of pills, and the government shits all over the economy. So you put your hope in your kids, the next generation, and damned if they don’t turn out the same as you.”
“Can you tell him I’m looking for him if you see him?”
“We’re like a river, Ronnie,” Elmer said, reaching for his thermos. When Elmer twisted the thermos lid free, the odor of whiskey filled the kitchen. “It’s not new water rolling by, it’s the same old water coming back in a million different ways, over and over again until one day it dries up.”
The river. Ronnie knew one more place to look. Maybe after meeting with McFall, Bobby had finished what he’d started that night he ran off the road. Maybe the Silverado was ten feet beneath the surface, Bobby’s bloated corpse bobbing against the roof of the cab. Without bothering to reply to Elmer, he jogged outside and veered around the lower end of the property so that McFall couldn’t see him.
He was sweaty and exhausted by the time he reached the bridge. The sign upon which someone had spray painted “No fun” had been replaced, but a new graffiti artist had already been at work sometime during the night. Beneath “No Swimming Jumping Fishing From Bridge” was a wiggly “No dying.”
Ronnie climbed down the bank, ending up near to where he’d found Darnell Absher’s corpse. That discovery seemed years in the past now, from a time when Ronnie had still possessed a bit of optimism and courage. Or maybe at the time he’d just been burying his memories deep enough to start believing his own fairy tale: That Archer McFall was just a spooky story grandmas told to keep their bratty grandkids in line, that Ronnie could pull a magic sword from a stone and win the heart of his princess Melanie Ward.
He walked the shoreline, stepping from mossy rocks to mud, careful not to let the current lap onto his sneakers, as if the water might reach up like a hand and drag him under. Even though the water level was lower than usual because of the heat he couldn’t see the bottom. But he didn’t see the pearlescent finish of the truck, either.
He climbed back to the highway and was considering plan C when he heard the powerful rumble of an engine. The Silverado was driving toward him, its turn signal on. Bobby stopped the truck and rolled down the window. Ronnie welcomed the blast of air-conditioning but was shocked by his friend’s wan complexion. Bobby’s face looked as if it had been drained of blood, his veins filled with milk instead.
“Shit, Bobby. What happened last night? You look like hell warmed over.”
“Get in. We got work to do.”
Ronnie wondered if McFall could see the truck from his window. Probably. Anyway, it didn’t seem to matter whether McFall saw things. He knew things.
Once inside the cab, Ronnie said, “Sorry I bailed on you last night. I was freaking out big time.”
“It’s okay,” Bobby said as he drove across the bridge, his stare fixed dead ahead. “I realized it was like a drum solo—something I had to play alone.”
“Real life slapping you in the face?”
“Don’t know how real it was, but it’s done.”
“What did you and McFall do?”
“If it was any of your business you would have been there.”
Fine. So you didn’t get much sleep.
Ronnie told him about the text message Melanie had sent McFall. He didn’t share his suspicion that McFall had deliberately allowed him to see the message. Bobby was McFall’s Golden Boy, and Ronnie realized he could no longer fully trust his best friend.
“Sounds like we better get to the Gregg farm.”
“Yeah, that word ‘help’ freaks me out,” Ronnie added. “What if our special friend Sweeney did something to her?”
Instead of turning into McFall Meadows, Bobby drove past the entrance, where Heather Fowler’s car was parked in the grass by the cemetery. “We’re going to stop at your house first to get my bat. I’ve had that thing since Little League. Dad always said I’d make my first hit in the majors with it.”
When Ronnie ran in to grab the bat, his mom asked him why he was home in the middle of the day. Ronnie said, “Lunch,” and headed straight for his room. Tim was busy doodling some cartoon monsters, so he did little more than grunt at Ronnie. He didn’t seem to notice when Ronnie pulled the bat out from underneath his blankets. His mom saw it when he headed into the kitchen, though, and he came up with some story about how Bobby had let him borrow it—thankfully, she didn’t ask why—then grabbed the sandwiches and fled.
Back in the truck, Ronnie saw Bobby wiping his runny nose. He’d had that same cold for days now. So m
uch for the health of a superior athlete. But Ronnie wasn’t his mother or his girlfriend, so it was none of his business.
The last few houses were soon behind them, and pasture gave way to raw forest. “I don’t know what Melanie would be doing way out here,” Ronnie said.
“Maybe this is where she hooks up with McFall for … you know, recreational activities,” Bobby said.
Ronnie kept silent. He’d been thinking the same thing.
The road soon narrowed to a set of rocky ruts that wound between saplings whose young, green branches slapped at the Silverado’s flanks. Even though it was barely afternoon, the forest grew perceptibly darker, as if a night was approaching that had no regard for hours and borders and the stubborn futility of light. They soon had to give up on the truck and walk the last bit, Bobby carrying the bat over his shoulder and occasionally swiping it at weeds and branches in their path.
They had nearly reached the farm when they saw Sweeney sneak out of the woods and enter the barn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“So it’s official?” Deputy Perriotte asked.
“Missing persons case,” Littlefield said. “Put it out on the police wire. She doesn’t qualify for an AMBER Alert because she’s eighteen. This could still be a runaway case, but I’m going to play it by the book.”
Perriotte fingered the photograph he’d scanned with the report that would be sent to surrounding law enforcement agencies and posted to the state website. “Pretty. I recognize her from the waffle shop.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if some horny guy took her to Vegas, but nobody’s stepping up with any information. I talked to her friends and family. Her mom said nothing was missing but her purse. She usually catches a ride to work, but nobody picked her up yesterday morning. She was just gone.”
“I’m pretty sure she wasn’t hitchhiking, unless she was lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to get out of town without anyone noticing.”
“You’re sheriff material, all right,” Littlefield said. “She’s a looker, though, and her looks might have made the first guy stop. The wrong guy.” Littlefield had a hunch that McFall was that wrong guy but, as always, he had no proof. He wasn’t sure what he could do about it even if he did have proof.
“Want me to send this out to the radio and the newspaper’s website, too?”
“We need all the help we can get, even if it causes public panic.”
“Gossip, more likely.”
“You sure know your constituents. I can hardly wait to turn this badge over to you.” Littlefield gave him a weary smile. “But I’m keeping the hat.”
“Your head’s way too big anyway, Sheriff.”
“Why don’t you stay here and run the command center, and I’ll hit the road? Might as well get used to the office politics.”
“Sure thing.” Perriotte looked around the room as if he were already mentally redecorating.
“I’m taking Little Church Road. A couple of Melanie’s friends work at McFall Meadows, so I’ll check with them to see if they’ve heard anything new.”
Driving out of Titusville, Littlefield saw that the sky had dawned clear and was the color of old robin’s eggs, menacing, wispy clouds rising from the western horizon. A thunderstorm would cool things off, but it would also dampen the search effort.
Come on, Frank. How much searching are you really planning to do?
He didn’t really have to search. Many of his fellow officers acted on hunches or “gut feels”; they tended to remember when past hunches had panned out, developing amnesia about the million other times. His certainty that McFall was involved was stronger than a hunch. It was where his whole career had been heading, his whole life. The winged monster of the red church had brought him here. Sometimes he wondered if the McFalls were demons he had intentionally summoned just so he could wage war.
His cell phone rang and he wrestled it from his pocket as the Isuzu rolled along Highway 321. It was Cindy.
“I’ve got a tip,” she said.
“So we’re still on speaking terms?”
“This isn’t about us. This is about the news. The truth.”
He swallowed his sigh. “What, then?”
“The old Gregg farm. On the backside of the McFall development.”
“Yeah, I know it. Our family land is near it.”
“Sweeney Buchanan kidnapped Melanie Ward and is holding her there.”
Littlefield involuntarily pressed the accelerator harder. “Where did you get a tip like that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Did you call it in to my office?”
“No. I figured you’d want this one for yourself. A hundred bubble lights and sirens out there in the woods and your hostage situation will go south real fast.”
Littlefield tried to remember the layout of the place, but it had been over a decade since he’d been out there, so his memories were hazy. In his mind’s eye, he could see several tumbledown outbuildings and barns, the house site nothing but a circle of charred embers with a stone chimney. It had been wildly overgrown even back then. By now it might have fully returned to forest.
“I guess you wouldn’t consider sitting this one out?” he asked. “As one last favor?”
“Not on your life.” She said it as if she wouldn’t mind using those words in a headline.
He set the phone on the seat and approached the bridge. He’d begun to think of the bridge as a metaphor. The bridge carried you from the present into the past, and not everyone made it all the way across. And on that side of Blackburn River, McFall was judge, jury, and executioner.
He didn’t slow as he passed McFall Meadows. Cindy’s tip could have come from only one source, so McFall would be along in due time. He’d worry about that later. First he was going to do what he could to save Melanie Ward.
If you had been serious about bagging Sweeney before now, it wouldn’t have come to this.
Or maybe it would.
When Little Church Road got too rough for his vehicle, he pulled into a little glen where an animal shed stood draped with honeysuckle and Virginia creeper. It was a short but steep walk to the farmstead, and he took a trail he’d used for deer hunting in his youth. When he topped the rise the trees began to thin, and he could see a slew of rusty roofs below, the color of dried blood.
He waited and listened, one hand on the butt of his revolver. What if Cindy had sidetracked him with a false alarm, and McFall was off performing an atrocity somewhere else?
No, that wasn’t McFall’s style.
Littlefield descended the slope, stepping carefully as the soil grew rockier and muddier. The Greggs had once grown all manner of cash crops like buckwheat, cabbage, sugar cane, and corn, but like many mountain families, they eventually found that hard work didn’t pay when you were competing against corporations and their machines. Most of the family now lived in trailers and manufactured homes along the gravel road, leaving a hundred acres of their heritage fallow.
He didn’t see or hear any movement as he came to the edge of the woods. The barn was the most likely place to hold a captive, because it had retained the most structural integrity.
And there are plenty of pens to keep someone prisoner.
He planned to make a slow orbit around the barn before moving closer, but then he saw someone kneeling behind the stone chimney.
Ronnie. Shit.
Maybe Ronnie had gotten the same tip as Littlefield. McFall was spreading his bait, setting them all up.
This was the kind of complication that could lead to an accidental death. Littlefield was pretty confident that Sweeney’s life was most in danger. The poor guy didn’t have enough sense to tell “surrender” from Saturday Night Fever. He’d probably just stumbled upon the pretty young thing and gathered her up. Maybe he didn’t even know he was breaking the law.
Littlefield changed his plan, intending now to send Ronnie away from the crime scene. And where Ronnie was, his friend Bobby was likely not far behind. They were
the Tweedledum and Tweedledee of the epic fantasy known as haunted Barkersville. And, just like Littlefield, both boys had endured tragedy from supernatural sources. It made sense that they were in McFall’s web.
Yes, we’re all a part of the same local legend. Cut from the same bloody cloth.
Littlefield took cover behind a steeply canted outhouse, looking for Bobby now. The barn had two stories, and the upper loft was beset with several open windows that looked down into darkness. Sweeney could be in there watching. Perhaps he had a gun.
Or a bloody farm tool.
The sky had grown darker, a herd of roiling black clouds stampeding in. Littlefield hadn’t even brought a flashlight. If this situation dragged on for a few more hours, he’d have to walk back to the Isuzu and call for backup. But he wanted to wrap this up alone, and fast, before it became an event.
He took a step forward and stumbled like an old fool. Ronnie swiveled his head around and their eyes met. Ronnie held up two fingers, mouthed a silent “Melanie,” and then pointed at the barn.
So Melanie and Sweeney were in there.
And then Littlefield spied Bobby.
The son of a bitch was at the rear of the barn, crouched against the weathered, gray siding, clutching a baseball bat as if preparing to play hero.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
It was dark inside the barn, but Bobby could still see Melanie.
She was trapped inside a corn crib, half hidden in shadows. Chicken wire ran along the plank walls of the crib, effectively creating a cage. Melanie didn’t appear to be tied up, and she was fully dressed, but she looked scared and exhausted, slumped in a sitting position on the hard-packed dirt.
What’s that little creep done to her?
Bobby hadn’t seen Sweeney since they’d followed him to the barn. He’d sent Ronnie to watch the front entrance, more to get him out of the way than because he thought Sweeney would leave again. In a physical confrontation, Ronnie would just slow him down. They hadn’t hatched any kind of plan, but Bobby felt confident enough with the baseball bat. Unless Sweeney had a machine gun, he liked his odds.
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