Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  Naked. Lying face-up, feet towards the door. Blood and bruising on the forearms, ribcage, head…

  He took a step forward, leaning over to peer more closely at the misshapen skull, seeing the left side of the face all caved-in and wrong. It reminded him of that poor guy they’d found in the wreckage after the tornado hit Redings Mill last year. Except this time, he knew what the victim was meant to look like…

  …knew almost everything about him.

  Averting his eyes, Frank straightened up and took a breath. The room was small but clean, with bare floorboards and afternoon sunlight shafting in through the single window. Beside the steel-frame bed in the corner, a vase of yellow flowers stood on the tiny nightstand, undisturbed by whatever had happened here. There were photographs, cut from magazines and pinned to the wall – pictures of Paris and Rome and a few places Frank didn’t recognize – a bed surrounded by dreams. The mattress dipped in the middle, like it had seen a lot of use, and the sheets were disturbed…

  …but Pete wasn’t the sort to go picking up women. Was he? There had to be more to it than that.

  Staring at the discarded police uniform, lying crumpled on the floor, Frank felt a shadow of disappointment. It might have been better if his colleague really had been caught with his pants down. A happier way for someone to go, fooling around with some accommodating young woman. Perhaps that’s why the other officers were so ready to believe it.

  But this was Pete.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Frank.’

  He turned around to see Sheriff Ray Carson standing in the doorway, holding his hat in front of his broad belly – a gesture of respect that made him feel even worse.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Ray.’

  The big man came silently into the room, bringing a faint smell of whiskey with him. He had a solid reputation, despite some ugly rumors about his wayward son, and Frank had always found him easy to get along with. The two men stood side-by-side, gazing down at the corpse.

  ‘I hate for you to see him like this, but I figured you’d want to understand the…’ Carson paused, reaching up to stroke his thick mustache. ‘…the circumstances.’

  Frank nodded. No doubt the old sheriff meant well, but Pete was still lying there, buck-naked and beaten in some girl’s room.

  ‘Maybe you could cover him up,’ he said. ‘Give him a little dignity?’

  ‘Sure thing. Just as soon as we get the photographs.’

  Frank sighed and turned away from the body, taking in the rest of the room.

  ‘Is that the weapon?’ he asked, pointing towards a baseball bat lying just below the window.

  ‘Looks that way.’ Carson trailed off, then glanced up at him, hesitant. ‘Do you know if Barnes was down here because of work?’

  ‘He was supposed to be working...’ Frank paused, then frowned. ‘...but not here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I sent him to collect something from a woman over at the Skordeno Upholstery factory.’ Frank looked up, his expression thoughtful. ‘We should check whether he ever made it out there.’

  ‘If you give me the woman’s name, I’ll send someone over.’

  ‘It’s Mary… something. I’ve got it in the car…’ Frank trailed off, glancing around the room. ‘Who’d you say this place belongs to?’

  ‘Waitress. Name of Faye Griffith.’ Carson said it with a hint of distaste, as though he'd already made his mind up about her. ‘Been here just over a month, works at the grill over on Wood Street. And real pretty, according to the old guy downstairs.’

  ‘Pretty, huh?’

  Frank walked over to the bare-looking dressing table. There was a faint covering of spilt face powder, with several clean spots where items had been removed. Beside it, the heavy old closet stood open, with a waitress’ uniform and a shabby-looking coat bunched up at the end of the rail.

  She left in a hurry, and she didn’t plan on coming back.

  Carson was bending over, hands braced on his knees to steady himself. He gazed down at Pete like he was trying to read something in the remains, then straightened up with a grunt.

  ‘You think maybe he'd been round here before?’

  Frank eyed him warily.

  ‘Is that your way of asking if Pete was screwing this waitress on the quiet?’

  There was an edge to his voice now, yet Carson stood his ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank; you know I have to ask.’

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Frank sighed and shook his head.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He waved away the apology and looked down at the body. ‘Let's just say Pete was a decent guy, and I’d be surprised if he was doing anything like that.’

  Very surprised.

  They’d worked together for almost five years, got drunk together, talked together… Pete had trusted him completely. There was never anything to suggest that he was sleeping around, and Frank certainly knew what signs to look for.

  The sheriff pulled a large hand across his flabby jaw.

  ‘That your way of sayin’ you don’t know for sure?’

  Frank gave him a dark look, then cracked a thin smile.

  ‘Something like that.’ He picked up a small bottle of perfume, smelled it, then put it carefully back in its place. ‘So where's this Faye Griffith now?’

  ‘We don’t know. High-tailed it out of here after what happened, I guess.’

  Frank’s eyes flickered back to the heavy baseball bat, discarded on the floor.

  An unusual weapon for a waitress to have lying around.

  ‘She lived alone?’ he asked.

  ‘That's right. I already spoke to a friend of hers at the grill.’

  ‘No husband? Boyfriend? You said she's pretty.’

  ‘There's no indication of her being married,’ Carson replied. ‘Nobody remembers seeing her with a man, and everything in the closet is hers, so...’

  ‘So she's single. Okay.’ Frank glanced around the room. There were no photos of people. ‘What about family? A brother, maybe? Or her father?’

  Carson shook his head.

  ‘Her folks came from Kansas City,’ he explained. ‘Haven't turned up any family round here yet.’

  Frank nodded slowly, his finger tracing out an expanding spiral in the powder on the dressing table.

  ‘Who found the body?’ he asked.

  Carson pointed at the floor. ‘The old guy downstairs.’

  ‘Okay.’ Frank considered this. ‘And how’d he happen to find it, all the way up in here? Something attracted his attention?’

  Carson allowed himself a brief grin.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘But the guy’s seventy-five years old. He says he heard a woman screaming, some sort of commotion. Hobbled straight upstairs to see what was going on.’

  ‘Was the door open or closed?’

  Carson’s grin vanished.

  ‘I didn’t ask,’ he admitted.

  ‘Did the old man pass anyone on the stairs?’

  ‘No, I made sure of that. Didn’t see a soul, except…’ He gestured awkwardly towards the corpse. ‘…except your friend here.’

  Frank folded his arms, frowning.

  ‘Is there a bathroom on this floor?’ he asked.

  ‘Just along the hall,’ Carson told him. ‘Why?’

  Frank didn’t answer. It seemed unlikely that Faye Griffith could have made it all the way to the end of the hall and down the stairs before the old guy started up. But maybe she’d hidden in the bathroom, then crept out while he was here in the room.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘The old guy comes in here, sees the body… then he goes straight back down to call you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Carson nodded. ‘Except the nearest phone is at the hardware store, just down on the corner.’

  ‘So he had to leave the building?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Frank looked around, remembering the half-empty closet. It would have taken a few minutes to sort through her
clothes and possessions. She must have hidden in the bathroom, waited there until the old guy went downstairs before she came back to gather her things. Then she could slip away while he was down the street.

  Pretty ballsy for a waitress.

  ‘Nobody else in the building?’ he asked. ‘Nobody saw anyone leaving?’

  Carson shook his head.

  ‘It’s always been a quiet neighborhood,’ he said. ‘Up until now.’

  Frank walked over to the window and leaned on the sill, staring down into the street. It was almost empty, despite the two police cars.

  He leaned forward, forehead against the glass, peering along the road.

  ‘Where’s Pete’s car?’ he asked, slowly.

  Behind him, Carson paused.

  ‘I don’t know…’ The sheriff cleared his throat. ‘Maybe he parked it round the corner. If this was an illicit rendezvous, I mean.’

  Frank shut his eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought of that,’ he lied.

  ‘No tellin’ what a man will do when there’s a woman involved,’ Carson noted.

  ‘Yeah.’ Frank straightened up and turned his back on the window. ‘Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll get you that name. I want to know if he made it out to the factory or not.’

  ‘Sure.’ Carson took a step towards the door, then hesitated. ‘So, what do you want to do about…?’

  He gestured towards the body.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Well, we have to conduct a proper investigation, track down the killer… but I don’t see that we need to embarrass a fellow officer unduly. Maybe we can leave certain… details… out of the report?’

  Frank looked at him, then gave a grateful nod.

  ‘That’s good of you, Ray.’

  ‘We take care of our own, Frank.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Well… I saw his wedding ring.’ Carson gave him an awkward smile and moved out into the hallway. ‘I figured his wife didn’t need to know how and where we found him.’

  Frank stiffened as the thought he’d been avoiding finally pushed its way to the front of his mind.

  ‘Ever met his wife?’ the sheriff asked, holding the door open.

  Frank glanced down at Pete’s naked body, dead eyes staring up, like they must have stared up at the awful rosewood ceiling fan in his bedroom.

  He swallowed. ‘Yeah. I know her.’

  3

  He left the car in the shade of a gnarled old tree and stood for a moment, hitching up his pants and smoothing down the front of his uniform. It was a sweet August evening, with a warm breeze carrying the smell of cut grass from somewhere, but he felt cold inside as he made his way to the gate and walked slowly up the path. The old house looked down on him, tall and silent. It felt strange coming to the front. Wrong, somehow. But everything was wrong now.

  Stepping up onto the porch, he knocked on the screen door, then stood back a little, waiting. After a moment, he heard her footsteps, and the door opened.

  ‘Frank…’ Beth looked surprised, but she gave him a broad smile, tilting her head to one side. ‘What are you doing back again?’

  Her hand went to touch her hair, then hesitated as she caught something in his manner. The smile faded from her face, eyes first.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Frank took a step forward.

  ‘May I come in?’

  He could see that really worried her. How long had it been since he'd asked her permission for anything?

  She stepped aside, beckoning him into the hallway.

  ‘Frank...?’

  He pushed the door closed behind him, suddenly feeling the vast emptiness of the house, yawning all around. Avoiding her eye, he turned and walked through to the parlor. Behind him, her footsteps clicked out a nervous rhythm on the wooden floor.

  He took a breath, then turned to look back at her.

  ‘Sit down, Beth.’

  She stiffened, becoming even more upright for a moment.

  ‘You’re scaring me, Frank.’

  He paused for a second, then walked over to the liquor cabinet. There were two glasses on the tray; picking up the bottle, he poured a long shot of bourbon into each one.

  ‘Sit down and drink this,’ he said, moving over to where she stood and handing her a glass.

  ‘But what’s the–’

  ‘It’s Pete,’ he said.

  She froze, staring up at him… then her eyes became distant and she looked past him, her face expressionless as she slowly slumped down onto the chair. He bowed his head in sympathy, wondering how to begin, but in the end it was Beth who spoke first.

  ‘How did he find out?’

  Frank stared at her, wrong-footed by her assumption. Normally, when a police officer showed up unexpectedly, ordinary people worried that someone was hurt, or worse. But she wasn’t looking at him as a police officer, and she’d misunderstood because she was worried about their affair.

  Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head.

  There was a moment – the briefest moment – where he saw relief flicker in her eyes, before it was replaced by an awful dread as she realized what that meant.

  ‘Did something… happen to him?’ She’d guessed now, but she was building up to it, not ready to ask the real question.

  Frank held her gaze, letting her see the answer in his face.

  ‘Oh my Lord…’ One slender hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Her shoulders slowly drooped, and her eyes became glassy and unfocused. For the first time, Frank glimpsed the child in her – the little girl she’d once been, before she grew into a woman – as all of her adult confidence fell away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Beth.’ He took a step closer to her. ‘I wanted you to… to hear it from me…’

  Her jaw suddenly stiffened and anger flared in her eyes, but only for a moment.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t...’ She shook her head, composing herself once more. ‘Thanks for… you know… having the decency to tell me.’

  Frank lowered his gaze.

  Decency.

  He turned away, knocking back his bourbon and setting the empty glass down silently on the table, before looking over at her again. Her head was bent forward now, staring past the drink held loosely in her hand. Long lashes hid her downcast eyes, and the yellow bow was conspicuously cheery against her dark hair.

  Silently, he reached out to place a cautious hand on her shoulder. He half-expected her to flinch, but she remained eerily still. Then, very slowly, she raised her free hand to place it over his, clasping it tightly.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  He took a breath, not wanting to tell her, not wanting to make it worse.

  ‘We don’t really know yet.’ Frank felt trapped; unable to withdraw from her question as her fingers gripped his. ‘He’d been beaten… it looks like he was murdered.’

  Beth’s head lifted, a startled expression on her face.

  ‘Murdered?’ she gasped. ‘Pete?’

  Frank nodded slowly.

  ‘Newton County Sheriff found his body down in Neosho.’ He wasn’t going to tell her just how Pete was found. ‘We’re still trying to figure out what happened.’

  Her expression darkened.

  ‘Newton County…’

  He could hear the unspoken accusation in her voice. Slowly, she raised her drink and drained the bourbon, watching him over the rim of the glass.

  Frank sighed. He’d been dreading her anger and her screaming, but this cold calm was so much worse.

  ‘Where I was supposed to go this morning, but I sent him instead.’ He shook his head. ‘It should’ve been me down there.’

  Her large eyes glistened, not allowing him to look away.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softly. ‘It should.’

  He stood there, frozen, but she finally lowered her gaze, resting her head against his arm and brushing her cheek on his sleeve to dry the tears.

  �
��I’m so sorry, Beth.’

  The words seemed loud against the hush of the parlor, empty words that hung between them, awkward and inadequate. He lapsed into silence for a while, not knowing what else to do except give her time to take it in.

  Eventually, she spoke, her voice measured, even.

  ‘I did love him. I know you might not think so, because of what I let you do to me… I know you probably think I’m a terrible wife, a terrible person…’

  She broke off. Frank leaned forward, gently squeezing her shoulder.

  ‘No, Beth. I don’t–’

  ‘…but I did love him.’

  She sat up straight for a moment, shrugging off his hand, then slowly got to her feet. Wordlessly, she turned to him, her face inches from his, her eyes bright with tears. And then, she leaned forward to kiss him, just the lightest brush of her lips at first, then once again, deeper and more urgent.

  Surprised, he kissed her back, feeling himself growing suddenly hard for her, as all the terrible emotions resolved into a powerful physical desire, no matter how wrong.

  But Beth felt him pressing against her and broke away, blinking her long, wet lashes and giving him a sad shake of her head. He saw her expression, and understood… managed a brief nod of regret. This wasn’t the sort of thing that could be resolved. Everything was different now; they weren’t lovers any more.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered.

  She placed a small hand on his chest.

  ‘I want you to find whoever did this,’ she said, a note of steel in her voice.

  ‘I will.’ He looked down into her upturned face. ‘I promise.’

  She met his gaze for a moment longer, then her eyes filled with tears and she stepped closer, letting him gather her into his arms for a time. He held her while she sobbed quietly, feeling the warmth of her breath through his shirt, the press of her hands on his back.

  When she finally drew apart from him, there was an unfamiliar weariness in her movements. She turned away, dabbing her eyes, distant now.

  ‘You should go,’ she murmured, leaning over to pick up the empty glasses from the table.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Just go, Frank.’

  He stared at her, suddenly feeling hurt, despite himself.