Scott Nicholson Library Vol 1

by Scott Nicholson

  Hay, stacked crooked like a child’s wooden blocks.

  The bright metal glint of his tools hanging on the wall by his workbench.

  Night, cool beyond the chicken wire that covered the open windows.

  Posts, the dull underside of the tin roofing, the hewed stakes where the tobacco hung to dry, the-

  The dark thing, swooping, a sudden papery rattle breaking the strained quiet.

  Zeb jerked the spotlight and his trigger hand tensed.

  Bat.

  Goddamned no-good mouse with wings.

  Zeb exhaled, his heart pounding in his eardrums. A small warm ache filled his chest.

  Easy now, Zebulon. Don’t be putting yourself in no hospital.

  He’d been in the hospital last year, and that was as close to prison as he ever wanted to be. Doctors sticking things inside every hole in his body, nurses seeing him naked, people in white coats telling him when to eat what pills. Couldn’t have a chaw, no, sir. Have you ever had this, this, or this?

  Finally, they’d cut him open and taken out his gall bladder. He suspected it was just for the hell of it, that they really couldn’t find anything wrong but didn’t want to admit it. But he figured the surgery would make them happy, and he’d never needed the damned gallbladder anyway. At least they didn’t take anything important, and he got to go home again, even if he still felt like warmed-over liver mush about half the time.

  Zeb was mad at himself for shaking. And to prove to himself that he didn’t close his eyes to problems, and that, by God, he didn’t have no sorry Tennessee blood in him, he walked across the loft, careful to avoid the black squares cut in the floor where he threw down hay to the cattle in the winter months.

  If anybody was up here, they were trespassing, plain and simple.

  And if it was a touched-in-the-head druggie escaped from the city, Zeb could handle him.

  No matter the ax or knife.

  A shadow of movement caught his eye, and he brought up the light to see that it was only a piece of hemp rope, swaying in the breeze that leaked in from the windows.

  A metallic squeak came from behind him. Zeb spun, the flashlight beam crawling over the workbench. A short piece of stovepipe rocked back and forth. Wasn’t no wind blowed that.

  He crept toward the bench, the pump-action shotgun leading the way. It occurred to him that the flashlight was giving away his position. The druggie or whatnot knew exactly where Zeb was.

  Nothing to do but walk brave and proud. He stood John Wayne straight and said, “Come on out where I can see you.”

  Only silence and the muted ruckus of the cows.

  “Got a gun here.”

  A cricket chirped somewhere amid the hay.

  Zeb played the light along the wall above the workbench. Something wasn’t right.

  There was the pitchfork, hanging by two rusty nails. A pulley, used for raising cows so they could be properly gutted. A cross-saw. An ax. A crop sprayer with a shoulder strap. A loop of harness. A shovel. Two hoes. An old mowing bar for the tractor. Three different thicknesses of chain.

  And what else? What was missing?

  The wall went dark and it took Zeb a second to realize that the light had been blocked.

  Druggie.

  A face filled the circle of light, a face that looked familiar but unreal. Zeb’s chest was boiling, as hot as a chicken-scalding cauldron.

  Not a druggie. A—

  Zeb’s finger tightened on the trigger, and the roar of exploding gunpowder slapped against the tin roofing, then echoed to give Zeb’s ears an extra deafening blow. Pellets ripped scars in the wormy chestnut walls. And the thing that had been standing before him was blown back to hell where it belonged.

  Except . . .

  Sweet merciful Jesus.

  The thing was still there, the face split into a sharp grin as the features around it rippled between skin and scale and fur and a shapeless, slick gray. But the eyes were the worst, those green stabbing rays that loved and hated worse than any dream or nightmare, eyes that owned, eyes that blessed and cursed, eyes that—

  Zeb could hear himself whimpering as he tried to pull back the pumping stock. He’d been right: firing the gun had broken his shooting finger, but no time to worry about the pain in his heart and hand. He might have missed the first time, but the thing was closer now, only he was too weak to reload—this would never happen to John Wayne.

  The spotlight had fallen in the hay, but its beam was angled upward. The bright-eyed thing filled the circle of light like the star of a demented puppet show. It raised the sledge, Zeb’s cow-killing hammer, and as the eight-pound metal head began its downward stroke, aimed for that place just between and a little above the eyes, he realized that maybe those Tennessee-born bastards were right.

  There was a time to close your eyes until the bad stuff went away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Frank Littlefield topped the hill in his Trooper, blinking against the dawn as he threaded his way into the valley of Whispering Pines. He had the window rolled down because the smell of green spring was so much sweeter this far from town. The few houses were set away from the road, with stretches of pasture and tobacco fields broken by stands of hardwood forest. Below, the silver and brown of barn roofs made tiny rectangles along the plain of the river. Cows ambled near the fence lines, moving as sleepily and lazily as the river, their heads all pointed in the same direction.

  A few vehicles passed, their occupants in dark suits and starched dresses, with hair respectfully combed or brushed. They were headed toward Barkersville, toward church. Sunday was supposed to be a holy day, a day of rest and fellowship, of fried chicken and televised sports. Not a day of death.

  He reached the valley floor and turned onto the gravel road that he knew too well. A boy was fishing off the one-lane bridge, and Littlefield slowed to minimize the dust raised by the Trooper’s passing. The sheriff checked the boy’s stringer line to see if the trout were biting. The stringer was slack. Even the fish were lazy today.

  He rounded a bend and the red church came into view. From this distance, the structure seemed to have a face. The windows were like flat eyes, the eaves a brooding brow, the uneven stone foundation a cruel grin of broken teeth. The church glowered, smug and hateful on its cemetery hill. Littlefield looked away to rid himself of the image of Samuel hanging from the eaves.

  A strip of yellow plastic at the lower edge of the cemetery marked off the scene where Boonie Houck had died. Do Not Cross, the police line commanded. Funny how those words always came a little too late. If only the barrier had been in place a week ago. Then Boonie might be waking up with a hangover instead of sleeping on a metal gurney in the state medical examiner’s meat locker.

  All we have to do is mark off the whole world. Little yellow strips for everybody.

  A truck was backed up to the church’s door. It was Lester’s farm truck, a big black Dodge two-ton. Bales of hay were stacked in the cattle bed. Lester had never worked on Sundays. The only time he missed a morning worship service was when he had to make a November run to the tobacco market in Durham.

  Littlefield decided to have another talk with Lester. Storie would be waiting for him at Zeb Potter’s place, but from what the detective had told him over the phone that morning, there wasn’t much Littlefield could do for the old farmer. And the sheriff had a feeling that whatever was going on at the red church might have some connection to last night’s murder. Because Zeb Potter most definitely had not been attacked by a mountain lion. Unless mountain lions had learned how to swing sledgehammers.

  He pulled into the twin ruts that served as the church’s driveway and parked by the Dodge. Lester was standing at the church door, a bale of brown-yellow hay in his gloved hands. “Howdy, Sheriff. You’re getting to be a regular around these parts.”

  “A mite too regular,” Littlefield said, getting out of the Trooper. He looked up at the dogwood, at the thin black branches that never died. He started to glance at the belfry, but c
aught himself and turned his attention back to Lester. “I guess the sale went through okay.”

  “Sure did. I ain’t seen that many zeroes since my last report card, way back in the fourth grade.” Lester drained the excess tobacco juice from his mouth.

  Someone came out of the sanctuary. It was the Day woman, the mother of the boys who had found Boonie’s body. A red kerchief held her hair out of her face, and her shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up. Bits of straw clung to the flannel.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” she said, tossing a bale of hay into the truck and starting back inside the church.

  “Good morning, ma’am. How’s your boy this morning?”

  She looked confused at first, as if she didn’t know who he was talking about. “Ronnie? Oh, he’s fine. Just fine. They bounce back fast when they’re that age.”

  Fast enough so that you can go out and leave them unattended? “Glad to hear it, ma’am. What about the little one?”

  “Timmy’s okay, too. He’s at the house, keeping watch for me.”

  “Did he remember anything else about finding the body? Anything that might help us?”

  She looked at Lester, then into the dark belly of the church. “I think it’s best that he forget all about it, don’t you?”

  “Maybe so.” Who or what was inside the church that was making her so nervous? And what was she doing here in the first place? To Littlefield, the chore seemed like something more than just a case of neighbor helping neighbor.

  Lester squinted up at the sun. “Excuse us, Sheriff. We got work to do.”

  “Sure. One thing, though. You hear anything last night?”

  Lester’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the belfry. Almost. “No. I slept like a hibernating log. Why?”

  “I thought you might have heard something. What about you, Mrs. Day?”

  The woman was leaning against the door frame, biting her lip. “Heard something? What do you mean?”

  “Like maybe something from over your neighbor’s way? On the Potter farm?”

  She shook her head. “Why, no, Sheriff.”

  He eased closer to the steps that led into the red church, veering clear of the dogwood. The air coming from the church was cool, even though light slanted through the windows. Lester and Linda stepped side by side as if to block his way.

  “Somebody killed Zeb Potter last night.” The sheriff watched for any reaction. Lester quickened the pace of his tobacco chewing. Linda Day looked in the direction of the Potter farm.

  “I guess it for sure wasn’t no mountain lion this time, was it?” Lester said.

  “That’s what my deputies say. Zeb was killed with a sledgehammer.”

  “Huh. They know who done it?”

  “Not yet. We’re trying to lift some fingerprints.” But Littlefield suspected they would find no clues. No fingerprints, no footprints, no clothing fibers. And no eyewitnesses. “I was wondering if you heard the bells ring last night?”

  Littlefield had learned from long experience how to tell if a person was about to lie. And Lester fit the profile. The old farmer’s nostrils flared slightly with indignation, he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes shifted left and right, and he stood a little straighter. “Like I told you, I was sleeping like the dead.”

  The sheriff nodded. “What about you, ma’am? Or your husband?”

  She was a better liar than Lester. Maybe she had done it too often. “Well, I had the radio on most of the night, at least till I fell asleep. I wouldn’t have heard nothing. David was . . . asleep.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I better get over to Zeb’s.”

  He started to turn, then quickly looked up at the pair, trying to catch them off guard. “You mind if I have a quick look inside the church? You know, in case the killer stopped by. I’m kind of figuring that the same person that killed Zeb killed Boonie.”

  Sweat glistened underneath Lester’s eyes. He pulled at the straps of his coveralls. “Well, Sheriff, I don’t mind a bit, but it ain’t my property no more. I don’t know if I can give permission like that unless you got a search warrant.”

  A smooth voice boomed from inside the church. “Now, now, Lester. Our church is always open.”

  Lester and Linda parted, standing one on each side of the door like concrete lions at a library entrance.

  A man stepped into the light. He was tall, with dark curly hair and healthy, tanned skin. He had a slight touch of gray hair at the temples. His cheeks crinkled when he smiled, but his deep brown eyes were unreadable. He wore a white cotton shirt and a gray tie, slacks, and a pair of leather shoes that cost about two weeks’ worth of Littlefield’s salary.

  “A church should turn away no one, especially a man who seeks the truth,” the man said. An aroma of cologne wafted from him, but underneath the spicy musk was a disturbing smell that Littlefield couldn’t place. The man stooped and extended a hand. “Sheriff Littlefield. I’m glad we have a capable man on the job in these uncertain and dangerous times.”

  The sheriff climbed to the landing. The preacher’s hand was as cool as a fish. “Pleased to meet you, uh . . .”

  “It’s been a long time. Nearly a lifetime ago.”

  Now his face was familiar. McFall. Except he didn’t have that typical McFall slump, that devious way of moving, the almost cowering attitude that ran in the McFall family as a result of being snubbed and kicked around. “I’m Archer McFall,” he said, in that used-car-salesman voice of his.

  “Archer. Lester told me you were moving back here.” Littlefield glanced at Lester, who had suddenly become highly interested in the flaking paint of the truck’s cattle bed.

  “Well, Sheriff, everybody loves these mountains,” Archer said. “It gets in your blood.”

  “And you bought this here church?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going to open it up again. God’s work has been sorely neglected in these parts. People are in desperate need of the Word and the Way. That we have a murderer in our midst is only one more sign of how far we’ve fallen.”

  Littlefield nodded. He never knew how to conduct himself in the presence of a preacher. He always felt a flash of guilt for his sins and his irregular church visitations, but usually an aura of forgiving calm emanated from someone of the cloth. With Archer, though, he felt nothing but the guilt.

  “Come on inside, Sheriff. Make sure there’s no killer here. We can’t have a devil hiding out in the house of God.”

  Suddenly the sheriff didn’t want to step inside. In his mind, he could hear the fluttery Halloween laugh from his childhood. The boards were clapping, clawing, the church door was a mouth, he was going to be swallowed, like Jonah into the belly of the whale. Like his brother Samuel.

  He swayed dizzily and felt the preacher’s strong grip on his forearm. “Are you okay, Sheriff?”

  “Uh . . .” Littlefield rubbed his temples. “Not getting much sleep lately. These damned—excuse me, Reverend—these doggoned murder cases must be getting to me.”

  “There’s peace in prayer, Sheriff. You will find your killer. All things in God’s good time.”

  Littlefield felt his feet shuffle forward, almost against his will, and then he was inside the church. Most of the hay was gone. The handmade pews that had been stacked against one wall the day before were now lined unevenly across the floor. Brooms, pitchforks, mops, and buckets were scattered across the sanctuary. The room smelled of candle wax. They had accomplished a lot this morning.

  Or had they been working all night?

  Behind him, Lester and Linda resumed their work. A woman emerged from the small wing at one side of the dais. Littlefield recognized her face but didn’t know her name. She gave a short nod and began dusting the lectern. Littlefield thought he might sneeze, but he rubbed his nose until the urge passed.

  “Looks like you’ll soon be ready for a service,” Littlefield said.

  “There are different kinds of service, Sheriff. I work for God, you work for the people. But we’re a lot alike, in a way.”

&nbs
p; “What way?”

  “We both know there’s more to this church than just nails and chestnut and rippled glass.”

  Littlefield tried again to read the man’s eyes. The irises glittered like muddy diamonds with many facets, each facet hiding a different secret. Archer surely was well versed about the legends, handed down in his family for generations. Those were the sources of his childhood beatings. That he could maintain faith in God after such suffering was a miracle in itself.

  “My father used to say, ‘It’s people what makes a church,’” Littlefield said.

  Archer smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “He was a wise man.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of what people are going to say when you open the church again?”

  “God delivered Daniel from the lion’s den. He delivered Isaac from Abraham’s sacrificial altar. Why should I expect any less?”

  “Well, for one thing, push never came to shove for Abraham, because he never had to deliver the knife blow. And Daniel didn’t have a great-great-grandfather named Wendell McFall.”

  The preacher let out a laugh that rolled from deep inside his diaphragm. The sound echoed in the wooden hollow of the church, the acoustics amplifying the power of Archer’s voice. “Ah, the scandals and the ghost stories,” he said. “There’s only one ghost here and that’s the Holy Ghost. As for the rest of it, I hope that the legends might draw a few curiosity seekers to our services. There are many paths to the one true Way.”

  “Amen to that.” Littlefield walked to the dais, the fall of his boots resounding in the hollow of the church. He leaned over the railing that fronted the pulpit. The stain was still there. Littlefield’s dizziness returned as he tried to attach an image to the random shape.

  And he saw that it was the shape of an angel, or a Bell Monster, winged and fierce, with jagged claws and . . .

  Yeah, sure. Sounds like something a murderer’s lawyer would make up. It’s nothing but a stain, old paint or something.