Murder in a Very Small Town

by Greg Jolley

  “Pow,” he called.

  She watched him demonstrate a recoil of the weapon.

  He lowered the gun and offered it to her.

  The gun was heavier than she expected it to be. The barrel wanted to tip forward from her grip. She righted the aim and repeated the steps she had observed. She even repeated, “Pow,” as she touched the trigger.

  There was another shot from out front, followed by an explosion of glass from the shop window. They both ducked and curled. The shot echo filled the room, and they kept their heads down. The echo faded with the clinking of falling glass.

  “You hurt?” Wiki asked in a hushed, urgent voice.

  “No. You?”

  “Nope.”

  Jame looked Wiki over. She was hunched low, but righting herself. He watched her raise the handgun.

  Five very slow minutes passed. There was no sound or movement out front.

  Wiki broke the silence, “Is the back door locked?”

  Jame felt a chill of fear. He should have taken care of that. He crawled away, toward the back of the shop, whispering, “I’ll get it. Stay right there, okay?”

  Wiki didn’t reply. He moved past the ammo safe, past Ode’s dead body, and up between the display cases to the rear of the store.

  The door to Ode’s apartment was both unlocked and open.

  Jame struggled to hold the rifle at ready while also reaching for the doorknob. It was awkward, but he pulled it closed. The lock under the knob was not familiar. Jame rested his rifle reluctantly against his chest and set the lock bolt.

  Something big crashed inside Ode’s apartment.

  Then a terrible boom.

  The wood above Jame’s head exploded.

  He crawled fast, grasping the rifle between his rocking hands and arms. He rounded Ode and the ammo safe and saw Wiki also crawling in manic movements to the front door.

  Jame rose and ran past her, getting there first. He unlocked the door and pushed. He raised his rifle and stopped, not sure which way to go. Wiki crawled past him and turned to their left. He followed her from the Pawn & Gold.

  The two of them crawled through the snow to the next shop. Past that vacant shop was the wood walk of the next place, the Sew What. Jame looked up from Wiki’s leading, rocking rear. There was a bullet hole in the window.

  Jame lowered his head and shouldered the rifle reluctantly, so he could effectively use his hands. Past the Sew What there was a narrow alley leading to the parking lot out back. Jame saw Wiki pause and look into the alley. She scurried quickly across the alley entrance.

  We should head the other way, away from town, Jame thought, but there was no stopping Wiki—she was moving hot, fast, and determined.

  She led the way through the snow in front of the next place, another vacant storefront. Knees and back burning, Jame struggled with the rifle on his back.

  The pain in his hands and knees was immense, almost as big as the fear. He yelled to Wiki,

  “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t answer. She climbed the cement steps to the next shop. She moved to the doorway. Jame was halfway up the steps when the silence was torn by gunfire.

  Both of them spilled flat onto the snow, ice, and cement. The shot came from the street, from the same direction they were heading. Jame lifted his face from the snow, took a clear breath, and braved a look out onto Main.

  Someone was standing across the way, rifle raised and not aiming at them but at the Sheaan’s cottage. A series of rifle flashes went off inside the home. In response, the figure with the rifle in the road fell, but didn’t fall flat. Instead, the shooter collected himself, rose halfway up, and started firing again at the cottage.

  Jame crawled along the front of the dark store to where Wiki lay flat and still, panting. There was a car in front of the next shop, and Jame didn’t stop until he was behind it.

  There were two more rifle shots. He could not tell if they came from the cottage or the person in the street. Jame unslung his rifle.

  He stood, turned, and aimed in one quick motion. He got the rifle on the person’s profile in the street and pulled the trigger. There was a gunshot, but not from his rifle. The damned thing was on safety.

  Rapid, repeated gunshots cracked from behind. Jame got the safety off. The shooter was hit and was twisting and falling.

  After thirty seconds of gunshot echoes and no movement from the shooter, Jame turned around. Wiki was sitting on her ass, her legs splayed out, the emptied gun in her hands still clicking.

  Jame stood over the very still and very dead Cain. No matter the kid’s condition, Jame was keeping his aim on him and his finger ready on the trigger. He could hear voices from the cottage across the way, but he didn’t look. He really wanted to pull the trigger. A few times.

  Wiki stood beside him with her handgun lowered to her knees. When she heard teen voices from the cottage, she walked further up the street in the opposite direction.

  She sat down in the snow. Scooting forward, she pulled Abel’s shoulders back against herself and hugged the girl’s twitching body. She brushed fresh snow from Abel’s hair and wiped the flakes from her face. She began whispering to Abel, who didn’t respond, but did continue to tremble.

  Wiki tilted her head back with her eyes wide open. She looked up into the stormy sky and falling snowflakes. She released a low belly scream—the cry of an animal.

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  First one teen, then the others, stepped out from the Sheaan’s front door. They slowly crossed to Wiki and Jame. The boy with the bucket on his head stayed back in the doorway of the cottage. He was squatting and watching carefully. Jame shouldered his rifle, took Wiki’s hand, and helped her to her feet. The teens carefully lifted Abel from the snow and carried her inside.

  With Abel lying on the couch, one of the teens went to go find some towels. The kid with the bucket pushed back on his head watched everyone closely. He was sitting on the flowered recliner over by the television. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms around them.

  The lamps about the front room offered a warm glow, making things look cozy—at first glance. Mrs. Sheaan was sprawled and spattered beside the couch and snow was sweeping in through the blown-out windows.

  One of the teens pulled the drapes closed, which helped some. The teen who brought the blanket and towels for Abel came back with another blanket and laid it over Mrs. Sheaan’s body and face. Wiki saw how the boy with the bucket was studying the covered corpse. Two of the teens took Mrs. Sheaan by the arms and dragged her gently to another room. A wide smear of blood trailed the body as it was pulled from the room. The boy watched, his eyes unblinking.

  “Should we turn on the porch lights so others can see us?” one of the teens asked. He looked to Jame for approval, but it was Wiki who responded, “Good idea. Go for it.”

  Jame got a chair from the kitchen and sat down before Abel on the couch. At first, he was hesitant to touch her, but he did, taking her hand. He leaned to her and offered her kind and soft words.

  Wiki looked over to him. Jame’s head was close to Abel’s and his hand lightly brushed her hair from her face. Abel’s expression was slack, and Wiki realized that her glasses were missing.

  A woman’s voice called from out front, and she turned away.

  Two of the teens raised their rifles and aimed at the door.

  No one moved. Wiki asked, “Voice sound familiar?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like Ode’s wife. We don’t see her much. She’s a shut-in.”

  The woman out front called again.

  Wiki crossed the room and very slowly opened the front door. The light from behind revealed the woman’s thick, short legs. The woman stepped forward into the light and Wiki saw the shotgun in her beefy hands, held low. Wiki waved her to the door. The woman’s face appeared, looking crushed by confusion and grief. She nodded to Wiki, who stepped back to make room.

  “Thanks. I couldn’t stay in the shop anymore,” she said. When she spotted the two teens with
rifles, she raised hers.

  Everyone froze, and no one moved until Wiki said, “Calm down, everyone.”

  The teens lowered their rifles after Ode’s wife set her shotgun down beside the front door.

  “Oh dear,” the woman said when she saw the blood on Abel’s lower body. She crossed to the couch and gently lifted the towel and examined her. “This won’t do. One of you get me two wet towels. And two dry ones.”

  One of the teens left the room.

  Ode’s wife spoke to the room, not looking away from Abel, “My name is Ya Ya—short for…never mind. I’ll get yours later. Someone get me a bowl of water and nuke it warm. And a cup of juice for the girl.”

  Jame sat on the arm of the recliner where the boy with the bucket on his head was watching everything closely and silently. Jame looked to Ya Ya, then her shotgun at the front door, and realized she was the one who almost blew his head off. He slid his arm around the boy, who didn’t lean forward to welcome the gesture, but also did not resist.

  Wiki turned to the teens who were standing just inside the room. They were bunched together close, staring, and whispering among themselves.

  “Call for help,” she said.

  “Phones don’t work,” the tallest teen replied.

  “Try again,” Wiki said, harshly. She paused, took a breath and added, “Please.”

  All four teens turned as one and went together in search of the telephone.

  Watching them, Wiki asked, “Can someone do something about those windows?”

  Jame eased his arm from around the boy and stood. “I’ll look in the basement.”

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  An hour later, the windows were covered and the living room was warming. Jame had nailed a hollow bedroom door across the center of the large window and used pieces of scrap wood to seal it and cover the other two windows.

  Abel lay on her side on the couch, listening quietly to Ya Ya, who had spooned her a double dose of NyQuil. She had also given her a few aspirin and had the bleeding nearly stopped from both Abel’s rear and waist.

  Jame sat on the recliner arm beside the boy who refused to remove the bucket from his head. Ya Ya had earlier explained to whoever was listening, “The boy’s mom is Deb. She owns the Sew What.”

  An approaching snowmobile was heard and rifles were raised. Everyone watched the front door, save Ya Ya at Abel’s side. Jame stood from the recliner and released the silent boy’s hand. The whining snowmobile drew closer, the engine straining as the vehicle pushed through deep ice and snow. The sound came to a stop in front of the cottage. Jame crossed to the front door and opened it.

  Two women climbed off the snowmobile and stood side by side, looking across the short yard. No one moved until Jame took a step and waved to the two. He recognized Tory, the clerk at the Quickee. He wasn’t sure who the other woman was. When she was assisted into the full light from the door, Jame saw that half of the woman’s face looked melted, her destroyed skin covered with blisters and boils. It was Viv. Most of her hair was burned away and the left side of her parka was blackened. Alarmed by the sight, Jame stepped out and helped the two women inside.

  He stayed at the door after closing it. Ya Ya turned from Abel and looked to the newcomers. She frowned and stood up.

  “Oh, Viv, what happened? No matter. Come, sit down. Take this chair. Boys, more towels!”

  “My home burned,” Viv said to Ya Ya. “But I made it to Beau’s snowmobile.”

  Ya Ya held a warm, damp towel in her hand. She nodded and gently dabbed Viv’s half-burned face.

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  The teens reached Emergency Services on the telephone in the kitchen. No help was getting to Dent until the storm let up, hopefully in two days.

  Jame and one of the teens gently dragged Mrs. Sheaan’s body out into the snow on the back deck. At Ya Ya’s direction, group meals were cooked and bedrooms assigned. Abel was stable and uncomfortable on the couch. She and Ya Ya were in constant conversations, soft and private. Viv kept her head, face, shoulder, and hands covered in ointments. When Viv asked, Tory served her shots of NyQuil. Viv asked often, sitting on the right side of the couch with Abel’s feet in her lap. The next-door neighbor walked over and helped with Abel and Viv as best he could.

  The four teens were in and out, but mostly out during daylight. They often took the boy with the bucket on his head with them, having adopted him as a friend and a mascot. The only words the boy with the bucket had said to Jame, seated beside him on the recliner, were, “When my momma fell down, she told me to cover up.”

  That evening when the teens returned to the cottage, they carried fuel cans and firewood. They also lugged plastic containers filled with food from the Quickee.

  On the second day, the teens asked Jame to join them in the kitchen. They told him that Cain was still out on the road, buried under snow. They had found Wesley, by his raised boot heel, and Ode, dead in the pawnshop. They had also entered the Sew What and described Buckethead’s dead mom.

  “There could be more,” the tallest teen said.

  Jame nodded silently, glad that Buckethead hadn’t been allowed inside with the teens on the Sew What trip.

  Wiki spent most of the two days and nights in her room and in her bed, which was the couch beside the desk in the Mayor’s small office. She came out to the scent of meals and showered often, before lying back down and pulling her many blankets up over her body and head.

  On the afternoon of the third day, an orange snowcat turned in from the expressway. The treads spun as it crossed the trestle bridge, but found sure grip just beyond. The driver had the headlights and roof lights blaring as he steered carefully around the three wrecked cars at the edge of town. Inside the snowcat, the driver was warm and steering cautiously, with safety the priority. The doctor in the back seat was asleep, squeezed in between stacks of supplies and tools.

  It was the first day after the storm. The driver and the doc had been on the roads since sunrise. The driver drank the last tepid coffee from his thermos and steered around the bend and the big pine tree that marked the entrance to Dent. Moving slow and sure, he drove past the Quickee. Because there were no lights in the store, he didn’t stop to check it out. Instead, he steered up the center of Main Street to the cottage the calls had come from. It was easy to find as the place had a beckoning porch light on.

  A second snowcat entered the town. It moved past the first and plowed to the center of town, parking between the C.O. and the Sew What shop. While the driver of the second snowcat unloaded the vehicle, a sheriff climbed down into the fresh, deep snow, talking into her shoulder mic. The third passenger was a tech from DTE, the power company. Since they couldn’t get a cherry-picker to Dent, he unloaded an extension ladder from the cat’s roof and carried it to the pole identified on his schematics. As he climbed, Sheriff Deane kicked through the snow to the closest crime scene identified, the shop with the bullet hole in the front window. She had a diagram of Dent with red circles identifying the locations of the other known dead.

  Back at the Sheaan cottage, Abel and Viv were loaded into the snowcat for the three-hour trip to the city. Viv sat up front, that being more comfortable. Abel was loaded in through the back doors of the cat on a flex-leg gurney and because she had asked, Jame accompanied her. He told Wiki and the others that he would catch a ride back in a cat the following day.

  The sheriff yellow-taped the snow-covered locations from her diagram. She also set up a makeshift desk at the worktable in the Quickee storeroom. She kept the door open, and a few town people came in and out of the market, answering her questions and getting supplies. With rare exception, they left payment in the open drawer of the cash register.

  The following day, a four-wheel drive television van trailed a snowcat into Dent. Jame had hitched a ride with them, but declined the seat beside the reporter and rode in back with the supplies and tools.

  When Sheriff Deane saw the television van pull into the Quickee parking lot, she confronted both the
reporter and the cat driver, who had let the media fools follow. The argument took place in front of the Quickee, a few feet away from where Denny Moore’s frozen, snow-covered body had been found. The spot was circled with low-hanging yellow tape. The reporter had questions about who had died inside the yellow tape, citing “viewers’” right to know.” Sheriff Deane would have none of it and turned her anger and frustration on the cat driver. Jame listened to the exchange long enough to see the futility. He climbed down from the cat and walked away quietly, unnoticed.

  Jame found Wiki sleeping on her couch in the mayor’s office. He woke her gently, hand to her shoulder, and watched her beautiful, puffy eyes open.

  “Coffee, please,” she asked, and he went and poured her a cup.

  She was sitting up when he returned. She accepted the cup with both hands and a lopsided smile. They sat in silence while Wiki sipped, yawned, and blinked.

  “The sheriff was here once yesterday and twice today,” she said softly in her throaty voice. “We have to move out of here because it’s a crime scene and because of Mrs. Sheaan’s body on the deck.”

  Jame nodded as she spoke, saying little, asking nothing. Wiki talked of Jame’s parents, who had visited, and what the others had been doing since he left with Abel the day before. As Wiki sipped coffee, he listened to her awaken with the growing clarity of her words. She suggested they move to his cottage when they were forced to leave the Sheaan’s. Jame agreed even though moving in with his folks was the more practical solution, their place better supplied.

  That evening, just after sunset, everyone who had been staying at the Sheaan’s gathered. The plan was for a last dinner together. The teens and Buckethead ate standing, and the rest sat at the kitchen table. They ignored the telephone the first three times it rang. Most of the calls were from news desks. When Wiki joined them, draped in a heavy blanket, she lifted the receiver and set it on the counter.

  They talked about who was going to live where. The mood was sedate, but there were some warm smiles and nods.

  There was a knock on the front door and Sheriff Deane came in. She was offered a plate and Ya Ya gave the sheriff her chair; she was done eating and wanted to start cleaning the pots and pans. Ya Ya served Deane dinner with a cup of coffee. While the others talked about their plans for the next day, the sheriff set a notebook and a pen on the table. She didn’t write anything. Instead, she listened carefully. The conversation turned to the weather. Sheriff Deane, by then simply Deane, shared what she had learned on the radio; the tail end of the storm was going to let up over the next thirty-six hours. She thanked Jame again for getting the telephone lines working.