by C. Ruth Daly
The Burgenton Files
C. Ruth Daly
Text Copyright © 2014 C. Ruth Daly
All Rights Reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SUMMER 1984
ONE
TWO
THREE
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
SPRING
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SUMMER
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
FALL
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
WINTER, AGAIN
THIRTY-ONE
SUMMER 1984
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
This is a fictional story and the characters do not share a similarity with any individual living or deceased. Any similarity is a coincidence. The characters are created from the imagination and the setting is reminiscent of small towns.
SUMMER 1984
ONE
Every groan and squeak of the car echoed the memory of that night at the old abandoned Opera House as Lori Bell, Glynda, and I climbed the dank stairs in the dark humidity of July and made our way into its dusty and decrepit interior. The plan was to hide on the side stairs facing the street and watch for him. The Opera House held many secrets and the three of us found ours by chance, and now here I was returning home to be honored for unraveling one of its mysteries. It was a mistake, but like my dad had said it was a good mistake. I was not responsible because I had saved lives—so had Lori Bell and Glynda, and now we were meeting again to be recognized for an event I wanted to forget.
The arid sun beat down and reflected off the hood of the 72 two-door with its once brown exterior now tan from the dust-filled wind of the Arizona high desert. Holbrook was in the rear view mirror. It was now just a striped line of asphalt lined with adobe buildings and windowed glass mirroring the reflection of the noonday sun.
As usual, I was running late and out of the three of us, I was traveling the farthest. I had hoped to start out earlier, but a smoke-blowing engine slowed things down. Now I had to meet Lori Bell, or LBJ as we used to call her, in two days and I didn’t know if I could make it. The engine’s head had been resurfaced last week and new spark plugs fired away taking me on the journey along I-40. Feeling confident in my little car with its wheels rolling along at 55 mph, I realized this was the top speed I’d reach. There wouldn’t be time to stop and spend the night at a motel. Maybe I could catch a few hours along the way. Oklahoma was half-way. I had my sight set on a nice vacant parking spot in some little town half way through the state. I’d be tired by then for sure.
I had received the invitation in the mail months earlier and had made the arrangements to head east. August 20th was Founder’s Day in Burgenton. The town had planned for my two friends and me to be grand marshals in the parade. It was an honor as my mother had explained. I had to return for the event.
How long had it been? The anniversary of apprehending a felon. A murderer. A narcissistic creature who wooed and charmed women only to give them a final memory of his hateful face. I shuddered at the memory. The desert inferno could not even warm the chill that zapped my body as I recalled the night of ten years ago. I was only fourteen, but within that year, I had aged in wisdom, years which would never again be retrieved. My youth was behind me. Gone in that year.
It was October 1974 when I found myself scouring the dirt and leaves for my own glasses while a towering figure of a man hovered overhead preying on me like Death. The memory trembled down my spine and brought a surge of adrenalin to my brain. Now I was traveling the one thousand six- hundred miles to meet with my old friends LBJ and Glynda—and to relive the memory which I had repressed for so long.
I had moved on from Burgenton. Less than LBJ and more than Glynda. LBJ had gravitated from the B and the J and simply went by L. She was now a late night deejay at a station in Cleveland. The Lucky L. was her air name. There was truth to that name. LBJ always carried luck and an air of stunning beauty with her. Glynda was genuine, still giggly and personable. She owned the local Laundromat in Burgenton. Glynda had married out of high school and then divorced two years into the marriage. Within that short span of twenty-four months, she was able to produce two boys. Now Glynda was their sole provider and care giver. Glynda was one of the few who had been born and raised in Burgenton, and stayed. Yet here I was only transplanted to another small town thousands of miles from my origin. I was merely a transient vessel passing through my little desert town. An observer. Not a participant. I reminded myself.
My internship as a social worker brought me to the high desert of Arizona. I would leave once the internship ended. I wanted to avoid small town life and its peculiarities with hopes of moving on to someplace greater: Vegas, Phoenix; somewhere I could get lost and not spot the quirks which stood out in rural communities.
Now I traveled back to quirky Burgenton. While growing up it seemed like a dull place, but years and experience turns what at the time seems mundane into one of the thrills of life’s ride. My thoughts returned to 1973 and a time which I could never forget. I looked out the passenger’s window to view a Porsche speed past me on the right and I jumped and swerved. Gaining my senses I returned to my lane as I recognized the angry female driver was not him. What my conscience saw was the image of a blonde, handsome man grinning at me with sarcasm and dark eyes of malevolence—just as he did years earlier. I shuddered. Quickly remembering my low speed, I moved into the right lane and crept along on the journey back home...back in time to when it all began...Christmas 1973.
WINTER 1973
TWO
The evening was young and the sky dark and starless. The air cold and crisp but the wind was still. LBJ and I walked the four blocks to the church and in spots hardened patches of snow crunched beneath our feet. LBJ had laid the plans for tonight earlier today. We’d fulfill my choir practice obligation at church then her Grandpa would pick us up and take us to Stewart Rolf’s house. We walked past homes where the glows from TVs were seen through curtain sheers and the faint sound of seasonal music flowed through the air. Burgenton was quiet in the evening. The few yet necessary businesses in town had closed for the day, lying dormant at night with their darkened windows with “WE ARE CLOSED” posting the obvious to those outside. We passed Tom’s Shoe Hospital which not just repaired shoes, but sold them to the farming community. Then moving by the county newspaper office where the editor and his family lived in the apartment above the press. The lights from their living room cast a ghostly glare into the night. I glanced to the left to see the darkness of the Opera House windows peering down on us as we turned to the right past a vacant lot and the bank with its five teller windows resting quietly until morning.
The church was nestled on the corner of Madison and Jefferson Streets. LBJ and I walked up the broad cement steps where weathered carpet ran down the middle. All of the kids were inside with Sister in her short brown habit and shoulder length veil. LBJ sat in the back and endured the hour until the choir finished its last carol and together we exited the church full of anticipation for LBJ’s plan and our night of apparent adventure.
We stood on the curb and watched as the curved figu
re of Grandpa’s thirty-something-year-old Studebaker rounded the corner of Madison Street and turned left toward the church. The car crept down the street and we knew that it would take forever to make it to Stewart Rolf’s farm out in the country. One of the choir kid’s dads had come and gone by the time Grandpa made it a block to the church.
Grandpa reached over the passenger’s seat to open the door. “Hi, Honey. Whose house are you going to now?”
“Katie’s. Thanks for picking us up Grandpa.” LBJ flashed her beauty queen smile at him while I muttered a guttural, “Ummm...Thank you, Mr. Todd.”
LBJ continued. “She’s a new girl at school who just moved here from, uh Goshen.”
We exchanged glances knowing the truth. There wasn’t a friend named Katie, but only LBJ’s new boyfriend.
“Okay, Honey.” Grandpa Todd spoke as he guided the wheel through town past the courthouse, dime store, bakery and two bars.
We were soon on the outskirts of town heading southeast. “Turn here, Grandpa.” LBJ directed him as we headed toward Gardenville.
Moving along the road and feeling its waves and bumps, I looked out at the blackness of the barren fields. A few lights speckled the horizon, showing human existence. I imagined the area as a hub of activity in the spring as we drove thirty miles per hour on the seemingly lengthy road. We pulled up to a large, white house with two round columns supporting the porch and LBJ grabbed the back of the driver’s seat.
“Stop, here, Grandpa. This is where she lives.”
“Why, no, Honey. This is where the Rolfs live. Everyone knows that.” Grandpa Todd was quick to answer.
LBJ was caught. “No Grandpa. I’m SURE this is where Katie says she lives.”
“No, Honey. THIS is where the Rolfs live.”
LBJ was panicky but staying sharp. “Okay, Grandpa. You’re right. She must live in the next house.”
I was familiar with the area, but didn’t know who lived in the next house a field down on the left from the Rolfs’ house. The Rolfs owned miles of land and another Rolf family lived in another white pillared house on the right. As far as we knew the white two-story down the road on the left was not inhabited by anyone so it would be a perfect place for “Katie” to live. We continued down the road and Grandpa pulled into the lane of the next house.
“It looks like no one’s home, Honey. The lights are all turned off.” Grandpa peered over the steering wheel, straining to look at the house. “Does her daddy work for Mr. Rolf?”
“Yeah, Grandpa. He does... thanks for taking us. Will you be back to pick us up at ten?”
“Ten o’clock? That’s kind of late, Honey. Besides, I just don’t think they’re home.”
LBJ and I were out of the car by now and she leaned over to talk through the open window.
“It’s okay, Grandpa. Uh, Katie said that they uh ... don’t have electricity. You know they’re um, uh... New Order, but their Old Order grandparents are staying with them and they won’t let them use electricity in the house.” LBJ beamed with pride at her quick response while I rolled my eyes.
“Well, okay, Honey. I’ll leave once they come to the door.”
The front porch was twenty yards from the top of the lane. LBJ and I climbed the steps and looked back at Grandpa, who still peered over the steering wheel.
“What if someone answers the door?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t worry, Donna. I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”
We tapped lightly on the screen door and waited. No one answered. Grandpa Todd patiently waited with his eyes straining through the mist on the windshield.
LBJ opened the screen door where there was a wide enough gap between it and the main door to allow her room to carry on a conversation with a non-existent Katie. We both turned around and waved, letting Grandpa Todd know that it was okay for him to go. Grandpa wasn’t satisfied so LBJ ran back to the car while I, thankful for my thinness, slipped between the screen and main door, letting the wooden framed screen shut behind me. I sucked in my stomach and butt, stood like a penguin and remained still, hoping no one would come to the door. I could not see what was transpiring behind me, but soon LBJ was back, opening the door and telling me her grandpa was gone. I looked over my shoulder and saw him backing out of the lane and onto the road. He took one last glance at us as LBJ forced herself behind me as if she were going into the house. Flat against the door, I prayed no one would answer.
The coast was clear. The car was safely crawling back down the road, and LBJ and I were ready for the next maneuver in our mission. We ran quickly down the cement steps and up the road in the darkness of the night with the cool winter air pressing against our faces. It was at least a mile and we were winded by the time we reached the edge of the field at Stewart Rolf’s lane. Stopping, we calmed our breathing and looked toward the top of the lane by the house where we saw four glowing dots moving toward us.
Now somewhat anxious, we walked up the lane side by side, unsure of what or whom we were encountering. As we got closer, we noticed that the dots had human forms attached to them. Stewart’s older brother, who had graduated from high school last year and three of his friends, who I did not recognize, were puffing cigars as they met us halfway down the lane. LBJ and I stood there. She was mute. I could not believe after all of the fast talking she had done with her grandpa that now she chose to be silent.
Sooo ... who are you?” The brother said taking the cigar from his wide mouth and cradling it between two fingers. He looked us up and down as if we were used cars on a lot. I was beginning to feel nervous and even more regretful I had let LBJ talk me into another adventure. Cigar ashes landed right by my shoulder as he gave his stogie a quick flick.
“We’re here to see Stewart. He invited us. Is he home?” I mustered the courage to say something. LBJ just stood there at my left shoulder like a beaten puppy. The brother and his friends were circling us like wolves.
“What’s your name?” the brother asked me, still looking us up and down.
“McNally, Donna. Donna McNally and I’m in your brother’s class...he’s LBJ’s boyfriend and he invited us over here and um, uh, where is he?”
All of a sudden the four of them said, “McNally!”
“Uh oh.” I muttered.
“Are you Irish McNally’s sister?” the one with the darkest hair asked.
“Sure...” I spoke reluctantly because knowing Irish, I was never certain it was “safe” to associate with her name. My sister had a reputation and I did not want to be a part of it. “...I guess I am.
“Are you anything like Irish?” the brother asked.
They had stopped circling us and were back to smoking the cigars. Menacing smiles spread across their faces. I had a feeling that the suspicions I had about my sister’s morals were true. Nervously I answered. “Well, I do have green eyes but I’m slightly taller and I have glasses. She has black hair and my hair is dark brown. I wear a size ten shoe and Irish has a size eight. We both have a B width, though, and my favorite color is blue, but hers is maroon and...”
“OKAY!” the brother raised his voice and his cigar at the same time, slowly drawing it back to his mouth. With his face angled toward the utility light I could see his deep acne marks and broad nose. His hair was red like his brother’s. Not fine like Stewart’s, but thick and wavy. His eyes were black slits in the dark of the night. The four of them stepped aside and gave us an opening to go to the house.
“Stew’s in the basement. Go to your right through the back door,” the brother said.
They continued to follow us as shoulder-to-shoulder as we made our way to the house. They were far enough behind us now that LBJ felt it was safe to talk.
“Oh Donna, I was spooked by them guys.” LBJ clutched my arm.
I was too freaked to answer back. There was something about the brother that was more than spooky. He seemed threatening not in a teasing way, but in a way where like a wolf, he might just pounce on someone and drag their body down a hole for wi
nter storage. We were inside the house now and I followed LBJ down the basement steps. The basement walls were covered in dark paneling and in one corner sat Stewart with his back to us. He was intently watching a tuna fish commercial on TV. LBJ knocked on the pool table and Stewart turned his head toward the girl and got out of his chair. In this house he seemed very unimportant unlike how he presented himself at school.
“Want to play pool Lori Bell?” Stew asked, not changing the dull expression on his face.
“Sure, I guess.” LBJ replied as she flipped her silky brown hair over her shoulder. And that was the entirety of the night’s conversation. Smokey, the Rolfs’ dog and I had a wonderful evening together while I scratched his ears for endless hours in exchange for him not smelling my butt.
