Nowhere USA: The Complete Series: A Psychological Thriller series (Nowhere, USA)

by Ninie Hammon

  Duncan hadn’t even tried to go to sleep last night, had merely showered and changed clothes at first light. He didn’t want to look like a derelict, rumpled and unshaven, because that would give everyone even more ammunition to use to blast through his reserve and get him to take a tranquilizer or “pray with me” or let out his feelings. Or something. They all wanted something from him and didn’t realize he had nothing to give them. That he was hollow. That inside his chest was a vast frozen wasteland where a chilly wind blew. He was empty.

  Except he wasn’t, not as he had been when the news of Hayley’s death knocked the breath out of him, knocked his soul out of him. Something had seeped into him since then, slowly, relentlessly filled the void. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. No, didn’t want to name it. Just thought of it as a “sinister force” that had taken up residence in him. And its presence revealed other things, opened up a whole world he’d always known existed but had never before experienced. Of course, Duncan knew the world was populated by … evil things. Scripture said so and “if Scripture says it, I believe it, and that’s the end of it.” But now he could almost see them. Creatures lurking on the edge of his vision, things you couldn’t look at straight up or they’d vanish. Things you didn’t want to see straight up. Behind him in the bathroom mirror this morning when he shaved. Beside him now, reflected in the window pane as he looked out. Evil was real. Satan was real. And … demons were real, too. He understood that now in a palpable way he never had before.

  Duncan had come back from the Middle of Nowhere yesterday and barricaded himself in his office, refusing to see anyone until he could tell by the timber of the voices beyond the door that people were so concerned about him someone was going to intervene soon. He knew it was better to cut them off at the knees. So he’d come out long enough to nod his head up and down or shake it side to side like a good little bobblehead doll to the questions put to him.

  Are you okay?

  Nod.

  Is there anything you need?

  Shake.

  Do you want to talk about it?

  Shake.

  Pray about it?

  Shake.

  Can we get you something to eat?

  Shake.

  The house smelled like Thanksgiving on steroids. The casserole dishes were stacked three deep on the countertops. Where did all the food come from? Nobody’d been able to go to the grocery store in two weeks — how did they get the ingredients to …?

  He let it go. He didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything.

  Correction. He cared about two things. Laying his hands on a gun. And using it to put a hole in Malachi Tackett’s chest.

  He’d accomplished the first on his way home yesterday from the Middle of Nowhere. He’d known he couldn’t ask to borrow a weapon! That would have been tossing a match into a bucket of gasoline. Everyone would have assumed he intended to commit suicide and then he wouldn’t have been allowed to be alone even to take a piss.

  Then he’d thought about Whitt Gibney.

  Whitt was the volunteer custodian of two of the churches whose congregations Duncan served in his circuit of pastor-less churches in Nowhere and surrounding counties. Praying Hands Pentecostal Church in Wiley was the largest, by comparison only, with maybe fifty people on the church rolls, though only a handful ever showed up at one time for services. The Nower Pentecostal Church in Pine Bluff Hollow was the oldest congregation, worshipped in a little church building that had a belfry — but no bell — and a sign out front that teenagers had vandalized. That’s where Duncan had gone, knowing Whitt wouldn’t be there, of course, it being a Monday.

  Whitt was an odd duck. He was short, maybe five feet, two inches … on tiptoes, and had the worst case of Little Man Syndrome Duncan had ever seen. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of Greenland and raging paranoia, which might or might not be drug related. Duncan suspected he was a dealer, was certain he was a user and had endured so many of Whitt’s the-gubmint’s-comin’-to-get-our-guns rants that he was certain the man’s home up in Freeman Hollow was an arsenal. He wasn’t sure about that, but what he was sure about was that Whitt kept a pistol on the top shelf above the toilet in the cubby-hole bathroom in the little building on Norton Lane — behind the cleaning supplies. You know, so the gubmint wouldn’t catch him unarmed with his pants down.

  Duncan didn’t know what kind of pistol it was, had discovered it accidentally one rainy Saturday when he’d gone looking for drain cleaner after he’d flushed the toilet and sewage backed up into the baptistry. And there it was on the top shelf, tucked away behind a bottle of Drano.

  From the Middle of Nowhere, Duncan had driven Mamie Butterfield’s borrowed Pontiac down back roads instead of straight down Danville Pike — Barber’s Mill Road to Gallagher Station to Route 15, then Little Knob Road to Norton Lane. He’d prayed the whole way the gun was still there. No! He hadn’t prayed. He had hoped. Duncan Norman could not pray. A blackness had welled up in his chest and blotted out all of God’s light as he read the lurid description in Hayley’s diary about being raped by a tall, dark man with a rugged face, unruly black hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Malachi Tackett. In almost two decades serving nowhere people in churches in Wiley, Twig, Killarney, Frogtown, Persimmon Ridge and Poorfolk, performing weddings and funerals and christenings, Duncan Norman had seen the faces of everyone who lived here and nobody fit Hayley’s description better than Malachi did.

  Malachi Tackett — the son of Viola Tackett was capable of that kind of monstrous act. Hayley’d known the man who had … She’d trusted him. And he had ravished her!

  The gun was still behind the Drano bottle when Duncan felt around on the shelf for it. He didn’t know a whole lot about firearms, but knew enough. It wasn’t a very big gun, but that was good because he had to hide it — in his suitcoat jacket, his pants pocket, in his belt — somewhere. it was the kind of gun that had a cylinder that spun around. He found the catch, clicked it open, checked to make sure it was loaded. Of course it would be. What good would an empty gun do Whitt when the gubmint showed up to drag him away?

  He felt around on the shelf again and found a full box of ammo — a bonus — and he put the extra shells in his pocket.

  It’d been almost dark by that time and Duncan knew everybody at his house was frantic because he had been gone so long, but he took the time to go out behind the church building and practice firing the weapon, was glad he had because he hadn’t been prepared for how loud it was or that it kicked. Of course, Duncan was no marksman, but he wouldn’t have to be. He intended to shoot Malachi Tackett down like a dog, point blank. Without warning. Planned to empty the pistol into his body. Might even reload with the spare shells and fire them, too.

  Chapter Five

  “He wasn’t nowhere, Ma,” Zach said.

  “We looked and looked,” Neb said. “Hollered out ‘til we was hoarse.”

  “You’re sure?”

  They began to protest, told Viola all the places they’d looked, how hard they’d tried and she believed they had. She leaned back in the big chair behind the desk in the sheriff’s office and ignored their babbling.

  Where had Howie Witherspoon gone? And why? Who runs off without a car? That didn’t make no sense. You decided you were gonna boogie, you didn’t go on foot — particularly if you’re Howie Witherspoon with that bum knee.

  And where did he think he could go? The Jabberwock had him locked in same as it did the rest of the county. If he’d tried to escape and showed up in the bus shelter in the Middle of Nowhere puking his guts up, she’d have heard about it. She had eyes everywhere.

  And why would he run? He didn’t know he needed to. He didn’t have no idea she’d decided to use him to solidify her authority. A wife killer — killed a preacher’s kid, too. Might be the teenager was pregnant, which made that a whole lot worse. His own little boy — she’d bet dollars to doughnuts he’d offed that kid, too, by now. Soon’s he got tanked enough to get up the nerve, he
’d have put that kid down.

  Three murders. Four if you count the baby that girl was carrying. Why, Viola Tackett would be saving the good citizens of Nowhere County from falling into the clutches of a serial killer. Wouldn’t be no grumbling about “he didn’t do it’ when she strung him up.

  Only he didn’t know she’d decided to call in them chips. So why had he run?

  “I’s thinking ‘bout takin’ his car,” Neb said. “I could hotwire it. The thing’s just sitting in his driveway, ain’t nobody using it, and I need something to get around in.”

  Neb wasn’t a car nut like Zach, didn’t drool over the latest set of shiny wheels. He’d be content with Howie Witherspoon’s car, a Dodge something, had that stupid ram’s head hood ornament. She’d seen it parked at the Dollar General Store, off to the side to allow paying customers to park in front. Back when there’d been paying customers, before the Middle of Nowhere became the landing zone for Jabberwock victims. They’d about emptied the place out on J-Day, and after that, folks just went in and took whatever they wanted from what little was left. She supposed that was looting, but Howie hadn’t been there to stop anybody. Of course, she knew now he’d been busy at the time murdering his wife and burying her body. Some stores in the Ridge, and a couple out in the county were still “open for business,” but that’d last only as long as their merchandise held out. Wouldn’t be no deliveries to re-stock the shelves. She didn’t think they charged “money” now, strictly barter.

  “You leave Howie’s car right where it’s at,” she snapped. If she let Neb have the car, she was admitting Howie didn’t have no need of it anymore. She didn’t like where that kind of thinking took her. But the thought was like a moth battering itself against the window, trying to get in where the light was. Did Malachi have something to do with Howie’s disappearance?

  She wouldn’t let herself give full consideration to the possibility because it was a game-changer if he had. If her son had directly defied her, done something to Howie when she’d expressly told him that Howie was hands-off, that meant … Yeah, what did it mean?

  It meant something ugly was about to go down and she pure D did not want that to happen. Oh, wasn’t like she minded making good on her threat to off that Charlie Ryan woman. She looked forward to it — mouthing off like she done in front of other people, disrespecting Viola. Viola’d wanted to smash her like a stinkbug at the time. The woman deserved whatever Viola decided to dish out.

  But Malachi. What about Malachi?

  She could not stop a wave of disappointment from washing over her at the thought. Her baby boy, the only one of her kids worth the gunpowder it’d take to blow him away. Good, strong Malachi. If he’d turned against her …

  She didn’t think nothin’ maudlin as “it’d break her heart.” But it would, or would come as close as anything would to breaking Viola Tackett’s heart. She had plans for Malachi, had it all mapped out how she was slowly going to bring him back into the fold, to his rightful place among his kin.

  If he’d defied her …

  Well, she had to find out, had to know one way or the other. She had to figure out what’d happened to Howie Witherspoon and the rest of it would follow.

  “You done with us, Mama?” Neb asked. “If you are, Zach can take me back to the Now— back to the house. I got stuff to do.”

  “What kinda stuff?”

  “Just stuff.”

  “You can walk home from here. Send Obie back to the office when you get there.” Viola wanted the sheriff’s office manned twenty-four-seven, like a proper law enforcement agency. Betty Greenleaf, the dispatcher, had “volunteered” after the county meeting to stay on, to answer calls. So far, hadn’t been no calls, but there remained one functioning police cruiser and Viola intended to make that cruiser hers, was gonna drive around in it, and she wanted to be able to radio in. Like she wanted to use the phone — because she could. When Betty didn’t show up yesterday, Viola’d sent Obie to her house to drag her in to work. He come back and said … he said the house was old, roof falling in, wasn’t nobody there. Viola’s mind bounced right off that and back to Neb. “You finish up the mowing job I bet Obie ain’t even started yet.”

  She turned to Zach. “Zach here’s gonna give me a ride in his fancy new car.”

  “Where we going, Mama?”

  “Just a little piece, out to Iron Rock Road. I want to have me a talk with Howie Witherspoon’s neighbors, see do any of them know where he run off to.”

  As they roared out down Main Street, Viola seen Charlie Ryan — McClintock — and her little girl get out of Sam Sheridan’s car and head into Peetree’s Hardware Store.

  Chapter Six

  As Charlie and Merrie got out of Sam’s car in front of the hardware store, a black Corvette barreled down Main Street behind her and she turned to look, but the car was going too fast for her to see who was in it. The day she’d arrived in Nowhere County, a two-week lifetime ago, she’d taken Merrie on a little tour and a black Corvette had blasted past them on Route 15. She’d thought she recognized the driver. Bud Griffith.

  Clearly, Bud was not concerned about the shortage of gasoline if he had enough in his tank to go roaring around the Ridge now like some teenager. Maybe he believed all the rumors flying around that Viola Tackett had gasoline — all anybody could ever need. Charlie knew that was just talk, of course. People acted like that woman could do anything!

  Before she left the clinic, Charlie had stopped by to check on E.J. Raylynn was sitting with him, and he looked worse than he had yesterday. Every day he looked worse and worse … She’d asked him if he knew where she might find Fish. Since Holmes Fischer was the county’s token homeless person, he might be hard to locate. E.J.’d been too doped up on oxy to be much help, but Raylynn said she’d seen him out back of Peetree’s Hardware Store — Lester’d given him a sleeping bag. In the clinic parking lot, she’d run into Pete Rutherford and asked him the same question. He’d told her to try the courthouse.

  “All the offices on the first floor’s empty — warm in the wintertime because the sheriff’s department is in the basement and they keep the heat turned on. Fish has made hisself a little nest sorta in the one that used to be the Property Valuation Administrator’s office. If he’s not there, I’d try the basement of the Methodist church.”

  When Lester Peetree told Charlie he hadn’t seen Fish, she took Merrie’s hand and they walked down the street to the courthouse. As she climbed the steps of the building, Charlie allowed the child’s babbling chatter to fill her mind, shoving aside her memories of the last time she’d been in this building, in the upstairs courtroom on Sunday when Viola Tackett had sentenced an innocent teenager to die.

  Charlie’s running shoes were quiet on the marble floor of the big hallway, but Merrie’s hard-soled sandals made little clicking sounds like a tap dancer and the sounds echoed in the cavernous space. So did Merrie’s voice.

  “… an there’s one with a black spot on the top of his head and he bited me.”

  “Bit you?”

  “Uh huh, but it didn’t hurt ‘cause his teefs is so liddle. He’s the one I want. Pleeeeeease, Mommy.”

  Merrie had been pleading for a puppy ever since she staged a coup at the clinic on J-Day and established her sovereign reign over all the animals, great and small. Charlie suspected if she relented and said yes, the decision would send Merrie into a tailspin because every day she wanted a different puppy.

  “I thought you liked the solid black one, the one with white paws.”

  “I do! I do! But Spot’s eyes are still closed an’ Tinkerbell’s eyes are blue. Well, Raylynn said they might be blue someday.”

  “Spot … Tinkerbell … have you named—?”

  Merrie reeled off a list of names. One was Light Bulb, another was Poopy — Charlie didn’t bother to point out the inappropriateness of that name — and another was Twinkle-Sparkle.

  “I named the kitties, too!” She started off down that list of names as they came to
the door with Property Valuation Administrator in black letters on the opaque glass window. Charlie supposed she should knock. She did, and called out his name.

  “Fish! You home?”

  Okay, not “home.”

  “Are you here?”

  There was no reply so she knocked and called again, then tried the knob — of course the door was unlocked — and poked her head inside the room. It was bare, all the office furniture long gone, and she could see a pile of what looked like blankets in a far corner by the heat register, a thermos … and a lone shoe, no mate in sight. A lidless cough syrup bottle lay on its side by the shoe. But no Fish.

  She decided to go downstairs to the sheriff’s office and ask the dispatcher, Betty Greenleaf, if she’d seen Fish.

  Betty wasn’t there.

  Obediah Tackett was. He was seated in the big chair in the sheriff’s office, leaned back with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigar.

  Obie was a big man, not as tall as Malachi but at least six feet, and not as overweight as Neb, but at least thirty or forty pounds over optimum. He carried it well, better than Neb. His shoulders were enormous, and he had a barrel chest and a beer gut that hung out over his belt.

  She had never spent much time around any of the Tacketts except Malachi, and whenever she saw one of them, she was struck by the family resemblance, and surprised at how much difference subtle variations among them made.

  Their facial features were similar, but Malachi’s face was defined by a wide forehead, high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. The other boys’ features were blunt, like clay approximations of the original.

  They all had a shock of black hair — except for Neb, who’d gone prematurely bald. All were big, imposing men.

  But only Malachi had light eyes — bright blue, sharp and intelligent. His brothers’ eyes were dark, muddy brown, almost seemed to mirror their foggy minds. There was no spark in them. Malachi’s body was chiseled by years in the military. The others’ shapes mirrored their lifestyles — flabby and lazy. Whenever she saw one of his brothers, it was like the man was some shadowy troll, a crude distortion of the Malachi who presented such a presence to the world.