He checked the fire in the dining room stove and rearranged the wood with a red-hot poker. Snapping flames engulfed kindling, licking at the split logs retrieved from the side porch, where he and the boys had stacked them against the brick wall last Halloween.
“Want me to go find Lev and ask if he stole our coffee?”
Her voice came back sounding almost frantic. “No! Don’t do that.”
After closing the iron door to the stove, he went to look out the window by the side porch, telling himself he’d see the sheriff’s car pulling in.
The driveway was empty. “Fuck,” he mumbled, feeling a moment of pure panic that caused his limbs to shake, his face to flush, his mouth to go dry. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing his rifle and running outside and shouting a challenge to whatever was hiding in the thick woods beyond his mother-in-law’s cottage. Feral dogs had been seen tearing through the overflow of trash from the green boxes on Holly’s Church Road. Maybe—
“Should we go get your mother?” he called to Rachel.
“No, too early. Let her sleep. Here’s your coffee.”
Before he could turn, Rachel plopped down into a creaky chair at the big mahogany dining table. She slid a saucer with a third cup across the polished surface to Dave. A blueberry scone lilted off the edge of the saucer.
“I’m frightened for you and the boys.” He felt his face grow red. Sweat beaded his lip. He rose and went to the front door, rifle in hand, and opened it to scan the property. The air carried a lingering, charred smell. But bonfires were forbidden in Zebulon this month due to the fire department’s lack of funding.
No Sheriff Wise. Nijinsky wove through Dave’s legs like a snake, then darted out before he had time to close the door.
He sighed. “I feel cooler, a little better.”
“Listen,” Rachel said. “Nothing in the world has the right to make us frightened in our own home!”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.”
The hair on her arms stood straight up. The cold made her cheeks and nose rosy. The winter before, he’d covered her with a Navajo blanket after she’d been shivering and laughing with the boys. They’d made eyes, nose, mouth, ears, a hairdo, and finger and toenails all out of coal for the snowman they’d called “Schneemann.”
Dave’s coffee was too hot so he ate the scone first. He picked the mug up, blew and slurped, watching Rachel. She leaned on her elbows and stared out the window, hands wrapped around the steaming mug. A patrol car was pulling into the driveway. “He’s here.”
Dave let his head roll over the high back of his chair and sighed. “Funny, I didn’t even hear it.”
Rachel rose and went to the glass door leading to the porch.
Dave joined her and reached for her cold hand as Sheriff Wise got out of the white Crown Victoria. She pulled away and knitted her fingers in front of her. Footsteps echoed from the floor above them.
“Boys must be up,” said Dave.
“I don’t think so,” said Rachel.
Sheriff Wise was a tall, fat man, apple-shaped, symmetrical, and well-muscled—an ex- football player who had simply rounded. Dave liked him. He was always orderly, organized into his pressed uniform, blue pants with a stripe, a dark-blue tie to match, and a light blue shirt with a gold badge.
“Maybe he can help,” said Rachel. “Maybe he can’t.”
She sat in front of the magnetic Diamond Dust kitchen knife sharpener and began grinding an edge on the knives her mother, Beatricia, had given them for their fourth wedding anniversary. “Watching Rachel use that old-fashioned strickle is so tedious,” Bea had told him.
Dave watched from inside the beveled glass door as the sheriff scanned the yard, then slammed the patrol car’s door with a meaty palm. He seemed to have used excessive force, yet Dave heard no thud. Wise’s gun belt was strapped around the crest of his stomach, rather than sagging below it. The blackened grip of the gun protruded from the holster. Dangling handcuffs glinted in the morning sun that was finally making its way into the yard in stray, soggy beams.
He flung open the porch door and poked his head out. “You’re late,” he called, making angry contact with the black bug-eyes of the sheriff’s metal-framed Ray-Bans.
Wise seemed to pretend not to hear. He walked into the house, past Dave, a bounce in his step. “Sweet Jesus, here I come,” he muttered.
Dave flared his nostrils and inhaled. Old Spice and soot wafted off Wise’s close-shaven cheeks. “Been near a fire today?”
“Not t’day.” The sheriff paused by the stove, cleaning the receiver of his cell phone with an alcohol wipe before slipping it back in his pocket.
“Can you get a cup of coffee for the sheriff?”
Rachel was lining up the sharpened knives on the table, by size. “Weapons?” Wise asked.
She smirked and went into the kitchen to hold open the outside screen door for Lev, who was carrying two black rubber buckets. “Fetching coffee is beneath my pay scale,” she grumbled.
Young Lev followed her into the dining room. He looked down at his boots, his brow knitting. He had round dark eyes, thick lashes, and wavy chestnut hair that framed a heart-shaped face.
Rachel peered into the buckets and covered her mouth.
“Found an army of dead frogs floating on top of the duck pond in algae blooms. The water’s all red,” said Lev.
He set the buckets down on the floor without sloshing. Dave stared at the bloated frogs then glanced up at Lev. His stomach flipped. The corners of Lev’s full lips turned down, puckering a scar that ran from the right side of his lip to his cheekbone.
“Could be some virulent fungus,” Dave said, fanning away the rotten-egg stench with his hand.
“Maybe too many lily pads on the top, blocking the light?” Rachel said, shaking her head. “Bury the frogs. Then drain the pond.”
“I’ll drag it first then siphon it out with a hose,” Lev said.
“Never seen anything like it,” the sheriff admitted, “but then, I don’t know much about frogs.”
“Please take them back outside.” Rachel covered her nose and mouth with a tea towel, holding the door open for Lev who was carrying a bucket in the crook of each arm.
Dave shifted from one foot to the other, uneasy. His wife was shaken, disappearing into the kitchen. Over frogs. Simply dead frogs. On any other day, the incident would have passed, handled rationally. But this was a day in which rifles vanished and sounds from the outside world failed to penetrate the glass of the windows of his home.
He looked at the sheriff. Wise said nothing. He didn’t even seem surprised. He must know something that he’s not telling us, Dave thought, then dismissed the notion. But why would he keep any information from us?
“Thanks, Lev. We’ll be out in a little while,” Dave said.
Leaving Wise at the table, he followed Rachel into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. She stood with arms crossed, scowling at the coffee maker. He put a hand on her arm.
“Okay, it could be a fungus,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe the frogs floated up out of hibernation too early. I don’t know.” She shook her head, eyes misted with a far-away look.
“Or maybe it’s a death knell.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes today.”
She pivoted away.
He slipped up beside her, leaning forward, turning his face toward her so she had to look at him. She shut her eyes and tossed her hair, then stared doggedly at her black boots.
“Listen to me.” Dave tightened his grip on her arm. “Turn your face here and look into my eyes.”
“Not now,” she said, sweat shining on her lip, head still bowed as if in prayer.
He blew across her cheeks. “I’m not letting go until you show me your eyes,” he said.
She gazed up.
Dave spoke softly. “You’ve got a tear with a rainbow inside it running down one cheek.”
Her misty pupils were great ebony discs. “We’ve got to work together,�
� he said.
“But we are.”
“Good,” said Dave. “I think the sheriff knows something he’s not telling us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Dunno. Maybe he just doesn’t trust us to know it. Or maybe he thinks he’s the man in charge and he’s got to handle this himself.”
She leaned against him, his reflection tiny but whole in her almond-shaped eyes. She was forcing a smile. The forgetful grandfather clock in the foyer chimed as he kissed her. Her mouth tasted just like his: like wintergreen toothpaste and dark roast.
He returned to the dining room to find Sheriff Wise staring up at the grimy chandelier. “Whoa, now boy,” he was muttering, bass baritone rumbling in his massive chest. “Where ya' goin’ thar?” He pointed a thick finger at the central fount.
Dave looked up. The dingy crystal fobs, layered in five inverted tiers like an upside down wedding cake, were vibrating as if the house’s foundations were rocking.
“Those boys thar look like thar fixin’ to go on a fox hunt,” said the sheriff, scratching his chin. A stink of sulfur crept from the chandelier to lasso the dining room, draw it in, and tighten like a noose.
Dave reached into the bottom tier and cupped a dangling crystal. The chandelier went still.
“Huh. Must like you, Dave. What’d you think of that?”
“Maybe it was a tremor.” The pull of a headache tugged at his forehead. “I think the house is still settling.”
“A chandelier quivering on its own ain’t just foundations settling. Seems like black gum against thunder to me.”
“What’s that mean, Sheriff?”
“Big trouble.”
Dave shrugged, eyes narrowing. “So I should stand here all day and watch that light fixture?”
“No. Jes’ keep an eye out. That’s all.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“What I know wouldn’t fill half a feed bag, Dave.” Wise paced. “Don’t worry your family more than you got to.”
From the kitchen came the sound of Rachel pouring coffee into the grinder again, followed by the clatter of beans cascading to the floor. “Dammit!” she shouted.
“What’s going on in there,” Dave called.
“I dropped the fucking canister. Sorry.”
The beans were practically gold nuggets, harvested from beneath a rain-forest canopy in Costa Rica, roasted in Zebulon by the Creeds, then wholesaled to box stores by Dave, online.
“I want to go back to Costa Rica,” Rachel shouted.
Dave looked out the window across the street to a tilled field. Dirt was harrowed across the thirty-acre tract in waves. A yellow biplane flying low dropped clouds of fertilizer. Dave pinched his nose and swallowed, as he did on jet flights trying to relieve air pressure. He looked over at Wise, who’d opened a pocket notebook and was writing something down.
“That crop duster was awfully close,” Dave said.
“I didn’t hear a sound either.” The sheriff squinted. “Huh…strange.” He cocked his head
“Fact is, Sheriff, I don’t hear a damn thing coming from outside.” Dave lifted his rifle and moved to the side door. “Not a peep.”
“Go ahead.” Wise lifted his chin. “Keep that rifle in your grip, jes’ in case.”
“Can you explain the silence outside?” said Dave.
“No, I can’t. I’m jes’ adding it to the list of things I know nuthin’ about.”
After a pause, Dave pushed the door open and sound came blaring in. Not the roar of an airplane’s engine, but, rather, a sawing, clicking chorus of insects. A huge dark smudge drifted across the eastern sky. He pulled the door closed, abruptly. “What the hell?”
“Locusts?” said Wise, standing behind him.
“Really?”
“But it ain’t a swarmin’ year.”
“What if it is?”
The sheriff laughed. “Maybe the Israelites are about to escape from Egypt.”
Dave didn’t find the joke to be funny. He shook his head. After a few seconds, he opened the door and they both stepped out onto the porch. The insect chorus had given way to birdsong. The only thing blotting out the sun’s rays were a few dark clouds scudding above the tree line.
“Don’t tell Rachel about this,” said Dave.
“Don’t think it would do any good,” said the sheriff, taking his folded handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow.
“Nope. It wouldn’t. It doesn’t do me a bit of good either.”
The damned coffee will be ready in a minute,” Rachel said, stomping back into the dining room so hard the floor and walls vibrated. The chandelier seemed to sway. She found Dave and Sheriff Wise sitting across from each other at the table, each staring up at it. The crystal still reeked of old smoke, as if someone had built a campfire under it.
She glared down at Wise like an angry schoolteacher. “But today we die? Is that what you’re thinking?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “What do you think we should do?”
The sheriff squeezed his hands together, eyes still fixed on the chandelier. “Survive.”
“Then we’re wasting time. And as far as I’m concerned, if anyone else wants coffee, get it yourself. I’m done with this shit. I need to think.”
“Shhhh,” said Dave, holding up a palm. “The boys will hear you.”
She marched back into the kitchen, then returned with a mug of steaming coffee for Sheriff Wise. The two men were staring at each other, each with hands folded.
It looked as if Dave was struggling to hold back, but the question exploded from his lips. “Why were you late?”
“Wasn’t late. Jes’ not here.” The sheriff patted the butt end of his Glock 9mm pistol. “I’ve checked out the town and patrolled the dirt roads ’bout the house. Searched the domiciles of the victims again. Posted Deputy Ruiz in the north pasture with the horses, Deputy Leveaux’s in the woods. Put Deputy Crockett in charge of the previous crime scenes.”
“Ruiz is just sitting out there on her sweet ass looking at the house.” Rachel stood, legs apart, her hands squeezing her ribs. “She’s not watching anything except us.”
Wise grimaced and snatched up his cell.
“Ruiz,” he said, holding his phone away from his face as if the receiver were infectious. “What in the name of Jehosephat are you doing? Watching paint peel? Turn and face the woods. If you expect to collect your deputy’s paycheck…”
“Thank you,” said Dave, glancing over his shoulder.
Rachel put on the calmest expression possible. She was outnumbered, outgunned, but not yet outsmarted.
“Okay,” said Sheriff Wise, hanging up the phone. “That’s summed up.”
Something about the quick way the sheriff hung up irritated her. Maybe the casualness of it, as if there weren’t information to milk from the call. Also she couldn’t stand his antique colloquialisms. And maybe Aniceli Ruiz had noticed something—something she perhaps gave no importance to, yet might clear matters up—if only she had been carefully questioned, prodded.
“Listen here,” Rachel said, taking the seat next to her husband, diagonally across from the sheriff, who was sipping coffee daintily, with one pinky out. “Phil, I’m used to you doing better police work than this. You can handle tough cases; I’ve seen you work. Why not go out there yourself, question someone, find some clues.” She elbowed Dave, who seemed transfixed by soot on the light fixture overhead. “So why aren’t there dogs? Or experts being flown in?” Rachel rubbed the cold flesh of her arms. “What happened to the FBI?”
Wise looked up from his coffee as the dining room ceiling groaned.
“We’re a backwater county,” he admitted, crossing his arms across a rounded abdomen.
“We don’t have dogs. What’s more, the state police won’t be here again. The feds, either. Both figure the killer is settin’ in the jailhouse. The FBI don’t believe the killin’s down the street have anything to do with y’all.”
“And why not?” shouted
Rachel. The coffee smelled burnt. This was too much. She stifled a sneeze with her bent elbow. “Those idiots!”
“Cause they don’t figure the murders lead to your house.” Wise pitched his voice lower, softer, more measured. “The death in the first house looks like a robbery gone haywire. The second death like a former disgruntled employee, who, by the way, confessed to the two murders.”
“What about the third and fourth?” said Dave, running a thumb between the table leaves.
“The boys died in Sharpsburg. Not here. And the state police and feds have a crazy man who confessed to the first two. Steve Dix. He’s settin’ in the Middlemarch Jailhouse now.”
“But the others haven’t been explained,” said Dave, clawing hair off his brow.
“The feds and the state cops don’t think the last murders belong in the same bushel basket,” said Wise, shooting a glance out the window at Deputy Ruiz.
“But they must be connected!” Dave stood. Leaning over the table, he grasped the bottom ball of the chandelier between two fingers, examining the grime that had spread into a furry coat on every pendalogue and prism. “All the victims lived on this street. All the deaths happened twenty-nine and a half days apart. All the victims were males.”
“True.” The sheriff, too, glanced up at the lamp. “I don’t figure we’ve caught the real killer any more than you do.”
“What do you mean?” said Rachel. “Why do you think there’s only one?” She thought of frog carcasses floating on the surface of an infected pond, trapped beneath a blanket of lily pads, Lev out there draining the blighted water into a spreading puddle.
“Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout that.” Wise turned his attention from the chandelier, tipping his head, as if to concede some arcane point.
“You didn’t say there was more than one,” Rachel corrected.
“Don’t know how many,” he said, sliding his chair away from the table. “Might’ve been just one. A strong son-of-a-bitch with all that heavy furniture moved around.”
“All the deaths occurred within three months,” said Dave. “And that poor crazy soul, Steve Dix. He might have a screw loose, but he’s worked all the farms in Zebulon.” He tapped the newspaper folded next to his empty mug. “The guy loves animals. Gentle as a lamb. Wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Passover Page 4