McFall

by Scott Nicholson

  Bobby’s beer intake had apparently washed away any impulse for discretion. “I was surprised to see you here.”

  “What can I say? I dig The Diggers.”

  “So much that you’d ride an hour to see us?” Bobby said. “We’re not that good.”

  “Amy’s hot for you. I just came along for the ride.”

  Ronnie wished they would save this conversation until he was out of the picture, but a sad, sick part of him clung to every word.

  “I haven’t talked to Amy since that night.” Bobby sniffed and wiped at his nose. “Come to think of it, I haven’t talked to you, either.”

  “Been busy.”

  “You okay, Bobby?” Ronnie asked. “Sounds like you’re coming down with a cold.”

  “I’m just wiped out. That was an intense gig.”

  They swapped stories about the night’s experience, mostly making fun of Lou and the guy who’d tried to pick up Melanie, but Bobby soon lapsed into sullen silence. Melanie prodded him, trying to keep him alert. Like Ronnie, she hadn’t been drinking, and Ronnie hoped she would stay awake.

  Plus, every time he downshifted to slow the truck’s descent of Slate Mountain, his wrist rubbed against her soft skin. And he realized his crush had not been buried these past weeks, it had been sleeping beneath the surface, waiting to crawl out and make him miserable all over again.

  When Bobby started snoring, Melanie muttered “Lame” and turned on the radio, although she left it low enough for them to talk over it. Ronnie asked her about work and college—the stuff Bobby had warned him against mentioning—but she opened up a little and soon he found himself telling her about Sweeney Buchanan and McFall’s offer to buy the Day property.

  “If Dad sells, then I’ll probably be staying in a dorm next year,” Ronnie said. “I might never come back to Barkersville.”

  She didn’t pick up on his wistful tone. “Good for you,” she said. “You can leave all these bad memories behind. The rest of us are stuck here.”

  Ronnie wanted her to ask what a potential move might mean for “us,” even though he knew there was no “us,” not with the two of them. The only “us” was in his head, and he knew he’d say something stupid if he didn’t change the subject. So he talked about other things, and she shared some stories from the waffle shop.

  “You’d better drop Bobby off first,” Melanie said. “He needs his beauty sleep. Lots and lots of it.”

  Bobby was groggy when they pulled up to his trailer, and together they wrestled him out of the cab and to his feet. Elmer Eldreth came out red-eyed and cussing, telling Ronnie, “Keep that damned racket down before you wake the whole trailer park.”

  “Tell Bobby I’ll bring the truck back over tomorrow,” Ronnie said.

  “Damn straight you will. McFall will ream his ass out if you put so much as a dent in it.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Eldreth,” Melanie called cheerfully as they loaded back into the Silverado.

  As they hit Highway 321, Melanie said, “No wonder Bobby wants to blow this popcorn stand. His dad sure is an asshole.”

  “Bobby can take care of himself.” Melanie was sitting farther away now, and Ronnie could no longer brush against her to change gears. Even though it was the middle of the night, he felt more confident operating the big pickup now, and he welcomed the chance to show Melanie that he wasn’t a total wimp.

  Then he felt her hand on his arm, and he nearly drove off the edge of the road. “I’m glad we’re alone,” she said. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  Ronnie’s mouth went dry. He focused on the yellow lines in the highway, which seemed to waver in his vision. “Tell me what?”

  Melanie switched off the radio so that the only sound was the subtle rumble of the engine and the whirring of rubber on asphalt. “You know Mr. McFall set me up with Brett Summers,” she said.

  “Yeah, you mentioned,” Ronnie said. Even though he had longed for Melanie to talk about personal, intimate, real stuff with him, this wasn’t happening the way he’d envisioned. For one, in his imagination they were sitting on a blanket in some meadow, under the summer sky with honeybees buzzing around the wildflowers. For another, they were talking about “us,” not some dead guy.

  But what did you expect? Everything you touch turns dead sooner or later.

  “Mr. McFall told me that anyone who acted so foolishly was not a good partner,” she said, her hand still on his arm, her fingers warm and firm. “He apologized for making a mistake and told me I deserved better.”

  “Great. So you let McFall run your life now?”

  Her fingers squeezed hard enough to hurt. “He’s the only grown-up that ever cared about me. That ever helped me out. Looks like he’s helping you, too. I don’t know why you’re trying to knock him down.”

  “Sorry,” Ronnie said. “That shit at the red church screwed me up when I was a kid.”

  “Archer McFall and those animal attacks? Yeah, that was a mess. But that was five years ago. We’re different people now. And Larkin’s not Archer.”

  And I’m growing away from you. I’m going to Westridge and you’ll still be a waitress in that greasy spoon. You’ll probably be pregnant within a year.

  “I hope you marry Bobby,” he said, having no idea where that came from. “He’s a good guy.”

  She punched his arm. “Shut up. Me and Bobby had a thing once, but McFall said he’s no good for me. He told me Bobby has other plans.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll bet it’s McFall who has other plans for Bobby.”

  Melanie unhooked her seatbelt and slid over until she was leaning against him. Ronnie held himself very still, clenching the steering wheel with both hands, afraid to breathe.

  “You know what I want?” she whispered.

  “No,” Ronnie said. They were coming up on the bridge, which seemed like horrible timing, the kind of coincidence that would never occur in a random, chaotic universe, and certainly wouldn’t happen by divine plan.

  “Yes, you do,” she whispered. Her lips were on his cheek, and this time he turned his face and their lips met. Even as he slowed the truck, he knew what was going to happen next, what she couldn’t help but say.

  “Pull over at the bridge.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  What do I do with my hands? She smells good behind the tavern smoke and sweat. Is this seat big enough for this? Damn, what if somebody drives up? Thank God it’s three in the morning.

  Ronnie didn’t resist as she pulled him down, and he just knew he was going to say something stupid. Luckily, she kept her lips on his and he couldn’t escape. Not that he wanted to. Ever.

  He’d kissed girls before, several times—Cheyenne Busby in particular had given him a workout when she’d discovered he was a virgin, but she’d quickly lost patience with him when he didn’t press the issue. But those encounters had been uniformly awkward, more like he was kissing the girls because he was supposed to than because it’s what he wanted.

  You were saving yourself for Melanie. You and your stupid imaginary morality.

  But none of that mattered now, because it was finally happening, and he faded into her yielding curves. He wondered if he was crushing her, and he tried to lift himself up, but she wrapped her arms and legs around him and pulled him closer. Her dress was riding up her thighs and moist heat rose from between her legs. Despite his nervousness, his groin pulsed.

  She pulled her lips away. “I don’t know why we waited so long,” she whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter why. Here we are.”

  This was too easy, too natural. Even the river seemed normal tonight, the wedge of moon casting just enough light to simultaneously sparkle and shadow their eyes.

  He nibbled at her neck, keeping his teeth covered like he’d read in a book somewhere. She guided his hands to her breasts, and they were heaven. He dreaded the moment when he’d fumble with her bra strap, but that was okay, that was a rite of passage, just one of those things you got through. But Melanie must have been more i
mpatient—or more experienced—than him, because she arched one arm over her shoulder and freed the elastic.

  “Melanie,” he said, his voice husky and strange. No wonder. He was on the verge of becoming a man. But he wanted to do it right.

  “Hmm?” she murmured, dreamily, as if she were floating far away on a distant breeze. He glimpsed her white panties in the dark crevasse beneath the hem of her dress. His hand slid up against the cotton fabric and paused against the mystery behind it.

  “I love you.”

  She tensed beneath him, then pushed him away, sitting up as she held her bra in place with one hand. Then he looked at her face, and her expression was icy, her lips no longer swollen and inviting.

  “Why did you say that?” she said.

  “I thought … I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “Don’t worry about what I want. Don’t make this weird.”

  “Weird? Melanie, I’ve wanted this for a long time. Ever since sixth grade, when we had kickball in gym and you wore those little purple shorts and socks up to your knees.”

  “I don’t remember that,” she said, glancing out at the river as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “It’s burning up in here. Why don’t you crack the window?”

  The mood had subtly shifted, but Ronnie was still aroused. He had to turn the key to let down the power windows, and the fecund odor of river mud rolled in on the fog. Melanie hadn’t pulled away completely, and one leg was still tangled between his. The memory of her soft, damp panties was still fresh on his fingers. Her freckled cheeks were alabaster in the moonlight, and her eyes were wide and imploring.

  Ronnie put a trembling hand on her thigh. “Do you love me?”

  “That’s not fair. Don’t make me answer that.”

  “Fine. Do you love Bobby, then?”

  “Quit all this and lay down with me,” she said. “Why do you have to make everything so complicated?”

  Birth control. And what if she’s a virgin, too? Should I ask her? Will we make a mess on the seat? God, why don’t I carry a condom in my wallet like every other red-blooded American teen male? And DOES SHE LOVE ME?

  “I want you,” Ronnie said. “But I want all of you.”

  “Jesus, Ronnie. McFall warned me that you’d be like this.”

  Ronnie’s heart clenched in his chest and took a staccato hiccup. His heart was the very thing he’d been willing to offer, but now it was throbbing and gasping and searing around the icy dagger she’d just driven into it.

  “McFall told you to do this?”

  “Ease up, Deathboy. It’s not like he paid me.”

  Ronnie hung his head out the truck window, sure he was going to vomit.

  And that was when he saw Brett Summers standing there on the bridge, wrapped in fog, water dripping from his nearly naked body, smiling like all was fine in the world beyond.

  “Ronnie?” Melanie’s voice came from the bottom of some dark well, and she tugged on his shoulder until he finally turned to face her. She’d climbed against him and her luscious body was pinning him to the door, but he was cold inside, the volcano doused, his head running wild. When he looked out at the bridge again, all he could see was fog and the softly lapping river.

  “Come on, honey.” Melanie kissed him and slid her hand down to his groin, but he stared ahead and let the cold sink deep into his bones. So he really had been deluding himself. Everything Bobby had said was true. The ghosts had never left.

  “Okay,” she said. “I love you. Better?”

  He took his hand from her thigh and reached for the ignition, hoping the headlights would help disperse the fog. “I’d better get you home.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Larkin McFall normally took Sundays off, not from any religious impulse but simply because it was expected. Today was an exception. The sun was high and bright, the sky free of impending storms, and Cassandra McFall had a new belted pantsuit she’d been dying to wear. It was even worth sitting through Preacher Staymore’s impassioned call for his flock to stay on the path of righteousness, making oblique references to a television show, professional football, and a political issue that had more to do with patriotic fervor than grace. But McFall could certainly agree with the central message of the sermon: “Therefore keep watch, because no one knows the day or the hour.”

  McFall put a hundred dollars in the plate, careful to slide the folded bill under the ones and fives lest someone think he was grandstanding. After the closing hymn, he stood in the vestibule and greeted those he knew. Logan Extine, his wife, and his charming daughter Amy made such an attractive family that McFall almost yearned for children. But Cassie wouldn’t be much help there. And besides, fatherhood required sacrifice, something best left to others.

  “Hello, Larkin,” Extine said, shaking his hand so that others could see they were friends. “A pleasure to see you both here.”

  McFall draped a casual arm around Cassie’s waist. It seemed to be the thing to do. “I regret it’s taken us so long to drop in.”

  Max Summers and his wife came down the aisle and the congregation grew quieter as they passed. Max appeared to have aged twenty years since his son’s funeral. While McFall had expected the payoff from the boy’s life insurance would dull the sharp edges of loss and pain, Max still wore the same suit and drove the same car as he had when his son was alive. What was the point of insurance if you let death stand in the way of a better life?

  But McFall quickly forgot all about them when he saw the Day family. Well, not the entire Day family—David was probably sleeping off a bender. Linda was fresh and tidy, Tim was scruffy but clean, and Ronnie looked like he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. The skin around his eyes was puffy, his complexion gray.

  “Mr. McFall!’ Linda said, with a delighted enthusiasm that seemed wholly out of place in Barkersville Baptist Church. Tim hung back, but Ronnie stepped in front of his mother as if to protect her.

  “Hello, Linda.” McFall nodded at the boys. “Ronnie. Tim.”

  He introduced his wife and was about to invite the Days to join them for lunch when Linda said, “David doesn’t want to sell.”

  “I understand. I don’t blame him. But I had to try.”

  “But we do,” Linda said over her son’s shoulder.

  Ronnie stared at McFall with hate in his bloodshot eyes. His lower lip trembled.

  He’s coming around. McFall hid his self-satisfied grin. “What about you, Ronnie? What do you want?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Ronnie,” Linda admonished. “Be polite.”

  “It’s okay,” McFall said. “He’s on the doorway to manhood, and it’s never an easy path.”

  “Because no one knows the day or the hour, right?” Ronnie said.

  “I’m sure David will be willing to listen,” Linda said. “Give him a little time. He’s just a little stubborn.”

  “Pride isn’t necessarily a sin,” McFall said. “Your husband is an excellent carpenter, and I’m proud to have him working for McFall Meadows. Ronnie, too. I can see where he learned to put in a hard day’s work.”

  “I quit,” Ronnie said, raising his voice, causing Linda to gasp loudly.

  McFall had figured mere money wouldn’t be enough to buy Ronnie, so he wasn’t overly upset. As long as David was on the payroll, Ronnie would stay within range, especially since he had Melanie as bait. Although McFall was beginning to understand why Archer McFall had failed here. Ronnie was a formidable foe, even if the boy was only scarcely aware he was engaged in battle.

  “He got in late last night,” Linda said by way of apology, but Ronnie was already heading outside to the parking lot, not even stopping to shake Preacher Staymore’s hand. “He’s been spending time with Bobby’s rock band, and I swear it’s bad news.”

  “Patience, Mrs. Day,” McFall said. “It’s a difficult path, but it’s his. All we can do is walk beside him.”

  “I guess so,” Linda said. “Come on, Tim.”

  “So th
ose are the Days,” Cassie said after they had left. “I don’t see why you waste so much time on them.”

  “We’re all family here, in one way or another,” McFall guided her toward their Lexus, waving to those he recognized, most of whom worked for McFall Meadows in some capacity or another.

  Once they were in the car, McFall punched a number into his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Cassie asked.

  “Your replacement.”

  “Oh.” She flipped down the sun visor and checked her eye shadow in the little mirror clipped there.

  “Hello, Miss Fowler?” McFall said into the phone.

  “Is this Larkin?” came the response.

  “Have you ever considered higher office? I hear the state congressional race is wide open.”

  The line was silent for a moment. “Democrat or Republican ticket?” Heather asked, wary.

  “Does it matter?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Sheriff Littlefield wasn’t yet willing to organize a manhunt for Sweeney Buchanan, especially since he wasn’t convinced the man had done anything wrong. He’d quietly let his department know that Buchanan was a “person of interest,” but he wasn’t going to open an official investigation because he didn’t trust Cindy to keep it quiet. Her spunk was one of the things he liked best about her, but sometimes it was a pure pain in the ass.

  None of that prevented him from conducting a personal search of the former Buchanan property. Especially because the prints on the wrench had matched Sweeney’s records from Wendover Home, one of his stops on the merry-go-round of the state’s mental health system. But what was more notable was that Sweeney’s fingerprints were the only ones besides Bobby Eldreth’s on the wrench, even though Larkin McFall had personally handed the evidence to Littlefield.

  He exited Little Church Road and drove his Trooper toward Stepford Matheson’s place, intending to use the hiking trail to cross the mountain. Even though Stepford had sold his land to McFall just like the others, he must have negotiated some sort of use agreement, because he was sitting on his porch when Littlefield pulled up.