McFall

by Scott Nicholson

  When he wrestled with the doorknob again, it turned easily in his hand with a rusty skree. But before he opened it, he saw the dark letters that had been smeared onto the wood by Brett’s waterlogged fingers.

  Days End.

  Ronnie fled outside to find Bobby sitting on the Silverado’s bumper, fiddling with a little glass vial. The truck bed was piled with rotten paper and garbage.

  Bobby looked up at him with bored indifference. “What were you yelling about? Why did you lock me in?”

  “Dude, what are you talking about?” Bobby slipped the vial in his pocket and wiped his nose. “I been out here soaking up the sun. I’m done in there.”

  “I saw Brett Summers.”

  Bobby squinted at him for a few seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether Ronnie was bullshitting. Then he said, “I guess you’re done, too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Littlefield had barely slept, and the few scraps he remembered from his nightmares featured Samuel’s milk-white face, eyes imploring as a skinny arm reached out to his brother for help. Behind Samuel had stretched the growing shadow of Larkin McFall, rising from the ashes of the red church and his family’s homestead to spread across the forest, the river, and the towns of Barkersville and Titusville. The sheriff gave up fighting insomnia at 6:00 A.M. and crawled out of bed for coffee.

  When he walked into the office two hours later, Sherry studied him as if he had a contagious leprosy. “What?” he asked.

  She shoved the fresh edition of The Titusville Times across her desk. The banner read “McFall expands plans, adds jobs,” and McFall’s mug smiled out at the newspaper’s readership with benevolent compassion.

  “So?” he said. “Just another slobber job. What’s new?”

  “Page two is what’s new.”

  Littlefield flipped to the editorial page and Cindy Baumhower’s column, “Outside the Law.” While not mentioning Littlefield by name, Cindy claimed that the sheriff’s office had been failing the public through secrecy and the suppression of public records. She listed the deaths from earlier in the year and hinted at negligence on the part of the local law enforcement. She even revealed the bungling of Cole Buchanan’s autopsy results, quoting Perry Hoyle as saying, “I delivered the case file to the sheriff as requested and never heard another word about it. That was a little unusual, since we always discuss any suspicious deaths.”

  Cindy went on to excoriate the sheriff for any number of lapses, digging up crime statistics and a solve rate that made it look like the county was teetering on the edge of anarchy. She also used skewed statistics to suggest that the office was soft on drugs because only one methamphetamine lab had been closed down that year, when in reality a series of busts the previous year had driven most meth cooks to other counties—something Cindy well knew.

  He crumpled the paper and flung it to the floor. “She’s just bitchy because the Internet is killing her career.”

  Sherry did Littlefield the favor of pretending to check her email as he stormed into his office to call Cindy. He’d tried her several times the night before without success, and now he waited through ten rings before clicking off his phone without leaving a message. A similar call to her line at the Times likewise went unanswered.

  How could she stab me in the back like that? Was I not moving fast enough for her? Hell, she keeps pink shampoo bottles in my shower.

  On his way out, he passed Perriotte, who was about to walk through the front door. The deputy stepped aside, evidently recognizing his boss’s dark, sour mood. “Uh, Sheriff?”

  “What?”

  “We got a call from the Ward girl’s mom. She’s missing.”

  “Shit. How long?”

  “Could have been anytime during the night. The mom woke up at seven and didn’t see her, but she didn’t think anything of it until the girl didn’t show up for work. And it looks like she took some personal effects with her, purse and cell phone, anyway.”

  Littlefield glanced at his watch. “Technically, we need to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing persons report.”

  “That’s what I told her. But she was worried about … you know, copycat stuff.”

  “Like we ought to look for her in the river?” Littlefield glowered. “She’s a recent high school graduate stuck in a small town. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hightailed it for California. Hell, I would if I were her.”

  Perriotte shook his head. “You don’t buy that, do you? You’re just taking the company line.”

  Littlefield pressed forward and stuck a finger under Perriotte’s nose. “I’m not covering up anything. I might be incompetent, but it sure as hell isn’t on purpose.”

  Perriotte looked at the finger as if it were a gun barrel. “So, do you want me to check the river or not?”

  Littlefield sighed. “Yeah. Spread the word, but tell the department to keep it quiet for now. Especially Sherry. I know how she likes to gossip.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Littlefield stepped outdoors, then turned. “You ready?”

  Perriotte was perplexed. “For what?”

  “To take over.” Littlefield removed his hat and rubbed the brim as he looked down the street. Few pedestrians were out before noon, and businesses were just now opening. Stella Potter was sliding handcrafted rockers into a row in front of her antique shop. Jim Graham was smoking a cigarette near the ATM outside the BB&T branch. A car horn blew at someone in a Honda SUV who was having trouble parallel parking. Some shops were already flying the American flag for the upcoming Fourth of July. A normal day in a normal town. Or so it appeared.

  “Take over?” Perriotte said, although it was clear to both of them what they were discussing.

  “It won’t be my decision, but I’ll put in a good word for you with the county commissioners,” Littlefield said. “That is, if my word carries weight anymore. You’d make a good sheriff, and maybe the interim deal will give you enough momentum to win the election.”

  Perriotte gave a brief smile. “That’s real noble of you, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll clean up my messes as best I can before I throw in my hat,” Littlefield said. “Keep me up to date on the Ward girl. I’ll join you at the bridge soon, but I have a stop to make first.”

  As he walked away, Littlefield nearly bumped into Skeeter Aldridge, who was emerging from the drugstore carrying a prescription bag. Normally Littlefield would stop and chat with Skeeter about the man’s views on the Middle East, the rich assholes who’d siphoned off the American dream, and the government spying program—often at the same time, because Skeeter saw them all as ingredients in a doomsday gumbo. But today Skeeter barely met his eye, curling his lip and flaring his nostrils as if Littlefield hadn’t changed his underwear in a month. Littlefield muttered a quick “Howdy, Skeeter,” and kept on walking.

  As he walked to the courthouse to retrieve his Isuzu, he found himself wondering if the town would look different to him as a civilian. Maybe he could finally pull the nails out of his hands and climb down from the secular cross he’d built from the timbers of his ego. He could interact with the townsfolk without feeling like their self-selected shepherd.

  Littlefield drove to the hospital. When he shoved through the door to the morgue, Dr. Perry Hoyle was sitting at his metal desk, scrawling on a piece of paper.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Hoyle said, looking up and adjusting his bifocals. “I was just about to leave for the day.”

  “Altering some more paperwork?” Littlefield asked, circling the stainless-steel autopsy table to loom over the desk.

  “What do you mean?”

  Littlefield looked down at his old friend. Hoyle was probably approaching sixty-five, and the deep wrinkles around his eyes made him look tired. Maybe a bass boat would be just what the doctor ordered.

  “You buried the report on Cole Buchanan and lied to the newspaper about it.” Littlefield watched as Hoyle’s rheumy eyes flitted to the corners of the room as if he were seeking escape.

&nbs
p; “Oh, that. Didn’t you get my email?” Hoyle’s face contorted into an impassive mask. “I bet you accidentally deleted it. Maybe I should have dug up some stamps instead.”

  “And how about Brett Summers? That was a straight drowning, right? But I remember you saying there were bruises around one of his ankles.”

  “Sure, sure,” Hoyle said, talking faster. “Could have caught his leg between some rocks and got banged around in the current.”

  “Current’s not that fast around the bridge. Plus, when I pulled the report—the one that’s in the case file—I noticed that there’s no mention of those bruises. Something like that should have been officially recorded.”

  Hoyle pushed away from the desk, putting a little distance between himself and the sheriff. “Why sweat the small stuff? Life’s too short, Frank.”

  “The ‘small stuff’ is at the heart of what we do,” Littlefield said. “The devil’s in the details.”

  Hoyle studied the various organs and specimens that floated in jars of formaldehyde on a shelf over Littlefield’s shoulder. “Maybe we’ve been doing it too long.”

  “What does McFall have on you?”

  Hoyle’s cheeks grew red. “How many dead people have we laid out on that table there?” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the refrigerated drawers where bodies were stored. “How many have we piled into the meat locker over the years? Maybe you like to stick your face in it, but you get to walk away and play the hero. Well, I’ve always been stuck down here with the stink.”

  Littlefield clenched his fists and ground his knuckles into the desktop. “I thought you were on my side.”

  “It’s not my war. I’m not part of the old families.” Hoyle was still avoiding Littlefield’s gaze, but he wasn’t even bothering to hide his betrayal. “Besides, it’s not your town anymore. It’s his. I know which way the wind blows.”

  The sheriff took a closer glance at the refrigerated drawers. Judging from the tags inserted into the little slots beneath the handles, there were six dead people waiting for their moment in the spotlight.

  “Two Mathesons, a Gregg, a Potter, and three of their in-laws,” Hoyle said with a smirk. “All from natural causes. But every death is natural, when you get right down to it. It’s what we do here in Pickett County.”

  Littlefield rushed forward and grabbed the man’s throat with one hand, shaking him so hard his bifocals flew off and cracked on the tiled floor. As Hoyle’s foggy eyes bulged and his lips turned blue, Littlefield whispered, “Is this natural enough for you?”

  The frail man batted ineffectually at Littlefield’s wrist, trying to loosen his death grip. Littlefield heard laughter and looked wildly around, releasing Hoyle’s neck. Hoyle flopped forward and banged his face against the desk, a raspy whimper leaking from his lungs.

  One of the morgue drawers began to slide open, giving a glimpse of the darkness within.

  Littlefield backed toward the door to the morgue. Hoyle raised his head, dark blood oozing from one nostril, his bald head sweating. He croaked a mixture of a cough and laugh. “It’s what we do here.”

  The drawer slid open another two feet, releasing a slightly sweet stench. A marbled hand ascended from the sheath of darkness, fingers testing the air.

  Littlefield didn’t wait around to see what more the drawer contained.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Larkin McFall watched her for a minute from the edge of the picket fence.

  She was attractive, yes, but what really appealed to him was her innocent humility and lack of self-consciousness as she knelt before her squash plants and dug with her trowel. Heather Fowler didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work. From such clay McFall could mold quite a woman.

  Cassandra had been a mistake; he’d known that for a while now. He’d picked her up in rural East Tennessee without much thought. At the time, he’d figured her beauty would be enough, but even with careful guidance she had proven to be a poor investment. She was vulgar and dull. Insipid.

  As the great matriarch Mama Bet McFall used to say, “You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still just a pig.”

  Heather’s face was hidden by a cute sunhat with a floppy brim, so he was able to observe her a moment longer before she sensed his presence. Finally she glanced towards the edge of the garden.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, looking around to make sure the neighbors weren’t watching. No worries there. Unlike university professors, the rest of the fine folk in her section of town had day jobs that stretched through the summer.

  “Just passing through,” he said. “Mind if I look at your peas?”

  She pointed her trowel at the gate, waving him in. He could have stepped over the fence, but the inside perimeter was lined with marigolds, peonies, and rose bushes. The layout reflected an organized and ambitious mind. McFall’s every instinct about Heather was proving more correct by the day.

  By the time he’d maneuvered between the rows of squash and cabbage seedlings, she was standing, brushing dirt from the knees of her jeans. She had on a sleeveless cotton top that revealed freckled shoulders. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she looked more like a college student than a professor.

  “Cassandra’s gone,” he said.

  She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her wrist. “Where?”

  “Back to El Paso.”

  “You don’t seem too torn up about it.”

  He tested the tension of the strings providing scaffolding for the pea vines. “I want people to have everything they want. And it’s what she wanted.”

  “Very unselfish of you.”

  “It helps me get what I want, too. As we say in the Chamber of Commerce, it’s a ‘win-win-win.’”

  “You and she make two wins. Who gets the third?”

  He could smell her sweat, and beneath it a faint, floral scent, as if she’d absorbed some of the sweetness of her garden. He didn’t experience physical desire in its purest form, but he could appreciate the subtle signals of his borrowed human senses. He hoped he was dressed appropriately; he’d left his jacket in the seat of his car, his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and the top button of his shirt was undone. The breeze was even tousling his hair, as if eager to help him with his seduction.

  “You do, Heather,” he said.

  His instincts in such matters were unrefined, as the lifestyle he had to offer had been far more important to his former wife than any fairy-tale romance. Perhaps with Heather things would be different. He smiled, just the way he’d practiced.

  The suspicion in her eyes melted away. “People will talk.”

  “Only for a while, and only the little people. The ones who don’t matter. Most will feel sympathetic once they learn that she was a gold-digger who married me for my money and then extorted me for a hefty divorce settlement. You’ll be seen as the woman who reawakened my heart and restored my faith in love. And soon people will realize how good we are for the community.”

  She sighed. “You make it sound so practical.”

  McFall had planned to step forward after saying those words, taking her into his arms, but now he was confused. He was pretty sure he understood her. After all, she’d responded to all the bait he’d laid out. She wasn’t the type to lose her head—or her soul—based on physical attraction alone. He’d offered her a kingdom, and a king to rule by her side. Wasn’t that enough?

  Ah, you fool. You forgot the most important thing.

  He let his face grow solemn and vulnerable. He’d expected her to surrender, but she would only feel that she’d achieved victory through his surrender.

  He moved closer, close enough to hear her breath coming in small gasps through parted lips. Looking into her eyes he could see doubt, vulnerability, and a glimmer of defiance. But beyond those emotions was something vague and indefinable—that thing these humans called a “soul.”

  “I love you,” he whispered, and those walls in her eyes broke down.


  He didn’t even have to lunge, because this time she did the falling, and all he had to do was put his arms around her. Her body was much more feminine and pleasing than Cassandra’s, and he realized he liked a little give in the hips and chest. Yes, this one was an upgrade.

  He pushed back the brim of her sunhat and moved his lips to hers. Her mouth was warmer than Cassandra’s, and while Cassandra’s tongue had flopped like a cold fish, Heather’s was active and ardent. He was caught off guard, but he echoed her movements as best he could. He was so intent on the action that he had to remind himself to breathe before she noticed he wasn’t.

  She broke away, looked around again, and clutched his hand. “We should go inside.”

  “I’m not ready for that.”

  Her eyes narrowed with passion. “Not ready? It’s been two damn years for me. I’ve practically been revirginized.”

  He couldn’t tell her that he truly was a virgin. After all, he had been married to Cassandra, so such an admission would mark him as peculiar. He gave a shrug and a charming grin. “I’m old-fashioned. What can I say?”

  She kissed him again, and he let it go further. Maybe he wouldn’t make her wait too long. After all, flesh was flesh, and you could make it do whatever you wanted. He listened to the drone of the bees in the garden, a distant lawnmower, and the heavy pounding of her heart beneath her generous breasts. When they paused she said, “I’m going to figure you out sooner or later.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

  He excused himself, claiming he had an appointment with electricians at McFall Meadows but would call her later. At the gate he looked back at her, which he’d seen humans do in such situations. She was sweating and panting, a little dazed, and her grip was tight on the trowel in her right hand.