McFall

by Scott Nicholson

  “You been smoking something?”

  “Like you’ve never had weird thoughts. Sounds like the kind of stuff that runs through your head all the time.”

  Ronnie didn’t answer because the bridge was just ahead of them, the trees yielding to a great expanse of black, hoary air that hung over the river. Even though he couldn’t see the water, he felt its presence, oozing up and out from an antediluvian darkness whose secrets were so old and poisonous that even God had forgotten them.

  But you haven’t forgotten me, have you, God? You did place my soul in the right body, didn’t you?

  Bobby slowed to a stop at the entrance to the bridge. “See anything?”

  The mist was thickening into an ominous, funereal veil that could harbor anything, including Brett, Darnell Absher, the sheriff’s little brother, even Archer McFall and his flock. Plenty of room for all the restless dead who had been rejected by both heaven and hell.

  A vehicle approached from the other side of the bridge, cutting through the fog and emerging next to them, the driver blinking his high beams on to thank Bobby for letting him pass first. The fog parted in the wake of the car and then swirled back into a dense, tangible mass.

  “I wouldn’t go in there,” Ronnie said, palms sweating around the handle of the bat. “Screw band practice. Even rock'n'roll isn’t worth dying for.”

  “I’m not worried about the band. But Mr. McFall’s counting on us.”

  “He mentioned a job on the phone. No way in hell am I getting in any deeper.”

  “You can back out, but I’m not going to let him down.”

  “You don’t owe him anything.”

  “Bullshit. I owe him everything.”

  The mist was moving now, silken threads insinuating themselves into suggestions of knotty sinew and bone.

  “I’m out,” Ronnie said, opening the passenger door. “If you think this is a test of your manhood, then go for it. You’re my best friend, but I won’t go in there even for you.”

  “It’s not a test. It’s the game within the game. If you can’t compete, get out of the batter’s box.”

  “Fine, dude, but I’m taking the bat with me.”

  Ronnie climbed out of the pickup, wooden bat in hand, and the chill instantly wrapped around him. He was almost as afraid to be outside of the truck as he was to venture onto the bridge. Almost.

  Ronnie headed up the road, waiting for Bobby to turn around and come after him. But Bobby’s eyes had been so wild and bloodshot, Ronnie wasn’t even sure his friend had heard him. The truck was still idling in place as the river chuckled and gurgled with hidden movement and the forest sighed in anticipation. Ronnie sped up, not looking back until he reached McFall Meadows. The truck’s brake lights were like dim, red eyes in an animal’s den.

  He glanced at the cemetery.

  The red church stood there, whole, healed, alive, the crippled cross on its steeple stabbing defiantly toward the ceiling of night.

  Ronnie broke into a frantic sprint, and he wasn’t sure he took a single breath until he reached his front door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Go.

  Bobby’s hand rested on the knob of the gear shift, the vibration of the engine working its way up his arm and rattling his rib cage. The Special K jumped from his head to his heart, which was pumping faster than it ever had from any drum solo or two-out showdown with a batter.

  This is the game within the game. This is where you win or lose.

  He eased forward, barely aware that Ronnie had ditched him. After all, you don’t need a co-pilot when you’re taking the Big Ride. Ronnie had Jesus and God and all that, but when the rubber met the road, you had to go it alone. No scout or agent or girlfriend or mentor could escort you through your baptism of fear.

  The Silverado was a third of the way across the bridge when Bobby felt the structure lift from its moorings and turn, like a massive luxury liner steering to starboard on a stormy sea. He couldn’t see either shore, and his stomach gave a queasy lurch as the bridge descended into an even thicker layer of fog. The surface of the river couldn’t be more than a few feet beneath him, but he had lost all sense of physics and geometry. If the bridge bottomed out, he’d be trapped in the truck by the weight of the water.

  But then the mist knitted itself into a figure that stood before the truck’s headlines, a soft silhouette that was too short to be Brett Summers. Next came a gentle RATTA-TATTA-TAT and he noticed that the figure was wearing a blunt Civil War cap.

  Vernon Ray?

  Bobby got out of the truck, his mouth dry. He nearly lost his balance, and he desperately wanted a snort of the Special K, but he steadied himself. “It’s you,” he whispered to the original Drummer Boy.

  Two small tunnels of empty eye sockets appeared beneath the brim of the cap. Hands slid from the larger shroud and rattled the snare harder, the forlorn cadence moving in rhythm with the splashing current below. Bobby wasn’t sure whether the next words were spoken—if indeed it was Vernon Ray, the boy had certainly changed—or only in his head:

  “None of us belong.”

  Then the figure merged back into the mist as if rejoining a parade of the lost, the drumbeats fading with him.

  “No, wait!” Bobby shouted, moving into the stage lights of the truck’s high beams. “Come back!”

  As if in answer to his summons, the figure reformed, the drumsticks still rising and falling in its hands. But the apparition was larger now, as big as a grown man. Had Vernon Ray somehow aged while he was in the land of the dead?

  Then the figure marched toward him from the mist. When it emerged into the glow of the headlights, Bobby found himself looking at—and through—himself. He wanted to flee, but the bridge bucked and swayed beneath his feet, nearly tossing him into the railing and perhaps over the side into nothingness. He saw his own pale, ethereal face frowning at him in disappointment.

  You blew the game within the game.

  The transparent version of himself slipped inside of him. He closed his eyes as bracing cold slid down his spine like fingers of ice. He staggered for a moment, almost marching in place, and when he opened his eyes his empty hands were flailing up and down in a soundless drumming motion. He clenched his fists and stilled them before wiping the clammy sweat from his face.

  Bobby climbed back behind the wheel of the truck. The bridge seemed to settle into place once again, with a great trembling of ancient bedrock. Bobby was positive that the bridge had turned completely around so that he was facing McFall Meadows and Little Church Road once more.

  Whatever part of him he’d lost the night of the crash had returned and reintegrated itself. Or maybe the dead Bobby was the real one, not the hunk of flesh he’d been hauling to work, band practice, and the Eldreth mobile home for the last few weeks.

  The fog cleared a little, and he drove the truck forward. Highway 321 was just in front of him. He glanced at the dented sign that said “No Swimming Jumping Fishing From Bridge.” He wondered if ghostly encounters were also against the law. Or being kidnapped and held hostage by your own soul. No wonder he’d felt so out of it lately. He may well have been out of it.

  Bobby pulled the vial of powder from his shirt pocket and dumped some onto the back of one trembling hand. He sniffed a small mound into his nose. His hand steadied. He wheeled the Silverado onto the asphalt and stomped on the accelerator.

  Larkin McFall was waiting.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Sheriff Littlefield banged on the apartment door. “Cindy!”

  He could see through the curtains that her lights were on. The apartment complex was just outside Titusville, within range of the traffic noise and streetlights from the main commercial strip. A country boy, Littlefield had never been comfortable in Cindy’s place, which was part of the reason they’d spent most of their time at his house. Now it looked like it was going to stay his house, instead of theirs.

  He pounded once more and raised his voice again, not caring if the neighbors heard. H
e was soon going to be the ex-sheriff, so their votes no longer mattered.

  The door opened a crack, the safety chain stretched taut. One brown eye peeked out at him. “Hush it or I’ll call the cops.”

  She’d do it too, he had no doubts about that—and she’d snap photographs while they cuffed him and put him in the back seat of the squad car. The only question left was whether they’d throw him behind bars or in a rubber room.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Oh, now we need to talk. When there’s nothing left to say.”

  “Look, I don’t care about your column. Hell, I even agree with half of what you said. But all hell’s breaking loose out here, and I can’t duct-tape it back together with lies and denials. I need you. I need your help.”

  The eye narrowed, speculating. “Can I get column inches out of it?”

  “Whatever you want. All access. But nobody’s going to believe it.”

  “They didn’t believe it when little Vernon Ray Davis got lost in that cave, or when some of those guns in the last Civil War re-enactment started firing real bullets. They didn’t believe it when your detective drowned right outside the church on the same night Archer McFall mysteriously left town. Under your leadership, I think they’ve gotten real good at not believing.”

  “That’s not fair, Cindy.”

  “Remember Heather Fowler’s slogan during her campaign for county commissioner? ‘Use whatever you got.’ It worked for her, so I’ve decided to adopt it too.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll use my fear. Because it’s all I got left.”

  She sighed, released the chain, and opened the door. It had only been two weeks since Littlefield’s last visit, but the bookshelves had undergone a massive change. Most people’s bookshelves just sat there and collected dust, but hers were like a living organism in a constant state of flux. Some books were open and spread out on top of a row, while others had their spines facing up instead of out. It reminded him of Sweeney Buchanan’s squatter hovel in the woods.

  She swept a stack of national daily newspapers from the couch to the floor. She had a cat named Clemens around somewhere, and although the animal was reclusive its odor was not. Littlefield sat, already feeling a little itchy from the tufts of hair floating around.

  “Put down your hat,” Cindy said.

  Littlefield realized he’d been rapidly turning it by the brim. He perched it on his knee for a moment, then used it to cover a copy of Newsweek that featured the president’s jug-eared mug on the cover. “The ghosts are back.”

  Cindy nodded. As a paranormal enthusiast she accepted such things as a given.

  “Except it’s not just dead people. It’s everybody. And somehow Larkin McFall is turning them all against me.”

  “Against you? So this is all about spooking Frankie Littlefield. Or, as they say in the cop movies, ‘This time it’s personal.’”

  “Don’t look at me like that. Hoyle sold me out on the Cole Buchanan report, and now he’s holding corpses I wasn’t even informed about.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her about seeing the morgue drawer slide open and that blue-veined hand reach out, but he did anyway. He also told her about his encounter with McFall in the woods, and his sightings of Vernon Ray and Samuel.

  He’d covered up his county’s secrets for far too long, which was why he felt so isolated and disconnected from the people he served. And from the woman he probably loved.

  “I’m pretty sure something’s going on with those kids who were partying at the bridge the night Brett Summers drowned,” he said. “When you connect all the dots, Ronnie Day and Bobby Eldreth are there every single time. And so is McFall, except most of the time he’s standing somewhere just off stage, back behind the curtain.”

  He expected Cindy to jump up with her renowned passion and curiosity, demanding that they pay McFall a visit at his condominium. Or maybe get a search warrant and check out the morgue. But she sat on the far end of the couch, her expression bored, as if she were wondering what was on television.

  “You know why I became a sheriff?” he asked.

  “Because you like wearing a hat on the job?”

  “Because of my little brother. After he died in that prank at the red church, I didn’t want anything as terrible as that to happen ever again. I promised Samuel I’d devote my life to protecting the innocent.”

  “And then you finally realized that nobody’s innocent.”

  “A girl’s missing, Cindy. You know Melanie Ward, that young waitress down at the waffle house with the bleached streak in her hair? We searched a little, checked out the river, called some of her friends. She’s not official yet, but if she hasn’t turned up by morning.… ”

  “You’ll actually follow protocol and open an investigation? Color me impressed.”

  “I’m quitting. I keep thinking I should wait to retire until I tie up all my loose ends, but more ends come loose every minute. I’ve got nothing but ends.”

  Littlefield thought she’d welcome the news, seeing as she was the one who’d suggested his retirement in the first place. “And you’ve got fear,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “So, are you going to help?”

  “I’m a journalist. I don’t take sides.”

  He snatched his hat from the coffee table and stormed over to the door. “I thought we were in this together. ” Then he looked back at her and he knew. “What did McFall offer you?”

  “What do you think? A good story.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The third of July in Pickett County, North Carolina, was born with heavy dew that soon gave way to humidity so thick the tiger lilies would sag until noon. The Blue Ridge Mountains were ribbed with skeins of haze that had more to do with Midwestern coal-fired power plants than the natural smoke of morning. The corn had reached its desired, knee-high state, and farmers checked the signs and went ahead with their first cutting of hay. Blackburn River ran low and quiet and a little thirsty.

  Ronnie Day awoke to find he’d slept with the baseball bat tucked next to him under his blanket.

  Bobby Eldreth jerked awake in the cab of the Silverado, parked behind the high school football stadium, his clothes dirty and his head aching, as if someone had rapped drumsticks against his skull all night.

  Heather Fowler sipped black coffee with stevia while contemplating life in a condominium, never noticing the freshly turned dirt in her potato patch.

  Sheriff Littlefield finished the pint of whiskey he’d been saving for an emergency, wondering if he should take a nap before checking on the situation with the Ward girl.

  Meanwhile, work continued at McFall Meadows. David Day and his crew hung hardwood cabinets in a kitchen. Elmer Eldreth soldered copper water pipes while wondering if Bobby had ruined his future by partying with dopeheads. Wally Kaufman’s bulldozer blazed the trail for another hundred feet of gravel, steel treads grinding ever closer to the ridge line.

  Sweeney Buchanan and Melanie Ward were holed up in a sagging barn on the Gregg farm, one of Larkin McFall’s recent property purchases.

  McFall emerged from the woods, crusted blood on his lips, the world at his fingertips.

  Ronnie was late for work, but he didn’t care. And he was glad he’d skipped the secret, “little” job last night. Let McFall fire him. If David Day was selling out, Ronnie really didn’t need the money, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being around the sinister son of a bitch all day. But he was worried about Bobby, who hadn’t been returning his calls all morning. So he’d told his dad to go ahead, and he later walked back to McFall Meadows, following the same route he’d scurried over hours before.

  If he didn’t know better, he would have thought it was all a bad nightmare fueled by his mom’s spicy lasagna. But those ghostly shapes in the mist had been there—Bobby had seen them, too—and the red church had seemed just as solid as when he’d attended services there with his mother. He was positive that if he’d opened that creaking, wooden door, Archer McFall would
have been standing at the lectern, arms spread in welcome, his smile full of sharp teeth.

  But today the church site was just a bare stretch of pasture, the newly planted grass like green tufts of baby hair. Hammers echoed across the job site. A delivery truck was unloading stacks of Sheetrock. Kaufman’s bulldozer sent diesel exhaust boiling into the sky, the engine growling as it plunged ever deeper into the ancient mud. Bobby’s Silverado was nowhere in sight, but McFall’s Lexus was parked by the model home, which would soon be open for real-estate sales.

  Ronnie climbed the steps, appreciating the craft of his dad and the other workers. But he wondered if they really understood what they were building. This development was just a new kind of church, one that would feed McFall’s corrupt empire.

  When Ronnie entered the living room, which had been outfitted as an office, McFall was sitting in a high-backed, leather chair behind a polished, maple desk. The room itself was amber from the morning light streaming through the bay window. The view was magnificent, with the river winding away to the bridge in the distance. Even the fenced cemetery looked almost charming.

  “Ronnie. I’ve been expecting you.”

  No surprise there.

  “Where is he?”

  McFall’s innocent expression would have fooled almost anyone—except for someone who knew the McFall family and what they were. “Where is who?”

  “Bobby.”

  “I’m looking for him myself. We worked late last night, and he must have slept in. We could have used your help, you know.”

  I’ll bet. Well, there are still a few of us left who haven’t given up their souls to you. But the day is young.

  “What about Melanie?”

  McFall motioned for Ronnie to sit in one of the Queen Anne-style chairs in front of his desk, but Ronnie shook his head. “I didn’t think you cared,” McFall said. “She said you rejected her.”

  “I rejected you,” Ronnie said, his voice bouncing off the wooden floor and bare walls. “I don’t want anything bad enough to let you win. That’s the game within the game, right? Everybody thinks they’re going to get what they want, but they’re really just giving you what you want.”