McFall

by Scott Nicholson

  He still felt strange after last night, though. He remembered driving across the bridge and seeing Vernon Ray and what he now believed to be his own ghost, but he couldn’t remember what had happened afterwards. He had flashes of digging under the moonlight with McFall, and moving something heavy out of the man’s trunk, but he couldn’t tell memory from dream anymore. He took one hand from the bat and patted his shirt pocket, comforted by the feeling of the glass vial. It seemed to be just about the most solid thing in his life lately.

  He imagined bursting through the barn door, whacking Sweeney, and rescuing Melanie. She’d probably kiss him. He wanted to whisper her name, to let her know she’d be safe soon, but she might inadvertently alert Sweeney. Something thumped on the warped boards above him.

  Sweeney’s footsteps scuffed across the loft floor as the man muttered a repetitive phrase. The mantra sounded like, “Coyotes are coming, coyotes are coming.”

  This guy really is off his rocker. No telling what he’ll do next.

  But because Sweeney was upstairs, Bobby could slip inside, free Melanie, and get out before the maniac even knew what had happened. If he went in through the door, though, it would make a loud squeak and probably trigger vibrations that Sweeney could feel. Bobby looked around for a gap in the siding and spotted a section that had rotted away at the bottom. He pushed the bat through, then lay on his back and wriggled inside after it.

  Dust stung his eyes, and it took a moment for his vision to adjust to the dimness. He rolled to his knees, collected the bat, and studied the layout of the barn. He was inside a pen, but its planks and rails had collapsed and he could step through them into the main part of the barn. An uneven set of wooden stairs climbed the wall at the far end of the room, and here and there square holes were cut into the loft floor, probably so that hay could be tossed down to the animals. Sweeney was somewhere in the middle, walking back and forth as if he were looking out the windows first on one side of the barn and then another.

  Bobby moved quietly over to the corn crib, examining the stick and twist of baling wire that had been used to fasten it shut. Melanie looked up at him, her eyes large and gray. She opened her mouth to speak, but he made a shushing motion with his finger against his lips.

  Then he began to loosen the makeshift latch.

  Sweeney’s footsteps came to an abrupt stop overhead. “The coyotes are heeeeere!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  When Ronnie heard Sweeney’s demented howl he burst from his hiding place and ran for the barn.

  Littlefield hissed the command “Stop!” but Ronnie wasn’t about to sit around and watch while two of the people he cared about most were in danger. Ronnie remembered Sweeney’s surprising speed and strength from their confrontation with him in the old Buchanan place. Who knew what kind of drugs he was on, or if the voices in his head had fueled him into a superhuman frenzy? Even somebody as muscular as Bobby might not stand a chance on his own.

  And maybe Sweeney’s not on drugs. Maybe he’s on McFall.

  But Ronnie didn’t believe McFall was controlling the man. McFall had looked worried when he’d cornered Sweeney at the Buchanan place, almost scared. It was the only time Ronnie had ever seen him lose his cool.

  When Ronnie reached the barn door, he paused to press his ear against the wood for a moment. Then he threw the rusty hasp and wrestled the door open. It sagged, unable to support its own weight, so Ronnie dragged it until he could slip through the opening, boards rattling loudly as he forced his way between them.

  Sweeney, who’d fallen quiet, broke into a gallop overhead. “Coyotes are here!”

  Ronnie saw the silhouettes of Bobby and Melanie hugging on the far side of the barn. “He’s coming,” he hissed at them.

  A shadow dropped from above, landing with a thud in the middle of the barn floor. Sweeney lifted himself, staggering from the impact of his leap, and held up the wicked curve of a sickle. “Coyotes get cut.”

  To punctuate his words, Sweeney stroked the air with the antique tool. It looked rusty but plenty sharp. Bobby stepped in front of Melanie and raised his baseball bat.

  Sweeney gave Ronnie only a glance—clearly he was the less threatening coyote—and approached Bobby, waving the sickle back and forth. Ronnie debated rushing Sweeney, but before he could make a decision, the barn door parted wider.

  “Hold it or I’ll shoot!” the sheriff yelled.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Littlefield only had a moment to make a choice.

  He’d lost any chance to gain control of the situation and conclude it peacefully. Just another failure—one of many, but he still had his gun.

  Sweeney was right beside Melanie, wielding some sort of weapon. She screamed, the sound ringing through the barn.

  “Hold it,” the sheriff repeated, but even as he spoke he knew it was useless. Things were already in motion. No time to try for a disabling shot. Sweeney needed to be taken down, and fast.

  Littlefield aimed for the chest and fired twice.

  “No!’ Ronnie cried, diving for the gun, nearly taking the bullets himself as he slammed into the sheriff.

  Melanie screamed again as the silhouette staggered and dropped its weapon.

  Littlefield regained his balance and lifted his weapon again, stepping over Ronnie’s fallen form, the sound of the shots ringing in his ears. He shifted his aim to the other figure in the middle of the barn—the one he’d assumed was Bobby.

  Sweeney dropped his sickle and smiled. “Coyotes duh-duh-dead!”

  A cold sweat broke out across Littlefield’s skin. Melanie was still screaming, and Ronnie had crawled over to her.

  And to Bobby, who lay on his back in the dirt, his baseball bat beside him.

  But I shot Sweeney, not Bobby!

  Littlefield had a feeling he’d be repeating those words at a deposition someday, and no one would believe him—just as he barely believed himself now.

  “One coyote not dead,” Sweeney said, but as he bent to retrieve the sickle Littlefield took three steps forward and kicked him in the chest. He fought the urge to stick the barrel of his revolver against Sweeney’s skull and blow his brains into soup. But another death wouldn’t erase his mistake.

  Instead, he spun the man face down onto the barn floor, jammed a knee into his spine, and wrestled him into a pair of handcuffs. A bright orb of light settled on him, and he squinted into it.

  “Shit.” Deputy Perriotte said from behind the flashlight. The beam bounced over to Bobby’s still form. Melanie wailed in anguish as she knelt beside Bobby’s damaged body, Ronnie by her side.

  “Call an ambulance,” Littlefield croaked, although he knew it was far too late.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  As Bobby lay on the floor, blood oozing from the gap in his chest, his eyelids fluttered open and he flailed his arms. To Ronnie, it looked for all the world as if Bobby was playing a final drumroll, riding the crash cymbal into the afterlife.

  Ronnie blinked away his tears, his ears still ringing from the shots, his nose twitching from the bitter odor of gunpowder. He fell to his knees beside Melanie just as Bobby’s lips started moving, a bubble of blood welling up and popping.

  Melanie wailed Bobby’s name over and over like a siren as she rocked back and forth. Perriotte said something Ronnie couldn’t understand, because his focus was on one thing: Bobby was dying, and fast. He wished everything would just stop so he could hear what his friend was trying to say.

  Ronnie put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder in a pathetic attempt at comfort. “Hang in there, bro. You … you’ll be okay.”

  Bobby’s mouth worked again, and his dimming eyes implored Ronnie to come closer. Ronnie leaned in toward him even as Perriotte pulled Melanie away so that he could check on Bobby.

  “Game … within the game,” Bobby whispered, and died.

  Ronnie went limp as Perriotte pulled him away, then stood, looking at a dazed Littlefield, who was holding Sweeney in handcuffs. For the first time, he noticed t
he faint pulsing of emergency lights down the road. It had grown even darker outside, and thunder rumbled menacingly.

  He turned to look at Melanie. She would, for the rest of her life, think Bobby had sacrificed himself for her. Ronnie suspected he’d been sacrificed for a different cause, but he’d never be coldhearted enough to say that to her.

  Eyes wild, Melanie turned to him and took him in her arms. He tensed and resisted. His best friend’s blood was all over her.

  “It’s over,” Ronnie said, not even believing his own soothing bullshit.

  She shook her head and pressed harder against him, her tears hot on his shoulder. The feeling of her against him caused something inside him to weaken, and he asked Jesus to make him strong for her. They’d both suffered a devastating loss.

  And, damn it, I still love her, despite it all. I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.

  Most pathetic of all, he felt a little thrill in the fact that Bobby was out of the way and Melanie was all his. And he knew only one source of such a horrible thought: McFall.

  Maybe Sweeney had killed the wrong coyote.

  “It’s not over,” she whispered at last. “Not for me. I’m pregnant.”

  His chest froze, and the rain finally broke, drumming the tin roof above them. Oh, God, did that creepy bastard put a little McFall in her?

  He would do just about anything to help Melanie, but nurturing and loving and raising a little McFall was beyond contemplation. He’d sooner grab Sweeney’s sickle and perform a spontaneous abortion.

  Melanie lifted her head from his shoulder and searched his face. Her eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen them, almost dusky. Maybe she did—or at least could—love him. But he couldn’t be weak. Then she looked over at Bobby’s body . “His.”

  Ronnie could handle that: for Bobby. For Melanie. For himself.

  Deathboy ends up with the Girl Whose Lovers Keep Dying. A match made in heaven.

  The thing that bothered him was that it sounded exactly like the kind of outcome McFall would want.

  He hugged her as the heavens poured forth and Blackburn River replenished itself.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Both Barkersville and Titusville held their annual Fourth of July parades, using scarce taxpayer dollars to roll their fire engines and police cars down the street. The spectators waved little flags and imagined that they were free. Later, there were fireworks at the high school baseball field, an event that doubled as a public memorial service for Bobby Eldreth.

  Cindy Baumhower’s story was picked up by Associated Press and United Press International, with versions of it appearing in many major dailies. Bobby Eldreth was hailed as a hero, Sheriff Littlefield as a hero who had made a tragic mistake, and Sweeney Buchanan as a madman who would surely have gone on to commit ever greater atrocities if not for the fatal confrontation. Melanie Ward was mentioned as a minor character, suggesting a possible romantic angle for readers without crossing the line into maudlin.

  Ronnie Day was not mentioned, nor were coyotes, nor was Larkin McFall.

  Elmer Eldreth took a week off work, and scouts from three major league teams sent their condolences in the form of guest tickets to games. The rest of the workers at McFall Meadows kept on with their work, although McFall generously gave people time off with pay if they chose to attend Bobby’s funeral. Most took him up on the offer. The crowd at Barkersville Baptist Church that day was bigger than any that had ever attended a baseball game Bobby had pitched or a performance by The Diggers.

  Melanie Ward never found the phone she’d dropped when Sweeney abducted her. A week after the incident, Heather Fowler stood on the bridge and flung it into the Blackburn River. Her potatoes were prolific that summer.

  Those who weren’t dead kept living.

  Ronnie climbed out of the Silverado and walked into the new sales office in the model home at McFall Meadows. Heather Fowler had redecorated, and the walls featured a number of scenic photographs. He’d seen some of them before on magazine covers taken by local celebrity Bill Willard. Ronnie had to admit that the region’s natural beauty made for one kickass selling point.

  Heather sat behind the desk, perched in her leather chair. She was staring at the opposite wall, and her face was lax, as if she were dozing with her eyes open.

  “Is Mr. McFall in?” Ronnie asked.

  She jerked erect and her eyes lit up. She seemed younger somehow, prettier. Something about her face had changed, or maybe it had to do with her eyebrows and the wrinkles around her eyes and on her forehead. Before, she’d had a slightly pinched, severe aspect to her appearance. Now she seemed relaxed.

  She’s softened, Ronnie thought. She got what she wanted. Just like the rest of us.

  “Hi, Ronnie,” she said. “I hope you are well today. How’s it going?”

  “Good. Dex and Floyd are finishing up the fence at the Matheson place. You should be able to start selling lots over there by October, once Wally finishes the grading.”

  “We’re lucky to have river access on that side. It’s a valuable resource. We can screen the sewage treatment plant enough so that no one sees it from the canoe landing. We don’t want to interfere with anyone’s enjoyment of nature.”

  McFall emerged from the room he was now using for his personal office. “Ronnie!” He ambled cheerfully across the room. He squeezed Ronnie’s arm. “You’re really filling out. A good summer of hard work is making a man out of you.”

  “I appreciate the promotion. College is going to cost a lot more than I figured. Plus, with Melanie.…”

  McFall put a fatherly arm across Ronnie’s shoulders. “If your dad sells his land, I’ll bet things will ease up for you a little.”

  “Days are stubborn, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, I better get back to the job site. If you don’t nudge them along … well, you know how musicians are. They think everything’s about sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll.”

  Heather looked vaguely offended, but McFall laughed. He walked Ronnie to the door, still embracing him. “No big hurry. There’s something I want to show you first.”

  Though McFall’s arm felt cool and limp, like a dead snake, Ronnie endured it. Melanie was counting on him.

  And so is Bobby, Jr.

  Besides, he had to admit, that Silverado was one bad ride. He was proud to drive Melanie around town in it, and she had expanded her wardrobe, buying dresses and Bohemian outfits from the little shops on Main Street. They were already being accepted as a couple, although of course the gossip mill had ground plenty of rumors between the stones of jealousy and self-righteousness.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Ronnie said.

  “Tell Gunter and Extine I’ll be back soon,” McFall said to Heather, but she was already staring dully at the wall again. Ronnie followed him out of the building and across the lush, closely mown grass where the red church had once stood. The walking trail that followed the fence line to the ridge began at a picnic pavilion by the cemetery. Ronnie had helped build it; he’d even suggested that they use the modern-rustic style of construction to match the log-home appearance of the development.

  “How is Melanie?” McFall asked. “I haven’t eaten at the waffle shop in some time.”

  “She’s doing well. Not showing yet or anything, but her body’s changing a little. It’s pretty freaky.”

  McFall gave him a friendly punch on the arm, much the way Bobby would have done if he were still alive. “Sweet stuff, isn’t it?”

  Ronnie blushed a little despite himself. It was everything he’d always fantasized about, and then some. And he enjoyed being with her so much more now that he was sure she was willing—now that she loved him.

  “I’m so glad they stopped Sweeney before he could hurt her,” McFall said. “That man was dangerous. He didn’t play by the rules.”

  “Too bad about the sheriff,” Ronnie said. “It sounds like he won’t get jail time, but his reputation has been destroyed.”

  �
�The sheriff got what he wanted. He never really cared whether justice prevailed. All he wanted was a showdown. Like most nihilists, he’s both lazy and simple. All failure did was confirm his worldview, so now he can live happily ever after, believing he was right all along. But I suspect he prefers unhappiness.”

  McFall walked briskly for a middle-aged man, and Ronnie struggled to keep pace. They came to a rocky ledge where the trees were stunted by the wind. Blackburn River lay below them, constantly new but always drawing from the same well. Ronnie found himself scanning the surface for misty shapes. One in particular.

  “When am I going to stop seeing ghosts?” Ronnie asked.

  “I hope they don’t bother you anymore. I’d say they’re a ‘necessary evil,’ but evil is never necessary.”

  “What about Bobby? Was he necessary?”

  McFall looked genuinely saddened. “I loved Bobby like a son. But sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Unless Good is just as unnecessary as Evil.”

  I know the difference between Good and Evil, but I believe you have them confused.

  They continued on. The steepest stretch of terrain lay ahead, and it would be months yet before the main road reached here. Besides the fence and the trail, this part of the ridge was primitive and wild, the trees as twisted as witches, the boulders like jagged fangs.

  “The real problem, Ronnie, is that people look for explanations,” McFall said. “They look for reasons. Like why children get cancer or why cruel people succeed. I’m not religious like you are, but I can understand the appeal. It would be easier for everyone if the world was black and white.”

  Ronnie had to admit that it was a problem. He’d prayed about it for weeks. Why? Why? Why?