All the Wicked Girls

by Chris Whitaker

Raine Ryan moved fast. She followed the snaking line of the Red River, shooting a glance at the water, dark and rushing right alongside her. There were breaks farther upstream, calm enough to swim but skimmed with algae and fifty deep if you believed the rumors. There was a tree by Abby Farley’s place that hung right out over the bank, Abby’s brother had slung a rope over it and tied an old tire to the end. Their momma said it weren’t safe, like that’d stop them. Summer wouldn’t ever take a turn, she just sat on the bank reading a book and smiling every time Raine hollered at her to watch.

  Raine caught her foot on a cypress root and went sprawling in the dirt. She lay still for a moment, her breath coming short, her head over the edge. She wondered what would happen if she fell in. She could swim good but the Red was quick. She’d be claimed, sucked beneath as the water roared louder than her screams.

  She kept tight hold of the note, hauled herself up, and saw a deep cut on her knee. Blood rolled steady down her shin and she leaned down and wiped it with her finger then brought it to her lips. The taste of blood never bothered her all that much.

  She set off in the direction of town, the trees clustered tight as she looked down and ran.

  When she reached the square she slowed and calmed and wiped sweat from her head. She glanced up at the Grace Police Department. It occupied a grand building at the head of the square, stone and painted a shade of parchment that dulled a month after it was done.

  Inside she asked for Chief Black and was swept into his office by Rusty, with his heavy stomach and half limp. He was eating a sandwich, ketchup by his mouth and a spot of grease on his necktie.

  He left her and she sat, pressed her hands flat against the table; fingers splayed, nails bit short. They weren’t allowed to wear varnish. Their momma said they were too young, said it like a lick of red on their nails would part their legs for the boys.

  She crossed the room and rifled through the desk drawers, saw empty bottles before she found Black’s wallet and slipped a twenty from it. She moved quick back to her chair and sat still.

  The door opened and Trix stuck her head in. “You okay, Raine?” Trix worked the front desk, had her hair cropped boy-short and dyed dark.

  Raine nodded.

  “Is it important? Lot of shit goin’ on this mornin’.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ray Bowdoin. Someone stole his truck last night and he ain’t happy.”

  “I gotta talk to Black. My daddy sent me.”

  “I’ll grab him soon as I can.”

  For the most part Raine did as she pleased, and what pleased her were acts that saw her in shit, so she weren’t no stranger to Trix, Black, and the others.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled photo of Summer. Twins, similar once, though nature had other plans as they grew. Summer was quiet and smart and all kinda other things Raine weren’t.

  She leaned down and checked the cut on her knee, licked a finger and cleaned the blood from it.

  Black came into the room and she caught the smell of booze that trailed him.

  He sat down and rubbed his eyes before he spoke, maybe to show he was busy or tired, or maybe just tired of her.

  “What did you do this time, Raine? If you’ve been messin’ with those Kirkland boys again it’s on you. Ain’t my business to go meddling in family matters, got enough on.”

  “It’s Summer,” she said, a trace of heat in her voice. She had her daddy’s temper, her nose turning up in a snarl.

  He looked up.

  “She’s gone missin’.”

  He tried to keep level but she saw the color drain right from him. He made to speak but fumbled his words.

  She watched him close, the creased shirt and the dry lips.

  “Since when?” he said.

  “Last night. She left a note.” Raine slid it across the table.

  He picked it up with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded.

  “So she ran,” he said, the color returning.

  “Looks that way.”

  “What’s she sorry about?”

  Raine shrugged.

  “Where’s your daddy?”

  “Out lookin’. Said he’d walk the flat fields then follow the Red to Hell’s Gate. He wants you to send Rusty and Milk and anyone else you can spare.”

  “Milk’s out sorting the mess from last night. Ray Bowdoin’s truck –”

  “I know,” she cut in.

  “You tell your daddy I’ll put a call out, but I need him to keep a cool head. Reckon you can do that?”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” she said, bait in her tone.

  “Summer left a note. She probably just needed some space . . . like you do sometimes.”

  He stood and made for the door.

  “Black.”

  He turned.

  “It still ain’t safe out there. Y’all didn’t catch him.”

  *

  The station ran silent as Ray Bowdoin filled out the papers. Noah watched him close, the way he stood and the gold rings jutting from fists so big Purv didn’t ever stand a chance.

  When Ray was done he tossed the pen at Trix.

  “I ain’t holdin’ much hope you’ll find it,” he said as he drew a cigarette and pressed it to his lips.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” Trix said.

  Ray lit his cigarette and Rusty stood, a hand on his gun.

  Ray walked to the door then turned. “The dog, that fuckin’ mutt my neighbor got. I told Purv to come tell y’all ’cause it won’t shut up.”

  “He told us,” Rusty said.

  “And?”

  “Dogs bark, Ray. That’s what they do. You tried petting it?”

  Ray smiled, winked at Trix, then headed out.

  “You should’ve shot him,” Trix said.

  Rusty nodded ’cause he knew she weren’t kidding.

  “When do I get my gun, Trix? I’ll need two . . . crossfire. I ain’t gonna be a house mouse like Rusty,” Noah said.

  “Remind me again why he’s here?” Rusty said.

  Trix ignored him. She’d arranged for Noah to spend the summer with them, a couple shifts each week, answering the phone and working the file room. Trix had been friends with Noah’s momma since they were small. She’d sat with her through the last days, then held Noah’s hand at the funeral as he stared at the casket but wouldn’t let no tears fall. Tough like his daddy was.

  Noah pulled out a chair, spun it round, and straddled it. “Can we talk about my powers?”

  “You got the power to answer the phone. Nothin’ more.”

  They fell quiet as Raine walked through. Noah felt her look over, their eyes meeting for a moment which stretched till his knees shook and his gaze dropped. There was something wild there, some kinda draw that went beyond the obvious and got the boys dreaming and drooling. He’d pass her by at school, back when she used to show up, but they ran in different circles—Noah’s consisting of Purv alone, and Raine’s just about every senior with access to a car and booze.

  Black followed a minute after she left.

  “What’s up?” Rusty said.

  “Summer took off last night,” Black said.

  “Summer?”

  Black nodded.

  Trix looked up, worry in her eyes. “Summer ran?”

  “And?” Rusty said.

  “Probably ain’t nothin’. She left a note,” Black said, rubbing his temples. He looked over at Noah, eyes settling on the badge he wore.

  The phone rang. Rusty glanced at Noah then pointed to it.

  Noah reached across the desk, brought the receiver to his ear, and took a breath. “Detective Noah Wild. Homicide.”

  Rusty shook his head. “What is it?”

  “Smoke comin’ from Hell’s Gate last night,” Noah said, the phone against his ear.

  “Another fire. Fuckin’ holy rollers from White Mountain, hollerin’ at the devil again. I’ll take it,” Rusty said, reaching for the handset.r />
  Black parted the slats and watched Raine cross the square. She passed a couple guys but they kept their eyes low. Even with Joe Ryan outta sight they wouldn’t risk a glance at one of his daughters.

  His mind slipped from Summer to the missing girls from Briar County, then to the sketch of the Bird that’d run in the newspapers. Big and feathered and frightening. A cautionary tale about heading lone into the woods at night.

  3

  Summer

  There was moments so pure and perfect I almost can’t bear them. Maybe a sunrise so stark that line between us and the heavens blurs to nothin’ but a smudge.

  I dreamed in stills, in frozen time and melted clocks, but ’stead of desert there was the steady turns of the Red River ’cause that was my constant.

  I saw us sittin’ by the bank. We were camping with Daddy and we snuck out after he was sleepin’ and laid back and held hands. The sky was stretched so deep and dark and heavy it might’ve smothered us had the stars not pinned it high. We saw one tumble and Raine reckoned it was a firework, but in the mornin’ Daddy told us it was a fallin’ star and we should’ve made a wish on it.

  I reckon that’s my moment: the point so high life can’t do nothin’ but pivot and fail. Maybe it came too young but that’s all right ’cause at least I got it.

  The first time I told that to Bobby he asked me if I knew what a nihilist was and said it with a straight face ’cause that’s how Bobby makes jokes. Like they ain’t jokes. But that’s bullshit ’cause morality don’t come into it. Maybe he meant pessimist. Or realist.

  I once heard Daddy say faith is reliance and reliance is weak, and Momma got real mad at him ’cause he weren’t long out and we hung on his words.

  *

  Not long after Richie Reams lost his cock, the Etowah County Sheriff’s Office were on the news talkin’ about a site they found out in Walnut Grove. I looked it up in the Maidenville library and there’s grainy photographs of dead dogs and flipped crosses still standin’ in the dirt. They made routine inquiries but never got nowhere.

  I grew up with the Panic; with evangelical Christianity askin’ questions and Mötley Crüe providing the answers. The propagators’ message was simple, a vast network of Satanists lived amongst us, and they were claimin’ young souls and the country was goin’ to shit ’cause of it. These Satanists, they hid their message in music and books and video games, they rippled the still waters of suburbia till Washington Wives began to fight back with Parental Advisory stickers and conservative hysteria.

  There was a big sign hammered into the grass in Mick Kinley’s sixth acre, showin’ a cartoon devil holding a scythe and promisin’ to “come get you” if you don’t go to church. It’s that kinda thinkin’ that lit the touch paper and fanned the flames till the whole of Grace was molten with fear.

  I spent a lot of time in church. Momma said it was my second home and she said it with more than a lick of pride.

  St. Luke’s is the fifth-oldest church in the whole state. It’s stone and tall, with a bell tower that chimes every hour till late. I’d sit on the bench by the colored glass, and in the summer months, if I timed it right, the sunlight would spill through and paint me with a rainbow. It’s beautiful. I mean, I know people say that a lot, especially about grand old buildings, but St. Luke’s is so beautiful it’s hard to breathe when you’re inside.

  Isaiah Lumen was the pastor for a lifetime and more, then he had a stroke right in the middle of a sermon. He was renouncing and burnin’ and he just fell back and kicked his legs up. People were gasping, but a part of them was wonderin’ if it was part of the show, ’cause Pastor Lumen can turn it on sometimes. Now, he was mad like that since I can remember, but it got worse after Deely White’s cattle got slaughtered, ’cause up till that point the devil was just circling Grace, he hadn’t come inside. Black reckoned it was kids but he didn’t say it with no conviction ’cause takin’ a blade to animals like that, it ain’t what kids do.

  Folk reckoned it weren’t all that bad, that Pastor Lumen would be back preachin’ in no time, but that first stroke was followed by another. And that’s when Pastor Bobby came to town. Bobby Ritter. Momma said she ain’t never heard of a pastor calling themselves by a nickname. Said he oughta call himself Pastor Robert or somethin’ decent. She likes to go on like she’s high cotton but she ain’t never lived nowhere but Grace.

  Now if Pastor Lumen was be-angry-and-do-not-sin Jesus, then Pastor Bobby was love-endures Jesus. He carries himself with this quiet confidence, like shit don’t bother him; even if Merle rolls into service lit and loud, Bobby don’t pay him no mind. And he’s real young too, and he’s got a nice smile but he don’t smile much, so when he does you kinda feel like you’re special or somethin’.

  Yeah, Bobby’s popular in Grace.

  By his second service the church was heavy with sweet perfume and flutterin’ hearts.

  4

  Alabama Pink

  There were trucks parked out front of the Ryan house; old pickups with big tires, mud sprayed up the doors and rifles on the seats.

  Raine heard voices in the kitchen. She looked in and saw men standing over the table and maps spread all over. Her momma was on the telephone and she was talking and her eyes were sunk and swollen.

  She saw her uncle Tommy take a beer from the refrigerator. He wore his hair long and had the kinda smile that kept the ladies lining up. He’d sweeten his drawl, then drop them quick after. Said he only had eyes for his nieces. That was true for a long time while their daddy was away. She and Summer would go on begging each weekend to stay in his cabin. He’d teach them to lay snares, to track and shoot.

  Raine turned and stepped out onto the porch. She sat on the top step, by the spot where she’d carved their names with a hunting knife when they were seven and got in major shit for it. She traced her finger over the curves.

  Rusty had stopped by their place at noon, reckoned Summer was safe ’cause she’d packed a bag first. Not like the missing girls from Briar County. They got snatched up, plucked from their lives so sudden and random the cops didn’t piece it together till number three.

  She heard the engine before she saw the truck. It barrelled round the corner and stopped right in front of her. Four guys got out, Tommy’s friends, their doors slamming together.

  One was young; she tried a smile as they walked into the house but he wouldn’t meet her eye.

  Raine walked over to the truck, reached in through the window, and took a half-empty pack of Marlboros from the seat. She stuffed it in her pocket quick as she heard her daddy call.

  “Can I come out with y’all? I want to help search,” Raine said straight off when she reached the door.

  Joe shook his head. “Head out on your bicycle, maybe get up with the neighbors. Don’t go near Hell’s Gate.”

  Raine nodded, knew they reckoned she was holding out ’cause that’s why he was sending her out alone.

  “I don’t know where she is, swear I don’t.” She felt his eyes on her ’cause he knew her tells.

  “You cut your knee,” he said, looking at her leg.

  “Ain’t nothin’.”

  She got in scraps and scrapes since she was small but she didn’t cry so they never knew if she was hurt bad or not.

  He opened his arms, she stepped into them and he kissed her head and held her awhile. He was tall and strong and she loved him more than she did her momma, which she didn’t find a hard truth to swallow. Daddy’s girl, that’s what folk said, so when they couldn’t keep her straight no more they talked about apples and trees and smiled, for a while.

  “Bring her back, Raine.”

  She picked up her yellow bicycle from where it lay in the yard. She pedaled to the end of her street, dumped it in the tall grass, then doubled back for her momma’s truck. The keys were in the visor but she let it roll the slope before she fired it. A cross hung from the rearview mirror, swinging back and forth as she bumped along the road.

  *

  The engine
quit as Raine was gunning it down one of the long tracks by the Kinley farm. Steam ran from the hood and fogged the windshield. She climbed out and walked round to the tailgate, cussin’ when she saw the empty water bottles in the bed. She stared around. The corn stood tall and green on both sides, clustered so tight she couldn’t make out much beyond the high sun. She knew there was a breeze ’cause the crops moved but it weren’t strong enough to trouble the heat.

  She paced the track awhile, kicked out and watched dust spread as she reached a hand up and dragged it through her hair. Her daddy would be pissed. She weren’t supposed to take the pickup, not just ’cause the engine was fucked but ’cause she was a year shy of getting her license and Black’s patience had worn long back.

  She wondered what time Summer would break, no way she’d stay out all night. She was soft like that, had been since they were small and the Spanish moss painted shadow faces on her bedroom wall. She wouldn’t catch shit for it neither. Their momma would be full of worry ’cause it was Summer this time. She might even sleep beside her, like she used to when they were young and got sick, stroking their hair with cigarette fingers and telling them stories about their grandparents, and cotton and soybeans, and the boll weevils that choked their land and their lives.

  She leaned back, the metal hot on her thighs. She brought her knee up, ran her finger over the scab and licked salty sweat from her lips.

  *

  Noah drove slow down his street then turned onto Hickory Glen, following it till he passed by the square and the town began to thin in his rear-view. He rolled the window, glanced up, and saw a thundercloud over the canopy of Hell’s Gate. His grandmother had been waiting on a storm. She spent her days on the front porch, rocking and switching her gaze between their yard and the sky, her mouth turned down like the weight of what had come and gone dragged on it. She spoke of death with an evenness that came from outliving her only daughter. Some days she rode him about his grades, and others she stared straight through him. Social Services had paid a visit four months back when she fell and bruised her hip so bad it turned black.

  She went to bed early each night, closed the drapes long before the sun dropped. He’d wait an hour, then take the key from the brass hook, start the Buick, and sit patient while it shuddered and smoked. The Buick was black and rusted and long as a boat. It had the wire wheels that Purv reckoned girls would like, but then Purv reckoned lots of shit Noah had a hard time buying.