Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  Finished with James, Evelyn turned on me. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Saunders… Evvie, it’s me, Dibby Caldwell. Remember? I’m your neighbor who—”

  “You’re not supposed to be here.” I don’t know how she did it, but in her form-fitting dress, she smoothly and quickly regained her feet, remaining the proper lady while doing so. But there was nothing proper living in her hate-filled eyes. “What do you want? Why’re you filling my head full of lies?” She whipped her head toward James. “You!” She thrust a finger toward him. “You’re not my Thomas. He’d never lie to me!” Arms went up, claws out. Like a cornered animal, her gaze bounced wildly about the room. She whirled, fast, whipped open a desk drawer. Light flashed off an object in her hand, a letter opener. “I’ll show you both what I did to Hedrick!”

  Like a gunshot, the front door bashed open. “What the hell’s going on here?” Devin stopped short in the doorway. Out-of-breath, eyelids at half-mast, he surveyed the odd scene.

  “Mr. Meyers, it’s me, Dibby! I’m sorry but—”

  “Get ‘em, Devin” screamed Evelyn. “They broke in trying to hurt me!”

  Devin roared. A bull in a china shop, he trampled into the room, knocking over everything in his path. He gripped James’ collar, ripped it clean away. On rebound, Devin snagged James’ arm, twisted it behind him. James yelped. I raced over. Between James’ legs, I raised my boot and stomped down hard on Devin’s foot. He howled, shoved James toward me. I twisted off James’ body to the side. Devin’s foot jerked up and he grabbed it, cussing, hopping in a circle like a cartoon character.

  “Run, James,” I cried. “Get help!”

  He hesitated. Wouldn’t move. Devin and Evelyn stood between us, James close to the back door. I’d set my sights on the front.

  “I’m not leaving you here.” I barely heard James, his voice small and frightened. Inside the kitchen, he clung to the door jamb, half-hiding, half-ready to spring to my rescue.

  “I can take care of myself, dammit!” I picked up the lamp to prove it to him. Before Devin could lower his injured foot down, I ran up, smashed the lamp down on his head. When he collapsed, the room shook. “Now go, James!”

  James nodded, said, “I’ll be back.”

  I turned, ready to make for the front door. I’d nearly forgotten about Evelyn.

  She barred my way, lips pulled back from her teeth. Growled. Held up her fang of a letter opener, ready to bite.

  “You need help!” I shouted it with the force of a launched grenade. My shoulder went into Evelyn’s chest. She spun sideways. The opener jagged down, ripped through my shirt sleeve. I zipped by her, and bound through the open door. Fast as I could, I clocked across the porch floorboards. A running leap took me down the three steps. My foot jagged at the bottom, twisted. I didn’t slow, burst into a mad sprint. Upon my next footfall, I cried out, only then registering sharp pain in my ankle. But I kept going.

  Behind me, Evelyn clambered out onto her porch, shrieking. I shot a look over my shoulder. Evelyn’s knees jacked high in pursuit across the lawn, her dress by no means hindering her dervish speed. The letter opener cut a deadly swath through the air.

  The cornfield lay ahead. With my twisted ankle, my best chance at losing her. If I could get through the field, get to Dad…

  I dove in, straight into the stalks. They tore and nipped at me.

  The tall stems towered over me and seemed to keep growing. They blocked the moon’s visage. Blindly, I battled my way through the field. My sore ankle caught, tripped me up. I plummeted, grabbed a handful of leaves on the way down. I whipped over, looked up, saw nothing.

  I scrabbled to my feet. My face, legs and arms stung, scratched to no end. Blood slithered down my cheek. Weakened, tired, I fought my way through the near impassable field.

  I stopped, listened.

  Nothing. An uneasy silence where there shouldn’t have been one.

  Evelyn could be anywhere. Quietly hiding, ready to spring. Ready to cut me down like she’d done her husband.

  My breath thundered in my ears. I held my breath, but my heart kept bashing away.

  Then I heard something else. A deep, chesty rumble. In no hurry, tires chewed up gravel.

  A car door croaked open, slammed.

  Footsteps whisked across the lawn, heavy as heavy gets. Headed my direction. Someone crashed into the field. Stalks snapped, popped, and died beneath my pursuers’ bullish chase.

  I sucked in a deep, deep breath to keep from screaming. And ran for my life. Behind me—just as in my visions, just like what had happened to Thomas—cannonball footfalls bounded after me.

  I pitched my knees up higher. Chugged my arms like pistons. Pushed my twisted ankle to the point where it numbed, just dead weight. Next row over, just ahead of me, stem tips shook, then yanked down. Neck in neck with my pursuer, we raced down our rows, on course for an intersection crash. I poured on the speed. The roof of my house—my safe house—appeared just over the field.

  The picket fence in sight, I ran faster. Right next to me now, the competing footsteps grew loud. Louder yet. Spitting distance.

  Almost there.

  An arm shot out.

  I shrieked.

  A hand snatched my wrist, wrenched my body up off the ground. Whiplash propelled my legs forward, my back smack dab into my pursuer’s chest. His arms wrapped around my waist and held me against him.

  I kicked and clawed and shouted and—

  “Dibby, stop,” he ordered. “Quit carrying on like a hell-cat and tell me what in hell’s going on around here.”

  I stopped. Relaxed within Sheriff Grigsby’s safe hold. For once, exhilarated to see him.

  “You gonna behave now?” I nodded. “Fine and dandy, then. I’m gonna let you go. Then I want you to calmly tell me what’s going on.”

  Calm, my foot. There was no way I could knit calm outta madness and murder. But I tried to be succinct, the best I could. I didn’t want the Saunders getting away.

  “Sheriff, Evelyn Saunders killed her husband and tried to kill me just now. And I highly suspect Devin Meyers killed the missing boy, Thomas.”

  I waited for the laughter, the derision, the disbelief accorded one my age and stature. For once, Sheriff Grigsby appeared to take me seriously. Granite set in his features, his big nostrils flared with tired righteousness.

  He tipped back his hat. Looked solemn. Scared, even. Crow’s feet walked through all the corners of his eyes. A side of his mouth hitched up. It wasn’t a smile, not by a mile. More like a grimace recognizing the job that lay ahead.

  A long sigh came next, one that just about never ended. “I’ve had my suspicions for some time now about the Saunders. Yes, sir… But I can’t just go charging in there, Dibby, not without proof.”

  “Evelyn’s off her rocker, Sheriff. She confessed to me and James she killed her husband. I imagine you’ll find physical proof in there, too. Boot Gundersen’s grandson’s photo for one thing.”

  He scoffed, the familiar face I associated with him. “Boot? What in hell’s that ol’ coot’s grandson got to do with any of this?”

  It’d take too much time, too much effort to explain it all now. “Please, Sheriff, just go check it out. Evelyn Saunders tried to kill me!”

  The Sheriff looked left, right, saw nothing different then I did. Weighing matters, I suppose. “What were you doing there anyway, Dibby?” I shuffled, looked down, didn’t know how Suzette pulled it off. “Never mind. For now, you’re coming with me.”

  “But, Sheriff, I’m telling you—”

  “And I’m telling you, you’re coming with me. Now.” He took off, a might faster than usual. I followed his broad back, thankful he made easy work of blazing a trail. Winded, he stopped by his Sheriff’s car, parked askance as if he’d been in a hurry.

  “You just sit here in the car, Dibby. For your own good while I look into matters.” He opened the passenger door for me and I climbed in. Before shutting it, he said, “an
yone comes close, you just lock the doors and lay on the horn. Don’t open up for anyone, not even Jesus coming back to collect the faithful.”

  I nodded.

  He swaggered across the driveway, every much the Western motion picture hero, resignedly headed toward a showdown. His hand played at the holster at his belt. Almost absentmindedly, he flipped the button from the latch, exposing the gun butt.

  The stairs warped in the middle as he mounted them. At the screen door, his hand rose, curled, knuckles out as if to knock. His hand stayed that way a good spell before I realized what he was doing. Listening.

  Suddenly, he whipped out his gun. Belying his weight, he slid through the door easily, stealthily.

  Time ticked by, an eternity.

  Voices rose. A scream. Followed by an agonized howl, no doubt Devin.

  A gunshot cracked. I hopped in my seat, banged my head against the window. I double-checked the door locks.

  The second gunshot yanked me down into the seat. My eyes barely overlooked the dash.

  Seconds, then minutes passed. I held my breath, waited for the survivor to come out.

  Waited several lifetimes.

  If one or both of the Saunders had somehow overpowered the Sheriff, snatched his gun…

  I was next.

  Quickly, I looked for car keys, found nothing. I looked over yonder, just next door, where safety and Dad sat, just out of reach, a bit too far… I estimated the time it’d take to run back through the field, hop the fence, get home. Then I looked at the Saunders’ front door. I’d never make it in time. And I surely didn’t want to go back into that cornfield. Ever again.

  I cracked my window, just a hair. Angled my ear toward the opening to hear better.

  Footsteps sounded from within the house. Not the loud, take charge and damn the torpedo clomping of the Sheriff’s boots either. A slow, steady shuffling.

  The door opened.

  Sheriff Grigsby came out. Gun securely holstered. Fanning his hat in his face and sweating up a storm. Never had I beheld such a beautiful sight.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and straightened up. Back to his usual leisurely shuffle, it took him a stretch of time to make his way back to me.

  He opened his door, slid in. Tossed out a weary sigh and his hat to the back. The Saunders’ front porch lamp caught in his eyes. They were moist.

  “Dibby… You were right. They were done loco, the both of them. They attacked me. I had no choice…” His throat caught, clicked. That was it, just a momentary hitch, before he swung into the stolid voice of order again. “I had to put them down.”

  “Oh… Oh.” Tears bit at my eyes. I didn’t want the Saunders to die, never even considered it a possibility. For all their crimes—maybe just their mistakes, the kind anyone might be capable of under the wrong circumstances—they were only human. Tragically so.

  “I know this all must be upsetting for you, Dibby.” He slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. “I’m sorry. I truly am. Just couldn’t be helped.”

  I nodded, fearful I’d cry if I opened my mouth.

  “I’m afraid I need you to come down to the station. Sort this mess out. Get your statement and what not.” As he faced forward, the seat squelched beneath his weight. The porch light caught on his sheriff’s star, his shining star. Mesmerized, I stared at it.

  “Alright,” I said. “But maybe I should go tell Dad so—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Dibby.” He chuckled. Rubbed my hair into a mess. I sat and took it, wondered how old I had to be before adults quit doing that. “After all, you’re not under arrest.”

  “Just thought he might like to know where—”

  “We can call him from the station. I want your story nice and fresh. Dot all the “I’s” and cross the “T’s,” if you know what I mean.” Arm draped over the back-seat, head craned, the Sheriff backed down the drive. The porch light grew dimmer, now just a dull edge on the star pinned to his chest.

  The six-pointed star.

  I tensed. Quietly moved my hand up to the lock.

  Calm. Stay calm.

  “Sheriff, honestly it’ll only take me a second to go tell my dad. Then I promise I’ll be right back.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but sounded quivery. Surely, my uneasy smile resembled a child’s scrawl.

  “Nope. Sorry. Gotta do it by the books.” The car kept moving. His headlights never came on.

  “I have to tell Dad.” I flicked the lock up. Reached for the door handle.

  The car jerked to an abrupt halt. My head crashed into the dash, then I fell back into the seat. I looked at the Sheriff, opened my mouth to scream.

  His fist collided into the side of my head, shutting down my scream and shutting off the lights.

  * * *

  Death seemed mighty peculiar and I guess that’s not much of a reach seeing as how I hung my hat in Peculiar County.

  My head throbbed a native tom-tom beat. All the stars in the sky plummeted, a galaxy of shooting stars. I couldn’t move my hands or feet.

  A spray of something scattered next to my head. Grass blades gently bent as if touched by raindrops. It happened again.

  Tshhhhrit.

  A wayward chunk of debris bounced up, caught my mouth just right while I took in a breath. I recognized the taste every kid tries once: dry, bitter, acrid dirt. I spat it out.

  Next to me, a flashlight sat on the grass, turned toward Sheriff Grigsby’s upper torso. Either he’d had a sudden realignment of body parts or he was standing about four feet in an open grave.

  I lifted my head and recognized my surroundings. Deep inside the Hangwell Cemetery, I lay in the gated off section reserved for the Judge’s victims. The area most folks avoided like the plague.

  The Judge’s tree limbs scratched across the face of the moon. Crumbling and slanted tombstones—their inscriptions long faded—rose like iceberg tips around me.

  Sheriff Grigsby had taken to humming. “Whistle While You Work” from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

  The big man shoveled more dirt near my head. “You’re awake. Frankly, I didn’t reckon you’d lift your eyelids ‘till you were six feet under.” He let out a hardy “ho-ho,” full of beans, everyone’s favorite uncle.

  I wiggled, tried to set sense into my paralyzed limbs. Rope snagged me tight, feet to wrists. When I coughed, my brain orbited around my skull. “You killed ‘em,” I said. “Evelyn and Devin. Did they even attack you?”

  Grigsby paused, leaned on his shovel handle. “I don’t reckon that’s neither here nor there. Fact of the matter is Evelyn’d been getting kinda mouthy ever since she’d gone ‘round the bend. Before long, she was liable to spill the beans about everything. Just like her son tried to do. Like my son.”

  “You’re…you were Thomas’ daddy?”

  “Ayep. Proud of the lil’ bugger, too. ‘Till he went crazy, just like his mother.”

  “They have…had mental imbalances! Not crazy.”

  He laughed, called to his fellow vultures. “That’s a barrel of horseshit if I’d ever heard one. ‘Mental imbalances’. Sounds to me like you been listening to your daddy. Fact of the matter is, I loved Evelyn. Had for some time. She rode me good and hard before, during, and after her marriage. But Hedrick, hell ol’ Hedrick wouldn’t give up his suspicions about Thomas’ parentage. Took the stupid fool long enough to figure it out, too. Evelyn had him figured as sterile. Um…you know what that means, Dibby? Shooting blanks? Firing on—”

  “I know what it means.”

  “’Course you do, course you do. Anyway, things would’ve been just fine had Hedrick just accepted the boy wasn’t his. Hell, he got to raise him, something I was denied.”

  The Sheriff bent over into the grave, one elbow poked up. With a grunt, he hefted another shovelful of dirt my direction.

  “So after Evelyn killed Hedrick, she called you to take care of the body.”

  “See what I mean? Evelyn gave you an earful, sounds like. Frankly, I shoulda done away wit
h her years ago. But I couldn’t. Part of me still loves…loved her. But you had to go and stir everything up, nosing around in goddamn business that ain’t yours!” He struck the shovel into the dirt. Wiped his brow. Sweat blistered his face. Couldn’t catch his breath. Heart attack ready and that suited me just fine.

  “I tried to warn you away, I did,” he continued. “Can’t say I didn’t.”

  “What’d you do with Hedrick’s body?” I intended to keep the man chatting ‘till dawn, ‘till Hangwell woke up. Until someone ventured past this way. If they would.

  “I reckon you’ll be getting nice and acquainted real soon with ol’ Hedrick.” He grinned at his feet.

  “Is that where Thomas is? Richard Holmberg, too?”

  “Now, how in the wide world did you find out about the Holmberg boy, anyway?” His jaw fell, then settled into a slow nod. “That damn bigmouth Boot. You really been getting around, Dibby.”

  “Ain’t no moss on me.”

  “Not yet, at least. But soon, real soon. Then you can say howdy to Thomas, Richard…the whole gang. I’ve been getting a lot of mileage out of this here hole.” He chuckled. “Stupid town’s so damn superstitious, no one even sets foot inside these gates. Too spooked by ol’ Judge Wilbur.”

  “How could you kill your own son, Sheriff?” The inhumanity smacked me worse than Grigsby’s sock to my head. I couldn’t even fathom such a thing. Tears, born of anger more than grief, colored my voice. “How could you do that? How could anyone?”

  He paused. Looked a bit lost for a moment as if his missing soul’d come tapping on his shoulder. “Well… I certainly didn’t wanna do it, mind you. But after Thomas witnessed his momma kill his daddy…the boy just gave up living. Became a ghost of himself, fifty pounds wet and with clothes on, if that. Only damn thing he did was take to chanting like one of them African tribes or something. Just kept saying, ‘Momma killed Daddy, chopped him good, Momma killed Daddy…’ Of course, Evelyn took him out of school right after Hedrick’s murder. But it wasn’t enough. Soon, social services would come a’calling and the boy would open his yap, sure as shooting.” He shrugged, spat. “His momma pretty much became just like him. A walking dead woman, just playing at living.”