The News in Small Towns (Small Town Series, Book 1)

by Moreau, Iza

  It was just before five a.m. when a farmer named Coonbottom Mason woke up to the sound of his four dogs barking outside in the horse pasture. He yelled at them to shut up, but they kept on, so he pulled on some overalls and went out to investigate. Coonbottom is in his seventies, so it took him a few minutes to get to where his dogs were running back and forth, growling and barking. He thought they had trapped one of the wild pigs in the area so he was a little careful. He noticed that his half dozen horses were on the far side of the pasture and that they too seemed jumpy. He almost didn’t see the body until he was right up on it because the black clothes blended in with the night, but it was there, all right. The boy had been kicked in the face by a large animal and it didn’t take a veterinarian to see the shape of a hoof mark imprinted on his skull. He was lying on his side, almost as if he had lain down and gone to sleep in that position. There were a couple of odd things about the body. One was the white greasepaint symbols that he wore on his face, like tribal war paint or maybe the tattoos of South Sea Islanders that Coonbottom had seen when he served in the navy. The other odd thing was that a few inches from the boy’s hand, a curved, razor-sharp, eastern-looking knife lay in the cropped grass.

  Just as Dilly got through with the story, his cell phone rang. He flipped it open, spoke a few words, and closed it back again. “Paul Hughes has identified his son’s body,” he said.

  “Shit.”

  Dilly ran his hand through his thick brown hair. “You know, Sue-Ann,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot of accidents in the last dozen years, and I’ve had to stop fights in bars. I’ve seen abused kids and wives, but there was something about seeing that boy lying in the field that just wrenched my gut around.”

  “I feel it too, Bill.”

  And there were a few seconds there, if things had been just the slightest bit different, like maybe if the moon had been shining in through the window or if I had been smoking a cigarette, I could have found myself holding on to Billy; when he might have been able to persuade me to do things he had never persuaded me to do before. But those seconds passed. I knew that Billy was aware of that tiny window of opportunity and was equally aware of its passing. He smiled wryly, stood up, and put on his hat. “I’ve gotta go home an get some sleep,” he said. “You staying here?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to write this up. Tell me one more thing before you go, though. Where is Coonbottom’s farm?”

  “Way out east of town on the Waxahatchee road.”

  It was as far away from the Torrington property—and from my own, for that matter—as it could be and still be in Jasper County.

  “Are you doing okay, Billy?” I asked.

  “Hanging in there,” he said. “Nights like this are a little hard.”

  “You and Milly okay? Your two girls?”

  He looked over at me and understood. He straightened his body almost imperceptibly. “They’re safe, Sue-Ann.”

  “Be good, Bill,” I told him.

  I spent the next hour writing up what I knew about the death of Paul Hughes, Jr. on Cal’s computer. Betty Dickson walked in while I was taping a note to the computer screen and I told her the whole story.

  “Listen, Betty,” I told her. “Will you tell Cal that I’ve written up the story on his computer when he gets in? I printed out a copy and put it on his desk.”

  “Cal’s taking the day off,” she told me. “Ginette, too. I’ll be the only one in the office today.”

  “Will you keep trying to get him or Ginette on the phone then? I’m sure Cal’ll want to be with Paul and we need to find out what to do with the story.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I have something I have to do.”

  Although it was only just after eight in the morning, it was heating up outside. Clouds were rolling in from the west and it was going to be a hot, muggy day. I drove slowly, thinking and planning. When I got home I changed into hiking gear—white tank top over sports bra, a pair of camo-colored slacks and thick hiking boots. I choked down some cold spaghetti, then went into the barn for my tackle. This time I chose my smallest bow—a Saluki Turk, incredibly light and fast, if only I was strong enough to pull it. I selected half a dozen arrows with fierce broadheads, made sure that my fannypack had everything I might need, then went back out to Jack’s car.

  I didn’t want Clarence to see me, so I parked in front of a defunct Pure Oil station down the block from the market, gathered my stuff together, and set off into thick woods at an angle toward the path that led to The Clearing. The summer growth made things tough and bristly, but I finally made it, although not without a few scratches.

  The path was clear, although I could see evidence that it had been recently used—a shoeprint, a couple of broken branches making it easier to pass by, several green leaves strewn ahead as if someone had grabbed a handful from the nearest bush and flung them down. The light bow and the trampled path made the trip easier than my previous one, but it was hotter and sweat ran down my face and neck like tears. The back of my shirt became quickly soaked. Vines as thick as my wrist came up from the ground, crawled their way up the oak trees, and finished, high in the branches, as splotches of color even greener than the oak leaves themselves. Baby vines did the same to scrub oak, but these vines were green and sprouted hundreds of prickly needles. There were blackberry bushes, too—bare this late in the season—that would rip the laces from your shoes if you didn’t step carefully. I did. My footsteps were quick but precise, and I hurried on across billions of dead leaves and over occasional fallen branches. When I arrived at the clearing, I was beat. It was then I realized that my heart was beating too quickly, my breath coming too fast. I had forgotten to take my thyroid pill before I left home and, come to think of it, I may have missed the day before.

  I sat down on the log, breathing and sweating heavily, and looked around me. The cornstarch circle was almost completely faded and no new symbols had been added to its perimeter. I did, however, find a cigarette butt that looked and smelled recently smoked. A Newport. Then I found something else, something that left no doubt in my mind that I was on the right track, although it also warned me that I might be walking into very dangerous territory. It was the stub of a white grease pencil.

  Pauley Hughes had been here, probably not long before he was killed.

  Although I couldn’t do anything to help him now, I got up, went back to the path, and continued my trip through the woods. I knew almost everything now, but the few things that were still mysteries would determine my next moves. I needed to confront someone with what I knew. Trouble was, I didn’t know who I was going to confront or what I would say to them if I ever did. But I had to keep on.

  I traveled mostly in the canopy of the great forest, walking across an occasional clearing of dead trees or high grass. I may have been walking for an hour when I came to the place where I had killed the rattlesnake, so I sat down and rested again on a log. I searched and found the tip of the arrow that remained in the tree when Clarence had unscrewed it. It was tinted a rusty red. Overhead, the sky was darkening; the western front was coming in fast. I got up and kept following the path, and this part of the path was new to me. Instead of thinning out into a dog or rabbit path as I had once suspected it would, it actually began to widen and after I had gone another half hour through steaming leaves I came to a swath cut by a tractor. And recently cut, too; from the look of the grass and weeds that had been mowed, it had been done less than a week before—probably at the same time as the one I had found when I had gone out searching for Alikki.

  Walking was easier now, I felt freer, although very tired. I took an arrow from my quiver and held it nocked on the string in my left hand. If I needed to, it would only take me an instant to draw and fire. The trail was irregular because whoever was riding the tractor had to pick their way carefully through thick forest and very heavy brush. Some low, overhanging branches had been cut down and thrown to the side. A brown shape in the path made me stop. A coiled snake? No,
horse manure, but at least several days old judging from the fact that rain had turned it into a flat mushy pile.

  Subtly, the nature of my surroundings was changing. A few pinecones on the trail attested to the presence of very tall trees, but they were sparse—the forest was thinning out. It had suddenly gotten dark; I looked up and saw that the storm clouds were now almost directly overhead.

  As I turned around a bend to my left, I saw it. Just beyond a towering magnolia tree was a four-board fence at least five feet high. A heavy metal gate that must have been wrought a hundred years before was affixed to new-looking fence posts and fastened with a chain and padlock. I approached the fence warily and peered out from behind the magnolia. The scene might have been an aged photo torn from the pages of the History of Jasper County. Not just one, but a wide sweep of five buildings shaded by several oak and magnolia trees. The buildings were old, brown, and by modern reckoning, misshapen, with gables and extra rooms built on seemingly willy nilly. Three houses, it looked like, with a large, two-story barn to the side and one other structure—with a high, modern metal tower jutting up behind it—that could have been either barn or dwelling. A couple of the roofs were obviously newer than the others because their slivery tin outshone the rusty brown. All three of the houses had wooden porches. The largest—almost a mansion—had a veranda running completely around it. I saw some machine equipment parked near the barns, but no cars.

  There was no doubt about it. I had found The Compound again, but from another angle. This then, was where the two backpackers had come from.

  None of the people I had seen earlier were in sight, and for once, I heard no rifle shots. I tried the padlock, but it was fastened. The boards of the fence were too close together for me to squeeze through so I handed my bow through to the other side and started climbing. It was only when I had gotten to the top that I realized that my heart was beating so fast I was about to pass out. As I swung my leg over the top board and began to climb down, a wave of vertigo swept over me. My foot missed the next board and I slipped from the top of the fence onto the soft grass on the other side. I tried to cry out, but the wind had been knocked out of me and my voice wouldn’t work.

  I turned my head. Two or three men had come out of the barn and were walking toward the field; they looked to be carrying rifles. On the porch of the largest house, someone else was moving but male or female I couldn’t tell. I lay back for what must have been a few minutes but, although my breath came back in thick bursts, my strength was gone. I put my hand out and touched my bow. The arrow I had been carrying with it was just out of reach, but I shifted my body enough to take it in my fingers. It was probably the hardest physical thing I ever had to do, but I somehow raised myself to my knees and drew the bow. The house was nearly a hundred yards away so I had to pull hard and allow for plenty of arc. With my strength now completely gone I let the string slide over my fingers and felt the arrow fly.

  I saw nothing else, felt nothing at all. I just lay there in the grass. A horse neighed in the distance. An instant later, thunder growled like wild dogs and the sky cracked open.

  Chapter 18

  I woke up in an antique store.

  There was a chair with doilies, what looked like tintypes framed on the thick paneled walls, tiny toy animals and other bric-a-brac on shelves and tables. Shaded lamps with fringe. Even the bed I was lying in was a large, four-poster with quilted coverlet and white, white sheets. There was a fireplace against the far wall with a solid oak mantle. I heard rain splinking against the tin roof.

  “Are you all right?” I heard a soft masculine voice from the corner and tried to turn my head in that direction. It was an effort. All my energy seemed drained away like blood from a corpse. In the corner, sitting in what appeared to be a mahogany rocker, was a pretty young man in his early twenties. His black hair was wavy and long, his face clear and dreamy. Short, from the way his feet didn’t quite meet the ground as he sat in the rocker. He looked tired, concerned.

  “Umm,” I tried to speak.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “I . . . I think I just had . . . I think I just had a thyroid storm,” I managed. That’s what you get if you don’t take your medicine, boys and girls.

  “What’s that?”

  “I . . . have a thyroid condition. I have medicine but I didn’t bring it.” My voice was getting warmed up and I was finding it easier to speak. “If I don’t take it my body releases too many hormones. Have I seen you before? You look familiar.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Smokey.”

  “Listen, Smokey—cool name by the way—where am I?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’m in an old house somewhere. Some strange bed.”

  A new voice, familiar but stern, came from the direction of the doorway. “You’re in Torrington.”

  “Clarence?”

  Clarence Meekins came in the room and stood before me looking seriously worried. “It’s me, Sue-Ann. God’s family jewels, what made you come out here?”

  “I’m too sick to talk about it right now, Clarence, but you know why.”

  “Didn’t I try to tell you—”

  “If you want me to talk, you have to give me pills.”

  “Pills?”

  “I need my thyroid medication.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I left the bottle in my purse. White Lexus, parked at that old Pure station near the market. The key is in my . . . where’s my pants?”

  “I’ll get them,” said the young man named Smokey. I watched him leave and suddenly had a powerful déjà vu. I may never have seen his face before, but I had very definitely seen the back of his head. Clean, longish hair, carefully cut and combed. He left the room for only a few seconds and came back in with a pair of wet and muddy camos in his hand.

  “Right-hand pocket,” I said.

  “Want me to take care of it?” asked Smokey.

  “I’ll go,” said Clarence. “But you and me, Sue-Ann, are going to have a long talk when I get back.”

  “Bring it on,” I said, and passed out.

  When I woke up again the room was dimmer. I didn’t know how much time had passed and there was no one in the room to ask. I felt somewhat better and managed to sit up a bit. “Hey!” I shouted. I heard footsteps in the hall and Smokey came back in the room.

  “You awake?” he asked.

  “My horses,” I said. “I have to feed my horses.” I thought of asking for a phone, but who would I call? Gina and Cal were who knows where, Jack was gone. I had to get up and do it myself, but I doubted I could even make it to the door.

  A new voice from the doorway, feminine this time and vaguely familiar, said, “I can do it.” Krista Torrington walked in carrying a glass of water and my purse. She was wearing new Nike running shoes which made no noise on the wooden floors. Her long blonde hair was combed over her ears and curled down in a cascade over her shoulders. She was much more attractive than I had thought.

  “I told you we’d meet again,” I told her.

  “Here’s your pills,” she said, taking the bottle from the purse. She helped me to get one down my throat by lifting my head and letting me have a sip of water. She laid my head back gently on the pillow. Smokey had left the room again and I was alone with the girl. “Why’d you come here?” she asked me.

  “Where’s Clarence?” I countered.

  “He’ll be back later,” she said. “He had something to do outside. Where are your horses?”

  Slowly—I couldn’t believe how much effort it took me even to think, much less give directions—I told her how to get to my house, where the feed was, and how much Alikki got. “Check the water buckets and make sure they have hay in their stall.”

  “I have horses,” Krista reminded me.

  Smokey came back in the room carrying a tray. “I brought you some tea and toast,” he told me. Krista made to l
eave.

  “Wait,” I told her. “I need to thank you,” I managed. “Both of you.”

  “For what?” the girl asked.

  “For saving my life,” I told her. “This makes twice, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “And don’t thank us yet.” Then she left the room.

  “What did she mean by that?” I asked Smokey.

  He sat back down in the rocker and smiled thinly. “Don’t know,” he said.

  Now that I was awake and at least halfway observant, I realized that his was the first smile I had seen since I had been there. An aura of gloom surrounded the house like thick fog and I felt like I had stepped out of time into the middle of a nineteenth-century funeral.

  I managed to take a sip of tea and a bite of toast and I was suddenly very hungry. I took more bites until the toast was gone. I drank half the tea and put it back on the table near the bed. “Did I ask you how I got in this bed?” I asked.

  “Jeremy was coming around the side of the house when your arrow almost knocked off his cap before it smacked the side of the house. Made a hell of a noise, even with all the thunder. It took five ex-marines fifteen minutes to get to where you were lying. So scared of a woman with a bow that they were ducking from tree to tree and crawling through the grass and the mud. They liked it, really.”

  “Who really found me?” I asked.

  “I just told you. Jeremy and some of his buds.”

  “I saw men with guns,” I remembered.

  “Yeah, that would be them. They’re all ex-combat troops.”