Widow Town

by Joe Hart

  Gray glanced across the back yard as he walked to the house, the little stone bridge arching over a stream that was nearly dry. Carah’s stream.

  He grimaced, slapped his hat against his thigh once and continued toward the door.

  A grinding roar began to build from the direction of the road and he paused, wondering why Joseph was so early. When the nose of the SUV came into view he licked his lips, smoothed his hair once, and donned his hat again. The blue Chevy stopped within feet of the garage and he waited as the woman behind the steering wheel fidgeted with something before climbing out. Still acts like she lives here, he thought, taking in the smooth line of her jeans, hugging legs beneath, a well-worn tank top clinging in the heat to her flat stomach. Dark hair he’d run his fingers through tossed to one side, held by an elastic band.

  “Glad I caught you,” Lynn said coming closer. Her eyes were still hidden behind reflective shades that gave him nothing.

  “You caught me. How are you?”

  “Great, and you?”

  “Fair to middling.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Long day.”

  “The days are long, especially now.” She glanced at the sky. “I just need my last box, Mac.”

  “Thought you got everything last time.”

  “I was looking for mom’s watch today and realized it wasn’t there. I think I left a jewelry box in the foyer under the table.”

  “I put it in the garage.”

  Lynn shifted, her black boots scratching the dirt. “Is it open?”

  “Yeah, should be on the bench near the door.”

  He watched her turn and move to the garage, disappear inside. She came out carrying the luridly colored jewelry box beneath her arm, guarding it. He reached out to put a hand on the doorknob and realized he wasn’t anywhere near the house anymore. Lynn walked toward the SUV, not looking back.

  “Lynn.”

  She stopped, hair dancing over her shoulder as she looked at him. So pretty in the evening light.

  “Did you need anything else?”

  “No.”

  “You drove all the way out here to get jewelry?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not logical.”

  She pivoted back toward him, anger beginning to speak in her stance. “What would you know about logic, Mac?”

  Gray rubbed his forehead and took a tentative step toward her, the day still too hot. “I didn’t mean anything, Lynn, I’m just trying to talk.”

  “You have funny timing, Mac Gray.” No vehemence in her voice, nothing left.

  “Didn’t I always?”

  “I can’t do this now, Gray, I’ve got to be somewhere.” She turned toward the SUV, pulled open the back door to set the box inside. Gray stared at the ground, right where she’d dug her boots in. He could see the design from the bottom of her soles.

  “Date?” He didn’t have to look up.

  “Let me rephrase, I’m not going to do this now, don’t have the time or patience.” Her driver’s door clicked open and he almost took more steps, but didn’t. “Let me know if you find anything else.”

  He nodded at the dirt. “I will.”

  He waited to look up until she’d turned around and headed out, caught the glint of her red taillights before the SUV glided behind the trees. Then he made his way to the house, the yard quiet once again.

  The interior always made him look up when he entered. It was open construction, Timber Frame style. The square beams set in the heated and cooled concrete floor rose high before arching to meet one another in the center of the house. Gray glanced at the loft, half expecting Lynn to be standing there, leaning over it with her easy grace, a smile on her lips to see him home on time.

  Gray set his hat on the kitchen bar that opened to the living room before going to the fridge. He pulled out a protein drink tasting of vanilla chalk and pounded half of it down, the corners of his mouth pulling back.

  “Out of fucking chocolate, whoever heard of such a thing?” He asked the house before taking one last swallow.

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he moved past the deep living room toward a doorway leading to his office. A conglomeration of steel grips were mounted into the solid wood above the door, each facing a different angle. Setting his shirt down, Gray leapt into the air and grasped the two closest handles and began to chin-up. He stopped at sixty, having to struggle for the last three reps, then dropped to the floor, immediately going into a pushup position. He counted to one hundred and then leapt for the bars overhead again.

  Gray repeated his workout four times and then stalked upstairs, snagging his shirt as he went. His breathing was back to normal when he reached the bedroom and by the time he stripped the rest of his clothes off and stepped into the shower, his heart beat at the slow, solid rhythm that he heard every night before drifting off to sleep.

  After showering, he dressed in a pair of loose shorts and a threadbare T-shirt and returned to the kitchen, taking a pound of hamburger from the fridge. He salted and peppered the meat after making patties, the whole time staring out of the window above the sink, his eyes glazed.

  Just as he was lighting the gas grill on the deck he heard the unmistakable grinding of tires coming down the road and a minute later, Ruthers’s late-model pickup glided to a stop before the garage. Gray went back through the house and washed his hands in the sink before walking to the door. When he opened it, Ruthers had his hand raised as if about to knock.

  “Joseph, welcome. Come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “There’ll be none of that ‘sir’ bullshit in my house. You call me Gray or Mac in this place, okay?”

  “Yes s—Gray.”

  “That’s better. Want a beer, Joseph?”

  “That’d be great.”

  Gray made his way into the kitchen and pulled two frosted bottles out of the fridge, snapping them both open before returning to the living room where the deputy waited. Ruthers’s eyes were tracing the lines of the room, the high ceilings, the long regal windows.

  “Your house is unbelievable, S—Gray.”

  “Thank you, forgot you’ve never stepped inside before,” he said, handing the younger man a beer.

  “Who did the construction?”

  “I did.”

  A surprised look crossed the deputy’s face. “Really?”

  “What, you don’t think I’m capable of doing things other than talking?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I’m joking, Joseph, drink that beer and loosen up.” Gray motioned to follow and Ruthers walked behind him through the kitchen and out onto the deck. “My father was a carpenter, modeled himself after Jesus right down to his profession and his shoes.”

  “Your father was a prophet?”

  Gray barked laughter. “Nice one, Joseph. No, he was a God-fearing man and wore sandals most days. He built these types of homes as his specialty. For a long time people would have him come hundreds of miles to construct something like this, something that wasn’t like the newer models.”

  “You mean low and efficient.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Joseph. I picked up the trade from him, but not the religion.”

  “You’re not a God-fearing man?”

  “There’s more things on earth to fear than God.”

  They walked to the edge of the deck and took in the panoramic view of the back yard. The stream trickled and the notes of birds drifted to them from far back in the woods.

  “So that’s your garden?” Ruthers said, pointing at a twenty-by-twenty-foot square of tilled dirt several yards from the bank of the stream.

  “It is, and you don’t sound impressed.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that most people’s are so much bigger.”

  “I don’t have garden envy, Joseph.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “Joking, drink that beer.”

  A gust of wind began to caress the trees, bending their tops gently bef
ore releasing them. The wind chimes jangled in a tune that always reminded Gray of fall.

  “My garden’s smaller because all those plants down there are organic.”

  Ruthers’ eyebrows drew down. “Organic? Like really organic?”

  “Yep, not like the G-Mods that grow everywhere else. That’s why my garden looks like it’s taking a beating compared to all the other crops; it doesn’t have the genetics to deal with a long-term drought. No matter how much I water it, it’s drying out under the sun every day.”

  “Wow. I’ve never eaten anything organic that I can think of.”

  “Well, you will tonight,” Gray said, moving to the grill.

  “Is that a propane grill?”

  “It is. Found it in an antique store a few years ago. Had to have a friend cobble a regulator together, but I got it working.” Gray drained the rest of his beer and slapped the burgers onto the grill. The meat hissed and began to smoke, the smell making Gray’s stomach ache.

  “Another beer, Joseph?”

  Ruthers tipped his brew, seeing that it was only half gone. “Uh, sure.”

  Gray nodded and disappeared into the house, appearing again with two fresh bottles. He drained half of his in the first drink and leaned on the railing again before reaching into his pocket.

  “I went back to the Jacobses’ farm tonight and found this,” Gray said, placing the screw, now encased in a small plastic bag, on the railing beside the deputy’s elbow. Ruthers picked it up, turning it over several times before putting it down.

  “You think it’s something important?”

  “I do. I found it in the heating vent, forensics missed it somehow, but that’s technology for you, Joseph, it’s like people, you can’t always trust it.”

  “You going to check it for DNA?”

  “I am. I’m also going to have a friend who’s versed in metals look at it. He might be able to figure out if it has unique properties.”

  “The same one that cobbled together your regulator?”

  Gray smiled. “The same.”

  “Sheriff, shit, I mean, Gray, what was that all about at the medical examiner’s lab today?”

  “You mean with the way you couldn’t keep your eyes off Siri? I was about to ask you the same thing,” Gray said over his shoulder as he went to flip the burgers.

  “Ah, well, you know, I think she’s really nice.”

  “Siri’s very nice and from what I understand her husband was a deadbeat that left as soon as he got her pregnant. Have you made an effort to speak to her outside of a professional capacity?”

  “Sir? I mean—”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Joseph, call me whatever you want, I guess.”

  Ruthers couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Okay sir. No, I haven’t, not really, but I should.”

  “Damn right you should. Next time you see that girl, ask her on a date, she’ll say yes.”

  “You think so?”

  “Joseph, she looked at you the same way you looked at her.”

  Ruthers’s face became a bit pinker and he glanced away as he drank more beer. Gray brought out a plate and piled on the burgers before setting the patio table with condiments, a bowl of assorted vegetables, and two more beers.

  “You didn’t answer me, sir,” Ruthers said as they sat down on either side of the table.

  “I need some food in me, and another beer before we get into that.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They ate in silence with only the passing breeze fluttering the leaves along with the chime’s voice to break it. The sky became a patchwork quilt, turning from a pale cobalt to purple with edges of black bleeding into stars. Two porch lights came on automatically with the falling dusk. When they’d finished eating, Gray cleared the table and placed another two beers between them before sitting down to stare into the deepening night.

  “My father named me for the war,” he said after a while.

  “The war, sir?”

  Gray glanced at his deputy and sat back in his chair. “The war that never came.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “MacArthur, it was the name of a famous general in the second world war. Does it ring a bell?”

  “Not especially I guess, but history wasn’t my strongest subject.”

  Gray smiled. “I love history, but not in the way historians love it. Historians keep the past like a display, something to look at but never touch.” Gray sipped at his beer. “My father was a realist, he worked hard every day and read every night. He watched the way things were going, the tide of time you might call it. He knew over forty years ago that something had to give in the world. The pollution was only then getting addressed and crops were dying in droves. The veil of society was getting thin. All forward progress was stilted and people were getting closer and closer to an edge.”

  “A war.”

  Gray nodded. “That’s like a release valve for the human race, sick as it sounds, it’s a necessity, or an inevitability, not sure there’s a difference. War is a forest fire. When the woods become too cluttered to grow new trees, a fire starts, cleanses the ground along with much of the mature forest, but it’s essential. When it’s over, things begin anew. The ash from life breeds new growth, a fresh start. As ugly as it is, that’s the truth. Every end is harsh before a beginning.” Gray looked down at his lap and spun an empty bottle in place. “So my father thought there was no way I wouldn’t be involved in the next war, I’d have been just the right age, so he named me what he did. I suppose he thought it would give me confidence or be a talisman against getting killed, I’m not sure. Instead of war we got innovation.” Gray motioned to the sky. “The cleaners up above burning some crystal ore mined from Mars, belching out pure oxygen into the atmosphere. We have cures for cancer, Alzheimer’s, and diabetes. We got plants that stay green without water and can stand gallons of pesticides but are doing God knows what to our insides, and we have a nice assurance that goes even further back that no psychopaths will be stalking our streets at night.”

  Ruthers swallowed a mouthful of beer and stared at the sheriff. “You mean FV5?”

  Gray nodded. “Your parents I’m sure weren’t able to dodge the mandatory jabs for their kids, just like mine, right.” Gray pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt to expose the orange line of five dots running straight down his shoulder, each no larger than a pencil eraser. Ruthers slid his sleeve up, exposing the exact same formation. Gray let his hand drop back to the table. “Anyway, why should they be afraid of something that’s guaranteed to keep their son or daughter from becoming a crazed murderer?”

  “Are you against the jabs, sir?”

  “No, I can’t say that I am since there hasn’t been a recorded serial killer in the last forty years. All those potential victims are safe, lived out their lives without ever imagining that they could’ve been the target of something monstrous. Just by turning off one tiny gene inside each person born, you assure everyone that they couldn’t possibly be a sociopath or progress into a psychopath.” Gray drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “What bothers me is that gene is there with every birth. The possibility of becoming something evil,” Gray tapped his chest once, “is right here inside all of us.”

  The yard was quiet except for the trickle of the choking stream. The birds were silent, gone back to their roosts to wait for the rain that Gray could smell coming from the west.

  “So you think the Olson murders and the Jacobses were—”

  “I’m not saying anything yet, Joseph, and I’m well aware that plain old murder still happens every day, I saw enough of it in the cities to last a lifetime.” Gray finished his beer and looked his deputy in the eyes. “But, something doesn’t match up here, something is off. A month ago the Olsons burn up in a fire started by someone else. No suspects or arrests, not that I’d expect any from Mitchel and his county. Last night the Jacobses are slaughtered, and then their killers try to set the house on fire.”

  “To cover their tracks.” The
deputy’s eyes were wide in the faint glow of the porch lights.

  “Maybe.”

  “But that would mean someone would’ve had to hidden their kids away from the start, had them at home, never brought them into town, no one could see they didn’t have the Line on their shoulders, otherwise they’d be persecuted, run out of town.”

  “And then,” Gray continued, sitting forward, “The chances of them being a full blown psychopath would be infinitesimal.”

  “Exactly, so…”

  “So that leaves us with one of two options, Joseph. One, someone did just that, kept their children hidden from the system, kept them from getting the jabs and those kids just by chance became monsters or, two, the shot didn’t work on them like it did everyone else.”

  “But, sir, I read about FV5, it was mandatory for the service. They tested a variation of it for thirty years on known serial killers, there was a one hundred percent success rate at nulling the gene before they ever brought it to public awareness.”

  “I know, but if I’ve learned anything from history it’s this: life is not static. It moves, changes, adapts. We think we’re smarter than nature, but we’re not. Every step we take in fighting it is a step in the wrong direction. We come closer to the cliff, Joseph, not farther away.” Gray sighed. “But the most obvious answer is normally the correct one so—”

  “So that leaves us with—”

  “Option one.” Gray leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees before staring into the darkness. “If I’m right, Joseph, the people who killed the Olsons and the Jacobses not only don’t have the Line, they’re the first serial killers America has seen in over forty years.”

  ~

  The rain woke him a little past two in the morning. It wasn’t a violent crashing of thunder or even a staccato pulse of lightning that brought him up out of a dream where he’d been running from something massive that blotted out the sun. It was the soft tapping of raindrops against the window.

  Gray turned his head toward the sound, the room so dark even the stormy night outside looked bright. He waited, blinking at the clarity of awareness, his breathing, in and out, the softness of cool sheets over his body, the drumming rain. Alone.