by Kim Liggett
“Tell him to check her room,” I whisper.
Ely shushes me. “Would you mind just checking her room for me? Put the boy’s mind at ease.”
“What’s going on?” I hear Mrs. Miller ask in the background.
“Fine.” Mr. Miller sighs as he puts the phone down. I can hear the springs creak as he gets out of bed.
I stare at the Elvis clock mounted on the wall above Sheriff Ely’s head. Each sway of his hips equals a second. Each one slower than the last.
“We’re wasting time,” I whisper as I edge forward on my seat. “God only knows what’s going on out there now. Their eyes were black and the—”
“Snug as a bug,” Mr. Miller says as he comes back on the line. “Like I said, sleeping like a baby since ten.”
I bolt out of my chair so fast it topples. “That’s impossible. I just saw her.”
“Little advice,” Mr. Miller says. “Unless he’s ready to join the council, you better keep him away from the Preservation Society. Kid’s a loose cannon, just like his dad and you—”
“Thanks for checking,” Sheriff interrupts as he fumbles to take it off speakerphone. “You have a good night now.”
He hangs up and looks at me. I know that look. Pity.
“He’s in on it. Don’t you see that?” I start pacing again. “My dad found something. Something they don’t want me to see. My dad must’ve said something to you. You were best friends. You have to help me.”
“Clay.” Sheriff stands, planting his hand firmly on my shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but your dad came over here ranting and raving about the same types of things on the night he died. Said he had to stop the evil before it was born. After he hacked up every pregnant cow on that ranch, he ripped off his own fingernails trying to pry open that stainless steel door to get at Neely’s prize bull. Whether it was drugs, schizophrenia, or whatever, he was seeing things … violent things that weren’t real. He kept talking about the seed, the sixth generation, a golden calf, a prophecy, and sacrifices. He kept going on about some secret room at the Preservation Society. All kinds of crazy things.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this? I came to you before—”
“My point is”—he tightens his grip—“unless you want to end up just like him or at Oakmoor, I suggest you get your ducks back in a row. You’ve got your mom and sisters to look after now. Don’t you think they’ve suffered enough?”
Feeling completely gutted, I think of Noodle in that white eyelet dress she insisted on wearing to Dad’s funeral, because it was his favorite. She held my face in her hands and said, “We pick what we want to remember and I pick good.”
I feel my shoulders cave. What if Sheriff’s right? What if it’s all in my head?
“Get some sleep, Clay,” he says as he leads me out the door. “We’ve all had nightmares from what happened out there. Trust me, no one wanted to believe your dad more than I did, but it’s time to move on. It’s for your own good. And you heard the man. Unless you’re going to join the council, you need to stay away from the Preservation Society, and like it or not, that includes Ali Miller now.”
In a daze, I walk back to my truck.
“And Clay?”
I turn, waiting for some last bit of wisdom, something that will help me make sense of all this.
“Who do you think’s going to win the big game tomorrow? I’ve got my money on Midland, but without you playing quarterback, it’s going to be a close call.”
I know he’s probably just trying to lighten the mood, take my mind off all this, but it feels like I just got sucker punched. Who gives a shit about football at a time like this? Without another word, I get back in my truck and tear out of there.
Gripping the steering wheel, I clamp down all the hurt and anger raging inside of me. I can’t go off the rails. Not now.
I know I should go home, pull myself together, but I find myself going to the one place I know I shouldn’t.
9
GRABBING THE flashlight from my glove box, I sneak around the side of the Preservation Society to the wall of box hedges sealing off the back. I dive through the hedges, the prickly branches scratching the hell out of my arms.
As I make my way across the lawn to the French doors lining the back of the main house, I can’t help thinking about the last time we were here as a family—Fourth of July picnic, the summer before Dad’s death. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see it … to smell it … the honeysuckle, the fresh-cut grass, and gunpowder from the cannon they kept shooting off. Noodle’s standing on Dad’s toes as he twirls her around to the music, Mom’s playing Bunco with her friends from church, and Jess … well, Jess still looks normal. And there I am, throwing the damn football, watching Tyler steal Ali right from under my nose. I wish I could go back in time. I’d do everything so different.
As I jiggle the door handle, trying to force it open, I realize the magnitude of what I’m about to do. I’m about to cross a very big line.
If I’m caught breaking in here, I could go to jail. I wouldn’t be able to finish the harvest and Noodle certainly wouldn’t be going to that private school.
But if there’s something here, if they have a secret room like Dad said, I could blow the lid off this place. Clear his name.
Taking off my cap, I drag my hand through my hair. “This is crazy,” I whisper.
I turn to go back the way I came, but I can’t do it, I can’t walk away from this. Yeah, Dad acted crazy at the end, but he was a reasonable man. A fair man. I have to believe there’s more to it than him just going insane. ’Cause if it happened to him, it can happen to me, and I’m not about to go down that road without a fight.
“Screw it,” I say as I wrap my cap around my fist and jab it into the pane of glass closest to the latch. I brace myself for an alarm to start blaring, or attack dogs to come chasing me back through the hedge, something to make me stop, slap some sense into me, but all I hear are the frogs singing over at Harmon Lake.
My adrenaline’s so high I could lift the door right off the hinges, but I don’t need to. I unlock it and it swings wide open without a hitch. Almost like it’s inviting me in.
I take in a jittery breath as I step over the threshold.
My footsteps echo off the gleaming hardwood floors, occasionally muffled by one of the rugs as I walk down a long corridor lined with old photographs and glass cases full of “artifacts”—just a bunch of rusted-out farming equipment and ledgers, but this crap is like the holy grail for people in this town.
It didn’t used to be this fancy, but ever since Mrs. Neely took over the decorating committee you’d think this was the White House, not the former town hall for a bunch of roughneck immigrants.
The front rooms are immaculate. So much so I’m afraid to touch anything. Can’t imagine there being a secret room up here. I decide to head downstairs, where the jail used to be. They keep it set up just like it was in the old days.
At the foot of the stairs, I trip over some iron shackles attached to a dark wood beam, a couple of axes, ropes, a gallon of fake blood. Props for the justice reenactments they do during Settlers Week. That’s when they break out the bonnets and covered wagons. Everybody running around town talking like hillbillies, which is dumb considering how most of the settlers came straight from Ireland.
I guess it was pretty fun when I was a kid—watching your neighbors get their hands chopped off for stealing another man’s livestock, or their foot cut off for running out on a fight. They even did a mock hanging one year. Poor Mr. Timmons, runs the Tastee Freeze, they rigged him up in a harness, pulled the lever, and Mr. Timmons swayed on the rope, his feet kicking beneath him dramatically. It was all fun and games until he got a big hard-on. They made all us kids cover our eyes, but I’ll never forget it. It’s burned into my memory. Haven’t been to the Tastee Freeze since.
I open every door I can find. Most of the rooms are full of extra plates, folding
tables, linens. There’s a whole room just for Christmas decorations. Nothing looks out of place, unless you count the way Mary and Joseph are stacked up on top of each other in the sixty-nine position. But there’s a strange smell—similar to what I experienced at the breeding barn, like rotting meat and herbs. When I reach the end of the hall, the smell intensifies. My heart picks up speed; that same sick feeling washes over me, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Running my hands over the paneled wall, I remember they just had the annual steak dinner. Maybe they aged the meat down here. Or maybe it’s all in my head. I’ve heard of people smelling weird stuff right before they’re about to have a stroke or an aneurism.
I shake it off and step into the cell, walking the perimeter, knocking on the floors with the heel of my boot, listening for a loose plank, but there’s nothing here. Just like Sheriff said.
“What’re you doing, Tate?” I whisper as I sink down on the cot wedged against the iron bars. The creak of the ancient springs sends icy chills across my skin. “This is crazy, even for you.”
Just when I’m thinking of cutting my losses, I hear a car door slam shut. Jumping up on the cot, I peer through the small barred window.
Greg Tilford’s out front talking to Ian Neely. Greg came back from Afghanistan even more of an asshole than he was before. Wound tighter than a cuckoo clock. After Neely donated the new computer system to the town, Tilford magically became a deputy. He was the first officer on the scene when my dad died. Threw up everywhere. I don’t know if it’s because I saw him lose it, or the fact that he’s Ian Neely’s cousin, but he’s had it out for me ever since.
Looks like the two of them are arguing about something. I can make a run for it out the back, through the hedge, into the woods, but my truck’s parked right out front. I’m such a dumbass. Of course they have some kind of high-tech alarm system here. What did I think would happen? I’d just break into the Preservation Society and no one would figure it out? In a town this small you can’t take a shit without everyone knowing your business.
Mr. Neely’s walking up the brick pathway toward the front door.
Panicking, I scramble up the stairs and rush toward the back of the house.
“Clay?” Mr. Neely calls out as he shuts the door behind him.
I stop in my tracks. I’m breathing so hard. I feel like a trapped animal.
“In my office,” he says calmly as he disappears into one of the main rooms off the foyer, turning on a lamp. No doubt Neely just wants to give me an “I told you so” lecture before Deputy Tilford hauls my ass off to jail.
As I trudge down the hall to his office, I feel ashamed. Not because I got caught, but because I was wrong. Sheriff tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen.
I step into the main office, a richly appointed room with taxidermy and football memorabilia glaring down at me from every direction.
He sits behind the desk, motioning for me to take a seat in one of the big uncomfortable leather chairs opposite his desk. I remember sitting in this exact spot right after my dad died. I can’t believe it’s only been a year. It feels like a lifetime.
“I’m curious.” He twists the state championship ring around his finger, making the ruby flash in the light of his desk lamp. “Why’d you break in?”
I keep my mouth shut. I’ve seen enough TV shows to know I’m not supposed to say anything until I have a lawyer. Where the hell am I going to find a lawyer?
“The reason I ask is because you’ve had the key to the kingdom all along.”
“The key?” I want to knock that smug look off his face. “Look, if you’re going to have me arrested, just do it. Save me the sanctimonious speech.”
His face softens as he holds out his hand. “Your car keys … it’s your dad’s old set, right?”
Tentatively, I dig the keys out of my pocket and place them in his hand.
“The brass one.” He singles it out and slides the set back to me. “That’s the key to the front door.”
I feel like even more of an idiot, if that’s possible. I grip my fingers around the key, hoping the sharp grooves cutting into my skin will take me out of this misery, but it only seems to make things worse … more real.
He picks up the phone and dials.
My pulse shoots through the roof. “Wait! I’ll pay for the glass. I’ll volunteer, I’ll do anything you want,” I sputter. “Just don’t—”
Mr. Neely holds up his hand, then says into the phone, “I think we’re all set. Clay and I are just going to have a little chat. Thanks for your assistance.”
I look toward the window but I can’t see a damn thing through the heavy curtains. I hear an engine start. Mr. Neely hangs up the phone and we both sit there listening as the car pulls away, the tires getting fainter by the second. I know I should be relieved, but there’s a glint in Mr. Neely’s eye, something that tells me I’m not out of the woods yet.
He leans back in his chair, knitting his arms across his chest. “What were you looking for?”
“Mr. Neely … sir…” I take off my cap and set it on my knee. “I’ve had a rough night … a rough year, really. I thought I saw something out at your ranch tonight. Something sick. I went to Sheriff Ely and he’d mentioned my dad was talking about some secret room right before he died. I know I’m probably losing it, just like he did, but I had to find out for myself. There’s nothing here. I know that now.”
“A secret room, huh?” The left corner of his mouth curls up. “Would you like to see it?”
My stomach drops.
Mr. Neely rises out of his chair, pressing on the dark wood panels behind his desk. A tall, slender door pops open. It blends into the grooves so well, you’d never even know it was there.
“No one’s been trying to keep you out, son. We’ve been trying to bring you in,” he says before stepping inside.
I push myself into a standing position, but it feels like my blood’s been replaced with concrete. I take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for what I’m about to see.
Mr. Neely flicks on the overhead lights.
And it’s just a room. I step inside to find an old jukebox from the fifties, a couple of poker tables, some cowboy prints decorating the walls, and a sprawling bar.
Mr. Neely stands behind the solid piece of oak, pulling out two glasses. He pours bourbon, pushing one toward me. I look at it, wondering if it might be poisoned, but Mr. Neely sucks it back without a second thought. “Back in the dry years, this place came in handy. Now it’s just good for hiding from our wives.” He chuckles to himself. “Your dad and I had some good times in this room. You remind me of him.” He scratches his chin. “He was secretive, too … always holding everything inside. It’s hard to ever really know a man like that. He had a weakness for the ladies, though. Couldn’t hide that.” He taps the bottom of his glass on the bar. “Don’t worry, he cut all that out by the time you were born.”
I slam back the bourbon. A revolt goes off inside my body, but then a numbing warmth quickly follows.
He pours another round. “What happened with your dad was a lot more gradual than it appeared. We’d been covering for him for months. There was talk.”
“What kind of talk?”
“Well, he was spending an awful lot of time down by the junkyard, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you talking about the Wiggins trailer? Meth?”
“I’m not saying anything,” he says as he raises his hands in the air. “All I know is in the end, he thought God was talking to him.” He downs his drink. “And I think we both know it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.”
I rub my neck, thinking about the explosives in the shed. Did Mr. Neely know about that?
I take another shot. It goes down easier this time.
“I loved him like a brother. Sure, we fought and argued, like brothers do. We had a competitive rivalry, like you and my boy, but that’s what makes a man rise to the occasion. Hell, he even gave me power of attorney if something were to happ
en to your mom. I’d be responsible for taking care of you and your sisters.”
I grip the edge of the bar, forcing myself to listen.
“What I’m trying to say is the founding families have stuck together through thick and thin. We’d never turn our backs on your family. Not then. Not now. Not ever. But it’s a two-way street. This is quite a stunt you pulled tonight, breaking in here.”
I think about Noodle and Jess and Mom and my throat gets so tight I can hardly swallow. This was just another stupid move on top of a dozen other stupid moves. I see that now.
“What are you going to do?”
“The real question is what are you going to do?” He takes a deep breath and stares into my eyes, like he’s pondering my fate.
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ve tried to give you your space, but now it’s time for a little tough love. So, I’m offering you a choice. I can press charges, leave your fate in the hands of Judge Miller, or you can stop this nonsense and join the council. Start playing ball again. Let the Preservation Society take care of you and your family. You’ve done an admirable job. Your dad would be proud. Hell, I’m proud. You put up quite a fight, but this is getting you nowhere. What do you say?”
“I … I can’t just pick up where I left off … pretend like none of this happened.”
“Why? Give me one good reason.”
“Because … everything’s different now.”
“Are you talking about Ali? Because she was under strict instructions to let you be. All of them were. I thought you’d come around on your own, but you’re stubborn, just like your daddy was.”
I wonder if that’s the reason Ali hasn’t talked to me all this time. Maybe that’s why she was so on edge when she came over that night after my dad’s funeral, because she wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Don’t you miss playing ball?” He stares off in the distance all misty-eyed. “I’d give my left nut to play again.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”