McFall

  Other Books by Scott Nicholson

  The Red Church

  Drummer Boy

  After: First Light

  After: The Shock

  The Home

  The Skull Ring

  The Harvest

  Liquid Fear

  Chronic Fear

  Kiss Me or Die

  October Girls

  Creative Spirit

  Speed Dating with the Dead

  Solom: The Scarecrow

  The Gorge

  Cursed (with J.R. Rain)

  Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)

  Children’s Books

  If I Were Your Monster

  Too Many Witches

  Duncan the Punkin

  Ida Claire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Scott Nicholson

  Originally published as a Kindle Serial, September, 2013

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477849231

  ISBN-10: 1477849238

  Cover design by Inkd Inc

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013943972

  Grateful thanks to Angela Polidoro, David Pomerico, Lexie Danner, and Death Cab for Cutie.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  EPISODE ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  EPISODE TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPISODE THREE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPISODE FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPISODE SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KINDLE SERIALS

  EPISODE ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Double dawg dare ya.”

  “Stuff it.” Ronnie Day squatted on the top rail of the bridge, cupping his hands under the weathered plank to steady himself. The river twenty-five feet below was slow and black, as if it had just recently oozed out of a crack in the primordial past. It was early May, the first day of the year with even a hint of spring, and the water would be so cold that he’d chatter his teeth into little Chiclets of enamel. Assuming he made it to shore.

  How do I get myself into these situations?

  Easy. Dex McAllister was pretty much the Hitler of Pickett High School, and even the guys who didn’t like him ended up living by his rules. The worst part was that Ronnie’s best friend, Bobby, did like Dex. So while Dex taunted Ronnie with various slang terms for the female anatomy, Bobby just leaned against the bridge railing and chuckled, occasionally skipping a hunk of gravel across the current.

  “You going to jump or just squat there like you’re taking a dump?” Dex said.

  “I’ll take a dump on your head,” Ronnie said. “Might improve your looks.”

  “I figured a Day wouldn’t have the stones to go first,” Dex said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like.”

  Ronnie glared at Dex, who took a drag on a Camel and made an exaggerated purse of his lips as smoke streamed out of his lungs and whisked toward the mountains. Dex was wearing a windbreaker with a McAllister’s Bowling Alley logo stitched over the left breast, corded gym shorts, and pointy-toed cowboy boots. Bobby had baseball practice later that afternoon, even though it was Saturday, so he was wearing gray sweatpants, a stained Nirvana T-shirt, and a red baseball cap featuring the high school’s highly unoriginal “P” logo.

  Ronnie wore only a pair of nylon swim shorts. Suddenly he realized the other boys had never intended to go swimming—this was all a test of Ronnie’s manhood. Part of Dex’s little power trip was that everybody in his circle had to impress him by enduring rites of passage. Dex owned a Jeep, an ATV, three hunting rifles, and about six girlfriends who were dumb enough to be impressed by his dad’s bowling alley. Ronnie got social cred only from stories about his up-close-and-personal experiences with the local ghosts, but he mostly kept those to himself. As everyone knew, the line between fringe cool and outcast wacko was way too thin. He wasn’t eager to cross it.

  “You guys don’t seem to be in any big hurry to get wet,” Ronnie said. The brisk wind off the water caused his skin to tighten and his nipples to harden into little dark points. He hoped Dex didn’t notice, or he’d be sure to make a comment.

  “I was first last year,” Bobby said, like a guy who had nothing to prove and could care less about what Dex thought. Of course, Bobby could afford that attitude. He was a star pitcher for the baseball team and the drummer in the heavy-metal garage band that he and Dex had started.

  “I’m growing a beard here,” Dex said. “Hell, I’ll probably get lung cancer before you make a move.”

  Bobby pushed up the brim of his cap and flashed his charming grin, the one he could use to steal away any of Dex’s six girlfriends if he weren't so busy chasing Melanie Ward. “Come on, Ronnie. You know what they say. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  “Except for what paralyzes you,” Ronnie said, buying time.

  He wasn’t all that afraid of the jump. The bridge was a popular summer hangout, even after the state had posted a diamond-shaped, yellow sign that said “No Swimming Jumping Fishing From Bridge.” The lack of punctuation was bad enough, but what made the sign particularly offensive was that it was there because of the lobbying of the residents of Riverview, a nearby gated community. The high-end houses were populated by a bunch of wealthy imports who wanted to govern the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina now that they had fouled Florida and New York beyond all salvation. The local kids had refused to surrender their tur
f to some measly piece of metal, but the sheriff occasionally drove over the bridge to uphold the new rules.

  Ronnie had made the leap at least fifty times, and he’d never so much as skinned his knees on the submerged rocks. Even at its lowest in the heat of August, the diving hole offered a deep well of water. While upstream the riffle and rapids caused a persistent swishing whisper, the current here at the bridge was sluggish enough that even a beginning swimmer could handle it.

  No, Ronnie wasn’t afraid of the act of diving itself, although he always jumped feet first rather than imitating Bobby’s athletic jackknife or Dex’s boisterous cannonball. He was more afraid of what might be under the water.

  Or who might be under the water.

  “You going to jump, or am I going to have to push you?” Dex said.

  “We should have brought our fishing poles,” Bobby said. “Bet there’s some fat trout down there.”

  Ronnie didn’t want to think about a hook trolling the depths, snagging on to whatever might be roiling just out of sight. Ever since he’d watched Archer McFall disappear into the river—along with a whole graveyard full of dead folks—Ronnie had never gone into the water alone. If Dex and Bobby had been there that night, they wouldn’t be any more eager to jump first than he was.

  Ronnie took one tentative step away from the railing, tucking his bare foot into the notch of a wooden support beam. Dex wheezed a smoker’s laugh and flung his cigarette off the bridge. “You’re built out of backdown, Ronnie Day,” he said.

  “Hell with it,” Bobby said. “We ought to go into town and cruise The Depot.”

  “A coffee shop?” Dex mimed looking at a wristwatch and yawned. “It’s almost happy hour. I can sneak us a pitcher of PBR out back at the bowling alley.”

  “I can’t get drunk. I got ball practice.”

  “And Ronnie can’t drink because he’s a fuzzy little cooter,” Dex said.

  “Not all of us are staying in Pickett County forever,” Ronnie said, wishing he had a shirt. His towel was in Dex’s Jeep, which was parked in the weeds at a little turnoff popular with the local fishermen. “Some of us need to preserve our brain cells so we can get into college.”

  “Ooh la la, listen to the man with a plan,” Dex said. “Tell you what. After you get your square black hat with the cute little tassel and spend six months looking for a job, just come on down to the alley and I can get you a gig running the floor buffer up and down the lanes.”

  Ronnie looked past Dex to Bobby, whose face was expressionless, as if he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. Ronnie’s dad was a carpenter, Bobby’s a plumber. Besides owning the bowling alley, Dex’s dad served as a county commissioner and was a big shot in the Chamber of Commerce. Dex was already getting his hand in various commercial interests around Barkersville and Titusville. His father was also one of the Riverview investors, and he’d plied the county planning board so that the project had gotten a free pass on a number of costly zoning ordinances. In Pickett County, one good-old-boy hand still washed the other.

  As Dex had gleefully pointed out, “Your dads got paid once for that job, but my dad gets paid for the rest of his life.”

  Ronnie felt like throwing Dex off the bridge. That would do wonders for the guy’s bowling jacket, which looked goofy with his cowboy boots and white tank top. But Dex had fifteen pounds on him, and Ronnie couldn’t count on Bobby’s help. His friend was staring off at the hazy gray peak of Mulatto Mountain. A boy had disappeared there a few years ago, but that was another thing nobody liked to talk about in these parts. Ronnie hadn’t known the kid, but apparently Bobby was still bothered by it.

  “I’m over this,” Ronnie said, confirming what they all knew. “Why should I get soaked and freeze my ass off while you guys stand up here and—”

  A car approached from the wooded road to the east. Bobby had enough time to get off the bridge before the car reached it, but Ronnie and Dex were stuck. Ronnie only hoped it wasn’t the cops. Dex would be able to sweet talk their way out of trouble, but then Ronnie would be even more indebted to him. The longer Ronnie lived in this Southern Appalachian backwater, the further he was drawn into Dex’s web.

  The car was a black Lexus with tinted windows, way too fine for a patrol cruiser, even for the FBI or Secret Service. Ronnie felt naked despite his shorts, his embarrassment heightened because he couldn’t see who was inside. What if it was some young babe ogling his scrawny white ribs and hairless chest? Since Bobby was safely by the side of the road, he ignored the car, but Dex leaned his back against the bridge railing and gave a cool flip of a salute. The Lexus slowed as it reached them and the driver’s-side window descended.

  Ronnie assumed it was some rich jerkwad from Riverview ready to ream them out for breaking the law. No surprise, Dex leaned toward the window to field whatever the driver had to say. Ronnie didn’t hear the words issued from the interior of the Lexus, but Dex gave a nod and a grin. “Yes, sir!” he said cheerfully.

  Dex waved Ronnie over to the idling car. Ronnie crossed his arms and slunk over to the window. Bobby paid no attention to the car or his friends, still staring off at the mountain.

  “He wants to meet you, dude,” Dex said, as confident as a stock broker.

  Why would somebody driving some sweet wheels like this want to meet me? Ronnie felt more vulnerable than ever. At least it was a “he” instead of a woman or, God forbid, a hot co-ed from Westridge University.

  Ronnie stood just behind Dex, as if anticipating gunfire. The man behind the wheel was healthy-looking and handsome, with one of those strong jaws that inspired confidence and made people want to hand over their money. His gaze was dark and impenetrable, but not cold. The man smiled, his eyes glinting with cheer. He looked vaguely familiar, but Ronnie decided it was just because he had the stereotypical look of success: a close shave, tan skin, hair trimmed close to the collar.

  “You boys brave enough to go for a swim today?” the man said, his voice mellow and kind.

  “Thinking about it,” Ronnie said.

  “I used to jump off this bridge, a long time ago.”

  “Really?” Dex said, already easing into brown-nose mode. “Couldn’t have been too long ago. You’re not that old.”

  The man gave an easy laugh. “Depends on who you ask. They’ve refurbished the bridge since then, put up some new rails and filled the potholes. But the river is just the same.”

  “No, it’s not,” Ronnie said, having no idea from where his sudden courage had come.

  The man’s smile froze in place and Dex scrunched his eyebrows into a glare as if to say, “This dude is a mover and shaker, so give him respect. Haven’t you learned anything about getting ahead?”

  “What do you mean by that?” the man asked Ronnie. “It says ‘Blackburn River’ right there on that sign, the one right below the sign telling you not to have fun on the bridge. The river’s name is the same, but the other sign wasn’t there when I was a kid.”

  “The river’s different every second,” Ronnie said. “It squeezes out from the rocks up there in the mountains and trickles down here, over and over. Every drop is new, and the river never repeats itself.”

  Dex gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Don’t mind him, mister. He’s just been studying too much poetry in English class. It’s rotted his brain.”

  The man ignored Dex, keeping his dark, appraising gaze fixed on Ronnie. “An interesting observation. Not only scientifically accurate, but emotionally resonant as well.”

  Ronnie’s belief that the past was far downstream was the only way he managed to hang on to his sanity. He was comforted by the notion that the ghosts in the river had long since been washed away to a new place, never to return. Of course, he had never told anybody the whole story about what he’d seen. Only, in his deepest sleepless prayers, God.

  And even though he clung to the notion that the river had scrubbed itself clean of all unwholesome things, he was still worried about entering its cool depths. There were no guarantees
in the realm of the dead. Unless you believed that death was the end. Ronnie sure didn’t.

  Dex eagerly changed the subject, not used to people saying “resonant” in his presence. “My name’s Dexter McAllister. My dad’s a county commissioner.”

  The man kept his eyes focused on Ronnie, who shivered from more than just the brisk May air. “So, are you jumping or not?”

  “Not today,” Ronnie said.

  “He’s chicken,” Dex said, desperate to insert himself into the conversation. Bobby had ambled over from the bridge’s abutment but was staying away from the Lexus.