McFall Read online

  Does it even HAVE a face?

  He gunned the engine, nearly slewing the truck into the river before he regained control and sped off into the night.

  He didn’t dare check his rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ronnie held his breath with the phone against his ear, trying to remember everything Bobby had told him.

  Melanie picked up on the fourth ring. “Hi, Ronnie. What’s going on?”

  Ronnie lay on his bed and stared at the darkness outside his bedroom window, glad that Tim was busy doing the dishes since Mom was at her bookkeeping class. “Hi, Melanie. What are you up to?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “Been working. Me and Bobby are putting up a fence over at McFall Meadows.” Ronnie didn’t realize how proud he was to have a real job. Mowing grass for Mac McAllister had been a nice little side gig, but it was better suited to a kid like Tim. It was time to develop some skills and muscles and make real money. Time to become a man.

  “I thought you didn’t like Larkin McFall.”

  This wasn’t starting off so well. Ronnie hadn’t told Melanie much at all about what had happened five years ago at the red church, although she’d heard rumors just like all the other kids in school. “He’s okay,” Ronnie said. “There’s just some trouble between the McFall and Day families that goes way back. Probably fighting over some woolly mammoth bacon or something.”

  Melanie laughed, and Ronnie felt a small surge of triumph. Bobby was right: If you made a girl laugh, you were halfway home. “Sorry to be so weird the other day,” she said.

  “You weren’t weird.” Just moody, just a girl. Just Melanie.

  “So, why did you call?”

  Bobby had advised him to warm her up before popping the question. But what if his friend was trying to sabotage him? Maybe he knew she was already going to the dance with somebody else. Maybe she was even going with Bobby.

  No, Bobby would never do that. You’re starting to get paranoid.

  And with good reason. There’s a McFall in town.

  “Well, I just … how did you do on your History final?” he asked, knowing he should have kept things light. Bobby had specifically instructed him not to talk about school.

  “Okay, I guess. Ronnie, what’s really going on? Now you’re the one that’s acting weird.”

  Ah, hell with it. “Are you going to the dance tomorrow?”

  “Of course. It’s the big senior blowout. I wouldn’t miss it even if I had to wear glass slippers and turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

  “Yeah. The Diggers are playing. I haven’t heard them since Donnie’s birthday party. I bet they’re a lot better now.”

  “Bobby’s a kickass drummer, but Dex can’t sing a lick.”

  Bobby again. Ronnie swallowed but his throat was as dry and rough as sandpaper. “Uh… are you going with anybody?”

  “Yeah. Only a lame-o goes to a dance alone.”

  “Yeah. Heh.” So who’s the lucky guy? And why did I put off asking for so long?

  But he knew why. “Better the devil you know,” went the old saying, but Ronnie preferred, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.” Although both sayings were pretty stupid when you thought about it. If you put them together, you got something like, “You know the devil will hurt you.”

  Why am I always thinking crazy shit like that?

  He realized the pause had stretched on for uncomfortably long, so he said, as casually as he could manage, “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Brett Summers.”

  “Brett? I heard he was going with Amy Extine.”

  “Well, you heard wrong, unless he’s dumb enough to think he can play us both.”

  “Don’t kill the messenger.”

  “Brett’s a nice guy. And his dad’s—”

  “An insurance agent. I know.”

  “Well, you can thank Mr. McFall for setting it up. He was having breakfast with Max Summers at the waffle house and McFall mentioned that Max had a son my age. The next thing you know, I’ve got Brett’s phone number. I mean, Brett and I hardly ever talked at school.”

  “He kind of doesn’t run in our circles.” Because he doesn’t hang with white trash like us.

  “He’s really sweet. Mr. McFall was actually the one who suggested that I go to the dance with him. He said it would be good for my personal growth, but warned me to make sure Brett stayed within proper boundaries.” Melanie gave a laugh that was almost a titter. “He’s so old-fashioned for a middle-aged man.”

  Some of Ronnie’s jealousy and disappointment had faded a little, partly because he’d already resigned himself to failure long before making the phone call. Besides, now he could stretch his fantasy a little further. She hadn’t said “No,” had she? Someone had just beaten him to the punch, that’s all.

  “So you and Larkin McFall are best buds now, huh?” Ronnie said. His left arm was falling asleep, and he rolled over on the bed so he was no longer looking at the window, which was spotted with the first spill of rain.

  “Hey, you’re the one who’s on his payroll.”

  “I thought we didn’t trust grown-ups.”

  “Mr. McFall is different,” she said. “I mean, a lot of men his age flirt with me and stuff, but he’s always very polite. And he encourages me to respect myself and plan for the future. I’m sort of like his pet project, I guess. Plus, he sure does tip well.”

  “So you’re on the payroll, too. And he sets you up on dates. Sounds to me like he wants to start an escort service.”

  The joke fell flat, or maybe McFall had taught her not to acknowledge any comments that were demeaning to women. Ronnie felt like a rat navigating a maze, where the only prize was a lump of poisoned cheese.

  “Well, I’d better go. I have to work on my dress for tomorrow. Mom’s going to help me raise the hem a little so it will pass for a summer skirt.”

  “Okay,” Ronnie said, reluctant to hang up. He’d left far too much unsaid. “What color is the dress?”

  “White with light blue flowers,” she said. “The blue matches my eyes.”

  I’ll bet it does. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  “So, who are you going with?”

  “Where?”

  She giggled. “The dance, silly.”

  It had apparently never occurred to her that Ronnie might ask her. She didn’t even sound all that curious, more like she was just making conversation. And in his mind he had already spun her into his little web of fantasy. God, he was such a lame-o.

  Only a lame-o goes to a dance alone.

  Ronnie flipped through a mental rolodex, trying to come up with the name of some girl from senior class who nobody in their right mind would ask. Some loser like him. But if the person he picked already had a date, and Melanie knew it, he’d look even lamer.

  “Haven’t decided yet,” he said, as coolly as he could. “I’ve got a couple of options.”

  “Ooh, a player.” She lowered her voice, serious again. “Who’s Bobby going with?”

  “He’s going to be too busy with the band to keep a woman entertained. Maybe he’ll pick up somebody once he’s there. I’m sure there will be a lot of eager volunteers. Everybody loves a drummer.”

  Jesus. Did she just sigh?

  “Well, I better go. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  “G’night.”

  He had barely hung up when he heard tires screeching and scuffing on the gravel drive outside. A horn blared frantically, then beeped three more times. It sounded like Dad’s truck, but Dad didn’t fool around with unnecessary noise. He liked the peace and quiet of the country and felt it should only be violated in extreme circumstances.

  Ronnie hopped to the floor and collected his shoes, running barefoot down the hall. Tim was standing in the doorway with soapy hands, squinting outside at the headlights.

  “What’s going on?” Ronnie asked, not stopping.

  “Dad’s raising a racket,” he said, as Ronnie swept by him and
rushed across the driveway, little rocks jabbing the soles of his bare feet.

  Dad’s window was down. “Get in,” he commanded. The passenger door was open by the time Ronnie reached it, and he was barely inside the cab before Dad cut a hard donut in the drive, spinning gravel as he headed back toward Little Church Road.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your friend Bobby.”

  Bobby? That didn’t make sense. Bobby had said he was heading home straight after work. He wanted to get a good night’s rest because of the gig.

  “What happened?”

  “He wrecked his truck.”

  “What the hell?”

  His dad punched the accelerator of the big F-250 Ford, and the truck shook with the speed. Big drops of water spattered the windshield, and Ronnie noticed it was starting to rain in earnest.

  “Is he okay?” Ronnie asked, afraid to ask.

  “We don’t know. I was one of the first on the scene. We called an ambulance, and it’s on the way, but.…”

  “But what?” Ronnie imagined Bobby pinned in the truck, his legs broken, his wrists so mangled he’d never throw a baseball or twirl a drumstick again. Then he thought about Bobby crushed against the steering wheel, his head sheared off by the broken windshield. His dark imagination kicked into overtime, picturing scenes of carnage that were like sick sculptures of flesh and steel. Then he flashed to a mournful Melanie, in a clingy black dress at Bobby’s funeral, bawling and wailing as she hugged his casket.

  “Well, he’s not there,” his dad said. “Not on the scene. We thought he might have been thrown free of the vehicle, but we couldn’t find him.”

  “Are the cops there?”

  “Not yet. But there were five people on the scene when I came to get you. I figured you could help us hunt. Plus, he’s your friend and all.”

  Ronnie felt weak and faint, but he was glad his dad had included him. Even if Bobby was…

  the next McFall victim

  …dead, Ronnie wanted to be there to do whatever he could.

  “We figure he was driving a little too fast, and the road was slick. It’s always slicker on the bridge, because of the condensation. Well, he must have just lost control and tumbled off the edge.”

  “Off the edge?” Ronnie pictured the truck busting through the guardrail and plunging twenty feet down into the river, into the black depths of the diving hole.

  Where the misty ghosts were.

  Now Ronnie could see half a dozen sets of headlights, needles of rain sliding down inside their yellowish beams. A few smaller lights—flashlights—swept back and forth at both ends of the bridge. His dad parked the Ford in a turnout just before the bridge, and Ronnie quickly slipped on his shoes and sprinted out into the rain.

  “Anything new?” Dad asked a man who was shining a flashlight down into the river.

  “No sign of him.”

  Now Ronnie saw the truck, and he had to grip the bridge railing to remain upright as his knees turned to wet sand. The Toyota was still in one piece, but it had hurtled off the far end of the bridge and was halfway down the embankment, wedged between two trees. The cab was ripped open like a can of sardines, a spider web of cracks in the rear window. The bed was twisted like a piece of tinfoil, and the driver’s side door was missing. The vehicle was clearly unoccupied, but it was impossible to imagine anybody surviving such a crash.

  “Come on,” Dad said. “Let’s go down and help look for him.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Ronnie looked over the railing, and although he couldn’t quite see any details in the dark water, he heard the river’s incessant susurration, its lulling whispers, its promise that all would be swept away in time.

  Please, Jesus, don’t let him be down there under the water.

  And if he is dead, please let him STAY dead.

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’m starting to think this is a bridge to hell.

  Sheriff Frank Littlefield played his flashlight along the river’s edge, wondering if the Eldreth boy had been thrown into the water by the force of the collision. The truck was about fifty feet up the bank, so the impact should have flung the driver into the locust scrub and wild roses that lined the edge of the bridge. But this mystery was hardly the only physical impossibility offered by the wreck. For one thing, despite all the jagged metal and broken glass, there wasn’t a single drop of blood in the cab. It was as if Bobby Eldreth had vanished while the truck was in the air.

  “See anything, Sheriff?” Officer Perriotte called down from the bridge. He had been the first officer on scene, and an ambulance, an EMT van, and a fire truck had since joined the proceedings, their red-and-blue strobe lights sending silent pulses across the surrounding mountains. It was after midnight and most of the surrounding houses had gone dark, although some curious spectators had made their way down from Riverview to watch from afar and several others were helping dredge the river.

  “Not a damn thing,” Littlefield replied. “Why don’t you head downstream and check for …”

  ghosts

  “… check for anything.”

  The sheriff swept his high-powered flashlight beam over the waist-high weeds, where half a dozen searchers stomped and murmured, their small portable lights like fireflies. Littlefield hoped to God they wouldn’t find Bobby’s body, because a proper investigation would be impossible at this point. Any evidence would be destroyed by the civilian traffic. So far all he had was a truck that looked like it had been shot across the bridge like a missile. The bridge’s wet asphalt sported only a short stretch of skid marks, as if Bobby Eldreth hadn’t realized he was out of control until the last instant. The vehicle must have been traveling at least sixty miles an hour when it went off—far too fast for the gravel road.

  Littlefield’s flashlight settled on the brooding face of Ronnie Day, who squinted back at the sheriff as if accusing him of failing to protect his friend. Then the boy turned and stared down into the rocks where he’d found Darnell Absher’s corpse not too long ago.

  If another dead body turns up and Ronnie’s on the scene, I’m going to start wondering if he’s the problem instead of Larkin McFall.

  Littlefield climbed a muddy path beside the concrete abutment until he was between the bridge and the wreck. The odor of scorched grass, radiator fluid, and gasoline filled the air, competing with the algae stench of the river. The search party had combed a hundred-yard perimeter around the crash site. If Bobby was lying on the ground, dead or alive, he should have been found sometime in the past hour.

  Littlefield was beginning to suspect that Bobby had somehow leaped out of the vehicle as it crossed the bridge and was broken and drowned somewhere in the dark green waters of the Blackburn River.

  Just like Detective Storie, who went under and never came back up. History is repeating itself, and it wasn’t a happy ending the first time around.

  A pick-up truck came rumbling up Highway 321, traveling much too fast given the congestion. It slowed to a screeching stop in the middle of the road, and the driver jumped out, pushing past the officer directing traffic.

  “Where’s my boy?” the man bellowed.

  “Easy, Mr. Eldreth,” Littlefield said, heading toward him. Sherry from Dispatch had tried several times to notify the Eldreth family by phone, and had finally needed to send a patrol car to their trailer. “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “Everything? Then where is he?” Elmer Eldreth spewed venom and beer mist in his panic. When he saw the extent of the wreckage, he wobbled and nearly collapsed, grabbing the bridge railing to steady himself. “Holy hell.”

  “We’re still hopeful, Mr. Eldreth,” Littlefield said, hating the lie even as it left his lips. “I know it looks bad, but—”

  “You ain’t go no kids, Sheriff,” the drunken man said, nearly on the verge of blubbering. “What the hell do you know?”

  Littlefield had no answer. He glanced over at Cindy Baumhower, who stood beside the emergency
vehicles, maintaining a respectful distance. She’d been with him when he’d received the call, and though she’d accompanied him to the scene, she’d stayed on the sidelines as a journalist without Littlefield even having to make the request.

  Littlefield took Elmer’s arm to steady him. “I’ll do everything in my power—”

  Elmer slapped his hand away. “Power? Since when have you ever stopped anybody in this town from dying?”

  Elmer stormed past him, heading for the shattered truck. Littlefield let him go. He was thinking about going over to Cindy, soaking up whatever comfort she had to offer, when he heard the shout from below the bridge.

  “Bobby!”

  It was Ronnie’s voice. Littlefield ran to the abutment, adrenaline flaring up like electricity, and even as he shined his flashlight in the direction of the shout, he absorbed the fact that the boy’s name hadn’t been squealed with anguish or horror, but with surprise and joy.

  Under his big yellow spotlight, Ronnie dragged Bobby from a thicket of Touch-Me-Nots and honeysuckle. To Littlefield’s disbelief, Bobby was actually awake and on his feet, no rips in his sodden clothing, no streaks of blood or protruding bones.

  “Are you okay?” Ronnie yelled, hugging his friend. Littlefield wanted to tell the boy to ease off, that Bobby might have internal injuries, but he didn’t have the heart. In truth, he was in a state of shock as profound as Bobby’s appeared to be.

  “I’m fine,” Bobby said as the EMTs tugged him away from his friend and forced him to sit in the mud. “Don’t wanna get my jeans dirty.”

  Members of the search party gathered on the bridge, chattering with a sense of shared triumph, as more EMTs scrambled down the bank, Littlefield fast behind them.

  The EMTs gave Bobby a quick check before slapping a blood-pressure cuff on his left arm. As one of the techs flashed a penlight into the boy’s pupil, the sheriff bent to make his own examination. He didn’t smell alcohol, and there wasn’t even a scratch on Bobby’s face. It was hard to reconcile the dazed but otherwise whole human being in front of him with the wreck on the opposite site of the bridge. But he remembered how solid Detective Sheila Storie had seemed as a ghost, so he gripped Bobby’s shoulder just to make sure the boy was truly among the living.