McFall Read online

  “Tell that to little Sammie here.”

  Hartley scraped his hoe across the bottom of the wheelbarrow, the noise setting Ronnie’s teeth on edge. He fought off a sudden urge to smash the gravestone with a hammer, as if one blow could obliterate the past, setting the course of history reeling in a different direction. Maybe the boy’s death had fed the legend of the red church, bringing the McFall family back to town again and again.

  Except Larkin is nothing like Archer McFall. Larkin is a different kind of strange. He doesn’t lurk in the dark—he hides in plain sight.

  Ronnie felt a chill pass over him, cooling his sweat. He had figured it for a summer breeze skating over the river on its way to the northeast, but the sky grew dark too. They might have to hurry to beat the coming storm. He didn’t want to work in the rain.

  “Anyway, the dead are gone,” Ronnie said. “And we’d better get this fence finished if we want to get paid.”

  “I always settle accounts,” McFall said from behind them.

  Ronnie turned. Larkin McFall hadn’t been there a minute ago, and the model home was a hundred yards away. How could he have walked that far across the grassy pasture without Ronnie noticing?

  “We were just taking a break,” Bobby said.

  McFall studied them both, and then surveyed the graves. He nodded his approval. “Mr. Hartley can finish the fence. I have something to show you two.”

  McFall walked up the road bed without waiting for a response. Ronnie and Bobby exchanged glances. Bobby shrugged and removed his tool belt. “He’s the boss.”

  No. God’s the boss.

  But Ronnie followed regardless.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Office of the chief medical examiner.”

  “Hello, this is Sheriff Frank Littlefield from Pickett County.” He leaned back in his wooden chair, which gave a squeak of dismay. “I’m just calling to check on the autopsy results for a burn victim we sent your way about seven weeks ago.”

  “Could you please give me the case number?” said the male voice on the phone at the OCME. The voice sounded as weary of death as Littlefield felt.

  He recited the case number from Perry Hoyle’s report, and heard computer keys clacking as he added, “I understand you’re backlogged, and my ME’s been hounding you, but I want to stress the importance of this case. I know we’re not a big city, but—”

  “Buchanan, Cole,” the voice coolly stated. “We emailed autopsy and toxicology screenings to Dr. Hoyle on May 17. He acknowledged receipt and said he would forward the results to the appropriate parties.”

  Littlefield rubbed his temples. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m looking at his return email as we speak. I can forward it to you if you like.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. But could you fax—uh, I mean email—a copy of the report over to my department? Dr. Hoyle’s been away on vacation.”

  Except Hoyle’s vacation had lasted only three days. He’d given Littlefield four pounds of white bass after his fishing trip to Watauga Lake. And he’d returned in time to handle the paperwork for the Summers boy, which had been an open-and-shut case. So why had Hoyle withheld the Buchanan report?

  After ringing off, Littlefield punched up his email account and studiously typed in his username and password. Technology had made law enforcement easier in many ways, but he still resented the drudgery of wading through the avalanche of information. Maybe he’d accidentally deleted Hoyle’s email or moved it into his labyrinth of message folders. But even as low-tech as he was, any mention of “Buchanan” in the subject line would have immediately drawn his attention. “Crispy critter from the red church” would have worked just as well.

  The OCME address popped up on his screen as he watched, and he opened the email. The report was attached as a file, but the text was also copied into the body of the message. Littlefield scanned the data, noting that Buchanan’s blood alcohol level had been one-and-a-half times the legal limit, but he couldn’t make much sense out of all the scientific terminology. The bottom line summed up the report so succinctly that even Littlefield could comprehend it: “Death occurred due to blunt trauma to the skull resulting in acute subdural hematoma, previous to third-degree burns over 90 percent of the body.”

  So Hoyle knew it was murder but didn’t tell me. What possible motive could he have had?

  He thought of Hoyle’s call before his trip. Hadn’t he said something about breaking in a new bass boat? As a physician Hoyle could have easily socked away thirty or forty grand to buy a toy for his retirement years, but the man had been a hip-waders and fly-tying trout fisherman for more than five decades. It seemed like a too-abrupt turnabout for the old coot.

  Still, Littlefield wasn’t ready to confront Hoyle. He couldn’t believe the oversight was a mere lapse in judgment, but he didn’t know what Hoyle had to gain. Who would try to buy off a medical examiner?

  McFall.

  Littlefield rushed out of his office, nearly forgetting his hat in the process. Sherry asked him where the fire was, being her usual nosy self, but Littlefield waved her off. He broke the speed limit heading over to the offices of The Titusville Times, calling Cindy from behind the wheel with the request to meet him behind the building. He didn’t think it was a good idea to be seen frequenting an establishment whose staff influenced public opinion.

  When he climbed out of his Isuzu, Cindy looked around to make sure the coast was clear before leaning in for a kiss. She stopped six inches from his lips. “What’s wrong?”

  “McFall.”

  “I thought you were over that.” She looked like she had forgotten all about the kiss.

  “Did you ever follow up with him about that list of his businesses in El Paso he promised you?”

  “I didn’t see any need.”

  Littlefield glanced around, checking the parking lot for new vehicles. He realized he was wondering what McFall could have bribed her with. “Well, I’m back on it. Cole Buchanan was murdered.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Somebody beat his head in before the red church burned down around him.”

  “But how did his body get in the church without it being discovered?”

  “That’s the question. But the bigger question is ‘Who killed him?’”

  Cindy flexed her fingers as if she couldn’t wait to type up the news. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on McFall when other suspects are staring you right in the face.”

  “Who?”

  “How about the rest of the Three Redneck Musketeers who were going to burn down the church? Maybe Cole wanted to go back and finish the job and they got into a fight.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that either Sonny or Stepford had killed a man, but only if it was over something serious like women or cars. Anyway, if one of them did, why hide his body in the church? And don’t tell me you think they’re sophisticated enough to make a political statement.”

  “Okay, try this,” she said. “Your vic breaks into the church to conduct a little vandalism, takes a drunken tumble, and cracks his skull open. Somehow the firefighters overlook the body. After all, it’s not really the type of thing they’d be looking for.”

  “Yeah, a dead guy in a little church. Hard to miss that, all right.”

  “Damn it, Frank, why do you have to be so stubborn? You were just starting to mellow out, and now the vein in your temple looks like a marble is rolling through it.”

  Littlefield wasn’t sure what was worse—her preference for him when he was dull and sedated, or the diminishment of her legendary inquisitiveness. Maybe she just wasn’t seeing the gravity of the situation. “I’ve been letting these slide as accidental deaths. Three in less than two months. Not to mention the Eldreth boy’s near-miss. But now I’ve got an investigation on my hands.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I won’t expect you for dinner as often.”

  “Cindy, you know this means that I need you to get information from McFall and his wi
fe.”

  Cindy’s eyes narrowed, and he noticed the creases around them for the first time. When sleeping, she looked like a teenager, but the years were crawling in. “Do I get to run a story on the autopsy results?”

  “Not until I officially open the investigation.”

  “What if I run it anyway, citing an ‘unidentified source close to the sheriff’s office’?” Or just file a public record request with the OCME?”

  Littlefield shook his head. Now it felt like marbles were rolling through his veins. “Get me the info, and you’ll get your story.”

  She waved him away and went through the back door. She didn’t lean in for a kiss this time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Heather wasn’t overly impressed with the receptionist, although she couldn’t help but wonder if the pretty blonde doubled as Larkin’s mistress. Then again, maybe she was just sizing up the competition. She liked to think she was too strong to be seduced by Larkin McFall’s power, but over the past weeks she had found herself waking up in the middle of the night again and again, trembling from dreams about his touch. And there were other fantasies, about everything the two of them could accomplish if they combined the strength of their personalities. She knew there was something off about him, but she felt powerless to resist his draw. So when he called to ask her to visit his downtown office, it had seemed inevitable.

  When Heather first walked into the office, the receptionist was staring at the wall, her expression vacuous, like a balloon waiting for the first puff of helium. Heather initially assumed she was looking at the decorative photograph, a rural landscape taken by Heather’s nemesis, Bill Willard. But her gaze was focused dead ahead, directly at the oak paneling. As Heather closed the door behind her, the woman smiled and her eyes grew animated.

  “McFall Meadows, how may I help you?” she said, as if she were answering the phone.

  “Is Mr. McFall in?”

  “Mr. McFall? Do you mean Larkin?” The smile remained firmly in place.

  “Yes. I’m Heather Fowler, with the county board of commissioners, and he invited me to drop by and discuss his developments.”

  “We will have a wide range of units available, from family homes to more modest condominiums. Our first model will be available for walkthroughs in August, but I’m more than happy to show you floor plans and concepts.” She tapped a stack of glossy brochures that had been arranged neatly beside the telephone on the otherwise empty desk.

  “No, I’m not looking to buy,” Heather said. “I’m a commissioner.”

  The smile was white and stiff. “I’m sorry, we aren’t looking for brokers. We won’t be doing commission sales.”

  Heather wondered if the woman was really that dumb, or if her front was designed to ward off potential headaches for her boss. The receptionist’s elegant left hand bore a gold band with a diamond big enough for industrial use. Her eyes were blue as a California swimming pool, and deep as a teaspoon. The top button of her blouse had been left tastefully undone so that lesser folks than Heather might wonder about what mysteries lay beneath.

  “You understand I am with the county government, right?” Heather asked. “I reviewed Mr. McFall’s project with the planning board.”

  “Ah, yes. So you’re that woman. My husband told me about you.”

  Now Heather understood. Or maybe she was suffering a built-in cultural resentment to thin, attractive blondes who seemed to marry far more wisely than their intelligence deserved. Heather put on her campaign face and smiled back. “And what did he say?”

  Mrs. McFall rolled her eyes upward as if reading from a cue card stuck to the ceiling. “I believe he called you a refreshing challenge, a champion of the county that he was very much looking forward to partnering with.”

  So many words for such a tiny mind.

  “Pickett County welcomes the opportunity for mutually beneficial growth,” Heather said. “Of course, it’s important that we do things the right way. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry, you missed Larkin. He’s been so busy I can barely keep up with him.”

  “It’s okay, I was just driving by on my way to the library.”

  “Hold on a sec. I think he left something for you.” The woman bent down and opened a drawer. She pulled out a folder, stood, straightened her skirt, and circled the desk. Heather couldn’t help but compare herself to the blonde. Heather’s figure was better, but Mrs. McFall had that cool, icy beauty that drove some men into a senseless frenzy. She would have expected Larkin McFall to go for someone a little more dynamic.

  Like me? But do I really want this? Do I want to be his queen because I’d be a benevolent ruler?

  Heather took the proffered folder and saw her name written across the top. “Thank you, Mrs. McFall. Tell your husband I’ll call to make an appointment.”

  “Please, call me Cassie. We’re part of the same community now.” The woman was already back at her desk, patting the immaculate brochures into a neat stack.

  Heather peeked through the window after the door had closed. Cassie McFall was once again staring at the wall. Her face had gone slack, and her eyes were as dull as if someone had switched off lamps behind them. As if the plug had been pulled on a robot. A chill shot up Heather’s spine, but she shook it off, chalking up the woman’s behavior to airheadedness.

  In her car, Heather opened the folder and looked upon a survey map of McFall’s combined properties, which seemed to have grown substantially since she’d encountered him in the deed office. The cluster of parcels now extended along a half-mile of river frontage and bordered a swath of Jefferson National Forest. A handwritten note in the corner of the page read “Six down, three to go.”

  She noted the names of the original owners of the new parcels: Absher, Matheson, Gregg, Buchanan Heirs, Potter, Eggers. The remaining parcels adjoining the McFall land were owned by Day, Ward, and Littlefield.

  The sheriff?

  The next document was a topographic photo of the McFall Meadows project. She was shocked to see how much had already been done. An uneven, red ellipse had been drawn around the peak of the ridge, and the words “Fowler Park” were scribbled in the same handwriting as the note on the first page. A dotted line between the project and the former Matheson property led from the “park” to the highway and was dubbed “Twin Coyote Trail.” A little rectangle along the river was labeled “Sewage plant #1?”

  Jeez, is he planning more of them?

  The final page in the folder was a personal note to her from Larkin McFall.

  Dear Heather,

  I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I so admire your passion, strength, and unwavering commitment to what is best for Pickett County. I want my project to be something you and I work on together—something in which we can both take pride.

  I believe we share a common vision. And a common future. Let’s shape it together.

  With warmest regards,

  Larkin McFall

  Really? You think you can buy me off that cheaply? Or charm me with your “regards”?

  She dug in her purse, found a permanent black marker, and flipped back to the topo map. She scrawled a giant X across the sewage plant. Then, grinning, she drew a wider circle around the makeshift perimeter of the park.

  She turned to the first page, which featured the company’s letterhead. Between Larkin’s name and the office address was a line reading “Cassandra McFall, Vice President.” Heather raked the tip of the marker through the words.

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bobby climbed out of the Silverado and waited at the front of the truck for McFall and Ronnie to join him. The gravel road had dwindled to a set of red, muddy ruts before ending in a wooded glen in which were situated several buildings. A couple of the ramshackle structures were animal sheds but the largest might once have been a house. McFall looked out of place in his long sleeves and tie.

  “You guys know I’ve been expanding the
project, right?” McFall said. “Well, this is the latest acquisition.”

  “Cool,” Bobby said. “But why did you bring us? It looks to me like a job for Wally’s bulldozer.”

  McFall gave him that distant smile that increasingly resembled the cool equanimity of a reptile. “We have to help the current resident relocate.”

  Bobby couldn’t believe anyone lived in the house—well, more like an overgrown shack—that stood before them. This end of Pickett County was notoriously poor and barely a generation past moonshine and felony charges as its primary exports. But even the rundown Eldreth mobile home was a palace compared to this relic. Warped gray siding boards peeled away from the framing, and several windows were broken. Another window was covered with tarpaper, and the rusty tin roof was pocked with holes. A squirrel scrambled across the crumbling stone chimney as they watched, then slipped into the attic via a crack beneath the eaves.

  “What a dump,” Ronnie said.

  “That’s not a very nice way to talk about your neighbors, Ronnie,” McFall said.

  Ronnie lowered his head. “We never came over here. Dad told us to stay away from the Buchanans.”

  “Just like he told you to stay away from the red church?”

  Bobby didn’t know what was going on between them, but he was irritated. He was the boss of this crew. Well, not of McFall, but certainly of Ronnie. The way this worked was McFall gave orders to Bobby and Bobby passed them down to Ronnie. That’s why Bobby was making two bucks an hour more and drove a new Silverado. And it was why he was McFall’s Golden Boy instead of Ronnie.

  “So, what do you want us to do?” Bobby said, hiding his impatience.

  “Follow me.” McFall headed toward the house, stepping carefully in his polished Ralph Lauren wingtips.

  Ronnie and Bobby shared a look, and Ronnie shrugged. They trailed after McFall and climbed the rickety steps onto the porch, which was little more than a series of leaning locust posts supporting three sagging sheets of tin. Bobby wondered if the floor would hold their combined weight.