McFall Read online

  Cindy slapped the notebook closed. “Off the record?”

  Littlefield sighed, feeling weariness sink deep into his bones. “Yeah.”

  “This McFall guy who came back to town. You know anything about him?”

  “I ran a background check on him. Nothing turned up.”

  “I think we need to join forces on this one,” Cindy said, with an enthusiasm that made him cringe inwardly. “I heard a rumor that he rented a condo for the summer and joined the Chamber of Commerce.”

  Littlefield didn’t like the sound of that. “Staying a while?”

  “I saw him walking out of the Gunter & Extine law offices, and they mostly handle property cases.”

  “As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any claim on the McFall property, although a couple of hundred acres are just sitting there waiting for someone to make a move. Wouldn’t take much to buy off the other heirs. There are a lot of them, but they’d fold cheap … the land’s worthless to them while the ownership is divided up. Besides, who’d want to live there after … after everything that never happened?”

  “If this Larkin McFall is a developer, he picked a good time to hit the High Country,” Cindy said. “The banks are practically giving away money, at least to rich people, and land prices are rock bottom.”

  “Do some digging for me,” Littlefield said.

  “I’m not on the county payroll.”

  He grinned. “Maybe I can slip you some contraband in trade.”

  Cindy puckered again and leaned her face close. She smelled of spring flowers, all ripe and faintly sweet. Littlefield glanced at the door to make sure no one was looking, and then gave her a kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tighter, and he let himself sink into her inviting breasts. After half a minute, he came up for air. “Payment enough?”

  “For now,” she said.

  “I’m off duty in exactly two minutes. Why don’t you meet me out front?”

  “You want to do it in the street?”

  His grin swelled into a smile. She had a way of knocking back some of the years, making him feel young again. And not completely hopeless. “I thought we’d go for a ride. Out near where the body was found. I sent a deputy to patrol the area but this is a job I’d best handle myself.”

  “Ooh, Sheriff, you’re so romantic.”

  “Just don’t bring up Detective Storie anymore. It’s not like I’ve forgotten.”

  Cindy must have sensed there was more to Storie’s death than even she’d been able to dig up. Littlefield hadn’t exactly taken a romantic interest in his late deputy, but she hadn’t been like a kid sister, either. Their relationship had been one of an uneasy mutual respect. In that way, Cindy was like Storie—they were both more than willing to call Littlefield on his bullshit.

  And they had to do it way too often.

  But Cindy was on the periphery of the strange events that plagued Pickett County. Littlefield was in the heart of it. From his high school days, when his brother had died at the red church during a prank, all the way up to Absher’s death, he seemed to be around whenever tragedy struck. He could fool himself into believing it was just a function of his job, but the Littlefields had been mountain lore for generations, right along with the Potters, Abshers, Mathesons, Aldridges, and McFalls. The “old families” had seen their share of horrors and suffered plenty of ills. In Littlefield’s long experience in law enforcement, he’d come to believe that the simplest explanation was often the right one.

  And his explanation was one name: McFall.

  “We’ll take my car,” Cindy said. “I can bill for travel mileage and you won’t get in trouble for having a civilian in your patrol vehicle.”

  “Go on, then. And don’t smile too big if Sherry asks how the interview went.”

  “I’ll tell her she can read about it in the paper like everybody else.”

  “Heck, she always knows more than me anyway.”

  After Cindy had left, Littlefield put on his hat and called Perriotte on the radio. His deputy reported that the Days were home and Little Church Road was quiet.

  “Deader than a mule’s balls out here,” in Perriotte’s words.

  “Okay. Head on over to Green Valley, then. We’ve had a couple of break-ins lately and a show of force will boost civilian morale.”

  “Ten-four, Sheriff.”

  Littlefield got past Sherry without any teasing, and then drove his Isuzu Trooper around the block, followed by Cindy in her Toyota Prius. He parked in the employee lot behind the county courthouse and climbed into the passenger seat of her car. He was amazed at the quiet ride of the hybrid engine when it switched from gasoline to electrical power. He’d accused Cindy of being a “save-the-world sucker” when she’d purchased the car, but she was getting nearly fifty miles to the gallon while Littlefield seemed to drive from station to station.

  As they cruised down the streets of Titusville, Littlefield was struck anew by how hard the recession had hit the town. A third of the storefronts were dark, a couple of them boarded up. The Chamber of Commerce had blamed the Wal-Mart built out on the commercial strip near the interstate for the decline in local businesses, but a general malaise had settled over the national economy and only bankers seemed immune. Everybody was biding their time until an opportunity came along, but no one wanted to make the first move.

  “Starting to look like Deadsville,” Littlefield said.

  “Ad sales are way down,” Cindy said. “We may have to let one of our reporters go.”

  “You’ve only got three, and I know you can’t drop local sports. That’s half your readership.”

  “I’ll just have to work longer hours.”

  “You’re practically married to the Times as it is.”

  “Nobody else is asking me to the altar,” Cindy said, without taking her eyes from the street ahead.

  Littlefield let that one pass. “If Larkin McFall is planning to invest here, he’d get a warm reception.”

  “People will look past his family name to his money.”

  “That’s what I’d like you to check out for me. If he’s got as much money as everyone is assuming—including me—then there has to be a track record somewhere. Business dealings, deed stamps, articles of incorporation.”

  “Good thing he’s not a preacher. You can never penetrate those non-profit and privacy walls.”

  “Good thing he’s not a preacher for other reasons, too.”

  Several of the McFalls had been preachers, and this had led to the legend of the red church. Ezekiel McFall had been a horseback missionary preacher in the early 1800s, and people still claimed to hear hoofbeats in the dead of night. His grandson, the Reverend Wendell McFall, lived on in ghostly legend following a scandal during the Civil War. He had hanged himself with the bell rope from the ugly, monstrous dogwood at the edge of the graveyard. In the years since, there had been several sightings of his ghost dangling there in the mist, and though the bell rope had never been replaced, a soft clanging sometimes resonated across the valley on Sunday mornings. The church had stood abandoned for decades until a local man started using it as a storage barn. He painted it red, a color that conveyed far too much symbolism.

  When Preacher Archer McFall had returned to the area five years ago, he began holding services at the church, drawing all the old families into his congregation with an undeniable charisma that scarcely veiled his malevolence. His sinister revival had coincided with the “six weeks of hell,” which Littlefield knew to be no coincidence at all. As a “missing person,” Archer had never officially been linked to foul play. Never mind that Littlefield himself had watched as the man’s resurrected body led a flock of ghostly followers from the cemetery into the river on a misty autumn night.

  Not that he’d ever testify to such a thing, even if he were standing before the throne of the Almighty. Small chance of that happening—he’d sloughed off a thin skin of faith long ago, as the body count mounted with no sign of divine intervention.

>   As they left the outskirts of Titusville and exited onto the river road, Littlefield realized the past had come full circle: He was once again riding shotgun into the unknown.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You okay, Ronnie?”

  Ronnie turned away from the dark window. His brother Tim was a straight-A student in the eighth grade at Barkersville Elementary, but he was pretty stupid about a lot of things. Ronnie couldn’t be too hard on him, though. At that age, his own head was a whirlwind, tackling stuff like God and Jesus and Melanie Ward and algebra all at the same time.

  Life was a little simpler now at eighteen. All he had to worry about was Melanie.

  And the dead guy he’d found under the bridge.

  “I’m fine,” he answered.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Jeez, you’re starting to sound like Mom.”

  “You can tell me. I understand better than anybody … about what you’re looking for out there.” Tim almost seemed to be taunting him, blue eyes bright behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m not looking for anything.”

  “You’re looking for ghosts.”

  Ronnie didn’t try to laugh it off by claiming ghosts weren’t real. They both knew better. They’d been believers since their mother tried to lure them into Archer McFall’s congregation. Archer had changed into some kind of monster in front of their eyes, and somebody had shot him right outside the red church … but it was like Archer had wanted it to happen, like he’d come back to Pickett County to fulfill some sick messiah complex. Creepiest of all, he had risen from the dead, taking his ghostly congregation with him. Sure, Sheriff Littlefield had covered it all up by claiming the church members had been suffering from drug-induced hallucinations, but Ronnie’s memories were still horribly fresh, like a shovelful of dirt turned on an old grave.

  “No,” Ronnie said. “They’re all gone. They washed away in the river, just like the legend says.”

  “But ghosts can’t just be gone. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Forget it.” Ronnie moved from the window to where Tim sat at the desk in their bedroom, doodling on a sheet of lined notebook paper. He was drawing a vampire-zombie mash-up, with a fanged, bloody mouth and a balloon caption saying, “Smile! God loves you.”

  “And I thought I was the morbid one in the family,” Ronnie said.

  “No, you just happen to find all the dead bodies.”

  “This was an accident. Darnell Absher doesn’t have anything to do with the past.”

  “Come on, Ronnie. I’m not a little kid anymore,” Tim said, capping off his drawing by putting sunglasses on the creature. “You don’t have to bullshit me.”

  “You’re still too much of a kid to say ‘bullshit.’ Mom will blister your hind end for that.”

  “I’m too big to get spanked.”

  “Oh, yeah? I dare you to say that to Dad.”

  Dad was working late again and hadn’t been around much. The hard winter had shut down construction, and now he needed to make up for lost time. Which doubly sucked, because Dad had started an addition to the house so Ronnie could finally have his own bedroom. The project was a few years behind schedule, but better late than never, especially since Ronnie would be living at home for his freshman year at Westridge University.

  “I wish Dad would let us move,” Tim said. “I don’t want to waste my life out here in the sticks.”

  “We can barely afford to live here. Dad would be real lucky to sell this place even if he wanted. Besides, nobody’s building houses anywhere. He’d never find another job.”

  “Well, first chance I get, I’m headed where the land is flat and the sun shines once in a while.”

  It was a corny move, but Ronnie reached out and fluffed Tim’s hair. The dirty-blond strands stood up in feathery spikes. His brother shook his head in dismay and rubbed his hand over his scalp to smooth it down. Then he glanced at his reflection in the window. He froze, mouth agape.

  “What?” Ronnie asked. He wasn’t going to fall for that one.

  “Don’t you see it?”

  “Yeah, right. A whole crowd of ghosts drifting across the garden. Or is it the Hung Preacher, climbing out of his noose to punish the sinners?”

  Tim’s voice fell to a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  If the dork was acting, he was giving an Academy Award-worthy performance. His face actually went paler, which was difficult to fake since he’d hardly seen any sun since October. Ronnie moved over to the window again, blocking Tim’s view.

  On the rise beyond the barn, where the pasture gave way to forest, a series of lights bobbed among the dark trees. In the middle of summer, fireflies illuminated the woods by the thousands, but the weather was too cold for them now. Plus these lights moved in a concentrated pattern, drifting slowly across the ridge. Ronnie could only imagine them as torches, and in his mind they were carried by stooped things in sodden gray robes, faces hidden by heavy hoods.

  “It’s nothing,” he said out loud. “Probably just headlights coming up the road on the other side of the hill.”

  “Those don’t look like any headlights I’ve ever seen,” Tim said.

  Ronnie drew the curtains and turned away from the window, keeping his movements casual. “I don’t care. You need to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

  “What if the ghosts are back?”

  “Answer me this, genius. Why would ghosts need to carry a light? Can’t they see in the dark?”

  “Because they’re scared of something,” Tim said.

  “Let it go.”

  “You can’t treat me like a baby anymore. You don’t have to protect me.” His defiance hinted at the young adult he was on the verge of becoming. Ronnie wasn’t ready for Tim to grow up. This was Dingle Dork, the Runt, the kid whose glasses fell off every time he jumped the garden fence.

  “I don’t have to protect you from things that don’t exist.” Ronnie swooped down and yanked Tim’s cartoon from the desk. “Most boys your age have outgrown vampires and zombies.”

  “Give that back.” Tim snatched for the paper but Ronnie held it higher, out of reach. Ronnie was only slightly above average height, but Tim hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt. He was still a runt.

  Tim rose from his chair with sudden fury, catching Ronnie off-guard. The backs of his knees knocked against the railing of Tim’s bed and he lost his balance. He landed on his back, his skull banging lightly against the wall. Tim clawed on top of him, reaching for the drawing.

  “Okay, okay, demonspawn,” Ronnie said, relenting. “Here.”

  Tim snatched the notebook paper away and clutched it to his chest as if it were a treasure map. He retreated to the foot of the bed, huffing in anger. All Ronnie had wanted to do was distract Tim from his obsession with old legends, and on that count he’d succeeded. But the little runt had scratched his cheek with a fingernail, and the wound stung something fierce.

  Ronnie rubbed at his face. “You drew blood.”

  Tim calmed down just a little and managed a joke. “McFall needed a sacrifice.”

  “Be glad I’m in a good mood, or I’d pin you down and give you an Eskimo sunburn. Now go brush your teeth before Mom gets home.”

  Tim opened the middle drawer on the desk and slid the now-rumpled page onto a stack of similar pieces of artwork. They shared the desk, and Ronnie got the top drawer because he was oldest, but he didn’t leave anything in it but schoolwork. He didn’t trust Tim with his private stuff. Anything really important, he either hid in a dried-up old paint can in the tool shed or left in his locker at school.

  The noise of a rusty muffler rumbled up the driveway. “Mom,” Tim said, without emotion, and headed to the bathroom.

  When the door closed down the hall, Ronnie eased open the middle drawer. He turned over the drawing of the monster cartoon and saw the name “Brandi Matheson.” He grinned. That explained a lot. Not only was the runt getting those weird hormones raging through his system, he was sweet on a
girl. Ronnie understood. He’d done the same thing with Melanie Ward, slipping her jokes and drawings and poetry before finally summoning the nerve to ask her out. He returned the drawing and went down the hall into the kitchen.

  Linda Day was unpacking a paper bag of groceries, store brands of basics like potatoes, macaroni and cheese, tuna fish, and milk. Ronnie couldn’t wait until he started his summer job, mowing lawns for Mac McAllister’s rental properties. He needed to save for college, but since he’d be staying at home for at least one more year, he felt a responsibility to take on some of the bills.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, grabbing the cardboard suitcase of beer she’d brought for Dad and sticking it in the refrigerator.

  She didn’t bother with a greeting. “The sheriff asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?” Ronnie turned his back on her, stacking cans of pinto beans in the cupboard.

  “That you didn’t have anything else to say.”

  “They’ve been saying that Darnell fell off the bridge.”

  “The sheriff probably thinks it’s weird that you found another body.” Linda popped a Diet Sprite, a drink she wouldn’t let her sons have because it was too unhealthy.

  “It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Ronnie said. “I was just out at the bridge with the guys. It could have been any of us.”

  “Bobby Eldreth told the sheriff that a man in a car drove up just before you jumped.”

  Ronnie didn’t want to think about the driver’s burning red eyes. Just his imagination, that’s all … or so he’d been telling himself. The last thing Ronnie needed was to believe in another impossible thing. He still had faith in Jesus, even though he had to hide it—he was already considered pretty weird by his classmates, and anything else that pushed him to the fringe was best kept a secret. “Just some rich guy from the Riverview development. He drove off. It didn’t have anything to do with the body.”

  “Well, you know how the sheriff is. He likes to turn everything into a big conspiracy. Those Littlefields have been kooky since way back. A man like that should never have been put in a position of authority.”