McFall Page 7
“Came to do what should have been done years ago,” Stepford said. “Burn the damn place down.”
“There won’t be any vandalism or arson on my watch.”
“Then why don’t you get gone?” Sonny said. “This isn’t your fight. We got old scores to settle.”
“We live by the rule of law here in Pickett County. Throw those torches down in the grass.” Littlefield tried to imply that he had a gun, but he didn’t want to look foolish if they challenged him. His only weapons were his brains and his mouth, and neither was as reliable as it once had been.
“We heard a McFall came back to town,” Cole Buchanan said.
“He doesn’t have anything to do with what happened before,” Littlefield said. “He didn’t even grow up around here. He’s a McFall in name only.”
“But as soon as he comes to town people start dying,” Sonny said. “Sounds like a McFall to me.”
“What are you doing in these parts, anyway?” Stepford asked, but Littlefield wouldn’t allow him to turn the conversation.
“Drop the torches and go on home, and we’ll forget about the trespassing and property damage.”
“That church needs to burn in hell, along with all the McFalls,” Cole said.
Cindy could keep quiet no longer. “Is it worth more jail time?”
“Who are you, Robin the Boy Wonder?” Cole said, snickering as he looked at something beyond the sheriff.
Littlefield was so focused on the showdown that he’d forgotten the extra light coming from the woods until it pinned him in its blinding circle. My damned reflexes are giving out. I hope none of these guys have a gun, or I’m screwed.
“Who’s there?” Littlefield said, squinting.
“What’s going on?” said a boy.
“Just a brat,” Cole said. “The whole damn county’s popping up out of nowhere tonight.”
Sonny slammed his torch against the ground, snuffing it out in the damp weeds. He slung the wooden hilt toward the church, and it landed with a bang against the siding. “Hell with it,” he said. “Let more people die, Sheriff. See if I give a shit.”
Stepford doused his torch, too. Cole took two steps toward the building, and Littlefield braced to tackle him. The church was all pine, maple, and cobwebs—if the man’s torch made contact, the whole thing would be ash within an hour.
Then Cole turned and flung his torch into the graveyard, where it tumbled end over end three times like some circus trick before bouncing off a granite marker and going dark. As the three men seeped back into the shadows of the forest, Littlefield turned to the boy who was holding the flashlight.
“Tim Day,” he said, finally recognizing the hidden silhouette. “What are you doing out here?”
“I saw the torches. Thought it might be some creepy cult meeting or something.”
You’re one weird kid. But you live next to the red church. That would warp anybody’s mind after a while.
“Don’t tell anybody what happened, okay?” Cindy said to the boy. “These men were grief-stricken. People do crazy things under stress, and we should try to have compassion for them.”
Footsteps pounded in the dark, accompanied by the sounds of wet grass slapping at cloth and hard breathing. “Tim!”
Tim’s flashlight swung around to spotlight Ronnie Day. The sheriff glanced at the church belfry. Just like old times.
“Jesus, Sheriff, did Tim do anything stupid?” Ronnie said.
“No,” the sheriff said, “but he seems to have appointed himself to the community watch.”
“You dork,” Ronnie said to his brother. “I scratched myself to pieces running through the woods in the dark.”
“You didn’t believe me,” Tim said. “They were here, weren’t they, Sheriff? I knew those lights weren’t from ghosts.”
“No, they weren’t ghosts,” Littlefield responded. He almost added the automatic “Ghosts aren’t real,” but that was pointless. These two kids knew the whole truth—they’d seen what had happened at the red church.
“We can give you a ride home,” Cindy said. “We’re headed that way anyway.”
Ronnie snatched the flashlight from Tim’s hand. “Sure, thanks. But drop us off at the road so we can sneak back into the house. Mom and Dad would kill this little runt if they knew he was sneaking out to the church in the middle of the night.”
Littlefield wondered if Ronnie had caught the irony of his own words. The kids’ mother had put them in danger because of the church. Because of a McFall. He hoped to hell things weren’t coming full circle.
As they negotiated the tombstones to return to Cindy’s car, Ronnie paused once more to play the light along the church steeple.
Making sure that the ghosts and monsters haven’t come out to play.
Littlefield declined to look. If you didn’t see it, it didn’t exist. That was another type of faith. One that even he could get behind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Larkin McFall burned the church on a fine Thursday afternoon.
The Barkersville Volunteer Fire Department had been invited to use the structure for a controlled burn, and it was a grand affair. The chief, Fred Smoot, started the fire in the belfry so the department could employ its new $800,000 ladder truck. Larkin found it amusing that a rural fire department had a five-story ladder, but it made for a good show and, besides, the taxpayers had funded it. He wrote out a check for a $10,000 departmental donation anyway, and Smoot, in full hazard gear, posed with him for the obligatory grip-and-grin photograph that would appear in the next edition of The Titusville Times.
The Times editor, Cindy Baumhower, introduced herself before taking the photograph with her digital camera. Larkin could read all the questions in her eyes, but Smoot pulled her away to snap some shots for the department’s newsletter before she had a chance to ask any of them.
As the church continued to blaze, the hired help was serving up the catered barbecue that had been supplied by Larkin. A few dozen neighbors had stopped by the side of the road to gawk, so he waved them over to join the festivities.
“Just be sure to keep a safe distance, okay?” he said as he welcomed them. “Wouldn’t want my insurance rates to skyrocket.”
That drew a hearty laugh from Gunter, Larkin’s property attorney, who was on his second helping of roasted pig. Mac McAllister was there too, taking advantage of the opportunity to distribute coupons for ten percent off the rental price of bowling shoes. County attorney Baldemar Francisco was the only person in attendance wearing a jacket and tie.
Cindy, now finished with Smoot, made a direct line for Larkin across the graveyard. Most of the guests had steered clear of the headstones, even though the last corpse had been interred decades ago. Larkin was impressed by the journalist’s refusal to observe proper boundaries.
“Do you have time for a brief interview?” she asked him.
Larkin looked at the church, which was nothing more than a blackened skeleton of joists and timbers around a boiling sea of orange. Steam rose as the firefighters used their hoses to confine the blaze to the church’s stone foundation.
“Anything to serve the community and the Fourth Estate,” Larkin said.
“We’re not an estate anymore,” Cindy said. “We sold out to the highest bidder.”
Larkin liked her. There wasn’t a bit of backdown in her. He’d enjoy her as either an ally or an enemy. “I wish more people were passionate about being informed,” Larkin said. “Great evils are perpetrated when no one cares.”
“Really, Mr. McFall, this is a controlled burn, not the rise of a New World Order.”
Larkin laughed. “So true, ma’am.”
“Call me Cindy.”
“Only if you’ll call me Larkin.”
“Only when I’m off the clock, Mr. McFall. Otherwise, it might be seen as chummy favoritism. A newspaper’s only as credible as its reputation.”
“Fine. I understand there will be some natural curiosity about a newcomer planning an expensive development here.”
“As you probably know, it’s a family estate that has been passed down for generations. But the local McFalls are gone, and I’d like them to be remembered.”
“You’re aware of controversy surrounding your family?”
Larkin nodded. A lesser man—a lesser character—might have downplayed her question by evading it with humor or hinting that only crackpots who babbled about Bigfoot and aliens taking over the White House believed in ghosts. Instead, he said, “I realize my family has a bit of a colorful history. But that’s true of all of the old settler families in the Appalachian Mountains. Instead of burying the past, we should honor and recognize it, even as we move firmly into the future.”
“So you see your development of the traditional family property as a progressive act?” Cindy’s brown eyes sparkled just a little, and Larkin realized she was enjoying their intellectual joust.
“I don’t want to get caught up in labels,” he answered. “I’d just like for this beautiful mountain to be a home to as many fine and deserving families as possible. That’s the best legacy the McFalls can leave.”
“Aren’t you taking a big financial risk, given the economy and the state of the local housing market?”
“Offer people something of worth, and they’ll be willing to pay a fair price,” Larkin said. “Money isn’t the only currency.”
“There she goes!” someone shouted, and a murmur went through the crowd. The flaming framework of the church gave a great shudder and collapsed, sending a volcanic geyser of smoke and sparks into the air. The firefighters, displaying their skill, tracked down any stray sparks that threatened to ignite the grass, then returned to hosing the perimeter.
Larkin looked down at the mouth of the driveway, where Sheriff Frank Littlefield leaned against one of the stone pillars, watching the proceedings from behind dark sunglasses, arms folded across his chest.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. McFall,” Cindy said.
“Make me sound good, okay?” He winked.
“I can only write down what you say. It’s not my place to judge.”
She walked past the tables of food and the vehicles lining the driveway, heading toward the sheriff. Larkin wondered whether she would give him a full report or make him wait until the next edition hit the street. Right now, he had other … interests.
Larkin walked over to the table where Melanie Ward was serving up platters of barbecue, with slaw, baked beans, and seven choices of soda. He’d hired her for the evening, along with several of the cooks from 24/7 Waffle. A male teenager was helping her by stacking napkins and pulling canned sodas from cartons and putting them in an ice cooler.
Ah, the things we do for love. How endearing.
Larkin recognized the kid from the bridge, but he’d always known him. Always.
“Would you like anything, Mr. McFall?” Melanie asked him.
“No, thank you. I just wanted to say hello to your helper here.”
Ronnie Day glared at him, and then flicked his eyes to the crumbling remains of the church. “Howdy,” he said brusquely.
“Oh, do ya’ll know each other?” Melanie asked.
“We’ve met,” Larkin said. To Ronnie, he added, “I wish I had stayed around when you dove off the bridge. If I had known—”
“Gosh,” Melanie said. “That was terrible. Ronnie’s had the worst luck with things like that. It’s almost like he’s cursed.”
The kid pressed his lips together in annoyed embarrassment, then turned to Larkin. “Like you said, you didn’t know.”
“Must be strange to see the church go down,” Larkin said. “Growing up right next to it all these years.”
“I’m glad it’s gone,” Ronnie said. “It was creepy and ugly.”
Melanie gaped at him in mild shock. “It was a cute little country church, Ronnie. If they had painted it white again.…”
“I considered giving it to the local historical society for preservation, but I fear it would have placed a tremendous financial burden on them,” Larkin said. “It was falling down and was a safety hazard. Many, many parishioners found peace and comfort here over the years, but as the Good Book says, ‘All things must pass.’”
“No,” Ronnie said. “That was George Harrison. The Bible says ‘For all these things must come to pass, for the end is not yet.’”
Larkin was impressed. Perhaps Archer’s use of religion as a weapon hadn’t been foolhardy after all. He was reminded that he couldn’t be consumed by hubris—each McFall had his own special gifts and talents.
“Well, we’ll still be neighbors, Ronnie,” Larkin said. “I’m thinking of building a house right on top of the ridge for me and my wife. Near the old Mama Bet homestead. The view up there is spectacular.”
And I’ll be able to look down on your valley, and all the valleys. I’ll look down on the Days, Abshers, Buchanans, Potters, Mathesons, Greggs. All of the old families.
Mac McAllister came to the table, dumped his soggy paper plate into the trash, and asked Melanie for another barbecue sandwich. “Mighty fine party you threw here, Larkin.”
“I’m pleased with the county’s support of this project, Mac. I appreciate your personal help, too.”
Mac beamed with pride. “What’s good for business is good for the people of Pickett County.”
A faint breeze arose, sending damp smoke across Larkin’s face. Ronnie coughed and Melanie turned away. The fire department started packing up its gear. The church was now a heap of gray ash and black embers.
“I hate to see history go, but property values will improve now that the old church has been cleared away,” Mac said, taking a sandwich from Melanie. “Once you get your white fence around the graveyard, pavement on the driveway, and a little bit of landscaping around the entrance, why, you’ll be selling lots left and right.”
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I’m eyeing some more property around these parts,” Larkin said. “I would hate to compete with places like Riverview, though. I know many of our local leaders have a partnership there.”
“We’re always looking for new partners. Doesn’t matter how many ways you slice it when there’s plenty of pie to go around.” Mac grinned at Melanie and gave Ronnie a friendly punch on the arm. “Ain’t that right, Ronnie-O?”
“What’s Dex up to tonight?” Ronnie asked, rubbing his bicep.
“Left him in charge of the bowling alley. Good to get some management skills at his age. You’re still planning to work for us this summer, right? Mowing grass?”
“Sure,” Ronnie said. “At my age, it’s important to develop those kinds of skills.”
Not realizing he’d been served a sarcastic remark, Mac said, “Yeah, I hope Dex doesn’t waste too much time with that rock band. Fun is fun, but a point comes when you just have to grow up.”
“I like their band,” Melanie said. “They’re good.”
“You like Bobby, you mean. Don’t blame you. Sometimes I wish he was my kid. Good-looking, a hell of a jock, a guy who’s going places. If I were you, I’d nail him down before he heads off to college and all those co-eds get their hands on him.”
Both teens reacted to that statement, Larkin noticed—while Melanie was blushing, Ronnie was trembling with suppressed anger. He filed that information away. He didn’t have to be Archer McFall in order to exploit each of the seven deadly sins. Why stick to just greed when other opportunities were ripe for the harvest?
After all, like he’d said to the journalist, money wasn’t the only currency.
Mac seemed to recognize someone in the group of people gathered around the heap of ashes. He mumbled an “Excuse me” and took a bite of his sandwich as he walked away. The firefighters were preparing to roll the department’s ladder and pumper trucks off the premises. Sheriff Littlefield began directing traffic and waving drivers to the side of the road to c
lear a path.
Then someone screamed. A woman standing near the blackened stone foundation of the church pointed into the heap of smoldering embers.
Littlefield broke into a sprint, followed by several firefighters, who were slowed by their bulky turnout gear. A young boy pointed into the heap of smoking ruins as well, his eyes wide, and the people who had been dispersing suddenly formed a crowd, surging forward with single-minded purpose.
Larkin fell in behind Littlefield, his leather oxford shoes slipping in the drenched grass. Bits of words became audible from the murmuring crowd.
“What is it?”
“A hand?”
“Oh my sweet Jesus.”
By the time Larkin reached the scene, Sheriff Littlefield had yanked a shovel from one of the firefighters and was digging in the steaming gray pile. He levered the handle against a pile of river rocks and up popped a black length of gristle with ivory-colored bones showing through here and there.
“Get back,” Littlefield yelled. “Get them kids out of here. Fred, radio for an ambulance.”
Larkin found himself standing beside Mac, who was cussing under his breath. When he noticed Larkin, he said, “Looks like this might set you back some. Just pure bad luck is all.”
Littlefield let the charred human arm drop back into the ruins. No heroic measures could save this one.
Ronnie ran up, coming dangerously close to the still-intense heat before one of the firefighters caught him and held him back. The boy struggled in his grip, shouting. “Tim! Tim!”
Larkin was touched by the show of brotherly love. Ronnie had no way of knowing that it wasn’t Tim who had died in fire.
Cindy Baumhower was busy taking pictures of the presumed crime scene until Littlefield shooed her away. The merriment of moments ago gave way to grim silence and whispered speculation.
“Nothing good ever come of that church,” said a woman Larkin recognized as Lena Gregg. She was in her forties and had undoubtedly missed the church’s heyday. But she was eager to dispense judgment nonetheless. “It’s no surprise that church didn’t go down without taking somebody with it.”