Drummer Boy: A Supernatural Thriller (15 page)

And Hardy ate a double helping of guilt, because he hadn’t told Pearl about Donnie’s trip to Mulatto Mountain. He’d told her he’d found Donnie lying by the fence, suffering an apparent seizure. And though Hardy had no proof that the Jangling Hole had sent out a messenger to recruit Donnie into the army of the lost, Hardy took some comfort in the notion that he could shift some of the blame to a thing he couldn’t see or know. Better than blaming the Lord, and better than letting the pain eat him from the inside out.

He helped Donnie into bed, making sure his pajamas were still clean. Donnie was pretty good about the potty, even though he had the occasional accident. He was able to sit at the dinner table, but he often had to be spoon fed.

Hardy sometimes walked him to the barn and back, but once in a while Donnie would launch into a floppy spell, as if his limbs had turned to rubber, and Hardy was getting too old to haul him back to the house. But sleeping was pretty straightforward, and though Donnie was apt to rise up and walk while his eyes were closed, he was usually safest and calmest in the night.

Hardy bent and picked the loose papers off the floor, glancing at the swirls of blue and gray. The scrawls looked like tangled skeins of loose yarn. He stacked them on the desk, then decided Pearl might like to see them, make a fuss over them, and maybe even put one on the refrigerator with a big cow magnet.

“Good night, son,” Hardy said as he paused by the door. “Hope you have yourself a good dream.”

Dream you’re a normal man and can walk and talk and breed and spit like a man instead of letting it drool down your chin. Dream you can run and jump and tap your fingers like you’re beating the drums. Dream you can play the fiddle and whittle and-

Hardy glanced at the top page. The random squiggles made his brain itch. The patterns whispered of a recognizable shape, but he didn’t think Donnie had suddenly turned into Leonardo da Vinci. The drumming had been a flight of fancy, and there seemed no room for miracles tonight.

He switched off Donnie’s light as he closed and bolted the door.

As he eased down the stairs, boot leather and wooden treads creaking, he wondered if maybe he and Pearl should move their bedroom to the bottom floor. It would mean moving Donnie, too, which would require a little renovation. Hardy wasn’t in the mood to make extra work, so he figured as long as he was still able to make it up and down the stairs, things were better left alone.

Alone, the way Donnie was.

Alone, the way he was with his shame and his knowledge of the Hole and what it might have done to his son.

Hardy tossed the drawings on the kitchen table, where the pink pig salt-and-pepper shakers danced with each other in a celebration of seasoning. Their cherubic faces, like those of the happy porkers that adorned signs for barbecue joints, seemed oblivious to their ultimate destiny.

The end always cut to the bone, and under the blade you died alone.

He stopped at the back door, put on his jacket, and rummaged a flashlight from the closet. He had livestock to feed.

Sheriff Littlefield stood in the bay lights of the ER exit and dashed the remains of his cold coffee into the gutter. The brown liquid looked like blood in the reflection of the red exit lights.

My cup sure runneth the fucketh over with that
.
And the more innocent the blood, the better
.

The hospital was one of the fastest-growing enterprises in Pickett County, spreading like a malignant tumor, and currently a parking deck was under construction behind the west wing, a spindly derrick standing in silhouette over it like a witch guarding a stack of bones. A few spaces near the emergency room were reserved for police, since sudden trauma was often accompanied by illegal activity. Littlefield had technically been off duty, but he figured visiting an officer was good enough justification for hogging one. Besides, the hike around Mulatto Mountain had cramped up his legs.

He was sliding behind the wheel when the radio sputtered and hissed, then sputtered again. Sherry’s voice came out amid a spray of static, as if she were exhaling cigarette smoke over the dispatch microphone.

“Sheriff, we’ve got a 10-32 on Water Street,” Sherry said.

He picked up the mike and thumbed the button. “’Suspicious person’? I’m on my way home. I told you I didn’t want any routine calls.”

“I don’t think this is routine,” the dispatcher responded. “And how many suspicious people do we get around here, anyway?”

“That’s downtown, isn’t it? It’s Maroney’s jurisdiction.”

“Yeah, but I got a feeling he wouldn’t know how to handle it.”

Though Water Street was in the opposite direction from the cabin he’d bought near the gas-station-and-post-office community of Simms, it was only four blocks from the hospital, and besides, Sherry would keep bugging him until he checked it out.

“What did Morton report?”

“That’s the thing. He said he was checking it out but didn’t request backup.”

“He left his cruiser?”

“Either that or he’s fast asleep in the back seat and not answering. Harrington and Greer are patrolling Taylor Lake and Markowitz is doing the paperwork on a drunk and disorderly.”

“Where’s Wally?”

“He had a flare-up so he’s on foot patrol at the high school. His rump’s so swollen he can’t sit down in a patrol car.”

That was about as much as Littlefield cared to know about one of his officer’s rectal tissues. “I’ll swing by, but I told you not to bother me unless something crawled out of the Hole.”

“If Wally gets any worse, might be something crawling out of a hole that none of us wants to see.”

“Thanks for that visual, Sherry.” Littlefield eased out of the parking lot, amazed at how much it had expanded and at the dozens of cars that filled it. Dying was a growth industry, and since the hospital had tacked on a cancer wing, business was booming. Littlefield figured there was a joke hiding somewhere in that observation, but he was too weary to parse it out.

After a pause, the radio static cut out and Sherry’s voice came on. “How’s J.R.?”

“He was in and out, not much new. The doctors said there was no sign of serious injury but they wanted to keep him under observation for a few days.”

“Did you tell him about the pie?”

Littlefield had forgotten, but he said, “Sure. He perked up and I swear there was some drool running out the corner of his mouth.”

At least he hadn’t lied about the drool.

“Good thing I’m around or this department would fall to pieces.”

“You got that right, Sherry. I’m switching channels to see if I can raise Morton. What’s that 10-20?”

“Between the lumber yard and the old depot. Where the hippies opened that coffee shop with all the books in the windows. What’s it called?”

“The Depot.”

“Damned smart-aleck hippies.”

“10-10, I’ll check back later. Keep monitoring.”

“Aye-aye, boss.”

Littlefield saw no reason to turn on his flashers, especially since he was invading another department’s bailiwick. No doubt Sherry was jittery because of all those legends about the Jangling Hole, and because one of the hen’s chicks had been injured, but it was unlike her to send Littlefield on minor calls. Littlefield had never asked for special treatment, but he felt his officers should be trusted to use their own discretion in their duties.

Morton, despite the incident at the Jangling Hole, had been scheduled to work a double shift. Though Littlefield had offered him the chance to skip out, Morton said they might be shorthanded for a while since J.R. was down. The department was under a tight budget ever since the Democrats had retaken the county commission in the last election. Calling in an extra officer would have padded the overtime line item.

Even though it was Saturday night, traffic was dead downtown. Titusville was in the middle of an identity crisis, with the banks, the hardware store, and the general store that had sprung up during the railroad heyday finally closing or moving out to the boulevard strip that linked the town with Barkersville, Westridge University, Hickory, and then on down to Charlotte.

Now the town was revitalizing as a series of craft shops and art galleries, with three coffee houses to keep the clientele juiced. Though town voters had approved beer-and-wine sales, most of the drinking was done in Beef O’Brady’s and the other chain restaurants clustered around Walmart. The downtown had been inherited by business owners, even those with sandwich shops, who liked to be home in time for dinner.

Littlefield turned onto Water Street, conducting casual surveillance. The abandoned railroad bed ran parallel to the street, which featured the backsides of old brick buildings. The depot stood by a bridge, its rough-cut porch timbers still blackened from the coal smoke of long-gone steam locomotives.

Morton’s cruiser was wedged off the road and against the chain-link fence that girded the lumber yard. Though the wood business had shriveled up with the railroad’s demise, long dark sheds still dotted the property. Dunes of gray sawdust made the shadowed lot resemble the surface of an inhospitable alien planet.

Littlefield parked behind Morton’s car and tucked a long flashlight in his belt. Though Morton’s bar lights were off, his engine was running, which meant he either didn’t expect the errand would take long or he’d made an abrupt exit from his vehicle. Littlefield checked the padlock at the main gate. It was rusted shut.

Littlefield circumvented the fence, passing behind the depot and its smell of scorched Folgers and bran muffins. The streetlights didn’t reach beyond the bridge, so Littlefield switched on his flashlight and headed for the back of the lot. He found a rip in the seam of wire fence and ducked through. Once inside the lot, he played the light around the stacks of warped lumber.

A darker shadow stood beside a rusted hulk of milling machinery.

“Morton?”

The shadow was still. Annoyed, Littlefield headed toward it. A vagrant or trespasser would at least have had the decency to flee and let Littlefield know he should give chase.

He raised the light and though the shadow didn’t move, couldn’t have moved, the beam revealed only the metal skeleton of dead equipment, its wheels, gears, and bands frozen in time.

Shit, where did he go?
Just what I need, another goddamned invisible suspect.

He wanted to wrap up the 10-32 and get to bed before it became a more serious set of numbers. He doubted if he’d get any sleep-memories of Sheila Story and Archer McFall would erase any hope of that, not to mention whatever stirred in the Hole-but he was a man of habit, and six hours spent restlessly wrinkling the sheets seemed like the best way to cap off the day. Mulatto Mountain was miles away, and though its solid black form dominated the western horizon, whatever mysteries it harbored had no reason to touch the town.

Littlefield circled the shed, the decaying sawdust muting his footsteps. Anyone fleeing wouldn’t have made a giveaway sound.

Assuming they fled by foot.

The flashlight beam dodged over dented sheet metal. The wind picked up and as it cut through the shed, it whined and moaned, carrying the scent of the creek and rotted wood and the pungency of rust. The bandsaw blade was still on its pulley, straddled by a flat steel table where logs once slid into the jagged teeth. Littlefield came to a steel ladder that led up to a glassed-in cab where operators could run the big bandsaw with minimal risk.

The cab would offer a good vantage point to survey the grounds. If Morton were in the lumber yard, Littlefield would be able to see him, assuming the deputy carried a flashlight. The steel rungs were cold under his palms as he climbed. A flutter of motion erupted to his left and brushed his cheek, nearly causing him to fall.

Littlefield regained his balance and leaned against the rungs, catching his breath. The creature flapped into the night then dipped into the glow of a security light where moths swarmed in random patterns.

Fucking bat.

He studied the backs of the buildings on Water Street, some of the windows glowing yellow but most boarded up or covered by curtains. Many of the upper floors had been converted to apartments, with slum lords doing a booming business in rodent reproduction.

Littlefield surveyed the lot, though the scattered stacks of lumber shielded his view of some sections. Nothing.

Littlefield finished his ascent, now 20 feet above the ground. He steadied himself with the light tucked under his arm as he reached for the cab door. The latch was either locked or rusted shut. He yanked once more, the light bobbing up.

A face pressed against the glass.

Littlefield almost fell a second time. He braced his legs and directed the beam toward the face, but it was gone, just like the shadow earlier.

“Screw this cat-and-mouse crap,” he said.

Whoever was in the cab had no other way down, so it was simply a matter of waiting until the perp came down. If it was indeed a perp. By now, Littlefield was determined to slap a charge on the person, out of annoyance if nothing else. Besides trespassing and loitering, he could probably tack on obstruction of justice and delaying an officer. Those charges were usually dropped by the District Attorney during plea negotiations, but they sure were satisfying to write on the arrest report.

Littlefield banged the glass with the bottom of his fist. “Come on out,” Littlefield said. “I just want to ask you some questions.”

Like “Where in the hell is my deputy?” and “How did you get in there through a locked door?” and “By the way, have you seen any invisible people?”

He tried to reform the face in his mind. It was haggard and pale, with a sparse brush of beard, but the glimpse had been too brief to offer much more. Certainly nothing a sketch artist could work with, if it came to that.

Jeez, Sheriff, a little melodramatic, don’t you think? Morton’s probably sitting in the coffee house right now, talking up some college coed and hoping she digs a man in a uniform. Pushing his luck. But the biggest risk he’s facing is a lap full of warm coffee at four bucks a cup.