The Deadsong (19 page)

The nine o’clock news began as Sheriff Robertson kicked back in his rollaway chair. He had finished all of the night’s routine paperwork and hoped for the next hour to silently pass so he could go home and crawl into bed with his wife. He pulled out his pocket knife and whittled at a pencil for a while until the door to his office opened. Young Deputy Cooley entered with two steaming Styrofoam cups. He put one on the desk and held the other under his chin, blowing off the vapor. He looked tired, and why not? It’s a tough job with days full of deadly shootouts and saving damsels in distress––like in Cowboy Carson’s epic television show, perhaps––but Deputy Cooley was no cowboy. He had spent the majority of his day tearing citations for speeding drivers, which was not very exciting or heroic by any means. 

“Calling it a night, Sheriff,” Cooley said jerking a thumb at the front door. “See you in the a.m.”

“Suppose to get rough tonight,” Robertson said.

“What? Oh, the storms.” Cooley looked down at his boots. “Yeah, Ned, I hear it’s supposed to be worse than the last one. That time of year, I guess.”

Robertson nodded slowly. “Yep. We’ll have to keep an eye on it. I expect we’ll have our usual share of calls about wind damage and power outages. People seem to think we’re the electric company and the insurance company, too. We’ll have to send out a car if an alarm is tripped, of course, but we both know those security systems go batshit if the storm’s bad enough. Tell Bryant to keep enough men loose. You know the drill.”

“All too well,” Cooley said. “Good night, Sheriff.”

“G’night, Cooley.” Ned watched him go out into the desk pool and turn off the hanging fluorescents except for one in the corner above the dispatcher.

“Good night, my darling Cheryl.”

The dispatcher blushed and waved him away. “Oh go park your white horse outside, you flirt.”

Cooley smiled at her, tipped his hat like a true gentleman cowboy, and disappeared into the night.

Ned glanced at the volcanic cup of coffee and reached for it. He considered it might be too hot at the moment and drew back his hand. If he sipped it too soon, he might scald his taste buds, and he hated the thought of having a numb sandpapery spread on his tongue for a few days.

The phone rang. He snatched it up with the speed of a game show contestant going for the buzzer.

“Sheriff’s Department,” he said.

“Ned?” The voice on the other end was hushed and nearly inaudible.

“Yes, this is Sheriff Robertson. What can I do for you, sir?”

“He’s dead.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Ned cleared his throat, “what was that?”

Labored breathing hissed into his ear then whispered “He’s dead, Sheriff.”

Ned grabbed a pen and clicked it. “Was it a snake? What happened? What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say,” the voice replied.

“Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding,” Robertson said, shifting in his chair. “We get a lot of crank calls this time of night, and I’m sure you can appreciate my position, Mister––”

“The boy’s dead. I killed him.”

“What boy? What happened to him? You’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yes,” the voice hissed. “I know because
I KILLED HIM!
His mother, too. Christ…”

Ned felt sick to his stomach. He pushed his coffee away with disgust. “Listen, you’re gonna have to stay put until a deputy gets down there––”

“Not a chance.”

The line disconnected. He reached for the microphone on his desk and pressed a button.

“Cheryl, send a car down to…”

“Sheriff?”

“Dammit. All right, Cheryl, listen up. Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

5

Deputy Cooley sighed, thumbed the latch on his seatbelt. He got out of his cruiser and stood in front of the fuel pumps fumbling for his credit card. Rain started ticking on the metal awning above him. He stuck the pump handle into his fuel tank and squeezed the trigger. The numbers rolled up quickly on the display, hypnotizing him into a dismal trance.

A man in a black rain slicker stood on the other side of the pump island. Cooley had seen him in the newspaper the week before, in a photo from a Durden High faculty luncheon. He was a schoolteacher, now the vice-principal. Pearson was his name.

Ah, Duke’s daddy.
Cooley looked him over and noticed something strange. He was bleeding.

Cooley reached into the cab for his police radio and then tossed it back in the passenger seat.
No needs to get alarmed. The guy probably fell down and scraped his elbow real good. Hell, it might not even be blood.What am I saying? I've seen enough of it to know what blood looks like. Besides, he's a teacher and obviously in good standing with the community, so surely he hasn't been up to no good. Maybe he got drunk and took a spill. That's it. I can handle him. Doesn't look three sheets in the wind, but he might be one or two.

"Evenin."

"Evening," Ellis said quietly.

"You doin all right, sir?"

"Fine, thanks."

Cooley's eyes were studying him hard. Ellis heard a snap. The deputy's palm rested over the grip of his holstered firearm.

"You have a little accident somewhere?"

"Nah."

Drip. Drip.

"You sure?"

"Yep." Ellis  was about to replace the pump handle and screw on the gas cap when Cooley slinked closer.

"Sir, you mind tellin why you're bleeding?"

Ellis looked down. He thought it had been sweat rolling down his arm, but he could see the tiny red pearls multiplying on the pavement and on his boots.

Had to be a cop. It just had to be a cop.

6

She was a bad mother. That’s what Linda thought about as she cruised on down the highway. But she wasn’t just bad. She was a terrible mother. The worst. She had what she wanted for as long as she could have it, only to have it ripped away from her.

But she learned that having children didn’t make her a mother. Sure, the title sounded nice.
Hello, my name is Linda. I’m a mother of two. Yes, I have photos! Here they are. This is Gina and this is Dylan. Thank you, yes, they are beautiful. I love them so much.

She did love them, but being a mother didn’t automatically imply that she was
being
a mother. It was a role in the great play.
In the supporting role of ‘The Mother,’ please welcome Linda Starkweather!

A Tony Award wasn’t waiting for her after this lackluster performance.

She was a bad mother.

Linda had driven only a few miles from the farm before she saw something lying by the side of the road. She pulled over on the shoulder and got out, leaving the engine running.

It was Fender. His back leg was twisted underneath him, his fur matted with blood. His chest rose and fell quickly. One eye rolled up to Linda.

“Oh, baby!”

She touched the old collie, and he tried to move but only groaned pitifully.

“Come on, boy,” Linda said, bending down and wriggling her hand under him. His head lolled in pain as she finally heaved the dog up into her arms.

Lightning. Thunder.

She wrestled with his weight but shifted him as gently as possible so that she could open the door and put him in back of the Buick. There was a blanket scrunched up in the floorboard that she yanked out and covered him with. Air rushed in and out of the dog’s wet nostrils, flaring in silent agony.

A car zoomed past, honking its horn. Once she pulled the sedan safely onto the highway, she sped towards Durden and called Dr. Schlitzer, the family vet who ran a small practice beside the hardware store. He lived in an apartment in back of the place and stayed on call because he had no wife or children and loved animals a great deal more than he liked people.

A station wagon shot past her, followed by a patrol car, its siren wailing full blast.
Probably some kid on a joyride
, she thought.

Heavy rain drops began crashing on her windshield, and suddenly, getting her beloved canine medical attention eradicated the self-guilt and self-loathing, which had blossomed into a poisonous flower.

7

Ellis had driven the station wagon as far as he could after he’d jumped behind the wheel and drove like hell––the gas pump nozzle still fixed in his gas tank, its hose flailing in the wind. He finally ditched the car and ran into the woods.

He should have turned himself in. Hell, that’s why he called Ned in the first place. But after seeing the suspicion on Cooley’s face, he had fled out of sheer instinct. Now all he could do was run. He’d left the boy’s body not too far from this very spot and felt the best he could was lure the deputy in and show him the terrible deed he’d done.

He had a third bullet in his breast pocket. He could use that one on himself. He hadn’t made his mind up yet. A few more minutes.

Behind him, the red and blue strobes got bigger, brighter. Pine trees flickered through the fog and the steady rain had finally grown into huge stinging pellets. Ellis splashed down the hillside and crawled under an overhanging maple ripped apart by lightning from storms passed. He made it into the valley and looked back, then realized very quickly with sheer dread––he could smell the stench––that it was not fog defusing the squad car lights on the hill. It was smoke. He craned his head up to see the source was just ahead of him.

Pain shot through Ellis’s right bicep. He heard the bullet leave Cooley’s revolver just milliseconds after it tore through his slicker. He grunted and heaved his body up with what energy he had left and climbed up. His fears were confirmed. He saw flashlights bouncing into the darkness beyond the tree line opposite the deputy on the hill, catching the faintest glimpse of Carl Motley's plaid hunting jacket before it vanished from sight.

The shack was on fire. It blazed high into the treetops with mountainous columns of smoke so dense that it snuffed out the moonlight before the thunderheads got their chance. Ellis dropped to his knees, not sure if it was rain, sweat, blood, or tears chasing down his stubbly cheeks.
D) All of the above
, he thought. It was the last bit of humor he could find among the wreckage between his ears. His head rattled and his heart pounded in his chest like a toy drum.

Seeing it all go up in smoke seemed to solidify what he already knew.

He was finished. But he knew something else the Sand Mountain folks did not.

The snakes weren’t there. If Ellis knew anything right now, the snakes were somewhere else.

He slid to the ground and as he looked under his slicker at the spreading red stain, he fished the third bullet from his pocket.

8

Garrett froze at the top of the basement steps and held his breath. They were back already. He could hear Motley sneezing in the sanctuary. The trap had been set but sly Garrett Eucher hadn’t made it out of the place in time. If he didn’t find a way out of here soon, his goose would be cooked. The fumes were really strong and his head began to swim.

Move your ass, Garrett.

He cracked the door and peeked out. Motley, Smitty, Harley, Miss Webb, and Margaret Oates were dancing.

“Haha! Let him try and use them slimy slitherin things now!” Motley sang. “Praise be to Jesus! Amen, gang?”

A chorus of amens followed by more yelling and cries of celebration after having used God’s holy gasoline to cook up a shack full of soul-stealing snakes. Garrett had a feeling that’s what they’d done. He knew that if the Sand Mountain gang did their job, he could do his, and the evil in Hemming would be run out  of town good.

He hoped.

But the church was suppose to be empty when it blew. Garrett hadn’t anticipated them returning so soon. He had no intentions of anyone getting killed on his behalf, but the trap was already set. He knew the Graymar Autoflame heater near the pulpit would spark when it kicked on. It always had in the past. He wasn’t wearing a watch and he couldn’t see the clock on the back wall to know how much time he had left to get out. Whether or not the shakers were here for the blast off, he didn’t care all that much anymore.

But he needed to boogie.

Garrett shifted his weight and the board creaked under his feet. He cursed himself silently and saw the gang become still and alert.

Motley looked around.

“What is it, Reverend?” Smitty asked.

“We are not…alone.” He pointed towards the basement door.

Garrett’s heart nearly stopped as Motley hurried down the aisle and flung the door open. He smiled at Garrett.

“Howdy, friend.”

9

"Well, build me up buttercup, I don't believe it!"

Ellis jumped at the strange, yet familiar voice to his right. His hand closed around the Derringer and said nothing as Samuel Thade strutted closer.

"You don’t who I am? Maybe if I showed up in full regalia with horns and a pitchfork or a scythe and a shroud––”

"I know who you are," Ellis said quietly. "I failed, I know I did, but I tried to fix it."

"No sir, I don't believe you did." Thade said, squatting down. "You made a big mess by breaking the rules. That pigskin-totin pretty boy didn't have the balls, Ellis. It wasn't his job. It was your son’s job. You shoulda been working your own son!"

"I can't. Couldn't. I want better for him."

Thade's brow creased and his face flushed. "Better? Better! I put you up on the fucking horse and all you had to do was ride! Your family was bought and paid for a long time ago, Ellis, but your great, great grandpappy Hugo was glad to do it even if he was all booze and no blood."

"Please. I don't want that for Duke."

Thade stood up and sighed. He looked around and considered the inevitable. "You're really gonna make me do this myself, ain't ya?"

"It's over. It'll die with me. Go ahead and kill me if you want."

"I believe I will, thank you,” Thade’s jaw unhinged and licked his razor sharp teeth. “Pucker up, buttercup!”

Ellis shoved the pistol under the soft flesh of his chin and pulled the trigger. His wedding band clinked against the barrel as his hand fell to the wet earth.