The Soul Thief (2 page)

Once the morning rush of folks buying vegetables and fruit petered off, Karl went to go tend his fields, leaving Franklin in charge of the stand. They’d worked out a good rhythm between them, Franklin coming in later most mornings as he dealt with the ghosts, Karl then leaving to finish off his chores and meet with suppliers. He’d come back and spell Franklin for a while in the afternoon, then they’d both have to be there during the “dinner rush”—people buying produce to have with their meal that night.

Sometimes ghosts followed Franklin to the stand and stayed with him for most of the day. He’d only had the one angry ghost since he’d started working there eight months before. The ghost had knocked over more than one of the careful piles of apples, trying to get Franklin to leave and take him up to Wolf River.

Most of the ghosts was just lost souls, though, and merely watched the living with sad eyes.

Franklin saw more ghosts these days than he used to. He didn’t know if it was because he’d gotten some kind of reputation in the ghost community, or if he’d gotten more powerful since he’d fought that creature in his cornfield the year before. Maybe it was a bit of both.

Today, though, no one was bothering him, either customers or ghosts. Franklin was able to turn his attention to his one true love—popcorn.

At the back of the stand, but still close enough that Franklin could see anyone walking up, he’d set up a propane tank with a single burner. He also had one of those hand-crank stovetop popcorn makers.

Franklin was experimenting with a blend of corn that day. He kept the different varieties of kernels sealed in white porcelain jars that he’d got from the Goodwill, meant for fancy coffee beans.

While Franklin only grew yellow, Grade A American popping corn in his field, that didn’t mean he didn’t branch out and experiment now and again, tasting different types of popping corn.

They sold popcorn at the stand in the afternoons, generally to the kids who would stop by on their way home from school.

Franklin only wanted to charge a nickel a bag, and when Karl wasn’t looking, he sometimes did. But only when the youngsters was respectful, calling him “Mr. Kanly” and remembering their P’s and Q’s. The rest of the time it was a quarter a bag. A bargain for some of the best tasting popcorn Franklin could cook up.

Today, Franklin was working with a mixture of fine yellow corn that had really nice wings on it when it popped with a strawberry corn that had a sweetness to it as well as a solid crunch. It was difficult to cook them together, as the two different types of kernels tended to pop at different times, with different temperatures.

Franklin had just about got the timing perfect, though. He started with the freshest lard, melting it in the pan, then swirling it just right, coating the bottom of the pan as well as a bit up the sides. Then he added the strawberry corn. Those hard kernels needed more time, more coaxing, to produce the perfect popping corn.

When the strawberry corn was sizzling just right, Franklin added the yellow corn. He gently shook the pan in a circle, getting all the kernels coated evenly with the melted lard.

As the first kernels started popping, Franklin started stirring the pot with the built-in crank.

“Hey, anyone here?”

Franklin jumped, startled. He’d been so busy with his popping corn he hadn’t heard anyone drive up.

Fortunately, it was just Sheriff Thompson. “Be right there!” Franklin called to him.

The sheriff nodded. “Take your time.” He stood and ran his thumb and forefinger across and then down his brown mustache, the only thing that was soft about his face. He had a big nose and hard brown eyes, a chiseled chin and thin lips that was generally pushed together in a line of disapproval.

Sheriff Thompson hadn’t been giving Franklin as hard of a time lately. Especially since Franklin had stayed out of trouble for the last nine months or so.

“Smells good,” the sheriff called as Franklin finished up, the popping corn bubbling up and out of the pan.

“New blend,” Franklin told him. He finished popping the corn—only a few unpopped kernels remained at the bottom of the pan. After he poured the freshly popped corn into a bowl, he added a drizzle of warm lard and a sprinkle of salt. He carried the bowl with him as he approached the front of the stand.

“What can I do for you?” Franklin asked the sheriff. He handed the bowl across the stand so the sheriff could try it.

Sheriff plucked a few kernels out of the bowl, then tossed them into his mouth.

“That’s good,” he said. He seemed surprised. He tried a few more kernels, picking them up delicately instead of grabbing a handful.

“Can get you a bag to go,” Franklin offered. He didn’t figure Karl would mind him giving away free popping corn to the sheriff. Not as a bribe, not exactly. But just so the sheriff wouldn’t decide to give them a hard time later on.

“Naw,” Sheriff Thompson said, though he took three more kernels. “I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon picking hulls out from my teeth.”

“I understand,” Franklin said, though he’d never had that problem. His teeth were strong and he’d never had a cavity.

“You see much traffic out here?” the sheriff asked, casually looking around.

Franklin didn’t believe that the sheriff really did
casual
. He was looking for something.

“We get some,” Franklin said, shrugging. The sheriff had come to their stand a couple times when he’d been off duty, coming with his wife, buying a basket of apples once last fall, and the first of the imported strawberries, earlier that spring.

When the sheriff didn’t continue, Franklin asked, “Is there someone in particular you’re looking for?”

The sheriff turned his disapproving gaze at Franklin. “No. I’m not looking for someone. I’m just wondering…”

Franklin stood patiently while the sheriff looked off again. “We do see a lot of customers on the weekends,” Franklin finally volunteered.

“Good.” Sheriff Thompson turned and fixed his hard stare at Franklin. “We got this charity ball coming up. I was figuring maybe we could put up some posters. Sell some tickets.”

Though Franklin, technically, owned half of Karl’s vegetable stand—they’d formed an LLC and he had the paperwork to prove it and everything—Franklin still shook his head and scratched at the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d have to check with the boss.”

“The boss, huh,” Sheriff Thompson said. “You want me to believe you just work here?”

Franklin gave the sheriff a sheepish grin. “I do work here. Every day. Except Sundays. Got church, then.”

The sheriff nodded. “You’ve kept your nose clean. I’ll give you that. Still don’t like what happened last year.”

Franklin shrugged. There weren’t nothing he could do about the past.

“Tell you what. You buy a couple of tickets and I’ll stop bugging you,” Sheriff Thompson said. “You could take that girl of yours to it. Have a real nice night out.”

“Whatchyou say it was again?” Franklin asked.

“Kentucky law enforcement memorial charity ball. With a silent auction.” The sheriff handed over two tickets.

Franklin gave a low whistle. The amount per ticket was more than he made in a week.

Of course, he had a good bit of money saved up. He tried to live cheaply, looking to buy the property next to his so he could expand his fields. Mrs. Averson still wouldn’t bring down the price, though the fields there had been standing fallow for years.

“I’m not sure about buying any tickets,” Franklin said slowly.

“It’s for charity,” the sheriff pointed out. “You’ll get a nice meal and wine and everything.”

Franklin didn’t drink much, and certainly not wine.

“When’s your girl’s birthday?” Sheriff Thompson asked.

Franklin thought. They’d celebrated her birthday in November. He was glad he had dark skin, so the sheriff couldn’t see him blush at the memory of that night.

Would she like going out someplace fancy like this? Probably not. She weren’t no more fancy than Franklin was.

“I’ll ask her,” Franklin said, pushing the tickets back at the sheriff.

Sheriff Thompson put the tickets back inside his jacket pocket. He looked up and down the stand sourly.

Franklin braced himself.

“You know, y’all need to be careful on the weekends when you got more customers coming and going. Could be a hazard to traffic on the highway.”

“I’ll make sure Karl knows,” Franklin replied, keeping his tone light.

The sheriff wouldn’t really shut them down that weekend, would he? If they didn’t agree to sell his tickets?

Franklin wasn’t sure what he should do, but he didn’t like being bullied. “Y’all have a good day now,” he called out after the sheriff as he got in his brown Crown Vic and left.

Maybe Karl would have an idea about what to do. Or maybe Franklin should have agreed to put up some posters. He sure didn’t want to try to keep track of some kind of charity ball tickets while he was trying to help customers as well. It’d be too easy for some of them to get lost, and he’d end up being responsible.

And Franklin just couldn’t afford that.

Ξ

Franklin pedaled home late that night. Karl and Franklin had talked long after they’d closed the stand about the sheriff. They’d decided that the next time the sheriff came by, they’d offer him a table out front, so he or his deputies could sell tickets to the charity ball.

Neither of them wanted to be responsible for selling tickets. Not that the sheriff was crooked, but he still might accuse them of not working hard enough, not selling enough tickets for him.

As Franklin rolled his bike down his driveway, the spirit of Sweet Bess appeared. Sweet Bess had been a hog Franklin had slaughtered over a year ago. She’d been a mean critter when she’d been alive, and a killer. More than one small bird and ground squirrel had found that out.

But it had made her meat extra sweet. Franklin still remembered the lard he’d rendered from her. He’d been careful using it, making it last as long as he could.

What did Sweet Bess want with him now? The last time she’d appeared like this in his driveway had been to warn him of the creature lying in wait for him inside his house.

Sweet Bess stared at Franklin from the side yard. Stared hard at him.

Then she turned and ambled back that way.

Did she expect him to follow her?

Franklin set his bike in the shed and walked around the side of his house. The evening had already settled in, cool and clean. No rain still and the air felt dry. The crickets and cicadas hadn’t reached their full summer chorus strength, when they’d be deafening. No, it was still a peaceful racket, joined by the frogs in the pond that sat in the middle of Mrs. Averson’s fields, that would turn to cracked dirt when the heat of summer started cooking everything.

A ghost sat on one of Franklin’s white metal chairs in the backyard.

Why would Sweet Bess want Franklin to come and greet this ghost? It weren’t like there weren’t plenty of ghosts passing through all the time.

It was a white man, who had a soft glow to him, like all ghosts did, particularly at night. He was wearing a light blue suit.

Normally, Franklin didn’t like coming out into his backyard in the evenings. The fields seemed to give the ghosts extra power, making him uncomfortable when they pushed their
intent
at him.

“Howdy,” Franklin said, greeting the ghost.

The ghost looked at him and rose slowly from his seat.

Franklin stopped, puzzled. That sure looked like the guy he’d helped pass that morning. In fact, as the ghost drew closer to Franklin, he was positive of it.

“What happened?” Franklin asked. It didn’t make no sense. Once a ghost passed, they was gone. They never came back.

The man’s eyes had changed. Instead of looking faded and a little lost, now they looked black and hollow.

Then he opened his mouth and howled.

The sound made Franklin shiver all the way to his core.

How had the ghost done that? It weren’t a loud howl. It was knife-thin and eerie, floating across the open yard.

But Franklin heard it. That scream. That awful cry of pain.

“What the hell happened to you?” Franklin asked.

Whatever it was, it weren’t good.

Two

FRANKLIN SHIVERED INSIDE his house, sitting alone at his kitchen table, listening to the ghost howling in his backyard. He’d had a light supper, burgers fried in bacon fat with thick cheese and ketchup, along with the first of the tomatoes and the last of the sweet onions. And because Julie had been bugging him about eating more vegetables, he’d also fried up some green peppers to go with them.

He’d been barely able to eat, however, with that ghost making that racket. Now he sat drinking a beer, the house dim.

He sure hoped Mrs. Averson next door couldn’t hear the ghost. It wouldn’t do to disturb his neighbors that way. Didn’t matter none that he weren’t the one making the noise.

There was that empty field between his place and her house, but the howls the ghost made carried and cut through to the soul.

At least the howling ghost had stayed outside. What would happen if he decided to come inside?

Franklin didn’t know what to do. He’d done his duty. He’d helped that ghost pass.

Had this been why the ghost hadn’t wanted to go? Had he known that he’d get…thrown back? Franklin didn’t know. But that kind of made sense.

Except he would have thought the ghost would have been more scared the first time, if he’d known this was coming.

And what kind of ghost made noises like that? Franklin had
never
met a ghost who howled like this. He’d been helping ghosts pass since he was fourteen. He’d met all kinds. Nothing like this.

It sure looked like a ghost. Kind of felt like a ghost, though his eyes were more haunted.

What had happened to him?

Franklin didn’t know what to do. If his cousin Lexine hadn’t been killed by the creature the year before, he could have asked her, though she’d dealt more with spirits of animals and places, while he dealt with humans.

Who else could he ask? Who would know?