Widow Town Read online

  Widow Town

  Text copyright© 2014 by Joe Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To Mr. Brown, wherever you are. Thanks for the guidance and inspiration and for believing in me when I was just a kid with ideas. Sorry I didn’t stop to see you that last time. I didn’t know it was the last time.

  Special Thanks

  Many people help construct a book that don’t get their names on the cover, and this one’s no different. Thanks to Neal Hock, my editor, for always helping make the words better. To Kealan Patrick Burke, my cover designer, who always makes sure my books get noticed. Thanks to Dylan Morgan, Craig McGray, and Griffin Hayes for your continued help and support, appreciate you guys. And thank you, readers, for your time and company on all the rides we take.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Special Thanks

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Joe Hart

  “It is of great use to the sailor to know the length of his line, though he cannot with it fathom all the depths of the ocean.” —John Locke

  Chapter 1

  A scream woke him, cut off before it could reach its crescendo.

  Ryan came to laying on a hardwood floor, tasting blood in his mouth, his blood. He tried to sit up and found he could. He was in a house, a hallway. Its walls were familiar but not home. He blinked and let the memories outside the door of his mind flood inward. A whoop came from nearby and Darrin walked through a doorway to the left carrying his big knife, the one that gleamed even in the dark. Darrin’s dark eyes caught and pinned him to the floor.

  “Whatcha doin’ down there little brother?”

  “Passed out, I think.”

  “You think? I’m pretty sure you did, so’s that cooze you were supposed to be watching when she knocked you over. You cracked your head on the floor.”

  Ryan put a hand to the back of his skull, ran his fingers over a growing knob there, a golf ball half buried under his scalp.

  “What’d you do to her?” Ryan asked.

  Darrin knelt close to him, a reek of cigarettes, sweat, and something else coming off his skin. “What do you think I did, little brother?”

  Adam clunked toward them through the hall, his big boots like hammers on the wood floor. A crooked grin hung off the side of his mouth, his right canine peeking out. He held the steel contraption in one hand. Darrin pivoted without standing.

  “Done?”

  “Done,” Adam said, the smile getting wider.

  “You didn’t leave anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure? Because one fucking drop of saliva and you’re going to prison, my friend.”

  Adam seemed to consider it, the wheels turning, slow but sure. “Nope.”

  “Good.” Darrin brought his attention back to Ryan. “Get up, your mouth’s bleeding.”

  Ryan nodded, wiping at his teeth with his jacket sleeve. He pushed himself onto his feet and rubbed the back of his head again, the lump there feeling larger through the gloves he wore.

  “We good?” Darrin asked, panning from Adam to Ryan and back again.

  “Yep.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan answered.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Outside the frogs harped from a slue somewhere in the dark. A swarm of gnats gathered around them as soon as their feet hit the ground and Ryan only had a moment to look up and see the half moon soaring overhead before he heard Darrin emptying out his little container on the front porch. There was a whoosh of the gas igniting and then orange light bloomed across the house, throwing their shadows into long shapes on the lawn. Ryan glanced at Darrin, his eyes alight with the dancing flames and with some internal burning. He’s on fire inside, Ryan thought as Adam walked past him toward the van parked near the edge of the vegetable garden. Darrin followed him and made his eyebrows jump once as he passed Ryan, his eyes dark again.

  “We go, little brother, we go.”

  They piled into the Ford. Darrin behind the wheel and Ryan in the middle. Adam rolled down his window, the sideways grin back on his face as Darrin rounded the van on the gravel drive, and pulled away from the burning farmhouse.

  Chapter 2

  “When did they start pissing in the coffee around here?”

  MacArthur Gray lowered his own cup, tasting the bitter tang and gave his deputy a look.

  “Joseph, how many times are you going to say that?”

  “I suppose until they quit doing it over at the diner.”

  “I would say that’s an awful rude assumption you’re making.”

  “What? That they urinate in the coffee?”

  “Yep, I find the flavor to be closer to cigarette butts and toilet bowl cleaner. Piss has a different taste entirely.”

  Deputy Ruthers gave the sheriff a glance and burst out laughing, slopping a little coffee onto his pants and the car seat.

  “Now damn it, Joseph, look what you’ve done.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff, apologies.”

  Gray focused on the dirt road and the sun seeming to rise directly from its end. A field to the left rose and fell with head-high cornstalks for acres beyond measure, their green color standing out against everything else dead or dying. Dust plumed behind the cruiser in a cloud, the sky already a mocking blue. No rain in weeks.

  “They sure it was a house fire? Could be Jacobs is just burning a brush pile or something?” Ruthers said.

  “They didn’t say, but any and all smoke has to be looked into right now, there’s a burning ban and Jacobs knows better than most what a spark could do around here.”

  Gray saw Ruthers shoot him a look and then glance back at the road. “What do you really think, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s your gut tell you?”

  “That I didn’t eat enough this morning.”

  Gray piloted the cruiser around a sharp bend, a flock of blackbirds bursting from the roadside in a flay of wings and beaded eyes. A finger of smoke rose above the trees to the right and Gray turned the car into the long dirt drive, past a pitted relic of a mailbox, the letters worn away to almost nothing. When the house came into view Ruthers inha
led and set his coffee in the center console.

  “Well shit,” Gray said.

  The front of the Jacobses’ house was a blackened mess. The covered porch was gone and soot ran in vertical streams up the siding. The windows, trimmed with white decorative shutters before, were blackened, their glass shattered or cracked. The shingles were curled up in a greeting and a bit of rubble that might’ve been a glider swing still smoked.

  Ruthers started speaking into the radio, calling back to Mary Jo, telling her they would need the fire truck from Wheaton. Gray parked a dozen yards from the smoking structure and stepped out into the morning air that smelled of cooked paint and char.

  “Get that hose going off the side of the house there will you, Joseph? And just wet the grass a little, don’t spray the porch.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Gray picked his way toward the front porch, seeing the screen door gone, the brass knob blackened like a nub of coal. With long strides, he made his way around the side of the farmhouse, seeing that the rest of the structure looked untouched by the flames. The buzzing of flies sizzled to his left and he looked at the doghouse near the edge of the woods, the dead dog lying at its entrance. Its throat was slit, a red gap ringed by clotted fur gone from gold to burgundy like a sunset.

  Gray drew his weapon.

  The Colt 1911 Long Slide came out of the holster in a seamless glide of pitch-black steel. Gray made sure the safety was off before moving around to the back of the house. The backdoor was unlocked and opened without a sound into a small mudroom. Work boots stood in pairs beside brightly colored sandals. A wooden sitting-bench lined one wall and a low freezer stood against the opposite.

  Gray waited, listening to the quiet. Except for the hush of Ruthers squirting water on the lawn, there was nothing. No sounds of life, no dishes banging or footsteps coming to investigate his presence. After another minute Ruthers approached from outside and stepped in behind him.

  “Sheriff—”

  “Get that fancy pistol out of your holster, Joseph, there’s something wrong here.”

  Ruthers struggled with the nylon straps holding his Deacon .7 Striker and finally released it, touching the digital thumbprint reader on its handle twice in quick succession. The weapon issued a short click.

  “What is it?”

  Gray didn’t answer for a long time, still listening, hoping. “The smell.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Ruthers whispered, his eyes looking past the sheriff’s wide back.

  “You will.”

  They moved through the house, Ruthers pointing his gun into each doorway as they went, Gray holding his at the floor, his dark eyes watching. The kitchen stood empty, late August sunshine filling the space up with orange light so thick it looked solid. Pans sat on the counter, a layer of grease coating one, another half cleaned in the sink. The faucet dripped once, breaking the silence. Gray walked into the dining room, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor. A vase set with flowers lay on its side on the dinner table. Water pooled on the floor in Rorschach patterns, yellow petals became miniature boats on their surfaces.

  The smell got stronger and Gray stopped, glancing to his right at a stairway that ran up into relative darkness. Ahead, the front entry and living room were empty, the TV blank except for an elongated reflection of his movement. A white door to the right stood closed, its paint clean and fresh as if applied the day before. A collage of pressed flowers against a blue paper background hung from its middle. Gray moved to the door, his breathing steady, still listening, waiting. He gripped the doorknob, pointing the long barreled Colt straight up. Ruthers moved in to his other side, the Deacon at shoulder level, its barrel flashing a small red light every three seconds. Gray nodded once and waited until Ruthers returned the signal. He flung the door open, readjusting his position, bending his knees, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  The smell was awful and only the sight was worse.

  “My God in heaven,” Ruthers managed before he covered his mouth with one hand and stepped back. Gray stood in the doorway looking into the pink-walled bedroom and finally dropped his gaze to the splattered floor before closing his eyes to a sight he knew he’d never forget.

  Chapter 3

  Gray stared at the sky while the lights of the emergency vehicles flashed against his face.

  He sat on his cruiser, his black ball cap off, eyes locked on the cobalt above, tainted only by the barest of clouds, wisps of gossamer flotsam. Occasionally he heard voices clamoring around him; a yelled word not connected to anything else, a curse, a man throwing up in the bushes across the yard. Gray watched the sky as a cleaner passed over, its massive wings dwarfed by the altitude it cruised at. A white light flashed on its belly and the sun glinted off its silver skin. A trail of pure oxygen, lighter blue than the surrounding sky, expanded behind it as it trundled on, inhaling the noxiousness of the upper atmosphere.

  Ruthers approached him and stopped several feet away, his hands twisting in the fabric of his uniform.

  “Sir, they’ve ID’d them all.”

  “My God, Joseph, this is the Jacobses’ farm, who the hell else do they think is laying murdered in their beds?”

  Ruthers shifted his feet. “I’m not sure, Sheriff.”

  Gray broke his gaze from the sky and glanced at his deputy. “I’m not either.” He looked away and began to examine the woods, his eyes moving from the leaves to the ground. Dead grass withering in the heat of the day. “There used to be deer in these forests.”

  Ruthers licked his lips, his eyebrows drawing down. “Deer, sir?”

  “Yeah, you know, white-tailed deer? Game animals? Didn’t you ever learn about them in history lessons?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  “They used to be everywhere. Can you believe people used to get killed by them on the highways?”

  “Sheriff?”

  “I shit you not. People would come and hit them as they crossed the road, the deer would blast right through the windshield and kill the driver, maybe the passenger. Happened from time to time.”

  “It’s hard to believe.”

  “It sure is. Wolves too, you know. Timberwolves, Canis lupus. They hunted the deer, ate whatever they could find. They used to be around here too. People were terrified of them, Joseph, for no reason, no reason whatsoever. They were reclusive creatures, prone to staying away from people and civilization if they could help it.” Gray picked his hat off of the car hood and pulled it on, adjusted it until it sat just above his eyes. “But we killed them anyway. Extinguished them like cockroaches, except we still have cockroaches, don’t we, Joseph.”

  “We sure do sir.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to call for Sheriff Enson?”

  “No, I’m guessing he’ll be over directly.”

  “Would you like me to go back inside?”

  “No, just sit here a moment. There’s nothing you can do about what’s inside that house right now.”

  They waited. Gray sitting on the cruiser’s hood, Ruthers standing off to one side, sometimes adjusting his duty belt and others watching for one of the white-smocked forensic members that was shorter than all the others. After a while a man came toward them. His feet were clad in soft-toed dress shoes and he walked in a careful manner as if he expected to step in a pile of feces at any moment. When he stopped short of the cruiser Ruthers stepped aside, dipping his head once.

  “Deputy. Gray,” Enson said.

  “Hello Mitchel,” Gray said, pivoting a little on the hood.

  Enson sucked on his lower lip, biting the skin there before he spoke. “Hot.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Rain hasn’t come like they said it would.”

  “Nope.”

  “Fire’s could start anytime now.”

  “That they could.”

  “Lucky this one didn’t do the trick.”

  “Lucky for some.”

  Enson glanced at the sky and then put one hand on
the cruiser, supporting his heavy form. “Terrible robbery.”

  Gray inhaled slowly, letting the air trace to the very bottom of his lungs before breathing out. “So something was taken?”

  “Cash, there were a few bills still on the floor in the master bedroom where, well, where Jacobs and his wife were.”

  “Yeah, how much on the floor?”

  “A couple hundred.”

  “Isn’t that something.”

  Enson stared at Gray for a long second before dropping his head and huffing a short laugh. He drew a line in the dirt with the toe of one of his dress shoes, careful to keep the leather free of soil, and then looked up.

  “What, Gray?”

  Gray looked at him and then began to follow the progress of the cleaner, nearly out of sight. “Oh nothing, Mitchel.”

  “No?”

  “Well, not exactly nothing.” Gray glanced back at Enson’s face, which was beginning to redden.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruthers took off his hat and readjusted the bill, ferreting the cap around in circles.

  “So?” Enson said as he spread his arms apart.

  “Joseph and I are going to go over to Wheaton Medical after this and wait for the autopsy results. After that we’ll be in touch.”

  Enson’s mouth twitched once and then he rubbed his foot in the dirt again. “Gray, I’ve no time for your bullshit today. You’ve got something on your brain that won’t let things go.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mitchel.”

  “There’s no reason for you to go over to the center because I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to stir up things that aren’t there, make mountains from molehills, and I won’t have it, not in my county. Your infatuations with history are irritating.”

  Gray slid from the hood in one motion and stood to his full height. He took two steps and loomed over Enson, looking down at him from beneath his hat.

  “If you’ve forgotten how you drove here, Mitchel, this is not your county. Section 16 of the county arbiters states that if a county does not have the facilities to deal with a crime, the nearest county will assist and abide by all reliefs necessary in conceding the law’s due order.”