Drummer Boy: A Supernatural Thriller (12 page)

Sherry would gossip but only with people she could trust, and that particular circle was small. Fielding calls during 32 years of night shifts, she’d heard dirt on every family in Pickett County at one time or another. But Littlefield wasn’t ready to share his theory that something supernatural was stirring on Mulatto Mountain. For real, not legend.

“Any word on J.R.?” she asked.

“No, but I’m going to check on him and pay a visit to the McAllisters.”

“I never had no use for that Dexter,” she said, taking a draw on her cigarette that left a good half-inch of ember. “The little twerp would just as soon skin a cat as pet it.”

She let the ash dangle for a moment and watched the sheriff as if daring him to challenge her on either the civil violation or her unprofessional opinion of a juvenile delinquent.

Littlefield adjusted his hat. “The most we can get him for is trespassing and shoplifting. And the shoplifting charge probably wouldn’t stick. He took a pack of smokes and that kind of evidence disappears fast.”

She sucked again and now the ash was over an inch long and sagging. Her hand was poised over the computerized dispatch equipment. Littlefield didn’t understand the technology, but it had to be upgraded every few years, when he practically had to get down and blow off the commissioners during budget season to secure the funding. A blizzard of gray flakes probably did little to enhance the equipment’s longevity.

“Well, you tell J.R. I’m going to drop him by a sweet potato pie tomorrow,” she said, managing one more draw before tapping her cigarette in a ceramic cat ashtray. Her hand was so steady, she probably would have made a decent surgeon, except her patients would turn up with high rates of lung cancer. As for J.R., if he consumed some of her award-winning pie, he was likely to see a cholesterol boost and a heart attack before he was discharged.

“10-4 that,” he said. “Got five on the night shift?”

“Yeah, Wally’s running late but he’s got the hemorrhoids so he’ll probably be doing a lot of standing around.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Cindy Baumhower sure is a bitch, ain’t she? What kind of name is that, anyway? She a German, or a Jew?”

Since Sherry had no use for the smoking ban, he figured there was little use in bringing up anti-discrimination policies. Besides, in Sherry’s view, being a reporter trumped any shortcomings inflicted by race or religion.

“She’s just doing her job.”

“But does she have to do it so damn
loud
?” The cigarette was back in her mouth as punctuation.

“Call me if there’s anything big, or anything to do with the Willard property,” he said, reaching for the door.

“The Hole, you mean. Call if anything crawls out of the Hole.”

He parted his lips, trying to grin, but instead spoke through stiff lips. “Halloween’s still a couple of weeks away.”

“The Hole don’t wait for Halloween.”

“Good night.”

She stabbed out her cigarette and was firing up another by the time he entered the cool, clear air of Titusville. The town twinkled with green and orange light, the Main Street businesses long since closed but the display windows casting their commercial allure onto the pavement. The sheriff’s office was on the edge of the municipal limits, and Titusville proper was the jurisdiction of Chief Rex “Boney” Maroney.

If only the town had annexed more land and expanded its borders, then Mulatto Mountain and the Hole would be Maroney’s problem, not Littlefield’s. Once the million-dollar homes in Bill Willard’s development were constructed, no doubt the greedy town council would want to tap the tax base there, but whatever was hiding in the Hole would be stirred up by then.

And it would happen on Littlefield’s watch.

The McCallisters lived on the west end of Titusville in a little community known as Greasy Corner because of the three gas stations and mechanic’s garage that used to mark the intersection. Two of the gas stations had gone belly up and, after the expensive process of digging up leaky underground tanks and removing contaminated soil, the properties now featured a McDonald’s and a Mitsubishi dealership. The mechanic’s garage was still there, but the business had been converted to a quick-lube joint that changed your oil while you read crinkled sports magazines. The lone intact business had changed corporate overlords several times, and the pumps that had once sold gas for 19 cents cash on the barrel now took credit cards and offered a discount on Super Slurps.

As he turned onto Taylor Lake Road, Littlefield decided that Bill Willard had the right idea: take what you could and then catch the next stage out of Dodge. If he kept driving, he’d hit the Tennessee line in half an hour, and Tennessee was a long enough state that he’d put Mulatto Mountain and its weird tinkling noises far out of earshot. But he’d stuck it out through the death of his little brother and Sheila Story and a handful of other people over the years, and he figured that whatever was up there in the sky moving around the stage pieces was hungry for a showdown.

And Littlefield was one of the pawns on the board.

“Howdy, pilgrim, I’m the law around here,” he drawled in a parody of Saturday-matinee actors who’d donned the tin star long ago.

But he wondered what would happen if he took his brand of law up to the dark peak of Mulatto Mountain and shouted a challenge into its cold cleft of stones. He kept the cruiser over the speed limit to burn off some adrenaline.

The bowling industry must be booming, because Mac McCallister’s house was a good 3,000 square feet, with a three-car garage on one end, a neat row of rose bushes and oleander girding the brick walls, and a new bass boat tucked under a canvas cover in the back yard. But exterior order and value didn’t always extend into the living room or family closets. Littlefield had knocked on many nice white doors and delivered bad news, court summonses, or arrest warrants.

Nan McCallister opened on the first knock, squinting due to her cheeky smile. “How are you, Sheriff? You come for a contribution to the Benevolence Society?”

The sheriff looked down, hat in his hands. It seemed Nan had been under the knife again, and her chest was up there around 44 or so. No way could he step inside without brushing against one of the inflatable marvels.

“Is Dexter here?”

The smile faltered only slightly. “He’s playing videogames in his room.”

Littlefield looked up at the second story, but all the windows there were dark. By the time he’d finished his visual reconnoiter, Mac had appeared behind his wife, signature bowling-ball belly stretching out a tank top, a sweat-beaded beer in his hand. “Howdy, Sheriff, got time for a tall cold one?”

“Not really.”

“Not my wife,” he said, swatting her on the ass and causing her to jump, though her smile stayed in place. “I’m talking about a beer.”

Littlefield swallowed. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

Mac peered from under bushy eyebrows. “Since when?”

Littlefield saw no reason to go into his sobriety date and subsequent recovery, but damned if that beer didn’t smell sweet and yeasty. “Can you get Dexter for me?”

“Dex? What’s he done now?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“That’s what you said the last three times, and once he left in the back seat of your patrol car and the other two bought my lawyer a new Harley-Davidson.”

“He’s suspected of shoplifting,” Littlefield said. “A store owner ID’ed him. Since this is his first time, I can probably let it swing light, since I doubt we’ll have any evidence besides one person’s word. But there’s something else.”

Mac stepped in front of his wife. Neither had invited him in. “This ain’t about the Hole, is it?”

“Pardon?”

“Dex said he and the boys were up there fiddle-farting around and all hell broke loose, cops with guns firing shots and such.”

“We had…an incident.”

“I thought he was pulling my leg,” Mac said. “He’s got his old man’s sense of humor. Ain’t that right, Nan?”

Nan smiled as if everything was always right. She fondled the golden cross that hung down onto her obscenely enhanced bosom. “He sure doesn’t get it from his mother.”

“If I could just have a word with him,” Littlefield said.

“I don’t know about that,” Mac said. “Seems like I might have grounds for some sort of reckless endangerment or something. A civil suit. You can’t just go around shooting at innocent boys.”

“Police have immunity when in the legal pursuit of their duty.”

“Well, you ain’t talking with him until I’ve talked with my lawyer. Unless you got a warrant.”

Littlefield could probably round up a magistrate and cobble together a warrant on the cigarette heist, but by then it would be after midnight. It wasn’t like Dex McCallister was a flight risk.

“Can you bring him by my office tomorrow? I promise the shoplifting will go on the scrap heap, but I would like to talk with him. He’ll be in and out in time for ice cream.”

“Sure, sure. And come by the alley sometime. Roll one on the house.”

“I’ll do that.”

Nan beamed at that, as if anyone who enjoyed bowling was a child of God, goodness, and light. Then again, the sport had paid for the bowling balls behind her nipples, so Littlefield figured she’d done her time behind the counter. Bent over or not.

As Littlefield returned to his cruiser, he gave one more glance at the house. Dex was clearly silhouetted against a lighted upstairs window, nose pressed against the glass. The boy pointed his index finger at the sheriff, thumb raised in the universal symbol for a gun. He mouthed three popping noises and grinned as if he’d actually gotten his sense of humor from a serial killer instead of his father.

Cue the midget and send in the clowns, let’s get ready to rumble, the freak show is about to begin
.

Daddy was drunk again, and Mom had strapped on the battle ax and gone in like the female version of “Braveheart,” and Bobby expected blood to flow as freely as it did in any Mel Gibson-directed epic. Bobby thought about sticking his head under the pillow or clamping on the headphones and turning up the stereo to Def Plus. But, like the sound of a cruise ship’s bow scraping along the brutal edge of an iceberg or a car’s braked wheels squealing before impact, the Eldreth warm-up act sparked that same compelling electricity. You could cash out your ticket for a ringside seat, but the show went on just the same.

Bobby pushed away the comic books piled on his desk. As creepy and weird as Neil Gaiman’s Sandman was, it couldn’t compete with the Elmer and Vernell Variety Hour, and the opening act had something to do with a pack of matches Mom had found in Daddy’s jacket pocket. Which was even funnier because Daddy didn’t smoke.

“Dolly’s Dollhouse,” Vernell shouted, loudly enough that it might have carried through the thin aluminum walls of the mobile home and out across the trailer park. Not that anyone would be shocked at the latest knock-down battle royale. There weren’t many secrets in a trailer park.

Bobby knew what Dolly’s was, of course. No kid could reach the eighth grade of Titusville Middle without hearing about the local boob joint. A few of the kids claimed to have witnessed exotic exposure of the flesh there, but Bobby was inclined to doubt the tales. He was less able to dismiss the thought that his dad had paid a visit there, since a not-so-secret stack of magazines in the tool shed gave testament to the man’s taste for naked women.

“Jeff gave me those,” Elmer said, mushy and growly enough to display some fight. “The pilot light went out on the gas grill when we were grilling dogs last week.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how come none of the matches is struck? The book’s full.”

Nice one, Mom. Colombo would be proud of your deductive reasoning, though you’d look fruity in a trench coat.

Bobby pulled his ear away from the door. There was no need to eavesdrop now. The armies had sounded their trumpets and the cavalry had charged, and now the sides were fully engaged. His brother Jerrell was lucky enough to have a part-time gig at Taco Bell, and though his clothes stank of beans and that weird yellow goo that squirted from big caulking guns labeled “cheese food product,” at least the job offered some escape from home. Bobby, meanwhile, had only school and football practice as an excuse to be gone.

The boys shared a room, with Jerrell taking the top bunk, which meant those oily bean farts oozed down during the night much like Bobby imagined chlorine gas drifted over the trenches during World War I. But what Jerrell lacked in fragrance, he made up for in generosity, having proclaimed his comic collection “kid’s stuff” and passing it down to little bro’ for nothing more than a well-placed lie or two when Jerrell felt like cruising or playing hooky. Jerrell could have turned some decent coin on eBay with the collection, which included complete runs of obscure curios like
Jonah Hex
and
Boris Karloff Tales of Mystery
. Now they belonged to Bobby, who had read them all at least twice before sealing them back in their archival-quality, acid-free plastic sleeves.

If only he could stow away his real life as easily, or close the pages when the cartoon got weird.

“So what if I did go to Dolly’s?” his dad shouted in the living room. “It’s not like I see much skin around
here
lately.”

“Bastard,” Mom responded, the word she went to when Daddy either drove home a valid point or she’d run the gamut of put-downs and had reached the bottom of the barrel. “How much did you throw at them whores?”

“Nothing. I just sat there and had a few.”

Bobby knew from experience that “a few” probably meant a dozen. The way Daddy was slurring his words, he was lucky to wheel the pick-up home without getting blue-lighted for a DWI. Daddy had been caught a couple of years ago, giving Mom the opportunity to rag him about high insurance premiums and having to haul his sorry fat ass around while his license was revoked. She hammered him on money despite the fact that she preferred to be unemployed and complain that Mexicans had taken all the good jobs.

“You probably pissed away a month’s work of paychecks,” Mom yelled, a quaver in her voice that was almost gleeful.