The May Queen Murders (14 page)

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“We need a different sheriff! Jay’s too weak!”

A wild energy mounted in the congregation, one ready to over-

throw the order we’d always known. What would happen to Sheriff

and the Meriweathers if people no longer trusted him to protect us?

What would happen if we brought outsiders to the Glen?

Pastor banged on the pulpit, and the scattering voices drew to a

hush. He waited until all eyes were upon him. “What’s happenin’

here is unnatural and must be stopped. Scripture instructs us, ‘You

shall not pol ute the land in which you live, for blood pol utes the

land, and no atonement can be made for the land for the blood that

is shed in it, except by the blood of the one who shed it.’ ”

I lowered my head and covered my ears to block the sound of

madness.

"

Sunday was our night for dinner guests. I lit the oil lamps and set

out dishes for my family and Heather’s, along with the Meriweath-

ers. The scent of
pol o con arroz —
chicken roasting until it nearly fell

off its bones and rice seasoned with peppers dried the previous year

— filled the small house. Briar brought a loaf of friendship bread, the

starter for it begun in our families long before the Glen’s creation, be-

fore the Templetons and Meriweathers left Appalachia, before they

left their old country.

It was daunting to have so much history between our clans.

I was laying out silverware when a hand covered mine. I clutched

the remainder of the silverware to my chest as I looked Rook over.

101

His eyes were tired, his hair rumpled. He must not have noticed that

he’d mismatched the buttons on his shirt. Or he didn’t care.

“You still ain’t sleepin’,” I remarked.

“I’ve tried,” he replied. “Mama went to Granny Connel y to get

some valerian root. We’ll see if it helps.” He motioned toward the

silverware in my hands. “Can I help you finish?”

I divvied out half the settings. We worked with little noise other

than the clinks of metal against the stoneware dishes. Even if we

didn’t speak, if he was tense and exhausted, I still felt an easiness be-

ing beside Rook. I didn’t have to hide what I felt about him.

The cups on the table were empty. We needed to go out to the well

for water. I motioned for him to come with me. Our mothers looked

up from preparing a salad of early spring greens — red romaine let-

tuce and herbs with cheese — and shared a look as we entered the

kitchen.

“I hope Jay and the others get back soon,” Briar said to my mother.

After the accusations at church, Sheriff had tried to show his worth

by taking some dogs to the woods along with a few men and lan-

terns.

“I pray they find
el diablo,
” Mama replied. Her hand patted her

apron pocket without withdrawing the rosary. “I’ve never seen the

Glen worry so much.”

Briar took a deep breath. “It’s been worse. Before you came, Luz.

I’d always hoped our children wouldn’t face something like it them-

selves.”

Her gaze went across the room to where Raven stood on a chair to

mix together oil and vinegar for a salad dressing. The little girl had a

102

patchwork fox doll next to the bowl and whispered to him. I hoped

she was oblivious to the death that too frequently rattled the warning

bel s in the fields, silent now, though tense and poised to ring again.

“We gotta get some water,” I said and retrieved a pitcher from the

counter.

“Don’t be outside long,” Mama ordered.

“Take Rook with you,” Briar said, a tiny smile playing on her

mouth as she winked at Mama.

Rook and I ducked out to the yard. Though sunset had yet to drop

the Glen into darkness, torches burned along the fences, and crack-

les of yellow and orange soared skyward. My eyes watered from the

peculiar odor of pinewood and burning fuel. Rook eased the pitcher

out of my grip and pressed his palm to my back as I rubbed my apron

against my eyes.

“M-must be some grit or ash,” I murmured.

“Here.” His thumb rubbed near the corner of my eye. “That any

better?”

Actual y, it was.

He walked with me to the field where a water well was construct-

ed from a cylinder of stones piled on top of one another. Several

wel s lay on Glen land. From the time children were smal , they were

taught not to play near the inviting red roofs. They weren’t pretend

houses but dangerous pits. It was easy to fal , easy to drown. Even

with the pail and pulley, if someone fell in, getting them out before

the water took them was impossible.

“I told Pastor I’m taking up with you,” Rook blurted.

My feet froze to the ground. “You what?”

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“I needed to get my mind off Journey. If you don’t want it —”

“No,” I said. “I-I’m surprised, is al .”

It wasn’t uncommon to go to Pastor Galloway to get his thoughts

when young couples came together. For years, granny-women used

to be matchmakers. They traced the bloodlines to make sure genera-

tions didn’t mix too near. They knew the family histories. Sometimes

they threw all that out if they saw two people truly in love.

“So now folks’ll be watching us,” I said.

“They already are, according to Pastor.” Rook laughed. He put his

arm around me and nudged me closer to his side. “He said it was

’bout time.”

I stepped in front of Rook and tipped back my head to study his

face. I liked the shape of his lips, the heavy frames of his glasses and

how the lenses snatched all the bleeding colors of the sunset. My fin-

gers traced his cheek, his jaw, and he gave a swift twist of his neck to

catch the tips with his lips. Then he took my hand and turned it over.

His mouth was hot as he laid a kiss on my wrist, then another on my

forearm, yet another in the crook of my elbow before he placed my

arm up on his shoulder to wind it around his neck.

“S-someone might see,” I said.

“So?” he asked, half his mouth spreading in a cocky grin.

He kept grinning when our mouths met. I didn’t want to close my

eyes. The woods weren’t far off. Yet the more the kiss grew, the hard-

er it was to keep them open. I gave in to the feeling of flying. Rook’s

arms wrapped around me, the pitcher in his hand hard against my

hip, and I wound my fingers through his suspenders. His pulse thud-

104

ded with enough power that I felt it in his chest. Surely, he felt mine.

My heart rose just like I did.

A sudden swirl of black wings and caws erupted from the tree

line. A murder of crows rushed into the sky and perched upon the

houses, the fences, wherever they could find a place to land.

Rook and I pulled apart. “Something spooked them,” he said.

Somewhere within the woods, far past the youngest trees at the

outer rim and deep where the oldest ones knew secrets, someone

lived there. I shifted from one foot to the other and wished I had

Mamie’s shawl to dull the gooseflesh prickling my skin.

“The water,” I said.

We hurried to the wel . The bucket was tied up. Age and weather

had hardened the rope, and the wheel to work the pulley system was

rusted. Rook gave several hard tugs to render it loose enough to turn.

I stood near him, pivoting to look behind us, to the left, then the

right. A crow settled on the peak of the wel ’s roof. In the red haze of

sunset, his eye was a dark gem. The edges of his sharp beak opened

to reveal a pointed tongue before he gave a loud “
Caw, caw, caw!
”

Three cries from a crow. Not a good omen.

“H-hurry,” I urged Rook.

“I’m trying. The rope is stiff. If I go too fast, it’s gonna snap and

the pail will be gone.”

We were being watched.

It didn’t come from one side or the other but from all around.

Inescapable. It could’ve been the crows with their wicked eyes. Or

maybe it was that dark soul lurking in the woods.

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A hound bayed in the distance. Rook stopped lowering the bucket

into the wel . “Maybe the search party found something.”

A second dog joined in the howling, then a chorus of rabid bark-

ing lifted from the trees.

Crack!

I jumped, gunfire echoing overhead. The bucket reached the wa-

ter and banged against the rock wal s with a clang before splashing.

Rook worked the pulley faster to draw some water, but I kept my

eyes on the woods, across the narrow river dividing us from what-

ever might come running out.

As Rook hoisted the pail from the wel , he gasped.

“What is it?” I asked.

Before he answered, the smell hit my nose. Amid the sulfur and

iron odor of well water, something tangy mixed in, something rank,

decayed.

Inside the pail was a goat’s skull with fur and flesh still clinging to

its white bones.

"

Sheriff’s men had found something in the woods.

Night fell over the Glen. That didn’t stop folks from coming out

of their homes to ask what Sheriff and his hillmen had uncovered,

what they’d shot at. Rook showed Sheriff the goat’s head from the

wel . Papa took some measurements, a rag tied over his mouth and

nose to stop the smell from making him il .

“What’s this, Timothy?” Sheriff asked.

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“That goat that’d been decapitated? We got its head,” Papa an-

swered. “Birch must’ve hung on to it till now.”

Papa wrapped the skull in a cloth. He’d go down to the bone land

to bury it soon. My stomach churned. Why was it dumped in our

well? There were plenty others in the Glen. Even leave it in the woods

where it’d not be found. Unless Birch wanted it found. A warning,

perhaps, not to go looking for him.

“In the woods, there’s some kind of camp . . .” I overheard Sheriff

tell some folks gathered in the road.

“It looks like Birch has been stealing things from around the Glen

and using them to make a home,” Flint Denial added. “There were

blankets, pillows. He’d taken all kinds of things and strung them

through the trees.”

“Skirts,” another hushed voice caught my ear. “He’s watching our

girls. Wonder how long he watched Terra before . . .”

If Birch Markle came into the Glen and no one saw him, then he

was closer than anyone realized. He took our things. He used them,

maybe even stroked them and smelled them, treating them as souve-

nirs. Perhaps it was what had kept him from killing again. Or it had

sated his hunger for only so long and now he was starving.

I hung back, close to my parents and where Rook perched on the

slats of a horse fence. A figure with red curls in a long skirt made her

way up the road. Heather walked alone, fearless, with her chin up. I

navigated through the bodies crowding the path. The torches by the

road shed enough light that my cousin saw me coming. She stopped

and turned around.

“Wait,” I called.

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She halted. “What do you want?”

“You weren’t in church this morning, and Mama wasn’t sure you’d

make it to Sunday dinner.” I didn’t want the conversation to go ugly.

I didn’t want to be accusatory. Not right away.

“I was sick.”

Her cheeks were colored. She looked better than she had in a

while. As if the hollowness of worry was somehow filled.

“You ain’t sick.” The toe of my sneaker kicked the dirt. “Did you

skip church to see Milo?”

Her eyebrows drew together, and she balled her hand. Paper crin-

kled between her fingers. Both of us looked at the small corners of

white sticking out from her fist that gave her away.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s mine, Ivy.”

“I want to make sure you’re safe.”

She pursed her lips. “What does it matter?”

“You’re still sneaking out. Sheriff found a hiding place in the

woods. It’s got all kinds of stuff Birch took from the Glen.”

Heather stood on her toes to look around me at the group break-

ing apart on the road. “Some hiding place in the woods?”

I nodded. “I know you went in there the other day. Did you see

anything?”

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

Heather sidestepped me and walked closer to the crowd. I ran up

alongside her and grabbed her elbow. “You have to stop runnin’ like

this. You’re gonna get hurt.”

“I told you before, I don’t care. Some things are worth the risk.”

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“You’re gonna tell me some roller boy is worth chancing your

life?” I demanded. “Do you know what folks here would say if they

knew you’d taken up with someone like him?”

“They ain’t gonna find out.” She scowled. “Unless
you
say some-

thing. Which is why I can’t trust you. Not with this. Not with any-

thing. You can be worried all you want, but it changes nothing. I have

my life. You have yours.”

Heather walked toward the house, where we would paste on false

smiles and pretend everything was fine during Sunday dinner. Rook

noticed her and then me, his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses.

I lowered my face. I didn’t want him to see the tears stinging the cor-

ners of my eyes, and if I spoke, my voice would crack.