Plaster radios Winnie at the station. He knows there is a code for this. He knows the code, somewhere in his mind he knows the code. "One-seven are you there?" She asks. "Dennis?" "Yeah, we have uh... uh... we have an apparent Nine-fourteen 'S' out at the Currie house." "S". "It's not Andy." Static hisses, breaks, and hisses again. Winnie hasn't any words to send. "Winnie?" "I'm here." "It looks like Mose." More hissing and then Winnie speaks confidently, ... +more+
This headache. This darkness. Something cold and a massive heat over it. Where is his body? Where is he? Dennis Plaster brings a hand to his forehead. He rubs. His face is wet. He tries opening his eyes and catches them between his thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of nose. Why can't he hang on? He is coughing and trying to sit up. His hand has a hard time keeping track ... +more+
When the first of the day shift arrives - a young volunteer who fills in between six and eight a.m. - Mose leaves the firehouse in the morning without a word. He drives across town aiming for that broken metal windmill marking the Currie property. * Across town, a cowboy is punching Andy Currie in the face. Officer Hernandez is grabbing the cowboy and escorting him outside. * Dennis Plaster is ... +more+
Mose Brenlee stopped writing. He took a deep drink of tepid coffee from the thick light green plastic cup that matched all of the dishes in the firehouse, ugly, old and durable to a fault. He read over what he had written, crossing out and correcting, underlining and inserting words as he went. He couldn't be sure he was making any sense and that calmed him. He reasoned, if I'm ... +more+
I know who killed those boys. I've known since the day they found the first one. At first I was afraid to say anything and then I was ashamed of my fear. After a while, the shame became a duller feeling and I was just disgusted. Sickened by this town and mostly myself. I'm as guilty as the one who done it and all the ones who helped him.
It was... +more+
Besides the ghosts, and this is the second thing I have to tell you, I've kept a lot of secrets about Brenlee and the people here. Everyone who lives here very long has to keep secrets. I guess out of fear, mostly. Fear of losing what you have. Fear of having to move away and start over. Maybe even for me, fear of never seeing the ghosts again. Well, fear... +more+
Mose Brenlee, in at least one respect, is like most early 21st century Americans, in that he is not much of a letter writer. He loves to receive them, even enjoys writing them, indulges in reveries of their romantic eloquence and lasting importance while watching Civil War and other pre-twentieth century documentaries on television, but Mose, at 63 years old, can think of only two personal letters he has ... +more+
The Brenlee Volunteer Fire Department has three full-time employees. Andy Currie pushed the paper work to the people who knew how to do it, kept the list of keys well sorted, maintained and issued the beepers and walkies, made sure the Fall and Spring pancake breakfasts made it onto the city calendar, and generally used his broad lipless smile and cheery demeanor to promote the department in the community.Most people thought ... +more+
A square cement block jutted up from the side of the canal. The box protected the metal workings of a gate that redirected water from the canal into a lateral irrigation pipe. This pipe fed the Sneed's orchard. The first dead body Hernandez had seen in Brenlee had come from under one of these gates. A teenager had gone swimming in a canal at night and, not knowing any better ... +more+
Yesterday (Tuesday, right?), he took the call out at the Sneed's place. He saw the boy's body, Gabriel Velasquez's body, murdered somewhere and then carefully arranged in the Sneed's peach orchard. Small and still. Last night, after a day of townspeople, county officials, teachers, parents, and Gabriel's frightened peers, he received a letter from an old newspaper man, written well in advance of yesterday. In ... +more+