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+
The old man's story short circuits here. He stops talking. It is not a pause, so much as a failed connection. Mind and voice, emotions and logic cannot reconcile. The logic of an otherwise simple system fails. His lips freeze separated by the narrow width of the breath required to utter a short phrase. He stares into his story unable to look away or even take the small necessary internal ... +more+
Maria had rules for everything and for everything she had a rule. As a lifelong bachelor this caused great consternation for Bergoyan, but he also took some pleasure in seeing all the shoes lined up just inside the front door, the kitchen free of newspapers and books, and a pair of clean hand towels always neatly folded over the rack in the bathroom. After an intense arguement over whether or not ... +more+
William couldn't feel the tip of his nose anymore so he switched to coffee, no whiskey. Bergoyan looked and sounded steady. He had stopped telling Maria's story some time ago and the two had sat drinking together with the muted, yet recognizable, sounds of morning television news coming through the ceiling and a large square of sunlight moving from left to right across the kitchen tile. The old man ... +more+