Read Online The red church by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Nicholson
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envy. Colorful bongs and ornately carved pipes adorned the shelves, along with photo-graphs of a younger Littlefield posing next to mari-juana plants. In the center of the case stood a brass cup emblazoned with a badge: the 1998 Law Enforce-ment Officer of the Year Award, bestowed by the North Carolina Sheriff's Association. There wasn't much crime in Pickett County. In Lit-tlefield's seven years as sheriff, there had been a total of two murders. In one, the killer himself called the department, and blubberingly narrated how he had just blown his wife's head open with a .38 revolver. He was waiting on the porch when officers arrived, draining the last of his liquor, the gun cleaned and returned to its cabinet. His wife's body was in the garage, gingerly covered with a hand-woven shawl.
The other was Storie's case, the one that had es-tablished her as a legitimate detective. In Littlefield's mind, all the technical training in the world was use-less until you actually snapped the cuffs on a perpe-trator. And Storie had done that with style, making headlines across the region by helping prosecute the cop-turned-killer. After the trial, she gave the press a highly quotable statement: "If I had written the book , the final chapter would have been different. He would have gotten the death penalty." So Littlefield was left with domestic disputes and civil disturbances. Some kids with a stereo blasting too loud , a drunk breaking windows , somebody re-arranging the letters on Barkersville's Main Street Theater marquee to spell out crude words. Orsome longhair in an army jacket would sell oregano joints behind the high school. The crime stats looked great on paper, which was part of the reason Littlefield had won his Sheriffs Association award.
But sometimes he was afraid that Pickett County was just a little too sleepy, that underneath the shim-mering overlay of tight community and good-natured harmony was a layer of moral rot. After all, people were people. Maybe having a mad killer on the loose wasn't really so hard to imagine, not with what played out in other small towns across the country on the nightly news.
"Dogs should be able to track it, whether it's a mountain lion or a human." Storie put her hands on her hips. "And?"
"And what?"
"The rest of the sentence. I get the feeling that you aren't telling me everything." Littlefield sighed and rubbed his eyes. Storie was now wide-awake, as if she had magically cast her wea-riness over to him. He didn't know how to begin, but it would be unfair to withhold the information. Information, hell. It was flat-out rubber-room stuff. But she would find out sooner or later, if she talked to any of the old-timers in Whispering Pines.
"Well," he started, "it's about the church."
"The church?" Her eyebrows lifted into her wet bangs. "What about the church? Did you find some-thing yesterday?"
"Nothing that you could call a clue," he lied. "Maybe you'd better sit back down." Storie sat on the arm of the chair, clasping her hands together. Like Wade's hounds, she was excited by the fresh scent of prey. Littlefield pretended to look through a stack of papers on his desk, then cleared his throat.
"The church is haunted."
Littlefield could have sworn he heard his wrist-watch ticking in the sudden silence, but that was im-possible. His wristwatch was electronic. Even the police scanner, which sat on a stack of manuals in the corner, quit its squelching in response to his statement. He searched Storie's face. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving, as if she had mis-heard him. But they quickly hardened back into a cool, professional gaze.
"Okay, Sheriff," she said with an irritated laugh. "That explains everything. A ghost sneaks out at night; maybe it's pissed off because its sheets got mil-dewed in the wash, whatever. So it finds a drunk in the graveyard with a dirty magazine and a bottle of bourbon and decides to vent its wrath. That explains why we didn't find any footprints at the scene.
The other was Storie's case, the one that had es-tablished her as a legitimate detective. In Littlefield's mind, all the technical training in the world was use-less until you actually snapped the cuffs on a perpe-trator. And Storie had done that with style, making headlines across the region by helping prosecute the cop-turned-killer. After the trial, she gave the press a highly quotable statement: "If I had written the book , the final chapter would have been different. He would have gotten the death penalty." So Littlefield was left with domestic disputes and civil disturbances. Some kids with a stereo blasting too loud , a drunk breaking windows , somebody re-arranging the letters on Barkersville's Main Street Theater marquee to spell out crude words. Orsome longhair in an army jacket would sell oregano joints behind the high school. The crime stats looked great on paper, which was part of the reason Littlefield had won his Sheriffs Association award.
But sometimes he was afraid that Pickett County was just a little too sleepy, that underneath the shim-mering overlay of tight community and good-natured harmony was a layer of moral rot. After all, people were people. Maybe having a mad killer on the loose wasn't really so hard to imagine, not with what played out in other small towns across the country on the nightly news.
"Dogs should be able to track it, whether it's a mountain lion or a human." Storie put her hands on her hips. "And?"
"And what?"
"The rest of the sentence. I get the feeling that you aren't telling me everything." Littlefield sighed and rubbed his eyes. Storie was now wide-awake, as if she had magically cast her wea-riness over to him. He didn't know how to begin, but it would be unfair to withhold the information. Information, hell. It was flat-out rubber-room stuff. But she would find out sooner or later, if she talked to any of the old-timers in Whispering Pines.
"Well," he started, "it's about the church."
"The church?" Her eyebrows lifted into her wet bangs. "What about the church? Did you find some-thing yesterday?"
"Nothing that you could call a clue," he lied. "Maybe you'd better sit back down." Storie sat on the arm of the chair, clasping her hands together. Like Wade's hounds, she was excited by the fresh scent of prey. Littlefield pretended to look through a stack of papers on his desk, then cleared his throat.
"The church is haunted."
Littlefield could have sworn he heard his wrist-watch ticking in the sudden silence, but that was im-possible. His wristwatch was electronic. Even the police scanner, which sat on a stack of manuals in the corner, quit its squelching in response to his statement. He searched Storie's face. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving, as if she had mis-heard him. But they quickly hardened back into a cool, professional gaze.
"Okay, Sheriff," she said with an irritated laugh. "That explains everything. A ghost sneaks out at night; maybe it's pissed off because its sheets got mil-dewed in the wash, whatever. So it finds a drunk in the graveyard with a dirty magazine and a bottle of bourbon and decides to vent its wrath. That explains why we didn't find any footprints at the scene.
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