And so I lay on the famous chair, fans blowing all around me, no other sound or movement in the world. I reached over and turned off the lamp perched atop my dad’s trusty side-table, its surface scattered with the day’s newspaper. He always said he’d switch to an iPad the day they cranked his coffin into the ground at Parson’s Cemetery. Right before the light vanquished, I saw the headline about the body I’d stumbled upon in the swamp behind the house, but I had no interest in reading another word about it. Turned out we didn’t know the victim, who’d done it, or why somebody would want his head. But I had to assume that everyone in town suspected the same thing I did—that Dicky Gaskins had taken up his papa’s trade.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shadows came into focus, the room took on depth. I saw the sweet silhouettes of my children, unmoving, sleeping, hopefully dreaming of better things than my gruesome discovery. I thought of Wesley and his cousins, probably playing video games or watching an R-rated movie I’d forbidden him to watch without me. Surprisingly, I felt he was safe, that all of my kids were safe, that I was safe. I don’t know what brought me that peace. Maybe the plain fact was that Dicky Gaskins scared me about as much as a crawdad.

  After discovering the old land record, Andrea and I hadn’t found much else to write home about in our library research. Yes, the Player and Gaskins families went back a ways, apparently. But our only real evidence of that was the joint purchase of the land on which my dad had been raised. It seemed impossible to me that I hadn’t known this, and my mom and dad seemed just as oblivious when we asked them about it. A weird expression crossed my dad’s face when he pleaded ignorance, however, but I couldn’t imagine why he’d lie about such a thing. I grilled him until he made it clear that I was annoying the hell out of him, but he still offered no answers. My plan was to ask around town until someone did.

  Sighing, I looked up at the ceiling, thought of the many times I’d heard the creaks and groans of footsteps up there, completely inexplicable. A chill sprinkled goosebumps across my skin, though it wasn’t necessarily scary or creepy. Grandpa Fincher didn’t frighten me all that much, not really. As my gaze traveled along the old, yellowed tiles above, I thought maybe I could hear him walking up there, even now. Probably impossible over the roar of the fans, but my mind told me I heard it, and I believed my mind.

  Don’t worry, old man, I thought, trying to project the words to the otherworldly dimension where ghosts liked to hang out. Your boy David’s got everything under control.

  A warm glow traveled along my body, filled me with certain joy. I have no idea how to explain it, but I happily accepted the feeling and soon fell fast asleep.

  3

  We were running late the next morning. I blamed the youngest, Logan, as I usually did because he can’t put up much of an argument. But this time it was legit. He’d had one of those rare starts to the day where he performed the Double Whammy before the sun broke above the pecan trees—he’d puked and pooped his pants. The former happened upon waking up, the latter when he’d gone outside to play with Grandma because he felt better. But then, of course, he had too much fun to tell her about the pending emergency in his bowels. I only had to clean up the first mess, and I care not to remember the details. Mom took care of the other.

  Finally, about a quarter after 10, we were on our way to Evelyn’s. I’d been texting Wesley since I left him, for my own peace of mind and to practice my text-joking skills. Some things are only funny when delivered via cell phones, you know. I’d tried a gem on Wesley, involving a toilet, Logan’s mishap, and the word chocolate, but all I got in return was one of those damn laughing emojis with tears streaming from its eyes. Kids these days.

  At least I knew he was safe.

  “Daddy?” Hazel asked when we were a couple miles out from my sister’s place. Andrea sat next to me in the passenger seat, kids in the back; my parents had driven separate.

  “Yes, my beautiful princess?” I replied.

  “Is it ever gonna stop raining?”

  “Oh, probably. You never know. Maybe we’ll have ourselves an ocean in Sumter County soon. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Daddy, was that your idea of a humorous joke?”

  This was Hazel’s far-beyond-her-years way of verbalizing an eye-roll.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t it hilarious?”

  “Totally failed to land, Old Man.”

  Sometimes I honestly couldn’t believe the things that came out of her mouth.

  “Dad?” This time it came from Mason. I think Logan had done his usual and fallen asleep way in the back.

  “Yes, my handsome prince?”

  “Do you think Uncle Jeff’ll let me play with his guns?”

  I cringed again. “Play with them? You mean, like, load them up and let you go around town shooting things? Probably not, son.”

  He then repeated Hazel’s exact line. “Dad, was that your idea of a humorous joke?”

  I loved these little people so much. Letting out a courtesy laugh, I pulled the car into the gravel drive that led to Evelyn’s house. Cornfields hemmed in on both sides, and driving slowly down it had always been one of my favorite things on earth. The eerie stance of the green stalks, packed in and blocking your view, making you feel as if the world had been cut off. I loved that creepy feeling, the goosebumps, born from such childhood pop culture as Children of the Corn and a cheesy but terrifying made-for-TV movie I’d seen way too young. It was about a murdered man stuffed in a scarecrow suit to hide the body, but who decided to come back from the dead and kill the bastards who’d done it. I’d been home alone, and had turned on every light in the house until my parents returned.

  I also loved the crunch of the gravel under my tires, and the pouring rain just added to the otherworldly effects, as rain always does. Some people may disagree rather strongly, but to me, a good storm improves everything but outdoor barbecues and baseball games. All in all, I was feeling much better about life.

  We exited the cornfields and entered a wide expanse of yard, my sister’s house plopped right in the middle. It wasn’t your typical farmhouse because they’d torn down their old one and rebuilt recently—more like your typical ranch-style home that was always magically bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. A million tiny splashes sparkled on the roof as the rain fell and fell and fell.

  A police cruiser squatted stony and silent underneath a carport on the left side of the yard. It was too dark to tell for sure, but I saw no sign of Officer Wright in the driver’s seat—I wouldn’t have been surprised if Evelyn had invited him in for breakfast, though. Or he could be reclined, snoozing away, forgetting his duty to protect my son. This didn’t scare me, however. If anything had gone wrong, Evelyn would’ve lit up the cell towers until they exploded from overuse.

  I pulled the car up as close as possible to the sidewalk leading to the front door, put the thing into park, cut off the engine. The heavy taps of raindrops on the roof and windshield now became a roar, and I suddenly felt as drowsy as if I’d been drugged.

  “You guys care if I take a nap?” I asked. “Papa’s an old man, tired.”

  “Forget, it, Daddy,” Hazel answered. “You can bet your pants there’s bacon frying in that house.”

  Mason made a long yummmm sound. “Oh yeah. I swear on my left pinkie toe I’m gonna eat at least 20 pieces of bacon. I’m gonna eat until I puke all over Aunt Evelyn’s floor.”

  He said this with such a happy voice I half thought he meant it.

  “Alright, fine, I won’t take a nap. Mason, wake up Logan. Then let’s make a run for it.”

  It was only 30 feet, max, but we were drenched by the time we reached the porch.

  4

  Evelyn did her best to crack my spine with the hug she gave me, and I did my best to return its ferocity. I knew that my siblings had always felt a little guilt over the misadventures of my 1989 summer, since they had all been out and about, all over the world at the time. Some in college, some starting careers in exotic places like Deer Park, Washington, others running off to get married. No one had been around, and I know they felt bad about it to this day. No matter how many times I assured them that was nonsense, I still sensed it in the little things, like the hug my big sis had just given me.

  “What a week you’ve had,” she said when we finally let go of each other. “I’m so sorry, little brother.” She’d been the only one out of all of us to return to the homeland, live out her life much like our parents had. Although I was always a little jealous, I never had the guts to take the leap, myself.

  “I know,” I said solemnly. But the last thing I wanted was to dwell on the bad stuff. The house smelled of bacon, my kids were bouncing around the room—except Mason, who’d already asked Uncle Jeff three times about the gun safe—and I wanted to see Wesley, make sure he was alright. So far there’d been no sign of him or his cousins. “It’s been hard on all of us. Thanks again for helping lead the search parties.”

  She pshawed me to high heaven then gestured us to sit, sit. Jeff gave me a smile and a knowing nod toward Mason.

  “If he’s annoying you,” I said, “you have permission to lock him in the turkey coop.”

  “Nah, he’s good. Come on, boy. Help me with a couple of things and I’ll let you shoot the hell out of some old coke bottles.”

  Mason’s grin just about reached his ears and they set off out the back door. Hazel and Logan had found a box of toys and other wondrous mysteries that Evelyn had pulled out before we arrived—I noticed one of those old Fisher Price record-player things with the plastic grooved-discs and felt a surge of nostalgia. It was gonna be a good day, dammit.

  Evelyn and I plopped down on the couch where we could have a perfect view of Hazel and Logan exploring the wonders of that big wooden box.

  “Breakfast’ll be ready in about 10 minutes,” my sister said.

  “Don’t tell me the boys are still asleep?” I asked.

  “Wesley sure is—haven’t seen a peep of him this morning. Lazy like his daddy, I reckon. Brett and Jeffrey went out early to dig some trenches by the creek, fill sand bags. Jeff’s worried about it flooding up near our pump house. All this rain, ya know. It’s like the angels hadn’t taken a piss for months and decided to all dump at once.”

  My sister liked to say such things. My brothers were worse. I had the slightest alarm build in my chest, however. No real tangible reason, but my good mood evaporated. I had to check on things. Immediately.

  “What’d the cop do?” I asked. “He’s been out there all night?”

  “Yep. Never even came in to use the bathroom. But he hasn’t budged from under the carport.”

  I stood up, so quickly my head swam for a moment.

  “You okay?” Evelyn asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied absently. I needed two minutes to put my mind at ease. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Well, alright, then. Why don’t you go wake up that sleepy head while I finish breakfast. I went all out.” She got up from her comforttable perch. “Let’s just say that we have three options of grits.” With a smile she walked off for the kitchen.

  Something deeply unsettling had birthed inside me. A little worm that wiggled its way through my innards. I walked over to the front door, saw a few umbrellas standing inside a tall, antique ceramic vase that looked like it had been made for just such a thing. I grabbed the biggest one and opened the door, then popped the thing open with a click of a latch. It bloomed wide and I put it over my head as I stepped into the torrential rain.

  Drops of heavy water pattered on the thin sheet of plastic above my head, even as the wind picked up, tried to rip the umbrella out of my hands. I steadied it, leaned forward, and marched straight for the police car. My feet splashed through puddles, and cold water soaked all the way up to my arms as it blew under the protection of my pathetic canopy. The car sat dark and wet, covered in droplets despite being parked under the open-sided carport. I think Jeff had built the structure for a tractor way back in the day—they had a full garage for their own vehicles.

  I stepped under the roof and let the umbrella fall to the side—I balanced it on the gravel-covered ground without closing it. Then I stepped up to the passenger side window and leaned in, shielding my eyes with both eyes so I could get a decent glimpse into the gloomy interior.

  At first I didn’t know what I was seeing. Officer Wright was definitely inside the car, slumped against the window on his side, eyes closed. I’d wanted to take a nap myself just a few minutes earlier, so I couldn’t completely judge the man. But then the shadows softened, things became clearer, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light. His neck bent at a weird angle, and his hands seemed oddly placed on his lap, unnatural, mainly because his palms both faced up.

  In this matter of scant seconds that I observed him through the window, the dreadful realization of what happened dawned upon me, all at once. I sprinted to the other side of the car, looked through the driver’s side window. A little more light reached the car from the gray sky on that side of the port, and the first thing I noticed was the color red.

  Red smeared along the inside of the glass, as if someone had unsuccessfully taken one swipe with a rag to clean it off. Red, flat and wet, squeezed between the surface where the policeman’s head rested against the window. Red, all over his face, spattered in droplets. Red, rimming his lifeless eyes, which stared at the rain though I knew he couldn’t actually see anymore.

  Officer Wright was dead.

  I didn’t take another second to investigate, because my sister’s words now took on an all new meaning, almost hanging in the air like they’d been formed there by an old man’s pipe smoke. What had seemed harmless now meant the end of my world. Jeffrey and Brett had left early that morning; hadn’t seen a peep of Wesley. Lazy like his daddy, I reckon.

  I ran.

  Sprinted from the carport and into the rain, the umbrella as forgotten as a stranger’s face on a train. Splashed through puddles. Bounded up the steps in one leap. Tore open the door, shouted Wesley’s name, my voice so laced with panic that Evelyn’s face appeared around the corner from the kitchen, too stunned to speak. I bolted for the long hallway that ran most of the house’s length, the various bedroom and bathroom doors facing each other like the cells of an old prison. I knew which one my son would’ve slept in—knew it from years of him doing that very thing on summer visits.

  Third door on the left.

  Door closed.

  I yanked it open, my grip almost breaking the knob from its frame. In the short time it’d taken me to get there, I had imagined the worse. Someone—my mind pictured Dicky Gaskins without the slightest effort—had come to this house, murdered Officer Scott Wright, sneaked into my sweet sister’s house, found my son, killed him where he slept. Or, perhaps like before, he’d taken him again. Taken him away from me a second time, after we’d already saved him, a thing for which I couldn’t have forgiven myself if I lived to be a thousand years old.

  In the far corner of the dark room, blinds still closed, a sleeping bag lay in a long puddle, bunched and rippled. I leaped forward in two steps, slid to the floor, slammed both of my hands onto the cloth. They met resistance, the hard shoulders of a young boy.

  “Wesley!” I yelled, a booming rip of a sound.

  He turned toward me, the topmost edge of the sleeping bag toppling off to reveal his sleepy face. He squinted, grunted, moaned.

  “Wesley,” I repeated, though this time it was only a whisper.

  “Hey, Dad,” my son said.

  5

  I made a decision that I probably should’ve made a day earlier. Come hell or high water—and with Dicky Gaskins on the loose and rain falling like God’s very own tears, either one was a viable possibility—my family wouldn’t separate again. No sleepovers, no babysitting, no hide and seek, no trips to the grocery store with Grandma. Except for maybe—maybe—the brief moments it took a person to shower, I planned to keep all four of my kids within my sight until we went back home to Georgia.

  The day that followed my grim discovery in the cop car was a strange mixture of fear, relief, and rock-bottom boredom. We all felt afraid—how could you not when someone had murdered an officer of the law right under your noses? Daylight helped, as scant as it was under the thickly clouded skies, and being together helped. But the fear in my children’s eyes—even Logan, to whom we hadn’t explained one iota of what had happened—made my heart ache. Despite that, the rescue-relief of thinking the worst about Wesley and then finding him sound asleep on the floor still inflated my chest with enough happy air to offset the deflation of everything else. And the boredom…

  Sheriff Taylor wouldn’t let us leave, saying he had federal agents up his ass about procedure and protocol, scene of the crime, witnesses, all that Law and Order shit. So we sat around, together, in the living room, not doing a damn thing. The weather had knocked out the cable and every station on the radio sounded like static and fuzz, broken up every once in awhile with a drumbeat or shriek of guitar. The Wi-Fi sucked, making Netflix or Hulu a pipe dream. So we played Monopoly—mostly because Wesley had made a joke about it and I wanted to prove it could be fun. Checkers and chess as well, and Evelyn kept us fed. We each took our turns with a grumpy old lady from the FBI, asking us the same questions over and over again, but not a one of us knew a single thing about how or why that poor Officer had been killed or who had done it (though if it had been put to a vote, Dicky would’ve won in a landslide). I didn’t even know the method of his untimely demise—all I’d seen was blood and a whole lot of it.