49
The snow had yet to let up for any significant period of time. For over two straight weeks, it had screamed down the jet stream out of northern Canada in wave after wave. The weather bureau was predicting one of the worst winters for the Midwest in recordable history.
During Dexter’s funeral, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in almost a month. Carlie hoped it was Dexter’s way of letting her know that he was all right.
When Jon finished giving Dexter’s eulogy, a solemn procession passed his gravesite, heading toward the far end of the cemetery. Preceding the silver hearse, a motorized police escort passed with their lights flashing mournfully. Nearly one hundred uniformed officers on foot followed closely behind the late Sheriff Duncan.
The house was eerily silent when Carlie and Jon walked through the kitchen door. It felt like someone had again sucked the life out of it. Carlie had refused to take down the Christmas decorations after learning that Dexter had died. In her mind, they retained a certain amount of cheer in a miserably depressing situation. Today, however, they looked like cheap, lifeless pieces of wood, porcelain, and paper.
Jon had just finished stoking the fire and adding a new log when Carlie called to him from the kitchen. “Sweetheart, I hate to ask, but would you mind bringing in the long folding table from the barn?”
“Not a problem.” Putting on his coat and gloves, Jon headed out the kitchen door.
The snow had started in earnest the minute they left the cemetery. Jon hoped that everyone would make it safely to the house for Dexter’s wake—or better yet, that they would stay home. It looked like it was going to be a bad night.
In the corner of the barn, Jon located the table hidden underneath a heavy green canvas tarp.
After folding the tarp and putting it on a shelf, Jon wiped off the table and started maneuvering it toward the house. It was easy enough to slide across the barn floor, but it was going to be an entirely different story carrying it in the wind to the back door. Jon could picture a gust of wind lifting him and the table like a glider, and dropping them somewhere in the cornfield.
Stepping out of the barn into the wind-driven snow, he heard a familiar voice, “You need a hand with that, Mister Summers?”
Looking toward the side of the barn, Jon watched Smitty as he stepped out of the shadows and approached him. “Wind’ll probably catch it and rip it out of your hands. Hold on a second, I’ll help you.”
Jon couldn’t believe his luck. “I appreciate it.” When Smitty got closer, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what the kid was doing out there. “You mind my asking what you’re doing all the way out here on a day like this?”
“Just on my way home. Been kind of busy lately.
“I really like what you did with the old house, Mister Summers. It’s been quite a few years since anyone put up decorations. It makes it feel like a real home.”
Jon wasn’t sure how long the boy wanted to talk, but he remembered how sensitive he was and didn’t want to offend him, so he waited patiently and listened.
“It was a shame indeed about old Lawyer Simmons. I heard his funeral was today.”
“Yes, it was. Carlie and I just got home from it.”
“A sad thing indeed. He should have listened; I warned him.”
“What do you mean, you warned him?”
“Hell, that old duffer had been trying to scare you and the missus off this property since the first day you came out here. I warned him back at the beginning—before you even moved in—to leave it alone. He just wouldn’t mind his own business.”
Without another word, he picked up the back of the table, and he and Jon began walking it toward the screen door. “Better get this in the house before the missus thinks you up and had another accident.”
Jon wanted to laugh, but deep inside he knew that this was no laughing matter. Something was seriously wrong with this boy—and the sooner he got away from him, the happier he would be.
Just inside the screen porch, he thanked Smitty and told him he could take it from there.
Smitty just smiled, tipped his hat, and walked away. Jon watched him until he disappeared into the wind-whipped snow.
Once he was out of sight, Jon wrestled the table through the back door and into the kitchen.
Dropping the table on the floor, he made a dash upstairs to the closet and pulled out the box of journals he had found in the attic.
Racing downstairs, Jon started screaming, “CARLIE! CARLIE, HURRY—I NEED YOU DOWNSTAIRS!”
Rushing into the front room, she found Jon sitting on the couch staring at the box on the coffee table. He didn’t appear to be hurt—there was no blood, just Jon sitting on the couch staring off into space.
“Okay, I’m here, Jon. What the hell are you screaming about?”
Jon looked up at her. When he did, she saw something reflected in his eyes that she couldn’t begin to fathom.
Taking a seat next to him on the couch, she placed the back of her hand against his cheek. He wasn’t hot; he apparently didn’t have a fever. But something was definitely wrong—his eyes were distant and he could barely focus on her face.
“Sweetheart, did you hit your head again?”
When Jon’s eyes began to focus, he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Then tell me what’s wrong.”
In a whisper, he answered, “I’m not completely sure yet, but I think we’re in serious fucking trouble, Carlie.
“Jesus, Jon, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”
“Please, Carlie. We need to read these journals.”
Before Carlie could answer, Loretta stuck her head in the front door. “Hi, y’all. Can we come in?”
Jon turned and smiled. “Of course. Get in here out of the cold.”