CHAPTER 30

CAL GAWKED AT THE CROWD filing into the Pickett County Fairgrounds just before 11:00 a.m. Living in the south, he had seen his share of southern culture that would bewilder anyone unfamiliar with its customs and rituals. But the people attending the annual Walk the Plank Demolition Derby seemed like a hidden culture that had just been discovered and documented in a National Geographic special. The south didn’t hold a monopoly on demolition derbies—or banger racing, as they were called in England—but it did on the people who enjoyed the sport.

He looked over at Kelly, whose eyes managed to widen even more than his own.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

Speechless, she simply shook her head.

Pickup trucks elevated by a hydraulic system bounced up and down to the beat of a hard-driving country music song. Gun racks decorated the back windows of more trucks than even the sticker of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes fame taking a leak on the owner’s most-hated NASCAR driver. One elderly woman glared at Cal when he didn’t stop fast enough for her at a cross walk. She proceeded to salute him with her middle finger, pull her sweater back to reveal her handgun, and spew a stream of tobacco onto the hood of his rental car.

“Do you think she’s really a woman?” Kelly finally asked.

Cal nodded. “Most of the women I’ve met in my travels to the rural south are as sweet as a glass of iced tea. But there are always a few who seem to defy the status quo. She’d fall into the latter category.”

They followed the parking attendants’ directions, parking next to a 1940s era pickup truck on the right. Seconds later, a beat-up Suburban from the 1980s pulled up next to them on the left. Over the track’s loudspeaker, an announcer gave a rundown of the day’s events, starting with several short races before the flag dropped to start the derby.

Cal bought a pair of tickets and entered the turnstile with Kelly. Before they arrived at their seats, everyone stopped and faced the flag, first for Lee Greenwood’s rendition of God Bless the USA, followed by Miss Pickett County singing The National Anthem. The anthem performance sounded somewhat familiar despite a few dropped words and changes to the lyrics where bombs burst in air not once but twice.

“I hope singing isn’t what she does for the talent portion of those pageants,” Kelly whispered.

Cal chuckled and took a seat. Kelly, meanwhile, headed back down the aisle and slipped into the stream of the late-arriving crowd. She’d told Cal she wanted to take some pictures for her portfolio, surmising that this would be her only opportunity to photograph such a unique event.

Using his binoculars, Cal watched the pits to see if there was anything interesting happening. He also wanted to watch any of the people he viewed as suspects in the case and hopefully interview them one last time before heading home. He felt as if he was more confounded about the death of Susannah Sloan than he was before he left Seattle. He still had no idea who killed her—and he still hadn’t ruled out Isaiah Drake either.

Jacob Boone revved up his car before climbing out and grinning maniacally at several of the other drivers. Sheriff Sloan walked around the corner of a white cinder block building on the infield where it appeared a driver’s meeting was set to occur. He motioned to Boone to join him.

I wonder what that’s all about.

Cal put his binoculars down to glance at the order of events. When he looked back up, he saw Boone disappear around the corner where Sloan had been. Cal strained his neck to catch any further action but was derailed when Crazy Corey Taylor stepped into his line of sight toting a sign proclaiming, “The End is Near!”

Exasperated, Cal put his binoculars away and sighed, gesturing for Taylor to move along. Taylor obliged, dancing and spinning as he moved down the aisle. He also repeated the message on his sign, yelling it. Taylor’s antics led to at least three children breaking into tears.

Cal returned to watching the pits when Taylor returned, this time interrupting Cal by leaning over and whispering in his ear. “Figure out who did it yet?” Taylor asked. “If you want to know who did it, come find me sometime.”

* * *

THE SOUND OF METAL colliding with metal at fifteen to twenty-five miles per hour echoed across the grandstand, always followed by a chorus of oohs and ahhs. Cal understood the appeal of watching cars ram one another for sport. The singular objective to destroy the other competitors and be the remaining operational car took away the pretense that a race was necessary. It was a vehicular gladiator event. And even as someone who was uninitiated, Cal enjoyed it.

Jacob Boone was one of the final two competitors but lost when Earl Underwood clipped the back of his car, which proceeded to flip and land wheels up. Boone climbed out and signaled that he was okay, leading to Earl’s attempt at a victory donut. However, Earl couldn’t generate enough speed, and he instead settled on a celebratory flip after climbing out of his car.

While the crowd cheered Earl’s win, Cal was walking down the steps to meet Kelly when he noticed a pair of reporters with cameramen interviewing Sheriff Sloan. Cal hustled over to see what they were questioning him about.

“We understand that the FBI has taken over the investigation of Jordan Hayward’s death,” one of the reporters said. “Can you tell us anything you learned before ceding jurisdiction?”

Sloan grimaced. “I’m not really authorized to comment on the crime scene at this time, but I will say it was unusual.”

“So is it safe to assume that this wasn’t a suicide?” the reporter asked.

“No, this wasn’t a suicide,” Sloan confirmed.

“Could this be the work of the Marsh Monster?” the other reporter asked, tongue-in-cheek.

Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “A man’s dead and you want to make a joke like that? The Marsh Monster may not be a monster in the way we think of them, but whoever he is, he’s killed a couple of good people in Pickett. And it’s no laughing matter.”

The reporter turned beet red and slunk back.

Cal stepped forward to ask a question, but Sloan noticed him.

“That’s all I’ve got time for,” Sloan said before he turned and hopped over a barrier wall, distancing himself from the media members.

Cal watched Sloan until he vanished from sight. Cal was still staring when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

“Cal! Cal! Hello? Earth to Cal?”

Cal blinked and realized Kelly was standing right there. “Oh, hey. Did you get some good photos?”

She grinned. “Did I ever? However, there’s one you’ll be particularly interested in. Here.”

She handed Cal her camera.

He looked at the small display screen.

“Zoom in,” she said.

Cal followed her instructions and enlarged an image of Sheriff Sloan and Jacob Boone exchanging a large duffle bag.

“Go to the next picture,” Kelly said.

Cal scrolled to the next photo and zoomed in to see Boone staring into the opened bag which appeared to contain several stacks of cash.

“Jacob Boone was right,” Kelly said. “People aren’t always what they seem in Pickett.”