While dusk set in around Barter Ridge, Sheriff Rome rested his forearms atop the split-rail fence bordering his property and stared at the woods on the other side. He inhaled a puff from his pipe before lifting his eyes to the mountain rising above the canopy.
Crown-of-Thorns Mountain was wrapped in the green of life up to a ring of twisted dead trees encircling its barren peak. The locals had come up with several theories for the bleakness of the peak so far beneath the natural timberline. Some blamed acid rain, but those prone to superstition called it the Devil’s Sacellum – where Satan himself seduces Christian women into witchcraft.
The sheriff inhaled another breath of burning tobacco. His ears perked up at the whisper of approaching footsteps in the grass, but he didn’t turn to see who it was.
“Nick.” Lula Mae placed a hand on his arm. “I turned on the air. A big thunderstorm’s rolling in tonight so we can’t keep the windows open.”
“We probably shouldn’t have the windows open now anyway, with all that’s going on.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking we should get a security system for the house. Maybe we should change the locks too.”
Sheriff Rome exhaled smoke away from his wife. “Lula Mae, intruders don’t have the door key.”
“Well, I’d feel safer.”
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Lula Mae rested her hands on the fence beside her husband.
As if waiting for lines to be added to their script, the couple entered an inflated moment devoid of words. A chorus of wind-sifted trees, chattering insects and avian song took center stage until disquieted by the discordant whistle of the sheriff’s next pipe-filtered inhalation. Perhaps annoyed by his own intrusion, Sheriff Rome jabbed the pipe’s stem into the air before him, aiming it at the mountain. “That’s where it happened.”
“I know.” Lula Mae stared at the lifeless peak. “Do you think it’s true, what Wayne said?”
The sheriff clenched the pipe with his teeth. “I can’t rightly say.”
Lula Mae turned to face her husband’s profile. “I can’t imagine he’d make it up.” Silence. “We should call Emory.”
“Why?”
“To ask him.”
“Lula Mae, you can’t just ask him something like that. He chose not to tell us for a reason.”
“What do you mean? What reason? You think he’s afraid of how we’ll respond?”
“How are we going to respond?”