Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow - By L.L. Muir Page 0,13
branches that meant his journey was over. The trees had been there since the beginning of time if their size had much to do with it. And even though they were in front of the neighbor's house, not Granddad's, it was still the gateway to home.
The Parker Place, that had turned into the Somerled Compound/Farm three years before, was typical of most farms. The house sat out close to the road with a decent sized lawn in front. The driveway ran down the right side of the house, widened in the rear, then ran back out along the left side. No one with a brain would think about entering down the left side of the house, even without an exit sign.
That's what Jamison liked about his small town. There wasn't a need to mark every entrance and exit to keep traffic flowing. Drivers knew how to drive. People didn't live on top of each other, getting pissed when someone had their music up too loud or on too late at night. In the country, no one was close enough to hear.
Even Man Exploding Ceremonies could be safely carried out without your neighbors knowing, unless your neighbor was stupid enough to be up at three in the morning, which no neighbor should.
Guilt fell to his shoulders like a heavy horse blanket as he pulled around the back of the Somerled's. Whatever had happened to his friends was his fault. If he'd been a good neighbor, only one person would have disappeared last night, not three. And he wasn't responsible for the first one. Poor idiot.
On top of it all, his grandfather wouldn't be too happy with him being so inhospitable as to drive instead of walking over, let alone bringing a cop for backup. But at least feeling guilty was better that being scared to death that he'd be the next one to disappear—although that hadn't completely been ruled out. Of course, if they did decide to make Jamison disappear in a few days, he'd have his curiosity satisfied; he'd finally know what had happened to his friends.
The back porch was a wide crescent. The concrete still had traces of the red paint Old Man Parker had painted on it. For the first time the dark burgundy paint chips reminded him of dried blood.
No doubt the original owners, Parkers or not, had thought it would look nice if the porch matched the large burgundy bricks of the house. The curb made a nice burgundy border all along the driveway, but it had been repainted sometime in the past thirty years and wasn't chipping like the rest.
Jamison parked about half-way between the first barn and the house, blocking no one. The sheriff once again parked behind him.
No backing out now.
Jamison got out of the car and leaned on the open door for a minute. The sheriff's door slammed heavily in the quiet yard made entirely of gravel and dirt. The chicken coop was quiet. The washed-out barn wood seemed to absorb every sound, and the distant bellow of a cow was the only sign the place hadn't been deserted, like Ray's.
The storm door squeaked open, as it had the night before.
A blond man emerged, his long hair tied together behind his head. His white clothes were spotless, his shoulders wider than football pads. He lingered at the top of the steps and wiggled the door back and forth.
“Jonathan, bring something to get rid of this squeak, would you?” he called over his shoulder, into the dark house. “We don't want to be bothering our neighbors every time we go outside.” He turned and grinned directly at Jamison. “Young Kenneth. Sheriff? What brings you to our place?” He put his hands on his hips and paused on the top step for only a second before he started down.
Jamison's automatic reaction was to back away, hope the sheriff would take the lead and start a conversation that would miraculously end with a signed confession and his friends being dragged out of the basement, a little bruised, but still alive. He fought that urge and stepped forward instead, finally shutting his car door, to keep himself from crawling back inside and driving away like an idiot.
“Actually, I go by Jamison, not Kenneth.”
“Skye around?” The sheriff asked before Jamison could say anymore.
“She's around, but she's not able to join us at the moment.” The big blond folded his arms and continued to grin at Jamison. “Has she done something wrong, Sheriff?”