Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,26
your Debbie.”
Gravel crunched under his boots as he passed through the white cones of light from his high beams. “I don’t need a Debbie, Trish. I have you.” Through the steady hum of the radio, he could practically hear her plump cheeks flush with heat. He scratched the back of his neck as warmth pricked his own.
Dearborn cleared his throat and pressed the talk button. “I’ll check in after I’ve sussed out the situation. I’m headed right toward the olive tree.” Another sniff. “Maybe Earl stumbled onto something real this time.”
“He would love that.” Trish clucked. “Be safe out there.”
The line went quiet as Dearborn headed into the stretch of grass. He wiped the spits of rain from his face and rubbed the tip of his square nose. The closer he got to the tree, the thicker the stench. It bit at his nose and made his eyes water.
“Earl,” he called as he swept the beam from his flashlight over the grass. “Where’d you get off to?”
The gravel crunched behind him and he spun around. He squinted through his tear-swirled vision. “Earl?” he hollered once again as he shined his flashlight along his car, Earl’s truck, and then the road’s shoulder. The white light struck something shiny. The hairs on the back of Dearborn’s neck bristled. His mouth went dry as his fingers found his gun holster. His eyes burned and tears and rain and snot leaked down his face as he quickly, expertly closed in on the glinting metal.
Sheriff Dearborn’s stomach hollowed as the scene came into view. The buckles of Earl’s suspenders twinkled in the flashlight beam like trapped lightning bugs. The old man’s fingers threaded through the tall grass as if he laid there, peacefully staring up at the stormy night’s sky. Bile burned the back of Dearborn’s throat as he shined his light on Earl’s face. Blood streaked the man’s wrinkled brow and cheeks, and rain pooled in the raw red hollows where his eyes had been.
Hazelnut and sick coated Sheriff Dearborn’s tongue and he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. He was a leader, and with a death like this—a murder like this—his town would need him to lead, need him to be strong.
The sheriff leaned into his radio. “Trish, send an ambulance to Quaker Road and wake up Carter. Wake up the coroner. Everyone! We need to—” Dearborn’s eyelids slammed shut as the smoky scent intensified.
Footsteps slid across the gravel behind him.
Dearborn unbuckled his holster and drew his sidearm. “Who’s out there?” Tears welled and blurred his vision. “Who’s out there?!”
A shadow crossed his beam of light and grass mashed under heavy feet.
The acrid, burning scent was palpable, stringy sizzles of electricity biting at his eyes and nostrils. Dearborn opened his mouth to bark a command and the snapping jolts surged past his parted lips. His gun and flashlight thumped against the ground as he dropped to his knees and gripped his throat.
“Sheriff, you okay?” Trish called out into the dark and rainy night. “Sheriff?” Her voice tightened with panic. “Frank?!”
Seven
With each blink, Hunter’s lids scraped against her eyes like sandpaper. She was out of tears. She hadn’t known that was possible. Not until last night. Or had it been this morning? She shielded her eyes and squinted up at the gray, cloud-filled sky. It had rained sometime in the wee hours of the morning—the only evidence that the world knew it had lost the great soul of Abigail Goode.
The screen door creaked open as Mercy emerged from the house. She shuffled across the porch and clomped down the steps. She let out a sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh and plopped next to Hunter on the bottom step.
Hunter grimaced as she ran her fingers along the scabbing wounds on her arm. So, she was still able to feel.
Mercy set her phone down on the walkway between their feet and rested her head on Hunter’s shoulder. Mercy was heavy, a steel anvil where the feather-light young woman had once been. That was one of the strange things about grief. How it turned some into weights and reduced others to the molted skin of the person they’d been. Hunter rubbed her cheek against Mercy’s sable hair. Good thing her sister was there to keep her from blowing away.
Mercy’s phone chimed and she plucked it up off the concrete.
Hunter averted her eyes from the screen. She couldn’t bear to see any words about her mother. They were too powerful, too permanent.