Below you may read the first three chapters of Devil’s Knob, a romantic mystery set in modern day West Virginia.
CHAPTER 1
LARK COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
Sammie Rae slammed her foot on the brake, fishtailing her cruiser as the rickety green truck blew past. Doing eighty on the wrong side of the road, the truck sent an oncoming Subaru skittering across to the shoulder.
The truck swerved abruptly back into her lane and continued on its reckless way. From its driver-side window above the peeling Goodloe’s Towing logo, an arm extended, waving a merry “hi” in cigarette smoke.
The Subaru slid to a stop, silver body shuddering. The driver flung open his door and hopped out. Face persimmon red, hollering incoherently, he pointed at the rapidly disappearing truck. By the plates, he was a tourist from Massachusetts.
“Damn you, Wade!” Sammie Rae yelled into the dusty air. Wade Goodloe, driver of the shabby truck had forced her hand again. She flipped on her siren and raced off. A half-mile later she was leaning into the truck’s window—just for a little discussion—when the Subaru stopped perilously close to her uniformed rear end.
“He ran us off the road!” The woman in the passenger seat leaned out her window and pulled off her sunglasses, screaming at Sammie Rae, “Arrest him right now!”
“Thank you for informing me of the issue, ma’am.” Sammie Rae plastered on as pleasant a smile as she could muster. “I got things well in hand.”
The woman scowled and slammed her glasses back into place.
Sammie Rae glanced at Wayne’s head wobbling on his scrawny neck and turned back to the tourists. “Y’all don’t want to waste your day with this. It’d mean heading back to Onondaga. Go on now, enjoy the foliage. And if you haven’t had breakfast, you and your little ones…”—two children bounced around the backseat, giggling as they gave her the finger—“…should stop at The Old Log Cabin just ahead in Devil’s Knob. Great ham and grits. The real Appalachian experience.”
The woman scowled and turned her head toward the man, who said, “Just do your job, Sheriff.”
“Deputy, sir.” Sammie Rae pointed to the badge gleaming on her jacket. “Deputy Sammie Rae Wheedle. Sheriff of this county is Mr. Ralph Beebe. Nice car, by the way.” A Forester. She’d window-shopped at Hometown Subaru, but no way could afford a new model. She smiled again and waved them on.
The tourists drove ahead to a dusty turnaround. The man got out again and stood watch confirming her suspicions—he represented a type all too prevalent in leaf season: entitled, speed-trap-fearing Northerners who thought West Virginians let their own get away with murder—the kind who would follow up to make sure Wade got punished.
“Shee-it, Wade!” Sammie Rae hissed. “Now I got to search your truck and maybe bring you in.”
“Can’t just fake it, Sammie Rae?”
“I’m up for review, Wade. Some say as I’m not doing my job.” She wrenched the truck’s door open. “You know the department’s a boys’ club.”
Wade stumbled out of the cab. No surprise; he failed to walk a straight line. He leaned against the truck’s front fender and sucked on his lower lip, contemplating the situation. “Well, if you gotta take me in, Sammie Rae…” He shrugged. “Lord knows I need a rest from the little woman. But if you keep me, you gotta deliver to your dad and the others.”
Sammie Rae looked at the tourists in an ain’t gonna take no shit way, calling out, “Can’t stay in the emergency turnout or you get a ticket.” She put her fists on her hips, and the driver slunk back into his seat and drove off.
Wade blew out a high-octane breath. He staggered to the back of his truck, moved the greasy wrenches to one side of the tool kit, and pulled out the box’s false bottom.
“Thanks, Wade.” At least, she didn’t have to move his filthy tools. What with a possible review, it was a bad day to come in with hands and uniform blackened.
A glistening pile of Ziplocs filled with white tablets lay in the chest. Sammie Rae asked, “Got a shovel?”
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“Course.”
“Ralph’s gunning for me. Can’t have nothing in my patrol car. You good to dig a little?”
“Long as it’s a shallow grave.” Wade grinned. His new teeth gleamed in the sun.
“We best get to it.”
Wade slammed the shovel’s blade into a young tree, leaving a pale scar as a marker. He swayed unsteadily, admiring his handiwork. “You see that good enough or I gotta do the other side too?”
“That’s fine.”
They went thirty feet into the woods, closer to the mountain that gave Devil’s Knob its name. Wade dug a hole behind a tangle of blackberry, dropped the bags in, covering them with a scrim of leaves. Wouldn’t fool anyone looking, but who would be out there looking?
“I’ll leave my shovel up against this here pine, so’s you can brush stuff away without getting mussed. I’ll get it when I’m released.”
Back at the patrol car, she took out the Breathalyzer. “How much did you drink?”
Wade shook his head. “I do decline testing. Charge the maximum. Like I said, I’m glad to go in now I’m caught—me and the wife been having our go-rounds and nights’re too cold to sleep in the woods. No reason to ask where I got the shine, neither. I plumb forgot.” He scratched his grizzled chin. “Got any weed? They keep me a stretch longer if I have a little on me.”
“Sorry. All gone.” She wished she’d kept some for him, a little baggy to turn in.
#
A bitter smell hung like smog in the office air. Sammie Rae was the only woman deputy, so sooner or later someone would hint the Mr. Coffee needed cleaning. She’d dodge out as quickly as possible, leaving the pot as it had been, crusted with tarry deposit. No skin off her nose—she had her cup from the Dunkin’.
She pushed past the men hunt-and-pecking on their keyboards and knocked on Ralph Beebe’s door. Inside, she stood before the sheriff’s oak desk, a relic of the coal baron days. Lightly coated in fear-sweat, she looked down and discovered—to her horror—a bit of her Curvations full-figure bra peeking from between two buttons. The black bra was lacy, recently bought at the Walmart on a secret out-of-jurisdiction trip. The thought of her recurrent misuse of on-duty time made her armpits dampen even more.
Sheriff Beebe’s attention was on his computer screen, giving Sammie Rae a moment to tuck her tie into the gap. She leaned her belly against the desk’s edge, relieving the low back pain her holstered gun caused.
Her breath came tight. The typing in the reception area kept rhythm with her heart’s pounding. She’d feared facing Beebe all morning.
“You read today’s news, Sammie Rae?” He leaned closer to his screen and shook his head. “Weird shit going on. People’s faces getting eaten.”
“What? Faces eaten?” What stupid crap is he on about now? Focus Sammie Rae! But it was hard to attend to Sheriff Beebe’s words, so unlikely to be true. Not when she dreaded him looking back up.
She couldn’t lose this job—good-paying work was hard to come by. Besides, what else could she do? Greet people in a store? Earn minimum wage at a drive-thru? Go from “Get out of the car with your hands up” to “Want fries with that?” A waste of breath—they always wanted fries!
“Not paying attention, Deputy Wheedle? I asked a question.”
“Nossir, don’t turn on the news too often.”
“Well, never mind. Just weird shit over by DC, where weird shit belongs.” He cleared his throat. “Pray to God it don’t come here.”
Didn’t matter to her if it did. No way he’d let her investigate.
He settled back in his chair. “Point a’ this meeting is, I’ve had complaints saying you’re not pulling your weight. Less arrests than the men, less drugs brought in, can’t be found from time to time.” The unsaid bit was, “Girl cops can’t keep up.”
“With all due respect, sir…” Her voice trailed off. She’d never thought of him as “sir,” but always as Uncle Ralph. When she’d been just old enough to notice, he and her ma had done it every Wednesday afternoon in his patrol car. Tucked out of sight behind their chicken coop, that black-and-gold car had bobbed up and down with Ralph’s weight. Almost twenty years ago it was, back when he patrolled the country roads, just like Sammie Rae was doing now. She’d considered subtly leveraging that history for job security, but she was crap at subtlety. And she’d considered bullshitting, saying what a huge influence he’d had on her life, but a lot of “uncles” had come after him and Ralph hadn’t taken being replaced with good grace. Bringing up his activities with her ma might make him pissed off enough to fire her.
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He scowled. “We’re being squeezed. Feds say we’re over our limit when it comes to addicts, though God knows this area is awash with reasons to be addicted. They don’t give a damn about that…”
“I heard Washington’s planning to give us a bundle for roads and such…”
Ralph fixed her with a steady glare. “This is about our reputation and dignity, the fact they’re threatening to take over our investigation. Treating me like a goddamn hick who can’t get nothing done. So, we all gotta step up our game. We know who the dirtbags are.”
Sammie Rae hoisted the waistband of her pants with both hands. “How can they take over when it’s not our fault? Most stuff’s coming up from Mexico—even their pot’s better than homegrown.”
Ralph shrugged. “They’re monitoring arrests, overdoses throughout the state. Meth and heroin. Pills too, prescription or not. The whole shebang. What are you doing to help our drug arrest stats, Sammie Rae?” He cleared his throat. “Who’d you bring in this morning?”
“Wade.”
“Wade who?”
Ralph knew exactly “Wade who” but was being official. “Goodloe.”
“Been waiting for that sumbitch to get caught with a load. Rumor has it his only real income is dealing. What you find on him?”
It was even more regrettable she’d been out of pot. Wade would have counted as a drug arrest. “Nothing really. Pulled him over for driving drunk. He declined testing.” She shrugged.
“As is his legal right.” Ralph flicked a pen between his thumb and index finger, tapping it against the scarred desktop. “Shame. But we can’t rely on Wade to up our numbers if we can’t catch him holding.” He paused for a moment. “Could crack down on unlicensed shine, but people’d start going blind from home brew. At least Dolly knows what she’s doing—puts out a good product.” Ralph tapped his pen a few more times. “Get Wade before the court ASAP then get rid of him. Everybody knows his wife’s about to shoot off his nuts for failure to support, but this ain’t a marriage-mistake motel.” The tapping stopped, replaced by clicking. “Well, get out there. Do your best. “
“Any chance filling my request for a K-9?” A dog could be useful on traffic stops. Or if she forgot where stuff was buried.
“Not yet.” He turned to a pile of forms and began signing them. The review was over.
After leaving the office, Sammie Rae stopped at the Dunkin’ to get a custard-filled and a free drink, ignoring her image in the plate-glass window. She already knew what the side-view would show—the uniform, which made men look manly, was a disaster on a woman. Her butt looked enormous.
She asked for her donut in a giant box—the kind that held a dozen without mussing the frosting—even though hers looked mighty lonely inside it.
She sipped her sweet tea before leaving. The Dunkin’ was empty except for Howie Angolier, whose back was to her, head rotating side-to-side on his shoulders—his neck had long ago disappeared into his four-hundred-pound torso. A large coffee sat on his table, along with a strawberry-frosted.
Sammie Rae held the box against her chest and walked around him, said, “Hey, Howie.”
His eyes appeared fixed on the front page of the Washington Post.
“I say, hey, Howie.”
His gaze lifted slow as syrup from the deep pouches above his cheeks. “Hey, Sammie Rae. Sorry, was reading ’bout bodies in DC. Addicts in the park. Pack of loose dogs or something must have been at them. They’s all tore up—only bones and some gobbets of flesh left.”
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Packs of wild dogs roaming DC? Eating addicts? Must have been what Beebe was reading online.
DC was three hundred and fifty miles away. Sammie Rae shook her head to look sad as possible. Didn’t pay to get into a discussion with Howie when something stuck in his head. His voice rumbled into an “Mmmm,” as he bit into his donut, flecks of rosy-red frosting spraying the table.
“Well, catch you later.” She pushed the door open. As she pulled away from the shop, she took out the cream-filled and held it lightly between her teeth.
Soon, she was emptying the hole Wayne had dug, putting the baggies into the empty box to keep dirt off her backseat. Shame she hadn’t gotten two boxes: one empty and one full of donuts for Wayne’s waiting customers. And another donut, maple, for herself.
CHAPTER 2
Funny how things go in circles, Sammie Rae thought as she turned onto the grass. She glided down to the old henhouse—empty except for the occasional wistful possum or ’coon longing for the coop’s chicken-filled glory days. She parked in the spot Beebe once hid his patrol car, back when her mother was part of the family and her father still first shift in the mines. Now, with only him in the house, no one gathered eggs, spread feed, or cleaned out the old straw. Frying chickens came from Martin’s Food, beheaded, plucked, and ready for the cast-iron pan, but never tasting like her ma’s.
Her car was far off the road, hidden behind the shed and a few young mulberry trees. No one would see the Sheriff Department logo and report her for goofing off. She grabbed two baggies and headed to the tiny house, whose chimney let out a lazy plume of smoke. The heavenly smell of burning hickory made her nostrils tickle.
On the porch, she lifted the screen door slightly to clear the threshold. The jamb looked dry-rotted but it didn’t matter now—it was a glorious fall day and nighttime cold snaps had done in most of the bugs. Come spring, she’d get someone to help her fix it.
“Hey, Pa!” she hollered as a warning. God knows what might happen if someone startled him—he slept with a loaded .22 long, his squirrel gun, about all he could handle now. “Got Wade’s delivery for you.”
Her father shuffled out of the back bedroom, an old quilt around his shoulders. “Thank the Lord. I been out all night and half yesterday, too. Diarrhea ain’t started yet, but I can feel my guts rumbling. Been sitting up, waiting.”
Sammie Rae went to the kitchen for water. Turning the cranky faucet was tough for him—his fingers were so swollen they resembled dusky-red bananas. She handed him the glass and one of the OxyContins.
“Need two by now.” Irritation scrambled his features into a grimace. “Couldn’t get ahead of the pain.” He put the tablets onto his tongue. They promptly stuck to the dry surface. “Dammit!” The word was muffled as he spilled half the water on the way to his mouth. He swallowed, sinking into the sagging easy chair. Sammie lifted his feet onto the ottoman.
“Why don’t you let me buy a Barcalounger, maybe a leather one?” Sammie Rae asked. That’d be more comfortable, and, losing the stink of cigarette smoke and long-deceased dog, would make visiting more pleasant.
He shook his head. “Ain’t worth it. I’ll probably die ’fore it’s delivered.” He was always saying cheerful shit like that, though he was only sixty-two.
“Well, gotta go. I’ll stop back later if you need me to. Right now, I’m finishing Wade’s deliveries.”
Her father’s head rested on a stained scrap of tatting, covering a spot where Brylcreem had long ago taken up residence. “A little dab’ll do ya” built up over thirty years could be formidable—and not one man in the old family pictures, hair slicked down on either side of a center part, had looked debonair. “Bye, honey,” he murmured, sleepy sounding though the pills hadn’t kicked in yet.
She almost made it out the door when he asked, “Where’s that rascal, Wade, anyways? On another bender?”
“Yes and no. Had to arrest him for drunk driving.”
“What? Been driving drunk since he was a snot-nosed teen. No accidents I can remember.”
Sammie Rae shrugged. “I need all the arrests I can bring in. Sheriff’s scrutinizing me real close.”
“Should have scrutinized that bastard myself, years ago.” Despite his wry sense of humor, Sammie Rae’s pa had been a lot calmer than Ralph back when her mother took off. He’d praised the Lord the “dirty whore”—who he still loved with all his heart—hadn’t taken their daughter.
Not wanting to open old wounds any wider, Sammie Rae added, “Beebe said our little drug problem caught the attention of Washington. They’re making noise about moving in to help.”
“We all know what happens when the government’s here to help.” He chuckled, coarse and phlegmy.
“Got to do my best to help clean things up, but I’ll focus on meth and heroin, leave the pills alone long as I can.”
Pa shook his head. “Won’t do no good. First, they come for the junk and the meth. Then they come for the prescription stuff. What the hell we fight the Germans for, just to let the government Nazis take away our rights?” He’d been born too late for the Second World War and Vietnam but even his own daddy said he should’ve enlisted for Iraq, since soldiering—except for momentary bouts of terror—was easier than the mines. All that stooping and shoveling in the underground damp had turned Pa into an old man before his time.
“Yeah, they chew you up and spit you out,” he went on. The complaint was as timeworn as his easy chair. “And look what I have to show for it!” He waved his gummed-up hands at the interior of the house. “Shit. Take away my pills.” He refused to try heroin, which would have helped more, as his fingers were too gnarled for the syringes and the cooking. Those hands embarrassed him. A touch of marijuana, maybe. Dolly’s home brew for sure.
Dolly’s. She’d planned to visit her friend Darla, Dolly’s daughter, after the drop-offs. “Gotta go,” she said to her father. “Need anything?”
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He shrugged and looked off in the distance, beyond the walls of the house, beyond the road and the hills. When she was younger, she’d imagined he was searching for wherever her mother alighted once she’d got the roaming out of her blood. But now she knew it was just the pain making his vision blurry.
#
Sammie Rae made a few more deliveries—three baggies to elderly black-lung miners and one to Gracie Hopkins. Gracie almost never left the house after eight children—and three failed corrective procedures—left her pissing herself constantly. State welfare only supplied so many adult diapers.
Sammie Rae was too polite to mention the acrid odor in the air. The pink flowers outside, planted in whitewashed tires lining the path to the door, and the panties and sheets fluttering forlornly on the line every time she dropped by, were mute testimony to efforts taken, even now that Gracie was a widow.
“Where’s Wade?” Gracie asked. “I was gonna ask him to look under the hood of my old Ford.” Sammie Rae was half-inclined to think Gracie had a crush on Wade, despite his lazy eye and his sharp-tongued wife. Her husband dying had left her with a hateful mother-in-law and all those kids, and Wade was a kind, easygoing guy.
Gracie laughed the only time that possibility was suggested. “For general company and fixing things, maybe. But no, sweet thing, no interest in a man in that way. You wouldn’t believe it from all these brats, but Joe was a little ’un, if you know what I mean.” She lit another cigarette, took a deep drag. “Bless his heart, I couldn’t bear to tell him, but petite as his pecker was, it was like being raped by an elephant. Damn surgical mesh scarred me down so.”
Sammie Rae hadn’t meant sex—her own ma’s legacy and her Mee-Maw’s Christian sayings had left her squeamish. She was careful not to ever again hint at Gracie’s love life and sure wasn’t going to say anything today. She put the pills on the scrubbed kitchen table.
Gracie rummaged around in her purse. “Got money here somewheres.”
“Save it for Wade. I’m drop-off only.” Sammie Rae never handled the cash.
Gracie’s was the last delivery, so she spent the rest of the day cruising the back roads, hoping to see something—maybe a meth-head breaking into an unguarded farmhouse. But things were quiet.
The hours dragged until her shift finally ended. She drove home, stomped up the rickety outside stairs to her apartment, changed into jeans and a stretched-out tee, and headed toward Darla’s house. She walked—the exercise might use up the calories from that last donut.
CHAPTER 3
Darla was relaxing on the front porch steps with Boozer, the shepherd-collie-pit-God knows-what mix rescued from a crash that killed its humans. The town beauty, Darla had a soft spot for the old, the ugly, and the lame. So, when no one claimed him, the dog was adopted into her family, just as Sammie Rae had been.
Dolly, Darla’s ma, made sure there were snacks in the fridge and dinner on the table for the girls—she knew Sammie Rae’s pa had been weak at regular meals and new clothes for back-to-school. She’d taken both girls shopping.
“Hey, girl!” Darla called as Sammie Rae walked down the dusty drive. “How’s your day been?”
Sammie Rae sat next to her, stretched out a hand to pet the dog’s wiry head. “So-so,” she said.
“So-so, how so?”
“Had a meeting with the sheriff. Usual bullshit about me being a girl…”
“Which you can scarce help.”
“Besides that, Ralph says the Feds’re getting serious about coming in-county and taking over drug enforcement.”
“Beebe must be shitting himself.” Darla lit a cigarette. “You poor thing,”
“Enough about me. How’s your work going?”
“Slow right now. Needed a break anyway.” With a thriving business in accident and crime-scene clean-up, Darla could walk into a house where a corpse had rotted for weeks and get right to work. She might have a tender heart, but she also had a steely will and a cast-iron stomach. She was a powerhouse who could single-handedly remove a blood-soaked sofa from a house as soon as the investigators gave her the go-ahead—all this despite her slender frame and feminine appeal. Goggles and surgical masks failed to hide her dark, almond-shaped eyes or the outline of her cheekbones.
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Comparing herself to Darla, Sammie Rae felt like a Clydesdale up against a Thoroughbred. But thrown together by fate, world events, and the illicit activities of mothers who refused to toe the line, they’d been best friends since forever.
“The Feds, huh?” Darla narrowed her eyes—a sure sign of mulling over Sammie Rae’s problems—inhaled deeply and blew a series of smoke rings.
Sammie Rae stuck her finger into the last ring and broke it. “Oh, Darla, how the living hell am I gonna help Pa? I already carried him to every doctor, hospital, and clinic in a two-hundred-mile radius, but ever since Doc Kaczerowski‘s license got suspended, the medical community’s real stingy with pills.” Kaczerowski was put away for his generosity—his very well-compensated generosity—after the overdose deaths of twelve patients. The other local docs, not yet under indictment, weren’t willing to risk losing their livelihood, or worse. And sooner or later, they’d have to crack down on Wade, making real OxyContin unaffordable. She didn’t want bootleg stuff—who the hell knew what the cartels put in that crap?
Darla leaned back on her elbows, the cigarette dangling from her mouth. Sammie Rae sat up straighter, fighting to stay alert. A full day of worry and the walk in the late-afternoon sun had made her drowsy.
Darla turned toward the house. “Hey, Ma, Sammie Rae’s visiting! We could use a little sample out here!”
Dolly lifted the kitchen window’s screen and poked her head out. “Hello!” Her accent was heavy, mouth contorted in the effort needed to pronounce the letter l, but her welcome was like tea and honey when your throat’s sore and you haven’t yet noticed it, like someone loving you so much they know what you need before you do. That’s how Sammie liked to remember her ma, who’d never been that way. Ever since Sammie and Darla became besties, visiting Dolly’s house had been like coming home.
The screen slammed down. A moment later Dolly was on the porch with a Ball jar of clear, pale-amber liquid. “Ginseng shine! Very smooth, very healthy. Best yet.” She handed the jar to her daughter and waited for her response. It was easy to see where Darla got her looks—Dolly had the broad forehead, apple cheeks, and pointy chin of a traditional Korean beauty. But where Dolly was short and plump, Darla was tall and long-legged, a gift of her six-foot-two-inch Scots-Irish father.
“You need to relax!” Dolly indicated Sammie Rae should take a slug. “Gonna stay for dinner? Not say no!”
“Pa?” said Darla. “Can he drive Sammie Rae home?”
“Oh, don’t bother him for my sake. He’ll be tired…” Sammie Rae had planned on a diet dinner of salad—but the smell of Dolly’s fermented kimchi, which had originally disgusted her, was making her mouth water. It would undoubtedly be paired with barbecue, sweet and salty, and savory side dishes.
“No bother!” Dolly exclaimed with a sharp nod before returning to the kitchen. “When I tell him, he drive. But out on long-haul!”
When Sammie Rae hesitated, Dolly gave a sharp nod as if things were settled and said, “You stay here tonight.” She returned to the kitchen.
Darla took a sip and smiled like a blissed-out saint. “Mmmm, this is even better than her regular shine.” She passed the jar to Sammie Rae. “Easy now. I don’t know how it’s gonna hit.”
Sammie Rae lifted the jar to her lips, fearing the burn. But it never came. Instead, the liquor felt satiny going down.
“Mom says this stuff is good for you, the ginseng. Never a hangover with it, either.” Darla took the jar back and put it down. “But we better have dinner first. Mom’s shine can really sneak up on you and she’s been known to lie about the no hangover.” She sighed. “Surely was a pretty day.” The dog licked her cheek. She pushed him away. “Boozer, your breath could knock a vulture off a shit wagon!” The dog settled back on the sun-warmed planks. “Hey, I’m going to a conference next weekend for re-cert. Over by Shepherdstown. Maybe you should come—some good courses on drugs for law enforcement.”
Sammie Rae thought for a moment. “I do have that weekend off. Need to visit Mee-Maw down in Mingo County, though.”
“Yeah, what you really need,” Darla said. “A dose of, ‘Lord, I pray you, don’t let my grandbaby grow up a floozy like her ma! Keep her from sinnin’ with men!’” Darla’s imitation was spot-on.
Sammie Rae laughed. Maybe she would go to Shepherdstown. She’d never used her continuing education money—sure, those funds were pathetic, and she’d most likely have to pay a good bit herself—but she had no other plans. Anyway, things would be boring without Darla.
“Come on!” Darla nudged her. “Be fun.”
“Well, maybe,” Sammie Rae said.
“Just hate to leave Lark County, don’t you? There’s a whole big world out there.”
Sammie Rae was used to her nagging—Darla was so much like Dolly. Anyway, the alcohol was making her mellow. She reveled in the view across the neatly cut lawn. What with the flower beds’ purple asters, and the late afternoon sun’s angled light, the yard looked nice enough to be a calendar photo. Savory odors drifted from the kitchen; the liquid in the jar was delicious.
Smooth, high-quality moonshine, both traditional corn, and ginseng-flavored Korean brew, had made Dolly popular in the area. That and kimchi, addictive, fiery radish and cabbage condiment whose added benefit was rendering Breathalyzer testing useless—all the officers swore kimchi breath had broken a few units. Pretty soon only hardcore alkies took the shine by itself. Dolly always had some grilled beef bul kogi to go with the spicy pickles.
“How about we share a room for the weekend?” Darla said. “Upgrade to the conference facility instead of the Knight’s Rest. Special rates for the meeting!”
“You need to go!” Dolly’s voice came from inside. She didn’t believe in privacy, not from her. “Girl gotta work harder, do more than boys. Show she’s better. Go!”
Darla turned to Sammie Rae. “Let’s do movie night! Have us a head start on our getaway.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Microwave popcorn.”
Movie night always lifted Sammie Rae’s mood. “How about Night of the Living Dead? DVD still good?” When Darla nodded, Sammie Rae lunged forward, clumsy as the undead. She grabbed Boozer’s haunches with both hands. “They’re coming to get you, Barbara!”
Boozer yawned and flopped on his side, tried to wriggle Sammie Rae’s hands into position to scratch his belly. One leg came up in anticipation.
The door banged. Dolly walked out with her shopping basket and headed to her Jeep. “Out of something,” she said. “So…”
“Be good girls!” The two young women yelled at the same time as a cloud of dust rose in Dolly’s wake. They settled back to watch the sun drop lower on the horizon.
#
Twenty minutes later, Darla’s father drove up. “What are you two up to?” he asked.
“Pa, you’re back!” Darla hopped off the porch, standing on tiptoe to kiss her father’s cheek. “Wow, scratchy.”
“Long haul from Tucson, hurried home.” He smiled at Sammie Rae. “Home to find both my gals here.” He looked left and right, shuddering in mock fear. “Where’s the little woman what drives me plumb wild?”
Darla rolled her eyes as she always did when her father laid on the hillbilly talk. “Gone shopping. Wasn’t sure you were coming home.”
“Wanted to surprise her.” He rubbed his chin and winked at them. “Now I get a chance to clean up ’fore her royal persnicketyness gets back.” He went into the house.
“American man beard too rough!” Darla imitated her mother.
Sammie Rae didn’t join in the joke. Every time she saw Darla’s mother and father together, it reminded her of her own father’s solitude. “Your dad’s nuts about your mom.”
“Nuts is right. The moment he saw her washing clothes in the Imjin River. No war going on, but he was a casualty, anyway. A casualty of love.”
“Seems to be something going ’round,” Sammie Rae said. “My pa’s one, too, but without the happy ending.”
Darla looked down. “Let’s go pop that corn and order a pizza. Mom’s gonna be too busy to put dinner on.”
#
“What do you think’s worse,” Darla asked, “being eaten by a zombie or sex with that skinny nerd?” The flickering black and white opening scene rolled on the screen.
“With his glasses on?” Sammie Rae grabbed a fistful of popcorn, spilling some on the old leather couch. “I vote zombie.”
Boozer shambled toward the pizza smell and the possibility of a crust. Darla rescued the box. “Mom can’t see we let him in the house. And turn the sound up a bit—I hear their bedsprings squeaking.” She deepened her voice. “Night of the Geriatric Sex Fiends.”
“Hush! They’re not that old. I think it’s sweet.” Sammie Rae took in a sudden breath and yelled at the TV, “Run, you idiots! Hole up in the house!”
The screen flickered and the room was silent except for the sound of salt being sucked from fingers.
“Oh, shit!” Darla squirmed closer to Sammie Rae as the young couple tried to pull away from the gas pumps. “Stupid, driving a pickup on fire. Grab the damn torch, head back to the house!”
Sammie Rae said. “If I were him, I’d be all, ‘Eat her! I’m off a-runnin’!”
A moment later, Sammie Rae said, “My favorite line! Sheriff saying, ‘They’re dead, they’re all messed up.’ Like, don’t be afraid of those things flesh-eating things.”
“He reminds me of Beebe, but shorter, Butler County, PA, in the ’60s is like Lark in the now, and zombies are your Mee-Maw’s proof the world needs Jesus to save us from sin.” Darla shot upright. “Ma’s heading for the washroom! Up Boozer!” She shooed the dog outside and returned. Just like when they were young, Darla and Sammie Rae clutched each other and squealed at the gore, though it had lost a lot of its horror.
Darla added, “Must’ve been forty zombies dropping gobs of meat everywhere, off themselves and their dinner. Imagine cleaning up that mess!”
“Well, you could charge a ton.” Sammie Rae flipped up the lid of the pizza box to make sure there wasn’t a slice still lurking. Boozer had been right. Just crusts.
“Up close, some of them zombies sure look like long-term meth, don’t they?” Darla said.
“I’m waiting for my favorite part, where little zombie girl sticks a trowel right up in her mom’s heart!”