The Last Harvest(14)

I take in a deep breath. “That’s a start.”

He gets out the directory; it’s painful watching him find the M’s and then scan each name.

“631-0347.” I call out her number, my knee bouncing up and down like a jackhammer. “And I want it on speakerphone.”

Sheriff gives me a weary look, but complies. The volume’s low, but I can hear each agonizing ring until someone finally picks up.

“Hello?” Mr. Miller answers, groggily.

“Charlie, it’s Ely. Sorry to bother you like this, but I’ve got Clay Tate over here, and he claims he saw your daughter out at the Neely ranch tonight. That she might be in some kind of trouble.”

“Not this again.” Mr. Miller yawns. “We went to the football dinner at the Preservation Society and then she went straight to bed.”

“Tell him to check her room,” I whisper.

Ely shushes me. “Would you mind just checking her room for me? Put the boy’s mind at ease.”

“What’s going on?” I hear Mrs. Miller ask in the background.

“Fine.” Mr. Miller sighs as he puts the phone down. I can hear the springs creak as he gets out of bed.

I stare at the Elvis clock mounted on the wall above Sheriff Ely’s head. Each sway of his hips equals a second. Each one slower than the last.

“We’re wasting time,” I whisper as I edge forward on my seat. “God only knows what’s going on out there now. Their eyes were black and the—”

“Snug as a bug,” Mr. Miller says as he comes back on the line. “Like I said, sleeping like a baby since ten.”

I bolt out of my chair so fast it topples. “That’s impossible. I just saw her.”

“Little advice,” Mr. Miller says. “Unless he’s ready to join the council, you better keep him away from the Preservation Society. Kid’s a loose cannon, just like his dad and you—”

“Thanks for checking,” Sheriff interrupts as he fumbles to take it off speakerphone. “You have a good night now.”

He hangs up and looks at me. I know that look. Pity.

“He’s in on it. Don’t you see that?” I start pacing again. “My dad found something. Something they don’t want me to see. My dad must’ve said something to you. You were best friends. You have to help me.”

“Clay.” Sheriff stands, planting his hand firmly on my shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but your dad came over here ranting and raving about the same types of things on the night he died. Said he had to stop the evil before it was born. After he hacked up every pregnant cow on that ranch, he ripped off his own fingernails trying to pry open that stainless steel door to get at Neely’s prize bull. Whether it was drugs, schizophrenia, or whatever, he was seeing things … violent things that weren’t real. He kept talking about the seed, the sixth generation, a golden calf, a prophecy, and sacrifices. He kept going on about some secret room at the Preservation Society. All kinds of crazy things.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this? I came to you before—”

“My point is”—he tightens his grip—“unless you want to end up just like him or at Oakmoor, I suggest you get your ducks back in a row. You’ve got your mom and sisters to look after now. Don’t you think they’ve suffered enough?”

Feeling completely gutted, I think of Noodle in that white eyelet dress she insisted on wearing to Dad’s funeral, because it was his favorite. She held my face in her hands and said, “We pick what we want to remember and I pick good.”

I feel my shoulders cave. What if Sheriff’s right? What if it’s all in my head?

“Get some sleep, Clay,” he says as he leads me out the door. “We’ve all had nightmares from what happened out there. Trust me, no one wanted to believe your dad more than I did, but it’s time to move on. It’s for your own good. And you heard the man. Unless you’re going to join the council, you need to stay away from the Preservation Society, and like it or not, that includes Ali Miller now.”

In a daze, I walk back to my truck.

“And Clay?”

I turn, waiting for some last bit of wisdom, something that will help me make sense of all this.

“Who do you think’s going to win the big game tomorrow? I’ve got my money on Midland, but without you playing quarterback, it’s going to be a close call.”

I know he’s probably just trying to lighten the mood, take my mind off all this, but it feels like I just got sucker punched. Who gives a shit about football at a time like this? Without another word, I get back in my truck and tear out of there.

Gripping the steering wheel, I clamp down all the hurt and anger raging inside of me. I can’t go off the rails. Not now.

I know I should go home, pull myself together, but I find myself going to the one place I know I shouldn’t.





9

GRABBING THE flashlight from my glove box, I sneak around the side of the Preservation Society to the wall of box hedges sealing off the back. I dive through the hedges, the prickly branches scratching the hell out of my arms.

As I make my way across the lawn to the French doors lining the back of the main house, I can’t help thinking about the last time we were here as a family—Fourth of July picnic, the summer before Dad’s death. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see it … to smell it … the honeysuckle, the fresh-cut grass, and gunpowder from the cannon they kept shooting off. Noodle’s standing on Dad’s toes as he twirls her around to the music, Mom’s playing Bunco with her friends from church, and Jess … well, Jess still looks normal. And there I am, throwing the damn football, watching Tyler steal Ali right from under my nose. I wish I could go back in time. I’d do everything so different.