The Last Harvest(15)

As I jiggle the door handle, trying to force it open, I realize the magnitude of what I’m about to do. I’m about to cross a very big line.

If I’m caught breaking in here, I could go to jail. I wouldn’t be able to finish the harvest and Noodle certainly wouldn’t be going to that private school.

But if there’s something here, if they have a secret room like Dad said, I could blow the lid off this place. Clear his name.

Taking off my cap, I drag my hand through my hair. “This is crazy,” I whisper.

I turn to go back the way I came, but I can’t do it, I can’t walk away from this. Yeah, Dad acted crazy at the end, but he was a reasonable man. A fair man. I have to believe there’s more to it than him just going insane. ’Cause if it happened to him, it can happen to me, and I’m not about to go down that road without a fight.

“Screw it,” I say as I wrap my cap around my fist and jab it into the pane of glass closest to the latch. I brace myself for an alarm to start blaring, or attack dogs to come chasing me back through the hedge, something to make me stop, slap some sense into me, but all I hear are the frogs singing over at Harmon Lake.

My adrenaline’s so high I could lift the door right off the hinges, but I don’t need to. I unlock it and it swings wide open without a hitch. Almost like it’s inviting me in.

I take in a jittery breath as I step over the threshold.

My footsteps echo off the gleaming hardwood floors, occasionally muffled by one of the rugs as I walk down a long corridor lined with old photographs and glass cases full of “artifacts”—just a bunch of rusted-out farming equipment and ledgers, but this crap is like the holy grail for people in this town.

It didn’t used to be this fancy, but ever since Mrs. Neely took over the decorating committee you’d think this was the White House, not the former town hall for a bunch of roughneck immigrants.

The front rooms are immaculate. So much so I’m afraid to touch anything. Can’t imagine there being a secret room up here. I decide to head downstairs, where the jail used to be. They keep it set up just like it was in the old days.

At the foot of the stairs, I trip over some iron shackles attached to a dark wood beam, a couple of axes, ropes, a gallon of fake blood. Props for the justice reenactments they do during Settlers Week. That’s when they break out the bonnets and covered wagons. Everybody running around town talking like hillbillies, which is dumb considering how most of the settlers came straight from Ireland.

I guess it was pretty fun when I was a kid—watching your neighbors get their hands chopped off for stealing another man’s livestock, or their foot cut off for running out on a fight. They even did a mock hanging one year. Poor Mr. Timmons, runs the Tastee Freeze, they rigged him up in a harness, pulled the lever, and Mr. Timmons swayed on the rope, his feet kicking beneath him dramatically. It was all fun and games until he got a big hard-on. They made all us kids cover our eyes, but I’ll never forget it. It’s burned into my memory. Haven’t been to the Tastee Freeze since.

I open every door I can find. Most of the rooms are full of extra plates, folding tables, linens. There’s a whole room just for Christmas decorations. Nothing looks out of place, unless you count the way Mary and Joseph are stacked up on top of each other in the sixty-nine position. But there’s a strange smell—similar to what I experienced at the breeding barn, like rotting meat and herbs. When I reach the end of the hall, the smell intensifies. My heart picks up speed; that same sick feeling washes over me, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Running my hands over the paneled wall, I remember they just had the annual steak dinner. Maybe they aged the meat down here. Or maybe it’s all in my head. I’ve heard of people smelling weird stuff right before they’re about to have a stroke or an aneurism.

I shake it off and step into the cell, walking the perimeter, knocking on the floors with the heel of my boot, listening for a loose plank, but there’s nothing here. Just like Sheriff said.

“What’re you doing, Tate?” I whisper as I sink down on the cot wedged against the iron bars. The creak of the ancient springs sends icy chills across my skin. “This is crazy, even for you.”

Just when I’m thinking of cutting my losses, I hear a car door slam shut. Jumping up on the cot, I peer through the small barred window.

Greg Tilford’s out front talking to Ian Neely. Greg came back from Afghanistan even more of an * than he was before. Wound tighter than a cuckoo clock. After Neely donated the new computer system to the town, Tilford magically became a deputy. He was the first officer on the scene when my dad died. Threw up everywhere. I don’t know if it’s because I saw him lose it, or the fact that he’s Ian Neely’s cousin, but he’s had it out for me ever since.

Looks like the two of them are arguing about something. I can make a run for it out the back, through the hedge, into the woods, but my truck’s parked right out front. I’m such a dumbass. Of course they have some kind of high-tech alarm system here. What did I think would happen? I’d just break into the Preservation Society and no one would figure it out? In a town this small you can’t take a shit without everyone knowing your business.

Mr. Neely’s walking up the brick pathway toward the front door.

Panicking, I scramble up the stairs and rush toward the back of the house.

“Clay?” Mr. Neely calls out as he shuts the door behind him.