Red Harvest Page 2

  “For real, Stuart. Mom’s had plenty of guff outta me. She doesn’t need it from her widdle baby bubby.”

  “Shut up. You’re doing okay. Pretty good, actually.”

  “Maybe.” Dennis took his eyes from the road to give Stuart an earnest, penetrating gaze. “But you’re gonna do better.”

  A dozen yards ahead, burly Mister Dukes cast a scowl at them, which seemed reasonable given that he was in the midst of unwinding moist toilet paper from his mailbox. His morning’s labor was only beginning; more of the soggy bands lay draped across his shrubs.

  Dennis slowed the hearse and rolled down the window. “Morning, Mister Dukes. Ya got hit?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dukes waved to Stuart as he wadded the tissue into a handful. “Hey, it wasn’t you, was it, boys? Be honest.”

  “Come on, Mr. Dukes.” Dennis stayed cool, as always.

  “Aaah I’m sorry. It’s just … that weird music, and whatnot.” Dukes squinted like the concept was a literal indecipherable blur to him. “What d’ya call it? Junkabilly?”

  Before Stuart could stop himself, he explained, “It’s called horror punk!”

  Dennis nudged him. “Easy.”

  “No offense, boys.” Dukes frowned at all the unpapered yards surrounding his. “Guess I’m just too old for all this Halloween crap.”

  “Never too old for Halloween, Mr. Dukes!” Dennis called, waving. “Hope you make it to the Pumpkin Parade!”

  “Maybe.” Dukes waved, mumbling something they couldn’t hear.

  As they pulled away, Dennis gave Stuart a reproachful glare. “Gotta build good rapport with the public, Stuart.”

  “He doesn’t respect our music!”

  “Nobody does. That’s why it’s called punk, genius.”

  Stuart had this thought and the music to fill his mind for the rest of the ride to Ember Hollow Junior High. If they had stayed at Mr. Dukes’s place longer, they would have seen him open his mailbox and find a single piece of orange-and-black-wrapped candy.

  Chapter 2

  Dennis’s father had bought the hearse for him and begun tricking it out before Dennis could even drive. It always drew gawks from parents and students in the drop-off queue, and Stuart loved it. Especially when he spotted a familiar contractor’s van in the queue, with its battered ladders and PVC lengths bungeed to the top.

  Stuart cracked the window and cranked up the music for the benefit of everybody else, relishing the reactions directed at both the music and the hearse.

  Dennis batted Stuart’s luchador mask off his head. “I see you sporting that tough-guy sneer there, Robert Blake.”

  Stuart shoved Dennis’s arm, but Dennis smacked his hand down, saying, “Good luck with the costume contest, by the way.”

  “Think I’ll win?”

  “No doubt—especially if you ditch the hood.”

  Stuart shoved both middle fingers in his brother’s face, but then found his attention drawn to the contractor’s van, from which exited glorious, gorgeous, quirky Candace Geelens.

  She was ready for the homeroom costume contest as well, in a homemade green alien bodysuit, complete with ping-pong-ball eyes bobbing on springs atop the tight hood on her head. Beyond the fluttering of his heart was a mild ache; this childish costume would surely make Candace a target of ridicule.

  But maybe she didn’t give a damn. Stuart hoped that was so, and it only made him like her more.

  Dennis must have been watching him watch her. With a light shove of Stuart’s head, he said, “That’s the new chick?”

  “Yeah.” Stuart sighed. “Candace. She’s not really new anymore. Been here the whole year.”

  “What? And you still haven’t made your move?”

  “It’s never the right time.”

  Dennis sized her up. “She’s not exactly the cheerleader-poodle-skirt-Barbie type.”

  “You got that straight. She’s all art, no ads.” Stuart followed the girl with his gaze as she walked alone, head down. He just wished she would look up sometime and see him (ever so casually) smiling at her.

  “Here’s a lightbulb,” Dennis offered. “Why don’t you invite her to the Pumpkin Parade? Tell her your badass brother’s playing and needs some cool cats and chicks on the float tossing swag and flying the horns.” Dennis made a fist with first and little fingers extended and pushed the “horns” in Stuart’s face.

  Stuart lit with a spark of hope. “Know what? That might work!”

  “You know it will.”

  “If Ma will let me.”

  “I’ll handle Ma. You handle Candace. And I don’t mean literally, pervo.” The self-assurance in Dennis’s eyes made Stuart question that his big brother could ever have faltered, even in the wake of their father’s passing. “Now get the hell outta my ride, ya square. You’re cramping my style.”

  Stuart slugged Dennis on the shoulder and hopped out, putting on his best sneer as the hearse’s engine rumbled.

  He cast a glance at Candace of course—and found her looking his way. He turned his head fast enough it made him dizzy—and cursed himself for not giving her a cool nod or that smile he had practiced exactly one zillion times.

  Then a lanky black kid showed, hanging his arm over Stuart’s shoulder. “What’s new with you and the weird chick, Stewie?” DeShaun Lott had been Stuart’s best friend since either could remember.

  “Nothing. I blew it.”

  DeShaun, costumed as George Washington, cocked his wigged head. “We need to work on your game, man.”

  “Yeah?” Stuart retorted. “How’s your game, Mister Smooth?”

  “Okay, we need to work on our game. But you get to be the guinea pig.”

  “Viva la lucha!” Stuart pulled his mask over his face and walked from the misty morning chill through the school doors with his buddy.

  * * * *

  Chief Deputy Hudson Lott, father of DeShaun, frowned at a puzzle of colored glass shards and a fist-sized rock at his feet.

  Standing at the four-way stop on Second Street, Hudson scanned the rows of shops on either side: Lefwich Bros. Upholstery, We Nailed It! Manicurists, a thrift store, a tobacconist. He was awaiting a municipal crew en route to repair the traffic light shattered overnight.

  Far from busy this early in the day, bored proprietors and cashiers often stepped out to say hello or offer coffee.

  When the chief sent him on this—what should have been a rookie task—Lott had to bite his tongue yet again. The chief wasn’t trying to cause Hudson grief, after all; he was just trying to avoid any for himself, and maybe even protect Hudson in light of recent events.

  Out of the academy, Hudson had popped the question to his high school sweetheart, Leticia, and promptly swept her away to the most autumnal place he could find, simply because she loved the season.

  “Ember Hollow is the nation’s foremost producer and exporter of all breeds of jack-o’-lantern pumpkins, including Jericho’s Wall Super Squash, ‘exclusive to the region,’” read the chamber of commerce’s pamphlet. This and the town’s ambiance, with the annual Pumpkin Parade preparations starting four months in advance, made it about as “autumn” as any place could get.

  But it was also about as white as it got.

  Being a large black man of authority in a sprawling farm town had its challenges, chief among them a constant balancing act between courtesy and obsequiousness—as if there was a need to compensate for his intimidating appearance—and being professional to the point of seeming aloof.

  Hudson’s keen awareness of when and where he fit on this scale served him well enough—most of the time. But an incident that found him at odds with a senior officer had revealed unspoken racial tensions, within the department and the town.

  He shook away the unpleasant recall, returning his thoughts to the present. He admired the decorations that ranged from
garish and tacky to understatedly spooky that adorned the shop windows. The young Indian laurel trees rising from brick planters along the sidewalks had gone full orange, their leaves breaking free by the hundreds in the morning gusts and blowing all around Lott. One flattened against his face, as if mocking him for being stuck with such a meaningless duty. He snatched it away.

  A massive Ford Galaxie, driven by a tightly scarfed old lady Hudson knew only as Mrs. Dubois, rolled toward the intersection. Hudson checked all directions, merely a show, given the sparse morning traffic, and guided her around the shards.

  Then, quiet again.

  Hudson’s thoughts returned to the incident that had left him in this limbo.

  * * * *

  Reverend Abe McGlazer stepped back from the church sign to proofread.

  volunteers still needed for

  13th annual pumpkin parade!!!

  Tricksters had been at work the night before, rearranging the letters to read:

  mi ass hurt from anal love!!!

  When Ruth brought him to see the anagram, McGlazer had laughed, a contrast to Ruth’s grim indignance.

  McGlazer had thought that maybe Ruth, who did volunteer work helping to maintain the church and cemetery, could use a little love herself.

  Saint Saturn Unitarian Church, a centuries-old stone structure with a towering steeple, sat atop a sweeping hill amid a historic cemetery, offering a view of the town’s main street in front, an eternity of pumpkin and cornfields behind, woods and housing developments on either side. It required a good deal of upkeep, but with horrific tragedies assailing children in all corners of the globe, McGlazer just couldn’t pull the trigger on using tithe money for church remodeling projects.

  Something about the drafty old sanctuary felt sacred and comfortable, unlike flashier contemporary churches, with their expensive sound systems and plush carpeting. It had been a refuge, after all, to many generations of souls, and possibly, at least one spirit.

  A flock of maple leaves blew around the sign and across the grounds, carrying a scent of inevitable decay that the minister did not find unpleasant.

  “Reverend!” Ruth called from the sanctuary doors. “Telephone!”

  McGlazer looked across the tombscape as he made his way inside, dipping into his pocket for … no longer a flask, thank you, Lord, but a candy or two from the bag he had left in his office that morning.

  He followed Ruth through the sanctuary down the hall and into his office, glad to see that colorful bag of candy spilled on his desk.

  On the phone was one of the parade’s float builders with a question McGlazer couldn’t remotely answer. “I have the fire chief coming after lunch,” he deferred. “I’ll have him call you.”

  “Something about the parade?” Ruth asked, tugging at her cleaning gloves. She had doffed her denim jacket. Her skirt and simple short-sleeved V-neck flattered her twenty-four-year-old body, a body that had seen its fair share of male attention, as well as abuse, before her recent conversion. Yet she remained undeniably alluring. A large gaudy gold cross adorned her chest.

  “Yes, some float issue. How’s everything?”

  “I’ve almost finished the sanctuary.” She looked him up and down, in that subtle way that always made McGlazer feel judged. “I can take care of in here next, if you like.”

  “Oh… no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll just mess it up again by tomorrow. You know how it is this time of year, with parade preparations.”

  “Yes.” She pursed her lips, as if to show she was holding something back.

  “Something on your mind, Ruth?”

  She took a step forward, her eyes glittering with earnestness. “It’s about the parade actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dennis Barcroft’s band is playing at The Grand Illusion this year.”

  “Yes.”

  McGlazer saw Dennis arrive outside the office door and stop upon hearing his name.

  “Have you heard them?” Ruth made tight fists. “They glorify death and violence.”

  “Ruth,” McGlazer began, “you do know that I’m just advising and recruiting volunteers? I’m not by any means in charge of the Pumpkin Parade.”

  “Yes, but… I just feel that you could have some influence on who is booked to play.”

  “I appreciate your concern. The reason I agreed to help with the Pumpkin Parade is that I believe it’s a good thing, having a night that allows us all to blow off some steam. A little break from our normal lives. It unifies the community.”

  Ruth’s eyebrows rose. “That Dennis Barcroft is a drunk, you know.”

  “Ruth!”

  “And his girlfriend dresses like…some kind of”—Dennis entered quietly, right behind Ruth, smiling—“dead slut,” Ruth finished.

  “Morning, Ruth,” Dennis said cheerily.

  She jumped. “Oh God! You scared me.”

  “Hey, uh”—Dennis pointed at her crucifix—“Lord’s name in vain, and all that.”

  She covered the shiny cross and breezed past him.

  McGlazer grinned. “Come in, Dennis.”

  Dennis closed the door and took the chair across from him.

  “How much of that did you hear?” McGlazer asked.

  Dennis shrugged. “The juicy parts, I guess.”

  “You know about Ruth. She’s a recent convert. A bit overzealous.”

  “It’s cool.” Dennis glanced at the candy. “Your pacifier is in full effect this time of year, eh?”

  “Ruth threw out my cigarettes, God bless her.” McGlazer raised an eyebrow as he tossed Dennis a candy. “So how are you doing?”

  “Sober. That’s something, I guess.”

  “It’s a big something, Dennis. Any tough moments?”

  Dennis gave an ironic chuckle. “Getting up in the morning. Before a gig. After a gig. Pretty much everything around that.”

  “I spoke to your mother. She was upbeat.”

  “Yeah. I’m okay, long as I remember I can’t let her down. Her, Stuart, Petey. Jill.”

  McGlazer looked toward the door with a wry smile. “The…”

  “Dead slut.”

  * * * *

  Hudson had been sent out with Cabe Naples the night Arn and Beulah Bragg took their longstanding dispute over Beulah’s spending habits out into Hewliss Street to air before God and the whole world—including young children who, outside of the crazy people on TV, had no precedent of grown-ups punching and clawing at each other.

  Naples always puffed up like a bullfrog around Hudson, transparent in his efforts to out-alpha the larger rookie.

  Naples’s conversational tones skipped past “soothing” and jetted straight to “hostile” territory, and before Hudson knew it, Naples had forced poor, dazed Arn Bragg onto his stomach and was drawing cuffs. Like a snapping turtle, Beulah jumped to the defense of her husband/sparring partner, jumping onto Naples’s back and dropping her fists like tiny harmless hammers onto Naples’s meaty back. The senior officer threw her off, while cinching up on the restraint hold he had on Arn.

  Hudson didn’t have time to consider his next move. He tackled Naples off Arn, wrapping his arms around Naples’s neck and behind his head while he hooked his legs over the senior officer’s hips.

  “You have to calm down,” Hudson said quietly, almost soothingly. “You’re gonna get us both fired. Or worse.”

  The onlookers were gathering closer, dismayed to see their tax-paid peace officers, their guardian protectors, at odds. Hudson realized this was both embarrassing and infuriating for Naples, who struggled in Hudson’s grasp like a spooked calf.

  “You’ve lost your mind!” Naples huffed, and then his hand went from Hudson’s arm to his own side, and there came the distinct, chilling sound of Naples’s weapon sliding from its nylon holster.

  Hudson’s instincts kicked
in and he closed his forearms over Naples’ carotids, cutting off Naples’s blood supply while he rolled the tangle of their bodies onto Naples’s gun side to pin the weapon—if it wasn’t too late.

  But it was. And Naples, as savvy as any big-city cop, switched hands with the weapon and now pointed it at Hudson’s right leg with his left.

  With a furious grunt, Hudson rolled a little farther and pinned Naples facedown, trapping his weapon, continuing to apply the choke.

  Naples gurgled and went still.

  Utter silence, as the people on Hewliss Street watched what must have been a surreal scene: Hudson rising and handcuffing his unconscious partner.

  Needless to say, the ride back to the courthouse was a tense one.

  In the end, Naples was allowed to resign and move to another jurisdiction, the incident attributed to confusion caused by circumstances in wild flux. The narrative did not remotely approach reality.

  The chief acquired an ulcer and gin habit, while locals came to regard Hudson as some kind of brown angel: a man of great physical power and high moral conviction.

  But Hudson didn’t feel heroic as much as freakish.

  He heard a familiar motor and felt a smile crack his officious expression. The Lincoln Mark VII he and son DeShaun had waxed just the previous afternoon now approached, driver’s window descending to present a glorious smiling face. “Hi there, officer,” cooed Leticia Lott. “How’s your nightstick swinging?”

  “Ah hell,” Hudson lamented. “I didn’t want you to see me out here doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

  Hudson held out his hands to indicate “Nothing. Directing nonexistent traffic. Like a rookie.” He pointed upward. “Some mischief-maker took out the most boring stoplight in town.”

  Leticia’s brow furrowed at the stuffy term.

  “You heard me.”