“Good boy.” Brian took a sip from his coffee. “What’s your favorite subject?”
Robert paused for a while, gazing at the floor. “Literature,” he said at last.
“Mine, too-especially back in the days when I was your age.” Another sip of coffee. “That makes two of us, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“And who’s your favorite author?”
His answer came with some alacrity this time: “Orobbs Porter.”
“Ah,” Brian said. “The famous horror writer?”
A quick nod.
“Don’t think your teachers recommend such a book, do they?”
“No, I read them on my own. Bought them with my pocket money.”
“Wonderful. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, I’ve read all of his books,” Robert enthused. “Have you, Sheriff?”
“Um… I’m not so sure. I know I’ve read a lot of his works.”
“You ever read
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s the best of them all. You should read it. I’ll loan you mine if you want.”
Brian had learned something very significant about the boy’s character within the brief duration of their chat. Robert Smallwood was very passionate about his books-his horror books. His level of rapport grew astronomically as soon as the topic veered towards his favorite author and his published books. “Oh, that’s really kind of you. I’m sure I’ll love it,” Brian said. “Have you read
A look of confusion on the boy’s face. “Who wrote that? Orobbs Porter?”
“That’s right.”
Robert shook his head.
“Well, I guess you haven’t read all of his works, then,” Brian said with a smile.
Robert slumped in his seat, looking defeated-like a little boy who had just disappointed his beloved author by not guzzling
“Oh, no. It’s been out awhile.”
Suddenly, Robert’s countenance brightened up. “Hey,” he said, “may I ask you for something Sheriff… Stack?”
“Anything, Rob.” Brian smiled again. “And you may call me Brian. We’re just a couple of good pals around here, aren’t we?”
Robert nodded. He looked down at his small feet while he said, “I wanted to know if you could loan me the book. I promise I’ll take good care of it, and I’ll return it next week. My mom doesn’t have so much money now, and I can’t buy new books.”
“You mean the
The boy nodded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Rob. The book’s not mine. I borrowed it, too. But rest assured as soon as I lay hands on it again, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Brian drained his cup of coffee. “So, tell me something,” he said. “Were you in Mr. Carter’s office earlier this morning to borrow some horror books, or what?”
“No, he never read horror stories. He hated them.”
“Oh, I see. Then, what were you doing in his office?”
“Mr. Carter locked me up in the toilet.”
Brian frowned. “Locked you up in the office toilet?”
A nod.
“Why’d he do such a thing?” Brian asked, setting his empty cup down on the desk.
“I don’t know. He said I was good for nothing.”
“He locked you up because he thought you were good for nothing?”
“No, he didn’t say that this morning. But he used to say it, along with Mr…” Robert trailed off, looked up at Brian, and then dropped his gaze.
Brian shifted forward in his chair. “Along with whom?” he goaded.
Rather than responding, Robert dug at the floor with the toe of his left shoe. His gaze was now fixed on the desk top, and his eyes had suddenly become wet with tears.
“Rob?” Brian called.
He looked up at Brian, small and innocent and needy.
As he stared at the boy, Brian felt those words fly around and pepper the wall of his mind like bullets from a blunderbuss, ricocheting off and hitting the wall again. He was moved.
“Here, take this.” Brian passed a sheet of Kleenex to the boy. “I want you to stop crying. Don’t you know it breaks a man’s heart to see his pal cry?”
Robert seemed to deliberate on a response.
“I don’t want you to cry. What I want you to do is talk to me,” Brian urged. “Tell me everything.”
Robert snuffled. “Mr. Murphy,” he sobbed. “He calls me useless, too. They say I’m no good, and that I’m the laughingstock of all other students and everyone in Ogre’s Pond. And maybe they’re right.”
“Not if you don’t listen to them, Rob.”
“I have no friends,” Robert lamented. “I’m alone.” Then, as if some measure of hope had just rushed into his melancholy heart, he added: “Well, my mom’s my good friend. She’s the best.”
“I’m glad you have someone you can confide in, and who makes you happy,” Brian said.
“And you, too, Sheriff Stack.”
“Thank you, Rob. It’s my honor to be your friend. Now, take this.” Brian passed another sheet of Kleenex to him. “I want you to wipe your eyes clean, and then tell me the exact reason why Mr. Carter locked you up. And then tell me everything else that you think I might like to hear.”
Chapter 3
Ogre’s Pond was a small town of a little over ten hundred people. Seventy five miles northwest of Colorado Springs and nestled among a sierra of mountains, it was a speck in the ocean of places.
Charles Smallwood had worked as a logger until he met his end eleven months ago. Of course, he wasn’t the only logger in town, but his matchless wealth of experience in the logging business carved him an iconic niche amongst his mates, driving the rest into oblivion. His fame radiated like an early-morning sun on a cloudless day, and with this rose a terrifying amount of enmity.
About the time of his death, he had just bought a large farmland, a piece adjoining Kelly’s Ranch, down towards the Sebastian River. It was a fat investment of which nearly every denizen of Ogre’s Pond was envious. But the locals didn’t have to scotch under the heat of jealousy for too long because, barely a couple of weeks after the purchase, Charles Smallwood died.
And then words began to fly around.
Although the circumstances surrounding his death pointed to homicide-a cold case to date-speculations had been widely embraced within the community that his wife, Holly, was solely responsible for his demise.
“She’s a witch,” some would say. “And a very terrible one, at that.”
“No doubt,” others would agree. “But I bet she sent a hit man after her own husband. She couldn’t be satisfied with her black powers. Had to add in the service of a hired killer. Just how more hideous could a woman be?”
Yeah, the word flew around pretty fast, spreading like wildfire, playing over and over again on the lips of old and young, men and women,
In fact, some of the sheriff’s deputies swallowed the rumors, albeit with a pinch of salt.
And it wasn’t much of a surprise that people talked in such a fashion, considering Charles Smallwood was the
