Chapter 1

The names Michael Whitaker and I am a Sargent Deputy Sheriff and damn proud of it. As a Deputy we cover many duties, some tedious and tiresome but then we get some that are devastating. It is our job to deliver summons to the local court, the only one in Newport, Virginia. We are the police force here; the law starts and ends with us. We also apprehend suspects with active warrants that happen to mosey on into our lightly populated town. Picture an old western setting, the long loose dirt pathway running down the center of the town with modern type buildings on each side. We almost had a Wal-Mart once but even Newport was worthy enough to entice a money hungry company to set roots here.

Old Bertha McDane passed last night, taking us to a whopping two hundred and twelve residents. Her habit of puffing filter less cigarettes since she was seven earned her a hyperactive cancer, a hungry, devouring parasite that divulged on her insides until she was nothing more than Jell-O in the mold of a skeleton. Deputy Davidson and I wrapped her in the whitest of blankets and awkwardly stumbled her out of the house and into the backseat of my squad car. The smell of death will never leave that backseat, I fear. Betha ran an antique shop from her home about eight miles form the center of town. It is rumored that her niece would be coming in from Philadelphia to run the shop and take Bertha's seat at the throne. If you wanted something elegant from the stone age, her shop was for you. They say she even had a haunted jewelry box from the sixteen hundreds. None of us put much stock into that being logical sane God-fearing folks.

Sheriff Jack Williams always tells us tall tales of the old days, way back yonder (as he would say), when the town was ravished with bandits, rapists, murders, and any other type of bad guy you can imagine. The records, all tattered and stained paper, do not reflect these stories but we as the policing force allow him to spin that web of salacious monsters if it makes him happy and leaves him content. Sheriff Williams is older than the dirt that we will bury him in. Jack is a good man, lazy and indifferent, but a good man, nonetheless. His wife, God rest her soul, was one of the disappeared. Far as I can see, the worst thing to happen in this town was a series of disappearing folks, kids, teens, adults, wheelchair ridden seniors. No one knows where they went; no one looked too hard either, according to their files. It was assumed they had blessed us with their departure into the world and out of our small secret Newport.

Seventeen people went missing starting ten years ago, the most recent being less than a year in the past, starting with Jonathan Daniels, six years old at the time. Jon was deemed a runaway or a victim. His case was never closed nor was it investigated to the depths that it should have been. When I take the keys to the station and become the new Sheriff three months from now it is my full wholehearted intention to spend all resources within my newly powerful grasp to cannonball into the deep end and figure out what happened to each and every person that went missing. I just need to dig deep and do my job the right way until the election. I am a shoe in, my gorgeous high school sweetheart wife reminds me of that every evening.

Edith Wailings is the towns oldest resident. It is rumored that she designed the layout of the town and even influenced what businesses went where, left side of the dirt path or right side. Today is the day that Mayor Hallston will present an award to Edith for her community service, almost a century of keeping all of us in line, as we joke back at the station. Ms. Wailings, thrice a widow, is the richest of the rich. Her parents owned a series of plantations that generated millions of dollars in profits on the backs of slaves that have since passed. Her money is slave money, blood money, but that did not matter to anyone around here, except for me. She was raised by racist and using my police intuition, she is a racist. Hell, the one African American family that lives here has never had an Edith initiated conversation. Edith welcomes all newcomers to the town with a variety of vegetables and fruits she grew in the community garden, which she runs all by her lonesome. It was a miracle the Earnest's were allowed to move into town, being African American and all, considering the pull Edith has around here.

I have met with the Earnests one day about a week after they moved in. They were very pleased to be met at the door by a Deputy as they were feeling a sort of segregation with the town being ninety-nine percent white. Janice and Eric were an absolute joy to be around. The absolute kicker was their son, Daniel, nine years old. He is quite the comedian but what really struck me deep in my brain was his level of intellect. That kid was smart as a whip and sharp as a tac. The thought of Edith miraculously finding out that my beloved bride was half black, making my daughter a quarter black, gave me the chills. That information would most certainly ruin my future bid for Sheriff, not to mention the emotional distress it would create in my household. That unnecessary racist drama would turn my family into garbage and unwanted all because of Edith's pull and influence with the others.

The visit was suddenly interrupted by a shoplifting call at the one and only Douglas Pharmaceutical. It was on the left side of the main dusty road. The shop was a run of the mill type of place with everything from candy bars to Tylenol to prescriptions. I even bought my daughter a set of Barbie Dolls from their when I was in a pinch and my mind had deleted the birthday calendar in my brain.

As I exited I tipped my hat, "Thank you for your hospitality." I reached out and gave them my business card. On the back was my cell phone number, handwritten because the Sheriff was trying to watch the budget which was slimmer than a piece of loose-leaf paper that had sat in the burning sun for a millennium, "You call me if you need anything, anything at all." A quick high five to Zack and a redundant tip of the hat to the Earnests again, which made me feel excessively stupid, and I was off.

As small as our population was the town still encompassed a large amount of ground. We had our main area, remember, the right side, left side, dirt road and all but we also had small conglomerates of neighborhoods consisting of cookie cutter houses dispersed over roughly two hundred thousand acres. One thing the Sheriff always emphasized with great passion was, "Stay close to the center of town, that way your drive to any outliers wouldn't be as long." No shit Sherlock.

Gleefully hopping into my patrol car, I radioed Davidson, "Hey D, how close are you to Douglas's?" I impatiently waited for a response. Deputy Davidson is a good cop, but he tends to lazy out on us like high school student taking an excessively long restroom break.

After fifteen minutes of driving, blue and reds flashing, Davidson reluctantly radioed back, "Sorry about that Mike, I was in Jenny's diner dropping a load. You would not believe the size of it. I'm gonna send you a picture." This was the only other Deputy with me and he was busy taking pictures of shits that amazed him, shits that exited his body and made him think, "Hmm, I gotta take a photographical reference of this for future examination." Do not get me wrong, he was a fine Deputy, but his constant procrastination was as annoying as waiting in line at the local grocery trapped behind Hilda and her hundreds of coupons.

Not be rude or insulting, even though I badly wanted to, I fired back a message in jest, "Sounds like a doozy Davidson. Never mind my question, I'm about to pull up." Before he could respond with some half thought out response I clicked in again, "Don't send me that picture either. Your shits are your business my friend and maybe Doc McFarland's." He chuckled back, a full belly chuckle, God knows he has a damn huge belly and went radio silent. Knowing Davidson, he is leaned back in his cruiser and admiring the filth that violently exited his disgustingly neglected body.

Pulling up slowly to the left side of the dirt road in front of the weather worn Douglas Pharmaceuticals, I authoritatively exited my unit leaving the blue light specials running only to see Mr. Douglas holding Sam Finch by the collar of his shirt, nearly strangling the poor boy, "Mr. Douglas, how are you today my friend?" The first thing to do when you arrive on a scene is to remain polite and begin the defusing process. After getting phase one of the process started, I was met with an erratic spit spewing shop owner still strangling Sam with the very shirt on his back.

Adjusting his crooked thick brown rimmed glasses, "Well, I'll tell you what Michael, this little twerp felt the need to help himself to some of my finest chocolates! How am I to run a reputable business with these hooligans coming in and helping themselves?!" Looking at the situation, I could not tell whose face was redder, Mr. Douglas's filled with pure unbridled rage over some candy or twelve-year-old Sam's as he was being asphyxiated by his Metallica T-Shirt.

Being such a low populated town and personally knowing each and everyone of our beloved citizens, except for Edith, I hate racists, I acted in a way that would make Mr. Douglas feel vindicated. It was my hope that he would release the Finch kid and give him over to me. That did not happen. Mr. Douglas promptly bent Sam over his knee and began to aggressively spank his behind with his weathered bare hand, "Stop that right now! That is assault Mr. Douglas! Stop it immediately!" In this moment I could see I had just lost his vote for my upcoming Sheriff's bid.

Sam struggled free, ripping his T-Shirt in the process with a resounding stretching sound, and walked behind my back. Now was my chance to win Mr. Douglas back, "The thing is, you aren't in a position to deliver corporal punishment. That being said, I am. Trust me, he's going to get the beating of his life when I get him to the station." Mr. Douglas smiled, one of those 'that's what you get' smiles. Sam released a fear filled whimper but remained hidden behind my back like a baby joey tucked into its mother's pouch.

After a short pause, Sam gave a light tug on my khaki button up causing me to turn around, "Yes Sam? You are in big trouble kiddo. Just wait until your mother hears about this atrocious act you committed today." While I was scolding him to the delight of Mr. Douglas, I was throwing him reassuring winks. The kid stole some candy, he is far from a career criminal in my book.

The poor kid released my crisp shirt as a sense of relief painted his face, "I'm sorry Deputy Michael. I will never do it again. Honest." We both knew that wasn't the truth but if the worst thing he ever did in his lifetime was steal some candy then he was alright in my book.

Clearing my throat intimidatingly, "I'm not the one you need to apologize to Mr. Finch. Now get on with it." I took a sidestep placing Sam directly in front of the red-faced Mr. Douglas. I was just hoping there would not be any more strangulation going on. Under a careful eye, Sam approached Mr. Douglas who still had his hands on his hips and a large vein bulging from his wrinkled forehead.

Sam, avoiding all eye contact with his head down, stepped up to Mr. Douglas, "I truly apologize, Sir. Please forgive me." Shirt ripped and jean pockets filled with candy, Sam was a putting on the performance of a lifetime. He might be a great actor someday, put our small town of Newport on the map. Wouldn't that be something?

Entering a great speech which I had no patience for I grabbed Sam by the bicep, larger than I expected, I placed him in the front seat of my patrol car. Mr. Douglas with pointed lips took exception to that, "The front Deputy? The front seat? The criminals go in the back in handcuffs." Taking a deep wheezy breath, he readied some more lecture for me, "I expect this type of behavior from the negro kid but from one of our own…"

Having enough of his racist tirade, "Mr. Douglas! I expect this type of talk from old lady Edith but not from you." That would end up haunting me, worse than the nightmares I had as a kid. Edith was set to have her very own ceremony tomorrow and God knows word would travel fast to her. Fearing I would cause more damage to my run for Sheriff, I placed my ass in the driver's seat and started the engine, "Good day Mr. Douglas."

As soon as we were well out of ear shot, my hand magically manipulated the CD player where Metallica's Black album was spinning, "Crank it up Sam. Let us release some of this negative energy and get you home. How's that sound kiddo?" Looking at his face melted my heart. Sam was smiling so wide I could practically see what he had for breakfast hours ago.

His had reached out to the dial and spun it to the max. These are the good times.

A smirk tweaked my face, "Let's get you home Sam."

Driving down the main road of town, windows down, blues and reds spinning with Metallic blasting certainly got us some looks but Sam and I did not care. We were to busy rocking out and enjoying the little things in life. Sam pulled a Hershey chocolate bar from his stained jeans pocket and poked me. I nodded but gave him a stern look. It was important that he knew stealing was wrong, but a fifty-cent candy bar split between the two of us would not hurt anything but my diet.

Sam lived with his mom in one of the segregated housing conglomerates about a mile from the center of town. Sarah Finch was a young, beautiful woman that worked at the Potter's Ranch. She had been a victim of rape thirteen years ago when she was living in New York with her parents. It is all shitbags and dark alleyways from what I hear and one evening the darkness grabbed her, beat her, raped her, consequentially impregnating her.

Sarah is a pro-life person, as many of us are here in Newport, hence, Sam's existence. Little Sam does not know the horrors of his true conception, all he knows is the fact that his father left and would never be found. That was a fairly accurate truth telling. Maybe the rapist genes are causing Sam to act out or perhaps the lack of a father figure in his life is causing some boundary testing. We will never know but I will continue to treat that child as if he were my own. He deserves that much.

Rolling up into the gravel driveway, Sarah was walking outside as if she were meeting the two of us to get debriefed on what Sam had done this time. That was not the case as both Sam and I were still rocking out singing the lyrics to The Unforgiven with chocolate smears streaking across our faces, "Mike, what did he do now?"

Being a father figure, there was no reason to rat him out to his mommy, "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sam here was walking all the way back from town. I am here to protect and serve. A little chocolate and music does a boy good." Sarah motioned to her mouth in a way that said hey, you have shit on your face, and you are a grown man. Message received Ms. Finch, clear as a bell.

I liked my sleeve and rubbed down my face. She looked as if she were in a hurry, so time was not to be wasted, "I'll catch you on the flip side Sammy boy. Sarah, have a good shift, be safe."

With that, I was headed home to my beautiful bride and baby girl.