Rachel Gibson: True Confessions

“I didn’t see any ghosts,” Hope assured them and turned her gaze to the front door, still standing wide open. “Just bats. Are you afraid of bats? I’d understand if you are.”

“I’m not. Are you, Adam?”

“Nope. My grandma had bats in her barn last year. They don’t hurt you.” There was a pause before Adam asked his friend, “Are you scared of ghosts?”

“Are you?”

“I’m not if you’re not.”

“Well, I’m not if you’re not. And besides, we got these babies.”

Hope turned her attention back to the boys and watched them load their plastic guns with rubber darts. Personally, Hope would prefer a legion of ghosts to one lone bat.

She glanced from one boy to the other. “How old are you two?”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

“You are not.”

“Almost. I’ll be eight in a couple of months.”

“What are you going to do with those toy guns?” she asked.

“Protection,” Adam answered as he licked the suction end of the dart.

“Wait, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said, but neither boy listened as they took off across the yard. She followed them to the foot of the porch. She’d never really been around children, and it occurred to her that maybe she ought to get permission from their parents before she sent them into a bat-infested house. “Maybe I should talk to your mothers first before you go inside.”

“My mom won’t care,” Wally said over his shoulder as the two climbed the steps. “ ‘Sides, she’s talkin’ on the phone with Aunt Genevieve. Probably be a couple hours before she’s off.”

“Can’t call my dad. He’s workin‘ on the mountain today,” Adam added.

The bats were probably long gone and her bag was probably just inside the door, Hope reasoned. The boys probably wouldn’t get attacked and die of rabies. “If you get scared, you run back out. Don’t worry about the purse.”

They paused in the open doorway and looked back at her. Wally whispered something about ghosts, which prompted a short-lived punching match. Then he asked, “What does your purse look like?”

“Bone leather with burgundy alligator accents.”

“Huh?”

“White and reddish brown.”

She folded her arms and watched the boys-guns raised-slowly move into the house. Lifting a hand, she once again shaded her eyes from the piercing sun and saw them move first to the left and then cross the hall into the living room. They were gone maybe half a minute before they ran back out, Hope’s purse in Adam’s free hand.

“Where was it?” she asked.

“In the big room with the antlers.” He handed her the bag and she reached inside for her sunglasses. She slipped them on, then slid two five-dollar bills from her wallet.

“Thank you very much.” In Hope’s line of work, she’d slipped money to doormen, doctors, and dwarfs. But this was a first. She’d never paid little kids for a favor. “You are the bravest guys I know,” she said as she handed them the money. Their eyes lit up and their smiles turned mercenary.

“If you need us to do anything else, we will,” Wally assured her as he stuck his pistol into the waistband of his shorts.

The dinner rush had hardly slowed by the time Sheriff Dylan Taber entered the Cozy Corner Cafe. The tint on the windows let a person see out, but from the street, they looked like silver foil wrap. If the sun hit them just right, they could burn a hole through your corneas.

On the jukebox next to the front door, Loretta Lynn sang about her Kentucky roots while Jerome Fernwood called out a pickup order from behind the grill.

The smell of fried chicken gravy and coffee assaulted Dylan’s senses and made his stomach growl. He tried to keep fast-food nights at his house to a minimum, but tonight he was tired and covered with dust and the last thing he wanted was to cook dinner. Not even hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, Adam’s favorite.

Finally off duty, he wanted to eat, take a long shower, and fall into bed. The shower was easily managed, but bed would have to wait for several more hours. Adam had a T-ball game in forty-five minutes, which always wound him up tight as a ball of string. Between the excitement of the game, the new puppy, and the “cool box” Adam had bought that afternoon for his special rock collection, Dylan doubted his son would nod off before eleven.

When he’d checked in with Adam earlier, his son had told him a strange tale of bats and ghosts and a woman in “bird boots” paying him five bucks to find her purse. If Dylan hadn’t already met the woman in question, he probably wouldn’t have believed Adam’s story. Adam had a tendency to make up a lot of stories, but not even Adam could have made up those boots.

“Hey, there, Dylan,” Paris Fernwood called out as she rushed from behind the counter, her arms filled with plates of food.

“Hey, Paris,” he returned and reached for his black Stetson. He took it off and ran his fingers through his hair. As he moved toward a vacant stool, he exchanged “heys” with several locals.

“What can I get for you, Sheriff?” Iona Osborn asked from behind the counter.

“The usual.” He took a seat on the red vinyl stool and placed his hat on his knee.

Iona grabbed a hidden pencil from the ten-gallon pile of wispy gray hair on her head and wrote down his order. Then she clipped it to the stainless-steel ticket wheel. “Two fries and two cheeseburgers to go,” she yelled, even though the cook stood just on the other side of the half wall. “One with everything, one plain with mayo only,” she added.

Without missing a turn of his spatula or looking up to see who’d placed the order, Jerome said, “I’ll get that right out to you, Sheriff.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Iona reached for a big gray tub and began to clear the counter of dirty plates and glasses. “So did ya find that flatlander?”

Dylan didn’t even bother asking how the waitress knew police business. In Gospel, everyone just knew. Not only did Iona have the distinction of having the biggest hair in town, she was also the biggest gossip, which in Gospel was quite an accomplishment.

“We found him on the lower east face of Mount Regan. He saw all that snow and decided to do a little skiing,” he said and hooked the heel of one boot on the stool’s metal rung. “In his shorts and tennis shoes.”

Iona dumped the last glass in the gray tub, then reached for a washcloth. “Flatlanders,” she scoffed and wiped down the counter. “Most of ‘em traipse off into the wilderness without so much as a first-aid kit.” She worked at a ketchup spot and got to the important question. “Well, did he bust anything? Melba’s bet on a heap of fractures this year.”

He knew about the Flatlander Pool, of course. He didn’t play, but he figured it was all pretty harmless. “Broke his right ankle and tore some ligaments in his knee,” he answered. “Has quite a case of exposure, too.”

“Right ankle, you say? I bet on a sprained right ankle. Don’t suppose I could claim a break as a sprain, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he said and tossed his hat on the cleaned counter.

The front door to the diner opened, setting off the cowbell tied to the knob. Loretta sang her last note, a plate broke somewhere in the rear, and Iona leaned across the counter and spoke in a loud whisper. “She’s back!”

Dylan glanced over his shoulder, and there, standing by the jukebox, looking as fresh as a peach, was MZBHAVN herself. She’d changed out of her tight jeans and into a little summer dress with little straps. She’d pulled her hair up in the back and put away her boots in favor of flat sandals that crisscrossed over her feet.

“She was in here around noon,” Iona said beneath her breath. “Ordered a chef’s salad, dressing on the side, asking all sorts of questions.”