“You might want to think about it,” I said. “I might could use the help.” I hung up the phone and finished fastening my belt.

“What’s happened?” Sheila asked.

“Ben Hall’s oldest son’s been killed out at that damn church,” I said. “And it sounds like they’ve moved him to Adelaide Lyle’s house out there on River Road.”

“Why would they take him there?”

“Would you want a dead boy lying around inside your church when the law gets there?”

“You think he died at the church?”

“I think so,” I said. “There wasn’t no reason to move him otherwise.” I put on my hat and turned and walked down the hallway to the front door where the keys to the cruiser hung on a hook by the light switch. The front door was open, and I looked out through the glass in the storm door and for a moment I watched the yellow lights of what were probably the last few fireflies of the summer move through the darkness of the front yard. I took the keys off the hook and flipped the floodlights on, and all the fireflies disappeared. In the storm door’s reflection I could see Sheila standing behind me at the end of the hall.

“Guess who’s back in town?” I asked her.

“I heard you talking to Robby,” she said. “You think he’ll be with Ben?”

“It sounds like it,” I said. I looked into the glass and watched her ghostly image fold its arms across its chest and lean against the wall behind me.

“Please be careful, Clem,” she said. “Don’t let any of this get out of hand. There’s no use in anybody getting hurt, especially you.”

“I’m not planning on anything getting out of hand,” I said, but as soon as I said it I knew good and well that sometimes you can’t account for the bad things that happen.

F

IVE

I CLIMBED INTO THE CRUISER AND TURNED ON THE LIGHTS AND the siren and drove along the top of the ridge before taking the road down toward Marshall. I knew there were hollers in places below me where it had been dark for almost an hour, but up here on the ridge the sun was struggling to be remembered and I could see red and gold still lighting up the sky in the distance on the Tennessee side of the mountain. I remembered the half-finished cigarette in my breast pocket, and I dug it out and pushed in the lighter on the dash. When it popped, I lit up and rolled down the window.

I smoked what was left of that cigarette and thought about how our son, Jeff, was still alive the last time I responded to a call about Ben Hall. Jeff was about sixteen years old then, maybe seventeen, and the boys were probably juniors at the high school. My son had been friends with Ben for a long time, and I’d known him just about his whole life, but then again so had everybody else, especially after he started making a name for himself on the field. Ben was probably the best football player to ever come out of this county. He’d played left tackle, and he was a big boy too, bigger than any of his teammates, bigger than just about any lineman he ever faced. He got a scholarship to Western Carolina and spent half his freshman year riding the bench and realizing that they made bigger boys than him in other parts of this country. They put him at linebacker near the end of the season, and he did pretty well: played in a few games, did a little partying, got into some trouble, and came home that summer after his grades had fallen so low that he couldn’t keep his scholarship. There wasn’t no way his piece of shit old man could get himself together enough to pay his tuition so he could go back in the fall, so Ben just hung around Madison County, got married to a sweet-looking girl named Julie, and he’d been here ever since.

One night when they were in high school, I’d gotten a call around ten o’clock about gunshots in one of the new developments out by the interstate, and I left the office in Marshall and headed east on 25/70 toward Weaverville. There are so many neighborhoods out that way now that I couldn’t even tell you which one it was with any certainty, but back then there wasn’t but a handful, some without any houses built in them yet, a few of them without paved roads.

I turned my lights off and rolled down into one of those developments and instantly noticed how dark it was once I’d left the main road. After a second I realized it was because somebody had gone through and shot out all the streetlights. The busted glass looked like huge pieces of broken eggshells had been gathered into little piles and left on the sides of the street. At the end of a cul-de-sac I saw an old Camaro parked with its lights out. I recognized it as belonging to a friend of theirs Jeff and Ben called “Spaceman,” and after all these years I can’t remember that boy’s real name, probably because that nickname suited him so good. I parked and killed the engine and walked the rest of the way to the car. I found the three of them sitting on the ground, leaned up against the Camaro’s back bumper, Ben holding a still warm .22 rifle, and two bottles left in a twelve pack of Michelob sitting on the ground in front of them. The rest of the bottles had been busted, and the glass was scattered all around them. I knew they were good and drunk when Jeff looked up at me and smiled like he wasn’t one bit surprised to see me standing there in front of them.

“Well, hey, Dad,” he said.

“Y’all know I could arrest all three of you, don’t you?” I told them. I leaned over and took the gun from Ben and checked to make sure it was empty.

“Yes, sir,” Jeff said, suddenly somber. The other two didn’t look up at me.

“But I think it would be better for me and worse for y’all if I just took you home so we can let your folks know what you’ve been up to tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll come back down here and get all this glass cleaned up. And then we’ll find out who y’all need to pay to replace these streetlights.”

“Man,” Spaceman muttered. I loaded them all into the cruiser and drove up out of the dark, empty development and back toward the county. Jeff sat in the seat beside me, and I could smell the beer on his breath, and I tried to predict what Sheila would say to him, and to me, about all this. I looked in the rearview mirror through the metal screen that divided the front and back seats, and I saw that Spaceman had laid his head back on the seat and his eyes closed. Ben stared out the passenger’s-side window. I turned my eyes back toward the road.

“My dad’s going to kill me,” Ben said, almost to himself. I looked in my mirror again and tried to catch his eye, but he was still staring out the window.

“I think you might need it this time,” I said. “Drunk and disorderly. Discharging a firearm. Destruction of property. You might need a little killing.” Ben closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat just like Spaceman had.

“Y’all don’t understand,” he said. “He’s really going to kill me. Y’all don’t know what it’s like.”

Ben Hall was already six foot two by then, maybe six foot three, and his daddy was just a little guy, maybe five nine, but I could see fear in Ben’s face and I could hear it in his voice. I’d seen his eyes blacked up a couple of times, and I knew that whatever beating his old man had put on his wife that drove her to leave him he’d also put on Ben more than once. I just couldn’t believe a boy that huge wasn’t big enough to put a whooping on a man that small. I reckon I understood then just what Ben was up against, and I sighed loud enough for all of them to hear it.

“Well, maybe y’all should just stay at our house tonight,” I said. “We can figure all this out in the morning.”

“Yes!” Spaceman whispered to Ben like he was celebrating an eleventh-hour reprieve. Even Jeff seemed to relax in the seat next to me, as if knowing that having his friends at our house would stall whatever punishment was coming his way. It got quiet again.