It couldn't have gone more wrong.

All the planning and none of it had happened the way he wanted. Even from the start of the evening, everything had been...off.

Now, thrashing deeper into the forest he began to panic. There was so much blood. He was covered in it. His hands, which he'd wiped down the front of his shirt without thinking, his boots, although the fallen brush was taking care of that, and his favourite shirt.

He stopped and held out the shirt to see how bad it was. The pentagram on the front was marred by two elongated streaks down the front. There was no way he could hide that.

Fuck.

He pulled it over his head, taking care not to get blood anywhere else, and began stomping further in. Now he needed to find a good spot to stash it. Somewhere no one would ever find it or think to look. Up ahead, the forest opened up into a clearing and below a cliff that overlooked the sweeping waters of the Red. The river might wash it away, maybe some of the blood too. But they had tests for that. He'd seen it on TV. No, the river was a bad idea. There was no way to judge where it could end up. Some kid might find it stuck on a branch near the edge and then what?

He had to keep his cool. That was the only way out of this. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked up at the night sky. The stars, one of the best things about living in this shit-ass town, sparkled like crystals above. A wind played with his hair, cooling the inner storm that raged. His heart, which had been drumming against his chest, slowed.

He needed to hurry and get back to the truck to meet up with everyone. They'd been counting on him tonight. He had to pull his shit together. Turning back toward the darkness of the forest, he spied a cubby hole at the base of a nearby tree. Few people came through here. There were no roads that led to the clearing and the forest was dense in this part. He bent to examine the crevice, rotted out by a previous occupant. It was perfect. He balled the shirt up and stuffed it in as far as it would go. As he stood, he made a silent prayer no one would find it, or discover what he'd done, and headed back toward the truck and what promised to be a great night.

***

The dirt road kicked up tiny pebbles as the cruiser sped by the entrance to the Old Bailey farm. The only lights this far out were the cruiser's. They jumped with each pothole—plentiful on the unpaved backroads of Flynn county.

From the open window, Elle Ashley could smell summer barreling toward Turlough. The small town lay hidden in the southern tip of Illinois' boreal forests. It sat between two rivers; one a raging behemoth, the other a lazy Sunday afternoon stroll.

Pretty soon everything would be covered in a fine dust, from porches, to petals, to people. And then the humidity would come. It would set in, squeezing the town in a wet suffocating embrace. A grasp it held until the waning days of summer late in September.

The cruiser curved around bends, taking corners quicker than the tires or suspension would have liked. The last bordered by Nelly's ravine on the passenger side, a yawning drop to the trickle of the Red River below. The town named the ravine for a young girl who, years previous, had wandered to the edge and lost her footing. She slid to the bottom, only to drown in the two inches of water slopping past.

The red and blue lights atop the car sat silent, both front windows rolled down. Elle always kept the windows down in summer, even when the cruiser's air still worked. All three cruisers in Turlough were a gift as far as Elle figured it. They still worked—mostly. Unlike their neighbour county, which had five of its cars repossessed by the bank, they'd paid Turlough's off last year. Even if they were ninety-fives, even if you had to disregard the rust spots for the paint, and even if the sirens only worked half the time, each deputy had their own.

The recession hit small towns harder. And Turlough was no different. It had been leaking young folks for years. To places like Evansville, Louisville, Nashville, Chicago. The big cities promised jobs. The most you could hope for in Flynn County was trucking or labouring on the roads, or a fat baby and a dusty garden.

Before the noise came the lights, playing with the tree branches in the distance. They'd constructed a bonfire in a small clearing. The harsh powerful colours painted everything around it an orange hue. As the cruiser started up the hill toward the group of teenagers parading around with plastic cups, Elle flicked on the red and blues.

The cruiser's lights created a panic. Fingers loosened, dropping cups to the ground, feet uprooted, scattering the crowd to the trees, leaving the area and refuse behind. A lone officer was not enough to catch and hold an entire party. If they could stay upright long enough to get out of range, they'd get away.

Elle unfurled from her cruiser. She watched as the crowd bounded for the forest, leaving a keg, two young men and a mishmash of cigarette butts and crumpled red cups behind. The two sipped their beer and eyed Elle from the safety of a far tree.

"Dan, EJ," she said.

In unison, "Sheriff."

Clad in the Flynn county uniform of tan pants—a grey strip up the seam, a black cotton uniform shirt with the gold star-shaped badge of Sheriff and a straight, unwavering tie to match the pants, Elle strolled up to the keg with her thumbs hooked into her Sam Browne belt. Her hat lay behind on the passenger seat revealing dark red hair coiled in a tight bun at the nape. She kicked the keg. Her boot made a soft metallic thud indicating it was still half full.

"Where'd you get it from?" She asked.

EJ shrugged, but kept his eyes on the dirt in front of his worn-thin Chucks.

"Is it Christmas? Because usually I don't get presents like this handed to me any old time." She picked up a cup and sniffed it before setting it down on the keg. "Which one of you knew underage drinkers are my favourite?"

"The pump's mine," said Dan, his eyes level with hers.

Someone giggled close by, a soft feminine noise. The bonfire slowed without encouragement, but there was still enough light to make out the white faces lining the edge of the trees.

Elle let a slow long breath escape between her tight lips. "Go home," she said to the trees in general. Silence. "Or I'll call every one of your parents and wake them up." She turned to address the trees full on. "Don't think I didn't see you," and she began trilling off names, "...It's a lot of work but if you piss me off enough I'll do it."

A quick and violent rush of noise and the trees were clear. The echo of cracking twigs and branches was heard far off down the hill.

"Come on," she waved toward the cruiser, "in the back."

"That pump cost me fifty bucks," said Dan, chugging the last of his beer. He crumpled the cup and tossed it to the ground.

Elle stared.

"Fine. But if someone takes it before I get a chance to pick it up...." He ran his hand over the pump as he passed, stealing a look into the forest, letting the words trail. Then almost as an after thought he picked up a sharp rock and gouged a mark into the hard black plastic of the pump handle.

EJ slouched against the back door, waiting. As the tall and lanky have a way of doing, he always managed to melt into his surroundings. If life were a track, EJ would plod along, taking each step as if the next didn't matter and the last had never happened. A mash of freckles peppered his white complexion. A by-product of his flaming red hair, which sat on his head as it grew, curled and frizzled.

Elle opened the door and watched EJ climb in and slide over to the far side. She felt Dan slink up behind her but turned before he could place a hand on her ass.

"You can arrest me anytime, Sheriff Ashley," he said, a blast of his beer-infused breath hitting her in the face.

"Well thank-you, Mr. Baker. I will remember that the next time I pull you over for broken taillights." She ushered him into the back and closed the door, scanned the clearing one more time then walked over to the pit. She circled the fire, spreading the logs out with the tip of her boot then picked up an empty Dixie cup and doused the fire in dirt. It crackled and smoked as it died. She watched it for a couple of minutes, letting the boys stew in the back of her cruiser, until it was out.

The inside of the cruiser smelled of artificial apples. A condition of daily scrubbing with scented Lysol wipes. The paint was peeling on the cage separating Elle from her guests. But a recent sand job had removed any chunks that could fall and mar the upholstery. The windows gleamed from Windex, free of streaks and dried water spots.

Dan watched her drive, twisting the white threads on his jeans between his fingers. He oozed confidence the way a half-cracked beer oozed foam. His short butterscotch hair blended with his smooth, tanned skin. His grey, unblinking eyes followed her hands as they moved over the steering wheel. They turned down County Road Twelve. The speed of her cruiser slowed to account for the mottle of potholes along this belt of road.

"Wait up," said Dan. "Why're you turning here? I'm down number six."

"If I'd told you I was taking you to lock-up would you've gotten in voluntarily?"

No response.

"I didn't think so."

"Fuck that!" His body straightened in the backseat. "What about my parents?"

"You can call them. I'm not arresting you. I'm employing a different tactic. Because talking at you about trespassing on private property and underage drinking have no effect. A sparse cell and shared cot on the other hand..."

"If it smells like disinfectant, I'm out." Dan crumpled down on the back seat.

"And, Dan? If you use that kind of language in my car again, I will bust you for that bag of pot in your pants."

"Your sister has the largest arm of the law stuck right up her ass." He demonstrated with his own arm, then used it to punch EJ's thigh.

EJ turned his gaze to the ditches and roadside hills. He let the cool night air from Elle's window wash over his face. Sometimes he would turn his head toward the wind and let it steal his breath, seeing how long he could go without breathing. He stared as they passed the marker, a red stake he'd stuck in the ground. The paint was fading back into the wood and the grass stalks obscured more of it each year. He turned to gage Elle's reaction. Their eyes met then released. A brief smile came to the edge of EJ's lips. She had noticed it too.

Elle was twelve when EJ came home from the hospital, a rumpled mess she'd decided. And from the moment she became the built-in babysitter, EJ was the black spy to her white. The irritant who'd wear himself out to keep up on his BMX as she and her friends sped down the road in their old Buick. Red hair and a chalky complexion were their only comparable traits. EJ's hurdles were walked around. Elle's were leaped over. Where EJ waded, Elle splashed. EJ the underachiever. Elle the valedictorian. Success practically assured.

And then one phone call changed it all. In her last semester at the University of Chicago, about to take her finals, Elle got a call from Sheriff Bailey. There'd been an accident out on county road twelve. No details, but she should come home. EJ was staying at the Case's.

From the moment she saw EJ, only ten, holding onto the porch frame, fighting back tears waiting for her to come pick him up, they were a team. From that second forward she would do everything and anything to never see that look in his eyes again. It crumpled her, that look of anguish, of losing everything that mattered. She would matter. From then on, she would be perfect for him.

Elle pulled the cruiser up into one of three empty parking spots in front of the sheriff's office. For such a compact building it also housed the coroner's office and the county morgue making it a veritable multi-tool of office space. Turlough's main strip came to an abrupt stop next to the sheriff's office. Beside it was a small square which folded into the forest on the other side. Across the street was Dell's Diner, the only restaurant in town open for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The other two were Finnegan's, the local pub and Torrini's an Italian restaurant. It served hard spaghetti and limp baguettes but managed to stay open anyway. They all stood dark, except for the sheriff's office.

As Elle marched the boys past the empty clerk's station, the clock above read two-eleven am. The layout resembled an old-style newspaper room. The main floor was open concept with several multi-purpose desks, tidy except for a few files in the out-boxes. Only one had a computer—a discoloured mammoth from the late nineties—parked in the corner to give a modicum of privacy.

Elle seated the boys in the tiny waiting area outside her office. It was the only one with a door on the first floor, before grabbing two large clear ziplock bags.

"Dan, you can use the phone if you want to call your parents." She nodded at the phone on an empty desk across from him. He shook his head. "You're eighteen, I'm not calling them for you." She placed the two bags in front of them.

"I said I wasn't calling them."

Elle shrugged her left shoulder. "Empty your pockets. And, Dan, I want to see that bag of pot in there."

"I'm just guessing here," he said as he began emptying his pockets and placing the contents in the bag. "But I'm never seeing this pot again, am I?"

"This particular pot?" She said as she lifted the small ziplock bag containing two large buds from his hand. "No, but I'm sure that won't stop you from buying more."

EJ sat holding his breath, pleading for Dan to stop. His bag on his lap in front of him, containing nothing more than a wallet, a zippo and some spare rolling papers. A distant rush of water moving through the pipes indicated that a toilet had been flushed somewhere in the building. Stan Carrick emerged from a door behind the work stations, zipping his fly, a newspaper under one arm. He half smiled when he noticed Elle and the boys.

"Hey," he said, a soft pink taking root in his cheeks. "N-nneed any help?" Stan wasn't just thin he was concave. Underweight in a way that spoke in terms like anorexic or anemic. He had deep, dark pockets under his eyes, and his belt had several extra holes. The excess strap doubled back so it didn't flop when he walked. Stan had been born with type one diabetes. As a result struggled on a daily basis to eat enough to fill out his deputy's uniform.

"I've got it. But thanks."

"N-nno problem."

Elle motioned the boys to lead the way down to the basement.

"You guys are going to smoke that pot aren't you? I bet you'll be going back for our keg too," said Dan, handing her his bag.

"You're right I will be going back for the keg, so I can return it to Finnegan's where you stole it." Elle tucked the two bags under her arm and followed them down the stairs to the basement. The hallway continued for several metres beyond with doors on either side. The coroner's office was through the door on the right, the morgue at the end of the inky, uncarpeted hall. To the left stood a single diminutive cell, complete with a stony cot and staunch bars.

EJ studied the windowless cell with its cement walls and water-stained floor. "Are you really going to lock us up in here all night?"

The floors had been scrubbed with vinegar recently and the pungent smell was prickling EJ's nostrils. This combined with the harsh florescent lights above, and the fact that he was sobering up, made his head begin to throb.

Elle checked her watch. "Not that there's much of it left," she said. But she squeezed his elbow when she was sure Dan couldn't see.

They both turned, Dan with a look of disdain on his face, EJ with accusatory eyes. "Sit, sleep," she ordered, pointing to the lonely cot.

"What if we need to make pee pee?" Dan asked, folding his arms and kicking the side of the cot with his scuffed shoe. The cot was basic. It had a thin pad as a mattress, an even thinner pillow and clean sheets. The laundered smell mingled with the vinegar. Like much of Turlough, the cell functioned. Any frills were best left for the cities.

"If you're sleeping, you shouldn't need to go."

Elle closed the door, jiggling it to make sure it was locked. "Stan will be down to check on you in a couple of hours," she turned and walked back down the hall and up the stairs.

They could hear the lock from the door click back into place. The silence was painful. The kind that bounces around in your head knocking things off shelves to fill the void.

"Well this is the shits," Dan plunked down on the cot and began taking off his Chucks. "I'd much rather be banging Tully...and her big fat husband then down here surviving the night with you." He threw one shoe then the other against the far wall, each with its own loud echo ringing through the basement. It made EJ flinch. "Why's your sister such a bitch anyway?"

Without any warning EJ punched Dan in the arm fast and hard. He stood quickly, with his back to the bars, ready if Dan came at him. "Don't call her that."

But instead of showing anger, Dan laughed it off, rubbing the outer part of his bicep. "Why? What would you call her?"

EJ still hadn't completely relaxed, but his fists were starting to drop.

"Because where I'm from, locking your brother up over night doesn't inspire the warm and fuzzies." A grin spread across Dan's face, big enough to take up the entire lower half. His teeth were so white they almost managed to brighten the cell. He patted the cot next to him. "I'm sorry, alright?"

EJ nodded and took a seat next to him, shrugging off his jacket and shoes, he passed Dan the lone pillow. "Where you're from they probably don't worry so much about this kind of thing. I'm guessing big cities have more important things to worry about." EJ crumpled up his jacket to use for himself.

"I wouldn't exactly call Evansville a big city, more like a trough for big city runoff." Dan fluffed up the thin pillow. "How come your sister's like that anyway? All stiff like she's got a fire poker up her ass?"

EJ shrugged. "You should've seen her before..." he trailed off, unable to finish.

With their bodies in the foetal position at opposite ends of the cot, they settled in for what was left of the night awaiting the consequences of what only morning could bring.

********

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