Donnybrook: A Novel by Bill Frank

Author:Bill, Frank [Bill, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2013-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

15

Kildrett and May Farnsley were shit-heel kin to Govern Farnsley. Living on his property. Producing children like mice in a cage. Cooking meth. Selling it. Snorting it. Smoking it. They weren’t the ones killed Eldon, the ones Whalen was searching for. They, like Officer Meadows, lay in the Harrison County Hospital. Meadows with third-degree chemical burns about his face and arms. The Farnsleys with gunshot wounds. The kids with Child Services.

Sheriff Moon Flispart, newly elected, was pissed off. Wanted to know what Deputy Sheriff Whalen thought he was doing, searching abandoned houses down in bum-fuck. Whalen hollered while the nurse bandaged his left leg in the ER. “Thought I’s searching for some meth-cook killers.”

Moon bitched, “Got two gunshot victims, Child Services up my ass like two dozen hemorrhoids ready to burst for three children being raised like animals and maced, and an officer laid up ’cause of your horseshit Dirty Harry way of handling things.”

Whalen yelled, “It was probable cause. They’s cooking meth. I smelt it.”

Moon hollered, “Here’s my probable cause. I’m taking your badge till further investigation. You’ll be having a hearing at the Sellersburg State Police Post in forty-eight hours.”

That’d been over twelve hours ago. The sun had brought on a new day. Three hours of sleep. Pot of coffee. Shit and shower. Whalen pulled on a black T-shirt, worn-out Levi’s. Laced up his work boots. Grabbed his 9-mm Glock for personal protection, seeing as Sheriff Moon had taken his service Glock. Fuck him. He’d find these bastards. Knew where he’d start. Part of being a county cop in a small town—Whalen knew where everyone laid their heads to rest. He’d do this the old-fashioned way.

* * *

Logs had started to moss over. Matched the tin roof’s shade, hunter green. The Blue River ran just as green on the other side of the road. That hint of fish smell wafted into Whalen’s inhale. The yard was littered with beer cans and pine needles. A small brown fridge sat on the wooden deck up next to the cabin’s front door.

Whalen opened the fridge. Pulled a matching bottle from it. No name for this brew. Poe’s personal batch. Whalen smirked. Pushed the bottle up into the flaking silver bottle cap opener attached to the side of the cabin. Popped it open. Swigged near the entire contents. His eyes peeled tears at the cold. He stepped to the front door. His fist met the gray hardwood. He raised the bottle again. Finished it. Listened to the steps behind the door. Locks clicking. Tarnished knob turning.

Poe’s Colonel Sanders skin was wrinkled. One sleep-crusted eye was open, one closed. His pasty lips rattled, “Ross?”

Whalen brought the empty bottle down. Exploded it over Poe’s forehead. Pulled him out of the doorway, onto the wooden deck. Bare feet over broken glass. Whalen gripped and twisted one of Poe’s arms behind his back. Pressed his throat down over the wooden deck rail. Kicked his bare, boxer-short legs apart, taking Poe’s movement from him.

Whalen said, “Gonna ask this one more time, Poe.

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