CHAPTER 24

TIM

Seven miles outside the town of Carlsboro, in the middle of a heavily wooded four-acre lot, sat Wally Nall's home. The former roofer lived in a small one-story house set a hundred yards off the main road, with peeks of the bright-red metal roof visible from the street. The color tied in well with the metal N O T RESPASSING signs stapled to the pine trees on either side of the driveway.

Dr. Timothy Valden nosed his vehicle past the signage and traveled slowly down the dirt drive. Before he was halfway there, a man stepped out in the middle of the path, a shotgun tucked under one arm. He was short and wiry, with a full head of bright-white hair and a gap between his front teeth that Tim could see from inside the car. He held up his hand in warning, and Tim obediently braked.

He rolled down the driver's-side window. "Mr. Nall?" he called out.

"Yeah, who's asking?" Wally took a few steps to his right, keeping an approach angle on the car.

"My name is Dr. Timothy Valden. I'm a doctoral student who is doing research on Leewood Folcrum." He leaned his head farther out the window, not sure if the man could hear him. "Leewood suggested I speak with you."

Wally took a few steps closer. "You come all the way from Lancaster?"

"I did."

"And you said Leewood sent you?"

"Yes."

He leaned back his head and barked out a shrill laugh. "Bullshit." He made a circular motion with one finger, as if stirring a pot. "Turn that thing around, and don't let my shotgun hit you in the ass on the way out."

Tim didn't reach for the gearshift. "Leewood said you were his best friend."

"Easy to be a best friend to someone who ain't got no friends."

"Also said he had been sleeping with your wife."

The man's finger dropped, and he seemed to consider the statement; then he stepped forward until he was right at the car door, the butt of his gun knocking against the paint as he peered at his visitor. "You're a pretty fucker," he said. "They give out those looks at the colleges?"

"Can't tell you. I brought mine with me."

Wally gripped the sill of the car and bent forward until they were at eye level. He said nothing for a moment, just stared at him with pale-blue eyes. "He didn't fuck my wife."

"Okay." Tim lifted his hands from the steering wheel in surrender. "I was just telling you what Leewood said so you'd know I was legitimate."

"That was a running joke between us because he and Becca could never hold their own with me drinking, so they would pass out in bed together all at the same time. I was right there watching, and nothing happened between them." He glared, and at this distance, you could see the pitting of old acne scars on his cheeks. "Hell, that fat cow could barely crawl on top of my scrawny ass, much less a hoss like Lee."

"Understood."

"God rest her soul." He tapped his forehead, then made the sign of the cross on his faded-red T-shirt. Stepping back, he swung his shotgun in the direction of the house and pointed to a spot between an RV and a giant propane tank. "Park there and come on in."

"Thank you. I won't take up too much of your time. I—"

Wally had already turned and was ambling toward the house, gesturing over one shoulder for his visitor to come.

Putting the vehicle in Drive, Tim followed.

"So, you said your name was what, now?" The roofer sat on one side of a small round table, a sleeve of saltine crackers ripped open before him. Also on the table was a plastic tub of fish dip, one that gave off a strong scent. Twice, Wally had offered a cracker to his visitor; twice, Tim had refused.

They were in a nook between the kitchen and the living room, and without Tim jumping to conclusions, it was a good bet that the man lived alone. Every surface, save the table they were sitting at, was littered with things. There was a dirty garbage disposal on the kitchen counter, alongside a scattering of tools and screws, a pile of clothes, and two plastic grocery bags of items. Between their feet, a gray cat made figure eights, his soft tail tickling the back of Tim's leg.

"Dr. Timothy Valden. You can call me Tim." An itch formed in the back of his throat, and he tried not to think about the level of cat dander that must be in this place.

"And you're, what, writing a book on Lee?"

"It's a dissertation. Sort of like a report. It's part of my doctoral program."

"Yeah, I know what a dissertation is. But listen"—he stuck a dip-ladened cracker in his mouth and took a moment to chew—"if you're going to write about anyone, it should be me. I did a hell of a lot more interesting stuff than Leewood. Other than that one night—shit. His life was one boring rat race. Work, drink, sleep, repeat."

Yeah, the one word Tim wouldn't use to describe Leewood Folcrum was boring . He opened the folder he had brought in and pulled out a thin stack of papers. "You testified in Lee's trial on his behalf."

Wally shrugged. "So?"

"I'm curious why you did that."

"‘Why'?" Wally wagged a skinny finger at him. "Look, I knew the man. Okay? Knew him better than any other pig fucker in this county. He wasn't a perfect man—hell, wasn't even close to that—but he wasn't what they said he is."

"Okay, well, that's what I'm trying to understand. Who Lee really is—or was."

"Well, he was an ass. That's the first thing you need to know. And mean as a snake."

"Mean enough to kill three little girls?"

Wally tilted his head, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. "Now, I didn't say that, did I? You're interrupting me, Tim. You here to hear me or hear yourself?"

"I'm sorry. Please, go ahead. But can we start back with when you met Lee? How long ago was that?"

The man leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming the worn table. His fingers were dirty, dark lines under each nail, his knuckles scarred, the backs of his hands covered in liver spots. Like Lee, he was getting old and living a lifestyle where time hadn't been kind.

"Well, I met Lee when his daughter was a baby, so 'bout a decade before it happened. He was with Jessica, of course. Jessica was his wife. Smoking-hot little number but liked the nose candy. Cocaine, I'm talking about." He met Tim's eyes. "Nowadays, she'd probably be into meth, but back then he was a drunk and she was a cokehead—and then there was that baby, who, let me tell you, spent as much time over here as over there. My wife, God rest her soul, couldn't have kids, so she kinda adopted Jenny as her own. I didn't mind, because whenever I got tired of the kid, we'd just send her back over, and to be honest, I'm not sure if they even noticed where she was."

Nodding, Tim digested the information. "And Leewood was a drunk?"

"Well, as much as any of us are." He rose to his feet, circling the table to open up a large white fridge crammed into one side of the galley kitchen. "Speaking of alcohol, I've got Miller and Busch. What's your poison?"

"I'll take a Miller. Thanks." One beer would be fine. Nothing more, not with the drive ahead of him.

After cracking open two bottles, Wally set one in front of Tim and took his seat. "I guess Lee wasn't really a drunk; I shouldn't have said that. But he'd get sloshy on the weekends and at night. That was also when Jessica— She worked at the Dollar Tree down on Fifth Street. That was when she would get high. Not every night—hell, they couldn't afford that. But pretty often."

"What was Leewood like when he was drinking?" Tim reached for his beer and took a small sip.

"Oh, he was a happy drunk. Real friendly with the ladies. Got a little handsy, but hell ..." He inhaled, then belched. "Who doesn't?"

Normal, upstanding, moral individuals. That's who didn't. "I guess it would depend on what your definition of ‘handsy' is." The cat meowed at Tim's feet and put its paws on his bare calf, kneading the muscle without using its claws. Coughing, he reached for his beer and took another sip, trying to gauge the tightness in his throat. "You mentioned that the daughter was over at your house a lot. What was she like?"

"Smart," Wally said immediately. "You could tell she wasn't like the rest of us. She watched everything, that little girl did. Saw what the drugs was doing to her momma, saw ..." He grimaced. "She would, like, study you, in a creepy kinda way. Like, whenever you'd look over at her, she was always watching you, or watching something, and taking a mental note of it. My wife hated it. Felt like we were being spied on."

"Did Leewood feel that way too?"

"Nah, I don't think so." Wally scratched underneath one arm, then pulled at the front of his T-shirt to separate it from his sweaty skin. "Leewood and her got real close once Jessica died. Too close, if you ask me."

Tim leaned forward because this ... this was new information. "What do you mean, ‘too close'?"

The man pointed at his beer bottle, which was already almost empty. "You want another beer? I'm gonna get one."

"No, I'm fine, thank you." He watched as Wally crossed the room. "So, what do you mean, ‘too close'?"

"I don't know." Wally returned, twisting the cap off with the hem of his shirt. "I don't have any kids, so what do I know? It just felt strange sometimes, seeing the two of them together. It was like they was playing house and she was the wife. Not that he was doing anything—I mean, Leewood wasn't a pervert, that's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying that the girl acted that way. And once the mom died, she was on his case about taking his vitamins and things she wanted him to do around the house ... Like I said, it was just weird. You had this eight-, nine-, ten-year-old kid, but she acted like she was three times her age."

Yeah, that checked out from everything he knew about Jenny Folcrum. The papers back then had covered the little girl extensively, with teachers all saying she was mature beyond her years and extremely intelligent. She probably had to have been, the lack of parenting requiring her to fend for herself from an early age.

Wally sat back down in his seat and leaned back in the chair, balancing on one leg. "Like one night Lee was over, and we were playing poker. He'd brought Jenny, and she'd wanted to play but Lee told her no, so she was watching something on TV, and whatever it was, it was violent. I walked by to get a beer, and there was some guy getting decapitated on the screen, and I asked her if she wanted to watch something else, like cartoons." He swigged a sip before continuing. "She looked at me like I was the stupidest shit on the planet and said that it was fine and I should get back to the cards because Leewood would need to go home soon, that it was getting late and he had work in the morning."

Wally gave Tim an incredulous look. "Can you believe that? Like he was the kid and she was giving him his bedtime."

Tim rubbed his fingers along his temple, thinking it over. "This is the first I've heard or read about their dynamic. Everyone else has said he was a pretty distant and uninvolved parent, that Jenny sort of fended for herself."

"I'm not sure who was fending for who in that house." Wally shook his head, then paused, listening to something. "Hot damn, I think that fucking peckerbird is back. You hear that shit?"

Tim shook his head. "No."

Wally pressed on the arms of the chair and stood. "Well, I've got one chance to get this fucker before he ruins my olive tree. You need anything else from me?"

"Just one question, then I'll be out of your hair."

Wally tilted back his beer and finished it off, gesturing for Tim to continue.

"Do you think Leewood killed those girls?"

He slammed the empty bottle down on the table, then reached for a shotgun leaning against the wall and shook his head. "Not a chance."