In Hell: When Love Kills A Small Town Mystery

Prologue

The flies were feasting when they found Clifford Prater's body. It's like that in the South. The intense heat and humidity form an unholy matrimony that breeds big, hearty, blood-thirsty pests. The black dots crawled about on the faded Confederate flag lazily draped across the gray wall on the front porch. He stood at the threshold, looking into the darkness. Noble Brand brushed at the swarm.

"Like a fart in a whirlwind," Deputy Bug Thall muttered.

Another deputy cursed silently under his breath, not at the flies, but at the smear of dirt and detritus that bled over his spit-shined boot. His foot had broken through one of the boards on the porch. No telling what kind of grime he was now wearing as they entered the shack.

"I hate this job," Jamie muttered, but only to himself.

Noble stood at the front door and took inventory. Not much about it that anyone would call home. The room looked like a time capsule for filth and old junk. Every available surface was piled with papers, magazines, beer cans, and dirty dishes. There was a path to a stained couch and a filthy recliner. A grimy box fan blew in the corner of the room. Noble shined his light its way. Brown and fuzzy, its blades did little to cool the room or ventilate the foul-smelling odors that were burning his nostrils. Somehow, it fit the image the sheriff held in his mind of what the old codger's place might look like inside.

Although he'd been out here many times over the years, he'd never made it past the front door. No warrant. No entry. As simple as that. And Clifford Prater was quick to greet any visitor who dared knock on his door with a shotgun and a dire warning to leave the premises or suffer the consequences. Noble's gut told him lots of stuff went on here. He'd heard rumors, but without a brave soul to come forward, all he had were suspicions and circumstantial evidence.

Once, long ago, duty had forced him to Prater's door.

A wave of memories washed over him. He'd had to follow up on several details that needed immediate attention. He remembered how, as a young deputy, the butterflies rioting in his stomach as he climbed these same sagging steps.

Noble kissed his teeth in disgust. Hell, it looked no better then than it did now – perpetual decay that somehow never fell over the cliff of rottenness. He shook his head trying to dispel the cobwebs.

Better ignore the whispers of the dead.

"Let's get this over with. Where's Burton?" the old sheriff said.

"Coming. He's a few minutes away. I finally got him to answer his phone. He was mad because he said he was tied up with a breech birth."

"It's a shame. Hope all goes well."

"Well," said Noble, "I really don't think we need his services to tell us something's dead in here. The place smells worse than waste lagoons on a hog farm."

"Yeah," said Bug, struggling to get his gag reflexes under control. "Let's get this over with. I'm gonna need a shower that lasts ten hours after this."

"Just don't puke on me," said Jamie.

"Give me your light," Noble said.

Jamie handed the Sheriff a flashlight. Noble slowly opened the front door all the way. The rusty hinges squeaked in protest, and the bottom of the door snagged on a dirty throw rug. The scent barreled over them in full force, putrid and fruity. The light's beam bounced back and forth across the room and landed over a disheveled mound on the floor. A tangled mass of gray hair and dried blood fell into the center of light.

"Crap," Noble breathed.

"That figures. He was one mean ..." said Bug.

"Don't speak ill of the dead," Noble said.

"Afraid he's gonna rise up and bite you on your behind?" Jamie asked Bug.

"Shut up, Bug," said Jamie.

"Shut up yourself," said Bug.

"If you two children are finished ..."

Noble didn't have go on. The two deputies glared at each other. They entered the room.

Bug's elbow bumped into a table, knocking off a glass trinket.

"Shoot."

It crashed onto the floor. Bug's neck disappeared into the collar of his uniform. He scrunched his eyes and dropped his head into the collar of his shirt, readying for the barrage of insults Noble Brand would sling at him for his clumsiness.

"Don't worry about it," the old Sheriff said. "One more broken do-dab ain't gonna matter in this mess."

They stood near the body. A soft whistle broke the silence of the empty room.

"Will you look at that," said Jamie.

"Nasty gash," said Noble.

"Not that," said Jamie, pointing to a bottle lying on the floor beside the body. "That brand of hooch is over a hundred dollars a bottle."