Prairie Gothic by J.M. Hayes

with a well-to-do uncle in Oklahoma, Abel Hornbaker, who had three boys of his own. Abel got himself murdered just before the pair returned to Kansas—killed by his own sons, some hinted maybe with the help of their cousins.
    Strange, Mad Dog thought, that Becky was the one to get upset by the whispers. She’d had an alibi. Tommie had been accused of committing the crime. Only he’d come back to Kansas and, with the help of a former Benteen County sheriff, cleared himself.
    Maybe Becky’s reaction was because of Ezekiel. She and Zeke, Abel’s oldest, were married with a boy of their own at the time. Zeke did fifteen years in prison for the murder before a governor examined the evidence, determined justice hadn’t been served, and granted him a pardon. He’d come up to Kansas then, and reconciled with Becky. That was almost thirty years ago. Time enough, Mad Dog thought, for Becky to come to terms with the county she lived in. But it hadn’t happened.
    Simon Hornbaker and his twins lived here too. Simon was Zeke and Becky’s son, younger than Mad Dog, and, like his own boys, a bit simple. Something in the genes. Maybe that was why Tommie never married.
    It was in the seventies when Zeke Hornbaker, now Benteen County’s most conservative supervisor, reappeared. Mad Dog couldn’t remember ever seeing him on a tractor or otherwise involved in the labor of farming.
    If that was Zeke…Mad Dog recalled the bones and the ID in his pocket.
    Simon and his sons farmed the place these days, though everybody knew Becky was the one making the decisions.
    There was smoke coming from the chimney, but Mad Dog wasn’t sure what that meant. The place was heated with propane. There was a tank on the west side of the house. Someone must have been home to light the fire, but that didn’t mean they were still here. No fresh tracks marred the circular driveway. Again, it was meaningless. Too much wind, too much fresh snow. The landscape was changing even as he watched.
    Mad Dog decided to start with the barn. It was worth checking, and it would be a step removed from the elements, a little warmer than standing in a snow drift, waiting for someone with a rifle to come along and try for his other ear.
    It had been a red barn once. The north face looked salt-and-pepper gray, speckled with fresh patches of snow that had begun catching on the weathered wood. Mad Dog kept the irregular row of evergreens along the north side of the driveway between himself and the house, then closed the last fifty yards with a sprint. Hailey stayed with him all the way. Maybe she was ready to get out of the storm, too.
    The barn door wasn’t latched. That was no surprise. Folks in Benteen County didn’t lock their houses, much less their barns, not unless they planned to be away for a long time. Of course, Tommie had planned to be away forever.
    The door slid smoothly on rollers hanging from a rail above. Mad Dog slipped through and closed it behind Hailey. It was dark inside, heavy with the rich aromas of hay and manure and grain. The wind didn’t howl in the ear he might or might not have anymore. Instead it rattled shuttered windows and tugged at the great sloped roof, eliciting tired groans from the timbers supporting it.
    There was a vehicle just inside the doors. A green Chevy Blazer. Mad Dog recognized it as Tommie’s.
    Mad Dog opened the driver’s door and the dome light came on. The keys were in the ignition. That was the Benteen County norm. Hailey jumped aboard, bounced in and out of the back seat, then placed herself in her favorite position by the passenger’s window. She seemed to think they would borrow it. Mad Dog decided he was willing to argue a little grand-theft-auto with his brother, considering what was in his pockets and what had happened to his cell phone.
    He got in and tried the key. The Blazer started right up. Mad Dog ran back to the doors, pushed them wide, backed