Summer of the Dead by Julia Keller Page A

and he’s eating it up. Just about ready to come back, he told me.” Fogelsong rolled his shoulders, then leaned forward so that he could arch his back. Couch-sitting was not a natural condition for him. “I don’t know how you two left things, Belfa. Don’t know if you’re in regular contact anymore. But he’s not the man he was four months ago. No more self-pity. None of that left in him. He’s got plans again.”
    She was glad to hear it—thrilled, actually—but hesitated to show any portion of her joy to the sheriff. She was closer to Nick Fogelsong than to anyone else on the planet, but there were still areas of Bell’s life that she didn’t discuss with anyone—including Nick. Bell and Clay Meckling had been romantically involved until Clay was maimed in an accident in the spring. He withdrew from her, from everyone, and she and Clay hadn’t spoken in over two and a half months. It was Rhonda Lovejoy who’d told her about Clay’s trip to the Chicago rehab hospital, one of the best in the world.
    â€œAppreciate it,” Bell said. For all the emotion in her voice, she might have been thanking him for opening the courthouse door for her.
    The sheriff waited, just in case she wanted to say something else, ask any more questions about Clay. She knew why he was waiting, and she also knew how impossible it was for her to reveal how deep her feelings ran for Clay Meckling—as impossible, come to that, as it was for Fogelsong to discuss his wife’s illness. Put Nick and me in a contest to see who’s more stubborn, Bell thought, and it’d be a tie, no question. He won’t talk about Mary Sue and I won’t talk about Clay. Won’t—or can’t. Same thing. Both of us were taught to keep it all inside . Sometimes it felt as if they’d both been sentenced to prison—not the kind that had held Shirley, but the kind whose invisible walls were even taller, even stronger—on account of how and where they were raised, the hard and constant lessons they’d learned.
    â€œWell,” Nick said, “better get back to it.” He stood up, having first leaned to his right so that he could use his palm to push off against the arm of the couch. It bothered the hell out of him, Bell knew, that he needed help these days, even inanimate help, to assist his rise. Nick hated dependency in all its forms. But he was fifty-five years old. Gravity pushed back harder these days. “After I meet with Deputy Harrison, I’ve got to get ready for tonight’s meeting with the county commissioners,” he said. “Soon as word gets around about Charlie Frank, they’re going to have a lot of questions about the murders. And they’re right to be asking.” Another complication occurred to him. “I’m going to request funds to hire private security for the ceremony on Friday. It’ll bust the budget wide open—but it’s worth it. Everybody’s jumpy as hell. And no wonder.” He put his hat on his head, leveled it up.
    â€œExtra security sounds like a good idea.”
    â€œThing we really need,” he said, “is another deputy. I’ll make my pitch again, but it won’t work. Can tell you that right now. Commissioners might go for a temporary fix, but a new hire? Forget it.”
    â€œA couple of unsolved murders might change their minds.”
    â€œHell of a way to get their attention,” he shot back. “Anyhow, way I hear it, there’ll be a record crowd on Friday. Maybe close to a thousand people. Maybe more. Can you beat that? A thousand people—all in one place—in Raythune County. Riley Jessup spends his days in a big house over in Charleston now, but he’s still a popular man in these parts.
    â€œYou know what?” Fogelsong went on. He was switching gears again. Bell could hear it in his voice. That voice had toughened up, the anger