Purgatory, West Virginia
December 17
The pickup’s backfire had the sheriff turning to check on the disturbance, hand on an old Colt that Finn was willing to bet had rarely been drawn from its holster for anything other than cleaning. Finn watched through the rearview mirror as the burly man eyed the truck, tipped back his cowboy hat, and headed in Finn’s direction.
The sheriff greeted him as Finn hopped down from the cab. “Mornin’.”
Finn accepted the sheriff’s extended hand. “Morning, Sheriff.”
“Sounds like you need a tune-up.”
“Yeah, I got a mechanic working on it.”
“Oberon Jones.” The sheriff smiled in greeting.
“Finn McIntyre.” The two men shook hands.
“Where ya headed?” the sheriff asked.
“Food.” Finn pointed toward the diner. “And then a hardware store if you have one.”
The sheriff chuckled, a deep, hearty sound. “It’s attached to the diner. Fern owns ‘em both.”
“Fern?”
“Fern Jacobs. You’ll meet her. Nutty old broad. Putters around one place or the other all day. You’ll know her by the two bulldogs that are always at her heels. Those dogs are like her kids. Never had any children, so she treats ‘em like people—dresses them up, takes them everywhere.” The sheriff shook his head.
Finn stopped at the statue of the infant in front of City Hall. He looked at the sheriff, a question in his eyes.
Sheriff Jones answered with a nod. “The story goes that a bunch of settlers from the Lost Colony of Roanoke made their way west and stopped here to camp. The baby with them,” he swung his hand toward the statue, “little Virginia Dare was sick and dying. When they bathed her in the creek and set her down to rest, she was miraculously cured.” The sheriff punctuated the tale with ta-da hands. “Story’s been massaged a bit over the years, and no one outside of Purgatory gives it any credence, but as far as we’re concerned, Virginia Dare was magically healed of her ailments and went on to live a long and happy life right here.”
“And these settlers named the town Purgatory? On purpose?” Finn asked.
The sheriff let out a booming laugh that had Finn’s lips tipping into a rare and reluctant side-smile.
“Contrary to what you might think, what with Paradise on one side of town and Devil’s Fork on the other, Purgatory was here first. According to folklore, the settlers were headed west. The Indians in their group promised Utopia lay beyond the mountains, but the group was too tired and sick to make the rest of the journey.”
Finn finished the story. “They didn’t make it to heaven.”
“But they escaped whatever hell they were running from. Hence, Purgatory.” The sheriff tucked his thumbs into his thick belt.
The men turned and took in Main Street. A gentle snow had started, dotting the decorative pine roping and wreaths adorning each lamp post and turning the unremarkable thoroughfare into a Norman Rockwell illustration.
“Well, enjoy your breakfast, frogman.” The sheriff clapped him on the back.
At the reference to the SEALs, Finn looked up.
With a half-salute, the older man continued down the street.
Crossing the T intersection, Finn moved in the direction of the diner when something caught his eye. The little church was red brick and unadorned, set back from the road with a neatly landscaped lawn. Behind it, a cemetery had spilled past the original walled enclosure, a wrought iron fence bordering the extension to the side—too many bodies piling up; no place to put them.
Compelled by some unknown force, he wandered down the sidewalk and into the churchyard. The low gate sat open, and Finn walked among the graves. Most were simple, flat stones designating the occupant as “loving son” or “loyal brother.” Finn had been both, once upon a time. If he died right then, the plaque would only bear his name.
He followed the neat line of markers to the end, where a row of arched graves lined the edge. In the center, two more prominent monuments indicated the resting places of Venable and Annabeth Moss. Finn thought they looked like a bride and groom at the end of an aisle, with the corpse wedding party on either side, the dead attendants in the grassy pews.
As he turned to leave, the grave adjacent to Annabeth’s caught his eye, smaller but part of the cluster. Standing as still as any other occupant in the yard, he stared at the name, a familiar fury, inexplicable and misdirected, sweeping through him.
Philomena Moss Guilford 1955-2018.