Page 56 of Where the Fields Don’t Reach

When Donovan finally spoke, his voice had dropped low, and his words came out reluctant, dragged up from somewhere he clearly kept hidden from view.

“There are nights I still dream about it. That fire.” Donovan rubbed a thumb across the chipped letters of his mug again. “And in the dream, there’s something behind me. Out in the east field, across the way, back in the rows where the truck lights and the fire can’t reach. Someone, or something, standing there. Watching it burn, same as me.”

He shook his head, quick, trying to rattle the image loose.

“But I don’t know if that’s some type of memory or if it’s the nightmares putting it there. I was standing on that road in the dark, all by myself, knowing Reed was burning in his own truck. I didn’t know then that he was already dead. I thought…” Donovan stopped to clear his throat. “Well. It doesn’t matter now. And just so you know, a person’s mind isn’t right in a moment like that.”

“Nobody should have to witness something like that, Donovan. And I’m sorry you were the one who found him. Truly sorry.” Hadley kept her voice gentle. “Thank you, though. For being honest, and for telling me about Mercer. It matters more than you know.”

Her thoughts were already sorting through the details as she turned back toward the gray rectangle of the bay door. The wind had picked up even more, driving the rain sideways past the opening, and she wasn’t looking forward to the walk back.

“Chief?”

The title stopped her just shy of the threshold.

Donovan had always called her Hadley. So did most of the townsfolk her age, and she’d never once minded it. But there was nothing careless in the way he’d uttered it now. It carried respect, and something close to deference, and she turned to find plain curiosity on his face.

“What did Mercer think he was going to find out on my property?” Donovan gave a short, baffled chuckle. “A grown man with a metal detector, wanting to dig up my back forty. I always figured he was just a little bit touched.”

It was Hadley’s turn to hesitate.

The last thing she wanted was half of Whistlerun descending on Donovan’s land with shovels and lanterns, turning over his soil in search of treasure. If there was a shred of truth to Roland’s research, then a young woman lay buried somewhere out on that ground and had been for well over a century. Disturbing her rest wasn’t something Hadley would put in motion over an old wives’ tale.

So, she altered her answer.

Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.

“The Threshing Man.” Hadley had to raise her voice over the rain. “Roland Mercer was looking for the Threshing Man.”

24

Hadley Dawkins

September 2026

Thursday – 4:36 pm

The storm had worn itself down to a thin, steady drizzle by the time Hadley turned up Edgar Gleason’s drive, a strip of packed dirt worn smooth by decades of the same tires rolling over the same ruts. She’d meant to head straight to Earl Vinton’s place, to finally get permission to walk the east field before the daylight faded toward dusk. She had several theories going, but she kept circling back to the way Roland had kept a tight lid on the land transfers.

Had he meant to let someone believe the sack of gold and jewelry was still buried on Vinton ground? Or was his death not tied to that old story at all?

Any answers would have to wait, because the late afternoon had other plans.

Her cell had rung the moment she’d stepped out of Donovan’s garage. Edgar swore there’d been a theft on his property, and it fell to her to take the report. She’d keyed dispatch to let them know she was handling it herself.

She parked and cut the engine before popping the umbrella just as the soles of her ankle boots met the gravel. The rain had eased to a drizzle, the drops pattering softly against the black nylon, and she stepped around the puddles gathering in the low spots as she made for the front porch.

Edgar waited for her under the overhang. He turned his head and spat, the brownish wad landing in one of the bushes that lined the wooden steps. He’d chewed tobacco her whole life, and old age wasn’t about to talk him out of one of his few vices.

He was a tall old man gone stringy and spare with his years. The flannel he’d pulled on today was the twin of every other one in his closet, and he wore it without apology. He eyed her umbrella the way a man might eye somebody who’d turned up to a hog roast in a necktie.

“Afternoon, Mr. Gleason. What’s this about a break-in?”

“Break-in’s a strong word.” Edgar worked his jaw side to side, gathering more spit or just gathering his thoughts, she wasn’t quite sure. “Somebody’s been in my shed. The smaller one.”

He tipped his head toward the barn across the yard.

“My squirrel feeder needs fixin’, so I went to collect my tools and found my hammer up and gone. My good screwdriver with it, the one with the yellow handle. Both of ‘em, right out of the spots where I keep them.”