A Town Called Evening (episode I)

From out of the Snow: Luke's quiet routine is interrupted

You can see the serial trailer here

Jack Garland

December 4th

Rackham County Montana, USA

The night remained in the hours that Luke Gatelin rose from slumber. He dressed and slipped outside into the dark. He fitted a headlamp over his stocking cap and took to the freshly plowed road.

Ice and snow crunched beneath his shoes, breath measured to match every other stride. The intensity of the cold numbed his nose, ears, and cheeks. All the while, his head was totally empty. That was the point.

Breath in. One, two, three.

Breath out. Three, two, one.

The snow without the sun was a liminal space. Nothing existed beyond or behind, not even the silhouette of the snow-capped Rockies could pierce the dark; just endless road and the thrumming of his heart in his ears. Luke settled into the rhythm and steady burn for some miles before blood-red light cracked the horizon in half.

In the grey between, Luke returned home. He moved up the long, winding driveway, passing an old Ford pickup with two stickers depicting intertwined globe, anchor, and eagle. The first sticker was heavily weathered, more pink and white than its true red and gold. Beside it, the second was only slightly sun faded.

Then, Luke prepared firewood. The motion—like running—was mechanical. He swung the axe up over his head, aimed, and dropped the sharpened edge into the log. It split with a satisfying crack.

Over,

and over,

and over.

As he placed the final pieces of wood beneath a tarp, the front door of the house swung open. An older man, much like Luke in appearance, stood on the threshold, hat in hands and sleep still hanging heavy to his lids.

“Damn, son!”

Luke smiled up at his greying father. “I know you said you wanted to do it,” said Luke, “but I was already up.”

Luke’s father chuckled. “Well, I won’t be the one to complain about one less thing to do.” He pushed the door wider with a gnarled, arthritis-riddled hand. “C’mon in then and get yourself some breakfast. Your mother’s gonna fry up some bacon.”

Taking a step backward, ice grinding beneath his shoes, Luke said. “Let me shower and change first.” He jerked a thumb back at the guesthouse some feet away. It wasn’t really a guesthouse, especially not when Luke had set up permanent residence there.

Luke showered and changed into his brown and khaki colored deputy uniform.

Tucking the service jacket and belt beneath his arm, he returned to the “Big House” as his family had been referring to it since Luke and his brother were boys.

Inside, the lights and the sound hit Luke all at once. It hurt his eyes after the cool blue early morning light. The television was on, cartoon reruns of The Suff and Friends noisily depicted the characters’ adventures without an audience. Luke’s nephew and niece, Rebecca and Henry, already sat at the breakfast table. They’d spent the weekend with their grandparents so that Luke’s brother and sister-in-law could enjoy some time to themselves.

“Uncle Luke,” shouted Henry. His hands and face were sticky with maple syrup. “Are you already going to work?”

Luke tousled the five-year-old’s head as he passed. “Yep.”

Henry’s older sister, Rebecca had her nose in a book. She paused, placing her finger in between the pages to keep her place. “Good morning, Uncle Luke.” Last year, she might’ve greeted her uncle with more enthusiasm. Now, the frigid winds of teenage angst were upon them—right on schedule with her thirteenth birthday.

“What’re you reading?” Luke asked.

“Dracula.”

“What’s that, like, Twilight?” Luke teased.

“Absolutely not,” sniffed Rebecca, she adjusted her glasses and returned to the novel.

Laughing quietly to himself, Luke entered the kitchen.

His mother, terrycloth robe pulled tightly about her thin frame, poured pancake batter into a heavily buttered skillet. Her white blonde-hair was pulled back from her face. Luke thought she looked especially tired this morning. This concerned him.

She smiled when she saw her son. “Good morning, baby.”

“Morning, mom.”

Gesturing with a spatula to his face, his mother said, “When on earth are you going to shave that hairy thing on your upper lip? You look just like your father.”

Luke’s hand brushed his mustache. “I’m trying to fit the role of deputy, mom.”

“Well, you’re not going to get any nice young lady to marry you looking like that.”

“Dad did.”

“That was the eighties, Luke.”

She flipped a pancake. “You want me to fix something for you to eat too?”

“No, thanks.” Luke reached across his mother and grabbed two pieces of bacon, cooling atop a paper towel. “I’m on my way out. I’m going to be late.”

“Aw,” the corners of her mouth downturned. “Won’t you take a little something to go? You can be ten minutes late.”

Outside, a car honked its horn. Luke leaned over the sink to peer out the window. “It’s Hank,” he said.

“Kids,” shouted his mother. “Your father’s here to take you to school!”

There was another round of chaos as Rebecca and Henry gathered their book bags and pulled on their shoes. Luke followed them out, waving to his mother as he did.

Hank had exited the vehicle and was helping his son into his carseat. Luke watched with a touch of envy. How did Hank do it? Move on and slip into a new life like he was always a part of it?

Then, Hank’s prosthetic leg slipped slightly on the ice.

Luke caught his brother’s eye and waved. “Morning, Hank.”

Hank smirked. “Morning, Luke. Ugly as usual.”

Pulling on his gloves, Luke stuck out his tongue. It was immature, but with Rebecca and Henry in eyesight and earshot, there was little better Luke could weaponize against his older brother.

He climbed into the patrol car and turned the key in the ignition. Then, Luke sat. Tapping on the steering wheel and chewing on the stolen bacon, he waited for the needle to drop below one.

Hank pulled out of the drive. Through the windshield, Luke observed Hank twisting in his seat to scold Henry.

---

Luke was the first in at the precinct. He flicked on the lights and checked the heat, he salted the side walk and prepared the coffee pot, he turned on the radio (not too loud) and warmed up the desktop computer that was probably a decade behind some much needed updates.

Then, mug filled to the brim, Luke settled into his chair behind his desk and waited for lunch.

Before him, the town began to wake up. Well, waking up was different in a little town like Luke’s. The hustle and bustle of Rackham, Montana would be considered a slow day anywhere else.

But Luke liked it. Nothing ever happened and nothing ever would.

Sheriff Carver wouldn’t be in this week. He’d gone down to Mississippi to a firearm safety conference. The other deputies, all three of them, were on patrol.

Between the hours of seven and eleven, the precinct was completely silent. The most Luke did was fill out paperwork for Mrs. Fredrick’s recently recovered cat. He even opened up his desk side drawer and contemplated reading a new novel. That new sci-fi anthology Blackwater interested him.

He decided against it. If someone did come in, it was best to look busy.

He watched the clock tick and felt a strange sense of despair. In another life, he’d have gone through a million different tasks by this time. The horses and the cattle, belt buckles, and fresh air; a small part of Luke missed it.

Yet desert sands, IEDs, and the bitter smell of gunpowder posed a barrier. He couldn’t go back now. It’d been too long.

Despite himself, Luke felt his thoughts begin to slide into a Middle Easterly direction. He tensed. Hastily, he reached into the draw and pulled out Blackwater. Before Luke could crack the spine, however, the front door swung open.

---

Ainsley and Michael Kirkwood sat before Deputy Luke Gatelin, two styrofoam cups steaming with coffee remained untouched on the plastic table. Wrapped in a worn manila folder was a stack of missing posters. Luke had already seen one, two, three, four of them. Ainsley had been sure of that.

Grace T. Kirkwood

female, 27 years old

Eyes: blue

Hair: black

Height: 5’3

She was missing. That much was insisted by Grace’s parents. At the moment, however, Luke was not so sure.

The story went like this:

Grace, a multi-media artist from Newtown, Pennsylvania, went and got married to a man her parents didn’t approve of. This man’s name was Vincent Adder and—according to Mr. and Mrs. Kirkwood—he was from somewhere near here; that is, roundabouts the miles and miles of Northeastern Montana.

Luke never heard of anyone going by Adder around these parts. This disappointed the parents, which they made known. They’d been to several other counties so far.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Luke. “Based on the information you’ve given me, it sounds like she’s eloped, not missing.”

Michael Kirkwood ran a hand from his shaved head down to his heavy brow. “You don’t understand. This is not who our daughter is. She’s the eldest of three girls, not even her sisters knew.”

“No,” agreed his wife. “This is out of character. We’re a close family and she tells us everything. She meets this man and two months later, suddenly she’s married?”

Ainsley rifled through her purse and began to pile more documents before Luke with shaking hands. Luke noted the chipped polish on her finger tips. Based on the high quality of her sweater and the purposeful crease on her slacks, imperfect appearance was not something Ainsley Kirkwood allowed on a regular basis.

“Our Grace is responsible,” insisted Ainsley. “In the last month, she’s quit her job—her dream job, broke her lease, sold her car, and cut all contact with us.”

Just to look as though he was doing something, Luke picked up the missing persons poster one more time. Grace smiled up at him in black and white. She was a pretty girl, the kind he might buy a drink for at the bar.

“This is probably a job for a private eye,” said Jack.

The Kirkwoods’ faces fell.

“We already tried that,” said Michael. “He took our money and ran.”

Scammed.

Unsure, Luke leaned back in his seat. His eyes started toward the clock above the door before he returned them to the couple. A small twinge of guilt emerged. Luke didn’t want to come across as rude or unhelpful.

That therapist from last year told him over and over: “you can’t do everything for everyone all the time. Let it go.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” said Luke.

He walked them to their car, a shiny green Audi. It felt polite, like the right thing. “I’ll ask around for Grace and see what I can find,” Luke said. Even to him, the promise sounded hollow.

He noticed a familiar sticker on their rear window.

Gesturing awkwardly, Luke asked, “you in the Marines, Mr. Kirkwood?”

“Retired.”

Luke nodded, silent.

After a beat, Mr. Kirkwood asked. “Were you?”

“My brother… and then me later, yes.”

“Ah.”

Can’t help everybody all the time.

Luke cleared his throat. “Are you staying in the area? I can call you back with an update by tomorrow.”

---

Thank you for reading!

A Town Called Evening will return next Monday morning. I hope you enjoyed!

Kindly,

M.E. Beckley