Beasts of the Field: The Canvas

Episode III

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← In Episode II: The Search, Judith joined a search party to look for clues in the last place that Samantha Scott’s phone pinged.

While Beasts of the Field can be read as a standalone story, you may appreciate the characters and their interactions more if you are familiar with Judith’s first adventure, Down in the Holler, in which she investigates a cold case in rural Kentucky. Click here to read Down in the Holler.

“My best estimate, based on his size and appearance, is that he’s an Irish wolfhound mixed with a retriever, pit bull, and possibly some other breeds.” Judith walked alongside Tim up the steep driveway toward the dilapidated off-white house, half-concealed by trees. “Which, according to my research, means that his fur doesn’t need to be shaved. He did need a very thorough bath, though. I still can’t get the wet dog smell out of my furniture, and I had to snake my tub’s drain to get out all the hair and debris.”

“Have you named him yet?”

“Of course not. He’s not a pet. I just didn’t want him to be euthanized.”

“You spent the whole drive talking about him.”

“I’m sharing what’s going on in my life. I thought that was a normal part of conversation. Having a huge dog in my house has upended my entire schedule. I’m only keeping him until I can find him a home. Why are you smiling like that?”

“If he doesn’t have a name, what do you call him?”

“I don’t call him anything. I live alone; if I talk, I’m addressing him because there is no one else to whom I could possibly be speaking,” Judith said. “If you want me to do a reading, we should pause here, before we get within sight of the house.”

Tim stopped and turned toward her. Judith closed her eyes, tried to ignore the uncomfortable flush creeping up her face, then opened her eyes again. “Would you turn around, please? You’re distracting me.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“You’re staring at me. It’s distracting.”

Smirking, Tim rotated so that his back was to her. “This acceptable?”

“We’ll see.” Judith closed her eyes again, focused her attention on the shoddy house just up the hill, and waited, reaching out.

Noise. Blaring, grating, ever-present – gun shots, explosions, grinding truck engines – a too-loud television, piercing the quiet.

A crash, bits of drywall flung through the air, an angry fist-sized hole.

Thick, rank mist and a tilted, crystallized haze. Smoke staining the walls in oily, brown, clinging drips.

Judith opened her eyes. “Not a happy home. The television is always on. Possible domestic violence. Definitely illegal drugs on the premises.”

“I’ll have to tuck that away for another day.”

Judith scribbled an abbreviated note of her impressions, then jogged to catch up to Tim as he made his way toward the house.

As they stepped onto the narrow, creaking front porch, Tim rang the doorbell. The muffled chatter of a television quieted, and the door opened a few inches, revealing a pale blue eye.

“How’s your day goin’?” Tim’s accent swung into a g-dropping drawl, and he flashed a relaxed smile at the girl inside. “Sheriff Tim Morrissey. Just got a couple questions for you, then I’ll let you get back to what you were doin’. Mind if we come in?”

The door opened wider, and the pale blue eye took its place in the context of pale hair and pale skin and a wisp-thin body.

Willow. The girl who’d found Samantha.

What was she doing here? Her name hadn’t been on Tim’s list of homeowners up on this tree-choked mountain.

Images, not visions but unwelcome memories, jostled into Judith’s thoughts – putrefied red skin, stretched with bloat. A process not meant to be seen, unnatural in its intimacy. Willow had screamed and sobbed and been led away by other volunteers, guided back to the cars that lined the field.

Willow’s eyes weren’t red now. They darted from Tim to Judith to the floor to the roof to the trees. Without a word, she stepped back, and they moved to step inside.

A sallow young man with deep-set eyes and a shock of black hair appeared behind Willow’s shoulder, blocking the doorway. “We ain’t gotta let you into the house if we ain’t got a mind to. You got questions, we’ll answer ’em on the porch.”

With a good-natured shrug, Tim took a step back. “We’re just askin’ everybody around here some basic questions.” He pulled out the photo of Samantha, when she was alive, when her gray eyes still had a spark. “Y’all know about Samantha Scott. You’re the girl who found her, aren’t you?”

Willow nodded.

“Appreciate your cooperation, talkin’ to the police Saturday. I know it was hard on you. Y’all see anything suspicious up here ’round two weeks ago? The night or early mornin’ of September 28^th? Any unfamiliar cars drivin’ around or people you didn’t recognize? Hear any unusual noises or anythin’?”

“No,” the young man snapped. “We don’t gotta talk to you if you don’t got a warrant, anyhow.”

Judith’s skin prickled at the caustic belligerence in the boy’s words, but Tim was unruffled.

“No need for that,” Tim said in his calm, smooth tone. “Here’s my card. Y’all feel free to call if you remember anything.”

Willow gingerly plucked the card from Tim’s hand just before the young man slammed the door.

“He’s distinctly unpleasant,” Judith said in a low voice as they made their way back down the leaf-strewn driveway. Trees, their skeletal branches peeking through the thinning foliage, hemmed them in from all sides.

“Noah’s not the biggest fan of law enforcement.”

“You know him?”

Tim gave a grim chuckle. “Noah Clampitt’s made himself known to me and to McFerrin PD plenty of times.”

“What for?”

“Drugs, mostly. Vandalism. Disorderly conduct. Got in lots of fights and whatnot while he was still in school.”

“What about the girlfriend?” Judith said. “Willow.”

“How’d you know her name?”

“We got to talking at the search party.”

“You got to talking with Willow Abrams?”

“Well, she got to talking with me. I mostly ignored her. I do recall her mentioning her boyfriend and his white trash friends, though. Seeing the boyfriend, I can imagine what she means.”

Tim shook his head. “Don’t know much about Willow, which, in my line of work, is a good thing.”

---

Undergrowth, thick and tangled, roots clotted with dirt. Interwoven, dependent, parasitic – plants clinging and growing and struggling together in the strangled forest gloaming.

An image, still and silent – a  lumbering boy, his body too large for his soft, young face. The air around him electric with needle-sharp words, but in front of him stood a dark-haired woman, a keen-eyed bulwark. And everything was all right.

“I’m not sure what to make of it,” Judith said, opening her eyes. “I saw plants all tangled together competing for sunlight. And a boy with a woman, I think his mother, protecting him from what seemed like bullying. Not very helpful, sorry.”

“You hit the nail on the head, at least with the mother part.” Tim started walking again up the shady, winding, overgrown driveway.

“What do you mean?”

“You remember the guy in the truck, the one you pointed out to me last week? Leon Skaggs?”

“How could I forget a name like that?”

“He lives up here,” Tim said. “With his mom. Clem Skaggs.”

“Clem Skaggs? Why do these Skaggs people hate their children?”

“Short for Clementine. She is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Sounds like I might like her,” Judith said.

Tim chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Coming around a corner, they strode into a well-kept garden with climbing tomato plants, creeping zucchini, and trailing trellises with long, bright flowers. Just beyond the garden stood a house, its wooden exterior rough and weathered, unpainted.

The clean, fresh scent of growing things enveloped Judith, bringing with it swirling memories of dirty toes and clear, chilly water and hot sunshine. An aroma followed, tangy and sweet as candy, and Judith found herself smiling.

She didn’t garden, couldn’t even keep a houseplant alive. But something about rich brown dirt and vibrant green shoots and the slow, colorful swelling of life took her home, to the best parts of home, the joy without the cracks in between.

Slowing her steps, she savored the garden as long as she could until Tim stepped onto the porch and knocked on the front door. There was no doorbell. With reluctance, Judith followed Tim onto the porch.

Tim’s knocking stopped, and quiet stretched through the garden, broken only by the crinkling rustle of leaves as a gust of wind plucked them from their branches and sent them whirling and tumbling toward the browning grass.

He knocked again, and, faintly, footsteps creaked from inside the house, growing louder as they neared the door. With the whine of old hinges, the door opened, and a thick-faced man loomed in the frame.

“Leon,” Tim said with his easy smile. “Don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Sheriff Morrissey. This is Judith Temple. She’s a consultant on the case we’re workin’ now on Samantha Scott. We’re goin’ around askin’ questions of everybody who lives up in these parts, just to see if y’all remember anything odd from a couple weeks ago, ’specially the night and early morning of September 28^th. Your mama home? Don’t wanna waste anybody’s time, and it might be easier if we talk to you both together.”

Leon’s face clung to its glower as he turned to call over his shoulder. “Mama! Sheriff.”

With the low protests of floorboards, a woman ambled up beside Leon. Like her son, she was dark-haired and thick-set, though she carried herself with the tough, self-possessed, comfortable softness of a coal country woman. Brown, dowdy clothes, fingernails lined with the rich soil of her garden, and yet the rustic hardness suited her and her quiet, secluded home. Judith shifted her feet, her trim, careful, professional garb suddenly fitting her like a strange costume, unnatural and useless as a paper mask. Heat crept into Judith’s skin, the autumn sun leaking through the close-growing trees with sudden, pressing warmth.

“Mrs. Skaggs,” Tim said. “Hope your day’s goin’ well. Don’t wanna take up too much of your time, but we got a few questions ’bout Samantha Scott. We’re talkin’ to everybody up around here.”

The heat beading on Judith’s skin surged up to her head, and the scene before her eyes, the three people dwarfing her, turned soft and wobbly.

“Why, sure.” Clem Skaggs’ voice was rough, deep, rural to its mountain marrow. “Y’all come on inside, and I’ll brew up some tea. That poor girl, I just hate to think of it.”

 Tim moved to step inside, but Judith’s feet wouldn’t follow. Her stomach clenched, and saliva pooled in her mouth. With a gasp, Judith leaned against the rough wooden house, raking cool air into her lungs, struggling to quell the nausea that rolled through her body. Sinking to the porch, she put her head between her knees.

“Hey.” Tim’s voice was beside her, but she kept her eyes screwed shut against her tilted vision. “You okay?”

“You all right, honey?” came Clem’s voice. “Let’s get y’all inside, see if some tea might help.”

Judith opened her eyes as hands pulled her to her feet, but the world was unsteady. Bracing herself on the doorframe with a shaking hand, she followed Clem Skaggs and Leon’s bulky form into the dim house. She didn’t trust her churning stomach enough to turn her head and try to see Tim, but she could feel him close, holding onto her arm.

Keeping her gaze on the floor, Judith let herself be steered down a hall and onto a threadbare couch clinging to clumps of dog hair.

The bustle of movement, the whisper of running water, the clink of metal, the click of a gas stove - mundane noises fumbled at the edges of Judith’s awareness as she leaned back against the couch, counting her breaths in and out and trying not to vomit in front of Tim.

“Motion sickness?” Tim said. “We’ve been doing a lot of stopping and starting, and these mountain roads are bumpy.”

Judith shook her head. She’d felt no ill effects in the car.

“Tea’ll be ready before ya know it,” said Clem. A chair let out a soft, muffled creak as she sat. “It’s my own blend. Got some ginger, peppermint, chamomile. Cures any stomach upset. I got custom tea blends for everythin’ you can think of. You feel sick on the way up here, honey, or did it come on quick?”

“It was sudden,” Judith said, not opening her eyes.

“Hm.” Clem spoke slowly, the voice of a woman not pressed for time. “The pollen count’s been bad this fall. Affects some people more’n others.”

“I feel a little funny, myself,” Tim said. “Headache.”

“A change in the weather can take a toll on anybody’s system. But, honey, if you’re feelin’ sick on account of…other things, I can say for sure my tea’s perfectly safe. Nothin’ in there could hurt nobody. I can even give ya some to take home if you think you’ll need some over the next few weeks.”

Judith couldn’t summon the energy to parse out the meaning behind Clem’s words and instead focused on her breathing, in and out.

The conversation faded to a murmuring drone in Judith’s ears, with Tim’s voice coming from beside her on the couch, and Clem’s drawl, rough as stone and yet strangely melodic, answering from somewhere close. Leon didn’t say a word, but Judith could sense him there, nearby, his largeness filling the room.

The high whistle of a kettle broke through the haze of Judith’s thoughts, and the next thing she knew, someone was pushing a warm mug into her hands.

Her nausea quieting to a dull unsteadiness in her abdomen, Judith opened her eyes and eased herself into a better position to take a tentative sip of the tea, strong and fragrant and surprisingly pleasant. With a jolt, she realized that Tim was sitting close beside her on the couch, closer than they’d ever sat before. She didn’t turn to look at him.

The world was no longer tilted, but weakness lingered in Judith’s limbs as she cradled the cup and tried to drag her mind into the conversation happening around her.

“– poor girl. Don’t know as I ever met her, so to speak, but I seen her around when she was little. Kinda stood out, she did, on account of her mama leadin’ her around everywhere, and her usin’ that cane when she got old enough. Sad, really, but she got around just fine. Real capable. Used to not bein’ able to see real good, I guess.”

“You didn’t see anythin’ the night or early mornin’ of the 28^th?” Tim said.

“Can’t say as I did.”

“Leon, what about you?” Tim’s voice was casual, but Judith detected a faint hint of sharp attention as he turned his gaze toward Leon, who overflowed the armchair in which he sat.

Leon shook his head. For a moment, Judith thought he would say nothing, then his deep voice growled, “Don’t know her. Never seen her.”

“You feelin’ better, honey?”

Judith looked up to find Clem’s soil-brown eyes on her.

“Better,” she said.

Clem smiled. “I told you, ain’t no stomach trouble my tea can’t help. Don’t think I caught your name, sweetie.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tim said, the smile sliding back into his voice. “Got distracted. This is Judith Temple. She’s consultin’ on the case.”

“Judith Temple.” Clem cocked her head. “I heard of you. Through the grapevine. You’re the one helped stop Granger Combs when he took Melissa Sloan.”

“That’s right,” Tim said.

Clem leaned back in her armchair. “Interestin’ that the McFerrin County Sheriff Department’s consultin’ a psychic.”

“Well,” Tim said, clearing his throat. “No stone unturned.”

---

“We can keep the windows rolled down, if that would help,” Tim said they made their way back down the Skaggs’ property toward his car. “Fresh air helps me with motion sickness.”

“It wasn’t motion sickness,” Judith said. “I have a very strong stomach.”

“You catch a stomach bug, then?”

Judith frowned, uncertainty pressing against her with a claustrophobic haze. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, something happened.”

Retracing their steps back to Tim’s car, Judith had hurried along the path through the lovely plants this time, her embarrassed thoughts swirling in an anxious cyclone, itching to put the nausea, the dizziness, the exposed vulnerability of being suddenly sick in front of strangers – in front of Tim – behind her. “Maybe it was allergies after all.”

A lopsided grin crept up Tim’s face. “You know she thought you were pregnant, right?”

Judith stopped in her tracks with a crunch of leaves on dirt. “What?”

“If you’re feelin’ sick on account of…other things…” Tim’s smile turned devious with his butchered attempt at mimicking Clem’s gravely lilt. “What did you think she meant? Nothin’ in there could hurt nobody.”

“I didn’t – I’m not –” Judith’s face flushed hot, and Tim continued strolling down the driveway with a gleeful spring in his step.

Her eyes wide and her lips in a tight, mortified line, Judith followed with robotic strides. The whisper of rustling leaves and the bright firework colors faded to gray silence as her thoughts swirled in a downward-spiralling, tumultuous whirlpool.

Tim’s phone rang as they reached his car.

He unlocked the door with a soft beep, and Judith slid into the passenger’s seat as he answered his phone. She pulled out her notebook and read through her notes of the morning’s readings, but her mind rebelled, circling back to Tim helping her up, holding her arm as she wobbled into the house, sitting beside her on the couch.

Then her thoughts surged back to Clem’s assumption, pregnancy, of all things. To the subtext that had sailed miles over her head. Again. Like always. At least this time she had the excuse of having been about to vomit all over the floor.

With a frustrated huff, Judith shoved her notebook back into her bag. Silly, embarrassing, unhelpful thoughts. Completely unrelated to the task at hand, which was to collect information about Samantha Scott’s disappearance.

Tim paced outside the car, a strange note in his voice.

Judith strained to make out his words, but at that moment he stopped talking and opened the car door. Sliding his phone into his pocket, he dropped into the driver’s seat, a crease between his eyebrows. He started the car, then sat still, hands on the wheel, the car idling amid a tumble of gusting leaves.

“Is something wrong?” Judith said after a few moments.

“Last week, before I even called you, McFerrin PD and I searched that field from end to end,” Tim said. “We brought the dogs and everything. But we didn’t find her. I thought the only thing that search party on Saturday would be good for was to let people feel like they were doing something.”

“Presumably whoever killed her brought her body to the field afterward.”

Tim’s face grew heavier. “That was the county coroner on the phone.”

“And?”

“She said the body wasn’t moved after death.”

Judith weighed her words, her options for how to respond, but each phrase seemed worse than the last. She lapsed into silence.

“So we missed her.” Tim rubbed his hands over his face. “And that’s not all.” He shifted the car into gear and started moving down the steep, bumpy driveway toward the winding mountain road. “It’s just a preliminary report, but the coroner said there’s no evidence of foul play.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

Tim shook his head. “No blunt force trauma, no suspicious bruising, no evidence of sexual assault, no poison or drugs in her system. Not even traces of alcohol. Maybe the final toxicology report will catch something, but –”

“Then how did she die? People don’t just walk into fields and drop dead.” Judith’s mind whirled into high gear, combing through Tim’s words as if they were jumbled pieces of a mismatched puzzle. “Did she have any preexisting conditions? She was mostly blind. Was that due to some kind of serious disorder, some progressive disease?”

“No.” Tim’s voice was quiet, but its muffled raggedness startled Judith from her thrumming thoughts. “The coroner doesn’t see any possible way it could have been murder. So we have nothing. No leads, no witnesses.”

At the sight of Tim’s crestfallen face, Judith’s words short-circuited. Theories, ideas, suggestions all fizzled out, and they sat in silence as the trees passed in a russet blur.

When Tim spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “We don’t have anything. We don’t even know how she died.”

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Thank you so much for taking time to read Beasts of the Field!

→ Keep reading! Episode IV: The Examiner

← Read Episode II: The Search

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