Fiction
by Dennis McFadden
by Dennis McFaddenI.
A week after Chester Craven died in a scuffle with Lester Fiscus, I drove out to Fiscus’ farm. Maybe we couldn’t quite pin anything on him, not yet, but I didn’t want him to think we forgot about him. I pulled in beside his pickup, got out of the cruiser, slammed the door good and loud. It had rained overnight, and the morning air still felt damp. Thick, heavy clouds rolling away, leaving behind wide swaths of blue. I stood there, breathing in the fresh country air, the sweet aroma of manure. The chickens, strutting and pecking and squawking, seemed to be running out of patience, and the cows inside the barn were lowing so loud it sounded more like bellowing. Something seemed a little off-kilter.
The front door was open. When I walked up
