In the shadowed heart of Uncanny Valley, a wildland whispered about in hushed tones and shrouded in folklore, the disappearance of young Samson White has unsettled the tight-knit community of Appletree. When FBI Agent Lucinda Ferryman arrives in the...
The dense maple-leaf foliage of the buttonwood-lined street kept the morning light at bay such that the Sheriff's office was still under dawn as the Whites sped into the car park and pulled their chevy celeb up between a police car and a black dodge charger with federal plates.
Amelia and Simon leaped from their car, met immediately by Deputy Patch, who ushered them toward the staff-only entrance: a distressed, orange-painted metal door set in a wall of mission brown bricks.
"She's in the Sheriff's office," Patch offered.
"The agent's a woman?" Simon asked, hurrying past.
"And that is a problem?" Amelia, in hastily donned hip-high jeans and untucked, checked cotton shirt, mouthed a 'thank you' to Patch, who let the door slam shut with a metallic bang.
Inside, the station reeked of copier ink, its walls plastered with all manner of papers, giving the appearance of an endless bulletin board—a testament to Patch's infamous decorating style.
Patch guided them through an open office adorned with solid, American chestnut desks, electric typewriters, and paperwork strewn across manila folders. The Sheriff's office door was closed, blinds drawn. Patch knocked lightly. "Ma'am?"
A soft voice from inside barely carried through: "Enter."
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Patch slowly opened the door, his large frame obscuring the visitors. Inside, a young woman in a double-lapel jacket sat at the Sheriff's desk, her black hair in a tight bun, engrossed in a file—she looked perfectly at ease in that seat.
Cautiously, the Whites entered, resembling students approaching the principal's office. The woman finally looked up; her olive skin and bright green eyes. Her voice framed by a soft upstate New York accent. "Deputy Patchouli, forgive my earlier oversight at not recognising you. I've been engrossed in the Sheriff's report here from last year's incident at Apple Tree Hollow. Reading between the lines, you played quite the heroic part." She motioned to the file, "Do mind if I take this with me?"
"The file? I could make a copy if you like?"
"Yes, it would be wise to keep a copy in your files. Thank you." She passed the file over.
Patch stepped forward awkwardly to accept the file.
"You can do that now? if you don't mind. I won't be here for long."
"Yes, Ma'am," Patch said, visibly unsettled by the agent's assertive presence. She stopped him at the door.
"Deputy? Who might they be?" She fixed a stern gaze on Amelia and Simon White.
"The White's, Ma'am."
The agent made the face, as if that is supposed to mean something to me?
"The parent's of the missing boy, Samson White."
"Ah yes, I heard about that. But, still, why are they here?"
Simon replied, desperation tinting his voice, "We hoped you were here to assist with the investigation."
The agent scrunched her face in mild annoyance and looked to the couple, "I'm sorry for your loss, but I can't help you, I'm here on other business. You can go now."
When the confused Whites didn't move. She looked at them, "Well?
"Deputy Patchouli, when are we expecting the Sheriff?"
"The Sheriff is here," announced an older man in uniform as he entered. His gold star badge gleamed on the pocket of his khaki shirt, stretched over a physique well-kept for someone of his years and authority. "Now, who are you and what are you doing at my desk?"
The agent stood, barely five feet tall, and extended a petite hand across the desk to the Sheriff. "Agent Lucinda Ferryman, FBI, Special Liaison to the Congressional Library. I'm here for information relating to a seventeenth century manuscript that was last reported to be held at this township."
The Sheriff offered his hand in return as the room exploded into chaos.
Simon: "What about our son?!"
Amelia: "The book?"
Patch: "Sheriff, she wants me to copy a whole file so she can take our original."
Sheriff Keats to Patch: "FBI, why in God darnations, sorry reverend, didn't you come get me as soon as she arrived? What file?"
Simon to Amelia: "What book?"
Ferryman remained by the desk, her expression inscrutable. As the clamor died down, she looked to Amelia, "Yes, the book. You're familiar with it"--that was not a question.
Amelia's complexion turned ashen and she straightened abruptly, as if someone had prodded a broomstick up her ass.
"The book, Mrs...'White' was it?" repeated Ferryman.
"White, yes, my name is Amelia White, and I'm sorry I don't know what you are talking about."
"Obstructing a federal investigation is a serious crime, you know."
Simon interjected, "hold on, what's this all about? We've lost our son, and we thought you were here to help Sheriff Keats here with the case. We know nothing of any old book, right, Amelia?"
"Exactly, nothing." replied Amelia, having regained her composure.
"We shall see." replied Ferryman. "Sheriff, how's the coffee here? Black, two sugars, please." She settled back into the chair, withdrawing a pack of Camel cigarettes from her jacket and lighting up.
