Page 4 of Mail Order Bride

I walk over to the man, Joseph McFarland—or just “Joe.” His ID says “McFarland,” but it's an alias among many: David Flack was his real name. Not a nice guy.

Stephanie Reynolds was his ex-wife, hissecondex-wife, and he has a child somewhere, possibly in this very town. He also has a rap sheet that goes back years for fraud, abuse and more charges of abuse, possession and distribution of narcotics, trafficking in stolen goods, disorderly conduct and more. He’s currently awaiting trial on several counts of tax fraud—he’s a dentist—sexual assault, and various other charges that would make you shake your head in disbelief if you could believe it. Again, he’s a dentist.

Mrs. Reynolds has been waiting for justice for six months now; she finally got the call last week that it was a go. She isn’t doing too great—she has always been a bit unstable—but she’ll do well to get some closure on this asshole who used to beat her and got her hooked on drugs.

I know, I’ve done my homework.

Stephanie Reynolds knows every word to every song ever dedicated to an ex-wife; she’s an expert on cutting remarks and silent treatments. She can recall with precision what Joe did or didn’t do on each of their anniversaries. She hates the man with a passion beyond the capacity of any ordinary woman. Mrs. Reynolds hasn’t been able to find work because of Joe—he said some terrible things about her around town. She has bills stacked from here to eternity because of him, and she has no money to pay them. He hid all their assets and drained their accounts before skipping town to start over under another name. According to his ex, her parents are dead because of him; even her dog is dead because he fed it table scraps laced with rat poison. There’s not much else to be said about Joe McFarland. If even half of that is true, it’s more than enough.

What kind of monster poisons a dog?

The kind that’s, as they say, better off dead.

I empty his pockets. There’s a knife, some spare change, a can of dip, a little booklet, and his wallet, of course. It’s nothing special—standard stuff, at least to me. I lay it all out beside him, then gather it all up when I’m finished with the heavy lifting. I’ll dispose of it elsewhere.

First things first. I lift him—he's heavy—and dump him into the shallow hole, where I saw off his hands and feet, and hammer out his teeth. Later, I’ll bag them up—they’ll want them in lieu of a body.

Once that is taken care of, I continue digging until the job is complete. Tomorrow a new body will find its permanent resting place on top of his, one Edward Defoe, for whom this grave was intended.

Chapter Two

Joel

Ihappen upon the ad quite by accident, the way any good fortune happens, I suppose. TheFarmer’s Almanacwas the only interesting thing among the man’s possessions. He had it folded on the crease of the advert section. Only a monster would treat a book like that, but Mr. Flack had more interest in other people’s belongings than his own, so I guess it makes sense.

The ad was circled several times in thick black ink.PERFECT BRIDE GUARANTEED.

Once I’d completed the job, I took a beat to cool down and catch my breath. I sat in the truck, flipping through theAlmanac,until eventually, my appetite got the better of me and I decided to stop in town at the feed store. Mrs. Martin makes the best cold cuts and I needed to pick up a few provisions.

I turned over the ignition, tossed the book into the passenger seat, and didn’t give it a second thought.

Mostly, I was thinking about the bag of hands and feet and teeth and whether it was a good time to return them to their rightful owner.

In the end, my empty stomach won out, and I made a right-hand turn into Martin’s Seed and Feed.

As Old Man Martin rang up my items, I noticed there was something about the way he was looking at me suspiciously, out of the corner of his eye, and with a certain amount of pity. Almost like he knew about the body parts in the cooler in the bed of my truck. Almost like he’d just figured outwhoandwhatI really am. Although, that’s impossible.

Regardless, he had that judgmental look about him, the kind I never much cared for. Not that I’m too keen to care what anyone thinks. A town like this, well, sure enough, that ship has long sailed.

Martin smiled as he tallied my purchases, but we both knew what he was thinking. My crop hadn’t turned up squat the past two seasons. Why did I think this season was going to be any different?

The thing is, I know something Old Man Martin doesn’t, something that oughta knock that smug grin right off his face. Some people approach every problem with an open mouth. I am not one of them.

My Pa always said sometimes you gotta eat a little crow in life, and I knew this interaction with Martin was one of those times. Pa told me not to worry too much. “It all evens out in the end.” I wondered what Curtis Martin knows about that.

“Glad you came in, Miller,” he said, punching buttons on his register. “Saves me a phone call.”

I kept my head down and did my best not to look him in the eye. “Betsy has a niece coming to town two weeks from Friday. We thought you might swing by for dinner.”

This was a development I wasn’t expecting. “Two weeks from Friday?”

He nodded at the calendar on the wall and then walked over and stabbed at the date with a fat finger. “Yep, the twenty-eighth.”

“I’ll be out of town that week. Got a job up in Beaumont.”

He shook his head like he knew I was lying, which I wasn’t. I’d find a job wherever,whenever,if it meant getting out of dinner with the Martins. Let’s just say the genetics in that family leave a lot to be desired. Pa always had a lot to say about it.She'd make a train take a dirt road.

She's ten miles of bad road.

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