What Lies on the Mind Jeremy S. McQueen (bio) The fog rose off the lake like puffs of smoke blown into the atmosphere. Heavy drops beat down the humidity that tried to creep up from the soil. It didn’t have much of a fighting chance. Autumn gave up on its lie of better days to come with each dying leaf. The breeze was dank against his skin, the bones in his knuckles aching from the [End Page 10] morning dampness. His momma had been able to predict rainfall with an uncanny certainty. “Rain’s a comin’,” she’d say, never blinking as she rubbed her hands together, like she was trying to scrub off the years’ worth of calluses. “My arthritis is startin’ to act up. It’ll be here for long, you watch and see.” It wouldn’t take a half hour before the Lord would prove her right. He stood on the wraparound porch, overlooking the dock he’d built with his bare hands and the shimmering paleness that stretched for hundreds of acres through the evergreens and around the crooks and bends in the protected woodland, named after Daniel Boone. The warm cotton from his uniform pants and long shirtsleeves, coupled with the steam rising off black coffee, made quiet times on the back porch cherished gems in the rough of his days. Thunder broke through the rain and fog like an angry voice from the past, tired of letting him have his hour of peace. He didn’t bother to jump at the sound. He’d expected as much to come sooner or later, as if his momma was whispering a countdown in the back of his head. He didn’t budge from the banister when the phone rang in the cabin. This was his time to think before whatever hell waited for him outside opened its arms to show him its handiwork for the day. Besides, he knew that a call this early wouldn’t be any good, and there was no sense in wasting any time with the awkwardness of one of his deputies trying to search for the right words to explain what had happened. He figured they could break the news quicker to a machine. The answering service clicked on, and his wife’s voice started to recite the message she’d recorded years ago. “Hello, you’ve gotten caught in the Webb’s answering machine. We’re sorry to say that we’re not available right now. Please leave your name and number, and we’ll try to free you as soon as we can.” [End Page 11] He wasn’t a damn bit sorry for not being available, but his ears perked up anyhow to listen to whoever was aimed at pestering him at this morning hour. “Uh, hey Sheriff Webb—this is your deputy—Jamie. We’ve got a car accident over on Highway 25—close to your place, I reckon. The car’s wrecked up pretty bad. Head toward town and you’ll find it. Anyway, I’m headed over there now. I guess I’ll see you at the scene, boss.” The Sheriff threw back the last gulp from his mug while it was still close to hot. He held the coffee in his mouth for a few seconds while he stared out at the mist and the clouds and the darkness hanging over the speckled lake. He shook his head and turned toward the screen door. He moved through the house as if he was a stranger to its way of life, only stopping at the places where he knew there was something of his to take. He grabbed his keys from the wooden table in the hallway, and fetched his raincoat and Clover County Sheriff’s Department cap from the coat rack beside the front door. Once he had these items, he turned to look at the lonely cabin behind him—a place that missed all the livelier parts of a life that no longer existed. Sheriff Webb climbed into his Ford Crown Vic and looked over at his little Ranger pickup. There was a twinge of sadness that leapt up inside his throat...