The otherwise unremarkable town of Freemont, Vermont, had a few peculiar attributes, one of which was visible on any map if you followed the dotted line that traced the town: it was shaped like a tombstone. Not the ornate headstones you see everywhere but the simple, ancient ones with weathered and worn names and dates like those in western movies. Most everyone in and around this sleepy New England town thought it was an appropriate metaphor for such an inert, listless place. People were born, lived, and died—but rarely thrived—there.

Its shape was of course about topography, not whimsy, the vertical boundaries marked by two rivers that split from the source Allegory River just north in Waverly to form the East and West Allegory Rivers. Drought, beaver dams, trash dumping, and toxic runoff from the long since decrepit Crawford County Cooperage and the Crawford County Paper Mill before that had slowed the once robust waterways to tepid streams. They offered decent fishing and boating when the winter and spring precipitation afforded, but most of the summer you could roll your pants up to your knees and cross just about anywhere.

Another Freemont anomaly was on display in black and white across two signs on the badly listing pole planted at the town line on Route 33, which separated Freemont from Plainville, its southern neighbor. The larger sign read, “Town of Freemont, VT, Incorporated 1835.” Beneath it was a smaller one: Population 1,835. Though the current census likely revealed a lower figure—there were more folks dying than being born of late and nobody seemed to move there, only away—the rusty, buckshot-ridden sign had remained intact since 1972. There wasn’t much in the way of tradition in Freemont, so on Town Meeting Day, held on the first Tuesday of September every year, the issue was put to vote and the decision always unanimous. Freemont’s population and birthday would remain the same.

The most noteworthy Freemont attribute was something known by many but discussed by few. It turned out that Freemont, VT had not recorded a single murder in its nearly 200-year history. It had its share of questionable deaths, to be sure, but not a single resident was ever convicted of a killing in the town. Rumor, innuendo, and suspicion cloaked more than a few locals throughout Freemont’s documented history—any spin through the microfiche in the tiny Lydia Shields Library or conversation with a threadbare elder would corroborate that—but the town was officially murder free.
Most folks there operated under an unspoken tenet that what was known need not be discussed. Perhaps out of superstition or fear of tempting fate, the lack of homicide was rarely mentioned. But the population of Freemont was about to be reduced by two, and there would be more to be discussed on Town Meeting Day than whether or not to repaint the sign.

***

Nobody was more aware of the rate of mortality in Freemont—or of rumor, innuendo, and suspicion—than Carol Cornelius Dodge, CC to everyone. A sinewy 52-year-old who wore a much older man’s face, he was the groundskeeper and gravedigger at the town cemetery. He had lost his entire family in a car accident in 2014—wife, daughter, and son. Though a heavy drinker, he was sober at the time. That didn’t matter to the community, and he was judged, convicted, and sentenced to hell on earth in the court of public opinion.

He had a volatile life from the start, abused as a child by his father, a man himself reviled by most of tiny Freemont and beyond, wherever his mean-hearted life took him. Rumor was that Harley Dodge had not wanted a family at all, but once learning of his wife’s pregnancy, hoped for a girl so that the Dodge name might eventually fade and, with it, any connection to his ugly existence. Harley did have a tender spot for his mother Carol, and that was the name awaiting his daughter. When his son was delivered, Harley bestowed upon him the names of his mother and maternal grandfather, another mean-as-a-snake man for whom Harley’s devotion was borne of fear, not love.

Though not exactly a “boy named Sue” moniker, the name Carol was odd enough to be a source of incessant taunting and teasing in CC’s early years, which fueled the angry fire already roiling in him from life under Harley’s roof. People saw CC as a damaged and irredeemable byproduct of his father, a largely unearned brand but one impossible to shed.

He wanted to move away from Freemont, far away, but he had a steady job with the Department of Public Works and his wife had family, friends, and a good job as well, so they stayed. After the accident for which he was charged only with reckless driving, his world went as dark as the ever-present dirt under his fingernails. He never once offered up the true account of what happened to anyone except his friend and local funeral director Will Bridges and Sheriff Alan Pace, assuming it would be futile. It was made public by the sheriff that he was not intoxicated at the time of the accident, but it made no difference to the jaded folks of Crawford County within CC’s orbit.

***

Funny thing about secrets in small, rural New England. They could either skip across town like a thin stone on a calm pond or remain entombed in perpetuity. Ask Sallie Peacock about that. She’s the venerable clerk at the town hall, that dusty, musty repository for all things Freemont...and of the latter ilk when it came to secrets.

A beloved fourth generation resident, she issued and catalogued certificates of birth and death, licenses and permits for marriage, fishing, hunting, driving, open fires, and anything else she and the lone selectman, Don Drycoat, deemed worthy of official town oversight...and a fee or fine. Sallie managed what might just have been Freemont’s largest industry: town administration. If you were neglectful in upping an expired license or permit, or securing one in the first place, you’d better plead guilt, not ignorance. Sallie made all requirements perfectly clear to everyone and was fair but fierce in maintaining an efficient civic machine.

Wise and sometimes prescient, Sallie also harbored suspicion—call it a gut feeling or old-fashioned Yankee intuition—that Freemont was keeping a deadly secret, and that accidents aren’t always what they seem.

***

The accident that was most surely an accident, and which brought about CC’s freefall into despair, was sadly the result of his daughter Ellie’s love of animals. Ellie loved all animals and was traumatized whenever CC or his wife Julie ran over a squirrel or turtle or possum in their old Vista Cruiser. In her four-year-old innocence, she did not differentiate between a rabid fox or harmless chipmunk. They were all cute, all special, and all needed to be saved.

CC hit a deer once, causing enough impact to wake Ellie. She cried out and asked what he had hit. “Just a tree branch, sweetheart.” She looked back to see for herself but it was too dark, so she asked if they could drive back in the morning to make sure it was OK. Later that night, with Ellie tucked tightly into bed, CC drove back down old Crawford Road, found the injured deer laboring just off the road, and humanely ended its misery.

He brought the deer back to the DPW and laid it in the back of an orange dump truck. He then texted to inform his coworker and friend John Lydon, whose job, among other things, was to gather roadkill. If possible, he would process it and distribute a few unexpected meals to the neediest of the locals.

When CC returned with Ellie in the morning, she cheered and hugged him tightly, seeing no evidence of deer trauma. From that day forward, CC drove slower and kept an even keener eye open for anything that might scurry across the road to avoid squashing one of Ellie’s beloved critters, and in rural Freemont, this was no small task. Whenever the family ventured out and arrived at their destination without incident, they would cheer like vacationing passengers whose plane had landed safely on a tiny Caribbean runway. And when she saw a furry friend narrowly escape the wheels of the car, Ellie would high five her daddy.

As fate would have it, this loving exercise in animal preservation would turn tragic on an idyllic July afternoon in 2007 on Route 33, just over the town line. CC cut the wheel to avoid a box turtle, one of Ellie’s most coveted critters. He was only going fifty-five in a fifty zone, but when he jerked the wheel, his front left tire exploded and he lost control. The wagon spun twice before catching the soft shoulder separating his car from a steep ditch, then rolled down the hill and landed on its roof, crushing everything but the area on the front driver’s side. His wife Julie, Ellie, and son Joshy all died instantly.

The investigators couldn’t make sense of the small section of steel frame just above CC that remained intact. Once the bodies were removed and a bleeding and bruised CC was extricated, one of the responders carelessly told CC how lucky he was, that it was a miracle he wasn’t killed. A miracle, thought CC, would have spared his family and taken him. Amidst the shock and disbelief at the scene, a brief, comforting notion entered CC’s mind...he had avoided the turtle. Ellie would have been very happy about that.

High five.

***

Just three months after the accident that took CC’s family, he was dealt another blow after arriving for work.

“CC, can I have a minute with you?” asked Bobby Rossmore, DPW supervisor and CC’s boss.

“Sure, Bobby, let me take a quick leak first.”

“OK, I’ll be in my office.” The normally cocksure Bobby was fidgety and wiped his palms on his Carhartt pants while waiting for CC.

A few minutes later, CC tapped on Bobby’s office door and pushed it open. Bobby stood behind his desk and asked CC to close the door behind him. This was the first time CC had been in his boss’ office behind closed doors since he was hired nine years prior. He didn’t like the vibe Bobby was emitting.

“Let me cut to the chase, CC. I’ve had reports—several, from different people—that you have been drinking while driving town vehicles,” Bobby offered with faint conviction. “I ignored the first couple but they have been more frequent and there’s too much liability here for me...”

CC cut him off.

“Whoa, Bobby, that’s bullshit!”

“Look, I know...well, shit, I couldn’t possibly know. I mean, I can’t imagine what things have been like for you since the accident and I know it’s still really raw...”

“Bobby, spare me, please. I’m telling you, I’ve kept it clean on the job. Maybe once or twice I popped a couple of beers on the way home from work, but nothing more. And I’ve only taken the truck home a few times when my Ford was in the shop and you knew about it.” CC was seething.

“CC, I’m sorry. It’s a liability issue and I can’t risk the exposure. The truck was seen in the parking lot of Cooper’s the other night, and a deputy said he passed by the bar several times on patrol and said it was there at least three hours.”

“What night? I haven’t been to the Coop since last Saturday, and I drove my pickup that night.” CC knew he was being railroaded though suspected Bobby wasn’t acting of his own volition.

“This is coming down from the top, CC, I’m sorry.”

“It’s bullshit and you know it, Bobby! Tell me who’s been spewing this crap,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. “You owe me that.”

“Multiple sources, let’s leave it at that. Reliable sources, CC.” Bobby looked CC in the eye only briefly before his eyes darted down to the ground. “You’ll get a decent severance, the most I could get you—eight weeks—plus unused vacation, so another two weeks. And we’ll cover your insurance for six months.”

He reached out his hand to CC, who did not reciprocate. He spun around and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him nearly hard enough to shatter the frosted glass window pane. CC knew he was being screwed but didn’t know the source until he called his friend and coworker John Fells. John told him that Bud Buxton had been in the building the day before while CC was out cleaning storm drains across town. He hadn’t heard the conversation but noted that Bud was very animated and that Bobby had seemed uneasy afterwards. The office manager Jill confided to John that Bud had also called several times over the last week or so, and that on almost every occasion, Bobby immediately left the office after to “run errands” or “go to the bank,” things like that.

Was Bud responsible for him getting fired? Sure, they never got along. Their fathers had never gotten along, and there had always been tension for reasons unknown to CC.

Despite that, Bud had employed CC’s wife Julie as office manager for his dealership and part-time claims adjuster for his insurance business, so he and CC maintained a cool but copasetic relationship. Bud paid Julie extremely well, especially since she only earned her GED a year after she was hired at age 24.

Bud and CC had little to do with one another—virtually nothing since Julie died—and wore their mutual dislike quietly. Bud had given the town a sweetheart lease deal on the trucks, presumably because Freemont was under a budget crunch. CC was more dubious, thinking it was for self-serving reasons. If the roads around town were full of frost heaves and potholes, people would be less inclined to want to buy nice, new cars from Bud. It would also give him more influence to wield at his discretion when it came to maintaining the streets and storm drains near his house. If Bud had facilitated CC’s firing, he couldn’t imagine what he had done to deserve it, but he sure as shit wanted to find out.

First his family, and now his livelihood. Dark times for Carol Cornelius Dodge.

***

Bridges Mortuary had provided interment and funeral services for the dearly departed of Freetown for over 120 years. Its proprietor, Will Bridges, was fifth generation director and would be the last. He and his late wife Claire had no children due to his sterility.

Depression and anger over that led Claire to spiral out of control, incessantly blaming and berating Will about robbing her of a family. She ambled about in abject dysfunction for years, gorked on Prozac and gin, until suffering a fatal fall down the stairs at age 35.

Will and Harley Dodge had been drinking in Will’s kitchen that night when Claire sat down to join them, uninvited. As was so often the case, the more she drank, the more vituperative she became. Will could not convince her to go up to bed so Harley excused himself and left, only to receive a call 30 minutes later from Will saying Claire had taken a bad fall and asking him to come back. He returned to Will’s immediately, expecting to see ambulance and police activity, but there was none. Will calmly greeted him and escorted him through the kitchen.  At the bottom of the staircase Harley saw a bloody sheet covering most of Claire—one arm and the opposite leg protruding from beneath the sheet, splayed out at extreme angles.

“Will, what the hell happened? Did you call for an ambulance? Is she...?” Harley’s eyes did not move from Claire’s crumpled remains.

“I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know when a call for an ambulance is a wasted call,” said Will in a very matter-of-fact manner.

Having recorded the time and presumed cause of Claire’s death, it would be up to his longtime friend and sheriff Alan Pace to take whatever next steps he deemed appropriate. Will and Harley drank and talked for nearly an hour before Will called Alan, who arrived and took Will and Harley’s accounts of the evening. Satisfied, he officially declared Claire’s demise a tragic accident and decided not call the county medical examiner, even though accidents normally required such involvement. Big-city protocol doesn’t always apply in small towns, and the sheriff held Will in such high regard he was comfortable with the circumstances and his decision.

The funeral was held three days later, friends and family wept for Claire and mourned for Will, and that was that.

***

Will’s brother Gerald had been his partner in the business for nearly 25 years until Will bought him out in 1995. The buyout occurred after Gerald suffered a series of breakdowns, nervous and otherwise, likely brought about by excessive drinking and an acute aversion to viscera. He tolerated the business only because of the income which, for Freemont, put the Bridges in the upper strata, second perhaps only to the largest landowner and businessman in Freetown, Bartholemew “Bud” Buxton. Bud was the de facto mayor of Freetown, with his hand in nearly every worthwhile commercial coffer. There was an enormous billboard for his car dealership displaying his hearty grin and corny slogan: “If you want deals, Bud’s got your wheels!”

The Buxton political and financial influence had permeated Freetown and the surrounding towns in the county for generations. He was admired and respected, providing jobs and philanthropic offerings for the modest folks of Freetown for nearly fifty years. CC Dodge knew things about Bud, however, that most folks either didn’t or quietly accepted for fear of reproach, his influence a dark underbelly capable of manipulation, extortion, and abuse of power. Harley Dodge and Will Bridges knew it as well, though never bowed to the Buxton influence, however disadvantageous it was at times.

Will and Harley had been close friends, an alliance few folks in Freemont understood. Harley was a hard, mean man and lived a hard, mean life. While he possessed an uncanny mechanical aptitude—he could repair or rebuild most anything you could think of, from a television to a car and everything in between—he had a tough time keeping steady work because of his legendary temper and propensity to drink. Will was a respected resident who ran an honest and successful business, though he, too, enjoyed his drink, and that was the thread that most folks believed must have connected the two. Still, most people thought them strange bedfellows.

After Harley died, Will made it known to CC—though he never explained why—that he owed an enormous debt of gratitude to his father and would make good on it by taking care of CC and his family whenever and however possible. It was Will that secured the part time cemetery work for CC after he was unceremoniously fired from the DPW, in part so that CC could be near his family. He offered to upgrade the modest headstones and caskets CC had purchased for his family, though CC refused. With all his foibles, he was a humble man and did not want Will to feel obligated to him for anything. CC didn’t want his resting place to be next to his family for fear of desecration.

If Will owed Harley Dodge a debt of gratitude, fine, but it should have been buried with him, thought CC. What was buried with Harley, however, was one of those entombed small-town secrets. “Your father was a good man, CC. A tough man, but a good, honorable man. He was just misunderstood, that’s all.” CC wondered if Will thought the same way about him.

***

One of the few people that had compassion for CC was Will, who struggled with the death of CC’s family for practical reasons, to be sure, as he had to perform the autopsies and interment services on his friends, including two small children. But someone else seemed to take the accident even harder, particularly the death of Julie.

A few folks around town, mostly barflies, had noticed how hard Bud Buxton reacted to her death. He was seen in more than one local watering hole blubbering into his scotch at times, observers noting a palpable combination of grief and anger. Bud appeared disconsolate, approaching an uncomfortable extreme. But Julie had worked for Bud for over ten years, so it was assumed they had simply forged a strong friendship despite CC’s dislike of all things Buxton.

CC was not aware of Bud’s acute grief but Will Bridges was, though he didn’t want to jump to any wild conclusions. The notion of an affair between Julie and Bud seemed too improbable to fathom. He did not want to dump any additional pain on CC, especially if it wasn’t true,

***

CC met Will one Tuesday evening at Cooper’s for a few beers and they took their usual position at the far end of bar where a wooden support beam that ran floor to ceiling created a somewhat private section with two just stools. Most folks felt cut off from the rest of the patrons there, but it suited CC just fine.

Wally Darling, the forever bartender at the Coop, slid two Budweiser longnecks and two filled-to-the-brim shot glasses of Bushmills across the bar to Will and CC. The men chatted a bit then looked up when they noticed Lily Perth sit down on a stool just on the other side of the beam. Lily, like Julie Dodge, had worked for Bud for many years, starting right after high school. Pretty but mousey, Lily rarely patronized Cooper’s or any other bar in Freemont, for that matter. CC and Will noticed that she appeared to have been crying, her eyes puffy and red. They thought it odd that not only had she come to the bar alone—Cooper’s was a bit rough around the edges and there were brighter, friendlier establishments in town—but she had walked by 20 or so empty stools to sit near them. When she slurred her Jack and ginger order slightly, they knew it was not her first of the night.

The men said hello, nodded, and continued their conversation. For almost an hour and a half, Lily spoke only to Wally and just for her next drink order. If you wanted to drink to excess with only the slightest risk of being shut off, Cooper’s was the place to go.

CC and Will had their fill and were peeling off bills to pay the tab when Lily asked CC if he’d stay for a moment. She wanted to talk to him. Will winked at him, patted him on the back, and left.

Lily grabbed her drink and plopped down awkwardly next to CC. Before he could start a conversation, Lily blurted out “Fuck Bud Buxton!” The bar was mostly empty so nobody but CC heard her, but when she barked it out again, even louder, a few heads turned, including Wally’s.

“What’s wrong, Lily?” CC offered. “You OK?”

"I’m so sorry, CC,” Lily whispered, crying again.

“What do you mean? Sorry for what?”

“About everything. Bud’s an asshole. He fired me today just like he fired you.” She was clearly inebriated but CC saw conviction in her eyes as she spoke.

“Lily, Bud didn’t...”

“He fucked everybody. He fucked me, he fucked you, he fucked Julie, he...”

“What are you talking about? I figured he had a hand in me getting shit-canned, I don’t care about that anymore, that was over two years ago. What do you mean about Julie?” CC was firm but calm with her.

“You must have known.” Then she saw CC’s expression and realized she was wrong. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She looked away but CC grabbed her arms tightly and gave her a quick turn.

“Julie? And Bud?” CC was slack jawed. “She never would have...I mean, Bud? How is that possible?”
 
"He was seeing me before he hired Julie.” Lily gestured in air quotes. “First I was angry as hell, but then I felt bad for Julie. I knew he was holding something over her, threatening her job or your job or something like that. I didn’t have proof but I knew...I could see it in her eyes. He’s gotten meaner since Julie died, drinking a lot and just being nasty and unreasonable. I really needed the job so I stayed, until now. He has tried over and over to start up again with me and I keep saying no...then the asshole finally fired me today.” Lily seemed to sober up as she divulged.

CC was apoplectic but trying hard to keep it together. He paid his and Lily’s tab and walked her to her car, thanked her and said goodnight. Then he called Will, who reluctantly offered up what he knew about Bud and his behavior after Julie and the kids died and his own suspicions, which corroborated what Lily had said.

“Julie loved you, CC. I think she disliked Bud as much as you did. Look, neither of us knows for sure. Promise me that you’ll sleep on it. That you’ll go home right now and sleep on it.”

“I promise, Will. I promise.” CC went home and drank himself to sleep.

He slept in the next morning, went for a long drive, then went to visit Will. At last, he was ready to unburden Will of the inscrutable debt that loomed over his friend for so many years. They talked for a bit and parted with a handshake and a rare, possibly a first ever, hug. CC left the funeral parlor with a slight smile on his face and a bounce in his step, both absent since the accident. He went to the cemetery to visit Julie and the kids and kissed her headstone. He knew Will was right, that Julie loved him and would never hurt him if she felt she had a choice.

He stayed and did some mowing, trimming, and pruning—a typical work day. CC had a calm resolve about him, even whistled while he worked. He stayed past his usual quitting time, called Will to see if he needed him for anything since he performed light duties at the funeral home in addition to the cemetery work, then went home.

He ate dinner, enjoyed some scotch and a few beers, and fell asleep early in his La-Z-Boy, alarm set to 4:00 AM. He hadn’t looked forward to getting up early since his last fishing trip with the guys from the DPW. CC Dodge had a busy morning ahead, indeed. Places to be, things to do.

Things to do...

***

“Good morning, Sallie,” Tom Yeats offered as he anxiously approached the counter at the town hall. Tom was the retired proprietor of Yeats Goods & Services, the town hardware store which was a fixture in Freetown for nearly 70 years, now run by his grandson.

“Hi Tom, good to see you and your checkbook here so early on such a hot morning,” Sallie said with wry affection. She assumed—hoped, anyway—that Tom was here to pay his two-week overdue trailer registration.

“Sorry, Sallie, I wasn’t planning on coming here just now, so I don’t have it with me. I have to ask you about something. I went by to visit my Emma this morning, every Tuesday as you know, and noticed muddy tire tracks on the lawn down near the corner.”

The corner was the northwest portion of the cemetery where it tilted downhill towards the thick, gangly woods that separated it from the decrepit parking lot of the old drive-in theatre, abandoned since 1985. It was where the poorest of Freetown residents were generally laid to rest...a sunless, mossy area, the least maintained part of the property. 

“I figured it was the damn kids again hooting it up last night, so I walked down the hill. Right near the edge of the property, nearly in the thicket, was a fresh dug grave.”
    
Word of births and deaths spread fast in Freetown, folks usually learning of either in the usual gathering spots such as his hardware store, Marianne’s Diner, the post office, town hall, or Little League ball field, but Tom had been to the diner for breakfast earlier and had heard nothing.

“That’s curious, Tom. Will hasn’t filed a death certificate. Very odd.” Sallie would know of any such event as any official recording of all such things came across her desk. “Was there a headstone there?” she asked with an uneasy tone, that of one considering a removal rather than burial.

“Nope, first thing I thought of. It was a perfectly dug grave, nothing you’d expect from a prankster or grave robber,” Tom replied.

“OK, I’ll call Will right now and...“

“Wait Sallie, there’s more,” Tom said anxiously. “There was another set of muddy tracks running towards the pond so I followed them. Led me to the spot where the Buxton family has their plots.” Bud Buxton had purchased the biggest and most luxurious plot in the old Freemont Cemetery, on the far western edge of the lot overlooking quiet Sawyer Pond.

“OK,” Sallie said, leaning in towards Tom.

“Right in front of Bud’s headstone was another grave, freshly dug.”

“Tom, on sweet Emma’s soul, are you telling me the truth? Have you been…”

“Sallie, I swear. I had breakfast with Ed and Pappy this morning then went straight to see Emma. Haven’t taken a drink since Sunday.” Tom enjoyed the bottle and was known to spin or at least exaggerate a good yarn from time to time, but Sallie sensed his sincerity as well as a growing unease, which she shared.

“OK, let me call Will and the sheriff, just in case,” Sallie said. She was always cool as a cucumber under stress or pressure, but she sensed something was off as she dialed Will at the funeral home. No answer. She dialed his home and cell phone, same result. She left messages on all three machines, then called Sheriff Pace.

“Hello, Alan, it’s Sallie. Could you hurry over to the town hall as soon as possible?

“No, no, I’m fine but Tom Yeats is here and we need you to look into something. Super, thanks, we’ll be here.” Sallie hung up with a tense look on her face.

They stood perplexed but silent and waited for the sheriff, trying to make sense of Tom’s discovery at the cemetery. Suddenly, Sallie seemed to have an epiphany and reached for her Rolodex, flipped through it quickly, and picked up the phone and dialed. Ten or fifteen seconds of silence went by, her anxiety was palpable.

“Hello, CC, this is Sallie down at Town Hall. Could you please call me back as soon as you get this message? I have a question for you, thanks. 222-2100...thanks again.”

Who better to ask about two freshly dug graves than the man whose official job was to do just that? Sallie had a foreboding sense that this might not be the result of official business at all.

***

The needle on CC’s speedometer approached 60 while he was still a mile and a half from the town line—plenty of time to pin it before his exit. He had his customary 16-ounce can of Pabst in his right hand, which spilled as he pushed the Hurst shifter over and up to fifth gear. Nothing but pavement and time ahead, though very little of each. He hadn’t gone this fast in his old F-150 since Ellie was born. Hopefully she would forgive him if he clipped a critter. Daddy had a need for speed. Speed meant certainty and CC wanted absolute certainty. The misery that was Freetown vanished in his rearview mirror and salvation waited at the town line.

After winding though the outskirts of town, Route 33 opened to several miles of straight road, and as CC’s pickup went airborne, the speedometer read 100 mph. He left the road exactly where the Vista Cruiser had on that same day in the fateful summer of 2014, though there were no skid marks this time, no miraculous contortion of steel to save the driver, no regret, no guilt, no pain. His head was severed cleanly and found in the bed of his truck, with eyes open wide and mouth locked in a bloody grin.  Will Bridges had a very busy day ahead and the folks of Freetown would have plenty to talk about.

***

Before Sheriff Pace could get to the town hall to see Sallie, he got a call that there had been an accident out on Route 33, so he lit up his flashers and siren and raced through town towards the town line. An ambulance and fire truck from nearby Rumford followed within minutes and soon the gruesome tangle of steel and glass would reveal the bloody gore that had been CC Dodge.

It was obvious to all on the scene that no brakes were employed and that he had died instantly—vehicular suicide most likely. No sooner had the EMTs made that declaration official than another call came in to the sheriff, this one informing him that he had another scene of carnage to attend to in the parking lot behind Buxton’s Auto Mart. He left his deputies at the scene and raced off to Buxton’s, knowing only that Bud appeared to be unresponsive in his Cadillac Escalade.

He had another ambulance dispatched and they arrived at the same moment to find Bud Buxton slumped over his steering wheel. He pulled open the door and immediately saw evidence of head trauma splattered on the dash, windshield, and front passenger seat. The right side of Bud’s head was gone. He, too, had died instantly in his vehicle, and the sheriff had an investigation ahead of him that would reveal one of two things—suicide or Freemont’s first official murder.

Either way, in a span of less than twenty minutes, two of the town’s most well-known residents were dead, and a new and grisly chapter in Freetown’s dull history had been written.

***

Given the manner of his death, Bud Buxton’s casket would be closed for his service. His wake and funeral would be the grandest, most attended events in Freemont since his father Beau passed in 1982.

CC would have neither wake nor funeral, just a blessing from the pastor and a burial. Just as Tom Yeats had reported to Sallie Peacock that morning, the gravesites were freshly dug, CC’s final handiwork at the cemetery. One less thing for Will to manage—he had plenty on his plate, including reattaching CC’s head to his torso. Anyone else tasked with his interment likely would have just tossed it into the casket like an overripe melon.

The two men were laid to rest on the same day since there would be little, if any, conflict of attendance. Bud was interred with elegant pomp and majesty, with scores of weeping Freemont residents looking on and paying respects. CC was buried unceremoniously, attended only by Pastor Higgins, Will Bridges, Sheriff Buxton, Sallie Peacock, John Fells, and Wally Darling, who poured some Bushmills whisky on the fresh dirt.
     
***

Friends and family would come in numbers over the years to visit the ornate Buxton plot overlooking tranquil Sawyer Pond and leave fresh flowers, personal trinkets, prayers, and tears. Few would visit the humble Dodge site abutting the tangle of weeds and woods in the dank northwest corner of the Freemont Cemetery. His visitors were mostly restless, reckless teenagers who came to drink and urinate on the memory of CC Dodge, dousing his grave with cheap beer and occasional vomit. Even some Bud Buxton devotees would come to curse and stomp as well, finding some measure of solace in the desecration.

If it’s possible to kill a man twice, CC Dodge pulled it off. Before shuffling off the mortal coil, he experienced little joy or serenity in life beyond his family, and none after losing them. But a curious old favor owed to his father might just have given CC peace and satisfaction on the other side of the ground.

As the rains carried salty tears into the earth around the Buxton headstone, they would wash over the remains of CC Dodge, while stale beer and warm piss would greet Bud Buxton for eternity.