You Can't Hide Theresa Sneed (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

roof had collapsed into the main structure, and the cellar door had sunk into the stairs beneath it with just shards left unburned.

Scratching his nose, he stared at the cellar door. He’d covered it with two feet of dirt, and guessed the burning door couldn’t take the weight. He caught sight of something sticking out of the grass just outside the cellar door. Bending down, he picked it up—a small, blue fairy.

He knew it had to have been the kid’s. He’d carried her down into the cellar through that door and supposed it might have fallen out of her pocket. His eyes narrowed, as he studied the door, and then he stuffed the toy into his pocket. One last look at the charred remains, and he left for the house in town.

Back at the house, he unlocked the front door and went inside. He’d kept to himself for a long time, right in this very house—up until a few months ago, when an old man came along saying the house was his. He’d shoved the legal papers in his face. Big. Mistake.

He remembered the old man’s shock, when he’d yanked him down the steps to the cellar, proving the house was his, by revealing the shrine to Miss Heard. The man had little reaction to the array of newspaper clippings splattered on the wall. Tough guy. He would’ve killed him right then, but recognized the old man might be useful.

And he had been useful, until he’d seen the kid. Went soft on him. Couldn’t rely on him anymore. Shame. The newspapers said the old man was the murderer and got caught in his own web. He chuckled. Marvin Snyder’s death would take the Feds off his back, and with Merrick Snyder on death row, he let out another chuckle, no one would even know he existed.

He looked around. The place would soon be up for grabs, and it held far too many secrets for anyone to see. He stepped in front of the cellar door and kicked at it. Good, still secure. Bending over, he removed the bottom panel, reached inside, and jimmied the steel rod wedged against the door and the top step. Standing up, he pushed the door open. The rod clanked, as it slid down the steps, followed by his heavy footsteps.

Spanning the cellar, he wondered how long it would take someone to find his shrine. Ha! Even if they did, they’d think it was Marvin’s. He stared at the pictures of Heard and the young kid tacked to the wall, and almost left the shrine intact. But then, he removed each one, and put them with the new clippings of their deaths, in a bag slung over his shoulder.

Back upstairs, he didn’t bother to secure the cellar door, but went straight to the front door, and slammed it behind him. Down the street, he pulled into the gas station. The young kid that was always there, met him at his car window.

The kid went straight to the gas pump. “Fill ‘er up?” After receiving confirmation, he stuck the gas pump into the fuel tank and then went about cleaning the windows. He made light talk. “Too bad about that fire outside of town that killed those people.”

The man grunted and tried to ignore him.

“My dad says that Snyder guy did it.”

The man stared straight ahead and then glanced down at his watch.

“I dunno though, my uncle, he works at Rawlings Funeral Home up Sevierville way, and he says something really weird is going on.”

That caught his attention, and he looked up at the boy. “What?”

“Seems a couple bodies came up missing in the morgue that evening, too. Weird, huh?”

The man’s hand slipped down into his pocket, and he fingered the blue fairy. Rage swelled within him, and he squeezed it so hard, he felt the head snap off. His tires spun, as he pulled out of the gas station. On the outskirts of town, he pulled over. “No!” He whammed the steering wheel. Pull yourself together man.

Later, by the light of the moon, he pried the side door of the funeral home open, his gun in hand. Strands of moonlight seeped through the blinds casting eerie shadows on the walls and floor. His eyes adjusted. He moved through the rooms, stopping only once to try a locked door. The door had a small window revealing a morgue. The lock was new. Like that would keep him out. He grunted. It wasn’t what he wanted anyway.

Moving quietly from room to room, he came to an office with the door left ajar. Inside, he shuffled through papers on the desk and opened the file cabinet. He couldn’t find a shred of evidence that any bodies had ever come up missing, but then again, if the Feds were involved, there would be no evidence.

Wait, what’s this? A few pictures were tucked in the pocket of the file. He shuffled through the pictures of the charred bodies of three adults and one child and then spread them out on the desk. Appeased, he was about to leave, when footsteps sounded down the hall. He stepped into the next room and peered through its partially opened door.

It was a woman. She took one look at the pictures and gasped. With a shaky hand, she rummaged through her pocket and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper. She picked up the phone.

“You said to call, if anything was suspicious. Well, the pictures you took are laying out on the desk. You didn’t leave them there, did you?” She put the receiver to her other ear. “Yes, yes, I’ll wait for you. Call the cops? No? Okay.”

She hung the phone up and stared at the pictures. “I knew this would get him in trouble. Someone knows about the switch.”

Switch? The blood boiled in his veins. He maneuvered his way through the back room and out the side door, unseen by the woman. Walking swiftly to his car, he got