“Report?” Reverend Powell asked. “You guys have access to some secret database or something?”
Frank Black finished his breakfast. He took a hearty drink of orange juice. “Mike developed a complex database that has all the available information on Children of the Night cult members and their affiliates, including photographs, physical descriptions, aliases, that kind of thing.”
“Plus, Frank has a way to access certain computer systems and files on known cult members,” Mike said. “It shouldn’t take long to run a check on Tom Hoffman.”
“Well, you won’t find anything,” Reverend Powell said.
“All right,” Mike said, standing up. “Let’s get a move on!”
FRANK BLACK STUCK out like a sore thumb as the four men entered the Family Cupboard Family Restaurant and Buffet on Newport Road. Mike Peterson, Hank Powell, and Vince Walters looked like the kind of men that would frequent the place—farmers, real-estate agents perhaps, or maybe salesmen. But Frank Black, with his black Levi jeans, his Anthrax T-shirt, his black leather jacket and gloves, snakeskin cowboy boots, his dark sunglasses and his long black hair, looked like a biker from hell.
At Mike’s insistence, all four men were armed. Reverend Powell had given Vince a Kahr K9 compact 9mm handgun and an extra seven round magazine. Vince had started to tuck the gun into his waistband the way he’d seen Frank do it, then had second thoughts. Suppose the gun accidentally went off and blew his balls off? Instead, he put the gun in his right front hip pocket and the extra magazine in his left pocket. He transferred his wallet to his back hip pocket.
He knew Frank was carrying his handgun in his waistband, and he probably had a second firearm somewhere in his jacket. Mike was carrying some kind of semi-automatic handgun in his waistband, and he’d watched as Reverend Powell slipped a gun similar to the one he’d given him in a shoulder holster then drawn a vest over it, concealing it.
If Tom Hoffman saw that they were packing heat he didn’t indicate that he cared. He was seated in a back booth and he nodded at them as the four men approached him. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
Introductions were made and Frank drew up an extra chair. A waitress approached and Tom Hoffman asked for a pot of coffee. Once coffee was served and the small talk was out of the way, Tom got right down to business. He looked at Vince. “Reverend Powell tells me you ran into a little bit of trouble out in California when you got home last week.”
Vince nodded. He told the cop a simplified version of the attempt on his life. “That’s why I called Mike,” he said. “I thought he’d be able to help, and he did. He hired Frank as my bodyguard until this thing blows over and that’s why we’re out here, to see if any progress has been made on my mother’s murder.”
“Plus, the Irvine P.D. suggested to Vince that he might want to get out of town as soon as possible while they continue their investigation on that end,” Mike reiterated.
Tom Hoffman listened, rubbing his chin as he nodded. “Do you mind if I call Irvine P.D. to verify your story?”
“Go right ahead,” Mike said.
“I’m asking Vince,” Tom Hoffman said, not breaking his gaze from Vince.
“No,” Vince said, feeling under the pressure of scrutiny from Tom Hoffman. “I don’t mind.”
Tom Hoffman turned to Mike and Frank Black. “And what do you hope to gain by coming out here, Mr. Peterson?”
“Some more information on Maggie Walter’s death,” Mike answered. “And for Vince and Reverend Powell to go through the rest of Maggie’s belongings to try to uncover some part of her background that might give us some answers to what’s happening.”
“And what exactly is happening, Mr. Peterson?” Tom Hoffman looked both wary and on the defensive.
“Somebody is trying to kill Vince,” Mike said. He took a sip of coffee and met the law enforcement officer’s gaze. His features were set in grim determination. “Maybe the same person or persons who killed his mother. I’d like to find out why.”
“The person who killed Maggie was a deranged drug addict,” Tom Hoffman said, practically spitting the words out. “Probably broke into her house to find money for drugs and she surprised him. It’s an open and shut case. Even the state police think so.”
“Who’s investigating her death?” Mike asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Tom,” Reverend Powell said gently. “They’re only trying to help.”
Tom Hoffman turned to his friend. “And I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, Reverend! I don’t know this man from Adam. And I’m not going to give him an ounce of information until I call California and verify Vince’s story.”
“Why would you think I would lie to you about somebody trying to kill me?” Vince asked.
“You tell me,” Tom Hoffman said. He leaned forward, jabbing an index finger at Vince. “You think the wacko who tried to kill you and your little girlfriend are the same people that killed your mother? What basis do you have for that? For one, your mother was cut the hell up! Some deranged weirdo tortured her, then cut her up and painted satanic symbols on the wall in her blood! That’s a hell of a lot different than some guy taking a shot at you in a crowded parking lot. And believe me, the State Police, even the FBI, are going to agree with me.”
“That may be true,” Mike said calmly. “But we would like to investigate all of our options. All we’re asking for is a little bit of cooperation so we can at least rule that out.”
“What makes you think I can help you?” Tom asked, still looking defiant.
“You’re close to the investigation,” Mike said. “And we may be able to help.”
“If you’re withholding information, I’d like to know,” Tom said, gripping his coffee cup tightly. “Withholding information on a federal crime is a criminal offense.”
“We’re not withholding information,” Mike said. “We’re just as baffled by all of this as you are. We’re just—”
“Then why did you say you might be able to help?” Tom sneered.
“Tom,” Reverend Powell said, his voice soothing. “Please. For my sake, if you can help us in any way, please…all we’re asking is for a little cooperation.”
Tom glowered at them. “If it weren’t for Reverend Powell I’d haul all three of you to the station,” he said. “I’d turn you all over to the state police. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Mike said, his voice calm. “But you wouldn’t get anywhere. We don’t know anything about Maggie’s murder. That’s why we came to you.”
“We need your help, Tom,” Vince said, hoping a word or two from him would make a difference.
Tom shot Vince a glare that pinned him to his seat. It looked like he was just about to say something when Mike interrupted him. “I’d like to ask you a question about a crime involving a pair of skinned dogs that were found a few months ago. Is that okay?”
Tom whirled back to Mike, a look of surprise on his face at the sudden change of subject. “Why? That doesn’t have anything to do with Maggie’s murder.” Vince caught the look on Tom’s face and could tell that the mention of the skinned dogs had registered something: a look of stark fear.
“Humor us,” Mike said. “And if it’s what we think it might be, I’ll tell you why it might relate to Maggie’s murder.”
Tom’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion. He licked his lips nervously, glanced behind them and around the restaurant as if to see if they could be overheard. He hunkered down over the table and the others leaned forward. “Okay, I’m just going to spit it out. You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I know what I’ve seen, and I trust the people I’ve heard this from. I also trust that Reverend Powell will believe what I have to say, too.”
Reverend Powell nodded and encouraged Tom Hoffman to continue.
“Okay, here it is then,” Tom Hoffman said. He took a sip of coffee. “Those dogs that were found skinned to death in that field this past April? Well, I was the first officer on the scene when t
he call came through. Now, I’ve seen dead animals before. Live around here, you get used to seeing road kill and such. But these dogs…they looked like they were definitely killed by humans. Someone had not only skinned them, but their blood was completely drained from their bodies.”
“How do you know that?” Frank asked.
“There wasn’t a drop of blood at the scene,” Tom Hoffman answered, looking at Frank briefly before turning his attention to the rest of them. “One of the veterinarians said that he couldn’t determine where the dogs were killed, but that didn’t matter. We didn’t find any blood at the scene. The vet, he thinks whoever killed them drained it with a syringe or something.”
Mike and Frank nodded. Hank searched their features. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.
“It might,” Mike said, nodding at Tom. “Go on.”
“The lady that lives across the road from the field the dogs were found in claims she didn’t hear anything the night before,” Tom said quietly. “Neither did her neighbors. I had a list of possible suspects, kids in the area that I thought might have been responsible. Misfit gothic kids, Marilyn Manson fans. I paid them a visit, questioned them. They claimed they didn’t know anything about it. I asked some of them if they knew anybody that could have done something like this. They wouldn’t talk. One of these kids, a high school dropout named Clint Jackson, has a history of domestic battery against his mother. He’s also the suspect in some vandalism at the local high school where he painted occult symbols on some lockers. I told him I had him dead to rights on the vandalism charge, told him he could be facing some serious charges if he didn’t tell me what he knew about the mutilated dogs. At first he wouldn’t talk. Then he got kinda scared and he and one of his other friends kept giving each other these side-glances. His friend, a kid named David Lindsey, told Clint, ‘We can tell him. Those guys aren’t here anymore. Besides, they ain’t gonna know.’ I asked who ‘those guys’ were, and Clint finally told me what happened. He said that a few weeks before, a couple older kids he hadn’t met before started hanging around Nino’s on Main Street, where these kids like to gather. Clint and his friends started talking to them, and were invited to their car to smoke some grass. Well, they had lots of dope with them, and Clint and David thought this was just great. They spent the next few weeks with these guys. Said they were staying in a motel on Route 772, that they were sorta passing through town. They’d go to their room a few times and hang out, get high, watch TV, shoot the shit, that kind of thing.”
“Who were these guys?” Mike asked.
“I’m gettin’ to that,” Tom Hoffman said. He took a sip of coffee. “Well, Clint said these guys gained their confidence by telling them they were into the same thing they were into: heavy metal music, drugs, sex, all that shit. Even told them they knew a lot about the occult. Naturally, Clint and David ate it up. Clint and his buddies started bitching to them about Lititz, about the church, telling them they felt that they were outsiders and their new friends exploited that. They asked Clint if he and his friends wanted to get back at the people that were persecuting them. Clint said he did. Then the guys started asking them questions about certain people in the community, nothing too personal, just stuff like, who has a lot of land, where they could get certain things—”
“Did Clint give you names?” Mike asked.
Tom Hoffman looked irritated at being asked this question a second time. “Yes, he did. Said the names they gave him were Mark Lancaster and Glenn Wilson. That they were in their early twenties and looked pretty normal, like your average jock-type guy. The Glenn Wilson fella had some tribal tattoos on his arms and a diamond studded earring, and the other guy, Mark Lancaster, he looked pretty normal. No discerning marks.”
Mike and Frank nodded, absorbed in the story. Vince and Hank Powell leaned closer.
“A few nights later Mark Lancaster asked Clint where they could get pure-bred German Shepherds,” Tom continued. “Clint told him there was a breeder in Manheim and gave him directions. Apparently Glenn checked it out. Then a few nights later they held some sort of satanic ritual in their motel room.”
Hank Powell gasped. Vince held his breath in anticipation. Frank and Mike looked like they’d heard the story before. Mike nodded, encouraging Tom Hoffman to continue.
“That’s how Clint described it, a satanic ritual,” Tom Hoffman said, licking his lips. He said these guys used some kind of white powder to make a pentagram on the carpet, then they burnt some candles.”
“What color?” Frank asked.
Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. The kid didn’t say.”
“Does it matter?” Reverend Hoffman asked Frank.
“It might.” Frank nodded for Tom to continue.
“Clint said that he and his friends had an informal coven, but that they’d only held one ritual.” He took a sip of coffee, his voice low. “He said…well, basically he sounded embarrassed when he told me about it. Said that they kinda fumbled through the ritual and that they were stoned out of their minds on weed. He and David and the other kids they hung out with weren’t that serious about it, and he also admitted that they didn’t know what they were doing. Clint wound up improvising to make it sound authentic. But when they held this ritual with these guys, it was different. It was like…they were in the presence of somebody who…who actually knew what they were doing. And that they…were actually harnessing…conjuring a power.”
Reverend Powell looked grave. Vince felt his heart pounding. Tom Hoffman continued. “So they held this ritual, which basically consisted of this Mark Lancaster character calling a benediction to Satan, then instructing Clint and David to invoke their loyalty to the devil. Then they were asked if they wanted to go further. When Clint asked what they would have to do, Mark said they would have to sign a piece of paper in blood, giving up their souls. Well, David and Clint were scared, but Clint is a sharp kid. He may be a screwed up kid, but he knows right from wrong even if he has gotten into trouble before. And he thinks fast. So what he did was he shook his head and told these guys that he wanted to think about it before he made such a big decision of faith, and he asked if they could respect that. And Mark and Glenn said, yeah, they could respect that. And they concluded the ritual.”
“What happened then?” Mike asked.
“They hung out, did some partying,” Tom Hoffman drained his coffee cup. “Clint told me that even though he felt better about declining the offer, he still felt that he had taken a part in something that was both big and dangerous. He said that David later told him he felt the same way. They actually left the motel early that night but before they left, Mark pulled them aside, said that they would be coming to town later this year and he’d give them a call. Well, Clint and David hadn’t given these guys any clue as to where they lived. The only places they’d gone to together were the motel, Nino’s, and driving around various parts of Lititz, mostly by the town square or the library. Clint started rattling off a fake phone number when Mark kinda grinned at him and said, ‘you can’t fool me, Clint. Your number’s 626-7367.’ And Clint, he said he couldn’t help it, but he felt himself go faint. Said he probably looked as pale as a ghost. He said Dave was literally quivering beside him with fear.
“They kinda stood there for a minute, facing each other. Then Clint somehow got his composure and said, ‘yeah, that’s right. What was I thinking?’ And he and David started backing out of the motel. Mark just kinda stood there grinning at them and told them that when they came back he would know where to find them. And then he rattled off their addresses and Clint and David just kinda nodded along and said, ‘yeah, come look us up,’ and then they got out of there.”
“So in a very subtle way, these two characters were threatening Clint and David,” Reverend Powell mused.
“Yes,” Tom Hoffman said. He looked at Mike, some of the hardness in his features creeping back. “Clint said he and David left the room and wouldn’t speak about the incident again. Clint tried to bring it up to David
when word got out that those skinned dogs were found, but David refused to speak of it. He said he didn’t want to hear about it again. Said he was waiting for school to end so he could get out of Lititz for good.”
“Did he?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, in a way,” Tom Hoffman said. “Two weeks ago he got picked up in Lancaster on a B&E. His family hasn’t been able to raise bail, so he’s sitting in Lancaster County Jail.”
“And Clint?” Mike asked.
“He’s gone,” Tom Hoffman said. His lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless grimace. “For a while there after I questioned him, I thought he’d skipped town, but I stopped by his house and checked on him a few days after I talked to him. He hadn’t left his house. And he refused to talk to me. I had to talk to his father through the screen door. His father actually sounded pleased at Clint’s behavior and saw no cause for alarm. He seemed to think his son has turned over a new leaf.” His lips turned upward in a slight smile. “Says all the boy does is sit in his room and read the Bible.”
“The Lord is working on him,” Reverend Powell said. “May He protect Clint in His loving grace.”
“He’s afraid to run into these characters again,” Frank said.
Tom Hoffman nodded. “That’s what I think.”
“Did the behavior get worse with the news of Maggie Walter’s death?” Mike asked.
“I asked Mr. Jackson that a few days after Maggie’s body was found,” Tom Hoffman said. “Don’t ask me why, but I had a hunch. Ben Jackson said that when Clint heard about Maggie’s death he went straight to his room and closed the door. He said he heard his son in there talking to himself, like he was crying or pleading with somebody. He said he tried knocking on Clint’s door to see what the trouble was but Clint wouldn’t come out. Said he was too scared. When Ben asked what he was scared of, Clint mumbled something. Ben thought what Clint mumbled was, ‘all my fault.’ ”
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