The Devil's Country [Kindle in Motion]

by Harry Hunsicker

  “Really?” I said.

  Sister Jane nodded. “It’s a fact. The ruling council did a study.”

  I looked at Hannah and smiled. She smiled back.

  Brother Ted told us the funeral started shortly and that he’d need to make a call to get approval for us to join Ian and his camera guy. He picked up an old-style rotary phone from the desk, dialed a number. Then he looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, friend. I didn’t catch your names.”

  I introduced Hannah and myself using the names of my wife’s parents, Frank and Beth Cartwright.

  He relayed the information to whoever was on the other line, listened for a moment, and then hung up.

  “We’re all set,” he said. “You and Ian can follow me in.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  Nine Months Ago

  Frank Cartwright made bail at seven that night.

  The crime scene investigators were still at my house, processing the evidence surrounding the murders of my wife and two children.

  There was a lot of evidence.

  A rear door that had been kicked in. Blood splatters. Smashed dishes, upturned table.

  Empty bullet casings, later determined to be Remington .40-caliber ammunition fired through the barrel of a Sig Sauer P229. The pistol was a DPD-issued firearm reported destroyed in a house fire months before.

  Muddy footprints in the kitchen and on the back patio. The impressions were from two different men’s shoes, a size ten and a size twelve. Both soles had heavy lugs, later analysis revealing the prints had been made by the same brand of tactical boots, a style favored by police officers.

  In the alley, investigators found a cluster of cigarette butts, Marlboros and Salems.

  DNA from the Marlboros would later be traced to a vice cop named Boulay. Another vice officer, a guy named Keating, had smoked the Salems.

  In the months after the murders of my family, internal affairs investigators would learn that the three officers—Chloe, Keating, and Boulay—had been working for an offshoot of the cartel that controlled Laredo, shuttling product in and out of Dallas, mostly cocaine. The $300,000 that had been in the Frisellas’ freezer didn’t belong to the three vice cops. The cash was the cartel’s property, which helped explain the fervor with which everyone pursued the money’s return.

  Neither internal affairs nor the homicide investigators could determine what caused the killers to snap and murder my family before Chloe’s five p.m. deadline. Not that the investigators knew about the deadline—I never told anyone about my meeting with her or the money I’d taken from the Frisellas.

  There was cocaine residue on the kitchen table, extremely pure and uncut, and the most prevalent theory, one to which I subscribed, was that the killers suffered from a drug-induced psychosis, which led them to kill instead of waiting for Chloe’s go-ahead.

  I was at the northwest substation while the crime scene techs processed the evidence and the homicide investigators filled out the paperwork.

  My lieutenant friend sat with me in his office. He offered coffee at first, which I declined. Then he pulled out a bottle of Cutty Sark and asked if I wanted a shot.

  I accepted the booze. The whiskey burned all the way down but did nothing to ease the coldness growing deep inside me. The lieutenant poured me another round. I took a sip and then tossed the rest into a potted plant when he wasn’t looking.

  Officers came and went, offering their condolences and support. My superior, a captain named Rhodes, arrived and told me that all the resources of the Texas Rangers would be behind this investigation, and whoever was responsible would be caught.

  Rhodes grabbed my shoulder, looked me in the eye. “We’re gonna catch these bastards, Arlo. They’ll get the needle. I promise you that.”

  I nodded like I believed in his outcome.

  It was dinnertime. A sergeant asked if I wanted something to eat. I declined, but the lieutenant told him to bring me a hamburger anyway.

  A chaplain came and sat with me for a while, asking if we could pray together. I said OK, and he held my hand while looking toward the ceiling and rambling on about a better life and how revenge belongs to the Almighty.

  I thanked him and went to the men’s room and sat in a stall, just to be alone.

  There, I pulled out my phone and sent several text messages. Then I made a couple of calls.

  After that, the tears came, and I was powerless to stop them. Big, heaving sobs erupted from my chest, anguish for the loss of all that was good in my life and a deep, pervasive grief over things that would never be the same.

  After a few minutes, I got myself together.

  The men’s room was still empty.

  I logged on to a car service and ordered a ride to the gas station where my pickup was located.

  The door to the men’s room opened. Captain Rhodes said, “You OK, Arlo?”

  “Fine, sir. I’ll be out in a second.”

  “Take your time, son.”

  The door shut.

  I waited a moment and then exited the bathroom.

  Outside, there was a hallway. To the left was the lieutenant’s office. To the right was an exit to the parking lot.

  I headed right.

  Three minutes later, I was in the back of a Chrysler 300.

  “Where you headed?” The driver pulled onto Harry Hines Boulevard.

  “I’m going to pick up my father-in-law,” I said, and gave him the address of where I’d left my truck. “We have an appointment later.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Hannah Byrne and I headed west on the desolate highway, our vehicle in the middle between Brother Ted, in the lead in his gray pickup, and the van with Ian and the camera guy. Sister Jane had stayed at the information center in case any other wayward souls dropped by.

  “Who are Frank and Beth?” Hannah asked.

  “No one important.”

  The sun was high overhead. Heat waves shimmered off the asphalt.

  “I’m not really pregnant,” she said.

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  The mesas we saw earlier grew closer. After a couple of miles, we came upon a crudely painted sign, whitewashed plywood with jagged red lettering: sky of zion—sinners repent!

  A few hundred yards later, the first cluster of homes appeared, the only signs of human habitation we’d seen since leaving the welcome center. Four double-wide trailers, also painted stark white, lined up in a row, side by side. A clothesline, laundry whipping in the wind, sat next to an empty cattle pen at the rear of the homes.

  “According to the map, the compound is on the south side of the road,” Hannah said. “The trailers are on the north. That means they probably own the land all around here.”

  Another mile zoomed by, and we passed a second group of trailers. Several four-wheelers were parked in front of one of the double-wides.

  “You think they get enough cash from a server farm for the Russian mob to buy this much land?” she said. “Not to mention an entire prison.”

  We crested a hill, and the old prison came into view, a squat structure sitting in a shallow basin. The surrounding land was rocky and brown, the color of old adobe, spiked with cactus and cedar bushes.

  I realized that our earlier assumptions had been correct. There weren’t forty thousand religious fanatics living in the desert. If there were four thousand, that was on the high end. There were no crops growing anywhere. The soil was thin and rocky, able to produce enough food for a family of jackrabbits, but that was about it.

  The prison was similar to others I’d visited. Four watchtowers and twenty-foot walls around an open exercise yard. The walls contained cells.

  Most prisons are gray, but the Sky of Zion fac
ility had been painted white with a huge purple cross on the tower closest to the highway. The high fencing that normally would have formed a perimeter a couple hundred yards past the walls had been torn down, replaced with double-wide trailers positioned end to end in a circle around the structure. Beyond that was barbed-wire fencing running along the highway.

  There were too many trailers to count but nowhere near enough to hold forty thousand people. Back in the day, the prison itself probably had a maximum capacity of only two thousand.

  On a hill to the west of the prison sat several houses, also painted white. They were set apart and had probably been administration buildings.

  Brother Ted’s pickup slowed the closer it got to the front gate, an arched entranceway made from granite. The top of the arch was adorned with a golden cross about six feet tall.

  A pair of DPS squad cars idled across the highway from the entry, a trooper in full uniform leaning on the hood of each vehicle.

  “What’s with the police?” Hannah said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Despite what Aloysius Throckmorton had told me about the Sky of Zion being a major economic factor in the area, one not to be trifled with, the Department of Public Safety obviously recognized the organization as a potential disruptor of the peace. Someone had thought it best to keep an eye on the group.

  Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe Silas had hired off-duty state troopers for crowd control.

  Brother Ted entered the property, turning off the highway and onto a gravel road. We followed, Ian’s van right behind us. The three vehicles drove past the prison and its ring of double-wide trailers, past the cluster of homes on a hill.

  We slowed as a man directed us to a parking area, a pasture where there weren’t too many rocks. The parking area contained a handful of cars, maybe enough for a good night at a restaurant in Midland, but not even half of what it would take to form the support staff of a megachurch.

  The man pointed me to a spot next to a dust-covered Honda with New Mexico plates. I parked where he indicated, and the van stopped on our other side.

  Ian and his camera guy exited at the same time Hannah and I did.

  Ted appeared behind my car. “We need to hurry. The service is about to start.”

  The camera guy began filming.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “There.” Ted pointed to the whitewashed penitentiary.

  “That’s your church?” I said.

  “It used to be a place of pain and suffering.” He smiled, a joyful look on his face. “Now it’s a repository for the wisdom of the Apostle.”

  The camera guy aimed his camera toward the prison.

  “And what’s up there?” Hannah pointed to the houses on the hill.

  Brother Ted quit smiling. He frowned, the first time he’d appeared to be anything but friendly. He pursed his lips several times and said, “That’s the sacred area.”

  “Sacred how?” Ian asked.

  “The Apostle,” Ted said. “He lives there.”

  We were all silent for a minute while the camera guy pointed his lens toward the hill with the houses.

  Ted looked at his watch. “We’re late.”

  “Will the Apostle be at the funeral?” I said.

  The camera guy turned toward Ted’s face, which was sweaty now.

  “The Apostle’s movements are not mine to explain.” He sounded testy. “We must hurry.”

  “After you.” I smiled at the man.

  He stared at me like he was trying to figure out something, and I realized he probably wasn’t going to buy my searching-for-hope scam for much longer. After a moment, he headed toward the old prison at a brisk walk.

  The entrance to the structure had been demolished and then rebuilt. Gone were the narrow passageways and cubbyhole offices used to process incoming prisoners or supervise visitation.

  Now, the main access point to the building had been replaced with a large, open area, an arched tunnel leading to the yard. The symbolism was clear: people could come and go as they pleased.

  At the opening, there were no guards.

  We followed Ted through the corridor and found ourselves inside the walls.

  The area was large enough to hold a thousand inmates with room to spare, places for the various gangs to stake their turf, a section for the weight lifters, a patch of asphalt that used to be a basketball court.

  All that was gone. Now, the focal point was a raised platform in the middle of the yard.

  Silas McPherson, right hand in a cast, stood on the platform in front of a lectern. Behind him were a half dozen men, all dressed the same—dark suits, white shirts, no ties. The ruling council.

  About fifty people sat on the ground in front of the platform. Men, women, and children. Lots of children. The men were hatless, wearing white shirts and jeans. The women were dressed like Molly had been, long dresses covering all their limbs.

  Brother Ted led us to a spot at the rear of the audience.

  Everyone turned and watched. The silence was overpowering.

  Hannah grasped my hand while the camera guy trained his lens on the platform.

  Silas stared at me from afar, a slight smile on his face.

  Ted indicated we were to sit down, pointing to a patch of dead grass.

  Ian and his camera guy didn’t take the hint. Ian probably didn’t want to get his khakis dirty. Hannah and I remained standing as well.

  Silas spoke in a loud, clear voice, the sound booming against the walls, no PA system needed.

  “Welcome, visitors,” he said. “You honor us with your presence.”

  Brother Ted removed his hat and bowed before the platform.

  “Today is a special occasion for the church,” Silas said.

  The crowd murmured.

  “Not only are we here to bury our brother Felix.” He paused. “But the Apostle has given me a directive.”

  The crowd grew louder. Several people shouted, “Speak to us!”

  “Today we grieve for our brother.” Silas looked right at me. “And to honor him, we shall make a sacrifice.”

  The crowd went wild, yelling, jumping up.

  The camera guy looked away from his eyepiece, stared at Ian. Hannah clenched my hand tighter. Silas shushed the people and continued.

  “Yes, my children, a sacrifice.” He paused. “A blood offering to the Apostle.”

  The crowd erupted in joy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  From somewhere behind the platform, two men in Stetsons led a calf toward the area between where Silas stood and the crowd.

  The calf was brown, a white spot on its forehead. It followed along docilely, tail swishing.

  I recognized one of the men. He’d been the shooter who’d taken out Chigger the day before, the guy with the goatee. Now he carried an ax while his partner held the lead for the calf.

  The two men stopped in front of Silas, one on either side of the calf.

  Silas motioned for the crowd to be quiet. They did so readily, settling down. He lifted his good hand and looked like he was about to begin the ceremony.

  But he never got the chance.

  Because Chester stood up.

  Organizations are the same the world over, no matter what their purpose. Any time you have three or more people in a group, somebody is not going to get his or her way.

  This is where politics comes into play, the art of deciding who gets what and when the getting will occur.

  Politics is a skill set attempted by many but mastered by few. The electorate—in this case a bunch of brainwashed religious fanatics—is a moody bitch, always asking for something, her demands mercurial. When her needs a
ren’t met, she sends people into the breach, demanding change.

  In the case of Silas McPherson’s church, I later found out the man doing the demanding was the leader of the New Mexico synod. Chester Ruibal, a third-generation lay preacher within the organization, about as powerful as you can get without being on the ruling council.

  A silence fell over the yard as everyone stared at the man with the weathered face, standing in the front row.

  Silas, head cocked, looked at him for a long moment. The gaze was a challenge, an alpha male attempting to exert control over the situation, no different from the minor dramas that had played out a hundred times a day when this patch of dirt had been part of the prison.

  Finally, Silas spoke: “What say ye, brother?”

  “Our synod has taken a vote.” Chester’s voice was loud, tone somber.

  “A vote?” Silas said. He sounded mildly amused.

  “As is our right, we ask for an accounting.” Chester crossed his arms. “A reckoning of our tithes.”

  The people around him nodded. Several men stood in solidarity.

  The rest of the crowd stared at them in rapt silence.

  “A day of mourning,” Silas said. “This is how you honor our dead brother’s memory?”

  On the other side of the crowd, another man stood up. He was older, in his sixties, and had a long gray beard. “We demand an accounting, too.” He paused. “We want to know how Brother Felix died.”

  Several women gasped.

  The old man continued. “I hear that he was in the city.” A moment passed. “Among the unclean.”

  More gasps.

  Ian looked at Brother Ted. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  “We should leave.” Ted pointed to the exit.

  “Now?” I said. “Before the sacrifice?”

  Hannah tugged on my arm. She whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”