by D P Lyle
“If it’s not too late,” Betty snapped. “Why don’t you just ship Garrett off somewhere?”
“As soon as his sentencing is complete, he’ll be sent to San Quentin.”
“I hope we’re still around to see it,” Betty said. She grabbed Marjorie’s arm and they walked away.
Goddamn Lanny Mills.
Sam watched the two women cross the street, then pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s Department. When she entered, Thelma looked up from her desk.
“Oh, Sam. Someone called for you. About ten minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“Wouldn’t say. Said he had some information and would wait for you at Red’s.”
“He?”
“Yeah. He had a sexy voice.” Thelma gave her that you-should-meet-a-nice-guy-and-settle-down look.
Sam frowned. “I’ll call the hospital and check on Walter first.” She headed toward her office.
“Don’t keep him waiting too long,” Thelma yelled after her.
Jesus, Sam thought. Thelma and Millie. It was like having two mothers.
*
After Nathan called the Sheriff’s office from his car phone and left a message for Sam, he walked toward Red’s, an oasis of sin in an otherwise boring town. “RED'S”, spelled out in buzzing red neon, hung above a wooden door in dire need of painting. When he pushed the heavy door open, loud music and laughter reached out and pulled him inside. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Red’s was large and smelled of beer and testosterone. Even though it was still short of five o’clock, the patrons, a collection of truckers, bikers, and cowboys, hugged long-neck beers and from their faces they had hugged quite a few already. Well past tipsy, they were rushing headlong toward bulletproof drunk.
The dim lighting and smoky haze added to the sinister feel of the place. Obviously, they hadn’t heard of California’s “No Smoking” law. Or more likely, didn’t care.
A single light over the bar to his right, two low-slung pool table lamps in the far left corner, and a dozen neon beer signs, which decorated the walls in no discernible pattern, provided the meager light. A three-piece band, ground out country music, while half a dozen couples did some form of the Texas Two-step on a small dance floor in front of the band.
Several cowboy-types sat at the bar, sucking down longnecks and talking with Red. Or at least who he assumed was Red--a huge black man with caramel skin and closely cropped sandy red hair who had somehow managed to stuff his bulk into a black Harley Davidson tee shirt. Three scruffy, scarred, and tattooed men, clutching cues, argued heatedly beside one of the pool tables.
“That’s a scratch, man. You lose.”
“Fuck if that’s so.”
“You owe me, asshole.”
“I’ll give it to your mother the next time I screw her.”
The argument ceased as soon as they saw Nathan. Their eyes said it all. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?
Nathan quickly weaved his way through the dozen or so tables that dotted the floor and slipped into a vacant red vinyl booth along the far wall. Suspicious eyes followed his every move. He decided getting the shit kicked out of you, or worse, could happen most any night at Red’s.
A well-nourished waitress, crammed into under-sized jeans and a red and white bowling shirt with “Lucy” embroidered on the front, sidled up to the booth.
“I’m Shirley. What can I get you?”
“Bud Lite.”
“Sissy beer, huh? Anything else?”
He thought about asking her why she was wearing Lucy’s shirt but thought better of it. “No. That’s all.”
She waddled to the bar and said something to Red who glanced past her at him and smiled, shaking his head. He popped the top off a Bud Light and handed it to her.
The Pabst Blue Ribbon sign above his head hissed and sputtered, it’s light dimming and brightening erratically. He scooted a foot or two along the red vinyl, putting a little more distance between himself and the sizzling neon, just in case.
Lucy/Shirley returned. She clanked the beer on the table and dropped a basket of popcorn next to it.
“Sure I can’t get you something to eat? Pedro makes a pretty mean burger and the ribs are to die for.”
“No. Thanks,” he said, sure that either one could kill you.
“You ain’t from around here,” she said more as a statement than a question.
“LA.”
“Thought so. Just give me a wave if you need anything.” She shuffled away.
Nathan gulped down half the beer, hoping it would calm him enough that he wouldn’t get up and run out the door, which is exactly what he wanted to do. Why hadn’t he chosen Millie’s to meet Sam?
He popped a few kernels of the corn in his mouth. Too salty. He pushed the basket away, propped his elbows on the table and occupied himself with reading the menagerie of carvings that scarred the surface. Names, phone numbers, abstract designs, and an announcement that “Rhonda got screwed on this table 8-17-89” stared up at him. He slid his elbows off the table, wondering about dear old Rhonda’s health status.
The band launched into another song that was somewhere between country, rock, and chaos. The shirtless drummer pounded out a steady rhythm; the bass player thumbed his over-amped bass, which released notes that probably registered on the seismic scale; and a stringy-haired guitar player choked licks from a road-weary sunburst Stratocaster. It wasn’t half bad, or half good, depending on your mood and state of drunkenness. The locals seemed to like it anyway. More couples joined those already on the dance floor, while others stamped their feet, tapped on tabletops, and let out the occasional whoop. Most would probably relive every painful drumbeat in the morning.
He looked up as the entry door swung open. Sam stepped inside, her lithe body silhouetted against the open doorway, back lit by Red’s neon sign, until the door eased shut, absorbing her into the darkness. She waved at Red, who nodded back. She snaked her way to the bar, greeting people along the way. She had a few words with Red, shared a laugh with one of the cowboys at the bar, then turned and scanned the crowd.
Chapter 18
During the half block walk from her office to Red’s, Sam wondered who would be waiting when she got there. Who would ask to meet her without leaving a name? Better, who would Thelma not recognize on the phone? And who would want to meet at Red’s? She rejected Mark Levy and Judge Westbrooke. They would surely have suggested their offices. Certainly not Red’s.
Could it be someone with information about the murders? Who? What information? The who of the killings was no longer a mystery and the why of Walter Limpke’s actions she doubted anyone could answer. At least let it be good news, she told herself.
Leaning against the bar, she scanned the crowd until her eyes fell on Nathan. She was both disappointed and elated, definitely surprised. He hadn’t made her mental list of probabilities, but she had to admit he had crossed her mind a time or two in the past couple of days. She slipped into the booth opposite him.
“So, you’re the voice?” she said.
“Voice?”
“Thelma. She thinks you have a sexy voice.”
He laughed. “And you?”
“You’re voice is OK. It’s your pen that’s disturbing.”
“It’s good to see you to.”
“Sorry. I’m not in the best of moods. This case is driving me crazy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Heard what?”
“That other murders have occurred. Strikingly similar to the children.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
Nathan shrugged. “Any chance Garrett didn’t do the kids?”
“He did them all right.”
“And the others?”
“Who knows.” She decided against telling him about Walter Limpke’s probable involvement in the killings. “Nothing makes much sense.”
Shirley walked up. “Hello, Sam. What brings you in here?
You going to arrest this fellow?”
“No, Shirley. This is Nathan Klimek. Reporter for ‘Straight Story’.”
Shirley’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t believe it. I read your paper every week.”
“Thanks,” Nathan smiled.
Shirley reached her hand out, and then retracted it as if she had encountered an invisible force field or something. “May I shake your hand, Mister Klimek?”
“Of course.” Nathan took her hand. “ Please. Call me Nathan.”
Not taking her eyes off him she said, “Can I get you anything, Sam?”
“I’m over here, Shirley,” Sam teased. “A Corona.”
“OK.” Shirley headed for the bar, but turned for one more glimpse at Nathan and collided with one of the tables. Beer bottles rattled and two plopped over on their sides. One was empty, the other full. Beer flowed across the table and cascaded to the floor.
The couple at the table jerked their chairs away just in time. “Jesus, Shirley,” the man said.
Shirley began wiping the table with the cloth she carried on her tray. “Keep your shirt on,” she said. “I’ll get you another.”
“You have a new admirer,” Sam laughed.
“You wouldn’t have thought so ten minutes ago.”
“Yeah. The people who hang at Red’s don’t take to strangers very well.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Shirley placed a sweating bottle of Corona, a lime protruding from its mouth, on the table. She smiled at Nathan. “If you need anything else, let me know.” She stood there for a few seconds, anticipation stamped on her face, but when Nathan said nothing, she lumbered toward the bar.
Nathan fixed his focus on Sam and smiled. She felt a warmth creep up her spine. She swiped the lime around the bottle’s lip and took a gulp.
“Sam, I’ve thought a great deal about our last conversation. At Millie’s.”
“And?”
“I know you don’t think much of what I do, but I’m not the enemy. I want to know who did these awful things as much as you do.”
“Really?” Sam couldn’t mask her sarcasm.
“Really.” He looked at her with Cocker Spaniel eyes. “If I could solve this for you, I would. We’re on the same side.”
“Maybe."
They sat for an awkward moment, two, then their eyes met. Don’t go mushy, she told herself. But, he was so Goddamn handsome. Why did he have to be? Bottom feeders shouldn’t look this way. Makes it too difficult to hate them.
Sam broke the silence. “Thelma said you had some information for me.”
Nathan exhaled loudly and forked his fingers through his hair. “You’ll probably blame me for this too.”
“Great. Let’s have it.”
“Reverend Billy.”
“Who?”
“Reverend Billy Thibideaux and his Holy Church of God. My sources tell me that he and about a hundred of his followers are on the way here.”
“From where?”
“Louisiana. Shreveport.”
“Why?” She took a big slug from her beer. “Wait a minute. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“To save Mercer’s Corner from Satan.”
“Jesus.”
“Reverend Billy is bigger than Jesus. He’s saved towns before. About six months ago, they invaded Texas to save the good people of Hobart. Two high school kids killed a classmate in a Satanic ritual. Reverend Billy came to exorcise Satan from the boys and the town.”
“What happened?”
“By the time he finished, one of the boys committed suicide because he believed Satan had really taken possession of him and he could never get pure again. The town was divided between those who believed Reverend Billy was a saint and those who believed he was a merchant of evil. Town still hasn’t recovered.”
“That’s all we need right now. When will he get here?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have my ways,” he said with a devilish grin.
“I bet you do.” She took a pull from the Corona.
“Actually, I did a story on Reverend Billy about four years ago and then covered the Hobart story. If he’s true to form, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
“What can we expect?”
“Street corner sermons, tent revivals, anything that’ll put money in his pocket. Before he’s finished, you guys, the police, will be in cahoots with the devil and Richard Earl Garrett will be your fault.”
“Why would he do that?”
“There’s profit in chaos.”
Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
Nathan continued. “In Hobart, they nearly lynched the Sheriff.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not.” He took a sip from his beer. “Give me that old time religion.”
“Amen.” She tipped her bottle toward him, then took a gulp. “Maybe the Reverend is right. Maybe Satan is here on vacation or something.”
“I think he’d prefer Las Vegas. Mercer’s Corner isn’t exactly a devil’s playground.”
“Actually, it is. Remember? The Mojave Desert just north of here? Devil’s Playground?”
“That’s right. I forgot.” Nathan’s smile receded. “But, you can bet Reverend Billy will know and he’ll use it. He’ll have half the town believing this is indeed Satan’s town.”
“Reverend Billy isn’t the only one who thinks so.”
“Oh?”
“Nita Stillwater. An old Cherokee woman who lives out Cherokee Road. She’s a soothsayer, spiritualist, something like that. She believes some beast from a cave is causing all this.”
“Maybe she’s right.”
“I should’ve known you’d believe her.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. If she believes it, it’s true. For her anyway.”
“Is that how you rationalize your stories?”
“Maybe. But, nothing is as it seems. Not ever. There’s always perceptual distortion.”
“What?”
“Perceptional distortion. Each of us sees, perceives things differently. Through our personal rose-colored glasses.”
“And you report other people’s perceptions?”
“Exactly. If Mrs. Jones in North Carolina believes she was abducted by aliens, then she was. I simply tell her story.”
“Still sounds like justification to me.”
“Maybe. But the principle holds true. When you look at the night sky, what do you see?”
“The moon. Stars.”
“What you really see is the light from the stars. Light that left them hundreds, thousands, even millions of years ago. The star itself has moved, or exploded, or burned out. So what you see as a living star may have died a million years ago. Perceptional distortion of the truth.”
“That’s not the same thing as reporting wild fantasies.”
“Sure it is. What about eyewitnesses to crimes? Do they tell the truth?”
“As they see it.”
“Exactly. They each tell what they see or think they see. But, is it the truth?”
“Not usually. Five witnesses typically tell five different stories.”
“That’s right. And each of them feels they saw what really happened and the others are wrong.”
“I see.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth and she gave in to it. She didn’t want to, but she didn’t fight it either. She wasn’t sure she wanted to enjoy being with him.
Sam had decided long ago that men were a lot of things, but easy wasn’t one of them. They always spelled trouble. Three previous lovers were enough. Two in LA, while she was with LAPD, and a third with a local man, who thankfully moved away two years ago. Old lovers and small towns were a difficult mix.
“I’d love to talk with Nita Stillwater,” he said.
“I knew you would,” she laughed. “I think I can arrange it.” She blew a strand of hair over her forehead, but it refused to stay. She tucked it behin
d her ear. “So you called to warn me about Reverend Billy?”
“Partly. And I wanted to see you again.”
She looked into his eyes. Even in the darkness they were intense, yet soft. “At least you’re honest.”
“Of course, I’m also here for a story. Murder, mayhem, and Reverend Billy sell papers.”
“I thought so,” she smiled.
“Really, Sam. I have thought about you a great deal. I don’t know why, but I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“Yeah, right. With all the surgically perfect dollies running around Hollywood?”
“I mean it.”
“Are you sure you’re not just looking for anything with two X chromosomes to rub up against?”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.” She drained her beer bottle and placed it on the table. “Nathan, I’m flattered. I really am. But right now, the last thing I need is another complication. With all this madness and training for a fight, I don’t need more problems to handle.”
“How do you know I’ll be a problem?”
“Look in the mirror. You’re trouble for any woman.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I’ve got to get going. Call me at the office tomorrow morning and I’ll see when we can go talk with Nita.”
“I’ll walk out with you.”
“Think you need a police escort to get out of here?”
“At least to get past Shirley.”
They laughed. Nathan tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and they headed out the door.
A cold northerly wind had kicked up. It slapped Sam squarely in the face as she stepped outside, causing her to dip her chin and elevate her shoulders in a futile attempt to prevent its insinuation beneath her leather jacket. Her flesh pebbled and her nipples jumped to attention.
Nathan walked with her the half block to where her Jeep sat in front of her office. She yanked open the Jeep’s door and turned to say goodbye, but he was standing right there. Close. Too close. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
Then, he kissed her. It was quick, innocent, a soft brushing of her lips with his, but it sent a shock of warmth through her. She held her breath, unsure what to do or say. He ran his thumb along her jaw, beneath her chin, and smiled. He turned, walked casually back up the street to his car, waved, got in, and drove away.