by D P Lyle
“Our church is protected by the First Amendment.”
“Your church,” she spat, “is a traveling carnival and it has worn out its welcome.”
She sensed the shadow of Carl Angelo as he moved around and behind her. His thick fingers gripped her left arm tightly like carnivorous jowls. “Be careful, little lady,” he said, his voice coarse, menacing.
“Let go.” Sam attempted to yank her arm free.
“And if I don’t?”
She reached for the .357 Smith and Wesson that lay against the small of her back, but Carl clamped his other hand on her elbow and pulled her to him. His body felt like a concrete pylon and his hot thick breath played along her neck as he whispered. “Be nice, little girl, or you might get hurt.”
“Let go of me, you fucking animal.” Sam attempted to twist from his grasp, but he pinned her arms to her side with his massive hands.
“You’re not listening to me,” he hissed.
“Let her go!” Charlie’s welcome voice bellowed from behind them.
Carl released his grip. When Sam turned, she noticed Charlie had slipped the safety strap that secured his Colt .45 free. His hand hovered near the weapon.
Charlie froze Carl with a glare, then turned to Reverend Billy. “Now, pack up your troops and get out of here. There ain’t going to be any lynching today. Clear?”
Reverend Billy and Carl looked at each other, then back at Charlie. “Let’s go, Carl,” Billy said. They headed toward Billy’s bus, which sat a block away along Main Street. Blue Eyes inverted the basket she held and money fluttered to the street. She glared at Sam, turned, and followed Billy, wobbling on her platform shoes.
“Thanks,” Sam said to Charlie, rubbing her arm where Carl had gripped her.
“My pleasure,” he said with a wink. “Fact is, I was kind of hoping that Billy or Carl would try something foolish.” He patted his Colt. “Could’ve solved a lot of problems right here.”
“Looks like Nathan was right,” Sam said.
“Oh?”
“He said Billy would turn the town against us.”
“He’s trying.” Charlie tugged his hat down a notch.
Sam eyed Lanny walking away, chatting with a reporter. “And I smell Lanny up to his ass in all of this.”
“No doubt about that.” Charlie stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth and shoved it over to one corner. “It’s about time for the funerals. You ready to head over to the cemetery?”
“Let me check on Penelope and Melissa and I’ll meet you there.”
*
Surreal was the only word for it. Mercer’s Corner had never seen a day like this one before. First, the tearful goodbyes from Lupe, Maria, and the rest of the Rodriguez family as Juan and Carlos were lowered into the ground. Then, the solemn procession that shuffled the 100 yards to John and Connie Beeson’s gravesite. Four burials in one day. Definitely a first. Even stranger, everyone would return in two days to bury Roger and Miriam Hargrove and Betty McCumber.
Before going to the cemetery, Sam had met Nathan and the girls at her office. Penelope had received a clean bill of health from Cat Roberts. They decided Nathan and the girls would do some grocery shopping while Sam attended the funerals, then meet back at her office. After that, they would go to Sam’s and Nathan would make dinner.
Now, Sam stood next to Charlie, staring at the two rectangular holes in the ground. Three hundred people huddled under a canopy of umbrellas, while Father Tom spoke, saying what each of them already knew. John and Connie Beeson were good and loving people, valued friends and community leaders, and would be greatly missed.
The solemn group seemed as if of one mind. Each stood stiffly, no shuffling of their feet, no talking, eyes cast downward, always downward, as if eye contact would be too painful. The only movement, the occasional dabbing of a tear or the tugging of a tie that was suddenly too tight or the fidgeting of a child who wished to be somewhere else, doing something fun.
Sam’s eyes were directed toward the ground, also. She watched rain puddles form in the mounds of freshly turned dirt beside the graves. Some pockets broke containment and plunged over the edge into the dark rectangular pits.
That’s how she felt. As if she stood on a slippery precipice staring into an unfathomable void. As if the abyss drew her toward it. As if the gateway to Hell waited to devour her.
As Father Tom continued his prayers, her thoughts turned to Connie and to her mother, buried only steps away from where she stood. What she remembered most about her mother’s ordeal was the beginning. That moment, sitting in the doctor’s office in LA, the cancer specialist, she and her mother clutching each other’s hands, the doctor uttering the word. Positive. The word had come at her angry and hostile and direct, causing her to flinch, her mother’s hand to tremble.
Sure, she knew what a positive biopsy meant and she knew what would come next and she knew she couldn’t deny it. Yet, part of her fought the word, refused to accept it. Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe the doctor misspoke. Maybe positive meant good, even normal. But, one look into the doctor’s face and her mother’s pale profile and the war of words in her head was lost.
That image, like a single movie frame, was what remained locked in her head forever.
And Connie had been there.
After her mother’s mastectomy, when the chemotherapy had stolen the hair from her head, the muscles from her arms and legs, the life from her eyes, which sank deeper into their sockets with each passing day, and had robbed her of strength and will and dignity and hope, Connie had been there.
And at her mother’s funeral, when she stood and watched the copper casket descend into the Earth, Connie had been there.
And now, Connie was here again. Not as her steadfast support, but rather as a symbol of her loss of all support. She felt utterly alone.
A sharp mechanical creak pulled her from her thoughts. Vince Gorman and his son each turned a crank, lowering the two matching pewter caskets into the graves. The throng stood silently, the only sounds the soft squeaking of the wenches, an occasional sob or sniff, and the patta-pat of rain on the umbrellas.
Sam lay her head against Charlie’s chest and he wrapped an arm around her. “Goodbye, Connie,” she said.
Charlie stroked her hair, but said nothing. He always seemed to know when words were unnecessary.
As the crowd broke up, she saw Reverend Billy, Carl, Blue Eyes, and Belinda Connerly, Billy’s “personal secretary,” talking with two dozen people, including Paul Blankenship and Marjorie Bleekman.
“Doesn’t this guy ever quit?” she asked Charlie.
“Don’t seem so,” he said.
They approached the group.
“Sheriff. Deputy,” Billy said. “We were just talking about you.”
Several reporters stood near by, making notes.
To hell with them, Sam thought. “And what’s the verdict?” Sam said, sarcasm coating every word.
“These fine people feel that Richard Earl Garrett should be entrusted to me.”
“They do, huh?” Sam surveyed the group. No one said anything or even nodded. They stared back blankly as if embarrassed to say anything. Or were they afraid? Afraid not to trust Billy? Fearful that if they didn’t, Satan would consume them all? Afraid that if they rejected Billy, he would leave and they would be left alone without hope for salvation? Fear makes people do strange things, she thought.
“And soon, others will agree with their wisdom in this matter,” Billy said with a thick layer of smugness.
Sam scanned the group, then looked Billy directly in the eye. “Or everyone might come to their senses and realize how full of it you are.”
Billy cast a fatherly smile in her direction. “Deputy Cody, just because you have turned your back on the Lord, don’t expect these good people to follow.”
Sam clenched her jaw, trapping the words that fought for release. When she spoke, her voice was calm, controlled, as if Billy had said nothing. “Why don’t we break up this littl
e revival meeting and everyone go home. Today is to mourn the loss of friends, not contemplate breaking the law.”
Chapter 35
Using tongs, Nathan lifted long strands of fettuccine noodles and piled them on four plates. He then ladled a generous portion of tomato-basil sauce on each. Sam poured four glasses of Merlot.
“I guess with all the crap you two have been through, you’re old enough for a little wine,” Sam said, topping off the fourth glass.
Penelope took a sip, then raised her glass. “This is the mildest drug I’ve done in years.”
Sam shook her head, then caught Nathan’s eye. “Glad we’re not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
Nathan laughed.
“I think we passed delinquency years ago,” Penelope said.
It’s true, Sam thought. These two children--when did she start thinking of them as children and not drug ravaged Satanist groupies? This afternoon when Nathan brought the scared girls to her office? Just now, as they gathered around her table? She didn’t know, but somewhere along the line, her vision of them had changed. Regardless, these two children had lived a life she couldn’t even imagine. Living out of vans or on the dangerous streets of LA, depending on handouts to eat, praying to sickos like Richard Earl Garrett.
“Mmm, this smells good,” Melissa said as she ferried the plates to the table where Sam and Penelope sat.
After the funerals, Sam had returned to her office and collected Nathan, Penelope, and Melissa. The girls gathered their belongings from their van and Penelope explained to the group that they would be staying at Sam’s at least for the night. Sam then drove them to her home. Nathan followed.
While Nathan cooked, the girls showered and washed their hair and Sam spruced up her extra bedroom for them.
Now, they dug into the pasta and the colorful salad Sam had thrown together.
“This is wonderful,” Melissa said, her tongue chasing a dab of runaway sauce at the corner of her mouth. “I haven’t had home cooking in two years.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Nathan said. He raised his wine glass. “A toast. To better tomorrows than yesterdays,” he said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
“I hope they’re better than last night,” Penelope said.
“They will be,” Sam said.
They ate, drank wine, and soon were sharing stories as if they were longtime friends. Nathan regaled them with tales of his travels and the magazine stories he had written. Some funny, some poignant, some downright weird. Sam was amazed how differently the girls looked and acted. A hot shower and a healthy dose of reality had cracked their rebellious veneer.
“Any devil worship or possession stories?” Penelope asked.
“Lots. But, most...don’t be mad at me...turned out to be hoaxes.”
“Like what?” Melissa said.
“I met a man in Ohio, maybe ten years ago, who said that Satan had taken possession of him and forced him to cough up stones from Hell. He coughed up a handful in front of me to prove his point. They were moth balls.”
“Gross,” Melissa said.
“I don’t know how he did it. Have you ever tasted moth balls?” Nathan asked.
“No,” the girls said in unison.
“Don’t. He hacked up about two dozen. Where he had them hidden, I have no idea. Neat trick, but not exactly Satan’s doing. I don’t think he uses moth balls does he?”
“No,” Penelope said. “Mostly hell fire and brimstone.”
They all laughed.
“Sadly, I saw an eight year old girl in North Carolina whose father said was possessed. He had tied her to her bed to control what he called ‘wild fits.’ He said red welts from Satan’s claws would pop out on her skin. That was his story, anyway. The father was schizophrenic and had been beating and sexually abusing the girl for years.”
They sat silently for several minutes, letting the story sink in. Then, Penelope said, “He was the one possessed.”
“Maybe,” Nathan agreed.
“Ever seen a true possession?” Sam asked.
“Only one.”
“Really,” Melissa said, her eyes wide. “Tell us.”
“In Oregon. Five years ago. An eleven-year-old boy was thought to be possessed because he would fall into trances and speak in nonsense gibberish. He also liked to start fires. His father and a local priest of some backwoods church called The Church of the One True Christ performed an exorcism. I was invited to attend.”
“You’re kidding,” Sam said.
“It was wild,” Nathan continued. “They strapped the boy to an unhinged wooden door, which lay across two saw horses in a barn. They chanted, danced around, and splattered some version of holy water everywhere. The boy hissed and growled and spoke in multiple voices, none of which were the voice of an eleven year old.”
“What kind of voices?” Sam asked.
“One was an old woman, one a gravely male voice, slurred and halting as if drunk. Another sounded like a child. Maybe three or four years old.”
“I’m getting goose-flesh,” Melissa said and scooted her chair next to Penelope’s. They hugged and giggled.
Sam felt a warm rush. This is the way life should be, she thought. People sitting around the dinner table, sharing stories, sharing themselves. Her heart ached for the two girls. And for herself. She missed her parents, her childhood. She looked at Nathan and smiled.
“Anyway,” Nathan continued, “straw began whirling around in the barn. The two horses in the back began to act up, whinnying and kicking their stalls. A wooden rake flew over our heads and shattered against the wall.”
“No way!” The girls’ eyes widened to full moons.
“Come on, Nathan,” Sam said. “You’re making this up.”
“That’s exactly what happened. I can’t explain it, but that’s what I saw.”
“Then what happened?” Penelope asked.
“Red welts appeared over the boy’s face and chest. They appeared, faded, and reappeared several times.”
“What did they say?” Sam asked. “Help me?”
Nathan laughed. “No words. Just random marks like what a belt or whip might produce. They lasted less than a minute each time.”
“What finally happened?” Sam said.
“The boy quit hissing and growling and talking nonsense. They cut him loose and went in the house and had dinner.”
“Wow.” Melissa shook her head. “That’s the best story ever.”
“Have you girls seen anything like that?” Nathan asked.
“Not even close,” Penelope said.
“What about your dream?” Sam said. “That was pretty bizarre.” So was her own, she thought.
Penelope set down her glass. “It was beyond bizarre. I don’t know what it was, but I don’t ever want it again. It was like I was possessed or something.”
Sam caught Penelope’s gaze. “Do you believe in possession?”
“After last night I do.”
“Not before?” Sam couldn’t hide her surprise. “I thought Satanists believed in that sort of thing?”
Penelope hesitated for a second as if considering the question. “I suppose most do. Before, I’m not sure I bought the real possession thing, but I always believed everyone had demons that they struggled with. Some people lose that battle.”
“So, you believe everyone has a good side and an evil side?” Sam asked.
“Mostly evil from what I’ve seen,” Penelope said.
“I prefer to believe the opposite,” Sam said.
“I wish I could.” Penelope looked down and fiddled with her napkin.
“Did last night change how you feel about this?” Sam asked.
“Yes. I saw my own demons and it scared me to death.”
“But, I thought that’s what you wanted. To communicate with Satan,” Sam said.
“Communicating and possessing are two different things. Last night was not communication. I had no control. None. Do you understand? I wo
uld have done anything. I had no choice.”
“You couldn’t overcome it? Escape the dream?” Nathan asked as he refilled his and Sam’s wine glasses. He held the bottle up, but both the girls shook their heads no.
“I tried. I knew that whatever had me was dark and powerful and that where I was going would turn into Hell. But, I couldn’t get away. Thanks to Melissa, I finally did. If she hadn’t been there, I might have...” Her voice trailed off.
“But, I was there, baby,” Melissa said. “I’ll always be there.”
“I know.” The girls embraced. Penelope sniffed back tears and looked at Sam. “Do you know who did kill that woman?”
“Not yet. But, we will.”
“God help whoever it was,” Penelope said.
“God?” Sam asked.
“Seems appropriate suddenly,” Penelope murmured.
“Why do you think the killer needs God’s help?” Nathan asked.
“Because whoever did this was second choice,” Penelope said. “I was first.”
Sam studied the girl. “Do you believe you were sent there to kill Betty McCumber?”
“Don’t you?" Penelope asked. "I had a knife. I was outside her house. Why else would I have been there?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said.
“What do you think caused your dream?” Nathan asked.
“Maybe too many drugs. Maybe I’m going crazy.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Sam said.
“No. It’s weird. I don’t know how or why, but I know Richard Garrett was behind it.”
Was Garrett responsible for her own dream? Sam thought. Or was it just a crazy nightmare? “Because you sensed his presence?” Sam asked.
Penelope studied her black fingernail polish for a moment, then looked up at Sam. “That, plus...I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
Sam looked at the two girls. Penelope with her long dark hair and warm smile and Melissa with her blonde model-like beauty. They should be going to school, making normal friends, not hanging out in the desert, waiting for some sociopath to show them the way to salvation.
“What are you girls going to do now?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Penelope said. She looked at Melissa and smiled weakly. “Melissa knows I’ve had my doubts about this Satan thing lately. So has she.” Their eyes met, each offering a smile to the other. “Maybe we’ll go back to LA.”