The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  Most nurses who worked the ER evening shift hit a bar or rushed home to their husbands after midnight. That’s why they looked the way they did. Not her. She wasn’t going to widen out and get lazy. Her routine consisted of aerobics on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with strength training on the alternate days. She always took Sundays off. The Anytime Fitness gym was just around the corner from her apartment off Westport Avenue. She drove past it every day going to and from work. Besides, at this time of night, she never had to wait for a machine or waste time chatting with someone who was more interested in talking than working out. Shreveport was full of chatters.

  The timer beeped and the speed decreased. She pushed her short blonde hair away from her eyes and lowered the incline. After walking five minutes, she drank a bottle of water and grabbed another before heading for the wet sauna.

  * * *

  In the parking lot, Brother Luther sat in the back seat of the old Dodge truck and thumbed through the Bible. The two brothers—Lee and Turner—were up front, as usual. The dim glare of the streetlight was enough for Luther to see. Brother John had dictated that after each girl was taken, a Bible must be left at the scene to honor God’s will. They used only new Bibles. It was Brother Luther’s job to leave them while wearing plastic gloves. At each kidnapping he’d done his job, plus a little extra. To further honor God, he’d used a highlighter to mark the word “Wormwood” once in each Bible. Luther was pleased with himself. No one else had thought of such a thing. He wasn’t as dumb as they thought. This would remain his little secret.

  “She’ll be coming out soon,” Lee mumbled. “Always between one and two after she finishes the workout.”

  “Always alone?” Turner asked.

  “She was the last two times. You ready to get in the camper, Luther?”

  Luther set the Bible on the seat. “Ready.”

  “When we see her head to the car, we’ll drive to the apartment complex. By the time she arrives, we’ll be set up,” Lee said.

  Luther didn’t mind riding in the camper with the girls. He liked it. The women at the house never wanted to be with him. The only time he got to touch a woman was on the rides when he lay beside them on the old, stinky mattress. He had ample time to explore their private parts during the trip. He became excited at the thought.

  * * *

  Katrina had no inkling what time it was when Sister Judy stuck her head in the door. It was early morning, judging from the soft light drifting through the drapes.

  “Where’s Annabelle?” Sister Judy demanded.

  Oh, no. They’d realized she was missing. There was nothing Katrina could do for her friend now but buy her as much time as possible.

  Katrina sat up and rubbed her eyes. The old comedian Flip Wilson had a saying her father loved to quote: “A lie’s as good as the truth if you can find someone to believe it.”

  Katrina stared at Sister Judy. After giving a long yawn and stretching her arms, Katrina said, “She rolled out of bed a minute ago. Said she was going to look in on her daughter. I must have drifted back to sleep. Have you checked the nursery?”

  Sister Judy frowned and her eyes pinched, but she didn’t say a word. Her footsteps down the hall provided Katrina a chance to get dressed. Once they confirmed Annabelle missing, it would hit the fan for sure. Things were about to get ugly.

  24

  Tuesday morning, Frank beat everyone into CIU. He started the coffee, switched on all the lights, and checked the fax machine. Coming in early gave him a chance to settle in and relax before the mob arrived. He loved the office, but the noise distracted him when he had something to sort out mentally. Terry came in about ten minutes later.

  “Anything?” Terry asked.

  “Nope,” Frank said.

  Frank’s cell rang and he snatched it up.

  “Got that information for you,” Chet said. “According to our records, the Social Security number you gave me is issued to Vernon John Warren. If he’s working, he’s not having Social Security taken out of his check. Hasn’t in several years. Last known location is off Houston School Road. You need the address?” Chet asked.

  “No, thanks,” Frank said, rubbing his face with one hand. Another dead end. “He doesn’t live there anymore—hasn’t in years.”

  “That’s about all we have on him. Sorry,” Chet said.

  Twenty minutes later, Rob strolled in.

  “Welcome back,” Frank said.

  Rob draped his jacket over the chair. “Hey, cracker. Must’ve been the quickest shooting investigation on record.”

  Terry stepped out of his office and motioned to Rob. A moment later, Rob disappeared inside and Terry closed the door.

  Frank finished the report on his computer and hit save just as Rob emerged.

  “Well, I’m officially on duty again.” Rob said, flopping into his chair and powering up the computer. “What have you been doing? Having any luck?”

  Frank filled Rob in on the drive out to the burned house, the interview with Grace Fellman, and the request for NCIC/TCIC to check the name Wormwood.

  “Good to hear you weren’t sitting on your hands the last few days,” Rob said.

  Frank stood. “We need to talk to Eddie again. I have some new information from Mrs. Fellman I want to run past him.”

  “Okay, before lunch or after lunch?” Rob asked.

  Frank scratched his neck, thinking about Katrina. “Before.”

  * * *

  Annabelle fell to the ground, exhausted. She could hardly catch her breath. Her legs bled and stung from briars and thistles she’d run through during the night. Her face was scratched and her hair disheveled from low-hanging branches and vines. Annabelle’s carefully crafted escape last night had been foiled by the unexpected appearance of one of the dogs. Now she was lost somewhere behind the house in the vast woods.

  A steep hill loomed ahead. Annabelle staggered toward it. A shallow, clear stream seemed to guide her to the entrance of the cave. She fell to her knees and scooped handfuls of cold water to her dry lips. From the top of the hill, a menacing growl caught her attention. She stood and backed away.

  * * *

  As soon as Rob had walked into CIU, his desire to finish a six-pack by himself had dissipated. So had his obsessive thoughts about whether he was going to lose Frank. As detectives filed in, each one wanted a blow-by-blow account of what had happened at the shooting the previous Friday night. He had given his official statement at eight o’clock that morning, so he felt safe restating what he’d just told Homicide a couple of hours earlier. Frank’s shooting angle was all wrong—didn’t want to chance hurting the clerk—so Rob took the shot.

  Rob glanced over at Frank working on his computer, apparently not paying much attention. It was hard to tell how he was handling the stress of what had happened on Friday. But Rob knew Frank would take care of things, one way or another.

  Just before eleven, Frank looked over the top of the cubicle. “Hey, let’s see if Eddie’s in the jungle before grabbing a bite. Have a new place I want to try.”

  Rob snatched up his jacket. “Suits me. Don’t want to go to Sarge’s’?”

  Frank led the way to the door. “I think maybe Sarge has seen enough of both of us for a while.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they strolled through the hole in the fence at the jungle. There weren’t a lot of people about at this time of day—it was kind of quiet and peaceful. A few folks lingered in small groups, but most were out foraging for something to eat. Rob scanned the area. No sign of Eddie. The poor bastard wasn’t in the spot they’d left him Friday night.

  Frank pointed. “There’s the mayor. Maybe he knows something.”

  Mayor Pete knelt over a man sprawled on the grass and whispered something into the guy’s ear, looking a lot like a mother tucking a sick child into bed. Pete patted the man on the back and stood. When he saw them approaching, Pete’s nostrils flared and his eyes blazed. Then he made a beeline in their direction, taking long strides.

&nb
sp; “What do you two want?” Pete asked. His hands had formed into a fist and the knuckles were white.

  “Whoa, what’s wrong?” Rob asked.

  Frank spoke up. “We’re looking for Eddie. Have a few more questions.”

  “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place.” Mayor Pete almost spit the words out.

  Rob held his palm up as if trying to stop a car from plowing over him. “Want to tell us what’s going on?”

  Pete cooled down a little and shifted his feet a few seconds before speaking. “Eddie’s dead.”

  “What happened?” Rob asked.

  Pete glared at them. “Not rightly sure. Happened the night you two talked to him. He slipped away after you left—returned in the pouring rain and settled down in his usual place. We found him the next morning. Still had the needle in his arm. Gave himself a hot shot. Never knew what hit him.”

  No one said anything for a few seconds.

  Frank broke the silence. “Why?”

  Pete shook his head. “Don’t rightly know. Must have been something you talked about is all I can figure. Still can’t imagine where he got the cash for the smack.”

  Rob’s stomach turned as his mind drifted to the last thing he’d said to Eddie as he handed him a twenty. Here, brother. Take this and get a meal and a bus ticket back to the VA. This rough life on the street isn’t working for you anymore.

  * * *

  Sister Judy kept Katrina busy the rest of the morning. For the first time, she was allowed into the nursery. Five fair-haired children, ranging in age from Annabelle’s infant to a three-year-old, played on the floor, supervised by Sister Karen. Katrina scrubbed the bath and emptied the trash. Sister Karen kept an overprotective eye on the kids and gave Katrina wary glances from time to time. The nursery had a strange feel. The thought that all the children were fathered by Brother John but had different mothers kept seeping into Katrina’s mind. Different mothers who were now missing. After a brief search for Annabelle earlier in the morning, no one now seemed to care. Also strange.

  Katrina’s next job was working in the kitchen. She washed the morning dishes and assisted Sisters Judy and Ruth in getting lunch, which they all referred to as dinner, ready on time. No one said a word except to issue an order or give a command. Still, no one mentioned that Annabelle was missing or even spoke her name. It’s like she never existed. Katrina whispered silent prayers all morning for her safe escape.

  Katrina set the dining room table and began pouring each food item into individual bowls for serving. Sisters Judy and Ruth had been whispering all morning about something. Katrina couldn’t hear—they kept their voices low—but they’d glance in her direction every once in a while. They’d just walked out the back door, saying they were heading to the garden to fetch some fresh tomatoes, peppers, and onions for dinner. Must be going to get a lot if it takes both of them. They continued talking as they walked. Katrina watched them from the kitchen window until they disappeared into the garden.

  When Katrina turned around, she bumped into Brother John. He’d been standing no more than a foot behind her as she gazed out the window. She let out a yelp and caught her breath. He didn’t move, blink, or speak.

  Katrina leaned back against the window and put her hand to her bosom. “You startled me.”

  He still didn’t speak but continued staring at her through those tiny black creepy eyes. For a reason she couldn’t explain, she released a nervous laugh and felt a blush cover her cheeks. “I didn’t know you were behind me. I…”

  He leaned to within inches of her face. “I don’t like it,” he whispered in a menacing voice.

  Katrina’s stomach rumbled and her legs weakened. She had never been so frightened. Even that night strapped down in the basement couldn’t compare to this. That night she’d kept her eyes closed, pretending to be unconscious. But now, as she stared into those crazy, haunting eyes of Brother John, she knew. She might very well be gazing into the face of the devil.

  They stood there for what seemed like five minutes, although it probably wasn’t longer than five seconds. Slowly he lifted his hand, revealing a fork from the table she’d just set.

  “It still has food on it,” he said, shoving it so close to Katrina’s face that her eyes crossed trying to focus.

  Katrina croaked, “What?”

  He pushed it closer. “I said it still has food on it.”

  Katrina leaned her head back a little and stared at the fork. On one tine, at the very tip, was an almost microscopic speck of something brown.

  “I don’t like it,” the clean freak said. “Wash it again.” He tossed the fork in the sink, spun around, and marched away.

  Katrina couldn’t move. Her body had locked up. After a few seconds, she willed her legs to carry her to the table, where she collapsed into a chair. Her heart raced a thousand beats a minute. She felt faint, as if she wanted to throw up. The sound of the screened porch door slamming drew her out of her anxiety attack. She staggered back into the kitchen just in time for Sister Judy and Sister Ruth to bitch at her about not having finished her work.

  Katrina wasn’t invited to join the group for lunch. Sister Judy informed her she would be dining alone in the kitchen from now on. Nothing could have suited Katrina better. No more stares from the Freak. Finally, a chance to relax during the meal. The smell of cabbage still hung in the kitchen as she sat at her small table in the corner and lifted her fork. From the basement door, only feet away, a mournful cry drifted out.

  The new girl.

  Who was it? Where had she come from? Why had they grabbed another one so soon after taking her? Something felt wrong.

  Katrina’s appetite vanished. Annabelle had said that of all the girls who’d come and gone, not one had ever sent help. If no one had made a big deal about Annabelle’s disappearance, that could mean only one thing. They already know she’ll never be able to send help. Katrina rested her face on her hands and tried to hide the sound of her weeping. The idea gnawed at her gut. My friend is dead.

  * * *

  Rob and Frank had lunch at a soul food place in south Oak Cliff. Frank wanted fried chicken, and Rob never argued when Frank had a food craving. Better to just let him satisfy it.

  By the time they made it to CIU, Terry was darting from his office in a state of nervous excitement. He waved a sheet of paper.

  “Guess what?”

  “What?” Rob asked.

  Terry thrust the paper at Frank. “You got a hit on your request for the Wormwood information. There’s a guy in a Texas state prison with that tattoo.”

  Frank scanned the paper as Rob looked over his shoulder. “Skyview Unit. Where in the hell is Skyview?” Rob asked.

  “It’s a psychiatric facility near Rusk,” Frank said, still reviewing the document.

  Rob and Terry shot glances at each other.

  “Guy’s name is Marshall Woodard. Doing life for double homicide,” Frank said, handing the paper to Rob. “Pull up all you can on him. I’m giving the prison a call.”

  Rob dashed to his cubicle and woke his computer while Frank punched numbers into his office phone.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Frank sat next to Rob on the sofa in Edna’s office while she read the information on Marshall Woodard. Terry leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, waiting. Edna sat behind her desk, her brow rising and falling from time to time, her lips moving while reading the report from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Frank knew a trip to Rusk might be a tough sell, but he couldn’t afford to let her say no.

  She looked up. “You think this guy is connected?”

  “When we interviewed Eddie, he said there was a Brother Marshall living in the house with him and that he also had the same tattoo,” Frank said.

  Edna continued reviewing the papers. “Okay, I get it. Since Eddie’s dead, you want to interview this Marshall guy.” She tapped the page with her finger. “But how sure are we that this isn’t a wild-goose chase? Do we have anything concrete ye
t?” She looked from Frank to Rob.

  Frank exchanged a glance with his partner, but neither spoke.

  Edna dropped the papers to her desk with a sigh. “Pretty slim, if you ask me.”

  Frank had been admonished more than once not to say what he now intended to say, but he felt the case slipping out of his grasp. He had no choice. “She’s alive,” Frank said.

  Edna snapped her head up. “Who says?”

  “I say,” Frank answered.

  Terry ran a hand down his weary face, and Rob tried to hide in the sofa.

  “How do you know that?” she demanded.

  “I just do, and Wormwood is the key.” Frank met her stare without blinking.

  A sly grin cracked the corners of Edna’s mouth. “Okay, go to Rusk and interview this guy. See what he knows.” She pointed at all three. “But we have to turn up something fast. This thing is reaching stall speed. None of us wants to be on board when it crashes.”

  Frank couldn’t blame her. Everyone was pulling heat on this one, and it started at the top. Edna wasn’t going to let a little thing like the kidnapping of the mayor’s daughter stand in the way of her next promotion.

  Rob and Frank spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for their trip the next day. Frank locked down an interview in the late morning, while Rob created a folder with all they knew about Marshall Woodard, Eddie Jones, and the mysterious Vernon John Warren, aka Brother John.

  According to Texas Department of Criminal Justice records, Marshall Woodard’s incarceration was the result of a trip to the beach. The year before, he’d hitched a ride to the Bolivar Peninsula, on the upper Texas coast. While waiting for the ferry to take him over to Galveston, he’d met two middle-aged women out for a little fun. They must have liked his looks, because they persuaded him to join them at their Crystal Beach house for the weekend.

  That night, after copious amounts of alcohol, drugs, and foreplay, Marshall made a decision. The devil had sent those harlots to test him, to test his chastity. By stabbing one seventeen times and the other fifteen times with a butcher knife, he’d thwarted the devil’s attempt and rebuffed him once again. Marshall offered no defense at trial other than that he was proud to have survived the enticement.