The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  Brother John said, “Well, it wasn’t like she had a sign around her neck. We didn’t realize it until today. We shouldn’t blame them.”

  Sister Judy sulked at the rebuke.

  “The question is what to do now,” Brother John said. He scanned each face and waited.

  Sister Karen pouted. “Get rid of her as fast as we can. Take her out back. If the police are looking for her, it’s too dangerous for her to be here.”

  Brother John leaned against the tree and again examined each face. “Is that what you all want?”

  Everyone nodded in agreement except Brother Luther. He lowered his gaze and kept quiet.

  “Okay.” Brother John held up his Bible. “I’ll pray on the matter and give you my decision tomorrow.” He strolled away, knowing what needed to be done. Katrina hadn’t worked out—wouldn’t cooperate. If she wouldn’t submit to his husbandly authority, what kind of mother would she make? She might even harm the children. Too big a chance. Yeah, better to get rid of her and concentrate on the new one. The sooner the better.

  * * *

  Katrina didn’t move—didn’t even dare breathe. She watched from her hiding place in the shower as Sister Ruth edged farther into the basement, toward the bed. Ruth scanned the area, looking for who knew what. Katrina peered through the thin crack between the curtain and shower wall as Sister Ruth approached Emilie. Crazy thoughts raced through Katrina’s head. Rush the old bitch, hold her hostage, and make the others let her and Emilie go. No—hold her hostage, find a gun, and force their way out, killing those dogs if necessary.

  “Has there been anybody down here?” Sister Ruth asked.

  Katrina’s knees weakened. For God’s sake, say no.

  “Yeah, why you asking?” Emilie answered.

  Katrina tensed. No, don’t tell her.

  “Who?” Sister Ruth marched closer to the bed.

  Katrina eased the curtain closed and prayed.

  Emilie’s voice echoed through the basement. “Santa Claus. Got my Christmas list. Said he’d see me in December.”

  Katrina slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Yes! A girl after my own heart.

  “You’d best keep your sassy remarks to yourself,” Sister Ruth said.

  The clip-clop of her footsteps sounded up the stairs. The basement door slammed shut and the lock clicked. Katrina eased the curtain open and Emilie smirked.

  “I hate that bitch,” Emilie said.

  Katrina rushed to her and gave her a hug. “Me too. Listen, the Freak, Brother John, might try and attack you. They’ll drug your food so—”

  Emilie’s lip quivered and her eyes misted. She dropped her head in her hands and wept.

  Katrina embraced her. Was it her fault? If she’d had the courage to unlock that door a few days before, maybe Emilie wouldn’t have been attacked. Katrina held her until Emilie finished crying.

  Emilie looked into Katrina’s eyes, searching for answers. “Who are they? Why are they doing this?”

  Katrina pushed her to arm’s length. “There’s too much to explain now, but I’ll come again. If I don’t show, they’ll get suspicious.”

  Emilie wiped her eyes. “Promise you’ll come back?”

  “Promise,” Katrina said.

  She crept up the stairs and put her ear against the door leading into the kitchen. Silence. She inserted the key and twisted it. The click sounded like a gunshot going off. She peeked out and the coast looked clear. She quickly closed and relocked the door, dropping the key in her dress pocket. Voices sounded from outside, and the screen porch door slamming sent her scurrying for the sink. She began washing the last few dishes as the group filed in. The way they stared at her made her uncomfortable. What had they discussed?

  Sister Ruth was nowhere in sight, but Sister Judy said, “Start peeling those potatoes. We’ll be eating soon.”

  30

  A little before five o’clock, Frank and Rob rolled into Hemphill, Texas. The clouds made it seem darker, and the long shadows of evening weren’t far behind.

  “Let me handle the sheriff,” Frank said, thinking back to their phone call. “I think I’ve got a good read on him. Not exactly the brightest light in the chandelier.”

  “I’ll take the lead with the suspect,” Rob said.

  “Good idea.”

  Hemphill was one of those sleepy little East Texas towns that hadn’t changed much since being incorporated in the thirties. Surrounded by the Sabine National Forest and nudging up against the massive Toledo Bend Reservoir, it remained a quiet place to raise a family. Hemphill had become the epicenter for the Columbia Space Shuttle recovery when tons of debris fell into the thick forest and nearby lake. Not that long ago, shuttle pieces ranging from thumbnail to car-hood size had littered the area.

  The sheriff’s department was located off the town square on Main Street. Its official name was the Blan Greer Law Enforcement Center, and the county jail was housed within. Rob parked in a space marked “Police Vehicles Only.”

  Frank led the way inside.

  A deputy greeted them at the desk. “Can I help you?” She was young and cute, but her short red hair was a tangled mess.

  “Yes, we’re here to see Sheriff Lewis,” Frank said.

  She crinkled her brow. “You’re from Dallas?”

  Rob nodded.

  “The sheriff said we should expect you. He’s just pulling up behind the station—been to a meeting. He told me to have you wait in his office. Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. We’re fine,” Rob said.

  She led them into the hall and motioned inside an office. Frank surveyed the room. Not a bad setup. Desk with bookshelves and photos. Certificates and more pictures on the opposite wall.

  “Just have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here,” the young deputy said.

  Frank made a beeline for one of the chairs in front of the desk while Rob meandered to the wall of photos and certificates. Frank opened his case file and organized his reports, getting ready for the meeting. He scratched his neck and thumbed through the papers, his gut telling him Hemphill was the right place to be.

  “Hey, Frank. You might want to take a look at this guy’s credentials. Might change the way you approach him,” Rob mumbled, still scanning the wall.

  “Huh?” Frank looked up.

  “I said you might—”

  “Well, you boys made better time than I figured.”

  Frank craned his neck, and in the doorway stood one of the biggest guys he’d ever seen. Everything about him was big. His ears, nose, and hands seemed better suited to a giant than a mortal.

  “Howdy, I’m Sheriff Richard Lewis.” The deep bass voice echoed off the walls.

  He towered a foot over poor Rob and stood several inches taller than even Frank. They introduced themselves and shook hands, and Frank had the distinct impression that the man had the ability to break his fingers with an ill-timed cough. The sheriff was one of those people who wore a perpetual smile, as if he knew something you didn’t and wasn’t about to let you in on it.

  “My deputy offer y’all coffee?”

  “Yes, but we’re fine, thanks,” Frank said. He and Rob dropped into the chairs.

  Lewis removed his felt Stetson and threw it on a hat rack as he strolled to his desk. He wore khaki pants, a western-cut white shirt, and a belt buckle only a bull rider could appreciate. The guy was seventy if he was a day.

  “Why don’t you run down all the details? You said this concerned the Dallas mayor’s missing daughter?” Lewis reached in the drawer and pulled out a pack of chewing tobacco. He stuck a small wad in his jaw, fell into his chair, and propped his size-fifteen Tony Lamas on the edge of his desk.

  “Yes,” Frank said, eyeing the giant’s feet. Frank spent the next ten minutes explaining the case to the sheriff and showing him photos of others with the tattoo. “Ever seen any of these guys around here?”

  Sheriff Lewis shook his head. “Nope, can’t say as I have,
except Vernon. You reckon he has the same tattoo?”

  “Yes, sir, and we believe he’s connected to the girl’s disappearance. What do you know about him?” Frank asked.

  The sheriff interlaced his fingers across his chest. His Masonic ring, outlined with small diamonds, caught the light. “He lives just outside town, near the lake, in the old Chandler house.”

  “Chandler house?” Rob asked.

  “Thelma Chandler was his aunt. She never had any kids. After she died, Vernon and his bunch showed up.”

  “Did you know her?” Frank asked.

  Lewis smirked. “Know her? Hell—graduated from high school with her. When we were kids, we used to roam all over those woods behind her house. Even sweethearts for a while. When her husband passed about five years ago, she started a downward spiral. Finally gave up the ghost three years back.”

  Frank leaned forward, his spine tingling. “You mentioned ‘his bunch.’ How many are there?”

  “Don’t rightly know for sure. Heard there were a half dozen or so,” Lewis said.

  “So you’ve been to the house?” Rob asked.

  “Yeah, got a call about poachers several months ago. I went out and spoke to Vernon.”

  “How did he seem?” Frank asked.

  Lewis screwed his face into a frown. “Oh, he’s a weird duck. Hippy-like and quiet. Don’t have much of a personality, if you ask me. Hard to imagine him as the leader of anything.”

  Frank scribbled in his notebook. “What about this guy you have locked up?”

  “He’s another weirdo.”

  “Like how?” Rob asked.

  “Better if you see for yourself. Want to talk to him?”

  “You bet.” Frank stood.

  Lewis rose and picked up the photo of Eddie Jones’s back. “This is the same tattoo our boy has. What you figure? Some kind of cult?”

  “Perhaps,” Frank said.

  They made a right out of the office and strolled farther down the hall.

  “I expect we’d better leave our guns here,” Sheriff Lewis said.

  Lewis halted in front of a line of metal boxes embedded in the wall and unlocked one. Dropping his .357 Magnum Colt Python in, he unlocked another for Frank and Rob. They dropped their pistols inside, and Lewis handed Frank the key. The sheriff looked up at the closed-circuit camera and flashed the high sign. The steel door unlocked with a dull snap, and they entered the cell block. A strong whiff of Lysol hit Frank, but it didn’t last long. They went to the last cell on the end. The man sat on his bed, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and one hand in the other. He had a bandage on his left hand.

  “Evan, there’s some folks here wants to talk to you,” the sheriff said.

  The man looked up. He had hard features. The gray stubble on his balding head and chin were misleading. Probably an early grayer—couldn’t be over thirty.

  “I don’t know ’em.” Evan lay on the bunk with his hands behind his head.

  Rob took the lead. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The man glared at him with sullen eyes. “Just because I’m in jail don’t mean I have to talk to no greaser.”

  “Nice,” Rob said. “A redneck and racist. Two for one.”

  Sheriff Lewis leaned a hand on the bars. “Now Evan, you should try and get along. These guys are police out of Dallas.” He pronounced the word “police” like po-leese.

  Evan eyed them and didn’t say a word.

  Frank winked at Rob, and he stepped aside.

  Frank wandered up beside Sheriff Lewis and also leaned a hand on the bars. “You talk to us, we might see about getting you out early.”

  Evan smirked. “Lost my job, lost my room, and got no money. Why would I want to get out early?”

  “Want to talk about Brother John?”

  A blind man couldn’t have missed Evan’s expression change. Frank had seen that exact look before. Grace Fellman, the old lady in Dallas, had flashed it when she spoke of Brother John. It was pure fear. Evan recovered and shook his head. “Ain’t got nothing to say about that either.” He shifted positions in the bed and turned his back to them, gazing at the opposite wall.

  The sheriff shrugged and they marched back to his office. When everyone was seated, Lewis said, “After you called from Dallas, I talked to Evan. Seems he moved out here with that bunch and lived with ’em for a couple of years, then had some kind of falling out. Left a few months ago and started logging with one of the local contractors. Lived in an old trailer on the guy’s land. Had a falling out with him, got fired, and was kicked out of the trailer. According to Evan, that bunch in Miss Chandler’s old place pretty much lives off the grid, and off the land. Of course, lots of folks around these parts do that.” He propped his boots back on the desk. “What else can I help you with?” Lewis asked.

  “You said Vernon, or Brother John, or whatever he’s called, lives just outside of town?” Frank asked. He spread a map on the desk. “Could you show us?”

  Lewis nodded and stared at the map. “He stays in his Aunt Thelma’s old mansion in the woods. Fine place; looks like a park in there. She was awful proud of her landscaping. She could afford it. Before her husband died, he leased the land out for natural gas—made millions—has a dozen operating wells.” The sheriff pulled the map to him and with a red marker circled a jagged finger of land jutting into the lake.

  “Take Highway 87 south, and hook a left on FM 2928. The entry’s on the right, just about here.” Lewis put an X beside the road. “Can’t miss it. Big old eight-foot chain-link fence and gate. ‘No Trespassing’ signs everywhere. Got nearly three hundred acres back in there.”

  Frank got comfortable and cocked his head. “What say you go with us and we just take a look around the place?”

  The sheriff’s forehead furrowed. “You’ve talked to Judge Mathews about this?”

  Frank spoke before he realized what he was admitting. “Who’s he?”

  Lewis crossed his arms. “Thought so.”

  “Huh?”

  “You city boys wouldn’t come all the way out here to run a bluff on old Sheriff Lewis, would ya?”

  Frank didn’t like the way this was going, but it was too late to back down now. “We just thought you’d like to come with us when we approach the guy, since you already know him.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Now just wait one damn minute. We may be hicks, but I have a little concern, even out here in the country. It’s called probable cause.” The sheriff leaned toward Frank and raised his brows. “You probably heard about that from your academy days. Now, if you want to go out there and talk to the guy, I’m all in. But I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and let you bully him into an illegal search. Hell, anything you find would be thrown out of court. Come on, guys, you know all this.”

  Frank bristled. “Sheriff, a young girl’s safety’s at stake. I don’t care if it is thrown out of court.”

  Lewis stood, all six foot eight of him, and strolled around the office with his hands in his pockets. “Okay, let’s say we go out and he tells us to pound sand. What then?”

  Frank searched for a clever comeback, but nothing came to mind.

  The sheriff kept wandering around his desk. “So we say, ‘Okay, never mind,’ and go home? No, we do it the right way or no way at all.” The sheriff’s booming voice rattled the furniture. He pointed at them. “Now, I’m willing to help. God knows I got nothing for those fools in Miss Thelma’s house. But that dog won’t hunt around here.” He reclaimed his chair. “You boys think about it and let me know if you come up with a better plan.”

  “You think the local judge will issue a search warrant? Frank said.

  The sheriff asked, “What’s your probable cause?”

  “I just explained our probable cause,” Frank said.

  “No,” the sheriff said. “You told me an interesting story that might have a connection to the girl’s disappearance. That’s not enough for Judge Mathews to issue a warrant. He’s a good jud
ge, but a real hard-ass on probable cause. You’ll need some direct evidence.”

  Rob spoke up. “If a sworn Texas peace officer were to witness the girl on the property, would that be enough?”

  Sheriff Lewis slid his knife from his pocket and began cleaning his nails. He didn’t make eye contact with them, but nodded. “Probably,” he said as a smirk formed on his lips.

  * * *

  When they exited the sheriff’s department, the rolling dark clouds seemed to match Frank’s mood.

  Rob said, “Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned.”

  “No, it didn’t.” Frank sighed.

  “I tried to tell you before he came in. The guy retired after forty years on Houston PD. Left as a lieutenant in Homicide Division. Also served in Nam. Ranger, won the bronze star and has two purple hearts.”

  Opening the car door Frank released a long breath and said, “Yeah, that would have been good to know going in. Wasn’t the hick I’d hoped for.”

  Rob slid behind the wheel. “And another thing. We were in his office, what? About a half hour?”

  “Almost,” Frank said.

  Rob looked his way. “He never spit once after taking that chew.”

  31

  Frank had called ahead and gotten reservations for a two-bedroom cabin at the Harborlight Marina and Resort, just northeast of Hemphill, right on the lake. He was tired and hungry but wanted to check out Brother John’s place before dark.

  He and Rob drove with the windows down and followed the state highway to the turnoff. Sweet pine and flowering shrubs scented the car, even at seventy miles an hour. They followed the sheriff’s map until they came to an eight-foot-high wire fence on the right. After a half mile, a white gravel road guarded by a gate came into view. Looked like the kind of place that didn’t care for visitors.

  “He has a regular compound, doesn’t he?” Rob remarked.

  Frank stared at the gravel road leading into the dark woods. At the end, Katrina waited for help to arrive—he knew it. Well, you won’t have to wait much longer. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get in.

  “Okay, we know where it is. We’ll start surveillance first thing tomorrow,” Frank said.