The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  “Thanks, Jackson,” Jenna said. “For now, I’m just a niece visiting her uncle and serving as an ‘amateur’ assistant to the defense attorney, who does have the right to question the prosecution’s case and witnesses.”

  “Well, we can always come up to enjoy Haunted Happenings. You know, if you just want to ‘show us around,’” Jackson told her.

  “I’ve thought of that,” she assured him.

  “Keep me posted.”

  When they hung up, she drummed her fingers on the table, impatiently waiting for Jake to call her back. He did so quickly—before she had to ask for a second refill to keep her seat.

  “The grocer, Milton Sedge, works at a local market, Sedge’s—do you know it?”

  “Yes, thanks, it’s near the Lexington house.”

  “He works from about six in the morning until closing, every day, according to the woman who answered the phone when I called. He closes at around nine. Hard worker.”

  “Hey, he comes from good Puritan stock,” Jenna said casually. “Did you say that I was coming by to talk with him?”

  “I mentioned that someone assisting in Smith’s defense would be by—I didn’t give your name. She was sure that Mr. Sedge would be happy to see you. I think it’s going to be dicier to talk to the boys who claimed he was seen at the cliff.”

  “Who are they?”

  “One was Joshua Abbott. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “The other is a kid named David Yates.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah?”

  “He’s the kid who believed that Malachi Smith gave him the evil eye,” Jenna said. “His father is Andy Yates, a councilman.”

  “Good luck, kid,” Jake said. “And, hey, be careful up there.”

  “People here are really good people, Jake.”

  He laughed. “Oh, Jenna, no doubt. But it doesn’t matter where you are—people come in good, and in bad. You’re trying to prove that Malachi Smith didn’t commit horrible murders. If he didn’t, someone else very violent did. Be careful.”

  “Always, Jake,” she promised him.

  Jenna hung up, walked back to her uncle’s and got into her car. She was off to talk to Milton Sedge. While she was talking to him, she just might be able to figure out a way to get to the boys who claimed to have seen Malachi after Earnest Covington was murdered. She grinned at herself. She hadn’t met them yet, but she was sure they were pretentious little liars.

  People judged so easily!

  The Old Meeting House was a whitewashed building a little ways down the highway.

  Sam estimated that it held a couple hundred people, tops, during meetings. There were no crosses or other symbols on the outside of the structure, and a carved wooden sign announced simply, Worship With Us. All Are Welcome.

  He opened a picket fence to follow the brick walk to the front door. There was nothing ornate about the columns of the single-story structure. When he opened the door, he saw that there was simply a podium at the end, with a red runner leading to it. The pews were simple hardwood, and the kneelers were wooden as well, with no cushioning.

  The room was shadowed in darkness, the plain, paneled windows allowing just a few streaks of light into the simple space. Sam thought that he had entered into an empty building at first, but as he stood near the entry, blinking against the murky shadows, he heard a voice.

  “Hello, and welcome.”

  A tall man with long gray hair, his face covered in a long beard and mustache, walked toward him. He was clad simply in a white dress shirt and ill-fitting black suit; his arms were too long for his sleeves and the pants were short.

  “How do you do,” Sam said, offering his hand. “I’m Sam Hall, attorney, and I’m defending Malachi Smith.”

  “Oh,” the man said, looking at him gravely. “I’m Goodman Wilson, pastor and elder of our little congregation. How can I help you?”

  “Well, frankly, I wanted to know what you thought about the whole situation. You must be aware that many people believe that your religion is unorthodox. Do you think that Abraham Smith was so strict that his son—aware of other choices in society—might have thought that he was too strict?”

  Sam was blunt and to the point on purpose: he wanted to see Goodman Wilson’s immediate reaction to such questions. He had half suspected that the pastor would immediately be on the defensive and show him the door.

  He did not.

  “We’re not quite as fanatic as many believe,” Wilson told him. He smiled. “We don’t believe in idols of any kind, and nor do we drink, swear, gamble or imbibe drugs. Actually, we have a number of ex-addicts in our fold, those who need guidance to stay on the straight and narrow. We welcome them, we welcome all.”

  “But Abraham was a hard man, or have I been misinformed?” Sam pressed.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Wilson offered. “Our chairs are hard, but…”

  “A hard chair is fine by me.”

  They sat together on the rear hard pew, staring up toward the simple podium.

  “Thank you for your help,” Sam said.

  Wilson gave a somewhat pained smile. “We do believe in justice. Not vengeance, justice. I knew Abraham Smith, of course. I knew the family, and I knew Malachi. The boy is quite amazing, really. He has a deep and fundamental belief in God. But he wasn’t among our fold.”

  “No?”

  “We don’t have music,” Wilson said. “No music, no dancing. Our faith is really simple—God requires that we appreciate what he has given us. The earth, the sky, the air we breathe. We work, because society demands that we pay for our living—and that we all pay taxes too, right?”

  Sam smiled. Wilson seemed to think his words very entertaining.

  “Jesus believed in simplicity. He didn’t need ornate clothing, and he didn’t need a mansion. He taught us to love one another. He didn’t sing to the masses—he spoke to them.”

  “And Malachi needed music?” Sam asked.

  The pastor nodded gravely. “I’m afraid I can’t help you if you need me to testify that the boy might have been crazy. He wasn’t crazy. He was honest—he had been taught not to lie. He came to me, though he did so in confidence, and he told me that he couldn’t see anything evil in the piano, and therefore, he had to leave our fold. I suggested that he think about it long and hard. I disagreed with his decision, but his deliberations were honest, thoughtful, competent.”

  “He left the church because of the piano? Because of music?” Sam said.

  “That surprises you?”

  “I’d have thought that it might be something more…”

  Goodman Wilson laughed. “You thought we might be slaughtering goats or chickens, and the boy was appalled by blood? No. Malachi told me he couldn’t comprehend a faith that didn’t see God’s beauty in music, and I explained the very basic nature of our beliefs. Malachi told me that he was sorry—he saw God in music. Do you have any religion in your life, Mr. Hall?”

  “I believe in God, Pastor. But I don’t know who among us really knows what he wants,” Sam said. After what seemed to him like a respectful pause, he continued on. “Did Malachi ever offer any violence toward his family?”

  “Never. In our congregation, children honor their parents. They pray, they reflect. They take the time to care for the elderly. They don’t steal, and they don’t fornicate. There is no bodily punishment that we offer them—just excommunication, if it comes to that. We are a family here, and that is a terrible punishment when you love your family.”

  “How did Abraham discipline Malachi? As a good church member, he was said to beat him for infractions, but did he?”

  Goodman Wilson was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “I worried, sometimes. Not that Malachi was beaten, but…parents can speak to a child in a way that is totally demoralizing. They can make a child feel as if they can’t do anything right, as if they’re worthless. I believe that Abraham could be verbally abusive at times, but, Mr. Hall, I don’t think that’s particul
ar to members of our church. Sadly, I’ve seen many a father rip a child apart, and too often, that child can grow to believe himself worthless and incapable of doing anything right.”

  “So, you would describe your church as a strict group, but certainly not fanatical,” Sam said.

  Wilson laughed. “We are different. The Mormons are seen as different, as are the Amish. But we are Christians. We do believe in God in His Heaven, and we believe, equally, that there are evil forces. We believe in sin, but as Christ stated, true remorse brings us to the forgiveness of sins. We don’t seek to harm anyone else, and we don’t punish those who leave the church. We are all creatures of free choice.”

  “All right, it’s true that we all have a tendency to mistrust each other, to be suspicious of what we don’t understand. You don’t believe that Malachi is a killer, so I’m going to assume that Abraham Smith had enemies.”

  Wilson was quiet for a minute. “I’m curious that you’ve come here. I do read the papers, though I don’t have a television. The police say that Malachi is the alleged killer of Mr. Andres of Andover and Mr. Covington, as well. What enemies would they have had that they shared with Abraham Smith?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam said.

  Wilson let out a long sigh. “Do I believe that Malachi is a killer? No. Might there be something in him that I never saw? Possibly. Did Abraham have enemies? Most definitely. Only two other families with children in that area belong to our congregation, and they keep very quiet. The rest of those people…they tolerate the Wiccans in the community, thinking of them as actors, really, drawing in the tourists. They tolerate Catholic, Jewish, agnostic, atheistic, Baptist and probably Buddhist. But us? We live too simply for them. They don’t understand that we honestly believe that we are judged daily, that God will come again, and that we can choose to lead pure lives, or we can choose to sin. If Abraham did have real enemies, they did not come from this church. We are of a like mind and, if anyone had a serious problem with him, they would have had a problem with all of us probably, and would have come to me.”

  “Did he ever seem to be afraid of anyone? Did he have comments about the murders of his neighbor, or Mr. Andres?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Well, he believed that God himself determined that Peter Andres should be killed. He told me he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Grim Reaper himself or an avenging angel come down to kill Peter Andres. Then again, Peter Andres had said that Abraham was a wart not just on the community, but on the world, and that he was ruining his one and only child. I believe Andres intended to look into social services and see if he could get the boy taken away from Abraham, but to my knowledge, nothing was ever done. Andres was a big, scary man, and I’d believe more easily that he would have offered violence to the Smiths. But since he died first, he can hardly be suspected of Abraham’s murder.”

  “No, of course. What about his neighbor?”

  “Now, Abraham kept to himself, from what I understood. Except that he ranted and raved a lot—and yelled at Malachi loudly enough for people in the next block to hear. One of his punishments was to make the kid stand out in the cold, against the front of the house. I doubt if his neighbors liked that much—it’s embarrassing to everyone to see cruelty. Of course, they lived in the Lexington House, and the house itself has a reputation. I’m sure some people believe that evil lives in the house.”

  “What do you believe?” Sam asked him.

  “Does evil live on?” Wilson asked thoughtfully. “Evil remains, where it has always been, in the heart of man.”

  “Of course.”

  “Innocents—those who were loyal enough to risk their lives rather than tell the lie that they had signed the devil’s book—were the ones who went to the gallows, you know, back during the witchcraft scare,” Wilson said. “The trials were bizarre! Those who admitted to witchcraft and confessed weren’t hanged. Those who clung passionately to their belief that such a lie would be against God…they’re the ones who suffered the death penalty!”

  “I know. I’m from the area,” Sam said.

  Wilson stood up, perhaps embarrassed at his outburst of proselytizing to a layman. “We work at the soup kitchen, helping out with the homeless,” he said. “I’m enjoying our conversation, but I’m needed.”

  Sam stood, as well. “Thank you for your time,” he said. He started toward the door.

  “Mr. Hall,” Wilson called.

  Sam stopped and turned back.

  “But, was the devil busy at work in Massachusetts in 1692? Yes. He is always busy. So, please, don’t delude yourself. The devil is still alive and well and busy in Massachusetts, in the world, just as he was in 1692.”

  6

  Little had changed at Sedge’s Market since Jenna was last there. Milton Sedge ran a clean store with neat, tight aisles and five checkout lanes. Bananas and prime rib were on special. Large cardboard, handwritten signs advertised the daily deals. He had long been a holdout as far as credit cards went, but he, like the rest of the world, seemed to have succumbed to the necessity of plastic. The one thing that had changed was that.

  A friendly girl at one of the registers directed Jenna to a rear office. She didn’t get far, however, before she saw the man she sort of recognized as Milton Sedge himself. He was in a butcher’s coat, directing an employee to clean out one of the meat cabinets. He was doing so pleasantly enough, but efficiency and survival seemed to be on his mind.

  “Dates, Richard—come on! Pay attention to the dates. We never sell anything once it’s past its date. That’s how we compete with the big guys. Quality—and assurance!” he said firmly.

  The worker was a slim youth who appeared to be about seventeen. He nodded vigorously with his compliance. “Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’m on it!”

  “Mr. Sedge?” Jenna asked.

  He turned to look at her, a balding man with a large nose and massive eyebrows that seemed to be trying to compensate for the loss of hair on his head.

  “Yes?” He stared at her, as if trying to decide if he knew her or not.

  “Hi. I’m Jenna Duffy,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Do you want a job?” he asked skeptically, openly studying her.

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m working with Sam Hill on Malachi Smith’s defense.”

  “Oh! Well, you know I gave my statement to the police.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that you did. I’m just trying to hear what you have to say with my own ears and, also, to ask you, of course, if you’re certain about your statement.”

  He nodded, distracted. An elderly woman with a cart had come next to them. “Milton, where are those bananas?” she demanded.

  “Eleanor, what? You’re not going senile, are you? The bananas are in the fruit section!” Sedge said, scratching his head. “Show some good old New England common sense, will you, please?”

  “Milton, I’m full of good New England common sense. There are no bananas in the fruit section, and that’s why I’m asking you!” the woman said, indignant.

  “Richard! Will you go to the back and see that the bananas are restocked!” Sedge asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Let’s step into my office, shall we?” Sedge suggested. “It’s just to the left, behind the pharmacy.”

  A few seconds later Jenna was seated on a foldout chair between boxes of crackers and he was behind a desk stacked high with invoices. He folded his hands on the desk.

  “I’ve taken some guff over this, I’ll have you know. But what I saw is what I saw!” Sedge said. “What is—is. And that’s just the way it is.”

  “What do you mean, guff?” Jenna asked him.

  He looked at her as if she had lost her mind, as well. “Guff! Guff! Grief! All kinds of misery. Folks around here believe that Malachi killed Earnest Covington, and that I’m the one who has lost my eyesight. But that boy was in this store from four to six last Saturday afternoon—the kid liked shopping, read every label on every can. I think he just
liked being away from home. The cops found that guy’s body at six-thirty and claimed he’d been dead for over an hour. So, if someone is mistaken, it’s the damned doctor who showed up on the site, not me. I talked to the kid. He was a regular. He was always on a budget, so he was like Eleanor, demanding to know where the daily specials could be found. Except that Malachi Smith didn’t demand. The kid was polite. Yeah, I can see where his classmates thought he was a geek. Skinny kid. Big eyes. Bad haircut. But he was polite. He was always stopping to get something off a top shelf for the old ladies. He waited his turn in a line. He paid with cash.”

  The last seemed to be the asset that truly set Malachi Smith at the top of Sedge’s list.

  “How do you know exactly how long he was in the store?” Jenna asked.

  “I was in the front when he came in—Mrs. Mickleberry was arguing about a coupon that was good at another store—and I happened to be picking up a broken bottle of ketchup on one of the aisles about fifteen minutes later. We talked about a cut of meat about twenty minutes after that. I was working in the dairy section when he went through. I know that kid was in the store at the time they say Earnest Covington was killed. People around here want me to say otherwise, but I won’t. What is—is.” He sniffed. “Those kids at the school have had it out for Malachi forever.”

  “Which kids?” Jenna asked.

  “The ones who claimed to have seen him come out of the house that day. Now, why anyone would believe that David Yates over me, I don’t begin to understand. Oh, yeah. Because he’s on the football team.” Sedge shook his head. “Big brawny kid on the football team, and he and his pals tormented poor skinny Malachi. People need to use sense and logic. Yep, sense and logic. The Yates kid and his backfield mom are just as bad. Now, I didn’t say that. You ask me—and I’m no psychiatrist—guilt started eating at that kid and in his own messed-up adolescent mind he knew he was guilty as hell of being one bastard, excuse the language. Whatever. I know what I know. My eyes are sound, and I’m not involved in any of the crazy shenanigans going on.”