The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters)

by Heather Graham

  “It was an accident!” he said. “He died in an accident!”

  “Maybe,” Sam said.

  “Maybe not,” Jackson added.

  “Ah, come on, what the hell is the matter with you guys? You’re wicked idiots!” David said. But he swallowed quickly. “You just want to make something out of nothing—’cause that kid is crazy. And he’s cruel.”

  “That’s right,” Sam said. “He gave you the ‘evil eye.’ You need him to be crazy—and a homicidal maniac—to make sure you never look like an imaginative young idiot yourself, for beating your own head with a lunch tray.”

  David Yates turned red. “He gave me the evil eye—I swear it! Hey, you don’t put yourself in the hospital and having to see a shrink on purpose!”

  “I never suggested that you did it on purpose—I do believe you did it to yourself. So does your dad,” Sam told him.

  “My dad is a pansy-ass!” David said, apparently before thinking. He winced. “Stop it, please, stop all this!” It was an honest plea.

  “I’ll stop—when you two stop lying,” Sam said. “I will get you in court. And if you’re caught perjuring yourselves, you will face the law yourselves. Think about that. And—” he grinned, looking up at Will, who had been watching the exchange with his arms folded over his chest “—next time a magician gives you something, just say thanks!”

  He turned to leave the boys to think over the encounter.

  Jackson followed him.

  “Well?” Sam asked him. “How did I do?”

  “They’re scared,” Jackson said.

  “They should be. I get the feeling that…all right, well, they are lying. Now, is it just because they want Malachi locked away? Or is it because they’re afraid for someone else?”

  Jenna was just leaving the station when her phone rang. Angela was on the line, very excited.

  “Hey! I think I might know what was going on when Goodman Wilson approached that little girl. Sorry—remember what Will told us about Cindy Yates yelling at Goodman Wilson when he approached the little girl?”

  “Yes. What? What happened at church?” Angela asked her.

  “Goodman Wilson gave a sermon today—asking his people to go and talk to the police if they knew anything! Anyway, I watched a woman leave with two kids so I got her plate number. Jake ran it down for me. And the boy—the teen—goes to school with David Yates and Joshua Abbott. I think the little girl that Goodman Wilson approached was the daughter…and, since Cindy Yates went after him like a tiger, I’m assuming that the family has been keeping their churchgoing activities a secret. I’ve got an address. You want it? I’m still hanging around by the church, but I can go if you want.”

  “No, no, I’m just leaving the station. I’ll go. Who am I going to see? What’s the family name?”

  “Parents, Michael and Alice Newbury. Teenage son—seventeen-year-old son, Michael, Jr. Little girl, Annie, seven. You’ll find them just off Chestnut Street—I’ll text you the exact address.”

  “Thanks, Angela!”

  “Oh, and I just spoke with Jackson and Sam. They’re going to go and see Mr. Sedge’s son. After, we’ll all meet at the wine bar.”

  “All right, see you soon.”

  Jenna hung up and a few seconds later, her phone buzzed, the address coming through. Checking it twice, she got in her car.

  As she drove, she mulled over just how she was going to approach the family. All thoughts went out of her head when she drove up to park on the curve across the street from the modest home. The Newbury family was in the front yard. The teenage son, still lanky but growing tall, was tossing a football to his little sister while the parents looked on from their porch.

  The father, Michael, saw Jenna and said something to his wife.

  He walked forward as she approached. “Well,” he said quietly. “You found us quickly. Did Goodman Wilson tell you where to come?”

  Alice Newbury rose as well and came forward as Jenna answered honestly, “No, sir. My colleague saw your wife. We traced your license plate.”

  Michael Newbury nodded, looking at his wife. “Just as well. We should have spoken before. I’m not sure what good it will do, but we should have spoken before.”

  The kids had stopped tossing the ball.

  “What’s wrong?” the little girl asked her brother.

  “Nothing, Annie, nothing,” Michael, Jr., said to her. “You go play with your dolls for a little bit. We can run around the yard again in a minute. I think that the lady wants to talk to me.”

  “May we get you something, miss?” Alice asked. “We don’t drink spirits, but I can get you some hot coffee or cocoa.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Well, come to the porch,” Michael said.

  Alice looked around, as if afraid their neighbors would see them talking to Jenna.

  “Alice, we all need to admit the truth, and Goodman Wilson has taught us that it doesn’t matter what path a man takes to God, he can be a decent man. Our neighbors are good people.”

  She smiled at her husband. Jenna found herself thinking that while their beliefs might be strict, they were together in those beliefs and had a strong bond.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s Michael, Jr., you want to talk to. We’d just be hearsay,” Michael told her.

  Michael, Jr., took a wicker chair across from Jenna on the porch. He glanced at his father. “I can’t really say anything that will help you a lot—I mean that, I really can’t. I would if I could.”

  “Please, just let me know what has, clearly, been bothering you. You never know what will help an investigator in a situation like this and what won’t,” Jenna tried to reassure him.

  The young man looked at his parents again and then at her. “We don’t lie about our affiliation with the church,” he said. “We just don’t talk about it. We all went to the same schools for years, and we saw quickly that a lot of the kids really liked to tease and torment Malachi, so…well, I just tried to avoid being teased and tormented, you know?”

  “I understand,” Jenna said. “So, what do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything, except that David Yates has been the big man on the school ground since we were kids. And Joshua Abbott has been sidekick for years. If David says something, Joshua repeats it. If David wants to do something, Joshua will do it.”

  Jenna nodded. “Yes, I’ve met them together, and I get that impression.”

  Michael, Jr., seemed to have gained his own confidence, knowing that his parents were behind him. “David has talked about Malachi for a long time—since the evil eye incident. But it seemed that he got even worse after Mr. Andres was killed. He told everyone that the Smiths had killed Peter Andres because ‘that old freak hated Andres.’ And he said that Malachi secretly hated him, too. And, well, everyone is kind of afraid of David Yates, so they all believe what he says. Anyway, then David and Joshua both said that they saw Malachi coming out of Mr. Covington’s house the day that he was killed, and I know the police talked to him and his folks, but the grocer—Mr. Sedge—said that he’d swear before God and the angels and all the saints that he knew damned well that Malachi hadn’t done it.”

  “Yes, we know that,” Jenna said.

  Once again, Michael, Jr., appeared uncomfortable, and he looked over at his parents.

  “Michael?” Jenna said softly.

  “Well, Mr. Sedge was already saying it, so…well, I was in the grocery that day, too. And I saw Malachi in there. I can’t swear how long he was there, but I know that I saw him talking to Mr. Sedge, and I talked to him myself. He’d left the church, but we all understood why, and we just kind of hoped that he’d return….”

  They had another witness! But the witness they’d once had was dead!

  “That’s the way of our church, Miss Duffy,” Michael, Sr., said. “We don’t condemn those who leave. We just hope that they’ll return.”

  Jenna nodded. “I understand.” She stood. “Michael, for now,
please, don’t say this to anyone else.”

  Alice Newbury stood in fear. “You—you think this could put our boy in danger?”

  “I just think that you should remain silent for now. I won’t tell anyone who will let it out of our realm of investigation, and you should just keep quiet, too,” Jenna told them.

  Michael, Sr., looked at his wife. “She’s saying yes, Alice. Mr. Sedge is dead. Accident, my foot. We’ll keep silent, Miss Duffy. Just as you say.”

  “I’m always silent at school,” Michael, Jr., told her gravely.

  “That’s a wise move,” Jenna told him.

  “Oh, the kids would never hurt me. I just don’t want to be accused of giving any of them the evil eye.”

  “Were you there when it happened?” Jenna asked him.

  He nodded.

  “And what did you think?”

  He hesitated and shrugged. “I think David might have believed that’s what happened. But I know that he’d gotten called down a few days before—actually, by Mr. Andres. Mr. Andres really berated him for being so mean to Malachi. And Mr. Andres…well, he had a way of yelling at kids—well, not really yelling—but of making you feel really bad about what you did wrong. You know, he just had the right words, I guess. And that’s what he did with David Yates. So, maybe, when it happened, David was feeling guilty?”

  “Maybe,” Jenna agreed.

  Michael, Jr., smiled at her. “I feel bad for him, really. I know he uses his dad’s influence all the time to be kind of like a big man, but I think he believes sometimes that his dad doesn’t help him enough. You know, he probably just wants more attention from the guy.”

  “Michael, you seem to be wise beyond your years,” Jenna said, and he flushed.

  She thanked them again, shaking hands with the three of them. “If anyone asks me, I’ll just say that I was doing a routine interview, that you were polite and cooperative but couldn’t offer anything of consequence.”

  “Thank you,” Michael, Sr., told her.

  Jenna hurried to her car, anxious to see the others.

  Sam and Jackson stood at the door to the Sedge home. Sam carried a large basket with a smoked ham and an array of sides for the family; he and Jackson had decided that bearing food was the right thing to do—and that it was their way in, as well.

  An attractive woman in her thirties, her expression drawn and her eyes tearstained, opened the door. She appeared to expect people but frowned when she saw them, not recognizing them as neighbors she knew.

  “Our deepest condolences,” Sam said.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting their offering. “I assume you’re friends of my husband, Ricky? I mean, forgive me, I don’t know you.”

  “We were actually affiliated with Milton,” Sam said. “And I know that it’s a horrible time, but…”

  Her eyes widened suddenly. “You’re the attorney!”

  “Sam Hall, yes,” he admitted, expecting the door to slam in his face. It didn’t.

  “My husband will want to see you,” she said, staring at Jackson.

  “My colleague, Jackson Crow,” Sam explained quickly.

  She nodded and opened the door wider. “Please come in. Neighbors are here—and my mom is out back with the kids—but Ricky is in his office. I’ll show you right in.”

  Ricky Sedge was behind his desk in his den, a small room with shelves that held books and trophies and pictures—family pictures. Sam winced inside, wishing he didn’t have to cause the man more pain. It was evident that his had been a close-knit family; most of the pictures were family shots, many of Milton Sedge holding two little boys, many with Sedge and his wife, and several of various weddings, two older couples with the next generation of Sedges.

  Ricky Sedge had been sitting there, squeezing an exercise ball with a vengeance when they walked in.

  He stood, surprised, and looked at his wife.

  “This is the attorney, Mr. Hall, Ricky. And his associate, Mr. Crow. I thought that you’d want to talk to them.”

  He stood and, to Sam’s surprise, he seemed pleased to see him. He was glad. He’d half suspected that even if Sedge believed that his father had been murdered, he’d want to blame Sam. He was the one pursuing the case others thought was sewn up, after all.

  “Finally! Someone who might believe me!” Ricky Sedge said, indicating a couple of small chairs in the room. “Sorry, sorry, about the space. It’s kind of a full house…Margery is dealing with all those trying to help. People don’t realize that sometimes you’ve got to be alone. Although, I guess it’s good to keep the kids occupied—they loved their Papa Milty.”

  Sam and Jackson took seats.

  “Mr. Sedge—” Jackson began.

  “Call me Ricky, please. Every time I hear Mr. Sedge, I see my father.”

  “Ricky,” Sam said quietly. “I understand you found your father.”

  “I found him. Yes. I made a mess in all the olive oil, trying to revive him. But, of course, he was cold as ice,” Ricky said.

  “And you called it in as a homicide,” Jackson said.

  Ricky Sedge hesitated a minute. “You know, sure, it looks like an accident. Unless you knew my father. He was a careful, honest, really good man. He would have never allowed those tins to be set up in a display that would have just fallen down on its own. When I say that to anyone else, they just want to pat my back and tell me that time will heal my wounds. And that the store was fairly dark, so accidents can happen, especially to the elderly. But my dad was in good shape, and he had great eyesight. Said he couldn’t read a menu anymore without his glasses, but he could spot a bird in the sky a mile away. He didn’t just walk into those tins of olive oil. Someone was in that store. Thing is, the police don’t believe me—they just want to pat me on the back, too.”

  “What about a security tape?” Sam asked.

  Ricky groaned. “Dad didn’t have a security camera. He said that if someone needed groceries that badly, then they were probably hungry. The clerks knew all the neighborhood kids, and they knew how to catch the petty little gum-stealers. Dad ran a real family business.” He leaned forward, studying both men. “Can you make someone pay attention? Dad was the only one who was going to swear that Malachi Smith didn’t kill Earnest Covington. He was killed because he’d be willing to swear that up and down in a court of law!”

  Sam let out a breath. “That’s what I believe, too,” he said. “And I’m so sorry.”

  Ricky Sedge lowered his head for a moment. Then he looked Sam in the eyes. “You don’t have to be sorry. My dad believed in honesty and justice, and he wouldn’t have changed what he had to say, no matter what. You didn’t kill him. But if you want to help, find out who did. Make the police realize that he was murdered, and find out who did. Make sure that they do face justice. That’s what I want! That’s what my family needs. Don’t let my father have died in vain for doing the right thing.”

  Jenna looked into the wine bar, but none of the others had arrived. She went back out into the pedestrian throughway and decided that she’d catch Will’s magic show and see how he was doing.

  Will had a little girl with him up on his impromptu stage. He was pulling quarters out of her ear and delighting the crowd.

  He caught her eye. She frowned as she saw him jerk his head to the left.

  Looking over at the edge of the crowd, she saw that he was indicating someone who was slowly drifting away from the scene.

  Someone wearing the horned god costume.

  She nodded to Will in acknowledgment.

  The horned god moved away, toward the road. She waited. He moved again, and she followed.

  After a couple of blocks, he headed down a side street, toward the graveyard. She followed.

  When she reached the area, she cursed silently. She’d lost track of her quarry.

  Dusk was coming, but the gate hadn’t been locked yet. Jenna walked into the cemetery. In the misted light, she closed her eyes against the souls who seemed to hover around the graves, so
me aware of one another and chatting quietly, and one following a tourist from stone to stone, tugging at her sweater now and then and laughing delightedly when she looked around to see who was touching her.

  Jenna wandered toward the area near the rear of the wax museum, reading stones as she went along. Some were very sad, so many having died at such a young age.

  She felt something behind her back and whirled around. It wasn’t a person; no one wearing a horned god outfit.

  It was the same older man who had warned her away before, the ghost who had wanted her to know that she was being stalked. Of course, she was being stalked by the boy, Marty Keller, but the ghost hadn’t known that.

  “Go! Go!” he told her.

  He lifted a thin arm, pointing toward the huge tree that had grown right through the centuries-old graves. “Hurry!”

  But as he spoke, a figure emerged from the tree—a figure in the horned god costume.

  He was wielding an ax. He hefted it in his hands.

  Another kid trying to scare her?

  There were still others in the cemetery, but they were more toward the memorial benches.

  “Put it down!” she said angrily. “I’m calling the police!” She reached into her bag for her cell phone.

  The horned god immediately charged, ax swinging.

  Just like in her visions.

  16

  “I can’t imagine why she’s not here yet,” Angela said, taking a seat at the wine bar. “I talked to her quite some time ago. She was visiting the members of the church, but she should have been back by now.”

  Sam frowned, wondering why he felt such an instant jab of fear. He dialed Jenna’s number, and he was rewarded with her answering machine.

  “What if the church members…”

  “No, no!” Angela said. “A mom went home with two kids. I saw her, Sam, and I don’t know how to explain it, but no—they wouldn’t have hurt her!”

  Sam wasn’t sure that he believed that at all. He stood and looked at Angela and Jackson. “Sorry, you wait here for her. Angela, give me that address. I’m going over.”