Deadliest of Sins

by Sallie Bissell

  “I’ll get you a soda and tell you everything I know,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to do until the baseball game tonight.”

  Nine

  That the poison ivy was payback for the day before did not surprise Chase; Gudger’s favorite means of discipline usually involved scrubbing or painting or picking bugs off his tomato plants. What gave him pause was the enormity of the task. The poison ivy draped kudzu-like over Gudger’s back fence for half the length of a football field, seemingly sending out even more hungry tendrils as he stood there looking at it. All morning he’d worked, yet he’d only cleared about a yard of growth. Now the sun was high and blistering; sweat stung Chase’s eyes as mosquitoes whined around his ears. When he stepped back and looked at what he’d accomplished, he realized that it would probably take him the rest of the summer to grub out this fence.

  Mindful of the sticky poisonous sap that covered his gloves, he pulled them off finger-by-finger, then took off his shirt. As the breeze cooled his sweat-soaked back, he sat down in the shade of a non-ivy-contaminated tree. All morning he’d kept an eye on Gudger, or at least on Gudger’s car. He’d decided if it ever left the driveway, Chase was heading for the other end of the fence to get his backpack and Mary Crow’s card. But Gudger, apparently, had no travel plans. Suzie Q just sat like a big black beetle, baking in the sun.

  He stared at the car, remembering the night Sam didn’t come home. They’d started worrying when Jay Leno went off—his mother pacing in front of the windows, Gudger first calling Sam’s cell phone, then his cop buddy Crump, then making an official report to the police. Hours later the cops had called back on the landline, saying they’d found Gudger’s car but not a trace of Sam. They’d brought the car back, after the forensic team had gone over it. For days afterward his mother had gone out and sat in it, touching the steering wheel, stroking the upholstery, as if Suzie Q might be coaxed into telling what had happened.

  “I bet the car knows,” Chase whispered, staring as the heat shimmered from its black roof.

  “Knows what?” the voice came over his shoulder, out of nowhere. Chase jumped, turned. Gudger stood there, dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt, Taser hanging from his belt. “Are you talking to yourself now, Olive Oyl?”

  “Uh-huh.” He’d learned it went better if he just agreed with Gudger, regardless of whatever stupid thing he said.

  “Well, yourself better tell you to get back to work.” Gudger tossed him an apple and a can of Coke. “I’ve got to go to the hardware store. When I get back, I’d better see a lot more fence cleared than I’m seeing now.”

  “Yes sir.” Chase lowered his head, trying to hide his excitement. The hardware store was ten minutes away! Gudger would be gone long enough for him to get that backpack!

  He gulped the Coke, watching as Gudger walked down to the car. Suzie Q’s motor roared to life as her brake lights came on. A moment later, she and Gudger rolled down the driveway. Chase waited until they turned down Kedron Road, then leapt to his feet. Ten minutes to the hardware store, ten minutes in there, then ten minutes back. He’d have half an hour to find the backpack, get the card, and call Mary Crow.

  He raced along the fence line, ignoring the branches of poison ivy that slapped against his bare chest. The back of Gudger’s house came into view, then the stacked up remnants of the swimming pool. Finally, he reached the toolshed. The clothes he’d taken off the night before still lay in a pile. For an instant his cheeks flamed as he wondered if Gudger had truly posted those pictures of him on YouTube. Then he shrugged it off; nobody would laugh at him until school started in August. Right now all he wanted was to find that backpack.

  He slowed, retracing his steps, searching the deep green underbrush that crowded up from Mrs. Carver’s back yard. He remembered dropping the backpack close to the fence, near a fallen tree, but he couldn’t remember exactly where. Walking slowly, he searched the thicket all the way to the end of the fence without seeing a thing. A moment of panic gripped him—had Gudger found his backpack? Did he now have his EVEDINSE files? Please no, he prayed. Please anything but that.

  He took a deep breath and turned to retrace his steps again. Now he was going in the same direction as he had yesterday—maybe that would make it easier to find. Inching along the fence line, he peered into the underbrush. He saw a squirrel dart through the leaves, a mottled rock that could have been a snapping turtle, then he saw something shining through the branches of a bush. He hurried toward it. It was his backpack! His dad’s old blue carabiner clip glinted in the dappled sunlight.

  He leaned over the fence, pulled the thing to him. Cradling it like a football, he raced for the house. It had taken him far longer to find the backpack than he could have imagined. Gudger would be coming home any minute. He ran past the toolshed, over the ground still wet from the slaughtered swimming pool, across the patio, and into the house. He headed straight for his room, throwing his backpack on the floor. He held his breath as he unzipped it. To his great relief, his EVEDINSE file lay undisturbed, along with Mary Crow’s business card. He grabbed the card, stashed the backpack on the floor of his closet, and raced for the den. He had only moments now to reach Mary Crow before Gudger got home.

  He glanced out the window, to make sure no black car was rumbling up the driveway. All he saw was the white fence that surrounded Gudger’s front yard, and two small goldfinches pecking at the bird feeder his mother had put out. He hurried to the phone, dialed the number, awkward with the process of sticking his finger in seven different little holes and letting them spin. The phone seemed to work okay, though. After a few clicks, Mary Crow’s number began to ring. He turned toward the window to watch for Gudger when his heart sank. Suzie Q’s chrome grille glittered like a menacing smile as the car slowly rolled up the driveway.

  “Answer,” he whispered, his legs beginning to tremble. “Answer now!”

  The phone rang again. He ducked to the floor as Gudger drove past the house and pulled the car into the garage. In just a minute he would be inside the house.

  “Please,” he cried, begging now. “At least let your answering machine pick up!”

  The growl of Suzie Q’s engine stopped. He heard her door open. He was just about to put the heavy black receiver back in the cradle when a voice said hello. Not an answering machine, but a real person.

  “Miss Crow?” he gasped, fighting tears.

  “Yes?” She sounded puzzled, as if she didn’t recognize him.

  “This is Chase Buchanan, from yesterday?” He hopped on one leg as he watched Gudger get out of the car.

  “Well, hi, Chase. How are you doing?”

  “Miss Crow, my sister Sam called last night!”

  “That’s great!” Mary replied. “I told you she would.”

  “No!” he cried, breathless. “You don’t understand. She called on Gudger’s landline. She’s in trouble! She needs help!”

  “Did you tell your mother? Call the police?” asked Mary.

  “No, Gudger came in and grabbed the phone out of my hand.” He looked out the window. Gudger was heading straight for the back door. “I gotta go. Please call the cops for me—its Sam’s only chance!”

  Before she could answer, the little boy had hung up, his voice replaced by a dial tone. Mary clicked off her cell phone, ashamed that the child had not crossed her mind all morning.

  “Everything okay?” Galloway asked softly from behind his desk.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “This weird little kid came to my office yesterday—said he’d hitchhiked up to Asheville on a peach truck. He claimed his stepfather had sold his sister and wanted to hire me to find her. He’s from this county—you may have heard of the case.”

  “What’s the name?” asked Galloway.

  “Buchanan. The kid’s name is Chase, he calls his sister Sam.”

  “Samantha Buchanan,” said Galloway. “She was the big story
before Reverend Trull stole the show.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “She vanished on her way home from babysitting. They found her car over on Jackson Highway—lights on, motor running, purse and wallet intact. Everything intact except Samantha, who wasn’t there at all.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  “I don’t know … I came on board here after that happened.” His blue eyes flickered toward his open door. “Hey, Crump,” he called to someone out in the hall.

  “Yeah?” A tall man with graying hair stuck his head in the door. A sergeant’s chevron decorated the sleeve of his uniform.

  “Come tell this nice lady from the governor’s office what you know about Samantha Buchanan.”

  Crump stepped inside the office and basically repeated the same story Galloway had told her. “We’re pretty sure she met up with a boyfriend,” he added. “Nothing else makes sense.”

  “That’s not what her little brother thinks,” said Mary, relating what Chase had told her. Crump listened, then shook his head.

  “That little Buchanan punk is probably one of the reasons his sister ran away. The kid’s a nut case.”

  “Oh?” Mary thought of the hungry little boy who’d inhaled a half-pound hamburger before she’d gotten her napkin in her lap.

  “Yeah. He used to call in a couple of times a week. One day it would be a robber trying to break in the house, a few days later it would be the people next door, cooking ice. He had some kind of old Civil War pistol—it’s a miracle he didn’t shoot himself in the ass.”

  “Did you respond?” asked Mary.

  “Every time—Ralph Gudger would usually lead the charge. He was dating the boy’s mother and thought maybe some of his old collars were harassing the kids, but that never materialized. Then, after Gudger married the kid’s mother, the calls stopped.”

  “Did you know the boy’s terrified of Gudger?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Crump. “Gudger always said the kid needed to man up—I imagine he’s trying to make that happen.”

  “This Gudger sounds like a real piece of work,” said Mary, remembering how the boy had huddled in her car, quivering like some animal caught in a trap.

  Crump nodded. “Gudger’s tough. I’ve known him for years. He’s an ex-army MP, a no-shit kind of guy. Life with him was probably too tough for the girl. The boy’ll likely run away, too, if he ever grows the nuts to do it. You know how these blended families are.”

  Mary winced at the memory of her own failed blended family. Yeah, she knew how exactly how those families were.

  “You playing ball tonight?” Crump turned his attention to Gallo-

  way.

  “Right field for the Saints,” said Galloway. “Come on out and cheer for me.”

  “No thanks,” said Crump. “I’ve worked security for that durn church for the last five nights. I’m parking my ass and a six pack in front of TV tonight and watching a real game. No pussy church league for me.”

  Galloway lifted a hand. “I hear you, brother. Thanks for stopping by.”

  As Crump ambled out the door, the new detective turned back to Mary. “So how come this Buchanan kid’s gotten under your skin? I thought you were the governor’s hired gun.”

  “I don’t know—you’ve got to admire any eleven-year-old who hitches to Asheville to hire a lawyer to nail his stepfather. It sounds to me like he’s got plenty of moxie already.”

  Galloway laughed. “Tell you what—let’s make a deal. I’ll check out this Gudger’s phone records if you’ll come cheer me on at the baseball game.”

  She looked at him as if he’d gone crazy. “You want me to cheer for you and the One Way Saints?”

  “It’s not just my fragile male ego,” he said. “I need better cover. I’ve been knee-deep in Trull’s church for three weeks, solo. They’re going to start thinking I’m gay if I don’t show up with a girl at some point.”

  “So you want me to be your beard?”

  “You could call it that.”

  Her first inclination was to tell him she had a busy evening of washing her hair planned. But then she realized Victor Galloway was her only inroad into what was really going on at Trull’s church. It would be nice to report back to Ann Chandler with some inside information.

  “Okay.” Mary smiled. “Where do I go?”

  “Armory Park, diamond two. Just sit in the One Way bleachers and cheer whenever I do something right.”

  Ten

  Mary left Victor Galloway’s office with directions to the baseball field. Since she had several hours before the One Way Saints were scheduled to take the field, she ate a quick lunch and drove over to Sligo County. According to Richard Drake, Sligo had indicted someone for the murder of a homosexual, but couldn’t get a conviction. Mary wanted to find out as much as she could about the person accused and how they’d managed to walk away from a long stretch in prison. Killing was killing, regardless of whom the victim liked to sleep with.

  John Kephart was District Attorney of Sligo County. He seemed more of an old-school politician than the self-important Richard Drake—shaggy gray hair, glasses on the end of his nose. He greeted her in a short-sleeved shirt, with a pencil stuck behind one ear.

  “Hello, Ms. Crow,” he said, smiling. “It’s nice to finally meet you …

  the governor really sings your praises.”

  “Thanks,” said Mary. “If you’ve spoken with the governor, then you must know why I’m here.”

  Kephart reached for a thick manila folder lying on the credenza behind his desk. “Alan Bratcher,” he replied, dropping the folder in front of Mary. “A gay kid who made a pass at a guy named Buck Honeycutt. Honeycutt took a very dim view of Bratcher’s affections.”

  Mary opened the file and looked at the autopsy photo. As in the other case, it looked like a handsome young man had gotten his face caught in a buzz saw.

  “It was basically a bar fight that went way overboard,” explained Kephart. “We went after Honeycutt for manslaughter, but the jury wouldn’t convict.”

  “Was this your case?” asked Mary.

  “I gave it to Penny Morse, our new hire out of Carolina.”

  Mary frowned. “You gave this case to a rookie?”

  “She requested it … she’d done some pro bono work at Chapel Hill for a gay student alliance.”

  “Could I get a transcript of the trial?”

  “Absolutely.” Kephart reached for the phone, then said, “But wouldn’t you rather just talk to Penny? She could give you all the details and you could give her a pep talk—she’s been pretty glum over this whole thing.”

  Mary remembered her first capital case. A basic slam-dunk, but she’d still lost ten pounds getting her argument together. The fifty-minute jury deliberation had felt like fifty years. “It would be tough to lose your first case.”

  “I told her to play it straight—go for simple Man One. Defense opened the gay door, and the jury bought it. Like I told your boss, we can’t convict someone of a crime that isn’t on the books. Add sexual orientation to the hate crime statute, and we’ll start prosecuting accordingly.”

  “That’s a tough sell in the current legislature,” replied Mary. “The rainbow flag doesn’t fly so high in Raleigh.”

  “It doesn’t fly at all in Sligo County,” said Kephart. “The majority of folks here believe in that old bromide about Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

  “Then what do gay people do here?” she asked.

  “If they’re smart, they leave.” He rose from his chair. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Penny.”

  He led her down the hall, knocking once before he opened a closed office door. A thin young blond woman looked up from her desk, startled. She wore a navy jacket and pearls, and reminded Mary of a doe flushed from the underbrush. “Yes sir?” she asked.

>   “Penny, I’d like you to meet Mary Crow. She’s from the governor’s judicial task force. She’d like to talk to you about the Alan Bratcher case.”

  The new hire from Carolina stood up, the color draining from her face.

  “Hi, Penny,” Mary said, wanting to put the young lawyer at ease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck out her hand. Penny shook it with icicle fingers.

  “I’ll let you two talk,” said Kephart. “Ms. Crow, if you need anything more from me, I’ll be in my office.”

  “Thanks.” Mary smiled as the DA disappeared down the hall. Then she closed Penny Morse’s door and sat down across from her. The woman still stood like someone facing a firing squad.

  “Mr. Kephart said you were coming to town, to look over the Honeycutt case.” Penny gulped. “I blew it, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mary. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  Penny sat down, reciting the details of the crime—in a crowded bar, Alan Bratcher had put an arm around Buck Honeycutt’s shoulders. The action infuriated Honeycutt, who later beat Bratcher up in the parking lot of the bar. Three eyewitnesses testified to the whole thing; brain-dead Bratcher lived for three days until his parents pulled the plug.

  “That’s horrible.” Mary grimaced at the viciousness of the crime. “And the jury still wouldn’t convict? Even for Man One?”

  “I was feeling pretty good about it. Then the defense counsel got up and claimed that Bratcher had made a pass at Honeycutt.”

  “And the jury went sour?”

  “No, I figured the defense would go there. So I entered testimony that established Honeycutt as a homophobe with anger-management issues. I subpoenaed witnesses who testified Honeycutt had made similar gestures to them.” Penny’s eyes grew moist. “I even showed an old video of a Sligo County High football game where Honeycutt had patted several of his teammates on their butts—far more intimate touching than Bratcher’s arm around his shoulders.”