Deadliest of Sins

by Sallie Bissell

  “Yeah. I heard some gay slang down there that might have a bearing on the Campbell County case. I can find out about it here a lot faster than down there.”

  “Okay, Mary,” he said. “You’re doing a great job. I’ll give the governor your report.”

  Mary hung up the phone, disgusted. “I just bet you will, Jake,” she whispered. “Wonder if it will bear the slightest resemblance to our phone conversation.”

  She sat down at her desk. Since she’d given the case file back to Galloway, she didn’t really have much in the way of notes. Still, she remembered the haunting words of Reverend Taylor’s murdered son: Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t get 74’ed here. They made no more sense here, at her desk, than they had in the Taylor living room. She needed to talk to someone in the gay community—maybe they would have a clue. The trouble was, she didn’t know any gay people here. She doubted that her neighbor, Mr. Kuntz, had had sex with anybody since 1952, and the people she’d chatted with in her karate class were either living with or married to partners of the opposite gender. Suddenly, she heard the ding of the elevator, arriving on the fifth floor.

  “Franklin!” she cried aloud. He seemed to know everything that was going on Asheville. Directing her to some gay folks shouldn’t be a problem. Leaping from her chair, she hurried out into the hall, catching Franklin as he was beginning to close the elevator door.

  “Franklin, wait!”

  He stopped, poked his head through the little brass grille. “I’m going up,” he said, as if warning her that he wasn’t in the mood for any riders.

  “I don’t want a ride,” she said. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know any gay men in Asheville?”

  He gave her a dark look. “Not in the Biblical sense.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I mean. I’m working on a murder case … I need to talk to somebody who’s you know, in the life.”

  “Walkin’ the walk, talkin’ the talk,” he chanted, his eyelids again drooping at half-mast.

  She fought an urge to shake him—this man was so stoned she wondered how he could stand up, much less run an elevator car up and down a building. “You know anybody like that?”

  “Pharisee.”

  “Pharisee?” She frowned. “As in Jesus and the Pharisees?”

  Franklin pointed at the ceiling. “No, as in Pharisee the bartender at the Sky Bar, up on seven. He’s gay and black. Come on and I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Can you wait till I lock up my office?”

  Giggling, he nodded his head. “The only bells I hear ringing are the ones in my head.”

  That afternoon, Mary was the Sky Bar’s first customer. A tiny place, most of its tables were located outside, on the fire escape of the building. With an amazing view of the city and the western mountains, it was a great place to have a drink and watch the sun go down. Accommodations had been made for those with acrophobia or vertigo—a dark little bar was tucked into a room not much bigger than a closet. Behind that bar stood a handsome young man who had the face of a dark angel and the body of a football linebacker.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you tonight?”

  “Are you Pharisee?” asked Mary.

  The young man’s gaze grew cautious. “Depends on who wants to know.”

  “I’m Mary Crow,” she explained. “I have an office on the fifth floor—I’m a special prosecutor for the governor. Franklin sent me up here.”

  Pharisee held up his hands. “I don’t know what Franklin told you, but I gave up smoking years ago.”

  “No, no.” Mary had to laugh. “This isn’t about smoking. I’m investigating crimes against gay people.”

  Pharisee’s gaze softened. “You mean hate crimes? Beating people up?”

  “Beating people to death, actually.”

  “Whoa, sister.” He frowned. “That happen here? In Asheville?”

  “No. Campbell County. A young man used an odd term before he was killed … have you ever heard the term ‘74’ed’? As in ‘I’ll never get 74’ed’?”

  Pharisee looked at her as if she’d just been resurrected from a time capsule. “Honey, down here gettin’ 74’ed means somebody’s vanished on you.”

  Mary frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Means out of here. Out of town, out of a relationship, out of someone’s life. You don’t have the guts to tell someone it’s over, you 74 ’em. You get 74’ed, then somebody’s dumped you.”

  Mary thought of Bryan Taylor’s body, crumpled by the side of the road. Somebody had certainly 74’ed him. “Is it a common expression? I mean, do they 74 people in Georgia, or New York?”

  He shook his head “I’m from DC—I never heard it until I came here. Since I started working here, I hear it all the time.” He turned and pulled a highball glass from the shelf. “You want to try my 74 Special?”

  Mary blinked, astonished. “There’s a drink named for it?”

  Pharisee nodded. “Invented myself. Five years ago, when I first came to town, seemed like every gay guy in town was coming up here drinking away a broken heart.”

  “Only gay guys?” asked Mary. “No gay girls?”

  “Not so much,” said Pharisee. “Girls go crying to their friends. Guys don’t do that.” He grabbed a bottle of bourbon and poured a shot of it in the glass. “They’d come in here all down in the mouth, saying they just got 74’ed. I got so tired of pouring Jack Daniels and Johnny Red that I invented this drink, just to keep things interesting.”

  Mary leaned forward. “But why 74? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It don’t.” Pharisee poured in a splash of some dark liquid, squeezed in some lime. “But it still means you’re hurting so bad you might not recover.”

  Again Mary thought of Bryan Taylor.

  He gave her a sly look as he started shaking the concoction up in a cocktail shaker. “You sure you’re really an investigator? You sure you’re not nursing a broken heart?”

  Mary smiled. Like any good bartender, Pharisee tried to read his clientele. But in this case, he’d guessed wrong. She’d given up nursing the heart Walkingstick had broken—nothing she tried ever seemed to fix it. “Why does my heart matter?”

  “Cause if you ain’t about to cry, I’ll give you the G-rated version of this drink. If you want to hide your tears, I’ll give you the X-rated version.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The heat index. You can sit up here and get warm and fuzzy, or you can cry your eyes out and everybody’ll think you just crunched a pepper.”

  “Oh, lay it on me, Pharisee. I want the total experience.”

  He poured some ginger beer in the cocktail shaker, threw in a dash of something else, then poured it in the highball glass with a long spear of cucumber. He served it to Mary with a smile. “Drink it and weep, girl.”

  She took a sip. It was delicious—fruity, but not sweet, the flavors complex. It wasn’t until her second sip that the heat began. It seemed to build from behind her eyes, enveloping her mouth. Her tongue tingled, sweat broke out on her forehead. As she looked at Pharisee, involuntary tears began streaming down her cheeks.

  “Bite the cuke,” he advised.

  She did, and just as suddenly, the heat was gone.

  “Wow,” she gasped. “That’s a really good drink.”

  “I’m the man, sugar,” said Pharisee. “Next time somebody 74 you, come see me. Pharisee’ll fix you up.”

  “How much do I owe you?” asked Mary, her eyes beginning to stream again as a new wave of heat kicked in.

  “On the house, baby. You fighting for us gay dudes, you okay.”

  Sixteen

  By three fifteen Gudger had learned that the black Miata pulled up in his driveway was registered to one Mary Crow, address Asheville
, North Carolina. Her driving record was clean; she had no prior judgments, no outstanding warrants. The person she claimed to be looking for, Jonathan Walkingstick, did not live anywhere on Kedron Road. In fact, no Jonathan Walkingstick lived anywhere in Campbell County. “What the fuck?” he’d asked his old buddy Crump, who’d called in the plate numbers for him. “Why would some woman from Asheville be on my property, asking directions for somebody who doesn’t exist?”

  “What’d she look like?” asked Crump.

  “Medium tall. Slender, short dark hair. Wore tan pants, turquoise earrings. Looked kind of Indian. Gave off a funny vibe—

  almost like a cop.” Gudger strode into his bathroom and closed the door. He didn’t want that idiot kid to hear any of this.

  “Some dark-haired girl cop was here, Gudge,” Crump said. “I talked with her the other day. She’s the governor’s super cop, come to light a fire under Drake about that gay kid’s case.”

  “But why would she come out here? And talk to Shithead?”

  Crump cleared his throat. “Uh, I think Shithead might have been talking to her.”

  Gudger went cold inside. “What?”

  “She was at the station, talking to the new hire. Then she started asking about your stepdaughter’s case. The new guy called me in, ’cause he knew I’d worked the case. The woman claimed that Shithead had come to see her about it, in Asheville.”

  “Asheville? How did Shithead get up there? He’s afraid to step off the front porch.”

  “I don’t know, but she knew all about Sam. I told her your kid was a head case and you were a stand-up guy.”

  “What did she say then?” Gudger was grasping his cell phone so hard his fingers had gone numb.

  “Nothing—we talked about families for a minute, then she said that stepparenting was dicey work. I don’t think she’s here about you, man,” Crump assured him. “She’s all about hanging that queer’s murder on Trull. She probably drove out to your place to tell Shithead he was crazy.”

  “I still can’t believe that little asshole went all the way to Asheville to talk to some girl cop about Sam.”

  “I don’t know, buddy. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Yeah,” said Gudger. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Thanks for running that plate for me, Crump. See you next week at poker.”

  Gudger clicked off the phone, then jerked the door open, expecting to see Chase standing there, eavesdropping. The room, however, was empty. All he saw was his bedspread smooth on his mattress, his dresser clean and uncluttered. Amy’s side of the room was considerably messier, but he couldn’t deal with Amy’s slovenliness now. Now he needed to deal with Amy’s son. With his heart beating like something trying to claw its way out of his chest, he pocketed his cell phone and headed for the den. He had to find out how bad this was, how deep this went.

  Shithead was sitting on the couch, watching some TV show about the Lewis and Clark expedition. He walked over, grabbed a handful of the boy’s hair, and lifted him to his feet. Chase’s face contorted in pain.

  “Ow!” he cried, trying to squirm away. “That hurts!”

  “You might be hurting a lot more in a few minutes. Turn off that TV, boy. You and I are gonna have a little talk.”

  He released the boy’s hair. Sniffling back tears, the kid grabbed the remote. The TV screen went black.

  “What’s the matter?” Chase asked. “I was just watching the History Channel.”

  Gudger stood there, legs spread, arms akimbo, glaring at the child. Though the medicine he’d brought the boy had turned his red blisters into a sick shade of pink, the kid still looked like his face had been cooked in a microwave. Gudger let him stand there for a long moment, then he spoke.

  “How the hell did you hook up with Mary Crow?”

  The boy paled beneath his welts. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know the pretty gal you were talking to when I came home?”

  “I-don’t know …”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? I know.” Gudger grinned. He’d caught the boy, dead to rights. “Mary Crow works for the governor. She came down here to poke around that gay murder case.”

  The boy had no answer. He just stood there, his eyes wide with fear.

  Gudger knelt down, nose to nose with Chase. “What I really wonder is why that particular woman, who works ninety miles away in Asheville, was on my front porch, asking directions to someone who doesn’t exist?”

  The boy’s chin began to quiver, but then he set his jaw and lowered his head, focusing his gaze on the floor.

  “You know what I think?” Gudger continued as the boy stared at his shoelaces. “I don’t think you’ve told me the truth all week. I don’t think you’ve told me the truth since the day I tore down that stupid pool.”

  He made no response, so Gudger kept on.

  “You said you spent the day playing in the creek and just lost track of the time. But I think maybe you were doing something else. Something you had no business doing. Am I right or am I wrong?”

  The boy stood silent.

  “You know, Chase, real men tell the truth. I bet if your daddy were here, he’d look me in the eye and tell me exactly what had happened that day.”

  The boy lifted his head, his eyes suddenly dark with hatred. “If my daddy were here, he’d break your jaw.”

  A rage went through Gudger—there seemed no way he could escape the ghost of John Buchanan. He felt him in his wife’s embrace, had seen him in the disgusted curl of Samantha’s lip—now he was here, in the person of his sniveling, knock-kneed son, threatening to break his jaw. This was it; he would hear from John Buchanan’s ghost no longer.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll just see about that, boy.”

  He stalked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of hot sauce from the kitchen cabinet, then returned. “I’ll give you one more chance … why were you talking to Mary Crow?”

  Chase looked at him, his mouth shut, but his eyes defiant.

  “Okay, buddy,” said Gudger. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He uncapped the bottle of red-orange liquid and started sprinkling it all over the boy’s poison ivy welts. Seconds later tears came to the boy’s eyes, then he started twisting and squirming as if fire ants were attacking him. He turned to run to the bathroom, but Gudger grabbed his hair and held him in place.

  “You answer my question, you can wash that stuff off. Until then, you’re staying right here.”

  Chase held out through two more applications of hot sauce, then as Gudger uncorked the bottle for the third time, he started to cry.

  “I went to see her about Sam,” he confessed, gasping as snot began to drip from his nose.

  “How’d you get up there?” cried Gudger. “Asheville’s a long way away.”

  “I hitched a ride on a peach truck.”

  Gudger looked at the boy, stunned. The fact that Shithead had hitched a ride to anywhere seemed as unlikely as his going out for the football team. “What did you tell her about Samantha?”

  Twitching, the boy furiously scratched the welts on his arms. “I told her I didn’t think the cops here had done enough about her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she’d look into it.” He wiped his nose. “Then she brought me home.”

  Gudger glared at him, hot sauce in hand. “What else?”

  “Nothing,” the boy said, miserable. “There wasn’t nothing else to tell.”

  “Why was she up here on the porch?”

  “She said nobody ever answers our phone, so she came by. She said Sam probably ran off with some boy, just like everybody else thinks.”

  Gudger looked at the kid. He doubted he was telling the whole story, but between the poison ivy and the hot sauce and the dripping snot, he was a mess. It
was going on five o’clock; Amy would be home soon. Though Amy was as flat a doormat as you’d find, she would not be pleased if she came home and found her precious son looking like this. “I’m not done with you, but for now, go get that stuff washed off.”

  Weeping, the little boy ran to the bathroom.

  “Just remember I gave you the chance to act like a man, Chase,” Gudger yelled through the door. “So don’t you go whining to your mama when she comes home.”

  While the boy went to clean himself off, Gudger retreated to the garage. He closed and locked the door behind him, then he reached behind the paint cans on one high shelf and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. He took a long pull, trying to slow the edgy thrumming that echoed in his head. He needed to calm down, think about the best thing to do. Had Shithead actually put everything together? All the stupid kid did was read books and watch the History Channel. Yet he’d connected the dots better than every cop in the county and then blabbed his stupid, crackpot theory to the governor’s girl in Asheville.

  “Damn!” he whispered, taking another swallow of whiskey. “Who knew the little fuck was so smart?”

  Now the question was, how much had Shithead figured out? And what had he told this Mary Crow? She’d seemed friendly enough when they talked, going on about being a stepparent. Still, there was something about her—behind the mascara and the pretty smile, her eyes were bright as a hawk’s, watching him in a way that made him nervous inside.

  Suddenly, he heard a car coming up the driveway. For an instant he panicked, thinking it was Mary Crow coming back, this time bringing real cops with her. But when he looked out the window—he saw only Amy’s Dodge. Damn, he thought. I need to get back inside before Shithead rats me out. But before that, he needed to call Smiley. Whatever trouble Shithead might cause would be a picnic in the park compared to what Smiley could do. Taking a steadying slug of whiskey, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in the first number on speed dial. Smiley answered immediately, his voice a growl.

  “Smiley, this is Gudger.”

  “Yeah?”

  Gudger swallowed hard, the Wild Turkey threatening to fly back up his throat. “We may have a problem.”