Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “I want to see the photos.”

  “Fine. Do you want that included with the autopsy packet or separate? It’s your call.”

  Brownie thought for a moment. The autopsy report would go straight to Davis and then to the lieutenant. “Send the print report and the pictures to me at my home. And don’t itemize them on the autopsy file.”

  “Done,” Bellini said. “Any progress with the investigation?”

  “No,” Brownie replied. “Not at the moment. But there will be soon.”

  Sallie Allen was in a motel room on the Pennsylvania interstate.

  Her laptop was set up on the small desk, and her fax phone was plugged into the wall jack. She was clicking away on the keys, roughing out her story.

  After the scene with Ruth, she’d wasted no time getting out. She retrieved her notepad and tape recorder from her cabin and raced for the gate, envisioning her head being stuffed in the rattler barrel the whole way. When she reached the entrance, she found it locked. Then she saw headlights approaching from the compound. She scrambled into the bushes, cutting up her legs. The car took a turn by the gate, then bounced down a dirt road paralleling the south fence. They were looking for her!

  Sallie ran to the wire and started to climb, gasping and clawing her way to the top. She threw her leg over the barbs in time to see the headlights coming back. Then she flung herself off the other side, hitting the ground hard, rolling, and running for the woods.

  The rest of the night she intermittently ran and rested, putting as much distance between herself and the quarry as she could. Ruth had really scared her. His alluring exterior was deceiving. Underneath that blond fluff he was as venomous as his snakes.

  By dawn she was finally able to make it to town. Thanks to a grizzled farmer in a flattop truck, she caught a lift to an auto rental shop and picked up a car. And now here she was, fifty miles away, scared, nervous, and tired, piecing together her masterpiece.

  Beside the word processor lay a police teletype, faxed in from New York. Sallie had phoned her publisher and asked them to check any police activity involving CAIN. The news blackout at the quarry had kept her in the dark as to the mystery beyond the fence. And now it was clear: there was a suspicious death incident under investigation. The details were spare, but it filled her blanks. A black man had died and the cops were checking it out. Ruth and CAIN had to be involved.

  Sallie now played her keys: “He speaks of love and the word of God, but his heart is evil. His subjects follow and obey, mesmerized by his power and his charm….”

  The phone rang. Sallie clamped it against her neck.

  “Yeah?” Her hands were busy.

  “How’s it going?” It was her editor, Phyllis Downs.

  “In progress.”

  “How soon can we get copy?”

  Sallie hit the enter key and jumped to a new paragraph. “Today. This afternoon.”

  “Good. Staff might give you the cover if it’s up to snuff.”

  Sallie stopped typing. “Cover story?” That was a huge step up for her. She was usually filler.

  “Make it good, and we’ll see.”

  Sallie smiled and rubbed a sore spot on her knee. “Get the artwork ready,” she said. “This one’s a doozy.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Sallie hung up the phone and went back to her keys. The words and images were flowing fast, and she could hardly keep up with herself. Her first cover! It was a dynamite piece, a blockbuster. This was a story that no one would ever forget.

  Paulie Brown stood in the backyard of his aunt’s house and looked across the Blocktown valley. He had Brownie’s wide face and heavyset muscular physique. But light-years separated their souls.

  Paulie had abandoned his surname and hometown long ago. He had adopted the Africanized name Katanga and moved to Washington, D.C., where he worked at a drug rehabilitation center in a run-down ward. He dressed tribally and read revisionist history. And he distrusted white people big-time.

  “What you doin’, Paulie?” his aunt asked.

  “Looking at your town, Aunt Gladys.” His mother’s youngest sister was his favorite relative. Slim and bespectacled, she was a devout, kind-hearted woman. And her cooking was superb.

  “Thinkin’ about Daddy?”

  Paulie turned. “Yeah…” He and Joseph had had a rocky relationship, too, over a cloud of issues. But Joseph was blood, and his passing hit hard.

  “I wish you and Joseph junior had done better,” she said sadly.

  “Don’t start on that.”

  “You are brothers.“

  He smirked.

  “You need to talk,” Gladys suggested.

  “No, we don’t.”

  Gladys put her hand on his thick arm. “Daddy hated this thing with you two. Could never understand what happened.”

  Paulie stared into her eyes. “Yes, he did.“

  “Can’t you let it go? Now? after all this time? As a tribute to Daddy?”

  “My daddy is dead. Killed. Snuffed. Drive-hyed…. I Haven’t you heard?”

  “Don’t listen to Reverend Taylor. He’s a troublemaker.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s been riling things up since he come out here. Daddy didn’t think much of him. Refused to join his church.”

  “Yeah?” Strange how he was the keynote speaker at the service.

  “We got to move on,” Gladys said. “Start puttin’ things back together. Stop talkin’ nonsense.”

  “You people amaze me,” Paulie replied. “You live on the slave plantation, and you still have a slave mentality!”

  “Don’t talk that way.”

  “Why don’t you wake up? Why don’t you see what is really happening to your lives? Why do you keep making excuses for yourselves?”

  Gladys shook her head. “Please, Paulie.”

  “Daddy is dead because someone killed him. Some white-skinned slave master.”

  “Please,” Gladys begged. “That’s not true. It was his poor old heart!”

  “It mighta been his heart, but someone helped it along.”

  “No…”

  “And you and your God-loving brother this, and sister that, deny it. You accept what the man dishes out like you always have. A hundred years, and nothing’s changed!”

  “Paulie…” Her voice was trembling.

  “But I don’t have to accept it!”

  Gladys put her arms around her nephew and held him.

  “I’ll never accept it!”

  “Please, Paulie.”

  “Never!”

  “Don’t do nothin’,” Gladys whispered. “Please.”

  But he ignored her. He was looking toward the meadow and the woods, north, where two miles distant there was a giant gash in the earth enclosed by a stretch of metal fence.

  Thomas Ruth was agitated. Sallie’s defection had set the camp on edge. He’d been warned about intruders, spies in their midst, but this one had slipped through despite the screening procedure. He’d suspected Sallie earlier, but her willingness to walk the valley had temporarily convinced him she was harmless. And then she was seen poking around in places where she had no business. Whether she was a cop, private investigator, or something else, it really didn’t matter. There was nothing in the quarry to see. He’d made sure of that. Whatever Sallie was up to would not pan out. They were clean from top to bottom. But the deception still bothered him.

  Ruth unlocked the gate and drove out of the compound. It was late afternoon, not exactly the best time, but he had to get out and make contact, explain the situation.

  He turned right and headed west, toward the retreating sun. The sharp rays hurt his eyes, despite his dark glasses, and he slapped the visor down to block them. His head was pounding again. After another no-sleep night and a half dozen extra pills, his brain still felt like it was on fire. Thanks to Sallie, no doubt. He’d only tried to scare her up on the ledge, shake her up a little, teach her a lesson. He’d never have thrown her over the edge. That wasn’t
his style. But she’d still gotten inside his throbbing skull.

  Ruth continued driving, checking his rearview for traffic. The cutoff was a half mile up, and he didn’t want anyone to see him make the turn. He slowed through a tunnel of overhanging maple trees, cutting past the dancing shadows that the leaves made as they swayed in the wind. For a second, he flashed back to a scene a lifetime ago. He felt panic in his throat, saw muddy Boots, heard voices. Ruth swallowed and the car came out of the trees. He took several deep breaths and tried to stabilize. His head was still pounding.

  The turnoff was just ahead. Ruth checked the mirror again.

  “Shit.” There was a car coming up behind. He slowed to let it pass, not wanting to overrun his secret road.

  The car kept coming but didn’t move over to the other lane. “Pass,” Ruth said.

  But the car slowed and pulled up close behind.

  “Shit!” Ruth repeated.

  The car was very close now, almost on his bumper. Close enough for Ruth to see the blue-and-red bubble lamp spinning angrily on its dashboard.

  seven

  Attorney Kent King removed a financial ledger from his office desk, flipped it open, and examined the last two months’ billings. Client names and case numbers filled the left-hand margin, and retainer balances were recorded in a column on the right. He ran his finger down the page, to the current status of his income account. A hefty five-digit cash-available figure lay on the bottom line.

  King smiled and shut the book. Business was good, and fees were at an all-time high. He could coast awhile if he wanted to, or take a sabbatical. There was no pressure to keep rooting clients out of the county’s underworld.

  King was a predatory litigator, the wild man of the local bar. Tall, darkly handsome, and well built, he had a penchant for sports cars and designer suits. And he was constantly searching for the ultimate “gotcha” against Gardner Lawson. King had risen from the Baltimore slums, and Lawson had been born to privilege. King was street, and Lawson was country club. King defended evil, and Lawson represented good. And that made them natural enemies.

  The intercom buzzed, and King depressed the lever. “Yeah?”

  “You have a visitor,” his secretary said.

  King glanced at his appointment book. No clients listed this morning. He was scheduled to play golf in about twenty minutes. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “A Mr. Thomas Ruth.”

  King rubbed his chin. He’d heard about Ruth through his information highway, the defense attorney scuttlebutt channel. “Send the gentleman in,” he said.

  The door opened and Thomas Ruth entered. He was dressed in a black shirt and pants. His face was grim. They shook hands and King pointed to a chair.

  Ruth sat down. “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment,” he said softly.

  “No problem. I’m glad you came in. How can I be of service?”

  Ruth leaned forward. “I need advice.”

  “I’m in the advice business,” King replied. “Would this be about a man found dead on a country road?” He knew about the investigation and all its implications.

  “I’m not involved in that,” Ruth protested.

  King eyed him skeptically. Criminals sat there every day and declared their innocence. “I’m not a judgmental person, Mr. Ruth. I don’t give a damn if you were, or you were not. It makes no difference to me. I’ll defend you either way.”

  “CAIN, my church, Church of the Ark, is a peaceful, law-abiding organization. But…”

  King cocked his head.

  “Someone else may have committed the crime, someone outside of CAIN, without my knowledge or approval—”

  “Hold it,” King interrupted. “You are either involved in these activities or you’re not. Which is it?”

  “I have done nothing.”

  “But?”

  “But i might know who did.”

  King picked up a pen. “You might know or you do know?”

  Ruth leaned back. “Might know.”

  “And did you facilitate the activities in any way? Did you aid them or abet them?”

  “No.”

  King made a note.

  “What if someone was killed?” Ruth continued. “What if I knew about it? Does that make me criminally responsible?”

  “I cannot respond to generalities, Mr. Ruth. You have to spell it out for me. Who got killed and who did the killing?”

  Ruth looked down.

  “You have to tell me if you want my help.”

  Ruth reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bottle. He opened the cap and popped something into his mouth. King tried to read the label, but it went back into the pocket too fast. Ruth took several deep breaths and closed his eyes.

  “You okay?” King asked.

  “Hypertension,” Ruth said, “sorry. I have another legal problem.” King stared across his desk. “What about the one we’ve been discussing?”

  “I can’t tell you any more about it. All I can say is that I would never kill anyone. I detest killing. I was afraid that I might be held accountable just by knowing.”

  “If you took no action to aid and abet and you have disassociated yourself from the criminal enterprise, you’re in the clear. Mere knowledge of a felony is not a crime. But if you did more than know, if you conspired in some way to make it happen, you’re as guilty as the actual perpetrator.”

  Ruth listened silently.

  “That’s all I can advise under the circumstances. Unless you tell me more, I’ll have to leave it there. I don’t deal in hypotheticals. I deal in reality.”

  “I understand.”

  “What’s the other problem?”

  Ruth didn’t answer.

  “The other problem?” King’s tee time was approaching.

  “My life has been threatened.”

  “By whom?”

  “A police officer.”

  King’s eyebrows arched. “County police?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did he do?”

  “Pulled my car over, cursed me, harassed me, said I’d committed a crime, said I’d be executed for it.”

  King jotted more notes. “When and where did this take place?”

  “The past few days. On Mountain Road.”

  “Anyone witness this?”

  “I don’t think so. The area’s isolated. Can you make him stop?”

  King smiled. “Absolutely. I can file a restraining order requiring the officer to cease and desist all contact with you unless he lodges a formal criminal complaint.”

  Ruth closed his eyes and put his hand over his face.

  “Mr. Ruth?” He didn’t seem to Be listening. The hand came down, but the eyes stayed closed. “With an emergency petition in civil court I can obtain a hearing in a couple of days. The judge will get him off your back.”

  Ruth opened his eyes and nodded in slow motion.

  “This doesn’t mean they’ll quit,” King warned. “They could still come at you with another cop. But this particular officer will have to leave you alone.”

  Ruth gazed toward the ceiling. “And the Red Sea parted and swallowed the chariots.”

  “What?” King didn’t follow.

  “And the waters consumed Pharaoh’s men.”

  King finally got it. “At least one of Pharaoh’s men, anyway.” He wrote “Restraining order petition” on his pad.

  Ruth began to stand up.

  “Hold on,” King said. “I still need information.”

  Ruth wavered on his feet, his forehead damp with perspiration. “Got to get some air.”

  “One second,” King answered. “I have an additional question, then you can take a breather.”

  Ruth steadied himself against the chair.

  King looked him in the eye. “I need to know the officer’s name.”

  Jennifer raced into Gardner’s office and threw a magazine on his desk. It was midday, and she’d left for lunch at Russel’s ten minutes ago. But now she was
back, red-faced and huffing. “Look,” she gasped.

  Gardner put down his dictaphone and picked up the magazine. It was folded open to the center, but he turned to the cover: Interview, an exposé-type glossy with worldwide circulation. There was a picture of the granite quarry, and a headline in bold type: THE RISE OF CAIN.

  Gardner looked at Jennifer. “What is this?”

  “Read it,” she replied, sitting down to catch her breath.

  “A remote county in western Maryland is the setting for a most profound tragedy,” Gardner quoted. “In that pristine locale, a smooth-talking hate salesman named Thomas Ruth is purveying the latest in lunatic fringe: The Church of the Ark, Incorporated. This so-called religious organization, which goes by the sinister acronym CAIN, is secluded in a granite fortress, plotting acts of terror.”

  Gardner looked up. “Christ.”

  “Keep going. It gets worse.”

  “The preacher uses the Bible to conceal his true intent. He talks of faith and love within the compound fence, but across town, in the African-American community, a man lies dead. Tied up and tortured, the elderly gentleman’s heart gave out. Sources say CAIN was involved, but they will neither confirm nor deny to which extent.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Gardner couldn’t believe it. This was a disaster.

  “Keep reading,” Jennifer said.

  “CAIN draws its followers from society’s inventory of throwaway lives. To ensure their loyalty and commitment, Thomas Ruth forces them to walk barefoot through a pit of rattlesnakes—” Gardner put the magazine down. “How in God’s name did this happen?”

  “Undercover reporter.”

  Gardner turned the page.

  Jennifer pointed to a boxed-in segment. “Sallie Allen, Investigative Daredevil,” it said. “She goes anywhere for a story.” There was a picture of Sallie in the cockpit of a jet fighter.

  “Reporters.” Gardner groaned.

  “Read the rest,” Jennifer advised. “They even mention us.”

  Gardner scanned the remainder of the article. “The county police and State’s Attorney’s office have been powerless to stop the spread of CAIN. A spokesperson for the prosecutor would only say the matter is under investigation.” Gardner looked up. “Spokesperson? We don’t even have a spokesperson!”