Erin Solomon Mysteries, Books 1 - 5

by Jen Blood

  When he was gone, Buddy handed me a handkerchief for my nose, now bleeding all over my shirt and tie.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what gets into you,” he said. “You know Barnel ain’t worth the energy. Nice to know you haven’t changed none in five years, though.” He looked at Solomon, who’d returned with her shoes at some point in the excitement. “You think you can get him cleaned up and cooled down?”

  She nodded with no enthusiasm. “Yeah, of course. Thanks. I’ll handle it.”

  The rest of the crowd left. I sat down on the front steps, Buddy’s hanky pressed to my nose. Solomon shook her head.

  “You’re hopeless, you know that?” She sat down beside me. “I was gone two minutes—what the hell happened?”

  I didn’t answer. Her arm was warm against mine, but the rest of the world had gone cold.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she asked finally, after the silence had closed in around us. “And you give me a straight answer?”

  I had a feeling I knew where she was headed, but I nodded anyway.

  “That scar on your chest—the one you won’t talk about? The one in exactly the same spot, exactly the same size, as Wyatt’s scar… Did Barnel do that?”

  She studied me as I thought about the question, waiting for the bleeding to stop and the throbbing in my nose and fist and chest to ease.

  “My old man was desperate when he sent me down here,” I said, finally. “I mean—obviously. How often does a mainstream Episcopal minister turn to backwoods Pentecostals for help?”

  “It does seem a little out of character for Daddy Diggs,” she noted.

  “You didn’t see him that year after my brother died,” I said. “He read about Barnel, and I guess he figured, ‘What the hell? What else are you gonna do when you’re raising Cain?’ ”

  “You didn’t kill your brother,” she said impatiently. “You skipped school and took him swimming when you were twelve. It’s not like you knifed him, for Christ’s sake. It was an accident, Diggs.”

  “My father doesn’t believe in accidents.”

  “Yeah, well your father has his head up his ass. No offense.” Her hand slid over mine, our fingers entwined. I fought the urge to pull back, the contact too much just then. I could feel her watching me. I didn’t meet her eye as I continued.

  “Be that as it may, he packed me up and sent me to Reverend Barnel’s church camp. And the rest is history.”

  “Really crappy history,” she said. “Part of it including a brand on your chest. Clearly, there’s more to the story than that.”

  This is why sharing things with Solomon is a pain in the ass: she’s not happy unless she’s got all the gruesome facts. I shrugged. “The whole thing is hard to explain unless you’re actually there to witness it. You’ll see tonight. I don’t want to ruin the full effect.”

  “We’re really going to that? You think Barnel’s just gonna welcome you back into the fold after your meltdown?”

  “He will,” I said. “I’m the one who got away—the one who never bought into all his bullshit. Trust me, he wants me back.”

  “Okay.” She took a breath, considering all this. “So, we go to the revival tonight. And you don’t try to kill anyone. That’s a deal breaker for me, FYI. But in the meantime, we’re supposed to be at the cemetery laying your oldest, dearest friend to rest, and you look like you came out on the wrong side in the UFC.”

  “I know. I’m a genius.”

  “You are. But luckily, you have me.” She stood, pulled me to my feet, and we walked back to the car in silence. She got her suitcase from the trunk and riffled through while I stared out at the horizon. When she returned to my side, she had a blue button-up shirt in hand.

  “Here.”

  I made no move to take it. “Is that Juarez’s?”

  If it was possible, she looked even more miserable about the situation than I was. “I spent the weekend in DC before I came out here—it got mixed up with my stuff. I’m sorry. Unless you want to wear one of my tank tops, this is all I have.”

  “No. That’s fine.” I took off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt roughly, and pulled on her boyfriend’s Oxford. “It’s a little tight,” I said. “You know what they say about a man with a small shirt.”

  She took my bloody clothes and tossed them into the backseat. “Spare me. I’ll try to date someone closer to your size next time.”

  “Good,” I said with a nod. “See that you do.”

  Chapter Seven - Danny

  Danny thought he’d suffocate in the church. There were so many people—he’d never realized just how big his family was. It turned out family was the least of it, though, because then there was Barnel and his people out there hollering lies, and his daddy there in the casket, and Ida crying, and Mama trying to hold on even though her whole world might as well be over. He sat there beside Rick, both of ’em quiet, and he just kept repeating to himself: Keep it together. It’s almost over.

  But when it was over, it only got worse. Danny watched the preacher close the lid on his daddy’s coffin, and it hit him like a running tackle in the end zone—just took his knees out from under him and knocked the breath right out of his lungs:

  He was really gone.

  Danny rode to the cemetery with the family, and he stayed with them while they lowered the coffin into the ground. He kept it together when his Mama wrapped her arms around him and held on, whispered in his ear, “You had your differences, but your daddy was so proud of you.”

  He just kept hanging on.

  Finally, back at the house, he told Rick he was going out. “I’ve gotta practice. The band needs me.”

  Rick frowned. “Can’t you give it a rest just one day? Mama doesn’t want you takin’ off—you should be here to look after things.”

  “I thought that’s what you was here for,” Danny said. “Trust me, they won’t even know I’m gone.”

  “That’s bull and you know it,” he said, his back up now. Rick was a little smaller than Danny, but he was in better shape thanks to tennis and runnin’ and whatever else kept him busy while Danny was out causing trouble. Back in the day, Danny could usually be sure he’d win in a fight. Now, that wasn’t so likely. Win or lose didn’t matter just then, though; Danny didn’t have any interest in fighting.

  Diggs showed up from around the corner, looking hangdog and tired. Danny had missed it when he went after Jesup Barnel, but it looked like Diggs got the worst of it: his nose was swollen and his lip was split, his right eye turning purple. Danny wished he’d been there to see it.

  “Let him go,” Diggs told Rick.

  Rick turned on him, pissed. “But Mama said—”

  “I’ll smooth things over with Mae,” Diggs said. “Just take it easy, Rick. Why don’t you go take a breather yourself? It’ll do you some good.”

  He walked off before Rick could make anymore fuss. Danny followed along behind as Diggs led him out the back door, into the backyard, and out behind the shed where Danny used to sneak smokes when he was still a kid.

  “How’re you doing?” Diggs asked.

  Danny shook his head. He felt tears start, and it took everything in him to push them back down. Diggs stepped back a little, looking sad and sorry. He touched Danny’s shoulder.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “It sucks right now, but it’ll get better.”

  “You sound like one of them commercials they’re always playing at school. ‘It gets better.’” He wiped his eyes and let out a long sigh. “Shit. I need a joint.”

  Diggs laughed dryly. “Tell me about it.”

  “You really think it’s okay if I take off a while?”

  “Yeah,” Diggs nodded. “You’ve put in your time. Go. Don’t do anything stupid: no drinking and driving; no smoking and driving. I’ll tell your mom I said it was okay. She can take it out on me if it’s not.”

  “I won’t be late,” Danny promised.

  “If you end up doing too much or you need anything, call me,” Diggs add
ed. “Doesn’t matter when, I’ll come get you. No questions asked, no explanations needed. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Diggs pulled him into a hug before he could get away, the older man hanging on tight. Danny choked on a sob he hadn’t even known was in there. They stayed that way just a few seconds, a weight the size of a pickup settled on Danny’s chest. When he pulled away, Diggs’ eyes were wet, too. Danny swiped an arm across his eyes.

  “Be good, Danny,” Diggs said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  And then, he got moving before Diggs changed his mind and made him stay. Because right now, there was no way in hell he could do that and hold it together a second longer.

  Danny’s pickup was parked at the head of the road, a good two miles’ walk away; Mama had said they needed to leave space for everybody else to park. He loosened his tie and took off his suitcoat, wishing he’d thought to change before he left. Still, he had some stuff in the truck that would be all right for now. It’s not like he was looking to get in any trouble. All he wanted was some space. Sweats and a ripe t-shirt would do just fine for that. He picked up his pace to a jog, grateful for the fresh air and the quiet.

  About a quarter of a mile from the truck, he heard something behind him—like a cough, maybe, but not a cough. Like somebody clearing their throat. He turned, fast, a shiver riding straight up his spine. This time, he knew Rick and Ida weren’t there, because Diggs wouldn’t’ve let them follow. Casey was working... He should be alone.

  “Hey—anybody out there?” he called. He spun on his heel, searching the trees for a sign that someone was there. Not a soul.

  He turned his back and set out for the truck again, but he couldn’t shake that feeling that he wasn’t alone. It was late afternoon, the shadows reaching far out from the trees. Everything was still. He rubbed his palms on his pants and started running again, wanting only to get to his truck and the weed waiting in his glove box.

  By the time he got there, he was convinced he’d just been hearing things. He got out his keys, glancing around to make sure nobody saw him.

  Stick to the main roads, he heard his daddy say. It was so clear, the old man might as well have been right beside him. Danny fought the urge to look around for him. And wait till you get where you’re goin’ before you spark up. Your mama doesn’t need you to get in a wreck now, of all things.

  “I know that, old man,” he said out loud. He felt like a fool. Or like he’d gone crazy, standing here in the quiet talking to his daddy—a man he’d seen put in the ground not two hours ago.

  He paused at the driver’s side door, frowning. His truck was an ’04 Toyota Tacoma—the single cab, not the double. It was big enough to haul his mower when he was doing yard work over the summers, and all his band gear the rest of the time. The truck had been beat to hell before he got it, but since then Danny’d treated that thing like it was his very own, overgrown, chrome-plated baby. He’d inventoried every scratch, every bump and dent and ding.

  Which meant there was no question that what he was seeing now was brand new. Just above the door handle, keyed deep into his cherry red paint, something that made his overheated blood run ice cold:

  An upside-down cross, maybe six inches long.

  Get in the truck, his daddy said. Except he didn’t say that, because he was dead. Still, Danny got in the truck. Lock the doors. Danny did. Now go on back to the house and talk to Diggs. Show him what they done to the truck.

  Danny sat there in the driver’s seat for a second, torn. He reached for the radio. Closed his eyes, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel. His chest burned. Guns ‘n Roses’ “November Rain” came on. Danny put the truck in gear.

  He pulled out, paused for a second by the long dirt road leading back to the house, and then shook his head.

  He turned the music up louder, and drove away.

  Chapter Eight - Solomon

  Between watching Diggs try to hold it together at Wyatt’s funeral, the street brawl after the funeral, and then being trapped in the Durham house with two dozen Christian conservatives for several hours, I’d had it by the time Diggs finally came to save me at nine o’clock that night. I was in the middle of a debate over climate change with Buddy Holloway and three other guys whose names I hadn’t caught when Diggs appeared at my elbow. I was winning that debate, for the record.

  “We should go,” Diggs said.

  “Your Yankee girlfriend’s tryin’ to school the locals,” Buddy said. However flawed his opinion of global warming might be, I liked him: he had nice eyes, a strong laugh, and he had the southern gentleman thing down pat. Which, I’ll admit, I’ve always been a sucker for.

  Diggs didn’t bother correcting him on our romantic status, for which I was grateful. Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth. “Well, if anybody could set you hillbillies straight, she’d be the one,” he said. “But we need to get going.”

  “Oh, listen to this boy,” Buddy said, shaking his head. “Hillbilly my eye, you dang hippie. Where y’all off to, then?”

  “Just taking a ride,” Diggs said.

  “Not out to Miller’s Field, I hope,” Buddy said. He watched for Diggs’ reaction. “Not with Reverend Barnel’s tent meetin’ set to go up at ten sharp. Seeing as how you already had one run-in with him today, you might oughta steer clear awhile.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Diggs said.

  Buddy frowned, but he didn’t say anything more until Diggs was already headed out the door. Then, he pushed his business card into my hand. He nodded toward our mutual friend, now burning a path toward the car.

  “You call me if he steps in anything, you hear? He’s as much family as Wyatt was, and he can’t see straight where that preacher’s concerned. I don’t care what time it is. Just pick up the phone and I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely. “I may take you up on that.”

  “You do that, darlin’. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  The tent meeting was held in a muddy field on the side of a long dirt road. We were flanked by cows on one side and a dank, muddy pond on the other, which Diggs told me Barnel baptized people in when the occasion arose. It didn’t look that sanitary, but I was guessing that wasn’t a priority.

  I’d just assumed Barnel was one of those fringe extremists with a dozen misguided souls who’d follow him to the ends of the earth, but when we got there the place was packed. Cars lined both sides of the road all the way in, with more parked in the field. Old folks and young folks and Bible-toting babies all made their way up the hillside to Barnel’s giant white tent. I was surprised at the teen contingent: at least two dozen freshly scrubbed college guys in jackets and ties, standing off to the side with their feet planted shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind their backs like career military men instead of frat boys who couldn’t even buy their own beer.

  There were a few people like Diggs and me, just there to check out the spectacle, but I got the sense we were in the minority.

  Barnel’s tent was a deluxe—I didn’t even know you could get a tent that big. It was powered by a generator situated behind the stage. Speakers bigger than Barnel himself flanked the makeshift platform, and aisle upon aisle of folding metal chairs filled the space. It was a cold, damp evening, but the masses in the tent generated enough heat to more than make up for that. There was a table with refreshments: breads and cakes and cookies, soda and juice, a couple of industrial-sized tubs of potato salad. Apparently, Barnel was big on carb loading. I put a dollar in the jar of a little girl with a dress buttoned from her throat to her ankles, and helped myself to a cup of chocolate pudding and a spoon.

  Diggs gave me the hairy eyeball.

  “What? It’s chocolate.”

  He just shook his head at me, like I was a lost cause. Which I may have been, but I didn’t care. If there was ever a situation that merited chocolate, this was definitely it.

  By the time we
found a seat, the reverend’s opening act had already started: a kid named Toby and his parents, playing guitar and singing hymns. I gathered from the reaction of the crowd that the family was a headliner around these parts, but they didn’t do a lot for me. Within two minutes of a countrified version of “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” I was ready to stab little Toby in the eye with my plastic spoon. All around us, hands went up in the air, people whispering prayers or shouting “Hallelujah” over the music.

  Everyone got to their feet when Toby and his kin started up with a medley of country hymns I didn’t recognize from my own church-going days. I set my empty cup under my chair and stood with Diggs. A wall of bodies closed in on all sides, the smell of sweat and Avon perfume obliterating the last remnants of my chocolate high.

  I fought to maintain my good humor. The music faded to white noise.My breath came harder, locked in my chest as people pushed ever-closer, their energy like a dentist’s drill tunneling into the base of my spine. I had an unexpected flashback to the Payson Church—the religious community where I spent the first ten years of my life. I was sitting in the converted hay barn that served as the Payson chapel while the preacher gave his sermon. Suddenly, I was right there, with Isaac Payson in front of me and my father’s hand tight in mine. A woman was crying.

  Past and present merged. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Another image replaced the one I’d just seen—this one of my father on his knees in front of the congregation. He was shirtless, stripes of blood flowing down his back. A woman was holding me back as I fought to get to him.

  “Erin!” Diggs whispered to me. I jolted back to the present, sweat rolling down my forehead. “We can sit,” he said when he had my attention. Most of the rest of the crowd were already in their chairs. Diggs and I stood alone. I nodded, shaken, trying to pull myself back to the present.

  As soon as Barnel took the stage, the energy changed. The crowd fell silent. A chill raced up my spine when he raised his hands to the sky.