by Bob Avey
But that was only half of the story. The town of Donegal was founded by Brian McKenna, an Irish immigrant with strong ties to the old religion, a self-proclaimed dark spiritualist.
Elliot wasn’t so lucky finding information on the Stone family. It was as if they never existed.
He glanced at his watch, ever aware of the time constraints the captain had placed him under. He logged off the computer to hit the streets. He needed some information, and he had a pretty good idea of where to get it.
Charles Miller, his old buddy Snub the bartender, wasn’t at the bar, but Elliot convinced his partner to give him his address. He found Snub working on a 1954 Mercury convertible, restored, yellow with a brown top. Nice car. “Not bad,” Elliot said.
Snub looked faintly annoyed. “What did you expect, to find me wearing a black robe with an amulet draped around my neck?”
Elliot grinned. “Something like that, I guess.”
“What are you doing here, Detective?”
Elliot walked over to the Mercury and ran his hand along the polished surface of the fender. “Nice ride.”
“Something tells me you didn’t come here to talk about cars,” Snub said. He took a rag from his pocket and wiped Elliot’s prints from the fender. “What do you want?”
“I thought you might be able to help me with something.”
“Like what?”
“Like, what can you tell me about the town of Donegal, Oklahoma?”
A look of uncertainty flashed through Snub’s eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Does the Church of the Divine Revelation have connections to paganism?”
Snub stared at Elliot for a moment, as if he was unsure about the sanity of this whole line of questioning. “They claim to be a Christian institution, though I hesitate to dignify it even with that term.”
“What do you mean?”
Snub made a gesture like that of a roller coaster going over its highest point. “An extreme group of people, Detective. Completely over the top.”
Elliot nodded. “I hear the pagan influence is pretty strong there.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve done a little research.”
Snub shook his head. “You’d do well to stay away from that town. The atmosphere there is less than healthy.”
“I can’t do that. My investigation won’t let me.”
This time the look that crossed Snub’s face was burdened with pain. “I met some members of the church once, at a Samhain ritual. They’re bad, Detective. The word dark isn’t strong enough for that bunch.”
Elliot nodded. He was beginning to feel sorry for Jed Washington, Donegal’s Chief of Police. “How is it,” he asked, “that an extreme faction such as the church can coexist with the non-members?”
Snub shook his head. “I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d give up my badge before I’d step into the middle of it.”
An image of Cyndi Bannister blossomed in Elliot’s mind, and he thought of the smoothness of her skin and the sweet smell of her hair and what kind of life they could possibly have together; wives of homicide detectives didn’t see their husbands much. He began to wonder if Snub was right. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Snub said. “I knew Brighid pretty well.” He paused, as if admiring the car, and when he looked up again he said, “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her at the bar that night.”
Snub’s sudden change of course jarred Elliot. “What are you trying to say?”
“She looked the part all right, but the way she moved and the sound of her voice”—he shook his head—“I don’t know who that was who left with the guy you were looking for, but it wasn’t Brighid McAlister.”
“Thanks for the information,” Elliot said. As he made his way back to the car, a feeling of despair began to churn in his gut. Every new lead sent him in a different direction, and he was running out of time.
On top of that, his phone was ringing.
The caller identified himself as Franklin Taylor, the old man who’d dropped the note in Elliot’s lap at the diner.
Franklin Taylor handed Elliot a cup of coffee, then sat the pot back on the grill, which had come from an old refrigerator and now sat atop a circle of rocks that surrounded a fire pit the old man had constructed. Elliot had found Franklin’s place, a small cabin constructed of plywood and two-by-fours, just like the old man had said, about three miles out of town on a hill overlooking the cemetery, a forlorn-looking area surrounded by a rock and wrought iron fence.
He pulled the plastic chair Taylor had provided closer to the fire. It was starting to get dark, which intensified the chill in the air, but the old man had not invited him inside. Elliot figured it was just as well.
The odor of smoke from the fire filtered through Elliot’s senses as he sipped the strong coffee. “What can you tell me about Gary Sullivan?”
Franklin Taylor sat on a stump next to Elliot. “I seen somebody messing around his house last night.”
“Do you know who it was?”
He shook his head. “Too dark. And I wasn’t what you’d call real close, but I seen them all right, peeking in the windows and looking around, like they was worried somebody might see what they’s up to.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“I don’t pay much attention to time.” Orange sparks snapped and crackled in the air as the old man stirred the fire. “I just know what I saw.”
“So you’re telling me that you think someone deliberately set fire to Sullivan’s house?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what happened all right.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“’Cause Mr. Sullivan was getting people out of that church, helping them get their heads straight, and make their own decision. That didn’t set well with Reverend Coronet.”
“But why now? Hadn’t Sullivan been doing that for a while?”
The sound of a car coming up the gravel road preceded a beam of light that stabbed through the trees, but the road was above Franklin’s camp, and the light missed it. Elliot knew now why the old guy had chosen that spot.
“It’s kind of like politics around here,” Franklin Taylor said. “You get dirt on somebody, but you afraid to use it ’cause you don’t know who got dirt on you. Reverend Coronet knew Mr. Sullivan had dangerous stuff in his files. He just didn’t know how much or what kind. It all runs smooth, see, until somebody fools around and tips the scales too much.” He paused and shook his head. “I knew it was going to come to a boil one of these days. You can’t hide stuff like that forever, no, sir. Sooner or later, somebody going to say something they shouldn’t, and there you go. I kind of figured that’s why you was here.”
“I appreciate your help with this,” Elliot said, “but I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
The old man pointed to his shack. “I try to find shelter where I can. If it gets to raining too hard, or the wind kicks up too much, sometimes I go down to them old houses, you know, where you was looking for me earlier.”
Elliot nodded, but he still wasn’t following.
“I used to live there. That was my home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I still don’t understand.”
The old man took a swig of whatever was in his cup. Elliot didn’t think it was coffee. “There used to be another house a mile or so down the road from there. I never could stay there, though, and nobody else could neither, not even the vagrants who stumble through town now and then. They steered clear of that place ’cause all you had to do was get close to feel something wasn’t right about it. Finally the city just tore it down, bulldozed what was left right into the ground.”
“What does all of that have to do with Gary Sullivan?”
Franklin Taylor took off his cap and rubbed his hand across his short gray hair. “Mr. Sullivan knew who lived there in that old place. He kne
w what happened to them, too. That’s what got him killed.”
“What did happen to them?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. Nobody around here do, else they ain’t saying so. But there was a family lived there, went by the name of Stone.”
Elliot sat forward. The old man had finally said something that made sense to him. “Did you know them?”
“Not really. They was members of the church. Them people tend to keep to themselves.”
“Were you ever a member, Mr. Franklin?”
“Oh, no sir. They don’t allow no black folk in that congregation. Don’t bother me none, though. Don’t want no part of it anyway.”
“Can you tell me more about the Stone family?”
“Yes, sir. The man was called Solomon, and the lady, now I believe her name was Kathryn. I don’t recall the names of the children, but they had two of them, a boy and a girl.”
“I heard they weren’t really popular around here. Do you know anything about that?”
“Rumor among the church folk is, they was worshiping the devil, if you can believe that.”
“So what happened?”
“Don’t know. One day they was here, and the next thing you know, they was gone, the whole family, no signs of a break-in, no blood, no nothing. Far as I know, nobody’s ever heard from them since.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe they owed money, for back rent or something, and simply pulled up stakes and left during the night?”
“Sure I did. Everybody comes around to that sooner or later. I guess you could say it’s the general consensus around here. I don’t buy it, though.”
“Why not?”
Franklin Taylor pulled a flask from inside his jacket and poured himself another drink, his hands beginning to shake. “’Cause I seen something nobody else did.”
Elliot poured himself another cup of coffee. “Go on.”
“There’s a man lives in the valley, goes by the name of Abraham Saucier, ran a funeral parlor in town. Don’t no more, though. I used to see him at night over at the Stones’ house, hiding in the bushes next to one of the back windows.”
“Do you think he had something to do with the family’s disappearance?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I think he killed them and buried them out there in the woods behind the house.”
“Did you see any of this?”
“No, sir. I just pieced it together.”
“Maybe he’s just a Peeping Tom.”
“Could be. Ain’t nobody around here pays me no mind, think I’m crazy. That’s all right. I come and go as I please. You’d be surprised what I see, what I hear.”
He got up and poured what was left in the coffeepot over the fire, dousing it. “That’s all I got to say. Do what you want with it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After leaving Franklin Taylor’s cabin, Elliot had called Chief Washington, but he wasn’t in his office. Knowing there was little more he could do on the case that evening, Elliot called Cyndi and invited her over for dinner.
While Elliot stirred the spaghetti, Cyndi removed her jewelry and washed her hands, then found the cutting board that hung from a hook fixed to the side of the old cupboard that Elliot used as a pantry. He’d run across it in an antique shop. Cyndi took the cutting board to the center island and began chopping lettuce and carrots for the salad. She looked at home in Elliot’s kitchen, and he found himself fantasizing that they were married and it would always be this way.
“You really don’t have to do that,” he said. “I’d planned on preparing the meal for you.”
Cyndi continued working. “Honestly, I’m having a hard time visualizing you as being good in the kitchen.”
Elliot checked the pasta, snatching one of the noodles with a fork. “My menu may be limited, but I make a mean pot of spaghetti.”
Elliot tasted the noodle for consistency. “I think it’s ready.” He stirred the sauce that had been simmering beside the pasta, then brought the wooden spoon to his lips, savoring the sweet taste of tomatoes stewed in oregano and basil. “Perfect. You’re in for a treat, my love.”
Cyndi glanced at Elliot, her face unreadable, but he suspected she was a bit stunned that he would use that word. He bowed before her, a medieval knight honoring his queen. “I assure you, my lady, that my intentions are purely honorable.”
She rolled her eyes, then, seeming to know right where everything was, she grabbed a couple of plates and some silverware and set the table.
Elliot drained the pasta, wincing as the steam came toward his face, then dumped it into a bowl and took it to the table. He poured the sauce into another bowl without splattering the countertop and set it beside the spaghetti. With that done, he lit the candles he’d placed on the table and doused the lights.
Cyndi poured the wine, and Elliot took the liberty of dishing up the meal.
Once seated, she rolled a generous portion of pasta onto her fork and stuck it into her mouth, her eyes widening. Moments later, after a few sips of wine, she said, “It’s good, Kenny. It really is.”
“I tried to warn you.”
She raised her glass. “To a long and lasting . . .”
As if she was unsure of how to finish the toast, she paused, and before he knew what he was doing, Elliot spoke up, filling the void as their glasses touched. “Relationship.”
And as they stared at each other, frozen in their own capsules of time, Elliot lowered his defenses and allowed himself to realize what the moment meant. He was in love, or at least well on his way to finding it.
The doorbell clanged, accentuated by a pounding on the door, as if the grating sound of the bell alone would not be sufficient to gain his attention.
Elliot glanced at Cyndi, broadcasting through his expression both his annoyance and his apologies.
Her nod said she understood.
He pushed away from the table and strode into the living room, where he opened the front door to find Kelly Anderson, standing on the porch, holding a plate in her hands. She stepped inside and marched toward the kitchen.
Elliot closed the door and followed her. When she entered the kitchen she stopped suddenly, and Elliot could tell by the tense angle of her shoulders that she’d seen Cyndi.
Kelly glanced back at Elliot, then set the plate on the counter.
He shrugged awkwardly. “Cyndi, this is my neighbor Kelly Anderson. Kelly, this is Cyndi Bannister.” Elliot paused, then added, “My fiancée.” The boldness of this unexpected statement caused a pleasant swell of emotion in his chest.
Kelly spun around and started back toward the front door. “”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She gestured toward the plate she’d set on the counter. “I baked a cake. It was too much for Joey and me. I thought you might like some of it.”
“Thanks,” Elliot said. “Would you care to join us?”
But Kelly Anderson had already opened the door and stepped outside. “I left Joey alone. I need to get back.”
Elliot lingered at the door for a moment in a wholly unsuccessful attempt to grasp the enormity of his stunning announcement. Giving up, he locked it, hoping Cyndi hadn’t bolted out the back door. When he turned around, she was sitting on the sofa, sipping her wine.
Elliot came around the sofa and lowered himself onto the cushion next to her, sliding his arm across the cool leather back of the furniture before allowing his arm to drop around her shoulder. His pulse was like a jackhammer in his ears.
Cyndi put her hand on Elliot’s leg and squeezed it, but it was more of an attention getter than a gesture of closeness. “She was hurt by that.”
Elliot was aware that Kelly Anderson had been uncomfortable, seeing Cyndi there, knew that was what she was referring to, but the words tumbled out anyway. “What do you mean?”
“You should have told me you had a girlfriend.”
“I don’t,” Elliot said. “We just met. I had this dog, and . . . well, it’s not like that between us.”
“You
might want to tell her that.”
“Why?” He couldn’t seem to stop asking questions to which they both already knew the answers. She was sure to take this as an indication of a subnormal IQ.
Cyndi rolled her eyes for the second time that evening. “You really don’t see it, do you? That woman likes you, Kenny. She likes you a lot.”
A lot? Perhaps on some level he’d recognized a subtle flirtation, but if he had, it’d certainly been below the surface. Cyndi clearly seemed to think otherwise. “I’ll try to make it up to her.”
Cyndi raised her eyebrows.
“All right. I’ll explain it to her, the way it is.”
Not only had Cyndi carried her glass from the dining room table, but she’d brought the bottle as well, along with Elliot’s glass, which she now slid into his hand. She leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way, neither of them speaking for what seemed a long time. At some point, she took the wine from Elliot’s hand and set the glasses on the side table. Elliot pulled her close, brushing her hair from her eyes, then pulled her still closer, and their lips touched.
Fragmented thoughts of Elliot’s past and visions of his future swirled inside his head, in and out of sequence, like a kaleidoscope gone wild. And he didn’t know whether he actually spoke the words or if the feelings they represented merely danced inside his head; but if he had lost control in the warmth of her touch and whispered in her ear, had he told her that he loved her? Her answer came as a gentle rain of warm tears that fell upon his chest.
Silently, he held her while she cried. Gradually, she quieted, and the relaxed rhythm of her breathing told Elliot she’d fallen asleep.
As the emotion of the moment ran through Elliot, he let himself realize that he had not been this happy since . . . Carmen. The thought of her sent shards of guilt racing though him. He wasn’t sure why. They’d been teenagers, caught up in some kind of powerful love that defied their age and time, only to have it ripped away from them before its peak. Carmen. Her name ran though Elliot’s senses like a lost prayer.