When Death Draws Near

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “I promise you no ghosts will get in here. You’re safe.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Tell you what. Why don’t I make us some hot chocolate? There’s some of the powder stuff on the counter.”

  “Hot chocolate makes you fat.”

  I stared at her size zero jeans and skimpy top. “Okay, why don’t we add marshmallows and whipped cream to it?”

  Aynslee rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She moved to the fireplace and added a log, sending up a flurry of sparks.

  Pouring bottled water into a pan on the stove, I turned on the burner. I could hear Aynslee restlessly moving around the room behind me.

  “I can’t stay here. I can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?” I asked, turning.

  She held up her phone. “No cell service.” She paced across the small room.

  “Think of it as roughing it. Pioneers. Back to nature.”

  “There’s no one to talk to.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “You don’t count. You’re not a person. You’re Mom.”

  I knew I was missing something in this whole mother-daughter connection.

  “And I’m hungry.”

  Turning off the burner under the now-boiling water, I dumped some powered chocolate mix into two mugs and poured the hot water into the cups. “I lied about the whipped cream and marshmallows, but here’s your hot chocolate. That should hold you until I make dinner.”

  She picked up a mug and moved to the sofa.

  “Give me a minute to see if my clothes made it here.” Strolling to the door in the corner, I winced as each step sent a protest from the pine floor. Sure enough, a small bathroom lay beyond, with a closet holding my suitcases to the right. The box, getting quite worn with all the packing and unpacking, held all my drawing supplies and materials. I pulled it out. A hot flash dampened my forehead. I ran some cold water and splashed it on my face, then brought the box into the main room, emptied it onto the coffee table, and replaced it in the bathroom closet.

  Returning to the main room, I found Aynslee had unpacked the box of groceries onto the table. I picked up the small stack of files and opened one. Inside were some police reports on the bodies they’d found. Blanche must have gotten these from Clay before he got so angry with me. I added the files to the other research materials in my library bag. Returning to the kitchen area, I surveyed the array of items sent over: several gallons of bottled water, baking soda, flour, cornmeal, various spices, rice, grits, and numerous canned goods. Having neither the faintest idea how to cook nor any talent in the kitchen, I realized this could prove to be a bleak stay in the mountains. “From the bottled water, it looks like we need to stay away from drinking tap water.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Whatever.”

  I opened a gallon of water and poured a glass before shifting the grocery box to the floor. Underneath was a duplicate of the map Blanche gave me, a key to the front door, and several more files. Adding the map and files to the library bag, I set the bag alongside my art supplies on the coffee table. I stuck the key on my key-ring flashlight and dropped it into my purse.

  “What is this stuff?” She held up a jar of locally made succotash and a can of black-eyed peas and beans.

  “Welcome to the South.” I helped her transfer the canned goods to the crate cupboard. Just as I placed the last can on the shelf, the whole thing gave way and crashed to the floor.

  I leaped back, then stared at the mess. Picking up a dented can, I fought the overwhelming desire to throw it out the window.

  “Mom?”

  “I know, it’s not your fault. It’s mine.” I started picking up cans.

  “Mom!”

  I looked up. Silently she pointed. The back of the crate was still attached to the wall with two hinges on the left side.

  After placing the cans on the counter, I carefully felt along the edge of the wood opposite the hinges. My fingers encountered a tiny latch. I shoved downward. Click.

  A small door swung open.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A GAUZY WEB COVERED THE OPENING. A SPIDER the size of a Chihuahua glared at me.

  Shudders rippled over my body. I couldn’t get air in my lungs. My vision narrowed.

  Mist enveloped the spider and web. The pungent odor of Black Flag bug spray filled the room. The spider writhed, clung for a moment, then dropped to the kitchen counter. A can of green beans crushed the insect into a memory.

  I wrenched my gaze from the arachnid remains to my daughter, still holding the insect spray and can of green beans. “I think you just saved my life.”

  “Mom, you really need counseling for your spider phobia.”

  “It’s not a phobia. It’s an intense dislike.”

  “Whatever. What’s in here?” She reached for the opening.

  “No! Don’t put your hand in there. That spider could have relatives.” I couldn’t stop the small, tippy-toe spider dance. “Let me get a light.” For a few moments, we checked the drawers for a flashlight. I was about to pull out my penlight when Aynslee spotted one by the door. It was a hand-crank, powerful LED emergency flashlight.

  “Maybe there’s a treasure hidden in the wall. We could be rich!” She handed me the light.

  “Whatever we find belongs to the owner of the house.” I cranked the handle to power up the flashlight, then carefully checked the small enclosure for more multi-legged critters. Nothing moved or crawled, so I pulled out the contents: a leather-bound Bible and a Mason jar holding coins and bills. I placed them on the kitchen table.

  Aynslee emptied the jar of money and began counting.

  I opened the Bible and a photo of a beautiful woman dropped out, her eyes closed as if in a trance, and wearing a scarf around her head. I set the photo aside and examined the Bible. The flyleaf, in bold ink, stated:

  PRESENTED TO PASTOR GRADY MAYNARD, IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION, FROM THE MEMBERS OF THE CHURCH OF THE LORD JESUS WITH SIGNS FOLLOWING, HOMECOMING, OCTOBER 1995

  “Fifty-seven dollars and forty-four cents,” Aynslee said with disgust.

  “So much for buying the mansion and Jaguar this week.” I flipped through the worn pages. In the center of the Bible was a page for recording births and deaths. A different hand had written:

  GRADY MAYNARD, B 5/20/58

  MIRIAM MCCOY MAYNARD, B 2/15/62, D 9/8/83

  MARRIED 6/2/78

  I worked out the math in my head. His wife married young and died young.

  Under the date of marriage was simply: Devin Maynard.

  “They had a son.” I looked at my daughter. “But no birth date. I wonder if he lived long. Maybe he died in childbirth.”

  “This is sincerely creepy.” Aynslee had been staring at the photograph. She handed it to me.

  In the same handwriting as the center of the Bible, someone had written Miriam. I turned the photo back over and looked at it closely. What I’d originally thought was a scarf wrapped around the woman’s face was the body of a large snake.

  I dropped the photo and wiped my hand on my pants. “So his wife was a snake handler also. That could be why she died young. We’ll turn the photo, Bible, and massive cash treasure over to Blanche and Arless. I suspect there’s not much rush, though, with Trish’s death and all.” Once again a lump rose in my throat.

  “Why would anyone hide a Bible?” Aynslee picked up the book.

  “I suspect Grady wasn’t hiding a Bible—he hid that Bible.”

  “Because it was from his snake-handling church?”

  “Yep. Tangible proof of his connection that could have landed him in prison.”

  Aynslee shrugged, jumped up from the table, and checked the freezer. “Thank You, Lord. We shall not starve. Pizza!”

  “Why don’t you preheat the oven while I unload the pickup. And we’ll have a vegetable with that, just to ward off scurvy. Just not”—I couldn’t help the involuntary shiver, thinking about how she’d sma
shed the spider—“green beans.”

  After dinner, Aynslee wandered around the cabin. “What if there’s another hiding place?” she asked.

  “I don’t think they had much to hide. Most of the time in this region it’d be moonshine, but I doubt a pastor would be brewing illegal hooch.”

  Aynslee climbed the ladder in the corner of the room. “We didn’t look up here.”

  “That’s because there’s probably spiders.” My shoulder muscles twitched.

  She reached the top of the ladder and pushed on the attic door. Nothing moved. She inspected it closely. “It’s nailed shut.”

  “Well then, that’s that.”

  She climbed down the ladder. “I’ll look again in the morning.”

  “You do that.” I finished washing and stacking the dishes, then wiped down the table and straightened up. A quick sweep with a broom I found leaning against the wall by the refrigerator and I’d tidied up the small space. I was too sleepy to start my research on Grady’s church. Aynslee’d already sacked out on the sofa in front of the fireplace. I pulled the covers back on the bed and checked for more spiders or snakes, then got on my knees and did the same under the bed. No sign of critters or toe monsters, but the mattress had a dark stain and the floor was scratched. I stood and moved around the bed. The scratches matched each iron leg. It looked as if the bed was originally closer to the fireplace.

  I retired to the bathroom and put on my pajamas, then woke Aynslee with a touch on her shoulder. “Okay, sleepyhead, time for bed.” She padded into the bathroom while I turned off the overhead lights and partially closed the damper. With only the embers from the dying flames in the fireplace and a pinpoint red light from the smoke alarm in the ceiling, I left on the bedside lamp so Aynslee wouldn’t trip in the dark.

  The bed let out a squeal when I crawled under the covers, and I immediately rolled to the center. Aynslee got in on her side and crashed into me. “What’s with the bed?” she asked.

  “It appears”—I grabbed the side and tried to move over—“that we have a thin old mattress over a metal spring foundation. We’ll just have to make do tonight and let me see if I can locate a piece of plywood in the morning.”

  “Won’t that be too hard then?”

  “Plywood and an extra pad,” I amended.

  “I feel like the hamburger in a taco.”

  “Then I’m the lettuce, so lettuce get to sleep. Get it?” I nudged her. “Let us?”

  “Mom, there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

  I woke to the coral light of morning.

  Aynslee was up and trying to light a fire. A smoky haze was all she had to show for her efforts.

  The floor was icy and the room freezing. Shivering, I swiftly opened the front door and all the windows to keep the fire alarm from going off, then grabbed a pair of socks and a sweater before joining her in front of the fireplace. “You need to open the damper more. I closed it down for the night. And you’ll need some kindling and paper.”

  “Whatever.” She stood. “I was never in Camp Fire.” She grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat at the table.

  The room quickly cleared of smoke and I soon had a fire blazing. A quick check of the alarm told me why it didn’t sound: the red light was off. After shutting the windows and the door, I turned to the next critical item. Coffee. A blue enamel percolator coffeepot sat on the small stove and a bag of Duncan coffee rested on the counter.

  While I assembled my morning brew using the bottled water, Aynslee headed to the bathroom and soon emerged fully dressed. “There’s still no Internet. Or cell service. How can people live like this? What am I going to do today?”

  “You’re going to a funeral and working on your homework.” I’d started homeschooling my daughter the previous year when she’d become such a rebellious handful.

  “I can’t do homework without the Internet.”

  “Yes, you can. You still have to write a story or poem for Creative Writing.”

  She looked at me as if I’d sprouted horns. “How’d you know my homework?”

  “I’m a trained investigator.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “And I’m checking up online.”

  “Mom!” She managed to draw the word out to three syllables.

  “Okay. Finish searching for buried treasure, then do your homework.”

  She immediately cheered up, grabbed the flashlight, and started knocking on the walls.

  I retrieved a box of pencils, sketchbook, and small voice recorder from the stack of art supplies in the living area and moved them to the kitchen table. The file folders Blanche gave me along with the book from Professor Wellington joined the supplies. With a fresh cup of coffee, I settled at the table.

  “I found something.” Aynslee held up a tiny object.

  “Bring it here.”

  She placed half a clear capsule on the file in front of me. I picked it up and sniffed. No odor.

  “What was in it?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I wish I could text Mattie. She’s an expert on drugs.”

  “Yes, well.” I placed it on the side of the table. “Watch out for the other half. Maybe it has something left in it.”

  My daughter moved to the bathroom where she continued banging on floors and walls.

  Even though I wasn’t on the serial rapist case anymore, something still bothered me about the arrest of Jason. I decided to update my thoughts before moving on to the snake handlers. Opening the sketchbook, I found my notes on Clay: said caller was male, doesn’t want me working on the case, smokes (cigarette burns on Shelby Lee), knows forensics, not around when calls come in, knows my location, living beyond his means? DNA results in desk. I added: knows water washes off forensic clues and strong enough to throw murder victim off bridge. But Clay was furious when he found out I’d received another phone call. I put a negative mark next to the words “You need to learn to take me seriously.”

  I still needed to find out if Clay owned a cabin in the mountains or if his house was remote to facilitate his holding a woman captive for any length of time.

  Junior Reed’s name was on the next page. Underneath his name I’d written: knows forensics, likes snakes, not around when calls arrive, knows my location, weird. I added: still knows my location, then added: not strong enough to throw murder victim off bridge. Of course, he could have dragged her to the river. I added a question mark.

  On page three was Jason Morrow’s name with: likes/handles snakes, resembles sketch from surveillance still. I thought about Clay’s remarks on the radio: “When I viewed the security tapes, I saw Morrow bringing the snake to the hotel.” The security tapes were at best spotty, going off and on at different times. I pictured Jason as I’d seen him on camera. He’d walked into and out of the hotel room carrying a five-gallon plastic bucket with a perforated lid and snake hook. There was something . . . something . . . yes! The recordings didn’t have a time or date stamp. Clay could have seen Jason retrieving the snake, not placing it in my room.

  I leaned back in my chair. If Jason was indeed the Hillbilly Rapist, my work with Clay was done anyway. But the rapist had crossed the line into murder with his last victim. If another woman was taken, then Clay arrested the wrong man. And now he’d moved on to killing his victim.

  “It’s not your problem anymore.” I stood to get another cup of coffee.

  “What?” Aynslee asked from the bathroom.

  “Nothing.” Or at least nothing I can do about it.

  Sitting down, I closed the sketchbook and pulled the stack of file folders in front of me. The first folder had a list of deaths and homicides over the past six months, with a summary paper clipped to the cover. I could see why Arless and Blanche were concerned over the snake handling church.

  AGE SEX CAUSE OF DEATH DATE IDENTIFIED?

  12 female poison 4/15 yes

  32 female hit-and-run 5/11 yes

&n
bsp; 8 male undetermined; body burned 6/7 approximate yes

  37 male poison 6/29 yes

  62 female snakebite 8/1 yes

  64 male snakebite 8/1 yes

  29 male car accident 8/2 yes

  27 female car accident 8/2 yes

  5 male car accident 8/2 yes

  3 female car accident 8/2 yes

  6 mo female car accident 8/2 yes

  21 male snakebite 10/? yes

  Samuel, the young man I’d sketched, was handwritten under the last entry. Counting him, that made three snake fatalities, and the poison probably all related to church members. The burned body could be yet another death from their practices.

  Opening the sketchbook again, I turned to a clean page and wrote at the top Known and Unknown, then drew a line between them. I picked up the recorder and turned it on. “Today is October 29th. I’m in Pike County, Kentucky.”

  Aynslee now crawled on hands and knees, looking under the furniture and tapping the floor. The sound was giving me a headache. I turned off the recorder. “Aynslee—”

  “I think I found something else.” Aynslee’s voice was an octave higher.

  I stood and moved to where she was kneeling. She’d pulled the small area rug away from the pine flooring near the front door. “Listen.” She tapped the floorboards.

  They did sound hollow. And they moved slightly with her tapping. The boards lined up, forming a seam. I found a sharp knife and used it to pry along the seam.

  A trapdoor lifted slightly. With Aynslee’s help, we pulled it open. Musty stale air arose from the onyx-black opening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A HANDMADE ROPE LADDER DANGLED INTO THE inky darkness. “Well, what do you know?”

  “Let’s go down there.”

  I took the flashlight from her and shone it into the opening. The powerful beam revealed a hard-packed dirt floor about nine feet below. The ladder ended slightly above the ground. Around the stone walls were empty aquariums and wire cages, with several bales of wood chips, one of which was open, in the corner. A dirty fan leaned against the wood chips, and a stack of plastic containers spilled across the floor. Spiderwebs drifted in the slight air like lacy curtains. I clenched my teeth to keep from making any wimpy squeals.