Several men paused in their various activities to come forward and take our bridles. Blake dismounted and helped Aynslee get down. By the time he turned to help me, I’d dismounted. Tugging my blouse straight, I did my best to hide the pain in my backside and thighs from the saddle. It had been a long time since I’d ridden.
Shivering from the cold, I pulled off the bag of art supplies and started unsaddling my horse when an oversize coat settled over my shoulders. It felt so good I pulled it close before turning to see the source.
Blake draped a man’s sweater over Aynslee. “Thanks. Mom says you’re a Neanderthal, but I think you’re nice.” She grinned at him.
I could see why some animals eat their young.
I concentrated on loosening the cinch and pretended I didn’t know my daughter.
Before I could unsaddle, Blake was beside me. He lifted it off the horse effortlessly. “Neanderthal?” he whispered, his lips so close to my ear that my hair fluttered.
A flood of heat rushed to my face. I turned to watch him. He easily hefted the saddle, then sauntered to the area where he’d stacked the other tack.
At least he didn’t ask for his coat back.
An attractive but simply dressed woman sidled up to my horse and stroked his cheek. “So. Blake put you up on Rowdy.”
“Rowdy?”
She patted the bay’s shoulder. “This is Rowdy. Blake’s favorite horse. He never lets anyone ride him.” She raised one eyebrow at me.
“Well, I guess he figured anyone from Montana who can saddle and bridle a horse should be able to ride a mount with an attitude. Do you know Blake pretty well?”
She glanced at Blake, patted my horse again, shot me a swift look, and walked away.
A middle-aged woman wearing a denim skirt and a sweater bustled over. She’d been at the memorial service.
“Hi. Is it Ida?” I asked.
“No names here, child. We have a lot of enemies. I bet you’re starving.” She took my elbow and aimed me toward the campfires. I nodded for my errant child to follow.
Thirty to forty people sat in folding lawn chairs or on blankets, eating, talking, and laughing. Many stopped when they spotted us, but soon continued. Blake’s back was to me, and several women peeked in his direction between bites of dinner.
The woman led us to a log with a flattened top where plastic plates, silverware, and a roll of paper towels lay.
Little Sarah Adkins spotted Aynslee and pulled her into a tour of the campsite.
“Grab a plate and silverware,” the older woman told me. “Then help yourself to whatever looks good.” She pointed at the different campfires, each with a suspended pot or fry pan on a grill. “The drinking water is over there. You’re the one that came to the service today and brought that . . .”
“Tuna noodle casserole,” I offered.
“Well bless your heart. Enjoy. When you’re finished, the garbage is over there in that plastic bag.”
I nodded.
Everything smelled heavenly. I chose a pot of what looked like stew and looked around for a place to sit. Ruby caught my gaze and patted the scarlet blanket next to her. I joined her.
“Good choice,” Ruby said. “Squirrel stew.”
“Oh yum.” I eyed the hunk of meat I was about to bite into. I ate most of it anyway. It was much better than my tuna noodle casserole. Casually I glanced over at Blake. Before I could look away, he looked over at me and winked. I ducked my head and stared at my plate. When I finally looked up, Ruby was staring at me.
“My, my,” she said. “Well, he’s a good-looking man. All the women have their caps set for him, as you can see. Has a good job selling cars.”
“I thought he was a chauffeur. He’s a used car salesman?”
She chuckled. “Something like that. He owns the largest car dealership in Kentucky. Also a bank, a stable, and a number of other businesses.”
I shut my mouth. “He’s-he’s rich?”
“Has the Midas touch.”
“But I saw him driving a couple of people around in a Bentley. I thought he was a chauffeur.”
“He helps out folks who have trouble driving. That’s his personal car.” She touched her lips with a napkin. “He can be very generous to his friends. And dangerous to those he thinks are enemies.”
I tried to keep from flinching.
She nodded in his direction. “He seems to fancy you. About time he showed more than polite interest. His fiancée ended things with him this past year.”
“Really.”
“Foolish woman. But I heard he put you up on his bay gelding. And you stayed on.”
I shrugged. “Luck.”
“You’ve caught his attention. If you want to keep it, well, you know what they say. The fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“The only way I’ll ever get close to a heart is by becoming an open-heart surgeon. The only thing I’ve successfully made in the kitchen was a mess.”
“That’s a start.” Ruby smiled.
Feeling the blush starting up again, I asked, “How do the restroom facilities work around here?”
She pointed. “Men in that direction. Women over there. If you see a roll of toilet paper on the branch, the facilities are empty. Take the TP with you, return it when you’re finished.”
“There’s no TP in the outhouse?”
“Outhouse? Oh my. You’ll find a shovel at the correct spot.” She giggled at my expression. “It’s simple but effective.”
My face was under control by the time I returned. I was beginning to feel relaxed and comfortable here, letting my guard down.
Don’t trust anybody.
Sitting next to Ruby, I asked, “How do you let people outside your congregation know if there’s to be a revival?”
“We have a most efficient phone tree. We call it the buzz. Works for this and is crazy good at spreading gossip, unfortunately.”
I pushed the remaining squirrel stew around in my bowl. “Tell me, Ruby. Did you know Grady Maynard?”
“Why do you ask?”
Answering a question with a question. Was she going to lie to me? “Just wondering. I’m staying in his cabin.”
“We moved here after Grady . . . disappeared. We’re originally from Tennessee. I never met him.”
“I accidentally found his Bible. It showed that he had a son. Devin. I was just curious to learn more about him.”
Ruby’s brows furrowed. “I never knew that. The folks who knew Grady were Mamaw and Jimmy. They used to go to his church. I guess Jimmy took over when Grady went missing. But Jimmy and Mamaw both died back in August.”
“I’m so sorry.” I took a few more bites. Something put a tickle in the back of my head, and I sat up straighter. “Both died, did you say? How, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Ruby placed her plate on the blanket next to her. “Well . . .” She glanced around, then scooted closer to me. “I don’t think of this as gossip. It’s what I was told. My nephew’s friend’s dad works for the sheriff’s department.” Another check for anyone paying us any attention. “They were both found in the garage.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded encouragement. They had to be the two people in their sixties on the list the sheriff gave me.
“It was always kept locked. Always.”
This time I made sure no one overheard us. “The garage?” I whispered.
“Yes. They have to stay warm, you know. That’s why you keep them in a garage, basement, or room of the house.”
“Them?”
“The serpents. But you always keep it locked.”
I shoved my bowl away, the sight of food no longer appealing.
“The serpents were all loose. Must have been ten or more of ’em. And Mamaw and Jimmy were both bitten. Many times. It was awful.”
Jason turned those snakes loose. And killed that couple.
“I’m going to get a slice of pie before the service begins.” Ruby stood. “Can I bring you a piece?”
“No thanks.”
People were slowly cleaning up and moving away.
A beautiful, dark-haired woman with mahogany skin and wearing a long khaki skirt took Ruby’s place. “Hi. I’m Lindsay.” She offered a soft hand smelling faintly of lavender skin cream.
“Hi, Lindsay.” I shook her hand. “I thought we didn’t use names.”
She shrugged. “It’s not as if it’s a big secret. I heard you’re a forensic artist and wanted to meet you.”
“You don’t—”
“Look like the other folks around here?”
“I was going to say ‘sound like you’re from this area.’ ”
Dimples bracketed her smile. “I’m from California. I’m here visiting my cousins.”
I looked around for other people of color.
This time she laughed out loud and pointed to a redheaded man. “Over there. The Scottish side of the family.”
I made a wry face. “Got me there. So you’re a snake handler?”
“I think they prefer ‘serpent handler,’ and no, I’m not. I’m here because these are simply good people and I like being around them. I come every fall.”
“I see.”
She crossed her legs and leaned back onto her elbows. “I wonder if you do.” She watched the people sitting around the different campfires talking and laughing, then getting up and wandering toward the outdoor church area. “I’ve checked out their history.”
Nodding, I raised my eyebrows.
She shrugged. “Just making sure they weren’t a Jim Jones–like cult. Their background is quite interesting. Back in the 1890s, there was an average of three lynchings a week of African-Americans. But in the Pentecostal churches, even in the deep South, we were accepted, treated as equals, and given leadership positions.” She looked at me. “With the Azusa Street revival—”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“A lot of folks point to an event, a revival, in the spring of 1906. People think the Pentecostal movement started in the South by whites, but it started in California with an African-American minister in a mission on Azusa Street in Los Angeles.”
A man walked by and called out, “Folks, time to start.”
“Anyway,” Lindsay said, “I didn’t mean to ramble on—”
“I found it fascinating. Thank you. Let’s stay in touch, or should I say, I’ll give you a buzz?” I held out my hand for another handshake.
“A buzz it is. I’d like that.” She shook my hand, then gave me her cell number.
“I’m sorry.” I stood. “I don’t have any way to write it down—”
She giggled and rose, brushing off her skirt. “It’s easy to remember.” She gave me the area code. “The next seven letters spell out my name. I’m terrible with numbers, so I always try to come up with a way to remember.” She headed to the gathering.
“We’ll be startin’ soon,” called out a man in his forties with a shaved head, blunt features, and mustache and beard.
I glanced around for Aynslee in the approaching dark, finally spotting her with Sarah in tow like an eager puppy.
Standing, I dropped my dishes into the garbage bag. Ruby joined me, shoving the last of a piece of pie into her mouth. She stopped, dropped the plate, and reached for her neck.
“Ruby?”
Her eyes opened wide and she clutched her throat with both hands.
“Ohmigosh!” I leaped behind her, reached around her abdomen, and made a fist with my right hand. “Hang on, Ruby. I’ve got you.” Wrapping my left hand over my right, I yanked backward and up as hard as I could.
Ruby started to slump against me. No one was around. No shouts of discovery.
I gave the Heimlich maneuver a second time. Then a third. The world retreated, my harsh breath the only sound.
Ruby grew limp.
Struggling to hold her weight, I jerked on her abdomen again.
The woman coughed, then took a deep breath.
Releasing my grip around her middle, I steadied her until she was more solidly on her feet.
She panted a moment, then finally said, “Girl, you saved my life.”
“I’m just glad I was here. Please, Ruby, don’t say anything.” I let go.
She turned and looked at me, placed her hand on my cheek, glanced over my shoulder, then moved toward the gathering.
I glanced behind me to see what had drawn her attention. Blake charged up and stared at me. “She okay?”
I nodded.
He turned and followed Ruby to the gathering.
I waited until my pulse came back to normal, then trailed after Blake.
For the first time I noticed one end of the field had a natural rise where a card table had been placed. A Bible, a glass soda pop bottle with a rag stuffed in the top, and a jar of clear liquid rested on the surface. On either side of the table were portable speakers.
Speakers? My gaze followed the cables leading to the speakers. On the far right side of the clearing, all the four-wheelers, most with off-road trailers, were parked. The speaker cables led to a generator still resting on a trailer. Apparently primitive only goes so far.
The worshipers were grabbing folding chairs and creating rows in front of the rise, leaving a large area between the front row and the “pulpit.”
Four men strolled to the front, each carrying a variety of hinged boxes, and placed them behind the table.
The snakes had arrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AYNSLEE HAD FOUND TWO FOLDING LAWN CHAIRS and was watching the throng. “What took you so long?” she asked.
“Um, a bit of a problem with . . . a piece of pie.” I needed to be able to see faces for my later drawings, so we sat to the side where I had a clear view of the participants. Sarah joined us, dragging a chair as close to Aynslee as possible.
I stared at Sarah for a moment, then stood and looked at the worshipers.
My stomach did a quick flutter. Professor Wellington said they believed the children attending this homecoming revival would be forced to drink poison, handle fire, and hold snakes.
With the exception of Sarah and Aynslee, there were no children. Maybe they were together in one of the larger tents?
That didn’t seem likely. I bent over and whispered, “Aynslee, when you were with Sarah, did you see any other children?”
“No,” she said slowly. “Sarah took me around the camp, showed me the tent they set up for us, and then we ate dinner. I didn’t see any kids at all.”
Before I could formulate what to do next, the bearded man moved to the front. From the restless movements of the group, this appeared to be the preacher. A gray-haired woman with a tambourine and three men with guitars joined the preacher.
I sat down and leaned forward.
The preacher gave a signal and the generator coughed to life. Four bare lightbulbs dangling from a wire stretched overhead cast a wan light over the preacher and worship team. He picked up a wireless mic, tapped it a few times, then covered it with a white handkerchief. “Are ya ready to worship?”
The congregation leaped to its feet, shouting, “Hallelujah” and “Praise God!” The woman with the tambourine took the mic and began singing, enthusiastically accompanied by the guitarists. People joined in, clapping in time or raising their arms.
I didn’t have a clue what they were singing, so I just clapped along.
After the first song ended, a second started. A man raced to the open space between the chairs and pulpit area and started dancing with steps vaguely like Irish clogging. A second, younger man quickly joined him in the front and spun in circles.
Smoke from the campfires drifted around the worshipers like streamers of chiffon. The electric lights turned the smoke into a swirling, jaundiced fog.
Almost everyone was standing. Two women on my right jerked, spun, and shouted words I couldn’t understand. Another man moved to the front and ran from side to side. Ruby looked like she was crying, hands overhead, mouth moving.
The preacher
grabbed the mic. “Hallelujah! God’s not dead, He’s still alive! Do you feel it?”
I could see the need for the handkerchief over the mic. He didn’t just shout, he sprayed his words. The music tempo increased. More men rushed to the front, jumping, spinning, running. Most of the women were to the side, locking arms or waving hands overhead.
The preacher handed the mic to the tambourine woman and joined the cloggers.
The smoke stung my eyes and burned my nose. I blinked rapidly, focusing on faces.
The music slowed, but the frantic movement didn’t. Now more people were talking in tongues than singing with the worship team. Gradually the pastor made his way to the raised pulpit and retrieved the mic. “Aaaaah, thank Ya, Jesus!”
A chorus of “thank Yous” echoed his sentiments.
“Let us pray,” the preacher said. The congregants found their way to their seats but remained standing for the prayer. I took my cue and stood as well.
Once finished, everyone sat. For the first time since I arrived, I could hear the frogs and crickets of the forest. The moon rose behind the trees, turning the branches into fingers reaching for the sky. The falling leaves whispered to each other in a chilly breeze. I snuggled into Blake’s jacket, inhaling the hint of hay and aftershave.
The pastor opened the Bible on the table and began reading one line at a time. He’d then pause and the congregation would repeat the words. “For we are the circumcision, ha! Which worship God in the spirit, ha! And rejoice in Christ Jesus, ha! And have no confidence in the flesh, ha!”
Like a verbal exclamation mark, the “ha” was a burst of air at the end of each statement, lending a cadence to his sermon. His voice rose. “God is Spirit, ha. Do you know that, brothers? Do you know that, sisters? Do I hear an amen on that?”
Various people rose to their feet shouting, “Amen!”
“Those who worship Him, ha. Do you worship Him?”
Once again the congregation stood, arms waving, lips moving.
“Do you worship in spirit and truth, ha?” The pastor charged to the open area between the congregation and the pulpit. “Do you feel the Spirit? Ha!” he yelled into the mic. “The Spirit moves, ha! Hallelujah, praise God, ha!” He ran back and forth, jabbing his finger at the crowd, punctuating his words. “We’re in revival, ha. God’s Word says He’ll pour out His Spirit upon all flesh, ha.” He spun and clogged, joined by several other men. “Now the Spirit is here, ha. Do you feel His Spirit, ha?”
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