“Hey, big boy,” Cass gasped, slipping Zeus a treat over Mitch’s protests that the dog was getting fat. He crunched his contraband snack and wiggled around the truck to greet Mitch before loping toward the backyard.
The smell of charcoal and barbeque floated on the evening air and Cass rounded the house to see her brother Bruce in front of the grill, flipping two steaks. “Medium all right?” he asked.
Cass stopped to hug Darla Stone.
“You gave up a date with one of those McGee boys for unpaid overtime? I had to do some serious work on him, Cass. He was terrified to ask you out,” the petite woman said.
“I appreciate it. Really, I do. But his IQ, Darla. It must be single digits.”
“Honey, it’s pretty slim pickins around here. He’s cute and he’s breathing, two things in his favor.” Darla’s eyebrows lowered over her brown eyes. “Are you still upset about the last guy I set you up with?”
“Are you serious? He abandoned me at a gas station.”
“You drew your gun on him, Cass. What did you expect?”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t draw on him. He stopped at a station where a robbery was in progress. What was I supposed to do?”
“You scared him to death when you yanked that revolver from your ankle holster. It was your night off. He had no idea you’d be carrying.”
“He’s from Texas and afraid of a woman with a gun?” Cass sniffed. “He drove off and left me. Patrol had to bring me home. What a wimp.”
Darla smothered a grin. “Well, keep your eyes open and your gun holstered. Mr. Right will come along.” She ran long fingers through her dark hair. “How was today?”
“Very long. Mitch drove most of it. I imagine he’s wiped out.”
“Any luck?”
“Some,” she answered, and her gaze drifted to the garden. The first tender shoots of the weeds that would engulf it had emerged, wrapped in a gauzy layer of smoke from the grill. Memories of her mother, her face serene in the midst of her beloved flowers and vegetables flicked like a slideshow through Cass’s mind and brought the familiar ache of longing for things to have happened differently. She sighed inwardly and released thoughts of what might have been, pulling her eyes back to Darla. “We’ve got a name and some information about his family but I don’t think we’ll catch his killer. Too much time has passed.”
“Mitch was just as pessimistic when he first made detective. I think he’s finally realized that life is a very funny thing, and you never know where a lead will come from.” She paused to look for her husband, lips curving into a soft smile. “What is that man doing?”
Mitch was hunched over the grill with Bruce and Harry Elliot, eyeballing the steaks and offering advice. The three men were strikingly different – Bruce, fourth of the seven Elliot children, dark and brooding with a thick, solid build; Harry, a year older than Bruce and with a fair complexion and wiry form like their father; and Mitch, his long, athletic body topped with dirty blonde hair. He was no blood relation to the Elliot clan, but was their oldest brother Jack’s best friend since childhood. Through that long bond he had wed himself to the family, living its triumphs and tragedies with as much passion as each of them. Bruce stepped away from the grill and brandished a long set of tongs, holding a small piece of steak until it cooled, and then presented the prize to Zeus.
Cass spoke in a low voice. “Wasn’t Harry supposed to have the girls tonight?”
“Your sister-in-law has been yanking his chain all day, poor man. He was seriously frustrated when I got here. Abe calmed him down.”
“Daddy’s sober?”
“And apparently talking some sense.”
“Harry hoped the divorce could be amicable.”
“Fat chance. Carly’s a Drama Queen,” Darla replied as she pushed up from the picnic table. “This one’s gonna take some blood and tears, you mark my words.”
Cass followed Darla to the grill and briefly hugged Bruce’s solid form before wrapping her arms around Harry. She stood on her tiptoes to whisper, “Sorry about the girls.”
He kissed the top of her head and reached for the screen door, standing aside as their father came down the steps with glasses of iced tea. Although Abe Elliot’s hair had been as cottony as Harry’s at one time, it had darkened to a light brown and finally started turning a distinguished white as he aged. Cass eyed her father, a repentant but recidivist drunk, and confirmed Darla’s assessment that he was indeed sober. The tightness in her chest eased.
“Baked potatoes smell done to me, Harry. You’d better ask Bruce if you can have a look,” Abe grinned.
“Oh honored brother,” Harry sang. “Might I enter the kitchen of Elliot and brave the oven?”
Bruce waved the tongs. “Don’t forget the sour cream.”
Abe hugged his daughter and then slid in next to Darla at the picnic table. Bruce joined them, squeezing mustard over a hot dog. “How’d it go?”
Mitch shook his head. “Irritating. Oh man, Bruce, this smells good.”
Cass snorted. “We ate lunch early. He’s bound to be starving.”
“Did you get an ID?” Harry called, darting down the porch steps while juggling baked potatoes in his bare hands.
“We think so,” Mitch answered, holding his plate out. “The man’s son filed the missing persons report. The age and characteristics are right – the skeleton had a broken leg from sometime in his youth and the report says that the father broke his leg when he was sixteen or seventeen.”
“Did you talk to the son?” Darla asked.
“Nope. He’s missing, too.”
“Strange.”
“Everything was strange.” Mitch reached for the sour cream. “This sheriff is temporary. The full-time sheriff had a heart attack and they pulled this guy in from another county to help out. He happened to find the missing persons report when he was digging through the sheriff’s desk, and he made the match to the bulletin about our skeleton.”
“Did you talk to anybody?” Abe asked.
Cass snuck pieces of fat under the table to Zeus. “The sheriff took us to the address on the report, but the house was empty. The old lady next door owns it. She said a family of Mexicans was renting it, and the father left sometime last autumn. She didn’t realize he was missing, just figured he’d gone to visit relatives or something.”
“What about the son?”
“She said he left one weekend and didn’t come back. The rest of the family seemed upset, but wouldn’t talk about it. The old lady went to visit a friend last week, and when she got back, the house was empty.”
“That didn’t worry her?” Darla asked.
“Didn’t seem like she was worried, did it Mitch?”
He shook his head, wiping butter from his chin. “She keeps the rest of the rent, the deposit and she’ll have new renters before month end.”
“Who were these people?” Abe asked.
“Sounds like illegals.”
“What happens now?” Bruce asked, reaching for another hot dog, grinning at his sister’s expression and flexing a rock-solid biceps. “I’m a growing boy, need my nutrition.”
“We keep working the skeleton,” Mitch answered. “He’s got a name now, Humberto Gonzalez.”
Bruce sniffed deeply and frowned at Harry. “You put the cake in the oven?”
“Yeah.”
“Set the timer?”
“Oops.”
“It’ll burn, idiot, and the icing has to be ready right when the cake comes out.” Bruce slapped the air around Harry’s head and trotted for the house. “This is why I control the kitchen.”
CHAPTER 4
GOOBER’S BREATH CAUGHT IN his throat as the lawn mower sputtered to a stop in the middle of Possum Creek Bridge. This was a lonely stretch of road, infrequently traveled. Rare farmhouses rested at the end of rutted dirt tracks masquerading as driveways, and the heavy forest obscured the welcome warmth of electric light. Goober hated the dark. Monsters did their dirty work in the dark. They hid
in the dark, beneath beds and in closets, under bridges and behind trees, lunging when your guard was down. Cries for help went unanswered in the dark. Alone was worse in the dark.
It was no surprise that he was afraid of the dark, or of being alone, for Goober’s origins were a mystery. He’d been found one morning nearly forty years ago, nestled in the gnarled roots of the ancient hanging tree on the courthouse lawn, sleeping peacefully next to the town drunk. A scandal of magnificent proportions ensued. Who was this child? Where had he come from? And where were his parents? The grapevine drums were beaten, gossip smoke signals went up, and the newspaper and radio made repeated announcements encouraging his parents to come forward. But no one came to claim the gentle-natured toddler whose passion for chocolate covered peanuts earned him his nickname. An elderly widow had taken the boy in, and so his life as Arcadia’s child began.
Goober wasn’t retarded, but he was slow at formal education. He never learned to read or write beyond a fourth grade level and he dropped out of school when he was sixteen, picking up odd jobs and developing a talent for gardening. When the widow died, she left Goober her small trailer and enough money to get by. For years he’d ridden a decrepit tandem bicycle, happily pedaling Forney County’s highways and byways. At some point, a generous soul had given Goober a red riding lawn mower with no blades. And at exactly that point, Goober entered the glorious world of combustible engines, whose maintenance requirements outstripped his abilities. Which brought him to his precarious position on the bridge this evening.
His eyes darted into the murky shadows surrounding Possum Creek as he twisted the mower’s key. Her engine whirred but refused to turn over, and as her groans faded into a desperate click, Goober was flooded with a sudden urge to pee.
Reluctantly, he lifted his long frame from the mower, his imagination running wild. He’d heard rumors of ghosts roaming the woods, the spirits of slaughtered cowboys and Indians seeking revenge for past wrongs. Standing stock-still with his stomach churning, Goober waited. When only the night noises reached him, he gathered his courage, dried his sweaty palms on his overalls and unhooked the small can bungeed to a platform behind the seat. Unlocking the mower’s gas cap, he prepared to tip the can up when starlight shimmered across the fuel tank’s gaping maw. He paused, and the memory of stopping at the filling station this morning streaked across his brain. Confused, he frowned at the mower, forgetting his fear as he struggled to understand why she wouldn’t start.
A sudden clanking rang across the still night and drove Goober into a squat. His heart pounded as he clutched the gas can against his chest and scuttled behind the mower, breath coming in shallow gasps. He tried to listen past the blood thrumming in his ears but the evening remained stubbornly closed, refusing to reveal its secrets. Rattled but reassured that the noise had stopped, Goober rose on shaking legs and relocked the tank before returning the can to its platform. One hand on her seat, he examined the mower with a mixture of dread and affection. His source of freedom had failed him and Goober’s childlike mind cranked through his options. Slowly, he realized that he had no choice but to walk to town, through the terrifying night.
He tried to swallow, but found that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Lifting his baseball cap to run a hand over his thinning hair, Goober turned resolutely away from the mower and sought the city’s glow arcing over the black forest. He firmed the cap back on his head and hummed a jumpy tune, walking steadily toward Arcadia, eyes fixed on the strip of road before him.
The blossoming of an unnatural radiance off to his left spooked him. A bright fire danced among the tall pine trees and the vague silhouette of a distant building engulfed in flames captivated him. A devilish ghost danced between Goober and the flickering light, startling him from his trance. Heart pounding, bladder releasing a warm torrent, he turned and fled from Possum Creek, too terrified to scream.
In the blushing night air, a monster slunk to the edge of the road, taking in the man pelting toward town. He moved to the lawn mower, his amber eyes narrowing. Turning to the fleeing man with a look of recognition, Hitch took two steps forward and then stopped, head cocked to one side, seeming to consider the situation. Reluctantly, the monster left the road and melted back between the trees.
CHAPTER 5
EVELYN GROVE’S ARMS WERE wrapped tight across her chest, her dark eyes blazing as rumpled Officer Ernest Munk climbed from his pickup. He suppressed a grin and wrapped her small frame in a huge hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. Her gentle curves were a fragile contrast to his bulky form, her features delicate and still smooth, his rough with too much sorrow and the long-ago marks of chicken pox. His sister pulled back, gently patting his stomach.
“Gaby’s feeding you too well,” she teased.
“I never thought the restaurant would survive, but she’s a great cook. And Robert says you’ve got some deer meat out here. Anything Gabrielle can use in her kitchen?” He winked over her head at his gangly nephews, fighting a stab of jealousy at his sister’s luck with children. The boys would grow into strong, handsome men while his own child –. Munk stopped the thought. The boys were watching their mother for signs of forgiveness or, failing that, belief. Given Evelyn’s notorious hardheadedness, his own self-pity could wait.
She pushed away from his hug. “Did Robert tell you what happened?”
“Nope. He couldn’t stop laughing.”
She thrust her chin at the boys. “Tell your Uncle Ernie what you’ve done.”
One of them looked at the ground, digging the toe of his sneaker into the grass. The other heaved a huge sigh. “He was driving,” Matt said, pointing to his brother. “Not doing anything funny, just driving along FM 419. A deer ran across the road and hit the car.”
Evelyn popped her hands onto her hips. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”
“It does happen,” Munk conceded. “They usually make a suicide run in front of the car and cause all sorts of damage, but sometimes they get the timing better and hit the side instead. Knocks ’em out and leaves a dent, but the car and the deer normally survive.”
The boys were visibly relieved to have their story supported by a source as reliable as Uncle Ernie. Evelyn turned to watch her husband cross the driveway. “Robert, Ernie says that a deer will hit the side of a car. I guess they could be telling the truth.”
Robert Grove stuck out his hand to Munk. “Thanks for coming. I thought she was gonna skin both boys.” He looked at his wife, a smile playing across his lips. “Everything’s all right now?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Who’s going to fix that dent?”
“We will, Momma,” Mark answered, eyes alight.
“Not if I want it done right,” Evelyn snapped, “and I do. Iced tea?” she asked Munk.
“Yes, please,” he answered, watching her march toward the house. He and Robert exchanged glances.
“She does get worked up,” Robert said.
“Always has,” Munk said with a grin. He turned to the twins. “You two all right?”
The boys relaxed, relief on their faces. “Thanks for saving us.”
“No problem.” His faced turned sheepish. “I don’t see y’all often enough, and I know I do this every time, but who’s who?”
“I’m Mark,” one answered. He pointed to his brother. “Matt’s got the beard.”
Munk shook his head. “I figured I’d be able to tell you apart after you grew out of your baby fat, or maybe when you hit your teenage years, but when the doctors said you were identical twins, they meant it.”
“How’ve you been, Ernie? We haven’t seen you in the longest time,” Robert said as they walked toward the car.
“Busy. Especially this week.”
“We heard about the skeleton. Is that what you’re working on?”
Munk was unsurprised that the news had traveled the county so fast. “A couple of the detectives were checking out a lead to his identity today.”
“What happene
d?”
“He was shot twice in the head and his foot was chopped off. It looks like the body was moved, so we don’t know where he was killed.”
“Was it true,” Robert began, eyes darting to his boys, “that he had on women’s clothes?”
Munk nodded. “The whole thing is kind of weird. We only found the body because a patrol officer saw smoke and found a trash fire that had gotten out of the barrel. He was smart enough to call the fire department and then search the area. That’s when he found the skeleton. But he tried to stomp out the flames and caught his uniform on fire.” Matt and Mark giggled and Munk bit back a grin, turning toward the damaged car. “He’s definitely not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.”
Floodlights from the house lit the scene. The deer lay quietly where the boys had pulled it from the car, large eyes watchful. “Electrical cord?” Munk asked.
Mark blushed. “That’s all we had with us.”
“Sure is a pretty little thing,” Munk said. “If it’s not hurt too badly, the game warden said to turn it loose.” He bent and deftly rolled the deer from side to side. “His eyes are clear, and I don’t see any blood. One of you help me untie him.”
Matt looked to Mark. “I rode in back with it. It’s your turn.”
Munk motioned for Mark to join him. “Put your knees on its ribs, hold its hooves and watch those antlers.” Munk quickly unwound the electrical cord. “On three, let him go.”
The men jumped up and watched the deer stagger to its feet. It shook its head and snorted, eyeing them as it staggered around the yard, stretching its bruised muscles. Evelyn returned with a tray of iced tea, stopping to watch the deer regain its balance and in a swift leap, jump the fence to the pasture and disappear into the night.
“My goodness, that thing was bigger than I thought,” she said, holding the tray out.
Robert and Munk took their glasses and squatted down next to the car, discussing the merits of trying to pop the dent out with a suction cup, or bang it out with a mallet from underneath the car.
The Devil of Light Page 2