The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  Deacon Cronus nodded into the phone, respectful of the man’s deviousness. “Fine.”

  “As you open the invitation for tonight, make sure you give The Brethren the option to remove themselves from the selection process.”

  “Of course. I uh, wonder if there are any members that should be encouraged not to participate.”

  “Someone in particular?”

  “Jed Salter is still distressed over his oldest son’s death,” the Deacon said cautiously.

  “It’s unfortunate that his grief is so deep, but God works in mysterious ways. Like you, I don’t think he’s ready for the Circle of Illumination. I’ll encourage him to take additional time for reflection before he chooses to participate in the selection.”

  “Good. We’ll need to choose a new member of The Brethren tonight, as well.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “This will be an open debate, but I suspect you have someone in mind.”

  Through the phone, Deacon Cronus heard the clacking of teeth against pipe and knew that the old man was content. “I’m thinking about Hugo Petchard.”

  “The police officer?”

  “He’s done a good job for us as one of The Way, and he can be… molded.”

  Anxious thoughts scurried through the Deacon’s mind. It was always a risky business, indoctrinating someone into The Church. The bond between members was sealed through what some might consider harrowing rituals, and complete obedience and loyalty were demanded. As far as the Deacon knew, only one man had left The Church while alive, and he must’ve made a powerful argument to be allowed to leave and live. Members were selected carefully and over time, were subtly formed to fit The Church’s mold. Petchard certainly had a need to belong, to be recognized. The old man could ensure that Sheriff Hoffner promoted him to detective before too long. And having a detective as a member of The Church would be beneficial. But still, he was one of the more unpredictable members of the police force.

  “He may be too volatile to function effectively inside The Church. Perhaps he’s better suited to remain a member of The Way,” the Deacon proposed, scratching his beard.

  “He is passionate,” the old man agreed. “We could use an infusion of emotion right about now. Someone to work from the bottom of The Church, to complement your work from the top. To generate enthusiasm.”

  “I see what you mean,” Deacon Cronus said, picturing Petchard as an assistant of sorts. “How will he react to the rituals?”

  The old man sighed. “That’s always an unknown, isn’t it? We’ve been blessed with men who are completely committed to The Church’s work. Petchard is an astute enough young man to realize the benefits he’ll gain, and will understand the rituals for what they are – an outward and visible sign of our bonding in the name of the Lord.”

  Deacon Cronus grunted into the phone, satisfied. “I’m not sure who the others will recommend, are you?”

  “No, but I’ll do some campaigning. We won’t have a problem getting Petchard approved. We need to move quickly. Wednesday night?”

  “Do we have the elements?”

  “Yes. We’ll use The Sanctuary.”

  “Do you think Jed Salter’s younger son is ready to serve?”

  “I’ll speak to him about it. The child’s involvement might be just what Jed needs. Getting back on the horse that threw you, so to speak,” the old man said. “Are your two girls available?”

  “I’m sure they will be. I’ll have invitations printed and delivered.” Frown lines creased folds in his fat forehead. “What will we do without Lenny’s book?”

  The sizzle of a match hissed down the phone line, followed by gentle puffing as the old man lit his pipe. “More operational stuff, Deacon. Let me worry about that.”

  CHAPTER 32

  OSCAR MUCKLEROY STOPPED TO rub his left leg. He’d spent the better part of Sunday and all of Monday morning trudging along disused trails in East Texas’ piney forest, checking for unusual activity, and his leg made sure he knew it was working overtime. But after seeing the fire pit Matt and Mark Grove had found, and realizing that it contained human bones, Oscar was worried about what was going on in his woods. He’d spent the better part of his fifty-some-odd years as a forestry man and felt justified in claiming the land as his own. A fire would be devastating, environmentally and economically. But what mattered to Oscar was the beauty of the place, the peace he felt as he watched the forest ebb and grow over time. In today’s disposable world, he wanted something of substance left for future generations. If that meant his leg and back suffered, so be it.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a brightly colored kerchief. It was threadbare, but he couldn’t stand to part with it. His wife had always purchased loud kerchiefs for him, believing that if a hungry animal spotted her husband in his mundane forestry uniform, a colorful piece of cloth might save him from becoming lunch. Madge had died a couple of years ago, but Oscar wasn’t ready to let go. He carefully folded the kerchief and tucked it in his back pocket. Stopping to rest had eased the aching in his leg and he surveyed the surrounding area before deciding which way to go. He was on an old fire trail and believed it led to a natural clearing just ahead. If someone was horsing around with campfires out here like they did in that clearing the Grove boys discovered, the one with those foot bones in it, a clearing in this remote area of the forest might prove just as attractive.

  Taking a swig of water from a canteen he carried on his belt, Oscar swung his heavy leg forward to get his momentum going and headed for a cluster of azalea bushes covered in papery purple blooms. Fifteen clumping strides forward and he shouldered through the heavy foliage, jerking to a stop and straightening as far as his hunch would allow.

  “Oh boy,” he whispered as his eyes darted into the shadowy underbrush. “Grey’s going to love this one.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “STOP HOGGING ALL THE food, Mitch,” Cass moaned. “Pass that bag around, we’ve got company.”

  Mitch snagged a handful of onion rings before scooting the bag toward Scott Truman, who pushed it to the center of the table. “You know Pastor Luke, given what you’ve described, I’m not sure this is a cult.”

  “Why?”

  Mitch studied the preacher before glancing at Kado and Munk, who read the question in his eyes and nodded. “What I’m about to tell you relates to Lenny Scarborough’s death and is extremely confidential. It cannot be discussed outside of this room.”

  “I understand.”

  Mitch drew a deep breath. “You described leaders who are interested in power, in increasing the number of people who follow them. They want attention, glory, and eventually, they end up attracting negative scrutiny from the local community and perhaps the authorities. Angie Scarborough described a group of men that Lenny has belonged to since before they were married. She said they met at night and Lenny wore a purple robe to those meetings.”

  “That could be something like the Lion’s Club or the Masons. They have their own rituals, their own garb. But you seem to think there’s something sinister about this group.”

  “There is. We have evidence that several men are involved in the gang rape of a child and homosexual activities.”

  Pastor Luke blinked and carefully placed his cup on the table. “What kind of evidence?”

  “Photographs.”

  “Good Lord,” he breathed.

  “There can’t be many men involved, since they’ve operated without detection for so long in such a small community. Does this sound like a cult?”

  Pastor Luke reached for The Church of the True Believer, flipped to the opening pages and read aloud. “‘For we are locked in a battle of proportions to rival the end of times. Satan grows and groans, shaking the foundations of the earth and threatening the blessings so graciously poured upon us. We labor to fight the good fight, seeking the few True Believers for our sacred charge from the many who worship in hypocrisy. The Brethren cling one to another, drawing strength from strength, protecting
our mission from the clutches of evil. The innocence of the lamb feeds our virtue, expands our knowledge and fuels our lust for the fight.’” He exhaled slowly, eyes distant as he considered his next comment. “Depending on the reader, the words are simply an encouragement to the True Believers to seek out and draw strength from one another, to continue the fight against Satan. Similar to Paul’s letters in some respects.” He scanned the text. “But, given what Angie told you and knowing about the photos, the tone changes. It becomes exclusive – the ‘few True Believers’ versus those who ‘worship in hypocrisy’. ‘Clinging to one another’ could imply a physical relationship between members and again, exclusivity. ‘The innocence of the lamb’ could refer to children.”

  The room was silent for a beat.

  “What are you saying?” Munk asked.

  “To me, it sounds like a cult. Still focused on control and the acquisition of power, the power of exclusivity rather than numbers. But the definition of this group as a cult isn’t important.”

  “Why not?”

  “From the perspective of wanting to find child molesters and rapists, the question,” Pastor Luke said, “is who in this community has the power to convince men like Lenny Scarborough that homosexuality, rape and child molestation will give them strength and knowledge?”

  ____________

  THEY CALLED THEIR GOOD-BYES as the door swung shut behind Pastor Luke Knightman, and then collapsed into chairs around the table. Kado broke the silence. “Fascinating.”

  “How do you mean?” Mitch asked, digging a ringing phone from his pocket.

  “We haven’t focused on who Lenny was in the community. He was a pretty powerful man, right? He owned some real estate and a piece of some insurance company. Not too shabby in terms of financial wealth. Maybe it is about power, money.”

  “Pastor Luke wanted to know who has the power to recruit men like Lenny Scarborough,” Cass said. “If power equals money, there aren’t that many around here that fit the bill.”

  “You’d be amazed,” Munk injected. “There’s a lot of money in this area. Old money from agriculture, but also from oil and gas. People just don’t flash it around.”

  “Maybe we should start with the folks Lenny knew. Angie told us that they didn’t have many visitors. Let’s find out how active he was in the insurance business.”

  “Was he,” Cass began, wondering how to phrase this question. “Did he know Deacon Cronus, over at the First Baptist Church?”

  Kado shrugged and looked to Officer Truman, who shook his head and spoke. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I stopped to see him when I went to the church to look for a Bible. When I showed him The Church of the True Believer, he kind of freaked out.”

  “Freaked out how?” Munk asked.

  “He just looked spooked, like he was shocked to see me with that book.”

  “So now you think David Cronus is involved in this thing?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been trying to size up the guys I’ve come into contact with.”

  Munk’s look was blank. Kado and Truman exchanged glances and snickered.

  Cass blushed. “All we’ve got to go on are those photos from Lenny Scarborough’s kitchen floor. Some of the men were big, and I wondered about Deacon Cronus, and even the Mayor.”

  Munk let fly with a disgusted laugh. “That’s probably not good for your mental health, Cass.”

  “I know.” Her grimace morphed into a grin. “You’re right, it’s stupid. The Deacon said he’d had a stomach bug over the weekend. He’s probably not over it.”

  Mitch had spoken quietly on the phone while the others talked. He snapped the phone shut and reached for the coffee pot and cups. “Grey and Bernie are on their way over. They’ve got some news on the bones from the fire pit and Lenny’s autopsy. Kado, are you done with the fingerprints from the Scarborough’s house?”

  “There’s nothing unexpected. I’ve got Lenny’s, Angie’s and four sets of child-sized prints. There are two adults that came back with no hits. Maybe relatives.”

  “All right. Truman, tell me how you figured out how many men are involved.”

  The young officer shifted in his chair, heat climbing his cheeks. “I just compared one photo to another. Some guys were easy to identify because of the color of their, um, pu-pubic hair,” he stuttered as the blush deepened, “or because of the shape of their hands. One guy bites his nails. A couple have moles in certain places. One consistency is that where I could see it, they each have a scar on their sides,” he pointed to his right rib cage. “I marked the photos to show the similarities and gave each man a letter to keep track of them. But there are some shots that I’m not sure about. It could be one of the same men, or a different one.”

  Mitch smiled grimly. “Good work. That can’t have been easy.”

  Truman drew a shaky breath. “No, sir, but there’s more. I was able to work with the photos using a commercial software package. We might be able to do something more with a professional package, but I think all the photos were taken at the same place. Let me show you.” He reached for a thick envelope on the counter behind him as the conference room door swung open.

  Sheriff Bill Hoffner sauntered into the room and checked the coffee counter for spills before leaning into it. He was a vulture of a man, eyes set close to a long, hooked nose, snowy hair cropped short, Adam’s apple riding high in a long neck. His eyes swept the room, skipping over Cass. He crossed his arms over his chest and grunted a greeting. “You working on Lenny Scarborough?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch replied. “Truman’s done some work on the photographs this morning and was about to show us some similarities in location. You have time for a look?”

  “I do,” he said, carefully pouring from the coffee pot. He snapped a paper towel from its holder and wiped the cup’s rim, the chair seat and the edge of the table before sitting down. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir,” Truman answered, pouring the photos on the table. They were printed on standard letter-sized paper and each bore notes in Truman’s neat handwriting. “They’re pretty graphic, sir. I’ve been able to find at least seven different men who appear in these photos. There are several more that I have questions about. I’ll keep working on that. But I noticed that the background never changes.” He shuffled through the stack and pulled several pages out, turning them to face the group. “It’s most clear in these. They’ve done a good job of picking a dark place – the paneling on the walls doesn’t give off a reflection, the windows are covered and I haven’t come across a mirror. But I see the same furniture in each shot. There’s a bed.” He pointed to a snip of white in one photo and a narrow expanse of rumpled sheets in another. “But it doesn’t have a headboard or footboard. In some shots you can see the curve of a rocking chair runner. The floors are unfinished wood but they’re old and look pretty smooth. The windows are covered with what looks like dark blankets. The light in the room never varies, but I haven’t seen the source. From the shadows, I think it’s an overhead fitting.”

  Sheriff Hoffner used the tip of one finger to pull a page toward him and leaned over it. “Looks rustic.”

  Kado leaned over another page. “Can you bring this up on the computer?”

  Truman moved to the computer and unlocked the screen, scrolling to the right shot. Kado pointed to a corner of the photo. “See if you can enlarge that.”

  Truman selected the area and clicked to magnify and sharpen the image. “That’s about as good as it’ll get. What do you see?”

  Kado squinted at the screen as the others gathered behind Truman. “Those points. Is that a rack?”

  Collectively, they leaned forward. Sheriff Hoffner grunted. “Buck?”

  “Hunting cabin? Deer camp?”

  Truman nodded. “That would explain the rough floors and walls, and the blankets over the windows.”

  “And why they’d have enough privacy to do all this,” Cass added, noting the stiffening of Sheriff Hoffn
er’s face at the sound of her voice. “If it’s a cabin down in the river bottom, Lenny could’ve picked up the sandy mud Angie said was on his boots.”

  Mitch heaved a sigh and sat at the conference room table. “How do we narrow it down? I mean, how many deer camps do we have around here?”

  Sheriff Hoffner straightened a staff notice on the wall as he returned to his chair. “Officer Truman, can you identify anyone from the characteristics you spotted?”

  “No, sir. Most were close up shots of the uh, acts, and showed only the chest, hips and thighs.”

  “How about the woman?”

  “There are at least two included in the photos, sir. Their faces are always covered, but I think they’re teenage girls, like Munk suggested.”

  Hoffner paled. “What makes you think they’re girls?”

  “Just comparing their size to that of the men. They could be very slender women. But even compared to the smallest man, the girls have small bone structures.” He blushed. “Their uh, breasts are small and their hips are very narrow. They also don’t have much pubic hair.”

  “Any moles, tattoos?”

  “Moles or birthmarks, yes.”

  Hoffner rubbed his face with both hands. “Compare their descriptions with any missing teenagers here and in the surrounding counties. Maybe we can identify them that way.”

  The conference room door swung open and Elaine stepped through, curls bouncing. “Sheriff, Grey is on the phone for you,” she said, color in her cheeks from her dash through the station. “Oscar Muckleroy just called. He’s found a body down near Logan’s Quarters. Grey and his friend Bernie are on their way. He said to bring shovels.”

  CHAPTER 34

  CASS WAS SURPRISED THAT the clean scent of pine and cedar were all that met her nose when she and Mitch stepped from the truck. Grey’s van, a patrol car, and a battered pickup were pulled to the side of the road. Kado rolled to a stop and they gathered forensic equipment and shovels from the pickup’s bed.