She drew another deep breath and knew she was out of line in her response to Petchard’s goading, but he’d pushed too far. Absurdly, she chuckled at the thought of his face. Sheer terror. Maybe he’d gotten the message that it wasn’t safe to mess with her, which was a much better result than filing a complaint would have drawn.
Laughter cleared her brain and she focused again on the Pettigrew brothers’ statement, working for another twenty minutes before she was satisfied she’d captured the details Wallace had given her that morning. She clicked a button and listened to the printer hum. Snagging the single sheet of paper as it slid into the tray, she scanned it quickly before reaching for an envelope. Her fingers brushed an unfamiliar surface and she looked down to see The Church of the True Believer nestled in her drawer.
The book was heavy, and she needed both hands to lift it. She’d meant to spend more time with it today, but that was before Oscar Muckleroy had found the corpse in the woods. Resting her weary head on one hand, she flipped through the thick, creamy pages, stopping to look at the colorful illustrations of Biblical characters and the events impacting their lives. A vivid scene showed Abraham with a sharp dagger raised over his son Isaac’s breast, a ram struggling in nearby bushes. Another depicted a wise Solomon dangling a sword above the naked body of an infant stretched between two women, one whose face was twisted in anger, the other’s in anguish.
Deeper in the book a disturbing image portrayed Christ on the cross after his side had been pierced by a centurion’s spear. Blood spurted from the wound, drenching the disciples kneeling at the foot of the cross. The caption read Washed in the Blood of the Lamb. Cass frowned, unable to recall the crucifixion story clearly. As she remembered it, few of the disciples were present at Jesus’ crucifixion. But women. Several women had been present, including Jesus’ mother and Mary Magdalene. Why weren’t they in this picture?
A pattern emerged as Cass again worked through the images. If a woman was depicted, she was in a subservient position, on her knees at the foot of one prophet or another with her face averted or eyes downcast. Cass turned through the book to a story she knew well, or thought she knew well – that of the birth of Christ. In most of the paintings she’d seen, Jesus was in Mary’s lap or cradled in her arms, Joseph and the wise men standing to one side, worshipful of the baby. In this illustration, Joseph held the chubby infant Jesus on his lap and the wise men knelt in front of them. Perhaps not so strange, until she noticed what had drawn her attention back to the image in the first place. Mary was visible, but standing to one side, head lowered in an attitude of sorrow. And most curious was that while one of Joseph’s hands cradled the Christ child, the other was held palm out toward Mary, as though pushing her away.
Cass sat back in her chair, a frown on her face. The quality of the illustrations was good and to her untrained eye they appeared professionally drawn. This caption read, “Adoration of the Magi,” a title she thought belonged to another painting, but that also suited this one. A footnote near the bottom of the page offered an interpretation of the image: “The Christ child’s power and fate are recognized by the wise men, who foretold of His coming and traveled from afar to worship Him and God who sent Him. For it is through Him alone that we are saved, His immaculate conception in the filthy vessel of woman serving to remind man of the weakness she has wrought in us. Joseph’s authority as head of his wife is manifested, and his obligation to ensure her subjection to him is complete.”
“Oh boy,” Cass breathed. That wasn’t how she had understood Mary’s role in Jesus’ birth, life and death. Nor was it the interpretation of millions of Catholics, who ranked Mary pretty high in the holy hierarchy. She thought back to Pastor Luke’s tutorial on cults. He’d said that cults were about power, and if that were the case, the illustrations in The Church of the True Believer were designed to ensure that men held power over women. And not in a good way. Cass reached for her cold coffee and grimaced at a sip as she flipped through to the end of the book. The last few pages stood upright and she noticed writing on the page before the cover. Four lines were included, each written by a different hand but with bold, proud strokes, ink more faded on the first entry than the last. She squinted to read the words and numbers. The most recent name was Lenny Scarborough’s, dated 1988. The other entries were each dated years or decades earlier.
Cass closed her eyes as the full meaning of the handwritten words hit her. The short list was a genealogy of the book’s ownership, extending back to the nineteen-twenties. If this group was involved in the same activities back then, some of the most powerful men in the community had been molesting children for decades.
CHAPTER 36
THE OLD MAN’S WIFE pulled the study door closed and bustled to the kitchen, turning on the coffee pot before peeking into the oven. Her cookies were just beginning to brown and she checked the timer on the stove. She could bake off another three or four batches before the men were ready for a break.
Inside the shadowy study, the group shuffled between furniture to greet one another and the heady smell of excitement and uncertainty quickly filled the small space. The old man took a step to the center of the room and held his hands out to each side. The men formed a circle, grasping one another’s hands and bowing their heads. Deacon Cronus began, his voice barely a whisper.
“Father, we thank you for taking our brother Lenny Scarborough into the beautiful light of your presence. We are grateful for the work Lenny completed in your name, in the fight against the evil one. We pray for his family in this, their time of need, and ask that you would comfort and provide for them. Give us wisdom as we follow your command and prayerfully adjust the membership of your sacred Church. As you guided the disciples in the upper room, show of these our Brethren the one whom you have chosen to complete the Circle of Illumination. Bless our charge, Father, and give us your protection as we prepare for the battles to come. Amen and amen.”
“Amen,” the men murmured, releasing hands. They took up positions on the couch, unfolded metal card chairs and rested hips against the desk. Windows in the room were closed and the curtains drawn, and the small space grew warm as the men moved about. The old man flipped a switch to turn on the ceiling fan. Deacon Cronus huffed his bulk into a wide chair set before the cold fireplace and took in the men before him. Each represented a successful business or an influential position within the community. Chosen not only for his personal qualities, but for the authority and connections he brought with him. Judges, doctors, lawyers and bankers. Each had a role to play in ensuring that Forney County remained on an even keel, safe from the ravages of those who would challenge the balance of power: minorities, feminists, non-believers. Even newcomers were suspect until they proved their willingness to live within the bounds of established society. Cronus was still amazed at times that these powerful men deferred to him, but he was growing accustomed to the authority of his office. He cleared his throat and the men settled into an expectant quiet.
“We are here tonight to follow in the sacred footsteps of the original disciples, when they gathered in the upper room to elect a new disciple to replace Judas Iscariot, betrayer of our Lord. Lenny Scarborough was no traitor; he was an obedient follower of Jesus Christ and a powerful contributor to the works of The Church of the True Believer. To continue our hallowed mission on earth, our number must be restored to thirteen, representing the holy alliance of Jesus and his twelve disciples.”
He paused, searching the faces watching him. Each was rapt, serious. The fullness of their attention was not lost on him, and Deacon Cronus hefted himself straighter.
“There are two matters before us tonight. The first is ascension. Lenny was one point on our compass, the Circle of Illumination, and must be replaced by a member who can steadfastly travel the long road before us, guiding, interpreting, and protecting The Light.” His fat face contracted momentarily in pride and he hurried to hide the emotion from his audience. “Of our eight Brethren, one will join the Circle of Illumination.
He must possess strengths suitable for the battles to come, and characteristics complementary to the Circle’s three existing members. We will replicate the actions of the disciples described in Acts Chapter 1, and our selection will be by lot.” Deacon Cronus examined the men. “You have been instructed to prayerfully consider your suitability for ascension. Joining the Circle is an honor that carries with it sacred duties and at times, requires that heavy burdens be shouldered. There is no shame in choosing not to be considered for ascension, only respect for your obedience to the will of our Father. Does anyone wish to withhold their name?”
The group of men were subdued this evening, each mindful of Lenny Scarborough’s gruesome end. Jed Salter slowly raised his hand, and two others joined his. Deacon Cronus closed his eyes briefly. “Do any of you care to speak before lots are drawn?”
One hand remained in the air and Deacon Cronus nodded, jowls wobbling with the movement. “Since Lenny’s death, I have spent considerable time in meditation and prayer,” Officer Greg Newton said, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “I am still young in my understanding of The Church and its ways. For that reason, I believe another member will be better suited to support The Light and provide direction.”
Several men bowed their heads at his words and one reached out to clasp his shoulder. Deacon Cronus counted out five matchsticks from the pocket on his shirt. He broke the match head from one, and aligned the clean ends so that all five protruded from his pudgy fist, level with one another. Stretching his arm toward the middle of the room, he watched as the five Brethren stepped forward to select a matchstick, hiding it until all had drawn. The old man watched from the chair at his desk, cold pipe clasped between his teeth. On instruction from Deacon Cronus, the five simultaneously opened their hands. A smile creased Dr. Tom Warner’s face and the group of men surged around him, reaching to shake his hand and offer words of congratulation.
As the men settled into their places, relaxed now that this important task was complete, Deacon Cronus stood and motioned for Warner to kneel. He placed one dimpled hand on the man’s bowed head and raised the other toward heaven. The others lowered their heads, hands clasped before them.
“Gracious Father, we give thanks that You have chosen Tom Warner to serve in Your Circle of Illumination. We ask that Your strength and wisdom flow through him, directing him and his skills as a businessman and surgeon in Your holy service. Amen and amen.”
Deacon Cronus removed his hand and held it out to help Warner to his feet. They embraced and Warner, face flushed, stepped back to join the others. The Deacon settled again in his chair and glanced at the old man, who nodded once for him to continue. He drew a deep breath and began to speak, his voice gaining strength and conviction with each sentence.
“The second matter before us is the restoration of The Church to its full membership of thirteen. Selection of a new member carries great responsibility, both for the member and the existing Church. We require men with strength of character and conviction, who will stand beside us as we fight the good fight, protecting the community and truly, the world, from the threat of Satan. We need a man who will commit his life to our Lord and His cause. A True Believer.” Beady eyes alive, Deacon Cronus examined each man in the room. “The topic is open to a fifteen-minute debate. At its close, we will vote anonymously on our new member. Who among us will begin?”
A middle-aged man raised a freckled hand, and at a motion from the Deacon, he blushed to the roots of his red hair and cleared his throat. “Before we start, I’ve heard that the police have Lenny’s book. How do we provide instruction to the new member without it?”
The old man shifted in his chair. “If the Deacon doesn’t mind, I’ll address this question,” he said, waiting for agreement from Deacon Cronus. “The police do have Lenny’s book and it’s been handled by a woman.”
A collective gasp rose as anger and fear flooded the men’s faces. The old man raised a hand and the crowd grew silent.
“To our knowledge, this has never happened before. The purity of Lenny’s volume has been sullied, and it must be destroyed.” Several men protested, but the old man nodded sadly. “It must be done. To satisfy the need for instruction, I’ve contacted a trusted friend and commissioned a replacement copy. The new book will be an exact replica of the twelve that remain, in both materials and presentation.”
“How long will this take?” the redheaded man asked.
The old man grimaced. “About three months, I’m afraid.” He shrugged at their dismay. “There is no alternative. The book must be reproduced exactly, and since the original plates were destroyed, much of the work will be done by hand.” The group murmured in reluctant agreement. “As we’ve seen with Lenny’s death, Satan acts swiftly and with determination. Let this be a reminder to us all to remain diligent in protecting the sacred tools of our faith.”
Deacon Cronus glanced around the room. “Shall we continue?”
Voices rose and fell over the next half hour, as names were suggested and rejected. At the end of the debate, three names remained and after an anonymous vote, Officer Hugo Petchard had been selected as the newest member of The Church of the True Believer.
The old man looked at Greg Newton. “You’ll instruct him in what to expect?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll be thrilled.”
“Your invitations to our most sacred ceremony, the Celebration of Illumination, will be delivered tomorrow evening at the latest. Keep Wednesday night open. We’ll meet at The Sanctuary.” The old man pushed up from his chair and sniffed the air. “And if you’ve got time, I believe the wife has some fresh cookies coming out of the oven.”
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 37
HITCH CHUCKLED AS FLAMES licked the base of his cooking pot. A shimmer skated across the oil’s surface, and he knew it wouldn’t be long now. He was back in his clearing, at home in its isolation and suitability. Over the bright crackling of the wood, the Sabine River gurgled as it sucked at the riverbank, its surface black in the moonlight. The old man had called Monday evening with an interesting modification to the evening’s plans. Hitch shook his head in admiration. He had thought himself creative; but the old man, he was in a different league altogether.
Checking his watch, he dug in his pocket for a cigarette. It was well past midnight but the hardest part of the night was behind him. Sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, the nicotine hit his system, his body relaxed and he let his gaze wander. As Hitch glanced around the clearing, a spark of awareness shot through the lizard part of his brain that housed survival instincts, and a prickle of discomfort skittered across his neck hairs. He grew still, watchful, muscles bunched and senses preternaturally alert, his nose lifted to the air. The evening’s tranquility was broken by the fire’s sizzle and the creak of rope. With a whisper of ruffling feathers, a night bird swooped through the treetops and Hitch felt a flush of adrenaline as he instinctively ducked before sensing the creature’s passing. He shivered, and then chuckled at the absurdity of his reaction. Grinding his cigarette against his boot and shoving the butt in his pocket, he took a few steps into the heavy foliage for a piss. Zipping his fly, he coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat into the underbrush.
Turning to the fire’s serene glow, Hitch shook off the lingering sense of unease and considered his next steps. He lifted the top of the toolbox in the pickup’s bed and examined the drill bits inside. The half-inch hadn’t worked fast enough last time, so he planned to up the ante. He selected a one-inch hole saw and tightened the chuck, squeezing the drill’s trigger to hear it whine.
A groan sounded. Hitch turned to see a pair of dazed eyes darting around the small area, body jerking as awareness seeped past the pain. Hitch tugged his heavy leather gloves more securely over his fingers and watched to see what would happen when his prey came into himself enough to understand what was happening.
The man’s face and torso were glossy with sweat. Thin streams of blood ran across the flat plane of his stomach, caugh
t in the dark hair that covered his chest and formed a pool in the soft flesh beneath his chin. Three wide-mouthed buckets rested on the ground to one side. His damp body shone in the moonlight as he twisted, a macabre ornament hanging from a tree accustomed to slaughter. A longer moan emerged from his lips, followed by a contracting of stomach muscles as he struggled to pull himself upright. He collapsed with a gasp of pain, grew still for a moment and exploded into frustrated motion. His violent thrashing started the overhead limb swinging and drops of blood and sweat sprayed from his body.
Hitch climbed a stepladder and peered at the rope running through the block and tackle on a sturdy branch about ten feet above the ground. Everything was holding nicely. He grinned as he climbed back down and squatted, examining the spikes, careful to stay away from the swinging crossbeam. “How you doing there, Officer Garrett?”
“Help me, man, let me down!” He panted, struggling against his bindings, groaning with the effort, eyes searching the long, thin face before him. “Oh God, what happened? I can’t move!”
“You’re right where you’re supposed to be this evening. Lovely night, ain’t it?”
The Devil of Light Page 16