“Fuck you!” Garrett howled, his face contorted with pain and rage.
“Temper, temper,” Hitch chided. “Guess I’ll just suppose it’s the pain talking.” He stood and stepped away from the tree, smiling at his handiwork. He’d chosen crucifixion because he knew the old man practiced one flavor of Christianity or another. Garrett was secured to a cross of four-by-four Southern Pine, arms splayed wide and secured to the timber through the palms with six-inch cut clasp nails. His feet were crossed one over the other and nailed through their thinnest point, just behind the toes. Since he’d needed to hang the cross upside down, Hitch hadn’t been comfortable that a single nail would support the man’s weight, so he’d taken the precaution of wrapping baling twine around Garrett’s ankles and the cross. All in all, a job well done.
“What do you want, man?” Garrett pleaded, his agonized face clouded with confusion. “Who are you?”
Hitch squatted. “Just so we’re clear, there’s nothing personal about this. Between you and me, I mean. I’ve got a job to do, just like you did.” He paused. “Did you really think you could just walk away?”
Garrett’s eyes cleared. “Oh my God.”
“’Fraid God won’t be any help now. The old man’s the one you should be praying to.”
“Oh Jesus,” Garrett whispered, again attempting to contract his stomach muscles to pull himself upright, grunting in pain. “He can’t be serious. I’d never say a word. He’s got too much on me. Come on, man,” he groaned. “Cut me down. I won’t tell. Nobody has to know.”
“I’ve got my orders,” Hitch replied with a small smile, golden eyes flat. “We have work to do, you and me. See that pot?” He pointed to the brightly burning fire.
Garrett focused across the clearing.
“That’s where your supper’s coming from. A last meal, you might call it,” he said, ambling over to peer into the kettle. The oil had reached an agitated boil. Garrett moaned as Hitch brought a metal bowl to him. “I picked peanut oil, concerned for your cholesterol and everything. I thought about using corn meal for the batter, but figured flour would be easier to swallow. Corn meal’s more of a catfish thing, know what I mean?” he asked, tilting the bowl so Garrett could see its contents. Blood seeped through the outer dusting of flour, pink spots marring the small, irregular bundles.
Garrett strained to find Hitch’s face, searching those unusual amber eyes, firelight sparking red in their depths. The confusion clouding his brain suddenly cleared and he howled, body jerking with rage as the stench of fear stained the night. Clear lengths of snot flew from Garrett’s nose as he swung, tears tipping over his eyelids to flow into his crew cut and spatter the ground. “You’re fucking nuts! Get away from me. Oh dear God, SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
____________
IN THE DANK, DENSE undergrowth near the river’s edge, where the foamy eddies swirl and the fetid mud and mosquitoes suck, a pair of dark eyes blinked at the scene unfolding by firelight. Their bluish whites and the reflection from their liquid surface were the only indication that human life was present. She was clad in black, and with the inky darkness of her skin had only to close her eyes to disappear. The acrid stench of urine was strong where the ghost had sprayed out into the woods, a glistering stream arcing golden into the velvety night. Heart fluttering at her breast and eyes unfocused, she found the form in the clearing, an indistinct sliver woven into the kaleidoscopic glow of the fire; a devil made of light. The scene swam, the grisly spectacle of Christ on His cross wavering in her fuzzy vision. A whining scream rose and her bleary eyes experienced a moment of unnatural clarity at the sound. He was familiar to her clouded brain, this upside down Jesus. The mournful call of a whippoorwill sliced through the horrible calm as the whine faded. Her thoughts and vision blurred and she uttered a silent, jumbled prayer begging mercy for the Christ-man suffering in her forest. Hiding beneath the next shrill shriek, she inched her stealthy retreat.
CHAPTER 38
CASS SAT BOLT UPRIGHT, heart pounding, scream struggling toward her throat, stomach muscles clenched. Instinctively, she grabbed for the gun on her bedside table, flicked the safety off and racked a round into the chamber. Her eyes darted into the shadows and she drew a quick breath, swinging her torso over the bed’s edge, arm extended and ready to fire as she cleared the area beneath. She jerked herself upright and slowly took in the rest of the room, smiling grimly as she remembered the nightmare. A grotesque caricature of Richard Nixon wasn’t lurking under the bed or in the closet.
She sank back onto her pillows, damp with sweat, and carefully traced the scar circling her breast. It was on fire again, as it always was when she had the dream. Glancing at the clock, she groaned. Four thirty. After discovering the names in The Church of the True Believer last night, she’d stumbled home, eaten leftovers, mumbled goodnight to her brothers and father and fallen into bed. She’d slipped easily into the old nightmare and now fought the temptation to ponder what had brought it on. No matter. Nixon didn’t frighten her when she was awake. He just pissed her off.
Cass rubbed her fists into her eyes and swung her legs off the bed. Quickly pulling on her running gear and securing her hair in a ponytail, she crept from the house. A security lamp snapped on as she opened the door and the soft yellow light stretched shadows across the garden toward the trees bordering the backyard.
She stretched and then started off at a slow pace, her body creaking until it settled into a familiar rhythm. Moving past the garden, she entered the woods on a dirt path, the beat of her footfalls quiet on the soft soil. The land beyond the backyard was owned by the Craven family who, out of pity, had rented the two room shack on the northern edge of their vast property to a very young, very pregnant, and very poor couple – Abe and Nell Elliot. Over time, Abe had added rooms to the house to hold his expanding family, the severity of tilt of a new room against the old in direct proportion to his degree of inebriation at the time of construction. The woods were an extension of home to the seven Elliot children, and as they grew, they had ventured deeper, learning its twists and turns, the flow of the streams trickling through the dense underbrush, building rickety forts and fighting mighty imaginary battles against Indians in its quiet shade.
Cass lengthened her stride, unafraid of the heavy blackness wrought by the thick branches overhead. This was the place she felt safest in the world. Her body knew the trail she ran; the sudden dip where erosion had eaten a small crevasse around tree roots. The bough that hung too low to either duck under or leap over, demanding that a runner break her stride to hoist herself onto its girth and swing her legs over before continuing. Her brother Lloyd was the second oldest child, and at one time, held the distinction of being the fastest white boy in Forney County. Cass had spent her childhood chasing him through these woods, and the reflexive memory of her muscles bore testament to Lloyd’s patience and her persistence.
She reached a smooth length of trail that followed the edge of the Craven’s pasture and felt her thighs start to burn. The spring growth on bushes and trees reached for her hair, and she shifted her route slightly to move out of their grip. Cass had no idea how many acres the Craven clan owned, but she knew they were one of the wealthiest families around. This stretch of land ran unbroken for several hundred acres and was bordered on its east side by a large house still occupied by the eldest Craven, old Mr. Lucius. Easily in his seventies, he still ruled his family’s vast land and cattle holdings with an iron fist. His daughters were long since married off, both of them grandparents in their own right. Several of his sons and grandsons worked the family business with him, but one or two had left Forney County to seek their fortunes elsewhere.
From her childhood, she remembered Mr. Lucius as a kindly old man, larger than life and smelling of sweet tobacco, always ready with a ruffle of the hair and the occasional stick of chewing gum secreted for the children. The family was generous in the community, hosting Halloween hayrides and Easter egg hunts. For some reason, the Cravens had taken special care
with the Elliot family, eventually allowing Abe to buy the house and five acres surrounding it, with generous repayment terms.
A stitch seared her side as she left the pasture and turned into the woods to follow the trail winding behind the massive Craven home. A match flared near the backyard fence, and Cass stopped in her tracks, breath heavy and sweat dripping from the loose tendrils of hair curling around her face. It was too early for anyone to be out, and she automatically reached for her gun, which was still on her nightstand. She narrowed her eyes at a rustle from the yard, and realized that someone was lighting a pipe.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice barked.
“Detective Cass Elliot,” she answered, injecting authority into her voice as she took a quiet step behind a tree. “Who are you?”
“Cass? I don’t believe I’ve seen you since you finished university.”
“Mr. Lucius?”
“Of course. Who else would be out in my backyard this time of night? Come on over here, let me look at you. I had no idea you still used these old trails. Thought they would’ve grown over by now,” he said, leaning on the top fence rail as Cass stepped forward, wiping sweat from her face with her arm. He wore the clothes she remembered from her youth – khaki cotton trousers and matching work shirt. “My goodness. You sure have grown up. Where did you go to school again?”
“Texas A&M, sir,” Cass smiled, feeling the gentle security of being a child again in his presence.
“Fine school. What did you study?”
“Accounting.”
Mr. Lucius grunted. “Good choice, accounting. There’s money in it. How’d you end up a po-lice officer? I remember hearing about it when Hoffner hired you onto the force, and again when you were promoted to detective. I figured you had some sort of criminal justice degree.”
“No, sir,” Cass sighed. “Education was important to my daddy, so I went to A&M and got my accounting degree. Even interviewed with some of the big firms, got offers and everything. But it just didn’t feel right.” She shrugged. “Those people are boring.”
Mr. Lucius threw his head back and laughed, long teeth gleaming in the dim moonlight. “That’s one of the things I enjoyed about you, Cass. You always did speak your mind. I know what you mean. Accountants are all kind of gray.”
She smiled with him. “That’s it. Anyway, I just couldn’t get excited about working in accounting.” Well, she thought, that was one version of the truth. “I decided to join the force in Dallas. When I told Daddy what I was doing, we had an awful fight.”
“I’d imagine he wanted you to be safe, Cass. And po-licing can be a dangerous job.”
“He wanted me to come home right away, but I wanted to work in a big city, first. I guess I was lucky that Sheriff Hoffner had a vacancy when I did move home.”
“And you made detective quickly. First woman and the youngest detective we’ve had.”
A rueful smile touched her lips. She still wondered what had motivated Hoffner to promote her. “Yes, sir.”
“Abe should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.” He scrutinized her through a thin veil of smoke. “And so should you.”
“Thank you. How are you? How’s your family?”
He sucked reflectively at his pipe, tobacco glowing orange in the bowl, the soft scent of cherry floating on the night air. “Doing just fine. Got several grandchildren now, mostly girls. They’re sweet little things.” He paused as he smoked. “Reckon you heard about our Timmy. Lost him in a car accident a few years back, probably while you were away at A&M.”
“Yes, sir, I do remember hearing about his death. I sure am sorry for your loss.”
“The good Lord gave him to us for thirty-two years. That’s more time than some fathers have.” He shifted and Cass caught a full view of his face in the moonlight, glasses pushed high on his forehead. He hadn’t changed much over the years. The wrinkles were etched deeper and his hair was thinner, but he was still dignified and full of authority. Mr. Lucius eyed her before speaking again. “I suppose your father knows about losing a son.”
“I imagine you’re right,” Cass answered, heart growing heavy.
“How long has he been in prison now?”
“Twenty-one years.”
Mr. Lucius scratched a thick ear. “I sure hated what happened to Jack. That’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
Cass paused, and he cocked his head toward her. “What is it?”
She debated whether to pursue the topic of Jack’s innocence with him. But Mr. Lucius was a powerful man and he certainly would’ve known the circumstances of Jack’s arrest. Given the confusion Cass was feeling about her brother’s situation, it couldn’t hurt to ask. “It was a long time ago, but do you remember his arrest?”
Mr. Lucius tapped his pipe against his work boot and began the ritual of refilling it, eyes averted from her face. He pulled the flame from a lucifer into the bowl with a deep draw on the stem, and raised his gaze as he tamped the tobacco down with a silverish object. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Yes, I do. I’ve never seen people so devastated as your family after he was arrested, and certainly after your momma’s death. That’s a lot of tragedy for one family to bear.”
“I’ve heard talk recently that maybe,” she hesitated again, “he was framed.”
He was silent, pipe clamped between his teeth, absently running a thick nailed thumb over the object in his hand. “It’s been a long time ago, and you were small when it all happened. With crimes like Jack’s and how it all went down, people can think up all sorts of theories to explain something they can’t understand. And I’d expect you to believe your brother to be innocent, regardless of the evidence. I’d do the same if it was one of my children.”
Cass sighed silently to herself, reaching down to massage a tight calf muscle. Perhaps he was right, and the Elliot’s were like every other family who wanted to believe their kinfolk innocent of such terrible crimes. She glanced up at him. “Yes, sir, I imagine you’re right.” She smiled weakly. “It’s early, what are you doing up?”
Mr. Lucius belched quietly. “Had some Rocky Mountain Oysters last night. Didn’t sit well with me. Ever tried ’em?”
“No, sir, can’t say that I have.”
“I don’t recommend that you do,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’d better start the coffee before Mary wakes up. Keep praying for rain, Cass. We need it.”
“There’s supposed to be storms before the week is out.”
“Let’s hope so,” he answered, glancing up at the lush sky dotted with stars. “Maybe I’ll see you out here again before too long.”
“If I keep my motivation up,” Cass grinned, “and if you keep eating those oysters, I imagine you will.”
CHAPTER 39
MITCH STROLLED INTO THE Golden Gate to the sound of the Beatles asking to hold her hand, and stopped short. Two steaming cups of coffee and an unopened newspaper sat at his and Cass’s customary table, but she wasn’t in the booth. He lifted a chin in greeting to two bankers arguing quietly at a corner table and an unfamiliar figure seated near the kitchen before glancing across the café and grunting in amazement. He stopped to grab his coffee and walked quietly across the room to join Cass and the Pettigrew brothers at their booth. She sat with one of the brothers, bent forward over a piece of paper, the other brother leaning in from the opposite side of the table. Each was clutching his coffee mug for dear life.
“Morning,” he called, grinning as all three jumped upright from their hunched positions.
“Hey Mitch,” Cass replied, smiling her relief.
He swung a chair from a nearby table, straddling it and balancing his mug on its back. “How are y’all this morning?”
The Pettigrew brothers glared at each other across the table before one of them reluctantly spoke. “Fine. You?”
“I’m good, thanks. What’s up?”
“We’re just going over the statement I typed up last night about Angie Scarborough’s bruises.
Mr. Pettigrew,” Cass looked across the table, “had a few changes, and once I’ve made those, we’ll be fine. Right?”
She glanced between the two brothers until each of them agreed. “Good. I’ll bring the new version tomorrow morning.” She slid from the booth, taking the single sheet with her. “Thanks very much for doing this. You’re helping Angie.”
One of the brothers blushed while the other simply nodded. Cass wove through the tables as skinny Stan Overheart appeared with plates of eggs and bacon. Mitch returned his chair to the table it came from and slid into the booth across from her. “Morning Stan. Man this looks good,” he grinned, rubbing his hands together.
Stan leaned a bony hip into a nearby table and crossed his hairy arms over his chest. “How you doing Mitch? Cass ordered for both of you. Everything all right?”
“This is perfect. Thanks.” He motioned for Stan to lean closer, flicking his eyes toward the unfamiliar figure near the kitchen. “Who’s that?”
“Wally Pugh. Works for the radio station.”
“He must be new.”
Stan glanced at the young man whose face was drawn in concentration as he scribbled in a notebook. “Gave me his life story this morning. He was raised over in Stanton and studied down at UT Austin. Went to Chicago for a while and then came home to look after his folks. Found a reporting job with KOIL and thinks he’ll make his name there.”
“Why in the world would you give up Chicago for Arcadia?” Mitch mused, taking in the small tape recorder Wally was shoving into a backpack. He looked up suddenly, catching Mitch watching him. His pointed features were reminiscent of a weasel. They moved in a caricature of a smile as he left a wad of crumpled bills on the table and quickly made his way to leave. Mitch watched him go, murmuring, “Thanks, Stan.”
“No problem. Holler when you need a refill,” he said, swinging toward the warming counter where the Pettigrew brother’s breakfasts waited.
The Devil of Light Page 17