The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  Darla shivered. Her throw had fallen to the ground when Mitch pulled her onto his lap and he picked it up and clumsily spread it over her. “Better?”

  She nodded against his chest. “I heard it was brutal, the way Chad was killed. What happened?

  Mitch closed his eyes, wishing he could banish from his mind the image of Chad Garrett’s pale body nailed to that cross. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “It was that bad?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  She hesitated only a moment. “Tell me. I’d rather hear it from you.”

  And so he did. Describing how Goober had found Garrett’s body on the courthouse lawn early this morning; the presence of a hole in Garrett’s head, similar to that in the skull of the buried man discovered Tuesday morning; and Grey and Bernie’s assumptions about the purpose of those holes.

  Darla pushed up and placed her hand on Mitch’s chest for support. Her face was twisted in disgust. “To drain his blood? What for?”

  Mitch explained the paintings in The Church of the True Believer and the conclusions they had drawn about the use of blood as part of an initiation. He also described the organization chart Bernie drew from the description Cass had found in the book.

  “Dear Lord. Who did it? Who killed Chad?”

  “We don’t know. Tom Kado, the new forensics guy, thinks he got some DNA from the site where Chad was killed.” He told her how Blackie Cochran had led them to the isolated clearing. “He said the lab will put a rush on it because a cop was killed.”

  “But Mitch, why Chad?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  She shivered again, in spite of the blanket and the warmth of his body against hers. “Whatever the reason, a murder that violent can only mean more bad things to come, can’t it?”

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 62

  DEACON CRONUS OPENED HIS eyes as the sun’s first rays touched the window shade, fat face cherubic in the pale glow. His wife’s breathing remained deep and even, and he enjoyed the ripple of delight that tickled his body at the thought of tonight’s ceremony. He knew he should try to get back to sleep. Today would be long as he finished his preparations and made his way out to The Sanctuary, but his mind nibbled insistently at the items on his list and at last he surrendered. He rolled his bulk gently out of bed and groped with his toes for his slippers before trundling quietly to the kitchen, flipping the pot’s switch and anticipating the aroma of brewing coffee.

  Everything he needed was in the shed. His briefcase with robe and book, of course; the ladle, cup and platter carved years ago from the same giant oak tree that contributed The Sanctuary’s roof beams; the heavy rope, grown stiff from sweat and blood; and the knife. He planned to call Pastor Luke today and let him know that he would work from home, and then spend the rest of the day in the shed. The knife had to be sharpened, the rope checked to ensure it hadn’t begun to fray, and the wooden implements cleaned. He also needed to study the ceremony itself, the Celebration of Illumination, remembering its order, its cadence, as it had been many years since the Celebration had been held.

  And perhaps he should think through how best to handle the new initiate, Officer Hugo Petchard. Although Greg Newton had been instructed to give Petchard a sense of this evening’s events, no doubt he would be unsettled and perhaps a bit panicked when he understood the initiation rites. It had been a few years since a newcomer had joined The Church. Cronus clearly remembered the circumstances surrounding that event, and his mind contracted briefly at the horror of what had happened. Greg Newton’s initiation had been a subdued affair, sorrow over the death of Jed Salter’s oldest son Nathanial the week before casting dark shadows over the event. No one could have anticipated Nathanial’s reaction to the ritual. Although he had participated and completed the sacred acts as was expected of him, Jed Salter had been among the living dead during Newton’s ceremony. Deacon Cronus nodded to himself, staring blankly through the kitchen window into the quiet backyard. Petchard and his reaction were worth some consideration.

  Cronus had already purchased the wine and wondered again at the possibility of mixing blood with it to move one step closer to purifying the communion ritual. But he was unsure about the health risks associated with drinking human blood, and decided to wait until the next meeting to allow time for research. Washing the initiate and The Brethren in the blood would have to do. He blinked, snapping his fingers. And then there was the loaf. He mustn’t forget the loaf.

  The coffee pot burped and sputtered and he reached for a heavy mug, filling it and adding a heavy dollop of fresh cream and two sugars, praising the Lord for His generosity and blessings. He couldn’t think of a better start to the day.

  CHAPTER 63

  CASS ROLLED HER SHOULDERS and rubbed a palm across her left rib cage as Wilbur Pettigrew read through the statement once again before signing it. He pushed the paper silently to his brother, who scrawled his signature and scooted the statement toward Cass.

  “Is that it?” Wallace asked.

  “Yes, sir. Thanks very much for helping Angie like this.”

  “Seems like we’re helping her more by going out to the place again, working with the cows,” he replied, glancing at his brother. Wilbur blushed scarlet and focused on the table as he fingered the hook on his overalls.

  “I’m sure she appreciates everything,” she said, sliding from the booth and waggling her empty mug at Stan as the Rolling Stones swore never to be beasts of burden. Wilbur’s hand trembled as he lifted his mug. Cass smiled. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything else. Have a good morning.”

  Stan sauntered over to her booth with the coffee pot, glancing up as a knot of people pushed through the café’s door. “And comedy hour begins,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Who are they?” asked Cass.

  “Damn reporters. Picking over every negative event in Arcadia’s history, trying to make us out to be devil worshipping freaks.”

  “Oh come on,” she scoffed, spreading the Dallas newspaper across the table and scanning the headlines. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Hmph,” he snorted as the door opened again and Goober stepped inside, quickly sidling away from the reporters. “Wait until they find out you’re a detective. They won’t stop hounding you until they’ve got photos, family history and a stool sample. I’ll get your breakfast to go. Pancakes all right?”

  Cass nodded, shifting herself and the newspaper so Goober could slip into the booth beside her. “For Mitch, too. And a few coffees to go.”

  Stan grabbed a clean mug and filled it with steaming coffee, leaning into the booth and lowering his voice as he placed it in front of Goober. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, his muddy brown eyes bleary. “Can I have scrambled eggs?”

  “With pancakes?”

  “And double bacon.”

  “Done,” Stan replied, motioning Sally from the kitchen to come help with the reporters.

  Cass warmed her fingers around the hot mug and turned sideways. Goober was a gentle soul, sweet natured and eager to help. But he looked weary today, the part in his thinning brown hair a little crooked, a patch of shadow on his jaw where his razor had skipped, and his shirt buttons misaligned. No wonder, she thought. He really had seen a ghost when he found Chad Garrett on the courthouse lawn.

  “Why are you in town so early?” she asked.

  He picked at the sleep in the corner of one eye. “Bad dreams.”

  “About yesterday?”

  “That was awful, Cass.”

  “It was,” she agreed, pouring cream and spooning sugar into his coffee. “But it was a good thing you found him that early. If it hadn’t been for you, more people would’ve seen Officer Garrett like that, and think how upsetting that would’ve been for his family.”

  “It’s just scary.” He glanced at her. “With the vampires and all.”

  “Tell you what. If you’re scared like that again, call me. You can spend the night at
our house.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she grinned. “But be careful what you wish for. If my dad finds out how good your garden looks, he’s likely to put you to work in ours.”

  He frowned. “You haven’t planted any vegetables, have you?”

  Not since my mom died twenty-one years ago, she thought. “Nope, not yet.”

  “Well, that’s good, ’cause it’s too early to plant. The Easter snap is still coming and it’ll bring a frost.”

  “See what I mean? You know all the gardening stuff,” she said. “Hey, I meant to ask, why were you out at Possum Creek on Saturday night?”

  “Huh?”

  “You called in to report the fire out there, right?”

  “But I was anonymous. They ain’t supposed to tell nobody,” he replied seriously.

  “When you call in anonymously you’re not supposed to give your name. That’s what anonymous means, that nobody knows who’s calling.”

  “Oh,” he said, watching his coffee swirl in the mug. “I ran out of potato chips and was coming back to town for some.”

  “I thought you were eating more salad, trying to be healthy.”

  “I am, but I’ve had the munchies lately.”

  Cass smiled in acknowledgement of the universal complaint about diets and then hesitated, watching the play of emotions across his face. “Goober, they said you saw a devil Saturday night. Is that right?”

  A shiver ran through his body. “Yeah.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  Goober shook his head.

  “Then how did you know it was a devil?”

  “There was all this fire and it looked like,” he leaned close and whispered, “hell.”

  “So you couldn’t identify him?”

  “Nope. I don’t know any devils.”

  Sally huffed past, rolling her eyes at Cass and flipping through her order book. The reporters and their entourage had picked a table near the door and were busy arranging equipment in a pile against one wall. Mitch strode in and headed straight across the café to Cass, turning to look at the sullen group.

  “Who’re they?” he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder as he slid into the booth. “Hey Goob.”

  “Hey Mitch.”

  “Stan says they’re reporters,” Cass answered, peeking inside the newspaper again. “Gonna get us breakfast to go.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged and reached to massage her ribs. “Something about stool samples. Thought it’d be best if we weren’t around too long.”

  “What’s wrong with your side?” Mitch asked, pulling back from the table as Sally plopped a steaming mug in front of him.

  “Wore my shoulder holster when I ran this morning. I figured it wouldn’t bang around as much as if I had it on my hip.”

  “You ran with your gun?” Goober asked, eyes wide.

  “Daddy wanted me to. He’s worried about what happened to Chad Garrett.”

  “I think that’s smart,” Goober replied, slurping coffee.

  “Me, too,” Mitch said, eyeing the newspaper. “You done with that?”

  Cass scooted it across the table to him.

  “Dallas? Why don’t you read the local paper?”

  Because I’d know if anybody wearing a Richard Nixon mask attacked a woman in Forney County, she thought, but chances are that he’ll strike again in Dallas. “I just like to keep up with what’s going on in the big city.”

  Goober jumped as the café door thumped open and Officer Hugo Petchard sauntered inside. He stood, hands on his hips, eyes wandering the room, smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The group of reporters stopped talking, taking in his uniform, sniffing for a story. Spotting Cass and Mitch, he swaggered to their booth.

  “Didn’t expect to find Arcadia’s dynamic detective duo here in The Golden Gate,” he sneered, cutting his eyes at Goober. “Or our intellectual elite.”

  “What’re you doing up so early, Petchard?” asked Cass.

  “Sheriff Hoffner needed officers to pull an early shift and interview the folks who come in for breakfast. I volunteered,” he preened.

  “Anything to brown that nose, huh?” Mitch said as Goober giggled into his mug.

  “I ain’t sucking up,” Petchard said, crossing his arms across his skinny chest. “Sheriff said he needed all able-bodied men helping to chase down Garrett’s killer.”

  “And you’re the ablest body we got?” Cass chuckled. “Lord help us all. How’d it go out at the elementary school yesterday? Them kindergarteners give you any trouble?”

  He flushed and swiveled to survey the room. “Crossing guard’s an important job. Kids get hurt if folks aren’t careful.”

  “Course they do,” Cass cooed. “Happens all the time in big towns like Arcadia.”

  Petchard’s flush deepened. “I’ll start with them,” he said, thrusting his chin toward the Pettigrew brothers. “Know ’em?”

  “Wilbur and Wallace Pettigrew,” Cass answered, nudging Goober from the booth and reaching for the paper bags Stan brought. “Real chatty. Knock yourself out.”

  ____________

  MITCH OPENED HIS TAKEOUT container and grimaced. “Sally put oats in these pancakes. She knows I hate that.” He poked at his breakfast with a finger. “Darla must’ve called her. She was pretty mad at me last night.”

  “Why?” Cass asked.

  “I didn’t call.”

  Her expression was blank for a moment, then comprehension dawned in her eyes. “After we found Chad Garrett?”

  He nodded, face rueful.

  “She was scared it was you?”

  “Apparently so. She gave me an earful and new marching orders.”

  Cass chuckled. “And they include?”

  “Calling her any time a cop gets a hangnail. Especially if it’s bad enough that she’ll hear about it on the news.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Lord only knows why, but that wife of yours does love you,” Cass said. “The oats in your pancakes are just her way of trying to keep your cholesterol low.”

  “Nothing wrong with my cholesterol,” he groused. “And these aren’t as good as the ones made with plain flour.”

  “They taste just like the others, and they’re better for you. Look,” Cass said, tilting a paper bag toward him, “Sally gave you extra syrup to make up for the oats.”

  “Well,” he sniffed, peeling the foil top from the container, “I guess anything tastes good with maple syrup. But doesn’t extra syrup defeat the purpose of the oats?”

  “Quit whining and eat,” Cass grinned, glancing at the squad room clock and reaching for her notebook. “I’ll try to catch Mr. Salter before the bank gets too busy.”

  “You want some company?” Mitch asked as he forked a dripping bite of pancake into his mouth.

  She shook her head. “I talked to Rose last night and she wasn’t sure he’d be in this morning. I’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”

  “All right. I’ll see you back over here. I want to talk to the sheriff about whether Petchard has a scar.”

  CHAPTER 64

  CASS STEPPED INTO THE bank’s cool, dark interior, smiling her thanks at the security guard. The regular humming and gentle thunking of the escalator accompanied her to the main floor, where the soft purring of cash machines and teller gossip completed the bank’s early morning symphony. She crossed the lobby’s polished floor and smiled as she approached the President’s office.

  “Good morning, Rose.”

  “Hi Cass,” replied the young secretary with a wave of her letter opener. She poked its point into her blonde bob and scratched delicately. A large pile of unopened mail was scattered across her desk. “What awful business with Chad Garrett, God rest his soul. I saw Sheriff Hoffner on television last night. Poor man looks absolutely strung out. Those reporters are nasty people. How’s the investigation?”

  “It’s coming along,” Cass replied.

  “I guess it’s best to keep things hush-
hush right now, huh?” Rose said knowingly. “Are you trying to catch Mr. Salter this morning?”

  “Will he be in?”

  Rose glanced over her shoulder at the dark corner office before turning back to Cass. She selected a letter from the pile and sliced through its flap. “Nope,” she answered, pulling a conference flyer from the envelope, placing it in a tray marked ‘Non-Urgent’, and reaching for a second envelope. “Sometimes after a trip he’ll work from home.” She sliced through the flap, extracted and examined the contents, and then tossed the single sheet into a pile marked ‘Customer Service’. She reached for the next letter and Cass frowned as she saw the cream colored envelope that lay beneath.

  “I can ask him to call you,” Rose said, slicing and opening.

  “I do need to speak to him,” Cass answered as Rose tossed the bill into a pile and grabbed the cream envelope. “But in person.”

  Rose examined the engraved lettering, confusion drawing her sharply penciled brows together. “No return address,” she murmured. “And no stamp. How odd.” She shrugged and flipped it over, tugging the letter opener through the heavy flap. Her eyebrows jumped as she read the small card before sliding it partly into the envelope and onto a tray marked ‘Personal’. Cass glanced at the lettering. From this angle, she could see ‘The Sanctuary’ engraved at the bottom of the card and her heart leapt as her mind struggled with the itch of familiarity the words brought. Rose reached out to finger the envelope before plucking it from the tray and dropping it in an oversized handbag at her feet.

  “Better take that to him with the rest of his stuff. I’m sorry honey, what did you say?” Rose asked as she continued opening the mail.

  “Just that I need to see Mr. Salter in person,” Cass replied, glancing around the secretary’s alcove to find a way to distract her. “Does he have any appointments this afternoon?”

  “No, his calendar is clear –.” She stopped abruptly, shaking her head and rolling back from her desk. “Let me go check his office. He’s terrible about writing appointments down in there. I keep telling him that I have to know what he’s got scheduled so I don’t double book him. Hang on, Cass,” she sighed, digging in a desk drawer and extracting a set of keys, “I’ll be right back.”