The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “They find anything?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t hurt for us to change phones around. And to be on the safe side, you need to get your things out of the house.”

  “Will they come here?”

  “They’ve been to see Peavey and Mrs. Shepherd. You’ll be next on the list because your granddaddy’s name was in Lenny’s book.” The old man lit his pipe. “I’ll send a courier around to collect your things and we’ll have them for you tonight.”

  “Garrett’s death is nothing to do with The Church. Even if they manage to link the text to one of us, they can’t tie us to murder.”

  “No, no,” the old man murmured. “But some of our activities could be misconstrued. You agree?”

  Salter grunted. “This feels like it’s getting out of hand. You think we should go ahead with the ceremony?”

  “We need to close the Circle. That woman reporter did us a favor by introducing the Klan and devil worship into the mix.” The old man chuckled into the phone. “That’ll keep people busy for a while. And they won’t look at us for either of those things.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know if anything comes of their visit.”

  “You do that. Turn this phone off and leave it in the briefcase. I’ll have someone bring you a new one.”

  CHAPTER 72

  MITCH PAUSED OUTSIDE THE squad room door, resting in the station’s abnormal quiet. Although open for business today, the residents of Forney County seemed content to limit their visits to the courthouse to standing on the edge of the lawn, eyeing the camera crews and reporters. He trod slowly toward Sheriff Hoffner’s office, the surge of fury he’d felt during the press conference momentarily defused as he tried to think through Hoffner’s motives. He’d never been close to the sheriff, had never known him to have any kind of relationship with his officers. Mitch believed he was fundamentally weak, driven by lack of confidence. He didn’t know where the insecurities originated, but he’d known that at some point, the sheriff’s craving for recognition would damage the department or even worse, an investigation. And in the course of a five-minute press conference, Hoffner had managed to do both. A flash of disgust curled his lip as he reached the sheriff’s office, and he fought to bring his features and a fresh surge of anger-fueled adrenaline under control. Hands shaking, he knocked twice and entered the room.

  Hoffner glanced up from the papers on his desk, holding up a hand as he lowered his head to finish reading. Mitch pulled the door closed behind him. The office was cool and all signs of the stress the sheriff had endured while facing the cameras had disappeared. He straightened the papers and placed them squarely on his blotter, smiling as he motioned Mitch to sit.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “What was that press conference about, sir?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Hoffner replied, leaning back in his chair, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me before you went out there?”

  Hoffner smiled, managing to look down his nose at the tall man sitting across his desk. “I think I’m smart enough to handle the press.”

  “Handle the press? Sir, you released information into the public domain that is critical to the investigation. Any member of this Church who was watching will know that we’re on to them. You gave them too much, sir.”

  Hoffner waved his concerns away. “This was a diversion, Mitch. It’s helped you.”

  “Helped me?”

  “Of course. It gives people something to focus on, some gossip, a little titillation.”

  “Telling people we think there’s a cult operating around here is more than gossip sir, it’s the truth.”

  “Come on, Mitch,” Hoffner scoffed, his tone genial as he plucked at the crease in his trousers. “Nobody’s gonna believe there’s a cult in Arcadia. It’s just too fantastic.”

  “Nobody except the men in those pictures with Lenny Scarborough, raping that child. And you’ve just told them we believe there’s a link between Lenny’s Church of the True Believer and Chad Garrett’s death,” he said, voice straining with the effort of control.

  “You’re overreacting. We’ve made connections,” Hoffner tapped his temple, “that they aren’t aware of. I didn’t mention the text by name, did I? I didn’t mention that invitation Cass is going on about.” He shook his head, pleased with himself. “This will catch them completely by surprise.”

  “And what about the department?” Mitch asked quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What about how we look? Now that people think Garrett might’ve been involved in a cult, what does that say for the integrity of your force?”

  Hoffner frowned. “I told those reporters that Garrett wasn’t involved in this cult. And he wasn’t, was he?”

  “Given the evidence we have so far, we don’t believe so. But sir, most of what we’ve come up with is speculation. We have no proof. Garrett could’ve been a member of this Church.”

  Hoffner’s eyes narrowed and blood rushed to his cheeks. “I took you at your word, Mitch. You were sure he wasn’t involved. Did I just lie to the press based on your screw up?”

  Mitch snapped to the edge of the chair, body singing with anger, voice rigid. “My screw up? You just gave away the few leads we have in Garrett’s death. A cult, a text, the fact that he was killed in a ritualized manner. And for what? What did you get in return? What did we get in return?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must’ve had a plan, right? You must’ve thought that by giving the press our best leads in Garrett’s death that we’d learn something more valuable in return. What was it?”

  “This’ll drive them out, Mitch,” Hoffner replied, dropping his foot to the floor and leaning earnestly forward, forearms on the desk. “They’ll be nervous now. They know we’re catching up with them.”

  “And after that press conference they just might cancel this Celebration of Illumination, and we’ll have missed our chance to figure out who they are.”

  A vein bulged at Hoffner’s temple. “What are you saying, Mitch?”

  “You thought you could save face with the public, the voting public, by showing them how smart you really are, how in control you are.” A snarl rippled Mitch’s lip. “And as a result, you have jeopardized our investigation into Officer Garrett’s death.”

  Hoffner paled, fury driving color from his face. “I am doing my best to cover for your incompetence, Detective, and that of your team. In spite of having photographs and his wife’s statement, you failed to identify a single piece of evidence regarding Lenny Scarborough’s sexual abuse of those girls, and if you’d known about this cult, Officer Garrett would still be alive and our solve rate wouldn’t be falling through the floor!”

  Stunned, Mitch collapsed back into his chair. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?” Hoffner barked.

  “I should’ve seen it,” Mitch said slowly. “Our solve rate. That reporter from Dallas. She kicked you in the balls about what’s going on in the county, unnoticed by the force. The marijuana operation. The unsolved murders. Poor old Mrs. Glenthorne who’s gone missing. And you can’t stand to be outsmarted, can you? This wasn’t about helping the investigation, about creating a diversion, was it? This was about your bruised ego.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mitch,” Sheriff Hoffner replied wearily, cradling his head in his hands. “My intent was to help you. To make your life easier.”

  Mitch stood, a mixture of revulsion and pity in his face. “Well, Sheriff, that may have been your intent, but you’ve created one massive mess for the rest of us to clean up.”

  Startled at the change in Mitch’s voice, Hoffner looked up to see his office door click quietly closed.

  CHAPTER 73

  SCOTT TRUMAN GLANCED AT Cass as she turned into Live Oak Park. Her mouth was a thin line, her violet eyes stormy. She lifted a hand in greeting to the patrol car leavin
g the exclusive subdivision. The sun flashed briefly on the wire-rimmed glasses the man wore, leaving soulless blanks in place of his eyes. “Looks like Greg Newton’s back out on patrol already.”

  “You all right?” Truman asked.

  She recognized the concern in the young officer’s voice and sighed, trying to relax. “I’m fine. Just incredibly pissed off.”

  “Will Mitch be okay?”

  “About the press conference? Yeah, he’ll get over it.”

  “Will he be too hard on Sheriff Hoffner?”

  Cass searched for street names. Live Oak Park had grown up as a fashionable neighborhood in the booming twenties. In contrast to the large homes built by the nouveaux riches on Apple Tree Drive after the second World War, Live Oak Park belonged to Forney County’s old money – families who owned the mineral rights to land drilled for oil and gas, those involved in the cotton industry in the late nineteenth century, and the local barons of the now defunct railroad industry. Houses were large and comfortable. Many had been remodeled but still carried the stamp of the era in which they were built – evidence of art nouveau and the emerging art deco eras could be seen in doors flanked by stained glass windows in organic designs or the geometric, almost austere sweep of a chimney above a tiled roof. Live Oak Park was remarkable in the richness of its architectural integrity and the unbroken chain of family ownership for most of the homes.

  She slowed the truck as she glanced at an address scrawled on a napkin. “Mitch is pretty smart when it comes to politics. But he’s got a temper. I’ve known him for a long time and this is as mad as I’ve seen him.”

  “How could the sheriff do that to us?” Truman asked, lifting his sunglasses to check house numbers.

  “The man amazes me, honestly.” She shrugged, slowing to check a mailbox hidden behind a rose bush heavy with bloody blooms. “I’d like to believe that he’s on our side. But after that press conference, my faith is shaken.”

  She parked on the street in front of the Salter family home, a stately red brick affair with a long concrete drive. Monkey grass sprang around the paving stone walkway. Three vehicles were parked in spaces to the side of the house, a gleaming black Cadillac, bright yellow Hummer and curiously, a battered pickup. “Smells like money,” Cass said. “You ready for this?”

  Truman nodded, hand poised to open the door. “How do you want to handle it?”

  “Play it by ear. Keep your eyes open, watch his body language. Even though we’re pretty sure Salter’s part of The Church, we’d better go in softly, like we did with Mr. Peavey. Explain about Lenny’s book and his granddaddy’s name being in it. And most important, find that invitation.”

  He looked across the cab at her, sunglasses suspended over his forehead as he prepared to lower them into place. “This one scares me, Cass.”

  She checked her hair in the rearview mirror, tucking a loose strand into her French twist and pressing gently at the soft tissue under her eyes. “I know. It scares me, too.”

  ____________

  TRUMAN JABBED AT THE doorbell and a soft tinkling of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” trickled through the foyer. A small shape darted into the wide hall, pausing to glance through a side window hung with leaded glass before opening the door. A tiny woman peered out at them, dark brown hair shot with becoming streaks of white, eyes widening at the sight of Truman’s uniform.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered Cass as she and Truman offered IDs and made introductions. “We need to speak with Mr. Salter. Is he in?”

  A startled noise flew from her throat and a pale hand fluttered to her neck, hiding the pulse throbbing wildly at its base. “I’m Mrs. Salter. Is something wrong?”

  “Just a few questions, ma’am. Is Mr. Salter home?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, into the cool interior. Truman’s eyes, hidden behind his mirrored shades, were busy taking in the foyer’s marble tiles and the plush carpet that climbed a sweeping staircase. “He is, but he’s asked not to be disturbed.”

  “We won’t take much of his time.”

  “Is this urgent? Can it wait?”

  “No, ma’am, it can’t.”

  Mrs. Salter shifted her weight from one foot to the other, indecision flickering across her face. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the door open a fraction wider and stood to one side. They slipped through the crack and followed her through the large foyer, her low-heeled shoes clicking tightly on the marble. She led them through a formal sitting room and the adjoining dining room, past an open door revealing a game room cluttered with three lanky teenage boys playing video games, through a cavernous kitchen and across an enclosed courtyard. Mrs. Salter paused in front of a closed door, and Cass realized that the room ran the width of the house, stretching from the backyard to the front, affording its occupant a clear view of the drive. He knew they were here.

  Mrs. Salter hesitated, fist raised. She glanced at Cass over her shoulder, a worried look that spoke volumes about her relationship with her husband, and rapped sharply.

  “Come.”

  Mrs. Salter drew a deep breath and opened the door across a heavy sweep of creamy carpet, apologizing for the interruption as she introduced Cass and Truman. Mr. Salter rose from behind a wide desk scattered with papers bearing long columns of numbers. The office was darkly paneled and several lamps glowed on low tables scattered around the room. The walls bore photographs of the Salter family’s development, from sepia colored shots in front of a very new courthouse, through black and white photos of chubby expressionless children in the twenties, to modern color shots of the current crop of Salters. Legend had it that the family’s original capital came from the profits of bootlegging during Prohibition, when the current Salter’s grandfather took a risk and broke from the family’s sharecropper destiny. He wisely invested his exorbitant profits and built what would become the largest bank in Arcadia, and was instrumental in making and breaking the destinies of families and businesses in Forney County. The Salter who strode across the thick carpet to greet them had the lean body of a runner. He was smooth with power yet dressed casually in jeans and a polo shirt. In his early sixties, his bearing suggested assurance and demanded obedience. He asked his wife to bring coffee and closed the door behind her.

  “Elliot,” he stated as he crossed the room, taking in her red hair. “Abe Elliot’s girl?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your family is hard on my bank.”

  “Sir?” Cass asked, heat rising across her cheeks.

  “They don’t borrow much.”

  “Sir?”

  Salter lifted a shoulder in a gentle shrug. “Occupational hazard. I tend to remember the finances of individual families. Yours doesn’t borrow, which is admirable from a personal money management perspective, but bad for my profitability,” he replied, a smile tugging at his lips. “And I doubt you’re interested in my bottom line. How can I help you?” he asked, waving an elegant hand at two chairs as he sank back into the leather chair behind his desk.

  “We’re looking into a group called The Church of the True Believer,” Cass began as Truman pulled out a small notebook and pen, glancing around the room. “Are you familiar with it?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Salter answered, rearranging the papers into piles. He lifted a heavy pen and signed several documents, silvered head bent over the desk. A medal was draped casually over a framed photograph of Salter in running shorts, smiling widely. Through the French doors behind him, Cass caught the sparkle of a swimming pool. “Why?”

  “You’ve heard about Lenny Scarborough’s death?”

  “Of course.”

  “We found some information at his house that links your grandfather to this church.”

  Salter lifted an eyebrow in her direction as he slid the papers into labeled folders and reached for a stack of mail, shuffling the envelopes together. Cass caught a flash of cream in the stack and fought to keep her eyes from fluttering toward it. “
My grandfather? What information?”

  “His name was in a book, similar to a Bible. It had Lenny Scarborough’s signature in it, and your grandfather’s. Did he belong to a group with some sort of religious affiliation?”

  Mr. Salter frowned. “We’ve always had our membership with First Baptist here in town. Is that what you mean?”

  “No, it’s not. From what we gather, this group is somewhat secretive. Your grandfather would have had possession of this book, as Mr. Scarborough did. It’s large and nicely illustrated. Does that sound familiar to you?”

  “My grandfather’s entire library is in this room. My father inherited it, added to it and I had it moved in here when we built the study,” he answered, waving a hand at the dark bookcases lining the walls. Cass glanced quickly at the folders, trying to catch a glimpse of the card. “You’re welcome to have a look at them.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Truman murmured, standing to examine the shelves.

  “Does the year 1928 mean anything to you, or would it have been important to your grandfather?” Cass asked.

  “Not to me, and I don’t know about my grandfather. It was the year before the stock market crashed, why?”

  “That was the date written next to your father’s name. We think that’s when he took possession of the book. From what we can tell, he was the first owner.”

  “You said Lenny Scarborough’s name was in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any others?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “But there were more names,” Salter stated, nudging the folders into a pile and scooting them toward the desk’s edge, piling the mail on top.

  Cass realized that he probably knew the answer anyway. “There were. You don’t remember anything about your grandfather’s involvement in this group?”

  Salter pursed his lips, absently nodding his wife into the room when she entered with a coffee tray. She placed it in front of him and busied herself with cups and saucers. “No, but he died in 1947, the year I was born. I never knew him.” He waited as she served them and left, pulling the door closed with a soft click. “This book that you say my grandfather’s name was in, is that the text Sheriff Hoffner referred to on television just now? The one that links some cult to Officer Garrett’s death?”