The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “No way, man! Come on, Greg,” Petchard whined, fear raising his voice nearly an octave as he struggled. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Come on, man! I thought we were friends.”

  “We are,” came a clear voice from inside the hood. “This is the best offer of friendship I can give you, Petchard.” He raised his arms higher, the long blade flashing with the motion, its smooth surface reflecting the fire.

  Officer Greg Newton? The question and its attendant horror barely registered as Cass shoved through the prickly bush and into the clearing, gun pointed at the figure with the knife, hobbling on her good leg and dragging the heavy, cramping leg behind her.

  “Drop the knife, Newton,” she ordered as his arm began a swift downward arc toward Petchard. Figures whipped around at the sound of her voice, robes swirling, and a scream split the clearing. Time froze. Vision unnaturally clear, Cass followed the sweep of the knife as it fell toward Petchard’s chest. Unconsciously, she registered that Newton had no intention of stopping. She drew a breath as images flashed through her brain past the searing, twisting pain in her leg – Newton guarding Angie’s hospital room; working with Truman on Garrett’s cell phone; leaving the neighborhood where Salter lived right before Cass and Truman arrived. Petchard was a pain in the ass, no doubt, but this was her sworn duty, to protect and defend, even against others who had taken the same vow. For a single heartbeat she hesitated, then released the breath and squeezed the trigger twice.

  The gunshots boomed in the space enclosed by the trees. Twin dots pierced his chest and Newton flew back from the table, arms wide, scarlet robe billowing. The knife arced from his hand, hilt over point, glimmering as it caught the firelight before disappearing into the woods. He landed on his back with a thud, a rush of air knocked from his lungs, hood fluttering over a pair of glasses and settling to reveal a creamy chin and neck. Petchard’s eyes followed Newton’s fall and he struggled fiercely against his bindings, tiny sobs slipping from his mouth. Ears buzzing, Cass lurched forward, gun raised, praying that there was more than one Greg Newton in Forney County.

  A voice rang out, calm, authoritative. “Jericho.”

  At the single word, as one, they dashed from the fire. The clearing swirled with crimson but was oddly silent except for Petchard’s whimpering. Deacon Cronus stood motionless at the foot of the picnic table until another body crashed into his, jolting him from his stunned paralysis. He stumbled to one side, raising his white robe to reveal thick ankles and chubby calves as he stepped over Newton’s body and trundled toward a break in the clearing. The distant sound of engines roaring to life penetrated through the trees.

  “Police, Deacon Cronus. Stop right there,” Cass demanded. He lifted a hand to his head, as if to check that his hood was still in place, and quickened his rolling gate.

  She called again, ordering him to stop, but he only stretched his hands forward, reaching for a nearby tree. Cass drew another breath, her fingertips tingling, and for the third time in a matter of seconds, she fired.

  CHAPTER 87

  THE FIRST TWO SHOTS echoed off the patrol car’s closed windows and adrenaline surged as Munk skid the car to a stop in the mouth of the dirt track. Three doors flew open and the men flattened themselves along each side of the narrow path, crouching in shadows as they moved forward, balancing the need for speed with the uncertainty of the track’s bumps and gullies. Weapon drawn and eyes probing the night, Mitch’s mind raced with the possibilities the gunshot brought and he shut the thoughts down, forcing his brain to be still even as his ears were filled with the harsh sounds of his own breath. He caught movement about twenty feet ahead of him, Munk’s and Truman’s dark bodies barely discernable as they pressed against the overgrown shrubs. In moments they were at the track’s first dogleg and angling away from the Sabine River. Truman cursed gently as he jumped over a gouge in the path, regaining his balance and squatting again into a crouch.

  A third shot boomed through the night and Mitch’s heart leapt to his mouth. The three men broke into a run. Munk stumbled and fell to his knees before pushing himself upright and moving to the middle of the path. Riding the fresh wave of adrenaline, Mitch pushed his long limbs to move faster, heedless of the rough path beneath him, when suddenly his right foot failed to find purchase and he tumbled forward. A blinding light seared his vision as his leg snapped. He tried to scream but air whooshed from his mouth as his chest slammed into the side of the gully. Pain and nausea engulfed him as he choked, and darkness circled in to envelope him.

  CHAPTER 88

  BARK FLEW AND CRONUS jerked to a crouching halt, white robes falling to cover his ankles. Slowly, he raised his hands.

  Two robed figures darted toward the cabin, one racing around its side and the other fumbling with a key at the front door. They met at the corner of the porch and Cass’s eyes leapt at the movement. In that instant of contact, she caught the glimmer of an eye beneath the hood and then they were gone, melting into the trees, their maroon robes disappearing into the smooth depths of the forest. In a sudden rush, flames gobbled at the cabin’s ancient wood, spilling bright light and dark smoke into the clearing. A scream cut the air as Munk and Truman stumbled from the heavy bushes lining the dirt track. Panting, Munk paused as a second terrified wail broke through the cabin’s walls.

  “Evelyn!” he roared, storming the cabin. He twisted the door’s handle and stepped back when it didn’t move. He slammed his shoulder into the front door. Truman rushed behind him, hurling his slight body with Munk’s second blow. The door popped from its hinges with an almighty crack and black smoke billowed through the opening, driving the two men back, coughing against the fumes. An anguished cry tore from Munk’s throat and he charged through the swirling cloud.

  “Wait!” Truman called, running after him.

  Cass gasped as two slim figures staggered from the cabin, clutching their throats as they sucked in fresh air, each wearing a sheet fashioned toga-style around them, and a blindfold. Truman tumbled down the porch steps, tangled between the bodies. He scrambled to his feet, ripped their blindfolds off and stopped, staring at the dazed girls. Neither was the Salter child. They were younger than Cass had expected, perhaps eleven or twelve, and Cass felt and mirrored Truman’s shock.

  A scream sounded from inside the cabin and the back door shrieked as it split open. Truman ran around the side of the building to see a smoke-blackened Munk stumbling through the open door, his sister, still tied to a chair, clutched in his arms. A white sheet was twisted around his ankles and they collapsed on the soft soil, gasping for air.

  “Cass,” Munk croaked, eyes streaming, and Truman darted toward the clearing to see her advancing on a large figure in a white robe, her arms locked, gun raised. A motorcycle engine whined through the fire’s steady roar and the girls huddled close to one another, frightened eyes locked onto Cass.

  “Let me cuff him,” Truman called, stepping closer, eyes darting to Petchard’s terrified, sniveling form on the picnic table and the scarlet-robed figure motionless on the ground. He glanced at her face, startled at the fury in her grease painted features. “Let me cuff him,” he repeated, holding a hand out and gently touching her arm.

  She nodded tightly, lowering her weapon. Stepping forward, she tugged the hood from his head. Deacon Cronus lowered his face toward the ground and shuddered. “Use the picnic table,” she ordered, reaching down to massage her calf muscle, “then come with me.”

  Truman wrapped the Deacon’s arms around one of the supports linking the seat and the table, cuffing his hands together. He scowled at Petchard, slick with sweat and fear. “I knew you were an idiot, but I can’t believe you’re involved in this.”

  “She shot Newton, man,” Petchard whined. “She’s crazy. Untie me before she shoots me. Let me up,” he pleaded.

  Truman slid a hunting knife from a sheath at his ankle and quickly sliced through the top rope binding Petchard’s chest, his waist and his ankles, leaving the man to unwind himself. He glanced
at the burning building and saw Munk’s stout shape dragging his sister, still tied in her chair, away from danger.

  “Watch him,” he called to Munk as he drew his weapon and followed Cass toward a small break in the tree line where she turned to look at the terrified girls.

  “Stay here,” she ordered, face softening at the sight of the tears streaking their sooty faces. “Get away from the cabin. But stay here.”

  Wide eyed, they edged away from the burning building but stopped before reaching the picnic table, watching the half naked man struggling against the thick ropes.

  “Where’s Mitch?” she asked Truman, voice quiet beneath the fire’s crackle.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered, glancing into the clearing. “We were on that dirt track when we heard the third shot, and started running. He was behind us.”

  She frowned as she wondered what could’ve happened to him. Maybe he had followed the men into the woods when they ran. “I think they’ve all gone now,” she whispered, crouching and creeping forward. “But we need to be sure.”

  He hesitated. “Was that Greg Newton?”

  “I –,” she cut her eyes at him then looked back out into the woods. “I don’t know. I’ll fill you in later. Let’s go.”

  ____________

  THEY MOVED SLOWLY DOWN another tiny dirt track, the sound of the forest gradually muting the fire popping in the background. An armadillo shuffled out of the undergrowth, grunting softly, pausing as the two humans passed by before continuing his foraging. Cass stopped, twisting her head to one side. A mockingbird called and then – there it was – a low moan floated across the heavy air. She pointed right, and they followed the sound through the woods toward the murky smell of the river bank, hands stretched forward to feel for branches as dead brush and pine needles snapped underfoot. The moaning stopped for several seconds then resumed and they adjusted their path, angling closer to the river.

  “Help me,” a strangled voice called out. “Please.”

  Truman pointed straight ahead and they separated, moving in a wide arc to circle in on two sides. Cass finally spotted a hump folded in a pool of dappled moonlight. “Police. Who’s there?” she called.

  “I’m stuck,” a voice coughed. “Please help me.”

  She moved forward and saw Truman’s dark shape coming toward her. They met near the strange lump, finding the form of a man splayed in an awkward position. A small pool of liquid spread from beneath his robe, pulsing gently as it caught the moonlight. An old fence was strung in both directions, five strands of barbed wire, broken in places but still clinging to rotting fence posts. The man was wrapped in the rusted wire, arms spread out to his sides, neck twisted at an odd angle, legs scissored together. Patches of pale skin were luminous through the ripped fabric of his dark robe.

  “Please,” he repeated, his familiar voice trembling. “I’m bleeding.”

  Cass stepped forward and peeled the hood from his face, anger and frustration flooding her brain at the sight of Jed Salter’s contorted features. Truman knelt beside the bank president and began probing gently, wincing as the other man moaned. He slipped a flashlight from his belt, running the beam along the twisted body before shaking his head up at Cass. “I don’t know how to get him undone.”

  She squatted beside Truman, talking as her fingers fluttered across the four-pointed barbs, trying to find a way to work him free. “Where’s your son?”

  “He’s dead,” Salter stated flatly, voice a whisper.

  “Brian?” Cass coughed.

  “No,” he sighed, frowning. “Nathaniel. My oldest.”

  “Where is Brian?”

  His eyes found her face. “I made him stay at home tonight.”

  She breathed a silent sigh of relief that Brian was unharmed, her anger growing at what had happened to Evelyn Grove and the two girls. “You called off his camping trip?” she asked, sarcasm deep in her voice.

  He shut his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “It… wasn’t time for him.”

  Truman worked at freeing the older man as Cass continued. “What were you doing out here, Mr. Salter?”

  “It’s not what you think – we’ve never hurt anyone.” He tried to turn his head and gasped with the effort. “My leg. Please.”

  Truman slipped his knife from its sheath and sliced through the robe’s delicate fabric. Thin trails of blood ran along Salter’s naked, muscled body from the barbs embedded in his flesh. Cass quickly checked his back and arms, gently moving the shredded fabric to see how seriously he was injured and spotting the customary scar on his right side. Truman followed the wire’s path between Salter’s legs and raised slick, darkened fingers for Cass to see, his voice low. “The flow down his leg is steady. He’s pierced something.”

  “Where?” she asked, surprised to feel indifference slide around her chest in the face of Salter’s pain.

  Truman worked his fingers along the twisted wire, calculating the distance between barbs. “Between his thighs. Maybe an artery?” He rocked back on his heels, pulling his belt loose from his dark trousers. “It’s pretty high, but from the way his legs are pressed together, I can’t tell how bad it is. Give me your belt.” He poked the belt’s smooth, flat end between Salter’s legs, flinching as the older man groaned. Tightening it into a makeshift tourniquet around the right thigh, he reached for her belt. “Do you have a signal?”

  She pulled her phone from its holster and flipped it open. “Nothing. You?”

  “In my pocket,” he said, thrusting a hip at her as he tightened the second belt around Salter’s left thigh. She slid his phone out and shook her head. “Take these,” Truman said, releasing the slippery tourniquets into her grasp.

  Salter grimaced as she wrapped each belt around one of her hands, placing a foot on either side of his legs and leaning back to tug the belts tighter as the pulsing of blood into the small pool slowed.

  “I’ll find a signal and call an ambulance,” Truman called as he trotted into the underbrush. A small explosion woofed through the forest and a bright glow arced toward the heavens, splashing light across the anguished, tangled man and the furious woman who held his life in her hands.

  “Call Sparky,” she shouted after the young officer. “We need the fire trucks.”

  CHAPTER 89

  SHE WATCHED TRUMAN’S FLASHLIGHT bounce through the forest until the sounds of movement had faded. She stared at Salter, his face pale in the moonlight, silver hair darkened with sweat. “Evelyn Grove. What happened?”

  A garbled chuckle escaped him. “She found us. I don’t know how, but she strolled into The Sanctuary like she owned the place, asking to borrow a phone. There were just two of us outside then, the rest were inside. But she’d seen our faces and the robes.” He tried to shrug, gasping as the barbs bit deeper into a shoulder. “We had to get rid of her.”

  Hot anger slid up her spine. “Permanently? After your Celebration of Illumination?”

  Salter’s eyes widened. “You did know.”

  “Yes,” she replied, adjusting her hold on the belts.

  “How?”

  “The invitation. We found one out at Lenny’s, from 1988. I saw yours at the bank this morning, just a flash of it. I wasn’t sure what I’d seen until later.”

  “You knocked the mail off my desk on purpose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hoffner knew, didn’t he, when he told the reporters there was a cult operating in the area.”

  “Things weren’t so clear at that point. I don’t know what he thought he was doing.” She shifted her weight, moving to see Salter’s face more clearly. “Now, you know how I found you tonight. Tell me a few things.”

  He moved his head gently. “I can’t.”

  The anger at her spine uncoiled, twisting hot ropes around her stomach. Cass leaned forward and loosened her grip on the belts, only slightly, and saw the pool at Salter’s feet surge again. “You will,” she stated. “Evelyn Grove.”


  His eyes flashed to her face and he gasped. “You’re an officer of the law. You can’t.”

  A startling awareness pierced her mind, and in that moment she knew with certainty that Jed Salter would die tonight. The desire to kill flooded her body and the image of a contorted Richard Nixon flashed through her brain. “Try me,” she growled. “Nobody out here but us girls. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She cocked her head to one side. “How tragic, and completely expected, that a man bleeds out when he’s got barbed wire digging into an artery. And you so muscled from all those marathons,” she continued, running her eyes along his naked body, “not a lick of fat on you to protect that artery.”

  “Tighten them,” he commanded, anger strengthening his voice.

  “Gosh Mr. Salter, the belts are slippery. Hard to hold on to,” she answered, voice flat. “Talk.”

  “She would’ve disappeared,” he gasped. Cass tightened the belts and his face relaxed. “In the river perhaps, or maybe just buried if we didn’t want the body to be found.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “What about them?”

  “Who are they?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t know their names. Cronus brings them. Training, he calls it.”

  “Are they always the same girls?”

  He shrugged, a short movement against the wire. “Sometimes. They’re never hurt. In fact, they’re proud to be our acolytes.”

  “Acolytes,” she repeated, anger twisting more tightly.

  “They serve, assist. Nothing more. They’re blindfolded when our hoods are off, or if we’re engaged in one of the more sacred rituals, like tonight.” He drew a shallow breath. “They help with the sacrament and keep the fire burning, that type of thing.”