Wrong Turn

by Catie Rhodes

  Tanner pushed me to sit on the edge of the bed. He knelt in front of me and pulled off each boot, intense eyes fixed on me. He pulled me to my feet, dragged my stale shirt over my head, and unhooked my bra. The click of the clasp seemed loud in the quiet room. I pushed the flimsy garment off.

  Tanner's eyes heated. His tongue teased the corner of his mouth for a second, leaving a patch of wetness. The smell of him filled my senses, chased away the awful day to the point where it was just Tanner and me. I reached for my jeans.

  Tanner brushed my hands away, undid the button, and dragged them down my legs. I rested my hands on his back, sharing his feverish heat. The fabric rubbed harsh on my suddenly oversensitive skin. I gasped.

  Tanner raised and held out one hand to me. "Let's get you in the shower. It'll make you feel better."

  Naked and dreamlike, I shoved my feet into the flip-flops and let him lead me into the bathroom. He turned on the water, fiddled with it until it ran hot enough to steam.

  "Take off your shoes." He held my hand to balance me while I did it and guided me into the shower. I did a slow turn and stood with my face turned up to the hot spray, staring at the ring of rust around the shower pipe and the permanent rust stain bleeding down from it.

  The shower curtain billowed, sending a draft of cold air through the shower. Tanner’s feet slapped down behind me. So this was how it was going to be. Not in the nasty bed but in the nasty shower. His fingers trailed down my side, through the water sluicing over my skin. I braced for him to push my legs apart.

  But he reached round me, grabbed the paper wrapped bar of soap, and opened it. The soap slicked over my wet back. He rubbed it in slow circles, massaging the taut muscles between my shoulders. He worked his way down both arms and around to my chest. He brushed the tip of one nipple. My body tightened, and I gave a little squeak. He ignored both responses and moved on to my legs, strong fingers running over sore calves and thighs.

  I moaned and put both hands on the stained tile to keep my balance. Eyes half closed, I waited for him to get down to business. I knew he wanted to. His arousal had brushed me several times. But instead he turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain back. The metal hooks rattled against the bar. He grabbed a towel and began to rub me dry with the rough fabric. I grabbed the second towel and tried to dry him.

  "No. This is for you." He soaked all the water off me and then held my arm while I stepped over the tub. "Go wait for me in the bed."

  Even drunk on desire, I still didn’t want my feet touching the floor. I slid into my flip-flops and went into the other room where I pulled the bedspread off the bed and dumped it in the closet. The cool sheets rustled as I lay down on them. A few seconds later, Tanner came into the room, dots of water still shining on his body.

  "Lay on your stomach," he said, his voice thick.

  I did as he said. The hair on his legs tickled against mine as he knelt over me. Again I waited to feel him inside me. His hands ran over my shoulders, fingers digging in to find the knots of tension. I moaned into the pillow. Tanner’s fingers found every sore stress point on my back and rubbed it into jelly.

  Body relaxing, I let go of my worries and drifted, eyes nearly closed. I didn’t even notice when he stopped. I only became aware of his breath tickling my ear, the heat of his chest against my back, and the thud of his heart. The smell of the cheap motel soap and Tanner’s own hot, musky smell filled my senses. His lips brushed my cheek. I shivered.

  Now. Admit you need him. Admit you were wrong about him coming here. Stubbornness lodged the words in my throat. If I said them, I left myself open to hurt.

  But hadn’t Tanner risked everything to come here? He’d saved my life and then rubbed me down like a high-end masseuse. He’d taken a beating for me and worshipped me like a goddess. Tomorrow he would try to help me save my own skin, all the while asking nothing in return.

  "Let me turn over," I whispered against his lips. I needed to see his face.

  Tanner raised enough for me to do what I wanted, the wet ends of his hair trailing my face. I rested my arms, now heavy and relaxed, over his shoulders. I practiced the words. None of them sounded right.

  "You’re the only person in the world I’d trust with my life," I finally said.

  Tanner’s only answer was to quirk one side of his lips. He raised himself to his knees and ran his fingers down my body, trailing fire. In a quick motion, he wrapped my legs around his hips. Bracing one hand on either side of my head, he said, "I’d do anything for you. You’re my world."

  We both gasped. The noise of our lovemaking filled the room, growing in intensity until it reached a white-hot crescendo where everything grayed out for a second.

  Later, I lay smoking. Tanner took my cigarette and dragged on it. I touched my fingertips to his cheek and drank in those gorgeous eyes.

  He pulled my fingers away from his face and kissed them. "Things are going to be okay."

  "Because we’re together." It might be the last couple of days I got to be with Tanner, so I cuddled against him and didn’t know anything else until the morning sunlight streaked across my face.

  7

  "Sorry. But I come bearing gifts." Tanner stood in the motel room’s doorway holding two cups of coffee and a paper sack. He came inside and deposited the items on the dusty little table. "Coffee pot didn’t work. Dwight was nice enough to let us have these two cups for free. He sent you a pig in a blanket. Wanted to charge me for mine."

  Laughing, I swung my legs out of the bed and groped for my flip-flops. At the table, I tried to give the pig in a blanket to Tanner, but he insisted on halving it.

  "We’ve got a half hour before the library opens." He popped the last bite in his mouth and gestured at my untouched half of the pastry. "Eat it, or else."

  Still not caffeinated enough to flirt with him, I forced down the food, drained my coffee, and got out my laptop. "I never did get to finish looking at the website about the Messengers last night. Might help us ask Mandy Drake better questions when we get to the library."

  Tanner scooted his rickety chair next to mine as the gray background and the bullet holes loaded. Again the psychedelic rock blasted out of the speaker. I had time to recognize it as The 13th Floor Elevators before Tanner reached over and muted it.

  "Your Grateful Dead albums are bad enough." He gave me a smartass grin. I pretended to stick my finger in his ear.

  I navigated to The Message’s menu. The gothic red lettering had the blood animation where they seemed to ooze red stuff. I clicked red text that read, "The Day the Messengers Died." The page began loading.

  Tanner had positioned himself at my shoulder leaning into me. He still smelled of motel soap from the night before. Remembering what had passed between us, I pushed his hair out of his face. I needed to tell him he mattered, that this mattered, just in case. My heart picked up speed. He turned to me. I ran one thumb over the shallow crow's feet at the corner of one eye. He waited, expression curious and open. Maybe even a little hopeful. Here it was. The right moment. I screwed up my courage. Just at that second, his gaze slid off mine. His mouth dropped open.

  "What the holy hell? Who puts that up where anybody can see it?" Lips turned down in disgust, he pointed at the laptop’s screen.

  Shocked by his outburst, I turned my attention to the computer. It took every ounce of my self-control to keep from shoving the machine away.

  Black and white photographs littered the screen. Every one of them showed dead people. Mousing over the pictures gave visitors a chance to click for more information. Just to get off the page of horrific images, I clicked on a picture of a row of dead bodies that looked to be full of bullet holes.

  A new screen popped up. The title read "About The Messengers." A group photo was centered underneath the title. I clicked to enlarge it and stared into a dozen smiling young faces. Loretta Nell Grimes crouched on one end, grinning ear to ear.

  All the people in the picture had long, straight, stringy hair. A few women
wore floppy-brimmed hats. The men had bushy, unkempt beards. The women’s clothes looked like something Mysti Whitebyrd would wear, only dirty.

  The thing that struck me? Other than needing a good scrubbing, these people looked normal, like a college class on an outing. I took a closer look. A shiver ripped through my body.

  "Holy shit," Tanner muttered.

  Every one of the Messengers held a sharp weapon in his or her hand. Some of them, including Loretta Nell’s, were stained with something dark.

  I clicked out of full screen so I wouldn’t have to look at those weird smiling faces another second. The webpage had a centered block of text underneath the picture naming each of the people and giving their age. Loretta Nell had only been twenty-six.

  Underneath that, the words "The Rise and Fall of the Messengers" were centered on the page.

  When the topic of killer cults comes up, names like the Manson Family and Superior Universal Alignment are usually bandied about. Most people have never even heard of the Messengers, yet they have a higher body count than both the Manson Family and Superior Universal Alignment put together.

  The Messengers operated in the far southwestern corner of the Texas Hill Country but are believed to have gotten their start on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin in 1969 and 1970.

  Their inarguable leader, Loretta Nell Grimes, is said to have approached students asking if they’d like to join a prayer circle. Most who joined dropped out of school and life and ended up dead on the grounds of the Pilz Ranch about ten miles outside Devil’s Rest, Texas.

  Not much is known about what the Messengers did on that ranch. The only well-documented piece of the Messengers’ short history is of the day in 1973 when police raided the ranch. That day, armed members of the Messengers met police and opened fire. Police returned fire. The shooting continued until the entire group lay dead.

  Once they could safely enter the ranch, police found a house of horrors full of altars that seemed to be dedicated to the worship of snakes. Inside the ranch’s barn, corpses had been hung to dry. Pieces of meat had been stripped from the corpses, which began rumors the group had been cannibals.

  Roderick's story filled my mind. Right after he killed for the first time, Loretta Nell had invited him out to the barn to become a member of the Messengers. Had eating human flesh been the initiation? If police found pieces of meat stripped from the corpses, maybe it had. An image of Loretta Nell with red-stained teeth flashed behind my eyes. I put one hand to my mouth.

  Tanner raised one eyebrow. "You okay?"

  I told him what I had on my mind. His face and lips paled. The half pastry I'd eaten swam on my stomach. I forced myself to keep reading.

  Most of the Messengers’ bodies remained unclaimed by embarrassed family members and received a pauper’s burial in the Devil’s Rest Cemetery. The biggest mystery of the Messengers’ massacre remains what happened to Loretta Nell’s body. There is no report of her remains being entered into evidence by the coroner or prepared for burial by the Devil’s Rest Funeral Home.

  The four sheriff’s deputies who busted the Messengers testified to seeing Loretta Nell’s lifeless remains and speculated that someone had stolen the corpse as a macabre souvenir of the day.

  Whether or not they were telling the truth will likely never be known because every one of the four, including Freddy Stephens who led the raid, died on the very property where they shot the Messengers dead.

  The final sentence contained a link, so I clicked it. It navigated to a new page with pictures of the four lawmen who’d stopped the Messengers’ murder spree.

  One group picture showed the four men standing over a pile of dead Messengers, their arms around each other, smiles on their faces. They reminded me of hunters standing over their kills.

  Another black and white picture showed one of the deputies, a round-faced man with black hair. He had his arm around a plain-faced woman with frizzy brown hair. The man wore a broad smile. The woman looked like she wasn’t sure what had hit her.

  After the massacre, Freddy Stephens and his wife purchased the Messengers’ old stomping grounds as a place to raise their young family.

  Below was a picture of each of the other deputies involved in taking down the Messengers with a short blurb of how he’d died.

  1985 — Dennis Muldoon drowned in a swimming accident in a lake on the Stephens Ranch property.

  1999 — Ronald Jessup died in a hunting accident on Stephens Ranch. His gun exploded in his face.

  2004 — Harris Coates died at Stephens Ranch when the all-terrain-vehicle he was riding rolled over on him, breaking his neck.

  The final picture showed Freddy Stephens. He’d lost most of his hair, and sunspots covered his red face. He wore his uniform and looked to be at a party of some sort.

  2006 — Freddy Stephens, after retiring from the Devil’s Rest Sheriff’s Department, was stabbed to death on his property, along with his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson. The only survivor of that night was Josie Stephens, Freddy’s granddaughter. Many believed she committed the murders, but she was never charged. Josie claimed Loretta Nell, thirty-three years dead at the time, did the killing that night.

  Below that was a picture of the Stephens Ranch as I had seen it. The deserted farmhouse with graffiti on the walls. The deteriorating barn with its faded red paint and sliding door opening onto a black maw. In the center of the darkness stood a shadowy figure.

  I held the screen close to my face and thought I saw a flash of Loretta Nell’s blond hair. The text read:

  If there is life after death, could a group like the Messengers, one who died a hard (albeit deserved) death, exact revenge on those who killed them?

  This website has discussed only the deaths of the deputies who enacted the raid on the Messengers’ lair. Not discussed are the fates that befell their wives and children.

  By the time of the Stephens Family Massacre, there were no survivors.

  Against my desires, I went back to The Message website’s home page.

  "What are you doing?" Tanner practically yelled, one hand gripping my shoulder like a kid he might want to yank away from something they shouldn’t be seeing.

  "I’ve looked at all this awful crap and still haven’t found any mention of Loretta Nell’s book. I need to make sure." I proceeded to click on every awful picture to see where the links took me.

  The pictures of the remains found in the barn led to pages talking about the victims. Each victim had his or her own profile marked by that person’s picture. The smiling people in those photos never imagined they’d get mixed up with the Messengers and die for it.

  Another page featured an interview with one of the coroners who cleaned up after the Messengers. He claimed there were at least forty unique unidentified remains of victims found on the ranch. Authorities were unable to match them to known missing persons.

  "The early seventies were really just a hangover of the sixties, and you had a lot of people just drifting," said the coroner. "We will probably never know who all those poor people were."

  Another page featured graphic pictures of the Stephens Family Massacre.

  "There's nothing else of use." I closed out the page in disgust.

  "Okay. Any other ideas?" Tanner went to the sink to brush his teeth.

  "If Mandy at the library doesn’t know anything about the book, and I’m guessing she won’t, we’re going to see Josie in the mental hospital." I began dragging on clean clothes, still wishing for more coffee.

  Tanner turned to me, toothbrush in his mouth, and said something. After a second, I interpreted his words as "How come?"

  "The timeline doesn’t make sense to me." I went to the sink and stood next to Tanner trying to do something with my hair.

  He spat out his toothpaste. "Why doesn’t the timeline make sense?"

  "The Messengers were killed in the early seventies. Then Freddy Stephens buys the property and raises his family there without incident. Nothing happens in
the house until the whole family was butchered—what—thirty-plus years later?" I put on eyeliner and deodorant, the only two required components of my daily routine.

  Tanner watched me. "No incidents only counts if you ignore the three lawmen who lost their lives out there."

  I grunted and finished drawing the thick black line before I answered. "But that’s nothing like the Stephens Family Massacre. That shit was brutal. You saw those pictures."

  Tanner put water on his fingers and used it to smooth down his long, straight hair. "So what are you saying?"

  "Let’s say Loretta Nell, or maybe the collective vengeful spirit of the Messengers, did kill the Stephens Family, just like Josie said. How did that family live in the house all those years safely? And what changed the night they were murdered?" I stared at Tanner in the mirror. "There’s a piece of the story missing."

  We packed our things and loaded them into my truck. I didn’t trust Dwight not to go through them while we were gone. Then we left for the library.

  We parked right in front of the library. On the sidewalk, a mid-twenties woman struggled with a folding sign advertising the annual book sale, all funds to be used for the library renovation. She shared Roderick’s hawkish nose and bore such a strong resemblance to him, she had to be Mandy Drake. We got out of the truck and approached her.

  I asked anyway. "Ms. Drake?"

  She turned to see who’d said her name, and the sign toppled over.

  "Shit," she hissed under her breath.

  Tanner hurried to help her get the sign upright. It didn’t want to open. One of the hinges was stiff and needed a squirt of some kind of lubricant. Tanner forced it with the palm of one hand. Mandy breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Mrs. Burris usually helps me set this out, but she had a doctor’s appointment this morning." She waved her hands at the sign, as though dismissing it, turned to me, and held out one hand. "To answer your question, yes. I’m Mandy Drake. You must be the young couple Uncle Roddy told me to expect."