by L T Ryan
"They wouldn't accept any money?"
"Not their way. The believe in service as the reward." The motel owner shrugged. "Good people, doing God's work, I guess. Good doesn't come at a price. At least, that's what the preacher said."
"The little I read about the Eternal Light and their preacher didn't mention the name of their Shepherd. You wouldn't happen to know it offhand, would you?"
"Nope. Far as I know, nobody here does. His followers don't use their legal names either. They go by names like Sunbeam. Reminds me of the 70s. Bunch of peace-lovin' hippies with a healthy dose of Jesus." Harlin leveled his gaze at her. "You got yourself some religion?"
Hatch answered as honestly as she could. "My conversation with God runs more like a debate. There have been moments in my life that gave me pause to question that relationship."
"We're all tested by the Lord in different ways." Harlin eyed the scar poking out from her right sleeve. "It's sometimes hard to see the wisdom in His design. But trust me, it's there. So, whatever your story is, Ms. Hatch, I'd advise you to make sure you know the good they've done."
"I'm as open minded as they come. When I do a story, I remain objective.”
“Any time someone puts their mind to something, objectivity becomes irrelevant.”
"I couldn't find their community on the map. Where are they located exactly?"
"Like I said, they keep pretty much to themselves. But it's no secret. I can give you directions, but I wouldn't make a point of trying to go after dark."
"Why is that?"
"They don't like visitors, especially unannounced ones, and especially at night. You won't find yourself welcome. If you plan to visit, I recommend goin' in the morning. The gate opens at sunrise and closes at sunset. Visitors are welcome during those times."
Good to know. Hatch looked outside at the darkened parking lot. There were still plenty of hours between now and tomorrow's sunrise.
Harlin continued. "Now, if you are planning to head out that way, you're going to go back down the hill and head into the town center. Follow Main Street for about three miles outside the last light of town. You'll pass a red mailbox. Now, that's Clem Johnson's place. He lives next door if there's such a thing out here. Well, if you're snooping around, he won’t be there either. Clem runs the only restaurant in town, and he's there from before sun-up and stays long after dark. After Clem's house, follow that road for about another two, maybe three miles. You'll see some large wooden crosses on the side of the road. The dirt trail that leads in runs about a quarter mile long, at the end of which you'll run into the main gate to the property."
"Thanks."
Hatch reached into her wallet and pulled out some cash. "About that payment. How about we make it eighty bucks a night, and we do it by cash? I'll pay each day as I go."
Harlin looked at the money and then cocked an eye at Hatch.
"I like to keep things off the books. It helps with protecting my story and my sources." Hatch said.
"I can respect that."
Hatch put the money on the counter and picked up the key and her ID. Harlin handed Hatch a twenty back.
"No need for the extra twenty. I'm an honest man."
"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, and what you said, I'll keep in confidence."
Harlin gave another tip of his hat. ”Unless you plan on dining from the limited selection of my vending machine, I'd head down to Clem's before he closes if you want a hot meal tonight.”
Hatch put her room key in her pocket.
"I just might take you up on that," she said, as she walked out the door.
Eleven
Savage sat in a small room not unlike that of his own interrogation room. But he was the one waiting in the room alone this time, and just like his own interrogation room, there were no windows and no clocks. The Colorado Mental Health Institute in Pueblo housed those deemed criminally insane. Since Graver's shooting, the care facility had served as his temporary living quarters.
In the swirl of investigative fury following the discovery of Amanda’s remains, Savage had levied to have the State Police shift their prosecutorial efforts, citing the unknown trauma experienced during Billy Graver's captivity during the blizzard ten years ago as the catalyst for the shooting death of Glenn Miller.
The state prosecutor, after some pressure from a mental health advisory board headed by Dr. Becca Somers, yielded and opted for long-term psychological treatment as the alternative approach to prosecution. Because of her extensive work and established rapport, built over several years of therapy, Somers was also assigned as his primary clinician and would resume her work with Graver once the dust settled on the case.
As if by some cosmic intuitive force, Savage's cellphone vibrated on the table in front of him. The incoming message was from Somers. It read, I really appreciate all you've done for Billy and his family. I enjoyed our conversation during our brief meeting. I'd like to keep the dialogue going with you. Maybe the next time we meet up, it could be over a cup of coffee or glass of wine.
He read the message a second time before he noticed Sinclair peeking over his shoulder. Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he thought about Somers's text. And then he thought about Hatch, and the lack thereof. For the first time since Hatch had disappeared from his life, Savage wondered if maybe his chance at happiness could be found elsewhere.
"I can't believe we had it wrong all those years." Sinclair sat beside Savage and nervously clicked the back of her pen.
"It's an unfortunate set of circumstances, that's for sure. No way anyone could've predicted the outcome."
"Ten years is a long time to silently hold on to whatever happened to him and his sister in that mountain cave."
"I'm not sure he'll ever be able to tell the tale." Savage thought of the crime scene where they'd arrested Graver. Then he recalled the image of the bullet riddled body of Glenn Miller. "But he spoke louder than any words could when he pulled the trigger."
"Now I understand your need for closure on this, but do you really think it's going to do any good?" Sinclair stopped the repetitive clicking and set the pen aside. "Billy doesn't speak."
"But he listens. And today, that's all I need him to do." Savage sat up as he heard footsteps approach from the other side of the door.
A large friendly faced orderly with a nametag that read Briggs had escorted Savage into the room after Savage had gained the Gravers’ permission to visit with Billy. Briggs now escorted Graver in. Savage realized upon seeing the orderly in the white button-down shirt and white slacks that this was the same outfit he had seen Billy Graver in when he’d executed seventy-two-year-old Glenn Miller. The monster.
Graver didn’t look at Savage. The orderly clicked twice and in a robotic manner, Graver took his seat, his hands placed evenly on the table just as they had been when in shackles in Savage’s custody. He looked past Savage at the wall behind him and the tapping continued like actual clockwork. Savage knew without looking at his watch that Billy Graver was keeping the time.
"Billy, I have approval from your family to speak with you. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. I spoke with Dr. Somers. She spoke well of you, and she said you’re very intelligent." The tapping continued, the eyes still looking beyond Savage. "I know why you did it, why you shot Glenn Miller. He took your sister, Amanda." The tapping continued.
Tap, tap, tap.
"I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing."
Tap, tap, tap.
Savage took an envelope from a leather briefcase by the foot of his chair and slid it across the table to Graver.
Tap, tap, tap.
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he didn't look down at the object in his hands.
"It’s okay, Billy."
Tap, tap, tap.
Savage stood from his chair, reached across the table, and opened the envelope, sliding the contents of it onto the table. The bracelet rattled, and it touched Graver’s index finger as it settled down.
He didn’t tap again. His finger rested on the M. His eyes broke contact with the wall and he looked down. His body remained rigid, but a single tear fell from his eye and splashed down on the table near his sister's bracelet.
"The monster's gone, Billy. You got him. Your sister is at peace now."
Savage knew it would only provide a part of the peace he could never seek. The horrible crimes human beings are capable of, and the things left in the wake leave a watermark. Savage thought about his own watermarks. Then he thought of Becca Somers and wondered if she could provide him with a peace, one he’d long sought but seldom found, not just in the trauma of his own past but in the unforeseen road ahead.
Twelve
Hatch tossed her duffel onto the bed in her room. What the motel lacked in amenities was made up for by the cleanliness of the small space. Returning to her Jeep, she headed out of the gravel lot back into town.
She followed Harlin’s directions. Just as he had described, after nearly two miles of a dark road stretching past the town's Main Street, she came upon the red mailbox belonging to Clem Johnson.
Continuing down the road, keeping an eye on the dash, she noted the distance traveled. She slowed as she reached the two-mile mark and scanned the roadside for the path to the Eternal Light community. And just as Harlin had said, right between the two- and three-mile marks—2.7 miles to be exact—was the dirt path that broke off to the right of the road.
It was shrouded on both sides by a thick cluster of trees. There were no lights, no signs, no mailboxes. Nothing but the path.
Hatch turned off the main road and headed in. The road stretched straight ahead, then bent slightly to the right. As she rounded the bend, the headlights of the Jeep illuminated the ten-foot-high wooden fence with an arched gateway big enough for a truck to pass through.
Hatch stopped ten feet from the gate. Cutting the engine, she stepped out of her Jeep. Pushing the door shut gently, so the sound was nothing more than a click, she stood by the car for a moment, adjusting herself to the darkness and her surroundings. A lyrical hum could be heard from the other side of the walls, just beyond the wind rattling the leaves.
Hatch walked to the main gate. There was a slight gap between the gate and the fence post. She was able to catch a glimpse of the compound's interior. A bright orange campfire illuminated the circle of faces surrounding it, all adorned in long, white robes.
The sounds became clearer, though the words were muffled by the wind. They were singing, and one member of the circle strummed a guitar in tune. Hatch was straining to see more when the cell phone in her pocket vibrated.
She pulled it out, saw the caller ID was Savage and sent it to voicemail. As she re-pocketed the phone, the fire-light cast between the slit disappeared when a dark form filled the void. Hatch heard a strange grunting sound from the other side of the fence, but in the darkness couldn't make out any of the features of the person standing before her.
Hatch then pulled her reporter ID badge out and held it to the gap, up towards the tall shadowy form's head. "I'm with The Blaze. I'd like to speak with the preacher."
The man on the other side made the same grumbling, grunting noise again, but said no words. A small slip of paper held by dirt-covered fingernails came through the crack. Hatch took the note.
There was one word on it. "Leave."
Not wanting to press her luck and negotiate with the silent grunting man any further, she took Harlin's words into account and decided to leave until morning.
"Please tell the preacher that I'd like to speak to him, and I'll be back in the morning to do so."
Hatch walked back towards her Jeep. She looked back as she opened the door. The dark shadow between the gate and the post remained. In the distance, just beyond the bend in the road, she saw a small orange flicker. It took her a moment for her eyes to focus through the dark.
The orange dimmed and then grew bright again, and she recognized it. Somebody was smoking a cigarette. The moonlight provided enough light through the canopy for Hatch to just make out the shape of a small four-door sedan.
Hatch got into her car and as she started the ignition, she saw the brake lights in her rearview mirror. It backed out fast, spinning tires against the dirt. Hatch reversed and made a quick K-turn, but by the time she rounded the bend, the sedan was gone.
Hatch drove the quarter mile stretch back to the main road as fast as the path allowed. Through the thick trees, she hadn't been able to see which direction the car had gone. Hatch sped back the five miles but saw no sign of the sedan. At the town center, she saw the hand-painted sign outside the diner that read, "Clem's," and decided to stop in for a bite to eat.
Hatch parked in front of the diner. The building had a long front porch attached to it with a three-step walk up, the boards of which creaked loudly as she made her way to the door. Hatch entered as a gust of wind kicked up out of nowhere and slammed the door behind her, causing several of the patrons to startle and look up from their meals.
An older black man with thick cheeks, a wire-thin white mustache, and a well-groomed head of hair to match, was wiping down the counter. He looked up and gave Hatch a nod and went back about his business. Hatch made her way over and took a seat in a booth.
"Sorry about the slam to your door. That wind came out of nowhere."
"The wind around here is no joking matter. It'll sneak up and snatch your life if you're not careful. A cup of coffee while you look at the menu? Just made a fresh pot."
"Coffee sounds great. Thanks."
Setting the mug in front of her, he filled it up. "Just passing through?"
Hatch set down a notepad in front of her, alongside her ID badge and pen. "I'm on assignment. I stay as long as the story calls for."
"Here? In little old Jericho Falls? You've got to be kidding me!"
"I go where they send me."
"So, what's the story?"
"The Eternal Light."
"What kind of story?"
"An editorial piece. They came up on my editor's horizon and he sent me to check them out, see if there is a story there." Hatch stirred in some sugar and a dash of cream and took a sip. "You wouldn't happen to be Clem Johnson by any chance?"
"I am indeed."
"And you're the closest neighbor?"
The restaurant owner folded his arms across his stained apron. "Let me guess. You're staying up at the motel."
"Yes, I am."
"That Harlin Gessup. Might as well change his name to Harlin Gossip the way he talks about folk."
"He didn't say much, and I did all the asking. It's my job."
"Well, my job is keeping people well fed. Are you hungry?"
"What's good?"
"I've got a mean shepherd's pie, just out of the oven."
"Then that's what I'll have."
Johnson disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with a plate. The layers of mashed potato, beef, mushrooms, and corn covered the surface, and a small piece of cornbread was tucked on the side.
"Now, you've got to try my cornbread. I make it every day from scratch."
Hatch took a bite. It was the perfect balance of moist and sweet. It almost melted in her mouth.
"In all the places I've traveled, that by far is the best cornbread I've ever had."
Hatch meant it, but she also knew that the key strategy to any successful interview or interrogation was building rapport, connecting with people on a personal level.
The breaking of bread seemed to ease Clem. His arms were no longer folded, and he poured a cup of coffee for himself.
"Make sure you mention that in your article. Maybe you'll get a couple more people through this way."
"Will do. How long you been in Jericho Falls?" Hatch asked, as she readied the cornbread for another bite.
"Been here my whole life. Always planned on joining the Army and seeing the world the way my father had. He was an old World War II grunt. It wasn't the stories of war that fascinated me but the places he'd s
een, places as a child I could only imagine."
"Did you join?"
"Never got the chance. My father died when I was seventeen. I took over running the restaurant, keeping business alive for my mother, and every time I wanted to leave, it just couldn’t happen. So, now I get to see the world through the stories of the travelers who pass through. I'm sure in your profession, you've seen plenty. Maybe we'll share a story or two ourselves while you're here."
"I'd like that," Hatch said. "If you don't mind me asking, what can you tell me about the Eternal Light?"
He looked at the pad and pen next to the plate of shepherd's pie. "Not much to tell, really. I don't have anything to do with them. A neighbor is a loose statement. Fact, our properties are adjoining, but that's about it. There's a couple miles between my home and where they all live. But they keep to themselves. You'll see them in town now and again. They help out when things go bad, don't ask for much in return. It's a strange relationship that’s grown over the years. I remember when they first came into town."
"How long ago was that?"
"Had to be twenty years, maybe. Lot of folk were scared of them then, but in time, they saw they had no reason to be. We've been in a peaceful coexistence for as long as I can remember. They live by a different set of rules. Their preacher interprets the word of God the way he sees fit, and his people follow it. I don't agree with it, but I don't judge. They've got their fence secluding them from the rest of the world. They don't like trespassers, that's for sure. But there's a small waterfall, about ten, fifteen feet high in the middle of their property. Extends into a stream that crosses onto my property. Their fence is pretty much complete, except for that little patch where the river flows through. From time to time I catch the kids wandering onto my property. Don't matter where you come from, kids will always be kids, I guess."
"That much is true. I wanted to ask if you heard about the missing girl?"
Clem nodded his head. "Spoke to a deputy about it just yesterday."