He’d promised himself a trip to the beach—South Carolina, maybe, or even along the gulf somewhere—but then Imogene had passed and managing her estate occupied him more than he cared to admit. Imogene was one of his first clients after he started his practice. She’d hired him years ago to draft her Last Will and Testament, and she’d paid him handsomely to do it. More than he was charging, more than he felt was necessary, but she’d insisted he take it for services rendered. Every year since, she’d paid him a visit to review the document, but only once had she ever made a significant change.
Chuck took another sip of his drink, reflecting on their last meeting. Imogene Tremly was always a chipper old thing, with a smile that could light up a cave and one good eye shimmering with life. The day she walked into his office, however, she’d been anything but those qualities. Her hair was stringy and unwashed, her clothes wrinkled, her good eye puffy and bloodshot from a lack of sleep. She looked as though she’d aged ten years in the month since he’d last seen her at the Kroger in town. He’d passed her in the frozen foods section, smiled, said hello. She’d done the same, and everything was right in the world.
Something was rotten and wrong, but he’d been too afraid to pry, too afraid to ask.
And why’s that, Chuck?
He sipped his scotch, savoring the taste of burning smoke as it coated his throat.
Because I was afraid of her.
Which was a foolish notion. If it weren’t for Genie Tremly and the other grandparents, he’d be another statistic, another name in the newspapers whenever the infamous “Stauford Death Cult” rose again into public consciousness. His body would still be down there with the rest of them, buried in the ashes.
There were the rumors she was a witch, carrying on the practices of the church even after saving the children from Jacob Masters. Rumors she’d defied Father Jacob and sought to lead the church on her own. Those were just rumors, of course. The people of Stauford were full of shit when it came to their rumors, one of the few universal constants left in that part of the world. But what about the things she’d told him in confidence?
Ah, yes, Chuck, what about those privileged things?
He took another sip and grimaced back the liquid fire.
The burden of his attorney-client privilege weighed heavily on him at first, but the weight grew easier to bear with each substantial payment from Ms. Tremly. Most of what Imogene had to confide in him had happened when he was a child, still in therapy after the fire and suicides.
There were several unresolved questions in the fallout of the Devil’s Church scandal. Jacob Masters convinced most of his congregation to sell off their property and belongings and donate the proceeds to The Lord’s Church of Holy Voices. The assumption, then, was Masters had hoarded the money for his personal gain, but when authorities froze the remaining assets in Masters’s name, they found his bank accounts empty.
The man who was Jacob Masters severed most of his ties with the modern world prior to building his community in the woods, and what little he’d left behind wasn’t worth much more than a few thousand dollars. No deed to the property in the forest was ever found, nor was there ever any record such a deed existed. The small house Masters inherited from his father was sparsely decorated and lacked any sign of renovation or luxury and was eventually sold at auction to a property developer who leveled the structure as soon as the ink was dry.
And the money? Some speculated it was buried out in the woods somewhere, or that Masters burned it. What happened to the missing “Masters fund” remained a mystery for the better part of twenty years until Imogene walked into Chuck’s office one afternoon and asked about getting her affairs in order.
Let’s be honest, Chuck. Did you really think your grandpa could afford to pay for law school out of his own pocket?
No, he didn’t, but whenever he’d brought it up to his grandfather, Gage Tiptree waved him off. It’s taken care of, he said. Just worry about your studies.
Chuck wondered if Jack had questioned Imogene, or if he’d ever wondered where she found the money to pay for art school. Had Stephanie questioned how her grandmother managed to put so much money away, money which Maggie Green bequeathed to Stephanie in her will? Money which Stephanie used to help start her radio station? Or what about Bobby and Susan? Had they batted an eye during the estate settlements when they learned they were entitled to substantial sums? Money which they’d used to buy their homes? Hell, even Zeke received a stipend from his grandpa Roger’s estate, but he’d blown most of it on drugs and forfeited a chunk of it to the state after he was arrested for possession all those years ago.
The day Imogene dropped a bomb on him, he’d made a down payment on a new car out of his own pocket, money he’d earned through his own hard work in a profession he’d studied to practice. And his education? Paid for with blood money.
No, he thought, you weren’t afraid to ask. You’ve never been too afraid to ask. You just didn’t want to know. You didn’t want her to tell you what she’d been up to over the years while Jack was out of town. You didn’t want to know if there was truth to what the townsfolk said about her, about the chanting and strange lights out at her house, about what those men in the Klan said happened one night with the fire. Just like you didn’t want to know about the money, about the six-way split among the grandparents.
There was only one question he’d asked her about the whole thing, aside from how she wanted her estate to be handled. One question he simply needed to know, lest his image of her be completely shattered forever.
“Is the money the real reason you left the church? Is that what started all of this?”
She’d sat staring at him for several minutes, not blinking, her smile failing her as the air between them grew warm, suffocating. Finally, Imogene had said, “It wasn’t about the money. We didn’t even think about the money, not until after it was all said and done. And we all agreed it would be better served takin’ care of you kids than lettin’ it get swallered up by the state.”
He’d played their meeting over and over in his mind for years, wondering if she’d told him the truth, feeling ungrateful for speculating on her intentions. He wouldn’t be alive if not for Imogene and the others. None of them would.
He leaned back in the seat, watching the restaurant fill up, and thought about breaching a client’s confidentiality for the first time in his life. Maybe he’d tell Jack and Stephanie and even Bobby, if the poor guy could handle it.
Chuck raised his glass and downed the rest of the scotch in a single gulp, setting his throat and gut on fire. Elsewhere in the restaurant, the house band began the opening notes of their cover of “Goodbye, Horses.” Then again, he thought, maybe telling them is not such a great idea.
He closed his laptop. In his profession, telling the truth often caused as much harm as good.
3
Jack parked outside the small modular building and looked up at the adjacent radio tower. Z105.1 flashed above, bathing the surrounding hillside in red neon. Over the hill, beyond a line of trees, traffic sped across the overpass and down Main Street. Two other cars were parked in the parking lot, and though he was already a few minutes late, Jack remained seated, collecting himself before going inside.
He’d driven home after the meeting with the professor, but the things the old man said remained with Jack in the hours since. They lingered in the forefront of his mind as he returned to his grandmother’s house and wandered its rooms like a ghost, struggling to make sense of everything. He busied himself with cleaning up the broken glass in the foyer, reinforcing the seal of plastic over the shattered windows, and leaving a message for the repair guy Chuck recommended, but the mystery left behind by his late grandmother persisted.
Her final years were devoted entirely to research on the nature of Devil’s Creek, and he couldn’t shake the feeling her breadcrumb trail was missing a vital piece, something that would tie everything up and let him move on. Maybe she was simply obsessed with that part
of her life—and why not? What happened out there in the woods all those years ago defined her.
Only that didn’t make sense to him. Mamaw Genie told him everything, promising she’d never keep a secret. The revelation of what she’d been up to didn’t bother him nearly as much as the fact she’d kept it from him. Even the money she’d left him in her will was a shock, especially when he remembered some weeks she’d pinched pennies to fulfill a grocery order, when her checks from the state came a day or two later than usual and her brow furrowed with worry like a looming storm.
There was a whole other part of Imogene Tremly’s life he’d missed, another side that left him feeling cold and confused, worsened by the fact he couldn’t face her and ask why. Why was she digging up the past? Why was she researching Hermetic symbols? And why did she need that creepy idol?
Part of him wished he’d stayed in New York. The other part wished he’d left town yesterday after his meeting with Chuck, before his nagging curiosity got the better of him.
His phone vibrated, and he checked the screen. A new text from his agent: “Checking in. Everything okay?” Jack stared at the message, his fingers hovering over the digital keyboard, but his mind was frozen. What could he say? No, everything’s not okay, I just learned my grandma was up to some weird shit that had to do with the cult we were a part of when I was a kid. My father was a fucked-up preacher who molested me and my brothers as part of some twisted ritual underneath our church.
Instead, he replied: “All is well. Doing interview with local radio DJ. Will call later.”
He sent the text without second-guessing himself and stepped out into the low evening light. The afternoon storms broke the day’s humidity, and the world breathed a collective sigh of relief with a soft breeze that felt good against his hot skin. Jack closed the car door and relished the scent of autumn lingering in the air: dead leaves and cut grass. For so much that changed in Stauford, the look and feel of southern Kentucky’s dusky light on his face felt familiar, a kiss from an old friend he’d not seen in years. The sensation felt like his childhood. The good parts, anyway.
Refreshed, the troubling thoughts shoved safely away to the back part of his mind, Jack put on his game face and walked toward the building. A couple minutes later, he stood in the front office of the radio station. A lanky fellow with black hair and glasses sat behind the receptionist’s desk with a phone perched between his shoulder and ear. He offered Jack a smile and mouthed one minute before gesturing to the row of empty seats.
Jack took a seat, half-listening to the phone conversation while taking in the décor. Several framed newspaper articles hung on the walls, sporting headlines such as “New Station Riles Listeners” and “Christian Groups Protest Rock Radio.” One such headline was printed in large blocky text from the Tribune’s Op-Ed section: “THE GOAT GETS OUR GOAT.” Above them all hung a larger decal of the station’s mascot with the station’s call sign.
The thin fellow behind the desk hung up his phone. He stuck out his hand as Jack rose to meet him.
“Sorry. I’m Ryan Corliss, the station’s producer.”
“Jack Tremly. Stephanie’s brother.”
Ryan smiled. “The famous artist. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jack shrugged, his cheeks warming at the recognition.
“Good things, I hope?”
“Nothing but,” Ryan said. “Stephanie and Riley are in the studio. I’ll walk you.”
Riley? Jack wondered, searching his memory, and then remembered: Bobby’s son. He’d not expected to meet his nephew tonight and had only seen the occasional photos of the boy over the years courtesy of his grandmother’s emails. The sudden prospect excited and terrified him.
His trepidation slipped away as Ryan led him down a short hallway and into the control room. Stephanie sat at the mixing board, checking emails on her phone while Chris Cornell sang “Black Hole Sun” through the surround sound speakers. A plush leather sofa lined the wall on the opposite side of the room, and there sat a slim teenager dressed in ripped jeans, black combat boots, and a snug T-shirt sporting the skeletal logo of The Misfits. He held a smartphone in his hands. The kid’s nails were painted glossy black.
Jack smiled. I can definitely see who his favorite aunt is.
Stephanie stood to meet them. She reached out and gave Jack a hug. “Thanks for coming,” she said, turning to Ryan. “Thanks for showing him in.”
Ryan shrugged. “Hey, no problem, boss. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a date to be getting to.”
“Meeting Victor tonight?”
Ryan winked at her. “You know it.”
“Have fun, tiger.”
After Ryan saw himself out of the control room, Stephanie turned her attention to Riley. “Jack, I’d like you to meet our nephew. Riley, meet Jack.”
The boy stood—except he wasn’t a boy at all, not anymore, not the serious child Jack recognized from his grandmother’s photos. He’d grown into a young man, the tell-tale hints of stubble shadowing his chin and upper lip. Jack saw a glimpse of Riley’s father in his portrait, a living flashback to the boy Jack remembered racing down Main Street, fishing in the shallows of Layne Camp Creek, or trembling in fear in the dark recesses beneath the old church.
“I love your work,” he said. “Steph’s told me all about you. I’ve got one of your prints hanging in my room, and I’ve even got that art book you wrote a few years ago. Is it true you get your ideas from dreams? I heard you only sleep, like, two hours a night—”
Jack shot Stephanie a glance, smiling. “Big fan?”
“Huge,” she said, placing her hand on Riley’s shoulder. “You guys have plenty of time to talk, but right now, he’s my interview. Got it?”
Riley blushed. “Sorry, Jack.”
“No worries, man. We’ll chat in a few.” Jack turned to his sister, who held open the door to the studio. “You promise this will be painless?”
Stephanie thought for a moment and grinned. “No, but it’s like we used to say when we were kids: sometimes good things hurt.”
He snorted back a laugh. He’d forgotten all about the old saying, really nothing more than a joke between them, lifted out of a newspaper clipping talking about the Stauford Six. Some state senator had chimed in about their debacle, suggesting they be divided from their families and given a fresh start.
Sometimes good things hurt, he thought, walking into the studio. I guess there’s some truth in that statement.
4
Ozzie Bell kicked off his boots and reclined on Susan’s sofa, awash in the radiant glow of the TV screen. Condensation dripped down the neck of his beer onto his hand, where he let it collect for a few minutes before rubbing the cool water along his forehead. He closed his eyes, listening to the thrum of his heart and the babble of the news station out of Hazard, Kentucky. A pretty young blonde talked about the latest tragedy unfolding out of Stauford, two young boys who were abducted by two unknown assailants while on a camping trip. Officer Gray appeared on screen for a brief statement recorded earlier that day.
Should’ve been you, Oz. I didn’t raise you to be no loser. The late David Bell’s voice rose from the crowded halls of Ozzie’s mind. He knew the voice well, the deep sound of a giant walking through a forest, certain in its purpose and determined to destroy everything in its way. The voice of Ozzie’s doubt always took on the voice of the former police chief. After all, hadn’t David Bell always been the monster in Ozzie’s closet?
I ain’t no pussy. He took a sip of his beer.
Could’a fooled me, boy. What are you drinkin’? Coors? That’s pussy beer. A real man would be drinkin’ Pabst. Hell, a real man would be drinkin’ something even stronger. Ain’t you got nothin’ better to drink, you pussy?
Ozzie finished off his beer in another gulp, grimacing at the swill’s shallow taste. He remembered the liquor Susan kept in the cabinet above her refrigerator. Good old Kentucky bourbon bled right from the mountains. Something stronger, something more refined. Somet
hing his father would drink.
“I ain’t no pussy,” he muttered. He certainly felt like a pussy. Oh, sure, he’d left the crime scene to pursue a possible lead, full of good intentions, ready to play the hero and deliver those two boys safe from harm, but Zeke’s appearance at Devil’s Creek spooked him. Zeke’s face was all wrong—he was too happy, too conscious, his eyes filled with a dangerous sort of intelligence which Ozzie had never seen in the man before. Zeke Billings was the fuck-up, the drug-dealing dope fiend Ozzie kept in his pocket for a side-hustle whenever he needed the extra cash, or better yet, some good shit for himself.
Like the meth Zeke and Waylon were supposedly cooking for him right now. Ozzie would sell some of it, sure, but he had every intention of sampling the wares. God, he could use something right now to take the edge off, but he’d smoked the last of his weed earlier. All she had in the house was booze, and the cheap shit at that.
When he opened the cabinet, there was a half-gallon bottle of bourbon. He uncapped the bottle and tipped it back. Liquid fire poured down his throat, and he coughed twice before taking another quick shot.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he croaked, carrying the bottle back to the comfort of the sofa. With his belly and throat burning, Ozzie sank into the cushions. Saturday night’s sports scores flashed on the screen, but his mind drifted to darker matters, driven by the booming voice of his dead father.
You say you ain’t a pussy, but I ain’t so convinced, boy. A real man wouldn’t think about arrestin’ his girlfriend’s brother for kidnappin’ those two kids in the woods. A real man would do the work, find the real perps, and save the day.
But the circumstances were too convenient. The kidnappers were in the same area as Devil’s Creek, headed off in that direction by the Tate boy’s eyewitness account. There were two kidnappers, and Ozzie happened to hire two idiots to cook a batch of meth the day before. Two idiots who’d need a quiet, secluded place to do the job.
What about a motive, boy? Ain’t you even got that? What would those two druggie dumbfucks want with those boys? Why would they travel a couple miles through the woods and take two kids? Yer whole story’s fulla holes, boy. It’s lazy police work.
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