by C. J. Sears
Sighing, she sat on the edge of the slab, head pointed down at the ground. Her facial features contorted into a mixture of disgust and despair. She pulled her knees inward, content to sulk. She looked defeated as if she were a veteran chess player returning from losing first place in the grand finals to a newcomer.
Finch extended his arm around her shoulders, intending to comfort her. She didn’t cry, but he knew that she was hurting. He wanted to say or do something that would make this positive force he’d come to know reemerge. She’d earned his respect, braving the unknowns while entrenched in something larger than she could have ever been comfortable with. So tiny, all balled up like that. He wanted to make her large again.
His fingers touched her arm. For a moment, he was tense, certain she’d pull away and descend further into her depression. He relaxed when she leaned in, propped her head underneath his. In spite of the eerie calm of the room, he felt a rush, a spark, thump deep in his chest.
Seconds passed, then minutes, as they sat there, huddled together. Neither of them talked. He kissed the top of her head, ruffling the dirt-streaked redness of her hair as he did. Knowing they had to get a move on, she pried his arm off. He let it fall to his side, then stood and pulled her to her feet with him.
“Come on,” he said, not divorced from the moment, “we have to find a way out of here.”
There were no doors to this room other than the one they had entered through. Finch searched the area around the slab for what he presumed was the final note. He discovered it buried in the dirt, the white of its paper glinting. Patting the dirt off, he read the note. It was short and to the point: What you see is not to be believed. Look to the heavens above and you will be relieved, your trials complete. Not much of a riddle.
Finch turned his attention upwards, saw the ladder that drooped from the ceiling. An object, either a steel bolt or some kind of nail, held the bottom half in place. No way to reach it by himself, but if he gave Donahue a boost she could jangle the ladder loose and get it to descend.
The sheriff read his mind. He bent low, cupped his hands. She placed one foot on top. “When you’re ready,” she said, readying the other.
“Now.” He launched her straight into the air. She grasped the bars with her hands. Her feet dangled in the air. She climbed toward the obstruction.
“Might want to move out of the way,” she said. He stepped back a couple of feet. She yanked it free.
The ladder skated down and hit the floor with a soft plunking sound. Donahue continued to climb. “Ladies first,” she claimed.
Finch started up after her two rungs at a time. He heard her pushing and saw her shove a wooden door above them ajar. Sunlight poured into the room. It was daytime.
They ascended with haste, eager to leave the cavernous hell. The scent of pine trees overwhelmed him. As they closed the lid, Finch surveyed their surroundings. Behind them lay the barest outline of the crossroads, but in the distance he saw a building. A shack. The place where Jane Harley’s body had been placed by the cult.
He checked his watch. They had about five hours before the interview with Rhinehold. Soaking in the sun, drenched in dirt, and ready to nod off due to lack of sleep, Finch said, “Well, sheriff, I think we can safely tie the cult to Jane Harley’s murder and the bootleggers, no questions asked.”
Kneeling in the dirt, she marked an X on the door leading to the ritual chamber. “No argument here. Still, it baffles me that this other man kills a woman, traps us underground, but decides to give us information on an unrelated case. It doesn’t add up.”
“Maybe he’s trying to divert attention? Or he’s involved somehow.” He rummaged in his pockets for his key. “Sheriff, I may not have wanted to get mixed up in this case, but at this point I’d say I’m a lock.”
She trudged toward the Jeep at the crossroads. He was close behind, key in hand. “Llewyn,” she said, “it’s best we drop the formalities. I’m not going to be sheriff much longer. When the word gets out that I have let a cult operate a widespread moonshine ring, I’m done.”
“You don’t really think you’re going to be blamed for that?”
It was a rhetorical question. “In a small town like this? Of course. I’m the law, though I don’t suppose I ever had any control over this place. It’s my job to protect the innocent from harm. I failed.”
Finch stopped her in her tracks. “Listen to me,” he said, “you didn’t fail. I have watched how you are with your deputies; I have seen you on this case. Everything you do is to help this town.” He moved past her, unlocked the door to his car. “Sheriff, and yes, you are still the sheriff, right now Lone Oak needs you. You represent a familiar face for these people. Without you, I’m just the outsider probing where he doesn’t belong.”
He sat in the car, waited for her to get in. “You can think about a siesta on the beach after we’ve solved these cases.”
Managing a sad smile, she parked herself in the passenger seat and said, “It’s a deal, though you’re going to have to come up with a better line than that if you want to see me in a two-piece.” She yanked the door shut. “And I still insist on losing the titles. You have to be as tired of saying sheriff as I am saying agent.”
“Tell you what,” he said, shifting the Jeep into gear and making a U-turn, “I’ll call you Willow the Wisp when this is all over with. How does that sound?”
She laughed, though he could see that it pained her to do so. “Like you’ve watched too much television.”
“Or not enough.” He frowned. “Did you tell anyone to notify next of kin for Susan?”
She shook her head. He’d figured as much, given his rush to leave the scene. Poor girl; he’d seen the discontent she’d fallen into as a waitress, had hoped to get her out of her funk. There had been an underlying attraction to her as if she were a fabled beauty compelling him to seek her out.
Seeing her lying dead on the pavement, he’d wanted to do more than catch the killer. He’d wanted to torture him, wanted to pluck those eyes out and feed his liver to the crows. The thought that a part of him could be so cruel frightened Finch.
The murderer might have helped them in his own twisted way, but he was living on borrowed time.
INTERVIEW
Finch roamed the stone cavern with renewed purpose. He found that this time he had complete control of his movement. No invisible hands forced him to drift or glide like a marionette. The cultists were absent this time as if they had never been there to begin with. The nine-pointed star remained, as did the parasite, though it seemed to be sleeping, its great legs curled inward. He saw the opening on the other side of the chamber, bright and promising and inviting all at once.
He moved toward his goal, stepping around the creature as he did so. It didn’t snore, made no sound whatsoever. Finch wasn’t sure he wanted it to, awake or otherwise. He crept up to the passage which became clearer and more distinct as he approached. Soon the fiery light of the antechamber was behind him and he knew that his suspicions were correct. It was a hospital. Or at least a clinic.
His steps echoed as he walked upon the spotless tiled floor. He looked back at the creature to check. Still sleeping. In that moment, he knew he was safe, that it wouldn’t wake up while he was in here. Finch relaxed. This was a haven, meant for him and him alone. He didn’t know who or what had set this up for him, but he believed they were on his side.
He turned from the waiting room into a hallway. The corridor went on for miles, endless in its scope. Doors obscured the walls on either side of him, stacked on top of each other like pieces of a jigsaw. Finch tried the handles of the ones he could reach. Most were locked, but a number of them opened at his touch. In one, he saw a baby boy crying in his crib as his parents argued. In another, he saw a different child clinging to his sister’s dress. He wanted her to pick him up and put him on her shoulders so he could see Santa on the parade float.
Further down, he opened a door to nothingness, a black sea in which the screech of tires and
metal crashing were the only sounds, looping together. He shut that door almost as fast as he’d opened it, didn’t want to relive the pain again. He continued on, stopping to peer inside a room where an older man with a limp sat wide-eyed in bed. He clutched a bottle of alcohol in his hand, muttering the name of some dead girl.
The hallway came to a halt at a T-shaped intersection. In either direction, the walls and doors again piled on forever. Finch’s attention was on the bloody corpse in front of him. She was crudely bent over, bottom in the air, her brown hair fallen around her face. The jagged pipe had pierced through her abdomen and Finch fell to his knees, weeping.
With a pop, like the crackle of snapping fingers, her image changed. Another dead girl laid flat on the ground. Her dead eyes were rolled upward to stare unblinking at the hole in her head. In her hand, she clutched a piece of paper. Finch, trembling, extended his hand to grab it, knew that its words would damn him for killing her.
Another pop and the image changed again. He withdrew his hand, saw only a flash of red hair and refused to look at the mangled corpse. She wasn’t dead. Not yet. No, no, no, he wouldn’t allow it. She was too strong. It couldn’t happen.
He stood, never letting his eyes rest on Donahue’s body. They landed instead on the glowering yellow eye, on the massive, vivid black shape of the crow that hovered above him. Finch knew at last the truth of this room, of these white halls. This wasn’t a hospital. It wasn’t a haven.
It was hell, devoid of anything but the pale and fleshy reminders of his failure.
* * *
The dream endured in his mind as he entered the Pit Stop to meet Rhinehold. Susan’s absence cultivated a subdued mood as he asked the manager where the man waited. She pointed toward a booth next to the door of the kitchen. He thanked her and made his way over.
Shoulder-length gray hair parted down the middle was the first thing Finch noticed about Rhinehold. He was also well-toned, more so than he’d expected for a gospel singer. Or a preacher. Whatever stresses he’d experienced in his life appeared to have minimal impact on his body. For a man of his advanced age, he could pass for fifteen years younger.
Rhinehold greeted him with a smile. They shook hands. He saw that the singer wore various jeweled rings on each of his fingers including his thumbs. Dressed in a leather jacket and expensive dress pants, Finch couldn’t help but think the man’s image befitted a rock star more than a member of the church.
He slid into the booth across from Rhinehold. “I was expecting two of you,” said the preacher, “but I guess we’ll make do without the sheriff.”
“She couldn’t make it.” Donahue had received a call from the informant telling her where the next drop would be, so she stayed behind at the station. He suspected that she also wanted to avoid doing this interview, but neglected to tell him. Finch braced himself for a long-winded conversation.
“Sad, but I have you all to myself.” He pulled out a tablet and switched it on. “Mind if I take notes? Writing has taught me that you seize what you can and I want to take advantage of this opportunity to get to know what makes a federal agent tick.”
Finch shrugged. “Not much point in stopping you.” Inside, he cringed at the thought of being the focal point of some strange musician’s book. Still, he’d brave the proverbial unknown of Rhinehold’s writing if it meant getting some answers.
“Good,” he said, “shall we start with your name? Elwyn?” His bejeweled fingers hovered over the tablet.
“Llewyn,” Finch corrected him. He held up his hand to stop Rhinehold from continuing this train of thought. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Rhinehold. You can write whatever you want about me for your next book. You can say that I’m a foot shorter and fifty pounds heavier if it amuses you. But you’re not the one asking the questions. This is an interview, on record, to determine what you do or don’t know related to the murder of Jane Harley.”
He expected Rhinehold to withdraw from him, to walk away after the kibosh placed on his intentions. Instead, the singer nodded that he understood. “That’s fair, Agent Finch. I had hoped that meeting you might inspire me. Life is dull for me outside of performing for my church. But if you want to be serious, let’s get serious. What do you want to know?”
Finch consulted his notebook, ran his hand down the list, and set it aside. He brought out a recorder from his bag, placed it beside his notes, and clicked the button. “This is Agent Llewyn Finch,” he said, “I’m in the Pine Needle Pit Stop diner where I am about to conduct an interview regarding the case of one Jane Harley of Lone Oak.” He gestured to Rhinehold to speak. “Please state your name and what you currently do for a living.”
“My name is Patrick Rhinehold. I preach and sing gospel at a local church.”
“Excellent. Let’s get the usual platitudes out of the way first. Mr. Rhinehold, did you know Jane Harley?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Are you familiar with her in any form? Did she attend your church?”
“No, she didn’t. I have never heard of her.”
“You’re certain of that?” Finch stared him in the eyes.
“Positive,” he answered.
“Okay, let it be known that the interviewee claims no knowledge of the victim in this case. On to my next question. Where were you three nights ago?”
“I was out of town. Brother Reed took over for me at the church. I had to meet with my agent about the possibility of another book.”
“Can either of them vouch for your whereabouts?”
Rhinehold handed him a business card with a literary agent’s name. Stymied, Finch asked his next question.
“Have you ever heard of the Church of Divine Promise?”
Raising an eyebrow, the singer said, “No, can’t say that I have. Doesn’t seem like any group I’d want to be a part of.” Rhinehold paused, thinking. “Sounds like a cult to me.”
Ignoring the empty answer, Finch reached into the bag again, produced the religious text from the library. He found the bookmarked page where the scrawled message was and read aloud. “Let not the whims of temptation guide the unclean further into filth. Should the evils of this world breach their flesh, a Purge is necessary. The Lord shall free them and they will Rise anew.” He glanced at Rhinehold, who bore an expression he couldn’t decipher. “Are you familiar with this passage, Mr. Rhinehold?”
“Should I be? It doesn’t sound too Christian.” That wasn’t an answer, just deflection.
Exercising patience, Finch repeated the question. Rhinehold sighed. “Yes, I’m familiar with the passage. I ought to be, given that it turns up in one of my books.” He placed a copy of his second memoir on the table, searched the pages for the passage, and pointed to it. Finch examined it. Word for word, it was a match.
Intrigued and growing wary of the man, he asked, “And just how did you come by these words, may I ask? Where did you hear them?”
Rhinehold leaned forward. “I didn’t write them, if that’s what you’re about to say. I encountered them in my travels. It’s a bit of a tale, if you have the time.”
He wasn’t that patient. “Give me the short version. Speak as plainly as you can.”
“Alright then. This was years after returning to America. I was dining at a fast-food chain a few towns over. Great chicken. Anyway, this tough-looking guy with a limp walks in. He’s got a gun on him, so I’m thinking I have to get out of there before I get caught up in a robbery. He talks to the manager and points to my table. What did I do to get this guy’s attention? He walks over to my table, sits down without asking. His voice is gruff, like a noir detective, and he asks me if I’m from Lone Oak. I tell him I used to be. He asked if I knew how to get to some old mansion in the woods. I tell him that anyone in my family could. It’s the old Bradford residence, I wouldn’t be able to forget it if I tried. I remember my dad said they’d taken the land by crook, but I never found proof.”
This was the short version? Finch urged him to hurry it alo
ng.
“I’m getting to the point, Agent Finch. Right, so he asks me if I can take him there. I say yeah, nobody lives there anymore after that fiasco with the crops. So we go back to Lone Oak, bust into the old mansion. The place is spooky, like it’s haunted. There was this soft tapping noise coming from the basement, and there I was thinking I’d stumbled into some old horror story. We open the door, and this thing comes darting out of the room. It’s too dark to tell what it is, but it had a lot of feet, might have been a tarantula. We go downstairs and find a bunch of nothing except some words on the wall.”
“The words in this book?”
“The very same,” Rhinehold said. “Then this guy’s eyes get real wide, like he’s seeing a ghost. He tells me that I can leave, he’s found what he needed to. I’m happy to oblige. I don’t know what he was after and honestly I didn’t care about anything at that time but getting out of that house. Too many bad memories. But those words stuck with me.”
Finch wrote the Bradford mansion into his notes. Somehow, he’d not made the connection between the name crossed out on the town hall plaque and the Mormon family feud. “Do you remember anything else about that day? The man’s name? What did the basement smell like?”
“Sorry,” Rhinehold said, “that’s all I know. I’m a singer and a writer, I’m good at getting details, but I’ve got nothing else for you.” He motioned a waitress over, ordered a glass of milk and a blueberry muffin.
Not at all satisfied with the information he’d gleaned, Finch shut off the recorder. There was little to be gained from further questioning. The queer man was a storyteller, but this wasn’t an adventure he’d cared to process beyond the barest details. Rhinehold knew nothing else; that much he believed.
“Done already?” asked the singer. “I have to say that I thought we’d be here for another hour at least.”
Shoving the notebook and recorder into his bag, Finch said, “Mr. Rhinehold, I trust that you told me everything about that day in the most concise yet pertinent way possible.”
