Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  About the Author

  Sallie Bissell is a native of Nashville, Tennessee, and a graduate of George Peabody College. Bissell introduced her character Mary Crow in her first adult novel, In the Forest of Harm, available now from Midnight Ink. Bissell is a Shamus Award nominee and her work has been translated into six foreign languages. She currently divides her time between Nashville and Asheville, North Carolina, where she enjoys tennis and an occasional horseback ride.

  Praise for Sallie Bissell

  In the Forest of Harm:

  “A top-notch thriller.”—People

  “In the mode of Patricia Cornwell…Bissell masterfully drives the plot with…gut-wrenching suspense.”—The Asheville Citizen-Times

  “A nail-biting novel of psychological terror, survival, loyalty, and friendship.”—The Purloined Letter

  “Hair-raising…Harrowing.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Bissell tightens the screws slowly and expertly.”—Kirkus Reviews

  Darker Justice:

  “Bissell’s narrative drive should carry readers right along.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Bissell’s tale gathers a full head of narrative steam that keeps the pages turning.”—Booklist

  “A fast-moving story, elegantly told, in which Bissell weaves a palpitating web of sinuously deadly suspense.”—Los Angeles Times

  “At the end of this book, I felt I had read a masterpiece”—Deadly Pleasures

  Call the Devil By his Oldest Name:

  “No less gripping than her lauded debut, In the Forest of Harm…Bissell’s strong writing and clever, didn’t-see-it-coming denoument will keep readers enthralled.”—Publishers Weekly

  “A true page-turner. Those who fell for the complex and fascinating Mary Crow will be pleased to see her return.”—Winston-Salem Journal

  Legacy of Masks

  “A grim but well-written adventure that skillfully interweaves Cherokee lore and human nature at its best and worst.”—Booklist

  “[Mary Crow is] a kickass Atlanta prosecutor.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Mary proves a captivating protagonist. The mystery and suspense are eerily entrancing, and there’s even a touch of the supernatural.”— RT Book Review

  “Readers will take a few deep breaths…A fascinating mix of Cherokee customs and folklore play an important role…Sallie Bissell has created a set of characters that are realistic and full-bodied.”—Mystery Scene

  “Vividly described…The interweaving of the Cherokee culture with the investigation should attract readers…it adds colorful texture to this smoothly written mystery…a pleasant read.”—Deadly Pleasures

  Music of Ghosts:

  “Bissell’s fifth Mary Crow novel is an eerie tale that skillfully weaves folklore, Cherokee tradition, and familial angst.”—RT Book Reviews

  Books by Sallie Bissell

  In the Forest of Harm

  A Darker Justice

  Call the Devil By His Oldest Name

  Legacy of Masks

  Music of Ghosts

  Deadliest of Sins

  For Margaret McLean, my brown-eyed girl

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to the following people: Alana White and Madeena Nolan, pals and fellow travelers; Ren White, the most enthusiastic first reader ever

  Ramona Davidson, my Trail ofTears guide Shiela Wood-Navarro, Spanish linguist and tennis partner extraordinaire

  My agent Heide Lange, and her most capable assistant, Esther Sung

  Dolores Dwyer for her superb copyediting And to Kate Miciak, who devilishly put the last kink in this rope

  CAll the

  Devil

  By His Oldest

  Name

  Copyright Information

  Call the Devil By His Oldest Name © 2014 Sallie Bissell

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this e-book, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2014

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-4453-7

  Cover design Lisa Novak

  Cover image © iStockphoto.com/38665464/©jcarillet

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  PROLOGUE

  Saturday, March 30

  Devil’s Fork Gap

  Madison County, North Carolina

  HE AWOKE THAT morning to the smell of coffee and salvation. Seeping into his subcon­scious, the aroma took him back to his mother’s kitchen at dawn—coffee hot in his mouth, linoleum cold on his bare feet, eggs crackling in an iron skillet. He listened instinctively for the Farm Report on their scratchy old radio, then he opened his eyes, realizing he was not dreaming of coffee at all—he was smelling it, for real. He lifted one hand to his forehead, then clambered to his feet to peer out of the cave that had, for the past three months, served as home, hospital, and haven from the hunters.

  The morning light was razor-sharp, bringing tears to his eyes. A damp mist ghosted up from the creek that gurgled past his slit of a door, and high in a pine tree, the crow he called Charlie gave four raucous caws.

  Squinting, he thrust his head into the morning and listened. The creek and the crow he knew well. But if he turned his head slightly to the left, he could hear a new sound wafting in on the coffee-tinged breeze. A deep, not altogether out-of-tune voice, singing.

  “Shall we gather at the ri-ver…Where bright angel feet have trod…With its crystal tide forever…Flowing from the throne of God…”

  He ducked back into the cave, breathing hard.

  The hymn recalled a long-ago Sunday when he stood dressed in a white robe, his arm held tightly by a preacher with long yellow teeth who thrust his face close and hissed: Boy, do you sur­render your life to Jeeee-sus? Yes, he’d squeaked like a girl, not caring nearly so much about Jesus as he did about escaping the old man’s sour-milk breath and cataract-filmy eyes. Without another word the preacher had pushed him backward into an icy river, then jerked him out, drenched and sputtering. Afterward his mother had kissed him, and they’d picnicked on fried chicken and deviled eggs on the wide ch
urch lawn. If his fa­ther had been pleased, he had not shown it.

  “Yes, we’ll gather at the ri-ver…the beautiful, beautiful ri-ii-ver…”

  The voice started up again as the crow flapped its wings, settling down to watch from a sourwood tree. Who would be up here singing hymns, this early in the morning? Not the Feds. Feds always came in groups, crashing through the bushes like elephants. He’d never seen any sign of a still up here, and hunting season was months away. Who could it be? Someone hunt­ing him? Or someone he might hunt himself?

  He sat down to lace up his boots. Mary Crow had left him with little vision in his left eye and a brain that sputtered like a faulty electrode, but he’d had the presence of mind, during his long, solitary convalescence, to exercise his hands and arms with heavy stones he’d pulled from the creek. Though his legs would never again move fast or with any kind of grace, his hands could crush bones like pipe straws.

  He stuck his head out once more to make sure this wasn’t one of his hallucinations. Though the fog was lifting from the creek and Charlie had dropped down to a lower branch of the tree, the voice continued its paean to the Lord.

  “Gather with the saints at the ri-ver…that flows from the throne of God.”

  “Okay, buddy,” he whispered. “You want a gathering at the river? You got it.”

  He slipped out of the cave. The singing was coming from downstream, so he turned and limped into the stand of pitch pines that clus­tered along the creek bank. Walking east, his shuffling footsteps were muffled by a rust-colored carpet of dead needles. He spotted a bright blue kingfisher flying low over the water, then, twenty feet away, he saw the singer. A man. Some hard-shell Baptist, no doubt, tending a small campfire, brewing coffee in a red enameled pot. A tackle box lay on the ground beside him.

  Trout fisherman, he decided. And not a very smart one either, making all that racket when the fish were just waking up.

  He eased behind a tree to watch. The man ap­peared to be in his mid-forties, with angular shoulder blades that protruded like plow handles from a green flannel shirt. Though his neck looked creased and sun-worn, it also looked tan­talizingly thin, holding the knobby head up like some kind of stem. He considered his odds. If this man had come up here alone, he might have a chance.

  His palms began to itch. He rubbed them against his trousers as the man hunkered down to read the creek.

  Over there, under that boulder, the fisherman was probably thinking. That’s where the big ones hide. I’ll wade out and lay a spinner in there. They’ll hit it like Sunday dinner.

  He watched as the man straightened and drank his coffee. He saw no second cup, no ex­tra bedroll, no unaccounted-for fishing rod lying on the ground. All at once he knew. The Baptist had come alone.

  The fisherman put down his coffee and opened his tackle box. Soon he would have to decide what to do. Once the fisherman waded out into the middle of the stream, it would be too late. Right now he stood in the perfect position, no more than half a dozen yards away. You once ran the hundred in under thirteen seconds, he re­ minded himself. Surely you can cover twenty feet without falling down.

  He rubbed his eyes and judged the distance one more time. Four good strides would get him there; four fast strides would keep him a surprise.

  Opening his mouth, he sucked in a chestful of air, then he burst from behind the tree. Every step sent pain jolting up his spine, but he kept his eyes locked on the man’s neck. Though he felt as if he were lumbering through the woods like a bear, only at the last second did the man seem to hear him. The fisherman looked around, startled and wall-eyed, but it was too late. He grabbed the man’s neck with both hands and squeezed.

  The fisherman managed a single cry of surprise before he closed off his trachea. The man attempted to struggle, but he had, as he’d known he would, both momentum and surprise. As the fisherman writhed vainly for air, he pushed him facedown into the churning water. The man’s neck felt like soft, wet rubber under his fingers, and when he tightened his grip he felt the soft pop of vertebrae in his hands. After that, the fisherman did a quick, frothy little dance of twitches and tics, then, slowly, he relaxed. First into unconsciousness, then into death, finally bobbing in the creek lifeless as a hewn log.

  Slowly he let go his own breath. I haven’t killed anybody like that in forty years, he thought as the Baptist’s hair waved like lank seaweed in the creek water. Still feels the same. This trout fisherman was no different from the little brown cá hôi fisherman he’d offed on a dare, in a soupy little estuary where the Mekong River entered the South China Sea.

  He grabbed the man’s hair and tugged him over to the bank. Ignoring his vacant eyes and the water that oozed from his open mouth, he dug down deep in the pockets of the man’s jeans, pulling out a wallet, the keys to some kind of Ford, and fifty-seven cents in change.

  “Okay, buddy,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup of the man’s coffee while he perused his belongings. “Let’s see who the hell you were.”

  A driver’s license revealed the fisherman to have been one Clootie Duncan of Church Hill, Tennessee, a five-foot-ten-inch-tall male with brown (now dead brown) eyes. He’d signed his organ-donor form and was additionally licensed to drive both motorcycles and school buses. He carried no credit cards, but had cash and a pay­check stub from the Hawkins County school sys­tem totaling $389.02. His wallet held one photograph—a formally posed picture of him­self, suited and bow-tied, grinning behind a sweet-faced old woman in a wheelchair, whose thin white hair wisped up like unpicked cotton. Besides a Sam’s Club membership and a coupon from Hardee’s, the only other thing in Clootie Duncan’s wallet was something called a “Commit Your Life To Jesus” card that enumerated everything you had to do to become a member of Christ’s flock. With round, childish handwrit­ing, Clootie had dutifully marked each item with a bright green X and then signed the thing at the bottom, where Jesus had chipped in his part of the deal, promising to “be with you always.”

  He looked over at the body lying beside him and shook his head. “I don’t know, Clootie, but I’d say Jesus took a powder on you this morning.” He finished the rest of Clootie’s coffee. He hadn’t had a drop of anything hot in over three months, and it tasted like heaven in his mouth. Soon, he decided as he jangled Clootie’s car keys, he would be drinking coffee again on a regular basis. Drinking coffee, chewing tobacco, satisfy­ing a craving for chocolate that had nearly driven him mad. Once he returned to civilization, he’d take up a number of his old bad habits again.

  He emptied the grounds from the coffeepot, and hoisted the body over his shoulder. Though he’d never seen a soul up here, it was not wise to linger out in the open with a dead man sprawled at your feet. He knew a nearby place where Clootie and Jesus could commune undisturbed for the rest of eternity.

  Carrying his burden like a sack of meal, he limped through the trees and eased back into the cave. By memory, he threaded his way into the darkness. Fifty feet in, he put Clootie down and began to crawl, feeling along the floor with his fingers. Within moments, he found what he was seeking. The wide mouth of a hole so deep, he’d never heard a pebble hit the bottom. The air that issued from that hole was warmer than the cave air, and stank like a thousand eggs gone bad. He figured this was as close to hell as he would come, at least in this lifetime.

  With sweat beading up on his forehead, he took his own wallet from his pocket. He removed his last remaining thirty dollars and a faded photograph of two teenagers at a dance. Pinned to the credit card section of the wallet was a small gold badge that had “Sheriff” engraved across the top and “Pisgah County” along the bottom. He ran his fingertips over the filigreed surface of the gold badge and sighed. This was all that remained of his life since his last encounter with Mary Crow. Money he couldn’t spend, a badge he couldn’t wear, and a single photograph that mocked him from forty years past.

  “Ball-busting cunt,” he whispered as he folde
d his wallet and stuffed it in the back pocket of Clootie’s jeans.

  He grabbed the body beneath the armpits and dragged it to the lip of the chasm. When he’d gotten it halfway over the edge, the pressure on the dead man’s stomach forced air up through his vocal cords, and the corpse groaned as if he’d come back to life.

  “Don’t give me any grief about this, Clootie,” he scolded, straining to push him on into the pit. “You’re dead and that’s that. Go and take it up with Jesus now.”

  Clootie’s belt buckle struck a tiny spark of light as it scraped against the cave floor, then the weight of his body shifted forward and he tum­bled headfirst into a place where he would never have to worry about Sam’s Club bargains or the old woman in the picture again. She would likely die soon, too, he figured. Of grief, no doubt wondering what happened to her sweet boy who had gone out trout fishing and never returned home.

  He listened, as always, for any kind of noise, but he heard nothing except the resounding thud of his own heart.

  After a moment he inched back from the hole, then walked to the mouth of the cave. As he reentered the bright morning air, Charlie cawed once more.

  “Watched the whole thing, didn’t you?” Lo­gan looked up at the bird. It flapped up to a higher branch, but still kept a beady black gaze upon him. Logan picked up a rock and considered hurling it at the bird, but decided against it. Though he had a long association with crows, the two-legged ones troubled him far more than the ones with wings. First Martha, now her daughter, Mary. Curious and smart, the women behaved like the birds they were named for.

  Both pried into secrets that didn’t concern them; both had tried to drag him down and peck out his eyes. Mary had almost succeeded. She’d killed his old friend Wurth and turned him into a half-blind beast who’d had to leave his whole life behind him. Today, though, his number had come up on the wheel. First he would get out of here, then he could turn his attention to Mary Crow. Maybe he could bring her back up here and drop her down the same hole he’d just shoved Clootie Duncan in. It would be exactly what she deserved.