Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  “No repayment needed, Udolanushdi.” She gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You got Lily back. That’s all that matters.”

  Forty-eight

  MARY TOOK THE longest shower of her life, then wrapped up in a towel and padded into her bedroom. Her old peony-grubbing jeans still lay on the floor, and piles of notes from the Jasmine Harris case were strewn across her bed.

  I wonder how Jasmine is doing, she thought as she moved the papers to her desk. I wonder if Danika told her that she put the Popsicle Man away.

  Mary sighed. Just last week she’d eaten, breathed, and slept Jasmine Harris and Dwayne Pugh—now the case seemed like something that had happened years ago; a postcard bought at a destination she could barely remember visiting.

  She pulled on an old Emory sweatshirt and paused to look out her window. Outside, yellowish light from the kitchen spilled out on the lawn.

  “Never again,” she reminded herself aloud. “Will I have to look out there and wonder if I’m going to see Logan.”

  She fell into bed, snuggling beneath the quilt she’d slept under since the first night Eugenia had brought her here. Again she thought of Gabe, hoping he was all right, wishing that he’d hung around long enough to say goodbye then her body grew heavy and warm. The last thing she remembered was the luminous green numbers on her clock, glowing 8:27 p.m.

  She dreamed then. Not of Logan, but jumbled snippets of her mother, Jonathan, her grandmother, and Gabe. One particularly long saga evolved where her father bounded up the stairs in his combat fatigues, grinning and full of life. Her grandmother held out her arms to hold him, weeping tears of joy. He kissed her on the cheek, then hurried to his bedroom, cranked up his electric guitar, and began singing “That’s All Right, Mama.”

  Mary smiled in her sleep at the sound of her father’s youthful voice. The dreamed changed then, segued into something about Eugenia and the flower beds, but the music went on. She stirred, rolled over, then finally opened her eyes. Though the clock now read 2:13 a.m., the music continued. She could still hear her father singing as if he were just down the hall.

  “You’re dreaming,” she said aloud, sitting up in bed. She tried to wake herself up, counting five fingers on each hand, reacting sharply to being pinched, but still she heard the music. Throwing off her covers, she pulled on her old jeans and opened the bedroom door.

  She crept out into the dark hall. Jonathan and Ruth had taken the small guest room downstairs, so she had the whole upper floor to herself. Though there was no need for her to be quiet, she felt an odd compulsion to tiptoe, like a child waking too early on Christmas morning. Her father’s bedroom stood at the end of the hall, past her grandmother’s room and a spare bedroom no one ever used. No light shone from beneath his door, yet his performance went on, just as if he’d come back from the dead. She felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck.

  “Oh, come on,” she chided herself. “It’s just that crazy old tape deck.” She started down the hall with intention, like someone about to fix a malfunctioning machine, but two steps later her bravado vanished and she started creeping toward the door like a mouse.

  She reached her grandmother’s room. The floorboard directly beneath the doorjamb gave a sudden loud pop, making her jump. She paused to collect herself, then she continued toward her father’s old room. She’d just inched close enough to grab the doorknob when the music stopped, leaving her in a silence that seemed even eerier than the music itself. She stood like a statue, feeling vaguely foolish, wondering if she might have exchanged one hallucination for another one. Would she now start hearing her rockabilly father instead of seeing Stump Logan?

  “Absolutely not,” she told herself firmly. “Logan wasn’t a hallucination to begin with.” Suddenly the music started again. Young Jack Bennefield sailed into the second verse of his song, jaunty as ever. Willing her hand steady, she turned the doorknob.

  The door swung open. She gasped. Ruth was sitting in front of the tape deck, staring straight at her. She looked just like a case file photo Mary had once seen of a woman who’d hacked her family to pieces, convinced they were all demons from hell.

  “Ruth?” Mary asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mary,” Ruth replied, reaching to turn off the music. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I might poke around up here.”

  “Listening to my father sing?” Mary thought Ruth’s choice of late-night diversions odd.

  “Jonathan told me about how much your mother loved him. I guess I was just curious.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I hope I haven’t intruded…”

  “No, that’s okay,” Mary said guardedly. “I just couldn’t imagine how that old tape deck had come on.”

  Ruth smiled. “Your father had a wonderful voice.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Was your mother musical, too?”

  Mary shook her head. “My mother was a weaver. She painted some, too.”

  “A painter, huh?” Ruth bounded up from the chair as if struck by a brilliant idea. “Then come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

  “Right now?”

  “It won’t take a minute.” She grabbed Mary’s hand. “You’ll appreciate this, especially if your mother was an artist.”

  Wondering what Ruth could possibly have in mind, Mary allowed her to pull her back out into the hall and down the stairs. They crossed the darkened foyer and the dining room, then Ruth began to tug her toward the guest room.

  “Wait a minute, Ruth,” said Mary. “Isn’t Jonathan asleep in there?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Ruth turned to her with a malevolent little grin. “Come on in. You’ll get a kick out of this.”

  She opened the door and pulled Mary inside. Jonathan lay on the bed, a sheet covering his nakedness. He slept so still that Mary wondered for an instant if he wasn’t dead. She grabbed on to the door facing, unwilling to further intrude in the Walkingsticks’ bedroom. “Ruth, this isn’t—”

  “You need to come over here, Mary.” Ruth let go of her hand and walked over to switch on the bedside lamp. “It’s important that you see this!”

  Reluctantly Mary followed her, wondering what this woman was going to do. “Okay. What?”

  Ruth smiled, then turned and looked down at Jonathan as if she were admiring some figure in a wax museum. “Isn’t he beautiful? If your mother were here, she could paint him.”

  Mary nodded. This was getting more bizarre by the second. “Is he all right?”

  “Just look at his shoulders, his arms.” Ruth traced the straight line of Jonathan’s clavicle with one finger.

  “Stop, Ruth. You’re going to wake him up,” Mary warned, though Jonathan had not twitched an eyelash.

  “No I won’t.” She looked up at Mary and grinned, sly as a mink. “Why don’t you kiss him, Mary? I know how much you want to.”

  “Look, Ruth, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m going—”

  “You don’t have to worry about waking him up. I gave him some tea that will keep him sound asleep.”

  Mary watched, horrified, as Ruth reached under her sweater and pulled out Gabe’s pistol. With her sly smile stretching into an obscene grin, she aimed it point-blank at Mary.

  “I want to watch you kiss him, Mary. I want to watch you kiss him goodbye.”

  Mary froze, dumbstruck, certain she was sleepwalking through a nightmare. Then she saw the look in Ruth’s eyes. Ruth Moon meant to kill her tonight. There was nothing dream-like about that.

  She’s out of her mind, Mary realized. She’s insane.

  “Okay, Ruth,” she said as calmly as she could. “You put the gun down, then I’ll kiss Jonathan.” For what seemed an eternity Ruth stared at her, keeping her finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed at Mary’s chest. Mary held her breath, fearing that the slightest movement might set Ruth off. Time slo
wed to eternity, then Ruth slowly lowered the pistol. When she’d pointed at the floor, Mary took a deep breath and stepped toward Jonathan. He lay motionless, his face relaxed in slumber, unaware of all that was transpiring at his bedside.

  “Jonathan?” she said loudly, hoping that her voice might rouse him. “Can you hear me?”

  He did not move. Ruth giggled. “See? I told you he wouldn’t wake up. Now go ahead.”

  Mary could think of nothing else to do, so she leaned over and pressed her lips against Jonathan’s. They felt warm, and his breath was soft and rhythmic upon her cheek. He was definitely alive, but way beyond her reach. Raising up, she turned toward the woman who held Gabe’s gun.

  “Okay. Now what?”

  Ruth lifted the gun again. “Walk into the kitchen. You’ll see.”

  Mary did as Ruth commanded, backing out of the bedroom and into the hall. She walked to the kitchen, Ruth two steps behind her. When they entered the kitchen, Mary saw that a single light burned over the stove, and the old telephone receiver dangled from its hook, bleating insistently. The bowl of soup Ruth had offered her earlier still sat on the table.

  Suddenly it fell into place. Ever since she’d arrived in Tremont, Ruth had kept her tea thermos close at hand. She’d used tea to calm down, to perk up, to give the pretense of sanity. Ruth had served Gabe tea one night, and the next day he’d nearly died. Now Jonathan was in some kind of coma, victim of another of Ruth’s brews. A sick reality pierced the very marrow of her bones as she turned to the woman she’d once considered a friend. “You’re a poisoner, aren’t you?”

  Ruth’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “I’m an herbalist. I use nature’s medicines to suit my needs.”

  “And you need Gabe and Jonathan and me to die?”

  “Gabe was just practice, and Jonathan will wake up in a few hours.” She smiled a death’s head smile. “You’re the only one I need to die.”

  “But why? I’ve never done anything to harm you.”

  “Because however close I hold my husband, you’re always right there, between us.”

  Mary closed her eyes. Her long history with Jonathan—the vast, unspoken thing that had weighted every word between her and Ruth—had suddenly grown teeth and claws.

  “Jonathan loved you before me; he prefers you even now,” Ruth told her. “He will go to his grave loving you.”

  “That’s not true, Ruth. Jonathan and I haven’t—”

  “Yes it is true!” Ruth poked the gun at Mary, as if that might shut her up. “Now it’s worse. I thought he would be pleased that I called you when Logan took Lily, but he just blames me for losing her.”

  “Ruth—”

  “But I thought we would get over that, you know? I thought eventually he would forgive me. But at the jail in Tremont, I finally realized how much he loved you. Oh, Jonathan wanted to find Lily, of course, but you were just as important. You go find Mary, Ruth. Mary needs your help. Mary can’t do this all alone.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Logan and I had a lot in common, Mary. We both feared you. He because of his past; me because of my future.”

  Mary felt as if the air were being sucked from her lungs. Had she heard this right? Was Ruth admitting complicity with the man who’d kidnapped Lily? Had the whole thing been a setup? No, she told herself. Ruth is raving, out of her mind. Nobody would do a thing like that.

  “Put the gun down, Ruth,” she said. “You’re not thinking straight right now.”

  “I’m thinking straight enough to succeed where Logan failed. I’m thinking straight enough to know that if I shoot you here, in this kitchen, I can make it look like I mistook you for an intruder long before the police get here.” Mary didn’t know what to say. She felt as if she’d stepped outside of herself, risen sylph-like from her bed to act out this travesty with Ruth. She stood there, trying to think of what to do, when she noticed lights flickering, reflected in the windows over the sink. Was someone pulling into the driveway? Quickly she turned her attention back to Ruth and tried to keep her talking.

  “And how do you figure you can cover up a homicide, Ruth?”

  “A stressed-out, exhausted woman in a strange house. Hears a noise, grabs a gun, and frantic to protect her family from yet another assailant, pulls the trigger.”

  “That’s your story?” Mary laughed, but kept an eye on the light. “A first-year law student would rip you to shreds.”

  “They would try, sure. But think about it, Mary. What motive would I have to kill you? Who on earth would shoot the person who’d just saved their child?”

  “Someone sick with jealousy,” replied Mary. “It would take the cops about five minutes to figure that out.”

  “How? Who would tell them? Jonathan wouldn’t. And nobody else knows.”

  “Ruth, a lot of people know about us. Jim Falkner, Alex Carter, Joan Marchetti. Gabe.” Mary stared into the woman’s haunted eyes. “You’re going to need a whole lot more than laced tea to get away with this.”

  “Then I’ll just plead insanity,” said Ruth. “At least I’ll still be alive. You’ll be dead.”

  Suddenly noises erupted at the back door. Someone was knocking, yelling. Mary turned long enough to catch a glimpse of Gabe, then out of the corner of her eye she saw Ruth, pointing the pistol at him. In that instant, Mary took her chance. She leapt at Ruth, knocking her to the floor. She hoped to jar the gun from her hand, but Ruth managed to hold on to it. With the nine-millimeter barrel pressing against Mary’s ribs, the two women grappled on the floor, knocking over one of the breakfast nook chairs, spilling the poisoned soup on the floor. For Mary, their struggle became a bizarre waltz of muscle and emotion. As she tried to wrest the gun from Ruth’s hand, she heard Gabe banging on the door, the frantic rattle of the doorknob, then the distant whoop of a police siren. Ruth lowered the gun, now thrusting it hard into her belly. I’m going to die gut-shot, Mary thought, dreading the death that all cops fear. Loosening her grip on Ruth’s hand, she grabbed the gun itself, trying to turn it away from her, toward the wall. Ruth gave a sudden twist backward, and Mary felt the gun slip. One more good jerk, she thought, and I’ll have it. But before she could tighten her grip on the thing, Ruth’s nails began to dig into her hand. She leaned to her left, then suddenly she heard a noise that sounded as if the roof was falling down around them. A hornet’s nest seemed to envelope her right ear as she felt something warm and wet begin to dampen her chest. She thrust herself away from Ruth’s grasp just as the woman flopped back under the table. Ruth lay with the gun still in her hand, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her blood already spreading toward the refrigerator, making a dark red finger just below Lily’s christening photo, still hanging on the door.

  Forty-nine

  One month later

  “OH, WOW!” MARY paused to gaze out her bedroom window. Though it was only mid-November, a snow had fallen overnight, and the birdbath, the peony bed, and even her grandmother’s cockeyed sundial stood covered in a dazzling blanket so white that it hurt her eyes. The sky was a clear ocean of crystal blue, and the only other color she saw was the bright red slash of a cardinal as it swooped over to the now-full bird feeder. She sat down on the window seat. Snow before Thanksgiving was almost unheard of in Atlanta, and already she could hear the de­lighted shrieks of the little boys next door, no doubt freed from a day of school. As she leaned against the windowsill, she saw a figure emerge from the kitchen below.

  It was Jonathan, carrying Lily, bundled up in the little pink snowsuit Mary had bought her. He lifted the baby into the frosty air, pointing at the cardinal, then at the snow-covered magnolia, then up to the bright blue sky.

  “Dotesuwa, looguhee, galuhlowee” Mary repeated softly, naming the things as Jonathan was, twenty feet below her. Since Ruth died, he’d revealed a far more extensive Cherokee vocabulary than Mary had ever known him to possess. He fed Lily breakfast,
asking her zayoshiha, comforted her with zasdizazoyihuh, and rocked her to sleep with the old tales of how the Milky Way was made, and why the buzzard’s head is bare. She couldn’t figure out if he was working through his grief or trying to impart to his daughter some of those values her mother had so treasured. She supposed it didn’t matter. Lily loved it, was growing bigger each day, and Jonathan was beginning to knit his life back together.

  “Adahihi,” Mary whispered as she watched Jonathan scoop up a tiny bit of snow and put it on the very end of Lily’s nose. Poisoner. That was one word he would never teach Lily in Cherokee, or any other language. That word had etched such a sadness into his heart that she’d often feared he might die from it. It was still hard for any of them to believe, but the toxicology reports from Vanderbilt Hospital, and the results from the Georgia State forensics lab lay on top of her desk, along with all the other papers she’d cleared out of her office. Ruth had served Gabe a massive dose of Lobelia inflata, commonly known as pukeweed. He was on the verge of a coma when the paramedics had taken him; only atropine and a ventilator had saved him. Had Mary consumed the soup Ruth had laced with Carolina Jasmine, she would have taken her shower, gone to bed, and died of cardiac arrest. Both plants were easily gathered herbs that grew in the Appalachians; they’d discovered plenty of each in Ruth’s medicine bag.

  “But why?” For the hundredth time, Mary asked herself. “Why would she have done such a thing?”

  At Jonathan’s insistence, they had performed an autopsy. Mary knew Price Martin, the ME, well, and though he had been especially attentive, the results had come back inconclusive. Ruth had no brain lesions, no toxins in her bloodwork, no organic reason at all for her to try to poison the godmother of her child.

  “If she was three months postpartum and her baby had been kidnapped, it might have pushed her over the edge,” Price theorized, pulling off his latex gloves as Mary stood shivering in the autopsy room. “I’m no shrink, but I imagine that being pregnant, then lactating, then undergoing that kind of stress could shake up a pretty potent hormonal cocktail.”