Covenant

by Ann McMan

  “David . . .”

  “Just—just give me some space, okay? I need time to figure some things out.” He stood up and tried to smile, but didn’t really succeed. “I just . . . need some time. That’s all.”

  He grabbed a notepad and hurried past her out of the office.

  Maddie watched him go in dumb silence.

  That went well . . .

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Byron knew better than to think too much about what he was about to do. If he did, he knew he’d talk himself out of it.

  But as much as he wanted to let Charlie handle her personal situation with Manfred Davis, he couldn’t overlook what had happened on the bookmobile yesterday out in Bone Gap.

  Syd had been concerned enough by the story Roma Jean related to her that she’d called Byron and asked him to stop by the library.

  “I don’t want to make more out of it than I should,” she was quick to say. “But Roma Jean felt very threatened by his behavior—and that of the two women who were with him. And you also need to know that Roma Jean had Henry and Dorothy on the truck with her when this encounter happened.”

  That certainly got Byron’s hackles up. Manfred’s making vague allegations about two consenting adults was one thing—however offensive and inappropriate that behavior was. But intimidating two children who were in no position to stand up to him, or even to understand his threats and innuendos? That was not an action he could refuse to acknowledge.

  He asked Syd if she knew who the women with Manfred Davis were. She said Roma Jean recognized Nelda Rae Black as one, but the other was unfamiliar to her.

  “I think she said Mr. Davis called her Glenadine.”

  Glenadine.

  Last night over dinner at Celine’s, Byron had tried to tease information about the encounter out of Dorothy. She’d been conservative about the details she shared. He guessed that was probably in an effort to protect Roma Jean. It was true that Byron had had doubts in the past about the kids riding along with Roma Jean on her bookmobile routes. But there’d never been a real cause for concern until yesterday.

  Dorothy said enough to confirm the gist of what Syd had shared. Manfred Davis and the two women had behaved in vaguely threatening ways toward Roma Jean, and Dorothy admitted they were all pretty scared until Roma Jean made them leave. She also told him that Henry, thankfully, had stayed out of sight in the cab area of the truck. Byron could tell by Celine’s reaction to news of the encounter that she intended to discuss the incident further with Maddie and Syd.

  When Byron went into his office on Sunday afternoon, he ran a report on Manfred Davis in Cheraw, South Carolina. It seemed that Davis had been living with a woman named Glenadine Langtree—at least, his vehicle was registered at her address. He supposed she was the woman who’d joined Manfred and Mrs. Black on their little mission trip yesterday.

  Charlie had said her father was staying out at the Osborne Motel, so he drove there first. There was no sign of Davis or his Buick. That probably meant he was still out at Bone Gap for church services.

  Nelda Rae Black had been a full participant in the violence Manfred and the extended Black family had perpetuated on the young teens, Charlie and Jimmie, all those years ago. It was Nelda Rae who’d suggested shipping the girl, Jimmie, off to live with a half-crazed snake handler in Kentucky, in a pathetic bid to pray the gay out of her. More than once, Byron had had to fight an impulse to go and free the girl himself. When news reached Jericho that Jimmie had managed to run off, Byron said a silent prayer for the girl’s safety and wrestled long and hard with his own feelings of guilt for not doing more to protect her.

  Charlie had been moved into foster care for her own safety—eventually coming to live with Byron while she finished high school. And Manfred? Well, Byron had made sure Manfred would never be able to hurt the girl again.

  It now appeared that “finding Christ” had somehow emboldened the man to try and reassert himself into Charlie’s life. There wasn’t much, legally, Byron could do to make the man stand down. But, damn if he wasn’t determined to make it clear that continuing to threaten and intimidate a town librarian and two children would land him in hot water so deep, not even the Lord would be able to lift him out.

  The drive to Bone Gap seemed longer today. He didn’t reach the holy-roller church frequented by the Black clan until well after twelve-thirty. Most of the worshippers had already left. There were only two cars in the parking lot, and one of them was a 1996 Buick LeSabre with South Carolina tags.

  Out of date South Carolina tags, he noted.

  He parked his cruiser and went inside.

  A man he assumed to be Manfred Davis was kneeling near the altar of the church, in prayer with a skinny woman he didn’t recognize. Byron took a seat at the rear of the sanctuary and waited on them to finish.

  It took a while. He could hear them both muttering and gurgling, making strange sounds that weren’t quite words.

  They were speaking in tongues . . . of course. The secret language of zealots.

  Byron didn’t have much use for religion, and charismatics topped his list of crazies. Especially the Nelda Rae Black brand of crazy, which gave the righteous permission to explode into the middle of every controversy with hefty doses of judgment and zero charity. In his experience, “true believers” like Manfred and his ilk blew in like late summer storms—maelstroms full of crashing thunder, violent wind and lashing rain. But they tended to blow themselves out, and move on just as quickly as they appeared.

  He just hoped they’d wrap up their frenzy of devotion soon. It smelled powerfully of mildew in here. He didn’t want his allergies to flare up.

  After what felt like an eternity, the two people got to their feet and collected their belongings from the front pew. It didn’t take them long to notice him seated at the back of the church. He could see the man’s expression change as his recent surge of beatification drained from his face.

  It was Manfred Davis, all right—looking for all the world like a refugee from some Flannery O’Connor story.

  Byron got to his feet and strode forward to greet him.

  “Manfred,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Davis turned to his companion. “You go along, Glenadine. I’ll be out directly.” When the woman hesitated, Davis gave her a gentle shove. “You go along. I won’t be talkin’ to this feller for long.”

  Byron noted that Davis called him “feller,” and not sheriff—his first hint that Manfred thought their power dynamic had shifted.

  The woman named Glenadine pushed past Byron and disappeared up the aisle. She reminded Byron of a thinner clone of Frances Bavier, from The Andy Griffith Show. He’d never actually seen a woman scurry before.

  Clearly, one of them was impressed by his uniform.

  Once his companion was safely outside, Manfred addressed him.

  “I got no business with you.”

  “I have to disagree with you, there, Manfred. I think we do have some things to discuss.”

  “I got the right to come and see my girl. I ain’t done nothin’ here but the Lord’s business.”

  “Is that what you call your newest crusade, threatening and intimidating women and children? The Lord’s business?”

  He could detect some beads of sweat forming near Manfred’s receding hairline.

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I ain’t broke no laws. You got no call to be out here pester’n me.”

  “Again, I have to disagree with you, Manfred.” Byron folded his arms. “That’s not what I hear from the people who were out here on the town bookmobile yesterday. They certainly felt like you were infringing on their rights—on public property.”

  “The onliest thing I did was to bear witness to God’s holy Word.”

  “Let me be clear with you about something, Manfred. You want to share God’s word; you go ahead and knock your self-righteous ass out. But you do it in here, where people come voluntarily to listen to whatever kind of toxic mess you’re sprea
ding. Do we understand each other? Because if I find out you’ve gone anywhere near Miss Freemantle, or either of those two children, with the intention of spewing your hatred and vitriol again?” Byron took a step closer to the smaller man. “I’ll make sure there isn’t enough of your sanctified ass left to bury.”

  Manfred’s face had turned a bright shade of purple.

  “You got no call to threaten me like this.”

  “Oh, you thought that was a threat?” Byron chuckled. “I must not have done it right. It wasn’t a threat, Manfred. It was a promise.”

  Byron turned on his heel and took his time exiting the church.

  Glenadine was standing beside the Buick, glaring at him as he headed toward his cruiser.

  He stopped to address her.

  “Tell your friend he’s got twenty-four hours to get this heap inspected, or I’ll have it picked up and sold at public auction.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Byron got into his cruiser and pulled out of the small lot that was more dirt than gravel.

  With luck, he’d make it to Celine’s in time for lunch.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The notes wouldn’t come out right. She played them over and over, just like she’d been taught, but each time they sounded worse and more discordant. She hit the keys with greater determination, but the more she tried, the worse the sound became. The metronome kept clicking faster and faster.

  There were scents of bergamot and orange. Rose and jasmine.

  Vol de Nuit. The Night Flight. Her mother’s perfume.

  Jacques Guerlain created the scent in Paris before the Nazis came. Her mother’d worn it since the ’40s in London. Her mother’s life was neatly divided into two periods: Before and After the Nazis.

  Now Celine’s life was divided into two periods: Before the Music, and After her Failure.

  The notes were all wrong. She couldn’t get the transitions right.

  Her mother was behind her, tapping her shoulder in time with the metronome. Each tap was like a hammer’s blow. Each blow drove home how poor her performance was. How great her betrayal had become.

  Orris root and oak moss. Oranges and sandalwood. The metronome clicked faster. The notes would not come. The piano keys turned to liquid that flowed over her hands as her fingers fumbled to find the right notes.

  A creature surged and undulated in the swirling deep beneath the keys. The contours of its menacing shape eluded her. The river of dissonance it inhabited turned blood red.

  Amber and vanilla. The cloying scent filled her nose and clouded her eyes. The hammer blows came faster and faster.

  A snarling dog burst free from the tide of blood that covered her hands. It growled and snapped at her.

  It glowed orange in the fading light.

  Modulation. Modulation.

  Her mother’s voice. Stern. Full of recrimination and sharp with its familiar tone of disappointment.

  The orange dog bared its fangs.

  The transitions were wrong. Her failure was now complete.

  The dog lunged. She knew it would drag her with it beneath the river of blood.

  Orange and bergamot. Her failure had been foretold before the Nazis came to take the music away.

  She was sinking into a blood red river of lost hope. She screamed, but no one could save her. Her transitions were wrong.

  She flailed against the flood.

  Other hands took hold of her shoulders, gently shaking her. Lifting her up.

  “Dr. Heller? Dr. Heller? Wake up . . .”

  Her eyes opened. The room was dark, but she recognized the outline of Dorothy’s face, hovering above hers at close range.

  “You had a bad dream,” Dorothy said. “I heard you screaming.”

  Celine struggled to sit up and tried to steady her breathing.

  “I was screaming?” she asked in a shaky voice, unlike her own.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dorothy timidly withdrew her hands. “I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

  Celine reached out to touch the girl’s hand. “Thank you for coming to wake me. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

  “It’s okay. I know what bad dreams are like.”

  I’ll just bet you do, young lady . . . Celine leaned back against the headboard.

  Dorothy had been kneeling on the edge of her bed, but she moved to stand up.

  “Don’t go.” Celine was surprised by the urgency of her request.

  “Okay.” Dorothy seemed to take it in stride. “Do you want some hot tea or anything?”

  “No. No, I think I’m okay now.”

  It was quiet in the room. The only sound came from the steady clicks of the second hand on Celine’s small bedside clock. The porcelain relic had belonged to her Oma, and it had been one of the few possessions her mother carried with her when her parents secured her passage out of Austria on a Kindertransport, bound for London. Before the Nazis came . . .

  “Stay with me a little while?” Celine asked shyly.

  She could make out Dorothy’s gentle nod.

  Celine shifted to make room for the girl, and patted the mattress beside her.

  Without a word, Dorothy joined her beneath the covers.

  Chapter Five

  Recorded Interview

  Preliminary Inquest Investigation

  Death of Mayor Gerald Watson

  “Bertrand Lear Townsend, Jr. Twenty-two letters. Born on seven fifteen.”

  Seven plus fifteen equals twenty-two.

  “Year 1984.”

  One plus nine plus eight plus four equals twenty-two.

  “Twenty-two is the smallest number expressed by combining two primes. Two elevens make twenty-two. Twenty-two isn’t phi, but twenty-two is right.”

  Little phi is what happens when the numbers go less than zero. Less than zero isn’t right.

  “Jericho is less than zero. Jericho is little phi. Little phi isn’t right. Jericho’s golden ratio is broken.”

  The bad man was an orange dog. He was supposed to protect Goldenrod but he didn’t. He broke the ratio.

  “The orange dog hurt Goldenrod. The orange dog comes at night.”

  The bad man won’t be gone until the golden ratio is restored.

  “Goldenrod can’t transition from major to minor. Her ratio is broken. The music doesn’t work. The orange dog comes for her at night.”

  The orange dogs broke God’s covenant. They were supposed to protect their children but they didn’t.

  “The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. The stones of their covenants are broken. The ratios aren’t right.”

  The tablets aren’t whole. God’s covenant is broken. No one protected the children from the orange dogs.

  “The stones are broken. The temple veil is torn in two.”

  The orange dogs are dead but they aren’t gone. The orange dogs come for them at night.

  “The Golden Ratio is God’s covenant with man. The orange dogs broke the ratio.”

  The orange dogs won’t be gone until the golden ratio is restored.

  “The orange dogs broke God’s covenant.”

  The orange dogs come at night—for all of them.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Maddie stopped by the library on Monday night to give Syd a lift home. They’d dropped Syd’s Volvo off at Junior’s that morning because it was due an oil change and a state inspection. Junior was backed up, and apologized for needing to keep the car overnight. Al Hawkes was still using his loaner car, too, so he couldn’t offer Syd the use of it. Syd told him not to worry at all and to keep the car as long as he needed.

  He thanked her profusely and said he guessed he should head back into the garage to finish pulling the dent out of the hood on Cletus Freemantle’s old Caprice.

  “What happened to it?” Syd asked.

  “Seems like that Roma Jean figured out some way to T-bone a can of peaches.” Junior scratched his scalp beneath his SKOAL hat. “That Freemantle gal pretty much keeps me in business.”

&n
bsp; Syd considered asking for more details, but realized she really didn’t need any.

  For her part, Syd enjoyed the chance to ride to and from work with Maddie. They didn’t get very many opportunities to talk freely, unless it was late at night or just before bed. Henry was always within earshot—and that’s the way they liked it. One or the other of them would invariably be engaged with him, working on his homework assignments or accompanying him on his regular circuit to feed all the animals he’d amassed since coming to live at the farm. But tonight, Henry was having dinner with Dorothy and his beloved Gramma C. So Syd was treating Maddie to a date night dinner at Waffle House.

  That prospect probably accounted for Maddie’s good mood when she entered the library promptly at five o’clock.

  “You’re nice and early,” Syd called out after she heard Maddie enter the library through the back entrance.

  Maddie joined her behind the circulation desk. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I heard you humming.”

  “I was humming?”

  Syd nodded. “Clair de Lune. Not a bad rendition, either.”

  “Guess I had Mom on my mind.” Maddie looked around the small space. “Everybody gone?”

  “Pretty much. Mondays are usually slow.” Syd was tidying up and filing a stack of little checkout cards.

  “Then I’d better make hay while the sun shines.” Maddie kissed her. Then did it a second time for good measure.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got a dinner date with a sexy librarian.”

  “Awwww. You say the sweetest things when you know there’s a hash brown bowl in your future.”

  Maddie pinched her on the butt. “One hot dish deserves another.”

  “You know, the quicker you quit messing with me, the quicker we can get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay. Want me to go lock up the street door?”

  Syd handed her the keys. “Yes, please.”

  Maddie dutifully locked the door and switched the sign around to read “CLOSED.” Syd noticed her stop on her way back to examine something on a table.

  “Where’d these come from?” She held one of the items up.

  “Where’d what come from?”