by S. D. Thames
He nodded. “That’s right. Evangeline Hunter, but everyone called her Angel.”
I repeated her name again.
And he nodded again. “Bearer of good news. Like the Greek word for gospel, euangelion.”
I felt lightheaded. “I think we’re talking about the same girl.”
That prompted him to roll his head up. “Mr. Porter, I will gladly tell you anything you want to know about Angel Hunter, but I’m going to implore you to leave Bob Hunter out of this.”
“I really need to know where she might be. If you can tell me that, I have no reason to talk to her father. Otherwise, I need his address.”
“I can assure you, he doesn’t know where his daughter is.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“I guess you can say he disowned her years ago, and he’s, well, I don’t know any other way to put it, but Bob Hunter isn’t in his right mind these days.” He lowered his head to make sure I’d registered that.
“And who is?”
He laughed. “Yes, who is? As a pastor, I can attest that we’re all sick; the mind is deceitful above all things. But I also know that mental disease exists, that it is a bona fide reality in a fallen world, and that it has gripped its awful hooks into Bob Hunter in the worst way.”
“Is that why he’s not a preacher anymore?”
“That’s one of the reasons.” He nodded a few times, as though choosing a path of explanation. “Let me tell you a little more about the Hunter family. Bob used to pastor down at Southern Pines Baptist. It’s a smaller church out in the country.”
“As opposed to here in the metropolis?”
“Fair enough, but drive by and you’ll get the picture.”
“I might just do that.”
“He had a good flock there, a healthy little church. A very nice family. Angel, his only child. And his wife, Betty. She was a sweet woman. An adorable family. I can still remember their family picture from about a decade ago.” He wiped his eye. “They’d always been told Betty couldn’t conceive, but the Lord knew better than the doctors, and gave them their Angel when Betty was almost forty. What followed was a tragedy. One of the things that, as a pastor, I struggle to explain to anyone.”
He wiped something from his eye and took a breath. “Betty, she developed breast cancer, I think when Angel was about twelve years old. There was a lot of support for her in this town. All the churches were getting together, praying, raising money. I remember the community came together, had a festival with all the music groups playing, really rocking out at the fairgrounds. It was great. I think altogether we raised almost $50,000 to help the family out. Southern Pines didn’t have Bob on a good plan, couldn’t afford it, and the insurance wasn’t helping much. She had a mastectomy, went through a lot of treatment; as you could imagine, it was really trying on her and the family. And it looked like we were going to have a very happy ending. After about six months, they had declared Betty to be cancer-free, totally in remission.” He paused ominously and looked deep in my soul.
“But it came back?” I asked weakly.
He nodded and closed his eyes. “With a vengeance, Mr. Porter. It spread quickly this time. They found it in her liver. In no time, it’d made its way to her lungs. She died within a few months. Angel was fourteen at the time.”
“And it broke her?”
“As you could imagine. Again, the community came together, supported that family. Prayed for them.” He sighed. “Myself and a few other pastors, we used to meet with Bob regularly to see how they were doing, how we could help them. He’d tell us about Angel and about how she was struggling. When she turned fifteen, he knew she was drinking and smoking pot and Lord only knows what else. He couldn’t get her to go to church. Most Sundays, he’d preach and she wouldn’t be there. When she was there, she’d create a scene. She’d disappear for days at a time, and it wasn’t long until she was running with men.
“That’s when Bob laid down the law. He was ready to break, too. I think he snapped one night. He went and he hit her, hit his own daughter. He told us what happened at one of our lunches. She came home after one of her trips. He asked her where she’d been, asked if she’d been with men. She screamed at him, told him she had and described in vivid detail what she’d done with those men, things I can’t repeat. She was sixteen then, and Bob broke down explaining it to us. He told her to ask God for forgiveness and a clean heart, and she started cursing God, saying there was no God who’d let her momma suffer the way she did. She screamed that her mom dying was the best thing that ever happened to her because she was free, free to do what she wanted, and that included having all the men she wanted, and there was nothing her daddy could do about it.
“Bob lost it then and there, and hit her. He should not have done that. I don’t mean to justify it. But you’d have to know Bob. He is a very quiet, reserved man. I’ve known him long enough to know. I think he’s always been haunted by demons. That was what brought him to the Lord in the first place—problems from the war, I think.”
I felt my gut twist. “Vietnam?”
He nodded. “Sniper. He never talked about it much, but three tours of duty. He volunteered for all of them.”
“So after he hit Angel?”
“Right, well, he lost her. DCF took her. She told them her dad hit her a lot, that he’d beaten her since Betty died. I don’t think that was true. But she was in foster homes for the next year or so, and then she turned eighteen. That’s when she moved to Tampa.
“Meanwhile, Bob was losing it. He just wasn’t himself. He wasted away to nothing, and it was then that he resigned. He told his church he couldn’t fulfill his duties. They were worried he felt disqualified, and they told him he’d made mistakes but they forgave him and wanted him to lead them. But he said no. He left.
“Not long after she turned eighteen, she sent him a postcard. Told him she was doing great and invited him to come up if he ever wanted to see her. She gave him an address. We prayed with Bob about it, and finally he decided to drive up there and see her and see if he couldn’t make amends. You know what? That address turned out to be for one of those strip clubs on Dale Mabry.” He nodded shamefully. “It was then that Bob finally disowned her. He said he never wanted to hear her name again unless she was in front of him on her knees, begging forgiveness.
“He told me that he was leaving ministry because he didn’t believe anymore. He didn’t believe in the power of prayer, didn’t believe in the power of the gospel to change people. He said men were beyond redemption.”
“So he lost his faith?”
Pastor Harkin nodded. “I check in on him from time to time, but I never mention her name. I always hold out hope that he’s going to mention her, or she’s going to come home, the prodigal son—or I guess prodigal daughter. I only hope she’s met by a joyful father running to meet her, if that ever happens.”
“You said he was a sniper in ’Nam?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Never from him.”
“This anger he has. Suppose he were to learn that Angel was getting into prostitution, maybe even porn. If he found out about that, how do you think he would react?”
He shook his head and sighed. “It’s really hard to say, Mr. Porter. I just don’t know.”
“If he found the people who were bringing her down, do you think he would seek revenge?”
He took a breath and sighed. “I just don’t know what Bob Hunter would do these days.”
I took that as my cue to leave. “Pastor, I really appreciate your time today,” I said as I rose from my seat. “And I have to be honest: I can’t abide by your request to leave Bob out of this. I’m going to have to talk to him. I’ll do everything I can to make this as painless as possible for him.”
“Well, honestly, Mr. Porter, it’s not really Bob I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s you I’m worried about.” He leaned forward, his face turning stern. “You see, you step
foot on his property, being the stranger you are, you’re liable to find yourself shot dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Love Like This, Revisited
Pastor Harkin laughed at first when I told him I wasn’t afraid of dying, but eventually he nodded in acceptance of that fact. Then he said he hoped I was a man of faith. I didn’t respond to that, but I asked if he thought it would help for him to give Bob Hunter a warning call. He didn’t think it would help at all. If anything, it would probably just ensure Bob would be waiting for me with his rifle aimed from a perch.
I saw the logic in what he was saying, and thanked him for his time. Despite my prodding, the good pastor wouldn’t volunteer the address. “I’m pretty sure it’s unpublished,” he said.
“No worries,” I said. “We PIs have our ways.”
“I suppose you can just run some search on your computer, then?”
I smiled, because I figured I’d try something simpler first. “Something like that.”
“Anything else, Mr. Porter?”
I thought for a moment. “Would you mind reading me the Parable of the Lost Sheep?”
Fortunately, Levi was still working on the mulch when I was leaving. I pulled up alongside him, rolled down the Volvo’s window, and waved to catch his attention. “My mind is slipping, Levi.”
He wiped his brow and gestured for me to get on with it.
“Pastor Harkin just told me the highway Bob Hunter lives on. And I already forgot it.”
Levi glanced toward the sanctuary. “That right?”
“I don’t want to bother him again. You know whereabouts he lives?”
Levi shook his head. “Out on Arcadian Highway. About nine miles south. I don’t know the number. It’s a white farmhouse. About the only house on the left side for about a mile.”
I thanked him again, and then I said a prayer for forgiveness on my way out of the parking lot.
Levi’s directions proved excellent. The house was white, cracker style, barely noticeable from the highway behind a thick copse of pines, oak, acacias and myrtles. A weathered mailbox with no names or numbers marked the entrance to the gravel drive that curved into the woods.
I steered the Volvo onto the drive and stopped a moment… for what, I didn’t know. Then I realized that just sitting idle would only make me look more suspicious to a paranoid sniper who might be hiding out in the nearby woods. So without further ado, I gave it the gas. A cat scratching a chalkboard wouldn’t have sounded as unnerving as the crunching of gravel under my tires, echoing through the woods and seemingly amplifying against the house.
I passed through the trees and parked behind an early eighties model Ford F-150. Rust had eaten random patches of metal around the fender and tailgate. Best I could tell, the truck used to be a shade of blue, but years of sun and oxidation had rendered it the color of ashen coral. A shotgun and a long-range rifle hung on a rack in the rear window.
I parked at the end of the drive past the truck, and then I opened the door and stood outside my car. The heat and humidity swirled around me like a vortex, and brought with them a swarm of invisible gnats that were testing the waters of my skin, planning what could be a brutal assault. The Volvo’s engine ran for about thirty seconds after I exited the car. It sounded like it was panting, whimpering for a drink. I knew just how it felt.
In plain view, the home was smaller and older than it appeared from the road. The white paint on the wooden siding was flecked, revealing long streaks of gray, decaying wood. The front porch ran the entire façade of the house and wrapped around the western side. The three steps leading up to the porch were worn and beaten, too, and three wooden rocking chairs, covered in dust and dried leaves, leaned at forty-five degree angles against the front wall of the house. A porch swing sat on the porch up against the railing, longing for chains to connect it to the rusted hooks overhead.
Behind a screen door, a thick wooden door was cracked open. I stepped closer and caught the troubling smell of spoiled meat and garbage escaping the house. There was no doorbell to ring. Two empty screw holes were bare on the door, apparently where a doorknocker was once attached. I pulled the screen, about to knock on the door, when the unmistakable buzz of a chainsaw cut through the air and bounced off the acoustics of the surrounding woods. The saw was close.
I left the porch and followed the echo. The saw ran in quick spurts, each lasting about five seconds. I reached the back of the house, just as another rip of the saw, now growing louder, zipped over my head, followed by the engine of the saw cutting off.
A red barn stood about fifty feet behind the house. Rounding the house toward the barn, I saw a screen porch, coated in mildew and dust, at the back of the house. As I reached the back of the barn, I could hear whacking and grunting sounds echoing through the air. The thumping acquired a rhythm and kept going. I knew the sound, and knew where it was coming from.
I turned the corner behind the barn. There, a sinewy shirtless man with long arms was chopping wood. A dead tree lay prostrate, perpendicular to the barn. He’d cut large slices of the trunk with the chain saw, and now he was breaking down the chunks with the head of a large axe. His frame was lean, somehow muscular but without much muscle. He wielded the axe with no gloves and swung it with a graceful form befitting a lumberjack.
He raised the axe again, his back towards me. I didn’t like the feeling of walking up, unseen, on a man of questionable sanity swinging a blade. The last thing I wanted to do was startle him. I was about to say hello, but the vicious snarl of a dog stopped me in my tracks.
The man lowered his axe and turned to see what was going on. A black dog with German Shepherd in him was growling at me, seemingly bouncing and waiting for my next move. “Get back,” the man yelled at the dog.
The dog looked angry, livid, his lips curling over his fangs. He seemed ready to get me, but somehow he wasn’t looking directly at me.
“I said get back, Joe, get back!”
The dog yelped, but reluctantly obeyed his master. He turned, dashed back ten yards, and then walked back and forth in five-yard circles.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you or your dog.”
“Shut up,” he said slowly, in a low voice.
I started to move, but he raised the axe. “Don’t you move an inch.”
“Listen, I’m not here to start any trouble.”
“Mister, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of pain if you take another step.” For the first time, I heard the full brunt of his voice, deep and churlish, and an accent that reminded me of the slow drawl I’d heard Sunday morning in Scalzo’s condo.
“Fine.” I raised my hands, straightened my legs. “I won’t move. You can set the axe down and call the dog off.”
The dog barked louder, as though he knew I was talking about him.
“Joe’s not concerned with you.” He was talking slower, seemed to be staring at my legs.
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“He’s concerned with that pygmy at your feet.”
“The what?” I asked.
Just then, I looked down and saw what he was talking about: a coil of brown and charcoal keeled scales, hidden in the grass by my feet. The snake’s head was thick and pointed at me, its black eyes immune to the sun blazing above us. The rattle on its tail was shaking vibrantly, making a soft rubbing sound, nothing like the rattlers I’d seen in the movies.
“It’s a pygmy rattlesnake,” he said, and hushed for me to be quiet. Then he took an easy step toward the snake. Slowly lowered the axe head. The snake coiled tighter now, wagging its rattle more. “You walked up on him. Another step, and you’ll need an ambulance.”
I expected him to raise the axe and hack into the reptile that seemed ready to strike at me any moment. Instead, he continued lowering the head of the axe, with the blade pointed toward him and away from the snake.
The snake couldn’t get any tighter, so it retreated a few inches, giving me enough time to t
ake a slow step back.
“Stay still, damn it,” he hissed. “Easy does it.” He continued lowering the axe head.
Without warning, the snake jolted and struck at the axe head.
The man I presumed to be Bob Hunter seemed to expect that reaction. He turned the axe head and pinned the snake to the ground with the dull side. The snake’s tail flickered for a long moment.
Bob then slowly reached down and gripped the snake right behind the head. He dropped the axe and extended his arm, holding the snake. Dangling from Bob’s hand, the snake only looked to be about three feet long. “Haven’t seen one in the yard for years,” he said. “See them more often down closer to the river.”
He turned with the snake and walked a good thirty yards to the line of the woods. There, he sent it on a short flight with a flick of his wrist. Afterward, he turned and marched back toward me. He bent over to pick up the axe and moved it against his shoulder. He looked me right in the eyes, and something about him reminded me of the reptile he’d just carried into the woods. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
My throat felt scratchy from the heat and oak pollen I felt tightening my chest. “Ensign Myles Jeffrey Porter, sir, United States Navy.”
He stared at me for a short moment, his eyes squinting under his leathery brow. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I’d like to talk to you about a book I’m writing.”
Joe, the dog, stepped toward me, took a good whiff, and started nudging my side. I leaned over to pet him.
Bob seemed satisfied with Joe’s approval. He laid down the axe and invited me inside.
I followed him as he made long strides toward the back porch. There, he ascended three wobbly steps and held the tattered screen door open for me. I followed, and the steps felt rotten, ready to break under my feet.
The screened porch had been turned into a storage area filled with heaps of junk upon junk: old shelves and tables covered with every kind of trinket and tchotchke ever known to clutter the table at a flea market. We walked on, through a mudroom that led to the kitchen. The smell I’d caught a whiff of on the front porch was in full bloom here, and I figured it was probably coming from the fridge, from which he pulled a jug of brown liquid. Then he took two cloudy glasses from the cupboard, glancing at one to make sure it was clean. He scooped a few cubes of ice from the freezer with each glass.
