by S. E. Green
“Well, frankly, we had some complaints that he was scaring the home owners. He tends to talk to himself and he has a couple of nervous tics. We told him if he couldn’t get things in control, we’d have to let him go.”
Crandall nods and jots that down.
“You said there were two things?” Dad prompts with restrained patience.
“Yes, two,” Crandall says, tapping the log book. “It says here you used BEHR MQ5-28 Dawn Silver paint on that project, and it just so happens that fibers of that exact brand were found on Michelle’s body.”
“I don’t understand,” Travis cuts in with such a clear voice that it seems to echo through the room. “When I found her she was naked.”
“Yes,” Crandall cryptically answers. “She was.”
“So are you saying at some point she was wrapped in a drop cloth that may or may not belong to my dad?” I ask. “Because, I’m sorry, but your obscure questions are annoying.”
“Vickie,” Mom reprimands.
“What?” I blurt. “This is ridiculous! Why aren’t you questioning Mark Doughtery? Why are you targeting my family? He’s at his trailer by the way. Why don’t you send a cop over there?”
“How do you know he’s at his trailer?” Crandall asks.
“Because we drove by it. After what Bee-Bee said, we were curious, and he’s there, all right. He even pulled a shot gun on us,” I say, and Mom gasps. “He was talking about The New Satanic Empire and an Ultimate Sacrifice, and he warned us that next Sunday one of us was next.”
Crandall slides his phone from his hip holder and quickly sends someone a text. Good. Get the attention off of us and onto someone who is more likely involved. I glance over at Dad to find him glaring at Mom. I know that glare. He’s pissed, and he’s trying to keep it in check.
Detective Crandall finishes his text and points a disciplinary finger at me. “You kids do not need to be playing Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys.”
I nearly roll my eyes. Well, if he was doing his job, we wouldn’t have to.
Crandall closes his briefcase. “I’m going to need you to show me your drop cloths now.”
Silently, we follow him out into the humid night and across our yard to the garage where the workshop is. I glance up to Uncle Jerry’s apartment, but his lights are out. I look over my shoulder. His car is here, though.
“How many drop cloths do you own?” the detective asks.
Dad swivels the latch on the garage door and swings it open. “I don’t know. A bunch.”
“You don’t lock this?”
“No, and we don’t lock our work truck either. This is a small town. Theft has never been an issue.” Dad flips on the overhead light and walks all the way back and to the right where they keeps their supplies. The detective follows. They come to a stop at the shelving unit that contains the drop cloths, and from the doorway, the rest of us watch as the detective slips on surgical gloves and begins thumbing through them.
I keep my eyes trained on the cloths, looking for any flash of silver paint, but I don’t see any and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
Finally, the detective turns to my dad. “I’m going to need to take these,” he says, and I watch in helpless silence as he bags up yet more of our stuff.
SOMEONE IS FRAMING us. That’s all that seems to be going through my mind as Detective Crandall leaves our home with Dad and Uncle Jerry’s drop cloths.
Someone snuck onto our property, took what they needed, and killed Michelle. They took PaPaw’s goat and the drop cloth and probably even the twine that was used. They planted some of those pictures of us on the Internet, making us look bad. And though they haven’t released details on the object that slit her throat, at this point, I wouldn’t be shocked if it somehow matches one of my dad’s tools or something from PaPaw’s farm.
For all I know whoever did this may have stashed everything right here on our property.
“Sit down,” Dad orders as soon as we walk back in the house. We do, and he jabs a finger in our direction. “I don’t know what you three are thinking, but you need to stop it now. You,” he points at Kevin, “sneaking out and going to a field party. And you two,” he glares at me and Travis, “I sent you out for Chinese food, not to go stalk a trailer park. I mean it, stop it now. If you haven’t figured it out, we are under careful observation. It is imperative you are on your best behavior.”
“Not to mention,” Mom adds, “whoever killed Michelle is still out there.”
Dad points his finger at us again. “You three need to let us know where you are at all times. I’m serious.”
“Yes, sir,” we answer.
“What happened to your face?” he asks Kevin.
“Just some stupid guy at the field party,” Kevin says, shrugging it off. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.” Dad gives another authoritative stare, then with a nod says, “You three may go.”
“Can’t we just get out of here?” Kevin asks. “Get away from the reporters and cameras and . . . everything?”
That’s not a bad idea.
Mom reaches over and tenderly runs her fingers through his hair. “I wish, sweetheart. But we can’t. It’s important we stay right here and cooperate fully with the authorities.” She gives me and Travis an equally tender look. “I know this is hard and confusing and frustrating. But trust in the cops. They will figure this out.”
IT’S AFTER TWO in the morning and as usual I can’t sleep. My days and nights run long, but this day, I think, has been the longest of my life. The news crews are finally gone, but I’m sure they’ll be back in the morning.
Tonight’s insomnia led me to our front porch in lieu of the fort. I know the fort is only yards from the house, but right now even that feels too far. Beside me lays a butcher knife that I took from the kitchen. What is this life I now live that I took a gun into the woods earlier and am now sitting on my own porch with a butcher knife at my side? It all seems unreal.
Mark Doughtery’s words have been running in a constant loop through my brain, and I want nothing more than to drive right back over there and question him.
Instead, I open my laptop and type NEW SATANIC EMPIRE into the search engine, and like before, very few links pop up. But the two things that my eyes get caught on again are: Originated in East Tennessee and Prophecy that Satan will rule the world.
ULTIMATE SACRIFICE I type in next and get several links relating to definitions and pop culture, but nothing directly connected to Satanism. I go to click on one, but the sound of footsteps crunching over gravel has me glancing up. I don’t have the porch light on, but the exterior light up on the corner of our house provides some illumination in the otherwise starless night. Lowering my laptop screen, I train my eyes through the shadows and a flare of nerves has my blood spiking through my veins.
I reach down for the butcher knife right as Uncle Jerry emerges through the shadows. I glance over to the garage and up to his apartment where a light glows softly in the window. I assumed he was home this whole time. He doesn’t see me and I don’t say anything as he continues across the yard and up the exterior steps to his door. I wonder where he’s coming from. I watch a few seconds longer as his shadow moves around and then his light goes out.
In the distance, tires squeal and my gaze bounces off of Uncle Jerry’s apartment and down past our property to County Line Road. A faint whoosh fills the night air, followed by a bright flash of fire that quickly dulls to a glowing and flickering flame.
A flame that very clearly outlines a giant cross.
THE NEXT MORNING the reporters are back in what seems like double the amount, lining our property, taking pictures of the enormous charred cross. What has to be every God-fearing person in the surrounding counties are out there, too, praying. But here inside our home sits my entire family answering yet more questions from Detective Crandall.
“Where were you at 2:17 a.m.?” the detective asks my father first.
He nods to my
mom. “We were in our bedroom asleep.”
“I was on the phone with my girlfriend,” Travis goes next.
“Do you normally talk to your girlfriend that late?” Crandall asks.
Travis shrugs. “Sometimes.”
The detective scribbles something in his note pad. I’d love to flip through those pages and see what all he’s written about this investigation.
“I was in bed,” Kevin volunteers.
“Me, too,” PaPaw says.
The detective looks straight at me, and I answer, “I was on our front porch, that’s how I saw the cross.”
“Do you normally sit out on your porch at that hour?” the detective follows up.
I don’t look at my parents when I say, “Yes, I normally sit outside when I can’t sleep.”
Crandall hears the snark in my reply and narrows his eyes in warning. I don’t care. I’m beyond having patience with his accusatory tone.
“Bed,” Uncle Jerry puts in. “I was in bed.”
Crandall scribbles a few more things. “Today is the funeral. Do you intend on going?”
“Yes,” my father immediately answers, and I exchange a hesitant look with Travis. I wanted to go, before, but now? I don’t know. With all those reporters and everyone else out there, I just don’t know.
The detective closes his notepad and stands. “I’ll see you there then.”
My parents walk him out, and when they open the door, distant and muffled prayers and chants filter in. I wonder if this burning cross thing is from a Satanist cursing our land even more than it already is or from a Christian trying to cleanse it.
“The funeral is at five,” Dad tells us all. “We are leaving here at four-thirty.”
“Do we have to go?” Kevin asks.
“Yes,” Mom answers. “It’s not an option. We have to go and show our support. It will look bad if we don’t.”
“The only public statement Bee-Bee made was a plea for the guilty party to come forward.” I look at my parents. “Can’t she do something on our behalf, like refuting the gossip we’re Satan worshipers? Or maybe she could go public with whatever it is about Mark Doughtery that makes her think he knows more than he’s saying. Or,” a thought blooms, “maybe we should go public with everything because the investigators sure don’t seem to be doing much. Mark said one of us is next. What kind of crap is that? And he said something about an Ultimate Sacrifice, and did you all know The New Satanic Empire started right here in East Tennessee?”
“Okay,” PaPaw starts, “first of all, no one in this family is going public with anything. Let the authorities, I repeat, let the authorities do their job. Second, Mark Doughtery was an unstable boy who grew into an equally unstable man. I’ve known him his whole life and he is prone to conspiracy theories. Granted, he is a very intelligent individual, but troubled still the same.”
Conspiracy theories, unstable, troubled. This is new to me. I didn’t realize PaPaw knew Mark that well. But I suppose that makes sense. He grew up around here, and PaPaw knows everyone.
“Now, let’s all remember,” PaPaw continues, “Bee-Bee lost her four-year-old daughter. This is about her. Not us. If she’s going to talk to the press again, it’ll be on her time and terms, not ours. We have to stay united and show support.” He moves toward the door. “Now, I’m going back over to my home. I will see you all at the funeral.”
With that, he leaves, and the rest of us stay in the living room, silent and thinking. Intelligent, prone to conspiracy theory, unstable . . . sounds like the characteristics of a cult leader. But PaPaw’s cautionary words aside, I want to hear what else Mark has to say.
I look at my parents, at Travis, Kevin, and finally Uncle Jerry. I also want to ask him where he was coming from last night.
Uncle Jerry gets up then, and I decide to follow him out. “Hey,” I say when we’re off the porch and out of ear shot of my family.
He turns. “You saw me last night, didn’t you?”
I don’t bother asking him how he knows that, instead I answer, “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Uncle Jerry nods and glances out across our property, like he’s trying to figure out if wants to tell me something.
“Why did you lie to Crandall?” I quietly ask.
His gaze pops back over to mine. “I didn’t. I was in bed.”
“But you’d just gotten home—”
“Yes.”
“So,” I lift my brows, “where were you?”
“I was with Bee-Bee.”
“Oh, but why didn’t you just tell Crandall that?”
He sighs. “Because it’s complicated.”
“What’s so complicated?”
“Bee-Bee and me, we like to keep our relationship private, okay?”
I frown. “Relationship? You two are dating?”
He smiles a little. “I wouldn’t call what we do dating, but yeah, on and off pretty much since we were in high school.”
“Wait a minute, are you saying even while she was married?”
Uncle Jerry shakes his head. “That is a question I don’t intend answering and the exact reason why we don’t want anyone knowing about us. It’s private and we intend to keep it that way.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. They won’t be able to keep this hidden, surely they realize that, not with Crandall digging into our lives. “Does anyone else know?”
“Your parents do and now you. Can you respect it and keep it quiet?”
This doesn’t feel right, but I nod anyway. “Okay.”
AT 4:30 THAT afternoon I’m dressed in black and ready for the funeral. As I stand in the kitchen waiting on my parents, I watch Travis texting someone. He talked to Honey last night. I wonder what else she had to say about Edwin taking her beloved car for a joy ride.
“They going to be at the funeral?” I ask, nodding to the phone.
Travis glances up. “Who?”
“Honey and her brother. Isn’t that who you’re texting?”
“Oh.” He puts his phone away. “Yeah.”
“So what’d she have to say about her brother swiping her car?”
“She was pissed. Apparently he does that a lot when he comes into town. I didn’t know this, but Honey told me him and Bee-Bee dated in high school.”
“Wait a minute, what?”
Travis shrugs.
Honey’s brother is ten years older, just like Uncle Jerry and Bee-Bee. They all would’ve gone to school together. Mark, Uncle Jerry, Edwin. Seems as if Bee-Bee gets around.
“Ready?” Mom says, coming into the kitchen.
We three kids pile in the back of Mom’s SUV, with me in the middle as usual. Dad drives and Mom sits in the passenger seat. None of us say a word as Dad pulls down our long driveway and straight into the mess of reporters and the people who have come to pray.
Slowly, he makes his way down County Line Road and through the people who crowd our car, staring in, taking pictures, holding up crosses, and chanting prayers.
“Don’t hide your faces,” Mom says. “Look straight ahead.”
I do and I see my Dad and Mom reach over and take each other’s hands. I stare at their tightly clasped fingers and try to block everything else out. All around us the crowd thickens, the prayers escalate, and I keep my gaze glued to my parents’ knuckled grip.
Eternal minutes roll by before we reach the curve in the road that signifies the end of our property. The cross is there, charred and enormous, much bigger than it appeared from the safety and distance of our home. I would guess it stands seven feet in height and surrounding it are the investigative team as they take samples and pictures. I hope it’s gone by the time we return.
Dad finally breaks free of the crowd and increases speed, and we all seem to blow out a collective breath. Travis’s phone buzzes with another text, and I immediately look over, but his caller ID doesn’t say Honey, it shows a number I don’t r
ecognize. It’s not even this area code.
He sees me looking and turns his phone over to hide the face.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Wrong number,” he says and rotates away to look out his window.
But for some reason I memorize it.
THERE AREN’T MANY people at the private funeral. Bee-Bee limited the guest list to those she knew are really here to grieve and not to spectate. My whole family is here, of course, and some people I don’t recognize who I assume must be friends of hers from elsewhere. Mark is absent, and I wonder if the cops picked him up. It doesn’t seem right that they would make him miss his own daughter’s funeral. Unless he took off, and if he did, that only makes him look guiltier. Whatever the cops think, though, I just can’t picture him slicing Michelle’s throat.
I tune in to the slide show currently going on at the front of the church. It’s of Michelle laughing, playing, and just plain being a great little kid. The show is set to “Pop Goes the Weasel”, and I can’t help but smile. That was her favorite. One time I was babysitting her, and she fell off of the porch and started crying. She wasn’t hurt, just scared, and I began singing that song. It didn’t take but a second and I had her smiling through her tears.
Sadness curls through me as I remember, immediately followed by a distinct wash of grief that sags my shoulders. Little, beautiful Michelle.
“That one was taken the day we took her swimming in the pond,” Honey whispers from beside me, and I smile.
Babysitting Michelle was always fun, but even more fun on the days Honey would hang with us. “Remember playing beauty parlor and Michelle dumped finger nail polish all over your new shirt?” I remind her, and Honey smiles.
The slide show continues, and I watch it for a few seconds as more grief presses in on me. Up front sits Bee-Bee Doughtery, sniffing, crying, and the sound of her sorrow pushes tears to my eyes. I wish there was someone sitting beside her, comforting her. As if reading my thoughts, I watch my mom slide out of her pew and go up to the front. She puts her arm around Bee-Bee and holds her tight as she grieves.
