In the Valley of the Devil

by Hank Early

  Rufus nodded. “’Bout what I expected.”

  “Where’s Susan and Nedra?”

  “Nedra said she would be here. Susan’s probably running around trying to do something for Mayor Keith. She says he treats her like his personal secretary.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd as Walsh stepped onto the stage. He was dressed much as he had been the other day—slacks, golf shirt, and a clean shave. He was carrying a few note cards, which he put on the table before picking up the microphone.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thanks to all of you. You are the heart and soul of this country, and don’t let nobody tell you any different.”

  The crowd cheered again, and Walsh pointed at someone in the back of the auditorium. An image was projected on the screen behind him. He stepped aside to give everyone a better view. It was a shot of a Confederate flag. Another round of applause rose up from the crowd, and Walsh smiled.

  “I feared it might not show up. The library director here resents my presence. Luckily, you have a fine mayor in Riley, who is willing to step in and use his authority in an effort to save free speech.”

  “Jesus,” Rufus said, “they’re buying it, aren’t they?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s on the screen?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Confederate flag.”

  Rufus’s countenance changed then. He looked pained and angry, but mostly he looked scary, like some kind of twisted angel, with a single mission. I wasn’t sure exactly what that mission was, but I thought it had something to do with justice and stopping Jeb Walsh.

  “This is a symbol,” Walsh said, pointing at the flag. “Symbols are—get this, folks—symbolic and therefore open to interpretation.”

  The crowd murmured as if this was some great insight. As much as I hated it, it was easy to see why they were enamored with Walsh. He had the whole handsome, trim, and healthy thing down cold. He was charismatic and smart enough to fool anyone who was already predisposed to his views or was looking for easy answers.

  “So,” he continued, “by definition, the flag itself can’t be racist. It’s an inanimate object. It can no more be racist than a tree, or a rock. It’s only what a person brings to it that creates that symbol. For me, I see Southern pride, heritage, a sense of roots, and where I come from, maybe even glimpses of Lynrd Skynrd.” The auditorium laughed as Walsh pretended to play an air guitar. “Somebody else might see something else. That’s what a symbol is. It’s a mirror, really.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that I should have known was coming: Rufus raised his hand.

  Walsh looked up at him, and his face changed a little. Maybe not so smug as before. His eyes flicked back to the rest of the audience.

  “He see me yet?”

  “He definitely saw you.”

  “Excuse me,” Rufus said, his voice booming out over the auditorium. Apparently, Rufus had turned on his mic. There was no way Walsh would be able to ignore it.

  “Yes, sir, in the back,” Walsh said. “You have a question.”

  “He’s talking to you,” I whispered to Rufus.

  He nodded. “You don’t remember me, Mr. Walsh?”

  Walsh pretended to squint up at Rufus. “I don’t know, sir. I meet a lot of people.”

  “You’re lying. I can always hear it in your voice when you lie. It’s one of the advantages of being blind. You get attuned to sound the way other people aren’t. Then again, you lie nearly every time you open your mouth, so there’s that.”

  There was some grumbling in the crowd. They were catching on that Rufus was going to be hostile. But it was just grumbling. I could tell from the low volume that most of them were interested enough in a potential conflict to let Rufus have his say. Maybe it was the microphone. It made Rufus’s voice so commanding it was hard not to be interested in what he had to say.

  “I think I do remember you now. You and your buddy there are trying to stifle free speech.”

  Rufus spread out his hands. “No, sir. You are speaking now. I’m here to listen and to respond.”

  “Well, maybe you can respond when I’m finishe—”

  “No, sir,” Rufus said. “I’m responding now. You’re way off base here.”

  Walsh leaned against the table, grinning. “Okay, you want to debate, old man? I’ll debate. How am I so far off base?”

  “Well, the Confederate flag is more than a symbol.”

  “Okay…”

  “It’s also a flag.”

  Walsh gave the crowd a conspiratorial look. “That’s what mathematicians would call a ‘given.’ Next point?”

  Someone laughed. But I thought it was a nervous kind of laugh, and the tone inside the auditorium had changed markedly. Everyone was listening, waiting for Rufus to explain himself. A thought struck me then: What if they’d all just been waiting for someone to have the guts to speak out against Walsh’s bullshit, to articulate an opposing view. God, I hoped that was the case.

  “You make light of my point,” Rufus said, “but you shouldn’t. Before it was a symbol in the metaphorical sense, as you seem so intent on belaboring, it was also a symbol in the literal sense. It literally symbolized the Confederacy.”

  “Well, of course, but—”

  “Would you mind shutting up while I make my point?” Rufus said. “Or is this one of them safe spaces where only the assholes get to talk?”

  The auditorium grumbled at little at this, but I thought I heard a few laughs too. Walsh suddenly looked a lot less comfortable than he had just minutes earlier. Every eye was now turned, watching Rufus closely.

  “So, the Confederacy was essentially a grouping of states that wanted to be their own nation so they could do what?”

  No one spoke.

  Walsh sighed, trying to regain some of his bluster.

  “You can answer me now,” Rufus said.

  “Oh, I’m allowed to speak at my own event now? That’s good to know. Well, to answer your question—”

  “I changed my mind,” Rufus said, and though both men had microphones, Rufus’s voice was still somehow louder, more authoritative than Walsh’s, and the author stopped. “Besides, I know what you’re going to say. The Confederacy was about preserving a way of life and states’ rights and federalism and all that bullshit. Save it for the racists, okay? Because I don’t believe a word of it.” He held up a hand and rubbed his fingers against the fat of his thumb. “Money. Power. That’s what the Confederacy was about. The money came from free labor. The power came from feeling like they were the privileged class. African American slaves gave the whites of that era someone they thought they were superior to. So, I reject your answer. The correct answer to my question was that the Confederacy was essentially a grouping of states that wanted to be their own nation so they could continue the unfettered practice of slavery.”

  The auditorium was silent. Rufus leaned back against the wall, relaxing a little. I wondered if he realized every eye in the place was on him.

  Walsh cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr.…”

  “You can call me Mr. Fuck You,” Rufus said.

  This was so unexpected and well-timed, a section of the auditorium exploded in laughter, whooping and hollering. To be fair there was a large contingent who booed or scowled at Rufus. Walsh pounded a hand against the table, but something had gripped the place, and the noise—both cheering and booing—went on.

  It took some time, nearly a full minute, before Walsh was able to continue. When it was finally quiet, he clicked the next slide over to what looked like a crude and racist sketch of a slave. Cheers and boos went up in almost equal number. Walsh frowned and clicked to the next slide without comment.

  Rufus was quiet for the rest of the talk, and when it came time for people to get their books signed, there weren’t as many in line as I’d expected. I elbowed Rufus. “You did a good thing. I really think some people turned on him because of you.”
<
br />   He nodded. “Let’s get in line.”

  28

  The line moved swiftly, and soon Rufus and I were standing in front of Walsh.

  He looked up at us and cursed softly. He motioned to someone standing offstage. Preston Argent stepped out and strode quickly over to the table.

  “Get these two out of here.”

  “If you touch me, I swear I’ll scream,” Rufus said.

  Argent started forward, reaching for me first. I let him grab me, and I grabbed him back, pulling our faces together. “What did you say to Johnny Waters?”

  Argent’s face turned to a smile. His eyes widened, and he began to chuckle. “Now why would I want to talk to a rapist like that?”

  “I saw the video of you at the sheriff’s office, asshole.”

  Argent laughed. “You didn’t know I was a lawyer, did you, Marcus?”

  “What you did was a mistake,” I said. “It points the finger right back at you”—I nodded my head toward Jeb Walsh, who was standing behind the table now, trying to keep his distance from the scuffle and, mostly likely, Rufus—“and him.”

  Walsh locked his eyes on me. “What did you just accuse me of, you son of a…” He stopped, seeming to remember that there were other people around.

  “Get them both out of here,” Walsh said.

  Argent and I were still locked in a tight embrace, and at Walsh’s urging, Argent shoved me back into the people standing behind us. A woman screamed. I kept my balance and reversed my momentum, bearing down on him. “Who has Mary Hawkins?” I said. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know any Mary Hawkins.” He pushed me again.

  “You’re a liar,” I said, and took a swing at him.

  He side-stepped the punch, laughing. “You bleeding hearts are all the same. All bark, no bite.”

  I was about to prove him wrong, when a voice boomed through the auditorium. “Please clear the room.” I looked and saw Susan Monroe holding the microphone. “The police have been called.”

  Argent was still laughing. “Hey, maybe we’ll meet again somewhere out there.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  He leaned in close, and for a second, I tensed up because I thought he was going to grab me, but he stopped short of touching me, his face inches from mine.

  “You want to know who has your pretty nigger girlfriend? His name is Nathaniel. And he don’t like uppity ghetto bitches excepting and until they’re dead.”

  I raised my fist, determined to make this one count.

  “Earl!” the voice from the microphone boomed, stopping me before I swung. I looked up. Susan was looking right at me.

  I nodded at her and put my fist down. I bumped Argent as I pushed past him to go get Rufus and help him get out.

  * * *

  Susan took Rufus and me back to her office, where Briscoe and Virginia were watching a movie on a computer at Susan’s desk. She told us to wait while she dealt with the police. “And don’t worry—I’ll keep your names out of it.”

  When she came back a few minutes later, the library was officially closed, and all the lights were off except for the two lamps in her office.

  She looked worn out, and I wondered if I was asking too much of her to take care of the kids on her own.

  “Wow,” she said, as she sat down across from us. “I’m so glad you two showed up.”

  “Really,” I said. “I figured you’d be angry at me.”

  “No way. You two were the only ones standing up to him—to them. I appreciate what you did. And I appreciate you not letting it get out of control. If you had hit him…”

  I nodded. “Yeah, sometimes I forget about the consequences.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not a violent person, but those two…”

  “Those two would make Gandhi want to punch them in the face,” Rufus finished.

  That made Susan giggle, which in turn caused Briscoe to turn around, his eyes big and round and full of surprise. He watched her for a second before bursting into a giggling fit of his own. That sound must have touched something in Rufus because he smiled bigger than I think I’d ever seen him smile, his lips stretching ear to ear, while the rest of his face looked relaxed and peaceful.

  As much as it would have felt good to laugh, I didn’t have it in me.

  I wasn’t sure, at that moment, I’d ever have laughter or joy in me again, at least not until I knew Mary was okay.

  “I can’t get over the way that Jeb Walsh looks at me,” Susan said. “I told Mayor Keith I didn’t want to work tonight, but he said I should get over it.”

  “Keith is a shitty mayor and a shittier man,” Rufus said.

  “Yeah, I agree,” Susan said. “But the fact that I had to come in tonight meant I had to deal with Walsh. The city paid him to do this, and it was my job to hand him the check and make sure he signed for it.

  “Jesus,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m okay, but…” She shook her head. “What he said … it’s just disturbing.”

  Rufus and I were silent.

  “I went up to him and handed him the check. He took it and opened it right in front of me, like he was making a big show of checking that we weren’t ripping him off. After that, he looked at me with that same look—you all saw it the other day—and asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with him. Ordinarily, I’m flattered when a man asks me out. Even if it’s a man I’m not interested it, I still take it as a compliment. Twenty-five years of marriage makes you appreciate being appreciated. Oh, that came out wrong. Anyway, what I mean is that somehow, his asking me out seemed threatening. I told him no. Firmly. Do you know what he did?”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Rufus said.

  “He said he could tell I really wanted to go with him, that I didn’t ‘know’ myself as well as he did. He addressed me as ‘girl.’ I told him I was a woman and knew myself much better than he did because he didn’t know me at all.

  “He laughed and said I’d find out about the world someday, and when I did, he’d be waiting.

  I asked him what that meant and he said I could figure it out. And the worst part was that he kept referring to me as ‘girl.’”

  “He needs an ass-whipping,” Rufus said.

  I was thinking the same thing but didn’t say it. Sometimes saying it out loud made it sound like a threat. It felt more like a promise to me right now.

  “Please,” Susan said, “I don’t want either one of you messing around with him on my behalf.”

  “It won’t just be on your behalf,” I said. “It’ll be on behalf of the entire human race.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said. “But please, don’t be rash.”

  “We’ll try not to be,” Rufus said. “But Earl ain’t got much talent in the ways of not being rash.”

  She laughed a little and met my eyes. I looked away.

  “Rufus told me you know something about Old Nathaniel?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been studying him ever since I started seeing the stickers.”

  “The stickers?”

  “Yeah. They’re little yellow stickers on the bottom right-hand side of people’s windshields. I kept seeing them and wondering what they were, so I did the librarian thing: research.”

  “What did the stickers look like?” I asked, thinking of Timmy Lambert’s tattoo and how he’d told me he had gotten the design from the cars coming to the warehouse he was guarding. Remembering that, I pulled out my phone. “Anything like this?”

  I passed it over to her. She looked at it and immediately nodded her head. “That’s it exactly,” she said.

  “Someone want to tell me what it looks like?” Rufus said.

  “Two axes, a skull in the middle,” I said.

  “What does it mean?”

  “You ever heard of Skull Keep?”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering that Ronnie had referred to Lane Jefferson’s cornfield as Skull Keep the day I’d gone with him to rob Wanda.

  “I’m surprised. Most people aroun
d here haven’t. At least most white people. Black people, though? They know all about Skull Keep.”

  I shook my head, thankful for Susan. “Go on.”

  “Well, you asked about Old Nathaniel. The legend originally had him killing kids in the mountains. Way, way back, he was called the Hide-Behind Man. He was known for only being seen out of the corner of your eye unless he was close enough to kill you. When you saw him full on, it would already be too late. This Hide-Behind Man killed anybody he could catch alone in the woods. The story existed for nearly a century, unchanged. Then around the turn of the century, sometime before the First World War, the area saw its first and only serial killer. His name was Nathaniel Vaughn. He was a white man who exclusively killed black people. There’s some debate as to whether he was motivated by racism or obsession, but either way, it was a frightening time to be black in these mountains. With Reconstruction and Jim Crow getting going, they had enough to worry about, but then throw in a serial killer?”

  Rufus grunted in agreement. “I got a feeling I know where this is going.”

  I had a feeling I did too.

  “Sometime in the twenties or thirties, long after the real Nathaniel had been apprehended and put to death, the Hide-Behind Man legend got mixed together with the true story of Coulee County’s first and only serial killer. Old Nathaniel—a black-hating, skull-collecting legend—was born.”

  Rufus grunted. “He was supposed to roam the woods in the valley, to keep out any blacks who had a notion to climb into the mountains where the good white folks were.”

  Susan nodded. “Exactly. But it wasn’t just perpetuated by whites. Black parents told their kids about him for the same reason. They feared a kid wandering up from the valley and into the mountains. This was the time of lynchings and cross burnings. Old Nathaniel may not have been real, but the danger certainly was.”

  The room fell silent. Rufus shifted in his seat. I thought about what it must have been like to live in the valley. What it was like even now. As long as there were people like Lane Jefferson and Jeb Walsh out there, living in the valley was a bad proposition, even if you didn’t take into consideration the poverty of the area.