In the Valley of the Devil

by Hank Early

  “So, the people using these stickers,” I said. “Do you know anything about them?”

  “That’s where I hit a dead end. I tried to ask a few people, but either the people I asked didn’t know, or they knew and weren’t willing to talk. The only way I realized it was connected to Old Nathaniel was through a newspaper article I came across from the 1970s. It’s in my drawer there, if you want to read it.”

  I slid away from the desk so she could come over and open the drawer. She pulled out a photo copy from the Riley Reporter, a now-defunct newspaper. “It’s short but interesting. Read it out loud.”

  I cleared my throat. “The headline says ‘Mysterious Bunker Found in Field.’”

  “That sounds ominous,” Rufus said.

  “Yeah. It’s by Mark Dillion. Dated August 4, 1977.”

  Rufus nodded. “Go on.”

  A local man claims to have found a bunker in the woods near the old Vaughn place. After exploring the concrete bunker, Lawrence Wharton said he found six human skulls inside. That wasn’t even the strangest part. According to Mr. Wharton someone had painted symbols on the walls of the bunker.

  Wharton said, “Some of them looked like swastikas, but some of the others I’d never seen before. There was one of them that had two axe handles with a skull in the middle. Whoever done them was a good artist.”

  Wharton explained that he didn’t touch anything inside the bunker, but instead climbed back out and went to the police immediately. He brought Sheriff Hank Shaw back with him the next day, and the men were unable to find anything.

  Wharton said, “I can’t explain why I wasn’t able to find the bunker again. Maybe because it was overcast and dark that day. Sheriff Shaw got frustrated … I know he’s a busy man and all, but I think if he’d let me go back out…”

  But neither Wharton—nor anyone else—has been allowed back out. The area has recently been fenced off by order of the county commission. According to County Commissioner Steve Wallace, the area is popular “among criminals and blacks. It’s in everyone’s best interest to stay away.”

  “Jesus,” Rufus said. “Criminals and blacks. Wow. Talk about blatant racism.”

  “Have you tried to find Wharton?” I asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Shit.”

  “But that’s not the end of it. Though there weren’t any more articles written about it, the story lingered in the collective memories of the people in Coulee County. Before long, Old Nathaniel was the curator of Skull Keep—that was what the bunker came to be known as.”

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. “It’s almost as if Old Nathaniel is being dredged back up to coincide with Walsh coming to town and the more overt racism that came with him. Maybe it’s the same as when white supremacists hang out their Confederate flags to remind black people that they’d better stay in line.”

  “That would make sense when you consider the rally earlier in the summer,” Susan said.

  “What rally?”

  “The one to remove the mural in the courthouse. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Earl?” Rufus asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s got a lot of bad shit in it. A cross burning, some white men wearing white hoods, slaves picking cotton. But its defenders say it’s supposed to represent Riley’s history, good and bad.” He shrugged. “Easy for them to say when they’ve only been on the good side of history.”

  “Yep,” Susan said. “It’s a subtle reminder of the way things used to be. It’s a way of saying, ‘You’ve got your place, don’t you dare try to reach for any more.’ It doesn’t matter that their place is The Devil’s Valley, where the only piece of good land is owned by a white man. They aren’t just relegated to the valley; they’re relegated to a flood plain that basically makes their homes uninsurable and their land a swamp.”

  I sighed loudly and rubbed my face.

  “What?” Susan said.

  “I think this has something to do with Mary. Think about it. Johnny’s original story was that he was attacked by Old Nathaniel. Then Walsh’s thug, Preston Argent, paid him a visit at the jail, and now Waters has suddenly found Jesus.”

  “You think Walsh is behind it?” Rufus asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Hell, would you put it past him?”

  “No,” Susan said before Rufus could answer. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was remembering the way he’d looked at Mary the other day in front of the library.

  “I agree,” Rufus said. “But how do we find out for sure?”

  “Well, I think we could start by paying Jeb a visit. See if we can make him talk.”

  Rufus shook his head. “That’s just the anger talking, Earl. It’s not going to do any good to beat him down. Well, it might do your soul some good, but he’s still not going to talk, and you’ll only get in trouble with the police.”

  I sighed. “I don’t really care. I’d love to be alone with him for just ten minutes. That’s all it would take. I wouldn’t even need a weapon. By the time I was finished, I’d know for sure if he was involved.”

  Susan stood and walked over to where Virginia and Briscoe sat, still engrossed in their movie. She whispered something to Virginia, who nodded and picked Briscoe up. He started to protest, but Susan grabbed the laptop and carried it along beside them so he could continue to watch.

  She led them out of the office and into the stacks, where she put the laptop down. Virginia sat down in front of it, holding Briscoe in her lap.

  When Susan came back in, she shut the door. “I didn’t want them to hear what I’m going to say next.”

  Rufus looked confused.

  “She took the kids out of the office,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Earlier today, when they were in the children’s library, I went in to check on them and found a strange man talking to Virginia. When he saw me, he left in a hurry.”

  “Did you ask Virginia who it was?” I said.

  “I did. She said it was one of the men who worked with Lane Jefferson.”

  “What did he want?”

  “She said he was asking her where her uncle was.”

  “Shit,” I said. “Lane’s going to go after Ronnie for trying to pin the kidnapping on him.”

  “Sounds like it to me,” Susan said. “Which is why I’m going to tell you how you can find Jeb Walsh tonight.”

  “How?” I said.

  “When I was giving him the check, he was talking to Argent about their plans afterward. It sounded like they were heading to Jessamine’s for some drinks.”

  Before I could say anything, Rufus spoke first. “You already got a history there, Earl.”

  “I just want to talk to him,” I said, but Rufus knew I was lying. Hell, I wasn’t even sure why I bothered. The truth was, I knew going to confront Jeb Walsh at Jessamine’s wasn’t going to end well, but I hardly cared. Mary was still missing. That simple fact eclipsed all other concerns.

  “Want me to take you home first?” I said.

  “Hell no,” Rufus answered. “You’re going to need somebody to keep your ass out of jail.”

  29

  Jessamine’s was a bar and diner situated just outside of downtown Riley, in a small strip mall that consisted of two other stores, both long closed. Only Jessamine’s remained, and from the looks of the parking lot as Rufus and I pulled up, it was doing better business than it had in years. I had to park in the grass lot in back.

  Jessamine’s was the rare place that was actually two distinct establishments, depending on the time of day. Weekday lunch was populated by the working man—loggers, clergy, cops, and workers from the lime plant a few miles away. Most came for the lunch specials, which that day included baked chicken with your choice of three sides. At lunch, parents would feel fine bringing in their kids to eat here. At night, most responsible parents would keep their kids as far away as possible.

  By night, Jessamine’s became a honky-tonk that was as good a p
lace to get drunk and into a fight as any place in the county—hell, maybe the state. In fact, the last time I’d been here at night, I’d managed to get into a fight with a sheriff’s deputy, which was still in the back of my mind as I opened the door and surveyed the bar.

  People stood three deep at the bar, and nearly every table in the place was full. A band played on a makeshift stage in the corner of the room. It was a band I’d heard before and liked, named Ghost Bells. They played scary folk blended seamlessly with bluegrass and old-time country, and they played it like their lives depended on every beautiful goddamn note. They were a three-piece: a tiny, redheaded girl played guitar and sang, backed by two scraggly men, both bearded and solemn-eyed, on the drums and the bass.

  They were in the middle of a slow, lurching rendition of Roy Orbison’s “Blue Bayou,” and most of the crowd was mesmerized. Only one table seemed oblivious to the sounds, and that was Jeb Walsh’s table, over in one corner of the bar. Walsh sat with Preston Argent and six other men. I looked closely at each man, trying to determine if there was anyone else I recognized.

  Only one: Mayor Keith.

  They all ranged in age from their sixties (Keith and Walsh) to their thirties (Preston Argent) and even younger (there were two men who looked to be little more than boys, wearing pastel-colored polos and sporting haircuts with severe parts and lots of hair gel).

  I didn’t see Lane Jefferson.

  “Point me toward the bar?” Rufus said.

  I touched his shoulder and guided him lightly through a throng of people, who parted as he approached. Most only glanced at him before quickly looking away. In fact, because of this phenomenon, Rufus had no trouble getting straight to the bar. He leaned against it, his mouth crooked into a half smile, and waited. A twenty-something kid with a ponytail came over, a worried look in his eyes.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Two double shots of bourbon,” he said. “Wild Turkey, if you’ve got it.”

  The bartender returned with the drinks, and Rufus held one out to me. “What’s your plan?”

  “Wait. Watch.”

  “That don’t sound like much of a plan.”

  The band finished “Blue Bayou,” and the place erupted in cheers. They went straight into a hillbilly version of “Stand by Me.”

  The truth was, I actually did have more of a plan that that, but I didn’t want to tell Rufus because I knew he wouldn’t approve. “Just give me some time,” I said, sipping the whiskey. I was watching Jeb’s table closely. Mayor Keith seemed to be telling a story. Everyone at the table was listening closely except Walsh and Argent, who seemed to be having their own animated conversation.

  I just needed to wait.

  A few minutes later, what I’d been waiting for finally happened. One of the younger kids in a pale blue polo stood up and headed for the restroom. I swallowed the rest of my double shot in one smooth motion, steadied myself against the bar until I felt the liquor hit my belly and spread out to the rest of me, a warm trickling. I squeezed my fists together, testing the muscles and liking the way my knuckles felt hard and solid and almost numb, like concrete hammers.

  I pushed through the crowd, my eyes locked on the bathroom door.

  The kid was pissing in one of the urinals when I walked in. I checked the door for a lock, but there wasn’t one. I’d have to make it quick and hope no one came in.

  “Hey,” I said.

  The kid turned his head slightly but said nothing.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m talking to you.”

  He ignored me. I pulled out my gun and racked the slide. It wasn’t necessary because I knew it was loaded, but I wanted him to hear it so he’d stop ignoring me and understand that I meant business. A single round hit the floor, and I kicked it away.

  His hands went up at the sound. “I don’t have any cash,” he said.

  “I don’t want cash. I want to talk. Don’t turn around. We can talk just like this.”

  “Can I at least zip up my pants?”

  “Nope. Don’t even move.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me about the men you’re sitting with.”

  He shook his head and scoffed. “What do you mean? It’s the fucking mayor and some of his friends.”

  “Why would you and your little polo-wearing twin be sitting at the mayor’s table?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “What’s your name, pencil dick?”

  “Jason.”

  “Jason what?”

  “Man, who are you?”

  “I like that. ‘Man.’ Think of me as the man who is going to bust up your little group. Now tell me your last name.”

  “You ain’t going to shoot me,” Jason said.

  He was right about that, and it pissed me off that this damn kid had swung the situation to his advantage so quickly. I stepped forward—on instinct more than anything else—grabbed the back of his neck with my hand, and slammed him forward against the wall. His forehead struck the drywall with a sickening crack.

  He groaned as I pushed him again, this time sideways into the outside of a nearby stall. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and he tried to regain his balance and get off a punch, but I was ready for that and sent a short jab into his gut before he could finish his wind-up. He crumpled and fell over onto the bathroom floor.

  I knelt down to finally get some information out of him, when I heard the bathroom door swing open. Someone whistled happily as he came around the corner.

  “Well, would you look at this?” It was Jeb Walsh, accompanied by a whistling Preston Argent.

  I held the gun up, pointing it at both of them.

  Walsh laughed. “You don’t impress me as the kind of man to go on a shooting spree in a bar bathroom.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m very sure. Let me tell you a couple of things…” He turned to Argent. “Press, watch the door, okay? I don’t want anyone else to hear what I’m about to say.”

  Argent, still whistling the same tune—maybe “Satan, Your Kingdom Will Come Down”?—said he’d be honored and disappeared behind the edge of the barrier separating the door from the urinals.

  Walsh was grinning now, looking like a kid on his birthday. “You’re in over your head, okay? I see what you’re doing. You think I’m responsible for your girlfriend’s disappearance. And I’m not going to say that I didn’t have anything to do with it because, frankly, that’s irrelevant. She’s gone. You’ll never see her again, so a word to the wise: stop while you’re ahead. This ain’t your daddy’s town anymore, Mr. Marcus. It’s mine. And though I am a man who believes in the admonitions of Jesus Christ, I’m not above hurting a child to make sure his kingdom can be advanced. Like that whore Wanda’s little brats. The other—”

  I raised my gun with every intention of shooting him. It would have been a sacrifice, a move that would have helped the world, not so different from the idea of killing a tyrant. Sure there were moral complexities to this sort of thing, but I had no time to consider them. Instead, I had been gripped by such an overwhelming rage and hatred that I was going to do it. I was going to pull the trigger.

  Walsh saw it too. The confidence that seemed to be a part of his physical makeup disappeared in an instant. He put his hands up.

  “I didn’t mean that—I…”

  I took a deep breath and felt my finger tensing on the trigger.

  Then—without warning—I felt myself falling again toward the black water. But something was different this time. There was a shape ahead of me falling too. It was Mary.

  My finger slipped off the trigger. The vision went away, replaced by the kid—Jason’s—fist.

  All that wind-up paid off this time. I dropped the gun as I went down.

  “Stay at the door,” Walsh said. He walked over to me and put his foot on top of my jaw. Gradually, he shifted his weight until my jaw was taking most of it. I groaned.

  “I want you to rem
ember this moment when I’m in Congress, Marcus. You had a chance to kill me, but you let it slip right through your damned fingers. You won’t get another one.” He removed his foot, and I thought that was going to be the end of it, but then he kicked me right in the mouth. I felt a tooth come loose and ricochet off the back of my throat. I coughed it up and spat it out on the floor. My lip began to bleed and swell.

  “And before you get a notion to go calling that sheriff, just remember, the mayor himself saw you following Jason in here. Jason?”

  “Sir?”

  “What did this man do to you?”

  “He pulled a gun on me and threatened me.”

  “And?”

  “He slammed my head into the wall.”

  “And?”

  Jason looked confused.

  “I thought you said he attacked you while you were taking a piss and caused you to get piss all over the damned place?”

  “That’s right. But I was pretty much done piss—”

  “No,” Walsh said. “Remember? It got everywhere?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Jason said. He sounded uncertain, as if he couldn’t decide which one of us was being ridiculed.

  “Damn right, it got everywhere,” Walsh said. “Though to be fair, most of it got on the asshole that attacked you, right?” I heard Walsh unzip his pants.

  “No,” I said.

  Argent laughed from the door.

  There was a pause during which I slid back against the wall, trying to escape the inevitable, but Jason kicked me in the stomach, and all of my focus went from trying to avoid the piss to trying to breathe.

  The stream of piss hit the side of my face. It was hot and smelled worse than anything I’d ever smelled in my life. The smell was so extreme, it made the pain I felt in my face and stomach seem small. Small enough to get me moving. I clambered to my feet, shaking the piss off my face, but Jason grabbed me from behind and tried to jerk me back down. I turned on him and punched him hard in the mouth. He staggered back, hitting the stall for a second time.

  The piss was coming up my leg now, toward my ass and lower back. I tried to turn around, but not before someone took a hold of the back of my neck and slammed it hard into the stall.