In the Valley of the Devil

by Hank Early

  One of his posts was about Taggart Monroe’s films. I clicked and read a mind-numbing essay about the “underappreciated genius” of Monroe and the laughable assertion that “all great minds are by definition racist.” The reasoning behind the last statement was that most normal people or “normies,” according to the author, didn’t possess the intellectual abilities or honesty to see the world for what it was, one in which color did matter. Dark-skinned people were lower on the scale of humanity than lighter-skinned people.

  I felt sick even reading this kind of thing, but I pushed on to the end of the essay anyway, simply because I owed it to Mary to exhaust every avenue. I was glad I did because the ending did not disappoint and made me understand exactly why Lane Jefferson might have targeted Mary.

  The very worst thing a person of any race can do is try to break out of the natural order. This is why I hate white people who will not affirm their divine rights as the keepers and rulers of this earth. It’s why I hate colored people who try to take on positions of authority that should by right go to whites. Black women are the worst and most smug of all who commit these grievances. A black woman is God’s lowest creature—

  I stopped. There was more, but I just couldn’t bring myself to read it. How could someone be so vile, so evil? Were people born like that, or had our world been so corrupted that they were altered as they grew older? Was it even possible that someone like this had once been a cute, innocent kid like Briscoe?

  I knew it was, and that knowledge gutted me. I wanted to find the source of this evil. Find it and shut it off at the valve.

  But no matter how badly I wanted that, I knew it was an impossibility. The best thing I could do for Briscoe and Virginia and all the kids like them was also the best thing I could do for myself, and that was finding Mary, a person whose light shone brighter than any I’d ever known in a world that always seemed to be getting darker.

  When I looked up from the computer again, it was well after midnight, and the house was quiet. I glanced over at Shelia, still lying on the floor. She was so relaxed, so zoned out. Part of me envied her. Oh, to be in a place where I just didn’t give a damn about anything. Even for a little while.

  Of course, that was the kind of thinking that had created some of the worst moments I’d ever known. It was the addict’s mentality, and I’d fought against it for most of my life.

  Was I an addict?

  Maybe. No, probably. But, for much of my life, I’d kept it right on the edge, able to alternate between long stretches of functionality and short, rapid-fire bursts of substance-induced forgetting.

  Luckily, I’d managed to stay away from hard drugs, but I probably owed that more to my love affair with whiskey than to any kind of good decision-making on my part. Hell, right now, I wanted nothing more than some quick shots and a couple of beers. Then I’d be relaxed. Then I could let things go.

  At least that was what I told myself. Sometimes the biggest lies we tell ourselves are when we think we are being brutally honest.

  “You find anything?” Ronnie asked from the couch. I was surprised he was awake.

  “I found enough to understand we’re dealing with real depravity.”

  Martin, who was sitting beside Ronnie, with a glazed look in his eye, twitched suddenly.

  “Sorry about your girlfriend,” he said, and then leaned his head back and began to snore.

  “Yeah, me too,” I said, and left the kitchen to lie down on the floor beside Shelia and sleep.

  36

  The dream was more vivid than it had ever been. This time it began on the train trestle. I was standing there, holding Mary’s hand while a train bore down on us from one side, and on the other side was Old Nathaniel, carrying a burning cross. Old Nathaniel seemed as much an apparition as a physical thing, and didn’t walk or run toward us, but instead floated. The cross trailed long tongues of fire behind him. It was unclear which would reach us first, Old Nathaniel or the train, but there could be no mistaking that if we stayed put, we were trapped.

  “We’ve got to jump,” I said to Mary.

  “No,” she said. “The children.”

  “What children?” The words were no more out of my mouth when I saw them. Briscoe and Virginia both sat a few feet to my right, their legs dangling over the side of the train trestle just as Deja had dangled hers.

  I sat up with a start and sucked in a deep breath, coughing it back out.

  For a moment I didn’t know where I was at all. Then Shelia spoke. “Can you feed Huckleberry?”

  I stood up, stretching my sore muscles. I was far too old to spend the night swinging sledgehammers, hiding behind sofas, and—I cracked my back—crawling through fucking truck windows. Not to mention sleeping on the floor and experiencing dreams like that one. Jesus, I could still feel the panic surging through me when I’d seen Briscoe and Virginia on the train trestle.

  I dug my phone out of my pocket. Dead.

  “What time is it?” I asked the room. Ronnie and Martin didn’t move from their spots sitting on the couch. Only Shelia raised her head.

  “Hell if I know. You’ve got the phone.”

  “It just died. I need to make a call.”

  “Phone’s by the computer,” she said. I walked over, gradually becoming aware that Huckleberry was barking outside.

  “He’s hungry,” Shelia said. “You going to feed him?”

  “Give me a second,” I said.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Susan’s number. It rang for a long time before she answered. “Hello?” Her voice sounded unsure.

  “It’s Earl.”

  “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to call you most of the night.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone came to the house last night. They knocked on the door. Loudly. I looked out the window, but the person was…”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “The person was wearing a burlap sack over his head. Whoever it was was dressed like Old Nathaniel. I was going to call the police, but at that moment a rock came through the window. It nearly hit Rufus. Attached to the rock was a note.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It said … hold on—I’ll go get it.”

  A moment passed during which I closed my eyes and tried not to have a panic attack. How would I be able to find Mary and take care of Susan and those two kids?

  “I’ve got it here. It says, ‘This is just a warning. Call the police and the girl dies. If your boyfriend continues messing in our business, they both die.’”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can you bring the kids and pick me up? I’m in a little trouble right now.”

  “Sure, but what about last night? What should I do? Rufus said to talk to you, but I’ve been calling since three in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”

  “Where are you?”

  “With one of Ronnie’s friends. I’ll get you the address. Hang on.”

  Shelia managed to give me the address, which I relayed to Susan.

  “Look, I’m going to figure this out. Just come as soon as you can.”

  “Okay. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Can you put Rufus on?”

  “Just a second.”

  About a minute later, Rufus said, “This is getting serious.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I spent most of the night following up on some leads, and it looks like Lane’s friend Taggart Monroe is involved in some vile shit.”

  “What kind of vile shit?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve got a hunch.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “Well, Ronnie and I broke into a warehouse last night that looked like it had been used to film movies. We even found some of an old script on a clipboard. This was the place Lane Jefferson used to pay his friend Pit to do security for. Anyway, someone obviously knew we were there because they called the cops. We got away, barely, but I’m thinking that was why the move was made on Susan and the kids.”


  “Could be.”

  “There’s more.”

  “All right.”

  I swallowed, dreading Rufus’s reaction. He always favored the most rational and logical approach to any situation, which was why I really dreaded telling him this next part.

  “I think it’s a possibility that Mary was taken for a snuff film.”

  He said nothing, but I could still hear his incredulity about the theory loud and clear. The phone line pretty much buzzed with disdain.

  “Hear me out,” I said.

  “I ain’t said a word.”

  “I know. But I also know you can speak without saying a word.”

  Again he said nothing.

  “So, I found a microphone on the ground near Johnny that night. Near the place he claimed he was attacked by Old Nathaniel. And you found one too near the cave where Mary and I first saw Old Nathaniel and AOC written on the wall. And now the film warehouse. There’s just too much to ignore.”

  He was still silent. It was killing me. But I knew I had to get the whole theory out. Because, despite Rufus’s obvious skepticism and the fact that saying it out loud made it sound even sillier than it had been in my mind, it was the only damn thing I had. It represented a path forward. Sure it might peter out or lead me to a dead end, but at least it was somewhere to go. I’d been standing still for so long.

  “What if someone was filming when Mary and Johnny were attacked? And what if that’s just one scene and they’re filming the rest later? You know how I mentioned doing some research last night? This Taggart guy is known for three things: making movies that are racist trash, being obsessed with moon cycles, and using three climaxes in his scenes.”

  Rufus was still silent, but this time I meant to wait him out. After a moment he said, “You’ve lost me.”

  “Okay. I guess I can see that. So, here it is. Working backward. The three climaxes. A fourteen-year-old boy has been missing since July. He’s from the trailer park right next to the cornfield. His sister thinks Old Nathaniel got him, and I tend to agree, based on what she told me. That’s one.”

  “One what?”

  “One climax. Pay attention.”

  “Okay, I’m trying. You said there were three.”

  “Mary being taken. That could be another one.”

  “And the third?”

  “Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe that one will involve Mary too.”

  “Still not following. Even if I concede that Monroe and Jefferson are behind this, how could it involve her, if they already have her?”

  “They have her, but I don’t think they’ve killed her yet.”

  Silence.

  “Shit, okay, maybe it’s more wishful thinking than anything, but based on the moon cycle—that’s Taggart’s other obsession, remember—the next full moon is Thursday. If he was going to do the third and most explosive climax, wouldn’t it make sense to do it on a full moon?”

  “A lot of assumptions there, Earl—”

  “I’ve got more.”

  “Okay…”

  “The rally. What night is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “The night of the full moon. I think it was planned that way. If the rally is Thursday, all of the attention will be focused on downtown Riley. Taggart and Jefferson will have free reign to do as they see fit.”

  I paused to catch my breath. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a stretch. I knew that. But after saying it out loud, it felt more plausible somehow. I waited while Rufus took his sweet time to respond.

  He cleared his throat. “I think it’s a pretty wild hunch, but it does have some interesting components. You need to disprove it so you can go to the next one.”

  That was actually way more support than I’d expected from Rufus. I let out the breath I’d been holding. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Now I just needed to figure out how to disprove it.

  “Earl,” he said, “what are we going to do about Susan and these kids?”

  “I’ve got an idea about that.”

  “You want to share it?”

  I looked over at Shelia. She was awake. “Not right now, but soon.”

  “Roger that. Earl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you find out about this hunch, I want you to know I’ll be there to help you however I can.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m always willing and ready to talk. The only thing on my schedule is to protest Jeb Walsh on Thursday night.”

  “Got it,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  I couldn’t help but feel a little worse after talking to him than I had before I’d called. Without coming out and saying it, I could tell Rufus was already thinking what I feared: that Mary was dead.

  Why else all the stuff about wanting to be there for me? I’m always ready and willing to talk. It sounded like what you told a person who’d just lost a loved one.

  “You know who you need to talk to?”

  The voice surprised me. I looked up and saw that it was Shelia. She’d obviously been paying attention to the entire conversation.

  “Who?”

  “My ex. One of the reasons I left him was because he was into some dark shit.”

  I walked over to the chair I’d slept in and sat down. “Dark shit?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t really know when to stop. Like most people have a little thing inside them that says something’s too far. You know, like it’s okay to do drugs…” She smiled sheepishly. “But selling them? That’s too far for me. I’m allowed to fuck up my own life, just not anybody else’s. Well, Frank—that’s my ex—he sold drugs and he did … other things … I couldn’t tolerate.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t even want to say, but if anybody knows about snuff films, it’s him. I’ll bet he’s seen his fair share.”

  “Does this ex have a last name?”

  She nodded. “Bentley. Frank Bentley.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  I suppose I was expecting to be given the address of some kind of out-of-the-way trailer or drug shanty kind of like this one, which explained why my mouth fell open when she answered my question.

  “He’s in Sommerville Chase.”

  37

  Susan showed up at a little after ten. I shook Ronnie awake. “I wrote down Martin’s number. I’ll be in touch.”

  He nodded at me, then stood up to give me a hug. “Thanks,” he said.

  “For what? You’re the one who saved my ass.”

  “For coming back for me. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Sure I did. Friends don’t abandon their friends.”

  I never thought I’d live to see Ronnie Thrash cry, but that was exactly what I saw. A single tear wet the corner of his eye, and he nodded at me, patting my back.

  “Well,” I said, “let’s see if Huck will let me by.”

  Luckily for me, Huck seemed to be elsewhere, and I jogged over to Susan’s Honda Accord.

  Rufus was in the back with the two kids, laughing at something. I climbed into the passenger seat, and Susan immediately put her hand on my arm. “We are so glad to see you. When I couldn’t get you last night, I thought something had happened, and I panicked. I don’t think I can do this without—” She stopped, suddenly aware that everyone—kids included—was listening to her.

  She patted my arm. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  I turned around. “And how are you guys?”

  Briscoe giggled and shouted something that sounded an awful lot like “Earl.” Virginia, ever calm, nodded slowly. “I think we’re causing you problems.”

  “Nope,” I said, probably a little more harshly than I intended. “You guys are doing the opposite of that. You guys are reminding me how important it is that I deal with my problems, and those don’t have anything to do with you guys.”

  “You’re just being nice,” Virginia said. “I’m not stupid. If we were back with Mo
m, you’d be free to find your girlfriend.”

  I didn’t have a good response for that, so I changed the subject. “You kids ever been to church?”

  “Church!” Briscoe shouted.

  Virginia rolled her eyes. “Mom sent us to church once. I didn’t like it.”

  “Yeah, I had the same experience, but sometimes, in the right situation, churches can be good.”

  “What in the hell are you going on about, Earl?” Rufus said.

  “I know where we can take the kids.”

  * * *

  The Church of the Holy Flame was established in 1970 by my father. The original building, of course, now belonged to Rufus. Squatters rights, or maybe just the rights you get when most people are too freaked out to come near you. The next building was a hell of an upgrade. Situated on the affluent east side of Riley, the church featured a sanctuary that could hold over a thousand congregants. There was a gym, an assembly center, an outdoor amphitheater, and a separate day school. The view from the sanctuary’s large windows was named by a local magazine as one of the top ten views in the state. What other church could claim such a thing?

  Yes, my father had created a megachurch. His son—my brother, Lester—had kept it going, and now that Daddy was dead and Lester was in prison, I was hoping that a lot had changed and one thing had not.

  With any luck, it would be a less fundamental place and a more Christian one. And hopefully, the Marcus name still carried some weight.

  I was encouraged on the first point when I got out of the car and walked toward the main entrance. The orange flames that had covered the space above the doorway when my brother had been the minister were gone, replaced by four words: Love—Joy—Family—God. If there had been four words hanging on Daddy’s version of the Holy Flame, they would have been Hell—Sin—Fornication—Damnation. At least if you wanted to go by the things he preached about the most.

  I pulled the door open and immediately saw a familiar face: Stephanie Walton. At one time she’d been my father’s personal assistant.

  She tensed up when she saw me coming. Surely she wasn’t still brainwashed enough to think I was somehow an agent of the devil? But as I drew closer, I saw that I might have read her reaction wrong. She stood up and came from behind the desk to embrace me.