In the Valley of the Devil

by Hank Early

  The guard frowned. “Say again?”

  “I’m not into the whole last name thing. You know, it’s just Neal. Like Madonna or Prince.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Serious as a heart attack.”

  He looked at me for a long time, as if trying to determine if I was pulling one over on him. I kept a straight face and waited. Finally, he looked back at his list. “I don’t see a plain Neal on here,” he said.

  “Damn it,” I said. “I’ve got the code. I unlocked my phone and pulled up the photo. “You ready?”

  He still looked a little stunned. “Ready.”

  I called out the five-digit number. He nodded. “That’s it. I reckon you can go on in.”

  The gate opened. I nodded at the guard and drove through.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I eased by the same houses I’d passed the other night, drawing some looks from a couple of men standing in their yards with beers.

  I came to Frank Bentley’s place, and I remembered standing over him in his foyer, pointing the gun at his head.

  The GPS told me to keep on going.

  I crested a hill, and my headlights illuminated a house that dwarfed even Bentley’s. But more impressive than the size was the location. It sat up on a ridge, positioned so that the front of the house was looking off the sheer side of the mountain while the back of the house over-looked a long, sloping hill that appeared as if it went on forever down the other side.

  A sign appeared, telling me to turn right for the Villas Monroe or continue straight to The Top o’ Mountain.

  I turned right and followed the winding road to a leveled parking lot that was close to full. I drove around a bit and finally found a spot I could squeeze into. What kind of private home had a parking lot? The kind that threw a lot of parties, I decided.

  Once out of the car, I saw another sign hanging from a tree. It told me to follow the arrows to the front entrance.

  Forget that. There was no way I was going in the front door. Instead, I walked in the opposite direction, toward the sloping back woods. I stepped off the asphalt and onto the grass, nearly losing my balance on an unexpected root.

  Not so far away, I heard the sounds of the party. Laughing, bits of conversation that merged into a monotonous murmur, and the tinkle of music—light jazz, I thought. I crept along a ridgeline, trying to find a way to the party, but it was dark, and the dense trees hid the light of the moon. I pulled out my penlight and shined it out in front of me. That was when I realized I wasn’t just walking along a ridge; I was actually on a path. It rose sharply before me, and someone had placed a metal handgrip in the side of one of the big trees. I reached for it and pulled myself up and over the steep rise. What greeted me was both marvelous and somehow terrifying.

  The trees parted here to reveal the view on the north side of the mountain, all of it illuminated by soft light from an almost full moon. Acres of forestland stretched out from the base of the mountain for miles before shifting suddenly into a golden field of moonlit corn. This too stretched and stretched, defying all common sense, before—in the far, far distance—I could just make out a dark scar of the highway cutting through the gold like an infection marring an otherwise healthy body.

  And farthest away of all, I could just make out a tiny house, a single light burning on the second story. I wondered if Lane Jefferson was sitting up, watching television, waiting for another victim to wander onto his land.

  Or maybe he had the Old Nathaniel outfit on already, peering at his reflection in the mirror through the narrow eye slits.

  But what if it wasn’t Jefferson? What if he was the cameraman? Honestly, Old Nathaniel had seemed taller than Jefferson. And there was the dark, strawberry-shaped tattoo on his neck. I didn’t remember Jefferson having one of those. Of course, Jefferson didn’t really look like the man I’d seen holding the camera near the water tower today either. Not that I’d gotten enough of a look at him to really be sure.

  I tried to remember the voice I’d heard behind the small house just before Jason had been killed. The problem was, I’d almost need to hear it again and to compare it in real time to Jefferson’s—or anyone’s for that matter—to draw any kind of conclusion.

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter. What mattered, I told myself, was what was right in front of my face. Proximity. The fact that Tag Monroe’s home was so close to the cornfield was one more tiny nail in the coffin. This was wide-ranging and deep. I wasn’t just trying to take down Old Nathaniel—I was trying to take down the whole apparatus that made it possible for him to exist.

  I couldn’t stop looking at the view. It was truly spectacular and truly sad, especially when I realized—one way or another, dead or alive—Mary was out there somewhere, between where I stood right now and Lane Jefferson’s house.

  She had to be alive, right? Because otherwise why plan the rally on a Thursday, which just happened to coincide with a full moon?

  “Nice view, isn’t it?”

  I turned and saw a man standing a few feet behind me. I couldn’t be sure, but something told me it was Monroe. You can usually determine who a party’s host is if you’re paying attention. They’re nearly always the most relaxed person in the room. This man was certainly the most relaxed person on this ridge.

  He was a small man with dark hair and a quick smile. I immediately compared him to Old Nathaniel. Far too small. But that didn’t surprise me too much. He was the director, not the star. Tag wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he had a certain kind of pugnacity that, along with his obvious financial means, probably made him attractive to certain kinds of women. And confidence too. He fairly oozed it.

  “I’m not sure we know each other,” he said, stepping forward, holding out a small, thick hand. “Tag Monroe.”

  “Bob Jenkins.” It just came out, and thank god it did, because telling him my real name would have been just about the most natural—and the most foolish—thing I could have done. The same went for telling him I was Neal. Hell, that might have even been worse.

  “I’m going to call you Bobby. That okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to feel out the role I should play.

  He still had not let go of my hand, and I wasn’t sure what that was about—some kind of overcompensation strategy? Or maybe he was just that enthusiastic about meeting new people.

  “You live down on Fern Lane?” he said, and I could tell he was perplexed by my presence. He wasn’t used to finding people at his parties he didn’t recognize.

  My mind spun, trying to think of how to best play it. “Actually, I’m the head brewer down at the Brew House. I hope it’s all right that I stopped by. I’ve been hearing about your parties.”

  “Absolutely. Everyone in the community is welcome, my friend. Especially someone who brews the drink of the gods!” He finally let go of my hand but immediately started patting me on the shoulder. “I love your Mountain Vine IPA. What kind of hops are those?”

  I reached back in my memory for something I’d heard recently. “Citra,” I said, hoping to God that was a real thing.

  “That’s it? Single hop? Oh shit, man, you are a genius. Any plans to bottle or can any of the beers? I also really like the Mountain Honey. I think honey and lagers always work.”

  “We’re working on the licensing now. We’ll can the Mountain Vine first.”

  “Cannot wait. I’ve got some of it at the house in growlers right now. Let’s head down for a drink.”

  “Sure,” I said, deciding if worse came to worst, I could bolt at any time.

  He led me back down the path, and I decided to take advantage of his friendliness because I knew it wasn’t going to last. “So, who owns all that corn?” I asked.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know already.”

  “Why would I?”

  He laughed, seemingly pleased by my challenge. “Well, it’s been in the news a bit lately. A woman went missing.” He laughed. “Supposedly they found her head.
Gruesome stuff.”

  “Oh, wow, didn’t hear that. You said, supposedly. Does that mean you don’t believe they did?”

  “Well, they found something, but it’s sort of like the old saying about how all the coloreds look alike”—he ribbed me with his elbow—“skulls are the same way. They won’t know for sure until they run tests.” He shrugged. “You know, you should name a beer after the legend that’s regaining popularity these days. It’s from the same valley. Have you heard of Old Nathaniel? I think that would be a perfect name for a high-alcohol barley wine. Actually, that’s the name of my next film. Perhaps we could do a collaboration?”

  “You make movies?”

  He stopped and looked at me curiously. “You really didn’t know that?”

  I saw instantly that I’d tried to play a little too dumb. Now he was suspicious.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not always up on things. You know, I’m either brewing beer or drinking it.”

  He clapped me on the back again. “That’s the life, I guess.”

  “It’s what I love.”

  “Well, you need to come over more often. I’ll have you up for a screening sometime.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve got some movies that you’ll never see anywhere else. I do private screenings you know. Private for a reason.”

  “You mean like porn or something?”

  He grinned. “Something like that.”

  “Sure,” I said. “How about tonight?”

  He shook his head. “Tonight,” he said, “we party.”

  We walked on, the sounds from the party closer now.

  “World is changing, you know?”

  “How so?”

  He stopped at the bottom of the path. I could see the lights from the party just a couple of hundred yards away. “You really don’t keep up with much, do you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Look, you’re at my house, so I’m not going to pull punches. That okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Once, our country was great, but three things happened that created our current situation of utter decay.”

  “Three?”

  “Three.” He held up one finger. “Number one, white people started feeling sorry for the blacks. It started in the sixties and it’s only gotten worse. Two, women decided they wanted another role other than mother. It’s unnatural and unhealthy. Kids need their mothers in the home. And three, immigration has gotten out of control, especially among those that worship Allah and believe that Westerners are the devil. Any questions?”

  I didn’t have questions. I wanted to punch him in the face, but instead I simply shook my head. “Right on.”

  He smiled. “Good, a white man who doesn’t let guilt run his life. Let me introduce you to some people.”

  He led me across the woods and through an opening in the hedges. Here was the party. Dozens of nice-looking people standing around with drinks, probably talking about how white privilege didn’t exist. I swallowed down the bile creeping up the back of my throat and decided to do the thing that would help Mary the most: pretend to be one of them.

  46

  Taggart introduced me to several people—a drunk, middle-aged actress named Mercy; another director named Kurt something or other, who Tag claimed was nothing short of “visionary”; and his wife, a petite beauty at least twenty-five years his junior—but when I saw Jeb Walsh across the courtyard, I excused myself, asking for the restroom.

  “Just inside the kitchen,” Taggart said. “There’s probably a line, though. Go upstairs. Use that one if you want.” He leaned in. “I wouldn’t open any doors though. You never know what you’ll find.” He patted my back and cackled loudly as I walked away.

  There actually wasn’t a line at the kitchen bathroom, but I wanted to explore as much as possible while I was here. But before I could even make it to the steps, a snippet of conversation stopped me cold.

  From somewhere to my right I heard “… he’s already released the early scenes.”

  “But not the actual hunt?”

  “Nah, that’ll only be available in the final version.”

  Now, that word hunt certainly wasn’t unheard of in the South. In fact, even when I turned around to look, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d misheard the first stuff about “early scenes” and they were just two good old boys talking about hunting deer.

  They sure fit the stereotypical profile. They were both broad-shouldered young men and looked about the right age to be heading out to the woods early and often to hunt deer, but there was something else about them that made me think it was more likely they were talking about a different, darker kind of hunt. Maybe it was their hair. I’d never seen any good old boys—rich or poor—with their hair parted so severely and gelled up like theirs was. They also wore hipster suits. Their ties were too broad and too bright, and their pants a little too skinny. I moved toward the refrigerator, pretending to look inside for something to eat.

  They continued to talk for a while, but from what I could tell, they’d shifted the conversation to complaining about how lazy their wives were.

  I decided to take a chance. I turned, smiling at them. “Did I hear you boys talking hunting a minute ago?”

  They both fell silent and looked at me suspiciously. Finally, the one with the bright red tie spoke. “We don’t hunt. You must have heard wrong.”

  “No, I’m quite sure. I heard one of you say something about ‘the hunt.’”

  “Do you even live in Sommerville Chase?” Blue Tie said.

  “No, I’m the head brewer at the brewhouse.” I hoped to hell neither of them spent enough time there to know I was full of shit.

  “Well, I think you’re in the wrong fucking place. This is for residents and invited guests only.” Red Tie stepped forward, like he wanted to make this physical. I would have honestly loved nothing more, but I couldn’t afford to get kicked out yet.

  “Sorry then,” I said, and stepped away quickly around the corner. Once clear, I sprinted toward the steps. A woman in a long evening gown was coming down them, so I slowed up and pretended to laugh at myself as if drunk. She rolled her eyes and slipped past me. I started up the steps, keeping my eyes peeled for Walsh coming inside, but I didn’t see him anywhere. I made it to the top of the stairs and found a huge loft-like landing that overlooked the kitchen. Here was the jazz band—all white, of course—playing some kind of sanitized version of the real thing. Some people were dancing while others sat in plush leather furniture, watching. I slipped behind the couches, heading for the next set of steps, a spiral staircase leading up to the third floor.

  The third floor consisted of a common room where the party continued. A long hallway ran from either side of the common room. I tried both directions, pretending to look for a bathroom. I counted three bathrooms and six bedrooms, but nothing unusual.

  I decided to sit down and try to listen a bit. There was an open spot on one of the couches beside a woman with short red hair and a dress barely long enough to cover her breasts and ass at the same time. She kept pulling it up and down, trying to get the coverage just right.

  I smiled at her and she smiled back.

  “You been to many of these parties?” I asked.

  “A few.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re an actress?”

  She giggled, and I realized she was either a little drunk or high. Just a little, but enough to lower her inhibitions. She uncrossed her legs slowly, offering me a telling peak at what she wore—or didn’t wear, as was the case—underneath. She smiled, crossing her legs again.

  “I’m Tag’s secretary,” she said. “I would like to be an actress.” She giggled again. The man sitting beside her turned and glared at her.

  “Are you flirting with this man?” he said.

  “And so what if I am?” she said.

  The man sighed and looked at me. He was probably thirty, well dressed, handsome in a well-heeled, polished sort of way. “Trust me,” he said,
as he stood, “you don’t want any part of this. The pleasure isn’t worth the pain.”

  “Fuck you,” the redhead said. She turned back to me. “That’s my boyfriend, but I swear sometimes it feels more like I’m dating my dad.”

  I waited until he walked away and replied, “He’s got a damn stick up his ass. If I had a girl like you, I’d let you play.” I gave her my best crooked smile, hoping she was adventurous enough to want to go into one of the bedrooms with me. Not because I wanted to have sex with her, but because if she was willing to do that, she’d also be willing to tell me more. Like where I could find the videos Taggart had already filmed. “The early scenes,” as Red Tie had called them.

  “I like you,” she said. “I’m Lilac.”

  “I like you too, Lilac. Is that like the flower?”

  “It is. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Bob,” I said.

  She bit her lip, suggestively. “You look like a country boy, Bobby.”

  I nodded. “I tend to think of myself as a hillbilly.”

  She giggled. “I’ll bet hillbillies know a thing or two that city boys don’t.”

  “Maybe we do.”

  She leaned forward, showing me some cleavage and a little more. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Us hillbillies, well, we tend to be a little more basic. A little more—shit—primal, I reckon.”

  “Ooh, say that again.”

  “Which part?”

  “Primal.”

  “We’re more primal,” I said, in my lowest, deepest growl. I didn’t know much about fashion or what to wear to attract women, but over the years, I’d learned that I had one damn good weapon: my deep voice.

  “Oh, I like you,” she said. “Does that primal stuff include, you know, the best way to fuck a lady?”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t had any complaints.”

  A couple sitting on a nearby couch got up and glared at us as they walked away.

  “So, why don’t you act in one of Taggart’s films?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? I want to be a real actress. Nobody sees his stuff anyway except for, like, mentally deranged, stalker dudes and Klansmen.”