Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  “Look, Reverend,” Sam said, “the best thing you can do for this town is pack up your toys and go back home. These are good people, but they’re stretched to the breaking point. Just let me and Sheriff Walker do our job and everything will be OK.”

  “This is not a secular war, Deputy Cody. This is a Holy war. Your investigative skills will be of little benefit. Only the power of God can win this battle.”

  “And I guess that power must be channeled through you?”

  “I am this town’s salvation. Soon they will see that and turn on you.” His ice blue eyes bored into her.

  Overcoming the chill that rippled through her, she leaned forward, refusing to succumb to his intimidation. “OK, Reverend.” She spat the title at him. “You can make this easy or rough. It’s your call.”

  “Are you threatening me, Deputy Cody?”

  “Warning. You have already broken enough laws to be deported back to Louisiana.”

  “Such as?”

  “Obstructing traffic flow and commerce, congregating without a permit, conducting business without a license.”

  “A business?” he said indignantly.

  “Selling trinkets and Bibles qualifies.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “Not to mention a few Federal statutes.” She nodded toward the door where Blue Eyes waited. “Such as the Mann Act.”

  Billy stood, towering over her. Carl edged to the front of his seat but did not rise. “Perhaps this conversation has ended,” he hissed.

  “Perhaps it has.” Sam stood. “And, perhaps you should remember what I said.”

  Sam yanked open the door and stepped out. She collided with Lanny Mills on the steps, stumbled, and fell to the ground, landing hard on her right hip. She jumped up, brushing dirt from the seat of her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m here to speak with the Reverend.”

  “Regarding?”

  “That would be between me and Reverend Billy,” Lanny snapped.

  “I see.”

  Belinda appeared in the open doorway. “Mister Mills. Are you OK?” She glared at Sam.

  “Yeah,” Lanny said.

  Belinda’s mouth curled into a haughty smile. She stepped back. “Please, come in,” she said to Lanny. “Reverend Billy is expecting you.” He walked past her and she closed the door sharply.

  *

  Nathan leaned against his car, watching the people stream out of the tent toward the makeshift parking lot. A few seemed to be full of God and glory, but most appeared sad, almost despondent, as if the answers they sought had not been found. They appeared as if they had hoped Reverend Billy would bring peace and hope to their lives, but apparently had not gained such comfort.

  In spite of himself, he felt an emptiness swell in his gut. These people were not the shallow, egocentric jerks he dealt with on a daily basis in LA. They were simple, common people whose lives had been imploded by a series of gruesome events that they could never have imagined, much less understand. Their fear and confusion hung in the air. He didn’t need or want to feel their pain or sadness or loss, he only needed a story. He wanted their emotions to flow from his pen, not from his heart.

  He looked up as Sam approached. She walked with angry strides, her ponytail wagging to and fro behind her. Her brow was furrowed and her jaw set. She was beautiful.

  “I take it, it didn’t go well?” he asked.

  “I don’t know why he infuriates me so much.”

  “Because he’s a parasite.”

  “And an arrogant, pompous ass.” She turned and looked back toward Billy’s bus and the seven faces that stared back from the caravan. “And now, that prick is holed up in there with Lanny Mills, cooking up God knows what.”

  “Relax. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Nathan laughed. “Cool your jets. Let’s go get some coffee.”

  “OK,” she said. “This late, you have two choices. Red’s or King’s Truck Stop.”

  “I’ll pass on Red’s.”

  She laughed. “I thought you might.”

  He walked her to her Jeep, then returned to his Mercedes and followed her toward King’s.

  Chapter 29

  Betty McCumber snuggled beneath the bed covers, filled with the words of Jesus, or rather with those of Reverend Billy. Of course, she saw little difference between the two. After all, both spoke God’s words. The fact that Jesus was the “true Son of God” didn’t diminish Reverend Billy’s bond to the Lord nor his sanctity in Betty’s eyes.

  After losing her husband to an unexpected heart attack three years earlier, she had questioned God’s mercy and His methods. At first, she told herself it was God’s divine plan and that one day He would reveal to her why her loving Wilbert was taken. She told herself it was a test of her faith. That carried her for six months, a year even. But, as she tore off the pages of the calendar that hung on the kitchen door, she spiraled into a deeper and deeper depression. Her love of God waned.

  She faithfully attended church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday night, but found no comfort in the services. At her lowest point, a place where suicide seemed an alternative, she found Reverend Billy. Scanning the stations on her radio one Sunday, trying to avoid the gospel music she usually listened to but now found annoying, his voice captured her. His flamboyant rhetoric drew her in. Since then, she never missed his broadcast, purchased and read all his books, and listened daily to his taped sermons, which she purchased through his mail-order catalog.

  She found that his words soothed but did not completely heal her wounds. Doubts remained in the corners of her mind like cobwebs near the ceiling, too high to reach, mostly unnoticed, but present none-the-less.

  The past month, however, had been a revelation for her. The three weeks she had sat in the jury box, feeling Richard Earl Garrett’s dark, threatening eyes upon her, enduring the horror of his sacrificial murder of those three innocent children, hearing him defend his actions by saying he was controlled by Satan, convinced her of one thing: Satan existed and he was here in Mercer’s Corner.

  If Satan existed, then God, too, must exist. If Satan was a living breathing entity, then God, too, must be real and tangible. If Satan had risen from the depths of Hell and created Richard Earl Garrett, then God must have descended from the throne of Heaven and breathed his spirit and his words into Reverend Billy Thibideaux.

  And now, Reverend Billy had come to expel Satan and his disciples. He was God’s avenging angel and Mercer’s Corner was to be the battleground between good and evil.

  After returning home from the revival, she had slipped on her flannel nightgown, made a cup of herbal tea, and crawled into bed with her Reverend Billy autographed and blessed Bible.

  Now, she leafed through the book, reading her favorite passages. She knew them by heart, but seeing the words added to their strength and credibility.

  “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” she said aloud, reading from the Twenty-third Psalm. Whenever she studied the Bible, she always began with this Psalm. Its lyrical nature had comforted and calmed her since she first learned it as a child.

  She flipped forward through the delicate pages, searching for the passage she wanted. Ecclesiastes, Chapter 8, Verse 8:

  “There is no man that hath power over

  the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath

  he power in the day of death...neither shall

  wickedness deliver those that are given to it.”

  She had read these words many times, but only now did she grasp their true meaning. Reverend Billy had been sent here by God to save the righteous and destroy the ungodly. He was God’s sword and would impale Richard Earl Garrett and those wicked children that followed him. He would return this community to God’s hands.

  She no longer feared dying at the hand of whoever had killed Margo and Roberto. Neither Garrett nor his followers could do battle with God and Reverend Billy. Sh
e was sure of that.

  She read for over an hour, from Proverbs, Psalms, Matthews, Acts, and several other books. As she devoured the words, fatigue crept over her, pulling her toward sleep. She resisted, wanting to hold on to the words, fearful of losing them, but sleep won out.

  The Bible dropped to her chest, her jaw relaxed, her glasses migrated down her nose, and she slept.

  *

  Penelope floated in a world of black satin bliss, buoyed by the cannabis in her blood stream and Melissa’s warm body intertwined with her own. Ripples of color, initially faint, barely noticeable, danced before her, then exploded into hues so brilliant they tore at her eyes. Waves and swirls and eddies dipped and dove, then formed long ribbons that clutched at her.

  The strands of color bound her ankles, her wrists, and wound around her throat, constricting like a hangman’s noose. She struggled for air, but found none. She was drowning in an ocean of color, held by some magnetic undertow, gripped by a rainbow of tethers. Kicking and twisting, she attempted to reach a surface that seemed not to exist.

  She remembered her eighth birthday, in Laguna Beach, where her parents had brought her to celebrate. She swam and played in the surf, wandering too far from shore. A powerful wave tossed her into the air, then dropped her into a forest of kelp. She could not distinguish up from down. She thrashed the water, searching for air, but the kelp tugged at her as if it were alive. Its sinewy arms held her, caressed her. Her panic grew. Then, as if by some miracle, the gray-green tentacles released her and she bobbed to the surface, sucking air in great gulps.

  Now, she fought the iridescent kelp with the same panic, but unlike before, it would not release its grip. Fatigue and resignation sapped her strength, weakened her struggle. When she was sure she could neither hold her breath nor struggle an instant longer, she punctured the surface.

  Penelope sat straight up, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath, shaking with a crystalline chill. She looked around, but could not penetrate the blackness that enveloped her. The darkness thickened, the air thickened, causing her to struggle to pull air into her lungs. Then, her world exploded with colors, as if a beam of light had fractured into its purest elements.

  She found herself dressed, outside the van, trudging up a velvety green slope, dotted with purple rocks and orange cacti. A battalion of iridescent yellow Chollos appeared to march down the hillside toward her. She wound through them, upward. To where? She didn’t know.

  She heard her name, far away, behind her. She turned and saw Melissa struggling up the incline toward her.

  “Penelope. Where are you going?”

  She wanted to answer, wanted to go to her and take her in her arms. She wanted to return to the van and recapture the warmth and love she had left. But, she could not.

  She continued upward until she neared the crest. Dropping to her knees near a twenty-foot shimmering emerald boulder, she clawed at the ground. Like a gopher digging for safety, she scooped away handfuls of gleaming golden soil until her fingers struck something solid, cold and hard.

  Melissa knelt beside her, gasping for breath. “What are you doing?”

  Penelope stared at her but could not respond. She lifted the object from its shallow grave and held it up. The pearly moonlight reflected off the eight-inch curved blade.

  “What’s that?” Melissa asked. “Penelope, what’s wrong with you?”

  Penelope turned the knife over in her hands. She stared at Melissa, but said nothing. Standing, she looked down toward the lights of town, which blazed like crown jewels. Diamonds, sapphires, emeralds on a velvety green palette. One jewel captured her gaze. Its ruby light knifed into her brain and burst into a thousand colors, like shards from a shattered cathedral window. She shuffled down the slope toward the light.

  Melissa hurried after her, clutching her arm, pleading. “Where are you going? Why are you acting so strange?”

  Her pleas squeezed Penelope’s heart, yet she could not turn back. The red beacon drew her.

  Melissa stepped into her path and pushed her hands into her chest. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Stop. Come back with me. I’m scared. I need you.”

  Penelope wanted, even needed, to go with her. She somehow sensed the crimson light was wrong, yet it wooed and enticed with such strength she could not turn away. She attempted to brush past Melissa, but the smaller girl clung to her, wrapping her arms around her. Melissa’s anguish flowed into her. For a brief moment, the colors of the landscape, the jewel-like lights, and the fiery beacon flickered, faded, wavered, and then snapped to new heights of intensity.

  “Please,” Melissa begged. “Come back with me. You’re scarring me.”

  Penelope extricated herself from her distraught lover, stepped past her, and continued toward the blood red light.

  Chapter 30

  Sam led, Nathan followed to King’s Truck Stop, where 20 or more big rigs jammed the parking lot. Many would be there for the night; others would climb back onto I-40 as soon as their drivers pounded down some calories and caffeine. They parked their cars near the building and away from the pack of trucks. Inside was also crowded and smelled like motor oil, sweat, and grease. They found a vacant corner booth and ordered black coffee and a shared piece of apple pie, heated and topped with vanilla ice cream. They laughed and dueled with forks over the last bites.

  “You’re dangerous with a fork in your hand,” Nathan teased.

  “My dad always said it was risky to get between me and food.”

  “I believe it,” he laughed.

  A plump brunette in a stained and yellowed apron refilled their cups with steaming coffee. “Anything else?”

  Nathan looked at Sam.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  “Just the check,” Nathan said.

  The waitress waddled away.

  “What’s he like?” Nathan asked.

  “My dad? He died when I was seventeen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was a good man.” She sipped her coffee. “Worked hard, mostly construction jobs, but always found time for me. I played softball, basketball, and ran track and he never missed an event.”

  “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “Every day.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Seven years after dad died, mom found out she had breast cancer. She went through two years of hell after that.”

  Nathan gave her a sympathetic look. “My mother died a couple of years ago of lung cancer. I never could get her to put the cigarettes down.”

  They sat quietly for a minute. Sam stared into her coffee as tears crept from the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision, creating a world of formless colors and shadows. Don’t start crying, she told herself. When she looked up, Nathan’s eyes had glazed also. He reached across the table and took her hand. A tear escaped and snaked down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “See what you started?” she sniffed, then laughed, feeling foolish for crying in front of Nathan, in front of a bunch of truckers.

  Using the corner of his napkin, Nathan dabbed tears from his own eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.” His thumb caressed the back of her hand. “I thought I was through crying over her. Guess I was wrong.”

  His Cocker Spaniel eyes, which before she thought were a practiced expression, suddenly seemed real, appropriate. She wanted to kiss him.

  “People are staring at us,” she said

  “No, they aren’t.”

  “Well, it feels that way.”

  The waitress dropped their bill on the table as she hustled by, one arm supporting four plates piled with hamburgers and fries.

  “Why did you leave LA and come back here?”

  “To be with mom. At the end.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  “This is home. I had forgotten that, during my time in LA. Staying just felt right. Besides, in LA I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “What do you mean?”


  “After UCLA and the Police Academy, I spent two years in uniform. I wanted to be a detective, but it was never going to happen. It’s a pretty tight group. Women aren’t often allowed in that circle.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  “Not really.” She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “I guess that was part of it. But basically, LA is a cesspool.”

  “Hey. That’s my home you’re talking about,” he smiled.

  “You can have it. Murders, gangs, drugs, corruption. It’s got it all. Anyway, Charlie had been trying to get me to come back here ever since I finished the Academy. I helped him out while mom was sick and after...well...he offered me a job and I took it.”

  “He seems like a good guy.”

  “He is. And a great Sheriff.”

  They sat quietly for a minute, sipping the last of their coffee. Sam broke the silence. “Sometimes I wish...” She stopped, unsure what she wished, hoping he would say something, but when he didn’t she continued. “Sometimes I wish I had stayed in LA.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d know more. Understand more. I’ve had a fairly sheltered existence. I feel totally unprepared for everything that’s going on around here.”

  “And LA would have educated you?” he asked.

  “It did you.”

  He shrugged. “At a price.”

  “How so?”

  He stared into his coffee. “Cynicism. Paranoia. They’re staples in LA. And they don’t fall away from you at the city limits. They follow you, take some of the joy from life.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she said.

  “Are you happy here?”

  “Yeah. At least I was. Until all this shit came down.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “I guess I got too comfortable with the simplicity of life here. Maybe this chaos was sent to pay me back.”

  “By whom?” Nathan asked.

  “God. For becoming complacent. For not going to church anymore.”

  “Maybe.”