by Ann B. Ross
But we were packed in the pew so tightly that I was crammed against the wall, with all those fat people between us and the aisle wedged in like Vienna sausages in a can.
A sudden commotion started up at the front of the church. People—men and women—gathered around the lectern, some moaning, some praying and some kneeling around a wooden box that a young man placed on the floor.
I didn’t know the significance of the box and couldn’t see what they were doing with it until Deacon Chester bent over it, darted his hand down and came up with a three-foot-long snake so angry that I could hear its rattles over the din.
Deacon Chester held that reptile up so that it was looking him right in the face. “If you got the faith, you can take up serpents,” he shouted at it. “But if you ain’t got it, you better stand clear. Don’t tempt the Lord!”
Etta Mae’s eyes popped wide and her mouth dropped open. The hand I held turned ice-cold, and sweat began to bead on her face. “I got to get outta here,” she moaned.
Another shriek ripped through the air as a different man held up a coiling snake, its white mouth so wide it looked unhinged. The tail wrapped around his arm, and he reached down and picked up another one in his other hand. He held it aloft, its head darting toward him as he closed his eyes and hopped around on one foot.
But when he let the thing slither around his neck, Etta Mae screamed and jumped straight up. The fat lady next to her oozed into the space she’d vacated and yelled, “She’s a-comin’, Lord, she’s a-comin’!”
Well, actually she was a-going, because—I don’t know how she did it—crying and shivering, she scooted over all those mounded laps like a water bug skimming across a pond. She hit the aisle running. Out the door she went, with me bumbling along behind her. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I kept mumbling, pushing hard past those larded knees, determined to get out of that place.
Finally, I got through, then had to dodge a woman whirling around in the aisle. Stumbling, I made it to the door, so anxious to get out that I almost forgot my manners. Recalling the excellent meal so generously shared with us, I pulled a fairly large bill out of my pocketbook, handed it to a man who looked only halfway entranced and said, “Put this in the collection plate, please. To cover our dinner.”
I practically ran to the car, which Etta Mae already had cranked with the air-conditioning on high. She had to unlock the door to let me in.
“Let’s go,” I said, collapsing inside, wanting to pull my feet up on the seat.
Etta Mae, shivering and trembling, slammed the car in reverse, spun the wheel and threw up gravel as we headed away. “I have never, never, never in my life seen anything like that,” she said between gulps of air. Big shudders ran through her body as she guided the car down the road and out onto the highway. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight,” she said. “I hate those things.” Then she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “At least we’ll have a tale to tell when we get home, if anybody will believe us. And if we ever get back.”
“Lord, yes,” I said, using a Kleenex to wipe perspiration from my face. A few shudders were running up and down my back. “But, Etta Mae, we have to do what Emma Sue Ledbetter always recommends and look on the bright side. Although I’m not sure it was worth what we’ve just been through, we did have a wonderful meal, much better than Bud’s Best Burgers. I would never tell Lillian, but that fried chicken was almost better than hers.”
My effort to bring about a little normalcy didn’t seem to have much effect. Etta Mae kept driving toward Pearl’s, an intent look on her face and her mind on the Sunday afternoon traffic. Four cars and a farm truck passed on their way to town.
Finally, she said, “They say rattlesnake tastes just like chicken.”
I thought about that for a second or two, then my throat clutched up and I swallowed hard. My hand flew to my mouth. “Pull over, Etta Mae. Quick!”
Chapter 18
When we drove in at Pearl’s, Etta Mae stopped by the office, saying she’d be back in a minute.
“Wait, Etta Mae,” I said, opening my pocketbook. “Much as I hate to, we better pay for another night.” I handed her the money, hoping our cabin had not been rented while we’d been witnessing what it meant to have “signs following” a church service.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.” And soon she was, bringing with her a broom that she put in the backseat.
I was feeling too weak to ask why she wanted to do some cleaning, but I soon found out. When we walked to the cabin door, she told me to wait there, and then, holding the broom, she took a flying leap and landed on the bed, Dingo boots and all. Then she commenced to swing that broom around, swishing it back and forth under the bed and across the tops of the windows and in the corners of the room. Then she jumped down and did the same thing in the closet and bathroom.
“Okay, Miss Julia,” she said. “You can come on in now. No snakes, thank goodness.”
Grateful for her thoughtfulness, I eased my way to the bed, took off my shoes and lay down. She brought in our bags again, locked the door, then stretched out beside me.
“I am wrung out,” she said. “Remind me never to visit a strange church again. I’m sticking with the Baptists.” She turned over, then said, “How are you feeling? Want me to try to find a drugstore and get something for your stomach?”
“Oh, no. It’s much better. I’m just awfully tired. Let’s try to get a little nap.”
She mumbled agreement and we lay there, trying—or at least I did—to block out the image of writhing snakes going up and down arms and across shoulders.
After a while, I said, “Etta Mae?”
“Hm-m?”
“Sheriff McAfee wasn’t there, was he?”
She turned back over. “No’m, I don’t see how he could’ve been. As soon as we sat down, I looked at every man in the place. And he’s tall. We would’ve seen him if he’d been there.”
“I think so, too. Well, I guess we just went to the wrong place. Who would’ve thought there’d be more than one Church of God in such a small town. Now, if it had been the Baptists, I could understand it. Wherever there’s one Baptist church, there’s always another one. Or two. No offense, Etta Mae.”
“Oh, you can’t tell me anything about the Baptists I don’t already know. But, Miss Julia, I think we must’ve gone to the wrong place. I asked the man in the office if there was a plain ole Church of God without any signs following, but he didn’t know. He said he liked the preaching on television because when they passed the plate, he didn’t have to put anything in.”
“I wish we’d asked somebody with some sense before we went,” I said. Then after thinking about it for a few minutes, I went on. “There’s one other possibility, Etta Mae. I hate to think the sheriff would do this, but he might’ve figured we’d follow him and told us the wrong church on purpose.”
Etta Mae sprang straight up. “Would he do that?” she asked incredulously. Then she flopped back on the pillow. “Why, that sorry thing! And I thought he was so nice.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure. He could’ve been planning to be there, but got called away. I’ll tell you one thing, though, you won’t catch me going to a church with any kind of signs ever again. I don’t care whether they’re following or leading, I’ve had my fill of them.”
“You and me,” she said fervently.
A roll of thunder wakened us sometime later. I looked out the window to see the trees being lashed by the wind as the day darkened. Rain came pouring down, and I wondered what we’d do with ourselves for the rest of the long night ahead. We’d missed our chance with the sheriff until morning at least. There was nothing in the room to help us pass the time—no television, no radio, and no books or magazines. Etta Mae was quite pleasant company, but as far as I was concerned, she didn’t qualify as entertainment. Nor I for her.
She sat up in bed and yawned. “You hungry?”
“I guess I am,” I said, checking inwardly on the state of my stomach. “I’m not sure I
want to go out in this storm, though.”
Etta Mae got up and looked out the window. “It’ll stop in a few minutes—it’s just a little mountain shower. They probably come every afternoon.” She went into the bathroom, and when she came back, she said, “Why don’t I go and see if I can find some sandwich makings? We can eat in here and you won’t have to go out.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, that would suit me.”
I handed her a few bills, then went on, “While you’re out, go ahead and fill up with gas.”
She grinned. “Okay, we’ve probably used almost a whole quarter of a tank.”
“Well,” I said, “I like—”
“To be prepared,” she finished. “I know, and I will.”
It was well over an hour later when she returned, bearing cold drinks and a sack filled with a loaf of bread, small jars of mayonnaise and mustard, a vacuum-packed package of ham and one of bologna, two small bags of potato chips, one plastic knife, and two bananas. We spread it all out on the tiny table and began to make sandwiches.
“Sure wish we had a tomato to go with this baloney,” Etta Mae said, slapping on a slice of bread to top off her sandwich. “But,” she went on, “I ought to be thankful for what we have. I drove all over town looking for a grocery store and the only thing open was a convenience store. These bananas were the only fresh things they had.”
Limiting myself to the ham, because after my experience earlier in the day I didn’t trust the ingredients in the other, I made a sandwich. “This is fine, Etta Mae, and I’m glad you didn’t look any longer. I was beginning to get worried about you.”
“Well, actually, I saw something that delayed me for a while.” She put down her sandwich and propped her elbows on the table. “When I passed the sheriff’s office, it looked like something big was going on: lots of cars and trucks in the lot with cops going and coming, a couple with dogs, even. And every one of them had these big, wicked-looking guns, and they were all bulked up with bulletproof vests. Well, I couldn’t pass that by, so I went around the block and nosed out of a side street where I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. I watched for a good while, trying to figure out what they were doing.” She took a drink from her soda can. “And I’ll tell you something else. Some of those cops were ATF guys. I saw it on their windbreakers.”
“That’s Alcohol and what?”
“Tobacco and Firearms. Miss Julia, I think they’re going on a raid. And what I’m wondering is whether it has anything to do with J.D.”
“Oh, my word, you reckon?”
“I don’t know, but the sheriff sure implied that something was going on that J.D. might be a part of. Or rather, that he suspected J.D. was a part of.”
“Yes, he did, but we know he’s not.” I put down my half-eaten sandwich and thought about this development. “Think about it, Etta Mae. The sheriff said that Mr. Pickens was found way back in the woods in suspicious circumstances. I don’t know what he meant by suspicious circumstances, but when a person is found off in the woods, shot and stripped of identification, that’d be suspicious enough for anybody. So,” I went on, trying to think it through, “maybe that’s where they’re going tonight—back into the woods where Mr. Pickens was found to search the surrounding circumstances.” I pondered the matter a little longer, then went on some more. “But why have they waited until tonight to do it? They found Mr. Pickens days ago. Seems like they’d have jumped right on it at the time.”
“Maybe they waited to see if J.D. could tell them anything. Or maybe the ATF was busy somewhere else, and they had to wait for them. But after what I saw tonight, they weren’t just going to search somewhere. That was a bunch of guys getting ready to raid something. And it could be that meth lab Coleman heard about. Except,” she paused, thinking, “it’d be the DEA if that was the case.”
“I don’t think it matters,” I said, getting excited at finally being able to put a few things together. “But what I don’t understand is why the sheriff thinks Mr. Pickens had anything to do with such a criminal enterprise.”
“Why, that’s easy. I’ll bet you anything that J.D. was found close to where they think the lab is. And I bet you that’s why he got shot. He got too close and saw too much.”
“Well, it does stand to reason, doesn’t it? And you know what else stands to reason? That if we could get Mr. Pickens out of that hospital, we could have him across the state line by the time Sheriff McAfee knows he’s gone. I mean if they are raiding that laboratory, the sheriff is going to be pretty busy for the next few hours. We could be in and out and gone while he has his hands full.”
Etta Mae’s eyes got big and round. “You think we could? All three of us could end up in jail.”
“I don’t see why,” I said, becoming more and more convinced that we needed to strike while the iron was hot, or while the sheriff was tromping through the woods. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I asked the sheriff directly if Mr. Pickens was under arrest, and he said no. He said he was either a criminal or a potential witness, and even if the sheriff doesn’t know which one he is, we do.”
Etta Mae sat still, her eyes roving about the room as she thought about it. “If we did,” she said, “I mean, if we could do it, it’d make Sheriff McAfee really, really mad.”
“At this point, I don’t care. He either pulled a trick on us by sending us to that church this morning or he’s a snake handler himself, so making him mad is the least of my worries.
“Listen, Etta Mae,” I went on. “We can leave a note saying that Mr. Pickens will come back to testify if he’s needed. That would be sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Golly, I don’t know.” Etta Mae leaned back in her chair, sandwich and drink forgotten, as she considered what we’d have to do. “How would we get him out?”
“I’ve been giving that some thought, and here’s what I’ve come up with. You brought your nurse’s uniform, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “Brought a scrub suit. But, Miss Julia, it won’t do us any good. That ole biddy of a nurse would recognize me in a minute, I don’t care what I had on.”
“She wouldn’t recognize me, though, would she?”
Chapter 19
So there I was, pulling on pants again, and because Etta Mae was a size small and not very tall, I filled them out almost too well. I knew Etta Mae had a collection of varicolored scrub suits—V-necked tops and drawstring pants, some blue and some green—but I was pleased that she’d brought a plain white set, because white looked more professional. I figured I’d need all the help I could get.
“Etta Mae,” I said, looking down at my feet, which stuck out from those drawstring drawers that ended above my ankles, “I don’t think these navy Ferragamo pumps go with the rest of my ensemble.”
Etta Mae got tickled and started laughing. “They sure don’t. Here, try these on.” She handed me a pair of white running shoes that had soles thick enough to cushion a million steps. “They’re what I wear.”
“My word,” I said, struggling to get them on, “I feel like an evil stepsister trying on a glass slipper. My toes are so cramped up, they’ll never be the same.” Have I mentioned that Etta Mae was a tiny girl and that her top was too tight on me and her pants too short and her shoes not even close to the size of my feet?
“Why don’t you wear your own shoes till we get there? That way, you won’t cripple yourself.” She was still laughing, but I wasn’t. “Okay,” she said, trying to get with the program, “let’s pin this on.” She handed me a black plastic name tag reading E. M. WIGGINS, C.N.A., and showed me where to pin it.
“What does C.N.A. mean? In case somebody asks?”
“Certified Nursing Assistant,” she said, then tapping a finger against her mouth, she studied the problem. “But if anybody questions you, tell them you’re a certified nutrition aide. They’ll think you’re a kitchen worker and won’t pay you any mind. The regular kitchen and the diet kitchen are sorta a no-man’s-land to the nurses anyway.”
�
��Well, but by the time we get there, it’ll be way past suppertime. What would a kitchen worker be doing wandering the halls close to midnight?”
“Let me think a minute.” She sat down while I waited. “I’ve got it. You can say that the head dietician left an order for you to do a random check with patients to see what they think of the food. You know, if they have any complaints about what they’re served. And don’t worry, we’re going to get there way before midnight. In fact, we ought to be there just as visiting hours are ending, so it won’t seem too odd for you to be in and out of patient rooms. They’ll all still be awake.”
“You mean I’ve got to really ask them what they think of the food? Oh, Etta Mae, I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Sure you can. I wish we had a clipboard for you, but here, here’s a little pad and a pen. Just carry that around and jot down a few notes—room number, patient name, any complaints—like that. You’ll look so official nobody’ll say a thing. Now listen, Miss Julia,” she went on, “the only people you have to worry about are the nurses—they think they’re queen bees anyway, especially at night when the doctors aren’t around. If anybody stops you, well, just remember to mention these words: dietician and order. And you can throw in special diets if you think of it. Other than that, you don’t know anything. They don’t expect you to know anything anyway. Kitchen help is just kitchen help, so being ignorant won’t be suspicious. You’re just doing what you’ve been told.”
“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, dreading what was to come. “Well, tell me this. How am I going to get into Mr. Pickens’s room, if it is his room? From the way that nurse jumped on you, they’re watching it all the time. I can’t just waltz in there, can I?”
“No, don’t do that. But here’s the beauty of the plan: you can go in and out of the other rooms while there’re nurses around to see you. But as soon as the coast is clear—you know, when they’re working on charts or giving meds or whatever—you can scoot right into the last room on the right. And if he’s not in there, scoot right back out and check the room across the hall. He’s got to be in one of them, if he’s there at all. And if he’s not, then get out of there and we’ll decide what to do next.”
