Heaven's Crooked Finger

by Hank Early

  I felt like getting angry, but I’d been through too much to let this foolish woman stop me.

  “Okay,” I said. “I understand.”

  Rufus laughed. “This must be some kind of joke.”

  “You and Marsha can go,” I said. “Take care of Goose for me.”

  “You sure about this, Earl?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I think things will make a lot more sense soon.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t.” I tried to sound angry, dismissive.

  I sensed Miss Laney’s approval and added, “Stay away, Rufus. Far away from me. I’m trying to get things right.”

  I wished he could have seen me. I believed he would have seen the pain in my face as I pretended to reject him. It was my only chance. I hoped he understood.

  * * *

  She led me to a room whose walls were lined with bookshelves holding hundreds of cassette tapes. Each was labeled on the case with a date.

  “I started taping in 1984. These represent every sermon your daddy gave since that time up until February of this year. Thirty-one years, nearly two thousand tapes.” She bowed her head. “I only wish I had access to his sermons now.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said without thinking. “He’s dead.”

  “Was dead,” she said. “He lives again. He’s in the mountains, hidden away, waiting for you. Your father was the only man I ever knew who could discern God’s most intimate plans. Even on that day you rejected him, he saw the greater plan, how God would bring you back.”

  I had to resist arguing with her. I wanted to tell her if this was God’s plan, God wasn’t nearly as brilliant as advertised. Or as loving, when you considered all the collateral damage done just to get me to come back home again.

  “Do the people at the church—at the Holy Flame—believe this, that he’s risen again?”

  She shrugged. “I left the Holy Flame. Your brother is not your father. His failings are beyond comprehension. He is as possessed by Satan as you ever were.”

  “Andromalius,” I said.

  She nodded. “Satan has many names.”

  “You think Lester is possessed?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I do. He is attempting to tear your father’s church apart piece by piece. It’s only the presence of good men like Billy Thrash and Hank Shaw that give the church any hope.” She smiled. “And you. I think you have come back to save the Holy Flame.”

  I almost laughed. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Still, as amusing as I found her words, the suggestion was deeply troubling. There was a sense that even in death, my father had orchestrated a plan so intricate, so manipulative, I was now walking headlong, eyes wide open, right where he wanted me to go.

  “The tape?” I said.

  “Of course. You just need to tell me which one. He said you’d know.”

  I told her the date that had been tattooed on McCauley’s wrist. She nodded, pleased with my answer, and walked over to one of the shelves. She plucked one of the last tapes free and placed it into an old tape recorder.

  “It was one of his last, right after your uncle died.”

  She pressed play.

  “I’ll leave you now. Your father has requested that no one else hear it.”

  She closed the door, and I listened to the hiss of static and then the strains of Aunt Mary Lee’s piano fading into the background. Heavy steps trod across a stage, and then that voice—that awesome, soulful voice that had ruined so many lives—began to speak.

  51

  The sermon was short and relatively simple. It was—dare I say it—tame, at least in comparison with the ones I remember as a kid.

  He spent most of it speaking of family, of the importance of looking out for one another. He worked his way around to a story about him and his brother, Otis, when they were boys.

  “Otis died last week when his heart gave out. I spoke at his funeral two days ago, and I’ll repeat now what I said then. He was a good man, a godly man. In the end, nothing else matters.”

  He paused for what seemed like a long time. Someone from the congregation shouted, “Amen,” but Daddy still didn’t say anything.

  The quiet continued for an abnormally long time.

  When Daddy spoke again, his voice was low. “I miss my brother. But God has a plan. It’s hard to believe sometimes, but God will use his death for his glory.”

  “Amen!” It sounded like Billy Thrash, forever Daddy’s right-hand man, forever giving him backup when he needed it most.

  “There’s another death I don’t talk about much. Some of you remember when my little girl, Aida, died.”

  I sat up as a chill snaked down my spine. I’d never heard him speak Aida’s name since the day I found him crying over her grave.

  “I loved that little girl, and when she died . . .” His voice broke a little. “When she died, I questioned God. I did, brothers and sisters. I questioned how God could do that. How it could possibly further his kingdom. But I just had to trust that it did. Well, recently, brothers and sisters, recently I’ve been in prayer. And God has showed me the future.”

  The crowd began to murmur excitedly. I remembered, as a kid, they’d do the same thing before he inflicted another bullshit prophecy on them.

  “He showed me how a bad thing can lead to something good. It may take years and years and years. But eventually it will happen.” He fell silent. I imagined he was pacing now, his hands clasped together in front of him, a prayerful gesture. “I still think of my son, Earl. Many of you were here years ago when I sent him away. I haven’t given up on him, and neither has God. Mark these words, brothers and sisters: what God destroys and man buries, God can use again if we are willing to keep his grounds.”

  That last bit was such an odd line, so unlike something Daddy would normally say, I rewound the tape and listened again.

  What God destroys and man buries, God can use again if we are willing to keep his grounds.

  What did it mean? Was it a clue?

  I didn’t know. The tape played on, and Daddy moved on to sin and immoral behavior—two of his favorite topics—and it dawned on me how far I’d come in a few short weeks. I was sitting inside a little old lady’s home listening to a tape of one of my dead father’s sermons in hopes of . . . what exactly? What was I hoping to hear?

  He was winding down the sermon when he said something else that struck me as odd.

  “Long-standing members of this congregation know I’m not a man who quotes other sources besides scripture, and if I do, there’s a reason for it. Well, I’m going to quote one now. There’s an old saying. Maybe you’ve heard it. ‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ This may not be directly stated in the word, but I think the truth of it is in there. Consider Jesus’s own life. At first everyone was amazed by the miracles he performed, the wisdom he displayed. But soon enough—when he turned that wisdom and that unerring moral compass on them—they began to grumble and question his authority. Eventually, they went so far as to crucify him.” He paused to chuckle playfully. “Well, that didn’t work out so well for them, did it?”

  The congregation laughed. Somebody whooped an amen, but I didn’t think it was Billy Thrash this time.

  “The thing to remember is that God and his son, Jesus, and any man who has their spirit cannot fall victim to petty jealousies and small minds. It just won’t happen. Can’t happen. Not in this life or the next.

  “I can hear you now . . . ‘Preacher,’ you’re thinking, ‘it sounds like you might be calling somebody out.’”

  There was a long pause. I could picture my father nodding solemnly.

  “If that’s what you’re thinking, then yes, you’re right. In a way. I’m not calling them out. I’m reminding them. Reminding them what, you ask? Simple. God wins in the end. And all that is holy will overcome the grave, and all that has been set asunder will be set to rights again.”

  The tape ended, a
nd I sat quietly, trying to clear my mind, trying to think.

  Otis had died the week before. He talked about him briefly before moving on to Aida and the mention of me. Then the line about keeping the grounds . . .

  It hit me. If there was a message here for me, it had to be there. I thought of my dream, of the crank finally reaching the top, of Aida’s tiny body filling the bucket. She’d only lived a few hours, but she still haunted me nearly thirty-three years later.

  And she haunted Daddy too.

  It was what we shared.

  And suddenly, I knew I had to dig up her grave, because that was what the line meant. That was what he wanted me to do.

  I should have felt good about finally making some sense out of it all, but I didn’t. Instead, I felt like I was playing directly into my father’s hands. And I felt like there was more. All the stuff about “familiarity breeds contempt” at the end. Who had that been meant for? My first thought was Lester. Hadn’t Ronnie said my brother had reason to be angry with Daddy? Had the two had a falling out? There was so much to think about, but I just didn’t have the luxury of sitting still.

  I ejected the tape and put it inside its case and back on the shelf.

  I went over to the single window in the room and opened it up. I kicked out the screen and climbed through.

  At the road, I looked both ways for cars—especially police vehicles—before crossing and starting the long trek to my sister’s grave.

  52

  It was raining when I arrived, and not having a shovel, I was a muddy wreck by the time I found the tiny little box where Daddy had put her body. I hesitated before opening it. I wasn’t sure I was ready for what I’d see.

  And smell.

  But before I could pry the lid off the box, I noticed something on the other side. I turned the box upside down and saw a plastic bag attached to the bottom with some kind of adhesive. Inside the bag was a piece of notebook paper.

  I tore open the bag and unfolded the paper.

  It was a map. The map.

  Finding cover from the rain under some of the shadier trees, I studied the map in my mud-covered hands.

  An X marked the spot near the top of Long Finger Mountain. Written by the X were two words in my father’s tortured script:

  The Well.

  I flipped the paper over. On the back were some scribbled instructions on what to do when I got closer. Below that was a list of names that didn’t make a lot of sense.

  Lester

  Earl

  Earl

  Lester

  Lester

  Earl

  And then a short sentence that seemed to be mostly nonsense:

  After Earl, follow the light.

  If this was supposed to mean something, it was lost on me.

  I read it again and again until lightning flashed in the distance and I looked up to see that the sun had disappeared. It was time to get moving. I knew where I was going now, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to find anything good.

  * * *

  I made it back to the highway before the rain and lightning forced my hand. I had to take cover. I ended up crouching under a bridge while the storm continued with all the force of a heavy metal band.

  I waited for a half hour or more until there was a lull, and as I was about to step away from the bridge and continue on my path to Long Finger, I noticed a car coming down the road. I hit the ground and rolled down the embankment into a nearly washed-out plain, hoping the driver either hadn’t seen me or didn’t care to.

  No such luck. The car slowed and a door swung open. I felt panic jolt my body, and I struggled to my feet to make a break for it. I hadn’t gone far when I heard the chirp of a siren. Ignoring it, I plowed across the muddy field, my eyes fixed on a line of dense trees a couple of hundred yards away. I might have made it if I hadn’t slipped.

  I sprawled into a pool of floodwater and decided to just stay there, keeping my head under.

  I made it for nearly two minutes before I had to come up for air. When I did, I heard Hank Shaw’s voice.

  “Earl Marcus,” he said. “You should have listened to me when I told you to leave town.”

  He stood a few dozen yards away, flanked by two deputies. One of them was Roger Peterson. He held a rifle aimed at my face.

  “You’re under arrest for the rape of Baylee Marcus,” Shaw said.

  53

  They sat me at a table, facing a one-way mirror. I wondered who was looking at me from the other side. Hank Shaw? Almost certainly.

  Daddy?

  I shuddered at the thought.

  Some time later, Roger Peterson came in and sat down across from me. I could see the bruises on his face from where I’d kicked him. He put a laptop down on the bare table and looked at me directly.

  “When we found the note, I figured that alone would be enough to convict your sorry, sorry ass, but then your cousin told us about the security camera he installed. I watched the video of you coming in the house, Earl.” He smiled. “You do know what happens to pedophiles in prison, right?”

  I said nothing. The truth was, I was unable to completely follow what he was saying. I got stuck on his first line—when we found the note.

  What did it mean? Who had written the note? Baylee?

  He pointed at my head. “That where she hit you with the hammer?”

  I nodded.

  “Jesus, are you even going to deny it?”

  “Deny what?”

  “Fucks sake. Are you going to make me show you the video?”

  “Video? Video of what?”

  “Of you entering the house and going upstairs?”

  I shook my head, still trying to understand. “What was the note? Is Baylee dead?”

  “Maybe you should tell me. Nobody’s seen her since she was with you. But we got all the details from the little sister. She told how you promised her she’d be next. And how you laughed and laughed while you were doing it.” He leaned in. “What kind of man does that?”

  “I didn’t do any of that. You may not know it, but Shaw does. They’ve cooked all of it up. I want to know where she is.”

  Before he could answer, the door opened, and Shaw said, “I want to be alone with him.”

  “Sure, boss.” Roger stood up and nodded at me. “I’ll get you back for the other night. Just you wait and see, old man.”

  Shaw pointed toward the mirror. “I want everyone out of that room. Everyone. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And turn the cameras off.”

  Roger smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “And before you go . . . cuff him to the table.”

  Roger came over and slammed the handcuff on my wrist far too tight. He hooked the other one to a little ring drilled into the heavy table.

  Shaw waited until he was gone before coming over and taking the seat across from me.

  “Feel familiar?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and folded it before putting it in his mouth. “Sure you do. The day your daddy called you out for what you were. A sick individual. He had me cuff you then too.” He nodded at my wrist and shrugged. “Sorry, I thought it would be best if you weren’t able to fight back.” He chuckled, and then, as if remembering something—maybe Maggie, maybe just the simple fact that he hated me—he darkened considerably.

  “I think that was the first time me and your daddy didn’t see eye to eye on something. I thought you deserved what Maggie had. Hell, worse. But no, your daddy always had a plan. He called it God’s plan, but I’ve come a long way on that kind of thinking. Now I think the only thing God is good for is controlling folks. Come to think of it, that’s about all your daddy’s ever been good for, keeping the population in line. He did it better with religion than I ever could. All except you.” Shaw shook his head. “See, there’s always somebody who won’t fall in line, somebody that can’t operate under the constraints of society. Being a
lawman all these years taught me what I wished your daddy had known.”

  “And what’s that?” I said.

  “Some folks only respond to a good old-fashioned beatdown.”

  With that, he rose from his chair and stepped over to me.

  Desperately, I tried to think of something to delay him, as much because I wanted to hear more about his problems with Daddy as to avoid the inevitable pain.

  “I didn’t rape her,” I said. It was all I could think of, and it sounded weak. He already knew I didn’t rape her. None of what was about to happen had anything to do with Baylee. It had everything to do with Maggie.

  He rolled up his sleeves and removed his tie. I needed a different tact.

  “You know he’s still alive.”

  He glanced at me. “What?”

  “My father. He’s still alive, and he’ll make you pay for this.”

  “Earl, your daddy’s the one who told me to do this.”

  I opened my mouth, maybe in surprise—it had been the last thing I’d expected him to say. I never got a chance to respond.

  His knuckles caught my top teeth, and I felt one of them ping off the back of my throat. I leaned over, trying to cough it out, but his second and third blows landed near the same place his first had, and I swallowed it.

  “What did you tell her? What did you say that made her do”—he hit me again, this time in the gut—“what she did?”

  I gasped and tried to speak. The words came out like wheezes. “I told. Her. We needed to get out. Of that community. We needed to leave because we didn’t have a future there. I was. Right.”

  “You were wrong.” He kicked my legs out from under me. I fell, at least until the handcuff caught me, digging into my wrist. “Stand up, you piece of shit.”

  I tried to stand up, but I was turned around wrong, and the handcuff was making it difficult to move. I tried to stall again.

  “So why torture the girls, Hank? You of all people should know the consequences of that.”