Deadliest of Sins

by Sallie Bissell

  He pulled in behind the nearest squad and hurried over to where Pike and two other uniforms stood staring at Mary’s black Miata. No other detective was there, which meant he was officially in charge.

  “Find anything?” he asked Pike.

  “Nothing to find,” the tall man replied. “Nothing’s missing, except the driver.”

  Galloway scanned the woods that lined the road. “Where have you looked for her?”

  “We fanned out and searched about fifty feet on both sides of her car. We didn’t find anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No broken twigs, no footprints. No nothing.”

  Galloway peered down into the little convertible. Mary’s purse lay unopened on the passenger’s seat. A half-empty bottle of water stood in the car’s cup holders, a pair of Asics running shoes stashed in the well behind the driver’s seat. The engine was still running, the radio still playing the NPR station out of Charlotte. The car reminded him of a loyal dog, told to stay until its mistress returned. Galloway reached in with a tissue and turned the ignition off, then lifted Mary’s purse. He looked inside—everything of value was there—cell phone, checkbook, a wallet that still held her driver’s license, two credit cards, and $34 in cash.

  Pike frowned. “Aren’t you polluting the evidence?”

  “No point in wasting her gas,” said Galloway.

  Pike wrote something in his notebook. “Crump says you know the driver?”

  “Mary Crow. Special envoy from the governor.”

  “This the gal tryin’ to hang that preacher?”

  “He may have been a part of her investigation.”

  Pike laughed. “Maybe she went up in the Rapture.”

  “Shut up,” said Galloway.

  Pike’s eyes narrowed. “Something going on between you two?”

  “No,” said Galloway. “I just doubt that Chief Ramsey wants to call the governor and tell her we’ve lost her super cop.”

  Pike caught Galloway’s drift. He gathered the two other uniforms and told them to go search deeper in the woods. While they did that, Galloway made a wide circle around Mary’s car. He saw no skid marks, no footprints on the either side of the road, nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary. As he walked, he went over the details of last night in his head. They’d finished dinner around 9:30, he’d kissed her around 10:15. He’d jokingly warned her about driving down la carretera del dolor, but she assured him she’d be okay, that they would talk tomorrow. Somewhere between then and now, Mary Crow pulled over to the side of the road and vanished.

  He knelt down beside the driver’s side of the little car, trying to imagine what Mary might have seen last. Pine trees. Darkness. A fifty-foot stretch of rural Carolina road no different from a thousand others. He stood up and reached to turn off her lights, when something on the other side of the road caught his eye. He walked over to find a large oil spot, shiny in the rising sun. He extended a finger, touched it. It was fresh, still viscous. A car had recently stopped directly across from Mary’s, and had stayed long enough to drip a couple tablespoons of motor oil. It could have been somebody curious about why a sports car had been left running by the side of the road; it could have been something far worse.

  He looked at the officers standing around the car. “Who called this in?”

  “I did,” said Pike. “Crump was going off shift and told me to call you.”

  “Where you pull up?”

  Pike nodded at the shoulder of the road, twenty feet past Mary’s car.

  “Any of you guys pull up here?” Galloway pointed to the oil drip.

  They all shook their head. He looked over at Pike. “Get on your radio,” he told him. “Call the forensic people, then call the chief. This just went from a missing person to an abduction.”

  “On whose call?” asked Pike.

  “Mine,” replied Galloway. “Some kind of vehicle was parked close to her car, long enough to spill a fair amount of oil. Anybody who was just curious about an idling car wouldn’t have stayed that long. Anybody who wanted to make off with her money and credit cards would have left fast.” Again he looked at the shiny spot glistening in the sun. “Whoever left that oil spill knows what happened to Mary Crow.”

  Twenty-Six

  Chase sat on his bed, holding the big Army Colt, listening to the raspy gurgles of Gudger’s snoring. For hours he’d gone over Cousin Petey’s instructions on shooting the gun—aim down the barrel, squeeze the trigger instead of pulling it, and most important, try to avoid shooting yourself in the foot. In retrospect, he marveled at Cousin Petey’s own ability with the weapon—the day she’d showed him how to shoot it, she was eighty-two, a dried little apple of a woman who wore a cotton housedress and old-fashioned tennis shoes. She’d held the gun as if were no heavier than a can of bug spray and demolished the empty Coke can she was using as a target. Tonight, resting in his lap, the gun seemed to weigh fifty pounds, at least. An impossible thing to point and fire at anything. Still, Cousin Petey had given it to him as the “man of his family.” Probably she thought he’d protect Sam and his mother from foxes or rats. Never would she have dreamed that he was going to aim it at a man.

  “But I am,” he whispered. He stood up, practiced the motions again. Holding the barrel of the gun in his left hand, he had to use all the strength in his right to cock the hammer. With that in position, he braced himself against the bed and aimed at the door, his arms straight, like he’d seen cops do on TV shows. If he locked his elbows, he could hold the thing steady for fifteen seconds. Beyond that, his arms began to shake as the gun grew too heavy for him to hold.

  “Maybe I won’t have to shoot,” he whispered, aiming at the spot his Peyton Manning poster used to occupy. “Maybe when I point it at Gudger he’ll get so scared that he’ll do what I want.”

  He knew most people would react that way, but most people didn’t include Gudger. If anything, pointing a gun at him would be like swatting at a hornet with a broom—it would just make him madder. Nonetheless, Chase had to take his chances. The gun was the only thing standing between him and that gorilla in the black car. Uncocking the hammer, he hid the gun under his bed. “Whatever happens will be better than being boy meat,” he said. “Even if I wind up dead.”

  He lay back on the bed. He tried to pass the time reading some of his Sherlock Holmes book, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words and Gudger’s snoring soon lulled him into a kind of waking dream. As the night outside his window lightened into day, the dead and the living all gathered around his bed—Sam, his father, Cousin Petey, even Mary Crow. They were all telling him things, warning him about what to do. Mary Crow was about to show him how to shoot her Glock, when suddenly, everyone disappeared. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. Something had changed. For an instant he couldn’t figure out what, then he realized—Gudger’s snoring had stopped.

  He hurried over to the door, put his ear to the crack. Someone hacked up phlegm, then the toilet flushed in the bathroom. He went cold inside—Gudger was up!

  Chase ran back to the bed and grabbed the Colt. With shaking hands, he held the old revolver by the barrel as he pulled back on the hammer. By the time the thing clicked into place, he was sweating. “All you have to do now is point it,” he whispered, trying to calm down, knowing that with one squeeze, he could blow Gudger to Kingdom Come.

  Pointing the gun at the floor, he walked back to his door. He took a single deep breath, then he put his plan in motion. “Gudger!” he cried, banging hard on the door. “Gudger are you out there?”

  “What?” Gudger mumbled from the hall, still sounding groggy with sleep.

  “You gotta let me out of here!” Chase tried to sound desperate. “I need to go to the bathroom!”

  “Piss in your pants, you little faggot!” said Gudger. “I’ve got to make some coffee.”

  “It’s not piss,” Chase cried. �
��It’s the other. You know, diarrhea.”

  For a moment, he heard nothing. Then Gudger started cursing—something about goddamn kids. Footsteps thumped down the hall, a key started rattling in the deadbolt. Chase backed away from the door, holding the gun tight, his heart beating like some wild thing in his chest.

  He stood there, waiting. Gudger was apparently having trouble with the lock. Chase heard him curse again—finally, just as his arms started to shake, the deadbolt slid back with a snap. The door opened. Gudger stumbled into the room, holding his scalded hand close to his chest, wearing jockey shorts and a T-shirt that rode up over his beer gut. He looked at Chase through squinted eyes, his mouth curved down in anger.

  “You shit your britches in here and you’ll be the one cleaning it …” The words died in his throat as he saw the Colt pointed at his chest. His eyes grew wide as his face turned the color of pie dough.

  “What the fuck are you doing with that?” he whispered. “I told your mother to get rid of it.”

  Chase held the gun in a death grip, trying to keep his arms from trembling. “For once she didn’t do what you told her,” he said slowly, his voice taking on an unaccustomed deepness.

  “So I see,” said Gudger. “So what are you going to do with it, Olive Oyl? Shoot me?”

  “Not before I find out what you did with my sister.”

  “Man, are we back to that again?” Gudger shook his head, disgusted. “Son, what will it take to convince you? I didn’t do anything with your sister. She ran off with her boyfriend.”

  “Then why did you go crazy after Mary Crow came here? Why did you tell that man I was sweet boy meat? Why did you lock me in this room and then beat up my mom?” His voice cracked, soared back into soprano range. He willed away hot tears.

  Gudger leaned against the doorjamb and chuckled, as if everything had been a joke. “Hey, I was just fooling around. Trying to see how tough you were, you know? My old man played the same kind of tricks on me. One time he told me he’d shot my dog when he really had the pup tied up in the barn. He got a good laugh out of that. That thing about you being boy meat wasn’t true. I was just teasing you.”

  “It didn’t sound like teasing to me.” Chase raised the gun higher, pointing it at Gudger’s heart. “Now tell me where Samantha is!”

  “You need to calm down, son. You could go to jail for what you’re doing now.” Gudger backed up a step and held out his scalded hand, as if to ward off a bullet. “I’ve heard some rumors about your sister, but I’m not telling you anything with a gun pointed at me.”

  “You know a lot more than just rumors about my sister.” Chase took a step forward. “And you’re gonna tell me right now.”

  Gudger inched backward into the dark hall. As he did, the meanness returned to his eyes, and his lips drew back in a sneer. “Oh, yeah? You gotta catch me first, Olive Oyl.”

  Gudger turned and ran down the hall toward the living room, his bottom jiggling in his sagging jockey shorts. Chase ran after him, the gun feeling like a lead weight in his hands. Gudger banged into an end table and almost knocked over a lamp, but he made it to the front door faster than Chase thought possible.

  “Stop, Gudger!” he cried, hurrying after him. “Turn around and talk to me!”

  Gudger ignored him. Already he’d gotten the chain unhooked; five more seconds and he’d have the door open. With the big revolver shaking in his hand, Chase lifted the gun and took aim.

  “I’m telling you to stop!” he screamed at Gudger. “Turn around!”

  Gudger turned, long enough to lift his middle finger. “Fuck you, you little faggot!”

  With a silent prayer to his dead father, to Cousin Petey, to all the people who’d ever held out the hope that he might be a person of worth someday, he squeezed the trigger. For a split second, nothing happened. Then came a roar so loud he thought the roof was caving in. The gun flipped back, hit him in the face. As one front tooth skittered across the floor, Chase fell on his back, blood spurting from his nose. Though his ears rang as if he were inside a bell, he could hear a scream of agony. He lifted his head to see Gudger lying across the front door, his right kneecap gleaming white as a new baseball against a field of red.

  Chase looked around for the gun. Somehow it had fallen underneath the coffee table. Shaking the ringing from his head, he crawled over and grabbed it. The long barrel was still warm to his fingers. Flush with triumph, he got to his feet and walked over to Gudger, who lay writhing on the floor.

  “I can’t feel my leg!” he shrieked, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to scramble away from Chase. “I can’t feel my goddamned leg!”

  Now a strange new person spoke through Chase’s voice, used Chase’s arms to again point the revolver. “You tell me where Sam is, or you’re not going to feel anything much longer.”

  Gudger rolled over on his back. The front of his jockey shorts were stained bright yellow. Sweat dotted his forehead and he gasped like someone who’d just sprinted up a mountain. “Get an ambulance. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Chase shook his head. “You tell me first. Then I’ll get an am-

  bulance.”

  “Okay, okay.” Gudger gasped, grimacing in pain. “There’s an old motel near Hubbard Mountain. Last time I heard, she was there. Now call me an ambulance!”

  Chase shrugged. “I don’t know where the phone is.”

  Gudger looked at him. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak, then his jaw went slack as his head hit the floor.

  Just like that, the powerful stranger who’d inhabited Chase’s body vanished. Once again it was just eleven-year-old Charles Oliver Buchanan who was standing over his stepfather’s body, an Army Colt pointed at his heart.

  “Oh no,” he whispered. He knew if he didn’t call an ambulance, Gudger would probably bleed to death or die of shock. If Gudger died, then Chase would spend the rest of his life in prison. He’d shot an unarmed man who was trying to get away. He’d read enough detective novels to know how bad that was.

  He put the gun on the coffee table and ran through the house, desperate to find something to call an ambulance with. The phone jack in the den was empty, and the wall phone in the kitchen had long since been disconnected. He did a cursory search of all the bedrooms, then ran out to the garage. He looked through Gudger’s tool bench and on the seat of his car, but again, he found nothing. Frantic, he returned to the house. There had to be a phone somewhere in here! He’d heard Gudger telling someone he was sweet boy meat just last night.

  He ran down the hall and returned to Gudger’s bedroom, rifling through his dresser. He found socks, T-shirts, even Gudger’s Taser, but no phone. He ran over to the bedside table, pulled open that drawer. Gudger kept only a Bible and a tube of Mentholatum to see him through the nights. Chase collapsed on the bed, fighting back tears. “Where is your stupid phone, you idiot? Why do you have to hide it all the time?”

  Frustrated, he hit Gudger’s pillow with his fist. His knuckles grazed against something hard. He looked under the pillow. There was Gudger’s cell phone! He grabbed it and punched in 911. The phone rang three times, then a girl with a thick mountain accent answered.

  “911,” she said. “What is your emergency?”

  Chase gulped. “Someone’s been shot. You need to send an ambulance to 514 Kedron Road, right now!”

  Twenty-Seven

  Galloway helped Pike cordon off a perimeter around Mary’s car, then he told the tall uniform to stay put until the search team arrived.

  “Where are you going?” asked Pike, surprised. “You’re the de-

  tective.”

  “Gastonia. Mary Crow was staying at the Holiday Inn there. I’ll check in with you later.”

  Pike watched as a car heading east slowed to gape at Mary’s car, then sped on to its destination. “These morning commuters will shit if we block off the road.”

  “Let th
em through, but don’t let anybody go in those woods.”

  Pike frowned but walked over to his cruiser. He kept the blue lights flashing and assumed a posture of command, glaring at the oncoming traffic, his arms folded across his chest.

  Galloway hurried back to his Mustang. He headed east, toward Gastonia, the sun a distant orange ball rising on the horizon. The two-lane stretched through farmland and stands of scrub pine. No cross streets intersected it—only the long driveways of farm houses, set acres back from the highway. Highway 74 was, he’d learned, a quick and dirty way for locals with cars to avoid the interstate and get to Charlotte via the back roads. For the transient Hispanics who had no cars, it was a way to walk from farm to farm, crop to crop. Sweet potatoes and corn in the summer; Christmas trees in November. Galloway sped by a family of five as he drove—a man and a woman, three children trailing behind them like small brown ducks.

  “La carretera del dolor,” he muttered. Maybe Mary was on to something—maybe the road was more than just a flat strip of pavement that Latinos walked to get to the hard, bone-wearying jobs America offered. Maybe it was a dumping ground for Campbell County’s unwanted, where some people vanished and others turned up looking like Bryan Taylor.

  “At least it’s not that,” he told himself, remembering the way Mary Crow had smiled at him last night. “At least not yet.” He sped on, crossing the county line, coming to the town of Gastonia. The Holiday Inn was new, near I-85. He parked by the entrance and asked for the manager.

  “I’m Victor Galloway, Campbell County Police,” he explained, flashing his badge at a blond woman who’d apparently gotten up so early she’d pinned her name tag on upside down. “We have a problem with one of your guests. I need to check Mary Crow’s room.”