by Jen Blood
“I think you should count your blessings on that one, actually,” I said weakly.
Buddy tore back into the yard shortly thereafter, and he and George helped me to the car. I sat in the back with Solomon, leaning back against her with my leg stretched out on the seat.
“Shouldn’t someone who’s not drunk be driving?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Buddy said, calling back over his shoulder. “I switched out to water ’bout two hours ago, just didn’t tell y’all. I was too ashamed being outdrunk by your girlfriend there.”
Solomon checked the swelling on my leg for the twelfth time, then lay her hand against my forehead. “Still no nausea? Dizziness? Chills? Inexplicable craving for live rodents?”
I closed my eyes. “No, on all of the above. I just want to know who did this.”
“And you’re sure it was a rattlesnake?” Solomon pressed. “Because gopher snakes—”
“It wasn’t a gopher snake,” I bit out. “I may not have the symptoms you listed, but it feels like my goddamn leg’s being eaten by fire ants. Gopher snakes don’t do that.”
“It was rattlers all right,” Buddy confirmed. “I got a look at ’em before we left, just to make sure. What in hell are they doin’ out this time of year, anyway? They’re not common in these parts anytime, but this early I don’t know why they’d be hangin’ around at all.”
“They weren’t hanging around, Buddy,” I said. “Someone dropped them through the damn window and locked me in. Why they’re out this time of year really isn’t the thing to be obsessing over.”
“No, I s’pose not,” he said.
“You guys didn’t hear anyone?” I asked. George had gone uncharacteristically silent. I shivered, a wave of nausea running through me. Solomon wrapped a blanket around both of us, her body cradling mine.
“No more questions,” she said, loudly enough to include the others up front. “No more talking. Just be still,” she whispered to me. I could feel her heart, beating too hard; maybe Solomon wasn’t so calm after all. The thought was oddly comforting. She continued stroking the hair back from my forehead.
“You would’ve been a good doctor,” I mumbled.
“Well, you would’ve been a terrible patient,” she returned. Her lips brushed against my temple—or I may have imagined it. I closed my eyes, Solomon’s arms around me, her body cushioning mine, and focused on being still.
I was in the hospital overnight, waiting for symptoms beyond excruciating pain to develop.
None did. No swelling, no fever, no vomiting, no chills.
It wasn’t until Buddy came in at nine the next morning that I found out why.
“What do you mean, the snakes belong to Jesup Barnel?” I demanded. It had been a long night of needle jabs and strange nurses and—since I refused the morphine drip they recommended—pain.
Buddy shifted uncomfortably. “I guess the sheriff got a call from Reverend Barnel last night,” he said. “Sayin’ somebody got into his snakes. He’s got a license to milk them—for the anti-venom, you know? But he told the sheriff somebody stole a few just after they’d been milked last night. That’s probably why you didn’t show no symptoms. You got a dry bite.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “He’s behind this—you know him. It would be just like him to take three of his neutered rattlers and lock me in with them to teach me a lesson. Test my faith.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Buddy said. “I’m just saying, he’s got a story, too. An alibi. His butt is covered.”
“His butt’s always covered,” I muttered.
“Who the hell is this guy?” Solomon said. George had gotten a ride back to Justice with Buddy, but Sol had been camped out by my bedside for the better part of the night. Her good humor wasn’t faring well as a result. “I know you and Wyatt met at his extreme church camp or whatever—but clearly there’s more to the story than that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said shortly. “It wasn’t the most sane week of my life. Let’s just leave it at that.”
She narrowed her eyes at my tone, her lips pressed into a tight, pissy little line. “Don’t bite my head off. It’s a valid question.”
“And it brings up something I wanted to talk to you about last night,” Buddy interrupted. “But I didn’t want to talk about it with George there. I thought we’d do it down to the station today, but maybe this is better. Less chance of the sheriff walking in on us.”
“Wyatt’s case?” I asked.
He handed me a short stack of manila folders. “That’s the files,” he said. Solomon came over and sat on the edge of my hospital bed. I opened the top file and tried to remain impassive. Half a dozen 8x10 crime scene photos of Wyatt’s dead body didn’t make that easy.
“Mae called in about two a.m. Saturday night, weekend before last,” Buddy began. “She said Wyatt wasn’t home yet, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone. I got a bad feeling right then—I’ve seen newborns can stay away from their mama longer than that boy could stand being away from Mae.”
“And after that?” I asked. “What happened after you got the call from Mae?”
“I took Floyd—our other deputy—and we headed out to the Burkett farm straightaway. That was Wyatt’s last call. He was out tending a goat he had to put down. When we got there, Wyatt’s truck was still there. Jenny Burkett told me he’d been around long enough to take care of the goat…and then he just up and disappeared.”
“And they didn’t see a sign of anyone?” I asked. “The Burketts?”
“Their place is set up so you gotta travel about an acre and a half between the barn and the main drive. Jenny was back in the barn with the kids. From what I can tell, Roger was sleeping one off just then.”
Solomon furrowed her brow, but she didn’t say anything. I knew what she was thinking: an emergency trip from the vet seemed like a prime opportunity for some spousal support. Or at least a brief cameo from the husband. Chances were good there was a story as to why Roger Burkett hadn’t shown his face.
“Okay,” I said. “What happened then?”
“Well, we scoured the countryside for a few days, with no sightings and no sign of Wyatt. Then along about eleven Wednesday night, we got a call.”
“They found him,” Solomon said.
“Laid out at the junction of I-69 and Route 45 in a new suit a size too small, hands on his chest like he was just taking a Sunday nap.”
“The junction of 69 and 45,” Diggs repeated. “That’s, what, an hour from here? How is this even your case?”
“It’s not,” Buddy said. “Not technically, anyhow. We got the KSP on it. Since Wyatt’s from here in Justice and he went missin’ from here, they promised to keep us in the loop.”
“And what’s the official cause of death?”
“Overdose of ketamine,” Buddy said. “It’s that club drug, you know the one.”
“Special K,” I said. “Not exactly a drug running rampant on the streets of Justice.”
“Never had one case of it that I know of around here,” Buddy agreed. “But it’s also used as a sedative by vets. Looks like they might’ve stolen it from Wyatt’s practice. Some went missin’ about a month ago. Anyway, the coroner says Wyatt’d been gone maybe twenty-four hours by the time we got to him.”
Which meant that for seventy-two hours while Wyatt had been missing, he’d been alive. I scratched my chin. Buddy eyed the photos nervously, as twitchy as a virgin bride. Solomon caught my eye. She’d noticed it, too.
“So, what aren’t you telling us, exactly?” she asked.
Buddy shifted uneasily and looked from Solomon to me. “She’s got the eye, huh?”
“Nobody better,” I said. “Short of me, of course. She’s right. There’s something you’re not telling us.”
Buddy nodded toward the photos. “Wyatt wasn’t in bad shape when we found him—I mean, so far as the body goes. Neat and clean…peaceful-like, strange as that sounds.”
“Except…” I p
rompted.
He frowned. “He had a mark on his chest—a cross that’d been there since he was a boy.”
“Like a tattoo?” Solomon asked. I didn’t have to probe any further, though. I knew just what he was talking about.
“Not exactly,” Buddy said uncomfortably. “More of a…brand, I guess you’d call it. You seen it before?” he asked me.
I nodded silently.
“Well,” Buddy said. “Somebody cut all the way around that cross. Then they took off the skin on his chest like it was just some patch, turned it one hundred and eighty degrees, and sewed it back on like that.”
My stomach rolled. Buddy looked at me.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I said. Solomon watched me like she knew better. I took a breath and kept going. “So, they turned the thing into an inverted cross?”
Buddy nodded. “Coroner says it was done postmortem, thank the good Lord.”
I went through the photos with Solomon. Pale flesh; rough, uneven stitches; a raised cross turned upside down, branded into the skin just below Wyatt’s collarbone. I looked at Solomon, trying to determine whether she’d made the connection. My cross isn’t really recognizable as a cross anymore, but the scar is in the same place as Wyatt’s. The same size. Solomon kept her gaze fixed on the photos, giving me no clue whether she’d figured it out or not.
“This whole thing’s got me worried,” Buddy said. “Fact is, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this done.”
“You mean the cross excised and turned upside down?” I asked. “Where else have you seen it?”
“Years ago now,” Buddy said. “I pulled the file after I saw it on Wyatt. It was back in ’02. Marty Reynolds. He was forty-two at the time. Two kids, and a rundown farm out toward the outskirts of town. There was a rumor he killed his first wife—he said she walked out on the family, though, and there was never an official investigation. Rumor was he done it, though. There weren’t too many people cryin’ at his funeral, if you know what I mean.”
“Cause of death was the same?” I asked.
“No, sir,” Buddy said with a shake of his head. “They found him with his throat cut. But he was dressed in some nice clothes his kids never saw before. Left on the side of the road just outside Paducah.”
“But there hasn’t been anyone since then,” I said. “Those are the only two?”
“So far as I know,” Buddy said. “I went through our records looking for anything. Seems as though it would’ve made an impression if somebody had seen it before.” He looked at me. “You know where that mark come from? The original cross, I mean?”
Solomon was all ears.
“Yeah,” I said. I put the photos back and closed the file.
“Where did it come from?” Solomon pressed.
“Reverend Jesup Barnel,” the deputy said. “We told you, he’s got some odd ideas about the Christian way.”
“So, is Barnel still working the same circuit?” I asked before Solomon could pursue the next logical line of questioning.
“Not so much no more,” Buddy said. “His health’s gone south, but he still does tent meetin’s when he can. There’s one out in Miller’s Field tonight. It’s a hike, but worth the gas if you ask me. He puts on quite a show.”
“And the rattlers,” I said. “Are they part of that show?”
“Not officially,” Buddy said. “Snake handlin’ is illegal in Kentucky now, ’course. But everybody knows he skirts around it, brings ’em out for those middle of the night, invitation-only services out to his place, like he used to run.”
I’d heard enough. I sat up, nodding across the room. “All right. Since I’m apparently not about to drop dead of rattlesnake fever, somebody toss me my pants.”
Buddy looked to Solomon, no doubt hoping she’d talk some sense into me. But Solomon’s never really been that girl.
“He’s been here eight hours,” she said with a shrug. “There’s not much chance the venom will hit his bloodstream unexpectedly at this point. I’ll be watching if it does, and I’ll just bring him back.” She fetched my clothes and tossed them on the foot of the bed. “I’ll grab us some coffee while you get dressed.” Her gaze slid back to the files, now in Buddy’s hand. She shook her head. “Leave it to you to piss off someone crazier than Will Rainier.”
Chapter Five - Solomon
After his harrowing misadventure with impotent rattlesnakes, Diggs and I got back to the Durhams at ten o’clock the next morning. Wyatt’s funeral wasn’t until two, and we’d passed the window in which Diggs was most likely to swell up and die from his snake bite. Since I hadn’t gotten any sleep to speak of since leaving Maine, I apologized to anyone who may have been expecting sparkling conversation, grabbed my dog, and retired to the Durhams’ attic guest room.
I lay on the bed beside Einstein and idly scratched his fuzzy belly. He groaned, stretching out his front paws while one of his hind legs kicked into gear when I hit a choice spot. It would be so much easier to be a dog. I thought of Diggs cradled in my arms last night, his heart racing. My heart racing. Unlike the nightmares I’d been having for the past six months, though, at least with the snake bite I could do something when he was in danger, instead of just standing there, frozen, like I always did in those freaking dreams.
Einstein turned his head and lapped lazily at my jaw.
Yeah... Definitely easier to be a dog.
I retrieved my cell phone and dialed Juarez. He answered on the second ring, though it was the middle of the work day.
“Hey, baby,” he answered. He always answered that way—or he had since we’d started dating, anyway. Terms of endearment aren’t usually my thing, but I was getting used to it. It didn’t hurt that Juarez made ‘baby’ sound just a little dirty when he said it.
“Hey,” I said. “Is this an okay time?”
“Just catching up on paperwork,” he said. “Perfect timing.”
“Sorry I didn’t call last night. Things got a little…crazy.”
“I figured they would. Don’t worry about it. How’s Diggs?”
I hadn’t lied when I told Diggs me coming to Kentucky had been Juarez’s idea. In fact, he’d kind of insisted on it.
“He’s all right,” I said. “You know Diggs. He’s solid as a rock, right up until he’s not.” I tried to figure out how to broach the subject of the rattlesnake attack. Funny story: how much do you know about pit vipers?
“And you’re doing okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am. I’m actually getting ready to take a nap.” I hesitated. Open, honest communication isn’t usually my thing, either. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” I rolled onto my back, still holding the phone to my ear. “Tell me about your day.”
We did this a lot. Juarez isn’t a phone sex kind of guy, but with the smooth voice and the subtle Cuban accent, he really missed his calling. Since we were still working out the whole long-distance thing between Maine and DC, most weekday evenings for the past three months had been spent on the phone. Lately, I found myself craving the sound of his voice at bedtime. Jack Juarez: Human Xanax. May be addictive, but no groggy drug hangover in the morning.
“Erin?” Juarez said after a few minutes. I forced myself back to some state of coherence.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No…not yet. Almost.”
“I should go, then.” He paused. “You think you’ll be back in Maine by the weekend?”
It was Wednesday. The funeral was today, but I wasn’t sure how much investigating we’d be doing into Wyatt’s death after that.
“I think so,” I said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have a better idea. Why? You miss me already?”
He laughed. Juarez has a great laugh. “I always miss you, baby. Be safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”
We hung up. I slept.
When I emerged, the house was unexpectedly quiet. Eventually, I found Danny—the miscreant son Wyatt and Mae had named after Diggs�
�sitting on the front porch alone. For a kid with no actual Diggins blood in him, he really did have an uncannily Diggs-like vibe. Not that he actually looked like Diggs, mind you. But clearly there was some hero worship going on there, his shaggy blond hair heavily gelled, his rumpled suit a size too small. The kicker was the joint he held in his left hand. Just like Uncle Diggs. He looked up, startled, when I opened the front door.
“Uh—sorry,” I said. “I was just looking for Diggs.”
He made no effort to hide the weed, though he did have the decency not to keep smoking it while I was standing right there.
“He’s just gettin’ dressed. He said I could ride with y’all. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. He patted the seat next to him. “Come on out. Diggs’ll be along. It’s too dang stuffy in there.”
He was right about that, anyway. I’d already changed into my funeral clothes, so there wasn’t a whole lot else I could do with the next ten minutes until Diggs wandered down to join us.
Einstein loped out into the yard with one of the resident hound dogs. They sniffed butts, he graced the hound with one of his best play bows, and they raced off together. There were clouds on the horizon, and rain was in the air. I took the seat Danny had indicated. He offered me his joint.
“Just to take the edge off,” he said.
It was tempting, but I’ve never been much of an enthusiast myself. Diggs smoked enough for both of us back in the day.
“No, thanks. You sure you should be out here in the open with that?”
“Everybody’s already headed on out to the church,” he said. “Except you and Diggs, I mean. And I knew you guys’d be cool with it.”
I wasn’t sure how accurate that was as far as Diggs was concerned anymore, but who was I to burst the kid’s bubble?
“So,” he continued. “Is it true what happened last night? Somebody really locked Diggs in with them rattlers?” He looked more curious than horrified. That could have been the pot, though.
