Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  “Your people did not want our help. Just like I don’t want yours. Goodbye.”

  “Okay, you don’t want my help. But what about my ear?”

  She shoved the box across the van’s seat. “If I believed for a second that you were interested, officer, I would happily speak with you about the Lord.”

  “But…you don’t believe me?”

  “Okay then. Why do you want to repent and submit?”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t it up to you to convince me?”

  “Sounds like you’re putting me on, man.” She looked at his badge but his name was nowhere to be found.

  Somehow, he knew she was looking. “It’s Sleighton,” he said. “And just think about it. I got the day off tomorrow and you never know,” he smiled. “My mind’s wide open.”

  It was the last thing she wanted to do. But if the Elder found out she had refused someone the chance to repent and submit, it wouldn’t end well. Plus, getting out of the compound for a few extra hours wouldn’t be the biggest tragedy. The thought of having to go back there now brought the kind of dread that bred resentment.

  What happened to the love and acceptance that once made this way of life so great?

  Right now, the only acceptance she felt was in the eyes of this hapless police officer. She smiled and agreed to meet him for lunch tomorrow. Then she hurried on her way as storm clouds broke overhead.

  Brother Joseph was standing outside in the rain when she got back. His arms were folded across his chest watching her. “The Elder would like to see you,” he said, pushing strings of wet hair from his eyes. “He thinks you are ready to visit the Hall of the Arrival.”

  She felt a cold and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. The invitation sounded more like a death sentence. She followed Joseph through the bunkhouse and to the end of the hall. The trap door was ajar and a wobbly rope ladder disappeared into the black. A spastic orange glow skittered across the darkness below. Her heart beat heavy—no desire to go any further.

  I’m afraid they’ll kill me if I refuse.

  So she climbed down. Joseph followed once she was halfway, pulling the door shut in the wake of his descent.

  Once the ladder ended, she dropped the remaining four feet and grabbed the dancing torch off the makeshift sconce. Joseph fell beside her, his bearded face growing more detailed in the orange glow. He shuffled ahead and expected her to follow.

  The cellar air was heavy and they moved through the broken slab, into an earthy corridor that sloped down. Deeper. The drafty hallway whispered ominous warnings as she shivered her way through it.

  “Be careful up ahead,” Joseph whispered. They’d been walking in silence for so long that his voice was startling. He extended an arm outward so that she couldn’t pass. The corridor ended and spilled down into a wide and cavernous chamber.

  Zohra edged forward so that she stood at the crumbly ledge looking down. Small bursts of torchlight resembled little pinholes in a sheet of darkness. She must’ve been fifty feet up, and another rope ladder stood between them and the bottom.

  Off in the distance, the brightest red light she’d ever seen pulsed like a ball of energy, lightening and then darkening—almost like breaths.

  She swallowed and started down. Her feet landed one rung at a time and her thoughts grew cloudy. Her eyelids heavy.

  The men were down here, lined in rows of five. They knelt with their faces an inch off the ground. A low-level chant hummed from their mouths in perfect unison. Joseph hopped off the ladder and joined his brethren on the ground, picking up the prayer as he bowed toward the cavern floor.

  They faced the pulsing red, which seeped out between the spaces in a stacked rock wall. She was drawn forward, tears streaming down her cheeks suddenly and unexplainably.

  The Elder stood in front of it, articulating his hands as if having a conversation no one else could hear. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his face engulfed in red glow. His features were harsh in the dark cherry light, and he looked angrier than she had ever seen.

  “You feel it, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. But that was a lie. Something was in her head now, touching her thoughts. Reshuffling and arranging them. What she meant to say was that she couldn’t explain the way she felt. Zohra fell aside and suddenly she was back to being Barbara Hoyt. Daughter to George and Alexis. Sister of Martin. Pregnant at 16 and lost in a swarm of excessive drugs and casual sex. She supported these habits by waitressing at whichever local dive would hire her. Until one particularly nasty heroin kick sent her running out back during her shift. A man rummaged through the dumpster there, and his interest in the sickly girl—now unconscious in a puddle of her own vomit—was immediate.

  He had been trying to feed his brothers and sisters. The Elder. Tullus Abblon.

  Then she was back to being Zohra, and her thoughts were as narrow as the paths she’d traveled to get down here. She remembered the faces of every Forest Grove heathen who mocked her faith. Thought back to the kids that parked on their property around the lake—horny high schoolers looking to get their rocks off away from prying parents. The same parents who scorned the Obviate and their faith.

  Maybe there were other ways to save them.

  She searched her thoughts for something better, more positive, but there was only anger.

  Act on it. It wasn’t her thought, although it was in her head.

  “He is speaking to us.” The Elder cried. His fingers massaged the glowing cracks of stone with passion and curiosity.

  Zohra’s eyes were heavy but the awe she felt was considerable. Was this was a reward for their devotion? Had God truly arrived in their Hall of the Arrival?

  The Elder took her arms in his hands; he caressed them up and down as if enjoying the way her skin felt against his fingers. “The time has come to make you a priestess. You will spread His gospel daily. Right here.”

  “And what of the temptation?” She spoke with courage she didn’t know she had. “Does my flesh no longer tempt you?”

  “We were tested. We persevered. Mostly. Those who did not were…dealt with.” She followed the tip of his finger to a stack of corpses: six men completely naked and bruised. Their genitals had been removed and their bodies were little more than bloody, shapeless pulp. Beside them was the young freshmen girl from New Haven. Her legs splayed open, a pool of dried blood between them. A single gash ran across her neck. “She was a test. And those brothers were weak in matters of the flesh. They could not help themselves. And so we saved them in the only way possible.”

  The sight should’ve repulsed her. That young girl had come along trustingly and in search of a better life. Yet something about the Elder’s solution spoke to her. She stepped close to the bodies, unable to focus on anything other than the need to continue this kind of salvation.

  Maybe there were other ways to save them.

  “A priestess,” she said, turning the thought over in her head.

  “The first daughter of the Obviate.” The Elder smiled. “He asked for a daughter. One who could understand that there were other passages of deliverance.”

  She thought again of the people of Forest Grove. All the faces she couldn’t wait to deliver. “I…this is an honor.”

  “It seems the hour is later than we thought,” he said. “Therefore, we will make them be saved.”

  The bursting light was hot and blinding as she approached it, arms outstretched.

  Save them all.

  She fell to her knees as it spoke to her and only her.

  “What is He saying to you?” The Elder said.

  She had no intention of answering. In her most private moments, Zohra wondered if she wasn’t crazy for trusting in the existence of a higher power. Now this. Finally, some sense of validation—all good things to those who believe. She wiped tears off her cheeks and allowed the invasion of her thoughts.

  “The time has come,” the Elder said, “to take those in need of saving.”


  The brothers got to their feet and their chanting rose to a fever pitch. “Repent and submit.”

  “Repent and submit.”

  “Repent and submit.”

  “This is what we must do,” she agreed. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.” No more talking. The only way to stop their certain extinction was to send the sinners to hell. It’s what He wanted.

  And what He would have.

  EIGHT

  Brady grit his teeth as the backhoe scraped the coffin top.

  Caretaker Eddie Rawls shouted some colorful profanity about squirrels fucking. A few stone rows away, a mother covered her son’s ears and hurried him away from the plot they were visiting.

  “Keep it PG for the morning crowd, Rawls. I know you and your salty-mouthed drinking buddies aren’t usually up before noon, but some people aren’t accustomed to sailor speak.”

  Rawls was an old Coast Guard retiree. He and a group of like-minded veterans spent their nights at the Tankard over on Biscayne, rehashing war stories, comparing scars like that scene in Jaws, and talking about the alleged sorry state of affairs the country had fallen into.

  Brady didn’t know enough about politics to agree or disagree. He was a patriotic guy no matter who was in office, and tried looking beyond party lines whenever it came time to vote. To argue with others felt like a colossal waste of energy and so he seldom bothered.

  “Chief, I don’t know why anyone thinks this sucker’s alive. Is this how you look for a killer these days? Digging in the ground?”

  “Enough,” Brady said and watched the caretaker climb off the backhoe and then down into the unearthed grave. Rawls fumbled with the crowbar and Brady chewed his lip while studying the copy of Cyrus Hoyt’s death certificate in hand.

  The faded and photocopied typeface pronounced Hoyt dead as of 8:48 am on Saturday, July 9, 1988. It was signed by county physician Samuel Valeri, and then-coroner Larry Fraser.

  This official proof eased a small part of him—the part that might’ve gone on wondering. Even if Hoyt wasn’t in the ground now (please be in the ground), he had stopped breathing long enough to be pronounced dead. He understood Melanie’s apprehension, though. After that kind of insurmountable loss, she had every right to feel afraid.

  Rawls’ face was beat-red with pressure, and his forearms bulged as he pushed down on the pry bar. The coffin creaked open, and a gigantic cobweb spread wide.

  Empty.

  Sending Melanie away with a clear conscience had been his only plan. All of this was to ease her mind, though he supposed he also wanted to be able to cross the most obvious suspect off the list.

  “Sumbitch,” Rawls said with a trace of amusement. “Looks like you might be onto something here, chief.”

  “First thing you’re going to do, Rawls, is assure me that this didn’t happen on your watch.”

  The caretaker climbed out of the earth and raised his hands defensively. “Twenty years at this job and nothing happens in this cemetery without me knowing.”

  “Leave it.” If Hoyt had ever been in there, he wasn’t stolen recently. “I’ll have a guy come over as soon as possible with questions. For now, rope it off.”

  The caretaker tried protesting and Brady shot him a “not now” look before hurrying to the car. He asked dispatch if they were done at Desiree’s place.

  “Just about, chief. Sheriff’s office sent a detective over a little while ago.”

  Brady had just come from the sheriff’s manhunt HQ. They established a mobile command center out on CT-341, and the continued search for Cyrus Hoyt was in full swing. They were also tracking Maylam’s killer through the woods behind Desiree’s. His own guys were in the thick of it, with only Alex Johnson running interference for the regulars. The town needed to know there was still someone handling their day-to-day affairs. Johnson wasn’t much, but he was keeping up appearances.

  “Tell Johnson I want to talk to him as soon as he gets a chance.”

  “Johnson’s been offline since last night. Checked in once the sheriff’s office set up the checkpoint and said he was going to start fielding all the local concerns we had put on hold.”

  “That’s fine. Just get his twenty and tell him that he needs to check in with me. I don’t want anyone going this long without an update. And tell Sleighton to meet me at the station. I need to know how the county physician and coroner signed off on the death of a man whose body has apparently been missing for twenty-five years.”

  ***

  Google had never heard of Tullus Abblon. It mistook her query as one for tulips, bringing her to a page for green thumb enthusiasts.

  Melanie groaned at the prospect of another dead-end, as an old man pushed into the police station lobby. He was probably mid-60s and had the grandfather motif down pat: a belt cinched tight around khaki pants, with a Hawaiian shirt tucked into the waist. He stopped and smiled.

  “Melanie Holden?” he asked. “I was wondering when I was going to get the opportunity to see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Chief Ronald Sleighton. Retired. We met twenty-five years ago. I was a lot more fit back then.”

  “Chief Sleighton.” She rose to shake his hand. Now he looked familiar, if much, much older.

  He had come to her rescue that night, stumbling across a blood-caked and nearly catatonic teenager. His compassion sheltered her from the three-ring circus that broke out around Hoyt’s killing spree.

  His hug was soft. “I’m glad you’re okay. Nate said you were leaving town. We’re all worried sick.”

  “I am leaving,” she said, “soon.”

  “Okay.” He ushered her inside the station proper, his fingertips bristling against her shoulder blade. “Nate won’t mind if we wait in his office. Still feels like mine on most days.”

  The station was silent—a sign of respect for their fallen comrade, no doubt. Melanie allowed the old chief to lead the way, despite knowing where Nate’s office was.

  He closed the door behind them and offered her coffee, water, or anything else she wanted.

  She wanted Nate to get here.

  “I understand that our chief of police is jumping through hoops to ease your mind. I’m glad he’s inherited my chivalry.” He must’ve seen the offense in her eyes because he stuttered out some clarification. “Not that you need rescuing, girly, I don’t think anyone else your age could’ve done what you did. Hoyt’s face looked like hamburger by the time you were finished with him.”

  “If only I had finished him.”

  “Hoyt is finished. Nothing but a bad memory now.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing,” she said. Protesting felt like a waste of time. She respected Ron Sleighton, and it was heartbreaking to find him clinging to the same hubris that the rest of the town had doubled down on. Why ignore the possibility that Hoyt lived?

  “Ya keep hearin’ it ‘cause it’s the truth. Whoever came after you last night, it wasn’t Hoyt.”

  “Okay.”

  “This a social call, then?”

  “No. I might have found something important and want to see that Nate gets it.”

  “You can leave…whatever it is with me. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  Melanie was growing less nostalgic for Sleighton with every passing second.

  “Don’t feel funny,” he smiled, “Nate’s my son-in-law.”

  “I don’t feel funny, chief. But this is something that Na-Brady and I discussed, so I’d rather put the information in his hands. He can do with it as he chooses.”

  “My curiosity’s piqued. You haven’t been here a week, so I’d love to know what you managed to dig up.”

  “It’s nothing. Just a name.”

  The chief’s eyes flashed annoyance and Melanie decided that she was in no mood for it, firing back her own glare in the percolating silence.

  Finally, Brady made his way through the station. He looked from Sleighton to Melanie with worry on his face.

  “Girl’s got some news for you…wouldn�
�t give it to me.”

  Melanie watched him hobble out and Brady closed the door.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. I think I have something for you.”

  She went through the whole story, culminating with today’s stop at Last Mile Gas that led to an old invoice with an interesting name on it. Tullus Abblon.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You wouldn’t have. From what I can gather, something happened on Lake Forest Grove long before Cyrus Hoyt attacked me and my friends.” She pulled a folded invoice from her pocket and dropped it onto his desk. “Something involving Tullus Abblon and the ‘Church of the Obviate.’”

  Brady studied it. “You think this has something to do with Hoyt?”

  “No idea. Jed seemed to think so. And since someone likely killed him, I think it’s the only thing we’ve got to go on.”

  “Let’s say you’re onto something. I’ve still got a dead police sergeant on my hands and we’re still in the dark as to who killed him. Tullus Abblon might be the key to your book, sure, but I can’t worry about this right now.”

  “I get it.” Melanie got up, feeling both energized and confident in the wake of her discovery. “Does that mean you’re incapable of proving that my boogeyman is a pile of bones?”

  “For now. I had Cyrus Hoyt’s grave exhumed...”

  She didn’t have to hear the rest. “Then do you believe that he’s out there?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Maylam’s killer had that damn corpse stashed somewhere.”

  “Or if Hoyt was never dead…”

  “I exhumed him because I thought for sure he’d be there. I wanted to help ease your mind, and now I’ve got more questions.”

  “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Sadly.”

  He offered a tired breath and said, “You deserve better.”

  So do you, she wanted to say, but refused the hackneyed sentiment. Instead, she told him that she wasn’t leaving town. Not when there were more puzzle pieces on the board than ever before. The trick was figuring out how they all fit together, and that was going to take more work. It was almost enough to take her mind off being terrified.