The Devil of Light (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 1)

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  Another light pierced the truck’s cab, searching for her. She drew a deep breath and reached for the door’s handle.

  “Cass.”

  She turned to look at Bruce, seeing for the first time his bloodshot eyes and slumped posture.

  “What Dad said last night… we’re all okay with it.”

  “About quitting?”

  He nodded and she stared at the windshield wipers as they threw sheets of water over the waiting reporters. Her heart was heavy with uncertainty – for herself, for Mitch, for Kado and Truman who had violated procedure to help her. The wiper’s rhythmic pull was enticing. Just to stay in the warmth of the truck, to hide in its mechanical womb, was tempting. What was the point in fighting Hoffner? Why not just quit? She caught sight of her worried face reflected in the windshield, and realized how stupid she was for focusing on the negative. She’d overcome worse than this. Everything could go wrong, but everything could go right. And Richard Nixon was still out there. She needed the access a detective’s role provided to find him. A weary smile touched her lips.

  “I may get fired over this, Bruce, for reasons that have nothing to do with me. But I’ve never known an Elliot who quit.”

  He flashed a lopsided grin. “Then we’re behind you. Don’t worry about what happens next. You really are a hero.”

  “No, I’m not. None of us are. There’s too much that isn’t finished for any of us to be heroes.” She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Finish those plans for Momma’s kitchen.”

  “What?”

  “This morning is just the debrief. I’m still suspended until they clear the shooting. And there’s not much I can do for Mitch or Darla until he’s out of the hospital. Until then,” she shrugged, fingering the door’s handle again, “there’s nothing like power tools to help a girl keep things in perspective.”

  He reached across the cab and hugged her. Cass pulled the hood of her rain slicker over her head and pushed the door open against a throng of microphones and shouted questions. She glanced back into the cab at Bruce, then turned and disappeared into the noisy crowd.

  CHAPTER 96

  THE BOX OF DONUTS Harry dropped made a smacking sound when it hit floor. He’d stopped at an ancient bakery in Shreveport, unable to fight the Elliot instinct to feed in times of trouble and believing that sugar and a little grease were just what Darla and Evelyn needed after their long night. Driving through the heavy rain, he finally located the Emergency Room entrance to Shreveport’s biggest hospital, parked and dashed shivering through the downpour. The perky woman at the Information Desk had pointed him down a long hall, turn right at the end and knock on the fifth door on the left. Harry had dutifully trudged down the hall, soggy donut box balanced on one hand, Thermos clutched in the other.

  He rounded the corner to see Darla and Evelyn facing a doctor wrapped in bloodied scrubs. Stepping forward, the smile crossing Harry’s lips died as Darla threw her hands over her face and sagged into Evelyn, crumpling them both against the wall. The sound of the donut box hitting the floor was lost behind his wet footsteps as Harry broke into a run.

  CHAPTER 97

  THE OLD MAN SAT patiently in a kitchen chair while his wife dabbed at the scratches on his face and arms with hydrogen peroxide. Her age-spotted hands shook slightly, and she scolded while she worked, fussing that he was far too old for night fishing. He murmured agreement and kept his eyes on the television in the living room, watching events unfold at The Sanctuary. He watched her eyes, too, searching for traces of disbelief in the story he had concocted to explain his injuries. Though her glance strayed to the television occasionally, and her fretting slowed while the newscaster spoke, her face remained impassive.

  She finished her ministrations by dabbing antiseptic cream on his wounds, scooting him from the kitchen, and bringing him a fresh cup of coffee as he settled in his recliner. His eyes continued to scan the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the television screen, but his mind was engaged in damage control.

  The events of last night, and those to come, were truly the greatest threat The Church had ever encountered. The cabin was blazing, its contents destroyed. Including every copy of The Church of the True Believer, save two. Lenny Scarborough’s was in the evidence room at the police station. The other, the old man’s own, was with a trusted friend to use as a template for preparing a new volume to replace Lenny’s. Tomorrow, he would call his friend and ask him to deliver twelve new copies, instead of one. The cost would be enormous, but the supply of funds to The Church was under no threat.

  Three of their members were dead. It was clear that the young Detective, Cass Elliot, had shot and killed her fellow officer, Greg Newton. And Jed Salter had died out in the woods, tangled in barbed wire, in spite of the Elliot woman’s alleged attempts to save him. Reports of her actions ranged from heroic to homicidal. The old man wondered briefly if Salter had lived long enough to reveal any of their secrets. Their names. But there was no need to dwell on that now. If Salter had betrayed them, they would all know soon enough. The police would come, but find no evidence. The sacred texts were gone, their phones discarded around the county, soiled robes burned or buried. Few suffered injuries as they fled The Sanctuary, and those were slight, easily explained as occurring during routine maintenance on a house, a lawn or a farm.

  The two acolytes had survived, but they posed no threat to The Church. Blindfolded, they had seen no faces during their time at the cabin. Hugo Petchard was no threat, either. An initiate was not allowed to meet the members of The Church, with the exception of his sponsor, until the initiation ritual was complete. That rule had been established decades ago for an occasion such as this, and the old man was grateful for the foresight of his father and The Church’s other founding members.

  The old man’s thoughts turned to Deacon David Cronus. Reports were still unclear about who had caused his death. He was found handcuffed to The Sanctuary’s picnic table, his neck sliced open with what was presumed to be a sharp knife. But no weapon had yet been found. The acolytes were too young for such a violent act. Hugo Petchard was essentially a coward, a fact the old man wished he had recognized before suggesting his initiation to The Brethren. That left the other members of The Church. It was possible that one of their number had circled back and tied off the loose end of the Deacon’s mouth. And although he was certain that Deacon Cronus had been The Light of this generation, God was provident. If Deacon Cronus was dead, it must be the Lord’s will that The Light be extinguished. The old man had no doubt that its flame would be rekindled in the very near future.

  Satisfied that he and The Brethren who remained could deal with the immediate circumstances, he focused on the future. The men would discreetly regroup after a short period of time, receiving new phones and sharing ideas. There was much to accomplish. They would find a new location for The Sanctuary and start construction on another cabin. New members would be sought, and the Circle of Light would begin circumspect inquiries into possible candidates for The Light. The old man briefly considered contacting Hitch, requesting that he resume his role as collector of the sacred blood for their rituals. But that too, could wait.

  For now, they all needed rest and a period of restoration. The old man muted the television and pushed back in his recliner. His rumbling snores filled the living room in a matter of moments.

  ____________

  HITCH WHISTLED AS HE walked, a familiar tune that brought to mind a dark-eyed singer whose death in the early ’seventies was still the subject of much speculation. A backpack rested over one shoulder and a comforting wad of cash bulged in his hip pocket. The old man had been generous, and that was a favor he wouldn’t forget. The rising sun warmed the right side of his face as he headed north along the quiet country road, but a chilly breeze was building from the southwest. He’d be walking in cold rain before long.

  A grizzled old trucker had picked him up outside of Arcadia late Wednesday afternoon and they made Arkansas before evening. Hitch had bedded d
own in a derelict barn, surrounded by the earthy scent of the cattle and goats that had once called the place home. He rose early to shower and eat at a truck stop on the outskirts of Little Rock, fascinated by the news coverage coming out of Arcadia. Something about cults and a fire; dead bank presidents, preachers and police officers; buckets of blood. Images of a beautiful woman, her face blackened but hair flaming in the light of a blazing building, were played again and again and he longed to hear the commentary about her.

  Hitch resisted the urge to laugh when photographs of the dead flashed across the television screen. The old man wasn’t there. He settled back in the greasy booth and contemplated staying for a while, catching the full story and sipping more coffee, but instinct drove him on.

  He traveled without fear of the future, for evil always finds a home. Somewhere out there was another man with needs only someone like Hitch could meet. They’d find each other and the cycle would begin again. His time in Arcadia had confirmed the perfection of his role in this world, and all thoughts of living a clean life had been wiped from his mind. He remembered the cell phone zipped into his backpack and knew it would remain silent for many nights to come.

  Stopping suddenly on the shoulder of the road, Hitch threw his head back and laughed. His brain had just latched onto the words to the tune he was humming, a song by The Doors about lighting fires. How appropriate, he thought. Chuckling, he straightened himself and thrust his thumb out at a pickup hurtling down the lane. It screeched to a stop about fifty paces in front of him and Hitch trotted to the open window. The woman in the driver’s seat looked old enough to have survived the War of Northern Aggression. And the sour expression on her withered face told him that she still wasn’t happy with the outcome.

  “Headed west,” she told him. “Any use to you?”

  Hitch nodded and she motioned him into the pickup’s rusty bed. He settled with his back against the cab, using a stained rope to soften the bite of the hard ruts against his bony rear end. A grin spread across his face as the truck picked up speed, wind slashing at his eyes and jostling his hat. The woman quickly took a left, true to her word, heading west. The morning sun caught Hitch across the face, filling his strange amber eyes with a fiery light, drawing crimson sparks from their depths. He clamped a hand onto his hat and drifted off to the smooth flow of the road. His dreams encircled the beautiful woman whose hair blazed with firelight, and his soul stirred with its first yearnings for Arcadia.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I could not have written and published this novel without the help of many people. My husband, Martyn Popey, always believed that I had it in me, and it is in large part due to his faith, constant support and yes, multiple readings of early drafts, that The Devil of Light is now out in the big wide world. (I suppose some credit is due to the amount of tea he brewed for me, as well. PG Tips is surely a stronger company thanks to our caffeine consumption.)

  To my early readers, Mom, Terry, Tracy, Jackie and Jacque, thanks for your input, support and, most importantly, your desire to know what happens next to Cass, Mitch and the other good folks of Forney County – your interest has kept me afloat and is driving me forward into book two.

  Carolyn, your thoughts were invaluable and have made this a much smoother read.

  Jerry, thanks for all your advice about the medical stuff. Your answers to my poorly worded questions were very clear. So, although I’d love to lay the blame for errors at your feet, o brother of mine, I guess I’ll have to take full credit for them. Never thought you’d hear that, did you?

  Andrea, thanks so much for taking the time to offer your thoughts on how to improve The Devil of Light. They truly made a difference to the final draft.

  And to those of you who plunked down your hard-earned cash to purchase a copy of The Devil of Light, you have my sincere gratitude. Stepping into a book by an unknown author is risky, isn’t it? You’ve either found a new world that absorbs you and leaves you satisfied and wanting more, or you walk away feeling disappointed and perhaps a bit cheated. I hope this book has delivered a few hours of enjoyment and that you’re looking forward to the next installment in the Forney County series. I sure am.

  If you’re interested, you can read the story behind the story on this blog post, Genesis of a Novel: A Dirty Old Man.

  Gae-Lynn Woods

  June 2011

  p.s. To take a quick peek at the second Cass Elliot crime novel, AVENGERS OF BLOOD, turn the page…

  AVENGERS OF BLOOD

  A CASS ELLIOT CRIME NOVEL

  ____________

  PROLOGUE

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL night for a killing. One of those gorgeous Southern evenings that occur only occasionally as summer draws near; cool and clear, nearly devoid of humidity. Overhead, the stars sparkled in a vast expanse of velvety sky, their shimmering brightness dimmed only by the whisper-thin gauze of smoke that hung in the nearly motionless air.

  Despite the smell of terror and charred flesh, the clearing retained the cheery, slightly crazed atmosphere of a traveling carnival. The crowd had at first been pensive, watchful, but once the killing was done a sense of relief swept through the watchers. Women gossiped and tittered, drinking soda pop from bottles dotted with condensation. Children played chase through the forest of legs and took turns reenacting the murders they’d witnessed only moments earlier. Men smoked pipes and cigarettes, talking in low voices and tapping dried mud from their tired work boots.

  The sheeted men nearest the fires took off their hoods and their damp faces gleamed in the flames. People pulled back to give the photographer room and a bright burst stung the night. At last the crowd drifted away, women calling children and fussing at their husbands to hurry home. A few engines cranked in the still air, but most left on foot.

  The men in sheets lingered until the last of the crowd was gone and then congratulated themselves on how quickly justice could be served. A rustling startled them and one man took long strides to the side of the clearing and parted two azalea bushes bearing papery violet blooms. A filthy figure gazed up at him, face tear-streaked and snotty, a broken pencil and tattered paper clutched in one grimy hand.

  It took a moment, but at last he recognized the child. He leaned over and snatched the paper, calling to his companions. They towered over the tiny body, muttering to one another and turning the drawing to the firelight to see crude representations of the horror they had wrought. At last one of them lifted a foot clad in a pointy-toed cowboy boot and nudged the child toward the road.

  “Get on home, now,” he said. “And don’t you ever talk about what you seen. You understand? Don’t draw no more pictures, neither.” The child looked up at him with dark eyes that pierced his soul. He blustered on. “What happened here tonight can just as easily happen to you. Easier, even. ’Cause there ain’t nobody to look out for you now.”

  He watched as the child scurried away. Once out of reach, it turned and looked back at them with a burning gaze, searching their faces. He lifted his foot again and the child fled, swallowed quickly by the night. The laughter of the others was at first hesitant, as if they too had felt the intensity of the child’s hate. But the sound swelled and gained confidence and at last he joined in, hoping to obscure the vague uneasiness settling in his gut.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  CASS ELLIOT GROWLED AS she strained against a crowbar wedged between the wall and a stubborn two-by-four. “I hate these things.”

  “Easy now,” Bruce coaxed, leaning around her to slide a piece of half-inch plywood between the crowbar and the wall. “You’ll dent the sheetrock.”

  “I’ll dent your sheetrock,” she huffed, giving another mighty heave. The cabinet shrieked as three-inch nails screeched from their stud beds. She dropped the crowbar in the cabinet cavity, turned the volume down on the police scanner, and swiped Bruce’s freshly opened soda from the table. Sucking a long gulp, she eyed his broad frame, dark features, and – she frowned – clean cl
othes. “Where’re you going, my favorite brother?”

  “I didn’t know I was your favorite.”

  “You’re my favorite when you’re helping me rip out the kitchen.” She watched as Bruce added a newspaper clipping to a collection beneath a magnet on the refrigerator. “I wish you’d stop that.”

  “Let me be famous vicariously.” The clippings from the Forney Cater – featuring photographs of Cass, her partner Mitch Stone, or the smoldering remains of a cabin in the Sabine River bottoms – fluttered as Bruce tugged gingerly on the refrigerator’s duct-taped handle. He grabbed another soda.

  “I just wish it was over. Where’re you going?”

  “School.”

  “You don’t teach on Wednesday night.”

  “Some of the students need time in the shop to finish their final projects. I told them I’d open up today.”

  “Those aren’t teaching clothes, Bruce. Those are date clothes.”

  “I might have a little something planned for later on. And speaking of dates, Sam McGee called while you were hauling trash to the dump.”