“Hello?” Ashton bellowed out into the vast nothingness and he felt silly knowing that even if there was someone out there, they wouldn’t respond to a simple gesture. They walked further around the house until they could see the barn with its door ajar. Ashton quickened his pace to shut it so they could end their investigation, and they slowly walked back to the front of the house.
“It must have just been an animal or something,” Ashton reasoned with Dillon. They had been looking down at the ground for their trip back to the house, wanting nothing more than to get some sleep that had been interrupted by the unidentified noises. Dillon stopped dead in his tracks and Ashton nearly ran into him as he followed Dillon’s gaze to the front door of their beautiful home. Ashton eyes grew large as he saw the blood red paint dripping down and the words that stood out from the light color of the house.
“That religious mother fucker!” Ashton’s anger flooded over as he read and reread “Go Home Faggots” that was now permanently spray painted on the front of their house. It stretched from nearly one side of the house to the other, the paint a cruel reminder to him of his growing up. Dillon touched the paint and it smudged beneath his fingers. Ashton pulled his hand away, “Don’t touch anything, I’m calling the police.”
For nearly an hour they paced the front porch waiting for a police officer to arrive. The sky was awakening for a new day, alerting to them how early it truly was, and they could barely keep their eyes open. It was already so humid, their night clothes stuck to them in the Indian Summer, and all Ashton wanted was either sleep or a cup of coffee the size of a minivan. In the distance they could hear a car approach, and soon a white police cruiser was barreling down their driveway. A policeman stepped out of his car, a handsome man nearing 40 but still holding onto a boyish charm, and quietly approached them as he read the words that were plastered behind them.
“Well, I’m guessing I have the right house,” the officer laughed. Ashton scoffed at his comment before retreating back to the porch swing, “I’m sorry, waking up so early has brought the smart ass out of me,” the man stated trying to redeem himself.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your restful slumber, officer,” Aston snapped back, annoyed. Dillon patted his leg to calm him and stood up, addressing the officer with an outstretched hand. After the formal greetings, the officer pulled out a digital camera that pre-dated smartphones and snapped a few pictures of the damage before pulling out a notepad. The questions began to pour out from the officer who wanted a description of the events that had unfolded. Dillon had asked Ashton to not mention the nightmare, so he sat silently as the officer and Dillon conversed. The man diligently took notes until the pastor’s name came up for a potential suspect.
“You think Terry is involved in this?” the police officer questioned.
“He was here the other day inviting us to his new church that was until he realized we were…” Dillon was frustrated with the officer’s disbelief that a pastor could do something like this.
“Gay? Now look, I understand he expressed his beliefs but to involve him in this little prank…”
“Prank? You mean vandalizing a home? This isn’t some egging or toilet papering the trees, Officer, what is your name?” Ashton said from his spot on the porch. The man looked over at him, surprised by the sudden outburst.
“It’s Sergeant Batton,” the man continued, “Gentlemen, I understand your anger, I get it I really do. I just can’t wrap my head around Pastor Shlepp coming out here to do this.”
“Why? Do you even watch the news? There are crazy religious people everywhere.” Dillon responded, and Ashton could sense he wanted to end this debacle quickly before it exploded further. Ashton sat back down on the swing, allowing it to rock him back to a sensible mood. All of this anguish was too much for him. His mind was racing at a tumultuous speed, and he wanted desperately to scream as loud as he could.
“I’ll speak to him, I just don’t think he’s our culprit,” Sergeant Batton finally said letting out an audible sigh. The sun now peaked out from the fields, blinding them all from the brightness.
“I’ll write out my report and get back to ya’ll in a few days, until then try to stay calm and know this is an isolated incident.”
“And if it isn’t an ‘isolated incident’?” Dillon countered.
“Then you know my number,” the man said walking off the porch to his car, “Get some sleep, you all look like hell.” The man left a cloud of dust as he exited the property, and Ashton rose to go inside. Ashton doubted the man but had to take faith that Batton would uphold the law. He wanted to go South Belle Baptist himself to question the man that did this to their home, letting his entire town of loyal followers know of his hypocritical ways.
“He’s not going to talk to him, is he?” Ashton asked Dillon before opening the door to their home. The red painted had started to dry, its tackiness making the screen door stick to its frame. Ashton pulled harder until the door came loose with a loud shaking. He needed sleep before the chore of removing the hateful graffiti, and hoped Dillon would take up the cause. Dillon followed him inside without saying a word and they both went directly up the stairs before falling to the mercy of their bed.
THREE
Sheriff Mark Batton sat every Sunday in the pews of South Belle Baptist Church with his wife and three children, listening to his lifelong friend speak the word of God. He had grown up in the church since the age of two, making friends with Terry at pretty much the same age. Being friends with the pastor’s son had its advantages and he attended family events at their huge mansion outside of town, mostly during the holiest of holidays. They both attended camp in the summer together, pointing out the pretty girls and talking about sex before they even hit puberty. He knew Terry well, had included him as the best man in his wedding, and had even given him advice when the church was handed over to him to begin teaching the parishioners.
He could not fathom Terry having anything to do with the vandalizing of those men’s house. He even second guessed questioning him at all as he sat outside the church in his cruiser, but knew he had a civic duty to investigate the situation. The church itself sat beneath a large oak tree that created intricate shadows on the brick and wooden structure, and it stood as a centerpiece in the small town, on the corner of Dell and State for nearly a century. The church could house nearly four hundred people, filling to capacity every Sunday morning, but on a Tuesday, it was vacant and desolate next to the houses on the street. Mark was unsure if Terry would even be here. As he approached the front door, he noticed it was unlocked and entered the building.
The high ceiling rose ahead of him, the burgundy carpet summoning him further into the church. He passed down between the rows of pews, the stained glass windows shedding colorful light into the somewhat bleak space, and finally came to a door at the right side of the pulpit. He entered the hallway and saw Terry’s office door open. Terry’s voice echoed down the hall from a phone call so Mark proceeded down the hall, his footsteps bouncing sound from the void space. He knocked on the door and Terry beckoned him inside ending his phone call.
“Acadian Springs finest right here in my office!” Terry exclaimed and shook Mark’s hand, “You ready for the fishing trip?” Mark had been ready for the trip for a long time. It was a yearly tradition, for nearly a decade to get a camp house for a week in Grand Isle, to get away from the monotony of daily life and talk man to man about their lives.
“Yep, got all my supplies ready,” Mark was ready to ask the question that was eating at his conscious, “I’ve got to ask you something, Terry.” He watched the Pastor shift in his seat at the abrupt statement and a questioning glare, “The men that bought the Boudreaux Plantation…”
“Those deplorable sinners, you know they’re homosexuals, right?” Terry asked. He moved some papers around his desk trying to avoid the questions that lay ahead and Mark leaned forward.
“Their home was vandalized last night, Terry. Spray painted from one end to the
other,” Mark offered more details trying to get a feel for his friend. They had spoken about homosexuality, once before when it became the law of the land for marriage equality, and he remembered the conversation had agitated Terry even then, “They named you as the suspect.”
“Hmm,” was all Terry offered up before returning to his paperwork. They sat in uneasy silence for a moment before Terry spoke again, “I spoke with them the other day with an open invitation to the church.”
“Before condemning them to Hell, Terry. Now, you know I am a god-fearing Christian man myself, but I would never tell someone that they were going to Hell.”
“I simply told them what the Bible says.”
“Did you go back out there last night and spray paint the front of their house?” Mark questioned, his patience with the conversation wearing thin. The pastor laughed, looking straight at him and shook his head. The man seemed offended by the accusation, and Mark began to feel bad for the altercation, never having had to question his friend for a serious offense before in his life. The man continued to shake his head and stared out the window, gesturing towards the newly renovated gymnasium behind the church that featured an after school program and Sunday school.
“That gym is because of my fundraising and this church is still standing because of me, Mark. I would never jeopardize all of this to harass a couple of homosexuals,” the pastor began, “I was asleep last night just like the rest of this town.”
Mark had decided against pushing further and excused himself from the office. He had known Terry’s answer before he even uttered the words, but the conversation had unfortunately left Mark with some doubts about the truth. There was no way of finding out the truth unless a can of red spray paint was found with Terry’s fingerprints and the probability of that happening was zero to none. Today was trash day and, he was certain, the evidence, if any, was already hauled away to the dump. He avoided driving past Terry’s house and headed to Gerald’s Diner, the only restaurant in town to have a coffee and some breakfast to reassess the situation.
The diner had two patrons inside, an elderly couple he recognized from church service. He nodded to them as he sat down in a booth at the end of the restaurant. A young waitress took his order and walked away after pouring him a cup of coffee. He sat staring out at the parking lot as he watched motorists come and go from the gas pumps. His mind was a wreck, and he felt guilty for not getting the truth from Terry. He had hoped the entire thing had been a misunderstanding and it was some dumb kids just being kids, but he was as sure as the two men were on who the actual perpetrator was and he hated it. He didn’t want to see his lifelong friend in a different light, and he was certain the upcoming fishing trip, if it still occurred, would be a week-long uncomfortable vacation; a far cry from the relaxing getaway he was looking forward to.
“Might want to move your arms, don’t wanna burn you with this hot plate,” the waitress had been standing there without Mark noticing. He had been so much within his own mind that he hadn’t even noticed the time passing by or that his breakfast was ready to be consumed. He apologized to the waitress and lifted his arms as she placed the plate in front of him, “No worries officer, I imagine you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
“Why do you say that?” Mark wondered out loud.
“You’re a cop, stressful job, especially nowadays, I’d assume.” She smiled being friendly. Mark wondered what her story was, if stress was even a part of her day at all. Judging from the quiet surroundings, he couldn’t imagine her even breaking a sweat on the busiest of days. He was sure that she couldn’t even imagine the burden that was brewing within him.
“Your assumption is correct,” Mark sighed, the only reply he could. She walked away and he was left to his plate of food. His appetite was gone, but he forced the food down, taking sips from his coffee cup in between bites. Being a cop in such a small community had never been as stressful as what he saw police officers in big cities had to deal with, and most his work consisted of driving aimlessly trying to stay occupied. The only excitement that ever came his way would be a traffic accident or a DUI, after thirteen years on the force the only narcotics he ever found was the random bag of marijuana, but, for some reason, this simple vandalizing created havoc within his brain. He knew the men wanted answers, and he knew they wouldn’t stop calling until he had one.
After breakfast he drove to the small police station where only one of his three deputies sat at his desk watching online videos. The man greeted him before going back to his video and Mark locked himself in his office. He pulled out his notebook and began to type on his computer the details he had transcribed from his morning out on Jean Laffite Road. The name of one of the men stuck out to him, and with a quick search on the internet he found out why. One of the men was the author of some of the books his daughter read. He delved deeper to find articles about the man, and it was then that Mark got even more worried. The last thing the town needed was a media circus about a hate crime against a very popular author.
He closed the tabs from the news stories and gazed out of his window into the precinct where his deputy was still watching online videos. On Tuesday’s it was dead, so he allowed everyone the freedom to do as they wished. On most occasions he would spend his shift at home, waiting for a call to come in, and he wished today had been one of those days. His stress level was at its peak, and he craved a swig of bourbon to calm his nerves but the bottle he kept locked in his bottom desk drawer had been polished off the week before. He could go grab another bottle, he supposed, but in the light of day in his uniform would cause an uproar in the small town gossip circles. He cursed himself for not waiting to take the last shot, and decided it was best for him to go home to try and find comfort in familiarity. No one was home, his wife had exercise class in the next town over and his kids still had a few hours left of school, so with the house empty, he figured he could find some solace.
Sheriff Batton told his deputy to check in with him if he needed anything and headed back into the South Louisiana sun. It stung his flesh and, even though the meteorologist claimed a cool front had come in, he could swear the humidity was even worse today. The air inside his cruiser was thick and sweat began to pour as soon as he sat in the driver’s seat making him yearn for the cool embrace of his central air at home. He drove with all the windows down, the wind whipping around like a cyclone inside the vehicle, and it cooled him down just enough before he parked in his driveway and made a beeline inside.
Just as suspected the house was empty, and he poured himself a glass of ice water before taking a seat in his recliner. He flipped through the channels, daytime television not offering him any sort of entertainment whatsoever, and finally settled on a station showing old 1950’s sitcoms. It soon became background noise to him as his mind drifted back to the events of the day. Homosexuality wasn’t something he thought of much, it never directly affected him nor had he met anyone that was openly gay until that very morning. He remembered a small portion of Terry’s sermon when gays across America had earned the equal right of marriage but even then he didn’t put much thought into it one way or another. He did know what the Bible said about it and was a firm believer in all of its teachings, but after the sermon it was back to everyday living and the thought didn’t cross his mind again until the moment he pulled up and saw the derogatory term plastered on the front of the beautiful home.
Curiosity overcame him and he situated himself at the kitchen table, opening up his laptop. In the search engine he typed the word ‘gay’ and immediately the screen filled with news articles and random websites about homosexuality. Scrolling through, he found a few websites dedicated towards the theory that homosexuality was a sin and, before he knew it, soon he was knee deep in Christian theory on the subject. The story of Sodom and Gomorrah was a large section of most of the sites with a few stating the popular Leviticus scripture that put them in the same category as adulterers and murderers. He edited his search to include the term ‘gay sex’ and he was
bombarded with sexualized graphics of men fornicating in various positions. He knew what he was doing was wrong, yet each time he tried to click away from the various images, his hand would click another until finally a video popped onto the screen and moans could be heard from the speakers. He stared in awe as the screen played out a scene with two men on a beach and, as much as he was disgusted, he was strangely intrigued, letting it continue to play as his pants bulged out noticeably. He was brought back to his senses as he heard the front door open and his wife barge in. He panicked and quickly shut the computer down, making a mental note to erase all the history from the computer as his wife walked into the kitchen.
“You’re home early!” She exclaimed, sitting her gym bag on the ground and kissing her husband.
“Slow day at the station, just stopped home to have something to do,” He tried to be as calm as possible even as the guilt boiled inside him from the time he had just spent on the computer, “How was class?”
“Oh the usual, I was thinking hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill tonight.” She said, and he nodded in agreement. He was worried she had heard the sound from the computer when she came in, but her demeanor didn’t seem off, so he figured he had shut off everything in the nick of time. She had caught him once, perusing pornography websites online and he had promised her then that he would stop going to such websites. He couldn’t imagine her reaction if she found him on gay porno websites and didn’t even want to come to terms that he was weirdly turned on by the matter. He excused himself from the table, went to the restroom where he splashed water on his face to calm his nerves, and he silently prayed for forgiveness.
The House the Devil Built Page 5
