The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “It’s fine. I didn’t have plans tonight,” she answered, pulling her latex gloves off, unclipping her French twist and quickly re-knotting it. She caught Kado watching as she moved. Cass would have sworn that his tanned skin darkened before he turned abruptly to his paperwork. Again she was unsettled at the response his glance raised in her. Since the rape, Cass had studiously avoided feeling attraction for any man, and she’d only dated so she wouldn’t be the target of petty gossip. Her body’s response to Kado – the warm tingle deep in her gut, the catch of breath – was unwelcome, and since she wasn’t able to control or kill it, downright irritating. She cleared her throat. “What do you think about what Truman told us?”

  He leaned against a clean counter, crossing one leg over of the other and examining the tip of a worn boot. “Could be nothing.”

  “He was nervous.”

  Kado looked up at her. “Have you seen him like that before?”

  “No. Seemed like he was ratting out his best friend. I didn’t know Truman and Petchard were that close.”

  “I haven’t met Hugo Petchard. Can you see him as part of a cult?”

  “You bet.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Cass flipped open the latches on her crime scene kit and began replenishing the contents from the evidence room’s cabinets. “He’s an arrogant little man, always trying to take credit for things somebody else did, wanting attention. But he just uses all that bluster to hide his insecurity. He would fall for someone telling him how smart and important he is. Flattery would buy his loyalty.”

  “Interesting. I think Mitch’s idea about holding off before talking to him is sound.”

  Cass shuffled through boxes. “You don’t believe Angie’s story either, do you? Where are the gloves?”

  “Next drawer down,” he answered absently, gray eyes clouded. “It’s not that I don’t believe her. It wouldn’t be the first time a cult set up shop in a rural area. It’s just that the pieces don’t fit and there’s no point stirring up trouble with Petchard without a good reason. The things Angie described, other than that book,” he said, glancing at The Church of the True Believer where it sat on the evidence table, “weren’t in the house. Officer Garrett said nobody had been inside but us.” He shrugged. “Talking to Angie tomorrow, after the sedatives have worn off and she’s had a night to rest, is a good idea.”

  Cass flipped her crime scene kit closed and helped Kado load evidence bags into a milk crate. She looked around the room and found the order that Kado was imposing helpful. The place had been comfortable chaos when Comfrey was in charge, but it took forever to find what you needed. “Are you still working on the fire pit?”

  “Truman got through it this morning. There’s nothing out there. It’s down to Grey and Bernie to deal with the bones. I’ll run some tests to see what accelerant was used, but I’m guessing gas or kerosene.” He gathered their scattered paperwork and sealed it in an envelope, jotting Elaine’s name and a note on the front. “You want to start on the book in the morning?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be in early. I’m curious to know what The Church of the True Believer is about.”

  He lifted the milk crate and placed it in the evidence cage, locking the gate and pocketing the keys. Cass wiped the table while Kado grabbed the envelope for Elaine and turned off lights. She followed him from the room, waiting as he locked the door and sneaking a peek at the way his jeans molded to his hips, then shaking her head in irritation at herself. The station was quiet this time of the evening, any prisoners bedded down for the night and the second shift still out. Sundays were one of the more tame nights of the week, outside of football season. If the Dallas Cowboys were playing, all bets on civilized behavior were off.

  “I meant to tell you earlier,” he said, pushing through the swinging doors into the lobby, “thanks for being open to hear what I’m saying. I don’t think Officer Munk is too interested in my input.”

  Cass shrugged. “Ernie Munk is all right. Old Comfrey treated him like a right hand, trained him on forensic procedures. If you’re running down Comfrey and changing everything, Munk is probably wondering what you think of him.”

  “I think he’s got a good eye for detail and if he’s interested in forensics, I’m glad he’s working on this case. He just seems pissed off with me, regardless of the situation. I guess I don’t know how to reach the guys around here,” Kado said, and slipped the envelope in one of Elaine’s desk drawers.

  She grinned. “Can I give you some advice about donuts?”

  ____________

  HE WAITED ON ONE of the side streets off the square, watching until the last of them left the courthouse. He’d been so proud of himself today. The call to the old man was perfect this morning, made when the ambulance had gone and everyone else was at the barn with the body. He’d crept into the house and was out within minutes, stowing the briefcase in the patrol car’s trunk before returning to string yellow tape through the fence. Stealing from a crime scene was beyond the normal task he was asked to perform, but he’d been promised a payment that would make a serious dent in the credit card debt his wife continued to build. And the old man had assured him that the briefcase contained nothing related to Lenny Scarborough’s death, just papers for the insurance business. It seemed like a no-brainer.

  But this. This was more than a no-brainer. Chad Garrett had to assume that anything Kado took from the Scarborough’s place was relevant to the investigation, and here he was, thinking about passing that information to an outsider. He considered the consequences of what he was about to do, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” rolled from the patrol car’s radio. Could the old man be involved in Lenny’s death? Garrett didn’t think so. It was pretty clear that Angie Scarborough had snapped, and since he’d seen the pictures on the kitchen floor of men screwing each other and that chick, he figured she had a pretty good motive for murder. Garrett ran both hands over his buzz cut. Maybe the old man had the pictures planted for Angie to find. Something like that wasn’t beyond him.

  Granted, he had no option but to find a way into the evidence room. Consequences. If his wife found out he’d been balling her stepsister, she’d make sure he knew all about consequences. How the old man found out about it was beyond Garrett. They’d always been discreet. But the old man did find out, and so here he was, planning to break into the police station’s evidence room to find out what Kado had taken from Lenny Scarborough’s house. All because he liked big tits.

  He tensed at movement through a window and watched Kado and Detective Elliot stop near the receptionist’s desk in the lobby. Kado disappeared from view, as if he had bent over, leaving Garrett with an unfettered view of Cass Elliot’s curves. Now that was worth the wait. Kado reappeared and they left the courthouse, climbed into their trucks, and drove away. Garrett watched the clock for another five minutes to make sure neither returned before he drove to the back of the courthouse. He climbed out of the patrol car while tugging a ball cap over his forehead, and then punched a code into the keypad to enter through the police station’s door.

  He passed quickly through the deserted halls, grateful for the darkness and the quiet. Garrett stopped at the door to the evidence room, pulled his shirttail out and tried the doorknob. Locked. He stood silently, thinking through procedure. Kado would have inventoried the evidence this evening with Detective Elliot as a witness. But it was Elaine who normally took care of any paperwork. Maybe…

  Garrett squatted as he reached the swinging doors leading from the police department’s offices into the lobby and duck-walked to the receptionist’s alcove. Bent over, he couldn’t use his shirttail to avoid leaving fingerprints, so he reached up and tugged a tissue from a box on the counter. He searched quickly through the desk drawers and found the envelope Kado had left, and then exhaled in frustration. It was sealed. There was nothing to do but open it, copy the papers and slide them into a fresh envelope. Kado’s note to Elaine would be lo
st, but who was to know? Guilt tweaked his intestines. It wasn’t like he was breaking into the evidence room, he silently chided. This was just some paper. A list. No harm in it at all.

  He drew a deep breath and slid a pocketknife from his trousers, slicing open the envelope before he could change his mind.

  CHAPTER 20

  BRUCE ELLIOT SAT AT the kitchen table amid a sea of papers, red marking pen dangling from his lips. He scratched at the day’s growth of dark beard covering his square jaw and glanced up as Cass opened the door. “Herman the German out on patrol?”

  “Goose-stepping away. What’s his deal?”

  “He was in the war, but I thought he fought for our side.” He shrugged. “Had any supper?”

  “Anything left?”

  “Harry went and got the girls and they had macaroni and cheese – there’s some in the pot. The grownups had Mexican chef salad. Meat and beans are on the stove, salad stuff’s in the fridge.”

  “How are the girls?”

  “Seemed fine to me. A little quiet maybe. But it is Sunday night and they go back to school tomorrow.” Bruce shrugged his solid shoulders. “Who knows with kids? Anyway, where’ve you been?”

  She sighed. “Lenny Scarborough is dead. Did you know him?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  “Farmer outside of town, had an interest in one of the insurance businesses.”

  “What happened?”

  Cass turned the burner on under the mixture of beef and kidney beans used to top a salad of greens, tomatoes and avocados. She gently pulled the duct taped handle on the fridge and found the container of salad, answering over her shoulder. “Looks like his wife killed him.”

  “Whoa. Gun?”

  “Hay dolly.”

  Bruce lifted an eyebrow. “Creative. Is she in jail?”

  “Not yet. He beat her up. She’s still in the hospital.”

  “Stupid man. Women may be smaller, but they’re meaner,” Bruce replied, pen hovering over a handwritten diagram.

  Cass rolled her eyes. “Where’s Harry?”

  “Gone to take the girls home. He should be back any time now.”

  “Are you grading papers?”

  “Yup, they’ve just finished half term.” Bruce taught woodworking at the local college, and despite the hands-on nature of the course, seemed always to have mounds of paperwork to plow through.

  “What are they working on?”

  Bruce flashed a wicked grin and in that moment Cass saw beyond her older brother to the handsome man most of the eligible, and some of the not so eligible, women in Forney County drooled over. “Rocking chairs.”

  “You are cruel.”

  He chuckled, clearing an open space on the table. “The Dean of the Business School is in my class this term. I must admit, it’s satisfying to watch him scratch his head on occasion. I don’t want them to fail or anything, but it is funny to see what they come up with.” He swiveled a large piece of paper toward her chair. “Look at this.”

  “What is it?” Cass asked, settling down with her salad and examining a complicated floor plan.

  “New kitchen.”

  “Whose?”

  “Ours.”

  “What?” she exclaimed, fork clattering against her plate.

  “The front porch is about to fall off. The kitchen is barely functional. The whole house needs remodeling. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t. What’s wrong with the kitchen the way it is?”

  Bruce sat back in his chair and glanced around the small room, cracked and worn beneath its clean surfaces. “It’s never been updated. Every time something goes wrong with an appliance or one of the cabinets, we stick a little duct tape and spit on it to hold things together for a while longer.”

  Her violet eyes clouded as Cass fiddled with her napkin. “This is Momma’s kitchen, Bruce. Her cabinets, her pots and pans, her stove.”

  “But it’s been over twenty years, Cass. And it looks like it’ll be more than just Daddy living out here, for a while anyway. Even if it was just him, he needs a fridge with a handle that isn’t attached with duct tape, and we could do with a new oven and stove.”

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  Bruce ran a hand over his dark hair. “No. Thought I’d talk to you first and see how you reacted.” He reached for the plans and carefully folded them. “Just think about it, all right?”

  She nodded slowly and picked up her fork, eating and watching Bruce grade papers. He frowned as he studied the homework in front of him, heavy brow drawn in concentration. After he’d written a final score and short note at the top of the paper, she spoke.

  “I’ve got some questions for you, but they’re kind of peculiar.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How many homosexuals are there around here?”

  Bruce choked a laugh. “Why are you asking me?”

  “I’m not questioning your orientation, if that’s what you mean. I just figured you’d have some idea about this stuff given that you’re out at the college.”

  The screen door opened and Harry smiled. “Hey.”

  “Thank goodness you’re back. Cass wants to talk about homosexuality.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Bruce,” Cass chuckled, using her foot to scoot a chair out for Harry. “How are the girls?”

  “They’re fine,” he answered, swiping a tomato from her plate. “Said to give you a hug. What are you talking about?”

  “All I wanted to know was how many homosexuals we’ve got around here.”

  Bruce grinned. “Harry should know, he’s in design. Bound to be a fag or two in that line of work.”

  “Hey!” Harry protested. “I do the architecture. Carly deals with the interior decorators.”

  “No bashing.” Cass carried her dishes to the sink. “Seriously, what do you think?”

  Harry pursed his lips, hands linked over his cottony hair. “I reckon there are a fair few. Certainly more in the closet than out. Bruce?”

  “I agree. And there must be some married gays, trying to pass for straight.”

  “What’s for dessert?” Cass asked.

  “Ice cream. Homemade. Grab an extra bowl,” Bruce answered.

  “One for me, too.”

  “And me,” said Abe as he swung through the kitchen door. “You get the girls home okay, Harry?”

  “Yeah. They weren’t too happy to be back.”

  “Carly’s the bad guy right now, making ’em get up and go to school, take their vitamins, all that stuff,” Abe chuckled.

  “Not according to Chloe,” Harry replied. “She’s still plenty mad at me.”

  “She’s just trying to protect her momma. She’ll come around.”

  Cass finished scooping and passed bowls around the table. “Chocolate syrup?”

  “Hand me that pot of macaroni and cheese,” said Harry.

  Motion in the room ceased.

  “You’re kidding, right?” asked Bruce.

  “You should try it. The sweet and the salty are pretty good. The girls taught me,” he said, scooping clumps of unnaturally orange pasta into his bowl and stirring the gooey mixture.

  “If that’s what having kids does to you, count me out.”

  Harry shoveled a creamy spoonful into his mouth. “Mmmm.”

  “You’re as bad as Cass,” Bruce grumbled, raking a stream of syrup over his ice cream. “She wants to know about butt bandits.”

  Their father raised a hoary eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Just something I’m working on,” she answered. “I wanted to know how prevalent homosexuality is in this area.”

  “I’ve got no idea. Boys?”

  Harry swallowed. “I figure we’re not that much different than the rest of the country, maybe a little more conservative. So whatever the average is, drop it by five percent or so. That’s probably a good estimate.”

  Cass licked syrupy ice cream from her spoon. “You don’t know anybody who’s out o
f the closet?”

  Both Bruce and Harry shook their heads.

  “Next question. How many child molesters are there?”

  Harry choked on an elbow of macaroni. “Come on, Cass.”

  Abe rattled his spoon in his empty bowl. “You’re separating abuse from sexual activities?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d imagine there are a few people who still hit their kids harder than they need to. A spanking is one thing, but leaving bruises,” Abe shook his head, “that’s something else. As for molestation, I’m sure it goes on but I’ve never heard anything.”

  Harry sniggered. “I’d think bestiality would be a bigger problem in this neck of the woods.”

  Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Who got arrested a couple of years ago for abusing their kid?”

  “John Lee Grifford,” Harry answered.

  “Yeah,” Bruce agreed, waving his spoon at Cass. “Talk to him.”

  “Can’t. He’s in the loony bin.”

  “But that’s what you need, a real live molester.”

  “Not a bad idea. One more question. Cults. Know of any?”

  “Jeez, Cass. Like in Forney County?”

  “Yup.”

  “Other than the Klan?” Abe asked.

  “Any type of cult.”

  Their father shook his head. “Klan’s the only cult I can think of, and I haven’t heard anything about them in a long time.”

  “You looking for religious nuts, like the Koreshian thing?” Harry asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Never heard of anything. Bruce?”

  “Not unless you count the Goths out at the college, but they’re harmless.” He gathered their bowls and stacked them in the dishwasher before collecting his paperwork. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning?”

  “Thanks Bruce,” Cass answered. “I’ll be up and out early.”

  “Me too,” said Harry, pushing back from the table. “’Night.”

  Cass began preparing the percolator for the morning as the kitchen door swung closed. Abe cleared his throat. “Those were some strange questions you asked.”