The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  She glanced over her shoulder at her father. “It’s a strange case we’re working on.”

  “If there’s a cult around here, Cass, and you rile them up, things could get dangerous.”

  “Things could always get dangerous,” she answered, settling across the table from him.

  Abe sighed. “I’ve never treated you any different than the boys, Cass, and your momma wouldn’t have tolerated it if I’d tried.” His eyes, the color of honeyed oak, lit up briefly at the thought of Nell. “But you’ve always been special, and not just because you’re my only girl. I was so proud when you got your accounting degree. You had the whole world in front of you. I still don’t understand why you decided to join the force.” She shifted and he slid a hand across the table, reaching for hers. “We never talked much about it, but I suspect that it has something to do with Jack.”

  Cass blinked. She’d never told anyone what had happened in her junior year at university. That night, and the days that followed, had changed her. She’d been extraordinarily self-possessed when she had woken the next morning, bloodied, nauseated and aching. As she had bandaged the cut along her breast, swabbed semen from her thighs, combed her pubic hair for traces of his and used clear tape to lift his fingerprints from any possible surface in that dingy hotel room, her mind had latched onto a tiny, burning seed of fury that eventually found purchase in her soul. In the years since that night, she’d drawn the hazy memories into a tight ball of pain and nursed it, experimenting with the emotions fighting to wrap around it. Fear was first, but it only hollowed out her core. She tried cloaking the pain with forgiveness and forgetfulness, but the infusion of emotions left a bitter taste in her mouth. At last she settled on an unblemished rage with a chemical taint to it, and a cold wrath blossomed, which had been the only real option all along. Her life changed course that night, shedding the search for a respectability her white trash family had never known, and becoming a calculated hunt for the man who had hurt her.

  She drew a breath and glanced at the dark kitchen window, unable to look her father in the eye while she lied. “Maybe I was just too young when it all happened, but I’ve never believed that Jack was guilty.” She let him take her hand in his. “What are you trying to say?”

  Abe pursed his lips. “I couldn’t pick a better partner for you than Mitch. He kind of took Jack’s place as your oldest brother when Jack went to prison, and I trust him not to let anything happen to you. But it worries me to think you could be in harm’s way. And Jack,” he continued as she began to speak, “would be devastated if anything happened to you, especially if he thought that it was because of him that you were on the force.”

  Anger sparked in the violet depths of her eyes. “That’s playing dirty. I am capable of doing my job and staying safe at the same time, Mitch or no Mitch. And I love what I do. I’m good at it. I want your support, Daddy, but I will stay on the force, even without it.”

  His eyes were clouded as he squeezed her hand. “You are more like your momma every day, Cass. And I guess I should be grateful for that. I’ll try not to mention it again. But please,” he said, “stay safe. After losing your mom and Jack, none of us could stand to see you hurt.”

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER 21

  CASS YAWNED WIDELY AS she pushed opened the door to The Golden Gate, waving the folded newspaper she carried at the lawyers and farmers who were getting a jump start on the day, and letting the warm smells of coffee and maple syrup wrap around her. She stretched and grinned at skinny Stan Overheart as he crossed the café with a mug in his hand.

  “Hey Cass, you’re early.”

  “Hey Stan.” She frowned, tipping her head toward the jukebox as she slid into a booth covered in burgundy vinyl. “What is that racket?”

  He slid into the seat across from her, throwing his gray ponytail over his shoulder and pushing the full mug toward her. A tattooed tiger rippled across one hairy forearm as he leaned forward. “I’ve got a deal with Wallace and Wilbur Pettigrew. They get one country song first thing in the morning, then we listen to my stuff. But they had a spat today about who they’d listen to. Wallace wanted Hank Williams and Wilbur wanted Tanya Tucker. It got pretty heated.” Cass cast a disbelieving glance at the sturdy Pettigrew brothers in their customary booth, silently hunched over steaming coffee mugs. She’d never seen either of them do anything more aggressive than lift a chin in greeting. Stan nodded in confirmation. “Seriously. Looked like they were gonna come to blows over it. So, I took matters into my own hands and picked the Farmer Boys, “You’re a Humdinger”.”

  Cass listened to the lyrics. “What exactly is yeller puddin’?”

  “I’m not sure, but I needed something drastic.” He cut his eyes at the men. “They’ve calmed down now. This track has about a minute left. Listen for some Creedence followed by “The Man Who Sold the World” by David Bowie. You watch,” he said confidently. “Wilbur won’t move until he’s heard something by Bowie. He’d never admit it, but I think “Life on Mars” is his favorite.”

  “You have some funky stuff in that jukebox,” Cass said, grinning.

  “All the greats,” he agreed, pulling an order pad from his apron. “What can I get for you?”

  “I need some breakfast burritos to go, enough for me and Mitch. And two,” she yawned again, “make that three, large coffees.”

  “No problem.”

  Cass added cream to her mug and sipped gratefully, opening the paper and scanning the headlines. This was a ritual she had enacted every morning since leaving the Dallas Police Department and forsaking access to the swirl of fact and rumor that kept her informed about rapes in the metropolitan area. She spoke occasionally with her former colleagues, but there were only so many times she could ask whether a rape victim described her attacker as a former president before they began to wonder why she was interested. As happened almost every morning, Cass found nothing of note in the newspaper. It reported only the most serious assaults, and she was beginning to wonder if she should again try to expand her monitoring to the Internet. Her previous attempts to identify similar crimes using Google had resulted in masses of useless information about Nixon and the Vietnam War. She would have to rethink her search strategies before using the Internet again. Refolding the paper, she glanced across the café to see the Pettigrew brothers engaged in a silent battle of wills, and watched with interest as one of them slid from the booth and shuffled in her direction. She smiled as he approached, his head bobbing in greeting.

  “Morning, Cass,” he said, blushing.

  “Morning, Mr. Pettigrew. How are you?” she asked, unable to determine whether this was Wilbur or Wallace.

  “Just fine. Would you mind if I sit for a minute?” he asked, shifting from one foot to the other while fiddling with the shoulder strap on his overalls.

  “Not at all,” she replied, folding the paper. “What’s up?”

  He cut his eyes at his brother and took a deep breath before sitting opposite her. The fat licks of “Bad Moon Rising” bounced from the jukebox. “We, uh, heard there was some trouble out at the Scarborough place.”

  Cass nodded.

  “Is Lenny dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I heard he was speared on a hay dolly.”

  Cass nodded again, unsurprised that he knew. It was impossible to keep a secret in a town this size. “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “What happened?”

  “We’re investigating, Mr. Pettigrew, but at this point, we’re considering it an accident.”

  “It was Angie, wasn’t it?”

  “We’re still investigating,” she answered patiently.

  “If she did it, and we reckon that she did, he only got what was coming to him.”

  “Sir?”

  “Wilbur and me,” he jutted his chin toward his brother, “thought about calling the police, but didn’t figure it was any of our business if she was happy to tolerate it.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Pettigrew, but you’
ve lost me. What was Angie tolerating?”

  “Lenny hit her,” Wallace answered simply.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We seen it. We did some work for Lenny now and again, and she’d try to hide it, but sometimes she’d be limping. And her t-shirt sleeve would ride up. There were bruises on her arms.” He shook his head. “She never said nothing. Not a word. But we knew what was going on.”

  “When was this?”

  Wallace sat back in the booth and poked his bottom lip out. “Must’ve been eight or nine months ago.”

  “Is that the only time you saw bruises on her?”

  “Naw, that’s just when we quit going out there.”

  Cass cocked her head to one side. “Why did you stop going to the Scarborough’s place?”

  “Lenny started getting all religious on us. It kinda spooked Wilbur, and I didn’t much take to it either.”

  “Religious how?”

  He shifted in the booth and hitched one shoulder. “Just quoting the Bible at us, only it didn’t feel like real stuff from the Bible. Sounded like it was kinda made up.”

  She tapped a finger against the side of her mug as John Fogerty faded and David Bowie picked up his slack. She glanced across the café. Stan was right. Wilbur’s work boot was tapping rhythmically beneath the table. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it for herself. “Mr. Pettigrew, we may need for you and uh, Mr. Pettigrew to give us a statement about what you’ve just told me. Would you be willing to do that?”

  He frowned. “Ain’t that what I just done?”

  “You need to come to the station and make a formal statement. We’ll type it up and you can sign it.”

  Wallace sighed deeply and glanced at his brother. They had been hewn from the same gnarly old oak tree, shoulders broad, faces weathered and stoic. He leaned toward Cass and lowered his voice. “Can’t you bring it tomorrow? We’ll sign it here.”

  “You don’t want to come to the station?”

  “It’s not me, it’s Wilbur.” Wallace stretched his face closer and Cass leaned to meet him. “He spent a night in jail when he was in high school. Bought some of your daddy’s moonshine and ended up exposing himself on the courthouse lawn.” Cass bit her lip to suppress a smile. Wallace nodded sagely. “He had to take a leak and just lost all sense of where he was. They kept him overnight and said there’d be no record, but it’s been over twenty years now and he still won’t go in the courthouse. Too embarrassed. Hasn’t touched a drop o’ drink since, so I reckon there’s some good come of it.”

  “I see the problem. I’ll type up what you told me and bring it tomorrow morning. The two of you can read it and make changes. I’ll fix it and bring it for you to sign on Wednesday. Would that be okay?”

  “It sure would,” Wallace said as he slid from the booth and bumped into Stan. Muttering an apology, he shuffled back across the café as Stan placed two paper sacks on the table. “What was that about?”

  Cass shook her head. “Motive or defense. I’m not sure which.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE OLD MAN ROLLED up the window to keep the dust out of the cab. He lifted a Styrofoam cup from its holder and sipped his coffee while he fingered the envelope that Officer Garrett had left in his mailbox last night, eyes focused through the windshield. A wetback construction crew was working on the new automobile dealership near downtown Arcadia. The slab was in and the crew had started framing the building. The old man was one of several investors in the establishment, and even though he had hand-picked the construction boss, he planned to ensure his funds were well spent.

  Given its location and the fact that only a residence had previously existed on the site, this was a prime piece of real estate. Obtaining the land for this project had proved especially difficult as Toby Waller, the young man who had inherited the property, was disinclined to sell. At any price. But Toby’s reticence hadn’t been enough to stop the project. The old man had never been one to take no for an answer, and his special means of persuasion had resulted in a lower price for the property. Significantly lower. He watched the men scrambling over the studwork for a moment longer, and then satisfied that this crew knew what they were doing, he replaced the cup in its holder and peeled open the envelope’s lip.

  Three pieces of paper slid into his lap. He scanned them quickly, grimacing when he saw the titles of the books taken from Lenny Scarborough’s study. The man had grown sloppy. He should have kept his copy of their sacred text in the briefcase, along with the rest of his material. His eyes moved rapidly down the first page, and he turned to the second. Photographs – explicit content, he read. Quite a few of them. He scanned the next page, and then rested the papers in his lap while he thought.

  The inventory said the photos were found in the kitchen, on the floor. They weren’t described in detail, yet an itch of anxiety clawed at his bowels. Lenny had embraced The Church’s philosophy wholeheartedly, perhaps too intensely for the old man’s comfort. And lately he had become somewhat fanatical. The Church had rituals, of course. They were necessary to build commitment and solidarity. But they could be… misconstrued. He rubbed a gnarled hand over his lean belly, feeling the gurgle of nerves. The old man had no fear for himself. He was past the point where he could have a direct involvement in sexual activities of any sort and rarely stayed down at the cabin past the closing of their ceremonies. The men were always careful to keep their hoods on when a stranger was at The Sanctuary, but in the heat of passion caution was known to slip. And someone with a camera. Photographs could do irreparable damage.

  The grumble of a compressor brought him back to the present, and he raised his hand at the construction boss in farewell. He needed to know what was in those photographs. He cranked the engine and dialed Officer Chad Garrett’s number as the cab cooled.

  CHAPTER 23

  “YOU’RE EARLY.”

  “I HAD the most fascinating conversation at The Golden Gate,” Cass answered as Mitch unwrapped a burrito.

  “With who?”

  “One of the Pettigrew brothers.”

  He stopped mid-bite. “They have vocal chords?”

  “Indeed they do, and Wallace knows how to use his. Did you know Wilbur was locked up for peeing on the courthouse lawn?”

  “Come on Cass, I’m trying to eat,” Mitch whimpered before stuffing the burrito in his mouth.

  “Wallace told me that both he and Wilbur have seen bruises on Angie, on more than one occasion. And they’ll put it in writing.”

  “When was this?”

  “Nine months ago, when they stopped helping out at the Scarborough place because, get this, Lenny started quoting religion at them.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Wallace didn’t think it was direct quotes from the Bible. He thought Lenny was making the stuff up.”

  “I guess that fits with the idea of Lenny belonging to a cult.”

  “And it supports what Angie told us about Lenny hitting her.” She stirred cream into her coffee and opened the newspaper again as the squad room filled with the noise of shift change. “Munk didn’t seem willing to believe Angie’s story, did he?”

  “No. But now we’ve got witnesses to Angie’s bruises and Lenny’s preaching to the Pettigrew brothers.” Mitch stifled a belch with a fist over his mouth and waved across the room. “Hey Carlos.”

  Detective Martinez left his duffel bag at his desk and came to shake Mitch’s hand. “Thanks for that tip on John Doe’s real name. I went around to the churches yesterday and found a few people who remember the name Humberto Gonzalez. But they connect it with a young man who was trying to find his father not too long ago.”

  “That must be his son. I reckon that explains why he disappeared from Arkansas. Where is he now?”

  “Gone. They figured he’d moved on to keep looking for his father.”

  “Did they have a description of the son? His car, anything?”

  “He was bumming rides. They thought he was staying d
own in the river bottoms near that old camp I searched last week. You want me to keep asking about him?”

  “He illegal?”

  Martinez nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest and leaning a hip against a nearby desk. “The community knows about the skeleton. They’re more willing to talk given that the old man was murdered. But they won’t say anything on record.”

  “His son is the only link we’ve got to Humberto Gonzalez. See if you can find somebody who gave him a ride, maybe got him to talk.”

  A disturbance rippled through the squad room as a scrawny man was greeted by a smattering of applause, puffing his concave chest in reply. He moved with a limp, stopping to take a shallow bow, basking in the attention. Spotting the trio talking by Cass’s desk, he sauntered over, holding his loose cotton trousers away from his legs.

  “Hey Cass,” he called. “I hear you’re stealing all my glory about that wetback skeleton. Just so we’re clear, I get credit for finding him, yeah?”

  “We keepin’ score Petchard?”

  “Just want to make sure Sheriff Hoffner knows it was me that found him. Hate for him to think a girl was taking credit for my finding a murder victim.” He hitched up his trousers and grimaced. The sound of cloth scraping over gauze escaped from beneath his clothes.

  “Yup Petchard, you’ve been instrumental in helping us identify Humberto Gonzalez, laid up at the hospital with burns like you were.” She smothered a grin. “Have you got a new pair of pants for your uniform yet?”

  “That fire was blazing, babe. Somebody had to do something. Hey Mitch, hey Beaner,” he sneered.

  Martinez threw his head back and laughed at the insult. “Yeah, you’re a real fireman, Hugo. That name doesn’t quite suit you, does it?” Petchard blushed and Martinez glanced at his legs. “It’s a shame you passed out like you did, and Cass had to pull your clothes off to keep you from burning up. I hear they’re doing great things with dick implants these days.”