by Kathy Reichs
“The church supports the concept of exorcism. The Vatican just held a conference on the topic. Some two hundred nuns and priests attended. The pope praised the work of the International Association of Exorcists.” The few tidbits I could recall from my online searches.
“The Holy Father is isolated in the Vatican, surrounded by cardinals. He is no longer effective.” Hoke’s eyes flicked to the church building, came back to me, flaring with anger, maybe fear. “Out here, in the trenches, most priests and bishops don’t listen. They think exorcism makes the church look foolish and anachronistic. They are wrong. The devil is real. Demonic forces are real. The Bible says so in passage after passage. Ephesians six, eleven: ‘Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.’ ”
Again my cell vibrated. I was picking up signal, though sporadic. Good. I could be located.
I spoke to cover the sound. “The church says an exorcism should be performed only after extensive medical and psychiatric evaluation.”
“Psychiatrists. With their fancy jargon and therapy and bottles of pills.” Again the nasty expulsion of air. “A lot of good psychiatry did the woman who drowned her five kids. Or the teen who shot up a school full of children. Or the man who killed boys and buried them under his house.”
“What qualifies you to distinguish between psychosis and possession?”
“The Holy Spirit gives me the power of divination.”
“And what if you and the HS guess wrong? What if your subject is actually epileptic? You throw water at her and wave a crucifix in her face?” I knew I should tamp it down. But I was viciously tired and making poor decisions. “Do you consider what harm you might be causing?”
“I can sense when someone is afflicted with a demon.”
“Even if you can, the church requires that an exorcism be performed by a properly trained priest.”
“Deep down my fellow clergy are skeptics.”
“All of them?”
“The devil is God’s oldest enemy, and no fool. When the exorcist doesn’t believe, the Evil One wins.”
“And you believe.”
“With my whole being.”
“So you armor up and go at Satan freelance.”
“My authority comes from God, not Rome. Luke ten, seventeen to nineteen: ‘And the seventy returned again with joy, saying, Lord, even the devils are subject to us through thy name. And He said to them, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven. Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing shall by any means hurt you.’ ”
Hoke’s eyes were shiny with something I couldn’t identify. Piety? Madness? I had to get away.
I cocked my head ever so slightly, pretending that I’d heard a car but was trying to mask it.
Hoke fell for the ploy. His gaze slid from mine, went over my shoulder toward the road.
Make a run for it? Grab the gun? Kick Hoke in the nuts?
A nanosecond’s hesitation. Then the moment was gone.
When Hoke looked back, the glint in his eyes chilled me.
“Why have you come here?” he hissed.
“You exorcised Cora. Things got too rough. Or perhaps she had a seizure.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know you’re not a killer. Cora’s death was an accident. Like the child in Indiana.”
From where I stood, I could see Hoke’s breathing get faster.
“Did Mason find out? Did he confront you?”
My voice was rising. I forced it to stay even.
“Or was Mason also a victim of one of your little parties?”
Even Hoke’s bones seemed to stiffen. Still he said nothing.
“We found him, you know. Off the overlooks. What the animals left, that is. His bones. His head in the bucket of concrete.”
Hoke licked his lips, a fast flick of pink.
“What did you do with Cora? Did you dismember her too?”
“I loved Cora. It should never have happened.”
I hadn’t spotted that coming.
“What should never have happened?”
“Such a beautiful child until the devil laid claim.”
“The devil.” Not attempting to hide my disgust.
“You didn’t see her. The bulging eyes, the wicked smiles, the twisted limbs—”
“The devil had sweet fuck-all to do with it. Cora Teague was epileptic. Where did you dispose of her body?”
Hoke’s Adam’s apple was now running an elevator service. He said nothing.
“Did Cora also end up ransom for the Brown Mountain Devil?”
“No, no. We don’t worship Satan. We battle him. We offer ourselves as hostages to those he torments.”
“We? Who helped you?”
“You must stop.”
“That won’t happen. Deputy Ramsey knows I’m here. He’ll arrive any minute, and he’ll have a warrant. Ever experience a crime scene search?”
Hoke only glared. In the pale afternoon sun his acne-scarred flesh looked like a grainy close-up beamed from the moon.
“Let me draw you a picture. A police team will pull up in a big black truck. They’ll go over this place with tape and tweezers and powders and sprays.” My voice was spiraling again. “They’ll dig up your lawn, shoot video and stills, confiscate your records. They’ll find every dirty little secret you have shoved up your pulpit or stashed in your underwear drawer.”
I took a deep breath. Fought to recover my grip.
Several seconds of absolute stillness hummed between us.
Hoke looked down at the gun in his hands, blinked, as though surprised to see it there. Then he looked back at me. “I wish you had left us alone.”
A beat, then the barrel jerked toward the rear door of the church.
“Inside,” he ordered, voice sharp as razor wire.
I knew that being cornered would limit my options. That it might mean death.
“No,” I said.
“Now!”
I held my ground.
Hoke’s finger slid forward into the trigger guard.
I walked as slowly as I dared without provoking Hoke. He followed up the steps, right on my heels.
“Open the door.”
My mind ricocheted for words that might turn the situation around. Finding none, I obeyed.
The hinges squeaked softly.
The muzzle of the Browning nudged my left shoulder blade.
I stepped across the threshold. Inhaled a cocktail that transported me through time and place. Candle wax. Wood polish. Incense. Smoke.
The only illumination came from cracks outlining the shuttered windows, two on each side, one in back, to the right of the door we’d entered. The oozing sunlight formed slivers of white, rectangular at the bottom, arched at the top.
As my eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom, something clicked behind me. A chandelier kicked to life, bringing the room into focus.
The nave, which wasn’t large, took up the entire building. A row of wooden pews ran down each side, angled to allow room for a center aisle. There were maybe twenty in all.
Up front, six feet beyond us, was a lectern, centered and facing the pews. Beyond it was the altar, a simple wooden table draped with a white linen cloth. Empty now.
A piano occupied the corner to our far right. On the wall above it was a board for posting hymn selections. The last sung were 304, 27, 41, and 7.
Every surface was wood, no plaster. The walls were painted cream. The ceiling and floor were stained the same dark walnut as the pews.
“Look around.”
I turned, arms still held high. Hoke was standing with his feet spread, his Browning pointed at me.
“I don’t understand.”
“You accuse me of murder. Look around. Satisfy yourself.”
“I never used the word ‘murder.’ ”
“This is God’s house. I would not defile it.”
“I prefer to leave the search to—”
“Look around.” Sharp. “I have nothing to hide.”
Hoke’s eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that sent the hairs on my neck standing tall. I held his gaze and didn’t move. He made a tight circle in the air with the muzzle, indicating, I assumed, the space in which we stood.
“May I lower my hands?”
“I’m watching you.”
I explored the room, feeling crosshairs on my back. There was little to search. No closet, restroom, cellar, or lobby. No drawers or cabinets. Nothing under the altar, on the lectern, inside the piano; only sheet music in the bench. The place was immaculate.
But almost four years had passed. Plenty of time for scrubbing and purging. Still, knowing Hoke’s stance on God, I doubted he’d chosen the church for his dirty work.
I looked at my captor. “I have luminol in my purse. May I use it?”
“What’s it for?”
“Indicating the presence of blood.”
Hoke nodded, once, reluctant, and tightened his grip on the gun.
Moving slowly, I reached into my bag and withdrew the plastic bottle. Sprayed around the altar, near the piano, at a couple of pews. Nothing lit up. No surprise. I was sure this wasn’t the place. Was going through the motions more for Hoke’s reaction than as an actual test.
While returning the bottle to my bag, I tried for a peek at my mobile. It was lying facedown. No way I could see if I even had signal. No way I could tap in my code and a speed-dial selection without drawing attention.
I turned and looked a question at Hoke. A challenge?
“Now we go to the family center.” He repeated the jabbing thing with the shotgun.
“How do I know you won’t shoot me?”
“You don’t.”
Hoke killed the light and closed the door behind him as we single-filed out. Our steps sounded loud in the stillness, one set of footfalls echoing the other.
I smelled danger, hot and coppery as fresh blood. But the Browning allowed me no options.
The sunlight was slanted now, angling golden across the sea-green tips of the newborn grass. Trees were casting long shadows inward from the western edge of the clearing.
As we drew close I could see that the family center, though larger, was similar in layout to the church. Front and back entrances, but accessed from ground level, no stairs or stoop. Arched windows high up on the sides and in the rear.
The only thing different was a wing shooting off the eastern side at the back. It had two windows, small and square, not arched, not shuttered, and a separate entrance.
I looked, but saw no evidence of a basement or crawl space. No ground-level window or cellar door. No high foundation. I guessed the building sat on a concrete slab.
As at the church, each front door bore a heavy iron cross. I was veering that way when the Browning’s muzzle again kissed my spine.
“We go in the back.”
I diverted to the gravel laneway. Boots crunched close behind me. A short walk took us past a black Chevy Tahoe and brought us to the door at the rear of the building.
My mind began to short-circuit. I was totally alone with a man with a serious God complex and a loaded shotgun. Coming here had been ridiculously, insanely stupid on so many levels. What to do?
“It’s unlocked.” Right at my ear.
I turned the knob and the door swung in. We entered. As before, Hoke lit the overheads. Here they were tube fluorescents.
We’d stepped directly into a large kitchen. Double-sided fridge, eight-burner stove, deep farm sink. Lots of counter space with cabinets above and below. Everything standard-issue white, probably purchased at the local Best Buy or Sears.
No vase of fake flowers. No bowl of plastic fruit. Not a single touch of whimsy brightened the room.
There were two doors on the left, both closed. Hoke sidestepped to them, eyes hard on me. Gun never dropping an inch, he quick-turned the knobs then backhanded each.
“Go on. Spray your chemicals.”
One of the doors opened onto a pantry. Lots of flour, oatmeal, and pancake mix. No saws or axes. Nothing glowed.
The other door led into an arrangement I assumed was the rectory. A tiny living room, bedroom, and bath were lined up shotgun style, one giving onto the next.
I could hear Hoke’s breathing as I edged past him. Fast and hot. Like mine, his adrenaline was pumping hard.
The living room was crammed with a desk, bookshelves, a small table, and a single chair. An oval braided rug covered the floor. In one corner, a padded kneeler faced a framed portrait of a very Scandinavian-looking Jesus.
My palms went slick when I saw the photo lying on the kneeler’s armrest. A school portrait. The girl stared into the lens, unsmiling, eyes hidden by defiantly thick black bangs.
Easy. Wait for your opening.
In the bedroom were a twin bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe. Predictably, the wardrobe housed pants, shirts, and jackets, all black, and a rainbow assortment of brocade vestments.
A calendar hung to the right of the door, the saint of the month a woman deeply involved with farm animals. Only two hand-scribbled reminders. I read them discreetly. Last Wednesday’s entry said Rx. Today’s said SG.
Susan Grace Gulley.
I felt my scalp prickle hot.
Breathe. Steady.
The bath was maybe six by six, barely room for a shower, sink, and commode. I pulled out the luminol and sprayed. Nothing lit up blue. I didn’t bother with the other two rooms.
Back in the kitchen, I walked to the sink and pumped the luminol again and again. No reaction. I shifted clockwise, spraying at random spots. Got zero fluorescence.
Hoke watched, face rigid as Mount Rushmore.
Past the kitchen, male and female lavatories faced off across a narrow hall. Each had two commode stalls and a vanity sink with storage below. The shelves held soap, Clorox disinfecting cleaner, rolls of Charmin, and bundled paper towels.
The luminol produced not so much as a flicker.
The remainder of the building was taken up by what appeared to be a multipurpose room. Long collapsible tables were stacked against one wall, legs flat to their tops, awaiting the next fish fry or bazaar. Two rolling carts held the associated chairs.
At the far end of the room, a dozen folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle. Beyond them, in a corner, was an old-fashioned playpen, the kind I’d used for Katy but hadn’t seen in years. Its interior was filled with an assortment of toys and dolls. Beside it, shelving held children’s art supplies—paints and brushes, colored paper, glue, small scissors upended in a china mug.
Three wheeled coatracks lined the wall opposite the playpen, each with a collection of empty hangers. Otherwise, the room was empty.
As I sprayed and probed, I wondered. Was Hoke delusionally self-confident about the effectiveness of his cleanup, or woefully unaware of the sensitivity of luminol?
The windows were dimming when I finally admitted to myself a third and more likely possibility. I was wrong. No body was dismembered here or in the church. And my Google Earth check had shown no other structures on the property.
Still. In my gut I was certain Hoke was involved in the deaths of Cora and Mason.
Now what?
I had to talk my way out. Or fight.
“I apologize,” I said quietly. “I was mistaken.”
Several heartbeats passed.
“I’m going now,” I said.
“You bring a deputy to disgrace me before my parishioners.” Low and dangerous. “Now you return and accuse me of murdering children.”
“Step aside.”
Hoke didn’t move.
“Why are you praying for Susan Grace Gulley?” I demanded, hoping a quick thrust might unnerve him.
Hoke’s whole body tensed, but he said nothing.
“Did she sass her grandmother? Did the devil make her do it?” Shaking my hands in faux trepidation. “Will you also kill her?”
&
nbsp; Hoke’s jaw clenched and his dark eyes burned into mine. His grip tightened on the gun. In that instant I knew. He had no intention of letting me leave.
Panic fired through my blood like a hit of speed. Hoke’s face blurred as I felt the fast, powerful rush.
In one lightning move I lunged, twisted, and kicked out with all my strength. My boot connected with the blue-black steel of the barrel.
Lulled by my earlier compliance, Hoke was taken by surprise. The Browning flew from his grasp and winged toward the playpen. A two-palm shove to the chest sent him pinwheeling backward. As I bolted for the door, I heard the sharp crack of bone against wood.
I pounded down the gravel lane, terrified Hoke was in pursuit. Terrified my spine would be severed by a load of twenty-gauge buck.
Legs and arms pumping, I raced across the lawn, grass and dead leaves flying up under my boots. The world was amber now. Time felt slowed, my movements sluggish, as though I were running through syrup.
I watched my car grow larger.
Ten yards. Five. And then I was there.
Lungs heaving, heart pounding, I yanked open the door, threw myself in, and turned the key. The engine roared to life. I shifted into drive, whipped the wheel, and spun a one-eighty. Pedal mashed to the floor, I shot onto the road. Though fishtailing like mad, I didn’t slow until I reached the blacktop. Then, I goosed it to eighty.
I pulled in at the first business I spotted, a hole-in-the-wall diner with blue neon letters on the roof saying CONNIE & PHIL’S.
Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy bloody freakin’ crap!
I stared at the diner, allowing my heartbeat to settle. A placard in the window announced fresh trout and homemade treats. Promised generous portions. Encouraged passersby to Phil up on good old mountain food.
I pulled out my phone. One call had come from Ramsey. He’d left no message. The other was from Ryan. Ditto.
I hit callback on Ramsey. He picked up right away. Background noise, voices and a slamming door, suggested he was inside.
I described my encounter with Hoke, explained my theory about the concrete pointing to Holiness church. The luminol. The Browning. My conclusion that I was wrong about that being the place Mason’s body was dismembered. “It didn’t go down there,” I said.
“Hoke allowed you to walk away?”
