by Kathy Reichs
“After an encouraging boot to the nuts.” Not exactly true.
“It was unwise to go there alone.”
“It was.”
“I’ll have someone pick him up.”
“I was trespassing.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to threaten with a firearm.”
“I thought it did.”
Ramsey ignored that. “You still see Hoke as good for Cora and Mason.” Statement, not question.
“Yes. He’s demented. And he may now have his sights on Susan Grace Gulley.” I told him about the photo on the kneeler and the note on the calendar. “That means it may be tonight. You need to track her down.”
“Will do.”
“Where the hell have you been, anyway?”
Following a reproachful pause. “Busting a meth lab. After hauling the parents to lockup, I drove their seven-year-old daughter to a group home in Crossnore. They think with a lot of therapy the kid may take her thumb out of her mouth and speak one day.”
“Sorry.” Feeling like a total shit.
Ramsey’s next words took me by surprise.
“I tracked the Johnson City phone number Susan Grace gave you. Mason was staying at a rent-by-the-week motel not far from the Bristol Motor Speedway. Room with a microwave, mini-fridge, remote—all the comforts. He checked in mid-July, checked out mid-August.”
“They still had the register?”
“No. I found a maid who remembered him. Apparently Mason was easy to remember. She said he was no beauty but a nice kid, that he rarely came out of his room.”
“Did she know why he was there? Where he went when he left?”
“She recalled two things. He’d seen a voice-activated recording device on TV and asked where to buy one. The day before leaving he’d told her he was heading home.”
“He came back to Avery.” Trying to make sense of it. “He slipped Cora the recorder. Hoke learned about it, went apeshit, they both ended up below Brown Mountain.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Got a better theory?”
Ramsey had no answer to that.
“Mason wasn’t dismembered at Jesus Lord Holiness, probably didn’t die there.” I’d been thinking about this through the whole wild dash, as much as my frazzled nerves would allow. “When things went south in Indiana, Hoke wasn’t at his church. He was performing the exorcism at the child’s home. You need to get warrants to search the Gulley and Teague properties.”
“Maybe so.”
“Maybe?” Crank it down. “Where are you now?”
“At my desk. We got a charger for Strike’s laptop, but can’t crack her password. Suggestions?”
I stared at Connie and Phil’s sign. Got no inspiration. Then, “Try luckyloo.”
“Spelled how?”
“One word, two o’s.”
Keys clicked. Then, “Son of a gun. I’m in.”
“Check her email accounts.”
More keys. Then, “There aren’t any.”
“Seriously? What about documents?”
“Zip.”
“Anything on the desktop?”
“Nothing. It’s weird.”
“Strike was paranoid and not exactly generation Z. She probably stored all her case material as hard copy in the cartons, used the PC only for online searches. Check her browser history.”
“How?”
I explained. Waited out a whole lot of clicking. Finally, “There isn’t much. The list only goes back a couple of days.”
“She probably cleared it frequently, thinking that might increase Net security. Or decrease unwanted ads.”
“Does it?”
“Only if you wear a tinfoil hat.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What did she look at?”
Ramsey read off some names.
That’s when I made my next miscalculation.
“Medscape.com. EverydayHealth.com. HealthyPlace.com. Psychiatry.org. The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, the Journal of—”
“What topics?”
Like the odors in the church, some terms arrowed straight out of my childhood. Schizophrenia. Schizoaffective disorder. Bipolar disorder. Others were new. Depersonalization disorder. Dissociative identity disorder. Borderline personality disorder.
“Jesus, Ramsey. There’s your doer, your motive. Strike figured out Hoke was nuts, confronted him, he took her out.”
“At the church?”
“If so it was outside. The luminol picked up zero blood. More likely he killed her in Charlotte.”
“How did he find her?”
“Really? A goldfish with a smart phone could do that.”
“How did he know about the pond?”
“Hell-o? Google Earth?”
“Does Hoke have a computer? Does he even have a phone?”
I had to admit, I’d seen neither in the “rectory.”
“Maybe he showed up at her house,” I tossed out. “Maybe he called to set up a meet. I don’t know. What I do know is you need to get those warrants. Hoke’s a lunatic. He killed Cora and Mason and may now be gunning for Susan Grace.”
Ramsey exhaled, short and quick. “Okay. In the meantime, stay put. Go into the diner. Eat fish.”
“Definitely,” I said. “And call Slidell.”
After disconnecting I sat in the car watching the sky fade to pewter behind Connie and Phil’s bright blue neon. The confrontation with Hoke combined with fatigue and frustration had heartburn scorching my chest. I swallowed. Leaned my head against the seat back.
It wasn’t the church. Then where? What others were involved?
What had Strike learned? How had that knowledge threatened Hoke?
My lids turned to lead, my thoughts to slowly churning sludge. Five minutes. I’d rest five minutes. If I drifted off, Ramsey’s call would wake me.
Strike.
Trout.
Strike trout. Strike out.
Lucky Strike.
Out.
Out to see Hoke.
Hoke.
Holiness.
Holy.
Holy Hoke.
Hokeypokey. You put your heeeaaad in.
Head in a bucket.
Mason Gulley.
Cora Teague.
Cora’s Treats.
Connie’s treats.
Generous portions.
John’s generosity.
Phil up on Connie’s treats.
Fill up.
Fix up.
Connie. Treat.
Concrete.
My eyes flew open. My hands came up so fast my knuckles cracked against the wheel. The horizon was pink, the last light of dusk bleeding from the sky. I was unsure how long I’d slept, but dead certain of the meaning of the subliminal toggling.
I cranked the engine and fired out of the lot.
Minutes later I was parked off a two-lane, ten yards from J.T.’s Fill Up and Fix Up, about where Ramsey had pointed the place out. John Teague’s gas station–convenience–hardware store. “Fix up” meant buckets and saws, maybe concrete. Everything needed for the perfect dismemberment.
Sunday night. Business was booming. A couple of Harleys sat out front. An old pickup with a fractured windshield. A VW with a billion miles under its fan belt.
As I had earlier, I keyed in a quick text. Then I got out, scurried down the shoulder, and angled past the gas pumps to the front door. Light filtered through the flyers stuck to the window. Now and then I saw a flash of movement through the gaps in between.
I held my breath. Heard voices, all male. Yanking a cap from my bag, I tucked my hair out of sight and entered.
The interior was L-shaped, with the convenience store directly inside the door and a second room shooting off to the right. Straight ahead, behind a counter register, was a kid who looked at best fifteen. Tall and skinny, blotchy skin, snarl of black hair in need of a trim.
Three rows of shelving carved the main room into a pattern of two center aisles
and a narrow perimeter passage. The shelves offered the usual candy, gum, and zero-food-value crap. Coolers lined the walls. Through the glass I could see milk, juices, soft drinks, and beer.
The bikers, one looking like an accountant playing weekend badass, the other a Billy Gibbons wannabe, were paying Snarly Hair for Bud and smokes. Badass said something I didn’t catch. Snarly Hair unhooked one of two keys hanging from the wall behind the counter and, disinterested, handed it to him. As Badass headed my way, I cut into the room to my right.
Same arrangement of shelving and aisles. But no Doritos here. The merchandise ran from pliers and hammers to stakes and trowels. Bins offered a mind-boggling array of hinges, fasteners, screws, and nails.
Every sense on high alert, I moved toward the rear. Taller shelves held larger items—mailboxes, bird feeders, garden hoses, chain saws. Hoes and spades leaned against the back wall beside ladders arranged by height.
My pulse picked up when I saw them. Bags of Quikrete stacked to waist level.
My id toggled home another data byte.
Ramsey said the dog business had been relocated to the store four summers back. The kennel was constructed at that time. The kennel had concrete runs. If I read Ramsey correctly that meant the summer of 2011. When Cora and Mason disappeared.
Sweet Jesus. It had taken place here. Susan Grace might be here.
The heartburn sent a tendril of fire curling up my throat. I swallowed.
Behind me, the outer door opened. I heard boots thunk across the next room, a key strike against glass.
“Let’s roll,” Badass said to his pal.
Double thunks, the door slammed, and the hogs roared to life. As the sound of their engines receded, the door opened and closed again. More footfalls, this time firm but muted.
I crept to the point where junk food met hardware and peeped around the corner. Snarly Hair was retuning the men’s room key to its hook.
A man occupied the space just vacated by the two bikers. All of it. His back was to me, his features hidden from view. He wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt, rubber-soled hiking boots.
Something about the guy triggered a humming deep in my brainpan, like angry wasps on the far side of a window.
Granger Hoke? John Teague?
The man reached backward, palm down, toward a butt pocket. His elbow winged up and his massive shoulders rotated, bringing his face into partial profile.
The wasps exploded in a collision of stored images. Realization. I was looking at John’s son Owen Lee Teague. The man I’d seen at Holiness church. The hiker I’d seen at Wiseman’s View.
“Hose down the runs first thing tomorrow.” Owen Lee flipped a key ring onto the counter. Metal, maybe silver, in the shape of an eagle. “Don’t go inside.”
“I never go inside.” Dull.
“Smart.” Finger-pistol point. “Those dogs’ll rip your face off. Give me what’s in the drawer.”
Snarly Hair opened the register and handed over the day’s take.
“Closing time, just lock up and go. You need me, I’ll be at home.” Owen Lee knuckle-rapped the counter, two quick, hard pops. “Have a blessed evening.” Snatching a bag of peanuts from its pin, he strode from the store.
Time to bolt. Yet, I didn’t. I wanted more than buckets and saws and bags of Quikrete. I wanted proof that would nail Hoke and his lunatic pals. And I wanted to be sure Susan Grace was safe. But I had no plan. No idea what to do.
Then opportunity smacked me in the frontal.
A man stumbled through the door, eyes swimmy with the glow of too much booze. “Your goddamn pump don’t work.”
Snarly Hair looked up, blank. Either his poker face was superb, or he wasn’t the sharpest bee buzzing in the hive.
“Yo! You gonna fix this clusterfuck?”
“Did you swipe your card?”
“Yeah, you dumbshit. I swiped my card.”
“Try again.”
“The problem ain’t my card.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Fill my goddamn tank.”
Snarly Hair looked as annoyed as possible without changing expression. Then he slouched from his post and followed the drunk outside.
It wasn’t a plan. I just acted.
Heart pumping slow and hard, I shot to the counter and scooped the eagle key ring into my purse. Then I crossed to the door and peeked out.
Snarly Hair was putting gas into a Porsche Panamera, eyes on the pump. The Porsche’s owner was struggling to maneuver his AmEx card into his wallet while simultaneously staying upright.
I slipped from the store and around the corner into shadow.
Cupping the screen with both hands, I checked my iPhone. No calls. I clicked on the little green box with the white speech bubble. Saw that my texts hadn’t been delivered.
I hit resend. The little whoop sounded like a scream in the ocean-deep stillness.
It was full dark now. The kennel looked like a grave chiseled from the woods beyond. Moving gingerly, I angled wide, far to one end, to where I could see both the front and the back.
Kneeling behind a tree, I studied my target. Saw only one door, in the rear, out of sight of the store and the road.
I had my cellphone in my purse. I could have tried again to reach out. I didn’t. All I could see was the forlorn face of Mason Gulley. The photo of Susan Grace on Hoke’s kneeler. All I could hear was my own blood pounding in my ears.
I moved quickly, bloodstream charged with enough adrenaline to float a destroyer. I was halfway to the kennel when I heard the first rip-your-face-off snarl.
Run! my fight-or-flight centers screamed.
I dropped to a squat and froze.
The dog barked several more times, loud and aggressive. Others joined in. Then they all went quiet.
They’re locked up! Move!
I crouch-ran the last few yards, paused at the back of the kennel to listen. Either I was quiet enough or Fang and his buddies were letting it slide. For now.
I was debating my next move when air whooshed behind me. I whipped around, every nerve in my body electrified. A hawk was riding an updraft a few yards away, wings spread, a black double comma against the night sky.
I swallowed to return my heart to my chest. Tucked my chin.
Frowned. My boots were oddly easy to see given the twilight.
I glanced along the base of the building. To my left, low down, a dim pattern of radiance was spreading out across the ground. I inched toward it, feeling my way along the corrugated tin.
The light was coming from the top half of a semisubterranean window. The glass was covered on the outside by grime, on the inside by blackout drapes. I watched a moment. Saw no movement in the hairline gap where they met.
Why would a kennel need a basement? Why curtain a cellar window? Why leave a light burning?
Good questions. Ones that should have brought me to a halt. Spurred me to seek backup. Instead, I continued toward the door.
Eyes cutting every direction at once, I dug through my purse until I found the silver eagle. With shaky fingers, I brailled for the lock and inserted a key. No go. I tried another. Same result.
The last key slid in and turned with a click. I twisted the knob. The door opened. I stepped into total blackness.
The air was cool and damp, the aroma a blend of earthy and man-made. Mold. Cold concrete. Shit and piss. Processed meat and grain.
The dogs heard me, or maybe picked up on the pheromones triggered by my fear. A frenzy of barking and snarling erupted to my right. Claws scrabbled. Bodies slammed chain linking.
I dug again, found my mini Maglite. Arm flexed, flash by my ear, I started left, toward a spot I estimated to be above the cellar window.
I crept past stacks of what must have been inventory for the store. Buckets, hoes, shovels, boxed power tools. Then my beam landed on a crude wooden staircase. Dogs bellowing at my back, I started down.
Eight treads brought me to a small open space with a concrete floor. My tin
y blue-white oval slid over a water heater and a breaker panel, then landed on a door.
Deep breath. I stepped forward and turned the knob. Locked. I set the Maglite on the fuse box and began with the keys. Bingo. Numero uno.
Blood drumming like rain on tin, I pushed open the door.
The room was large enough to accommodate a single bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a heavy oak chair. Through a doorless opening directly opposite I could see into a tiny bath. A crucifix hung on one wall. A space heater glowed red on the floor in one corner.
The nightstand was outfitted with a single lamp, its low-wattage bulb struggling but not quite up to the task. The chair was outfitted with leather-belt ligatures on the armrests and front legs.
A young woman sat cross-legged on the bed, arms pressing her thighs to her chest. Her face was down, her forehead tight to her knees. A slice of white ran across her scalp, a jagged part separating her hair into two blond braids.
The woman spoke without looking up. Maybe to me.
“Why is this happening?” Muffled. Familiar.
I was confused. Then the woman raised huge green eyes to mine.
The world contracted into a pinpoint of time and space. Nothing existed beyond the face and the chair with its hideous belts.
Impossible.
I didn’t know if I was breathing or not. If my heart was beating. If my hand, still flat to the door, was attached to my body.
“Are you here to help him?”
The timorous question hit my ears like a train roaring through a tunnel. The ugly truth slammed home. The fear dissolved, leaving nothing but a cold ball of rage in my gut.
When I answered, my voice sounded disembodied. Far away, as though coming from someone else.
“No, Cora. I’m here to help you.”
It took several more seconds for my mind to fully assimilate. To rearrange the puzzle pieces I’d so carefully joined.
Cora Teague was alive. Captive. The victim of zealots.
“Go away.”
“I’m here to help you, Cora,” I repeated myself.
“It’s bad.”
“No.”
“I’m bad.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You’ll make them come.” The soft little voice pierced me like a blade to the gut. It was the terrified girl on the key chain recorder.
