by Allen Kent
Joseph again paused the recording and turned toward me, our faces only inches apart. “I happen to recognize those verses,” she muttered. “They are almost word for word from the Book of Malachi. Pretty frightening, the way he’s twisting their meaning. It’s the kind of stuff I used to get in synagogue, but ramped up about a hundred decibels.”
I nodded grimly. “The people there looked scared stiff.”
“With good reason,” Mara muttered. “Gomez and Harlan stayed for the lunch. She turned off her camera for most of that. But she switched it back on to catch this final bit as they were leaving. Gomez said there was a little side office in front where they heard men talking. She got part of that conversation.”
Joseph clicked the forward arrow and we leaned together into the screen, straining to hear the exchange of three men’s voices.
“. . . there’s a big idolator lives outside of Crayton. He does paintings of famous people that are in museums all over the place. We need to make an example out of him.”
“Does he have gas to the house?”
“I don’t know for sure. I think he may burn wood like the old ladies. I’ll bring some diesel, just in case.”
“Tonight? Should we meet where we met before?”
“Okay by me. Eleven o’clock?”
“Eleven it is. It will be good and dark by then.”
We heard a door open and close, followed by Harlan saying, “Any idea who that was? That’s the most important thing we’ve heard while we’ve been here.”
“No.” Gomez said. “I think one was Towan. But there were three of them. Let’s wait in the car and see if they come out together.”
Mara turned off the video. “They said they waited until Towan came out, but a woman was with him. They couldn’t tell for sure who had been talking.”
“One was Zack Kinnaman,” I said urgently, then checked the time on my phone. “The first one to speak. And I think we know who he’s talking about.”
Mara’s eyes widened and we said in unison, “Darnell Budgeon.”
I bolted out of the chair and headed for the French doors as Joseph snatched the drive from the computer. “It’s almost eleven now,” I called back over my shoulder. “We’d better get the hell over there.”
24
With the notable exception of Fits Loony, no one in the county ranks higher on the eccentric scale than Darnell Budgeon. He’s a wiry bit of a man with bright eyes, a constant crooked grin, and a body full of nervous tics that cause head, feet, and every member in between to be in constant motion—unless he’s engaged in his single passion: painting. Then he stands still as a heron watching for minnows, with only his eyes and right arm sweeping his canvas.
Darnell has a fixation on the Civil War and his murals hang in battlefield visitors’ centers from Gettysburg to Honey Springs. His studio is a long, cedar log cabin out along the ridge road above the holler where the Greaves live. The place has a small kitchen and bedroom cobbled onto one end, the kitchen looking out onto the studio over a waist-high bar made of a couple of mirror-image sycamore slabs. Darnell uses the kitchen side of the bar as his eating table and the studio side to mix paint, clean brushes, and stretch canvas. The place always smells of turpentine, gesso, and raw umber, with a morning basecoat of fried bacon.
The man has never had an art lesson, but from the time he was old enough to grip a pencil or crayon in his shaky little hand, has been able to recreate anything about him in almost photographic detail. His mother’s meth habit killed her before she turned thirty, leaving him in the care of a grandmother who had the good sense to keep the boy well stocked with art supplies. Once Darnell discovered color, his work began to display an emotional depth that drew attention from all over the country.
Joseph met Darnell when we stopped at the studio while investigating the Nettie Suskey murder. It was Darnell who told us he had heard chainsaws whining down on the back of Nettie’s property, leading to our descent into the holler and LJ’s shooting. In fact, Darnell was the one who commented that the Greaves didn’t have a single spit of human kindness between the two of them.
We had found the painter working on a wall-sized mural of a scene of the old Ray House at Wilson’s Creek, a Civil War battlefield near Springfield where the house had served as a field hospital. In the painting, the mortally wounded General Lyon was stretched out on a table, surrounded by his senior officers and medical staff.
Darnell had looked at Joseph when we walked in, glanced back at his mural, then given her an appreciative grin.
“Well, now. I believe you’ve helped me finish this up,” he had said. “I’ve been worrying over the face of this one nurse.” He pointed with his brush at a partially completed figure beside the fallen general. “I want this woman to look strong, determined, but angel-like. But the face wouldn’t come to me. Then she walks through my door.”
As Joseph sat beside me in the Explorer, speeding toward the Budgeon studio, she remembered Darnell’s mural.
“I went over to the Wilson’s Creek Battlefield a few months ago,” she said, leaning forward to help me watch for deer on the dark, tree-lined strip of road. “And there I was on the wall of the Ray House, wearing a blue dress, little white cap, and blood-stained apron. I didn’t think he was serious about it.”
“Darnell does what he says he’s going to do,” I muttered, grabbing the radio mic from its holder. “It’s who he is. And he won’t leave that cabin if he’s working on something, even if the whole place is on fire.”
I activated the mic and called our night-officers for backup. “Larry? Bobby? This is Tate. Get to the Budgeon studio as fast as you can. I think we may have another fire.”
Two voices ‘Roger’ed’ within seconds.
“How far out are you, Newby?”
“Close to thirty minutes,” Larry answered.
“At least that for me,” Bobby Lule said.
“Bobby, call the Crayton Fire Department. Get a truck out there.”
“Roger,” Lule said.
“Larry, try to reach Dave Johansson with the Patrol. See if he can meet us there.”
Larry confirmed.
We sped down into the valley and crossed Mill Creek on the Dixon Ford bridge. As we climbed toward the paved road that follows the south ridgeline, I saw the glow in the sky to the east.
“Oh, no. I think it’s burning,” I groaned, pressing the accelerator to reckless speed up the grade. We spun onto the hard surface of the ridge road as a white pickup flashed past us, headed toward town. I caught a passing glimpse of Zack Kinnaman as he tried to duck out of sight and again grabbed the radio mic.
“Is one of you coming up the ridge from town?”
“I am,” Newby said.
“There’s a white pickup headed your way. Stop it. I think it’s our arsonists.”
“Will do,” he said.
As we approached the drive that turned up through a screen of cedar to Darnell’s studio, black smoke rose in a rolling plume above the line of trees. I skidded into the drive and braked to a stop fifty paces from a low wall of flame. Zack and his accomplices had ringed the building with fuel oil, drenching the lower logs so that fire lapped up across the door and windows.
I grabbed a hooded Nomex jacket from the rear seat and shouted at Joseph over the rising crackle of the flames.
“Call to make sure the trucks are coming. I’ll see if I can get inside.”
“Tate,” she yelled after me, “Shed the gun belt!”
I raced across the front, unbuckling my weapon as I ran and letting it fall to the ground. Pulling the jacket over my shirt, I zipped it tightly and tugged the hood’s drawstrings tightly just below my nose, then fished a pair of goggles from a side pocket.
The arsonists had nailed a 2 x 4 across the front entrance with spikes driven into the thick door to keep the painter trapped inside. The oil-soaked entrance was beginning to burn through behind it, leaving blackened planks that now sagged in the frame.
I sucked in
a deep breath, dashed onto the porch, and slammed a raised heel into the burning wood, then retreated as it tumbled inward. Overhead, the roof was beginning to burn, tossing embers into the night sky in random bursts. I sucked in another breath and ducked through the flame into the cabin.
The thickness of the log walls held most of the blaze on the outer face, with fingers linking through windows that had exploded from the heat. Fire now raced in blue and red patterns where paint thinner had stained the floor, working its way up Darnell’s sycamore room divider. Easels and pallets, saturated with paint and oil, burst spontaneously into flame. The studio had become an oven, the air searing my lungs with every breath.
I spun desperately in the open room, searching beneath the descending blanket of smoke for the eccentric painter. A loud ‘crack’ split the air above me, and I stumbled aside as the first roof timbers began to give overhead.
Curled under the edge of the bar, a long canvas rolled against his chest, Darnell huddled with eyes trapped shut, his entire body a quivering bundle. I hunched under the worst of the smoke and heat and rushed to him, feeling his arms grab me like a drowning man as I stooped to pick him up. The canvas remained pinned between us.
As I turned back for the door, holding the painter like a bride being carried across a threshold, a section of the bar collapsed toward us, dropping a flaming board down the length of my right shin and pitching me forward. I struggled onto my knees, the firebrand still pressed against my leg, and forced Darnell up across my shoulder. Smoke now filled the inner cabin, clogging my lungs and stinging my eyes like pepper spray. With the ceiling collapsing behind me, I staggered onto my feet and surged toward where I guessed the door to be. The weight of the man and the awkward roll of canvas threw me forward through what was now a flaming tear in the cabin wall. I stumbled on the uneven porch and pitched facedown onto a wet patch of grass as a stream of water shot over my head against the blazing wall. A soaked blanket draped my shoulders as two men lifted Darnell from my back and pulled me away from the inferno.
The night about me began to flash red and blue as Chase’s ambulance pulled in beside the tanker truck. Mara Joseph was beside me, grasping one arm as Chase’s paramedic took me from the arms of the firefighters.
“Let’s get you to the clinic,” Chase said, pulling open the rear door and helping me in beside the shaking artist.
Joseph scrambled in beside us, carrying my sidearm. “Are you okay, Tate?” She handed me a bottle of water. I gulped half the cold liquid, splashed the rest onto my face, and stammered, “I think I got a bit of a burn on this leg,” A swatch of scorched cloth had melted against my right shin. I gave the strip a quick pull to peel it away. Pain seared like molten metal up through my leg and into my chest. I pitched forward into blackness.
25
Before I opened my eyes, my nose told me I wasn’t at the Crayton clinic. The air smelled of hospital. Disinfectant, sterilized sheets, the pungent metallic scent of strong ointments, the faint underlying odor of sickness. My face smelled of smoke.
I cracked my eyes open and confirmed the diagnosis. Light green ceiling and walls. A tether linking my arm to a bag of clear liquid that hung from a metal stand beside the bed. In a chair along the wall to my left, Joseph slumped sideways in an uncomfortable-looking chair, her breath slow and wheezy. As I struggled to sit, she bolted upright, shaking sleep away and smiling though dry lips.
“You’re awake! Sorry I dozed off. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on you.”
I stretched a kink out of the shoulder that had carried Darnell from the cabin. “I can’t imagine I was in much danger,” I said. “What am I doing here?”
“A combination of smoke, heat, and a bad burn,” she said. “And it wasn’t so much that you were in danger. I just didn’t want you waking up in here by yourself.” She slid the chair over beside the bed and I stretched out the tethered arm, taking her hand.
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “But where am I—and what time is it?”
“You’re at Mercy in Springfield. It’s about nine on Sunday morning. I think they will let you go after they check you over. You have a couple of small spots on your leg that look like third-degree burns. But it’s mostly second-degree, and the doctor thinks you can take care of it.”
“How’s Darnell?”
“He’s actually in better shape than you are. I guess he’d been crouched down holding that painting and didn’t get as much smoke and heat as you did. And no burns. The roof collapsed just as you came through the door. You saved him, Tate.” She chuckled lightly. “And you saved the mural he was working on. That’s what he had rolled up in his arms. A scene of the battle at Elkhorn Tavern at Pea Ridge.”
“I’m glad both survived. And I don’t feel much of a burn. Nothing like I felt when I pulled that cloth off.”
“The doctor assured me you will,” she said. “You’ve got about eight inches of scorched skin with a couple of deep spots. They’ve got something in your IV to deaden the pain.”
I gave the aching shoulder another roll, feeling the tug of the blue hospital gown that was loosely tied across my back.
“Did Larry get the truck stopped with Zack Kinnaman?”
Joseph’s face darkened. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you took a few hours to get your body back in decent shape before you start worrying about work again.”
“My body’s fine. But your face tells me Larry didn’t stop the truck.”
“He blocked the road with his squad car as he saw it coming,” Joseph said grimly. “The pickup tried to pass him on the downhill side, smashed into the hood, and spun out of control over the edge. It tumbled all the way to the side of the creek and burst into flames. Larry and another guy who stopped were able to get down to it, but they couldn’t get anyone out.”
“Who was in it?”
“Zack. That minister—Delmer Towan. And Roy Studdard.”
I muttered a curse under my breath. “Crazy fools. What gets into people like that? For Towan and Studdard, that’s two families without a father for no earthly good reason.”
“They thought their reason wasn’t earthly,” Joseph muttered. “Their families and followers probably see them as martyrs.”
“Did the other members even know what they were up to?”
“We don’t know yet. Dave Johansson’s taking over the investigation for the State Patrol. Let’s hope they didn’t.”
I gave her a cynical shake of the head. “I hope to God you’re right. Maybe they will see a certain sad irony in the men’s deaths. God’s wrath as a consuming fire. Isn’t that what Towan said?”
Joseph sniffed. “Not much comfort in that. But you don’t need to worry about follow-up. Dave got to the cabin just as they were hauling you away, then ran down to the accident site. Since this involves several counties, the state police are taking over the case. It should clear up your rash of arsons and give you one less thing to worry about.”
“Speaking of worry,” I said, looking for the nurses’ call button, “I need to get out of here. I have some following up of my own to do.”
Joseph squeezed my hand. “Before you start pushing buttons, remember that other thing I wanted to talk to you about, Colby? Our evening got interrupted before I had a chance to get to it.”
I glanced sharply over at her. She never called me Colby, and I knew that didn’t bode well. She laid her other hand on top of the one she already held. I gave a resigned shrug.
“Well, I’m afraid you pretty well have me at your mercy.”
She looked down at the hands. “Allyson Penn told the commander about Verl Greaves’ threat against me in his deposition,” she began, her eyes staying on the hands. “That’s one of the reasons he doesn’t want me down around Crayton right now.” She lifted her face and looked at me directly. “He has asked that my transfer back to St. Louis be expedited for security reasons. He told me to expect immediate approval.”
I did what I’m too inclined to do when hit with s
omething like this—another inherited trait I don’t especially like about myself. I got snippy. Pulling the hand away, I glanced about the sterile room.
“This couldn’t wait until I get out of here? You’ve had that transfer request in for months with zero action. Then Verl gets threatening, and suddenly it all happens so fast you had to stay here to let me know as soon as I came to.”
“Tate, you’re not being fair. I haven’t been pushing on the transfer since we worked on the Haddad case. I’ve liked being here. But now it is going to happen—and it may be as soon as tomorrow. I needed to let you know—and how was I to know you were going to end up in here? I’d rather have told you somewhere else.” She paused and again reached for my hand. I let her take it. “But,” she said softly, “I think we both know it’s for the best.”
I turned on the bed with one leg hanging over the side. “And why do you say that?”
“Because when we are honest about it, I think we know we’re not completely right for each other. I love the city. There are things you like about it, but this is where you want to live. I love your place—how quiet and beautiful it is on nights like last night. But I could only take it for about three days. Then I’d be wishing I could drive over to Tower Grove for some good Vietnamese food—or attend a lecture at the history or art museum in Forest Park. I miss my annual membership at the Fox, and want to decide on a whim to take in a Cardinals game. I know you would enjoy all those things, but for how long?”
She paused and studied my face, waiting for an answer. When I didn’t offer one, she added, “You’d want to be out on your deck with a beer, hiking down the hill to see if you could catch a couple of bass for dinner. You’d be wishing you could spend an hour leaning over the meat counter at Jerry’s catching up on what’s going on in nice, quiet, everybody-likes-everybody little Crayton. You are woven into the fabric of that town as much as I’m a part of St. Louis, Tate. And deep down, we both know it.”
