Cult Page 12

  The woman’s moist hair was matted, the skin drawn back taut against her cheekbones. Her lips were parted, as if she had gone panicked and screaming into the void. Her legs were drawn out straight, the arms pressed against her sides, her dress pulled tight over her knees.

  So they had wrapped her for special delivery, he thought. All neatly packaged. No longer of use.

  “Death by drowning,” the young doctor said, moving forward.

  “Murdered,” Barney corrected, his voice carrying. Peripherally, the Sheriff saw Holmes move toward them.

  “No evidence of that, Harrigan,” the Sheriff said, standing up, feeling a tingling weakness in his knees. It took him a moment to steady himself.

  “You’ve all got blood on your hands,” Barney hissed. He was keeping himself under tight control. “Don’t tell me ‘sorry.’ I will not hear ‘sorry.’”

  “It was a genuine accident.” The calm voice of the lawyer intruded.

  “You,” Barney said, pointing a finger at Holmes. He didn’t go beyond that one word. The Sheriff sensed that something was going on in his mind, some plan that he was cooking up.

  “Too bad, Harrigan,” Holmes said. “A meeting had been arranged. This is simply a cruel coincidence. An accident.”

  “Fuck you,” Barney snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Harrigan. That’s all I can say.”

  The Sheriff came closer, whispering now.

  “I’d advise you to hold off. They have credible witnesses. Make more of it, they can keep you in court forever. Think of your son.”

  “Credible witnesses? What bullshit.” Barney looked at his wife’s body. “She was part of my life.” He stood over Charlotte for a long time, as if in a trance. His mind seemed to have drifted away, probing some dark corner of himself. Holmes retreated.

  The Sheriff turned and sought out Jeremiah, well hidden under a mask of impassivity. The Sheriff could detect neither anxiety nor remorse. Deep under the calm, he sensed an air of annoyance. He searched himself again for his professional objectivity.

  “How did it happen?” he asked.

  “She slipped, fell into the river. We tried to save her. It was too late. I called you immediately.” The words floated out of Jeremiah’s mouth on a puff of vapor. He moved further into the shadows, drawing the Sheriff with him. Near the creek, two of his officers were inspecting the area now, their flashlight beams searching among the rocks and crags that sloped down to the rushing waters.

  “You can’t just say ‘accident,’” the Sheriff snapped. “We’re in a fucking bind here.”

  “Just do your job, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said simply. “And I’ll do mine.” The Sheriff felt Jeremiah’s implication of his superiority but let it pass.

  “I’ll do my job,” he said with what he knew was boyish bravado. He looked up the rise toward the sleeping camp. Poor bastards, he thought. Now this!

  “She couldn’t sleep,” Jeremiah said, his words clipped and precise. “The incident with her husband and their upcoming meeting disturbed her calm and she wanted to take a walk.”

  Had Charlotte been told what he had conveyed? He doubted it. He also doubted the explanation given by Jeremiah.

  “Since when do you allow a stroll at night?”

  Jeremiah glared at the Sheriff, ignoring the question. The Sheriff felt his pores open and sweat bead on his back. I am still the Sheriff here, he told himself, beating off a convulsion of anger.

  “Everyone here is free to do as they wish,” Jeremiah said through a tight smile. How many times had he heard that? It was pointless to persist against Jeremiah’s statement.

  “I’m going to make it easy, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said. The Sheriff balled his fists impotently.

  “See how dark it is? New moon. They went for a walk.” He pointed toward the Glories who were with him. “Amos and Rachel’s sister, Mary, were with her. Charlotte apparently went too close to the edge and slipped. Simple as that.”

  “Didn’t they try to save her?”

  “Of course. But they couldn’t get to her fast enough. The river, as you can see, runs fast. It is dangerous. Note we have posted signs after the last incident five years ago.”

  Shit, did he have to bring that up? the Sheriff thought. The memory still disturbed him, but that too had had witnesses. Glories.

  “She drifted down a ways,” Jeremiah continued. “They finally reached her, then fished her out of the water and called me. I called immediately and tried mouth-to-mouth. Obviously, it was too late.”

  The words had flowed in a measured cadence, matter-of-fact, like the Pledge of Allegiance. He detected, too, the total absence of any comments from Jeremiah. The dead were useless to him.

  “Have you told your leader?” the Sheriff asked, remembering the protocol. “The head of the church?”

  “Of course,” Jeremiah replied, pausing for the next question, like a boxer bracing for the next jab.

  In terms of alertness and agility, the man has me dead to rights, thought the Sheriff. He felt leaden, his mind plodding. Hold yourself together, he told himself. He wished he could go home and talk it out with Gladys.

  “I hope we can put a cap on the publicity, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said suddenly, showing where his fundamental interests lay.

  “You know I can’t control that.”

  “Try.”

  It came at him disturbingly like a command. There was no attempt at subtlety or obfuscation. “Hush it up” was the way it translated in his mind.

  “I’ve got that other thing brewing back in my office.” The Sheriff’s own attitude filled him with self-disgust. “I’ve still got O’Hara in custody.”

  “I think we can dispose of that issue. The church already has. Release him. We’ll get him sooner or later.”

  “And Harrigan? What about him?”

  “He has no reason to stay.”

  “I’m afraid you haven’t heard the last of him.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  His eyes drifted to where Holmes stood watching him from a distance. Barney had not moved from the spot over his wife’s body, as if he had rooted there.

  “Better get the body away,” he called. The technicians sprang to life, placing the dead woman on the stretcher. Barney followed it somberly to the ambulance, Naomi beside him. He heard the slam of the ambulance door and the creak of the bridge’s wooden planks as the vehicle drove off.

  “You said they were with her,” the Sheriff said to Jeremiah, motioning with his head at the two sentry-like Glories that stood nearby.

  “I told you that,” Jeremiah said with a flash of annoyance.

  “Just routine,” he said, moving forward, hearing Jeremiah’s footsteps behind him.

  “What’s your name?” the Sheriff asked, confronting the young man who was, incredibly, smiling.

  “Amos.”

  “I mean your real name.”

  “That is my real name.”

  “We’ll provide it,” Jeremiah interrupted. “For your records.”

  “What happened?”

  The young man’s eyes sought Jeremiah’s, who must have nodded, setting off the mental tape recorder in the boy’s mind. It would be futile, the Sheriff knew. He half-listened as the young man delivered his speech like a litany, his lips fixed incongruously in a smile.

  “She couldn’t sleep. She said she wanted to take a walk so her sister and I went with her. It was very dark, but we followed close by. She walked along the river. Suddenly she went too close, then slipped and fell into the water. She started to drift away but we got her finally and pulled her out. Then we ran up and got Jeremiah. He came immediately and tried to revive her.”

  “I told you,” Jeremiah said. The Sheriff turned to the girl, Charlotte’s sister. There was a distinct family resemblance. Studying her face, he could not see the slightest sign
of remorse.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” he asked. Her eyes moved toward Jeremiah.

  “Is that relevant?” Jeremiah asked.

  “It is to me,” the Sheriff said.

  “He wants to know how you feel about Charlotte’s death, Mary.”

  The woman hesitated, then her smile inexplicably broadened, her glazed eyes opening like saucers.

  “Rachel has been summoned to the spirit world. She is happy on the other side. Father Glory is seeing to that.”

  “I thought it was an accident,” the Sheriff said sarcastically. He felt Jeremiah’s flash of contempt.

  “That was his method. His will. God wanted her,” Amos said.

  “Yes,” Susan said. “God wanted her.”

  “Poor child,” the Sheriff murmured.

  “I know it’s hard for you to understand,” Jeremiah said with forced sweetness. It was another sermon he had heard many times before.

  “Tell him what happened, Mary,” Jeremiah pressed. Susan began in a rush that barely floated into the Sheriff’s consciousness. They were almost word for word Amos’ account.

  “So you see,” Jeremiah said, “a simple accident. We have two credible witnesses. Nothing left but to wrap it up.”

  For the first time, the Sheriff noticed Jeremiah’s tension. The son of a bitch is nervous, he thought, restoring a shred of self-respect. His cohorts in the church hierarchy must be pissed off. They didn’t need this. Nobody needed it, least of all the Sheriff.

  “The Heavenly Father would like this matter disposed of as quickly as possible.” It was a blatant admission, and the Sheriff pressed his advantage.

  “Does he?” His sarcasm was deliberately blunt. Father Glory’s involvement could be a double-edged sword. Dispose of it quickly. It was a ringing threat to both himself and Jeremiah. In this totalitarian world, Father Glory pulled all the strings.

  “It was an accident,” Jeremiah said, lowering his voice. “A simple accident.”

  “You’re totally satisfied with that?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Totally.”

  “Could it have been suicide?”

  Jeremiah gasped, not expecting the Sheriff’s question.

  “She was happy. She’d been reborn. She found faith.” His voice rose. “She found Father Glory.”

  “No need to get defensive. I am, after all, the Sheriff in this jurisdiction.”

  Jeremiah paused, gathering his wits.

  “So then where’s the crime?”

  “Crime? Whoever said anything about that?”

  “Your implication was quite clear.” He paused. “You seem to have forgotten our earlier conversation.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “I’ve made it easy for you, Sheriff. It was an accident,” Jeremiah said, his confidence restored.

  He tried to look into Jeremiah’s eyes, but he turned away. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, he’d have to go with it. Like the others. He detested the idea. This one smelled to high heaven, especially in the light of what the Forman woman had told him. It was too coincidental.

  It was definitely murder, he decided in his gut. He had informed Jeremiah about what was planned, had even taken O’Hara into custody. The fact was that he was an accomplice. He told Naomi to keep her silence for the time being. There was no point in pushing the envelope. He looked toward the dancing beams of light still searching along the shore of the stream.

  “So long as we understand each other, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said, sucking in his breath.

  I’ll have to think this out, he told himself, mostly to sop up his esteem. Used to be an idyllic place, he thought sadly, sweet air, low fertile hills, nice people, a good place to raise a family, the American dream. How did they ever let this black wind of evil blow through here? He turned away, depressed and empty.

  Naomi stood on the bridge, elbows along the handrail, looking downward, her complexion ashen. He walked toward her.

  “A can of worms,” he said, searching for an approach that would convey his feelings and mollify her. “I feel awful about this,” he said directly. “They say it’s an accident, they have witnesses….”

  “Do you think that’s the truth?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn’t your fault,” the Sheriff said. “You did the right thing. So did I. Forget it. This had nothing to do with what you told me.”

  “If I hadn’t betrayed them would this have happened?”

  “They knew.”

  “Holmes?”

  “I’d bet on it. No one can be trusted around here.”

  “Goes for me, too, I guess,” she whispered. “I betrayed them.”

  Her self-accusation softened him.

  “I wouldn’t be that hard on yourself. I told you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’ll have to tell them.”

  “I wouldn’t. Not now.”

  A scream rent the air. Barney had grabbed Holmes and they were scuffling. The Sheriff’s men had him quickly in hand, separating them. Two of them held Barney, who futilely resisted his containment, snarling like an animal.

  Holmes brushed back his hair and patted his clothes, trying to restore himself to a semblance of his former dignity.

  “We made him a substantial settlement,” he said. “It offended him.”

  “Blood money. They kill her and want to pay me off.”

  “It was very generous. There is still the boy to think of. It’s perfectly legal and honorable. A practical consideration that shows the compassion inherent in the principles of the Glorification Church.” His pomposity was galling.

  “Bullshit,” Barney snarled, calming. He pointed a finger at Holmes. “We still have our own debt to settle.”

  “It’s been settled,” Holmes said, showing no sign of nervousness. “A donation to the church. In your late wife’s name.”

  Barney’s tongue seemed to freeze in his throat. His body arched, then collapsed in the men’s arms as if all his bones and muscles had turned to jelly. The men dragged him to the Sheriff’s car and propped him beside Naomi, who sat impassively beside him. They drove back to his office in silence.

  Back at his headquarters, the Sheriff found that O’Hara and Roy were asleep in one of the holding cells. He’d deal with them later.

  “There’s a motel on my way home,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  He looked at his watch. It was nearly two. He could think of nothing to say to them, no real word of honest comfort. In the brightness of the morning sun, Harrigan would have to face the deep chasm of his lost life, Naomi would have to deal with her oppressive guilt, and he’d have to figure out how to keep his own balance.

  What he had done was merely warn them, abort the snatch. A simple phone call.

  “We know,” Jeremiah had told him.

  “How?”

  “We have our sources. We have no intention of being part of this.”

  So Holmes, the loyal retainer, had played his own game. Holmes was a whore.

  The Sheriff’s mind was too fatigued to confront that now. What he needed was Gladys, his rock of reassurance.

  He registered them in separate rooms and left them at the motel, relieved of their oppressive silent accusations. Deep in his mind, he sensed some mysterious ordination, as if events had been manipulated by a force determined to bedevil him.

  Yet even when he crawled into the warm high bed that he and Gladys had always shared during their married life, he could not fully offer his body to the security of sleep. He knew what he feared most of all.

  Gladys stirred beside him. “You okay, Tee?”

  “Hell no,” he murmured, reaching out to feel a warm haunch where her nightgown had rolled up. It occurred to him that he was the only one of all the others who had crawled safely back to a warm, fa
miliar nest. He felt heavy, leaden, weighted down by something he could not quite grasp.

  More than twenty years ago, they had come away from the dead coal towns of West Virginia. Their escape had been miraculous. For redneck hillbillies they had built a good life here at the country’s edge, safe and snug. “Got us our dignity back,” Gladys would say. In poverty and hopelessness, there was no dignity, only despair, reflected in the burned-out Appalachian hills.

  Now it had come back to him in a new way, and he could smell the oppressive dust of failure again, a dust as evil as the one from which they had fled. This failure, too, seemed to have come out of the ground, putrefying everything, creating its own empty-eyed army, like the miners he used to see crawling along the old mountain roads.

  Sheriff T. Clausen Moore, he mocked to himself. Once the title had been as royal as a king’s. Now the crown’s glitter had paled. It had turned out to be nothing more than papier-mâché.

  “Could lose my badge,” he whispered to Gladys. Most of all she feared the finances. Often she had said, “No more white bread and lard spread. I’d choke on that, Tee.”

  “I’m afraid, Gladys,” he said. “If I let go now, we could be in trouble. Our boys got their dreams.” One of them, Teddy, the oldest, wanted to be a doctor. The others were also developing expensive ambitions.

  “Wouldn’t sell my soul for myself,” he muttered. Usually, the thought could absolve him from all blame.

  “God provides,” Gladys said.

  The hell he does, the Sheriff thought. It had taken him years and distance to expel West Virginia’s old fire and brimstone of the itinerant preachers who promised salvation for a bowl of soup, performing incantations that would never leave his memory, however hard he had tried to drown them with ridicule.

  “Yeah. And if God ain’t good, we’re all in trouble,” he said, knowing in his heart that Father Glory’s sad, dead-eyed kids could not possibly get grace from a loving Lord, if there was one.