As Emory exited Sheriff Rome’s truck, he could see the sun starting to set over the peak that locals called Crown-of-Thorns Mountain. Although not as evident under its current shroud of snow, the ring of trees just below the bare mountaintop were all dead. Some blamed acid rain, while others had more superstitious explanations. Whatever the cause, the twisted remains of the naked trunks and their large branches gave the mountain its tortured name.
Emory scanned his father’s two-acre property, bordered by a wooden split-rail fence and abutting deep woods on two sides. It looked the same as it did the last time he had come home – right after he graduated college. A sudden movement caught his eye. A white French bulldog bolted from the side of the yellow-brick house, hopping over the snow-covered ground and straight into his arms. “Sophie!” he exclaimed as the excited dog licked his face. He looked at his dad. “She remembers me.”
“Of course, she does.” The sheriff placed a hand on Emory’s shoulder. “Now let’s see if Lula Mae does.”
Emory released Sophie, who led them to the front door and barked at it. A short woman with grey shoulder-length hair answered it. “Well, come in,” she said to the dog before noticing her husband and son. “You’re here!”
Emory greeted her with a big smile. “Hi Mom.”
With a jaw-splitting smile, Lula Mae wrapped her arms around the middle of his torso. “You’ve grown.”
Emory laughed. “No, I haven’t.”
Sheriff Rome walked past her through the door. “Lula Mae, I told you you’re shrinking.”
She gave him a playful slap on the back. “Nick, I am not.” She clutched Emory’s arm to escort him inside. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Inside the house, Emory could smell the country-fried chicken and sweet potato cakes without even looking at the crackling cast-iron skillets on the stove. The aroma of Southern cooking, coupled with the warmth of a two-log fire on the living room hearth, created a gentle coziness. Almost two years had passed since Emory last stepped on the creaking hardwood floor, but every picture on the wood-paneled walls, every trinket on the cedar shelves and every piece of overstuffed furniture remained in place where he remembered it – as if the house itself were a fixed point in time and protected from its influence.
Once Lula Mae saw Emory in the kitchen’s bright light, she grimaced at his appearance. “Ooh, you need to change those clothes. What is that?”
Emory looked down to see stains on everything he was wearing – some black and some crimson. “Oh my god.” He realized the stains came from Rick Roberts’ remains.
The sheriff told him, “Oh yeah, you need to get out of those. I didn’t want to say anything, but you stink to High Heaven.”
“You should’ve said something.”
Lula Mae helped him out of his jacket. “I can wash them for you.”
“No, they need to be dry-cleaned. Do you have a garbage bag I could put them in for now?”
“Of course.” She handed him one from the pantry.
Emory excused himself and went to his former bedroom. He hung his shoulder holster on the bedpost and removed his clothes, placing them in the bag before tying it. He sniffed his shoulder and realized his skin stunk. After a hot shower, he returned to the room and put on tattered jeans and a high school T-shirt he found in his old chest-of-drawers before joining his parents in the kitchen.
The dinner of artery-clogging courses ended with the best banana pudding in all of East Tennessee. Afterwards, he offered to help clean, but Lula Mae shooed him out of the kitchen. His father retreated to the bathroom and wouldn’t be seen again for half an hour, so Emory decided he’d take the opportunity for some fresh mountain air. He returned to his bedroom to throw on some old hiking boots and grab a denim jacket with faux-fur lining – and after a moment’s hesitation, put his shoulder holster back on.
Exiting the back door, Emory walked through the snow to a section of the fence near the woods. He leaned his forearms against the top plank and soaked in the surrounding quietness. Listening to his gentle breaths, he looked for the darkness between the trees, where he had often found comfort when he was younger. Tonight, however, the thick Smoky Mountain mist grated through the trees, obstructing his view as it dispersed the moonlight.
Emory removed his phone from his pocket and began scrolling through the pictures he had taken since the beginning of the case. He checked the photos from Britt’s murder scene, zooming in on some and giving others a passing glance. He flipped through those taken at Rick Roberts’ house and stopped on one that was taken in the bedroom. Something about it bothered him, but he still didn’t know why.
Emory heard a scrunching sound coming from the woods, like boots plodding through snow. He drew the pistol from his holster and crouched behind a fence post. He aimed it at the woods and scanned for any movement.
“Don’t shoot,” a voice said from behind him. He turned to see his dad walking toward him from the house. “I’m only armed with a pipe.” He held up his half-bent billiard pipe for Emory to see and flashed him a grin.
Emory turned off the lights and reholstered his weapon. “I’m sorry, Dad. I thought I heard something in the woods.”
“Just me.” The sheriff took a box of matches from his pocket and lit the tobacco in the pipe as he walked. Once he reached Emory, he rested his forearms on top of the fence and pointed with the lip of the pipe. “The woods and the mist play tricks with sounds.”
Emory mimicked his father’s stance. “I guess you’re right.”
“I got a lantern in the house, if you want. You can go check and make sure nothing’s there.”
“You know I don’t like the woods.”
“I’m just kidding you. You about ready for bed?”
“I’m not much of a sleeper.”
“Oh yeah.” The sheriff sucked on the smoldering tobacco. “You were always the last one to bed and the first to rise. So what are you doing out here?”
“Just going over the case in my head.”
The sheriff laughed. “You can’t turn that head of yours off, can you? Even as a teenager, you were always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Emory tilted his head. “I definitely hear something. You don’t hear that?”
A faint scream canoed its way over the mist. “I do now.” The sheriff listened a few seconds more and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the Pentecostal church. In the woods over there.” He pointed with his pipe.
“It sounds like someone dying.”
The sheriff exhaled a breath of smoke that swirled into the mist and drowned in its tiny droplets. “They’re speaking in tongues. Sparked quite a stir about a year ago when the church popped up. People here didn’t want snake handlers in their backyard. I imagine that’s why they chose a property in the woods, away from prying eyes.”
“Church on a Thursday?”
“I heard they go just about every night.” The sheriff laughed. “Aren’t you glad we’re Church of Christ?”
Emory smiled and looked down, seeking to avoid a discussion on his religious evolution.
Sheriff Rome didn’t seem to notice. “Speaking of that, your ma was wondering if you were planning to stick around over the weekend and maybe go to church with us on Sunday.”
Emory’s mind flashed back to the Church of Christ congregation they attended when he was a teenager. It had always seemed like a place of punishment and not a place one attends free of choice. He shook his head.
“I know. You have work to do, even on Sunday.”
Taking a deep whiff of the smoke, Emory smiled. “I always liked the smell of your pipe.”
The sheriff glared at his son. “Don’t you even think about starting.”
“I’m not.”
“Well good. By the way, I wanted to thank you for this. Having you here tonight makes us realize even more how much we miss seeing you.”
“It’s not like we don’t Skype.”
“Once a month, maybe. If that. It’s no substitute for seeing you in the flesh.”
Emory fell silent as he looked to the ground. He listened to his father puff the pipe a couple of times before speaking again. “This town holds such bad memories for me.”
The sheriff put a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
“When I’m here…All I can think about is everything that happened. Granny. The woods. My father. Eight years ago, you saved my life. Then you brought me into your home.”
Sheriff Rome dropped his hand. “You know we’ve always thought of you as ours – blood or not.”
Emory nodded. “I know.”
“What?” Once several silent seconds had passed, the sheriff asked with more force, “What is it?”
Emory couldn’t look at him. “I would never want you to regret that decision.”
“What would ever give you a thought like that? I know God wanted me to find you, and now you’re doing what he meant for you to do. You’re helping good people and bringing bad ones to justice. How could we not be proud of you?”
Emory wanted to say more, but fear tightened his lips.