CHAPTER NINE

When Griffin reached his house he went straight to the room he used as an office. He booted up his PC, and after checking email he clicked on a bookmark and brought up a link to the Wellman Tribune website. He felt a slight pang, thinking of his lifelong friend Jerry Wallace. Wallace had been a reporter for the Tribune until the previous October, when he had been murdered under bizarre circumstances. Griffin and Carl had found the killers, or some of them anyway, and gotten revenge, for what that was worth.

Griffin clicked on the archives feature. Back in the day he had spent hours in the Wellman Library, scrolling through the old microfiche files of the Tribune. Now he could access the entire archive of the paper from his desk. Hell he could do it from his phone. Griffin typed in ‘tent revival’ and hit enter. Lucky the first time. There was an article about a revival that had been staged for three nights at the old fairgrounds in May. That would coincide with the sudden change in Lynn Traylor almost exactly.

Griffin read through the article. The man behind the revival was a pastor called the Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Some name. There was a picture of the good reverend standing behind a pulpit, hands raised dramatically to the sky. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a bald skull and a fringe of white hair. According to the article, Cotton had a church in Northern Brennert, right in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Mount Zion Church of Faith. As Griffin copied down the address, he heard Charon’s car pull up in the driveway.

He headed back through the house and met Charon at the door. She had an armful of grocery bags and he took them, then leaned down and kissed her.

“You,” Charon said, “look like a man who’s had one hell of a day.”

“That bad, eh?”

“You can fool most people with that poker face, but not me, buster.”

Griffin placed the bags on the small table in the foyer and put his arms around the slender woman. “Yeah, it hasn’t been a good one.”

Charon pulled her face back far enough to look up at him. “What happened?”

“You remember last year when we learned that monsters really do exist? Well today I was reminded there are human monsters too. I’ll tell you about it in a bit. Right now let’s just cook dinner and act like normal people for a while.”

* * *

Morning found Griffin driving north toward the mountains. Traffic was light. Not too many folks willing to commute from this far out. Griffin checked his GPS and turned off the highway onto a narrow, two-lane, asphalt road. The route took him through dark pines and wild fields of tall grass. He was beginning to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn when he saw something white through the trees ahead. He rounded the last curve and saw the church. A flock of pigeons exploded from somewhere behind the building as he approached.

The place was obviously old, and Griffin doubted that Reverend Cotton was the first preacher to claim that particular parish. He noted, however, that there were a couple of newer-looking square buildings behind the church. One had the look of a dormitory. That interested Griffin quite a bit. He pulled his truck into a gravel parking lot in front of the main entrance and parked under an ancient oak.

Griffin stepped out of the truck and started toward the church. So far he hadn’t seen any signs of life around the buildings, but then again it was early. As he neared the front steps of the church he noticed that a length of heavy chain was passed through the door handles of the front door and secured with a serious padlock.

As Griffin was about to go up the steps for a closer look a man came walking around the side of the church. He was tall and lanky, with red hair trimmed in a crew cut. When he saw Griffin he grinned and started toward him.

“Morning,” the man said. He walked in a kind of ambling gait, as if he had all the time in the world. But Griffin noticed the walk was a bit too pat, as if the man had practiced it for a play. He also noted the calluses on the sides of the man’s hands and the slightly enlarged knuckles. The man stopped about three feet from Griffin with his body turned slightly to the side, instinctively protecting the front of his torso where all the vital areas were.

“Morning,” Griffin said. “I’m looking for Reverend Cotton.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” the man said. “The Reverend isn’t here just now. I’m the caretaker. My name is Fry.”

Griffin fished out a business card and handed to the man. “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

“A private eye, eh? Never met a real life one before.”

“We’re just regular folks,” Griffin said.

The man grinned again but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The Reverend won’t be around until this evening. He’s gearing up for another revival, so he’s very busy just now. Anything I can help you with?”

Griffin said, “Maybe. I’m looking for a runaway girl. A friend thought she might have joined some church that she discovered at a tent revival in May.” Griffin held out Lynn Traylor’s picture.

“Well now. Sure is a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Sorry to say I haven’t seen her.”

“Do church members ever stay on the grounds, Mister Fry? I notice you have a couple of good-size buildings behind the church.”

“Now and again,” Fry said. “Folks get themselves into trouble and the Reverend gives them a place to stay.”

“Anyone staying there now?”

“One or two, I think. I try to give them their privacy.”

“Mind if I go talk to them? Maybe one of them has seen the girl.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. The Reverend wouldn’t like that. He protects his flock. I couldn’t let you do that.”

“And were I to go over there anyway?”

Fry’s grin got wider. “Like I said, I couldn’t let you do that.”

And you’d enjoy trying to stop me, I think. Griffin said, “I see. Guess I’ll just have to come back and talk to Reverend Cotton.”

“That would be best. Yes it surely would. Tell me something Mister Griffin. You like the blues?”

“I like some of the old stuff. Blind Willie McTell. Howling Wolf.”

“Thought so. You struck me as a certain kind of man, right when I saw you.”

Griffin said, “I’ll let you get on with your caretaking.”

“Appreciate it. Like to get things done before the day gets too hot.”

Fry stood and watched until Griffin got back in his truck, just as Griffin had known he would. Fry had said he recognized what kind of man Griffin was. That went both ways. One wolf could always recognize another. Interesting guy to be caretaker for a church. And what was with that padlock? Most churches in Brennert didn’t even lock their doors at night.

Well, Griffin would definitely be back to talk to the Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Yes sir, as Fry would say, he surely would.

* * *

Carl slept like the dead. He needed it. If he dreamed, he had no remembrance of the visions that filled his night.

Much to his annoyance, the day was filled with paperwork, more paperwork and a few encounters with bureaucracy. The night got a bit more interesting.

* * *

The Mount Zion Church of Faith was lit with electric lights, but by the reverend’s orders they were subdued, to look as much like candles and lanterns as possible. The building was old and the air was simply too hot to allow that many real open flames in the structure.

The pews were full, the faithful were in abundance. That was not always the case, of course. Some nights they had only a few of the faithful with them, because the rest had to go forth and find the lost and wayward and lead them home.

“Got a full house tonight, ‘Rus.” Fry’s voice was mellow and laid back. He was very good at seeming to be as serene as his voice.

Lazarus Cotton preferred to be called Reverend or Reverend Cotton or even Lazarus, but for Fry he made exceptions. Truly the man was his right hand, and Lazarus knew he meant no disrespect.

“The numbers don’t matter, Fry.” The Reverend’s voice was soft, but deep and melodious. His voice was an instrument of the Lord, and as such he had been blessed. Truly, he had been blessed. Hallelujah.

He stood from the chair where he prepared himself and contemplated his words. The chair groaned a bit. He was not a small man, but he carried himself with ease. His dark pants were creased just so, and his suspenders were in the right place. His tie was perfect. His shoes were polished. He was presentable, and that was an important thing. He spoke often to his flock about the need to be presentable. The Lord did not ask that his children be dressed in spectacular fashion, or that they paint their faces like harlots. No, his children were to be humble, and that meant they should dress the part as well.

“What did you want to do about that Wade Griffin fellow,‘Rus?”

He looked toward Fry with a small frown. “This close to my sermon you should address me properly, please, Fry.”

The man’s smile was quick and thin. He knew Fry was not quite a true believer. He wanted to be, but Faith, true Faith, did not always come easily and Fry had been through so very much in his lifetime. “Of course, Reverend Cotton.”

“Much obliged, son.” The Reverend nodded his thanks and headed for the door to the stage at the front of the congregation. It was a simple affair. There was no need for preposterous pomp. There was no need for elaborate draperies. Jesus did not find a need to robe Himself in wealth or in finery and if it was good enough for the Christ, it was certainly good enough for His followers.

The pews were indeed filled with the faithful, and with the lost souls they’d brought with them to be saved.

Lazarus Cotton smiled as he looked to the faces staring in his direction. A few were looking elsewhere, but mostly they turned and faced him as he strode across the hardwood on his way to the pulpit. He raised his hands and waved, and the faithful turned toward him and grew silent, waiting for the words he would speak. “Welcome! All are welcome here. Welcome to old, familiar faces and to the new faces I have never seen before.”

He walked as he spoke, for Lazarus Cotton was filled with the Lord’s glory. He felt as strong as a dozen men and as mighty as any man could be when blessed by the Lord and that, friends and neighbors, was mighty indeed. Can I get an amen?

“I’m looking at you, too, you know. Oh, I know you’re looking at me, and I know what a few of you are probably thinking. You’re asking yourselves what you’ve gotten yourselves into.” He looked around and got a comically worried expression on his face. After holding it for a second, he let the expression change to one of mild disgust. “‘Lookit that man! He dresses like Colonel Sanders’ country cousin.’” There were a few snickers out in the audience when he hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and popped them against his beefy chest. “Or maybe you’re thinking about my age.” He waved a hand dismissively, a sly smile blooming on his broad, friendly face. “Oh, I know I’m a bit older than most of you. In fact I’m older than I look, but we’ll get to that part. What you’re wondering about is why you should be spending an evening listening to another fat, old minister talk to you about Jesus and the Lord Almighty. Don’t look so surprised… I’ve been on your side of the pulpit too, you know. I went through a lot of my life as a sinner.”

Lazarus Cotton’s face grew serious and he looked from person to person earnestly. “I’ve done my share of blaspheming, and I was known to indulge a bit too much in wine and women and song.” Once again that expression of mild shock moved across his broad features and transformed into a comical look of disgust as if he realized he’d just swallowed a fly while yawning. “’Why would anyone ever? Lookit him! He’s old and fat.’” He stood taller and patted his round belly. While he was never going to be a model for Calvin Klein most of the audience could see his hand hit solid flesh and realized that it wasn’t really a matter of being flabby so much as it was being barrel-chested. He was solid. “Just you remember, Marilyn Monroe wore a size eighteen dress, and when I was growing up a certain amount of belly was a sign of success. It meant you could afford to eat regular meals.”

That one earned him a few more laughs and he could see the newer faces laughing a bit more, relaxing as they got to know him.

“That one hits home with a few of you, doesn’t it? The need to eat? The need to know where your next meal is coming from? It’s a big thing when you’re flat broke and living in an alleyway. And that’s an even bigger thing when you have heat like what we’re handling right now. Well, I’m not so worried about the heat. I can assure you there are places that are a lot hotter.”

A few eyes rolled. Yes, of course he was talking about Hell. They were in a church after all.

“Know what’s funny to me?” He looked at them and planted his big fists on his broad hips. “What’s funny is how many of you just rolled your eyes. Bet you think I’m gonna talk about sin, and hellfire and brimstone.” He shook his head and frowned with a deep enough expression to make sure that even the people in the back of the congregational hall could see the expression. “Well, you’re wrong about that. You look at the Good Books in front of you, on the back of the seats before yours, and you look good and hard. And you find a spot in there where it says you’re going to burn in Hell for all eternity.” He held up a finger. “I don’t mean a reference in the Old Testament that talks of a burning lake without mentioning Hell by name. I mean you find a spot in the New Testament where it says that anyone alive is going to burn in Hell for all eternity.” He crossed his arms and tapped a foot on the floor beneath him. “I can wait if you want to try to find the spot. But I have to tell you, back in the days when I was a bit more of a sinner I would have charged you hard cash for the bibles I’ll let you have for free now. Back then I was a bible salesman and I could have convinced your daddy to give me a month’s pay for a cheap bible and I could have had him writing me the check while you momma was pouring me a whiskey and sitting in my lap.”

He paused while they considered that and the mischievous grin crept back to his mobile face. “Told you I was a sinner, didn’t I? Back in the day? Believe me, I got around and I met more than one lonely wife back in my heyday. We none of us start off as sinners and we none of us start out as saints. One way or another we have to work our way down the proper path to get where we’re going.”

He walked again, treading heavily on the small stage and waving his hands about with every word he spoke. “The Lord doesn’t promise us eternal damnation. What He promises, what His only begotten son Jesus Christ promises, is the chance for eternal life. If we just do the right things, if we treat people the right way and we can manage to stay properly humble, the meek shall inherit the earth.”

And now he stopped and he looked out at the crowd with wide eyes. “Eternal life. Think about that. The chance to live forever, to never grow old and die, to never suffer disease, to never again suffer the pain of illness, or to know the endless misery of losing our loved ones. Think about how amazing that promise is.”

Oh, there might have been a few who were doubting him, but Lazarus knew when he had a crowd that was listening, and nearly to the last they were paying close attention.

“Jesus Christ died for our sins. He died and He promised us that if we would but love Him and ask His forgiveness for our sins…” He paused and held up one finger again. “And mean it, that part is important, well, then, we could live forever in the glory of the Lord’s blessings.”

Several of the devout called out from the audience with a smattering of Hallelujahs and amens.

And Lazarus Cotton smiled lovingly to his children as they responded. “Would you like to know what makes me different from other ministers and reverends and pastors?” Oh, the grin he offered was a sly one, positively conspiratorial. “Would you like to know what separates me and all of my followers from the rest of the glad-handers who are offering Salvation?”

Several people whispered and looked around and finally one of the young lads in the audience looked toward him and asked, “What?”

Lazarus Cotton’s smile grew into a thing of strange and wondrous beauty. “Well, now, the difference is that I don’t just tell you what you can have. I can show you the Glory of the blessings of the Lord Almighty.” He stood tall and spread his arms wide. “I don’t offer false promises, my children. I offer proof.”

And then did the children, the wayward and the lost lean in closer. And then did they listen with rapt attention to the words of Lazarus Cotton.

Can you say amen?

* * *

Three in the morning Charon awoke. She felt a tingling at the back of her neck and it took her a few moments to realize what had happened. What was still happening. Something was testing her wards. She had never had the sensation before, but Carter Decamp had warned her what it would feel like. She resisted the urge to wake Griffin or to leap out of bed.

Instead she did what Carter had been training her to do. She relaxed and let her mind go to the place where the warding spell registered. He had told her to visualize the spell like a series of laser beams crisscrossing the doors and windows of the house she shared with Griffin. She did this now, seeing the glowing red filaments in her mind’s eye. All were intact. Nothing had gotten though. Charon breathed a little easier, but she didn’t stop checking the wards. She could tell by the way they seemed to vibrate that something was still testing them. Should she wake Griffin? Not quite yet.

If anyone had told her a year ago that she would go from selling old books and charms to actually practicing a form of magic, she would have told them they were crazy. But then Halloween had come and torn the roof off the rational world, showing Charon there were things waiting in the outer dark. Carter Decamp, a former English literature Professor, an Olympic fencer, and a man steeped in occult knowledge had come into her life. He had sensed in Charon a latent talent for magic, and he had begun to teach her how to do many things she had once thought mere folklore. She had kidded for years about being a witch, and now she really was one.

Never, since Charon had placed the wards around the house, had anything tampered with them. Now something was circling the house, checking every window and door. She could feel whatever it was probing, seeking.

“Griffin,” she said. He woke as he always did, totally aware and with no trace of grogginess. He sat up and looked at Charon and she told him about the wards.

“Is it one of the Moon-Eyes?” Griffin said.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I think I would recognize their aura.”

“Okay,” Griffin said. He opened the nightstand’s single drawer and lifted out a big, silver revolver. “This one’s loaded with some of Decamp’s special bullets. If it is one of those pasty bastards, this will take care of it.”

Griffin slipped out of the bed and pulled on a pair of gym shorts. He told Charon to stay put, then stepped into the hallway. He moved quickly through the house in a shooter’s crouch, the barrel of the gun pointed down, ready to be brought up into target acquisition. Griffin checked the windows on the house’s single floor one at a time. His night vision was good and the scant light from streetlamps outside gave him enough illumination to avoid turning on any lights.

The windows and doors were all secure physically, and if Charon was correct, they were all still warded against any supernatural visitors. Once Griffin would have scoffed at the idea of anything beyond the natural world, but he had learned the hard way that there were beings and forces he simply didn’t understand.

Griffin unlocked the front door and went out fast. He leaped down the front steps and dropped to one knee, gun at the ready. No one tried to shoot him. No pale white forms drifted out of the darkness. Griffin stood and scanned the outside of the house. He didn’t see anyone or anything.

He walked back up the steps, and just as he was reaching for the doorknob he had a sudden feeling of being watched. Griffin spun, but the feeling was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. He stepped back into the house and locked the door.

He met Charon coming down the hall. She had pulled on her jeans and she held a leather bag in one hand, which Griffin knew contained some of the tools of her trade. Since she had been training with Decamp, Charon had amassed quite a collection of items supposed to be of use against things that went bump in the night.

“Coming out to rescue me?” Griffin said.

“Just in case.”

Griffin was reminded yet again of one of the reasons he loved Charon. When things went bad she didn’t run away. She gritted her teeth and waded in.

Griffin tilted Charon’s chin up and kissed her. She said, “What was that for?”

“For being brave.”

“Yeah, you can’t see how my knees are knocking.”

“That’s the definition of being brave. Doing what has to be done even when your knees are knocking.”

“Do yours ever knock?”

“No, I’m too tough.”

“Of course you are. So you didn’t see anything outside?”

“No, I had a moment where I felt like someone was watching but it was just a moment. How are the wards?”

“Intact, and nothing’s probing them now.”

“Can you tell what it was that was testing them?”

Charon shook her head. “Afraid not. Carter says I’ll be able to one day. He could probably tell by checking them, if he were here.”

“Maybe you can give him a call come morning.”

“He’s out of town.”

“No way to reach him?”

“Nope. Like some other people I know, out of town means out of touch.”

Griffin didn’t miss the comparison between him and Carter Decamp. He had often wondered about the nature of Decamp’s out of town trips. The man had an impressive collection of weapons, everything from a Scottish claymore to a US Army M18 claymore mine in his Victorian-era home, along with a vast library of books on the occult. And he often disappeared for days just as Griffin did. Griffin wondered if Decamp, too, was a mercenary. If he was, he wasn’t fighting in petty wars in third world countries.

“Back to bed then,” Griffin said. When they got back to the bedroom, Griffin retrieved his cell phone from the pants he had hung over a chair.

“Calling someone?” said Charon.

“Going to leave Carl a voice message. If it was one of the Moon-Eyes out there, they may be lurking around his place as well.”

“The wards there haven’t been touched,” Charon said. Griffin’s eyebrows went up.

“You warded Carl’s house?”

“I did.”

“Without telling him or me?”

Charon’s dark eyes sparkled. “Can’t trust us witches, wild man. We’re just wicked.”

She was trying to keep things light, but Griffin was willing to bet that Charon was wondering the same thing he was. If it hadn’t been one of the Moon-Eyes looking for a way in, what had it been?

* * *

Carl didn’t much like working the graveyard shift but he also believed that now and then he had to know what his people were up to when he was supposed to be asleep. There were some who’d call him a touch paranoid, but that wasn’t it as far as he was concerned. He just liked to know for certain that the people he’d hired – the ones who had been working for a long while and the new hires he’d taken on to replace the deputies who died last October – were ready for anything. Sometimes that meant him coming in and surprising them.

Also, he couldn’t sleep worth a damn right now. Tammy kept popping into his head. He’d be almost down for the night, drifting down into La-La Land, and the next thing he knew she was filling his mind again, whispering half-remembered conversations in his mental ear and he’d feel his blood rise and his eyes pop open.

He couldn’t sleep. His people got to suffer the consequences.

He inspected the offices under the guise of checking his personal office. Then he went back to the holding area, which had been rebuilt very nicely since last October. Currently they were having a busy night. There were seven visitors. Three in regular holding and three in the drunk tank. They could be processed into other rooms or let back into polite society once they were sober enough. In the meantime they got to share the big room with the open drains in the floor to hose down whatever they couldn’t keep in their stomachs.

One of the teenagers he’d clocked earlier was still in a holding cell. On the street with his friends and hopped up on Meth he’d felt indestructible. Now, off his chemical bravado and all by himself he looked like what he was – a skinny kid who was barely even beginning to shave, and who was currently terrified of what his life was turning into. The odds were he dearly wanted to be back home. His folks couldn’t front the bail. They were still trying to find a way. Until then, as the only under-aged offender currently in the place Daniel Jenkins had the room all to himself. He’d been crying.

Carl left him alone. The kid’s life was already turning into enough shit without any help from him.

Back in his actual office Carl booted up his computer and did a bit more research on the little he knew about the Amber Phillips case. The fingerprints from the truck had come back. The rear passenger window handprint did match up with Amber Phillips. Her folks had the common sense to get her picture taken and kept her prints available for any situation where she might end up exactly where she was now, missing. The other fingerprints found in the truck were almost useless. There was one good partial that matched up with a number of other abductions in the northern Georgia area, but the match just meant it had shown up before, it didn’t provide a name this time. Damn it.

Tammy crept into his head and started dancing around again. He pushed her aside and then got up from his desk. Time to go.

Restless didn’t even begin to cover it.

He got a text from Wade warning him about possible lurkers on the home front. He nodded. Not surprising, really. The Blackbournes were not known for their forgiving nature.

He made a note to himself to check up on the clan and see what they were up to. They meddled in damned near every sort of illegal activity, but he’d never heard about them dealing in child abductions – for sociopaths they had their own unique code of conduct. Just the same he’d look into it.

There was still something about the Phillips family that bothered him. Instead of leaving his office he decided to do a little web-surfing to see what he might run across. Corey Phillips’ business was steady and slowly growing. That was a good thing, of course. What was his wife’s name? He dug a bit until he found it. Sarah Phillips. Sarah had a small record for traffic fines and aside from that was squeaky clean. Corey Phillips had exactly no criminal record. They were, in other words, perfectly normal people.

It still didn’t sit well. Something about the two of them didn’t feel right. He just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

He would. He was nothing if not determined.

More searching. Criminal records had shown him nothing of importance.

As he was heading back out of the office Ryan on the desk waved him over and held up a piece of paper. The man was on the phone and talking in a calm, professional voice. Professional enough to let Carl know it was business and decidedly not pleasure.

The scrap he held up was a scrawled note: Call Bob Stack on his cell.

Carl looked a question at him: How long ago? Ryan jotted ten minutes ago on the paper. He nodded and headed out.

As he moved for the truck he called Bob’s cell. The police chief answered immediately. “Stack.”

“Bob. It’s Carl. What’s up?”

“Strictly second-hand news, but I’m hearing that Amber Phillips had a couple of teachers who reported her folks to DFACS for possible abuse.”

“Really?” Carl frowned. “I was just looking at the files on the family and I didn’t see a damned thing about that.”

“I can’t swear to the validity, Carl. But there’s a woman you could talk to if you wanted. Ellie Campbell. She’s a teacher at the girl’s school. The one who made the report. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her myself. I have another couple of kids who are missing, probably runaways this time, but you know how that goes.”

“This is starting to get stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the damned missing kids. Brennert County isn’t exactly the worst place to live. What’s with all the runaways?”

“Grass is always greener, bubba.”

“Yeah.” Carl thought about Tammy and nodded, despite the fact that Bob couldn’t possibly see him do it.

They said their goodbyes and Carl set his phone down just in time for it to ring. This time it was Ryan. “You ever get tired of seeing me Ryan?”

“Sorry, Carl. But we’ve got most of the cars tied up and there’s reports of a possible homicide out near the Hollow, on 41. Near mile marker 26.” Carl closed his eyes and flashed for just a second to the body of Jerry Wallace, crucified a mile down the road from where he was now heading.

“On it. Make sure you keep off the radio on this one. Our local citizens like to wag their jaws too much.”

“Not my first day at this you know.” Ryan was whining.

“Won’t be your last either if you give me lip.” He got the rest of the details and headed for the crime scene. It was a good-sized drive, but the roads were nearly empty and his flashing lights kept what little traffic was out and about well away from him.

A reed thin man standing next to a pickup truck – a Toyota this time – waved as he saw the flashing lights. Carl pulled over and left the lights going. The man moved from foot to foot nervously, and licked his lips roughly a dozen times. Carl grabbed his flashlight and headed in that direction.

“You here about what I found?”

Carl looked the man in the eyes. “Probably. What did you find, Mister…?”

“Ted LeMarrs.” The man nodded nervously. “I found a body. I don’t think he’s been there very long.”

“Can you show me where?”

The man nodded and Carl gestured for him to lead the way. They didn’t have far to go.

The man pointed to where a truck had pulled off the road at an angle. A Ford again. An F-150. Damned if it didn’t seem like someone was out to prove his theory about the state truck. LeMarrs gestured for Carl to look on the other side of the truck and Carl approached carefully, making sure to give consideration for any possible marks on the long, dried out grass that surrounded the truck.

It was definitely a body and there was no denying that said body was dead and very likely murdered.

“Well, what the hell.” Carl beamed the light over the body and looked around for possible evidence. There were definite signs of a scuffle.

The body was of a man in his mid-forties at a guess. Dressed in jeans and a baggy shirt that was now rolled up to his armpits. Hardly in good shape even before the death, but now it looked like someone had folded the body over on itself, backwards. The man’s abdomen was stretched and his stomach was distended. His back folded almost over on itself and the man’s head was resting near one cowboy boot. The other leg was spread away from him.

Carl managed not to let out a scream. Unsettling as the image was, he’d actually seen worse. Once again, Jerry flashed through his mind for a moment.

“You been anywhere near the body, Mister LeMarrs?”

“Hell no!” The man shook his head. “I mean, no sir.”

“How did you find the body, sir?”

“Well, I saw some kids running down the road and when they saw me they kind of cut into the woods.”

“Kids?”

“You know, teenagers.” He shrugged. “I was heading home from, well, I was on my way home.” He’d been drinking and didn’t want Carl to notice. Too late. But there were larger considerations just now.

“You had a few beers?”

“Yessir.” He sounded defeated.

“You too drunk to drive?”

“Nossir.”

“Then we don’t have a problem, not tonight, anyways.” LeMarrs sighed with relief. “So tell me what you saw, okay Mister LeMarrs?”

“Like I said, I saw them kids. They were teenagers, but they were dressed in nice clothes. Not prom nice, but like they were going out for dinner with the folks. Good suits and proper skirts.”

Carl nodded and resisted the temptation to tell him to get on with it. While the man was speaking Carl was still checking over the area. It looked like there were several sets of prints out there, but he couldn’t be certain. He’d be calling for a Crime Scene Unit.

“I saw them running and when I passed them, I saw the truck. I thought maybe they’d been in a wreck or something or someone needed help and then I looked around and when I saw that fella’s leg still twitching, I figured I better call it in.”

“His leg was still twitching?”

LeMarrs nodded and licked his lips again. Small wonder he was okay to drive. Either the man was very, very nervous – a distinct possibility – or he was just possibly hopped up on speed of some sort. He was doing an awful lot of nervous twitching, and the way he kept licking his lips was a possible indicator.

“I can’t say for sure, but the way them kids ran, I figure they must have at least seen him.”

“Which way did the kids go?”

LeMarrs pointed away from Crawford’s Hollow. The Hollow was decidedly Blackbourne territory. That might mean nothing in this case, but it might also mean someone running from the clan.

“Did you see anyone other than the kids and this man?” He pointed toward the body.

“Nossir.”

Carl nodded and pulled out his phone, prepared to call for the team to investigate properly and for the coroner.

“How many kids were there, Mister LeMarrs?”

“Two girls and one boy. So three.” He seemed inordinately proud of his mad math skills, once again leading Carl to believe the man was probably a good ways from completely sober. That was all right. He’d likely not be going anywhere for a while. The way these things normally ran, LeMarrs would have plenty of time to get sober before he was allowed to go anywhere at all.

“You know what age they were?”

“Not a one of them looked old enough to drive.” He frowned and shook his head. “What are kids that age doing out this late at night, anyways? Don’t folks pay attention to their kids anymore?”

A damned good question.

He looked at the body. Either three adolescents had literally folded a man over himself until his spine broke and his internal organs ruptured in the process, or they had just found him that way. In any event it was almost four in the morning and kids had no reason to be out.

Carl made his phone calls. The air was still and hot and damned sticky. The corpse let out a flatulent noise and LeMarrs squeaked at the unexpected sound.

Carl sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. This was not going to end well. He could feel it.

* * *

Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Griffin typed those words into the search engine and hit enter. Plenty of hits. He switched to the image setting and gazed at dozens of pictures. Cotton behind a pulpit. Cotton lit by firelight with the walls and roof of a great tent behind him. Reproductions of fliers advertising Cotton’s revivals from all over the south. The man got around.

Griffin switched back to the web search and read a few random articles. Mount Zion wasn’t Cotton’s first church. The reverend had apparently had a good size congregation in Florida at one point. Florida had also been the host to many of the man’s tent revival meetings. Checking the dates on various newspaper articles Griffin saw that there was a gap of several months between the time when Cotton left his church in Florida and when he popped up in Georgia. No mention as to why he had pulled up stakes. Interesting.

Charon came wandering into Griffin’s home office, putting on a pair of hoop earrings as she walked. She was dressed for a day at the shop. A black skirt. A deep purple t-shirt with a close up image of Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein monster. Charon had the most amazing collection of t-shirts Griffin had ever seen. He had asked her once if t-shirts weren’t a bit casual for a business owner, but she had explained that people expected her to dress funky. It was part of the ambiance of Baba Yaga’s.

Charon looked over Griffin’s shoulder at the screen. “That’s the guy who runs the church you told me about?”

“That’s him. Down home as all hell isn’t he.”

“Mmm hmm. Looks like he’s been raiding Colonel Sanders’ closet. But I have to say, the look works for him. He looks, I don’t know, natural in those old time clothes. I bet he can preach up the fire and brimstone when he wants to.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“My grandmother took me to a couple of big tent revivals when I was a kid,” Charon said. “I know my fire and brimstone. Tell you what. If I have time today, I’ll do a little digging on Reverend Cotton myself.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in modern organized religions.”

“One man’s religion is another man’s cult, Griffin.”

“Good point. By all means, see what you can come up with. I’m going to try and get an interview with the man himself.”

Charon leaned over and kissed him on the side of the mouth. “Okay, well I’m off. See you this evening. Try and stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No.”

Once Charon was gone Griffin got out his cell and dialed Paul Traylor’s number. He had been putting off talking to Traylor but he owed the man a report.

“Mister Griffin,” Traylor said when he picked up. “Do you have some good news for me?”

“I’m afraid not. I have a couple of leads I’m following but nothing definite. I did have some results from the shopping bag we found, but they weren’t good.” Griffin gave Traylor a brief description of finding Irene Chandler and the circumstances of the discovery.

Traylor said, “Good Lord. You don’t think Lynn has been taken by people like that, do you?”

“I don’t,” said Griffin. “I believe Lynn left on her own and that hopefully she’s somewhere safe. But I thought I ought to let you know what had become of her friend Irene. Also, I have a question. Did Lynn have anything to say about religion recently?”

“Religion? Not that I recall. Her mother is a lapsed Catholic, and I’ve never been much for churches. Why do you ask?”

“Just something Irene told me. One of the leads I’m following. I’ll let you know more if anything pans out.”

Griffin rang off without giving Traylor any more information. He didn’t want the man muddying the waters by perhaps trying to contact Lazarus Cotton himself. A man like Traylor might do exactly that.

Griffin checked the clock. Not even ten in the morning yet. The man, Fry, had indicated it was best to seek audience with Cotton later in the day. Griffin would wait until afternoon before heading back to Cotton’s church. That way, if things didn’t go well, perhaps he could have a look at the dormitory building under cover of darkness. Griffin’s gut was telling him Lynn Traylor was there. One way or another he would find out.