nineteen

The camera flash competed poorly with the lightning still playing across the sky, visible through small windows high up on the wall. Orly Jackson took several pictures of the manger, from different angles and distances, then lay back down on the floor and held the device against the dirt to get a shot of the cell phone lying in situ.

“I’m going to need something to fish it out with,” he said. “My hand won’t fit and it’s clear back against the wall.”

“How about a hay hook?” Kurt asked.

The deputy tried it. “No, it’s not long enough and I can’t get it under any further because the handle gets in the way.”

“A coat hanger would probably work,” Death suggested.

“You got one?”

“Got some in the house,” Robinson said. “Hang on a second and I’ll run and get one.”

“Those poor dogs,” Nichelle said when he’d left.

“Dogs? What dogs?” Jackson asked.

“Sherlock and Mycroft. The bloodhound pups, remember?”

“Yeah.” Death gave her a rueful smile. “They probably found it. They tried to tell us, but we thought we knew better. We thought they were smelling the dead guy on the beer can, and I’m sure they were. But they were also smelling their target scent on this phone the whole time.”

Kurt Robinson returned with a wire coat hanger. He took it in both hands and pulled it out of shape to make a long, skinny hook and handed it off to Jackson.

The deputy lowered himself back to the ground with a long, put-upon sigh.

“Oh, stop it,” Death said. “You love this.”

Orly, on his knees, paused to cock an eyebrow at the ex-Marine. “Oh really?”

“Ever since you got involved in this case the city cops have been treating you guys like a bunch of simple-minded, bumbling hicks. And now you’re about to break their case for them. So stop acting like you’re being abused.”

“I’m going to enjoy handing them their case,” he admitted. “The crawling around in the dirt in a horse stall not so much.” He went down to all fours, paused, and rubbed a handful of dirt between his fingers. “Is this manure in here?”

“Probably,” Robinson said. “You’re in a horse stall.”

“Ha, ha.”

Jackson lay down on his stomach, stuck the coat hanger into the dark recess beneath the manger, and slowly drew the missing cell phone out into the light. It was a slender smartphone, caked with dirt but with the face intact. He took two more pictures of it lying there, next to the hook he’d used, before picking it up in gloved hands and dropping it into a clear plastic evidence bag.

“You’re going to let us hear what’s on it, aren’t you?” Death prompted.

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because I was nice and I called you in on this. I could have just waited and gotten it out myself and then given it to you.”

“That would have been tampering with evidence.”

“Hard to prove that in court. After all, I wouldn’t have known it was evidence until I listened to it. For that matter, we don’t know now that it’s evidence.”

“Of course it’s evidence! Don’t be stupid.”

“Are you sure it’s evidence? I mean, we know there’s a cell phone missing and we found a cell phone, but you don’t actually know it’s the same cell phone.”

Jackson snorted. “Oh, please.”

“There’ve been a lot of people through here. Any one of them could have lost a cell phone in this barn.” Death caught at the officer’s arm when he would have turned away and looked him in the eye. “Come on, man. This concerns all of us. I think we have a right to know what’s on that phone.”

“And you know what?” Jackson said. “I agree with you. And I would let you listen. But in case you haven’t noticed, the phone is dead. No one can listen to it until I find a charger that will fit it.”

“What kind of plug does it take?” Nichelle asked. “I probably have one in my old cell phone charger drawer.”

“You have an old cell phone charger drawer?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

The deputy followed the Robinsons to their cabin through the rain. The storm had lessened so that it was no longer an onslaught, but it was still coming down steadily. Death and Randy brought up the rear, flanking him slightly.

Jackson glanced back at them. “Guarding me so I can’t get away.”

“We’re protecting you,” Death said.

“That’s your story.”

“And we’re sticking to it.”

The cabin the couple lived in was only slightly larger than the ones they maintained for visiting vets. It had a cozy living room decorated with Royals baseball memorabilia, an eat-in kitchen, and a single bedroom and bath on the ground floor. A narrow staircase led to a loft under the eaves.

Kurt nodded at the stairs as they went by. “Tony and Zahra used to sleep up there when they’d stay with us.”

Death rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder and didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say.

Nichelle pulled open a drawer in the kitchen and came over to the table with a Gordian knot of white and black chargers. “I’m not sure what’s here, exactly. Most of these are from cell phones but there are other things too. I know some of them are interchangeable. We’ll just have to see.”

The men seated themselves at the table and started untangling cords. Nichelle pulled up a tall stool and perched on it to watch. In the brighter light in the kitchen, she looked tired and drawn.

“This one probably won’t work,” Death observed, holding up a sturdier cable with a round connection.

“Hey!” Robinson said. “That’s to my cordless drill! I wondered where that went.”

“I think this one will fit,” Randy said, separating out a cord and charger.

Jackson took it, removed the phone from the evidence bag, and plugged it in. The dirty touchscreen lit up and went to a charging graphic. He held down the button on the side of the phone until it powered up, and then held it up to show them a lock screen with a pattern of nine dots.

“He’s got it locked. Unless you geniuses have any suggestions for what his pattern is?”

“He’s a Christian fundamentalist. Try a cross,” Death suggested.

Jackson tried it. It took him several attempts because his gloves were interfering with his ability to use the touchscreen, but he finally got it to register his finger. He drew a cross on the phone face without lifting his hand, and the phone opened to a home screen. It was a landscape picture, probably the one that came with the phone, with a sprinkling of apps showing.

Jackson tapped call log and the record of the last calls on the phone came up. The last caller was identified simply as Sir. He showed the others.

“Any of you recognize this number? Be honest with me now.”

The others all looked at it and shook their heads.

“The 816 area code is Kansas City,” Nichelle offered. “That’s no one that I know, though.”

“Call it,” Randy suggested, caught up in the excitement.

Death reached around and smacked him on the back of the head.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Great idea, genius,” his big brother teased. He pretended to be making a phone call. “Hi, is this the person who murdered August Jones? Yes, I just wanted to let you know that we found his phone. We know who you are now and we’re coming for you, so if you want to go on the lam or take hostages or anything, now would be a really good time.”

“Smartass,” Randy said. “I didn’t say call him from that phone. Call him from yours or mine or Nichelle’s maybe. Find out who it is, and then pretend you’ve got a wrong number.”

“A call from anyone even remotely connected with the case could tip off the killer, though,” Death said. “If that happened, the city police would have our butts in a sling.”

“Not ours. We’re just bumbling civilians,” Randy protested. “They’d have Orly’s butt in a sling.”

“Oh, you’re right. Okay. Go ahead and call then.”

“You guys would make lousy comedians,” Jackson said, pulling the phone away. “Hang on a second while I find the recorder app.”

He found the icon and tapped it, then scanned the list of recordings it brought up. “Jeez. He’s got a ton of these.”

“He recorded a lot,” Robinson said. “That’s what the members of Zahra’s mosque said. He recorded everything.”

“This is the most recent.” Jackson hit play and set the phone down on the table. There was a slight buzz of sound, and a rustling noise.

“Fabric,” Death said, “brushing against the phone. He had it in his pocket.”

They sat in silence while thirty interminable seconds crawled by, broken only by the sound of cloth moving against the microphone. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece and the rain outside tapered off to a gentle patter. There was an indrawn breath and then a single word.

“Sir.”

Jackson paused the recording. “Who is that? Is that Jones speaking?”

The other four looked around at one another and shrugged.

“We never met him,” Robinson said.

“And he was already dead before Randy and I even heard of him,” Death added. “But he made a phone call to someone listed on his phone as ‘sir’ and he’s talking to someone he calls ‘sir,’ so if we’re assuming this is Jones’ phone, and I’m sure it is, then it makes sense that he’s the one speaking. Turn it back on and see what happens.”

Orly hit play. After a few seconds of silence, the first voice spoke again.

“Are you just going to stand there? Do you not have anything to say for once?”

“What serpent are you, that comes to me in this disguise? What devil has turned this Judas against me?”

Nichelle gasped. Jackson and Robinson both nodded.

“Who is it?” Death demanded. “Is that who I think it is?”

Jackson paused the recording again to answer. “Yeah, it is. Haven’t you ever heard him speak before?”

“No, I’ve been lucky.” Death turned to Randy, who still looked puzzled. “It’s Tyler Jones, the head of the CAC. The day he died, August Jones sneaked off to a meeting with his father.”

_____

Carrying the box of fuses with her, Wren climbed the two steps to the back stairwell and tugged on the door. The wood was swollen with the damp and it stuck. For a minute she was afraid that it was painted closed, but she pulled hard and it opened suddenly, nearly knocking her back to the floor. She caught her balance and pulled herself through just as a gunshot rang out and a bullet buried itself in the door jamb by her head.

She glanced back and her light found the face of her assailant, shone in his eyes and made him shy away and cover his face, but not before she recognized him.

It was Tyler Jones.

And I thought he was bad when he was scripturing at me!

She pulled the door closed behind her but there was no lock. The staircase was steep and narrow; Death’s shoulders would have brushed the walls. There was a wooden handrail on the right-hand side, nothing fancy, just a plain board painted gray. The steps were bare wood, red in the light of her headlamp, with a worn spot in the center of each tread where generations of feet had passed.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and the scent of it filled her nose and clogged in her throat. Wren climbed swiftly, and as she went she scattered fuses on the steps. She waited until she was three-quarters of the way up to start. She wanted him to trip on them and fall far enough to get hurt. He’d found his gun, but his flashlight was broken so he was still running in the dark.

The door at the top was also stuck, but she put her weight into it and tumbled through just as Jones yanked open the bottom door and put another bullet into the fabric of the old house. She slammed that door behind her and took stock.

She was standing in the upstairs hall, with the end of the hall and the gravedigger’s bedroom to her left and the main staircase to her right. There was a window at the end of the hall and she could see, through it, lights at the vets’ camp down in the hollow.

Across the hall from where she’d emerged was another door, leading to a staircase to the attic. She yanked it open, then closed it most of the way in the hopes that it would misdirect Jones if he made it to the second floor. Then she ran down the hall to the gravedigger’s room to the sound of Tyler Jones falling down the stairs.

_____

“I’m not a demon. I’m your son. Your son who’s done everything you ever asked of me.”

“If you’d done everything I’ve ever asked of you, we wouldn’t be here.”

“You sent me to the mosque to learn about the people there.”

“No! Beasts. Devils. Savages. Not people.”

“People! You said they were doing horrible things. Having orgies and worshipping Satan and sacrificing babies and making bombs. You sent me to infiltrate, and get evidence, so we could drag their crimes out into the light. So I went in and I infiltrated. And you know what I found? They’re just people.”

“You’ve been seduced by the Father of Lies. God himself has spoken against them, striking down with his own hand their she-devil bitch.”

“She wasn’t a she-devil and she wasn’t a bitch. She was a nice lady. She liked old American country music and she sang off-key and she pretended she liked burned sugar cookies so the little girl who made them wouldn’t feel bad.”

“And God in his wrath raised up his staff and struck down the harlot.”

“She was killed by a drunk driver. People die every day. It’s part of being alive. It doesn’t mean that someone is evil. We’re alive so we’re going to die. Every one of us.”

“You would betray God for those heathen swine!”

“They’re people! They’re just normal people! They talk about baseball and share cat videos on the Internet and they’re kinder to their children than you ever were to us.”

“You are no longer of my church.” Tyler Jones voice was raising, in pitch and volume, with every word.

August’s, in contrast, was growing quieter.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I realized weeks ago that I could no longer be a part of what you’re teaching. But I am still your son, and as your son I’m asking you, this one time, to walk away. Cancel your protest at Mrs. Dozier’s funeral. Leave my friends to mourn in peace.”

There was a brief silence, and, when he spoke again, Tyler Jones’ voice was quiet now too.

“You are my son,” he said.

There was a sudden, pained gasp. August’s voice was tight and shocked.

“Sir, what have you done?”

There was a dull thud, like the sound a body might make falling on a sandstone patio. Something creaked and groaned, low and dismal.

“That’s the gate to the crypt,” Death said.

They heard a dragging noise and a puffing sound; someone out of breath and panting from exertion. There was a low moan of pain.

Tyler Jones spoke again. “Deuteronomy 21:18-21,” he said.

There was another long, rusty squeal from the gate and a clang as it closed.

“If he had his phone with him,” Randy said, “why didn’t he just call 911?”

“No signal, maybe?” Death offered. From the phone they could hear fumbling noises and labored breathing. The face of the phone was streaked with dark stains. “It sounds like he took it out of his pocket. He probably was trying to call for help. That’s how it wound up being left in the crypt for Harriman to find.”

“Reception is iffy around here at the best of times,” Kurt said. “The nearest cell tower is the other side of the church. No way he’s going to have any bars down under that hill.”

Orly reached out and turned off the phone. “This recording goes on for hours. It must have continued until a timer went off or the file was full or something. I think we’ve heard the important part, though.”

“What was that Bible verse Jones referred to?” Randy asked. “Deuteronomy something?”

“Deuteronomy 21:18-21,” Death said.

“Yeah, that.” He took out his own phone, turned it on, and sighed. “Case in point. No signal.”

Nichelle went into the living room and came back with an old leather-bound Bible. “Deuteronomy, right?”

Death repeated the chapter and verse for her and she looked it up. She read it to herself, silently, and her eyes teared up.

“Here,” she said, handing it off to her husband. “Here. You read it. I can’t.”

Robinson took the book and read aloud.

“‘If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them: Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him . . . and all the men of his city shall stone him with stones that he die.’”