THEO
IN THE MAIL was a large envelope with my name in bold block letters. I tore it open and took out a small, white King James children’s Bible. Inside the cover in a little girl’s practiced cursive, it read This belongs to Betty Jean. No last name. No return address on the envelope. The postmark was Missouri. I thumbed through the tissue pages and found a note: It’s time to put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.
I bagged the note to give to Bud for prints, and got dressed.
Solomon’s ointment had inspired a large, purple-rimmed lump inside my hip, as if after all these years the bullet now wanted out. I rubbed more stench on, put on my coat, tucked Betty Jean’s Bible in my pocket, and left, wondering who and where Betty Jean was.
It was a warm Indian Summer morning. The blackbirds on the wires took flight and dotted the carrot-colored sky, flapping their wings in unison, screeching and squawking. I felt the tin soldier in my pocket resting against the bullet in my hip; both constant reminders that there are real demons in this world. Like Bud, combat had taught me that. Maybe that’s the fatal blow we soldiers receive—a glimpse behind the curtain of sanity, safety, and all things thought civilized, where we see transgressions that punch a hole so deep into our bruised psyche that from that day forth that’s all we see.
I knocked on the door of Bud’s sun-bleached boarding house, prepared for his “it’s too-early” wrath. He yanked the door open so fast it startled me. “Come on in,” he said. “Been up for hours.” He closed the door. A blotch of blood-stained toilet paper was stuck to his chin and he was already dressed in his uniform. He marched down the hallway and past the living room, where a painting of Pearl and James on their wedding day hung above the fireplace. Down the hallway were grainy black-and-white photographs of her family from Korea and a large photo of Bud and James when they were teenagers. In the kitchen above the sink hung another picture of Pearl and James in Korea; she sitting on his lap, he in his uniform, both with broad newlywed smiles. Next to that was a window that overlooked her garden. The house was spotless . . . until we reached the dining room.
“What the hell?” I said, pointing to the yellow crime tape looped through chairs and tied to the curtains, blocking off the entry to the room on both sides.
“Crime tape,” Bud said lifting it up so I could come through.
“But—”
“If I don’t tape off this room,” he said pointing at Pearl, “That cleanin’ devil there comes in here and screws up this table with her dustin’, cleanin’, movin’ things around to where I can’t find ’em.” He turned to her. “No cleaning here.” He pointed at the table. “None. Off-limits. Vamoose!”
Her eyes tightened, lips pressed into a thin line. She turned and marched down the hall.
“And you say Imogene and I carry on?”
“Anyway, that detective in Missouri,” Bud said, “sent me something he thought might pique my interest.” He slammed a mug of coffee down on their oak table which was littered with files, empty coffee cups, Pearl’s strange teas and herbs, a plate of half-eaten eggs and ham, an empty packet of Alka-Seltzer, boxes of ammunition, a .45 and a .38, and his wooden box of gun-cleaning supplies. He picked up a letter and said, “Look at this.”
“The Reverend and Mrs. Hansel,” Bud said, “were found murdered in their home twenty-some years ago when our Genghis was fifteen. And now . . . well, here, you read it.”
The letter was from a Missouri police detective. Attached was an old newspaper article:
SERPENT-HANDLING PASTOR DIES OF RATTLESNAKE BITES
MO – September 1935 - A flamboyant Pentecostal pastor from Missouri died last week of over one hundred snake bites from his own copperheads. Reverend Hansel, known as “Snake,” was infamous throughout the Appalachians for his roadside tent “hootenannies,” where he slung snakes around his neck while preaching hell fire and brimstone. He was found seated in a chair in his front yard, dead. Next to him was Mrs. Hansel, a German Jew who had converted over to her husband’s beliefs. She died the same torturous death.
The full-page article explained how, with all those bites, it would have taken hours for the venom to settle into their organs and that they died an excruciating death while their house went up in flames. They found remnants of a Bible open in front of them on a plate.
The letter then explained Hansel had served five years in juvie, but not for murder, since they couldn’t really prove it. Instead they booked him for “mischievous conduct” for stealing their car and joyriding. The judge threw the book at him. Because he was a minor his file had been sealed for twenty years. The file also said he had over two hundred old snake bites all over his body, that it was a miracle he was alive, and that he had an unusually strong constitution.
“Hansel’s returning,” Bud said.
“I’ve done some research of my own.” I explained that I’d searched newspapers at the library, and similar crimes with comparable topics.
“Here’s one,” Bud grabbed a loose newspaper cut out. “There was a missing child and the parents of that child were set ablaze while seated in their homes. Family Bible or a handwritten Bible quote on a table or stool in front of them.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said picking up the photographs of evidence found in Marge Hildy’s place. Among those pictures was the photograph of that Bible quote Bud showed me before.
I read aloud, “The captives of warriors will be released. Plunder of tyrants, retrieved. I will fight those who fight You, and I will save Your children. And send them back to the House of Souls.”
“Okay,” Bud said, “I still don’t understand that.”
“Well, I can’t figure out how this partial passage from Isaiah is connected to the murders,” I said, “but he’s combining a couple different—very different—beliefs here, and he’s either confused about this phrase, or he actually thinks he’s God’s warrior.”
“He’s not confused . . . crazy, but not confused,” Bud said.
“I’ve tracked some crimes cross-country,” I said. “I think he’s traveled back and forth leaving a trail of missing children, murdered adults, and no evidence, for several years.”
“He’s been captured. Escaped twice,” Bud said. “Now he has little Toreck to help do his dirty work. He’s a sick shit, but he’s smart, I’ll give him that. Looks to me like he has that thing called a god complex.”
I set the letter down on the table, looked at him, and said, “What?”
“You’re not the only one who reads, little buddy.”
“Right,” I said as I took the plastic bag out of my coat pocket. “Did Hansel have a sister? Maybe named Betty Jean?”