Deadliest of Sins (11 page)

“Because they know I hate their fucking guts. They know the minute they stepped on the porch, I'd grab a knife from the kitchen and hack them to pieces. Then they could all see what hell is like first-
hand.”

Fourteen

Mary drove away from
the Taylor home sad. It was always difficult to talk to people who were in mid-grief—that awful time when the anesthetic shock of a sudden death had worn off, leaving the raw, throbbing memories of love and the endless questions of
why
and
if only
. Reverend Taylor, she figured, would ultimately be okay. He was relying upon his faith; you could tell by the way he constantly fingered the cross around his neck. Mrs. Taylor might not fare so well. The anger in her eyes burned endlessly, seeking not comfort but revenge. Reverend Trull's congregation would be wise to leave their prayers for that poor woman on the altar of their own church.

Still, she'd learned a little about their son. Bryan Taylor had been successful, talented, and married. Excited about a new film, eager to get back to New York. So why was his car found in a truck stop twenty miles from the ditch where he'd been dumped? What was so intriguing about making a movie about lizards? And what did getting 74'ed mean? She drove back to Galloway's office. Maybe he could shed some light on everything. She found him at his desk, holding an ice pack to his right elbow.

“What's the matter?” She dropped Bryan Taylor's case file back on his desk. “Did you bend your elbow too much at the bar last night?”

“No, I did something to it in my one and only throw from right field. It hurt a little last night, but a lot more this morning.” He frowned at his elbow, concerned.

“I'm so sorry,” said Mary. “You had such a promising career in church league baseball.”

“I know.” Galloway stuck his lower lip out, as if she wasn't taking his injury seriously enough. “I'm Derek Jeter and you're Nancy Drew. Did you find anything in that case file?”

“No, but I went to see Bryan Taylor's parents this morning.”

He lowered his elbow and looked at her sharply. “And?”

“Did you know the kid had won an Oscar?”

“I knew he was a filmmaker.”

“He did a documentary on slave labor in Florida that won an Academy Award. He was starting a new project, about lizards.”

“Lizards?” Galloway reapplied the ice pack to his elbow. “Wow.”

“Have you ever heard the term ‘74'ed'?”

He looked at her, his eyes again serious. “74'ed? Like deep-six'ed?”

Mary shrugged. “I don't know. Edward Taylor said Bryan once told him not to worry, that he'd never get 74'ed here.”

Galloway thought a moment. “Maybe it's a gay sex thing—you know—like 69?”

“69 isn't necessarily a gay position. And anyway, it makes physiological sense. I can't come up with any sexual position for 74.”

He gave a quick, appreciative glance at her chest. “Maybe we should go check out the Kama Sutra.”

“You can go check out the Kama Sutra. I'm going back to Asheville. If getting 74'ed means something, somebody there will know.”

“Why there?”

“It's a rainbow town. If 74 is truly gay slang, somebody will know about it.”

Galloway frowned. “You're coming back, though, aren't you?”

“If I find out anything.” Mary turned to leave, then stopped. “If you can manage it with that elbow, give me a call if anybody figures out why they found Bryan Taylor's car twenty miles away from his body.”

“Don't worry, Ms. Crow. I'll call you even if I have to punch in the number with my teeth.”

She headed out of town, then remembered that she still hadn't talked to Chase, her little hitchhiker. Again she punched in his number; again she got no answer. She called Galloway, hoping he hadn't left his office.

“Hey, give me that guy Gudger's address,” she said. “I want to stop by and tell my little buddy that his sister called from Charlotte and is probably with her boyfriend.”

“I don't know if I can.” Galloway moaned. “My elbow … just won't bend in that direction.”

“Come on, Galloway. Give me the address.”

“Oh, all right. Hang on.” Papers rustled, then he said, “514 Kedron Road.”

“Thanks.”

She entered the address into her smart phone. As the directions came on the screen, she remembered the boy's terror at being seen with her. How would the stepfather react if she, a total stranger, knocked on the door with news of the missing sister?
Be careful
, she told herself.
This kid might be a nut case, but the fear on his face was real when he saw his stepfather out by their mailbox.

She followed the directions down the same road she'd driven the boy, turning to drive up a long gravel driveway to a neat brick house. A split rail fence surrounded a modest front yard, leaving the rest of the five or so acres to roll out like a golf course, grass no doubt clipped short by the stepfather's brand-new tractor. She saw no cars in the driveway, nor did any barking dog rush out to greet her as she got out of her car. There was such a stillness about the house that she wondered if they all hadn't taken off on a vacation. Nonetheless, she'd come all the way out here—she may as well see if someone was at home. She walked to the front porch, knocked on the door. She heard nothing but the chirp of a robin, hopping in the grass. She knocked again, louder. Still nothing—no footsteps approaching the other side of the door, no distant TV playing. Hoping that the little boy was on some pleasant outing with his stepfather, she'd just turned to leave when a small face appeared in the window next to the door. It was Chase, peeking out from behind a curtain. Smiling, she waved. A moment later she heard locks turning. The door opened. She looked at the child and gasped. His face was a doughy mass of red pustules that covered him from his hairline to his collarbones.

“Honey, what happened to you?” cried Mary.

“Poison ivy,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“Did you roll in the stuff?” An equally angry rash covered the boy's arms and legs.

“Gudger made me clear off the back fence yesterday. I got some on me.” He looked up at her with puffy eyes. “Did you find out anything about Sam?”

“I did.” Mary peered behind the child, wondering what sort of household he lived in. “May I come in?”

“Better not,” the boy said, quickly stepping out on the porch. “Gudger would kill me if I let a stranger inside.”

“Is Gudger here?”

He shook his head. “That's why I could answer the door.”

“Okay. Well, I told my friend Victor, who's a detective on your police force, what you told me. He looked up Gudger's phone records, and someone did call you yesterday. They called from a cell phone with a Charlotte exchange.”

Chase's eyes brightened. “I knew it was Sam!”

“Well she called on someone named Arthur Howard's phone,” said Mary. “Is he a friend of hers?”

The boy shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, it's a pre-paid phone, so it could be stolen. Are you sure your sister didn't have a boyfriend? Somebody she was keeping secret from you and your mom?”

“No,” he began shaking his head. “She didn't. I know she didn't. She wouldn't run off with a boy without telling me.”

Mary wanted to put her arm around him, but there was not a spot on him that wasn't red and swollen. Instead, she brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Chase, sometimes teenaged girls do crazy things. They aren't happy at home, then they meet a boy who promises them a better life, and off they go. Maybe Sam met somebody on the Internet, somebody who seemed like a knight in shining armor. When she went with him, she just wasn't thinking about who she might be hurting here.”

“No.” He shook his head, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “She wouldn't do that … not without telling me.”

“I know she's hurt you,” Mary went on. “But you've got to believe that she's okay … and that she'll come back.” Her heart aching for the child, she dug in her purse, looking for some shred of hope to offer him. She pulled Galloway's card from her wallet. “Here, this is Detective Victor Galloway's card. He's a good guy. You can trust him. If Sam calls again, you call him.”

Chase took the card, but his tears did not stop. “But I heard Gudger on the phone, laughing about how she'd gone! Three days after she leaves, he shows up with a motorcycle. Right now he's out looking at a boat. I'm telling you—he sold her to somebody!”

“People don't just sell people, Chase. He'd probably been wanting a motorcycle for a long time. Maybe now he thinks a boat would get your mother's mind off your sister— ”

The boy started to protest, then his face suddenly went white beneath his rash. “Oh no!” he breathed. “Here comes Gudger!”

Mary turned to see a black Ford pickup come rolling up the drive. Chase jumped in front of her, tugging on the sleeve of her blouse.

“Please!” he whispered, breathless. “Please don't tell him you know anything about Sam. If he finds out I've said anything, he'll kill me!”

“Don't worry,” said Mary. “I promise I won't tell.”

The two stood there watching. Gudger got out of the truck carrying a paper sack, eyeing them both with a cold cop stare. Mary could see why the boy might fear the man—he walked with military stiffness, his movements quick and decisive.

“Good afternoon.” He gave Mary a brisk nod as he drew near, not once looking at Chase. “Can I help you?”

“I'm sorry to intrude, but I was looking for an address and got lost. I pulled in to ask directions. Your son was trying to help me.”

“Well, I doubt he was much help,” said Gudger. “He hasn't lived here long himself.”

“He's got quite a case of poison ivy.” Mary turned to Chase and gave him a quick wink.

“I know. Yesterday he got mixed up what was poison ivy and what was blackberry bushes.” He handed the paper sack to Chase. “Here, buddy. I got you some medicine.” He pulled out a bottle of pills and a tube of cream. “You're supposed to take one of these pills and put that ointment on the worst places.”

“Yes sir.” Chase took the sack of medicine but did not move.

“Go on now and take your pills. I'll help this lady get where she needs to go.”

Chase shot a furtive, pleading look at Mary, then slowly went back inside the house.

“Kids.” Gudger shook his head, his rigid demeanor softening.

“They can get banged up pretty fast,” said Mary.

“Oh, that was more my fault than his. I sent him to grub out the back fence, thinking he'd know poison ivy when he saw it. He's my wife's child—a little bookworm of a boy. This is his first summer here.”

Mary nodded. “So you and his mother are recently married?”

“Eleven months of wedded bliss on the twentieth.” Smiling, Gudger lifted his left hand to display a silver ring on one finger.

“Congratulations.” Mary smiled. “How do you like stepparenting?”

He sighed. “I don't have any kids of my own, so I'm just winging it. Seeing what works and what doesn't, you know?”

“All too well,” said Mary. With a pang she thought of Lily Walkingstick, and the disaster that had become.

“I'm an old army non-com, so all this sensitivity stuff's a little new to me.” He shrugged. “Bought him a big-screen TV and a motorcycle he can ride in a couple years, but it's been rough. A month ago his sister ran off with some boy.”

“That is rough,” Mary agreed. “Especially on a new family.”

“I know. My wife's just going through the motions of living, and the boy sneaks around like a little detective. I keep telling both of 'em that the girl will wise up and come home, but they're both convinced she's gone for good.” Gudger stared at the ground for a moment, then returned his gaze to Mary. “But none of that is your concern. Who is it you're trying to find out here?”

For an instant Mary panicked, unable to think of anybody. “Jonathan Walkingstick,” she finally blurted, going to the default name that haunted her dreams. “He's supposed to live at 2112 Kedron Road.”

“Then he lives a couple of miles up the road, honey.” Gudger laughed. “This here's 514.”

“It is?” Mary feigned surprise. “Gosh—I guess my GPS is really off. I'd better get going. Tell your son I hope he feels better soon … he seems like a nice little boy.”

“Thanks,” Gudger said, following her out to her car. “Probably did him some good, getting up and out into the fresh air for a few minutes. Otherwise, he'd just lie in bed and read Sherlock Holmes all day.”

“Well, thanks,” Mary said as the man held the door of her car open. “Again, I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“Not a problem.” Gudger stepped back and pointed down the driveway. “Just go back to the road and take a left. 2112 should be on the east side of the road.”

Mary turned around and drove as Gudger directed. As she headed down the driveway, she noticed in her rearview mirror that he made no effort to go inside the house and see about his stepson; instead he just stood in the driveway, his eyes hard on her until she disappeared from view.

Fifteen

Instead of driving to
the home of the mythic Jonathan Walkingstick, Mary retraced her route and headed back to Jackson Highway. As she drove, she thought about the little boy and his obsession with his sister. The stepfather had not seemed like a monster—a little stiff, but not uncaring. Certainly he'd made an effort to get poison ivy medicine for the child. Yet Chase had gone white with fear when he saw the man's truck pulling in the driveway. Did this Gudger turn into a fiend behind closed doors? Or was Chase, as the cops had said, simply an unhappy little boy with an overactive imagination? She couldn't say—all she knew was that Chase and his family seemed more like a case for social services than law enforcement. With a reluctant sigh, she turned her attention back to Bryan Taylor. There, she at least had a clue.

Compared to the grim little town of Manley, Asheville felt like a different universe. As she walked from her condo to her office, she watched street musicians busking in front of the bookstore, while businessmen in suits relaxed in the little park that hosted a drum circle every Friday night. A beautiful old basilica overlooked it all, its rose gardens resplendent in the warm afternoon sun.

“And it works,” Mary said aloud, hoofing it up the hill to the Flat Iron building. Though Asheville had its share of conservative Christians, she sensed no underlying hatred for any group—gays or Hispanics or even the Ukrainians, who were settling in impressive numbers. The city simply put its important signage out in three languages—English, Spanish, and Russian. She guessed Asheville was like Britain in its acceptance—people didn't much care what you did as long as you didn't scare the horses.

She entered her building and pressed the button for the elevator. Franklin must have been on a ganja break—the needle indicating where the machine was never budged from the seventh floor. Giving up, she walked up the stairs to her office. She unlocked the door to find five messages on her answering machine. The smallest hope that they might be from Jonathan flickered and then died—all were from Jake McKenna, asking with growing impatience that she call him immediately—the governor needed to know how her investigation was going. Mary shook her head, knowing this was all about the paranoid McKenna trying to stay in the loop. She would have much preferred to just call Ann Chandler and talk to her, but Jake was the one leaving messages on her machine. She picked up the phone and called him; he answered on the first ring, his voice warm, enthusiastic, and totally political.

“Mary!” he said. “The governor was just asking about you. How are things going?”

“Pretty good.” She sat down and put her feet up on her desk, telling him that she'd visited Trull's church, the family of the murdered boy, the DA, and the ADA who prosecuted the case in neighboring Sligo County.

“The laws are being enforced, but since there's no statute addressing sexual orientation, the charges have to reflect that,” she said. “In fact, this Sligo defense attorney used homosexuality as part of his defense.”

“And how does that work?” asked McKenna.

“It's pretty clever. He claimed his client was defending himself against a sexual advance from a gay man. He thought touching a gay man would send him to hell and he suffered a bout of gay panic.”

Jake laughed. “Gay panic?”

“That's an actual defense in Queensland, Australia,” said Mary. “I looked it up.”

“But this is North Carolina, Mary. Not Australia.”

“Well, they bought it in Sligo County. A lot of folks there think homosexuality is a sin.”

“What about this Reverend Trull character?”

“That's where it gets interesting. The guy who got off in Sligo County is now playing on Reverend Trull's baseball team. I was going to check into that, but Campbell County's got a cop undercover at the church and I figured too many new people sitting in a small rural church might blow his cover.”

“You're a fast worker, Mary.” For once, Jake's admiration sounded genuine.

“I try to be,” said Mary. “I know the governor's got a deadline. I'm back in Asheville, checking out a few more leads.”

“In Asheville?” Jake sounded surprised.

“Yeah. I heard some gay slang down there that might have a bearing on the Campbell County case. I can find out about it here a lot faster than down there.”

“Okay, Mary,” he said. “You're doing a great job. I'll give the governor your report.”

Mary hung up the phone, disgusted. “I just bet you will, Jake,” she whispered. “Wonder if it will bear the slightest resemblance to our phone conversation.”

She sat down at her desk. Since she'd given the case file back to Galloway, she didn't really have much in the way of notes. Still, she remembered the haunting words of Reverend Taylor's murdered son:
Don't worry, Dad, I won't get 74'ed here
. They made no more sense here, at her desk, than they had in the Taylor living room. She needed to talk to someone in the gay community—maybe they would have a clue. The trouble was, she didn't know any gay people here. She doubted that her neighbor, Mr. Kuntz, had had sex with anybody since 1952, and the people she'd chatted with in her karate class were either living with or married to partners of the opposite gender. Suddenly, she heard the ding of the elevator, arriving on the fifth floor.

“Franklin!” she cried aloud. He seemed to know everything that was going on Asheville. Directing her to some gay folks shouldn't be a problem. Leaping from her chair, she hurried out into the hall, catching Franklin as he was beginning to close the elevator door.

“Franklin, wait!”

He stopped, poked his head through the little brass grille. “I'm going up,” he said, as if warning her that he wasn't in the mood for any riders.

“I don't want a ride,” she said. “I need to ask you a question.”

“What?”

“Do you know any gay men in Asheville?”

He gave her a dark look. “Not in the Biblical sense.”

“No, no. That's not what I mean. I'm working on a murder case … I need to talk to somebody who's you know, in the life.”

“Walkin' the walk, talkin' the talk,” he chanted, his eyelids again drooping at half-mast.

She fought an urge to shake him—this man was so stoned she wondered how he could stand up, much less run an elevator car up and down a building. “You know anybody like that?”

“Pharisee.”

“Pharisee?” She frowned. “As in Jesus and the Pharisees?”

Franklin pointed at the ceiling. “No, as in Pharisee the bartender at the Sky Bar, up on seven. He's gay
and
black. Come on and I'll give you a lift.”

“Can you wait till I lock up my office?”

Giggling, he nodded his head. “The only bells I hear ringing are the ones in my head.”

That afternoon, Mary was the Sky Bar's first customer. A tiny place, most of its tables were located outside, on the fire escape of the building. With an amazing view of the city and the western mountains, it was a great place to have a drink and watch the sun go down. Accommodations had been made for those with acrophobia or vertigo—a dark little bar was tucked into a room not much bigger than a closet. Behind that bar stood a handsome young man who had the face of a dark angel and the body of a football linebacker.

“Yes ma'am,” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you tonight?”

“Are you Pharisee?” asked Mary.

The young man's gaze grew cautious. “Depends on who wants to know.”

“I'm Mary Crow,” she explained. “I have an office on the fifth floor—I'm a special prosecutor for the governor. Franklin sent me up here.”

Pharisee held up his hands. “I don't know what Franklin told you, but I gave up smoking years ago.”

“No, no.” Mary had to laugh. “This isn't about smoking. I'm investigating crimes against gay people.”

Pharisee's gaze softened. “You mean hate crimes? Beating people up?”

“Beating people to death, actually.”

“Whoa, sister.” He frowned. “That happen here? In Asheville?”

“No. Campbell County. A young man used an odd term before he was killed … have you ever heard the term ‘74'ed'? As in ‘I'll never get 74'ed'?”

Pharisee looked at her as if she'd just been resurrected from a time capsule. “Honey, down here gettin' 74'ed means somebody's vanished on you.”

Mary frowned. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Means out of here. Out of town, out of a relationship, out of someone's life. You don't have the guts to tell someone it's over, you 74 'em. You get 74'ed, then somebody's dumped you.”

Mary thought of Bryan Taylor's body, crumpled by the side of the road. Somebody had certainly 74'ed him. “Is it a common expression? I mean, do they 74 people in Georgia, or New York?”

He shook his head “I'm from DC—I never heard it until I came here. Since I started working here, I hear it all the time.” He turned and pulled a highball glass from the shelf. “You want to try my 74 Special?”

Mary blinked, astonished. “There's a drink named for it?”

Pharisee nodded. “Invented myself. Five years ago, when I first came to town, seemed like every gay guy in town was coming up here drinking away a broken heart.”

“Only gay guys?” asked Mary. “No gay girls?”

“Not so much,” said Pharisee. “Girls go crying to their friends. Guys don't do that.” He grabbed a bottle of bourbon and poured a shot of it in the glass. “They'd come in here all down in the mouth, saying they just got 74'ed. I got so tired of pouring Jack Daniels and Johnny Red that I invented this drink, just to keep things interesting.”

Mary leaned forward. “But why 74? It doesn't make any sense.”

“It don't.” Pharisee poured in a splash of some dark liquid, squeezed in some lime. “But it still means you're hurting so bad you might not recover.”

Again Mary thought of Bryan Taylor.

He gave her a sly look as he started shaking the concoction up in a cocktail shaker. “You sure you're really an investigator? You sure you're not nursing a broken heart?”

Mary smiled. Like any good bartender, Pharisee tried to read his clientele. But in this case, he'd guessed wrong. She'd given up nursing the heart Walkingstick had broken—nothing she tried ever seemed to fix it. “Why does my heart matter?”

“Cause if you ain't about to cry, I'll give you the G-rated version of this drink. If you want to hide your tears, I'll give you the X-rated version.”

“What's the difference?”

“The heat index. You can sit up here and get warm and fuzzy, or you can cry your eyes out and everybody'll think you just crunched a pepper.”

“Oh, lay it on me, Pharisee. I want the total experience.”

He poured some ginger beer in the cocktail shaker, threw in a dash of something else, then poured it in the highball glass with a long spear of cucumber. He served it to Mary with a smile. “Drink it and weep, girl.”

She took a sip. It was delicious—fruity, but not sweet, the flavors complex. It wasn't until her second sip that the heat began. It seemed to build from behind her eyes, enveloping her mouth. Her tongue tingled, sweat broke out on her forehead. As she looked at Pharisee, involuntary tears began streaming down her cheeks.

“Bite the cuke,” he advised.

She did, and just as suddenly, the heat was gone.

“Wow,” she gasped. “That's a really good drink.”

“I'm the man, sugar,” said Pharisee. “Next time somebody 74 you, come see me. Pharisee'll fix you up.”

“How much do I owe you?” asked Mary, her eyes beginning to stream again as a new wave of heat kicked in.

“On the house, baby. You fighting for us gay dudes, you okay.”