Speaking in Bones (31 page)

Through the dusty lens of my windshield, the scene looked like a landscape titled
First Hint of Spring
. Tentative shoots were now greening the winter-brown grass. Delicate vines were sending threadlike feelers up the hardwood trunks. High above, the pines were enjoying good chemistry with an indifferent breeze.

The buildings stood out white against the green-on-blue curves of the mountains behind. I saw no one outside. No movement through the cracks between and below the big front doors. No sign of a human presence.

I realized I wasn’t breathing.

Exhaling, I checked my iPhone for signal. Maybe, just maybe, one flickering bar.

I sent texts to Slidell and Ramsey. The former would be livid. The latter, who knew? Screw it. Skinny was too stubborn to listen, Ramsey too busy. Anyway, I wasn’t crashing the Manson family at the Barker Ranch. This was, though creepy, a church. Worst-case scenario, someone would show up, be pissed, and order me to leave.

As I dropped the phone into my shoulder bag, a red light flashed in a far corner of my mind. A gaggle of neurons called out.
Someone hacked up a kid and put his head in concrete. Here!

I was running on less than three hours of sleep. I was exhausted. But I had to know.

Pulling my nerves together, I opened the car door and strained to listen. Heard the staccato whine of a frustrated insect. The trickle of water not far off. Otherwise, it was still. Traffic still, voice still, bird still, wind still.

I wanted to stay behind the wheel and drive away. Instead, I got out, popped the trunk, and thumbed open the clasps on my scene recovery kit. I dug out two vials, took one tablet from each, placed both in an empty spray bottle, added the remains of my drinking water, and shook. The mixture went into my purse, along with a small flash and a UV penlight. I lowered the trunk cover and, after skimming my surroundings, started toward the church.

The nearer I got, the more the temperature seemed to drop. Which was ridiculous. The sun, though a hair closer to the ridgeline, was as bright as when I’d arrived.

I stopped at the foot of the steps. Then, heart thudding like hoofbeats, I climbed and put my ear to the door.

My nose registered sunbaked wood, dust, polyurethane sealer. My ears registered absolute silence. I tried the handle. Of course it was locked.

While crossing the lawn, I’d noted two north-side windows. I rounded the corner. Both were too high for a view of the church’s interior. And shuttered. I moved to the back of the building.

And came face-to-face with the muzzle of a Browning semiautomatic shotgun.

I
froze. The best thing to do when looking down the barrel of a twenty-gauge.

Hoke was by a stand of fir five feet beyond the back wall of the church. He was wearing a black shirt, black pants, and a white clerical collar. Spiky shadows dappled his face and shoe-polish hair.

Though I couldn’t see Hoke’s expression, there was no mistaking his mood. He was coiled, elbows winging, shotgun pointed straight at my chest.

“Father Hoke,” I said.

“Father G. Raise your hands.”

I did.

“You’re trespassing.”

“Isn’t everyone welcome in the Lord’s house?”

“You’ve no business here.”

“Deputy Ramsey will be arriving shortly.” I couldn’t tell what impact my bluff had. If any. “We’d like to talk to you.”

“Again you would disrupt our Sabbath?”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“Your business couldn’t wait one day?”

“Deputy Ramsey and I were concerned. Are concerned. We won’t let it drop.”

Hoke’s grip tightened on the gun.

“There’s no need for firepower.” Fighting to quell the adrenaline roaring through me.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’m a man of God.”

“Nothing says God like a loaded Browning.”

“You blaspheme.”

“The gun’s not loaded?”

Hoke stepped forward out of the shadows, barrel still level on my sternum. “What do you want?”

“We know about Cora Teague.” Confrontational. But the best my sleep-deprived-adrenaline-pumped brain could provide.

“You know nothing.”

“Inform me.”

“Leave it alone. You will only cause pain.”

“Like the pain you caused Cora?”

No response.

“And Mason Gulley?”

“You have it all wrong.”

“I also know about the little girl in Elkhart.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I have. I learned that you are no longer a priest. That the church rejects your fire-and-brimstone brand of Catholicism. Your demons and—”

“Satan exists.”

“So does Lady Gaga.”

“Do you find this amusing?”

“Definitely not.”

“Your attitude reflects everything wrong with modern society.”

“What’s wrong with modern society?”

“This country has spiraled into total cultural desolation.”

“Are we back to rocker chicks?” I knew goading him was dangerous, couldn’t help myself. Blame it on a combo of fear and fatigue.

“You mock. But Satan is at work in the world.”

“Headquartered on Brown Mountain?”

“Again, you make fun.”

“Most people view the devil as allegory.”

“A by-product of mankind’s free will.” Hoke snorted, a bristly little explosion of air. “Satan is real. And he will not stop until he has delivered mankind unto damnation.”

“By setting up shop in kids like Cora and Mason.”

“The climate has never been more favorable for Satan and his minions.”

“Why is that?”

“Today’s young people are being raised in a time when criticism is out of fashion. Can’t be too hard on their fragile little egos. Morality is off the curriculum. Can’t be prejudiced or politically incorrect. Youth are forced to swim through a daily sea of pornography and greed, to function in an atmosphere ruled by what’s in it for me.”

“Your critique is a bit harsh.” I felt vibration in my purse. Ramsey? Slidell? I couldn’t risk lowering my arms to dig for my phone.

“We were a nation built on a Christian God. People went to Mass. Listened to the clergy.”

“Not all Christians are Catholic.” Stalling. Looking for that moment.

“Methodist. Baptist. Catholic. Denomination doesn’t matter. Worship is out of style. No one cares about the Bible, the sacraments, the Ten Commandments.”

“Millions of Americans still attend church.”

Hoke wasn’t listening. He was rolling up his sleeves for a sermon he’d undoubtedly delivered ad nauseam.

“Even mother church has watered down her mainstream teachings. Today’s clergy mustn’t emphasize hell or purgatory. Mustn’t encourage confession. Talk of sin is a downer. We mustn’t induce guilt trips. Angels? Forget it. Far too mystical.”

“What does this have to do with Cora and Mason?”

“People are floundering. With no moral code, the vulnerable haven’t the capacity to resist. The weak are fertile ground for Satan.”

“Targets for demonic possession.”

“Exactly.” Said with such vehemence, I flinched. “And once possessed, there is no remedy.”

“That’s where you come in.”

“The victims of Satan have nowhere to turn.”

“The church supports the concept of exorcism. The Vatican just held a conference on the topic. Some two hundred nuns and priests attended. The pope praised the work of the International Association of Exorcists.” The few tidbits I could recall from my online searches.

“The Holy Father is isolated in the Vatican, surrounded by cardinals. He is no longer effective.” Hoke’s eyes flicked to the church building, came back to me, flaring with anger, maybe fear. “Out here, in the trenches, most priests and bishops don’t listen. They think exorcism makes the church look foolish and anachronistic. They are wrong. The devil is
real
. Demonic forces are
real
. The Bible says so in passage after passage. Ephesians six, eleven: ‘Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.’ ”

Again my cell vibrated. I was picking up signal, though sporadic. Good. I could be located.

I spoke to cover the sound. “The church says an exorcism should be performed only after extensive medical and psychiatric evaluation.”

“Psychiatrists. With their fancy jargon and therapy and bottles of pills.” Again the nasty expulsion of air. “A lot of good psychiatry did the woman who drowned her five kids. Or the teen who shot up a school full of children. Or the man who killed boys and buried them under his house.”

“What qualifies you to distinguish between psychosis and possession?”

“The Holy Spirit gives me the power of divination.”

“And what if you and the HS guess wrong? What if your subject is actually epileptic? You throw water at her and wave a crucifix in her face?” I knew I should tamp it down. But I was viciously tired and making poor decisions. “Do you consider what harm you might be causing?”

“I can sense when someone is afflicted with a demon.”

“Even if you can, the church requires that an exorcism be performed by a properly trained priest.”

“Deep down my fellow clergy are skeptics.”

“All of them?”

“The devil is God’s oldest enemy, and no fool. When the exorcist doesn’t believe, the Evil One wins.”

“And you believe.”

“With my whole being.”

“So you armor up and go at Satan freelance.”

“My authority comes from God, not Rome. Luke ten, seventeen to nineteen: ‘And the seventy returned again with joy, saying, Lord, even the devils are subject to us through thy name. And He said to them, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven. Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing shall by any means hurt you.’ ”

Hoke’s eyes were shiny with something I couldn’t identify. Piety? Madness? I had to get away.

I cocked my head ever so slightly, pretending that I’d heard a car but was trying to mask it.

Hoke fell for the ploy. His gaze slid from mine, went over my shoulder toward the road.

Make a run for it? Grab the gun? Kick Hoke in the nuts?

A nanosecond’s hesitation. Then the moment was gone.

When Hoke looked back, the glint in his eyes chilled me.

“Why have you come here?” he hissed.

“You exorcised Cora. Things got too rough. Or perhaps she had a seizure.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“I know you’re not a killer. Cora’s death was an accident. Like the child in Indiana.”

From where I stood, I could see Hoke’s breathing get faster.

“Did Mason find out? Did he confront you?”

My voice was rising. I forced it to stay even.

“Or was Mason also a victim of one of your little parties?”

Even Hoke’s bones seemed to stiffen. Still he said nothing.

“We found him, you know. Off the overlooks. What the animals left, that is. His bones. His head in the bucket of concrete.”

Hoke licked his lips, a fast flick of pink.

“What did you do with Cora? Did you dismember her too?”

“I loved Cora. It should never have happened.”

I hadn’t spotted that coming.

“What should never have happened?”

“Such a beautiful child until the devil laid claim.”

“The devil.” Not attempting to hide my disgust.

“You didn’t see her. The bulging eyes, the wicked smiles, the twisted limbs—”

“The devil had sweet fuck-all to do with it. Cora Teague was epileptic. Where did you dispose of her body?”

Hoke’s Adam’s apple was now running an elevator service. He said nothing.

“Did Cora also end up ransom for the Brown Mountain Devil?”

“No, no. We don’t worship Satan. We battle him. We offer ourselves as hostages to those he torments.”

“We? Who helped you?”

“You must stop.”

“That won’t happen. Deputy Ramsey knows I’m here. He’ll arrive any minute, and he’ll have a warrant. Ever experience a crime scene search?”

Hoke only glared. In the pale afternoon sun his acne-scarred flesh looked like a grainy close-up beamed from the moon.

“Let me draw you a picture. A police team will pull up in a big black truck. They’ll go over this place with tape and tweezers and powders and sprays.” My voice was spiraling again. “They’ll dig up your lawn, shoot video and stills, confiscate your records. They’ll find every dirty little secret you have shoved up your pulpit or stashed in your underwear drawer.”

I took a deep breath. Fought to recover my grip.

Several seconds of absolute stillness hummed between us.

Hoke looked down at the gun in his hands, blinked, as though surprised to see it there. Then he looked back at me. “I wish you had left us alone.”

A beat, then the barrel jerked toward the rear door of the church.

“Inside,” he ordered, voice sharp as razor wire.

I knew that being cornered would limit my options. That it might mean death.

“No,” I said.

“Now!”

I held my ground.

Hoke’s finger slid forward into the trigger guard.