The Burning Time (8 page)

As he drove, Harry sang an off-key rendition of “Dry Bones.”

“Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around. Now hear the word of the Lord!”

“Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Cullen clapped his hands and joined in on the song.

Instead of turning left at the corner of Main and State, Harry drove straight through the light, past Perpetual Hope Cemetery and toward the river.

Billy banged his fist on the wire mesh divider. “Where’re you going? The church is back that way.”

“Sit back and shut up, asswipe.” Harry felt something hot rising up inside him, something the car’s air conditioning couldn’t do a thing about. “We’re takin’ the long way.”

“What the hell—?”

“I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Harry let his anger—a righteous anger, as Reverend Christian liked to say—burst forth.

Billy fell back from the grill, as if pushed by the force of Harry’s words, and squeezed himself into the corner of the seat and door.

When they reached a stretch of road bordered by farmland on both sides, Harry pulled over and shut off the car. He got out and opened the back door. “Let’s you and me have a chat, Billy-boy.”

Billy pushed himself across the seat to the other side of the car. “No way. I can talk fine from back here.”

Deputy Cullen opened the other door, dragged Billy out, and slammed him against the back fender.

“Chief wants to have a talk. You’re gonna talk, shit-for-brains.”

“I didn’t do nothin’. You—”

Cullen slammed a fist into Billy’s stomach, doubling him over. Billy’s breath whooshed out and he fell to his knees, gasping and retching.

Grabbing him by the shirt, Showalter pulled him to his feet and leaned him back against the car.

“Heard you got yourself a new friend in town.”

His voice weak and full of pain, Billy said, “What? Who?”

“That’s what I want to know, fuck-face. Tall, Mexican-looking fellow with lots of tattoos.”

Billy shook his head. “Don’t know anyone like that.”

“Yeah? Maybe this’ll jog your memory.” Harry drove his knee up into Billy’s groin and was rewarded with a scream as the skinny man doubled over again. Before he could fall, Harry grabbed his arm and punched him in the side of the face, making sure his old high school ring made a solid connection.

Billy collapsed, landing on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, one hand cradling his balls while the other went to his cheek.

Cullen barked crazy laughter. “Shit! You laid him out but good!”

“Know who I’m talkin’ about now?” Harry prodded him with one steel-toed work shoe.

Billy nodded, tried to speak, but nothing came out except a choking sound.

“That’s okay, you take a minute.”

“Tony...Lopez,” Billy said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I owe him...money. Lost a bet. That’s why I stayed in town. Need a job to pay him off.”

“What I heard, he don’t look like no bookie.”

“Not. He’s the muscle.”

“He got a record?”

Billy nodded, his face never lifting from the dry ground.

Harry turned to Cullen. “I don’t need no Mexican leg breakers in my town. I got enough problems. Find him and arrest him. I don’t care for what. Just get him the hell off the streets.”

Cullen nodded. “What about him?” He tilted his head toward Billy.

“We’ll take him back to the church, just like I said. Long as he’s workin’ there, we can keep our eyes on him. Ain’t that right, Billy-boy?” He kicked him softly in the thigh, and Billy nodded vigorously.

“There you go. Put him in the car, and let’s get going. I got a meetin’ with the mayor at five.”

Harry had just started the car again when the radio squawked. “Chief? You there?”

Thumbing the mic, he said, “This is Harry. What’s up, Shirley?”

“Got a phone call from Marge Chilton. She said one of her guests took a young boy up to his room and then left with him again about twenty minutes later,” said the dispatch officer.

“Shit. All right, I’m heading over there right now. She say who it was?”

“Yep. A Mister John Root. Only been in town a couple weeks. Average looking fellow with silver hair, she said.”

“I seen him in church a couple times,” Cullen said.

“Thanks, Shirley.” He hung up the mic. “Let’s go.”

“You think maybe he killed those girls?”

“Only one way to find out. But if he did...he’s gonna be sorry he ever stepped foot in my town.”

John looked up at the sound of a car pulling into the Anderson’s driveway. His first thought, that Danni had come home early from work, disappeared when he saw the gold-on-black Cattaraugus County Sheriff insignia on the hood of the car and the light bar on the roof.

As the car came to a stop in a cloud of dust, John put down his paintbrush and wiped his hands on his shirt. A stocky officer, his stomach stretching the uniform shirt to its limits, got out from the driver’s side. Mirrored aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

The passenger door opened, and a taller, more muscular man exited the car. He wore matching sunglasses, and what John had always thought of as a ‘cop’ mustache: square and thick. Back home in South Carolina, it always seemed as if two out of every three police officers favored the same style.

Based on the hat, and his evident older age, John guessed the rotund officer was in charge. The man didn’t wait long to confirm John’s suspicions. He took three steps forward and removed his sunglasses, revealing hard, angry eyes set deep in the round, doughy face.

“John Root?”

The aggression in his voice matched his expression, and set off alarms in John’s head.

“Yes, Officer...?” He kept his voice soft and neutral, not wanting to aggravate the already tense situation.

“Chief. Chief Harry Showalter. This is Deputy Sheriff Cullen.” He jerked his thumb at the younger man, who’d also taken off his glasses. Like the chief, he seemed brimming with anger as he stroked one hand menacingly on his baton.

“What can I do for you, sir?” John asked.

Showalter cocked his head to the side, like a bird listening to a distant sound. “Rumor ‘round town is you been spending an awful lot of time with the Anderson boy.”

“I’m doing renovations on their house. Mitch helps me out after summer camp. I keep an eye on him until his sister gets home.”

“It’s true. John’s been here every day.”

John glanced back and saw that Mitch had come outside. He stood by the front door, a half-eaten apple in one hand.

“I don’t doubt it, boy.” The Sheriff nodded at Cullen. “Check him out.”

Cullen moved forward, and John took a step back. “Am I under arrest?”

“Depends what we find. I just want to make sure you ain’t armed before we have our chat.”

“I’m calling Danni.” Mitch ran back inside.

John held his arms up. “I’m not carrying any weapons.”

“We’ll see. Pat him down, Wade.”

The deputy slapped his hands along John’s sides, stomach, back, and legs, all the way down to the ankles. When he stepped back, he looked even angrier, as if he’d been hoping to find something.

“He’s clean. Not even a wallet.”

Showalter’s eyebrows rose. “No identification? How do I know you’re who you say you are? Could be you’re a drifter, scamming these poor folk.”

Slowly lowering his arms, John shook his head. “My wallet’s on the porch. You can go check my identification. And I’m not a drifter.”

Deputy Cullen picked up the wallet from the small glass table. “Got it, Chief.”

“I don’t know what you are, or what you’re doing in my town, and I don’t like that.” Showalter took the wallet from Cullen, started looking through it as he talked. “How long you been in Hastings Mills, Mister Root?”

“A little more than three weeks.”

“And what’s the purpose of your visit? I’m assuming you didn’t come here from”—he paused to read from John’s driver’s license—“Sunset, South Carolina, just to fix the Anderson’s porch.” Showalter looked up from the license and stared at John.

He thinks I’m involved in the murders. That’s what this is about.
John took his time answering the question, knowing that whatever he said would sound suspicious and be checked out the minute the Sheriff got back to his office, if not sooner.

“I’m traveling across the country as part of my work. I collect old tales and write books about them.”

“You expect me to believe that horseshit? ‘Cause what I’m hearing is you ain’t nothing but a drifter, just like I thought.”

“I’m not a drifter. I own a home. I have a bank account.”

“If you got money in the bank, why you doing odd jobs for cash?”

John shrugged. “It’s part of the process. See the country from a different perspective, rely on my own hands to earn my keep. Get to know people. Plus, I’d rather not touch my bank account. That’s my retirement.”

Showalter started to say something, but just then the sound of a car engine drew everyone’s attention to the driveway. Danni Anderson’s beat-up Mustang came to a sharp stop, sending more dust flying as Danni sprang out.

“What the hell’s going on here? Mitch just called me, saying you think John’s some kind of pedophile?”

Showalter smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No one said anything of the sort, Ms. Anderson. But we had a call that Mister Root here was seen bringing the boy up to his room, and since he’s a stranger in town, I felt it my duty to check things out.”

“Nothing happened,” Mitch said, coming out onto the porch. “One of the kids at camp roughed me up, and John had some stuff at his place that he put on the cuts to help them heal.”

“What?” Danni turned and stared at John. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Knowing he was in trouble no matter what he said, John opted for a version of the truth. “Mitch asked me not to. He didn’t want to upset you. And he wasn’t hurt bad, just a few scrapes.”

She pointed at Mitch. “I’ll deal with you later. In the meantime…” She looked back at Showalter. “Are you through? John hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I guess that’s so, Ms. Anderson. But I still need to check out Mister Root’s story about why he’s in here in the first place. In case you forgot, we’ve had some girls die recently, and it started right around the same time your friend here arrived in town. I wouldn’t be much of a sheriff if I didn’t look into that, would I?” Before Danni could respond, he put his sunglasses back on and flipped John’s wallet to the ground. Motioning for Cullen to follow, he got in the car and started the engine.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Root.”

He steered the cruiser around Danni’s Mustang and headed back toward the main road.

John picked up his wallet and turned to Danni. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. But Mitch...”

“Yeah, I know. He asked you not to. Guys stick up for each other, I get it. But I’m responsible for him, and I need to know what’s happening in his life.”

“Danni—”

She shook her head. “Maybe you should call it a day. We’ll see you in the morning.”

He wanted to stay, to try and explain further, but her face had taken a hard, tight, determined expression he’d never seen her wear before.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John headed down the drive, hoping the young woman hadn’t soured on him being around. He needed the money, sure, but more than that, he needed someone in town who trusted him, who didn’t look at him as an outsider.

Otherwise, his job would be much, much harder.

Billy Ray held a plastic bag filled with ice cubes against his cheek, the ice bringing blessed numbness to the swollen flesh.

“He’s got it in for me, just because I was kind of wild when I was a kid,” Billy said to Reverend Christian. Sharp pains in his mouth and chest accompanied each word.

The reverend stepped forward and poked a steel-hard finger into Billy’s chest. “I don’t care what you did before you came to town. I don’t care what you did as a child. But as long as you work for me, you’ll stay out of trouble. Don’t give the police any reason to suspect you of anything. Understand?” He emphasized his words with another poke.

Backing up a step, Billy nodded. “I got it. Don’t worry. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Yet.
He rubbed his chest; the spot where Christian’s finger had hit felt like he’d been struck with a hammer.

“Keep it that way. Remember, my Gods see all.”

“Uh, yeah, right.” Billy hated it when Christian talked like that. Somehow, coming from his thin-lipped mouth, the warped Sunday-school words took on a deeper, more sinister meaning. Billy could almost see an angry God staring at him from up in heaven, his eyesight more powerful than any spy satellite as he watched over his flock, ready to weed out the sinners.

Jesus, I’m starting to sound like him!

Hoping to change the subject away from himself, he adjusted his cold pack and said, “Maybe your Gods should keep his eye on that new guy in town. He’s in some hot water, too.”

“Who?”

“That old guy you asked me to find out about. I got his name today. John Root. He—”

The Reverend’s face grew angry and he practically shouted, “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Caught off guard by the man’s unexpected vehemence, Billy stuttered as he answered. “I...I...planned to. I mean, I am. Now.”

“What did you find out?” Christian’s eyes, normally coal-black, seemed even darker, like black ice.

“When the cops were using me for a punching bag, they got a call about this Root guy. They were heading to his place after they dropped me off. Something about him spending too much time with some little kid.”

“What did the Sheriff say?”

Billy shook his head. “Not much. Just that they were gonna check him out.”

Christian smiled and turned back toward the window. “Thank you, Billy. That’s interesting news. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“Sure.” Billy edged his way over toward the door, eager to get away. “Uh, I gotta go get more ice.” Before Christian could say anything else, Billy closed the door and hurried down the hall.

That night, Billy’s sleep was haunted by nightmares of vengeful gods pursuing him with lightning bolts. The gods all had Christian’s face and black holes for eyes.