Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (28 page)

Forty-seven

For a long time
she sat there, listening to the water, her thoughts roiling, wondering what she should do with the rock she'd used to kill Logan. She knew she ought to save it as evidence for the cops, but then again, she wondered if she shouldn't take it and put it on her mother's grave. Let it serve as the capstone to the pile of seven she'd already left there. In a way, that seemed fitting; in another way, it seemed a sacrilege. Her mother had been good, kind. To top her grave with a stone rusty with her killer's blood would demean Martha's memory. Mary lifted the rock up, trying to embed its weight and heft forever in her memory, then she let it drop. It sank as profoundly into the water as Logan had, swept away forever.

Only then did she climb off the boulder and fight her way through the swift, neck-deep current to the bank. With her clothes heavy and dripping, she pushed through the pines and across the meadow, trembling under the caress of a cold night breeze. She located the van easily, its loaf-like shape looking out of place beneath the frilly, graceful pines. Logan had left the doors unlocked, but had taken the keys with him on his trip downriver. Mary rummaged around until she found a hunting knife under the passenger's seat and then managed, with some major contortions, to cut the duct tape that bound her wrists. With chattering teeth, she searched the vehicle for dry clothing. She found a pack rat's array of stuff—a laptop computer, her purse, Gabe's gun, three bottles of baby formula, and blessedly, in an old knapsack in the back of the van, a size XXX camouflage suit still in its plastic wrapper. As she stripped off her wet clothes and slipped the dry ones on, she spotted her mother's photograph on the floor where Logan had tossed it.

“I got him, Mama,” she said. “He won't bother us anymore.” She buttoned the photo in the breast pocket of the suit, deciding that when she got back to civilization she would have a copy made and slice Logan from the shot. Then it would be just her mother standing there at sixteen, with the whole of her life a great un­wrapped present, one yet to be opened.

In the glove box she found a stash of sweets that put Jonathan's passion for Ding-Dongs to shame. Candy bars, jelly beans, a sticky, lint­ covered jar of sourwood honey. Mary took one chocolate bar and closed the compartment, re­pulsed.

She found neither her Deckard County cell phone nor the one Logan had used to call with, so she stashed her candy in another pocket and stepped out of the van. If she could find her way back to the highway, she might be able to hitch a ride with somebody and bring the cops back up here at first light. Zipping Logan's giant-sized jumpsuit to her neck, she started walking back along the way they'd come, the moon now a hard white eye staring down upon her.

It was almost dawn before Bruce Clinedienst's pickup pulled up alongside her. “You been in a wreck?” The man eyed Mary curiously, his lower lip plump with a wad of tobacco.

“Kind of,” she replied. “I need to get to a phone, or the nearest sheriff's office.”

“I'm going into town to pick up my newspapers,” said Clinedienst. “You could call from there.”

“What town would that be?”

“Mars Hill, North Carolina.” He frowned at her disapprovingly, no doubt wondering why a young woman would be wandering along this road in an oversized camouflage suit not even knowing where she was.

By the time the sun burned off the morning fog, Mary, Sheriff Jinx Jenkins of Madison County, two Carolina state troopers, one SBI agent, and two Feds were back at the crime scene. Though Sheriff Jenkins admitted once at­ tending a convention in Raleigh with Stump Logan, he worked the scene with a chatty professionalism, scurrying back and forth between the federal and state officers. Mary sat in the backseat of a car with Federal Agent Lee Hoffman, watching as another agent took pictures of the van. She'd learned that both the Tennessee and Carolina highway patrols had been searching for the vehicle, registered to one Edwina Templeton, of Franklin, Tennessee.

“Everybody had a ten fifty-five on you,” Hoffman informed her.

Mary frowned. “Who turned in the call? Nobody knew where I was.”

Hoffman flipped through a small notebook. “The original ABP came from Officer Jane Frey of the Franklin, Tennessee, PD. She answered a call from two Hispanics at a gas station.” Hoffman turned to her, puzzled. “That make any sense?”

Mary laughed. “Actually, it does. Do you know where they are now?”

He scanned another sheet of paper. “The His­panics are in INS custody. Officer Frey continued her investigation with information they gave her. Looks like she busted one—”

“Edwina Templeton?” asked Mary.

“Yeah. DBA the Tender Shepherd Home. Frey nailed her for an immigration violation at the Nashville Airport, but the Mexicans are singing their own little tune about Templeton forging birth certificates and selling babies to the highest bidder.”

“Will the INS send the Mexicans back across the border?” asked Mary.

“Not till after this goes to trial,” said Hoffman. “Probably, though, after that.”

Mary remembered the woman's luminous eyes, the man's protectiveness of her. She would call Chip Clifford about them when she got back home. He could make sure those two stayed safe from their tormenting Scorpions. “Do you have a cell phone I could borrow, Agent Hoffman?”

“Sure.” He held out a government-issue model that lacked a video screen. “Help yourself.”

She called Danika first. The tall black woman's voice bubbled with excitement.

“We got them, Mary! They were at the gate, about to board the plane, but we got them!” Mary listened as Danika filled her in on the details—that the adoptive couple were nice people who'd been duped by some woman in Tennessee and another baby broker from Florida.

“When did the baby's mother get there?” asked Mary.

“About two a.m. Man, is she one weird chick. And then they brought the father in, right off the chain gang, apparently.”

Mary frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Leg irons, handcuffs. The sheriff acted like he was leading in a grizzly bear. Plus, the poor guy had been roughed up pretty bad.”

Mary didn't say anything. She was glad she hadn't been there. It would have broken her heart to see Jonathan led around in shackles.

Danika continued, “I gotta tell you, Mary. I had my doubts about the biological parents until Jim Falkner came along.”

“What did Jim do?”

“Turned them into saints in buckskin. There wasn't a dry eye at that table when he got through. Then, when he suggested that the Walkingsticks had a damn good case of their own against Nikwase County, I thought that little sheriff was going to shit his pants!”

Mary laughed, imagining her old boss's bluster. “So what's going on now?”

“The baby's in protective custody. The parents are staying at your house, waiting for the DNA tests to come back. The woman said it would be okay, and they both knew where you kept your key.”

“It's fine,” said Mary. “They're both old friends of mine.”

Mary listened as Danika went on about how cute Lily was and how heartbroken the Florida couple had been. She would have talked on for hours, but Mary interrupted her.

“Let me get back to you, Danika. There's another call I need to make.”

She disconnected from Danika, then got the number of Vanderbilt Hospital. A moment later, a woman at the information desk answered.

“I'd like to speak to a patient,” said Mary. “Gabriel Benge is the name.”

“Just one moment.”

The phone rang twice, then a woman said, “Room thirty-three seventeen.”

“Could I speak to Gabe Benge, please?” Mary asked eagerly.

“He's gone. He done got released this morning,” said the woman. “I came up here to clean his room and he was about to walk out the door.”

“He was?” Mary tried to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Is he okay?”

“Well, I ain't no nurse, but he looked okay to me.” The woman gave a raucous chuckle.

“I don't suppose he mentioned where he was going?”

“He said something about going to Peru. Don't that beat all? Get up from a hospital bed and head straight to South America?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “That does beat all. Thanks just the same.” With a sigh, she clicked off the phone. She'd hoped she and Gabe might have more to say to each other, but he apparently saw it differently. Probably a wise move, she decided. Digging up the dead was a lot safer than chasing after the living.

She left numbers where she could be reached with all the law enforcement agencies involved, then she got Agent Hoffman to give her a lift to Tremont. Her little Miata sat where she'd left it, like a dog waiting for its master to come home. Throwing her purse and Gabe's gun in the back, she revved the engine and pulled out onto the highway. With both the National Guard and the demonstrators gone, Tremont had regained its composure as a picturesque Tennessee mountain town, one that she sincerely hoped she would never see again.

She drove south, again passing through Chattanooga, again thinking of Gabe, and Nancy Ward's grave. A little after seven p.m., she pulled into her grandmother's driveway. The old house looked more like an old friend, with lights twinkling in the living room and Jonathan's truck parked outside. Wearily she pulled into the garage and trudged up the back stairs into the kitchen. Jonathan and Ruth sat in the breakfast nook, the Tiffany lamp that hung over the table casting their faces in a golden glow.

“Mary!” Ruth looked up, surprised.

“Hey!” Jonathan leapt from the table and threw his arms around her. Though he sported a black eye and a badly swollen jaw, he looked far from the handcuffed inmate Danika had described. “I'm so glad to see you!”

“I'm glad to see you, too.” As she relaxed into his comfortable, familiar embrace, all that had happened suddenly grew real. “It was Logan,” she told him, fighting tears. “Logan all along.”

“What?” He looked down at her, incredulous. The story of Logan and her parents came out in a gush. When she finished she felt drained, as if she'd emptied some long-buried cache of emotion.

“I figured it must be something like that when Ruth told me what you'd done,” Jonathan said, holding her tight. “I wanted to come help you, but I couldn't. I don't know what I would have done if anything had—”

“Hush.” Mary stopped him quickly. “It's over. Let's not talk about it anymore.” She looked over at Ruth. “Let's talk about Lily.”

Smiling, Jonathan grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the table. Ruth got up and made room for her between them. “Glad you're back, Mary,” she said quietly.

“Hi, Ruth. How are you?” Mary couldn't help but check for the wild, erratic gleam that lately had appeared too often in Ruth's eyes. But tonight she seemed calm to the point of being subdued. Mary was delighted. Ruth deserved a rest after the great storm of losing Lily.

“I'm okay.” Ruth rose from the table. “Would you like some soup?”

“No, thanks. I'm not hungry.” Mary turned to Jonathan. “I talked to Danika earlier, so I know Jim Falkner's representing you, but tell me what else is going on.”

“Lily's in Child Protective Services right now,” said Jonathan. “It'll take about a week to get the DNA tests back, although Falkner said he would have them rush it.”

“So have you seen her at all?” Mary asked, foggy on her child custody procedures.

“No,” snapped Ruth. “I haven't been allowed to even touch her.”

“Well, a week will pass quickly,” Mary promised. “What about the couple from Florida?”

“They're fighting it,” Jonathan replied. “They hired an attorney and are staying here in Atlanta, waiting for the results of the test just like we are.”

Mary tried to imagine two people cooped up in a hotel room, all their hopes pinned on a re­port that she knew would only bring them bad news. “That's sad.”

“Not nearly as sad as if they'd flown off with Lily,” said Ruth, stirring a pot on the stove.

“No, of course not,” Mary agreed.

“So there's not much we can do but wait,” Jonathan continued. “Is it okay if we stay here?”

“As long as you like,” Mary said. “Maybe you ought to go over to Grady and have someone look at your jaw.”

He started to reply, but Ruth returned to the table, carrying a steaming bowl.

“I know you must be hungry, Mary. Please try some of this soup.”

“Thanks, Ruth, but I stopped on the way and ate a hamburger.”

“Well, if you change your mind.” She put the bowl of thick, orange-colored liquid down in front of Mary.

Mary shook her head. “I'm going upstairs. I need a long, hot shower and about a hundred hours of sleep.” She stood, Jonathan and Ruth wavering before her eyes. “You two make yourselves at home. I'll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“Thanks,
Koga.
” Jonathan smiled, his hawkish eyes kind. “I don't know how we'll ever repay you.”

“No repayment needed,
Udolanushdi
.” She gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You got Lily back. That's all that matters.”

Forty-eight

MARY TOOK THE longest
shower of her life, then wrapped up in a towel and padded into her bedroom. Her old peony-grubbing jeans still lay on the floor, and piles of notes from the Jasmine Harris case were strewn across her bed.

I wonder how Jasmine is doing
, she thought as she moved the papers to her desk.
I wonder if Danika told her that she put the Popsicle Man away.

Mary sighed. Just last week she'd eaten, breathed, and slept Jasmine Harris and Dwayne Pugh—now the case seemed like something that had happened years ago; a postcard bought at a destination she could barely remember visiting.

She pulled on an old Emory sweatshirt and paused to look out her window. Outside, yellowish light from the kitchen spilled out on the lawn.

“Never again,” she reminded herself aloud. “Will I have to look out there and wonder if I'm going to see Logan.”

She fell into bed, snuggling beneath the quilt she'd slept under since the first night Eugenia had brought her here. Again she thought of Gabe, hoping he was all right, wishing that he'd hung around long enough to say goodbye then her body grew heavy and warm. The last thing she remembered was the luminous green numbers on her clock, glowing 8:27 p.m.

She dreamed then. Not of Logan, but jumbled snippets of her mother, Jonathan, her grandmother, and Gabe. One particularly long saga evolved where her father bounded up the stairs in his combat fatigues, grinning and full of life. Her grandmother held out her arms to hold him, weeping tears of joy. He kissed her on the cheek, then hurried to his bedroom, cranked up his electric guitar, and began singing “That's All Right, Mama.”

Mary smiled in her sleep at the sound of her father's youthful voice. The dreamed changed then, segued into something about Eugenia and the flower beds, but the music went on. She stirred, rolled over, then finally opened her eyes. Though the clock now read 2:13 a.m., the music continued. She could still hear her father singing as if he were just down the hall.

“You're dreaming,” she said aloud, sitting up in bed. She tried to wake herself up, counting five fingers on each hand, reacting sharply to being pinched, but still she heard the music. Throwing off her covers, she pulled on her old jeans and opened the bedroom door.

She crept out into the dark hall. Jonathan and Ruth had taken the small guest room downstairs, so she had the whole upper floor to herself. Though there was no need for her to be quiet, she felt an odd compulsion to tiptoe, like a child waking too early on Christmas morning. Her father's bedroom stood at the end of the hall, past her grandmother's room and a spare bedroom no one ever used. No light shone from beneath his door, yet his performance went on, just as if he'd come back from the dead. She felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck.

“Oh, come on,” she chided herself. “It's just that crazy old tape deck.” She started down the hall with intention, like someone about to fix a malfunctioning machine, but two steps later her bravado vanished and she started creeping toward the door like a mouse.

She reached her grandmother's room. The floorboard directly beneath the doorjamb gave a sudden loud pop, making her jump. She paused to collect herself, then she continued toward her father's old room. She'd just inched close enough to grab the doorknob when the music stopped, leaving her in a silence that seemed even eerier than the music itself. She stood like a statue, feeling vaguely foolish, wondering if she might have exchanged one hallucination for another one. Would she now start hearing her rockabilly father instead of seeing Stump Logan?

“Absolutely not,” she told herself firmly. “Logan wasn't a hallucination to begin with.” Suddenly the music started again. Young Jack Bennefield sailed into the second verse of his song, jaunty as ever. Willing her hand steady, she turned the doorknob.

The door swung open. She gasped. Ruth was sitting in front of the tape deck, staring straight at her. She looked just like a case file photo Mary had once seen of a woman who'd hacked her family to pieces, convinced they were all demons from hell.

“Ruth?” Mary asked. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Mary,” Ruth replied, reaching to turn off the music. “I couldn't sleep. I thought I might poke around up here.”

“Listening to my father sing?” Mary thought Ruth's choice of late-night diversions odd.

“Jonathan told me about how much your mother loved him. I guess I was just curious.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I hope I haven't intruded…”

“No, that's okay,” Mary said guardedly. “I just couldn't imagine how that old tape deck had come on.”

Ruth smiled. “Your father had a wonderful voice.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Was your mother musical, too?”

Mary shook her head. “My mother was a weaver. She painted some, too.”

“A painter, huh?” Ruth bounded up from the chair as if struck by a brilliant idea. “Then come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

“Right now?”

“It won't take a minute.” She grabbed Mary's hand. “You'll appreciate this, especially if your mother was an artist.”

Wondering what Ruth could possibly have in mind, Mary allowed her to pull her back out into the hall and down the stairs. They crossed the darkened foyer and the dining room, then Ruth began to tug her toward the guest room.

“Wait a minute, Ruth,” said Mary. “Isn't Jonathan asleep in there?”

“It doesn't matter.” Ruth turned to her with a malevolent little grin. “Come on in. You'll get a kick out of this.”

She opened the door and pulled Mary inside. Jonathan lay on the bed, a sheet covering his nakedness. He slept so still that Mary wondered for an instant if he wasn't dead. She grabbed on to the door facing, unwilling to further intrude in the Walkingsticks' bedroom. “Ruth, this isn't—”

“You need to come over here, Mary.” Ruth let go of her hand and walked over to switch on the bedside lamp. “It's important that you see this!”

Reluctantly Mary followed her, wondering what this woman was going to do. “Okay. What?”

Ruth smiled, then turned and looked down at Jonathan as if she were admiring some figure in a wax museum. “Isn't he beautiful? If your mother were here, she could paint him.”

Mary nodded. This was getting more bizarre by the second. “Is he all right?”

“Just look at his shoulders, his arms.” Ruth traced the straight line of Jonathan's clavicle with one finger.

“Stop, Ruth. You're going to wake him up,” Mary warned, though Jonathan had not twitched an eyelash.

“No I won't.” She looked up at Mary and grinned, sly as a mink. “Why don't you kiss him, Mary? I know how much you want to.”

“Look, Ruth, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I'm going—”

“You don't have to worry about waking him up. I gave him some tea that will keep him sound asleep.”

Mary watched, horrified, as Ruth reached under her sweater and pulled out Gabe's pistol. With her sly smile stretching into an obscene grin, she aimed it point-blank at Mary.

“I want to watch you kiss him, Mary. I want to watch you kiss him goodbye.”

Mary froze, dumbstruck, certain she was sleepwalking through a nightmare. Then she saw the look in Ruth's eyes. Ruth Moon meant to kill her tonight. There was nothing dream-like about that.

She's out of her mind, Mary realized. She's insane.

“Okay, Ruth,” she said as calmly as she could. “You put the gun down, then I'll kiss Jonathan.” For what seemed an eternity Ruth stared at her, keeping her finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed at Mary's chest. Mary held her breath, fearing that the slightest movement might set Ruth off. Time slowed to eternity, then Ruth slowly lowered the pistol. When she'd pointed at the floor, Mary took a deep breath and stepped toward Jonathan. He lay motionless, his face relaxed in slumber, unaware of all that was transpiring at his bedside.

“Jonathan?” she said loudly, hoping that her voice might rouse him. “Can you hear me?”

He did not move. Ruth giggled. “See? I told you he wouldn't wake up. Now go ahead.”

Mary could think of nothing else to do, so she leaned over and pressed her lips against Jonathan's. They felt warm, and his breath was soft and rhythmic upon her cheek. He was definitely alive, but way beyond her reach. Raising up, she turned toward the woman who held Gabe's gun.

“Okay. Now what?”

Ruth lifted the gun again. “Walk into the kitchen. You'll see.”

Mary did as Ruth commanded, backing out of the bedroom and into the hall. She walked to the kitchen, Ruth two steps behind her. When they entered the kitchen, Mary saw that a single light burned over the stove, and the old telephone receiver dangled from its hook, bleating insistently. The bowl of soup Ruth had offered her earlier still sat on the table.

Suddenly it fell into place. Ever since she'd arrived in Tremont, Ruth had kept her tea thermos close at hand. She'd used tea to calm down, to perk up, to give the pretense of sanity. Ruth had served Gabe tea one night, and the next day he'd nearly died. Now Jonathan was in some kind of coma, victim of another of Ruth's brews. A sick reality pierced the very marrow of her bones as she turned to the woman she'd once considered a friend. “You're a poisoner, aren't you?”

Ruth's eyes glittered in the dim light. “I'm an herbalist. I use nature's medicines to suit my needs.”

“And you need Gabe and Jonathan and me to die?”

“Gabe was just practice, and Jonathan will wake up in a few hours.” She smiled a death's head smile. “You're the only one I need to die.”

“But why? I've never done anything to harm you.”

“Because however close I hold my husband, you're always right there, between us.”

Mary closed her eyes. Her long history with Jonathan—the vast, unspoken thing that had weighted every word between her and Ruth—had suddenly grown teeth and claws.

“Jonathan loved you before me; he prefers you even now,” Ruth told her. “He will go to his grave loving you.”

“That's not true, Ruth. Jonathan and I haven't—”

“Yes it is true!” Ruth poked the gun at Mary, as if that might shut her up. “Now it's worse. I thought he would be pleased that I called you when Logan took Lily, but he just blames me for losing her.”

“Ruth—”

“But I thought we would get over that, you know? I thought eventually he would forgive me. But at the jail in Tremont, I finally realized how much he loved you. Oh, Jonathan wanted to find Lily, of course, but you were just as important.
You go find Mary, Ruth. Mary needs your help. Mary can't do this all alone.
”

“That's not—”

“Logan and I had a lot in common, Mary. We both feared you. He because of his past; me because of my future.”

Mary felt as if the air were being sucked from her lungs. Had she heard this right? Was Ruth admitting complicity with the man who'd kidnapped Lily? Had the whole thing been a setup?
No, she told herself. Ruth is raving, out of her mind. Nobody would do a thing like that.

“Put the gun down, Ruth,” she said. “You're not thinking straight right now.”

“I'm thinking straight enough to succeed where Logan failed. I'm thinking straight enough to know that if I shoot you here, in this kitchen, I can make it look like I mistook you for an intruder long before the police get here.” Mary didn't know what to say. She felt as if she'd stepped outside of herself, risen sylph-like from her bed to act out this travesty with Ruth. She stood there, trying to think of what to do, when she noticed lights flickering, reflected in the windows over the sink. Was someone pulling into the driveway? Quickly she turned her attention back to Ruth and tried to keep her talking.

“And how do you figure you can cover up a homicide, Ruth?”

“A stressed-out, exhausted woman in a strange house. Hears a noise, grabs a gun, and frantic to protect her family from yet another assailant, pulls the trigger.”

“That's your story?” Mary laughed, but kept an eye on the light. “A first-year law student would rip you to shreds.”

“They would try, sure. But think about it, Mary. What motive would I have to kill you? Who on earth would shoot the person who'd just saved their child?”

“Someone sick with jealousy,” replied Mary. “It would take the cops about five minutes to figure that out.”

“How? Who would tell them? Jonathan wouldn't. And nobody else knows.”

“Ruth, a lot of people know about us. Jim Falkner, Alex Carter, Joan Marchetti. Gabe.” Mary stared into the woman's haunted eyes. “You're going to need a whole lot more than laced tea to get away with this.”

“Then I'll just plead insanity,” said Ruth. “At least I'll still be alive. You'll be dead.”

Suddenly noises erupted at the back door. Someone was knocking, yelling. Mary turned long enough to catch a glimpse of Gabe, then out of the corner of her eye she saw Ruth, pointing the pistol at him. In that instant, Mary took her chance. She leapt at Ruth, knocking her to the floor. She hoped to jar the gun from her hand, but Ruth managed to hold on to it. With the nine-millimeter barrel pressing against Mary's ribs, the two women grappled on the floor, knocking over one of the breakfast nook chairs, spilling the poisoned soup on the floor. For Mary, their struggle became a bizarre waltz of muscle and emotion. As she tried to wrest the gun from Ruth's hand, she heard Gabe banging on the door, the frantic rattle of the doorknob, then the distant whoop of a police siren. Ruth lowered the gun, now thrusting it hard into her belly.
I'm going to die gut-shot,
Mary thought, dreading the death that all cops fear. Loosening her grip on Ruth's hand, she grabbed the gun itself, trying to turn it away from her, toward the wall. Ruth gave a sudden twist backward, and Mary felt the gun slip.
One more good jerk,
she thought,
and I'll have it.
But before she could tighten her grip on the thing, Ruth's nails began to dig into her hand. She leaned to her left, then suddenly she heard a noise that sounded as if the roof was falling down around them. A hornet's nest seemed to envelope her right ear as she felt something warm and wet begin to dampen her chest. She thrust herself away from Ruth's grasp just as the woman flopped back under the table. Ruth lay with the gun still in her hand, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her blood already spreading toward the refrigerator, making a dark red finger just below Lily's christening photo, still hanging on the door.