Raising Cain (4 page)

“Yes, I know.”

“So what are you going to
do
?”

“That’s one reason I came over here. I thought maybe you…”

Gardner drummed his fingers faster. If there was such a thing as a “best” friend, Brownie was his. “You want me to tell him
he can’t investigate the death of his own father?”

“He listens to you.”

Gardner stopped drumming. Brownie was like a snapping turtle. When he got his jaws around a case, he never let go.

“Will you do it?”

Gardner looked at Jennifer. She was shaking her head no. The police had to control their own. It wasn’t Gardner’s job.

“Will you?” Harvis repeated.

Gardner apologized to Jennifer with his eyes. “I’ll try,” he said.

“Spool it up again,” Brownie said. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and he was at the emergency dispatch center in the
fire station, listening to the tape of the 911 call that had come in on Joseph. He’d been up all night, pacing, driving, drinking
coffee, crying, screaming. He’d wrung out a lot of sorrow. And now it was time to get back to work.

Dispatcher Sarah Little threw a switch, and the massive tape reel whirred into rewind. Brownie had heard it four times already,
but under the circumstances, Sarah didn’t mind doing it again. “Okay, we’re set,” she said. The tape counter showed they were
at the right spot.

Brownie gave the go-ahead signal, and Sarah pushed the play button.

There was some static, then the voice of the night-shift dispatcher:

“Emergency.”

“Yeah,” the voice said. “You got a sick man on the pathway by Cutler Road.”

Brownie put his ear close to the speaker.

“What’s his problem?”

“Passed out, needs help.” The words were muffled, unnatural.

“What’s his exact location?”

“Mile or so from Cutler, in the woods.”

There was a pause, then the dispatcher spoke again. “A unit is on its way, sir. May I have your name, please?”

No response.

“Sir? Are you still there?”

Brownie nodded, and Sarah stopped the tape. “He was trying to disguise his voice,” he said.

“Sounds like it.”

Brownie’s eyes were red, and his stomach ached. “Pull up the number reference.”

Sarah went to another console and keyed a command. The screen scrolled data, then displayed a set of numbers. “The call came
in at twenty-twenty-three,” she said. “Eight-twenty-three
P.M.
“

Brownie looked over her shoulder. The system was programmed to print out the number of the telephone that made the call. The
number and address let the dispatcher know where to send help if the caller was disabled and couldn’t speak.

Sarah ran her finger down the screen to the spot where the number and address should have been. It was blank.

Brownie grimaced. “A no-show.”

The dispatcher swiveled her chair. “Must have been a cellular call. They don’t print.”

Brownie nodded. The system was not designed to register cellular calls because there were too many transmission variables
to make it viable.

“There’s no way of knowing who the call came from,” Sarah said, “unless you run the records of every cell phone customer on
the East Coast.”

Brownie looked up. “Or know which system he’s on.” The phone company’s airtime log would show a call to 911 at 20:23 hours
on September 20. But he’d need the right cellular company and their customer list. And there were millions of cell phones
in the area.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Sarah said. “Too bad we don’t know who called.”

“Too bad,” Brownie agreed. His eyes were as blank as the space on the screen.

“I know you’d like to thank him.”

Brownie blinked. “Thank him?”

“For tryin’ to save your father’s life.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man wasn’t a Good Samaritan.”

Sarah looked confused. “What
was
he?”

Brownie clenched his fist. “Daddy’s
killer
.”

Sallie Allen did not want to get out of bed. She pulled the pillow over her head and shifted her body in the bunk. It was
nine-thirty in the morning, and the dormitory was empty. The other women had gone out to do their chores.

Sallie closed her eyes and reran the images of the night before. The CAIN people were crazy. Totally beyond-belief crazy.
The scene had been bizarre to the max. She had been simultaneously terrorized, turned on, and, she had to admit, exhilarated.
Ruth was a hunk, a big, scary one. But he’d disappeared soon after the ceremony and left her on the platform, shaky, wet,
and a little disappointed.

Sallie Allen, former high school cheerleader, former college gymnast, was a natural go-getter. Growing up in a wealthy household
in Georgia, she always got what she wanted: men, cars, attention. She was smart enough and pretty enough to move to the head
of the line in any endeavor she chose. And her sights were set on a star in the journalistic walk of fame.

Sallie rolled over and sat up. She scouted the room, slipped her arm under the mattress, and pulled out her recorder and notebook.
She switched tapes and checked her notes. Today she would try to find what secrets lay behind the camp’s closed doors. They’d
kept her on a tight rein so far, restricting her access from most of the buildings.

Suddenly there was a noise on the steps. Sallie jammed the book and recorder under the mattress and stretched languidly, trying
to look nonchalant.

“You’re awake.” It was Alva, one of her roommates. She was a horse-faced woman in her early twenties with kinky blond hair
and hazel eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Like a baby,” Sallie lied. Visions of Ruth and the snakes had kept her up most of the night.

“You did great yesterday.”

The reporter smiled. “You mean my
walk
?”

“Yes. I know you were scared, but you hung in there.”

“Has anyone ever been bitten?”

“Thomas wouldn’t allow it.”

Sallie cocked her head. “So the act is rigged?”

Alva looked puzzled. “Rigged?”

“The snakes don’t really bite?”

Alva put her finger to her lips. “It’s a test of faith. Leave it at that.”

Sallie took the hint and moved on. “Thomas is wonderful, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Alva’s eyes sparkled as she spoke.

“What does he do when he’s not preaching?” Except for prayer meetings, Ruth was invisible.

“I don’t really know. He leaves the camp a lot.”

“Where does he go?”

Alva pointed east, beyond the barbed-wire fence. “Out there.”

“Do you ever go with him?”

“Me?” Alva blushed. “No. Not me.”

“Someone else?”

“No one as far as I know. He spends most of his time alone.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Sallie said. Alva would follow Ruth to the moon if he asked her. “I’m just trying to learn
the ropes. The dos and the don’ts around here.”

“That’s all right. I know what you’re asking….”

Sallie tried to stay cool, to keep her conversation glib. “What’s that?”

Alva blushed again. “You want to know if he has a girlfriend.” She’d seen the attraction on the dais last night.

“No…” Sallie protested coyly.

“He
doesn’t
as far as I know.”

Sallie pondered the words. Ruth was attractive enough, and man enough, but sex did not seem to be a part of the program. That
in itself was strange. He could have any woman he wanted.

Sallie began dressing. “How long have you been here?”

“Two months.”

“And how much money did you contribute?”

“All I had.”

“How much was that?”

“Six thousand dollars and my car.”

Sallie looked out the window. The church had quite a fleet of vehicles out there. “
Why
did you come here?”

“To be saved.”

“Saved from
what
?”

“Evil.”

Sallie was searching for an angle, a hook for her story. “Who do you consider evil?”

“Who?”

“Do you see evil as a person or a thing?”

“The devil takes all forms.”

“So you see it as a
person
.”

“I guess so.” Alva gave her a skeptical look.

“There are no
black
people in the congregation. Is there a reason for that?” Sallie’s research had uncovered a central theme in a lot of escapist
cults: race. Hatred in the name of the Lord.

“No!”

“So blacks can join CAIN if they want to?”

Alva hesitated. “Uh…”

“Yes or no?”

“I don’t know about that. We don’t discuss it.”

“But no blacks have ever joined, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s your opinion of black people?”

“My opinion?”

Sallie was trying to smoke out a quote. “Do you dislike them?”

Alva’s jaw tightened. “I don’t
dislike
anyone.”

“How about Thomas Ruth? Does he ever preach about race?”

“Never!” Alva frowned.

Sallie smiled defensively. She had pushed it right up to the line. Time to back off.

“We’re into
love
here, Sallie.
Love
. That’s it.”

Sallie sighed. The race angle would make an ideal hook for her story: white fundamentalists preaching bigotry, brandishing
snakes in their upraised hands. That would put her article over the top. But the words she needed weren’t being said. And
if she didn’t come up with some flaming rhetoric soon, she just might have to make it up.

Blocktown was a suburb of the county seat. A generation before the Civil War, the land had been owned by William Block. He’d
raised cattle, corn, and seed crops on the huge estate and shipped them down the Potomac to Washington. It was a prosperous
venture, and Mr. Block had become rich. But, as the legend went, he was tormented by the guilt of slavery, unable to enjoy
his wealth. One day he summoned his slaves to the great house and set them free. And then he divided up his property and gave
them each a share.

Joseph and Althea Brown’s house lay on the border of Blocktown. It was a red brick house on a wooded street, flanking the
valley and the forest that continued westward to the rocky ridge. Most Blocktown residents had one thing in common: they were
descendants of the men and women who stood on William Block’s lawn that sweltering August day, cheering and weeping and throwing
their straw hats in the air.

“Thank you, Reverend, thank you,” Althea said. She was sitting in her parlor, robed in black, nervously stitching a quilt.

“In times of sorrow, the Lord extends His comfort.” Reverend Taylor’s deep baritone filled the darkened room. “’This, too,
will pass,’ the Savior said.”

Althea put down her needle and touched her chin. Her lips twitched like she was going to cry again.

Taylor quickly stood and crossed the room. Handsome and nattily turned out in a blue three-piece suit and spit-shined shoes,
he was “on the job.” He was the newest cleric in town, but he was fast becoming the most popular. He’d opened his Temple of
the Word in a converted farm-supply depot just three months ago, and now hundreds flocked to the cinder-block building under
a blue neon dove to hear him raise the roof each Sunday.

“Take my hand,” Taylor said. His teeth were polished ivory, his hair close-cropped.

Althea looked up shakily from her chair. “What?”

The reverend extended a set of manicured fingers. There was a diamond ring on one finger, a gold chain on his wrist. “Take
my hand.”

Althea reached out as the reverend pulled a small wooden side chair next to hers and sat down. “Hold tight,” he said.

Althea grasped his hand. It was strong, empowering.

“Pray with me,” Taylor said.

Althea blinked a tear and weakly nodded her head.

“Comfort this woman, Lord! Comfort and protect her! Put your mighty arms around her and
squeeze
her to your bosom!”

There was movement in the hall as several relatives left the kitchen and went to the parlor. “What’s going on?” an aunt whispered.

“Taylor’s praying with her,” a sister answered.

“Embrace her with your love!
Squeeze
out the pain!”

The relatives all gathered in the doorway and watched. Althea was rocking in time to the reverend’s words, her eyes closed.

“Reach across the icy void and touch this woman’s heart! Give her the strength she needs to keep movin’ on, Lord.”

Althea opened her eyes. “Joseph?” she asked.

Taylor paused for a second, then it clicked. “While you’re embracing, Lord, embrace the soul of this woman’s departed husband!
Guide him to you! Show him the way! Give him the key to Paradise!”

Althea closed her eyes again, her fingernails digging into Taylor’s palm.

“Keep Joseph by your side, Almighty Jesus! At your right hand, in the place of the righteous. Keep him, and protect him, from
now until these two souls shall join again, and hold them together for all eternity.”

Althea’s face relaxed, but she still clutched Taylor’s hand. He moved closer and cradled her head against his chest. They
sat that way in silence for several minutes. Then Taylor began to sing a hymn. His voice was soft at first, then louder, resonant
and mellow.

The relatives looked at each other with surprise. No one had ever heard him sing before. An aunt began to hum.

The relatives entered the room and formed a ring around Althea’s chair.

Then their song faded and the room was silent. Only the rhythm of Althea’s steady breathing rippled the air. Her eyes were
still shut, but she looked at peace. Reverend Taylor held her tightly against him. And then he whispered something in her
ear.

Officer Frank Davis walked down the steps of police headquarters toward his squad car. It was late afternoon, and the light
was waning. Soon the sun would drop behind the ridge and the evening chill would begin.

Davis was a lanky West Virginia boy who’d moved to the state ten years ago. His sandy hair, slow swagger, and slight drawl
made him out to be a rube. But he wasn’t. He was sharp-witted and ambitious. He’d worked a dairy farm and driven an eighteen-wheeler,
but those vocations hadn’t rung his bell. Then he tried law enforcement. That profession, he decided, was a keeper.