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Authors: Gallatin Warfield

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BOOK: Raising Cain
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“Yeah,” the brother said. “Take your time.
He
isn’t going anywhere.” He pointed to the body.

“Watch your mouth,” Brownie warned. “Show some respect.”

The elders moved between the two men.

“I got respect, Mr. Detective. Whole hell of a lot of
respect
.”

Gardner stood up.

“Don’t rush,” Brownie said.

“I’m done.”

One of the elders led the brother back toward the door.

“What was
that
all about?” Gardner asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He’d seen less friction between heavyweight fighters.


Nothing
,” Brownie repeated. “And now, as the man said, it is time to go.”

Brownie signaled the funeral director to wheel the casket toward the door. Silently, the six men took their places. The brother
and an elder were up front; two elders held the middle; Gardner and Brownie carried the rear.

“You okay?” Gardner whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I’m right beside you.”

Brownie nodded.

They marched to the door. “On my signal, lift,” Brownie said. “One, two, three!”

The casket came up from the trolley, and the bearers carried it through the threshold and down the steep steps.

Gardner strained under the weight, his gloved hand slipping against the polished handle. He glanced at the casket shimmering
in the heat. Then he noticed Brownie’s reflection in the shiny surface. From that perspective, it looked like he was screaming.
But no sound was coming out.

Frank Davis stopped his cruiser outside of the quarry gate. There was a sign attached to the bars:
CHURCH OF THE ARK, INC., CAIN. NO TRESPASSING.
The rest of the department was at the funeral, but he’d declined. His investigation was more important than sucking up to
the chief of the crime lab.

The inquiry was rolling right along. It turned out that the checkers boys at the senior center were jumping more than game
chips in their leisure time. They’d set up a regular little love shack in the back row of Shantyville. The black bitch he’d
rousted was a homeless gal who’d hitchhiked out from the city. The old guys had chipped in and set her up with a place to
stay. And when the mood struck, they’d amble over for some grab-ass and some hooch.

But that didn’t solve the mystery. It might explain the scratches on Joseph’s wrists, but then again, it might not. The slut
refused to explain what went on in her greasy cot. So Davis went back to the “crime” scene, the place where Joseph had been
found. As with the first time out, there was nothing definitive, no physical evidence to speak of. The only thing he’d found
was a rub mark on a tree and some broken twigs off the trail. But a deer’s antler could have caused the rub, and the paramedics
could have crushed the twigs. So he didn’t have a lock on any proof at the moment.

The entrance to CAIN was blocked by a heavy gate. On either side, a ten-foot wire fence ran for a hundred yards, turned ninety
degrees, then ran a mile back to the woods. The camp was secure on all sides. Davis sounded his horn.

He’d been trying to figure out motive since getting the case. If someone
had
whacked Brown, he had to have a reason. It wasn’t robbery, that was certain. Brown’s gold watch, wallet, and cash were still
on him. And it didn’t appear to be jealousy or revenge. The old lady was in a state of denial about his drinking and his catting.
To her and everyone else around town, the fucker
was
a saint. So it had to be something else. Davis had put out the word with his roughneck street network: Any strangers in town?
Any Klan activity brewing? Any rumors making the biker-bar rounds? Maybe this was a race thing. Maybe someone decked Old Man
Brown because they didn’t like the color of his skin.

And that’s what led him to CAIN. “Some weird shit going on out there,” Wally Pete had told him. “They got a lily-white preacher,
a bunch of babes, and they’re buying up ammo at the hardware mart like crazy.”

That got Frank’s attention. He checked the tax map and found something else interesting. The quarry property backed up to
Cutler Road. There was a stretch of woods in between, but a path connected the two sectors: the same path on which Joseph
Brown had died.

Davis found a phone listing for the church and asked the dispatcher to call and say the police were on their way. Except for
CAIN, the rumor mill was silent. But it
was
a lead. And it was worth checking out.

Davis lowered his window. The air was still, and soggy heat rolled into the car. A man appeared at the top of the rise beyond
the fence. He ran down and unfastened the lock. Then he waved the vehicle forward, stopping it at the boundary.

“You’re here to see Thomas Ruth?” the man asked. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair tucked under a baseball cap.

“That is correct.”

“Do you have a search warrant?”

Davis shook his head. “No, I do not, but I would like consent to enter the premises.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“I’ll take that up with Mr. Ruth.”

“All right, but would you mind telling
me
in the meantime?”

Davis studied the man. Tall and conditioned, he was probably a security guard. “We had an incident earlier this week over
in Blocktown….” He pointed toward the woods.

“What kind of incident?” The man didn’t look like the fundamentalist freaks they grew back in West Virginia. He looked like
a high school teacher.

“Father of one of our police officers died under strange circumstances. We suspect foul play.”

“Died?” The man looked alarmed.

“Dead as last year’s tick. We think someone tied him up, tortured him to death.”

“Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Do you think Thomas Ruth was involved?”

“We’re not ready to make formal accusations. We’re just checking on a few things. If Ruth was
not
involved, he’s got nothing to worry about.”

The man stroked his chin and squinted into the bright sun.

“I’d like you to take me to him,” Davis said.

“You’re with him now,” the man finally replied. “
I’m
Thomas Ruth.”

Ruth entered the cruiser and directed Davis into the compound a half mile beyond the gate. “Sorry about the deception,” he
said as they drove. “I make it a practice to learn the agenda before I talk with people I don’t know. Please forgive me.”

“No problem.” The preacher sounded sincere.

As they drove, Davis made mental notes of the layout. Everything was like the schematic in the land records plat: a wide-open
space, a dirt road, several buildings, and a giant granite pit.

They parked by the administration building and exited the cruiser. Davis looked around. There was no one in sight. “Where
are all your people?”

“Chores, prayer, meditation. I thought you were here to see me.”

“I am. You got a cool place we can talk?” The sun was burning through his uniform cap.

Ruth motioned to a covered porch.

They stepped into the shade. Pinholes in the rusty roof let a shotgun spray of light through, but it was cooler. Davis opened
his notebook. “Where were you three nights ago, between eight o’clock and twelve-thirty?”

“Here.”

“You were at the quarry all night?”

The preacher nodded.

“Got anyone who can verify that?” Davis scanned the empty street.

“Is it necessary?”

“I can rule you out as a suspect if you substantiate your whereabouts that evening.”

“I was here.”

“Okay. Give me the name of a person who can vouch for you.”

“We have a rule of confidentiality in this church. Members are assured their privacy will be guarded when they enter these
gates. I intend to honor that commitment.”

“But they could clear you of suspicion.”

“I understand that, but as I told you, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Davis began to speak but held back.

“I am in solitude most of the time anyway,” Ruth continued. “I’m not sure
who
I could get to give me an, uh, alibi.”

Davis made a note. The word
alibi
sounded strange coming from a preacher.

“Did you leave the quarry at any time that day?”

“Which day?”

“September twentieth.”

“I don’t remember. I go outside a lot but can’t say for sure if I did then.”

“Do you keep a diary, a log of your schedule?”

“No. The Bible is my only schedule.”

“Under the circumstances, I
do
need to interview some of your people.”

“I cannot allow you to do that. My lambs are here to escape the evils of the world, and it’s my job to protect them.”

“It could only
help
you to permit it.”

“The word of the Lord is sufficient unto itself. I have done
nothing
wrong.”

“But it’s not the Lord’s word I’m questioning. It’s
yours
.”

Ruth pressed his hands to his temples. “Forgive him, Lord.”

Davis decided to move on. He walked over to several vehicles on the lot. “Which one do you drive?”

Ruth pointed to a late-model Lincoln Continental.

“Mind giving me your car phone number?”

“It’s 775-2828.”

“What cellular company do you use?”

“Mountain Bell.”

Just then a bearded man ran up the street, dressed in a linen robe and sandals. “What’s going on?” he asked, eyeing the uniform.

Ruth tried to take him aside, but he resisted.

“What’s your name, sir?” Davis asked.

“What’s going on?” the man persisted.

“I’ll handle this,” Ruth told him. “Go back to your cabin.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Davis repeated.

“Your cabin!” Ruth ordered.

The man turned and began to leave.

“Wait a minute, sir!” Davis called, moving to catch him.

Ruth grabbed the officer’s arm. “Stop.”

Davis halted and looked at his arm. Ruth had it in a death grip. “Let go, Mr. Ruth!” He reached for his holster.

Ruth released him and stepped back, but the intruder was gone. “You just made a
mistake
,” Davis said coldly.

“I don’t think so.” Ruth’s eyes looked like they could cut steel. “Get off this property and get off
now.

Davis took a step backward. The guy was about to lose it.

Ruth put his hands to his head again. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!”

Davis unsnapped his weapon and backed to his car. He opened the door and got in.

Ruth had not moved. “And the unrighteous shall perish!”

Davis watched for a moment as he started the engine. “I’ll see
you
later,” he said. Then he peeled out in a cloud of yellow dust and raced toward the gate.

Joseph Brown’s funeral had just begun at the Blocktown AME Church. A traditional sect, its members were men and women of Joseph
and Althea’s generation too set in their ways to switch allegiance to Reverend Taylor. The small clapboard building was packed
with mourners, and the overflow—townspeople, relatives, and a hefty contingent of cops—thronged the yard, listening to the
service on loudspeakers. They’d all loved the old man.

Inside the main hall it was unbearably hot. There was no air-conditioning, and the crowd fanned themselves with programs and
hymnals as Reverend Boyd prepared to send Joseph into the heavens.

“We haven’t come here for a funeral,” the white-haired preacher said. “This is a celebration.”

“Yes, sir,” a voice hollered from the balcony.

“The joyous celebration of a man’s life…”

“That’s right!” another voice replied.

“Brother Joseph lived a good man, and he died a good man!”

“Amen!”

Gardner and Jennifer sat in the second row. Ahead were Brownie and his long-lost brother. Dour and sullen, they flanked their
mother like ebony columns. Althea sobbed intermittently into a handkerchief, and the sons alternated comforting her. She was
the no-fly zone in their silent war, and it showed.

Gardner tried to swallow but couldn’t. His throat was too dry. He gripped Jennifer’s hand. She gripped back.

“God called Joseph to him, and Joseph went,” the preacher cried. “Yes, we’ll miss him! Yes, we’ll be sad when we see that
empty chair! But understand, my friends, that he’s in a better place right now than we are!”

“Amen!”

“So we celebrate! We do not mourn! We praise! We do not despair!”

The crowd quieted.

“Joseph Brown was a good man, an honest man, a peaceful man! He was a family man.” The reverend pointed to the Brown delegation.
“He was a kind man, a loving man, an intelligent man! Are you picking up the
word
here, friends? As we celebrate the life of Brother Brown?”

“Yes, sir!”

” Joseph Brown was a
man
!”

“Praise God!” a woman called.

“He had some warts, like all mortal
men
…. Only one man in the history of the universe didn’t have
any
warts, and that was Jesus Christ. But Brother Brown didn’t have
many
, and that’s why he sits by God’s side, and the rest of us sinners still labor in the heat of the world!”

Brownie looked at the preacher and tried to listen to what he was saying, but the words seemed to fade away as soon as they
came out of his mouth. It was hot, but he didn’t feel the heat. It was bright, but he didn’t see the light. All he could see
was his father’s face, alive, and strong, and in another time.

When Brownie was fourteen, his dog died. The dog was only a mixed-breed, but he was gentle, and Brownie loved him. “Can we
get another, Daddy?” he asked.

“Yes, son, “ Joseph agreed.

So they searched the papers for a give-away and found one: “Eight-year-old male collie. Free to good home.”

His father maneuvered the old Chevrolet toward the other side of town. They crossed hills, meadows, and woods, and emerged
on a development of stone ranch houses. SEDGEWICK ESTATES, the sign read.

When they got to the right house, they walked to the door and rang the bell.

BOOK: Raising Cain
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