Signs in the Blood (29 page)

When he was done he just pushed me out the door and I heard it bolted shut behind me. I stumbled down the steps and stood there in the yard with my titties hangin out, my eyes yet blindfolded and my hands yet tied behind me. I knowed it weren't no use to holler, for Mister Tomlin wouldn't care and my family was too far off to hear. And I'd not have them see me shamed like this. So I stood there for a time and worked my wrists thisaway and that till the cloth strips Mister Tomlin had tied me with seemed some looser. Atter a time I could wrench one hand free, then the other and I pulled off the hateful old cloth from around my eyes.

The window I'd clumb out of to run off was open now so I clambered onto the big rock and hoisted myself up, wantin bad to see could I get ary sight of my babe. I had to leap up to try to grab holt of the windowsill and, bein but small, I missed, leavin the clawmarks of my fingernails traced on the logs. When finally I did catch hold and got a toehold on a log as well, I could see the cradle and the fuzz of Malindy's little head.

But Mister Tomlin must of heard the noise I'd made a-tryin to reach the window for he roused himself from off the bedstead where he'd been layin. He staggered as he came for the window and he looked down at me with the awfullest look I'd yet seen him make and said, Cover yourself, harlot. He started to pull the shutter over the window then he leaned back out and said, You're no more to me than a cow, you huzzy, but you can come back at milking time and feed your bastard.

CHAPTER 23

T
HE
S
NAKE
H
ANDLER
 (
W
EDNESDAY)

M
UM,
I
KEEP THINKING ABOUT THIS
J
OHN THE
Baptizer thing. How can I mount a show for a child abuser? If that's what he is. We have to find out. His paintings are so awesome. Anyway, I've got to go to work now . . . I'll come out tomorrow. Why don't I meet you at the foot of Lonesome Holler and we can walk up together and talk to Mary Cleophas. Say ten-thirty. Or if I can I might try to get there earlier. In that case I'll see you up at the cabin. I'll make sure John the Baptizer's car is still at the tent place so we don't run into him. Okay. See you then.”

The message on the voice mail the night before had reassured Elizabeth somewhat. At least Laurel was proceeding with caution in the matter of John the Baptizer. A shiver ran over her as she remembered Laurel saying “He wants to paint me!” and the image of the painting of the nude, pregnant Mary Cleophas rose up in her mind, followed by the memory of the strange infant with its undeveloped twin dangling against its belly.

She had gotten up early to fix some food to take to the girl: meat loaf, macaroni and cheese, green beans cooked with fatback—the sort of meal she thought Mary Cleophas would enjoy. The containers would all stay warm if she packed them in a cooler with towels for insulation. And there was still plenty of time to run to the grocery store and buy some things for the baby before driving up Bear Tree to meet Laurel.

The little pill bottle with water from the rebirthing pool sat on her desk. She had tried several times to contact Hawkins, but with no success. Her night had been restless, haunted by dreams of Cletus and the other drowned man, first at the militia compound, being hunted in the night by men in camouflage, wearing night-vision equipment. Then the dream shifted to the rebirthing pool, and Polaris and the three hunks were saying, “They've seen too much,” as they held her and Sallie Kate under the water, oblivious to the flailing arms and terrified cries that came up in great liquid bubbles of sound.

On her way to the grocery store, she noticed that Dorothy's car was not at Birdie's house.
Probably a trip to the doctor,
she thought.
I hope that's all. I should have called this morning.
She wondered what the laying on of hands had been like, if it had brought Birdie any comfort.
Harice was there . . .
she thought, then abruptly stuck a tape in the player and tried to lose herself in
Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency.

The parking lot at the grocery was unexpectedly full. As she circled looking for a place, she was chilled by the sight of the camouflage-painted humvee that Ben had described. The decal on the bumper was unpleasantly familiar: the USA-shaped American flag, the cross, and the words: “Adam's Sons in the Wilderness.”

Elizabeth parked as far away from the vehicle as she could and hurried into the store. She scanned the checkout stations, but saw no sign of any militia types. Grabbing a buggy, she went straight to the baby food aisle and loaded up a selection of items for a very young baby. On her way to the checkout it occurred to her that Mary Cleophas might like some fresh fruit.

She was assembling a collection of oranges, apples, and bananas when she suddenly heard a familiar voice. Looking up, she saw that Harice Tyler and the buxom young woman who had brought his daddy one of her special cakes were standing by the potatoes. After saying something to the young woman, Harice came toward Elizabeth.

“Mornin', Miz Goodweather,” he said. Behind him the pretty brunette made a disgusted face and flounced toward the front door, abandoning her shopping buggy where it stood.

“Miz Goodweather, I'm goin' to ask one last time, bein' as how the Lord has brought you afore me again: Will you come to church with me tonight and give the Lord a chance?” There was no sign today of the lazy smile, and the dark eyes were implacably hard, not soft.

Elizabeth met his gaze with equal resolve. “Thank you, Mr. Tyler, but no. I guess you could say that what I
don't
believe is just as strong as what you
do
believe. I'm sorry.”

With a derisive snort he turned away from her. Elizabeth watched him go, then went back to her shopping. But she gave him a few minutes to leave in order to avoid yet another meeting in the parking lot.

The humvee was gone. She took a moment to walk around her car and make sure that no obnoxious sticker had been affixed to it this time. Breathing a sigh of relief on not finding any, she got in. She glanced at the clock and decided to drive the short distance down the road to John the Baptizer's tent and make sure that his car was still there.

A portable yellow sign near the road read,
“Baptizing at Gudger's Stand—Sunday 10 am—The One Way Trip to Glory!”
And there, beside the luridly decorated old camper, was John the Baptizer's equally old and gaudy Ford. Elizabeth smiled with satisfaction. She turned around at the nearby gas station and headed back up the road toward Bear Tree Creek. She was looking forward to giving Mary Cleophas a hot meal and talking with the girl about her father.

As Elizabeth neared the river she thought about the coming baptizing, picturing the sinners being led out into the water and then pushed under, to rise up saved. Laurel had mentioned that Cletus had never been baptized because he wouldn't go under the water.
I can understand that. But at the funeral, John the Baptizer seemed pretty sure Cletus was in heaven. Odd that other preacher didn't tell him that Cletus wasn't baptized. Maybe they're giving him the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe they're counting that final immersion as a baptism. . . .

She pictured Mary Cleophas as she had first seen her, like an apparition by the little pool saying, “That there's livin' water; hit kin take you to glory.” The girl was so beautiful and innocent. Was she, as Laurel had suggested, a little simple too? Did she even understand who her baby's father was? Mary Cleophas's description of the living water kept echoing in Elizabeth's brain. Where else had she heard those words? And then she remembered the open grave and John the Baptizer standing beside it saying, “And Cletus walked beside the living water and it was the water of life . . . the waters took him to glory incorruptible.”

“Oh, my god!” she said aloud, pounding her fist on the steering wheel. “What if John the Baptizer wasn't speaking figuratively? What if he was describing what happened?” Suddenly it all fell into place.
The squirrels in the knapsack . . . if Cletus was coming back with squirrels to cook for Mary Cleophas, and her father didn't want anyone to know about her and the baby . . . and the little pool in the clearing . . . how could I have been so stupid as to overlook that? And her father had locked her in the cabin, supposedly to punish her for breaking the lamp, so she couldn't have seen . . . And Aunt Belvy's prophecy . . . two joined in blood and water, two by the hand of the father, two by the false prophet . . . it fits, oh, my god, it all fits. Cletus and Dewey, Mary Cleophas and the baby, the baby itself, two joined in blood—Oh, shit!

She instantly realized that all of her painstaking speculations about Birdie, about the starchildren, even about the militia, were ludicrous.
Motive and opportunity—the killer had both. And Cletus would have trusted him because he's a preacher. He's crazy, of course . . . all that about Mary Cleophas and her child having to stay hidden from the sight of man.

Another certainty presented itself.
And by his twisted logic he could decide to father a child on his daughter like . . . what did Mary Cleophas say? . . . Like when God the Father gave Jesus to Mary. Oh, my god!

She drove on. And as her thoughts swirled and coalesced, only to dissolve and form new patterns, she remembered her first visit to the Holiness church. Aunt Belvy had looked at her with sightless eyes
—Woe to the sinner, she said, and something about death and corruption . . .
then the words came to her:
Her child shall weep in the wilderness.

“Laurel!” Suddenly Elizabeth was filled with the irrational but overwhelming conviction that Laurel was in danger.
She said she'd meet me at ten-thirty or earlier. I've got to get there and get her away before John the Baptizer decides to come along. And Mary Cleophas and the baby, too. Just get them away and we can sort it out later.

She was on the bridge now and she pressed down on the accelerator, illegally passing a pickup truck driven by a very old man going twenty miles an hour. Once on Bear Tree Creek, passing was virtually impossible and she didn't want to be behind this truck all the way to Lonesome Holler.
I've got to get them out of there before John the Baptizer comes back. Something bad is about to happen . . .
She refused to let the words
or has happened
take shape, and concentrated instead on what she would say to convince Mary Cleophas to leave Lonesome Holler.

“If I'm wrong,” she said between clenched teeth, “it'll be embarrassing. But if I'm right . . .” She stopped talking to herself and concentrated on driving as fast as she safely could on this narrow winding road, full of blind curves and precipitous drops along the side. She blared her horn at a nervous chicken that had been going to cross the road but quickly turned and retreated in a squawking feathered flurry.

Elizabeth had taken her foot off the accelerator to brake for a particularly sharp curve when she felt something heavy slide across her left foot.

She knew instantly what it was. The thick musky smell that had emanated from the snake boxes at the Holiness church seemed to fill the car, and the dry whisper of scales slipping over her hiking boot revealed what was riding with her . . .
she shall ride with death,
Aunt Belvy had said. Elizabeth felt the hair on her arms rise and a cold dew of sweat break out all over her body. Moving as little as possible she slowly, minutely, increased the pressure on the brake pedal, easing the car to the side of the road.

Only when the car had stopped did Elizabeth dare to look down. The rattler, only a medium-size one, if that mattered, was stretched across her left foot, moving its triangular head from side to side, as if looking for a way out. She sat there frozen, foot on brake, not even daring to breathe. The car was still running and she found herself hoping that possibly the vibration would be calming to the snake. The desperate thought almost made her laugh aloud.

No sudden moves,
she told herself.
Maybe if I just stay still it'll crawl away.
She looked at the clock on the dashboard. Ten thirty-seven. Laurel was probably already at the foot of the road to Lonesome Holler. But John the Baptizer could be on his way at any minute. She knew that she had to get there and get her daughter and Mary Cleophas and the child away before the evangelist came. And somehow she was utterly certain that he would be coming.

Now the snake was moving. Elizabeth battled to control the shudder that threatened to send her body into a spasm as the rattler slid across her foot and into the little space leading to the backseat. With infinite care Elizabeth moved her hand slowly, excruciating inch by inch, to the door, expecting at any moment to feel the sharp fangs pierce her flesh. Her fingers touched the door and carefully, quietly, she felt for the lock. Holding her breath, she eased the lock toward the off position, hoping that it would disengage silently.

The loud click made her start, and from the backseat she heard the angry buzz of the snake's rattles. Sitting frozen, she waited for the sound to stop. As she began to gather her courage for a sudden leap from the car, she realized that first she must release her seat belt. And the latch was there between the seats—so terribly close to where the rattler must be.

She moved her hands gradually and fearfully—the left to hold the belt and prevent it from winding back with its usual clatter; the right toward the release bar on the latch. Her clothes were damp now with the clammy sweat of fear as she moved her hand closer to the buckle.
I have to do this,
she thought, imagining the double rush of burning venom into her hand. And then her fingertips touched the latch. Praying that it would release smoothly, she pushed the bar; the latch opened with a muffled click.

Immediately her right hand shoved the gearshift into park as her left pulled the belt free and opened the door all with one motion. She swung her legs from under the steering wheel and tumbled out. The next second she was standing on the pavement, breathing hard.

“Okay, now what?” she asked the empty road. It was another four or five miles to Lonesome Holler. Either a car would come along and she could get a ride or
—but what if the driver of the car is John the Baptizer? You need your car. You have to get that damn snake out of the jeep, Elizabeth.

She edged nearer to the open back window, irrationally fearful that the reptile might leap out the window and sink its fangs into her face.
Snakes don't jump like that, you fool!
she assured herself.
Do they?

Cautiously she brought her face nearer the window but she could see no sign of the rattler.
Unless I stuck my head right in . . . and I'm not about to do that . . .
Withdrawing a step, she thought furiously.
If only I had one of those snake-catching sticks like they use. Shit, Elizabeth, if only you had another car, if only Laurel weren't in danger, if only this weren't happening. Stop dithering and do something!

Taking a deep breath, she resolutely grabbed the handle of the back door. As the door swung open, the coiled snake raised the tip of its tail in a warning rattle and lifted its menacing head. Elizabeth stumbled backward hastily.
Not good. If it sees me, it won't come out.

She opened the doors on the other side of the car, then the back hatch. Inside, the snake had stretched out across the floor and was beginning to explore, its questing head trying various escape routes. It was entirely possible that hours could go by before a car would come along. A burning rage filled her, anger at her helplessness, anger at the person who had put this reptile in her car, fury at the mindless menace that held her at its mercy.