Southern Cross (5 page)

He
caught me in the calf and dug in deep. If I shouted, thrashed, or tried to
fight the bastard, the others would come at me and I’d be done. All the same,
the time to wait passively for someone to come to my rescue was clearly behind
me. The snake snapped back after striking, still watching me anxiously. I
started to creep along the wall toward the window. My leg was on fire, the pain
searing. I fought to stay calm while the snakes slithered back and forth across
the floor in a rhythmic dance.

I
reached the window. There were shelves beneath it—I had no idea if they were
sturdy enough to hold my weight, but I didn’t have a lot of choices: I could
already feel my leg swelling, pain radiating down my foot and up past my knee.
Sweat ran down my back, the air stifling as I managed to find a foothold and
pull myself up. I used my hammer to knock the glass from the window, dimly
aware that the rattling was getting louder below me once again.

The
second strike only caught the heel of my boot, but I was moving too fast for
the fangs to penetrate. I pushed myself through the narrow window and somehow
managed to avoid breaking my neck when I fell headfirst to the ground below.

Apparently
the dispatcher had followed through and called Buddy, because the others were
on their way to my rescue before I hit the ground. I opened my eyes to find
Solomon looking down at me, the damn dog licking my face.

“What
the hell are you doing down there?” she asked.

George
was already headed around to the front of the shed to open the door. I shouted
after him. “Keep it shut—snakes!”

A
little melodramatic, maybe, but effective. Solomon’s eyes widened. She’d
sobered up in record time. “So the call Buddy just got was real?”

“Someone
locked me in. There are rattlers in there—three of them. I got tagged in the
leg.”

She went
pale. George returned to my side as soon as the words were out.

“All
right son—let’s have a look, and Buddy here,” he nodded calmly to the deputy
standing on the sidelines. “He’s gonna run and get the car. I got a first aid
kit in the kitchen,” he said to Solomon. “Go on and get that, and we’re gonna
keep him nice and still.”

Solomon
and Buddy took off at a run. George rolled my pant leg up and carefully removed
my boot and sock. Solomon returned a minute later with the first aid kit. She
followed George’s gaze to my calf, but there was no revulsion or panic when she
saw the bite. So, that was a good sign. Of course, Solomon spent her formative
years helping her mother stitch up fishermen all along the Maine coast.
Medically speaking, there wasn’t a lot that made her panic.

She
laid her hand on my head, brushing the hair back from my forehead. “Just
relax,” she said easily. “And count your blessings the medical community
decided sucker-fishing the poison out of people is a bad idea.”

“I
think you should count your blessings on that one, actually,” I said weakly.

Buddy
came tearing into the yard shortly thereafter, and he and George helped me to
the car. I sat in the back with Solomon, leaning back against her with my leg
stretched out on the seat.

“Shouldn’t
someone who’s not drunk be driving?” I asked.

“Don’t
you worry about that,” Buddy said, calling back over his shoulder. “I switched
out to water ‘bout two hours ago, just didn’t tell y’all. I was too ashamed
being outdrunk by your girlfriend there.”

Solomon
checked the swelling on my leg for the twelfth time, then lay her hand against
my forehead. “Still no nausea? Dizziness? Chills? Inexplicable craving for live
rodents?”

I
closed my eyes. “No… on all of the above. I just want to know who did this.”

“And
you’re sure it was a rattlesnake?” Solomon pressed. “Because gopher snakes—”

“It
wasn’t a gopher snake,” I bit out. “I may not have the symptoms you listed, but
it feels like my goddamn leg’s being eaten by fire ants. Gopher snakes don’t do
that.”

“It
was rattlers all right,” Buddy confirmed. “I got a look at ‘em before we left,
just to make sure. What in hell are they doin’ out this time of year, anyway?
They’re not common in these parts anytime, but this early I don’t know why
they’d be hangin’ around at all.”

“They
weren’t hanging around, Buddy,” I said. “Someone dropped them through the damn
window and locked me in. Why they’re out this time of year really isn’t the
thing to be obsessing over.”

“No,
I s’pose not,” he agreed grudgingly.

“You
guys didn’t hear anyone?” I asked. George had gone uncharacteristically silent.
I shivered, a wave of nausea running through me. Solomon wrapped a blanket
around both of us, her body cradling mine.

“No
more questions,” she said, loudly enough to include the others up front. “No
more talking. Just be still,” she whispered to me. I could feel her heart,
beating too hard; maybe Solomon wasn’t so calm after all. The thought was oddly
comforting. She continued stroking the hair back from my forehead.

“You would’ve
been a good doctor,” I mumbled.

“Well…
you would’ve been a terrible patient,” she returned. Her lips brushed against
my temple—or I may have imagined it. I closed my eyes, Solomon’s arms around
me, her body cushioning mine, and focused on being still.

<><><> 

I was
in the hospital overnight, waiting for symptoms beyond excruciating pain to
develop.

None
did.

No
swelling, no fever, no vomiting, no chills.

It
wasn’t until Buddy came in at nine the next morning that I found out why.

“What
do you mean, the snakes belong to Jesup Barnel?” I demanded. It had been a long
night of needle jabs and strange nurses and—since I refused the morphine drip
they recommended—pain.

Buddy
shifted uncomfortably. “I guess the sheriff got a call from Reverend Barnel
last night,” he said. “Sayin’ somebody got into his snakes. He’s got a license
to milk ‘em—for the anti-venom, you know? But he told the sheriff somebody
stole a few just after they’d been milked last night. That’s probably why you
didn’t show no symptoms: you got a dry bite.”

“Bullshit,”
I said. “He’s behind this—you know him. It would be just like him to take three
of his neutered rattlers and lock me in with them to teach me a lesson. Test my
faith.”

“I’m
not saying you’re wrong,” Buddy said. “I’m just sayin’… he’s got a story, too.
An alibi. His butt is covered.”

“His
butt’s always covered,” I muttered.

“Who
the hell is this guy?” Solomon demanded. George had gotten a ride back to
Justice with Buddy, but Sol had been camped out by my bedside for the better
part of the night. Her good humor wasn’t faring well as a result. “I know you
and Wyatt met at his extreme church camp or whatever—but clearly there’s more
to the story than that.”

“It
doesn’t matter,” I said shortly. “It wasn’t the most sane week of my life.
Let’s just leave it at that.”

She
narrowed her eyes at my tone, her lips pressed into a tight, pissy little line.
“Don’t bite my head off. It’s a valid question.”

“And
it brings up something I wanted to talk to you about last night,” Buddy interrupted.
“But I didn’t want to talk about it with George there. I thought we’d do it
down to the station today, but maybe this is better. Less chance of the sheriff
walking in on us.”

“Wyatt’s
case?” I asked.

He
handed me a short stack of manila folders. “That’s the files,” he said. Solomon
came over and sat on the edge of my hospital bed. I opened the top file and
tried to remain impassive. Half a dozen 8x10 crime scene photos of Wyatt’s dead
body didn’t make that easy.

“Mae
called in about two a.m. Saturday night, weekend before last,” Buddy began.
“She said Wyatt wasn’t home yet, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone. I got
a bad feeling right then—I’ve seen newborns can stay away from their mama
longer than that boy could stand bein’ away from Mae.”

“And
after that?” I asked. “What happened after you got the call from Mae?”

“I
took Floyd—our other deputy—and we headed out to the Burkett farm straightaway.
That was Wyatt’s last call; he was out tending a goat he had to put down. When
we got there, Wyatt’s truck was still there. Jenny Burkett told me he’d been
around long enough to take care of the goat… and then he just up and
disappeared.”

“And
they didn’t see a sign of anyone?” I asked. “The Burketts?”

“Their
place is set up so you gotta travel about an acre and a half between the barn
and the main drive. Jenny was back in the barn with the kids. From what I can
tell, Roger was sleeping one off just then.”

Solomon
furrowed her brow, but she didn’t say anything. I knew what she was thinking:
an emergency trip from the vet seemed like a prime opportunity for some spousal
support. Or at least a brief cameo from the husband. Chances were good there
was a story as to why Roger Burkett hadn’t shown his face.

“Okay,”
I said. “What happened then?”

“Well,
we scoured the countryside for a few days, with no sightings and no sign of
Wyatt. Then along about eleven Wednesday night, we got a call.”

“They
found him,” Solomon said quietly.

“Laid
out at the junction of I-69 and Route 45 in a new suit a size too small, hands
on his chest like he was just taking a Sunday nap.”

“The
junction of 69 and 45,” Diggs repeated. “That’s, what, an hour from here? How
is this even your case?”

“It’s
not,” Buddy said. “Not technically, anyhow. We got the KSP on it. Since Wyatt’s
from here in Justice and he went missin’ from here, they promised to keep us in
the loop.”

“And
what’s the official cause of death?”

“Overdose
of ketamine,” Buddy said. “It’s that club drug, you know the one.”

“Special
K,” I said. “Not exactly a drug running rampant on the streets of Justice.”

“Never
had one case of it that I know of ‘round here,” Buddy agreed. “But it’s also
used as a sedative by vets.” He looked uncomfortable. “Looks like they might’ve
stolen it from Wyatt’s practice: some went missin’ about a month ago. Anyway,
the coroner says Wyatt’d been gone maybe twenty-four hours by the time we got
to him.”

Which
meant for seventy-two hours while Wyatt had been missing, he’d been alive. I
scratched my chin. Buddy eyed the photos nervously, as twitchy as a virgin
bride. Solomon caught my eye. She’d noticed it, too.

“So,
what aren’t you telling us, exactly?” she asked.

Buddy
shifted uneasily and looked from Solomon to me. “She’s got the eye, huh?”

“Nobody
better,” I said. “Short of me, of course. She’s right. There’s something you’re
not telling us.”

Buddy
nodded toward the photos. “Wyatt wasn’t in bad shape when we found him—I mean,
so far as the body goes. Neat and clean… peaceful-like, strange as that
sounds.”

“Except…”
I prompted.

He
frowned. “He had a mark on his chest—a cross that’d been there since he was a
boy.”

“Like
a tattoo?” Solomon asked. I didn’t have to probe any further, though. I knew
just what he was talking about. 

“Not
exactly,” Buddy said uncomfortably. “More of a… brand, I guess you’d call it.
You seen it before?” he asked me.

I
nodded silently.

“Well,”
Buddy said. “Somebody cut all the way around that cross. Then they took off the
skin on his chest like it was just some patch, turned it one hundred and eighty
degrees, and sewed it back on like that.”

My
stomach rolled. Buddy looked at me.

“You
all right?”

“Yeah,”
I said quickly. Solomon was watching me like she knew better. I took a breath
and kept going. “So, they turned the thing into an inverted cross?”

Buddy
nodded. “Coroner says it was done post mortem, thank the good Lord.”

I
went through the photos with Solomon. Pale flesh; rough, uneven stitches; a
raised cross turned upside down, branded into the skin just below Wyatt’s
collarbone. I looked at Solomon, trying to determine whether she’d made the
connection. My cross wasn’t really recognizable as a cross anymore, but the
scar was in the same place as Wyatt’s. The same size. Solomon kept her gaze
fixed on the photos, giving me no clue whether she’d figured it out or not.

“This
whole thing’s got me worried,” Buddy said. He scratched his head. “Fact is,
this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this done.”

“You
mean the cross excised and turned upside down?” I asked. “Where else have you
seen it?”

“Years
ago now,” Buddy said. “I pulled the file after I saw it on Wyatt. It was back
in ’02: Marty Reynolds. He was forty-two at the time. Two kids, and a run-down
farm out toward the outskirts of town. There was a rumor he killed his first
wife—he said she walked out on the family, though, and there was never an
official investigation. Rumor was he done it, though. There weren’t too many
people cryin’ at his funeral, if you know what I mean.”