When Death Draws Near (18 page)

Missing was some industrial-strength deodorant. “I don't suppose in your wandering around camp that you overheard how long this revival lasts?”

Aynslee's mouth was open in horror at the nightgowns. “Am I supposed to sleep in
that
?”

“Yes, and be grateful we're not sleeping in our clothes. We smell like horse and smoke. And soon we'll reek of sweat. Now, to answer my question?”

“Morning baptism. Singing and praying and stuff after lunch. Another service tomorrow night, this time with communion and foot washing.”

“Maybe I can opt in for whole body washing. In the meantime, I'll just have to stay downwind of everyone.” Starting with the sleeping bag, I inspected it for spiders, snakes, and other critters. I did the same for Aynslee's bag, then moved on to examining the tent from top to bottom. Satisfied the area was clear, I turned off the lantern.

“What did you do that for?” Aynslee asked.

“I'm getting into my nightie. I don't need to give anyone a silhouetted show.” And if anyone were watching, they'd see my
silhouette was that of a boy once I took off my bra. What would Blake, or any man, think about that?

Tugging off my crumpled blouse and skirt, I draped them as flat as possible on the webbed floor of the tent. Cool air chilled my skin, and the nightgown, smelling of sunshine and fresh air, felt soft and warm. I slipped inside the sleeping bag and fluffed up the pillow. I thought about Blake and snuggled deeper into the bed.

“Why can't Sarah talk?” Aynslee asked.

“What?”

“Sarah. Why can't she talk?”

I made an effort to shift gears. “I don't know exactly. As I understand it, she stopped speaking when her sister died several months ago.”

Aynslee was silent for a few moments. I thought she'd fallen asleep when she spoke again. “I think she wants me to be her sister.”

“That's very perceptive of you.”

Again Aynslee was silent. Finally she said, “That's the first time in . . . like, forever . . . that you've given me a compliment.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that's not true! I think the world of you and I love you more than you'll ever know. I tell everybody what a great person you are.”

“Ya gotta say it to me, Mom. I need to hear you say it.”

I lay in bed a long time, staring into the dark.

THE RICH AROMA OF FRESHLY BREWED COFFEE
pulled me from my restless sleep. The gray light in the tent spoke of early morning, but Aynslee's sleeping bag was already empty. I dressed, shivering in the cool, damp air, and wrapped Blake's coat around me.

Aynslee, with her Sarah shadow, was sitting beside Ruby at a campfire. Ruby nodded at a blue enamel coffeepot perched on a rock next to the fire. I found a cup and helped myself before sitting down.

“Did you sleep well?” Ruby asked.

“Well enough, thank you. Thank you for the nightgowns and toiletries.” Coffee grounds filled the steaming brew.

“It's camp coffee,” Ruby said, noting my expression. “Add a bit of cold water to the top and the grounds will settle.”

I found the water and did as she suggested. It worked. “Aynslee told me you would be baptizing this morning, with
worship throughout the day. Maybe we could work on the drawing of Samuel before all that begins.”

“Yes.” She smiled at me. “First have some breakfast, then we'll start. And, once again, thank you.”

Soon all of us were again seated beside the fire while we consumed overflowing platefuls of eggs, bacon, and grits. I was growing quite fond of grits. They seemed to be an excuse for eating massive amounts of butter.

“Ruby,” I said, noticing one of the men who'd handled snakes the night before. “I heard somewhere that . . . well . . . you might force someone . . . or say a child . . . to follow the Mark 16 signs.”

“Oh my heavens, no.” Ruby put her plate down and ran her hand down her daughter's hair. “Children are not allowed to be near the serpents until they're eighteen. And you need God's anointing to do any of the signs. I've handled serpents, but unless I'm anointed, I'm terrified of them.”

“Really?” Her comments were completely opposite of what I'd been told. “So that's why there aren't any children here?”

“Just Sarah. After what happened to, well, you know, I don't want her out of my sight.”

Had I been lied to about the practices here, or was it an honest mistake? I itched for my sketchbook and a chance to write down my thoughts, but Blake wandered over, smiled, and waved at Aynslee before looking at me.

My hand flew to my hair, checking for tangles or cowlicks.

Blake's grin grew wider.

I stood up abruptly. “I need to use the restroom. I'll be back.”

“I'll be here when you're ready to start the drawing.”

Thinking about spiders and snakes in the woods, I debated
testing my bladder's capacity, but Aynslee was already giggling at my hesitation.

Straightening my shoulders, I marched toward the toilet paper marker.

Ruby had pulled two webbed lawn chairs together near the stream by the time I returned. The low murmur of conversation around the campfires formed a pleasant backdrop. Birds called each other from the trees, and the smell of smoke from the fires drifted on the crisp October air. The sun warmed me, and I slipped off the jacket, then settled next to her with my Bristol paper and HB pencil. I handed her the first sketch I'd done of Samuel. “What changes should I do to make this drawing look more like your son?” While Ruby studied the drawing, I roughed in the face on a fresh piece of paper.

“His eyes,” Ruby said. “They looked more sleepy. And his lips were fuller.”

I gave the sketch heavy lids and changed the mouth. “What else?”

“He had such a sparkle about him. He loved the Lord.”

The sparkle would be a larger highlight in the eyes. I wasn't sure how to draw “loving the Lord,” so I tried a hint of a smile. “Okay.” I continued sketching.

“I miss him so.” Ruby was staring at the burbling stream. “I miss all of them.”

I paused in midstroke. “All of them?”

“Folks who were here last year from our church family. Most of them went to Jimmy and Mamaw's church. Pretty Twyla Fay . . .”

I sat up straighter. “What happened to Twyla Fay?”

“Oh, I just go on some. Never mind me.”

I'd never heard of Twyla Fay, but I wanted to follow up on
her comments. I continued to sketch until the hum of voices along with the clatter of chairs indicated breakfast was over and baptisms were soon to start.

Ruby nodded slightly downstream to where the creek formed a small pool. “The baptism will be there. You can watch from here . . . unless . . .” She gave me a slight smile.

“Unless what?”

“You'd like to be baptized?”

“Thank you for the offer. I'm covered.”

“Many of our members get rebaptized. Like a rededication to the Lord.”

“Thank you, but I'll just use the time to work on Samuel's drawing.”

She patted my knee, stood, and strolled toward where people were gathering.

I recognized the six snake handlers from the night before. No one seemed to be paying me any attention, so I turned to a clean sheet of paper and sketched thumbnails of each person. Under each thumbnail I jotted notes on hair and eye color, clothing, mannerism, and anything else to help with the identification.

Someone touched my shoulder.

I jumped and snapped my sketchbook closed.

Aynslee grinned at me. “Scared ya, didn't I?”

“A bit.” Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, I tore out the thumbnail sketches and placed them in the back of the pad.

She took Ruby's chair. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What would you think if I got baptized?” She twisted her fingers together.

“Well, depending on whether snakes are involved—”

“They're not. I asked. It's just water and stuff.”

I touched her shiny ginger hair. “I'd be very proud of you.”

She smiled. “You're getting better at it.”

“What?”

“Saying nice things to me.” She stood and raced toward the gathering.

I made an effort to shut my mouth. Had I really stopped telling my only child how much I cared? How proud I was of the young woman she was becoming? I put the drawing pad down and slowly followed.

Blake was sitting on the opposite shore, watching. I pretended not to see him. I was way too aware of his presence.

The pastor and another man were standing in the middle of the pond in waist-deep water. A line of seven people, of all ages, dressed in white robes, waited their turn. One by one they would wade into the chilly water.

A sudden memory assaulted my brain: another cold stream, the acrid odor of skunk cabbage, the howl of wolves.

I couldn't catch my breath. My legs grew rubbery. I sank to the dewy ground and put my head between my knees.
It's okay. I'm safe
.
Get control
.

After a moment, I sucked in air and stood. From across the creek, Blake looked at me strangely. Shoving down all my thoughts, I focused on the baptism ceremony.

Once the white-robed candidates reached the center of the pool, they would turn to the people on shore and give a short testimony of a changed life or recite a Bible verse. They would then pinch their nose with one hand, grab their wrist with the other, and be gently submerged backward by the two men.

“I baptize you in the name of the Lord Jesus,” the pastor recited each time.

Aynslee took her place at the end of the line. The woman in front of her hugged her, and a man standing nearby gave her a high five.

Although I was delighted Aynslee made this decision, I wanted to ask her,
Why here?
Our church had baptisms every month. She'd never shown an interest.

Soon it was her turn. She waded to the center, turned, and nodded toward me. “My mom,” she said clearly, “has a favorite verse. She posted it at home, and when things were really bad . . .” She swallowed hard. “You know, she'd say it. I think it's something to live by.”

I blinked rapidly.

“It comes from Hebrews 12:1, ‘Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.' ”

My vision was too blurry to see the actual baptism.

As Aynslee left the water, the preacher offered a prayer, then led the congregation in song. The newly baptized retired to change from their wet clothing.

I headed to our tent to find my daughter. I had so much to share with her. I found her partially dressed, still trying to dry off with the hand towel. I hugged her tight.

“S'okay, Mom. I can't breathe.”

I let go.

“Is it time to eat yet? I'm starving.” She raced from the tent, swinging her black socks in one hand and shoes in the other.

So much for a long, meaningful conversation.

Lunch appeared to be a mountain of sandwiches and fresh fruit. I snagged something on whole wheat, a banana, a large slice of pie, and a paper cup full of water, then returned to my chair beside the stream. The voices around the campfires behind me were muted, and the aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of apple pie.

I wished Blake would come over and sit with me. Maybe I could explain . . . what?
Maybe I'm more damaged than even Robert thinks.

The sandwich was now a lump in my stomach. I set the paper plate and cup aside and picked up the sketchbook from the chair where I'd left it. Opening it, I evaluated the drawing of Samuel. Almost done. I just needed to tweak the values. I looked for the thumbnails of the snake handlers.

The page was missing.

I JUMPED UP AND SPUN IN A CIRCLE, CHECKING
for anyone nearby. No one paid me any attention. Everyone seemed to have divided into small groups around the dying campfires and were enjoying a leisurely lunch.

Had the sketch blown out of the pad?
Impossible
.

Anyone finding that sketch would know I was recording the snake handlers. What would they do? No one knew where this revival was . . . or that I was here. Something could happen to me and no one would even know where to look.

Was Aynslee in danger?

Ruby and several other women had stopped chatting and were staring at me. I realized I was pacing along the creek bank. I stopped and made an effort to smile and wave. They waved back.

Sweat beaded on my upper lip. Clearly Ruby hadn't taken the thumbnails. It must have been Blake. He was suspicious of me from the start. I must have misjudged last night.

And I just gave him proof that he was right.

The campers, at some unseen signal, again moved their lawn chairs to the outdoor church. I could see the raised podium area and the first row of chairs. They would be occupied for some time. Maybe I could find Aynslee, saddle up the horses, and get out of here during the service.

Right. I had no idea where to go.

What if I made something up about the thumbnails? I could say I was practicing my drawing.

Not with the descriptions under each thumbnail
. Okay, what about researching for a book?

The pastor's voice carried clearly, as did the guitars and tambourine. This was my chance to escape if I was going to try. But I needed to find my daughter. If she was sitting with the congregation, I couldn't see her from here.

The preacher exhorted, prodded, and encouraged his flock. It wasn't long before people were dancing, running, twirling, and speaking in tongues.

One of the men reached for a snake box.

Sucking in a breath, I moved closer to the gathering, seeking Aynslee. This time I spotted her in the back row, Sarah on one side and Blake on the other.

The pastor held up two handfuls of snakes before handing them to several other men. He kept one, which he draped across his head.

I tried to get Aynslee's attention.

The same woman from the night before again lit the rag in the bottle and ran it under her chin, then waved her hand over the open flame. The odors of burning kerosene, sweating bodies, and dust drifted on the light breeze.

A heavyset man in a blue T-shirt and gray dress pants,
hands waving over his head, moved to the card table on the podium, lifted a mason jar of clear liquid, and drank. The music drummed on, verse after verse sounding the same. The snakes, passed from hand to hand, would curl, stretch, and weave their heads in the air, tongues flicking.

My heart thudded rapidly with the music, my mouth dry. I couldn't stop watching.

The man in the blue T-shirt now spun in dizzying circles.

Ruby joined the men, taking a snake from the pastor. She danced in a small circle, snake dangling, then returned it to the preacher. Her face was expressionless.

The spinning man staggered, and two other men caught his arms and helped him to a chair. The pastor snatched up the mic, pounded the card table in time with the music, and joined in singing. Sweat stains dampened his shirt around his armpits and down his back. He wiped his face with his sleeve and continued to pound. Dust rose as more and more worshipers moved into the open area between chairs and podium, weaving, bobbing, twirling. The music blared from the speakers while a cacophony of voices intensified.

Then, as if all sound were snatched away by the hand of God, silence.

The crowd parted. The man in the blue T-shirt lay on the ground, convulsing.

I found myself pushing through the gathered worshipers. A circle of praying men and women surrounded the prone man. The worshipers nearest him were kneeling. Convulsing on his back with only his head and heels touching the ground, the man's face was bluish, with lips pulled from teeth covered in foam. His eyes bulged.

“He needs a doctor!” I screamed. “Someone get a doctor!”

No one looked at me. The praying increased, now with many speaking in tongues.

Someone grabbed my arm and yanked. I tripped and almost fell. Tearing my gaze from the stricken man, I found Blake hauling me away. “Let go of me! That man needs help.” His grip grew stronger. My feet barely touched the ground.

Blake continued to drag me until we were a distance from the crowd, then spun me toward him and grabbed my other arm. “Stay out of it, Gwen.”

“He's dying!”

“It's his choice.”

“He's choosing to die? Did you ask him?” My face burned.

“He's not choosing to die—he's choosing prayer.”

“Prayer?” I tried to jerk away from him. “D-don . . . don't you get it?” I swiped at the tears on my face. “Prayer doesn't work!”

He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “What does work, Gwen? The law? Jail time?” He let go of one arm, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a torn-up sheet of paper. A portion of one of my thumbnail sketches was on top. “How much are you being paid?”

A collective moan came from the congregation, then a woman's voice rose in song.

I grabbed at the torn paper, missed, and again tried to get away.

Blake, jaw clenched and lips thin, tightened his grip on my arm.

I punched him in the chest and felt something break.

Keeping hold of me with one hand, he reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a broken pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses.
He glared at me before dropping them back into his pocket and dragging me toward my tent.

Once there, he shoved me inside. “Those people who put you up to this, they lied to you. They're not the protectors you think they are. Now stay put until I come back.”

Waiting until his footsteps receded, I dashed for the opening. Another man stood just outside. When he spotted me, he shook his head.

Retreating inside, I sank to the cot.

Aynslee appeared, face flushed. “Now look what you've done! You got caught, didn't you?”

“I—”

“I like these people. They're nice. They listen to me. They make me feel like I belong.”

“But—”

“I'm glad they found out. You need to leave them alone.” She charged outside.

My head pounded and stomach ached. I remembered Blanche's words:
“Who knows what they'll do if they find out why you're really there.”

But Blake was right. Whether I'd been deliberately lied to, or Blanche and Arless were misinformed, the only ones needing protection were the members themselves.

And now me. Blake saw me as the enemy.

Calling voices, the clanking of metal, and the roar of ATVs surrounded me. Every few minutes I'd peek outside to see if the guard was still there. He always was. The sun warmed up the tent, increasing the smell of musty canvas and my own unwashed body.

After an eternity, Blake returned. He wouldn't look at me. He motioned for me to follow him.

Once outside, I jerked to a stop. Most of the camp and people were gone. A few folks were still packing their ATVs. Blake marched over to where he'd saddled the horses. Aynslee held the bridle of her mount, impatiently shifting from foot to foot, not looking at me.

I kept my head down. Blake wordlessly helped me mount. The bay decided not to challenge me with another rodeo bucking session and calmly followed the other horses. Someone, probably Blake, had gathered my art supplies and purse contents into the bag now hanging from the saddle horn.

We rode in silence, leaving me with my grim thoughts.

Even though Blake had torn up my sketches, I could draw all the faces of the serpent handlers. But did I want to?

Wellington's voice played in my head.
“. . . the children will be forced . . . burned, poisoned, and bitten by snakes.”

Ruby's words countered him:
“Children are not allowed to be near the serpents until they're eighteen. And you need God's anointing to do any of the signs.”

“Just because you were wrong, Wellington, that doesn't mean they shouldn't be stopped,” I muttered.

What about the First Amendment?
Beth joined in the mental argument.
The free exercise of religion?

“But people are dying, Beth. I saw one die today!”

“It was his choice,”
Blake had said.

He was following the Bible,
I heard Beth's voice say.
The very words of Jesus.

“Drinking poison isn't safe.” I slowed my horse so Aynslee, riding just ahead of me, couldn't hear. “Nor is handling a bunch of poisonous snakes!” The horse's ears flickered at my soft words.

Then should we pass laws,
Blake muttered in my brain,
outlawing everything that isn't safe? Where there's a risk? Car racing? Mountain climbing? Skiing—

“Stop it! All of you. I need the reward money.”

Blood money,
Blake murmured.
Your thirty pieces of silver—

“People. Are. Dying,” I whispered fiercely.

The voices had no response to that, but something in that mental argument bothered me. People
had
died. I had the list back at the cabin. Before I redrew the serpent handlers, I should review the police reports.

I relaxed and urged my mount to catch up. I would suspend making a decision on the drawings until I could look into it more.

We were almost in sight of the corral when Aynslee finally spoke. “Ruby and Elijah invited us to dinner tonight.”

Blake looked over his shoulder. “I haven't told Ruby and Elijah about the drawings.” His voice was hard. “I think you should be the one to tell them.”

We walked the horses next to the corral to unsaddle. I slid off, then held Aynslee's mount while she did the same. We tied the horses to the top rail, and I walked over to where Blake was unsaddling his horse. “Blake.”

The look he gave me made me step backward. “Look, I'm sorry.” I reached out my hand.

He turned his back on me.

How much bigger a mess could you make your life right now?
I unsaddled our horses, fumbling through blurred vision.

Blake moved the tack to the front of the two-horse trailer, then pulled out a fresh bale of hay. After pulling off the baling twine, he broke up the bale and distributed it to the corner horse feeders.

He didn't bother with blindfolds on the drive to Ruby and Elijah's house, which turned out to be only a few miles from the corral. Blake must have driven around the day before to throw us off.

It was close to four when we arrived. Sarah had to have been sitting by a window. She flew out the front door when we pulled up, followed by her parents. Sarah grabbed Aynslee's hand and led her to the porch.

Blake gave Ruby a swift hug, then drove off without a backward glance toward me.

Ruby came over to me. “Looks like you two had a bit of a spat.” She patted me on the arm. “Come on in and have some supper.”

“Ruby, Elijah, um, I need to be alone right now.”

Ruby's eyebrows furrowed. “Oh dear, this sounds serious.”

“It's okay. It's a . . . case I'm working on.” I hated to lie, but this was
almost
the truth. “I need to look at something . . . um, read a case file. Could I leave Aynslee here? Just for an hour? I won't be long.”

“Certainly. We'll hold dinner for you.”

“No. Don't do that. I'm not hungry. I just need to check something out. I'll be back shortly.”

“Of course.” She patted me again on the arm.

Jumping into the cab, I started the engine, put it in gear, and drove off without looking back. I didn't want, or need, to talk about anything with Ruby. Not yet.

I drove to the cabin. The first thing I did was check the phone. Still dead, but Aynslee's cell was where she left it on the table. I took a long shower, washing away the last traces of dirt, campfire smoke, and horse. Now feeling human, or at least not
a stink monster, I pulled on a pair of loose-fitting gray sweats, a baggy off-white fisherman's knit sweater, and fuzzy slippers. I'd dress formally, as in put on shoes, when I went back for Aynslee.

The long skirt and blouse reeked. Without laundry facilities or even a dirty clothes hamper, I hung them over a chair on the porch to air out.

Something rustled in the woods nearby. I stepped into the cabin and searched for the flashlight, then reached into my purse and grabbed my key-ring flashlight. My tiny beam illuminated a startled raccoon grubbing under a tree. It scampered off. Grinning, I put the key ring into my pocket and went back inside.

I picked up the stack of files and the book on Pentecostals, then sat at the kitchen table. I looked again at the list Clay had made for me of recent deaths. I opened the file. The first name on the list was twelve-year-old Mary Adkins, Sarah's sister, and the oldest daughter of Elijah and Ruby. She was poisoned.
But how?
I read the report. According to her mom, she couldn't have been poisoned during a church service.

The autopsy report stated the cause of death was strychnine.

I grimaced. That was a horrible way to die. Her parents and older brother were ruled out as suspects. They'd been visiting family in West Virginia, leaving the two younger girls with their grandmother. Was this an accident? Maybe she'd found her parents' stash of poison.

I read further. She'd been at her grandmother's house in Pikeville. According to the report, Grandma was Catholic. She'd cooperated and allowed the police to search her home and grounds. No sign of strychnine.

Kids don't usually find a stash of strychnine while playing and decide to drink it. Someone had to have given it to her. And that made Mary's death murder.

According to the reports and notes, the investigation was stalled. The signature at the bottom of the last page was Junior Reed.