Devil's Playground (33 page)

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Charlie offered, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Just watch yourself. I get the feeling, the Reverend doesn’t play by the rules.”

“Billy I can handle. It’s that Carl Angelo creature that bothers me.”

“Sam?”

She turned to see Father Tom approaching. “Father Tom, I’m sorry I got so angry, but that man infuriates me.”

“It’s OK.”

“I wanted to shoot him.”

“I’d have absolved you if you had,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

She smiled and hugged him. “I love you.”

“Come on,” Father Tom said, “I’ll buy you guys some coffee.”

“I’ll pass,” Charlie said. “If it’s OK with Lisa and Mark, I’m going to go see Westbrooke. Maybe he’ll move Garrett’s sentencing up and we can get him out of here and put an end to this exorcism crap.”

“Good idea. I’ll go with you,” Lisa said.

“Me, too,” Mark agreed. “I’ve wanted to get rid of Garrett ever since I got stuck with his case.”

Sam and Father Tom waved to them and walked toward Starbucks.

*

Lanny Mills hated Reverend Billy. He hated his arrogance and pompous self-importance. He hated his church and its fake righteousness. But, most of all, he despised his self-indulgence, giving himself to food, alcohol, and young women. Girls younger than Lanny’s own daughter.

But, he admired Billy’s confidence and ability to get what he wanted. He never let anyone or anything, even his own conscience, deter him. He had balls. Lanny could overlook Billy’s shortcomings, if he could help Lanny get what he wanted.

Lanny led Billy to the corner of the room, out of everyone else’s earshot. “That didn’t go well,” he said.

“Quite the contrary,” Billy beamed. “It went perfectly.”

“How so?”

“They’re angry and confused. That leads to mistakes. Political miscalculations.”

“They’ll never give up Garrett.”

“Sure they will. Another day or two and the town will be ready to storm the jail and demand Garrett be given over.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Trust me.” Billy laid a thick hand on Lanny’s shoulder. “I have experience in such matters. Garrett will be mine, I will recoup my expenses and then some, Sheriff Walker will be out of a job, and this fair city will have a new sheriff.”

*

Sam and Father Tom stepped into Starbucks. The aroma of fresh coffee met them at the door. Sam ordered a cappuccino and he a mineral water. Carrying their drinks, they moved to a corner table.

“How are you doing, Sam?” Father Tom asked.

“Been better. I’ll be glad when this madness is over.”

“It has been tough on everyone. Church attendance is up,” he smiled. “Of course, we miss having you there.”

“I know. Maybe this Sunday.”

“We’ll see,” he chided.

She sipped the cappuccino, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

“You know you can.”

“Is Satan real? Does he really exist?”

“Let me ask you. Is God real? Does He exist?”

“Of course.”

“Then, Satan must exist. If you believe the Bible...that it is a Holy work inspired by God...then you must believe all of it. Not just parts.”

“I guess what I mean is, does Satan actually exist here on Earth? Does he take over people’s souls? Make good people evil?”

“I believe that can happen. I also believe that God’s love can defeat Satan.”

“And Beelzebub?”

“Yes. Many believe they are one and the same.”

“I thought one was the master and the other the servant.”

“The distinction is unclear. Regardless, they are both merchants of sorrow. Whether they are separate entities or merely two faces of the same, each is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Could Richard Earl Garrett be a pawn in this?”

“Who knows? It’s certainly possible.”

“Do you believe Garrett could change?”

“We all can change. Those who have lost their faith can always restore it and find their way back to Jesus.”

She knew he was talking as much about her as he was Garrett. He would never come right out and say so, but she sensed his disappointment in her leaving the church. He seemed to take it as a personal loss.

“Exorcisms. Do they really work?” she asked.

“The Lord works in many ways. I have never been a proponent of the Exorcism Ritual, but the principle of God casting out Satan, I do believe. I feel that change is best accomplished internally by opening your heart to Jesus, rather than through some external ceremony.” He smiled. “But, I could be wrong.” He leaned across the table and took her hand. “These are heady subjects for such a young woman.”

She debated whether to tell him of her dreams and the dreams of the others and of Nita Stillwater’s slant on good and evil, but decided against it. Maybe later. “I’m simply trying to figure out what’s going on around here and rational explanations don’t seem to work.”

“I see.”

They sat quietly for a minute, then Father Tom said, “Is it Connie’s death that has you so confused?”

“Partially.”

“And the rest?”

“The other murders. The trial. Everything. This isn’t supposed to happen here. Maybe LA, but not here.”

“Evil knows no boundaries,” he said.

“I guess.”

“It can even come disguised as good.”

“Reverend Billy?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

“I think he’s more dangerous than Garrett.” She wiped a dribble of coffee from the side of her cup with a napkin. “At least with Garrett, you know what he is. Can see him coming. Billy works differently.”

“Mankind’s history is replete with examples of atrocities performed in the name of God. The Inquisition. The Crusades.”

“And now, here. Billy is turning the town against us. Just like Nathan said he would.”

“Ah. Mister Klimek. A nice looking man, isn’t he?” Father Tom said with a twinkle in his eye.

Sam wiggled in her seat as if she had been caught talking in Sunday School. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Is he a religious man?”

“He’s Jewish.”

Father Tom smiled. “We can forgive him for that. Is he a good man?”

Sam had never considered that question before, yet she knew the answer immediately. “Yes. He is.”

“That’s what counts. Religious affiliations are choices. Character and goodness are innate.”

“Don’t let the Pope hear you say that,” Sam laughed.

“Rome is a long way from here,” he smiled.

After saying goodbye to Father Tom, Sam headed up the street toward her office. The cloud cover had thickened and darkened and begun to release a fine mist of cold rain. She noticed a crowd had gathered at the corner in front of the bank. Reverend Billy stood on the top step addressing them. She had hoped her council room tirade would slow him down a bit, make him reassess his position, but apparently, it had rolled off his fat body without leaving so much as a dent. She had to admit the man had balls. As Sam approached, Billy’s words became intelligible.

“You must regain control of your own lives, of your own community. You must rip the evil that is Richard Earl Garrett from your souls. Only then can you be saved.” He opened the Bible he held. “From the book of
Psalms
:

‘Lift up thyself, thou judge of the Earth;

render a reward to the proud.

Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?

...They slay the widow and the stranger,

and murder the fatherless...

Yet they say, the Lord shall not see...’

He paused and looked down upon the gathering. “But, God does see. He has felt your pain and has answered your prayers. He has sent me to show you the path to your salvation. Demand of your sheriff that Richard Earl Garrett be delivered for his judgment so that Satan can be driven from him and from your lives. It is only through me that Satan can be cast down into Hell where he belongs.”

Sam waded into the crowd, colliding with Blue Eyes, who carried a basket, half filled with bills. She grabbed the girl by the arm and spun her around. “Give the money back,” she barked. “Panhandling is illegal here.”

“Now, just a minute.” Billy clamored from his perch, Carl Angelo at his side. “Donating to the church is not panhandling.”

“Billy, I’m not going to argue the finer points of the law with you. Give back the money and break up this little lynch mob.”

“We have the right...”

“No, you don’t. And you don’t have a permit for this gathering. And you cannot incite a riot or organize a lynching.”

“We are hardly a lynch mob,” he said, self-righteous indignation oozing from every pore.

Sam caught a glimpse of Lanny Mills at the corner of her gaze, which remained locked on Billy. Lanny eased into a position behind and to the right of Billy. Not close enough to be considered part of the argument, but near enough to signify which camp he was in. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wrinkled pants, an act which accentuated his paunch, and rocked slightly on his heels, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Sold his sole to the devil, Sam thought.

“That’s exactly what you are,” Sam snapped at Billy. She turned to the crowd. “You people go on back to your work. The Reverend’s sermon is over.”

“Haven’t you heard of the separation of church and state? We have the Constitutional right...”

Sam turned, stepped close to Billy, and glared at him. “You have the Constitutional right to keep breathing and that’s about it.”

“Our church is protected by the First Amendment.”

“Your church,” she spat, “is a traveling carnival and it has worn out its welcome.”

She sensed the shadow of Carl Angelo as he moved around and behind her. His thick fingers gripped her left arm tightly like carnivorous jowls. “Be careful, little lady,” he said, his voice coarse, menacing.

“Let go.” Sam attempted to yank her arm free.

“And if I don’t?”

She reached for the .357 Smith and Wesson that lay against the small of her back, but Carl clamped his other hand on her elbow and pulled her to him. His body felt like a concrete pylon and his hot thick breath played along her neck as he whispered. “Be nice, little girl, or you might get hurt.”

“Let go of me, you fucking animal.” Sam attempted to twist from his grasp, but he pinned her arms to her side with his massive hands.

“You’re not listening to me,” he hissed.

“Let her go!” Charlie’s welcome voice bellowed from behind them.

Carl released his grip. When Sam turned, she noticed Charlie had slipped the safety strap that secured his Colt .45 free. His hand hovered near the weapon.

Charlie froze Carl with a glare, then turned to Reverend Billy. “Now, pack up your troops and get out of here. There ain’t going to be any lynching today. Clear?”

Reverend Billy and Carl looked at each other, then back at Charlie. “Let’s go, Carl,” Billy said. They headed toward Billy’s bus, which sat a block away along Main Street. Blue Eyes inverted the basket she held and money fluttered to the street. She glared at Sam, turned, and followed Billy, wobbling on her platform shoes.

“Thanks,” Sam said to Charlie, rubbing her arm where Carl had gripped her.

“My pleasure,” he said with a wink. “Fact is, I was kind of hoping that Billy or Carl would try something foolish.” He patted his Colt. “Could’ve solved a lot of problems right here.”

“Looks like Nathan was right,” Sam said.

“Oh?”

“He said Billy would turn the town against us.”

“He’s trying.” Charlie tugged his hat down a notch.

Sam eyed Lanny walking away, chatting with a reporter. “And I smell Lanny up to his ass in all of this.”

“No doubt about that.” Charlie stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth and shoved it over to one corner. “It’s about time for the funerals. You ready to head over to the cemetery?”

“Let me check on Penelope and Melissa and I’ll meet you there.”

*

Surreal was the only word for it. Mercer’s Corner had never seen a day like this one before. First, the tearful goodbyes from Lupe, Maria, and the rest of the Rodriguez family as Juan and Carlos were lowered into the ground. Then, the solemn procession that shuffled the 100 yards to John and Connie Beeson’s gravesite. Four burials in one day. Definitely a first. Even stranger, everyone would return in two days to bury Roger and Miriam Hargrove and Betty McCumber.

Before going to the cemetery, Sam had met Nathan and the girls at her office. Penelope had received a clean bill of health from Cat Roberts. They decided Nathan and the girls would do some grocery shopping while Sam attended the funerals, then meet back at her office. After that, they would go to Sam’s and Nathan would make dinner.

Now, Sam stood next to Charlie, staring at the two rectangular holes in the ground. Three hundred people huddled under a canopy of umbrellas, while Father Tom spoke, saying what each of them already knew. John and Connie Beeson were good and loving people, valued friends and community leaders, and would be greatly missed.

The solemn group seemed as if of one mind. Each stood stiffly, no shuffling of their feet, no talking, eyes cast downward, always downward, as if eye contact would be too painful. The only movement, the occasional dabbing of a tear or the tugging of a tie that was suddenly too tight or the fidgeting of a child who wished to be somewhere else, doing something fun.

Sam’s eyes were directed toward the ground, also. She watched rain puddles form in the mounds of freshly turned dirt beside the graves. Some pockets broke containment and plunged over the edge into the dark rectangular pits.

That’s how she felt. As if she stood on a slippery precipice staring into an unfathomable void. As if the abyss drew her toward it. As if the gateway to Hell waited to devour her.

As Father Tom continued his prayers, her thoughts turned to Connie and to her mother, buried only steps away from where she stood. What she remembered most about her mother’s ordeal was the beginning. That moment, sitting in the doctor’s office in LA, the cancer specialist, she and her mother clutching each other’s hands, the doctor uttering the word. Positive. The word had come at her angry and hostile and direct, causing her to flinch, her mother’s hand to tremble.