Midnight Grinding (26 page)

Clinton Harpe turned and fled. He left the dark church and plunged into the dark tangle of the deep forest. Like a lunatic, he tore through the woods along the moonlit channel of Devil’s Creek. The sound of his screams rang through the Tennessee hills and hollows, as well as the cries of evil rapture vented by the Church of the Alternate Father. Like Old Boone, he shot through the darkness of night, chasing an elusive target known as sanity. He could sense it ahead, dodging and darting, swiftly slipping from his grasp.

***

Hours later, Clinton found himself sprinting through the corn stalks of his back field, heading for the farmhouse at a dead run. He tripped, fell, got back up and continued on. The house was dark, nary a light in the place. He struggled to understand why, then realized that it must be two or three o’clock in the morning. No lights would be burning at such an ungodly hour.

He crossed the back porch and flung open the screen door. As he raced through the kitchen and down the hallway, toward the bedroom of his daughter, he found himself wishing for the power to scream as he had in the wilderness of Devil’s Creek. But he could not. All he could do was wheeze breathlessly as his feet pounded the hardwood floor and his hands groped through the darkness for the proper door.

Clinton found the brass knob and nearly tore the door from its hinges.
It was all a terrible nightmare,
he fought to convince himself, like a lawyer trying to defend a hopelessly guilty man.
She’ll be here, tucked safely in her bed and sleeping.

Then the palms of his hands reached out for the bed and, instead of finding the warmth of his daughter’s slumbering body, they found only the cool emptiness of clean white sheets. “Oh, Lord God!” he wailed at the top of his lungs. “Why did they take her? Oh, Lord in heaven, why
her?”

But as Phyllis appeared next to him, eyes wide with fear and hands clutching at his thrashing form, he knew why they had taken his beloved Nellie Sue. It was because of
him
that she had fallen prey. It was because of his discovery of their evil coven and his interference with their most sacred and secretive ritual.

“What’s wrong?” shrilled Phyllis in his ears. “What’s happened?”

But he could not bring himself to answer her. He could not bring himself to do anything at all…except surrender to the dizzy pull of darkness that drew him into the depths of comforting oblivion.

***

When Clinton Harpe awoke it was still dark.

He stared up from where he lay across his daughter’s empty bed and looked up into the faces of Phyllis and Sheriff Boyce Griffin. At first, he was confused by their presence. Then the night’s horrors reclaimed his thoughts and he lurched to his feet, grabbing at the front of Boyce’s khaki uniform shirt.

“Oh, God, Boyce, I was right!” he groaned. “I was right about what I saw last night! And I paid for it…with my child!”

“Calm down, Clinton,” urged the lawman, putting his hands on the farmer’s lanky shoulders. “Just calm yourself down and tell me what this is all about.”

Clinton sat on the bed and began to tell the sheriff about that night’s horrifying events. By the time he was finished, he was nearly in hysterics again. He searched for compassion and reassurance from those around him, but his tears distorted their faces and he could not tell whether they truly believed him or not.

For a long time they simply stood and stared at him. Then Boyce gently took him by the arm and helped him to his feet. “Do you feel up to taking a ride out there?” asked the sheriff grimly.

“Yes,” gulped Clinton, wiping away his tears. “Yes, I’ll go out there with you. We’ve gotta make those bastards pay for what they did tonight.”

It wasn’t long before Clinton found himself sitting in the back seat of the patrol car. Oddly enough, Phyllis chose to accompany them to the scene of the heinous sacrifice. She rode silently up front with the sheriff.

As they headed along the state highway toward the southern end of Bedloe County, Clinton sat there numbly, breathing raggedly and staring straight ahead. Soon, his mind began to grow clearer and his distress over Nellie Sue was replaced by a more immediate sense of alarm.

In the green glow of the dashboard light, Clinton began to notice startling similarities between the two who rode up front. Similarities like the way they both wore long sleeves, even in the broiling heat of summer, and the fact that he had never seen the bare flesh of their arms exposed in the light of day.

And there was one other thing. For the first time, Clinton realized how very much Phyllis and Boyce resembled one another. They had the same jet-black hair, the same dark eyes, the same swarthy complexion. They could have easily passed for brother and sister.

Clinton Harpe leaned his head back on the cushioned seat and screwed his eyes tightly shut, knowing that there was no escape as the patrol car headed down the deserted dirt road toward Devil’s Creek. He lifted a trembling hand to his throat and felt the fragility of the flesh and muscle, as well as the pounding pulse of the blood-engorged arteries within.

And he found himself thinking of the flash of moonlit steel and the dark altar of that unholy backwoods church.

IMPRESSIONS

IN OAK

Everyone’s got something in their past that they’d just as soon keep in the dark.

Sometimes it’s little things: a word blurted in anger or a blow thrown in the heat of the moment. Then there are other shames of a larger nature: teenage theft or vandalism, lurid behavior due to alcohol and drugs, or crimes committed.

Some folks succeed in putting their indiscretions behind them. Others are still tortured by past wrongs, years or even decades later. Every now and then, just when you think it’s hidden away forever, a face from the past comes back to haunt you.

Bullshit!” said Todd Hampton with a wave of dismissal.

“It’s true,” declared Darrell Yates. “I saw it with my own eyes!”

Todd took a long draw of draft beer from his mug, then wiped the foam of the head from his beard. “Aw, why don’t you just give it a rest, Darrell. You know that crap about the face on the tree is just an old wives’ tale and that’s all.”

The lanky truck driver glared at his buddy, who sat at the far end of the tavern’s long bar. “I’m just telling you what I saw, Todd. It was her, big as day, staring at me from the trunk of that big black oak on the Old Logging Road. The girl went to high school with me. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

Todd laughed out loud. “And I reckon you could tell the color of her hair, too, ain’t that right?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah,” said Darrell. He poured two fingers of Jim Beam into a shot glass and downed it as if it were buttermilk. “Auburn red it was, just like I remember back in school.”

“Like I said before,” scoffed Todd with shake of his head. “Pure, Grade-A bullshit!”

Darrell’s lean face turned as solemn as stone. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Hell, no!” said Todd. “But liquor can cloud a man’s mind sometimes. You know that as well as I do. When you’ve enough whiskey in your system, you could end up seeing pert near anything.”

“I was stone-cold sober!” claimed Darrell. “I saw it, I tell you! I swear I did.”

“Saw
what
, Darrell?” asked a voice from the far side of the barroom. “What did you see?”

Todd and Darrell turned toward the front door and instantly grew silent. Danny Ray Fulton had entered the honky-tonk during their bantering debate and they hadn’t even noticed. Darrell stiffened up and stared at the bottom of his empty shotglass, afraid to look up. Todd, on the other hand, glanced over at the tall, broad-shouldered man. Danny Ray was one of the many unchanging aspects of Hawkshaw County. The big man with the oily shock of black hair and the brooding eyes looked the same as he had for the past fifteen years. His daily schedule was as predictable as his physical appearance. He worked all day laying asphalt for the state, then spent what little free time he had at the Roadhouse Saloon, drowning his troubles in hard liquor and mournful country tunes on the jukebox. Everyone at the Roadhouse understood why Danny Ray drank so much.

They would, too, if they were married to a bed-hopping whore like Lizzie Fulton, and had to put up with a squawking brood of five snot-nosed kids, half of them not even the product of his own loins.

All eyes in the tavern—except for Darrell’s—were on Danny Ray as he slammed the door behind him and crossed the room to the bar. His muddy brown eyes, which held that customary expression torn somewhere between angry contempt and hang-dog misery, centered on the lanky truck driver as he chose a stool and sat down.

“I asked you a question, Yates,” he said flatly. “Exactly what did you see out on the Old Logging Road?”

“Nothing,” mumbled Darrell. “I didn’t see nothing.”

Danny Ray knew the man was lying and also knew the reason why. “You’ve been talking that crap again, haven’t you? That bullshit about Betsy Lou.”

He glanced over at Todd Hampton for confirmation, but Todd was keeping out of it. His eyes were centered on his work-callused hands and the day’s worth of dirt that had accumulated beneath the fingernails.

“What about it, Stu?” Danny Ray asked the bartender. The middle-aged man with the bald head and the collection of faded tattoos on his brawny arms stood behind the bar, thumbing through an issue of
Hustler
.

Stu Kilpatrick, who had never liked Darrell or his habit of idle boasting, grinned with tobacco-stained teeth and nodded his head.

Danny Ray’s rage cranked up a couple of notches. “What did I tell you about spreading those damn rumors, Darrell? That tree up yonder is just a tree and nothing else.”

The liquor in Darrell’s stomach momentarily quelled his fear of the brawny road worker and he glared boldly into Danny Ray’s eyes. “How the hell would you know? You ain’t been up there lately, have you? The last time you were up there on the Old Logging Road was the night it happened…the night you killed Betsy Lou Brown.”

Danny Ray lost his temper then. His big, work-hardened fist lashed out, catching Darrell across the bridge of his nose. With a yelp, Darrell fell back off his barstool, blood running freely from his nostrils. He hit the floor hard on his ass with enough force to make his teeth rattle.

Before Danny Ray could make his way around the corner of the bar and do more damage to Darrell Yates, Todd Hampton jumped up and grabbed hold of the man’s arm. Danny Ray whirled, his fist cocked back, but he refrained from acting when he saw the warning look in Todd’s eyes. Danny Ray was a big man, but Todd was bigger by fifty pounds and had a reputation in Hawkshaw County as a man not to be messed with.

“I’d suggest you just calm down, Danny Ray,” said Todd. He gradually released his hold on the man’s arm. “Ol’ Darrell, he’s just liquored up and talking trash. He didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Then he oughta keep his mouth shut,” grumbled Danny Ray.

“Yeah, you’re right,” agreed Todd. “He should. Listen, Danny Ray, everybody in the county knows what happened that night and they know you weren’t responsible. That curve out on the Old Logging Road is a real sonuvabitch. Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

From the dark expression in Danny Ray’s eyes it was plain to see that the man didn’t want to talk about it. He turned to the bartender and laid money on the counter. “Just give me a bottle of Wild Turkey, Stu, and I’ll be on my way.”

Stu set the bottle of liquor on the bar, then counted out Danny Ray’s change. “I don’t mind you sticking around,” he told him. “You’re welcome here any time, just as long as you don’t cause trouble.”

“Naw, I think I’ll just go on home,” said Danny Ray. He directed a withering glare at Darrell Yates, who still sat on the floor, holding a hand to his bloody nose. “I might just get the urge to turn rowdy again. And that might be dangerous for one of your customers.”

Danny Ray grabbed up the Wild Turkey and stalked toward the front door. Before he stepped out into the humid night of the Tennessee summer, he regarded Yates once again.

“Remember what I said, Darrell. Keep your mouth shut about that damn tree.”

When Danny Ray had left, Darrell picked himself up and reclaimed his place on the barstool. “Crazy asshole!” he cussed. “He’s got a short fuse, that’s for sure.”

“Shut up, Darrell,” said Todd. “Danny Ray’s a good man. It’s just that some fellas can only be pushed so far. And, if you ask me, Danny Ray’s been pushed way too far already. A helluva lot farther than most men could handle.”

***

Lizzie was at it again. Danny Ray knew it when he saw Fred Larson’s Chevy Blazer pulling out of his driveway. Fred was a cocky bastard. He even grinned and waved at Danny Ray as he drove past.

The compulsion to turn his own Ford pickup around, run Fred off the road, and beat him half to death crossed Danny Ray’s mind, but he fought down the urge. He had acted on similar whims before and they had only netted him public disgrace and short terms in the county jail. Danny Ray let his truck idle in the road for a long moment, his knuckles white with anger as he clutched the steering wheel tightly. He waited for the violent impulse to pass and, a few seconds later, it finally burned itself out.

Danny Ray turned into the gravel drive and drove to the shabby single-wide trailer that he had bought, used, after he and Lizzie had gotten married. He parked his truck, seeming to be in no hurry to enter the place he called home. He broke the seal on the bottle of Wild Turkey, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, burning swig of the amber liquor. He sat there for a while, staring at the lighted square of his bedroom window. Behind the drawn curtains, the silhouette of Lizzie flitted back and forth, first rearranging the linens of their bed, then spraying the stale air of the room with Glade, attempting to mask the tell-tale scent of sweat and sex with the overpowering odor of potpourri.

Danny Ray waited until the bedroom light winked out. He took a couple more swallows of whiskey, then left the cab of the truck. He crossed the unmowed yard, mounted the junk-cluttered porch, then let himself in through the front door.

The living room was dark, except for the glow of the 25-inch Magnavox in the far corner. Danny Ray’s five youngsters—ranging from ages two to nine—lay on the filthy carpet, snacking on pretzels and cherry Kool-Aid while they watched a late night talk show. It was already an hour and a half past their bedtime, but their mother didn’t seem to care. She was stretched out on the couch in her housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers, sipping a Coors Light while she watched TV with the kids.

Danny Ray stood in the doorway for a long moment, totally ignored by the members of his family. Then he marched across the room, took the remote control from where it lay on the coffee table, and cut the television off with a press of a button. The action brought a mutual moan of disappointment from the children, but they grew silent when they saw the stormy look in his eyes and the bottle in his hand.

“To bed,” he told them flatly. “Now.”

No protests were uttered as the five jumped up from the floor and headed down the hallway to the two bedrooms they shared. When Danny Ray heard the last door slam shut, he turned to Lizzie, scarcely able to contain his rage.

Lizzie took a sip from her beer and stared back at him curiously. “Does that go for me, too?” she asked sarcastically.

“No, you’ve already been to bed once tonight, haven’t you?” he asked her.

“What do you mean?” replied Lizzie. She smirked as she took another swallow of beer.

Danny Ray stepped quickly to the couch and slapped the can from her hand. It spun across the room, landing in a threadbare armchair and splattering its cushions with beer. Lizzie flinched at the blow at first, then gathered her nerve and laughed in his face.

“You whore!” growled Danny Ray. He loomed over his snickering wife, his hand raised overhead, on the verge of striking again. “Sleeping with every man who’ll buy you a six-pack or a carton of cigarettes…and in front of your own children, too.”

Lizzie’s laughter was hard-edged with cruelty. “That’s right. And why the hell not? You sure ain’t gonna satisfy me like I want to be. Dammit, Danny Ray, you can’t even get it up half the time.”

“Shut up!” said Danny Ray. His fist quivered, aching to plunge down into the center of her sneering face.

“I ain’t gonna do it! Not this time!” Lizzie’s jaw jutted in defiance. “You know as well as I do what your problem is. Or, rather,
who
it is.”

“Don’t say something you might regret, Lizzie,” warned Danny Ray.

“Well, it’s true, ain’t it?” said his wife bitterly. “You’re still in love with her. Still in love with a woman who’s been dead for going on fifteen years.”

Danny Ray suddenly felt his rage turn into deep despair. “Don’t say that. It ain’t right you should say such a mean-spirited thing.”

“Don’t make me out to be the wicked witch!” yelled Lizzie. “I tried to make this marriage work when we first got hitched. I really was crazy about you back then and that’s no lie. But trying to compete with
her
for your love just got to be too damn much for me to handle. If she were a living, breathing woman, maybe I’d have a chance. But how can I fight a corpse? Why don’t you tell me that, Danny Ray?”

“You’re wrong, Lizzie,” he told her dully.

“No, I ain’t,” replied his cheating wife. “I’m right on the money.” She left her spot on the couch and turned toward the hallway. “I’ve had it up to here with you, Danny Ray. If you love Betsy Lou Brown so much, why don’t you go on over to the graveyard and pay her a visit? Take that shovel out of the tool shed and dig her confounded carcass up. Maybe there’s enough left of her for you to screw around with.”

A few moments ago, such a remark would have incited Danny Ray toward violence. Killing violence. But his rage had dissipated. A great sadness settled atop his broad shoulders like an unbearable weight as he watched his slutty wife shuffle off toward their bedroom at the rear of the trailer. He wanted to hurt her at that moment, wanted to make her beg for forgiveness for what she had said about Betsy Lou. But he just couldn’t seem to muster the energy necessary to do that.