Signs in the Blood (12 page)

The old man's eyes roamed over the distant wooded slopes and he smiled grimly. “Course, now I can't get around so good; I can't make it up in the woods. That's why I went to growin' it down here. But Cletus, he could climb like a deer. And he could spot them ole sang plants like one thing. Anybody kin find 'em of a fall, but that Cletus he could find the bittiest little one-prong plant almost before its leaves would open. So we had us a deal; I'd tell him where my beds was, out in them other hollers, and he'd bring me roots and seed and we'd split 'em.” Raym chuckled at some memory. “He was too simple to know how to cheat me and I allus did right by him.”

A shrill whistle sounded from the far side of the field with the shaded beds. Raym Tyler turned, then raised his hand in reply. A tall man with a burlap sack in one leather-gloved hand and a long stick in the other was making his way toward them. As he drew closer Elizabeth felt an unexpected shock of recognition: It was the preacher from the snake-handling church.

“You do any good, Harice?” Raym Tyler asked, and without waiting for an answer, said to Elizabeth, “That there's my son; he's been a-huntin' serpents for his church.”

Harice stared at Elizabeth and then one side of his mouth sketched a smile. “I know you this time,” he told her quietly. He hefted the burlap sack toward his father and answered, “I done all right. Got me three big copperheads up there in that old rock pile where they den up.” The rough brown sides of the bag undulated alarmingly.

Raym shook his head and stepped back. “You get ever one you can, boy. I'll be happy when they're all gone.” He took another step back. “You didn't go over the ridge, now, did you?”

“Well, I was thinkin' on it. Over yon's the best place I know to find them old rattlers. But I figured to stop long of finding these three here.” Again Harice gave the bag a little jerk; again his father took a backward step.

“Now, Harice, you listen to me. You best not go over the ridge no more. You know them new people up there has got posted signs ever'where you look. They're creepin' around them woods with machine guns and I don't know what all and I heared they ain't too particular about what they shoot at.” A thought seemed to dawn on Raym Tyler and he looked at Elizabeth earnestly. “Ma'am, was you fixin' to go askin' questions about Cletus of them folks on Devil's Fork?”

“Well, I—” she began.

“Ma'am, you best stay away from them people. Or get you a man to go with you. Them folks are plumb dangerous. Won't even the law fool with 'em. I'm sorry I can't tell you no more about Cletus.” The old man turned away and spat. Then he turned back toward Elizabeth and declared, “That Cletus was a good boy.”

Harice Tyler stood unmoving, fixing Elizabeth with a sidelong gaze. She felt the same indistinct menace laced with attraction that had so unnerved her at the Holiness church five days earlier. “So you're follering Aunt Belvy's prophecy and seekin' in the dens and rocks of the mountains.” It was not a question. Harice smiled that one-sided smile again but his eyes remained narrowed as he added quietly, “You want to be careful now; you may find yore answer or you may find a nest of serpents.”

Realizing that she wasn't going to get any more useful information, Elizabeth thanked Raym Tyler for his help and headed for her jeep. Raym's son Harice watched her go with his unreadable expression.

“By the way, Mr. Tyler,” called Elizabeth as she opened her car door, “who's Dewey?”

Raym Tyler leaned on his cane and began another bout of gasping laughter. “Harice, when this here lady come, I seen her car and thought it was that ole Dewey Shotwell. I come out of the house, namin' to set the dog on him.” He elbowed his son and wheezed delightedly.

“But who is Dewey Shotwell and why were you going to—?”

“Ma'am, that ole Dewey's the worst sang hunter they is. That man'd dig yore sang even iffen hit was growin' in the floorboards of yore house. Dewey don't care where he hunts nor whose patch hit is; iffen he could he'd dig ever last root.” The older man thumped his cane savagely on the ground. “I done warned him not to ever come up this way.”

When she reached the hard road again, rather than turning to go back to Ridley Branch and the beckoning comforts of home, Elizabeth resolutely pulled out onto the pavement and headed farther up Bear Tree Creek. The poplars and maples, hickories and oaks of the mixed hardwood forest that clothed the lower slopes gave way to more and more dark evergreens: pines, firs, lacy hemlocks, and tall, mournful balsams with gray lichen on their trunks and branches. She was reminded of the primeval forest of fairy tales—the home of the witch in “Hansel and Gretel” or the lair of Little Red Riding Hood's wolf. Shivering in spite of the warmth of the day, she began to look for a place to turn around.

Maybe I'll ask Ben to come back with me tomorrow,
she decided. But now the pavement was ending and there was a heavy metal gate, secured with a chain and padlock. A green county sign read D
EVIL
'
S
F
ORK
—P
RIVATE
R
OAD.
The six-strand barbwire fence strung on either side of the gate boasted a no-trespassing notice on every post. A wooden shed to one side sheltered a call box and another written notice.

Elizabeth stopped her car in front of the gate and got out, intending to read the notice before she turned around. A rustling in the thick growth beyond the fence made her freeze: She looked up to find a lean man with a military buzz cut, mirrored sunglasses, and crisp camouflage fatigues watching her from the other side of the gate. “This is private property,” he said suspiciously. “You looking for someone?”

With a growing sense of déjà vu, Elizabeth explained her business, describing Cletus once again and inquiring if he'd been seen there recently. The man rested his hand carelessly on the pistol in the holster hanging from his web belt. His mouth twisted as he replied, “That half-wit feller that roams around? Yeah, we seen him a couple or so months ago and sent him on his way. We got no use for defectives.”

There was a sudden movement in the tree behind him. The man whirled, drawing his pistol and stiffening. There was a deafening boom and a red squirrel exploded in a bloody mist.

“That's how we handle varmints around here,” the man told Elizabeth flatly, returning the pistol to its holster.

CHAPTER 9

A
NGRY
W
HITE
G
UYS WITH
G
UNS
 (
T
HURSDAY
A
FTERNOON AND
F
RIDAY)

T
HE BOOM OF THE PISTOL STILL ECHOED AND
throbbed in her ears as Elizabeth drove back down Bear Tree Creek toward the bridge. She had been stunned into silence by the wanton cruelty of the man at the Devil's Fork gate.
You should have said something,
she reproved herself. Yet at the same time, she kept hearing Raym Tyler's warning:
“Them folks are plumb dangerous.”
Her heart was racing and she was gripping the steering wheel far too tightly. “Damn it all,” she said out loud, “who
are
those people?”

She spent the afternoon in her garden, first furiously ripping out the old pea vines and then hoeing the rows of broccoli and cabbage with unnecessary speed. The image of the red squirrel on the branch disappearing into a gory haze kept replaying in her brain and she swiped her eyes and hoed harder. Dirt flew as she slashed at tiny weeds, leaning down to pick up small rocks and toss them into the road. A fresh crop of rocks seemed to surface every year:
Like evil,
she thought,
you can't ever get rid of it entirely.
The roar of the tractor coming up the road was a welcome distraction and she dropped her hoe and waved at Ben to stop.

“What's up, Aunt E? You want me to till where the peas were?” He had cut the tractor off and was looking curiously at the row of cabbages she had just hoed. “I thought you just did those last week. You entering some garden competition?”

Elizabeth looked back down the pristine row. “Just working off a little anger, I guess. I ran into a really awful person today when I was out asking about Cletus. If you'd like to have supper with me, I'll tell you about it then. I thought I'd make a stromboli tonight. And yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd do that tilling.” She grinned up at Ben.

The stromboli—homemade pizza dough spread with last year's basil pesto and soft-dried tomatoes from the freezer, topped with thin slices of prosciutto and provolone, as well as grated Asiago—was rolled up and baked brown. The molten cheeses escaped from its fragrant interior as Elizabeth served out the portions. Ben sighed happily as he sipped a glass of red wine. “Thanks, Aunt E, this smells great. By the way, what were you so mad about earlier?”

“Let's just enjoy our meal. I'll tell you about it later.” She filled the blue-rimmed bowls with tossed salad. “If I get started now, I'll just rant. Maybe I can be more rational once I've eaten.”

They had finished their meal and were sipping coffee when Elizabeth asked, “Ben, do you know anything about the people living up at the end of Bear Tree Creek—way up high on Devil's Fork? Raym Tyler, the guy I told you I visited today, was warning me about them.”

“Do you mean those militia assholes? They are serious bad news.” Ben shook his head and went on. “I ran into some of them when I was in Ransom with Julio on Monday. We'd picked up some fertilizer and parts for the tractor—did I tell you that the hydraulics went funky again?—and we stopped in at Sadie's Place for lunch. We got a booth and were chowing down on the meat-and-three special when the guys in the booth behind me started talking really ugly. I'd noticed them when they came in—three of them, all in camouflage fatigues and military boots. And those special drill instructor haircuts, you know—shaved all around and about a quarter of an inch of hair on top.

“I'd heard talk, it must have been almost a year ago, about some kind of militia group moving in up on Devil's Fork, and I hadn't paid a lot of attention but that's what I immediately thought of when I saw these three. Anyway, these jerks were saying stuff about the “mud races” being okay for farmwork but that they ought not to be allowed in restaurants where white men came to eat. I was getting pretty hot, but either Julio didn't hear them, or he just let it roll off. And then their food came and they quit talking.”

Ben got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with the coffeepot. “So anyway, we finish and leave and don't say anything. We go out to the parking lot and there's this goddamn humvee, stupid gas-guzzling monster, and I know it has to belong to those creeps. It's near our truck, and as I go by it I notice this decal on the bumper.” He indicated a five-inch length. “An American flag in the shape of the United States with a big cross growing out of the middle of it. And it says ‘Adam's Sons in the Wilderness—God's People—God's Land.'”

Elizabeth waved away the proffered coffeepot. “So what does that mean?”

Ben poured himself another cup and sat back down. “When I was in my last year of college I did a paper on the ties between the militia movement and the religious right. That name ‘Adam's Sons' rang a bell. So I rummaged around the Internet to see what I could find out. I came across the FBI's Megiddo report on domestic terrorism and it said that these militias think they've been chosen by God to fight during the coming Armageddon. They believe they'll be the last line of defense for the white race and Christian America.”

Ben put both elbows on the table and leaned on them. “These creeps believe that the white race—whatever that is—descended from Adam and Eve, via Abel. They say that the Jews are descended from Cain, who, by the way, they claim was not the son of Adam, but of Satan, in the form of the serpent, and that old sinful Eve. And . . .” he raised a finger as Elizabeth tried to interrupt, “they believe that all the nonwhite races—they call them ‘mud people'—don't have souls but were created by God along with the animals strictly to serve Adam's line.”

“Sweet Jesus!” sputtered Elizabeth. “Where in God's name do they come up with this—this—idiotic—criminal—garbage?

“As you say, in God's name. Where else but the Bible? Their Web page cites chapter and verse for every one of these claims.”

“But . . . but what are they doing here in Marshall County . . . on Bear Tree Creek?”

“Well, they really believe that the end of the world is near. It says in the Bible that before Jesus can come again there will be a huge battle between the forces of good and evil. Naturally,” he smiled sourly, “they believe that the white race—the sons of Adam—are the good guys and they'll be fighting against the Jews and the nonwhite races.”

“But, wait a minute,” insisted Elizabeth. “Jesus was a Jew!”

“Not according to them, and they've got a whole pile of Bible verses they say prove it. Anyway, they're getting ready for this war they see coming, stockpiling guns and food and doing paramilitary training. Evidently, there're little groups of them all over the country.”

“I can't believe this,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Raym Tyler said they even have machine guns up there. Isn't that against the law?”

“For sure.” Ben nodded vigorously. “But these Sons of Adam folks are protected as a religion. That makes the law, including the FBI, a little cautious in how they go about investigating them. Plus there's always plenty of politicians who don't want to do anything to piss off the Religious Right. And while these guys are admittedly on the far, far right, quite a few fundamentalist Christians agree with at least part of their agenda.”

Ben stood up and stretched. “Don't get me started on those lunatics. Just looking at their Web site made me want to puke.”

Elizabeth's first thought on awaking the next morning was of this hate group that had set up shop so close to her own beloved farm.
It's like knowing there's a nest of poisonous snakes out there,
she mused, then corrected herself.
No, it's not. I've always known the snakes were there and they're not evil—they're doing what they're supposed to do and it's up to me to stay out of their way. These guys are something else, something sinister.

Again she saw the red squirrel exploding into nothingness before her eyes. Red, not gray. She had never seen a red squirrel in her woods or anywhere in the area. They were common on the other side of the county where the elevation was much higher.
But there were tufts of red fur on those squirrels in Cletus's knapsack,
she remembered.
And that horrible guy said Cletus had been there a couple of months ago. Could he have been there just before he died?

Various scenarios, all unpleasant, ran through her mind. Finally she decided that it was time to talk to the sheriff in person.
At least I might find out if he's aware of the militia. And the results of the autopsy. And whether they're trying to look for Cletus's shotgun. And maybe I could mention the squirrels.

Sheriff Blaine was scrupulously polite—as an elected official he was always mindful of his constituency—but he was not forthcoming. He welcomed Elizabeth into his office and offered her coffee, his shrewd brown eyes assessing and dismissing her as harmless. The folksy manner he used when talking with Miss Birdie had been replaced with a bland, official courtesy. Even the mountain accent was gone. No, the autopsy had not been performed as yet. Yes, he would notify Miss Birdie as soon as there was information. No, no sign of Cletus's shotgun; it was probably at the bottom of the river and resources didn't allow him to look for it. An accidental death, perfectly straightforward. Yes, he understood Miss Birdie was very upset, but he was certain that once the autopsy was done, the old woman could put her mind at ease. Sorry not to have been of more help.

Yes, he was aware of the group on Devil's Fork. They were a retreat center for a religious group called—he shuffled through some papers in a blue plastic folder—called
the Sons of Adam.
No, he hadn't had any complaints about them. Yes, machine guns were illegal but a perfectly legal semiautomatic was sometimes mistaken for a machine gun by a—he hesitated, looking for a polite word—by someone unfamiliar with weaponry. And as to the squirrels . . . he shrugged . . . well, he could hardly see . . .

Two lights were blinking on his desk phone and he looked pointedly at them as he stood, indicating that the interview was over. Elizabeth was closing the office door behind her when she heard him say into his telephone, “What's this about Dewey Shotwell? Where was he?”

As Elizabeth hesitated, her hand on the knob, she heard the sheriff's voice again, lower this time. “Hang on a minute.” The desk chair squeaked, and the door was pushed firmly shut behind her.

Back on Center Avenue, Ransom's only street except for Cross Road, she remembered that she needed stamps and set off walking down the long block that comprised most of the business district of the small town. A knot of men stood talking excitedly in front of the county courthouse. One man in particular was gesticulating wildly, and she was so busy watching him that she didn't see the tall figure coming out of the hardware store until she bumped into him.

Harice Tyler was carrying a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, the old-fashioned custom of Wakeman's Hardware. The Holiness preacher smiled when he saw the confusion on her face.

“Howdy, Miz Goodweather,” he said quietly. “I had me a feelin' I was goin' to be seein' you again soon. I believe the Lord wants you to come back to our church. I fleeced Him about you and now I've seen you two times in two days.”

“Excuse me.” Elizabeth frowned, flustered by this second unexpected encounter with Harice Tyler. “I don't understand. You did what?” Once again she found herself thinking that this man, under different circumstances, of course, could be extraordinarily attractive.
Bedroom eyes and a terrific smile,
she thought unwillingly.

Harice looked at her with gentle pity. “Hit's in the Word, Miz Goodweather. The place where the Lord sent an angel to tell Gideon that he had to deliver Israel from its enemies. But Gideon warn't sure if hit was really an angel, thought hit might of been a demon. So Gideon fleeced the Lord. He put out a sheepskin and said, ‘If the Lord really wants me to do this thing, He'll make the ground all around the fleece be wet, but the wool, hit'll be dry.' And the next morning, that's just how it was.”

He laughed briefly and continued, “But that ol' Gideon, he wanted to make certain sure. So the next night he put out another fleece and said, ‘Lord, just so I know it's yore will, tonight let the wool be wet and the ground be dry.' And the next mornin' that's how hit was, and Gideon knew there weren't no getting away from what hit was the Lord wanted him to do.”

He laughed again, a humorless sound. “Atter I seen you in church, Miz Goodweather, I kept thinkin' on you till I decided maybe the Lord was tryin' to tell me something. So I put a fleece before the Lord and said, ‘Lord, if you want me to help that sinner woman, bring her before me.' And now I done seen you two days running.”

“What do you mean, help me?” asked Elizabeth, bewildered. “Do you mean about Cletus?”

“Maybe help about Cletus, maybe help you your own self.” Harice Tyler looked at her more closely. “Didn't you hear the words what Aunt Belvy spoke to you when the Spirit was on her? She spoke of death and corruption within your gates.”

He seemed to be looming toward her and Elizabeth took a backward step. His stern expression softened and he said gently, “But there's always hope for a sinner.” He turned to go, calling back over his shoulder, “You bring Sister Gentry back to church and could be you uns'll find what yore seekin'.”

“Mr. Tyler!” Elizabeth called out. “You could help me with one thing.”

Harice Tyler turned slowly. “What might that be, Miz Goodweather?” He looked amused.

“Red squirrels,” she replied, without thinking. “Are there red squirrels on your father's place?”

“Red squirrels?” Tyler frowned. “You mean them boomers? Now what for do you want to know about them? Boomers likes the high-up places where the firs and the balsams grow. Only red squirrels I know about on this end of the county is up on Devil's Fork and beyond.”

As she continued on to the post office, Elizabeth's thoughts were racing.
Those squirrels must have come from the militia place. So Cletus was there before he died. And what the hell is Tyler up to? Does he have some information about Cletus? . . . Could he have seen him out in the woods up at his father's place? . . .So why doesn't he just tell me? . . .Why make all this mystery? And I
hate
being called a sinner, even when I know it's just a generic term for anyone not in their church.