The Skull Ring (7 page)

"Party?"

"They made a ring of blood on the ground and poured out a star shape in the middle of it. Devil worshippers, the cops called it. Never did catch nobody."

"Did it ever happen again?"

"Not on that big a scale. They got reports now and then, dogs mutilated and such as that. Cops said some of them devil worshippers was known to actually
drink
the blood." The man's face wrinkled in revulsion. "Kindly hard to believe, ain't it?"

"Not in this crazy world," Julia said. "Did you ever hear of any mutilations of people?"

"Hell, that was Texas," he said. "People would throw down on each other with knives over which model of pickup was best. Sometimes they'd whittle a fellow right down to the bone."

"Do you think somebody in Elkwood is killing animals?"

He shook his head. "It can't happen here. Not in a town like this. They’re good, God-fearing folks who live by the Bible."

"That's what they say everywhere," said Julia.

"Excepting Los Angeles. And maybe New York."

Julia smiled and nodded. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Cole. Look for the story next week. It'll be the piece that's so warm and fuzzy that fluff will drift off the pages."

"I sure appreciate it, ma'am."

He called after her as she headed for her car. "Sure you don't want to take one home with you?"

She paused with the car door open. She scanned the entire shelter, the tiny shack that served as the office, a larger shed that housed the cats, the cinder block-and-wire kennels for the dogs. The dogs by the fence were sitting now, except for the little white dog with the furry butt. Its tail whipped back and forth, the dark eyes shining in some secret game.

Don't make me feel guilty
, she mentally commanded the dog.
That's all I need is another thing to worry about. I've got enough on my mind. Like my own selfishness. That takes up ALL my time, you little Fido or Fidette.

"I don't think my lease allows it," she said to the manager.

"Well, you think about it." He waved.

"I will," she said, getting in the car.
I most definitely will.

As she drove back to town, she thought of what she'd written in her journal this morning, wondered if it was the kind of thing Dr. Forrest wanted. She'd awakened on the first brittle cry of the alarm, the clock having kept time through the night. Even before going to the bathroom and brushing her teeth, she opened a notebook and wrote down her dream.

The same dream.

The one of the bones hidden under the floor.

The floor wasn't the one in her house, or of any house she had lived in. It was of long wooden planks, tongue-in-groove hardwood. For some strange dream-reason, she had to keep the secret of the buried bones from others. She was pretty sure she hadn't buried the bones, hadn't killed anyone, but that part of the dream wasn't very clear.

Maybe Dr. Forrest would know what it meant. Dr. Forrest had helped her decipher an earlier dream, one where Julia was pregnant and a snake was trying to take her baby. According to the Freudian interpretation, the snake was her father, and the fetus was herself as a small child. Therefore, Julia's father had stolen her childhood, and was the one to blame for Julia's current disorder.

She was still thinking about her father when she pulled into the parking lot of the
Courier-Times
office. The afternoon sun was behind her, and she saw her reflection coming to meet her in the glass of the front door. Did she look like her father? She could scarcely remember his true face, only the one she had fashioned out of dim memory. Was he alive? Why had he left her? How much of him still lived on in her? How much should she hate him?

She shivered, even though the day was warm, and went inside. Rick was waiting in the chair beside her desk.

"Hey there," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. And thanks for last night. I really needed to get out."

"Yeah, I could tell. Maybe you need to get out more?" He leaned toward her, smiling, as she sat.

"Are you asking me?"

"Maybe," he said.

"You know I'm engaged, right?"

He waved his hands as if brushing aside a cobweb. "You've been here four months, and I've not seen any sign of this knight in shining armor. He can't be too big a part of your life."

Julia booted up her computer. Rick finally decided she wasn't going to take the bait. "So, what did you think of my Satanic murder theory?"

"Pretty creative," she said. "I guess you're going to need a little evidence before you run it. Or even get editorial approval to stick with the chase."

Rick sat back and put his hands behind his head, sprawling in the chair, casually accepting her rebuff. "The
Independent
is all over this case. Sometimes I hate being a weekly. They beat us on almost everything. Except they aren't working the Satanic angle."

"They don't have time for the depth of coverage that we get, either."

"The cops identified the victim."

Julia nodded, half-listening, clicking her way through her files. "Poor guy."

"Charles Edward Williams. Age 39. Last known address, Memphis, Tennessee."

Julia froze over her keyboard. "Memphis?"

"Your old stomping grounds. Is it known as a hotbed of Satanism?"

"Well, aside from Elvis selling his soul to the devil and Richard Nixon . . . and we all know how
that
turned out."

"Eternal life on a hundred thousand collector plates and black velvet paintings, but in exchange, he had to die drugged out on the porcelain altar."

"You are so delicate, Rick."

"Yep. Journalism hardens your heart, and that explains everything,” he said, shifting into a mocking tone. “How long did you say you've been a reporter?"

"Very funny. Do the police have any new leads?"

"No. They've shipped the body off to the state medical examiner's office. Should be able to tell if the guy was drugged when he died. If the Brotherhood used him as a sacrifice, they probably had to drug him pretty heavily."

"Unless the sacrifice was voluntary. What's this 'Brotherhood' business?"

"One of the names Satanists use for their group."

"Boy, even Satanists are sexist. What's the world coming to?"

Rick's face grew serious. "Are you religious?"

"More spiritual than religious," she said, expecting Rick to ask which church she attended. She considered telling him she was a Scientologist or Moonie, something offbeat that might throw him off the scent. "I believe in a higher power. I just don't think you need an escort to get you there, and you don’t have to kiss the Pope’s ring, the Buddha’s feet, or Pat Robertson’s ass.”

Rick nodded and smiled. "Sorry to put you on the spot. Some people get touchy about things like that."

Julia almost asked Rick about his spiritual beliefs, but decided against it. What if he'd only taken her out to dinner to try to convert her? She liked the idea of being desirable company better than that of looking like a lost soul. Too many people lately had seemed hell-bent on saving her. "Well, for the sake of intellectual argument, I don't think Satan exists, but I'm willing to believe that other people do, and that they might perform all kinds of crazy acts in the delusion of devotion."

"One thing's strange. There's a case a couple of years ago that never got solved. A little girl was stabbed to death. They found her body out in the woods."

"That's sickening." Julia's heart clenched. "Any suspects?"

"A few names were kicked around. Deacon Hartley's came up the most often."

"Hartley? That's a common local name, isn't it?"

"There's a few dozen of them, been here since the buffalo walked these mountains."

"Any rumors of Satanism with that murder?"

"No. But that's the kind of thing the police like to keep quiet. Especially when they can't solve it. Maybe my series will be called 'The New Satanism.' Catchy, huh?"

"Better get some more evidence first. Otherwise, you'll come off as preachy. Besides, even the Baptists have pretty much given up the idea of Satan.”

“If I were the devil, Elkwood would make a fine place to get started on that Armageddon thing. Go where people are the most complacent in their faith."

“You’re just stirring up controversy for the sake of that journalism creed, ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’”

"It wins press awards," Rick said. "Satanism's got everything you want in a story. Murder, drugs, bondage, orgies, and the ultimate in good versus evil."

She thought about sharing her tidbit of the disappearing animals, but if he was going to go ahead and run his stories on nothing but rumor, theory, and a handful of spotty research, she wanted to distance herself as much as possible. If Rick would let her. "Well, good luck, but don’t take it personally if I hope your story is a dead end. I'd better get back to work. Deadline. You know."

“Yeah.” Rick stood and adjusted his glasses. He paused at the door to her tiny office. "Mind if I call you later?"

Whether he was a Christian soldier hell-bent on recruitment or a chronic womanizer, he sure didn't know when to give up. His cheeks wrinkled when he smiled, like a young Robert Redford in “All The President’s Men.” He’d probably practiced it in the mirror. "I'm pretty busy," she said. “Maybe some other time?"

"Sure. After you’re married, maybe."

"It won’t be your problem." She smiled at him, hoping he didn't take it as a sign that she was ready to roll back her sheets and let him slide his lithe, fitness-club physique onto her mattress. She wondered if his moral compass allowed him to seduce another man’s fiancee, and decided most men only followed one compass, and it was the pointy one in their pants. “Thanks for last night.”

Rick straightened up, seeing something in her eyes, the old cockiness back on his face. "We'll do it again sometime. Real soon."

After he left, Julia finished her article, downloaded her digital photographs, and drove home. By the time she'd put away her camera and satchel, dusk was still an hour away. She decided to take a walk down the little trail that ran through the woods behind the house.

Artificial courage. It works for drunks, so maybe it will work for me.

She locked the door behind her and put the key ring and mace in her pocket. With many of the leaves falling, she'd be able to keep the house in sight along much of the walk. Autumn was her favorite season, and she wasn't going to deny herself the pleasure of it all just because some knife-wielding Creep could be waiting behind a tree.

The trail ran down to a little creek. There, the forest was more welcoming than threatening. Autumn wasn't just a glorious color show. The season had a taste and a smell. Julia relished the sweet decay of leaves in the air, the late-blooming goldenrod and rust-topped Joe Pye weed, rushing water that was silver clean against the rocks. Away from civilization, with only the wild woods and water and sinking sun for company, she felt perfectly normal and worry free. But the sun always set, and darkness always fell, and she was not alone in the world.

The other end of the trail bordered Mabel Covington's back yard. Yellow apples lay on the ground beneath a gnarled tree and two quilts hung on the woman's clothesline, airing out for winter. The grass was thick and nearly blue. The aroma of fried chicken came from the kitchen of the large colonial house.

Mrs. Covington appeared at the door of the screened-in back porch. "Hey there, Julia," she called. "Saw you from the window. How you doing?"

"Fine, Mrs. Covington. Taking a walk. How are you?"

"Just dandy. Won't you come in for a piece of pie? I haven't seen you in a while." A gray cat appeared between Mrs. Covington's ankles, its tail brushing the hem of the woman’s dress as it pussyfooted down the wooden steps.

Julia was about to decline the offer, but Mrs. Covington’s smile radiated from her ice-blue eyes as well. Julia stepped through the low hedge and started across the yard. "Thanks. That would be nice of you."

"No, just neighborly. With all these outsiders coming in, people don't keep up with their neighbors much anymore. We all got to watch out for each other, especially out here on Buckeye Creek."

Julia braced herself for a lecture that would condemn anyone who dared to be born somewhere besides Amadahee County, but the woman only held the door open until Julia entered the house. They sat at the wobbly, hand-crafted cherry table in the kitchen, though Mrs. Covington had a large dining room with a beautiful walnut table. The whole house was filled with enough rustic antiques to make a scavenger drool.

Mrs. Covington set down plates with thick wedges of cherry pie on them, a scoop of vanilla ice cream to the side leaking white into the red filling. Julia accepted a cup of coffee, waited until Mrs. Covington shooed a black cat out of the kitchen, and then they ate together.

"This is delicious," Julia said.

"Thank you kindly," the woman said, her false teeth stained by the cherries. "Don't have no call to cook much anymore, with my Archibald dead and the boys living out West. It's nice to have somebody I can fuss over."