“Your sister is always so supportive.”
What the hell did that mean?
“Can you explain what this is about?”
“Must a desire to see my little girls be about something?”
“No.” Yes.
“I really must go now. Lunch is at noon. Then I have a massage. I will see you soon?”
“Of course.”
“It’s Grieg.”
“What?” Totally lost.
“ ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ is by the Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg.”
With that she was gone.
I pitched the phone to the table. Which drew a stern look from Birdie.
Did Mama’s summons have to do with her cancer? The chemo? I couldn’t ask about that. Harry had sworn me to secrecy. Or was it about Clayton Sinitch? Mama was often recklessly impulsive. Was she about to make a potentially disastrous decision?
Snatching up the mobile, I hit a speed-dial button. Got Harry’s annoying little message. Left the same few words I’d left twice earlier. Call me. It’s urgent.
I glared at the box. At the mountain range of paper spread out before me.
My eyes landed on the tablet and drifted down my list of questions. One by one, I considered. Came up with zilch.
Then: Why wouldn’t Susan Grace divulge the reason Mason went to Tennessee?
As of last night, I was certain I knew when and where Mason had died.
I saw Susan Grace in the gloom of her grandmother’s parlor. Recalled the old woman’s admonition. Do not allow yourself to be hostage to Satan.
I saw Susan Grace’s face shadowed in my car. The trembling lips, the dinner-plate eyes half hidden by bangs. Had I misread the girl? Had her intensity been born of fear, not fury?
Cora Teague. Mason Gulley.
Suddenly the air in the room bit cold at my skin.
There is evil in the world. Evil that demands compliance with unyielding dogma. Evil that believes in dark forces.
In that instant I understood.
Susan Grace feared defiance would be interpreted as demons in need of purging.
And purging could kill.
What the hell! I thought. What the bloody hell!
Decision. I would go visit Mama. Heatherhill would put me closer to Avery when Ramsey called back. Or Slidell.
No farther without backup. Just Heatherhill.
—
While winding through Charlotte, I called Harry again. Though Mama had contacted her, Baby Sister had not booked a flight east. For once we agreed. Our mother is unsurpassed at genteel manipulation.
Once on I-40, I retried Slidell.
“What the freakin’ hell is so urgent you gotta bust my chops the first weekend I’m off in over a month?”
“It’s Hoke.”
“What? Am I listening to one of those messages beamed over and over for space aliens? You already said that.”
“I’m convinced Cora Teague and Mason Gulley died during botched exorcisms.”
“Earth here. Anyone out there? Anyone out there? Anyone out there?”
“Will you listen to me?”
“Tell it to Ramsey.”
“He’s unavailable.”
“Me too.”
“It all comes back to Hoke. To his church.”
“I’m working Strike. She ain’t an MP. She’s an actual stiff in the morgue with a tag on her toe. The morgue on my patch.”
“Strike is connected.”
“Maybe I’ll call NASA. Ask how to make my own audio so’s I can keep looping a message saying back off.”
I launched my grenade straight at his solar plexus. “Mason Gulley died at Hoke’s church. Or his body was dismembered there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ramsey and I went to Jesus Lord Holiness to talk to John and Fatima Teague. Hoke was present.”
“It’s his church.”
“We asked about Cora and Mason.”
“And Daddy said he won’t be walking his slut kid down the aisle. We getting to something new here?”
My fingers tightened on the wheel.
Easy.
“Mason died with olive oil and incense in his hair. Those are materials used in the rite of exorcism.”
“That don’t mean—”
“The Gulleys are Jesus Lord Holiness members. Mason stopped attending around the time a parish renovation project was wrapping up.” I pictured shiny brass rings embedded in a pristine stoop. “Those renovations involved the pouring of cement to replace old stairs. The project ended in September of 2011.”
Surprisingly, Slidell didn’t interrupt.
“Mason and Cora disappeared in July of 2011. In August, Mason started posting on CLUES.net as OMG. Those posts stopped in September.”
“Wasn’t that when he was in Johnson City?”
“I think Mason returned from Tennessee and something bad went down at the church. There was an exorcism, he died. There were bags of cement lying around, power saws…”
I let the gruesome thought hang.
“And Strike?”
“She probably found out and confronted Hoke. Strike was up in Avery on Saturday, the day before her body was found.”
Slidell did the throat thing.
“Surely it’s enough to get a warrant,” I said.
“So far it’s all speculation. A judge will want more.”
“Like what?” Too charged.
“Call me crazy, but, evidence?”
“Human remains? A death mask screaming Mason Gulley? The olive oil and incense? Fingertips without prints? Two missing kids? A priest who strangled a nine-year-old girl?” Waaay too charged.
“Where’s Ramsey?”
“I don’t know. But consider this. Susan Grace lied to her grandmother to contact me. She revealed things Hoke and his bunch probably don’t want known. If they find out, she could face the same fate as Cora and Mason.”
“I’m on my way to the gym.”
“The gym?” A word I couldn’t imagine in Skinny’s vocabulary.
“You got something against working out?” I heard soft scraping, probably Slidell’s hand rubbing his face. “Write down what you told me. Anything else you can think of. Send it. In the meantime, don’t do nothing stupid.”
I pulled off at a gas station and quick-thumbed an email to Skinny as requested. Sent it with a cc to Ramsey. Then I clicked the icon for Google Earth and typed in an address I thought to be close to the location I wanted to view. Got coordinates. Using those, I estimated other coordinates, finally found what I needed.
I spent a few minutes zooming in and out, checking the landscape. After hitting the ladies’, I bought a Diet Coke and filled my tank. Then I got back on the road.
I blew right past Heatherhill and straight on to Avery.
—
I pulled in and killed the engine. Mine was the only vehicle in the lot.
Through the dusty lens of my windshield, the scene looked like a landscape titled First Hint of Spring. Tentative shoots were now greening the winter-brown grass. Delicate vines were sending threadlike feelers up the hardwood trunks. High above, the pines were enjoying good chemistry with an indifferent breeze.
The buildings stood out white against the green-on-blue curves of the mountains behind. I saw no one outside. No movement through the cracks between and below the big front doors. No sign of a human presence.
I realized I wasn’t breathing.
Exhaling, I checked my iPhone for signal. Maybe, just maybe, one flickering bar.
I sent texts to Slidell and Ramsey. The former would be livid. The latter, who knew? Screw it. Skinny was too stubborn to listen, Ramsey too busy. Anyway, I wasn’t crashing the Manson family at the Barker Ranch. This was, though creepy, a church. Worst-case scenario, someone would show up, be pissed, and order me to leave.
As I dropped the phone into my shoulder bag, a red light flashed in a far corner of my mind. A gaggle of neurons called out. Someone hacked up a kid and put his head in concrete. Here!
I was running on less than three hours of sleep. I was exhausted. But I had to know.
Pulling my nerves together, I opened the car door and strained to listen. Heard the staccato whine of a frustrated insect. The trickle of water not far off. Otherwise, it was still. Traffic still, voice still, bird still, wind still.