“Hoke allowed you to walk away?”
“After an encouraging boot to the nuts.” Not exactly true.
“It was unwise to go there alone.”
“It was.”
“I’ll have someone pick him up.”
“I was trespassing.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to threaten with a firearm.”
“I thought it did.”
Ramsey ignored that. “You still see Hoke as good for Cora and Mason.” Statement, not question.
“Yes. He’s demented. And he may now have his sights on Susan Grace Gulley.” I told him about the photo on the kneeler and the note on the calendar. “That means it may be tonight. You need to track her down.”
“Will do.”
“Where the hell have you been, anyway?”
Following a reproachful pause. “Busting a meth lab. After hauling the parents to lockup, I drove their seven-year-old daughter to a group home in Crossnore. They think with a lot of therapy the kid may take her thumb out of her mouth and speak one day.”
“Sorry.” Feeling like a total shit.
Ramsey’s next words took me by surprise.
“I tracked the Johnson City phone number Susan Grace gave you. Mason was staying at a rent-by-the-week motel not far from the Bristol Motor Speedway. Room with a microwave, mini-fridge, remote—all the comforts. He checked in mid-July, checked out mid-August.”
“They still had the register?”
“No. I found a maid who remembered him. Apparently Mason was easy to remember. She said he was no beauty but a nice kid, that he rarely came out of his room.”
“Did she know why he was there? Where he went when he left?”
“She recalled two things. He’d seen a voice-activated recording device on TV and asked where to buy one. The day before leaving he’d told her he was heading home.”
“He came back to Avery.” Trying to make sense of it. “He slipped Cora the recorder. Hoke learned about it, went apeshit, they both ended up below Brown Mountain.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Got a better theory?”
Ramsey had no answer to that.
“Mason wasn’t dismembered at Jesus Lord Holiness, probably didn’t die there.” I’d been thinking about this through the whole wild dash, as much as my frazzled nerves would allow. “When things went south in Indiana, Hoke wasn’t at his church. He was performing the exorcism at the child’s home. You need to get warrants to search the Gulley and Teague properties.”
“Maybe so.”
“Maybe?” Crank it down. “Where are you now?”
“At my desk. We got a charger for Strike’s laptop, but can’t crack her password. Suggestions?”
I stared at Connie and Phil’s sign. Got no inspiration. Then, “Try luckyloo.”
“Spelled how?”
“One word, two o’s.”
Keys clicked. Then, “Son of a gun. I’m in.”
“Check her email accounts.”
More keys. Then, “There aren’t any.”
“Seriously? What about documents?”
“Zip.”
“Anything on the desktop?”
“Nothing. It’s weird.”
“Strike was paranoid and not exactly generation Z. She probably stored all her case material as hard copy in the cartons, used the PC only for online searches. Check her browser history.”
“How?”
I explained. Waited out a whole lot of clicking. Finally, “There isn’t much. The list only goes back a couple of days.”
“She probably cleared it frequently, thinking that might increase Net security. Or decrease unwanted ads.”
“Does it?”
“Only if you wear a tinfoil hat.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What did she look at?”
Ramsey read off some names.
That’s when I made my next miscalculation.
“Medscape.com. EverydayHealth.com. HealthyPlace.com. Psychiatry.org. The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, the Journal of—”
“What topics?”
Like the odors in the church, some terms arrowed straight out of my childhood. Schizophrenia. Schizoaffective disorder. Bipolar disorder. Others were new. Depersonalization disorder. Dissociative identity disorder. Borderline personality disorder.
“Jesus, Ramsey. There’s your doer, your motive. Strike figured out Hoke was nuts, confronted him, he took her out.”
“At the church?”
“If so it was outside. The luminol picked up zero blood. More likely he killed her in Charlotte.”
“How did he find her?”
“Really? A goldfish with a smart phone could do that.”
“How did he know about the pond?”
“Hell-o? Google Earth?”
“Does Hoke have a computer? Does he even have a phone?”
I had to admit, I’d seen neither in the “rectory.”
“Maybe he showed up at her house,” I tossed out. “Maybe he called to set up a meet. I don’t know. What I do know is you need to get those warrants. Hoke’s a lunatic. He killed Cora and Mason and may now be gunning for Susan Grace.”
Ramsey exhaled, short and quick. “Okay. In the meantime, stay put. Go into the diner. Eat fish.”
“Definitely,” I said. “And call Slidell.”
After disconnecting I sat in the car watching the sky fade to pewter behind Connie and Phil’s bright blue neon. The confrontation with Hoke combined with fatigue and frustration had heartburn scorching my chest. I swallowed. Leaned my head against the seat back.
It wasn’t the church. Then where? What others were involved?
What had Strike learned? How had that knowledge threatened Hoke?
My lids turned to lead, my thoughts to slowly churning sludge. Five minutes. I’d rest five minutes. If I drifted off, Ramsey’s call would wake me.
Strike.
Trout.
Strike trout. Strike out.
Lucky Strike.
Out.
Out to see Hoke.
Hoke.
Holiness.
Holy.
Holy Hoke.
Hokeypokey. You put your heeeaaad in.
Head in a bucket.
Mason Gulley.
Cora Teague.
Cora’s Treats.
Connie’s treats.
Generous portions.
John’s generosity.
Phil up on Connie’s treats.
Fill up.
Fix up.
Connie. Treat.
Concrete.
My eyes flew open. My hands came up so fast my knuckles cracked against the wheel. The horizon was pink, the last light of dusk bleeding from the sky. I was unsure how long I’d slept, but dead certain of the meaning of the subliminal toggling.
I cranked the engine and fired out of the lot.
Minutes later I was parked off a two-lane, ten yards from J.T.’s Fill Up and Fix Up, about where Ramsey had pointed the place out. John Teague’s gas station–convenience–hardware store. “Fix up” meant buckets and saws, maybe concrete. Everything needed for the perfect dismemberment.
Sunday night. Business was booming. A couple of Harleys sat out front. An old pickup with a fractured windshield. A VW with a billion miles under its fan belt.
As I had earlier, I keyed in a quick text. Then I got out, scurried down the shoulder, and angled past the gas pumps to the front door. Light filtered through the flyers stuck to the window. Now and then I saw a flash of movement through the gaps in between.
I held my breath. Heard voices, all male. Yanking a cap from my bag, I tucked my hair out of sight and entered.