“He convinced the little cow to tell the world.”
“To record what was happening to her.”
“She’s pathetic. I protect her.”
“You dismembered Mason’s body and tossed it on the mountain.”
“Others do my bidding. I have the power.”
“You have only what Cora allows you.”
“Demon power.”
“Only a coward kills children.”
At that, Cora’s head began to corkscrew wildly. Her braids flew and saliva winged across her cheeks in silvery streams.
“Cora’s brother Eli. River Brice.”
The contortions grew more violent. Fearing injury, I shoved a pillow behind her head and quickly hopped back.
Several seconds of wild movement, then Cora’s chin leveled and the emerald eyes bore into mine. In them I saw pure malevolence. Spawned not by some dark presence in her soul. Spawned by a catastrophe in her brain.
Yet Cora believed the demon inside her was real. I had to get her away from this place. Away from Hoke’s destructive psychopathology.
“I don’t believe in demons,” I pressed on.
Cora hawked spit and hurled it in my direction. Missed.
“Not even a good imitation.”
Cora’s pupils rolled back, leaving a glistening white crescent low in each orbit.
“You are a caricature.” My palms were sweaty, my mouth dry. I swallowed. “A bad performance of what Father G expects you to be.”
Cora’s fingers hyperextended, then contracted into claws on the quilt.
“Let me talk to Cora.”
“Eriggy el!”
“Cora.”
“Cora is weak.”
“You don’t exist. Cora created you.”
“The cow is too stupid to create anything.”
“Come away with me.” Confrontation wasn’t working. I tried coaxing. “You can explain who you are.”
“Elizabeth Báthory.”
“There’s no need to shout, Elizabeth Báthory.” I knew the name. From where? My memory cells were far too wired to help. “We’ll go where it’s warmer.”
“Hagyjàl békén!”
As I turned to snatch my jacket from the floor, I saw the comforter shift. Still, I was a heartbeat too late. Cora was off the bed and on me before I could react.
Twisting my right arm high behind my back, she shoved me forward and down. My cap flew and my forehead slammed the concrete. Pain exploded in my skull.
I saw black. Then a million tiny points of light.
My nose and mouth were mashed shut. My teeth were cutting the insides of my lips. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. I tasted blood.
As I struggled for air and coherence, a knee smashed down on my spine. Lungs burning, I struck out and back with both feet and my one free elbow. Though I’m strong, I was no match for Cora.
“Halj meg!”
I strained my neck in a frenzied attempt to lift my head. To free my air passages. Failed. Cora had me pinned.
It seemed like hours. In reality, it was probably less than a minute. I finally managed to shift one shoulder enough to rotate my chin. My cheek landed in blood pooling on the concrete. My blood. I feared I would retch.
“Cora.” I gasped.
Her body tensed. Then her fingers grabbed and twisted my hair. She yanked my head up, then smashed it down hard.
“Elizabeth.”
I felt her weight shift, then Cora’s breath hot and moist on my ear.
“Slut.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Filthy bitch!”
“No. No more.”
“Whore!”
She jerked my head high. My neck vertebrae screamed. A flat-palm shove and my left temple slammed the concrete. She mashed down on my right temple with more force than I would have thought possible from someone her size. Something crunched in my jaw.
The tiny white lights winked.
Then the blackness won out.
—
I woke to a scene that made no sense.
Cora was in the big oak chair, one wrist and one ankle strapped to the wood. Hoke lay crumpled on the floor, eyes closed, a crucifix jutting at a deadly angle from beneath his Roman collar.
The memories after that are shredded images spliced together with yawning gaps in between. The incomplete puzzle as hellish multisensory nightmare.
I remember the dogs braying in fury. Hoke’s blood snaking the concrete to mingle with mine. Cora, wild-eyed, clawing at the leather-belt ligatures.
I recall an agitated male voice drifting down from above. Fragments of a one-sided conversation. “…done it again.” “No!” “I’ll hide her and I’ll cover for her when she’s hostage to the serpent. But…” “No…” “…Lord God commands thou shalt not kill.”
I retain the image of a man standing over me, all bone and muscle and dangerous scowl. The smell of his rubber-soled hiking boots.
I know I asked about Susan Grace.
I know I tried to rise but couldn’t.
In my mind I hear the boom of a door slamming tin. Feet pounding down stairs. Men’s voices shouting.
I see Ramsey holding a gun two-handed on Owen Lee Teague. Slidell’s face close to mine.
I feel fingers probing my hair. Soft fabric wiping my face. Hands lifting my body.
The rest of that night is a huge blank containing very few pieces. A fuzzy wool blanket tickling my chin. A wobbly ride with stars overhead and straps on my chest and thighs. Flashing red lights. The back of an ambulance. A wailing siren.
Thinking.
Thinking what?
Thinking nothing at all.
I never again saw any of those from Avery County. Grandma and Susan Grace Gulley. Granger Hoke. Cora and her hideous family.
Except for Strike, we all came through it. Even Hoke, though he’ll never audition for the Vatican choir. He lost a lot of blood and took a nick to the vocals, but Cora’s thrust with the crucifix missed all major vessels. When released, Father G would be swapping his hospital gown for a jailhouse jumpsuit.
Susan Grace was never in danger. That night she’d again lied to her grandmother in order to snatch a fragment of normalcy. A deputy found her drinking wine coolers in the woods with high school friends. Hoke said the notation on his calendar was a reminder to put sealant on his gutters.
I still marvel at the dramatic entrance choreographed by Slidell and Ramsey. At Slidell’s timing in nailing the truth.
Skinny had spent hours viewing security tapes covering the weekend Hazel Strike died. Footage from establishments near Strike’s home and the RibbonWalk Nature Preserve, where her body was found.
At 4:00 P.M., while I was legging it away from Hoke’s Browning, Slidell’s diligence paid off. Strike’s red Corolla appeared on camera at a gas station a quarter mile from the preserve. Riding in her passenger seat was Cora Teague.
From my texts Slidell knew I’d gone to Jesus Lord Holiness, then on to Teague’s store. Smelling danger, he’d contacted Ramsey, then burned rubber up to Avery.
I suffered a concussion and a hairline fracture of my right zygoma. No big deal, but I was compelled to stay two days at Cannon Memorial so night-shift nurses could shine lights in my eyes. When finally reconnected with my clothes, I filled my prescriptions and headed back to Charlotte.
Zeb Ramsey called while I was still on meds and too loopy to talk. I phoned him back a few days later. Thanked him for saving my ass. In more polite language.
Oddly, the call seemed to continue well past its shelf life. Just before disconnecting, I learned why. Ramsey surprised me by asking me out. Dinner sometime, you know the drill. Awkward. Or was it? I wasn’t sure what to think.
Turns out Ramsey’s full name is Zebulon. Apparently, I asked while under the influence of pain. Or painkillers.
Slidell made himself scarce once he learned that all I had was a head thump, unsightly skin loss, and a broken cheek. Partly busy with paperwork and interrogations. Partly furious with me for going all cowboy. His phrase. Couldn’t blame him. Rushing off on my own was a bonehead move.