The Shadow Over Lone Oak (Evils of this World Book 1) Page 2

  Black paced across the study as Maverlies’ words needled at him. His leg twitched.

  “I cannot promise that this will bring you happiness, Mr. Black. Nothing can bring your daughter back. But I cannot believe that you will deny an old man his last request.”

  Staring into the wall, Black gave his answer.

  “Where do I start?”

  ARRIVAL

  At a four-way stop in the middle of nowhere, Llewyn Finch smoothed back dark-brown tufts out of his eyes so he could better see the absurdity in front of him. A herd of sixty cows strolled across the pavement, blocking his Jeep’s access to the gas station five miles down the road. He cast a glance back at the needle that seemed glued to E, cursed again for forgetting to fill up back in town. If he’d known that a trip to the land of pine trees and baled hay would strand him at a crossroads with cattle, he’d have taken the proverbial plunge at that barred up Exxon.

  The call of a crow caught his attention then. Perched on top of a rusted t-post, the bird swiveled its head to look at him. For a moment, yellow eyes met brown, then the crow cawed again and flew, landing on the hood of his car, its stare never wavering. Alien pupils glared at him through the windshield for one heartbeat, two beats, then four more. With a kind of wistful longing in its voice, the crow called out again, then took flight. Stupid birds.

  Finch had never liked birds, found their cold, unusual eyes unnerving. His mother had once owned a myna bird. All it did was squawk, mock, and glower at him. Dad left the cage door open one night. The thing had glided right over to him and pecked at his shoulder. Panic set in and he’d come near to crushing the thing in his hands trying to pull it off of him. Miserable little prick had jumped off him then, went right back to his cage like nothing had happened.

  Eleven tumbleweeds could have blown past by the time the herd had finished crossing. The engine sputtered and Finch was convinced he’d have to push the car the rest of the way. The Jeep was impractical on a budget, but it was his car, gas mileage woes be damned. He’d wanted one ever since he was a kid in middle school.

  Thanks to what could only have been divine sympathy, the Jeep puttered all the way to the station. A gas attendant rushed out to greet him. Finch was sure self-serve was the norm in this area of the country but he didn’t put up much of a fight. The attendant impressed him. Despite being a simple man and not much of a conversationalist, the guy was a quick-worker.

  After paying for his gas, Finch asked the clerk for directions to his destination. He could have consulted the GPS in the Jeep, but Finch had never put much trust in modern technologies. The most complicated piece of equipment in his house was a DVD player. He didn’t use a tablet to record his notes, preferring pen-and-paper. If he was feeling adventurous, he might use a tape recorder or his camera. He supposed that he wasn’t machine-compatible.

  The store clerk was straightforward, no-nonsense, but there was a homely sort of warmth about him. Finch memorized the series of lefts and rights and an apparent J-turn that would take him to the site. He thanked the man and carried on, leaving a tip for the gas attendant before he drove off, whizzing by the sign that read “Welcome to Lone Oak, Population 4,587.” And getting smaller.

  Flat plains and hay bales gave way to pine trees and hillside as he started up the mountain roads towards the house where it had happened. The pavement disappeared beneath him, dirt and rocks jutting up to graze against his tires instead. Wooden posts directed him onwards, providing the only means of navigation as the trees grew inward, forming a canopy and darkening the road. He was in the backwoods now. A banjo would play any second.

  Pulling into the driveway, Finch wondered which had happened first: the murder or the tornado that must have struck to leave the house in such evident disrepair. Paint had peeled off much of the outer walls, the windows were boarded up, and the screen door hung off its hinges. The steps of the front porch had rotted away and part of the roof where the chimney would be was gone. Scrap metal and junk cars littered the yard. Stepping out of the car, he could see that at least ten stray cats had laid claim to the garden shed.

  Local police had already set up shop inside the house, cordoning off the property from the public. Sheriff Willow Donahue and Deputy Rick Mason awaited him as he passed under the tape and introduced himself.

  “Sheriff Donahue?” The red-haired woman dressed in a black over-shirt and matching cargo pants nodded. “Deputy Mason?” A balding middle-aged man grunted his reply. “My name is Special Agent Llewyn Finch. I assume by those narrowed eyes that my superiors radioed ahead and you have been expecting me?”

  “Yeah,” Deputy Mason spat, snuff sailing out of his mouth, “and I’d just like to say that we don’t need your−”

  “Deputy, what did I tell you?”

  Mason rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. Donahue turned back to face Finch, then shook his hand. The grip was firm, no trace of nervousness.

  “Now, Agent Finch, may I ask why you were an hour late?”

  “Had a prostitute I wanted to hit up just outside town,” he said, shrugging. The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Herd of cattle,” he explained.

  Donahue nodded, then said, “Probably Mr. Hayes’ bunch loose again. They tend to walk right over his fence. I keep telling him to get it fixed, but−”

  Finch interrupted her. “Sheriff, while I’m certainly not opposed to some local color, the fact of the matter is that I’m here to investigate the death of…” he consulted his notebook “…Jane Harley, twenty-two, of 375 County Road 2118 outside the town of Lone Oak. Is there anything else I should know before we begin?”

  Donahue shook her head, then led him and Deputy Mason into the bedroom. No body, but Finch could still see the charred outline and the ring of nine candles that had surrounded it. Four curved tree limbs laid on top of each other, like a double set of X’s that separated the nine-pointed ring into eight sections. The bottom section was the largest and tapered toward the middle of the tree limbs. The six on the right and left were smaller, triangular in shape like the bottom, while the top division was longer and formed a diamond. In the center of the ring, the killer had laid a broken crucifix smeared with blood. He guessed the blood belonged to the victim.

  Shaking his head, Finch bent down with a gloved hand and scrubbed along the edge of a triangle. There appeared to be trace elements of some organic substance similar to spores, but Finch was no biologist. He made a note of it, then picked up one half of the crucifix, turned it over in his hand. The blood couldn’t have been more than a day old and there was no evidence that the fire had touched it. It must have been placed there after the victim’s burnt body was removed.

  “Is this exactly what it looked like when the body was found?”

  “Yes,” said Sheriff Donahue, “we took some pictures but didn’t touch a thing. The body was wrapped in plastic and sat out in the open on the front porch. The paperboy found it and called us in. Kid will have nightmares for days.”

  Finch nodded. “Is the body ready for autopsy?”

  “Well, yes, but shouldn’t you look around a bit more? Maybe there’s something else here that can help.”

  “Doubtful,” Finch said. “The killer handled the body with care, used gloves, didn’t wear any clothing with loose fibers, and made sure to wipe his footprints before he left.” He pointed to where a sequential series of circular patterns disturbed the dust. “Whoever this man is, he’s a meticulous planner bordering on obsession.”

  Mason piped up. “You seem to know a bit about this man. Care to share? I mean, there had to be a reason the feds got here so soon.”

  “There is. However, I’m not ready to discuss the details, not just yet. Suffice to say this murder is not an isolated incident.” He turned to leave the house, then stopped and fumbled in his coat pocket for his chewing gum.

  Sheriff Donahue spoke up. “So we have some kind of serial killer on the loose? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Finch popped the gum into his mouth, chew
ed. “More than that,” he said, making his way back to the Jeep, “you’re dealing with a cult.”

  * * *

  On their way to the station, the sheriff stopped at a street corner next to a thrift shop. Parked a few spaces behind Donahue, Finch rested one hand on the steering wheel as he drank from his cup of coffee with the other. It wasn’t the good stuff, just some quick-mix junk he’d bought at the convenience store and put in a twenty ounce Styrofoam cup. The warm liquid trickled down his throat all the same.

  That shack had been stuffy for his tastes. Returning to the Jeep for a gulp or two was the refreshment he needed.

  He watched as she exited the car and went inside the store. The shop’s name was painted on the inside of the window: Gary Moore’s Goods and More. Beyond the mannequin wearing outdated bellbottoms and a tie-dye shirt, he couldn’t see what else the proprietor sold or what Donahue was doing. On either side of the store, boarded up doors and shuttered windows suggested rising urban decay. With no other cars or customers nearby, Finch doubted business was going well for the owner.

  Feeling the heat, he rolled down the windows of his Jeep. He didn’t know if it was global warming or one of the added details that the fine folks of the South left out when advertising for tourism.

  Finch hadn’t experienced an autumn afternoon this hot since he was a kid. He imagined this was like being an ant roasting under a magnifying glass. By comparison, the coffee was tame. He should’ve checked the weather before he left home, but this case had called to him. He answered as fast as he could.

  Donahue came out moments later and walked towards his car, oblivious to the heat. Finch admired her tenacity, wearing all that black in the middle of this humidity. Dressed in a tight white collared shirt and bluish gray dress pants, Finch would’ve felt smothered if he’d done the same as her. He leaned over the console to speak with her.

  “Pick up anything special in there?” he asked, figuring humor might help alleviate the heat.

  “Gary is the mayor’s brother,” she explained, ignoring the joke. “We’ve scheduled a meeting tonight at the town hall. He’ll round up as many members of the council as he can. I’ll issue a statement to the press, then when they leave you can do your thing.”

  “Sheriff, you’ve thought of everything,” he said, smiling.

  “I always do,” she said, turning to go back to the car. “The station’s just a few more blocks. I’ll radio ahead, let my officers know what to expect,” she added as she waved at Mason to start the car.

  Finch finished his coffee while he waited for them to leave. He could see through their back window that Donahue had hold of the radio. Mason had both hands on the wheel and seemed impatient, squirming in his seat. There was tension there, dating back years.

  Had the two of them been romantically involved? Finch wasn’t sure, but their shared history was apparent in the limited interactions he’d seen. He wondered what the story was, always did when he worked a case like this and met new, interesting people. Probably the best perk to come out of the job.

  They passed through two red lights by the time he got his first glimpse of the Lone Oak Police Department. Blue-roofed, the corrugated tin rose on either side to meet at the sharp edge of the summit. The stucco pattern on the walls had been painted over with a tannish pastel color. Finch thought it looked more like a barn or a pizza joint than any police station he’d ever visited.

  The parking lot, if it could be called that, was a crowded space enclosed by a chain-link fence that bordered the far right wall of the station. The lines had long faded from the black-as-burnt-rubber asphalt, so Finch pulled into a spot on the opposite end from the sheriff. He wasn’t keen to have his Jeep scratched up by an errant bad-parker. He wasn’t a vain man, but his vehicle was the one thing in which he felt entitled to take a little undue pride.

  He asked Donahue about the unusual appearance of the station when he got out of the car. “It’s been refurbished a few times over the years,” she said. She pointed at the roof. “That’s the most recent, was done just last year. The problem is we keep getting contractors who do different things and our budget never covers all of it. So, we end up with the hodgepodge you see today.”

  “You’re having funding problems?” he asked, though a small-town police station lacking money didn’t surprise him that much. Lower crime rates left citizens with less concern for their own protectors.

  A set of worn concrete steps led to the front doors, which were wooden and, based on the thickness and color, made of pine with a mahogany finish. Finch followed the sheriff up the stairs.

  “All the time,” said Donahue, opening the doors for him. “The town itself has had plenty of additions and renovations over the years, but it seems like no one is willing to fork up the dough when it comes to the department.”

  Bizarre as it seemed, Finch wondered if there was more to that story, but his attention had to be kept on the case. If his suspicions were correct, the town had worse things to worry about than money. No time to dig in to any other conspiracies yet.

  He followed her to the front desk manned by an elderly officer. The desk sergeant seemed too preoccupied to glance up as the sheriff passed him. He had wrinkles upon wrinkles and was bald, so Finch guessed that he must have worked the longest of anyone at the station. Donahue told him that his name was Ernie, an old friend of her father’s. He’d worked there for thirty years and today was his last day. By all accounts the man didn’t want to leave the only job he’d ever excelled at. The sheriff’s hands were tied; he was too ancient and forgetful for the LOPD to rely on.

  “Lucky. I feel sorry for whoever gets stuck with the job after him,” Mason muttered, trailing behind Finch. “And it won’t be me, I had enough of it the last time he got sick and you needed someone to fill in,” he added.

  Donahue paid the deputy no mind as she came to a stop at a door whose plaque read “Conference Hall” and gestured for Finch to go inside. Wrapping a hand around the USB drive in his pocket, he stepped through the doors.

  * * *

  “About two years ago,” Finch began as images projected onto the screen behind him, “the Bureau opened an investigation into the disappearances of multiple young men and women in the Ozark Mountains. They were all between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, most of them high school dropouts working dead-end jobs.”

  Sheriff Donahue and Deputy Mason, along with twelve other members of the Lone Oak Police Department, sat around a table in the conference room of the police station. They listened to Finch’s words, though he could tell they were skeptical of this strange man who’d inserted himself into their lives. Get used to it. Cordial as he tried to be, Finch had no patience for second-guessing and naysayers.

  “Beyond that, the victims appeared to have nothing in common. None of them knew each other, worked together, or appeared to have any sort of contact with each other.” He pushed a button and a picture of a run-down church appeared on the screen. “There’s always a connection. There are no coincidences when it comes to this sort of twisted debauchery. In this case, the thread that linked the fabric of their lives was one man: Rory McAlister.”

  He pressed the button again and a different image sprang into view. A gray-haired man with a full beard and sunken eyes stared back at the police officers, his blue eyes cold yet not without an alluring quality, like staring into the darkest corner of an unlit room. Sheriff Donahue leaned forward, eager to hear more. The other officers seemed notably less interested.

  “McAlister was once the head pastor of a Lutheran church, but fell out with his flock when they learned that he’d been embezzling money from the church’s funds. He was excommunicated and basically went off the grid for a number of years. He resurfaced shortly before the murders, claiming to be a door-to-door bible salesman.” The projection changed again, this time showing a still from camera footage of McAlister dressed in a suit with a stack of bibles in hand. “In truth, he wasn’t selling the word of God; he was smuggling cocain
e, sometimes heroin, into the homes of his victims.”

  Mason butted in. “This little monologue of yours is nice and all but what does this have to do with Jane Harley? You mentioned a cult.”

  “It has everything to do with Ms. Harley’s death, deputy.” Once more, the screen changed, now occupied by a nine-pointed ring segmented by a pair of X’s. “This is the symbol created by McAlister when executing his victims. After hooking them on drugs, he would become their dealer. When they came to get their fix, he offered to share his newfound beliefs with them instead. Most were either too ignorant or too desperate to refuse. He indoctrinated them, mind-and-body, into his own personal organization. He called it the Church of Divine Promise.”

  “That’s a pretty twisted sales pitch,” commented one of the other officers in the room. There were murmurs of agreement around the table.

  “Yes, it was. At some point, however, McAlister grew tired of his followers. He began to sacrifice them, one at a time, telling them that they were serving a much higher purpose than even he. He would tie his victims down onto two pairs of sticks shaped in the form of a crisscrossed set of X’s, then draw a nine-pointed ring around their bodies so that the image you see behind me is formed. He then set them alight.”

  Raised eyebrows told him he had their full attention. Took them long enough.

  “The fire was always controlled, never large enough to spread. When the burning had finished, he would remove the body and wrap it in a plastic bag, then leave the victim in a public place so that the corpse would be discovered. Before leaving the scene of the crime, he always laid a broken crucifix with the victim’s blood splashed upon it where the body used to be. McAlister never left behind any evidence that he was even there.”

  “So what you’re saying, Agent Finch, is that this man is who killed Jane Harley? Why don’t we put out an APB matching his description? Put photos up around town?” The Sheriff seemed perplexed by this inaction on his part.