Deadliest of Sins (4 page)

Chase stood there paralyzed. There was no pool. There was no great trick he'd managed to pull on Gudger. There was only Gudger, sitting there laughing, taking a video of him nearly naked. Soon everybody—all of Gudger's friends, all of the kids at school—would see him pigeon-chested and skinny-legged, wearing only a ragged pair of underpants. He turned and raced toward the house, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

“Aw, don't run away, Olive Oyl,” called Gudger. “Come back and make a muscle for the camera!”

As Gudger's voice echoed over the yard, Chase opened the back door and ran to his room. He threw himself on the bed, tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. Of all the things Gudger could have done, why this? Why not just ground him? Or beat him? Or even kill him? Anything would be better than having those pictures on the Internet. He felt sick inside as he pictured himself on YouTube, stripped to his underwear, running away from a dead swimming pool. The kids at school would laugh at him for the rest of his life. And why had Gudger destroyed the pool in the first place? He and Sam loved it—even his mother liked to float in it at night, after supper. The pool had been the only good thing about this place and now it was gone.

A rage filled him. He got up and started pacing in front of his window, staring at Gudger who was still on his stupid cell phone. How he hated him! How he wished he could pound his stupid face into mush. But Gudger had at least a hundred pounds on him, plus he always carried that Taser on his belt. If he raised a fist at Gudger, the jerk would probably shoot him with that thing and then tell his mother he'd had a kiddie heart attack.

“But it won't always be like that,” he whispered. “Someday I'll be grown up. Someday I'll be as big as Daddy.” He pictured himself tall, with his father's big hands. He would be in the Marines, but he'd come home to visit his mother. There Gudger would be, sitting in his stupid chair, watching his stupid baseball game. He'd walk up and lift him up by the collar and punch him out.
That's for the swimming pool
, he'd say.
And for the time you put me on YouTube.
And then when Gudger started to cry, he would hit him so hard his teeth would fly out of his mouth.
And that's for selling my sister, you bastard!

Four

Samantha opened her eyes
when the girls started leaving for the night. The black girls came first, their voices high and raucous.
I ain't going in that Bekins truck tonight. That white boy's dick is like sucking on a straw! And then that little ol' piddle of kum!

That one came back what's gonna put me in the movies … I'll let y'all know when I get to Hollywood.
They started to laugh, cackling like crows, then a rough male voice cut them short.
You bitches shut up. At least them boys got dicks. All y'all got's fat asses and big mouths.

Others began to hurry past her room. The one who always cried for her mother went by, softly wailing
mama, mama, mama
as if it were a kind of prayer. The one they called Dusty came by full of piss and vinegar.
You just get a load of me tonight, Clifford!
She said, her voice coarse, her accent strange.
I'll bring you back two grand!

I'm banking on it, baby,
cooed a different male voice.
You were made for that casino. We are one kick-ass team!

Sam got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Afternoons, when the girls went out, weren't so bad. They'd eaten and slept, been given their drug of choice. Twelve hours from now it would be different. Their footsteps would be heavy and defeated, much like her father's mine crew at the end of a shift. The black girls would be angry, calling everybody a motherfucker. Dusty would bounce off the walls either high or drunk or both; others would come home crying about the trick who hit them or the cop who made them blow him for free. Always she waited to hear the one who cried
mama, mama, mama
. It surprised her that she came back at all.

She flushed the toilet, then turned on the water to wash her hands. She knew that once the others left, Ivan would come with her tray of milk and cornflakes. In a month she'd never seen anyone else, never eaten anything but cereal for breakfast and a fast food meal for supper. Ivan had let it slip, though, why no pimp had taken her and herded her out with the others. “Word from the boss,” he whispered. “You're special … you're a virgin.”

How they'd found that out, she didn't want to think about. She assumed it had been when she was knocked out, after she'd gone to check out that car seat by the side of the road. She had a wisp of a memory of hands plucking at her clothes, but even that notion swirled away in a miasma of barely recalled dreams and sensations. When she finally woke up for real, she was in this small, boarded-up motel room with a bed, a bathroom, and a collection of old cartoon VCR tapes to play on a battered TV.

She went back to her bed and waited. Five minutes later she heard a key at her door. Ivan stepped into the room bearing a tray of cornflakes. From Moscow, he had a lupine face and the long, lean body of a ballet dancer. They'd struck up a curious friendship during the past month—he'd taken pictures of her, given her little snippets of information while she'd taught him how to put his long blond hair up in French braids. Today he was dressed all in black, with glittery purple eye shadow that made his green eyes glow. In the outside world, he would have frightened her. In here, he was her only friend.

“Good morning, Kiska,” he said, his English thick with Russian. “How are you today?”

“Okay.” She sat cross-legged on the bed. “Considering all the racket outside.”

“You hear Dusty bragging?”

“It was hard not to.”

He tucked a stray curl into his beloved French braid. “She's proud of the money she brings to Clifford. I warn her—shut your mouth, you'll have trouble if you make the black girls mad.”

“What would they do?”

“Who knows? Cut her face up, kill her. You never know what women will do. Anyway,” he sat down on the foot of her bed. “You need to forget about Dusty. Today is big day for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tonight Boyko comes with doctor, to examine you.”

She tried to keep her voice steady. “What for?”

“To make sure you are virgin. If doctor says okay, they will send you someplace much nicer than here.”

“Where?”

“Far away. You will never see here again.”

“But where is
here
, anyway?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

She looked down at her bowl of cornflakes, the squat little carton of grade-school milk. Her heart began to beat like a drum. If she never saw here again, then she'd probably never see her mother or little brother again, either. She started to tremble, fighting back tears.

“Ah, Kiska, do not cry. Is not so bad. A wealthy man will take care of you. You will have good food, pretty clothes. You will never have to work the casino or the streets.”

“But I'll never see my family again!” She looked up at him, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Don't you know what that's like? Don't you miss your family in Moscow?”

“I miss them, but they don't miss me.” He wiggled his fingers, showing off the purple nail polish that matched his eyelids. “In Russia, they hate pretty boys like me.”

His words made her cry harder. How had she ever wound up here? How could she ever escape?

“Kiska, please.” Ivan ran to the bathroom and spooled off a handful of the rough toilet paper. “If they see you've been crying, they'll know I've told their secrets.” He thrust the toilet paper at her. “Please—dry your eyes.”

She wanted to tell him she didn't care if they found out—she didn't care if he got in a lot of trouble. Then she realized that he was truly scared—not for her, but for himself. Instead of drying her eyes, she sobbed louder.

“
Ne plach',
little Kiska!” he cried, sitting down close beside her and putting his arm around her shoulders. “You mustn't be crying when Boyko comes. I was teasing about the doctor—just telling you foolish gossip.”

She knew his words weren't gossip—weeks ago he had told her exactly what awaited her if the doctor pronounced her pure. She kept on crying.

“Shh!” He tightened his grip and shook her, as if that might staunch her tears. When it didn't, he slid to the floor and beseeched her like a frightened puppy. “Kiska, please. How can I make you quit crying? What can I do to make it better?”

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Make me not a virgin anymore. Then at least I'll be able to go outside.”

He shrank back, his eyes wide with terror. “That would be
bezumnyj
… suicide.”

She started to beg him to have sex with her, then she noticed he was wearing a little holster that held a cell phone. Suddenly, she saw her chance. “Let make a call on your phone. To my mother.”

He looked as if she'd suggested sex again. “Boyko would kill me if he found out.”

“He won't find out! I'll never tell him. I won't even talk long. I just want to tell my mother good-bye!”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Kiska. Is not possible.”

“Please!” She scooted off the bed, sitting on the floor, nose to nose with him. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, gentle as a sister. “
Pozhaluysta
, Ivan,” she begged, using one of the Russian words he'd taught her. “I love my mother. Please let me talk to her—just one last time!”

For an eternity she gazed into his eyes. They flashed green beneath their purple lids, emotions rushing across them like clouds in a stormy sky. His own tears welled up, running his mascara into thin black streams. Finally, he gave a hopeless sigh and reached for his phone.

“For the French braid, Kiska. One minute. And only to your mother.”

She grabbed his phone and hurried over to the window. Turning her back to him, she started to punch in her mother's work number. But suddenly her hands started to shake and she couldn't remember the proper sequence of 4s and 2s that made up the nursing home number—was it 242-4244? Or 424-2424? She couldn't remember—her brain seemed frozen on the mere fact she was finally holding a cell phone. Finally, she gave up and punched in the number Gudger had them memorize the day after they'd moved into his house—the landline to his archaic black phone in the den. Though Gudger was the last person she wanted to talk to, he was better than nothing.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Was there an answering machine attached to this line? She couldn't remember. She gripped the cell harder as the phone kept ringing. “Answer,” she whispered, hearing the rustle of silk as Ivan got up off the floor. “Somebody please hurry and answer!”

The phone rang on, then, suddenly, a child's voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello?” she cried. “Chase?”

“Time to get off,” said Ivan. “She knows you're alive.”

“No, wait!” She shrugged away from Ivan and turned to the corner of the room. “Chase, I'm in trouble,” she whispered. “I'm scared. You need to tell Mama.”

“What did you say?” Chase asked over some loud pounding in the background. “Sam, is that you?”

She knelt down in the corner and went for broke, yelling as loud as she could. “I don't know where I am, but tell Mama some men are going to send me away!”

Before she could hear Chase's reply, the door burst open. She looked over her shoulder as two men strode into the room. One had a shaved head, but the same high cheek bones as Ivan; the other hulked like an ape and carried a rifle. Ivan turned toward them, holding his hands out in supplication.

“Boyko!
Zhdat!
” were the last Russian words he uttered. The huge man aimed his rifle and fired. Ivan slammed into the wall beside her, sliding to the floor, his face and torso torn open. Blood gurgled from a ragged hole in the middle of his throat, while another had ripped off most of his lower jaw. His pretty French braid was now peppered with bits of tissue and white chunks of bone.

“Ivan?” she cried, as a new coppery smell mingled with his jasmine perfume. His green eyes looked at her in surprise for moment, then the light in them died, suddenly overshadowed by the fluorescent magenta smear on his eyelids.

“Ivan, come back!” She reached to touch him, reached to shake him back to life, but before she could the two men were on her. The bald man wrenched Ivan's phone from her grasp, while the other one slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Mama, please help me,” she whispered, sounding a lot like the girl who'd just gone off to work, calling for her mother in a helpless and unanswered prayer.

Five

After Mary left Chase
at the creek, she continued along Jackson Highway through the town of Manley, then on to the larger city of Gastonia, where she presented her state credit card to the clerk at the Holiday Inn. It was safer, she'd been advised, to stay outside the county you were investigating. “Always watch your car,” warned Tom Ruffing, her counterpart in the eastern part of the state. “I once found a dead squirrel stuffed in my exhaust pipe.” After a quick supper at the motel café, she headed back to Campbell County, where, according to Governor Chandler, the One Way Church's Wednesday night prayer meeting would soon begin.

It looked similar to the other little churches that dotted the county. A small brick building topped by a squat steeple, it had signs asking God to bless our troops, warning sinners that the path to hell was easy and wide. What made the One Way Church unique was the parking lot. That evening it overflowed with cars, protestors waving signs, a couple of media trucks with rooftop satellite dishes aiming heavenward. Mary pulled up to the policeman who stood at the entrance of the lot, directing traffic. “Any room for me?”

The cop eyed her Miata with suspicion. “You a reporter?”

“Just a churchgoer,” she said, smiling.

Frowning, the cop scanned the crowded parking lot. “Pull over there,” he said. “You can wedge in between those Dodge Rams.”

“Thanks.” Mary drove where he'd pointed, nosing her little roadster in between the two monster trucks. Reminding herself to check her exhaust pipe for dead squirrels before she left, she walked to the front of the church, where a large knot of protestors chanted
Real Christians don't hate!
Mary walked through the din, passing a reporter doing live news feed from WRAL in Raleigh. She wondered if Ann Chandler was watching from the statehouse; if so, she hoped she saw her on camera. As she neared the entrance of the church, a gray-haired man poked his head out the door.

“Ma'am, are you here for services?” he called.

“Yes sir.”

“Then come on in.” Glaring at the shrieking protestors, he held the door open wide. “Welcome to One Way Church.”

She stepped into a small lobby, where another man began wanding her like an airport security guard. When he determined she wasn't carrying any weapons, he asked if he could look in her purse.

“Of course,” she said, handing him her bag, thankful she'd left her Glock in the motel room. “Looks like you've got some security issues tonight.”

“Oh, somebody put Brother Trull on YouTube. Now nobody can come to service for those queers out there, protesting something that ain't none of their business to begin with.”

“I see,” said Mary.

He pawed through her purse, took out her cell phone. “I'm not going to confiscate this, ma'am, but I have to ask you to promise not to record any of the service.”

“I hadn't planned to.”

“I know you weren't. You just can't hardly trust anybody these days.” Smiling, he returned her purse. “Welcome to One Way. I hope you enjoy the service.”

She was tempted to tell the man he'd just conducted an illegal search and violated her first amendment rights, but decided not to. Reverend Trull was the issue tonight, not his security guard.

She went inside the sanctuary and took a seat in a back pew. The One Way sanctuary looked a cut above what she'd expected—there was bright red carpet on the floor, padded pews, a big wooden cross hanging over the altar. Though the congregation ranged from lap-held babies to white-haired grandmothers, she saw no people of color, and very few who, like her, sat alone. As she studied the congregation, two men stepped up to the altar, plugged electric guitars into amps, and started singing a zippy hymn about Jesus being THERE FOR YOU. People clapped and sang along, and when the song ended, they waved their hands in the air, index fingers pointing toward heaven. After the guitarists left the stage, an older man got up and made some announcements—the women's circle was collecting food for the needy, old cell phones for our soldiers overseas, gently worn sneakers for people in the Sudan. Warriors for Christ would meet Sunday afternoon, rather than tomorrow night, due to the rescheduled baseball game.

The man bowed his head for a brief prayer, asked God to bless the proceedings, then Reverend Trull took the pulpit. He looked as Mary remembered from YouTube—a short man with a potbelly, going gray at the temples. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and thick glasses that darkened his eyes. The congregation seemed to hold its collective breath as Trull stepped up to the lectern.

“First, let me say how proud I am to see so many of you out there. I know it was probably a little scary tonight, coming to church and having reporters taking pictures and then having a bunch of sign-waving sinners saying you're bigots and full of hate. But you know what? I don't care. If living our lives according to the Bible makes us bigots, then I say so be it! If believing the Holy Scriptures makes us full of hate, then I say so be it!”

“Amen!” shouted several people from around the room.

“You know,” said Trull, warming to his audience, “those people hollering and carrying signs outside think that God loves homosexuals just as much as He loves us. That Jesus loves them and so should we. Well, you know—those people are right. God does love homosexuals, and so do we. We love them enough to try and stop them from going down the wrong path! We love them enough to tell them that God is just and righteous and they are going to burn in hell if they don't start obeying His commandments!”

“You tell 'em, brother!” said an old man sitting on the row in front of Mary.

“Now if you went outside right now, those folks with the signs would tell you that Jesus never said one word about queers and dykes. And that's true, too—he didn't. But do you know why he didn't? Because he didn't have to! The Old Testament covers homosexuality in Genesis, Leviticus, Judges, Isaiah. Jesus would have thought only complete knuckleheads wouldn't know that men having sex with other men was evil and wrong!”

The congregation laughed. Mary had to admit that Trull was more than the blustering demagogue she'd expected. He was skillful with words, used humor to get his message across. She watched as he unbuttoned his coat, loosened his tie.

“But you know something else, brothers and sisters? The Bible is a wonderful book.” Trull hoisted a Bible the size of the Atlanta yellow pages. “It tells you how to solve just about any problem you have. Just look at Proverbs 22, verse 15.
Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him
. Now you probably think that's talking about if your son or daughter won't clean their rooms, or sasses you when you tell 'em to go to bed. Well, you're right—it does mean that. But I think it means something else, too. I think it means if you've got a little boy mincin' around with a limp wrist, then you take him to the woodshed. Do your duty as the Bible clearly tells you, and he'll man up right smart. You got a girl wearing jeans and holding hands with other girls? Same prescription. Take her to woodshed, pull those jeans down, and give her a lickin'! She'll put her skirts back on pretty fast.”

Mary's stomach turned as the congregation murmured their approval.

“Now those folks outside would probably say I've told you to beat your children. But you know that's not true. I'm just saying that God has given us clear directions on how to raise a child up right. He's also given us directions on how to deal with queers.”

Trull paused, as the congregation seemed to catch its breath. “I know some of you think that if a homosexual sidles up and bats his eyelashes at you, then you're going to hell just like they are. Before our blessed Lord came to earth, that was probably true. But I'm telling you, our sweet Jesus does not want anyone to go to hell, and He's even got a plan to save the queers.” He leaned forward on the lectern and grinned. “You want to know what it is?”

For an awkward moment, his question hung unanswered in the silent air, then a woman reluctantly asked, “What?”

“Sisters and brothers, as much as you might not want to go anywhere near these people—as disgusting as you might find them, it's your duty, as Christians, to tell them you love them. Tell them they need to quit their evil ways, for the sake of their immortal soul! All they have to do is accept Jesus as their personal savior. Once they do that—once they truly and honestly accept our Lord—a miracle will happen. He will change them into normal people! Instantly! Right before your eyes! So, brothers and sisters, don't be afraid of these poor people outside the church. Go out there, put your arms around them, and tell them how much God loves them! Stand up for what you know is good and right and true, and when your own day of judgment comes, you can look at Jesus with pride, knowing you tried your best to bring all His sheep back into the fold!”

Everyone stood up. Cheers of
Amen, brother
and
Praise Jesus
came like waves, caressing Trull's grinning face. The guitarists reappeared, striking up another Christian rock anthem as ushers began to pass collection plates. With the congregation digging deep into their wallets, Mary slipped out of the pew and down the aisle. Grabbing a program that she'd missed on her way in, she hurried out the door and down the front steps of the church, eager to get away from Trull's brand of Christianity. As she walked toward her car, she passed a fresh crew of young men who were chanting
God made me gay and I'm okay!

Watch out guys
, she was tempted to tell them,
a miracle is about to occur. In a very few minutes about two hundred people are going to come roaring out of that church, determined to pray every one of you into being straight.