Devil's Kiss (6 page)

“Sam, nothing is
right
in this town, and you know it. Sit down, I'll fix breakfast.”

He had to admit, it was pleasant, watching Jane Ann prepare breakfast. He sipped his coffee, very good coffee, and watched her move around the small kitchen. Very little wasted motion. Jane Ann was nothing like his wife.

Michelle was tall, five seven, with black hair and eyes of the darkest blue, almost black; her complexion was dark.

Jane Ann was small and blonde, with a very trim figure, unlike Michelle's truly magnificent figure. Although, Sam smiled, no one in his right mind would ever mistake Jane Ann for a boy. Her hair was cut short, framing her face.

She turned, as if sensing the minister's eyes on her, and caught him appraising her. “It never hurts to look, Sam,” she said impishly, softening the remark with a smile.

“Only if the man is a minister, or married,” he countered.

“You're a minister, yes. But I wouldn't say your marriage was made in Heaven.”

He shrugged his reply as she placed his breakfast before him. It was everything he liked, prepared as he liked it. Sam lifted his eyes from the plate.

“Eggs scrambled, with green peppers and onions. Sausage cooked just right. Toast with real butter and strawberry preserves. How did you know this?”

“I know lots of things about you, Sam. I hope those preserves are still good. I put them up last year. I never opened them till now.”

He nodded, chewing on a piece of toast. “Michelle hasn't fixed—” He stopped short, feeling guilty about being here, feeling guilty about speaking disparagingly of his wife.

—fixed your breakfast in a long time,” Jane Ann finished the remark. She kept her eyes on her plate as she spoke. ”Or slept with you, either.”

Sam chewed his food slowly, looking at the top of her head. “Ugly rumors.”

She met his eyes. “They are not rumors, Sam. Stop trying to kid a small town. You can't do it.”

Sam said nothing. He knew what she meant. Very little got by a small town.

“Annie Brown has disappeared,” she abruptly changed the subject.

“What do you mean?”

“I've been tutoring her this summer. Yesterday she simply did not show up. I went to her home to speak with her parents—her stepparents, really. They were very rude; very evasive. They refused to allow me in the house. They said Annie had gone to Bradville to visit relatives—her relatives. The girl has no relatives, Sam—anywhere. I know that for a fact. She's been telling me for a month or more that her stepfather has been—making advances toward her. Her stepmother even told her she'd like to see them—you know, do it!”

The scene of Conway caressing his daughter filled Sam's brain. He told Jane Ann what he'd seen that morning. All of it.

“That's been happening all over town, Sam. Whitfield is turning into a cesspool. I've been openly propositioned two dozen times this past week, and some of the remarks from men have been really nasty.”

“I've heard some pretty rough things about Brother Farben,” Sam said. “If they are true, Jane Ann, I just can't believe he's a minister.”

“I don't think he is, Sam. He and Otto got drunk together the other night.”

Sam's eyes widened when she said, “I saw them, Sam. Otto is one of the men who propositioned me.”

The preacher sighed. “Too many things happening to this town to be counted off as coincidence.”

“What do you think is happening in Whitfield, Sam?”

He almost spoke of his suspicions, then held back, shaking his head.

She smiled at him. “Everybody tells their problems to you, Sam. Who do you tell your problems to?”

“The greatest listener of all—God. Now about that back door?”

“Don't you trust me, Sam?”.

He was being honest when he said, “I don't trust myself, Janey.”

She touched his hand and the sensation was almost electric to him. Sam feverishly hoped God was not taking this moment to peer inside his head, for his thoughts—despite his efforts—were borderline erotic.

Sam pulled his hand away from her fingertips. “About that back door?” he said stubbornly.

She laughed. “Can't blame a girl for trying. All right, Sam. George Best and Jimmy Perkins.”

Sam nodded, returning to his breakfast before it got cold. No great shakes in the kitchen, he wasn't about to let this good meal go to waste.

He said, “It doesn't surprise me about Best, he's a first-class horse's behind. Jimmy, though, that comes as a shock. Jane Ann, let me ask you something, other than the obvious, were they acting strangely?”

I—don't know quite how to say this, Sam. Best, well, he acted the way he always acts—you know, what you said. But Jimmy—he wasn't himself.”

“Explain that, please.”

She pushed her breakfast plate from her, the meal only half eaten. “Sam, I don't believe Jimmy knew what he was doing. He acted . . . drugged, or something. His movements were—jerky, I guess. But they weren't drunk—neither of them. I know how a drunk person acts, my father died an alcoholic. Perkins and Best were not drunk.”

Sam finished his breakfast and Jane Ann poured him another cup of coffee. He said, “Perkins acted as though—well, perhaps his mind was being controlled?”

“Exactly, Sam! Yes.”

“Interesting,” he said dryly. “How did you prevent them from coming into the house?”

She smiled grimly. “I was raised on a working cattle ranch, Sam. My father was foreman for years—before the bottle got the best of him. Let me show you something.”

She left the kitchen, returning in a moment with a 12 gauge pump shotgun. “Best told me how well endowed he was, and what he'd like to do to me. I pointed this at his crotch, chambered a round, and told him if he didn't leave me alone, he wouldn't have any equipment to do it with—to anybody! He got the message.”

“I should imagine so,” the minister said with a half-smile. He had been told by Chester Stokes, a member of his church, that Jane Ann was gutsy; not the fainting female type. He believed it. “Is that thing still loaded?”

“Yes, it is. Best said he'd—they'd be back when the fifteen was complete—whatever that means. Said he'd be back to finish the job. He went into a lot of detail as to just what he was going to do to me. I told him when he came back, badge or no badge, I was going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“The fifteen?” Sam said, puzzled. “You sure he didn't say the fifteenth?”

“No. He said when the fifteen was complete.”

“Did Jimmy say anything?”

“He never opened his mouth.”

“I've talked with rape victims before, Janey—those who have been threatened with rape, and those who were actually physically assaulted. But you seem—I don't know—especially bitter, but not afraid.”

“Yes. Well, there's a reason, Sam. I don't remember my mother. I was about two or three when she died. She'd gone horseback riding by herself. She liked to do that, so daddy told me. She was a superb rider. But that day she didn't come back. I was—oh, I guess fourteen or fifteen years old before daddy told me what really happened to her. He was drunk when he told me. Mother had been raped—horribly. Very badly used. Then she was mutilated almost beyond recognition, with knives. The police never caught those who did it.”

“Where did this happen, Janey?”

“About halfway between Tyson's Lake and the Dig site.”

“Tyson's Lake is the area that's all fenced off?”

“Yes. It's been fenced off for as long as I can remember. Caves and bottomless pits out there. It's to keep the kids out—for their own good.”

“I see,” Sam muttered. “Yes. Mutilated with knives, you said?”

“Yes. They—whoever did it—cut patterns on her skin. Old Mr. Kramer—he used to be chief of police here—told me that it looked to him like some kind of ceremony. A rite of some sort.”

“Kramer? I don't know the name.”

“Oh, he's dead, Sam. He's been dead ten years, I guess. Yes, that's right. He died right after he told me that. I was seventeen, so that was ten years ago.

“How did he die?”

“Well, that's a good question, Sam. He just disappeared one day. He was an old man. Some people said he was getting senile, but I don't believe that.” She shrugged. “His body was never found.”

“Just disappeared, huh? Where was he when he ‘just disappeared?' ”

“Why, out by Tyson's Lake, I think. I know Mr. Kramer used to prowl around out there.”

“I see.” A small ray of light shining on a still tiny idea beginning to form in Sam's mind. “Well, let's call the chief, Janey. Let's tell John what happened here last night. We'll let him handle it.”

 

“Incredible!” John Benton said, shaking his head in disgust. “I've got to ask you this, Jane Ann, are you sure it was Best and Perkins?”

“Oh, yes. I had the back porch light on. I know them both very well.”

The Chief nodded. “I just don't understand why Jimmy was with Best last night. It was his night off.”

John had her repeat the story several times; she did not waver in the telling. The Chief took careful notes in his neat handwriting. A retired highway patrol officer, John Benton was rated an excellent police officer, very thorough in his investigations.

“I had high hopes for Jimmy,” John said, putting his notepad in his hip pocket. “He was shaping up to be a good officer—so I thought. I was going to recommend him for the Highway Patrol.” He looked at Jane Ann. “I'm sorry this had to happen to you, Jane Ann. I've known you since you were a baby. I was on duty the night your mother died. Helped investigate that tragedy. I also helped in the investigation of your father's disappearance.”

“Disappearance?” Sam cut in, looking at Jane Ann. “I thought your father died?”

“He disappeared, Sam,” she said. “Nine years ago. He's listed as dead, now.”

“Earl Burke was an alcoholic, Sam,” John said. “In his later life, that is. He never touched the stuff until his wife was killed, then he went over the line in a big way. He used to get drunk and roam the area where the tragedy occurred.”

“The Tyson's Lake area?”

“That's correct. One night he went out there and never came back.”

“How'd he get out there?”

“In his pickup. We found the truck, but we never found Earl.”

And the assumption is—”

“He climbed the fence surrounding the area and fell into one of the deep pits or caves out there. It's a very unsafe area, Sam. Caves, holes, even a few lava pits that are very unstable. A hundred and fifty acres, all told. 'Bout sixty acres in timber. But—”