Devil's Playground (28 page)

She no longer feared dying at the hand of whoever had killed Margo and Roberto. Neither Garrett nor his followers could do battle with God and Reverend Billy. She was sure of that.

She read for over an hour, from Proverbs, Psalms, Matthews, Acts, and several other books. As she devoured the words, fatigue crept over her, pulling her toward sleep. She resisted, wanting to hold on to the words, fearful of losing them, but sleep won out.

The Bible dropped to her chest, her jaw relaxed, her glasses migrated down her nose, and she slept.

*

Penelope floated in a world of black satin bliss, buoyed by the cannabis in her blood stream and Melissa’s warm body intertwined with her own. Ripples of color, initially faint, barely noticeable, danced before her, then exploded into hues so brilliant they tore at her eyes. Waves and swirls and eddies dipped and dove, then formed long ribbons that clutched at her.

The strands of color bound her ankles, her wrists, and wound around her throat, constricting like a hangman’s noose. She struggled for air, but found none. She was drowning in an ocean of color, held by some magnetic undertow, gripped by a rainbow of tethers. Kicking and twisting, she attempted to reach a surface that seemed not to exist.

She remembered her eighth birthday, in Laguna Beach, where her parents had brought her to celebrate. She swam and played in the surf, wandering too far from shore. A powerful wave tossed her into the air, then dropped her into a forest of kelp. She could not distinguish up from down. She thrashed the water, searching for air, but the kelp tugged at her as if it were alive. Its sinewy arms held her, caressed her. Her panic grew. Then, as if by some miracle, the gray-green tentacles released her and she bobbed to the surface, sucking air in great gulps.

Now, she fought the iridescent kelp with the same panic, but unlike before, it would not release its grip. Fatigue and resignation sapped her strength, weakened her struggle. When she was sure she could neither hold her breath nor struggle an instant longer, she punctured the surface.

Penelope sat straight up, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath, shaking with a crystalline chill. She looked around, but could not penetrate the blackness that enveloped her. The darkness thickened, the air thickened, causing her to struggle to pull air into her lungs. Then, her world exploded with colors, as if a beam of light had fractured into its purest elements.

She found herself dressed, outside the van, trudging up a velvety green slope, dotted with purple rocks and orange cacti. A battalion of iridescent yellow Chollos appeared to march down the hillside toward her. She wound through them, upward. To where? She didn’t know.

She heard her name, far away, behind her. She turned and saw Melissa struggling up the incline toward her.

“Penelope. Where are you going?”

She wanted to answer, wanted to go to her and take her in her arms. She wanted to return to the van and recapture the warmth and love she had left. But, she could not.

She continued upward until she neared the crest. Dropping to her knees near a twenty-foot shimmering emerald boulder, she clawed at the ground. Like a gopher digging for safety, she scooped away handfuls of gleaming golden soil until her fingers struck something solid, cold and hard.

Melissa knelt beside her, gasping for breath. “What are you doing?”

Penelope stared at her but could not respond. She lifted the object from its shallow grave and held it up. The pearly moonlight reflected off the eight-inch curved blade.

“What’s that?” Melissa asked. “Penelope, what’s wrong with you?”

Penelope turned the knife over in her hands. She stared at Melissa, but said nothing. Standing, she looked down toward the lights of town, which blazed like crown jewels. Diamonds, sapphires, emeralds on a velvety green palette. One jewel captured her gaze. Its ruby light knifed into her brain and burst into a thousand colors, like shards from a shattered cathedral window. She shuffled down the slope toward the light.

Melissa hurried after her, clutching her arm, pleading. “Where are you going? Why are you acting so strange?”

Her pleas squeezed Penelope’s heart, yet she could not turn back. The red beacon drew her.

Melissa stepped into her path and pushed her hands into her chest. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Stop. Come back with me. I’m scared. I need you.”

Penelope wanted, even needed, to go with her. She somehow sensed the crimson light was wrong, yet it wooed and enticed with such strength she could not turn away. She attempted to brush past Melissa, but the smaller girl clung to her, wrapping her arms around her. Melissa’s anguish flowed into her. For a brief moment, the colors of the landscape, the jewel-like lights, and the fiery beacon flickered, faded, wavered, and then snapped to new heights of intensity.

“Please,” Melissa begged. “Come back with me. You’re scarring me.”

Penelope extricated herself from her distraught lover, stepped past her, and continued toward the blood red light.

Sam led, Nathan followed to King’s Truck Stop, where 20 or more big rigs jammed the parking lot. Many would be there for the night; others would climb back onto I-40 as soon as their drivers pounded down some calories and caffeine. They parked their cars near the building and away from the pack of trucks. Inside was also crowded and smelled like motor oil, sweat, and grease. They found a vacant corner booth and ordered black coffee and a shared piece of apple pie, heated and topped with vanilla ice cream. They laughed and dueled with forks over the last bites.

“You’re dangerous with a fork in your hand,” Nathan teased.

“My dad always said it was risky to get between me and food.”

“I believe it,” he laughed.

A plump brunette in a stained and yellowed apron refilled their cups with steaming coffee. “Anything else?”

Nathan looked at Sam.

“No thanks,” she said.

“Just the check,” Nathan said.

The waitress waddled away.

“What’s he like?” Nathan asked.

“My dad? He died when I was seventeen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man.” She sipped her coffee. “Worked hard, mostly construction jobs, but always found time for me. I played softball, basketball, and ran track and he never missed an event.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Every day.”

“And your mom?”

“Seven years after dad died, mom found out she had breast cancer. She went through two years of hell after that.”

Nathan gave her a sympathetic look. “My mother died a couple of years ago of lung cancer. I never could get her to put the cigarettes down.”

They sat quietly for a minute. Sam stared into her coffee as tears crept from the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision, creating a world of formless colors and shadows. Don’t start crying, she told herself. When she looked up, Nathan’s eyes had glazed also. He reached across the table and took her hand. A tear escaped and snaked down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“See what you started?” she sniffed, then laughed, feeling foolish for crying in front of Nathan, in front of a bunch of truckers.

Using the corner of his napkin, Nathan dabbed tears from his own eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.” His thumb caressed the back of her hand. “I thought I was through crying over her. Guess I was wrong.”

His Cocker Spaniel eyes, which before she thought were a practiced expression, suddenly seemed real, appropriate. She wanted to kiss him.

“People are staring at us,” she said

“No, they aren’t.”

“Well, it feels that way.”

The waitress dropped their bill on the table as she hustled by, one arm supporting four plates piled with hamburgers and fries.

“Why did you leave LA and come back here?”

“To be with mom. At the end.”

“Why did you stay?”

“This is home. I had forgotten that, during my time in LA. Staying just felt right. Besides, in LA I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“After UCLA and the Police Academy, I spent two years in uniform. I wanted to be a detective, but it was never going to happen. It’s a pretty tight group. Women aren’t often allowed in that circle.”

“Is that why you left?”

“Not really.” She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “I guess that was part of it. But basically, LA is a cesspool.”

“Hey. That’s my home you’re talking about,” he smiled.

“You can have it. Murders, gangs, drugs, corruption. It’s got it all. Anyway, Charlie had been trying to get me to come back here ever since I finished the Academy. I helped him out while mom was sick and after...well...he offered me a job and I took it.”

“He seems like a good guy.”

“He is. And a great Sheriff.”

They sat quietly for a minute, sipping the last of their coffee. Sam broke the silence. “Sometimes I wish...” She stopped, unsure what she wished, hoping he would say something, but when he didn’t she continued. “Sometimes I wish I had stayed in LA.”

“Why?”

“I’d know more. Understand more. I’ve had a fairly sheltered existence. I feel totally unprepared for everything that’s going on around here.”

“And LA would have educated you?” he asked.

“It did you.”

He shrugged. “At a price.”

“How so?”

He stared into his coffee. “Cynicism. Paranoia. They’re staples in LA. And they don’t fall away from you at the city limits. They follow you, take some of the joy from life.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she said.

“Are you happy here?”

“Yeah. At least I was. Until all this shit came down.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “I guess I got too comfortable with the simplicity of life here. Maybe this chaos was sent to pay me back.”

“By whom?” Nathan asked.

“God. For becoming complacent. For not going to church anymore.”

“Maybe.”

Sam shook her head. “You believe everything, don’t you?”

“No. I believe in the possibility of everything. There’s a difference.”

“I suppose.”

"For example, do you believe Garrett could be what he says he is? Satan's chosen disciple?"

"Of course not."

"Why not? Seems to me he would be the perfect candidate."

"What does that mean?"

"Look at him. A loner, a social outcast. He's been a drinker and a fighter all his life. Two armed robbery raps he did time for. Probably did the two rapes he was accused of. Probably killed that guy in Salt Lake City, too."

Sam stared at him in disbelief. How did he know this? It wasn't brought out in the trial because Judge Westbrooke excluded it to prevent prejudicing the jury. Besides, Garrett was never tried for the rapes or the murder. Merely charged and released for insufficient evidence. All she could think of to say was, "You're good. Charlie and I never would have know about that stuff if a friend of his, a sheriff in Utah, hadn't heard about the murder of the children and called."

Nathan smiled and shrugged. "The point is that Garrett is fertile ground. If Satan could control anyone, it would be someone as sociopathic as Garrett. He's mean, antisocial, and appears to have no impulse control. A perfect tool for Satan to use."

Put that way, it almost made sense. Almost. "I have a hard time buying into this stuff."

"That's because, Sam Cody, you like things that are black and white. That can be proven. There are many things we don't understand, but that doesn't make them any less true."

"You would have made a good lawyer," Sam said. "You have a way with words."

"Would that make me more acceptable than being a reporter?"

Sam laughed. "Probably not."

Nathan shared her laugh. "I guess I just can win."

Nathan paid the bill and they stepped into the cold night air. He walked her to her Jeep, where they kissed. Not a quick, innocent brushing of the lips like before. He pulled her to him and she responded by pressing the length of her body against him, parting her lips, accepting his kiss. It was soft, tender, welcome.

After their lips parted, they held each other for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. She considered inviting him to follow her home, but decided against it. It had been two years since she had shared her bed and she wasn’t quite ready for that step, yet.

“I like you, Sam Cody,” Nathan said.

“You’re not too bad yourself, Mister Klimek.”

“So, I’m no longer a scum bag tabloid reporter?”

“You’re still that. I guess I’m just lowering my standards.”

He laughed. “Well, I’m raising mine. You’re far more intriguing than most women I meet.”

“That’s sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “But, I’m not as pretty or as flashy as what you’re used to. I’m a simple person and lead a pretty simple life. At least I did.”

“I like simple.”

“Are you sure its not just that you’re here. In LA, you probably wouldn’t give me a second look.”

“Sam, you would stand out anywhere.”

She was glad the parking lot was dark so he couldn’t see the flush that invaded her cheeks. “You’re just saying that.”

“No. It’s true. I’d bet you’ve attracted your share of men.”

“Yeah. But, guys are easy. Just show up, preferably naked, and bring beer. And the beer is optional.”

He laughed, then gazed upward into the night sky. “Just a minute. I’m creating an image.”

She playfully punched him in the stomach. “It better be an image of a Budweiser bottle.”

They laughed, kissed again, and, after making plans for dinner the next night, Sam climbed into her Jeep.

*

Betty McCumber jerked to wakefulness. The room was dark except for the reading light clipped to her headboard, which cast a dim halo over her. Initially confused, her senses slowly returned. She had fallen asleep reading again. The Bible lay on her chest. She blinked and pushed her glasses back into place.

She heard a sound, the scrapping of a shoe, near her, to her right. She turned to look. In the meager light, she caught a glint from the knife blade as it plunged downward, through her open Bible, into her chest. Pain exploded through her. The bed frame and slats cracked like gunfire and collapsed under the force of the attack. The bed fell away, leaving her momentarily suspended in mid-air, before she fell, bouncing on the mattress. She opened her mouth to scream, but managed only a gurgling sound, followed by a river of blood.