Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 (27 page)

Hitebred threw the bag in his car and drove past the church to a logging trail. He parked, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and murmured a prayer for the continued health of Miz Burnwhistle, who was again convinced she was teetering on the edge of her grave. He wasn't real sure who among the members of the congregation would dare to criticize him if he missed the big event, most of them having already dropped off so many covered dishes after false alarms that the actual funeral gathering would be a sorry affair when and if it ever happened. According to Miz Burnwhistle's daughter-in-law, the freezer held no less than a dozen greenbean casseroles, six pot roasts, and four lemon bundt cakes (with powdered-sugar drizzle). The daughter-in-law, who lived in Farberville and worked as a lawyer, had sounded a bit stressed.

The current generation of Burnwhistles had all moved away, as had most of the young folks. Scurgeton had nothing to offer them. Family farms had been bought out by corporations that bulldozed barns and filled in ponds in order to construct endless acres of chicken houses. Fewer children were joining 4-F and aspiring to win blue ribbons at the county fair for little heifers with shy brown eyes.

Hitebred took his overnight bag and walked back to the church. If the satanists were still bent on their wicked ways, they would hold their ritual on Saturday night in order to defile the holiness of the Sunday morning service. Never would they suspect he would be waiting for them in his office, erect in his chair, his ears tuned to the slightest sound, his hand poised to call the sheriff's department and summon a heavily armed squadron of men to burst into the church and cart them off to jail.

Although he knew that pride was a sin, Hitebred saw himself on the witness stand, his eyes blazing with righteousness and his words inspired by no less than the Holy Ghost. The jury would be spellbound, the judge and bailiff leaning forward, their mouths agape with awe. The miscreants, a sorry collection of slovenly, long-haired boys and girls -- why, they'd fall down on their knees and whimper for forgiveness when they heard themselves condemned to eternal suffering. Whether or not he saw fit to forgive them would depend on the sincerity of their apologies. There was no room for ambiguity.

The church was dark. Hitebred let himself inside, locked the door, and groped his way through the folding chairs to the office door. He found the chair behind the desk, sat down, and set his Bible and a thermos of coffee within reach. Thus armed, he leaned back and awaited the arrival of Satan's onslaught.

Brother Verber was surprised when it began to sink in that he had been given the opportunity to do something that would expand his ministry. When he'd first climbed onto the table and exhorted the sinners to quit their drinking and gambling and spend the morning in church, he'd sensed that the message was not well received. However, once he'd pulled out the piece of paper with his lyrics and suggested that everyone present learn how to go about avoiding sin, his audience had turned oddly attentive.

"The thing is," he said, praying that the wobbly table would hold him, "you can't linger on the syllables. You have to keep moving along like draftees in boot camp. Now the first line goes like this: 'Atheism, bestiality, cunnilingus, drive-in movies ... evolution and excessive body hair.' You want to try it, just to make sure we've got the pace?"

Those in the bar seemed willing to do their best. After a couple of false starts, it came together and Brother Verber beamed down at them as they applauded their group effort.

"Very good," he said, accepting a libation from a waitress who looked just like a miniskirted angel. "This is real kind of you."

"It's from an admirer," she said with a wink.

He thought about this for a second, then got back to the serious business of saving souls. "This next part is even trickier, but I'm beginning to feel the spirit and I know you are, too. Before the night is over, we're gonna wash away all our sins and go forth like Christian warriors. Pay attention, 'cause here we go: 'Fornication, gluttony, heathenism, immodesty ... jealousy and killin' with a pear.' Think you can do it?"

"A pear?" echoed a woman with white hair.

Brother Verber frowned. "Are you quibbling with the voice of the Almighty God? In Second Colossians, we are told: 'The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance.' A pear's a fruit, isn't it?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "But I don't quite see how you'd go about killing somebody with one."

"You know the story of David and Goliath?" said Brother Verber. "Now I'm not saying this is the true story, but you remember how David put a stone in his slingshot, doncha? Only last week I was thinking of buying myself a ripe, juicy pear at the supermarket as a special treat. I could almost smell the sweet nectar dribbling down my chin. My mouth was watering with anticipation." He paused to allow his audience to share his anticipation. "But I groaned with despair when I discovered that the speckled yellow pear was as hard as a chunk of granite. I was so disappointed that I could have slung it across the aisle in frustration, just like David did."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying that David slew Goliath with a pear?"

"We can't know for sure. It's an issue that's plagued biblical scholars for centuries. I think we need to move on to the second verse. We're not even halfway done." He paused, a little bewildered by the enthusiastic response he was receiving. This was a song about sin, after all, and those present were engaging in it in various degrees. "Okay, this second verse requires you to take off like you stuck a fork in an outlet. Ready?"

They all seemed more than just interested.

15

"What's wrong?" I asked Cherri Lucinda.

"I ain't sure. Well, I have my suspicions, but I hate to say outright 'cause I'm most likely wrong. Did you hear about Estelle winning all that money playing the slots?"

"I was told she won a thousand dollars."

"They gave it to her in chips. She stuffed them in her purse, then sailed right out of the casino like one of those ships on TV on the Fourth of July. You know what I'm talking about?" I nodded, unable to keep myself from picturing Estelle as a figurehead on a Viking ship, her jaw thrust forward and her wooden eyes focused on a yet unconquered continent.

Cherri Lucinda shivered as a gust of wind whipped around us. "I went to catch up with her so I could offer my congratulations, but I saw this man standing real close to her in front of the elevators, holding onto her arm. They got in one and the doors closed before I could get there. The thing is, she looked real perturbed. I don't think she wanted to go with him."

"And?" I said.

"That's about it. It was more than half an hour ago. I was trying to think what to do when I noticed you poking around the casino. I followed you out here, but, well, I got slowed down. You didn't see anything odd, did you -- like a person or something?"

"No," I said curtly, not willing to pursue the topic. "Describe this man who was with Estelle."

She tugged on her lip with fingernails long enough to do damage in a crowded room. "Hefty. Brown hair, ordinary features. He was smiling, but the way he was doing it wouldn't have made me invite him into my apartment for a beer. He reminded me of my mama's third husband -- and he ain't coming up for parole till the year two thousand and eight."

I was fairly confident I knew the subject under discussion. "He wasn't threatening her in any way?"

Cherri Lucinda gave me a look that implied she put my IQ somewhat lower than that of a slice of cheese. "Not that I could tell."

"Have you seen Baggins?" I asked.

"Since when? I saw him yesterday afternoon, when he gave us our keys. I saw him last night at the roulette table. I saw him this morning, tearing into eggs and ham. I saw him a while back, lined up at the cashier's desk."

"Cashing in his winnings?"

"Not hardly. He was using his credit card to get money. The professor was doing the same, although he was squabbling with them. I guess knowing everything there is to know about Elvis doesn't always cut the mustard. There were several casino guys arguing with him."

"I'd better go make sure Estelle is okay. Thanks for tracking me down."

"You sure you didn't see anybody wandering around out here? A fellow dressed kinda funny, acting like he wanted to have a nice talk?"

I shook my head and went into the lobby. Everybody who was going to check in or out had done so, leaving the bellmen to share a tabloid (EXTRATERRESTRIALS IN CONGRESS!) and the desk clerks to stare at me with far more curiosity than I warranted. I took the elevator to the eighth floor and was digging through my purse for the room key as I stepped into the foyer.

Japonica damn near pushed me back into the elevator. I caught myself and said, "What's going on?"

"Hostage situation. Soon as we get backup from the sheriff's department and the state police, we can seal off the floor. You go downstairs."

I realized she had a gun in her hand. Chief Sanderson stood in the corridor, his weapon drawn. An anemic young man who appeared to be within seconds of both physical and emotional disintegration was slumped against the wall.

"What's going on?" I repeated. "Have the ladies from Tuscaloosa kidnapped one of those cute little croupiers to be their sex toy?"

"Get out of here," Japonica said as she moved behind her boss. "We can't know for sure, but we figure he's armed."

"Who?" I asked as I followed her.

Chief Sanderson looked back at me. "Would you mind relocating your ass elsewhere? The pertinent phrase is 'armed and dangerous.' We don't need civilians cluttering up the scene. Japonica here tells me you're a cop, but you're out of your jurisdiction, and you'd damn well better not be carrying. If you don't want to spend the night in jail, go play the slots."

"Floyd," I began in a reasonable tone, "I don't -- "

"Put her under arrest," he snapped at Japonica. "Don't bother to charge her with anything; just lock her up and let the judge deal with it on Monday. Could be Tuesday, come to think of it, or even Wednesday. We're at the mercy of the circuit judge. He likes to go duck huntin' this time of year."

I stepped over the extended legs of the young man and positioned myself in front of the door to the stairwell, should the situation deteriorate further. "What the hell is the problem?" I whispered to Japonica.

"Hard to say. Somebody saw a man with a gun in the hall. He had a woman in front of him, and she was looking grim. We're not sure what's going on."

"Estelle?"

"I think so, unless there are two women on this floor with twelve-inch-tall hair. You know what room she's in?"

"Yes, but I think I'd better scoot downstairs before I get arrested. Why don't you call the desk? Ask for a man named Mackenzie Cutting."

Japonica grabbed me before I could push open the door. "They're paging him. Can you help us?"

"If you want me to," I said, sounding as sulky as a wallflower with an empty dance card, as opposed to someone who wanted to trample down Chief Sanderson and burst into Estelle's hotel room à la Mighty Mouse. "This is likely to be the man I was trying to tell you about earlier, the one who locked me on the balcony. He wants something. We should give it to him."

"Sanderson has his own agenda, and reelection is at the top of his list. How's it going to look if he lets this guy walk out of here?"

"How's it going to look if he lets an innocent tourist get killed because he failed to negotiate? Anybody who's ever been to the movies knows that the cops are supposed to negotiate while the SWAT team creeps over the roof."

Japonica grimaced. "You're looking at the SWAT team. That boy on the floor is Sanderson's nephew, Lloyd. Lloyd attends evening classes at the community college, working on a degree in agroeconomics. He's got bad allergies, especially this time of year. He's our sniper."

I looked down at the purported sniper, who was blowing his nose into a grubby handkerchief. "Hey, Lloyd," I said, nudging him with the toe of my shoe, "you ready to cover me if I try to break into the room?"

Lloyd sneezed. "Yeah, sure, just give me a minute. Japonica, did Uncle Floyd remember to bring my gun this time?"

I took a deep breath, then went over to Sanderson and tapped his shoulder. "Why don't I go talk to this man?"

"And get yourself blown across the hall? How am I supposed to explain that to the voters next fall? One more term and I'm officially retired. We've never had an unsolved homicide."

"It won't be unsolved if he shoots me," I pointed out in a remarkably cool voice. "You, Japonica, and Lloyd will all be witnesses. Well, Lloyd will have to get off his rear and come into the hall if he wants to watch the fun, but that's not important. What is important is that this man is holding Estelle in her room. I'm the only person who can talk to him."

"Why's that?"

I didn't have a good answer, but rather than admit it, I rolled my eyes and said, "Haven't you read Japonica's reports? It's all laid out like a recipe for lemon icebox pie. Maybe you should go to the office and get caught up. We'll wait here, our fingers crossed that no one gets hurt until you get back."

"You're one major pain in the neck," Sanderson said, holstering his gun as he stepped back into the foyer. "Anybody else ever tell you that?"

I gave him a tight smile as I went down the hall and knocked on the door of eight-eleven. "Estelle?" I called. "Are you in there?"