Krewe of Hunters The Evil Inside 4 (12 page)

“All right, it’s true that we all have a tendency to mistrust each other, to be suspicious of what we don’t understand. You don’t believe that Malachi is a killer, so I’m going to assume that Abraham Smith had enemies.”

Wilson was quiet for a minute. “I’m curious that you’ve come here. I do read the papers, though I don’t have a television. The police say that Malachi is the alleged killer of Mr. Andres of Andover and Mr. Covington, as well. What enemies would they have had that they shared with Abraham Smith?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam said.

Wilson let out a long sigh. “Do I believe that Malachi is a killer? No. Might there be something in him that I never saw? Possibly. Did Abraham have enemies? Most definitely. Only two other families with children in that area belong to our congregation, and they keep very quiet. The rest of those people…they tolerate the Wiccans in the community, thinking of them as actors, really, drawing in the tourists. They tolerate Catholic, Jewish, agnostic, atheistic, Baptist and probably Buddhist. But us? We live too simply for them. They don’t understand that we honestly believe that we are judged daily, that God will come again, and that we can choose to lead pure lives, or we can choose to sin. If Abraham did have real enemies, they did not come from this church. We are of a like mind and, if anyone had a serious problem with him, they would have had a problem with all of us probably, and would have come to me.”

“Did he ever seem to be afraid of anyone? Did he have comments about the murders of his neighbor, or Mr. Andres?”

Wilson shrugged. “Well, he believed that God himself determined that Peter Andres should be killed. He told me he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Grim Reaper himself or an avenging angel come down to kill Peter Andres. Then again, Peter Andres had said that Abraham was a wart not just on the community, but on the world, and that he was ruining his one and only child. I believe Andres intended to look into social services and see if he could get the boy taken away from Abraham, but to my knowledge, nothing was ever done. Andres was a big, scary man, and I’d believe more easily that
he
would have offered violence to the Smiths. But since he died first, he can hardly be suspected of Abraham’s murder.”

“No, of course. What about his neighbor?”

“Now, Abraham kept to himself, from what I understood. Except that he ranted and raved a lot—and yelled at Malachi loudly enough for people in the next block to hear. One of his punishments was to make the kid stand out in the cold, against the front of the house. I doubt if his neighbors liked that much—it’s embarrassing to everyone to see cruelty. Of course, they lived in the Lexington House, and the house itself has a reputation. I’m sure some people believe that evil lives in the house.”

“What do you believe?” Sam asked him.

“Does evil live on?” Wilson asked thoughtfully. “Evil remains, where it has always been, in the heart of man.”

“Of course.”

“Innocents—those who were loyal enough to risk their lives rather than tell the lie that they
had signed
the devil’s book—were the ones who went to the gallows, you know, back during the witchcraft scare,” Wilson said. “The trials were bizarre! Those who
admitted
to witchcraft and confessed weren’t hanged. Those who clung passionately to their belief that such a lie would be against God…
they’re
the ones who suffered the death penalty!”

“I know. I’m from the area,” Sam said.

Wilson stood up, perhaps embarrassed at his outburst of proselytizing to a layman. “We work at the soup kitchen, helping out with the homeless,” he said. “I’m enjoying our conversation, but I’m needed.”

Sam stood, as well. “Thank you for your time,” he said. He started toward the door.

“Mr. Hall,” Wilson called.

Sam stopped and turned back.

“But, was the devil busy at work in Massachusetts in 1692? Yes. He is always busy. So, please, don’t delude yourself. The devil is still alive and well and busy in Massachusetts, in the world, just as he was in 1692.”

L
ittle had changed at Sedge’s Market since Jenna was last there. Milton Sedge ran a clean store with neat, tight aisles and five checkout lanes. Bananas and prime rib were on special. Large cardboard, handwritten signs advertised the daily deals. He had long been a holdout as far as credit cards went, but he, like the rest of the world, seemed to have succumbed to the necessity of plastic. The one thing that had changed was that.

A friendly girl at one of the registers directed Jenna to a rear office. She didn’t get far, however, before she saw the man she sort of recognized as Milton Sedge himself. He was in a butcher’s coat, directing an employee to clean out one of the meat cabinets. He was doing so pleasantly enough, but efficiency and survival seemed to be on his mind.

“Dates, Richard—come on! Pay attention to the dates. We never sell anything once it’s past its date. That’s how we compete with the big guys. Quality—and assurance!” he said firmly.

The worker was a slim youth who appeared to be about seventeen. He nodded vigorously with his compliance. “Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’m on it!”

“Mr. Sedge?” Jenna asked.

He turned to look at her, a balding man with a large nose and massive eyebrows that seemed to be trying to compensate for the loss of hair on his head.

“Yes?” He stared at her, as if trying to decide if he knew her or not.

“Hi. I’m Jenna Duffy,” she said, offering her hand.

“Do you want a job?” he asked skeptically, openly studying her.

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m working with Sam Hill on Malachi Smith’s defense.”

“Oh! Well, you know I gave my statement to the police.”

“Yes, sir. I know that you did. I’m just trying to hear what you have to say with my own ears and, also, to ask you, of course, if you’re certain about your statement.”

He nodded, distracted. An elderly woman with a cart had come next to them. “Milton, where are those bananas?” she demanded.

“Eleanor, what? You’re not going senile, are you? The bananas are in the fruit section!” Sedge said, scratching his head. “Show some good old New England common sense, will you, please?”

“Milton, I’m full of good New England common sense. There are no bananas in the fruit section, and that’s why I’m asking you!” the woman said, indignant.

“Richard! Will you go to the back and see that the bananas are restocked!” Sedge asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“Let’s step into my office, shall we?” Sedge suggested. “It’s just to the left, behind the pharmacy.”

A few seconds later Jenna was seated on a foldout chair between boxes of crackers and he was behind a desk stacked high with invoices. He folded his hands on the desk.

“I’ve taken some guff over this, I’ll have you know. But what I saw is what I saw!” Sedge said. “What is—is. And that’s just the way it is.”

“What do you mean,
guff?
” Jenna asked him.

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind, as well. “Guff! Guff! Grief! All kinds of misery. Folks around here believe that Malachi killed Earnest Covington, and that I’m the one who has lost my eyesight. But that boy was in this store from four to six last Saturday afternoon—the kid liked shopping, read every label on every can. I think he just liked being away from home. The cops found that guy’s body at six-thirty and claimed he’d been dead for over an hour. So, if someone
is
mistaken, it’s the damned doctor who showed up on the site, not me. I talked to the kid. He was a regular. He was always on a budget, so he was like Eleanor, demanding to know where the daily specials could be found. Except that Malachi Smith didn’t demand. The kid was polite. Yeah, I can see where his classmates thought he was a geek. Skinny kid. Big eyes. Bad haircut. But he was
polite
. He was always stopping to get something off a top shelf for the old ladies. He waited his turn in a line. He paid with cash.”

The last seemed to be the asset that truly set Malachi Smith at the top of Sedge’s list.

“How do you know exactly how long he was in the store?” Jenna asked.

“I was in the front when he came in—Mrs. Mickleberry was arguing about a coupon that was good at another store—and I happened to be picking up a broken bottle of ketchup on one of the aisles about fifteen minutes later. We talked about a cut of meat about twenty minutes after that. I was working in the dairy section when he went through. I know that kid was in the store at the time they say Earnest Covington was killed. People around here want me to say otherwise, but I won’t. What is—is.” He sniffed. “Those kids at the school have had it out for Malachi forever.”

“Which kids?” Jenna asked.

“The ones who claimed to have seen him come out of the house that day. Now, why anyone would believe that David Yates over me, I don’t begin to understand. Oh, yeah. Because he’s on the football team.” Sedge shook his head. “Big brawny kid on the football team, and he and his pals tormented poor skinny Malachi. People need to use sense and logic. Yep, sense and logic. The Yates kid and his backfield mom are just as bad. Now, I didn’t say that. You ask me—and I’m no psychiatrist—guilt started eating at that kid and in his own messed-up adolescent mind he knew he was guilty as hell of being one bastard, excuse the language. Whatever. I know what I know. My eyes are sound, and I’m not involved in any of the crazy shenanigans going on.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sedge. It’s wonderful that you’re not letting yourself be swayed by peer pressure.”

“What is—is,” he repeated. “That kid might be crazy as hell, might be a mental midget, and he might have done anything else in the world—I couldn’t argue it. But I can tell you this and it’s a fact—he didn’t kill Earnest Covington.”

“Malachi claims that he’s innocent, too.”

“But he wasn’t arrested for killing Covington, was he?”

“He’s being charged in the deaths of his family. I’m not sure, but I believe, if the prosecutor feels he gets a little more evidence, he also plans on adding charges, and I know that the police believe that Malachi killed Peter Andres and Earnest Covington, as well.”

“He didn’t kill Covington. And I told the cops that. I don’t know what they’re thinking, not to listen to me. Unless folks just get stuff stuck in their minds so hard they can’t see the light.”

“We’re truly grateful for the courage of your convictions, Mr. Sedge.”

“What?”

“Thank you for sticking with the truth.”

“The truth is the truth. He didn’t kill Covington.”

Jenna rose.

“Of course…” Sedge began, rising politely.

“Of course what?”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t take an ax to his mom and dad. Hell, if I’d been that kid, I’d have been tempted to take an ax to that old Abraham Smith!”

“You know,” John Alden told Sam, “you need to thank God that usually, even with the mayhem that goes on around Haunted Happenings, we’re mostly a good, law-abiding place. With Malachi in custody, I haven’t been finding bodies anywhere, and I have the time to do this with you.”

John Alden had agreed to show Sam around Earnest Covington’s house. They stood just outside, and Sam waited for John to let him in and give him whatever instructions he might feel obligated as a detective to give.

“You’re a true gem, John, and a great believer in justice,” Sam said.

“Actually, you know, the cops usually work with the prosecutors,” John reminded him.

“Ah, but, first and foremost, you are a great believer in justice, and therefore agree that the defense has the right to question witnesses and investigate when a client makes a plea of not guilty. You wouldn’t want to get caught up in any red tape, and you like to keep an eye on me.”

The policeman sighed. “Earnest Covington was a widower, lived alone, but he ordered out a lot, so it was actually a kid from the Pizza Palace who found him. The door was ajar so the kid just came in and saw Covington on the floor, right in front of the hearth. The chalk marks are still there—as is the blood spatter,” John said, his mouth growing tight.

Covington’s house was built in much the same style as the Lexington House: front and back entries, parlors to either side of the entrance, and a narrow stairway that led to several rooms above. There was an attic as well, but according to the police report, it didn’t appear that the house had been ransacked in any way. Just as in the murder of Peter Andres, it appeared that the killer came with but one thing in mind—murder.

“The pizza kid found the door ajar?” Sam asked.

“Yep, just like I said.”

“Did your crime-scene people find anything that indicated that the killer had jimmied the lock in any way?” Sam asked.

“No,” John said. He sighed again. “And before you ask, there were so many fingerprints on the door that the lab is still working on sorting them all out.”

“So what made you suspect Malachi Smith?” Sam demanded.

John’s eyes narrowed and he offered Sam a grim smile. “Because we already suspected him in the case of Peter Andres.”

“But why? From everything that I’ve heard, Malachi liked the teacher. And Peter Andres liked Malachi well enough—he hated Abraham Smith.”

“There’d been trouble, bad blood with Malachi,” John said. “God knows, maybe at one time, Jamie O’Neill might have been able to help him. I know that O’Neill kept trying—despite the system that gave the kid back to his parents without interference—and he might have had some luck with him. But, come on—the kids were terrified of him.”

“John, he was like the runt of the litter—picked on.”

“And, sometimes, Sam, when kids pick on another kid, there’s a good reason. Oh, come on, you know that the signs of a serial killer can be seen at a young age. Sickos who throw rocks at dogs and kill kittens.”

Sam stared at John. “And did anyone ever report that Malachi Smith killed a kitten?”

“Not actually.”

“Not
actually?
” Sam demanded.

“Kids talk.”

“Do you know of a kitten that was killed?”

John opened his mouth, arched his eyebrows and then closed his mouth again. “No.”

“John, you persecuted that kid because of hearsay.”

“No, Sam, you weren’t here. Something really happened to the Yates kid—David. He was in agony. Whether Malachi Smith just has something about him that threatened the other kids or not, he’s strange.”

“I don’t think you can be tried for murder just for being strange,” Sam said.

“And I should ignore all the warning signs—not to mention the fact that the kid was covered in his family’s blood—and fail to make an arrest? He hasn’t been charged with the murder of Earnest Covington or that of Peter Andres. He was a person of interest, that’s all. And in the Covington case, Yates and his friend said that they saw him coming from Earnest Covington’s house.”

“And Milton Sedge said that the kid was in his store.”

“I just said that he’d only been a person of interest,” John told him.

Sam let out a long breath and knew that he needed to maintain control. John Alden was legally obligated to give him certain information vital to the case, but he didn’t have to go out of his way to be helpful. He couldn’t push the man too far; he was already basically questioning his police work.

“I’m sorry, John. If he was brought into court on the Covington murder, I’d rip the prosecution to shreds in a matter of minute. These days, I have to prove reasonable doubt, and in a he-said-he-said situation, I’d sure as hell have doubt.”

“Sam, you saw him the night I arrested him. What would you have done?”

“Arrested him,” Sam admitted after a long pause.

“I don’t judge. I’m not on the bench, and I won’t be on the jury,” the policeman said. “I try to maintain the law. I’m not out for Malachi Smith. Prove to me the kid is innocent, and I’ll be the first to tear apart the world trying to get at the truth. But right now, he looks like our man.”

Sam nodded. “Of course. And thank you, John.”

John nodded back.

“So, the killer came in by the door—without forcing it—and apparently came right at Earnest Covington, sliced him to death and left,” Sam said.

John nodded, watching him. Sam walked back to the front door, halfway closed it, pushed it open and walked into the hall. He looked to the right and left, and headed in toward the hearth in the parlor to the left. Earnest Covington must have been standing by his hearth. On the mantel, Sam saw that he kept a kept a metal receptacle for mail. Possibly he was looking through his bills when his killer entered. Sam took a closer look. There was a letter in the bin that looked as if it had been almost shoved back in, a letter postmarked Sydney, Australia. The sender was an Earnest Covington, Jr. Through the envelope, he could see the outline of photographs; Covington might not have owned a computer or a cell phone.

Blood spattered the cheap Rembrandt knockoff on the wall above the mantel. The floor in front of the mantel was still soaked with a dark stain.

“There’s one thing I should tell you,” John said.

“What’s that?”

“Another reason Malachi Smith came to mind—around here, folks aren’t great at locking their doors. Earnest Covington almost never did, according to his neighbors. He told them he didn’t have anything worth anything, and if some poor fellow walked in, he was welcome to take what he could.”

“Why did that make you think of Malachi?”

“Malachi lives in the neighborhood and he would have known that.”

“Was he supposed to have bad blood with Earnest Covington?”

“Not the kid—the old man. Covington was pretty vocal about the fact that he thought Abraham Smith should sell the house…and get out of the neighborhood. But, to be honest, I never heard about anything negative happening between Malachi and Covington—in fact, once, when Covington fell on an icy step, Malachi came over, dialed 911 and stayed with him until help came.”

“That really suggests murder,” Sam said quietly.

John shrugged. “Maybe the old man—Abraham Smith—killed his enemies, and his son freaked out and killed his father and family when he found out. You know, religious duty and all. Now, there’s a rational theory for you.”