Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Rust On the Razor (18 page)

BOOK: Rust On the Razor

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“Where were you the night he was killed?”

“Home, alone, in bed, asleep.”

“Any other gay people in town it would do me any good to talk to? Any that might have been afraid of him and could have information? Maybe had a temper and might have wanted to kill him?”

“I'll question people, not you. There aren't many of us, and we have to be very careful. If anybody knows anything, I'll let you know.”

I thanked him. I felt warmer, so I took off the blankets. Now, I wanted to see Scott more than anything else. I also wanted to find some food.

I found Scott pacing the floor in the CCU. “I just got here,” he said after he hugged me. “Are you all right? What's happened? Where are your clothes?”

“Doctor says I'm okay. We went out to see loony Jasper in his swamp. The reporter I was with is in surgery.”

Violet walked off the elevator. “You're safe!” she said. “What about Dennis?”

“They're operating. I'm hungry. I'll give you both all the details over a hot meal.”

On the way out of the hospital I asked Scott, “Is your dad okay?”

“Yes. He might be able to walk a little tomorrow. We're very hopeful. What happened?”

I insisted on Della's Bar-b-que. Violet found out which door of the hospital the reporters were clustered around and we left by another exit. Outside, the rain continued to pelt down. With any luck the entire state would wash away.

The restaurant was nearly empty, but we sat in a booth far in the back, partly to be as unseen as possible, certainly to be unheard. Sometimes paranoids do have enemies, and we had a shitload of them.

I told the whole story as we ate. Food had never tasted so good to me. The streetlights came on and total dark fell before I finished relating all of the horrors of the afternoon.

Scott sat on the same side of the booth as me. He put his arm around me to comfort me. I didn't care if the whole goddamn town was staring and taking pictures.

“I can believe that hypocrite Hollis is molesting kids,” Scott said. “I can't believe he gets away with it.”

“If he really did it,” Violet said. “You only have Jasper's word for any of this.”

“But I'm going to try and prove all of it,” I said.

“Poor Dennis,” Violet said.

“We should do something for him,” I said.

Scott said, “I probably have a few friends left in the
media. There's got to be a job somewhere other than around here. When all this is over, I'll try talking to a few people.”

“Good idea,” Violet said.

“And we're leaving town,” Scott said.

“I can't,” I said. “I'm still a suspect in the sheriff's murder.”

“I'm calling our lawyer. Todd must know some way to get you out of here.”

“I'm going to want to talk to everybody that Jasper told me about, including your family.”

“None of my brothers or sisters would do anything to hurt me.”

Violet said, “Maybe I can speak subtly with Hiram and Shannon. Not get them upset. I can at least try. We have to find out what Jasper was talking about.”

“They wouldn't do anything,” Scott insisted. “I'll go with you to do the other questioning. Dad's doing much better and I can get away for a while.”

I told them about the police reports that Cody had told me about. Violet had also talked to him, and he had given her the same information.

“Why a rusty razor blade?”

“Wouldn't killing him that way take longer?” Scott asked.

“It makes it more vicious and angry. Jasper fits that mold. This is a very unhappy person,” Violet said.

“I wouldn't call Jasper unhappy,” I said. “He was a raving loony.”

“What's wrong with him must have started somewhere,” Scott said.

Violet shook her head, “Some people are just plain crazy from the day they're born. No reason for it. Nothing anybody can do. Maybe Jasper's parents were kind and loving;
maybe they beat him every night. We'll probably never know. There isn't always a rational explanation for everything.”

“Hard to picture a killer coming out of a stable and loving home,” Scott said.

I thought of his siblings and kept my mouth shut.

“What if the things Jasper told you aren't true?” Violet asked. “Maybe the preacher doesn't molest children. Certainly I've never heard of such a thing. A whole town couldn't keep that quiet. I don't think they'd want to. I hope they wouldn't.”

“I'm going to work on the basis that what he said was true. Somebody had to have a reason to kill the sheriff, and these are good ones.”

“Is Jasper still alive?” Violet asked.

“Cops said they'd look for him,” I said, “but I guess they'll wait for the rain to stop before going into the swamp.”

“From what you said he sounds pretty resourceful,” Scott said. “Maybe we should take precautions.”

“Like call the police?” I asked. “Excuse me, you're both from here, and I don't mean to be insulting, but I don't trust the local cops in the least. We've got one who is less than happy with us because we're blackmailing him for information, and one of them who was at least as much of a Nazi as Jasper. I think we'd best just be extremely careful.”

Violet said, “I talked with Leota, Peter's wife. She hasn't got a clue about why her husband died. You can cross her off the list.”

“We've got to get some answers,” Scott said. “You've been through enough, Tom.”

“Don't do something foolish,” Violet said.

“I'm going to do what is necessary to clear Tom's name.”

As we got ready to leave, Violet said, “I can't go with you. I've got to get back to the library. The water in Johnson
Creek is starting to rise pretty rapidly. We're moving some of the books and audiovisual equipment to higher ground.”

“Is it going to flood?” I asked.

“Weather report said it had been raining about an inch every two hours,” Violet said. “We've had over three inches. They claim it will stop some time tonight, but I'm not going to take any chances. Low-lying areas are going to be swamped. Good thing it's been so dry this year. I've got all the employees and lots of volunteers over at the library, and I want to be on hand to give directions.”

Thunder, lightning, and pouring rain met us outside. Violet gave us directions to all the people we were supposed to see.

“I want to talk to Preacher Hollis first,” I said. “If he's diddling little girls, we've got a powerful tool to hold over his head.”

“He has to be reported and stopped,” Scott said.

“We'll hold it over his head tonight and report it first chance we get after that.”

Scott still had his rented BMW.

As we got in, we saw the television truck go by with the letters WRIS and a smiling peach as a logo on the side. We ducked down until it passed us.

We drove past the jail and the police department. We crossed over a bridge about forty feet long. The street lights glinted off the surface of the swollen river. It still looked like it had quite a way to go before it reached the level of the bridge. A slight slope led from the banks of the stream on both sides. It would have to rise at least fifteen feet above the banks to get to the jail. I looked around. If it got that high, a sizable chunk of the town would be under water.

Preacher Hollis and his family lived next to his church about a mile from downtown. A light shone through a
stained-glass window in the nave of the church that soared above the towering trees around it. Bright lights lit up the empty parking lot, and a covered breezeway that led to a two-story school behind the church. Their house was behind this. All the buildings were built of dark red brick. As we pulled up to the house, I looked back and saw a streak of lightning illuminate the cross on top of the spire.

We dashed through the rain to the front door. A gray-haired woman in a blue smock responded to our knock. If she recognized us, she didn't say anything. When we asked for the preacher, she asked us to wait. She shut the door most of the way and left. The door reopened a minute later to reveal a pudgy man with black hair and a big smile, which died as soon as he saw us. He wore a flower print shirt, fluorescent Bermuda shorts, and black socks with no shoes. If nothing else, a call to the fashion police was in order.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked. “Could I hope you've come to confess your sin?” The smile began to return to his face.

“We need to talk to you about the sheriff's death,” I said.

The man's face turned purple.

Scott wrenched open the screen and caught the wooden front door before Preacher Hollis could finish slamming it. Scott followed his fist into the house. I trailed after.

“Hey, you can't come in here like this! Millie, call the police!” The woman reached for the phone.

“Please call,” I said. “The whole world will want to hear what we have to say.”

Millie stopped with her finger above the buttons on the phone.

“Preacher, we're going to talk about your activities with little girls.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Specifically, when you have sex with children.”

Millie let out a piercing scream and fled the room.

I thought, She knows it's true.

He looked after his wife, then back at us. “This is utter nonsense.”

“People aren't going to like it when their professional Christian and resident holy man is a pedophile. They might be even more angry with you than they are at us.”

Preacher Hollis strode toward us. His little piggy eyes glared out of his gleaming pink face. He stuck the smirk on his face that so many of the righteous present to the world. “I'll destroy the both of you. We preachers will make sure Mr. Carpenter's baseball career is ruined. He will be too frightened to ever pitch in a major-league ballpark. The righteous will not permit it.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass,” I said. I plunked myself down on the couch. The furniture was in shades of pale green, accented with brass pole lamps.

“Our source says he has pictures of you.”

Hollis turned stark white. He breathed deeply for several moments, then rallied. “Impossible. I never touched anyone. Get out of my house!”

“How did the sheriff find out?” I asked.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. And so does your wife. Why don't we go through the list of little trips you've taken with members of your congregation and talk to all the little girls who were there? Someone will tell the truth. Did the sheriff demand money, or simply permanent support for his reelections?”

This was all bluff based on the testimony of someone I thought was certifiably insane and hopefully dead.

“You'd better leave,” he said. “No one in my congregation would talk to you.”

“Only takes one.”

We didn't hear any more about calling the police. That, as much as his wife's actions, made me believe he was
guilty. An innocent man calls the cops and doesn't try to trade bluff for bluff.

I said, “I don't want to tell anyone about your little escapades. I just want to know where you were two nights ago and what compromise you reached with the sheriff.”

“I was here.”

“Now, now, we could use the phone to call the reporters. You've heard there's a pack of them in town to cover Tom and Scott, the evil faggots.”

“Leave!”

Scott stooped to the phone, picked up the receiver, and handed it to me.

I punched 411. I listened to the rings on the line. “Who do I ask for first? We did see that WRIS television truck. Let's call them first. They local or out of Atlanta?” The preacher seemed disinclined to be helpful. I asked for the number of the station. The operator told me the signal came out of Macon. I said the number out loud and let the recording repeat itself. I didn't think the preacher'd lend me a pencil and paper. I had nothing in my pockets but my sodden wallet. I still had the outfit on that I'd gotten in the hospital. I began punching in the number.

Preacher Hollis rushed across the room and wrenched the phone out of my hand.

“You can't,” he said. “I'm sixty years old. Even if it's not true, and it isn't, that kind of allegation ruins someone's reputation. You must stop.”

“Give us information.”

BOOK: Rust On the Razor

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