When Death Draws Near (14 page)

“No, no, I know you weren't saying that.”

“Speaking of the prior owner,” I said. “Aynslee discovered the snake room in the basement—”

“Yes.” Arless wrinkled his nose in distaste. “When we renovated the cabin—what was it, five years ago? Anyway, we just left everything down there and sealed it up.”

“I see,” I said. “Um, about Trish . . .”

Blanche took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I'm still pretty shaken up over her death. She lived with us for several months. She was almost like a sister to me.” She reached into her purse and took out a lace hankie, then dabbed her eyes.

Aynslee stood and approached the woman. “I'm really sorry, too, Mrs. Campbell.”

Blanche turned away and blew her nose, a quiet, ladylike toot.

I'd really like to learn the art of crying neatly, instead of my big, red-faced, sobbing boo-hoos.

Blanche kept her back to us for a few moments before turning around. “We need to get going. Do you have a sack or bag for those things?” She waved her hand at the Bible still in Arless's hands.

I found the small box that had originally held some of the groceries, then loaded it with the items on the coffee table. Arless handed me the Bible. “About Trish's funeral?” I asked.

“We're trying to locate next of kin.” Arless stood and took the box. “We'll let you know.” He strolled to his wife and gently rubbed her back. “Ready to go?”

Blanche nodded, grabbed her purse, and started for the door, then paused. “Oh, and when you have the drawings done of the snake-handling church members, bring them to our house and we can cut you a check for the reward right away. Or you can call and we can arrange to meet you someplace—”

“Can it be Octavia's grave? At midnight? On Halloween?” Aynslee grinned at me.

“I thought you were afraid of ghosts,” I said.

“Whatever.”

Blanche smiled for the first time. “A bit theatrical, don't you think?”

“I love this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Aynslee said. “Except for . . . um.”

“Yes?” Blanche said.

“Nothing.” Aynslee glanced at me, then down.

“Well,” Arless said, “if you finish on Halloween and want to deliver the drawings, best come in costume. That's the night we have our big party.”

“We actually start with a gathering at the shelter for the less fortunate in our community.” Blanche lightly stroked Arless's face. “Some small gifts, bobbing for apples, that sort of thing. We do that every chance we get. We love being around the children . . .” She touched the hankie to her eyes.

“After an hour or so, we'll head to our place for our big political fund-raiser.” Arless caught Blanche's hand in his and gently kissed her fingertips.

I looked down, feeling like an intruder to their intimate moment. “So . . . ah, when does the computer program arrive?”

“The marvels of modern technology,” Arless said. “I've already downloaded and installed Composit-Fit ID at the department. The instructions say they've developed it to the point that rough sketches will still spit out possibilities. Amazing.” He took his wife's elbow and escorted her to the car, opening the door and making sure she was comfortable before closing it. He gave us a casual wave, then drove off.

I sighed.
What would it feel like to have a husband like that?

“Now what?” Aynslee said.

“Now we get ready to go to a funeral.”

I SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE AND BENT OVER
the file on the snake-handling group. The answer to the accidents, murders, and rapes somehow was tied up with snakes. I shifted in my chair and glanced around the room.

Clay was unable, or unwilling, to do the necessary police work to stop the crime spree. That left me. I couldn't wait for another person to die, or another woman to be tortured and raped. But sitting around a mountain cabin without any way to communicate and waiting for something to happen was stupid. I shouldn't have let myself get talked into this isolation.

But all the official channels were closed. I couldn't interview Jason, work the crime scenes, view tapes, or use any of my skills.

I did have one avenue open. The invitation to the funeral with the snake handlers.

Aynslee got up and wandered to the window, opened the curtain, and leaned against the glass.

How can I keep Aynslee safe?
I trusted no one. No way would I leave her here at this cabin.

But if the snake handlers were involved . . .

I needed to talk to them, to get invited to the revival, not just to draw them, but to see if I could find answers. I didn't want to botch the invitation to join them by saying or doing the wrong thing. Beth usually relished doing my research for me, and I missed my friend's purple highlighter and notes. Fortunately someone had condensed the materials for me.

Aynslee screamed.

I shot to my feet.

She stepped out of the bathroom. “Just
look
at me! I can't go anywhere dressed like this.” She turned to the freestanding mirror and screamed again. She'd put on the outfit Blanche had dropped off: a black, ankle-length, gathered skirt; white, long-sleeved blouse; black socks; and clunky black shoes.

I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “Perfect.”

“Perfect? Are you kidding me? I look like-like a nun or something.”

“Wrong denomination. You look modest. Be sure you wash off all your makeup and take off your ear baubles.”

Aynslee left to wash her face. I finished reading the file, then closed it and tapped the outside with a pencil. This wasn't going to be easy.

Don't trust anyone
.

“Guess what?” Aynslee held up a skirt and blouse for me. “If possible, your stuff is uglier than mine.”

She was right. The blouse was a strange, vaguely unhealthy shade of green, and the full skirt was a dark sepia brown.

She wrinkled her nose. “Your shirt looks like puke.”

“Um. Put that on the sofa. I'm going to make a casserole for the funeral and don't want to get anything on it. Not that food items wouldn't improve the appearance.”

“Oh, Mom, you're not going to take those poor people your tuna noodle casserole, are you?”

“Of course. You always bring food for the family.”

“But that's not food. It's . . . it's not edible.”

“You eat it all the time.”

“I'm immune. Pleeease?”

“It's the thought that counts.” I ignored her lack of support and located a white Pyrex dish, box of pasta, can of tuna, and can of cream of mushroom soup. After cooking the pasta, I mixed the other ingredients together, adding water to make it all smooth, and placed it in the dish. The presentation looked rather . . . monochromatic. I located a can of peas and added them to the mix. I'd hoped the peas would add a cheerful note of sap green. Instead, they were closer to the gray-green of terre verte. I couldn't find any potato chips to crush for the topping, so I settled for sprinkling different colored spices on top, forming leaf shapes. “Ta-da!”

Aynslee wandered over. “That's kinda pretty. What are the sprinkles made of?”

“Um, the green one is basil. The yellow one is curry, and the red one is . . .” I picked up the jar. “Something called mace.” I put the lid on the dish. “Give me a minute to get dressed.”

After scrubbing my face and running a comb through my hair, I tugged on the skirt and blouse. The waist of the full skirt was too big, so I safety pinned the extra fabric. It flowed to my ankles, covering the black socks. The blouse was new, with sharp creases where it had been folded. I didn't spot an iron anywhere, so I smoothed it out the best I could. I left the blouse untucked to cover the safety pin and wad of extra fabric.

Aynslee made no effort to hide her mirth. With the green
top and brown skirt, I looked like a tree stricken with some exotic disease. Without makeup and with my light-colored hair, I looked pale and drawn.
Maybe the cancer is spreading.
I shoved down the thought and concentrated on keeping Aynslee cheerful.

Grabbing the library bag, I emptied out the files I'd placed there earlier, stacking them on the coffee table. I stuffed a pencil, eraser, and sketchbook in it along with the contents of my purse. Aynslee reluctantly picked up the casserole and her cell.

“No.” I pointed at the cell.

“Why not? They'll probably have cell reception.”

“You are not going to be texting or calling someone during a memorial service.”

“But you have your phone.”

“I'm not turning it on.”
Not until I know who to call and who I can trust.

She let out a snort worthy of a startled deer, put the cell down, and stomped to the truck. We'd driven several miles before she spoke to me again. “What happens during a snake-handling funeral?”

“I'm not sure. The material I read stated that the practices and beliefs of a particular group came down through the families, and if someone disagreed, they would likely go down the road or across the street and just start a new church.”

“What would they disagree about?”

“Hmm. Well, a ‘Jesus Name' group, or Oneness, believes that there is only one person in the Godhead, Jesus Christ. To be baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost doesn't count as baptism.”

Aynslee turned to watch me.

“There are some who believe you have more than one baptism: a first by water and a second by fire.”

“That sounds painful.”

“A metaphor. Baptized by the Holy Ghost.”

“Like in the Bible,” Aynslee said. “On the day of Pentecost.”

“Finish the example.”

“Oh, Mom, do you ever stop?”

“Don't you have a term paper coming up in Bible Studies?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm giving you a potential topic. And firsthand research.” She didn't look convinced. “Think of all the things you'll have to share with Mattie.”

Aynslee brightened, leaned back in her seat, and recited to the ceiling. “The Jewish Feast of Weeks, which was . . . forty?”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty days after Easter—”

“Passover.”

“Yeah. That's when everyone got together from all over. In Jerusalem. The apostles were there as well. Suddenly a bunch of fire—”

“Technically, a sound like wind.”

“Whatever. A wind came in and dropped fire stuff on them and they were able to talk to each other in their own language.”

“Something like that. And speaking of tongues, some believe that if you don't—or can't—speak in tongues, you won't go to heaven.”

Aynslee scratched her chin for a moment. “But I read somewhere that people believe if you do speak in a language you couldn't have known, it's a sign of possession by the devil.”

“Not within the Pentecostal group.”

“What about snakes?” She rubbed her arms.

“Some of the groups feel if you don't follow all five signs given in Mark 16: drinking poison, handling serpents, healing, speaking in tongues, and . . .” I tapped the steering wheel. “Yeah, casting out devils, that you were picking which part of the Bible you wanted to follow.”

“What if you got bit by the snake?”

“Again, some disagreement. Some say that person wasn't anointed by God.”

“How would they know when they're actually anointed?”

“From what I've read, it's a special feeling.”

Aynslee raised her eyebrows. “What else?”

“You might get bit, according to some, because you were doing something wrong in your life, or you were a lesson to an unbeliever that the snakes were somehow not dangerous.”

“But the doctor treating—”

“They usually don't seek any medical attention after a bite, relying on prayer.”

“But what if you die?” Aynslee's voice was barely a whisper.

“It was your appointed time to die. Or your death is a lesson to others.”

She nodded. “Okay, but it all sounds confusing.”

“It makes sense to them. Just remember, sweetheart, we're there to pay our respects and hopefully get invited to their homecoming, okay?”

“What if they bring out snakes?”

“Stay behind me. I'll keep you safe.”

WE ONLY GOT LOST TWICE. THE ROADS TWISTED
through the mountains and were seldom marked with a name, but Elijah's directions came with descriptions of landmarks. We finally pulled in front of a modest white house surrounded by a large array of older cars and trucks. A cow pasture on the right held a couple of Holsteins casually chewing their cud, while a freestanding garage squatted on the left.

People had spilled out onto the porch, and everyone stopped speaking, turned, and stared at us as we got out. I tugged my skirt straight, took the casserole from Aynslee, and marched bravely forward.

A smiling Elijah stepped out of the house wearing a white shirt and black dress pants. “Praise the Lord. You came.”

“I hope you don't mind, but I brought my daughter, Aynslee. Aynslee, this is Mr. Adkins.”

He nodded at her, and his gaze went from head to toe on our outfits. He nodded and turned to the fellow mourners. “Folks,
this here's Miz Gwen and her daughter. Miz Gwen's the one that drew Samuel's picture.”

I wiggled my fingers at the assembled crowd.
Trust no one.

He gave a small jerk of his head, and Aynslee and I followed. The guests made a path for us like Moses parting the Red Sea.

The living room was equally crowded, and I was relieved to note that my attire was in keeping with the women's clothing. Mine wasn't even the ugliest outfit. Taped on the wall in front of me was my drawing of Samuel. Under it on a small table was a Mason jar with store-bought flowers—still in the plastic wrapper—lit candles, a Bible, and a very old teddy bear.

I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat.

An unlit, woodburning stove rested on a slightly raised hearth on my left, with a door next to it. The kitchen opened directly into the living room ahead and right of the table. I guessed that the opening on my right led to the bedrooms.

“Elijah.” I cleared my throat. I hated to lie. “I . . . I shouldn't have given you the drawing. It was evidence. If you'll let me return it to . . . the, uh, sheriff's department, I can do another. A portrait. I'm sorry—”

“That's a mighty nice offer, Miz Gwen. That would be a blessing to us.” He approached the table, stared at the drawing for a few moments, then took it off the wall and handed it to me. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's.”

I felt like a lying sneak, but part one of Blanche's plan seemed to be working. I handed the sketch to Aynslee. “Take this to the truck and put it in my sketchbook.” She nodded and left.

Ruby moved into the room, gliding through the mourners, and came to my side. “Thank you, Miz Gwen, for coming.”

I smiled at her and handed her my casserole. She took it, then did a brief double take at the leaf pattern on top. “How . . . thoughtful.”

Another woman took the casserole and hustled it away to the kitchen. Ruby took my elbow. “Come, meet the others.” She moved around the room. “This is Beulah, Carol Ann, Lee, Earl, Ida, Jeremiah, Ivy, Tyrell . . .” Each person smiled warmly, often through tears, and greeted us. The women offered a hand or touched me; the men kept a distance.

Aynslee returned. Several of the younger men stared at her and nudged each other.

A young girl, probably about six, sidled next to Ruby. “This is my daughter, Sarah.”

“Hello, Sarah.” I pulled Aynslee from where she was lurking behind me. “This is my daughter, Aynslee.”

“Nice to meet you, Aynslee.” Ruby's gaze slid to my ringless left hand.

Sarah grabbed Ruby's skirt and peeked at us from behind her mother. Aynslee smiled at her and wiggled her fingers. Sarah grinned back.

At some unseen signal, everyone moved into the living room. It took me a moment to realize the men had gravitated to one side of the room and the women to the other. I caught Aynslee's blouse and tugged her into place on the women's side.

“Let us pray,” Elijah said. All heads bowed and Elijah launched into a long prayer. I peeked at the people around me. Were some, or all, of the group part of the snake-handling church?

What if they start pulling out snakes?

I sucked in a quick breath. Aynslee glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. I shook my head slightly. In the tightly
packed bodies, an irritated rattler could take a chomp on almost everyone in the room.

I kept my eyes open, watching for any indication that the prayer would move into more sweeping gestures of faithfulness. Elijah finished, but someone else—Jeremiah? Tyrell?—spoke. The prayer went on, with different members speaking after a slight pause, apparently to make sure the previous person had finished. All of them gave thanks for our presence and thanked Jesus for my drawing skills.

I was humbled.

A woman started singing, and they all joined in. I'd never heard the song before, and my western Montana brain couldn't understand the deeply accented words. As soon as they finished, Ruby began another song. Her voice was untrained, but beautiful.

When the last note ended, Elijah spoke. “I want to thank all of you, my family, friends, and neighbors, for joining us.” He continued talking about the life of his son, at times barely restraining tears. When he stopped speaking, a second, then a third mourner took over.

When the cancer kills me, will everyone speak as kindly?

I shoved the sooty black thought down and concentrated on memorizing the people around me. Although at times I can barely remember what day of the week it is, I have a photographic memory of faces. Even if I didn't get invited to the homecoming, I could draw those present.

A prayer followed the final speaker. “Lord, bless all the folks attending here today, and bring comfort to the family of Jason Morrow.”

I jerked my head up.

After a chorus of “amens,” the memorial service was over.

Everyone shuffled toward the kitchen. I touched the arm of the nearest woman and she paused.

“Do you folks know Jason?” I asked.

“Some might. I didn't know him personally. It was all over the news.”

“His arrest—”

“Then he tried to escape. Police shot him dead.” She turned and followed the others.

My feet seemed rooted to the floor.
Dead?

How deep did this cover-up go? I swayed slightly. I needed to use the restroom. Making a guess that the layout of this house was similar to the cabin, I reached for the doorknob nearby. A large, calloused hand grabbed my wrist.

I jumped.

“What are you doing here?” a rough male voice whispered in my ear.

“You're hurting me.” I turned to the man towering over me. I recognized him immediately. He was the handsome chauffeur I'd seen driving the older couple in the Bentley. He wore a white dress shirt without a tie and black pants over heavy work shoes.

He let go, but continued to invade my personal space. He smelled faintly of freshly cut wood and aftershave.

“I was looking for the powder room,” I said.

He continued to stare at me, but the corners of his lips pulled down in confusion.

“Ah . . . restroom? Bathroom?”

The glower returned to his face, but he stepped aside and jerked his head to the opposite wall. A door opened beyond that, and one of the women emerged from a tiny bathroom.

I pushed past the man and headed to the restroom. After rinsing my face in cold water, I turned to check my appearance in the mirror over the sink.

A frame outlined where a mirror once hung, but only the plywood backing remained. I returned to the living room. Aynslee was the only person left.

“That's where you were.” She shoved a hunk of hair off her face. “I'm starving, and everyone's already filled their plates and gone to the backyard. Come on!”

Obviously Aynslee hadn't heard the fate of Jason.

We moved into the kitchen. It was like a step back in time. A white-painted kitchen table with red trim strained against the quantity of food: ham, turkey, biscuits, sweet potatoes, and something that looked like tater tots. An older woman was stirring something on the 1950s stove, which also held large pots of green beans, some other type of dark green vegetable, and two pots of different-colored beans. All the cabinets were painted white, with vintage mint-green-and-red wallpaper. The farm sink under the window had matching fabric hanging below instead of cabinet doors.

I took a deep breath, sucking in the aroma. I didn't think I was hungry, but my stomach let out an angry growl.

“Best you eat up now,” the woman said.

“This room is amazing.” I picked up a paper plate. “Perfectly preserved, what, 1950s?”

The woman stopped stirring and smiled. “The 1940s, but not preserved. Designed. Ruby is an interior decorator specializing in vintage kitchens.” Her smile widened at my expression. “And Elijah is a contractor. You equate simple folk like Ruby and Elijah with illiterate and uneducated.”

My cheeks burned.

She tapped the wooden spoon on the pan and placed it on a spoon rest. “Get to know them. They're good folks.” She left.

“Well,” I said to Aynslee, keeping my face down so she couldn't see my blush. “That was awkward.” I busied myself filling my plate, then nudged my daughter and nodded toward my empty casserole dish. “At least they loved my cooking.”

“Check the garbage.”

I gave her a withering look, which she ignored. I couldn't help it. I peeked into the trash.

A number of used paper plates filled the space. All had remnants of tuna noodle casserole. When I looked up, Aynslee was grinning at me.

“Don't say a word, young lady.”

We took our overloaded plates to the yard where tables and folding chairs were scattered under the trees. Elijah raised his hand and patted the space across from him. Several people moved closer together to make room for us.

After sitting, I grabbed Aynslee's hand and said a quick, quiet prayer, then picked up my fork. God already knew I'd pray, but Elijah needed to know I had a passing conversation with Him.

Both Ruby and Elijah were staring at me when I looked up. He glanced at his wife. She smiled slightly and he nodded once. He turned to me. “Miz Gwen, I told my dear wife about your offer to redraw Samuel.” Everyone stopped talking. The birds chirped around us and a light ham-scented breeze lifted my hair. “We . . . that is, Ruby and I . . . would like for you to join us. We're having a revival starting tonight and running through this weekend.”

Yes!
I refrained from pumping my arm.

Before I could answer, the man who'd confronted me in the living room placed his hand on Elijah's shoulder. “A word with you, Elijah?”

Elijah stood and the two men moved a distance away.

“Um . . .,” I said to Ruby. “I'm afraid I've forgotten his name.” I jerked my head in the direction of the two men.

“That's Blake, Elijah's cousin.” Ruby watched the two men for a moment. “Wonder what has him so riled?”

Blake was bent forward in intense conversation with Elijah. Elijah shook his head, then placed an arm across Blake's shoulder. Blake shrugged it off and glanced at me. His jaw tightened and he pointed at the house, then me.

Did he see me in the gazebo the other day? Is he now telling Elijah about my connection to Arless?

Elijah again placed his hand on Blake's arm and spoke to him for a few moments. Blake listened. The two men ended the conversation with a handshake. Elijah returned to the table and sat. “Miz Gwen, as I was saying, we'd love for you and your daughter to join us at our revival.”

“Aynslee and I would be honored to come.”

Aynslee poked me in the leg. I ignored her. “We just need to return to the cabin and—”

“Oh, that's not necessary.” Elijah caught Ruby's gaze, then looked at me. “We have everything you'll need. We're leaving shortly.”

“Oh, but—”

“It's quite a distance, you know, and there wouldn't be time for you to go home and return. We all go up as a group, so there's just this one opportunity.” Elijah rubbed his forehead, tugged his ear, then placed a gnarled finger in front of his lips.

He was lying.

I wasn't going to be able to tell anyone I was going to the revival. That was probably the concession he made to Blake.
She can come, but no one can know where she is
.

I'd be on my own, with my daughter, with a snake-handling cult.