The Burning Time Page 6

  Once inside his room, he locked the door and motioned toward the bed. “Have a seat.”

  Ignoring John’s request, Mitch went to the small mirror over the cheap wooden dresser and touched a finger to his cheek. “How are you gonna fix this?”

  John removed his leather valise, which resembled an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, from under the bed. Reaching inside, he withdrew a small glass jar filled with a green, thick liquid.

  “With this. It’s an old herbal remedy, made from plants that grow in the swamps where I live.”

  He motioned again for Mitch to sit down and opened the jar. The sweet, wild scents of mint, honeysuckle, and fresh earth filled the room, transporting John back in time to his mother’s kitchen, watching her fill jelly jars with the potions she cooked on the old wood-burning stove.

  The sense of smell is tied so closely with memory in the brain. Just a whiff of gingerbread reminds us of the holidays; fresh-cut grass makes us think of lazy summer days.

  He gave a mental shake of his head to send the ghosts of his past back to their graves. Dipping a finger into the cool paste, he scooped out a dab and applied it to Mitch’s cheek, spreading it across the bruise.

  The boy’s body twitched as he gave an involuntary shudder. “Yuck. It’s all cold and slimy.”

  “Only for a moment,” John said, working the mixture into the skin. Another tiny dab went onto the swollen lower lip. “Now, leave it alone for a few minutes, give it a chance to work.”

  “Did you make it?” Mitch asked as John closed the jar and returned it to his bag.

  “I did. My mother taught me the recipe. She taught me how to make a lot of remedies, what people today would call botanicals or herbals. Back when I grew up, we just knew them as the only medicine around.”

  “What else do you have in there?” Mitch reached for the bag, but John quickly shut it and pulled it out of reach.

  “I’ll show you some other time. Right now we have to get going.”

  Mitch crossed his arms, a pout on his face. “It’s not like I was gonna break anything.”

  “I know. But we need to get you back before Danni gets home. Go take a look at your face.”

  Still frowning, Mitch went to the mirror. “Holy shit!” He touched his finger to his cheek. The bruise had disappeared, and his swollen lip had returned to its normal size. “It worked!”

  “Don’t thank me, thank Mother Earth. Now let’s go. We still have to call a cab from downstairs.”

  When they emerged from the staircase to the lobby, John led them outside to the pay phone, preferring to spend the quarter rather than get stuck in a conversation with Mrs. Chilton. While they waited for the cab, he cautioned Mitch about the afternoon’s adventures, more for his own protection than the boy’s.

  “Remember, this is our secret. Your sister doesn’t strike me as someone who’d understand about the pecking order of teenage boys.”

  Mitch looked up at him, his eyes wise behind thick lenses. “Or about potions that cure people like magic?”

  “That, either.”

  “No problem. She’d probably think I made the whole thing up anyway.”

  That’s what I’m hoping, John thought as the cab pulled up. Otherwise, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

  * * *

  Marge Chilton leaned over the counter and watched the yellow cab pull away. Something tickled her brain, bothering her like a fly that wouldn’t stay away no matter how often you shooed it.

  That Root fella seemed decent enough, but what was a grown man—and a stranger in town at that—doing bringing a young boy to his room in the middle of the day? And there’d been no mistaking the mark’s on the boy’s face; he’d been through one hell of a beating.

  She wanted to think their being together was innocent enough, but God knew that all sorts of depravities went on every day, all over the country. All you had to do was turn on the news and you’d hear about perverts hunting for young children on the Internet and at the mall.

  That’s when it came to her, something Reverend Christian had said during Wednesday Mass.

  “Many forms taketh the Stranger; he likes nothing better than to corrupt the innocent, foul the chaste, despoil the righteous. The hand that strikes the wife or touches the child the wrong way does the Devil’s work. And we cannot count on our leaders, our politicians and our police, to stop it. For they, too, are corrupted—by power and greed. It is up to us—you and I and our neighbors—to right the wrongs, to fulfill our Gods’ plan, to act as our Gods’ fists.”

  “The hand that touches the child in the wrong way,” Marge whispered to the empty lobby. She scowled at the cloud of dust left in the cab’s wake.

  “Not in my town, Mister Root.”

  Chapter 10

  Harry Showalter jerked the wheel of the police cruiser, sending the car to the right so hard Wade Cullen’s container of iced tea splashed cold liquid across his chin and down his shirt front.

  “Jesus, Harry, what’s the matter?” the deputy asked as the car pulled up to the curb.

  “That’s the matter,” Showalter replied, staring out his driver side window. Across the street, a skinny man with a long ponytail was just coming out of McDonald’s, a bag of food and a soda in his hands. “Didn’t you say that bartender friend of yours said Capshaw was in McNally’s earlier today, with some other scumbag?”

  “Yeah, big fellow with tattoos all over and a pony tail. Randy said he looked Mexican, or maybe even part Indian.”

  “I think we need to have a talk with Mr. Capshaw.” After checking for other cars, Harry flipped the siren on and cut across the road, stopping just ahead of Billy Ray, whose face had gone as white as the paper bag he carried.

  “Where you headed, Billy?” Showalter asked as he hefted himself from the car. He heard the other door slam shut, indicating Cullen had also gotten out.

  “Nowhere.” Capshaw’s voice struggled between nervous and angry defiance.

  “Sounds like loitering to me, Chief,” Cullen said. He tapped his fingers against the baton hanging from his belt. At six-five, he was the biggest man on the force, one of the reasons Harry liked him as a ride-along partner.

  “I don’t mean nowhere like nowhere.” Billy Ray glanced from Showalter to the deputy and back. “I mean, I’m heading back to the church.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want you to be late for work, would we, Wade?”

  Cullen smiled and shook his head. “Sure wouldn’t.”

  “Hop in, Billy.” Harry opened the cruiser’s back door. “We’ll give you a lift.”

  Capshaw backed away, all traces of defiance gone from his face. “No, that’s okay. I got time. I’ll walk.”

  Harry let his own smile drop from his face. “I ain’t askin’. Get in the car.”

  Billy looked at the open door, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve only got a few minutes for lunch.”

  “Lunch is over,” Cullen said, slapping the bag and soda to the ground. “Get in.”

  “Hey!”

  Harry grabbed Billy Ray’s arm and twisted it. Placing his lips next to Billy’s ear, he whispered, “Behave yourself and you’ll be back to work before Reverend Christian even notices you’re late. But if you raise a fuss, I guarantee you’ll be takin’ your meals through a straw.”

  He watched the arrogance drain away from Billy Ray’s eyes. The younger man stopped struggling and ducked down to enter the car. Harry considered slamming his head against the edge of door frame, but a quick glance around showed too many people already gathered on the sidewalk, enjoying the unexpected afternoon show.

  As he drove, Harry sang an off-key rendition of “Dry Bones.”

  “Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around. Now hear the word of the Lord!”

  “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Cullen clapped his hands and joined in on the song.

  Instead of turning left at the corner of Main and State, Harry drove straight through the light, past Perpetual Hope Cemetery and toward the river
.

  Billy banged his fist on the wire mesh divider. “Where’re you going? The church is back that way.”

  “Sit back and shut up, asswipe.” Harry felt something hot rising up inside him, something the car’s air conditioning couldn’t do a thing about. “We’re takin’ the long way.”

  “What the hell—?”

  “I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Harry let his anger—a righteous anger, as Reverend Christian liked to say—burst forth.

  Billy fell back from the grill, as if pushed by the force of Harry’s words, and squeezed himself into the corner of the seat and door.

  When they reached a stretch of road bordered by farmland on both sides, Harry pulled over and shut off the car. He got out and opened the back door. “Let’s you and me have a chat, Billy-boy.”

  Billy pushed himself across the seat to the other side of the car. “No way. I can talk fine from back here.”

  Deputy Cullen opened the other door, dragged Billy out, and slammed him against the back fender.

  “Chief wants to have a talk. You’re gonna talk, shit-for-brains.”

  “I didn’t do nothin’. You—”

  Cullen slammed a fist into Billy’s stomach, doubling him over. Billy’s breath whooshed out and he fell to his knees, gasping and retching.

  Grabbing him by the shirt, Showalter pulled him to his feet and leaned him back against the car.

  “Heard you got yourself a new friend in town.”

  His voice weak and full of pain, Billy said, “What? Who?”

  “That’s what I want to know, fuck-face. Tall, Mexican-looking fellow with lots of tattoos.”

  Billy shook his head. “Don’t know anyone like that.”

  “Yeah? Maybe this’ll jog your memory.” Harry drove his knee up into Billy’s groin and was rewarded with a scream as the skinny man doubled over again. Before he could fall, Harry grabbed his arm and punched him in the side of the face, making sure his old high school ring made a solid connection.

  Billy collapsed, landing on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, one hand cradling his balls while the other went to his cheek.

  Cullen barked crazy laughter. “Shit! You laid him out but good!”

  “Know who I’m talkin’ about now?” Harry prodded him with one steel-toed work shoe.

  Billy nodded, tried to speak, but nothing came out except a choking sound.

  “That’s okay, you take a minute.”

  “Tony...Lopez,” Billy said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I owe him...money. Lost a bet. That’s why I stayed in town. Need a job to pay him off.”

  “What I heard, he don’t look like no bookie.”

  “Not. He’s the muscle.”

  “He got a record?”

  Billy nodded, his face never lifting from the dry ground.

  Harry turned to Cullen. “I don’t need no Mexican leg breakers in my town. I got enough problems. Find him and arrest him. I don’t care for what. Just get him the hell off the streets.”

  Cullen nodded. “What about him?” He tilted his head toward Billy.

  “We’ll take him back to the church, just like I said. Long as he’s workin’ there, we can keep our eyes on him. Ain’t that right, Billy-boy?” He kicked him softly in the thigh, and Billy nodded vigorously.

  “There you go. Put him in the car, and let’s get going. I got a meetin’ with the mayor at five.”

  Harry had just started the car again when the radio squawked. “Chief? You there?”

  Thumbing the mic, he said, “This is Harry. What’s up, Shirley?”

  “Got a phone call from Marge Chilton. She said one of her guests took a young boy up to his room and then left with him again about twenty minutes later,” said the dispatch officer.

  “Shit. All right, I’m heading over there right now. She say who it was?”

  “Yep. A Mister John Root. Only been in town a couple weeks. Average looking fellow with silver hair, she said.”

  “I seen him in church a couple times,” Cullen said.

  “Thanks, Shirley.” He hung up the mic. “Let’s go.”

  “You think maybe he killed those girls?”

  “Only one way to find out. But if he did...he’s gonna be sorry he ever stepped foot in my town.”

  Chapter 11

  John looked up at the sound of a car pulling into the Anderson’s driveway. His first thought, that Danni had come home early from work, disappeared when he saw the gold-on-black Cattaraugus County Sheriff insignia on the hood of the car and the light bar on the roof.

  As the car came to a stop in a cloud of dust, John put down his paintbrush and wiped his hands on his shirt. A stocky officer, his stomach stretching the uniform shirt to its limits, got out from the driver’s side. Mirrored aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

  The passenger door opened, and a taller, more muscular man exited the car. He wore matching sunglasses, and what John had always thought of as a ‘cop’ mustache: square and thick. Back home in South Carolina, it always seemed as if two out of every three police officers favored the same style.

  Based on the hat, and his evident older age, John guessed the rotund officer was in charge. The man didn’t wait long to confirm John’s suspicions. He took three steps forward and removed his sunglasses, revealing hard, angry eyes set deep in the round, doughy face.

  “John Root?”

  The aggression in his voice matched his expression, and set off alarms in John’s head.

  “Yes, Officer...?” He kept his voice soft and neutral, not wanting to aggravate the already tense situation.

  “Chief. Chief Harry Showalter. This is Deputy Sheriff Cullen.” He jerked his thumb at the younger man, who’d also taken off his glasses. Like the chief, he seemed brimming with anger as he stroked one hand menacingly on his baton.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” John asked.

  Showalter cocked his head to the side, like a bird listening to a distant sound. “Rumor ‘round town is you been spending an awful lot of time with the Anderson boy.”

  “I’m doing renovations on their house. Mitch helps me out after summer camp. I keep an eye on him until his sister gets home.”

  “It’s true. John’s been here every day.”

  John glanced back and saw that Mitch had come outside. He stood by the front door, a half-eaten apple in one hand.

  “I don’t doubt it, boy.” The Sheriff nodded at Cullen. “Check him out.”

  Cullen moved forward, and John took a step back. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Depends what we find. I just want to make sure you ain’t armed before we have our chat.”

  “I’m calling Danni.” Mitch ran back inside.

  John held his arms up. “I’m not carrying any weapons.”

  “We’ll see. Pat him down, Wade.”

  The deputy slapped his hands along John’s sides, stomach, back, and legs, all the way down to the ankles. When he stepped back, he looked even angrier, as if he’d been hoping to find something.

  “He’s clean. Not even a wallet.”

  Showalter’s eyebrows rose. “No identification? How do I know you’re who you say you are? Could be you’re a drifter, scamming these poor folk.”

  Slowly lowering his arms, John shook his head. “My wallet’s on the porch. You can go check my identification. And I’m not a drifter.”

  Deputy Cullen picked up the wallet from the small glass table. “Got it, Chief.”

  “I don’t know what you are, or what you’re doing in my town, and I don’t like that.” Showalter took the wallet from Cullen, started looking through it as he talked. “How long you been in Hastings Mills, Mister Root?”

  “A little more than three weeks.”

  “And what’s the purpose of your visit? I’m assuming you didn’t come here from”—he paused to read from John’s driver’s license—“Sunset, South Carolina, just to fix the Anderson’s porch.” Showalter looked up from the license and stared at J
ohn.

  He thinks I’m involved in the murders. That’s what this is about. John took his time answering the question, knowing that whatever he said would sound suspicious and be checked out the minute the Sheriff got back to his office, if not sooner.

  “I’m traveling across the country as part of my work. I collect old tales and write books about them.”

  “You expect me to believe that horseshit? ‘Cause what I’m hearing is you ain’t nothing but a drifter, just like I thought.”

  “I’m not a drifter. I own a home. I have a bank account.”

  “If you got money in the bank, why you doing odd jobs for cash?”

  John shrugged. “It’s part of the process. See the country from a different perspective, rely on my own hands to earn my keep. Get to know people. Plus, I’d rather not touch my bank account. That’s my retirement.”

  Showalter started to say something, but just then the sound of a car engine drew everyone’s attention to the driveway. Danni Anderson’s beat-up Mustang came to a sharp stop, sending more dust flying as Danni sprang out.

  “What the hell’s going on here? Mitch just called me, saying you think John’s some kind of pedophile?”

  Showalter smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No one said anything of the sort, Ms. Anderson. But we had a call that Mister Root here was seen bringing the boy up to his room, and since he’s a stranger in town, I felt it my duty to check things out.”

  “Nothing happened,” Mitch said, coming out onto the porch. “One of the kids at camp roughed me up, and John had some stuff at his place that he put on the cuts to help them heal.”

  “What?” Danni turned and stared at John. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Knowing he was in trouble no matter what he said, John opted for a version of the truth. “Mitch asked me not to. He didn’t want to upset you. And he wasn’t hurt bad, just a few scrapes.”

  She pointed at Mitch. “I’ll deal with you later. In the meantime…” She looked back at Showalter. “Are you through? John hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I guess that’s so, Ms. Anderson. But I still need to check out Mister Root’s story about why he’s in here in the first place. In case you forgot, we’ve had some girls die recently, and it started right around the same time your friend here arrived in town. I wouldn’t be much of a sheriff if I didn’t look into that, would I?” Before Danni could respond, he put his sunglasses back on and flipped John’s wallet to the ground. Motioning for Cullen to follow, he got in the car and started the engine.