Unearthed, p.26
Unearthed, page 26
part #4 of Southern Watch Series
His father kept both eyes on the road, but there was a noticeable tensing of the arms he had on the wheel, like he froze in place for a few seconds. “I know what I’ve seen.”
“Man,” Brian said, shaking his head, “look, it’s Tennessee, okay? You carve a Virgin Mary in a loaf of bread and toast it around here, people flock like it’s a sign to the faithful. Weak minds are always looking for signs and symbols to reaffirm their delusions—”
“You could be a little less of an ass,” his father said. “Just ten percent or so might leave you with the ability to have a friend or two in the state.”
Brian felt the sting of that turn back into a cold irritation. “There’s nobody left here I want to be friends with. Look, if you want to all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ every week at church while talking some ancient set of rules handed down from on high, that’s your thing, okay?”
“I never asked you to believe.” Bill Longholt held the wheel steadily. “I recognize that you didn’t fit well in this town. That you didn’t see eye-to-eye with me or most of the people of Midian—”
“Because the people around here are wrong, so much of the time—”
“—but I didn’t think I raised you to be so utterly disrespectful of what other people believed.”
Brian felt his arms fold in front of him automatically. “Yeah, well, if only you’d raised the rest of the town the same way.” He felt that cold anger bubble and spit, and something came out. “You think it’s fun being the kid that feels weird and out of place in the youth group he’s compelled to attend? You think it’s high times to be asking these questions that your Sunday school teacher can’t answer and insults you for even trying to understand? ‘Why did God do this?’ ‘Why did God do that?’ Answer the simple fucking question of these huge, inherent contradictions in your book. Why is that so frowned upon?”
“It’s not—at least not by everyone,” Bill said.
“Really? Because they treated it like blasphemy.” Brian paused, thinking it over. “Which it technically is, I suppose, if you want to get, y’know, literal.”
“Aww, so you met a bad Christian or two,” Bill said. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve never met a fellow traveling atheist who was a sanctimonious asshole.” He shot a pointed look at his son. “People are people, son. Assholes are everywhere, regardless of religion, creed, race, or geography.”
“Seems like I’ve met an awful lot of them around here,” Brian said.
“Because most people around here are Christians, you half-wit dunce.” His father stared him down. “For a bright kid, you sure can be dumb sometimes. If ninety plus percent of the people around you are Christians, then yes, Virginia, most of the judgmental assholes you meet will be Christians, in the same way that if you hung around with a shitload of Shintoists, most of the assholes you met would be—shocking, I know—Shinto. This is the way of the world. I’m guessing you met a few judgmental shitbirds at college that probably didn’t profess the name of Christ as they did whatever terrible things they did.”
“Which meant at least they weren’t hypocrites,” Brian said.
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful not to have a publicly stated set of higher morals to fail?” Bill said. “What was your degree in, again? Philosophy? You’re somewhat obtuse on this subject; what the hell did I pay for?”
“You’re falling into the asshole percentages here, Dad,” Brian said, running his fingers over his face. He was coming down off his high and regretting it. “Original point—people turn to explanations of demons and shit like that when they can’t explain what they’re seeing through logic or science. This is Tennessee, so naturally—”
“If you weren’t so goddamned blind, you’d know that this is not a feature exclusive to Bible-believing folk.”
Brian stared back at him. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Still, the weak-minded turn to myth for explanation when there’s a perfectly valid, logical explanation for what’s going on here.”
“What is going here?” Bill asked. “In a perfectly valid, scientific explanation.”
“Let me put it in terms you’ll understand,” Brian said, deriving some satisfaction from the condescension. “Bad people are doing bad things.”
“I didn’t think you believed in bad people anymore. Too black and white, isn’t that what you told me not that long ago?”
Brian sat there in stunned silence for a beat. They’d had a lot of discussions since he’d gotten home from college; he was surprised his father remembered that particular point. “I said I was talking in your terms.”
“Don’t explain it in my terms,” his father said. “Explain it in your own. I’d like to hear it.”
“I assume there are environmental factors in play,” Brian said. “And by environmental factors, I mean that the individuals involved have had some sort of traumatic experience that has pushed them outside the bounds of normalized society and into the realm of—if you can believe the crime reports in the papers, which is maybe a little iffy—cannibalism and mass murder.” Brian shrugged. “Bizarre, no doubt. Thousands of miles outside of the norm. But demons?” He snorted. “Weak minds, Dad. Don’t be like them.”
“Well, that was an interesting explanation,” Bill said. He pulled out his cell phone and started to fiddle with it with one hand while he drove.
The dark of night, the winding of the country road combined together to make Brian a little nervous. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to find Lex Deivrel’s number,” Bill said. “Ah. There it is.” He pushed a button on the screen and held it up to his ear.
“I thought you were gonna rebut my explanation about what’s going on here,” Brian said.
“Oh, I don’t think you want me to,” Bill said quickly, putting the phone between his shoulder and ear, craning his neck to hold it there.
Brian sat there, staring. “Seriously? Come at me. What have you got? I give you a reasoned, albeit basic, thesis that comes from very logical points, has some depth to it, and hits a few different layers, and your friends’ explanation is the simple, one-word answer of ‘demons.’ I want to hear you defend that because … well, because I want to hear it.”
“You want to take it apart, you mean,” Bill said. “Just a second—yes, this is Bill Longholt calling for Lex Deivrel. I need immediate representation because my son-in-law is in jail at the sheriff’s station in Midian, Tennessee. His name is Archibald Stan—and yes, hello? Sorry, I was leaving a message on your machine.” There was a pause. “That’s quite the hourly rate, but … yes, that’s acceptable. Yes, please, immediately. Call me back, and I’ll give you my credit card number for billing, sure. Thank you.” He took the phone out from between his ear and shoulder and pressed end. The beep was loud enough that Brian could hear it over the road noise.
“Well?” Brian asked.
“She’s going to go meet with Arch,” Bill said.
“Yeah, I got that,” Brian said. “I was talking about your response.”
“Mmm, that,” Bill said, nodding. He kept his eyes on the road.
Brian waited then cracked a smile and shook his head. “Yeah. Kinda what I figured. You have no argument.”
“No,” Bill said, “I was just employing the restraint I asked of you earlier, if you recall? Sometimes you win an argument but lose the war—the war being that of civility. Son, you were a brilliant mind and an absolute snot at school, always having to be right rather than be friendly. You could make your points with less venom, less dagger, and you wouldn’t have alienated half the people you did or had half as hard a childhood as you did.” He looked at him. “Politeness is the grease that keeps society from chafing itself apart. Humans are disagreeable, opinionated, cantankerous creatures, and if you were of a mind to, a bright boy like you could argue all day, every day, be assured you were right every time, and completely piss off every person on this earth in the process.”
“Sounds like fun,” Brian said, facing the window.
“I congratulate you on your nuanced, multi-level explanation of recent events,” Bill said. “The idea of different factors in play to shape a human being the way you described—absolutely, I could buy that. The idea that whoever is doing this is not a vicious, pernicious, redemption-free savage but someone who exists in shades of grey driven by natural and environmental factors is a very, very deep argument indeed.” He looked at his son with a distinct lack of amusement. “I can talk like you too, when I want to.”
“But you don’t,” Brian said, and was surprised how sullen it sounded. “You never have. Because we’re here, and because you fit in and I never wanted to.”
“No. Because sometimes things are simple,” Bill said. “But in referring to our earlier discussion on hypocrisy, let me challenge you with something—how is that you can take a deeply complex look at all the different angles in the creation of a potential group of serial killers, finding empathy for their plight, and humanizing them, but you somehow can’t develop an ability to extend the same to the Christians you’ve met in your own life that have wronged you personally and whom you dislike?” He shot a look at his son. “Take a moment before you rebut, because in essence you’ve decided to take the nuanced approach to people who slaughter and the simple one when it comes to people who have personally offended you.”
Brian felt that resentment boil and bubble again, and he had an answer for that, too. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t met a whole lot of serial killers before, but I’ve damned sure met enough judgmental Christians.”
“Judgmental isn’t strictly a Christian attribute,” his father said, “but you go on thinking that.”
“Always got to have the last word, don’t you?” Brian asked and realized once again that he’d folded his arms. They were tight against his chest, suffocating, like this conversation.
“You learned it from me,” Bill said softly. “Take your time. I’m still here, and I’m sure you’ll come up with something by the time we get home.”
Brian racked his brain for the next few miles, but every answer he came up with he passed on, because every single one of them was so far over the line even he didn’t want to use them like the knives they were.
*
Reeve came in with a cup of coffee in hand, taking his time, almost sauntering to where Arch was locked up with his cuffs strung through a steel table in the interrogation room. Reeve wasn’t exactly a master at this, because most of the time when he was in this room, it was pretty much petty shit he was dealing with. It wasn’t exactly hard to roll a teen on possession with intent when they were staring down the barrel of juvie. Well, not most of the time, anyway. Some of them didn’t, of course, but it wasn’t like he was talking them into taking the rap for a murder beef.
He pulled out the chair across from Arch, set his coffee on the table and watched the dark contents ripple within the Styrofoam cup. He’d thought about washing out one of his own mugs from his office, but he’d have had to walk across the station to do that, and he wanted to get right to it. He scooted his chair in, heard the scrape of wood against concrete, that shriek to the ears as the noise hit the high frequency range for a second.
Reeve stared at the man across from him. Arch had his big hands together, fingers interlaced. His head was down, like he was shamed. Reeve gave about zero fucks. His former deputy’s jeans and shirt were crusted with dirt from where he’d been lying on the ground when Reeve had found him. Arch’s short hair was looking a little longer than when Reeve had last seen him. Probably hadn’t had time for a haircut. The man had a decent beard going, too—not like he’d grown it the whole time, but more like he was only shaving once a week or so. He looked rough, his eyes were downcast. He knew he’d been beaten, but he wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel and tell all just yet. Reeve had to admit, he hadn’t been far off in the car; trusting anything Arch said was gonna be difficult at this point.
“So,” Reeve started, injecting a little sunshine into his voice. “Here we are.”
Arch just glanced at him for a minute, rolling his eyes up to take in Reeve, then letting them fall back down to his cuffed hands and the steel table. “I suppose so.”
“I told you I was gonna get you,” Reeve said.
“So you did.” A grudging admission at best.
“I would have thought you’d leave town,” Reeve said, settling back in his chair. He propped one leg across the corner of the table and picked up his coffee. “Smart money would be on you getting as far away from here as possible, knowing that what we had on you wouldn’t be the sort of thing police in—oh, I dunno—L.A. would care much about. Hell, I don’t even have the budget to send someone out to retrieve you if they caught you anywhere outside of a day’s drive. You could have been scot free.” Arch looked up at him, said nothing.
Reeve pulled his leg down and scooted the chair forward again. It made another hellacious scream that bothered his ears, but he tried to ignore it. “You remember that old saw about the criminal always returning to the scene of the crime?”
Arch just looked at him tiredly. “You want to accuse me of everything going on in town, go ahead and do it. But you’ll have a hell of a time proving it.”
“I don’t think you murdered people beyond the counting, Arch,” Reeve said. “But I think you know who did. I think you’ve known all along what’s going on here, and you’ve just been sitting on it for your own reasons. Money, maybe. Because you know them and you’re drawn in somehow. Blackmail? I got a lot of puzzle pieces lying around and it’s not enough to put together the picture, but the parts I can see don’t exactly look like a field of yellow flowers with a mountain in the background, if you know what I mean.” Arch just cocked his head at him. “Donna does a lot of jigsaw puzzles,” Reeve explained, almost a little embarrassed. “Or used to, before crap got all serious around here.”
“I don’t know what I could tell you that could help you see any clearer,” Arch said, studying his hands. “You’ve got more pieces than you think you do, you’re just trying to put them together wrong, got the wrong picture in your head, maybe.”
Reeve paused, though that one over. “So what’s the right picture?”
Arch just eyed him. “Like I said before and you agreed with me … you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
Reeve leaned closer, aware of a little coffee spilling over the rim of the white cup. “Try me. You have no other options.”
“I could just sit here,” Arch said, now leaning back himself. The cuffs rattled as he moved, the tinkle of steel on steel. “Wait for the charges to come through, get my lawyer—”
“You want a public defender?” Reeve asked. “Because I know what you made, and I know you don’t have the money for a real lawyer. We both know the criminal justice system ain’t cheap to oppose.”
“I think I’d be better off representing myself than have Chad Lamb walk me out to the gallows,” Arch said. Lamb was the Calhoun County public defender. It was a long running joke among the deputies that Lamb had probably gotten his law degree from one of those claw-grab toy machines at Chuck-E-Cheese. Luck of the draw, too, because he probably would have been going for a plush bear to cuddle with.
“We don’t really use gallows anymore,” Reeve said, more for having a repartee than because it needed to be said to the man across from him. “But I think a long stay in NECX could be a nice incentive for you to start talking.”
“I find I just don’t have much to say.” Arch leaned back in his chair, but it stubbornly refused to move because it was bolted down.
Reeve was about to throw something unpleasant at that, something which would probably start a heated volley back and forth, when there was a knock and the door opened. His wife was there, and her lips were tight, face still. He knew that look, and it wasn’t good. “What?” he asked.
“His lawyer’s here,” Donna said, lips so tight they almost didn’t move.
“What?” Reeve stood, almost spilling his coffee with the abruptness of his motion. “He hasn’t even had his phone call yet.”
Donna shrugged, face still as if she’d put on that green cream mask she used at night. That stuff was like goddamned Loctite superglue. “Well, she’s here.”
Reeve just froze. Lady lawyers probably weren’t an uncommon thing, not even the kind that specialized in criminal defense. There were surely dozens of them down in Chattanooga, up in Knoxville, maybe even a few in Cleveland and Athens. Still, the idea that it was a her, and that she’d gotten here this quickly sent a little goosing up and down Reeve’s spine, made him pucker his ass just a little tighter. “‘She’?”
“She,” came the voice from behind Donna, as she shouldered her way through in a pantsuit that probably cost more than Reeve made in a month. She had that smile, that fucking gawdawful irritating smile. Her blond hair was long and straight, hanging down to her shoulders. Reeve had never struck a woman in his life, but if he’d had a gun held to his head and been told, “Hit a woman or you die,” Lex Deivrel would have been his ‘Get Out of Death Free’ card. He probably would have felt bad about it afterward, though. Probably.
“Sheriff Reeve,” Lex said, grinning at him, “I need to confer with my client.” She made a shooing gesture that raised his blood pressure by a hundred points. “Go on. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
Reeve started to say something, started to protest, and then he remembered that he had Archibald Stan cold on at least a few things. By the book, that was how this had to go. “He’s all yours, counselor,” he said and went to pick up his coffee cup.
“I’ll take some of that,” Deivrel said as she headed straight for his seat, not even waiting for him to clear the area before sitting down, slapping her red leather briefcase on the floor at his feet.
Reeve made for the door under his own steam before he got any ideas about someone holding a gun to his head right now, forcing him to make choices. “Coffee’s for deputies only,” he said and slammed the door on his way out. He didn’t even look at Donna as he steamed down the hall, afraid that the uncivilized things he was thinking about that lawyer woman might ooze out in the presence of his wife.
