Blackwater Lights (9 page)

Ray snorted. Denny didn’t.

“L-E-Y, not L-A-Y. And someone else’s property is on this line, too. Remember? Right here, at the end of this long road.”

“Kevin’s house,” Ray said.

Ellen stared at the map. “Okay. So, for some reason, Mr. We-Can’t-Mention-His-Name and your rich friend set up their homes on this imaginary voodoo line. I’ll buy that. Maybe they even believe in magical energy lines. But how does this help you, Ray? How does it help you find this camp and figure out what happened to you there?”

Denny eyed her icily. “Because … let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that Mr. You-Know-Who does, in fact, have something to do with Ray’s camp. You believe he might, don’t you, Ray?”

Ray nodded. “It’s just my gut. But yes.”

“Then one might logically expect the location of the camp—”

Ellen finished. “To also be somewhere on this ley line. Some special spot.”

Denny nodded. “Yes. Which, if ‘Dottie’s Dotings’ is right and it’s to the north, would leave either the falls you’re familiar with, near the old church, or possibly somewhere on
his
property. There’s a pretty major cave system around there, and a lot of the land is so hilly it has never been logged. It’s old and wild.”

The three of them sat quietly, looking at Denny’s thin pencil line.

“So what’s next?” Ellen asked. “I could take you to Naked Connie Falls. When I get off work tomorrow.”

“No,” Ray said. The forcefulness surprised him. “I’ll go by myself. This is mine to figure out.”

Ellen seemed hurt. But he didn’t want to put her at risk. The more he uncovered, the more
he worried that he was getting himself into something potentially dangerous.

“What do you know about this church, Denny? Could I just go and sing hymns with them for an hour? Maybe walk around the property afterward?”

“I don’t know. They keep to themselves.”

“I’ll pay a visit.” Ray finished the last of his beer. “And then I think I’m going to see Lily again.”

Ellen’s eyes widened. “What? Don’t you think that’s a little risky?”

“If she’s part of it—and he’s part of it—then I might be able to get something out of her. And maybe I’ll find out what happened the other night. After I blank-taped half the evening.”

“I really don’t think that’s—”

Denny held up his hand. “No, I think he’s right. But get her to come to you. Someplace public.”

Ray nodded. “Something tells me she’s the key to this.”

Ellen slowly shook her head.

The bartender gave the last call. Denny’s face was flushed. “I think I’d better get going,” he said. He took his wallet out of his pants pocket and dropped it on the floor. He leaned beneath the table to pick it up, and bumped his head loudly on the underside. “Ouch,” he said.

Ellen grimaced.

Denny lifted his head. “I’m a real klutz sometimes.” He rubbed his hands in his hair. “My mother used to tell me I was lucky I lived past the age of five.”

“Can I give you a lift?” Ray asked.

Denny took out some cash and shook his head. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little buzzed, that’s all. Anyway, I walked. It’s not far.”

Ray squeezed his arm. “Thanks, Denny. I mean that.”

Denny smiled. “Sure.” He nodded in Ellen’s direction. “You two have a good night,” he said, and walked, a bit wobbly, out the door and into the night.

“He likes you,” Ellen said.

Ray finished his beer. He was feeling a bit wobbly, too. “He’s a sweet guy.”

She laughed. “No, I mean he
likes
you. It’s plain as day. He’s jealous of me. And he has a crush on you.”

Ray paused to consider it. “Huh. I didn’t quite get that.”

“Well, it doesn’t surprise me at all. Look, he lives with his mother, working in a rinky-dink library in a town so small you can blink and miss it. And here comes this cute guy from Baltimore—a guy who just happens to have seen the lights his very first night here. A guy who needs help solving his own mystery and asks him for help. Denny’s always been big on mysteries. How could he not fall in love with you?”

Maybe she was right. Now that she said it out loud, it made sense. The way he’d seen Denny looking at him … he’d interpreted it as interest, even intense interest. But Ray hadn’t felt a sexual vibe, and he considered himself pretty good at picking up on that kind of thing. “He seemed pissed that I’d invited you here. But I thought it was just because he didn’t want me to spill our secret.”

Ellen wiped a finger around the rim of her empty coffee cup. “Maybe he sees something … oh, never mind.” She looked up at him. She seemed to be considering saying more, but instead grabbed her purse. “They’re getting ready to close. Will you walk me to my truck?”

Ellen drove a blue Chevy pickup with patches of gray primer. A robot air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. He stood behind her as she unlocked the door. She turned to him, her eyes looking up into his. “I want to help you. My life is a little hard right now, having to take care of William and work all the time. But if you want to go check out the Hand, I can get someone to cover my shift and take you one afternoon. Before you have to go home.” She smiled. “Maybe we can make a picnic out of it. I could bring William along. I’m sure he’d love to see you and talk your ear off again.”

“That sounds like a plan,” he said.

Ellen took his hands. “Please be careful, Ray. It might be silly, but I … I really worry about you. This is all pretty weird. And Crawford—it sounds like he’s a real sketchy character. Lily, too.”

“I’ll be okay,” he said.

She looked into his eyes. She had a simple, unadorned prettiness that revealed itself slowly. And her eyes were captivating. As tired and weary as they were, they were alive and warm and gentle. And concerned.

She squeezed his hands. “Goodnight, Ray.” She turned and climbed into the truck.

He stood and watched as she drove off.

There were only a few cars outside the Church of the Open Door. The building had once been painted white but was now a faded, ashen gray, with paint flaking and peeling off in strips. The steeple dripped with layers of pigeon droppings, and the stained-glass windows had gone grimy and dark.

The doorknob was a tarnished brass lion head. When Ray reached for it, the door opened and swung inward.

A burly black man stepped into view. His hair stuck out in pointy, inch-long dreadlocks. The guy who had been driving the white Cadillac in the parade.

“Can I help you?” he asked. No trace of a West Virginia accent. A definite East Coast Yankee.

Ray smiled. “I saw your sign, in the parade. I thought I’d come to check out the church.” He tried to see through the doorway, but it was dark inside.

“Services are over for the day.” His eyes were cold. He crossed his thick, muscled arms.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Ray said. “Well, is the church open? Is it okay if I just sit for a little while, since I drove out here? Just to pray for bit?”

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t going to budge. “We only open the church for services. Maybe you can try the Methodist church in town.”

“Let him in.” A voice from the darkness.

The burly man glared at Ray and held open the door. Ray stepped inside, his stomach knotting. He had hoped to sit in the back of the church during a service and maybe slip away quietly to wander the grounds to see if anything clicked.

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the old preacher standing near the wooden pulpit, his face shadowed. The dim light coming through the dirty stained-glass windows barely illuminated the rows of rough wooden pews. The air smelled like pine. The door closed behind him, and Ray realized if the two of them wanted to hurt him, he was at their mercy.

The old man walked toward him. He was dressed in the same hideous white suit he’d
been wearing in the parade. His eyes met Ray’s, but they showed only curiosity. “How may I help you, friend?” His voice was deep but quiet. His face was littered with pocks and patches of scarred pink flesh, but his features were strong and deeply lined.

“I saw your car in the parade,” Ray said. “I thought I’d check out your church.”

The old man nodded and held out his hand. “Then I welcome you. I’m Micah, pastor of the Church of the Open Door.”

Ray shook his hand. Dry, rough, and firm for such a small man. “Ray Simon. I saw the cars outside. I thought I could just come in.”

“Well, we are a little wary of strangers showing up at our door. Had some trouble, years ago. Of the cross-burning variety. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Ray said.

“But now I see you are a good soul, Mr. Simon. Why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned to a pew. “We can have a little chat.”

Ray sat. This wasn’t going the way he wanted it to go.

Micah waved his hand. “Mantu,” he said to the younger man, “give us a little privacy, please.”

Mantu nodded uneasily and walked outside.

The door closed. “Ray—may I call you Ray?”

“Of course.”

“I never doubt the intentions of a soul who comes to me seeking counsel. The Lord delivers; I just do His bidding.” He crossed his hands in his lap. “So please, tell me: what brings you to our humble assembly?”

“I’ve been wanting to start going back to church. But I can just come back when you have a service. I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s no bother at all.” He turned and the light from the window hit his face. His eyes were yellow and one pupil was cloudy. Dust motes sparkled in the thin wash of sunlight. He leaned closer. “You have the look of someone who has been touched by the Lord’s grace. Do you know the story of the Pentecost and the tongues of fire that danced on the apostles’ heads?”

“Yes,” Ray said.

“Then you know. You’ve been touched by the fire of His Holy Spirit.” Micah’s voice was musical, almost hypnotic in its singsong rhythm. “And that’s what brought you here, isn’t it?
The spirit of the Lord driving you to the Truth?”

“Yes, I suppose.” The preacher had a vibe similar to Crawford’s—there was a power in his presence, despite his outward physical frailty. And he had sensed that power even from a distance, the first time he’d seen Micah in the parade.

“I can see that you are looking for something, Ray Simon: the Truth. And I believe we can help you find the answers you seek.”

Ray stood, slowly. Blood rushed to his head. This was all too much. Had coming here been a mistake? Had he given himself away? He wasn’t sure. But he knew if he stayed Micah would draw the truth out of him. And he wasn’t ready for that, especially if Micah had been involved with the camp. “Thank you, Micah. I’ll come see you again.”

The old man stood and nodded. “We’d love to have you join us. Next Sunday. Eight
A.M
. sharp. We might be small in number, but our voices carry high and loud.”

Ray shook his hand. The old man held on. He brought his left hand and cupped it over Ray’s.

“Remember, Ray, we are all drawn to the Truth—every last soul. Follow that Truth and you’ll open doors that once were locked. They’ll open wide for you.”

Ray drove away, wondering if maybe some doors were meant to stay shut.

Lily wasn’t in the Purple Burro or Frank’s, so he headed back to Sara’s Book and Candle Shop. Sara sat behind the counter reading a book about Kabbalah. Another subject as arcane to him as flower arrangement or playing the cello.

“Hello again,” Sara said. She had a friendly face.

Ray nodded.

“Half-price Tarot readings today,” she said. “If you’re interested.”

“No, thanks,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. He’d had enough backwoods voodoo for the time being. Although he didn’t believe in telling fortunes with cards, it still made him uneasy. What if the Death card came up, as it surely must, just like the ace of spades, by the laws of probability? Would he drop dead days later, like when a witch doctor pointed a skeleton
finger at someone and they died just from the belief that it really would kill them? He’d pass.

She smiled. “How about a cup of tea?”

Ray hesitated. He was dreadfully thirsty. “Sure.”

The old woman turned toward a hot water dispenser, put some loose tea into a tiny silver tea ball, and dropped the tea ball in a mug. Ray smiled at the neon blue running shoes poking from beneath her batik hippie dress.

She handed him the cup. Her fingers were bony and age-spotted. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair next to a table covered in black velvet.

He stared, perplexed. But she stood, unwavering, one hand holding a mug and another beckoning toward a plastic folding chair.

He sat. The old woman grabbed a wooden box off a shelf on the wall and sat down across from him. She opened up the box and pulled out a rectangular black silk bundle and unwrapped it reverently. Her cards. She dropped the yellowed stack on the table. “Shuffle them.”

She looked so friendly and earnest that he couldn’t say no. He picked the cards up and shuffled. The cards were bigger than playing cards, worn, and stained. He awkwardly put the stack down when he was done.

“Are you left- or right-handed?” she asked.

“Right,” Ray said.

She pointed to his left hand. “Cut them,” she said.

He did as she asked. Sara picked up the stack and placed it in front of her. Her eyes closed. She breathed deeply and sighed. “You’re a stranger here.”

“Yes,” Ray said slowly. As if that weren’t painfully obvious.

She turned over a card. Death.

Of course. What else would it be?

She looked closely at him. “It’s not what you think.”

Ray snickered. “Well, I’ll bet it doesn’t mean I’m going to win the lottery.”

Her knobby middle finger tapped the card. “Death is not physical death—death of the body. Look at the picture.” She sipped her tea.

A skeleton in black armor rode on a white horse. Below the rider, trampled underfoot, was a king, his crown upside down in the dirt. In front of the rider stood a priest in yellow robes and a large hat, reaching out in supplication, as if begging Death to pass him by. A woman
fainted in front of the skeletal horseman, while a dark-haired child holding flowers gazed expressionless at the rider’s bony visage.