The Code of the Hills (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

A
COLD DRIZZLE
pelted the front windows of the old brick house where Elsie's parents lived. The room where the Arnolds spent most of their time was a parlor on the first floor, a spacious room looking out on the front yard. Beneath the windows, hot water rattled in the coils of a cast-­iron radiator as it battled the frigid weather.

Marge Arnold, Elsie's mother, sat in her easy chair, grading papers. A potion of grape juice and apple cider vinegar sat in a juice glass nearby; Marge needed to bring her high cholesterol down, but she scoffed at pharmaceutical remedies. Elsie stretched out on the sofa in sweat pants and a worn University of Missouri sweat shirt. She hugged a sofa pillow to her chest.

“Oh, Mom, good God, what a week,” she groaned, reaching for an Oreo from a stack of cookies on the coffee table.

Marge shook her head as she made checkmarks with a red pen. Looking over the top of her spectacles, she regarded her daughter with a keen eye. She listened intently as Elsie recounted the events of the past week: the struggles with the Taney case, the defection of Madeleine, the difficulty of putting the hearing together under the gun, and Taney's personal attack upon her. She didn't leave out the chicken heads or Taney's evangelical support group, or the pigtailed character's confrontation at Baldknobbers. As Elsie talked, she felt her anxiety abate. Unburdening herself to her mother eased the load that had been weighing her down.

“Baby, I've always told you that you can do anything you put your mind to,” her mother said, “but I confess that I'm worried about your job right now. This Taney case is putting you at risk.”

“I don't know about that. It's making me crazy, that's all.”

“Is it a good case?”

“It's a can of worms. The oldest daughter ran out of the prelim, and now I've got to unravel some veracity problem with her. And the middle sister flipped out before the hearing. The youngest sister doesn't talk at all. And the mother's a piece of work; I don't know what's up with her.” As Elsie talked, she pulled a bright crocheted afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her.

“Isn't this supposed to be Mrs. Thompson's case?”

“Yep.”

“Then let her fix it. I don't understand why you always have to work these sex cases.”

“Mother. That's why I became a prosecutor.”

“But this case, Elsie, the facts in this case are so terrible.” Marge rubbed her eyes behind her spectacles. “I can't bear to think about what that vile man put those girls through.”

“I know. And I can't
stop
thinking about it. It's like I'm hauling around a maggoty bag of trash all the time.”

The women sat in silence for a moment, until Marge sighed and said, “You have to wonder why.”

“Why what?”

“Why he would do such terrible things. So hard to understand.”

Elsie sat up, still wrapped in the afghan. “Not my job. I don't have to understand him.”

As if Elsie hadn't spoken, Marge went on. “He may have been a victim of abuse, too. Those patterns get passed down. Someone is violated as a child and they do it to the next generation.”

“Don't care.” Elsie's dander was rising. “Let the defense attorney worry about whether Kris Taney had a miserable childhood. He's an adult now, he had a choice. And he chose to rape his children.”

“I know. You're right, honey.”

“I have the responsibility—­the duty,” she said, her voice growing strident, “because I view it as a personal duty, to see to it that he is held accountable for what he did to those girls. I don't have to be his therapist.”

“You're right. I'm on your team, Elsie. And I may not have it right, anyway. The things this man did: it's more perverse than sex.”

“Rape isn't about sex. It's about power.”

“Well, I think that's it. He was showing his family he had power over them. Power to do anything he chose.”

Elsie lay down again, satisfied that she and her mother were on the same wavelength. She shut her eyes when she heard Marge say, “When a person has too much power over other folks, things get twisted. That's the problem with that whole ‘men are the head' family structure. Gives them too much feeling of entitlement.”

“Daddy's not like that.”

“I wouldn't have married him if he was.”

Marge leaned over to the couch and pressed her hand to Elsie's forehead, as if checking for a fever. “So what are you going to do about all this? It doesn't sound like you're getting enough support from your office. Could you turn to someone with more experience? I know that Thompson woman couldn't shoot fish in a barrel.”

“Mother, I am not punting the Taney case. And I'm not crying around to someone else, like I'm incompetent. I've been at this for four years.”

“You've always been stubborn. Ever since you were a little girl.” Marge made scratches in red ink. “Why don't you move back home for a while? Just sleep in your old room.”

Elsie put a sofa pillow over her face. A moment of silence passed.

“Now you're being ridiculous,” Marge said.

The air grew stuffy under the pillow, and Elsie tossed it on the floor.

Marge said, “Well then, stay here this weekend. Just till Monday morning.”

“I can't. Noah's off tomorrow. We're going to the movies.”

“Oh. Him.”

Marge regarded Elsie in silence for a long moment, peering over the top of her reading glasses. Elsie turned on her side on the couch, and asked, “Do we have any Little Debbie Snack Cakes?”

Marge looked back to the papers on her lap. “We should have a box of oatmeal crème pies, unless your daddy ate them all.”

Elsie went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets; to her delight, the box she sought was still half full. Tearing the plastic wrapper with her teeth, she returned to the living room.

Marge was waiting for her. “The problem with you, Elsie, is you want a fellow who looks like a movie star. You are always going after Brad Pitt.”

“Mother. I am not going after Brad Pitt. Lord, Mom, Brad Pitt is old. He's almost as old as Dad.”

“Brad Pitt is from the Ozarks.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Elsie asked as she pulled the oatmeal pie into two pieces.

“My point is, what you need, Elsie, is a man with a good heart. Someone who loves you and takes care of you.”

“Noah takes care of me,” Elsie said, with a hint of devilment.

Marge looked away. “I don't want to hear any more of that,” she said adamantly. “In the hills, that's called starting the honeymoon early.”

Elsie couldn't help but laugh. “Mom, you've got a nugget of wisdom to cover every situation.”

Marge's mouth twitched with a smile she could not conceal. “How about this idea: just stay here tonight. I'll make a pot roast. With mashed potatoes and cooked carrots. And gravy.”

“Mom, you're like a broken record. ‘Sleep here, stay here, eat here.' You're going to make me fat. I've gained weight this winter as it is.”

“Honey, you need to put on some weight in wintertime. It keeps you warm, keeps you from getting sick.”

Elsie decided to give in. What would it hurt to stay overnight? During the past week she'd slept poorly; she always slept better at home. The old brick house was a haven. She felt safe in her parent's house, felt that she could relax and let her guard down. She relented.

“Oh, that's just great,” Marge said, nodding with satisfaction. “And tomorrow we can all go to church.”

Aw, shit.
Elsie pulled the afghan up to her chin and drifted off to sleep on the sofa.

Chapter Seventeen

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING
George Arnold drove the short distance to Walnut Street Chris­tian Church in a shiny 2007 Buick sedan. Marge sat next to him in front, pleased as the Cheshire cat to have Elsie along for the trip.

Elsie rode in the backseat, a little nettled at spending her Sunday morning in church rather than in the pursuit of leisure. Moreover, she was not thrilled with her attire. Because she had not planned to stay over, she was obligated to find something to wear from the choices that hung in the closet of her old bedroom at home, a funny mix of garments from days past. She finally donned an old Christmas frock for want of a better option, but she felt more than a little out of season in a red dress with spangles. Hell's bells, she thought, it's January, and I look like I'm in the Merry Christmas Pageant.

“I look so stupid in this dress,” she complained.

“You look like the prettiest girl in Barton,” her father assured her, winking at her in the rearview mirror.

“Honey, you could have gone through my closet to see if I had something you'd rather wear,” Marge said.

Elsie sat up straight. “Are you trying to say I'm fat?” she asked indignantly.

Her mother crowed, unoffended, “I most certainly am not. I think you are perfect. And as for me, I'm proud to be fat. I've worked hard at it.”

Elsie's dissatisfaction lingered. “Why do we have to go to church today? This will waste my whole morning. I've got stuff I have to do. Errands.” She crossed her spangled arms over her chest and stared out the window, looking more like a spoiled kid than a professional adult.

George said, “There's a new member in the congregation. An engineer. Nice guy. Never been married.”

“No, no, no, no,” said Elsie.

“Now, Elsie, we just want you to say hello.”

“Is this what dragging me to church is about? I already told Mom, I have a date tonight. With Noah,” Elsie said.

“If you're going to date a policeman, I wish it was that nice Detective Ashlock,” said Marge. “I've been thinking that he would be a good match for you.”

“Bob Ashlock?” Elsie exclaimed, shocked. “Mother, stop it.”

“He's just your type,” her mother insisted. “That he-­man type you like.”

“Mother, he is a friend.”

“Daddy and I were friends,” Marge said, nodding at George.

“Nah,” George said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Men just play along with that friend routine so we can get you in the sack.”

“George! You didn't dare talk that way when we were dating. My daddy would've got out the shotgun. ‘Code of the hills,' ” Marge said with an expressive nod.

“Spare me the goddamned code of the goddamned hills,” Elsie muttered.

“What, honey?” Marge asked.

“Nothing. But Ashlock,” Elsie continued, “he's almost forty, for God's sake.”

“Forty is young,” George said as he pulled into the church parking lot. “I'd say this engineer is about forty.”

Marge twisted in her seat, fighting the shoulder harness to get a good look at Elsie. “Honey, we just want to see you settled. You'll be thirty-­two on your next birthday. Don't you want to be a mother someday?”

“This engineer is a Missouri boy,” said George. “Grew up in Springfield. Nice family.”

Elsie let out an aggrieved sigh and fell silent.

The Arnolds walked into the church, a Georgian structure built of red brick, boasting a tall steeple and beautiful arched windows. The hallway leading to the sanctuary was crowded, and Elsie followed a woman ahead of her too closely, stepping onto the back of the woman's shoe and causing her to stumble. The unfortunate woman was Tina Peroni.

“Elsie? Are you trying to kill me?” Tina asked, bending over to pull up the leather that folded under her heel. She took in Elsie's holiday attire and exclaimed, “That's quite a festive frock you're wearing.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What are you doing here? How did Ma and Pa talk you into coming to church?”

“Hog-­tied me. Want to sit with us?”

“I'm on my way out. We went to the early ser­vice.”

“No,” Elsie said in disbelief.

“Yes, sleepyhead. I'm glad I ran into you, though. Donita wants to see you.”

“Donita Taney?”

“How many Donitas do you know? Yes, Donita Taney.” Tina slid past ­people in the narrow hall to reach the exit. As she opened the door to depart, she added, “When she was in to get her food stamps, she said she had something for you.”

“Huh. Well, I'll tell Madeleine tomorrow morning. It's her case. Technically.”

“You do that.” Tina waved and headed for the parking lot.

E
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during the sermon. The preacher talked about the Epiphany, and the journey of the three Wise Men to discover the Christ child. Tell me something real. Something I can use, she thought.

To occupy herself, she picked up the pew Bible and riffled through the wafer-­thin pages, browsing the Book of Genesis. When she caught sight of the Sodom heading, curiosity made her pause. This should make interesting reading, she thought. In Sunday school class the teachers had always skipped over the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Elsie scanned the story of Lot, scowling at the description of his offer to sacrifice his virgin daughters to an angry mob. As she read on, she came to verses that made her stop, shake her head and read again. She never realized that the story of Lot had an incest twist.

                 
30. And Lot went up out of Zoar, and dwelt in the mountain, and his two daughters with him; for he feared to dwell in Zoar: and he dwelt in a cave, he and his two daughters.

                 
31. And the firstborn said unto the younger, “Our father is old, and there is not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:

                 
32. “ Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.”

                 
33. And they made their father drink wine that night: and the firstborn went in, and lay with her father; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

                 
34. And it came to pass on the morrow, that the firstborn said unto the younger, “Behold, I lay yesternight with my father: let us make him drink wine this night also; and go thou in, and lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.”

                 
35. And they made their father drink wine that night also: and the younger arose, and lay with him; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

                 
36. Thus were both the daughters of Lot with child by their father.

Lot was a liar, she thought, anger kindling in her chest. She shook her head with disgust, reflecting that the history of incest was long indeed, as was the practice of pinning the blame on the daughters. Some things hadn't changed in thousands of years.

Well, she decided, maybe one thing had changed: Lot's wine-­drinking defense wouldn't fly in Missouri courts. “Sorry, Lot; intoxication wouldn't be a defense to the crime in Missouri,” she murmured.

Her mother gave her a sharp nudge, bringing Elsie back to the present. “Are you muttering to yourself in church? Stop it,” she whispered, with a warning look.

Elsie flipped through the pages again. Skimming the chapters of Genesis, she looked again at the verses about Lot and his daughters, then closed the book. The text struck an uneasy chord, creating a mental picture of Taney and his daughters. Elsie felt a prickle at her neck and shuddered in the pew.

When the communion plates were passed, after a moment's hesitation she took the tiny wafer and sipped her little plastic cup of grape juice. Though she closed her eyes, the image of the Taney daughters at the mercy of their father was locked in her head. With her eyes squeezed shut, she tried to block out the picture by thinking of something else, anything, but the vision persisted. In her mind's eye she saw Taney advance on Kristy, menacing, as the girl backed away to escape, her face a frozen mask of horror.

Elsie opened her eyes. When she raised her head, her jaw was set. She knew it was time to quit whining about the challenges of the Taney case. She needed to keep a sharp eye on Madeleine, to ensure that the prosecutor wouldn't abandon or fumble the prosecution. For the sake of the three Taney girls, she must fight the good fight in earnest. Bring it, she thought, and her spine stiffened.

When they rose to sing the closing hymn, Elsie stood by her mother's side, her eyes fixed on the open hymnbook without seeing it.
This story will have a different ending
, she told herself grimly.
Lot's daughters have an advocate this time.