CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN
CHAPTER 32
THE SAVANT

“Sorry to hear about Chief Deters,” she said. “And that poor Carrington family. I’m not a believer myself.”

Really, Melinda?”

“Used to be. Went to the Revelation of Faith at one time. Then I decided we’re alone in the universe. Take care, Hank.”

She was already heading into the kitchen when the door slammed on Bagels by the Bushel. Hank sat in his squad car, munching a bagel and watching the steam fog up the windshield. Then he drove.

The streets of Cedar Creek were quiet. He’d never realized it before, but after so many years on the force, he had memorized every house and driveway. All the cars were familiar to him, and he could name each owner. As he pulled into the church parking lot, Esther VanderLaan was already on her front porch.

He walked up the cracked sidewalk and sat on a step. He sipped his coffee.

“Where’s Sunday?” he shouted, searching for the deaf, blind dog.

“There’s no church, Henry. Preacher’s deader than a doornail.” Mrs. VanderLaan kept rocking without missing a beat. “Killed his own mother. Damned shame when a man of God breaks one of the big ten.”

“The dog, Mrs. VanderLaan, where is your dog?”

“Oh, Sunday . . . she’s been under the porch since yesterday.” Mrs. VanderLaan fiddled with her hearing aid, as if it would make a difference. “Sunday never did cotton to shooting.”

“Mrs. VanderLaan, did you see anything unusual?”

“Why no, Henry Bradford, I sure didn’t.” She rubbed her chin. “Though old Mrs. Carrington got her mail a bit early. Only noticed because she looked real upset.”

“Thanks anyway.” Hank turned and headed for the parsonage.

“I don’t have any hay.”

The intense energy needed for a conversation with Esther had exhausted him, and Hank was feeling down as he pushed the yellow crime scene tape out of his way.

“Damned stuff’s everywhere. Either we figure out the death rate around here or I’m going to have to buy this crap by the truckload.

The parsonage doors were locked. He rifled through the Reverend’s keys, searching for a likely one, and managed to open the front door. The house was dark, eerie, and unwelcoming. He briefly checked each room, looking for God knows what. It didn’t take long to find the bloodstained easy chair where Ruby died. Her Bible was open on the nearby table. He flipped through it and found the family page.

CARL STYX NASH–MARY E. ASTER
CLAYPOOLE CARRINGTON–LULU MAE FOB
JIM JOHNNY NASH RAMONA RAE CARRINGTON
RUBY MAE NASH
JIM BOB NASH HARLEY Q NASH GUY E NASH

“Damned odd,” Hank reread the page. “Okay, old girl. What are you doing with the Nash family Bible? Wait. Ruby Mae Nash—Ruby Mae Carrington.

Holy sheep dip. Looks like Ruby Mae wasn’t always such a dried-up, sanctimonious prude—she spawned a truckload of bastards.” He replaced the Bible where he’d found it.

An envelope on the floor caught his eye. The postmark was only two days old, and it had been routed through Singapore.

Dear Ma,

I’m going to be coming home soon. Have Guy drive you to El Paso.

Love, Jim-Bob

“I’m going to have to look up these Nash boys,” Hank said. “Shit, I’m talking to the ghosts.”

He proceeded down the eerily silent hallway and explored the Reverend’s library. He nostalgically recalled standing in the same place with Barney and wished he could turn back time.

The Reverend’s desk was perfectly organized. A glance in the file cabinet revealed nothing unusual about the church’s affairs. Hank leafed through the folders and found one labeled Personal Correspondence. Inside were three items: the first was a name change form from El Paso, Probate Court docket, dated many years ago.

Guy E. Nash requests a change of name to Claypoole Carrington and swears that this is not for fraud or evasion of legal consequences.

“What did this family of Bible thumpers have to hide?” Hank muttered. “At least that accounts for one Nash boy.”

The next was a vibrant brochure titled Sunshine Boys Resort. Hank opened it. Young men frolicked by the lake, enjoying water sports with lively young girls.

“A summer camp for Fly Carrington? I can’t believe the old coot would spend a dime for his son’s benefit. Guess I called that one wrong.”

He turned to the last paper in the folder. It was a live birth certificate from the State of Texas, city of El Paso: a baby boy, single birth, born to Ruby Mae Nash and Claypoole Carrington, 6 pounds, 12 ounces.

“Great Land a Goshen,” Hank stammered. “No wonder Fly had scrambled eggs for brains. His gene pool was teeming with mutant DNA. He was a doomed genetic freak from the get-go, the demented offspring of a mother and son rolling in the hay.”

Hank thought about the long list of Cedar Creek folk tales, passed down from one person to another. He remembered each family’s story almost word for word.

Carrington swore he’d been married before, and Fly’s mother had tragically died of fever. He even spoke of the woman as if he were still grieving. And the whole thing was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Was he deluding himself to avoid Gehenna? No matter now. He’s frying up breakfast for the Father of Lies while I dig through his personal stuff. He’s got to hate that!

Hank slipped the papers into his pocket and looked through the rest of the files. Nothing interesting showed up until he reached the folder labeled INVESTMENTS.

There was a single sheet of paper inside, a shareholder statement from a company called OOZE.

Total shares, Hank read, 53,420 class A stock, value—now that’s got to be the biggest crock of horse poop this side of the Mississippi. Where would Carrington come up with that kind of dough? He’d have to be stealing from the collection plates of every church in the entire state of Michigan to save up a bundle like this.

Blown away by the information he’d uncovered, Hank climbed the creaking staircase to the second floor. The master bedroom was sparse, with a neatly made single bed. On the nightstand sat a framed picture. Hank picked it up. A woman smiled, dressed in a vintage frock and holding an old-fashioned parasol. It was a youthful photo of Ruby Mae Carrington—or Ruby Mae Nash? Three little boys sat at her feet.

The old woman’s room was easily recognizable by its treadle sewing machine. Dull fabrics were folded next to it. Her needlework rested on the bed as if she had just set it down. Pictures of Jesus decorated each wall, watching every move she made in the night.

The back bedroom was Fly’s, decorated with cowboy-themed wallpaper. The sheets were rumpled, and the mattress was a bit crooked. The fireplace was filled with snowy ash and still smelled like recent fire. A girlie magazine, with a flame-scared edge, stuck to the bricks.

On Fly‘s worktable, toothpicks were stacked in a small bowl. White glue was open and dried out. In the center of the workspace, more beautiful than Hank could imagine, was a helicopter made entirely of wooden sticks, no taller than ten inches. The detail was flawless, right down to the cockpit.

“Whup, whup, whup,” Hank murmured, hearing Fly repeating the words repeatedly. “A helicopter! It’s a goddamned black hawk chopper.”

Hank knew exactly what had been hovering over Mike O’Bryan’s field the night Sarah Underhill was buried. The implications chilled him to the bone.
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