Raising Cain Page 6

  “Here.”

  “You were at the quarry all night?”

  The preacher nodded.

  “Got anyone who can verify that?” Davis scanned the empty street.

  “Is it necessary?”

  “I can rule you out as a suspect if you substantiate your whereabouts that evening.”

  “I was here.”

  “Okay. Give me the name of a person who can vouch for you.”

  “We have a rule of confidentiality in this church. Members are assured their privacy will be guarded when they enter these gates. I intend to honor that commitment.”

  “But they could clear you of suspicion.”

  “I understand that, but as I told you, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Davis began to speak but held back.

  “I am in solitude most of the time anyway,” Ruth continued. “I’m not sure who I could get to give me an, uh, alibi.”

  Davis made a note. The word alibi sounded strange coming from a preacher.

  “Did you leave the quarry at any time that day?”

  “Which day?”

  “September twentieth.”

  “I don’t remember. I go outside a lot but can’t say for sure if I did then.”

  “Do you keep a diary, a log of your schedule?”

  “No. The Bible is my only schedule.”

  “Under the circumstances, I do need to interview some of your people.”

  “I cannot allow you to do that. My lambs are here to escape the evils of the world, and it’s my job to protect them.”

  “It could only help you to permit it.”

  “The word of the Lord is sufficient unto itself. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “But it’s not the Lord’s word I’m questioning. It’s yours.”

  Ruth pressed his hands to his temples. “Forgive him, Lord.”

  Davis decided to move on. He walked over to several vehicles on the lot. “Which one do you drive?”

  Ruth pointed to a late-model Lincoln Continental.

  “Mind giving me your car phone number?”

  “It’s 775-2828.”

  “What cellular company do you use?”

  “Mountain Bell.”

  Just then a bearded man ran up the street, dressed in a linen robe and sandals. “What’s going on?” he asked, eyeing the uniform.

  Ruth tried to take him aside, but he resisted.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Davis asked.

  “What’s going on?” the man persisted.

  “I’ll handle this,” Ruth told him. “Go back to your cabin.”

  “What’s your name, sir?” Davis repeated.

  “Your cabin!” Ruth ordered.

  The man turned and began to leave.

  “Wait a minute, sir!” Davis called, moving to catch him.

  Ruth grabbed the officer’s arm. “Stop.”

  Davis halted and looked at his arm. Ruth had it in a death grip. “Let go, Mr. Ruth!” He reached for his holster.

  Ruth released him and stepped back, but the intruder was gone. “You just made a mistake,” Davis said coldly.

  “I don’t think so.” Ruth’s eyes looked like they could cut steel. “Get off this property and get off now.“

  Davis took a step backward. The guy was about to lose it.

  Ruth put his hands to his head again. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!”

  Davis unsnapped his weapon and backed to his car. He opened the door and got in.

  Ruth had not moved. “And the unrighteous shall perish!”

  Davis watched for a moment as he started the engine. “I’ll see you later,” he said. Then he peeled out in a cloud of yellow dust and raced toward the gate.

  Joseph Brown’s funeral had just begun at the Blocktown AME Church. A traditional sect, its members were men and women of Joseph and Althea’s generation too set in their ways to switch allegiance to Reverend Taylor. The small clapboard building was packed with mourners, and the overflow—townspeople, relatives, and a hefty contingent of cops—thronged the yard, listening to the service on loudspeakers. They’d all loved the old man.

  Inside the main hall it was unbearably hot. There was no air-conditioning, and the crowd fanned themselves with programs and hymnals as Reverend Boyd prepared to send Joseph into the heavens.

  “We haven’t come here for a funeral,” the white-haired preacher said. “This is a celebration.”

  “Yes, sir,” a voice hollered from the balcony.

  “The joyous celebration of a man’s life…”

  “That’s right!” another voice replied.

  “Brother Joseph lived a good man, and he died a good man!”

  “Amen!”

  Gardner and Jennifer sat in the second row. Ahead were Brownie and his long-lost brother. Dour and sullen, they flanked their mother like ebony columns. Althea sobbed intermittently into a handkerchief, and the sons alternated comforting her. She was the no-fly zone in their silent war, and it showed.

  Gardner tried to swallow but couldn’t. His throat was too dry. He gripped Jennifer’s hand. She gripped back.

  “God called Joseph to him, and Joseph went,” the preacher cried. “Yes, we’ll miss him! Yes, we’ll be sad when we see that empty chair! But understand, my friends, that he’s in a better place right now than we are!”

  “Amen!”

  “So we celebrate! We do not mourn! We praise! We do not despair!”

  The crowd quieted.

  “Joseph Brown was a good man, an honest man, a peaceful man! He was a family man.” The reverend pointed to the Brown delegation. “He was a kind man, a loving man, an intelligent man! Are you picking up the word here, friends? As we celebrate the life of Brother Brown?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  ” Joseph Brown was a man!”

  “Praise God!” a woman called.

  “He had some warts, like all mortal men…. Only one man in the history of the universe didn’t have any warts, and that was Jesus Christ. But Brother Brown didn’t have many, and that’s why he sits by God’s side, and the rest of us sinners still labor in the heat of the world!”

  Brownie looked at the preacher and tried to listen to what he was saying, but the words seemed to fade away as soon as they came out of his mouth. It was hot, but he didn’t feel the heat. It was bright, but he didn’t see the light. All he could see was his father’s face, alive, and strong, and in another time.

  When Brownie was fourteen, his dog died. The dog was only a mixed-breed, but he was gentle, and Brownie loved him. “Can we get another, Daddy?” he asked.

  “Yes, son, “ Joseph agreed.

  So they searched the papers for a give-away and found one: “Eight-year-old male collie. Free to good home.”

  His father maneuvered the old Chevrolet toward the other side of town. They crossed hills, meadows, and woods, and emerged on a development of stone ranch houses. SEDGEWICK ESTATES, the sign read.

  When they got to the right house, they walked to the door and rang the bell.

  “Yes?” A plump, fortyish white woman answered the door.

  Joseph removed his hat. ‘We’re here about the dog.”

  The woman hesitated, and a man suddenly appeared at her side. “These people are here for Pete,” she told him.

  Brownie looked into the yard. Behind the fence was the most beautiful dog he’d ever seen: a fluffed-up collie, just like Lassie. He smiled, and the dog wagged its tail.

  “You’re too late,” the man said abruptly. “We already gave him away.”

  Brownie looked up.

  “We called about it,” Joseph said.

  “Sony.”

  Brownie grabbed his father’s arm. “But… “ He was pointing toward the yard.

  “Wouldn’t happen to have another, would you?” Joseph asked.

  “No, ! don’t Not to give away.”

  “Daddy!” Brownie was still tugging at his arm.

  “Thank you anyway, “Joseph replied, replacing his hat and
turning toward the car.

  “Daddy!” Brownie persisted.

  “Get in the car, son.”

  Brownie slammed the door and stared at the collie peering through the fence. “They had the dog!”

  Joseph kept silent as they drove back to the highway.

  “Didn’t you see, Daddy? They had the dog!”

  “I saw it, son.”

  “So why didn’t you do something?”

  “The man didn’t want to give it to us. That was his right.”

  “Why not? Because we’re black?”

  “Maybe. But it was still his right. He can give the dog to anyone he wants.”

  “As long as they’re white,” Brownie said under his breath.

  They were out of Sedgewick Estates now, in the countryside. Joseph pulled off the road and stopped the car. He put his hand on Brownie’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “I want you to calm down, son,” he said. “You can’t go through life bein’ a hater.”

  “But they were haters!”

  “Yes, they were. That’s their problem. We don’t have to be like them.”

  Brownie’s eyes filled with tears. “But we didn’t get the dog!”

  Joseph rubbed his son’s neck. “Plenty of dogs in this world, Joe, at least as nice as that one.”

  They sat for a moment in silence. Then Brownie leaned over and hugged his dad. When he pulled away, his tears had dried, and he was trying to smile. “Probably had fleas, anyway,” he said.

  * * *

  Brownie fought back a tear and looked up at the pulpit.

  “Friends,” Reverend Boyd continued, “a prominent member of our community is here today to join this celebration. He has asked to say a few words, and I’d like him to come up now, if he would….” He pointed to the back of the church, and Reverend Taylor hustled down the aisle and ascended the steps. Preened and resplendent in black, he was ready to preach.

  “Thank you, Reverend Boyd.” His smooth voice poured into the pews and flowed from the speakers. “I knew Joseph Brown, as we all did, and I agree with most that’s been said so far. Joseph was a good man, a kind man, a peaceful man. He was a man in every sense of the word… but I must respectfully disagree with one thing Brother Boyd told you here today….”

  The congregation hushed.

  “Maybe God did not call Brother Brown to him just yet.”

  Several mourners looked around, and Taylor paused for effect, his heavy breath rumbling over the PA system.

  “Maybe Brother Brown was sent to the Almighty before his time.”

  Gardner stared up at the altar. This didn’t sound like a eulogy.

  “This life may not compare to the one God’s got waiting for us in the hereafter,” Taylor continued, “but it’s a life.”

  “Un-huh,” someone said.

  “God gives us life, and life is precious.”

  “Amen!”

  “God doesn’t want us to come to him until our job here is done!”

  “That’s true!”

  Taylor stopped suddenly and looked out across the room. “We honor Joseph Brown here today, but we don’t accept the fact that his time had come!”

  “That’s right!”

  “We don’t let any man tell us that our time has come!”

  “Amen!”

  Gardner stirred in his seat. Taylor was inciting the crowd, and the implication was clear: someone had killed Joseph Brown. In truth, it was just conjecture, Brownie’s hunch. But Taylor’s words were making it fact.

  “What’s happening?” Jennifer whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Gardner replied over the din.

  “God can call us,” Taylor yelled, “but no man on this earth can tell us it’s time to go!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Death comes when God decrees it!”

  “Amen!”

  “Death waits on His commandment!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “But in the case of Brother Joseph, dear friends, God did not issue the call!”

  The crowd went quiet again.

  “No, dear friends, God was not yet ready to take our Joseph.”

  Gardner squeezed Jennifer’s hand.

  “Someone among us decided to do God’s work for him!”

  Gardner looked at Brownie and his brother. They were no longer immobile. Each time Taylor uttered a word, their heads moved.

  “No man has a right to take a life!” Taylor yelled.

  The heads moved again.

  “No man can wield God’s sword!”

  “Amen!”

  “We may have to accept the fact that he is gone, but we don’t have to accept the reason why!”

  Another hush.

  “No man can do this evil deed and walk away!”

  “Amen!” Brownie yelled.

  “No man can escape God’s wrath!”

  “That’s right!” the brother called.

  “No man!” Taylor signaled for a reply.

  “No man!” the mourners roared. “No man!” And the voices of the brothers Brown were the loudest of all.

  Sallie Allen was nervous. Thomas Ruth had put the compound on alert because a police officer was coming for a visit. “Stay in the dining hall while I deal with him,” he’d ordered. And the flock had obeyed. Without question or hesitation, they’d all marched to the oblong building and disappeared inside, Sallie included. It was like a nuclear attack drill: a room full of silent people, their heads down, their hands clasped, waiting for the fatal flash.

  Finally, the all-clear sounded, and things returned to normal. They were allowed to venture outside. But in the dining hall, they’d covered the windows with sheets, so Sallie had not been able to peek. She was dying to know what the police wanted.

  Since her first day in the compound, Sallie had been reconnoitering. How many CAIN followers were there? Fifty, as far as she could count: thirty men and twenty women. Their backgrounds? Diverse: mechanics, salesmen, housewives, drifters. Their financial resources? Substantial: A fleet of cars, walk-in refrigerator, cache of food, and state-of-the-art computer. Armaments? That was still a question mark. The restriction on her movements made that a tough one. But Sallie wasn’t about to give up. She still needed a hook. And an arsenal of weapons would do nicely.

  The followers had now fanned out to complete their chores. Sallie was on meal preparation duty, and she waited in the dining hall for the cook to tell her what to do. Standing by the window, she could barely see the administration building through the waves of radiating heat. She wiped a tickle of moisture from her hairline as a dust devil swirled in the roadbed and died. Sallie knew her deadline was approaching. In the next twenty-four hours she had to get what she needed and get out. The first draft was due the day after tomorrow.

  Suddenly she saw Thomas Ruth rush from the administration building. He leaped from the porch and ran to his car. Then he backed out, sped toward the front gate, and disappeared.

  “Sister Sallie,” the cook called, “can you help me?” She was a middle-aged runaway from an eastern city, a mom who discovered “religion” and abandoned her husband, kids, Volvo, and ended up here. Her name was Dorothy. She was dressed in traditional CAIN garb: jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. Her brown hair was cinched back, and she wore no makeup or jewelry, as decreed by Thomas Ruth.

  Sallie turned from the window. “Sure.”

  Dorothy handed her a list. “Bring these items from storage, please.”

  Sallie took the paper. “Right away.”

  The storage room was in a small garage behind the administration unit.

  Sallie walked up the street. She’d been inside every building in the compound but the men’s dorm, the administration building, and a padlocked shed down by the quarry. She’d made diagrams and notes as to what was where and what it was used for. The days and activities were structured, and each activity had its time and place. The followers droned through the hours in quiet obedience, their wills forfeited to Ruth just like their possessio
ns. The preacher kept the schedule tight, kept them busy so there was little chance to reflect on their isolation from the outside world. Ruth was their world now. And the woods beyond the quarry fence were as far away as the sun.

  Sallie passed the men’s and women’s dormitories, former stoneworkers’ bunkhouses. They slept on spartan cots arranged in open rows, and ate and bathed in same-sex shifts. Ruth had a thing about interaction. Men and women were allowed together only when they prayed.

  Sallie cautiously stepped up on the porch of the administration building: the headquarters where Ruth meditated and slept. Sallie had never seen anyone but Ruth and a few trusted males go inside. Ruth had strictly forbidden access to anyone else, and there was a sign on the door: PRIVATE. She glanced in a window. The room was empty. She moved to the next one. This, too, was empty. Sallie approached the front door and glanced over her shoulder at the street. No one was in sight. By now she’d reached the entrance. Ruth was gone, and the place looked deserted. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked.

  Sallie slipped down the darkened hall to a room at the far end. She’d spotted the computer equipment through the window a few days ago. Now she could check it out up close.

  Her heart was racing as she entered the room. “Whoa!” she whispered. Ruth had an IBM subsidiary in there. She’d seen some of it through the window, but not all this. There were keyboards, mainframes, modems, printers, scanners, copiers, and fax machines.

  Sallie hurried to a console and threw the power switch. The computer vibrated as it prepped for operation. Finally the electronics had sorted out, and the blinking cursor came to rest. “PASSWORD?” the screen asked.

  Sallie keyed in “CAIN.” It was as good a guess as any.

  “INVALID COMMAND,” the screen replied.

  Sallie typed in “RUTH.”

  “INVALID COMMAND.”

  Sallie tried “THOMAS.”

  “INVALID” again.

  Sallie didn’t have much time. If she got caught, they’d throw her in with the snakes. She shuddered and tried another variation: “T. RUTH.” The letters faded for a moment, then began to blink. It had worked.

  Sallie keyed “dir/p” on the console, a command that would display the files in memory. The screen responded with a list of phrases.

  “STRIKE ANY KEY TO CONTINUE,” the prompt said.