The Cowstail Keep

PROLOGUE

September 30, 2010, 8:05 p.m., Atlanta, GA –

For what seemed like a solid minute, the screams cut through the dark and damp corridors, bouncing from concrete wall to concrete wall. Then, as quickly as they had begun, silence. Lieutenant Bob Trevor, the supervising guard on duty, scanned each of the six video monitors carefully to locate the source of the shrieking. It sounded for all the world like a woman, which didn’t make sense in this part of the prison; there were no female inmates, here. He squeezed the microphone on his shoulder.

Did anyone else hear that?

A reply came instantly, This is Officer Corin—it sounded like it came from the chapel…you want me to check it out?

Ten-four. Trevor leaned back heavily in his chair, never taking his eyes off the screens. On monitor three, within moments, he saw Officer Corin pass by the entrance to the infirmary on his way to the chapel. Corin moved slowly, quietly even, as though he were stalking some skittish prey, Trevor thought. Or maybe like something was stalking him.

Can you bring the lights up on D-west? Corin asked into his shoulder. A low hum accompanied by a loud buzz filled the air. Slowly, the fluorescent tubes lining the length of the west corridor began to come to life. The guard halted and backed against the wall, peering carefully into each twenty-foot section of the long hall as their lights warmed up. As the final section grew bright, Officer Corin could see that the large, stained oak doors to Born Again Chapel—that’s what the guards called it—stood open. He slowly drew his nightstick from its belt hoop and approached the chapel entrance. Within feet of the sanctuary, he heard a noise—a murmur, really. The female voice, though barely whispering, grew louder as he entered the dimly-lit room.

Remember most especially the soul I spiritually adopt with the intention of entrusting him or her to Thy Shepherd's care…I beseech Thee for the grace to move this sinner, who is in danger of going to Hell, to repent...I ask this because of my trust in Thy great mercy... the kneeling woman pleaded frantically, her head bowed into her praying hands.

As Corin approached her from behind, he saw it. Oh, my God in heaven…

The woman froze at the sound of his voice. Through the sudden silence, blood plinked like a metronome as a stream of droplets splashed onto the altar.

Lieutenant Trevor? Trevor? Oh, God…I need…Jesus…you need to get down here…

What’s the situation there, Corin? came the response.

Corin stood motionless, while sweat streaked from his temples. There’s a…a man. He’s…he’s dead, I guess. On the cross…he’s nailed to the cross. A naked dead man nailed to the cross…Oh, God… Corin’s voice trailed off, replaced by the wrenching sounds of vomiting.

Followed by another six uniformed men, Lieutenant Trevor came sprinting into the chapel, where he found Quinn Corin standing between pews hugging a woman tightly to his chest. Behind them, over the center of the altar, hung a six-foot wooden cross with the gruesome figure affixed to it. As Trevor approached the embracing couple, he never averted his gaze from the crucifixion.

She came in to vacuum, Corin said flatly as he separated from the woman.

Trevor eyed the lady, and noted her I.D. badge—Miranda Scott? Custodial services…

Miranda nodded.

Well, don’t go anywhere, Miss Scott. We’ll need to get a statement from you.

I won’t go anywhere, she said, not until Father Flaherty gets here. The woman trembled as she tightly grasped a sterling cross pendant strung from her neck.

How the hell did this happen? Trevor said aloud. Where is Reverend Miller?

The prison church, officially called Serenity Chapel, was non-denominational—it had to be by law. Reverend Paul Miller was the man charged with chapel administration, including the scheduling of private appointments for prisoners who requested brief periods of prayerful solitude. Of course, there were guards on the unit, but they stayed out of the chapel and the chapel offices when parishioners were there, out of respect for their privacy, sure, but also because Reverend Miller demanded it. But Reverend Miller wasn’t in the chapel, now, and he wasn’t in the office next to the chapel.

I don’t know, Corin replied, There’s nobody in there, but, well…Miss Scott here called Father Flaherty.

Father Kellen Flaherty was the priest who ministered to the facility’s Catholic inmates, a task for which he proudly volunteered his time twice each week. Unlike Reverend Miller, he did not live on the grounds, so it would take thirty minutes for him to arrive.

Right, Trevor offered, Good idea. Who is the, the… he pointed to the corpse, victim, I guess?

One of the guards raised a clipboard and glanced over it. According to the register, the last appointment was for, uh…well, how about that, Lieutenant? It was that famous guy—the Cowstail Keeper. Does that look like him to you?

Trevor stepped closer to the altar. Could be. Notice anything strange about this? he asked of nobody special.

You mean besides there’s a dead guy on a cross in the Born Again Chapel? the guard with the clipboard asked sarcastically.

Besides that…why do you think his right hand isn’t nailed up there? I mean, he’s got the thorny crown thing, but Jesus was nailed by every limb.

Before Father Flaherty or the police arrived, Lieutenant Trevor cordoned off the chapel, making certain that none of his people touched anything—including the blood-covered sledge hammer below the crucified man’s feet. He also conducted a more thorough search of the D-unit, seeking answers as to how such a thing as this could happen with Reverend Miller looking after the chapel. Of course, that part of the mystery was solved when Sergeant Oliver found the good Reverend’s nude and lifeless body stuffed into the supply closet, grotesquely posed in a sexual embrace with his equally deceased and naked secretary, Tiffany Asbell.

********

CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 2010 –

There was nothing particularly interesting about Cowstail, Georgia, other than an ironic dearth of cows or their tails. Still, reporter Robert Wilke always seemed able to find human interest stories to follow in the sleepy little town. He moved here from Tampa after he earned his journalism degree. Not right away—no, he spent fourteen fruitless months suffering rejection at the big-city news outlets. You don't have any experience, they so often said. We need seasoned journalists, they insisted. Finally, You might have better luck in a smaller market. It didn't matter that he had developed several investigative pieces for the major newspapers and TV stations, on his own, and spent considerable time and money doing it. They were very complimentary about his efforts, but they wouldn't pay for his pieces, and they wouldn't put him on staff. Sometimes, he thought, corrupt public officials had the media in their pockets.

So he plied his way through Central and North Florida with no luck. For several more months, he pounded the out-of-state pavement until he landed in Cowstail—a rural town in a county of less than two thousand salt-of-the-earth farmers and craftspeople about an hour southwest of Atlanta. The Cowstail Gazette doubled their reporting staff when they brought Robert on board. The pay was embarrassing, but at least the cost of living was exceptionally low. His dream of one day being as famous as Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein faded rapidly once he got to Cowstail—how much intrigue can happen in a county without a single McDonald’s and fewer cops than Mayberry? Still, Robert figured he could stick it out in this boring burg long enough to make his resume more attractive in a real city. He managed to score a sweet little one-bedroom apartment, fully furnished, for just a couple hundred dollars a month. When he first arrived in town, the transmission in his mid-eighties Pontiac Bonneville was slipping badly, and it had cost two weeks and two thousand bucks at Hutchins’ garage, so the affordable apartment was a Godsend.

His first article for the Gazette, headlined Local Family Pet Loses Standoff with Combine, drew a lot of attention and praise from readers. The tragic mulching of the poor fifteen-year-old hound, who was well-known and adored by most people in the county, was treated by the locals like a Hollywood celebrity death. Maxwell was a hero to me and mine, one fence-repairman had mourned, he saved my little girl, Liza, from a danged copperhead when she was just this high. Robert found a half-dozen similar stories of admiration, and he gave many of the animal's fans a voice in the paper, which endeared him to them all. The work bored Robert, but, again, he didn't need to make a career out of this rural fluff.

He went on to do a piece about the only local physician, Dr. Sam Collins, making plans to uproot his family and move up the road to the Atlanta area where he could be of more use. While many had heard rumors about Dr. Sam leaving, it wasn't until Robert did his expose that they learned of the good doctor's reasons for wanting to move. There was a sudden spate of illnesses requiring the physician's skills, many with strange and incongruous symptoms, many requiring multiple follow-up visits. The doctor was stymied by most of the townspeople's maladies, but they seemed to feel better after each visit to his office. Needless to say, Dr. Sam is still the local doctor, and Robert is fast becoming a bit of a celebrity, himself.

Today began with promise. Robert was awakened before dawn by the drone of several helicopters over a distant hill. He rose and shuffled swiftly to his bedroom window, in time to catch the retreating copters, each aglow with blinding searchlights, before they disappeared over the ridge. This was a most unusual affair; Robert had never even seen commercial airliners overflying Cowstail, no less helicopters flying in formation. In fact, the only aircraft he ever saw here was Rufus Smiley's crop-dusting plane, the one that all the local hooligans plink with BB's whenever he flies low enough. Other than the dirt strip at Smiley's barn, there isn't even an airfield or runway in the whole county. So this was more than a curiosity.

Robert's head throbbed from lack of sleep and too much drink—the price of last night's interview with Cowstail's new mayor. The Honorable John Stubbs took his whiskey straight, and didn't take refusals kindly. Robert turned and faced the bedroom while he reconsidered his priorities. Helicopters? The coffee would just have to wait.

Robert quickly dressed in the customary jeans and button-down shirt he bought many of when he realized that slacks and polos weren't the norm in this simple place. He grabbed his digital camera on the way out the door (he always carried it, just in case), and started up his now-dusty Pontiac. As the morning sun welcomed the day, he sped down the street and up toward the hill, to the point where paved road merged into dirt, but the helicopters were nowhere to be seen. Robert got out of the car at the ridge's crest. He studied the blank expanse of field, shading his eyes against the rising sun. He scanned for something of interest that he might be able to base a story on. There was nothing.

Nothing but a crumpled mass of fabric half-buried in the orange clay dirt. He stooped down and snapped a picture of it, and several of the surrounding area, then shoved his camera into his back pocket. He dug out the fabric and ran it between his fingers. It was a delicate floral print—a woman's blouse, he determined. It wasn't weathered, and was splattered with fresh blood stains. Robert knew it hadn't been here, long, and that someone had been injured. A bloodied fabric garment was hardly the sole basis for an article, but it was definitely an oddity.

Try as he might, Robert could not get the sight of those helicopters out of his head. They reminded him of the training missions he'd witnessed while living near the MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. Could they be Air Force helicopters? What would they be doing in Cowstail?

Robert drove off the ridge and headed for Dr. Sam Collins' clinic, thinking that Dr. Sam would know if some woman—one who lost her blouse—had been hurt. The parking lot was empty at the doctor's office. Robert entered the building and saw no one. The lights were all on, and, clearly, the place was unlocked, but it wasn't unusual for Dr. Sam to leave the office open when he ran to a house call. Still, Robert wanted to look around. He was nervous to be poking about, and couldn't know for certain that he was alone in the clinic, so he tiptoed across the waiting room and peeked stealthily through the receptionist's window. He quietly cracked the door to the exam room, and peered through. Nobody here. Upon entering the exam room, Robert surveyed the counter tops, trash can, and drawers, looking for some evidence that a woman might have been treated today—perhaps more remnants of clothing, some blood-soaked cotton swabs, contaminated surgical instruments awaiting sterilization. Anything, really. But there was nothing. He wandered back to the waiting room, and served himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee the doctor provided for patients' comfort. Dr. Sam might have been on a house call, but Robert wondered where the receptionist was, today. He waited. He paced the floor. He waited some more. Robert stood staring out the waiting room window for an eternity, until he finally grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed Sheriff Bethune.

Sheriff? Robert Wilke...how is everything? he began.

Just fine, Robert, just fine, Bethune offered. What can I do you for?

Well, sir, I was just wondering. Have you had any reports…um…of any assaults?

Not since them Parker twins got into it at the elementary, he answered. Why do ya ask?

Are you sure? Robert pleaded.

I may not be an investigative reporter, Robert, but I think I would know about shenanigans and goin's on in my town.

Yeah. And nobody's come up missing, I guess? Robert continued, then winced. There was an uncomfortable pause, and it occurred to him that he must have sounded a bit alarmist.

Heavens, no, Robert! What in the world makes you ask me that? The lawman was winded, exasperated, even. A second or two passed. Robert?

It's nothing, Sheriff. You know me...always looking for a story. Been kind of a slow couple of days; I guess I'm just lookin' for a scoop, he said. Robert considered how to end the call gracefully. Sheriff Bethune is being straight with me. Hey...did you happen to see the helicopters over Dillsborough Ridge this morning?

Helicopters? There ain't been a chopper in Cowstail since Sissy Bradford had to be flown to Atlanta when she went into labor in the peanut field. Dang...that's been, what? Her little girl's probably eight or nine by now, the Sheriff concluded. I'm pretty sure if there was helicopters in my town, I'da knowed about that, too.

Yeah...I'm sure you're right, Robert back-pedaled. I might've been dreaming, or it was a mirage.

Or maybe you and Mayor Stubbs had a longer meetin' last night than was good for ya? Bethune chuckled.

You got me, there—that’s probably it, Robert felt relieved. Okay, Sheriff...I should let you go. He asked the Sheriff if he had seen the doctor today, but he had not. As Robert closed his phone, he saw a truck pull into the parking lot. It was Dr. Sam. He wanted badly to show him the blood-soaked blouse, and quiz him about any injured female patients he might have seen, and bring up the helicopters. But the call with Sheriff Bethune hadn't gone very smoothly, so he decided this wasn't the time. He scurried into the restroom and pulled the door nearly shut. After Dr. Sam cleared the waiting room and entered the back hallway, Robert stole his way outside. Just as he was pulling out of the parking lot, something caught his eye. He grabbed for his camera, and retrieved his saved photos from Dillsborough Ridge.  He thought there was something familiar-looking about the orange clay adhering to the sidewalls of Dr. Sam's truck tires. After comparing his photos with the doctor’s tires, and then examining the similarly coated tires of his own car, he decided the soil looked similar enough to justify a discussion with Dr. Sam after all. Robert steered his car back into the nearest parking spot and began rummaging around in the glove compartment. He retrieved a small plastic bottle of aspirin probably left over from an all-night surveillance of one of Tampa’s shadier politicians. He looked around the floorboards hopefully, but the assorted soda and water bottles were empty. With a wince, he choked down two of the chalky tablets and got out of the car, patting the wad in his back pocket to make sure he still had the crumpled blouse securely inside. The clinic door made a soft, clicking sound as it closed behind him. Dr. Sam, once again, was nowhere in sight.

Hello? he called out into the empty office.

Hello, yourself Dr. Sam returned, from somewhere in the back. Probably his office, thought Robert. Have a seat and I’ll be right with you, the doctor said. Robert sat down and tried not to think about the ache in his head. A few seconds later, Dr. Sam emerged from the hallway.

Sam Collins was a tall, slender man with a dark, sallow complexion. He looked older than his 52 years, due mainly to the shiny bald spot on the top of his head and the patches of unruly white hairs spilling from his nostrils. He first began losing his hair at the tender age of 30, and it had progressed rapidly from there. The nose hair developed in his forties, and he never even trimmed it. Not that he cared a bit; vanity was not one of Dr. Sam’s failings. He did have a few vices, most of which no one in town knew anything about, and which were much worse than a bit of harmless conceit.

He smiled at Robert as he approached him, hand outstretched. As he shook the doctor’s hand Robert noticed that the smile, while it looked genuine enough, didn’t quite reach the corners of Sam’s gray-green eyes. As an energetic, persistent reporter, Robert had become accustomed to guarded reactions to his presence, and he dismissed it as nothing more than that.

Saw your car out front, but didn't see you when I came in--you must have been in the restroom. What ails you today, Robert? Dr. Sam asked with just the right amount of kindly concern.

Well, I’ve got a killer hangover, Robert replied ruefully, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m curious as to whether you have treated any injuries recently...say, in the last day or two?

Dr. Collins chuckled indulgently and said, Drink a lot of water for the hangover. Now, let’s see. There was the Hutchins girl; she sprained her ankle playing on the creek. That was Wednesday, I believe. The little Bradford girl, she stepped on some glass and took a few stitches to her foot, also on Wednesday. Oh, and Darren Sommers, you know old Walter Sommers’ boy? He smashed his hand repairing the roof on the barn and broke a few bones. Why do you ask?

So, nothing more serious? Robert asked.

No, just what I’ve told you. Perhaps I could be of more help if I knew what you were looking for. Again, why do you want to know?

Ignoring the question, Robert pushed on. Did anything happen out by Dillsborough Ridge?

The change in the doctor’s demeanor was immediate and palpable. The smile disappeared, his jaw clenched, and he stepped slightly back from Robert. He said, in a short clipped voice, Without knowing why you want to know, I believe I’ve told you all I can. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have other business to attend to. Goodbye, Mr. Wilke. He motioned toward the door with his hand, and Robert, somewhat taken aback and still groggy from the night before, wordlessly exited the office. From the doorway, Dr. Sam watched Robert leave the parking lot and proceed down Walnut Street toward the center of town. When he was satisfied that Robert was gone, he turned to the receptionist’s desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number.

It was nearing lunch time, so Robert stopped by Carrie's Country Cafe and polished off a burger and a large Country Carrie's Creamer, the best vanilla milk shake he ever tasted. The headache was subsiding, though his encounter with Dr. Sam was still very much bothering him. The doctor has been up to the ridge recently, Robert thought to himself; and there aren't any homes up there, so it couldn't have been for a house call.

* * *

After spending several hours in his office at the Gazette, updating the Community Calendar with upcoming events, and attending a meeting to bring editor Billy Clower up to speed on his developing story, Robert decided it was time to take another little drive up to Dillsborough Ridge and then out to the Collins spread to snoop around a bit more. The drive to the ridge was several miles, so he turned on a talk radio program and headed west toward the hills.

About a half a mile short of the ridge, he came upon a slender young fellow walking on the side of the road and carrying a yellow plastic bucket with a matching shovel. The teen was dressed in soiled overalls with no shirt, a tattered ball cap, and a pair of clay covered work boots. As Robert got closer, he realized who it was; he had met this young man the day before at Mayor Stubbs' place. It was the mayor's son, Justin. In between some pretty hefty belts of whiskey, the mayor had whispered something in Robert's ear. It sounded like he said that the boy was touched, but he wasn't quite sure. Robert and Justin had a little time to get acquainted while the mayor had temporarily adjourned to his private office for a spell. Robert learned that the Stubbs clan had been in Cowstail for generations, and had been the only family that opted to raise hogs instead of peanuts or cotton. That was why the Stubbs family earned an unusual nickname; they called them the piggers. Justin told him a lengthy story of how he was just a little pigger when he stole his daddy's truck and drove clear up to the Coweta County Fair to enter his prized hog in the livestock judging category. In four counties, there couldn't have been more than a half-dozen folk raising livestock of any kind, so it was no surprise there were only three pigs in the contest. Justin, though, was the only exhibitor that actually sat with his swine the entire length of the fair, so the judges had pity on him and awarded him a most unusual looking hog ribbon. You would have thought he won the best in show for how proud the young man was of that ribbon; hell, it had been three years, and Justin could hardly contain his excitement as he relayed the tale and held the white satin award—with Most Unusual-looking Hog hand-written on it in black marker. Robert couldn't help but think that was probably the only most unusual looking hog ribbon ever awarded in Coweta County, or any other county for that matter. He wished Justin could have at least shown him a picture of this unique pig, but Justin told him that he’d never owned a camera. I guess folks have a call for ‘em in the cities, he recalled him saying.

Most of his memories of the prior evening were still a bit blurry, but Robert did remember this young man and how peculiar he was. The boy was most certainly touched. By what, or whom, was unclear. Robert pulled over and offered Justin a lift.

Hey Justin, remember me? Robert asked.

Howdy mister, yeah--sure do. Justin answered.

Where are you heading?

Just headin' up the road a piece, the boy responded.

Would you like a lift, son? I'm just on my way up to Dillsborough. Looks like you're headed that way anyhow, huh?

Na thanks, rather just keep on a walkin'; got some thinkin' to do, too. The young man set his beach pail on the ground, took a tin of chewing tobacco from his hip pocket, pinched a giant dip, and turned away from Robert. Without so much as a goodbye, Justin grabbed up his bucket and began walking again--only this time, he walked toward town, not toward the ridge.

Alrighty then, we'll see ya soon, Robert offered as he drove off.

Robert thought the boy had reacted unnaturally. Heck, for that matter, he was strange. And the young man quit walking toward the ridge when Robert said he was headed there. Robert mashed down a little harder on the gas pedal; this day was getting less ordinary by the minute.

* * *

Lost in his own thoughts, Robert had failed to notice the slight man with a two-day growth of scruffy beard and a plaster cast on his left forearm, sitting in the corner booth at Carrie’s Country Kitchen. The man had been there when Robert arrived, and was now halfway through his third cup of coffee. He hadn't failed to notice him because he was distracted, exactly; a large number of Cowstail residents wore faded flannel shirts indistinguishable from the one the untidy fellow wore. To be fair, the man hadn’t really noticed Robert either, until after his cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. With a sigh, and a decidedly unenthusiastic hullo, Darren Sommers listened to the voice on the other end. 

Now, following the reporter down the rough, dusty road toward Dillsborough Ridge, all Darren wanted was sleep--and plenty of it. I doubt that will happen any time soon, he thought, as he dejectedly raked the fingers of his right hand through his greasy, shoulder-length hair. Being sleep-deprived and thoroughly frustrated by this new assignment, he almost gave himself away when the newsman stopped to talk to some kid on the road. Just in time, he managed to slow down, and pulled over to the shoulder where he had a clear view of Robert’s Pontiac. When the boy began walking straight toward him a few moments later, Darren put his old Ford in gear and slowly got back on the road. As he passed the young man, it suddenly dawned on him who the kid was. Justin Stubbs? What the hell is that feeb doing out here? He's always in the strangest places. Darren spun around to look through the back glass of the truck, as if to make sure his eyes weren’t lying to him. Turning his attention back to the task at hand, he made a mental note to discuss this with Dr. Sam.

Since Darren had grown up in and around Cowstail, there wasn’t a square foot of the county that he didn’t know as well as he knew his own mother’s face. He knew every turn of the roads, every dead end, and every back way to get anywhere you wanted to be; this was invaluable in his line of work, which included many activities that the upstanding citizens of Cowstail would have labeled up to no good. Oh, he had a real job—he was a part-time mechanic at Hutchins', the local gas station and auto shop, owned by Ray Hutchins these last 17 years. In Darren’s opinion, the job was a huge waste of time, the pay was a joke, and the boss was a pain in the ass. He planned to leave that job and Cowstail in the dust just as soon as one of his ‘side jobs’ paid off. What he really wanted was to drive for a NASCAR team. This was very unlikely, but for Darren, hope sprang eternal.

Darren knew where Robert would most likely park his car for the easiest access to the meadow on Dillsborough Ridge. He needed to get there before Robert and stay out of sight, so, as a heavy rain began to pelt his windshield, he turned the rusty blue Ford left onto a road that was little more than a glorified dirt path through the thick trees. Bumping and bouncing down the sloshy road, Darren drove as fast as he dared to the place where the road abruptly ended, with tall pine trees on all three sides. Like so many places with dense stands of trees, appearances could be deceiving; just 10 yards to the north, there were a dozen or more acres of grass pasture at the crest of Dillsborough Ridge. Braving the downpour, Darren raced on foot across the open field and stepped back into the trees about a hundred yards from Robert's car. Just then, he caught sight of the reporter. Nervously, he shot a quick look behind him and then further across the meadow toward a spot he had left only hours before.

* * *

Just as he neared the crest of Dillsborough Ridge, a swift downpour kicked up and made the dirt road very slick. Robert knew his old Pontiac might get stuck in the muck up here, but he really wanted to return to the spot where he'd found the fabric and do a wider search of the area. He very slowly slipped and slid his car to the right place, and gathered his umbrella and flashlight before making his way to the disturbed ground where he'd dug the woman’s top up this morning. His boss, Billy, had made it clear that this story wouldn't be run if there wasn't something more to it than out-of-place helicopters, some lady's stained top, and Robert's intuition that something bad might've happened. He was determined to get to the bottom of