Raising Cain by Gallatin Warfield Page B

buttoned his coat and prepared to leave. “I’ve got to be going. You can get back to your folks.”
    Paulie didn’t move.
    “Please tell your mama that I was here. I’ll call again when she’s feeling better.”
    “Yeah,” Paulie muttered, his head down.
    The reverend walked off the porch toward his car. But then he turned. “Brother Paul?”
    Paulie raised his head.
    “Vengeance is
mine
, sayeth the Lord. Remember that.” Then Taylor drifted out of the light and left Paulie alone in the shadows.
    Frank Davis put his feet up on the cluttered desk in his mobile home and kicked over his girlfriend’s photo. The cheating
     whore wasn’t returning his phone calls. Things had been rocky with the chunky brunette waitress for the past few months, and
     now the picture was clear: she was seeing someone else.
    Davis popped a beer and surveyed his domain. A two-bedroom trailer on Lot 32 of the Greenhills Mobile Home Park, it was furnished
     with yard-sale rejects and West Virginia hand-me-downs. What a shit-hole. No wonder he couldn’t keep a steady squeeze.
    By this time in life, he’d contemplated more. A real detached house, on a real detached lot. But on a patrolman’s salary,
     that couldn’t be. And until he made the big score, this was where he’d stay.
    Davis threw Donna’s picture in the trash and opened the Brown investigation file. It was the only thing at this point to take
     his mind off the two-bit reality of his life.
    He was spitting out reports as fast as he could, turning them in to the lieutenant as soon as he came in from the field. That
     should keep the pump primed.
    A cassette tape fell out of the folder. “Interview with Jackie Frey,” it was labeled.
    Davis placed it in his recorder and fast-forwarded. Then he hit play.
    “Go over it again,” he heard himself say. “What time did Mr. Brown leave?”
    “Just about dark,” Jackie answered. Her voice was weak, barely audible.
    “Speak louder.”
    “Dark.” Her voice level was the same.
    “Which direction did he walk?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “How drunk was he?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “What sexual activities did you perform?”
    Silence.
    “I know you screwed him. Describe what happened.” Silence.
    “Jackie, I have a vagrancy charge just waiting to file against you. The only way to stop it is to get your damn mouth in gear.
     Now tell me about the sex!”
    There was a blubbering sound on the tape, and Davis hit the stop button. “Nigger bitch!” he snorted. Then he crumpled the
     beer can, popped another, and pulled a county road map out of his desk drawer.
    “Quarry,” he said, tracing his finger along the mountain road until he found the CAIN compound. Then he took a marking pen
     and circled several spots along the route west. Maybe Thomas Ruth did fuck up Old Man Brown, and maybe he didn’t. Only he
     and the Lord knew for sure. But there was more than one way to get the bastard to talk. He’d tried one approach out at the
     quarry. Now it was time to try something else. Now it was time to improvise.
    Sallie moved quietly in the darkness, trying not to awaken her bunkmates. It was two in the morning, and the camp had slipped
     into silence. She eased open the screen door and stepped down into the gravel street. Tomorrow was her last day. Her research
     was almost complete. It was time to wrap it up.
    Sallie tiptoed beside the dorm and ducked behind a bush. From there she had a clear shot of the administration building and
     parking lot. A pole lamp lit the scene with a cone of yellow light. She counted the cars in the lot: eight, all accounted
     for. Everyone was tucked in for the night.
    Sallie kept low and walked toward the granite pit. She’d put most of the pieces together by now, but the weapons question
     was still open. She’d observed some strange activities down there the last few days: a van backed up to the shed several times.
     But she couldn’t see what they were doing or why. Tonight she was going to