Prologue

NOVEMBER 30, 2024, RURAL ARKANSAS

Hunching over as he stepped out from the lush, dark greenery, the slim figure silently hugged the tree line, carefully skirting the grassy meadow of the pipeline easement splitting the dense woods. Crossing a small ravine, the man stopped, shielding his eyes with his hand against thin shafts of light shooting through the trees as the sun broke the horizon. He scanned the undergrowth between the hickories and oaks on the far side of the easement for signs of deer.

Seeing no evidence of his prey, the hunter abandoned his cover and began wading fully erect through the thigh-high grass of the break. The tall amber blades’ curling tips glistened with the dampness of the morning dew. Crafted to blend well into the background of a thick forest, the clothing and gear of the crossbow hunter starkly contrasted against the sea of gold. Pushing forward, he left a clear three-foot-wide trail through the flaxen belt running otherwise undisturbed north and south for miles. Swinging his arms wide to each side, the man strained for quicker progress toward the far hedgerow.

Again blended into his surroundings, the bow hunter rested against a nearby pine. Silhouetted against the yellows, oranges, and reds streaking across the morning sky with the sun’s rise, he pondered the gorgeous, just-beginning-to-fade fall foliage of early December in northwest Arkansas. Mother Nature had put on a brilliant display of color before surrendering to winter, earning the area its reputation as one of the most beautiful places in the country.

The dawn air was crisp and cool, still damp from the overnight rain, smelling of soggy, decaying vegetation and of drowning worms coming up for air. Water droplets, hiding from the morning’s creeping glow, clung stubbornly to the tips of weeds and leaves in the undergrowth. With the last of the clouds receding westward, the light spearing through the trees widened as the rising orange orb crested the tops of distant hills. Wood thrushes and northern mockingbirds were just beginning their serenades of the new morning, intermixed with the occasional hoot of an owl.

Civilization seemed nowhere near, though the scenery was but twenty-two miles west of Enabler Hollow, a tiny town in Arkansas’s Narcissus County. Edward Rutledge, an archer celebrating his 48^th birthday, was taking full advantage of the state’s lengthy deer season for crossbow hunters, now heading into its last month.

Ed and his hunting partner, Arthur Middleton, had spent the night at their deer stand. The younger of the two men by a month and the more assertive, Ed was also the better hunter; stuffed trophies of his accomplishments proudly hung from all four walls of his basement den.

Ed had left Art at their deer stand to clean up and mask any lingering human scent, departing early to forge ahead and scout the area.

Seeking the bedding areas and travel patterns that showed deer were in the neighborhood, he was intent on finding the deep tracks and prominent tree rubs higher up the trunk left by a mature buck.

Ed also watched for other predators and scavengers in the vicinity. He’d developed a deep understanding of how their activity affected the behavior of whitetail deer. Scanning the environment as it yielded to the daylight, he looked for familiar signs.

Larger carnivores and scavengers drawn by bigger prey confirmed that the quarry he sought was here. Still, Ed preferred to avoid direct competition in the immediate area, and the turkey vultures circling overhead drew his concern. Something seemed out of place beneath them, straddling the greenbelt boundary about a football field’s length further south.

His impression was of a large, domesticated pig carcass. Coyotes, or a bobcat or black bear if they were hungry enough, likely dragged the remains just inside that hedgerow.

Bringing up the binoculars hanging from his neck, Ed yanked off the lens protectors and stuffed them into his pants pocket.

As he focused, the blood suddenly drained from his face. Instinctively taking a step back, he dropped his field glasses to his chest.

Inhaling quickly and then slowly releasing the breath, he grabbed the binoculars with both hands, bending over slightly and leaning in. He shoved his head forward, as though a clearer view would erase what he was seeing.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea overcame him; he let go of the glasses, leaning over, hands on his knees, to throw up violently into the brambles beside him.

Now shaking slightly, the moment over, Ed stood and pulled a wet wipe from his jacket pocket to clean his lips, beard, and mustache. Pocketing the wipe, he hung his head, quietly mouthing a prayer and briefly casting his eyes heavenward.

Placing the tips of his middle finger and thumb together between his curled lips, he let out two piercing whistles in quick succession. Art wouldn’t be far behind; he’d follow the trail Ed had left in the grass.

Tracing the treeline south, Ed trudged through the grass, dreading the challenge before him every one of the several minutes it took to reach the remains. Once he’d confirmed they were human, Ed backed away, not wanting to contaminate anything should he get sick again.

Art had the satellite phone with him; there was little Ed could do but wait. Taking a seat on a fallen log about ten yards from the body, he rocked back and forth, head down and then back up occasionally to look for Art – anything that would cast his eyes in another direction. What he’d seen would stay with him the rest of his life and for many nightmares to come. There was no reason to reinforce the image.

Art, too, had gotten a preview through his field glasses by the time he arrived. His face was pale; his demeanor obviously shaken.

A fervently religious man, Art tapped Ed on the shoulder, pointing with his other hand at the sun, now fully risen. Both men dropped to their knees, crossing themselves; with eyes closed, they offered the Lord’s Prayer in quiet unison.

Rising together, they turned and stood briefly, hands on each other’s shoulder, in silent contemplation of the deceased teenager’s corpse. Surrounded by biting flies and the unbearable odor of cadaverine, she was around sixteen, mostly nude; the signs of torture and rape were obvious. Whoever did this had posed her body in gruesome fashion, shooting rounds through her elbows, kneecaps, and the arches of her feet. Someone had penetrated her with foreign objects, including a large pinecone.

Both men knew the girl and her family well.

She was Liberty Belle Freeman, the only surviving daughter of Fred Freeman, their friend and co-worker. The three adults were members of a small, tight-knit group of locals bound by their willingness to defy the powerful County Judge and Sheriff.

The murder of a daughter under these circumstances would be unbearable enough for any father. That Fred’s oldest daughter had committed suicide eight years ago after a vicious rape would make another loss incomprehensibly painful.

Each of the hunters was a parent to a teenager; Art was the father of two. Both had to turn from the body, tears running down their cheeks.

Without a word, Ed helped Art unpack the satellite phone; Art made the call to the Sheriff’s Department.

Having done all they could, the two men stood facing one another, heads down. Pointlessly kicking at the ground with the toes of their boots, they waited for the authorities to arrive.

Deep worry and sorrow had taken over Art’s features.

“My God, how am I gonna explain this to my wife? … Jesus, and the kids. I have to tell them; they’ve gotta know there’s a monster walking among us that could do something like this, especially to them.…”

Ed’s thoughts were with the girl’s father.

“Fred and I served together for two tours, one of the toughest guys I know. Without him, the wrestlers never would have made it to state.”

Art shook his head slowly.

“Shit, our football team would’ve been a joke.”

Ed nodded, then spat to one side.

“Still, I can’t even imagine what this is going to do to him after everything that happened to Innocence Grace.”

Ten minutes passed in silence as each of the men in their own way tried to absorb a reality that half an hour ago would have been unfathomable.

Art removed the archery glove from his drawstring hand, using the knuckle of his forefinger to wipe a tear from his eye.

Finally, Ed spoke.

“Those DeRump motherfuckers got her. You know they did this.”

More silence.

“Ed, you gotta be the one to tell Fred.”

“Oh, Art, man, I can’t. I’ll screw it up, and I just can’t do that to him.”

“C’mon, it’s Fred… he’s gotta be told. By somebody who gives a shit, before he hears about it on the news.”

Art paused in thought.

“You know he’ll never remember a word you say anyway, once it sinks in. Jesus, what a klusterfuck situation….”

The other man slowly nodded. “We need to call Joe Manchin at home; no one else left in the Sheriff’s Department we can trust, though it ain’t by much.”

“I know, but you’re right, we need him to be among the first responders; hopefully, he’d be the one to do the investigating.”

Ed chewed the inside of his lip.

“Doubt they’d let him do it properly, though.…”

Art had other concerns.

“Sometimes I think Manchin has his head in the right place, but he’s awfully weak in the knees.”

Ed snorted.

“Damned pussy, if you want to be straight up about it.”

Art’s focus returned to those he loved.

“What’s Trance going to do to us, to our families, for reporting this if Joe rats us out for being the ones who called?”

Ed let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, I know… But sometimes you have to do the right thing, even if it kills you. Fuck Trance and DeRump.”

Belying their bravado, the men shivered slightly, though their camouflage clothing was warm; tiny beads of sweat glistened on their foreheads.

Steeling himself, Ed took the satellite phone from Art to call Fred.

Chapter 1

PRESENT DAY, SAN DIEGO

I’ve never been materialistic, but I do appreciate the nicer things in life when they come my way.

They haven’t always; I’ve survived situations that were minimalist at best when out on the road during an investigation. More than a few assignments have had me living out of a van on junk food, wearing nothing but T-shirts and jeans for months at a time.

Good genes have helped, though I don’t lean on my looks to survive. Lucky for me, you don’t need an extensive wardrobe if you’ve got red hair and a decent figure; the right attitude goes a long way.

And honestly, I wouldn’t have had to watch my pennies so closely after my father passed; he left a generous inheritance that took the sting out of paying the monthly bills.

But I wanted to invest that money in furthering my career. I know that’s what Dad intended. That discipline, along with the stories written by a close friend about my adventures, helped my byline as an investigative journalist, Debra Ann Wynn, evolve into a thriving newsgathering and distribution business. Of course, I didn’t do the last part by myself; I lack the requisite mercenary instincts for entrepreneurship. I’m grateful for the help I’ve gotten from my business partner and onetime mentor at the San Diego Union-Tribune, Doug Stein.

Change as life’s only constant – the few years since we first took that plunge have been busy and exciting. Paul Castro came back to California after serving as an officer in the Navy to become a forensic supervisor for the Bureau of Investigation. When they assigned him to assist the San Diego PD with cold cases, Paul and I rediscovered one another. We’d had an intense college romance twenty years ago, and we’re now married with two children: Thomas Ethan, six, and Sarah, who just turned four. Having a family has brought fulfillment – and activity! – to our lives, rewarding beyond anything I could have imagined.

Enter materialism. We’re not rich, but our combined incomes allow us to splurge once in a while.

A few months ago, Paul began lobbying to have an in-ground pool installed; you know how those ex-Navy types love the water. Tommy and Sarah were both clamoring for one; I think Sarah, our then three-year-old, was shilling for her father. And really, I didn’t put up much resistance.

But, man-oh-man, have I adapted to the new pool! I’ve taken to it like a fish to… never mind. Paul says it looks like a mini cranberry bog when the children and I are in the pool – his idea of a redhead joke.

I was sitting in the lounge chair alongside the water one afternoon, catching up on my writing while the children played in the shallow end. Suddenly, an unusual summer rainstorm snuck up on us. The shower brought with it the smell of fresh, earthy dampness Dad called “petrichor”. Mixed in was the distinct scent of ozone, a sign of lightning. As everyone gathered up their things and retreated to the porch, I decided now was as good a time as any to grab snacks for the three of us.

As I explored the fridge for options, the kids headed to the living room to play.

Just then, the doorbell rang – Matt and Mike, Marci’s two sons, were at our front door. Always welcome in our home, they usually wouldn’t have bothered to announce themselves. But I knew their mother had been riding them about the formalities and showing respect – Matt had walked in on his mom and Danny, her new husband, at an unfortunate moment.

Detective Marci Robbins has carried a gold shield with San Diego PD’s Homicide unit since before Thomas Ethan was born. She and I have been dear friends for a dozen years now, and we’ve seen each other through, well, interesting things. Marci has become my BFF, the only friend I have who’s saved my life, and I mean that literally, at least once. She’s been part of so many things that have happened – you can’t tell a story about one of us without mentioning the other.

I first met Marci when I was still an aspiring cub reporter for the Union-Tribune. The introduction came at the tail end of an extraordinarily rough patch in Marci’s personal life and career. She’d become a breast cancer survivor and had just begun walking what would become a successful path to sobriety. Her biggest challenge was coping with no longer being the primary caregiver to her children after her divorce.

That she’d not only make it through but thrive is a testament not only to who she was then but to who she is now. It’s been several years since Marci made detective, and she’s become known as one of the department’s best and brightest. Along the way, she regained shared custody of her boys, and they’ve grown into impressive young men. The three of them are regular guests at Paul’s and my home; they’ve become our extended family.

Now 18 and 17, respectively, the boys dropped by because the rain canceled soccer practice and they were bored. We hadn’t chatted long before I saw in Matt’s eyes that he was eager to ask me a question.

“Aunt Deb, I couldn’t believe something Mom told me, and I wanted to check it out with you. She says you and Uncle Paul helped commit a murder once – that you were in on the planning!”

I hesitated.

“Uh, okay… I know what she’s talking about, and I’m not proud of some of it, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

Matt waggled his eyebrows at me.

“Can you tell us the story?”

“Well, parts of it are gross,” I warned, “but I guess you’re old enough if you really want to hear it.”

Both Matt and Mike nodded enthusiastically as Matt grabbed a Ritz cracker from my plate, and I swatted half-heartedly at his hand.

“Some of this may seem too familiar. In the place where this happened, one of the off-the-wall characters was a guy who wore too-long ties and copper tanning spray on his face. He ran the whole county, but behind his back they called him the ‘orange imbecile.’”

Matt’s ears pricked up.

“The main MAGAt was there?”

“Was this, like, a Secret Service case, then?” Mike added his question to Matt’s.

“No, a different individual, but with the same basic makeup – bad pun, sorry.”

“Wait, you’re saying there were two of those total losers?” Matt exclaimed. “Wow….”

“That’s exactly what I thought when I heard about number two. To be fair, some people quibble about the ‘total’ thing. It took Russians gaming the system, but number one got himself appointed president against the wishes of over fifty percent of the voters. Twice. And both had more money than I’ll ever have, so ….

“But, yup, two.”

I paused in thought.

“Had to happen, I suppose. Whatever conjured up the first version obviously didn’t get it right, so what… a do-over, I guess? Unfortunately, making the same mistakes the second time around didn’t help.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself… jeez, I can’t imagine why your mom told you about any of this…”

“She wouldn’t,” Matt replied. “Said we’d have to get it from you. That’s why we came over. Plus, Mike wanted to drive past the Seven-Eleven to see if his sexy girlfriend was working.”

Matt barely got the words out before Mike punched him in the arm.

Their immaturity reminded me that, despite being the sons of two now-divorced police officers and having overheard a lot of things most teenagers don’t, Matt and Mike were just kids. I’d have to tone down some details, but I’d tell them what I could.

“You know I love your mom, but she must be out of her ever-loving mind to open that can of worms. Okay, Matt, grab me a Diet Coke while you’re in the fridge, and I’ll tell you the entire story. Both of you take a seat and get comfortable; this one’s a doozy.

“So, it all began a long time ago, before I’d really gotten to know your mom. I was sitting at my desk finishing a story for the paper when I got a call from Fred Freeman. He’s a first cousin on Dad’s side, lives in Arkansas in a town called Nero’s Fiddle.”

I paused as the intensity of the memories washed over me.

“Sometimes it comes off like I’m being flip about pieces of what happened; some things are so hard to deal with that you insulate yourself. Treating it like it wasn’t real, some kind of terrible joke, was my way of coping with so much of this. Still falling back on old habits, I guess, after all these years.

“Anyway, that call started off with the worst news you could ever hear from a member of your family. Fred’s oldest daughter, Innocence Grace, had just killed herself after being brutally raped a few months before.

“Fred was flailing, trying to reach out for any kind of lifeline he could find. He desperately needed my help….”

Chapter 2

FEBRUARY 2, 2017, SAN DIEGO

Things had been dragging at the paper lately, and I’d been fighting regularly with Jerry Dark, the Union-Tribune’s editor. The pattern rarely varied: as the lead investigative journalist, I’d research a piece, write it up, and rush to have the finished article ready by deadline. And then – always at the last possible moment, it seemed – he’d want to gut key sections to protect an advertiser, a political crony, or the newspaper’s potential next owner.

Worse, there’d been a significant shift in the country’s political environment; media pundits were spreading concern that the economic recovery painstakingly engineered and guided from 2008 through most of 2016 was at risk. Politics and economics weren’t my beat, and while crime hadn’t gone anywhere in the meantime, articles written about physical violence were being smothered by other events.

I was in work mode, which back then often meant fighting mad, and not as sympathetic as I could have been when I got the call. Fred Freeman, a first cousin through my adoptive parents, lived beneath the Missouri Compromise slave-line, smack in the middle of the Bible Belt. Deeply troubled, he was reaching out anywhere he could for help.

Three months ago, someone had abducted his oldest daughter, Innocence Grace, taking her to a local park where he raped and sodomized her. The violence she’d suffered, as Fred described it, stunned me.

I’d spent two of my teenage summers in the Deep South traveling with Dad’s construction crew as he helped rebuild after the hurricanes of those years. It had taken me a while to make the cultural leap from suburban Southern California to the rural counties of Mississippi, Georgia, and Alabama.

Yet, for all the area’s differences and problems, not all of them because of bad weather, I came to think of the people I met as unusually kind and accommodating; more so when I considered the losses they’d suffered and the situations many were enduring. It would never have occurred to me that anyone would intentionally harm a girl the age I was back then.

Even as a seasoned, some might say hardened, investigative reporter fifteen years later, I found it difficult to wrap my head around what Fred was explaining to me.

Then he dropped worse news, leaving me at a loss for words. Innocence Grace had just committed suicide, slitting her wrists in her bathtub while other members of the family were at a weekend religious retreat. Liberty Belle, Fred’s youngest daughter, discovered her; the family’s doctor had to sedate Belle for three days afterward.

I found the revelation so upsetting to my fundamental worldview that, at first, my mind rejected it. Yes, I dealt with vicious crimes and depressing outcomes every day in the routine chaos of the big city. But that was the job, not my life; I couldn’t fit what had happened to Innocence Grace into the memories I had of an idyllic, slow-moving country setting. Nero’s Fiddle was a place you’d go to escape all the terrible things you’d find in a major metropolitan area.

Still, I had to accept that these were the realities of Fred’s life. I didn’t know what I could offer to ease his pain, but he’d called with a specific request.

He spoke in a bare whisper, so quietly that I had difficulty understanding him. He claimed he knew who committed the rape, but that the man and his supporters were too powerful for him to take on alone.

“Could you, would you, please check things out and write an article to expose these people? It’d have to be published at least statewide. Anything less, and they’ll bury it and kill me and the rest of my family.”

He’d obviously thought about what he’d say to me ahead of time and added an incentive I didn’t need. Fred believed that the situation behind his daughter’s death was common throughout rural Arkansas and its neighboring states. He wanted – needed – me to agree that revealing those secrets would be interesting, even educational, for the entire country.

This was the first time I’d ever heard desperation from my cousin. While the Fred I’d always known was certainly nice enough, he was also a take-no-crap-from-anyone war veteran and high school sports star.

I’m not sure if Fred knew this, but I have a weak spot for forceful personalities reduced to abject vulnerability. Even without that, I wasn’t one to turn down family or friends in their hour of need. I wanted to help.

Still, this wouldn’t be a simple decision.

I had no contacts in or familiarity with rural Arkansas, and I was seriously concerned that I could do little that would be meaningful. Worse, Fred had pointed out the serious risks if I failed.

But I wasn’t as receptive to his call as I could have been when I picked up the phone. I felt dreadful about that, wanting to make amends, as I learned of the tragic violations of Innocence Grace and their repercussions. Given how fed up I was with the paper, a change of scenery might do me good, and I could make the timing work.

I agreed to fly to Nero’s Fiddle and meet Fred. Cashing in a month of accrued vacation and personal time off, I hopped on a plane to see what I could do.

FEBRUARY 7, 2017, PORT LYBRAL COUNTY AIRPORT

Though I’d spoken with my cousin many times over the years, most of our in-person interactions were at annual family reunions. I’d last seen him as a big, healthy man.

The Fred Freeman who met me as I stepped off the puddle-jumper at the rural airport in Port Lybral County was not well. He’d lost a lot of weight; empty skin sagged from his jowls and upper arms. His receding hairline had been noticeable even as a kid, and he’d since lost much of what he’d had on top. Though just a few years older than me, he’d aged enough to be taken as my father. His smile was polite, but forced and awkward, not at all as I remembered it.

Unbefitting his nature, Fred had been coy over the phone about exactly whom he suspected of the assault on Innocence Grace. I wouldn’t push – I knew he’d tell me when the time was right – but I couldn’t help speculating.

It had to be someone local and known to him.

Fred lived in a little town in a rural county; I presumed the accused would, in the worst case, fit the big fish in a small pond trope – whatever power they held would wither when confronted by a higher authority with greater resources. My job would be to attract the attention and interest of that much bigger fish, a task well within my talents and experience.

There hadn’t been a lot of preparation or research I could do from San Diego; the area around Nero’s Fiddle was no hotbed of digital or online activity. Now that I’d made the trip, I’d need some answers and a place to start.

Fred thought it would be helpful to get the lay of the land first. Because Narcissus County didn’t have its own commercial airport, I’d flown into its neighboring province. That meant a 40-mile drive to Nero’s Fiddle – a perfect opportunity to survey the terrain.

Once I’d tucked my bags into the bed of Fred’s old pickup and buckled myself into the passenger seat, he began a running commentary as we lumbered along on the bumpy ride. Describing the scenery alongside the two-lane county highway, he explained how things connected in his world.

I assumed Fred had his reasons for sticking to the country roads. I knew from studying maps of this area back in San Diego that we weren’t far from a major four-lane state highway. It ran south around Nero’s Fiddle and then snaked its way southeast between the smaller towns.

In the distance, I could hear the unique rumble from semi drivers applying their Jake brakes as they slowed for the downhill curve just past the heart of Nero’s Fiddle’s business district. Occasional shrill whines from over-revved motorcycle engines and the loud, mechanical growl of what Dad liked to call “fart cans” mounted on larger vehicles added accent to the steady background hum of traffic. I couldn’t tell if the lingering odor of spent fuel and burned oil was wafting its way from that freeway or came from the tired V8 in Fred’s old truck.

“The town we’re passing through is Enabler Hollow. Three traffic lights and a liquor store, mostly. Best known for having the worst schools around and the biggest collection of cowards in the state. When people don’t know anything, and they’re afraid of everything they don’t understand, that’s what you end up with. Lots of churches… supposed to take up the slack, I guess. I’m as much a believer as anyone, but hiding behind faith is a poor substitute for a spine, if you ask me. The town’s motto is ‘Stop your whining – bend over and take it’ – the reason so many of Judge Donny Trance’s sycophants come from this area.”

I scrawled a note on my pad to follow up with Fred about who Judge Trance was; we had plenty of time, and I wouldn’t interrupt just yet.

“Back in the ‘60s, draftable young men who didn’t want to go to ‘Nam ran off to Canada. Not in this area, though. Used to be a doctor here who’d give you a diagnosis of bone spurs if you brought him a bottle of decent bourbon; you won’t find any military veterans here. That’s how Trance – the corrupt piece of shit who runs this county – got out of serving. “

Ah, answered that question; patience rewarded.

“Enabler Hollow provides most of DeRump’s deputies, or at least the ones who aren’t Russian.”

Seeing the quizzical expression on my face, Fred filled in the missing piece.

“Jade DeRump’s the Narcissus County Sheriff. He’s figured out that if you give taxpayer money to a gutless know-nothing for strapping a loaded gun to their side, and you’ll look the other way when the deputy shoots someone, you have their loyalty forever.

“The problem with that is the only crimes they solve are those where they have, or can make up, reports of a black male conveniently loitering in the area.”

Chapter 3

Fred was understandably angry at not getting any real help from the authorities responsible for bringing Innocence Grace’s rapist to justice, something I’d have to keep in mind. Still, he was an honest man and had lived here all his life, so I took much of what he told me to heart.

“You said Judge Trance runs Narcissus County – I’m assuming he couldn’t do that without the Sheriff’s cooperation?”

“Some people around here call Trance ‘Preparation H’ – behind his back, of course – because of the soothing comfort he gifts to so many assholes. Sheriff DeRump is the anus who benefits most.

“He’s the underling Trance goes to for enforcement. DeRump applies physical force, incarceration, and maybe worse to back up Trance’s edicts. DeRump’s deputies are little more than badged and armed henchmen. They’ll do everything from incarcerating someone for actual or manufactured crimes to enforcing evictions. Just so you know, Judge Trance is the county’s biggest landlord.”

“The Sheriff’s Department acts as the Judge’s private little police force?”

“Not entirely; the Sheriff does some things independently. Victims have accused the deputies of disposing of inconvenient evidence, including bodies, and intimidating witnesses in cases heard by the Judge. Their uniformed thugs collect judgments, taxes, and fines levied by Trance against individuals.

“But the Sheriff also charges businesses for ‘protection’ fees; he doesn’t need the Judge for that. On their own, his deputies waylay visitors to the area through roadside traffic-fine assessments – paid in cash on the spot, of course. DeRump gets a cut of that action.”

“The Sheriff and his deputies can be loose cannons, then?”

“That much power has made them pompous asses. DeRump once arrested a local restaurant owner for ‘spying.’ The restaurateur had replaced the paper towel dispensers in his restrooms with electric blow dryers. Our Sheriff claimed the man mounted microphones in them and was listening to bathroom noises to see whether his deputies were washing their hands after a visit.

“The owner denied it, of course. He was more concerned about whether the officers were flushing the toilet; the potent smell was disrupting his business. True story.”

I could have gone all day without that image in my head, and the information wasn’t useful to my story. It’d be helpful if I could interview someone connected to the county’s power brokers.

“Anyone among those deputies you’d consider less loyal than the others? Someone who’d share the inside story?”

“There’s John Fetterman, but someone forgot to tighten all his screws; he’s as flaky as they get. Best bet, such as it is, would be Joe Manchin. A DeRump deputy for several years now; weaselly little worm, a mouth-breather. The people he came from ran coal mines, and if he had his way, we’d all have coal-burning furnaces. As for the miners, he thinks black lung is as good a way to go as any other. He couldn’t care less if the rest of us choked to death on soot.

“Something of a double agent. When you catch him alone among regular citizens, he claims he’s one of our small contingent of contrarian Trance resisters. But his loyalties are for sale. His excuse is that he needs to provide for his family. With what the county pays him, along with Trance as his landlord, he doesn’t have a lot of wiggle room in his finances.

 “If Manchin gets outed for something he’s said that Trance wouldn’t like, he’ll sell all of us down the river to DeRump’s cohorts in the department. He’s untrustworthy, Debra Ann, and don’t let yourself ever think otherwise. Still, you can get useful information out of him if you can catch him in the right mood and circumstances.”  

As Fred drove and played tour guide, I surveyed our surroundings through the dirty passenger window. Two thoughts struck me immediately. The first was that, even in the dead of winter, this was truly a beautiful place. Small streams, thin slits in their centers refusing to freeze, coursed between undulating hills that would eventually become the Ozark Mountain range further north. While the deciduous trees were nearly bare, there was still green in the needles of the conifers. I knew from my internet research that the ground froze here and that it snowed every so often; I suspected the results were postcard-worthy, picturesque, when it did.

But I couldn’t ignore the clear signs of extreme poverty, made more obvious by its contrast with the scenic landscape. The pristine view of one of the steeper hillsides changed dramatically as we passed, revealing a different perspective. I’ll not forget being startled by the sudden emergence of a deep, wide scar hacked between the trees, created by decades of trash, debris, sewage, and discarded mattresses and appliances. The rusting river of rot, junk, and decay cascaded down from the back of an old house trailer teetering on the hillcrest.

I found the clash of disjointed messages from opposite ends of the spectrum unsettling, a disconnect my mind struggled to resolve. The sense of being pulled strongly in different directions grew as we drove through another of the smaller towns surrounding Nero’s Fiddle.

“We call this little community ‘Hayseed Haven’. It’s always been a sleepy little place, even by Narcissus County standards. Recently, though, some of the older locals – veterans who wore the uniform during World War II and their descendants – have been up in arms. They’re upset about this Jewish neo-Nazi who wants to build a military academy here for wayward youth.”

Excuse me?

“A Jewish neo-Nazi? That would be a first for me.”

“Like Netanyahu, except open about it. There are a few for whom playing Hitler is not nearly as offensive as being one of his victims. His name is Stephen Miller; plans to call it ‘Hayseed Intermediate Training, Library, and Educational Resources.’ Despite the protests, he’s been getting some traction. The town’s seen a rash of vandalism, graffiti, and thugs bothering old ladies lately. Rumors say it’s no coincidence; some even claim Miller’s behind it. But either way, people want something done about the situation.”

“Sending kids to private school costs money. How do people make a living here, outside of farming?”

“The only decent-paying employment is at a factory on the edge of town. They make bump stocks for semi-automatic rifles, switches to turn Glock handguns into automatic machine pistols, and other auto sears.”

The cab fell silent as we drove a half-mile past empty farmland. 

“And right next door, we have Heresy Heights, the second-largest town in the county, maybe 30,000 citizens. We’re about ten miles out from Nero’s Fiddle. Not much goes on here either – other than, to hear them tell it, immigrants invaded the place not too long ago. A local irrigation company hired two families of Mexican ancestry, at most a dozen members, and moved them here. Their arrival sparked a boatload of complaints about stolen lawnmowers and, especially, missing pets.

“Several restaurants in the area fueled the flames by adding fried cat and barbecued dog to their menus. Oddly enough, those places weren’t owned by immigrants. Sleazy old white guys trying to make yet another fast buck off the unfortunate ran them. They were exploiting their relationships with the attendants who do the euthanizing at the city pound.”

“What made Heresy Heights larger than its neighbors?”

“Outsiders mostly know it for the white nationalist Bible-thumper university here. They teach people to wrap the good book around their racism, gender bigotry, and hatred for LGBTQI+. Heresy Heights’s version of fashion consultants – they teach students how to wear their false brand of Christianity on their sleeves.

“Just so you know, Debra Ann, I’m a member of Christians Against Christian Nationalism; we’re trying to bring ‘love thy neighbor’ back to the church, where ‘neighbor’ means ‘everyone,’ doesn’t matter if they’re the same as us or not.

“I used to call the school in Heresy Heights a clown college, but it’s more like the Stephen King kind – not funny at all. It’s for students who can’t get a degree anywhere else; they turn in their Post Toasties box tops, all the cash they can scrape up, and their signature on a high-interest Trance loan to get a diploma.

“The recipients mostly perform weddings and talk little old ladies out of their life savings.”

Chapter 4

I understood where Fred’s jabs at the hater churches were coming from. He’d likely endured all the do-nothing “thoughts and prayers” insincerity he could handle following Innocent Grace’s suicide.

I could relate. When Mom passed, I recall having to smile at her funeral through all the phony condolences from those who hadn’t lent a hand as she suffered through the dementia of her final years.

I hoped that, as the anger and bitterness passed, Fred would make some room in his heart for those who just didn’t know any better. Sometimes you have to let ignorance slide and give some credit to the intent, even if shallow – there are always a few who truly want to help but just don’t know how. I’d found peace when I considered that each of the mourners – and there were hundreds who came to see Mom off – had dressed for the occasion and rearranged their lives and priorities to be there. That had to count for something.

Still, I understood wanting not just to close some doors, but to slam them shut. With all the violence and injustice Innocence Grace suffered, it would take Fred time to heal.

“There’s one more town you need to know about. We won’t be visiting there this afternoon; it’s on the opposite side of Nero’s Fiddle. Honestly, the place gives me the heebie-jeebies. New Hungary is the hellhole where Trance and DeRump banish all the county residents they don’t like. Not coincidentally, it’s where the county’s landfill is located.

“To force anyone who offends him to move there, Trance raises their rent in whatever other town they live. DeRump harasses the chosen victims with petty, often trumped-up, arrests. He and his deputies have gotten people fired from their jobs.”

“How do they keep the people they’ve sent there from escaping?”

“There’s just one road in and out of New Hungary. The Sheriff’s deputies run a checkpoint 24/7 to control who comes and goes, and with what. Merchandise and services arriving from one of the other towns into New Hungary, or outbound from it, are subject to what Trance laughingly calls ‘tariffs,’ money he pockets as an unofficial tax.

“Supposedly, contractors made the pipes for the plumbing under the streets and in most of the shacks from the lead in recycled dead car batteries. Public utilities are unreliable. Services such as police and fire departments don’t exist; the people who live there are on their own, making do as best they can.

“Still, the residents of New Hungary have to pay for protection to keep worse things from being done to them. That’s where those tariffs come in, assessed willy-nilly on everything they buy or sell, their property, and any income they have.”

I remembered a snippet of a story I wrote with Naomi, my BFF in junior high, as a takeoff from Alice in Wonderland for my eighth-grade English class, one we’d entitled “The Caterpillar Interviews”:

“It was a kindness, you know. A few quick pounds with the meat tenderizing hammer before placing each little green leaflet in the bowl, to smush out any remaining life force. It simply wouldn’t do to hear those tiny little screams while eating one’s salad. Whether ‘twas kinder for the smusher or the smushee was a matter for debate, of course.”

I was suddenly eager to settle into my motel room and give myself a chance to think about other things. I’d welcome a brief respite from the knowledge dump.

“Your descriptions told me all I need to know about New Hungary, Fred, and I’m with you – let’s not go there.”

During our journey, we’d passed quite a few run-down trailer parks and small apartment complexes in decline. As we approached a town square, we’d see more single-family residences. These homes were older, and there were few I’d describe as well-maintained. While some properties showed care from their inhabitants, most residents had neglected their homes for long periods.

But what I found disheartening – that yank back in the opposite direction – were the many houses that had obviously been showplaces in their day. There was the occasional antebellum mansion that had survived for more than a century and a half since its construction. If I squinted and used my imagination, I could almost see what they’d once been.

Obviously, there’d been a time when this area thrived, with business leaders, farmers, skilled tradespeople, and professionals owning and living in decent accommodations.

Still, the residences visible today from the road were long past their glory days, suffering from disrepair and the ravages of time.

The online explorations I’d done while still in San Diego explained why. Nero’s Fiddle, in particular, had profited from manufacturing clothing and other goods for the military. That business had grown toward World War II and continued to a lesser degree through the Korean War. However, the town’s fortunes slid steadily downhill from there. Within a couple of decades, manufacturing succumbed to changing times and competition from overseas – ironically, foreign resources that rural Americans learned of when drafted to serve in those wars.

Millwork factories and sock, woolen, and carpet mills that had once formed the employment base of these smaller towns folded. More efficient national conglomerates absorbed local meatpackers and granaries. Companies like Archer Daniels Midland bought up or gained control of the better farmland, decimating the number of successful family-run operations. Worse, the corporations paid workers the bare minimum.

The independent tool-and-die shops, mechanics, and short-run truckers who’d served the original businesses were no longer needed. Small retail shops in what were once-bustling town squares largely disappeared, replaced by the ubiquitous Walmarts that dominate rural economies. The megastores conveyed little of the local culture or the uniqueness of their hometowns. Online shopping provided the coup de grâce for smaller merchants unwilling to change their ways.

None of that would surprise anyone, and other reporters have already written extensively about the remarkable changes to the country’s rural economy over the years. Still, staring the effects in the face differed significantly from reading about the upheaval in the newspaper. The discomfort I felt looking out the window of Fred’s pickup that day was just the beginning of an understanding. While I might not be sympathetic to the way they’re expressed, there are solid reasons driving the underlying emotions – fear, anger, bitterness, resentment, and sullen acceptance – associated with this area’s political leanings.

But some things that caught my eye made no sense. In my experience, people everywhere have one thing in common: they’re different from each other. So why, then, were all these homes in similarly terrible shape? Surely there’d be the occasional showoff or OCD neat freak in the mix, and their residence should reflect their nature.

“Fred, I don’t mean to be dissing the place you grew up, but most of the houses people live in here aren’t kept up very well. Dad used to take me with him during the summers when he ran construction crews in small towns like this. I expected there to be quite a few well-tended, nicer residences.

“It seems like this area is one of the poorer regions in the state, and in Arkansas, that’s saying something. Still, even in impoverished places, there is always that small percentage of residents who are more prosperous, often becoming so at the expense of their poorer neighbors. Where are those people?”

Fred snorted as he pulled over and pointed through the windshield – he had chosen this road for a reason.

“You’re not hurting my feelings any, Debra Ann. Is that nice enough for you?”

My eyes followed his finger to stare at yet another stark contrast. Fred had parked us before an enormous black wrought-iron gate guarding the entrance to a large and luxurious country estate. Groundskeepers had carefully edged acres of finely mown grass, bordered by white picket fencing, surrounding a large cream-colored Victorian-style mansion. The stately manor house commanded a hilltop at the end of a porcelain-white, curved concrete private drive that ran perhaps a quarter mile from where we sat.

Even the gate was an over-the-top statement of wealth and power. Its maker had formed the letters of the name “TRANCE” in metal of some kind and then, I assumed, plated them in gold before mounting them across the top of the gate’s upper arch. In the center of the decorative wrought iron was a stylized rendition of the Arkansas Razorbacks logo, again formed of solid metal but painted in glossy red and black.

The sight put Fred in a philosophical mood.

“You really have just two choices about what to chase with your life. You can pursue happiness directly, or you can accomplish something meaningful and derive your satisfaction from the results. Those who are narcissists, selfish, or greedy prefer the first option; those traits almost never result in any good to anyone.”

Fred waved his open hand, palm up, across the windshield toward Trance’s property.

“However, if you take the shortcuts to being happy and those work out, making you powerful to boot, this is the result.

“The problem with that is you’re left with little motivation to change anything for the better once you’re satisfied – there’s nothing you’d see as sufficiently broken or missing that you’d want to fix it.

“That’s how this area, and really the whole county, became and remains so impoverished. The greed of a few individuals sucks every opportunity out of others’ hands.”

The ostentatious wealth represented by the property stood out all the more against the surrounding environment.

“Hmmm, looks like your Judge Trance wants to rub everyone’s nose in it.”

“I blame it on ‘progress.’ A lazy, lardass imbecile like Trance couldn’t exist in nature. For one thing, no creatures other than a few marsupials have pockets; of those that do, evolution created them for nurturing offspring.

“But without pockets, if you take more than you can consume in the moment, how are you going to carry the excess around? You can drag it off into your cave, but they don’t come equipped with burglar alarms. The smell of decomposing flesh – no refrigerators, either – attracts other animals to steal your stuff when you’re gone hunting or foraging, putting your mate and kids at risk.

“Mother Nature did not intend any living thing to even remotely resemble Trance.”

The view through the estate’s gate was so far removed from what we’d just driven through, and so surreal, that I had a flash thought: Were we playing a role in an old Twilight Zone vignette I’d missed? That the wind shifted just as I rolled down my window, assaulting my nasal passages with the stench of dead skunk, didn’t help.

Seeing the jerk of my head away from the window and the sudden intense wrinkling of my nose, Fred was less than sympathetic, a wry half-smile forming on the left side of his face.

“What that is depends on how the wind’s blowing. If it smells like fresh roadkill from the highway, I hope, in my heart of hearts, that someone finally nailed Trance. And I’m not the only one here who feels that way.

“But if it’s coming from the direction of the Judge’s house, then that’s a whole ‘nother thing. When you go to Trance’s place, you’ll see 55-gallon drums tucked into all the corners and crevices.

“There are two possibilities. Either they’re empty, or they’re full. If empty, then they are about to be reused, and Hallelujah! All you Californians can celebrate that you’ve sold someone on recycling. You might not, however, appreciate what he’s re-purposing those barrels for.

“If a drum’s full, then again, two possibilities. It either contains a fresh supply of orange spray tan, or it’s serving as a temporary casket for at least one body of the persons who have crossed Trance; he just hasn’t gotten around to burying the barrel yet.”

Fred’s expression became serious again.

“What you’ve seen coming up the road, and what you’re seeing in front of us, are the symptoms of why this county is so much different from others, and why we have the problems we do.

“As to the first part of your earlier question – why don’t people here take better care of their property? Over the years, Trance has bought up all the real estate within the county’s borders. The missing piece you didn’t have: every home you’ve seen has been a rental. There’s no pride of ownership at play for those residences, no sense of real permanence. Few people here, unless they live out in the sticks or in a mobile home, have the deed to the property they hang their hats in.”

“As to the other thing you asked about – where are the people in the middle with a little money and nicer things? There are some in Trance’s inner circle, and among the Sheriff’s deputies, for sure. But even that little taste of wealth can be tenuous for those people. One wrong move, and they’ve fallen out of favor, stuck in the same aging, beat-up rentals as the poor white trash they once lorded over.

“Debra Ann, do not underestimate the tight-fisted grip that Trance and his underling-slash-enforcer, DeRump, have over the people who live here.”

“That’s going to make it tough talking to the locals….”

“Yup. You need to know that anyone seen talking to you is at immediate risk to themselves and their families of being thrown out of their homes to the curb. With no place to go anywhere in this county – other than New Hungary, of course.

“That’s a powerful motivation to hide things from, or outright lie to, a stranger.”

Chapter 5

Clearly, the extent of Trance’s and DeRump’s reach would affect who I could speak to and how I’d approach them.

“Is that true of the entire area, Trance and DeRump having total control?”

“No,” Fred replied, looking over his shoulder to back up before resuming our journey, “Trance’s political weight comes from being the County Judge and his economic prowess from what he owns within its borders; DeRump’s control is from his position as Sheriff. Their power and influence stop at the county line.

“In Port Lybral County, where you stepped off the plane, they detest both men. Authorities there have threatened to arrest either of them on sight. The upside is that, because the only planes in Narcissus County are crop dusters, neither of those two can fly out of the area to extend their reach anywhere.”

There’s a proverb that says the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I sensed I might need shelter from the approaching storm; it wouldn’t hurt to know more about the neighboring county.

“Are there resources in Port Lybral that I can tap into, say, for example, that I need something that’s not available locally?”

“The answer is yes, but you’ll want to be very careful. On paper, the residents of the two counties hate each other. The wrong person getting wind of any cooperation between you and the other side could be dangerous to your health.

“You should keep in mind that there are two firearms registered in this county for every one person who turns up in the census, and there are almost as many unregistered guns. You also need to consider that the people I call my neighbors don’t always exercise emotional restraint, particularly when alcohol or drugs are involved.”

The imagery behind his words made my eyes widen.

“I hear you. I’d hoped you’d accompany me for most of these interviews….”

“When I can, but that won’t always work. I’m protected somewhat from Trance and DeRump retaliating by the umbrella of ‘grieving father liable to say things he doesn’t mean.’ But it’s pretty thin – I’m already getting threats passed on to me by third parties.

“People know how I feel about certain things, and some don’t want me around. Maybe they’re scared, or maybe because their tongues are so far up Trance’s ass that they know what he had for breakfast. As a stranger, you may have a better chance of getting straight answers from those folks if I’m not with you.”

“Tell me more about Port Lybral County then, in case I need to beat a hasty retreat.”

“Nice place – my family and I liked to go there when we had something we wanted to celebrate. Hasn’t happened for a while.”

I heard the catch in his voice and noticed his eyes were wet, so I took a moment to scan the countryside passing by through my window.

“Still, I think most Narcissus County folk do the same thing. Going there has to be on the Q.T., though. Port Lybral is the polar opposite of this place – as liberal and progressive as Arkansas gets. The die-hard archconservatives here shudder in fear that those ideas might spread. You don’t want it getting out at church, or especially in your kids’ school, that you’ve associated with liberals for any reason. The rumor-mongering will eat you alive, and they’ll take everything you’ve worked all your life for.”

“Just for thinking differently? Wow.”

“That’s the sad situation here. Over there, however, they got a lot of things right that we didn’t. Back at the end of the seventies, manufacturing was struggling to survive. Port Lybral County recognized early the need to get ahead of what was coming. I think the kicker was seeing the quality the Japanese were building into their cars.

“It wasn’t easy; Port Lybral County’s still in Arkansas, where almost everyone carries a Bible and won’t trust a stranger. County leaders started with the hardest part: retail tourism. Difficult to promote in a place as suspicious of outsiders as we are here. Then they wanted gambling legalized – that was a statewide thing, and they’re still fighting those battles with the holy rollers. Though there’s been some progress lately, we’re way behind neighboring states; even if they voted in gambling, we couldn’t compete.

“Then somebody had what proved to be a genius idea. So far as I know, no one had yet coined the term ‘medical tourism.’ So, when Port Lybral County spent serious money promoting its well-regarded child oncology hospital and the surrounding services, it was on the bleeding edge.”

“In the 70s? Even in California, that would have been innovative.”

“Most people thought they were nuts, especially when they built a classy hotel for parents and caregivers, with direct access to the hospital. But the publicity brought them some of the best doctors and surgeons. Which led to more equipment and another research center. Ancillary services started moving into the area.

“That success really got the ball rolling, and they’ve added solar and wind farms to support the electricity needed for data processing, transport, and storage. They’ve built incubation centers for small businesses, including enthusiastic support for micro businesses, focused on helping single parents.”

My question had produced yet another study in discomfiting contrasts: Fred’s summary of Port Lybral County focused sharply against the background of poverty and corruption I’d learned about this afternoon.

As Fred drove, we crossed into an area where the houses sat on smaller lots and were closer together. Fred swept his right arm across the dashboard.

“Welcome to Nero’s Fiddle, the seat of Narcissus County – its butt, basically; also, its largest city by far. Our biggest claim to fame is as the home of the Mushroom Cap Society, the well-known over-the-hill porn star fan club that Stormy Darnell runs. It’s the go-to penis extension distributor for those with smaller hands. Their big seller is a life-sized plastic statue of Trance’s three-inch erection – pre-teen boys buy them to impress themselves that their newly discovered manhood is longer and wider.”

“Stormy Darnell?”

“She’s the past-her-prime porn queen you might see trailing after Trance now and then. Some say she’s looking for the money he owes her. Others say there’s another reason he avoids her like the plague: every time he pulls down his pants in front of her, she laughs and can’t stop.”

The imagery brought a wry smile to my face, but it was time to get into why I was here.

“Fred, you’ve dropped some hints about who you hold responsible for what happened to Innocence Grace, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get into that while we’re driving.”

Fred nodded his assent.

“Sure, where do you want to start?”

“I need to ask you something first, out of politeness. I notice you always refer to your daughter by her full name. That’s a lot of syllables for a teenager, and I would’ve thought she’d have a nickname.”

Fred chewed on his lower lip for a moment before answering.

“Around the house, she’s always been ‘Grace.’ Her friends at school called her ‘Cense.’ But when we first found out someone had violated her, I promised two things: that I’d run down the bastard who did that to her, and that I’d make sure the world knew her given name, respected it.

“She was hurting so badly, especially inside her head, and I knew even then it went deeper than we could see. We tried so many things to show her we all loved her and honored who she was. Wasn’t enough, as things turned out.”

Fred paused, averting his eyes from me, presumably to ponder a tree passing outside his partially rolled-down window.

“At her funeral, I vowed I’d always use her full name. She was a great kid and deserved for people to know who she was.”

That was something I could relate to. As someone who’d insisted people call me “Debra Ann” – not “Deb” or “Debbie” or even just “Debra” – I understood what a name means to someone who is proud of it.

Now I needed to ferret out where to begin my work.

“I noticed you went to great lengths to avoid naming names when you reached out to me while I was in San Diego. I get why you wouldn’t want to be overheard on the phone or have someone intercept an e-mail. But there’s no one else here, and I need to know who you think did this to Innocence Grace.”

“I’m not sure how you go about your job, but I’m guessing you looked up Narcissus County on the web. You’d have known before you got off that flight who Judge Trance and Sheriff DeRump are, at least so far as their official duties to the county. You’ve seen Trance’s place and some effects of the hold he has on people here. I’ve told you a little, and you’ve always been pretty sharp; you could guess a lot of the rest.

“I understand that it’s not enough for a professional news piece. But surely you realize that nothing of any significance goes on here without Trance and DeRump at least knowing about it, and as likely as not, profiting from the knowledge.”

Fred had caught me between my feelings for his situation and my experience with how life works.

“Without understanding more about Trance and DeRump, it’s difficult to know for sure. But on first take, with what’s at risk for either of them, it’s hard to imagine – and I’m sorry to put it this way – one of them raping a little girl and letting her live to tell it. If they’d tried to kill her but failed, that would make it more likely, but that’s not what happened here.

“Raping a child is one of the most violent of crimes. Yet, not wanting to further harm her suggests the perpetrator has conflicted feelings. Maybe younger, possibly a first-timer. Maybe I’m missing something. You know them – would you describe Trance or DeRump as conflicted?”

Fred shook me off, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“I wish I could say ‘yes’ to make it fit. But no. Evil, sociopathic, maybe, but whatever they are, they’re fully committed to it. No hesitation. Trance is seventy-two, DeRump’s maybe twenty years younger. I don’t see them doing anything different from what they’ve done before.

“Hurting people, yeah, of course. Even violently. Just not in that way. Frankly, I doubt the old man could get it up anymore, even for that.

“They say it’s taking him forever to find and dig out his pecker these days since they took away his magnifying glass and tweezers.”

That Fred would deflect with macabre humor wasn’t surprising; I’d seen the same in other people suffering horrific loss.

And in that light, including an emasculating insult seemed perfectly appropriate to the circumstances.

Chapter 6

As much as Fred hated Trance and DeRump, it was good to see his goal wasn’t to get them at any cost. His level-headedness removed one barrier to finding Innocence Grace’s rapist.

And we were narrowing the field.

“They may not have hurt Innocence Grace themselves, but it seems like you’d have to get help from at least one of those two if you wanted things covered up. Doesn’t sound like someone could pull that off, given the way people in small towns talk, unless they had serious control over the rumor mill. The power to evict people from their homes or harass them with constant traffic stops or jail time would give them that.

“So, we know the rapist has to be someone with whom Trance and DeRump have strong ties, deep enough that they’d provide cover for the rape of a child. That’s helpful to us because it reduces the suspect list. The other possibility is that the rapist has more power than, maybe control over, Trance and DeRump. Nothing you’ve said suggests anyone. Still, just to cover the bases, do you know of someone capable of committing a crime like this who’d also fit that description?”

“In this county? No, those two are the alpha dogs.”

Fred had pulled into the lot of what appeared to be a seedy motel, though he assured me it was the best in Nero’s Fiddle. The positive about the ride in Fred’s truck was that I’d lowered my expectations to fit the surroundings. After I’d checked in and Fred helped me with my bags, we continued our conversation inside the room. The accommodation, despite its outward appearance, had all the amenities and seemed clean, with a comfortable bed.

“Was Innocence Grace cooperative with investigators? What I mean is, did she seem like she knew her rapist but was afraid to tell?”

“There wasn’t much of an investigation, but no. It scared her to think he might attack her again, so she was really agitated. Wanted him caught before he came back. Someone had already started rumors saying she made the whole thing up – likely Trance’s and DeRump’s doing – so she wanted everyone to know this happened and who did it.”

“Okay, given how recognizable Trance and DeRump are around here, I think that’s more reason to rule them out as directly involved. It’s likely that whoever they’re covering for would have been subordinate to them. You’d think the Sheriff or the Judge would have construed what this individual did as a threat, not just risky, but stupid. Is there anyone in Trance’s or DeRump’s orbits that people have mentioned as obviously in the doghouse recently?

“Demoted, maybe even fired?”

“My first thought was one of DeRump’s deputies – they’re always in some kind of trouble. And several people in the Sheriff’s department have their jobs as homage to a special relationship they have with either Trance or DeRump.

“But I’m not sure the Sheriff, or especially the Judge, would go that far out on a limb to cover for any of them.”

Not much low-hanging fruit on this tree.

“The one thing we know is that Innocence Grace’s attacker had to be male, someone turned on by preteen girls. He’d likely also have resented them at some level. Any male relatives of either of the two men that might have done this?”

“Trance has an adult son, Marron, but he’s a fagg… sorry, not supposed to say that anymore; he’s gay.”

“Let’s table that for the moment. Look, Fred, this next question is going to hurt, but I need the details about the night they raped her. I want to learn whatever you know, and especially anything you’ve heard about what the investigators have turned up. Let’s start with where and when this happened.”

Fred had to know this was coming; surely, he’d had to repeat pieces of what happened dozens of times. Still, he swallowed hard before answering.

“Well, it was after school, the third week in September; nice weather. Innocence Grace was riding her bike home when a van bumped her from behind. Not hard enough to hurt her or the bike too badly, just knocked them down.”

“This was, like, what? A minivan? Do you know how old it was, what color?”

“She said it was a full-sized van, white, not new but not old either. She remembered it was like the ones they used to take elderly people on day trips at the nursing home. It had three rows of seats behind the driver.”

“How would she know about the vehicles a nursing home would use?”

“Oh, her mom’s a registered nurse and worked at a senior citizens’ residence for a while.”

“So, it might have had lettering on the side, maybe a logo…?”

“Yeah, that was something the deputy who interviewed her was really interested in, kept hounding her about it. Her mother had the feeling he might know who owned that van, but nothing ever came of it.”

“That’s interesting… can you get me the name of the deputy who interviewed her?”

“Sure, Joe Manchin. The one I told you about who claims to be on our side but can flip in a heartbeat.”

“Something Innocence Grace told him obviously caught the deputy’s attention….”

“She said there was masking tape covering the writing on the sides of the van. But there was this circle she could make out with what looked like a book falling out of one side of it. He was all over that, kept asking questions, but she didn’t really see it. The paint or stick-on for the design came out thicker than the factory-applied paint on the van. So, there were high and low spots in the masking tape, and that’s what made the pattern she saw.”

“I assumed the deputies at least tried to run it down?”

“Yeah, they hit up all the nursing homes and bookstores in the county; showed her pictures of the vans they found, but nothing matched.”

“So, after her attacker bumped her bike, what happened?”

“She told him she was okay, but he insisted on taking her home and ‘fessing up to us about what happened. He made her put her bicycle in the van’s rear, and she sat in the front passenger seat. When she realized he wasn’t taking her home, she started screaming. He put a stun gun of some kind against her stomach and then her neck. The second shock knocked her out.”

“When she woke up, her underwear was off, and her bottom was hanging out of the sliding side door of the van, her head and shoulders stuck in a row between the van’s seats. They were at the edge of the park on the other side of town, next to a clump of trees. She started fighting him, but he stunned her again on the inside of her thigh. She’d wake up every so often during the attack, but she’d pass right back out. When she came fully to, she was lying on the grass. Her clothes were back on, and her bike was next to her. She was bleeding, and everything hurt everywhere.”

Quietly, I asked, “How did she get home? Did she call you?”

“She didn’t have a cell phone; the school doesn’t allow them. Too hurt and sore to ride her bicycle. She was in so much pain she could barely walk, but she hobbled home nearly four miles, using the bike as a kind of wheeled crutch for support. She was looking over her shoulder all the way, so frightened he’d return.”

Sitting on the edge of the wooden motel chair’s cushion, Fred’s lower lip and jaw were quivering, and he was leaning his chin on his curled fist to steady it.

“Do you want to take a break, Fred? I know you’ve had a long day; if you want, we can continue this tomorrow.”

“No, let’s get this part done; you have to know.”

He took a deep breath and began again; this time, his tone was more matter-of-fact, his demeanor businesslike.

“Look, before all this happened, we were just country folk trying to get by in relative peace. Sure, we’d heard about DNA in crime shows on TV, but it meant nothing to our lives.

“After they assaulted Innocence Grace, we wanted to learn everything we could. We found a YouTube video of a young man who slept on high-thread-count black cotton sheets for a week, wearing just his underwear, and took pictures of the sheets each morning. That’s how we learned what it means to ‘shed DNA.’

“But on the night that it happened, we were clueless about it.

“When Innocence Grace limped her way home with her bike, her internal bleeding would have flushed out any of her attacker’s DNA, so the challenges we’d face later started there.

“She was a scared little girl, just wanting to find her mom and cry in her arms… how was she supposed to know what to do?

“Or any of us?”

Fred paused, his shoulders dropping.

“She was too ashamed to ask for help, so she avoided going the usual way and wouldn’t talk to anyone.

“I wasn’t home when she got there. We were doing inventory at the feed store, so I was working a long day, a half-hour from home. Her mom did the best she could to deal with the situation, but she’s a nurse, so her first inclination was to fix up her baby girl.

“Innocence Grace was in awful shape by the time she made it back to the house that night. Besides the physical damage, she was terrified, deathly afraid that other people would find out, or that he’d come after her again. She worried she’d get pregnant, that the assault would destroy her reputation; no one would want to marry her, and she’d be too scarred to have kids.”

She must have been absolutely terrified; had it been me at that age, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep soundly for weeks, maybe months… maybe ever.

“All she wanted to do was scrub off all the grime, shame, and insult, inside and out. She was in the shower for an hour, scouring and rubbing so hard that tiny little bubbles of blood were coming up through her skin. Nobody realized that she was adding to the bruising.

“Her mom thought it would help her feel clean. She wanted to cooperate as much as possible with what our daughter needed because she was trying so hard to convince Innocence Grace to go to the Sheriff and report it.

“Her mother washed her clothes. They were Innocence Grace’s favorite things to wear to school, and Mom figured that if she could make them look like new again, maybe Grace would feel better.

“And she’s always bitten her nails; we thought she’d grow out of it someday, and it wouldn’t help to ride her about it. By the time I got home and took her to the Sheriff’s station, she’d chewed them down to the quick. Mom didn’t know enough to stop her.

“So, we didn’t follow any of the steps we were supposed to; we just didn’t know what the right thing to do was.”

The details were heart-wrenching – for him, obviously, but for me, too. Still, we had to have this conversation.

“Did she leave a note? Or anything that might have pointed to her rapist?”

Fred was staring at the floor, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands clamped over the tops of his ears, fingertips resting on his scalp.

“We never found one. The only thing we turned up was something she’d scribbled in the upper margin of her social studies homework during her last day at school. It says, ‘God’s going to take his side.’ We don’t know what it means, or who it’s about.”

The room lapsed into silence as I processed what Fred had said. Sharing the details had changed things in ways I hadn’t expected.

As a journalist, you learn to separate yourself from the story; you have to if you want to be faithful to your readers, who require honesty and objectivity. But understanding what she’d been through affected my viewpoint. I wouldn’t be looking at Innocence Grace’s rape in the same way going forward.

And there were other effects. Up to this point, most of the emotion I’d seen in Fred Freeman had flowed from his anger: bitterness at the church for its lack of support, frustration with the pace and results of the investigation, outrage at those in power he believed responsible in various ways.

But as he’d walked through the events of that afternoon, I saw the first clear signs of defeat. His shoulders sagged, his voice lapsing into a monotone. The occasional shaking in his words and hands seemed beyond his power to stop. He was as vulnerable, completely exposed, as I’d ever seen in another human being. And he was clearly empty, drained of strength or will to fight, now too tired to express intense emotion, unable to mount even the facade of denial.

Fred was a father who felt he’d let down his daughter in the worst ways possible: first by not protecting her, and then by showing helplessness in trying to bring her rapist to justice.

Exactly how Dad would have felt had anything like that ever happened to me.

With that thought, I could feel a tear coming to my eye.

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