Devil Himself Read online

  Books by Peter Farris:

  The Clay Eaters

  Last Call for the Living

  The Devil Himself

  Copyright © 2022 Peter Farris

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Arcade CrimeWise Edition

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-950994-51-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950994-58-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to John Linder Farris,

  Pedro Jose Pasante, Ector Agnew Wright,

  and Billy Wayne Donaldson

  and to the memory of Marfa Strickland Donaldson

  1936–2020

  I’m gonna find me another home, I’m gonna find it way out in the woods. . .

  —Lightnin’ Hopkins, “Home in the Woods

  (No Good Woman)”

  At dusk the coyote crossed the hayfield, pausing every few steps to scent check the air. Prompted by a train whistle, he howled, hearing his alpha-mate and other members of the family yip and bark from the wood line to the east, followed by a collective song that rose and fell like a Dopplering siren.

  The pasture had been good to him of late. He had caught and eaten a turkey poult the day before, surprising a hen leading her brood away from the nest. The poult couldn’t keep up, and the hen, despite her efforts, couldn’t lure the coyote away.

  He slipped through a gap in the fence and made for the bottomlands. Fawns had dropped in the springtime, and he was of a mind to cruise among the water oaks and cypress trees, following the creek and staying downwind of the bedding areas along the ridges.

  By nightfall, he had covered almost two miles, but the deer had moved on. The coyote caught the scent of a cottontail and followed it through thick vegetation. He came to a roadbed and turned north. Head down, nostrils flaring, he stalked toward a patch of clover and brassica.

  But before he could pounce on the rabbit, his ears prickled with alarm and the coyote looked up at the firebreak. A moment later the headlights of a vehicle appeared.

  The coyote stared mutely at the car before fleeing for the pinewoods, his hunt temporarily suspended.

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR BIO

  ONE

  THE GIRL IN THE TRUNK had been bound.

  She slept fitfully, losing consciousness to the thrum of the interstate, only to start awake at the sound of a passing tractor trailer, jolts from ripples in the asphalt, sudden lane shifts. She could feel vibrations of the bass from a subwoofer as she sobbed.

  The girl had a claustrophobic fit, grunting and kicking. The driver turned down the music, as if to listen to her struggle. She heard laughter at her expense, followed by the boom-boom-blat of the stereo again.

  The car would slow, turn, turn again, speed up. The music stopped. She kicked at the trunk’s side panels. The radio’s volume swelled, loud enough to smother the racket she was raising. When the car came to a stop, the girl cocked her head, hearing voices, a brief exchange. Somebody in the car ordered a double cheeseburger. Nuggets. Fries. A chocolate shake and a diet soda.

  There was a speed-bump rumble as the car jerked forward. The music kicked in again. All bass and snare and hi-hat. Synthesizers. A raspy composite of street slang and ghetto couplets.

  Boom-da-boom-da-boom-boom-blat. . .

  The girl in the trunk cried again, gagging on the sock in her mouth.

  The car accelerated back into the metronomic flow of a freeway.

  The trunk was stifling and smelled like a bedwetter’s sordid pad. She had sweated through her tank top. There was a hot slick film of grit on her skin. Her head ached. The cheekbone under her left eye was tender and as raw as a rug burn. But the sweating had done her some good. She had been working her palms together, rubbing, writhing. The duct tape had loosened. She twisted her wrists, and then jerked her right arm up, pain shooting through her elbow to the shoulder, which continued to throb for a while.

  But both hands were free.

  Her breathing slowed as she listened, waited to see what would happen next.

  But the car drove on, speakers rumbling, the sedan vibrating from bumper to bumper. An R&B hook signaled the chorus.

  Boom-boom-boom-diddy-dat-dat-boom-boom-boom…

  She yanked at the duct tape wrapped around her head, wrenching her jaw, pulling out hair. With her mouth uncovered she got rid of the sock and spit up bile.

  After a while the girl squirmed onto her back. She lifted her legs, kneecaps knocking against the trunk roof. It was as if she was lying on a bag of rocks, tools poking her no matter what position she attempted. She groped in the darkness, fingering items like a blind person reading braille. The spare. Jumper cables. A tire iron.

  And plastic sheeting. A bottle with a jug handle, like containers for bleach. A clot of industrial chain. The rough edge of a cinder block.

  The bric-a-brac of a body dump.

  The car maintained its steady speed.

  The girl closed her eyes, thinking back to that morning. They had snatched her from the motel where all the girls lived. Her roommate—the Cambodian—screamed epithets in her native language until Lucio swung and knocked all five feet of her to the ground. Some of the others watched from the hallway but kept their mouths shut. Who could blame them? They were all cowed like dogs in a kennel.

  She’d bent to help her roommate up when Lucio’s partner put a hood over her head. While she was helpless, someone worked her over with a fist. That was the last she remembered—being beaten, smothering in the hood. She had probably been in the trunk of that car for hours.

  She thought of one of Lucio’s goons, the big one, William, who always wanted freebies. Some of the girls had talked about how sour he smelled, always blowing his nose on account of all the powder he snorted. He had a grill full of gold-lined teeth. Left the tags on his hats and clothes, a street fad at the time.

  William was violent, but everybody at the motel was more scared of Lucio.

  The car decelerated, exiting the interstate. Another stretch of stop and go. She sensed the driver keeping his speed down.

  She figured it to be a long way from the city.

  The girl wondered if normal people would think of something positive when facing their death. Like a loved one, their mother or father, a husband or boyfriend, and it might make the stark truth about their fate easier to deal with. Or maybe some special moment, a memory of good times when they were safe and life had some meaning after all.

  The girl’s name was Maya, and sh
e had just turned eighteen.

  She had no memories of ever being safe from the Lucios of her world.

  Without the sock in her mouth, Maya reapplied the duct tape, fashioning the gag so that, she hoped, it wouldn’t look as if it had been disturbed.

  Her left hand slipped into a crevice beneath the spare. It closed around the handle of a six-inch screwdriver.

  She cried a little, one last time.

  Then she waited.

  The tires skidded as the asphalt gave way to dirt, suspension flexing to bumps, mudholes, and washouts. The music stopped. She listened to the voices in the front seat.

  “Should’ve brought a truck, four-wheel drive.”

  “Nah, nah, I got this.”

  “Give me that flashlight. I need to check the map.”

  “We lost?”

  “Back road here leads to the ponds. Land over there belongs to the state.”

  “Look at all them woods. Still don’t know why we don’t dump the bitch right here.”

  Maya steeled herself against a panic attack. The car kicked into gear and continued on, crawling at times over a rough track of road. She heard tree limbs scrape against the roof and side panels of the sedan. At one point they were stalled, tires spinning in the clay of a washed-out jig. When the tires found purchase, the car lurched forward, bouncing from side to side. She was tumbled so hard her face smacked the trunk lid. But her grip on the screwdriver stayed firm. By the time the car stopped again, she had worked out a plan of attack.

  Playing possum.

  It had worked before with aggressive johns, the drunks and beaters, the ones who got off by smacking girls a third their size. Playing dead would give most clients pause. But the strategy didn’t always produce the desired result. In a drugged-up frenzy, one guy almost threw her from a hotel balcony. Another john, assuming Maya to be unconscious or even dead, tried to put it in her behind.

  An option he had not paid for.

  No matter. Lucio or his muscle was always nearby—his “O-line”

  as he called the beefy brain-dead gangsters who protected him day and night, like a golden-armed pro quarterback. He tended to the girls as a farmer would livestock, and clients with any sense knew better than to bruise up the merchandise. Maya had heard rumors that Lucio had once castrated a man with hedge clippers to make this point.

  Over time Maya learned that it had always been the normal ones who were the greatest danger, these affluent masters of the universe with their warped senses of entitlement. The lawyers or congressmen, actors and athletes who fancied their reflections in a mirror, bewitched by what they saw. Maya couldn’t give a textbook definition of a sociopath, but she understood that they got ahead in life more often than most, and they had the darkest, deepest secrets to bear.

  Men with appetites. Usually married. Most of them fathers.

  Then there was The Mayor.

  Maya was his favorite, at least according to Lucio. The Mayor called her Princess. Kitten. Let her sit on his lap and sniff powder off the nail of his pinky finger.

  After their first long, sweaty night together, The Mayor asked Lucio for exclusivity, and from that moment on he became her sole client. When he had paid extra to brand her, Lucio didn’t object. There was something peculiar about those two, Maya thought. Lucio and The Mayor shared a history, like half brothers raised in the same home, choosing different paths to reach the same goal—raw power.

  Bend over. I want to see what I’m working with, The Mayor would say to her.

  The night he branded her, Maya could recall his bright savage eyes as he pressed the iron into her deltoid. Took two men to hold her still. Maya almost bit through her tongue at the stink of scalded flesh. The Mayor smiled, treating the act and the moment with a solemnity his exercise of power deserved. He wiped away her tears with unexpected tenderness as the other witness to his consecration of Maya, a man with red hair and blue eyes, whispered in his ear.

  We really should be going, sir.

  Now Maya could feel the keloid scarring, a double H, the letters connected, her flesh engraved forever with the depravity of one man.

  His Honor.

  When the car stopped again Maya sensed it would be, for her, the last time. She breathed deeply, thinking of Lexington Market, Baltimore. Her hometown like a song she couldn’t remember the words to anymore, merely the melody, something to hum. A memory of the cold dead eyes of fish lying on beds of ice provided a surge of adrenaline, the will to live.

  She heard the car doors open. Maya worked her arms into their original position, preserving the illusion of bondage. She tucked the screwdriver into the small of her back and listened. A key was inserted into the lock.

  Her last thought was that she had no shoes before the trunk popped open.

  “Is she dead?”

  Maya sensed the two men studying her.

  “Nah. Baby girl ain’t dead.”

  The man she thought must be William placed a clammy hand on her shoulder. Maya twitched. William yanked the tape from her mouth, which came off easier than he expected.

  She opened her eyes to the blinding beam of a flashlight.

  “All right, baby girl. Out we go.”

  Maya stabbed at him with the screwdriver. William jerked his hands back, smiled, and said, “What have you got there?”

  Then he grabbed her wrist, torqued it until she screamed in agony, and liberated the screwdriver from her hand. He handed it to his partner, then lifted Maya from the trunk and dropped her. She hit the road hard and rolled over on her back. The stars of a clear night shone brightly above the two men.

  She looked around, expecting to see Lucio, but he wasn’t with them. The man with the flashlight lit a cigarette. A baleful set of eyes appeared briefly, watching her. Maya glimpsed his face, a thin mustache, and a scar slashing through one eyebrow, the names of his children tattooed in a cursive script on either side of his neck.

  She looked away, working her tongue around a loosened tooth. When Maya attempted to get up, William grabbed an arm and twisted it behind her back, almost dislocating her shoulder. She tried to scream, but her throat was too dry. She made a thin, pathetic sound.

  Jason looked around nervously.

  “Shut her up,” he said.

  William laughed at his partner’s show of nerves.

  “Hand me that roll of tape.”

  Maya felt his fingers tighten around her arm. She conceived a plan, just a faint ray of hope, and turned to face him, offering up her wrists in front of her.

  “Do you think we drove all the way down here so some bitch would wake up the neighborhood?” William said. “Look around you.”

  “Isn’t this state land?”

  William shook his head.

  “No, this here is private property. Most of it belongs to Lucio now, like a thousand acres of timber and swampland full of gators,” he said.

  William gestured for the flashlight and played it around the car. Roadside scrub, tread marks, ribbons of sand and clay, what remained of a track that wouldn’t take the sedan any farther. Just ahead a crude sign indicated an intersection, two planks of stave oak forming a T, the name Morningstar Road scored into the wood. A harvest moon illuminated the sign and late-summer growth beyond.

  Jason looked again at Maya lying in parched stiff grass beside the road, breathing hard and staring back at him. He bit his lip uneasily.

  “She is one fine piece,” he said.

  William grinned. “No doubt,”

  “What did she do to deserve this?” Jason said.

  “Don’t matter. Lucio says she’s gone—then she’s gone.”

  William passed the flashlight’s beam across the closely packed pines to his right. A flurry of moths flickered in the light.

  Jason nudged Maya, who flinched but didn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Man,” he lamented, adjusting himself. “What I’d give to feel a piece like this raw. Grade-A senator’s pussy right here.”

  “You want a taste
before we get to work, fine by me,” William said, no stranger himself to free samples while a girl was in transit or waiting to be sold.

  “Yeah?”

  “Long as you get it done while I piss.”

  He walked toward a patch of broom sedge before adding, “But don’t be puttin’ it in her mouth ’less you feel like losin’ it.”

  Jason picked her up by the arms, pushed her head sideways against the trunk lid. He was sucking night air through his teeth. Maya retreated to the place in her mind where she went when men were on top of her, between her, behind her. Groping, nibbling, biting, burning her, half-strangling her, whispering words that they would never whisper to any other woman.

  For Maya it was like dropping a coffin lid on herself before the first shovelful of dirt.

  One last time, she thought.

  Jason pulled his dick from his pants, and then spit into his hand.

  A sound came from the woods, the sonorous hoot of a barred owl. A deer barked and crashed off into the brush. Jason turned his head, temporarily distracted. Maya seized his distraction, whirled in one motion, then kicked him hard in the groin. Jason fell sideways, clutched his balls, and groaned.

  And Maya was gone, bare feet kicking up dust, her body backlit by the sedan’s headlights.

  “Oh, shit,” William said.

  He had been smoking a cigarette, planning to watch Jason have his way with the girl, when she made her move. She had a good head start, too. William ditched the cigarette and flashed his light on Maya.

  But William, a hundred pounds overweight, couldn’t truck in baggy sweats. He barely kept Maya in range of his light as she abandoned the road, cutting behind a clump of dog fennel and into the darkness of a pine thicket. William followed, blind but not deaf to her whereabouts. He lumbered through brush and thorny weeds, feeling the briars grab at his sweatpants.

  After a hundred yards he stopped among some hardwoods, winded, shining the light around and listening. He played the light off the canopy of oaks above the forest understory. For a few seconds William thought he might have lost her for good. He knew she was barefoot, and the bottomlands were thick with windfalls and cottonmouths. No easy place for her to hide.