Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free PDF Page A

of Tennessee’s answer to Indiana Jones.” He reached down and propped Ruth’s poster up against the wall. “Cherokees! Attend the Save Our Bones Rally,” it read. “October 11–13, Tremont, Tennessee.”
    Logan memorized the poster, then his eyes returned to the nursing mother. His wife’s tits had been not much bigger than a boy’s, and she’d always recoiled from his touch. Never had he gotten to caress breasts so beautiful. Only when it was over had he touched Martha’s at all.
    Walkingstick tilted his head at the poster as if looking at a work of modern art.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Ruth asked as her nip­ple slipped from the satiated child’s small pink mouth.
    â€œReminds me of Wounded Knee,” said Jonathan sourly. “What a treat for Lily.”
    â€œOh, give me a break, Jonathan.” Ruth drew the baby closer and kissed the top of her head, all covered with wispy dark hair. “Someday, our Lily will tell her grandchildren that she was there when Indians finally came together and spoke with one voice.”
    Our Lily. Logan shrank back in the shadows as an idea struck him like a thunderbolt. He’d been going about this all wrong! Three times he’d tried to kill Mary in Atlanta, three times he’d failed. Now he realized that the one fail-proof way to do it was right here, just inside this cabin. Lily Walkingstick. Walkingstick’s child.
    He looked up into the sky and shivered, wondering if he was like one of those old people who won the lottery at ninety—someone whose entire allotment of luck got doled out at the very end of their life. He’d never had any luck when he was young, but ever since he’d taken Clootie Duncan’s Jesus card seven months ago, the stars had seemed to align, just for him. He’d gotten out of the cave with Clootie Duncan’s IDs. He’d found a job that allowed him time off with money to spend. And tonight he’d just been given the way to rid himself of Mary Crow for good and maybe lay some major pain on Walkingstick as well.
    He lingered on the porch a bit longer, watching as the young couple’s domestic discord abated. Walkingstick started dancing the baby to Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” while his wife put her sweater back on and began another poster. Softly Stump eased his bulk off the porch and back into the dark forest. He had a few more details to work out, but all the basics were right here.
    â€œLily,” he whispered, testing the syllables on his tongue as he shuffled through the trees. What a pretty name. Who would have ever thought that you could set a trap for a crow with a flower?

Three

    â€œGO, MARY! GO for the sweet spot!” Mike Czarnowksi gripped the body bag while Mary pummeled it with a flurry of punches. They stood in one corner of the huge Justice Center gym, ignoring the six cops playing half-court basketball behind them. As Mary danced in front of the bag, Mike peeked around from behind. “You have a bad day in court?”
    â€œCourt was fine.” Mary breathed huskily as she stepped back. “It’s everything else that sucks.” She took a swipe at the bag with a snappy right cross. “You ever work a case involving little kids?”
    Mike shook his head. “Nothing beyond finding a couple of lost ones.”
    â€œYou’re lucky. Cases with kids are the worst.” She lowered her shoulders and attacked the bag’s midsection, flailing away both Hobson T. Mott and Dwayne Pugh. Four months ago, Dr. Eileen Bittner had prescribed boxing lessons as part of Mary’s therapy. They’d been taught by Mike Czarnowski, a cop Mary knew by reputation only. He was known as “The Closer” around the Deckard County Courthouse—rumor had it that detectives would call Czarnowski in when they had a suspect who was withholding some vital piece of information. They’d take the