Deadliest of Sins
straight that they reminded Mary of the lined paper in Chase’s EVEDINSE folder. A small church sat at practically every intersection. Mary noticed they were never Methodist or Catholic or Presbyterian congregations, but independent outposts of Christianity: Living God Chapel, Holy Spirit Meeting House, Mount Nebo Assembly.
    â€œWhere do you go to church here?” Mary asked her small passenger as they drove along a four-lane locally known as Jackson Highway.
    â€œDifferent places, and only at Christmas time,” said Chase. “Mama has to work Sundays, and Gudger says all churches want is your money.”
    They’d just passed a sign marking the city limits of Manley when Chase pointed to the right at an intersection with a blinking yellow light. “Turn here.”
    Mary did as he directed. The road took them into what was apparently suburbia, for Campbell County. Modest houses sat far back from the road on plots too big to be mere yards, but too small for any real farming. The homes were well kept, with vegetable gardens and swing sets, tree houses and an occasional trampoline. They went on for several miles, then, as Mary turned around a wide curve, she noticed that Chase was clutching the door handle, his brows knotted in a frown.
    â€œI can get out here,” he told her. “It’s close enough.”
    â€œHow far away is your house?” Mary asked.
    â€œI don’t know … maybe a mile.”
    â€œThat’s no problem.” Mary kept going. The boy leaned forward in the seat, now biting his lower lip. As they crested a small rise, Mary saw a man raking out a ditch beside a mailbox that was bedecked in yellow ribbons—the old symbol of someone waiting for a loved one’s return.
    â€œOh no!” the boy cried. Quickly, he lifted Mary’s suitcase to hide his face. “Gudger’s out by the mailbox!” he whispered. “I can’t let him see me.” He looked over at her, pleading. “Please just drive on by—and drive fast!”
    Mary started to tell him that Gudger would probably be relieved that he was home and safe, but then she saw the look of utter terror on the boy’s face. “You got it,” she said softly. “Hang on.”
    She pulled her baseball cap lower on her head and downshifted into third gear. The little car whined as she pushed it up to sixty, then shifted into fourth. Easing over into the middle of the road, they tore by the beribboned mailbox. As they passed, a fiftyish-looking man with a dark moustache and a bad combover jumped back from the road and shook his rake at them. She watched in the rearview mirror as he yelled something, his mouth square with anger.
    A mile past the mailbox, she slowed down. “You can sit up now,” she told Chase.
    â€œDid he see me?” the boy’s voice trembled.
    â€œNah. He was too busy yelling at me.” She pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and stopped the car. “What’s the deal here?” She turned to the boy, her tone serious. “What would that guy have done if I’d pulled up and let you out of the car?”
    Chase shuddered. “He’d have been awfully mad.”
    â€œWould he have hit you?”
    The boy looked down. “No. He’s too sneaky for that. He’d have gotten even in different ways.”
    â€œLike how?” pressed Mary.
    He started to speak, then it seemed that a kind of shutter came over his face. “It doesn’t matter. Gudger isn’t so bad … he just gets mad when he thinks things are out of control.”
    Mary sighed. She’d seen this behavior before, back when her case log was full of domestic abuse cases. Kids would show up with broken ribs or cigarette burns on their legs and still insist that life with their abusive mom or dad was just peachy. She’d finally realized that the lousy parents they had were always preferable to the worse parent they might
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