Greg leans forward, alert and tense. “Happening to what? To you? You think you’re some kind of God … some kind of prophet? You hearing voices, Clay?”
I stare down at the fake wood grain on the table. Just keep your mouth shut.
Greg lets out a deep sigh. “I’m just trying to understand. You’ve got to help me out. Your dad goes nuts … breaks into the breeding barn, kills all the pregnant cows with a metal crucifix, and tries to get to the bull. The remaining cows stampede him to death. You accuse the Preservation Society of being involved in his death … you say all these families are in on it … some kind of conspiracy theory.” He lays out school photos of Tyler, Tammy, Ben, Jimmy, and Ali in front of me. “Now, fast-forward a year, you join the council, that same bull from the breeding barn gets its throat slit, and three of your fellow Preservation Society pals turn up dead under very suspicious circumstances. And it just so happens that you’re the one who discovered their bodies.”
He then lays two crime scene photos down. “Here’s Jimmy bleeding out at the altar. Ben strung up on the goalpost like Jesus Freaking Christ. You had some kind of altercation with each one of them before they died. You’ve got all these books on mind control and Devil worship and prophets and you’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
He lets out an explosive laugh. “Then you must have the worst luck in the world!” I pull the blanket tighter around me.
“And then there’s the brand.” He slides close-ups of autopsy photos across the table. “Jimmy’s brand was on his lower back. And Ben’s was on his calf. Of course we don’t have any evidence of Tammy’s mark, because this is what she looks like now.” He places a photo in front of me and I cringe. Looks like something from the bottom of Mr. Miller’s smoker.
“But I think it’s safe to say she had the same mark. Wouldn’t you say so, Clay?”
The dregs of the burnt coffee brings the stench of death right back to me. My stomach’s churning, but I refuse to give in, I refuse to let him know he’s getting to me. I swallow the bile burning the back of my throat and force myself to look him straight in the eyes. “I didn’t do this.”
“We did a little digging. You know what that symbol means?”
“No.” I try to act disinterested but I can feel the heat spread up my neck.
“That’s funny. ’Cause I think you do. It’s a Devil worship thing. You drew the same symbol on your math folder.” He slides over a copy of the front of my folder.
“I probably just saw it on one of them and drew it. There are lots of drawings on that folder.”
“I’ll give you that one, but that sure as hell doesn’t explain this.” He pulls a photo from the back of the file and leans back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head.
I steel myself and look down at the photo. It’s an aerial shot. It takes me a minute for my eyes to adjust, to wrap my mind around what I’m seeing. It’s our farm. And then I remember the other day when Noodle saw the plane … the drone. That must’ve been how they took these. I can see the roof of the house, the equipment shed, my truck in the drive, the combine in the middle of the field, and the breeding barn—but that’s not what has my heart in a vice grip.
There’s something in the crops.
A symbol.
The upside-down U with two dots above and below, clear as day, carved into the wheat.
“This can’t be.” I shake my head. “This must be some kind of hoax. Neely must’ve doctored this or someone must’ve done this to the field while I was sleeping,” I sputter as I take a closer look.
“It says here Sheriff paid you a visit after Jimmy died. Said you were acting strange and that you weren’t using the same pattern your dad used to clear the wheat.” He flips through some pages in his notebook. “You told him, and I quote, ‘I’m using the force.’”
“Look.” I pull against the shackles, the sharp noise rattling me. “I can explain all of this … there’s got to be some kind of logical explan—”
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Tilford interrupts. “You got them all drugged up, and then you branded them. Is that part of your sick little ritual? You mark them for death, just like cattle, and now you’re picking them off one by one.”
“Really?” I laugh as I jut my head back. “So I’m a druggie now, too?”
Greg grins. “You know that cute little blonde who came in earlier to take blood and hair samples?” He pulls out a pink slip of paper. “Toxicology came back with high amounts of salvia in your system.”
“Salvia? I don’t understand … how the—oh my God, the bonfire … the smoke … that must’ve been what they were burning at the bonfire. Why everyone was acting so crazy.”
“We have dozens of eye witnesses all saying the same thing. The only person acting crazy was you.”