Page 12 of Stay Baby Stay

My composure falters for half a second, but it’s enough to broaden his smile. As much as I hate to give this smug bastard any credit, he’s technically right about that last bit. Most of the evidence we currently have against Reverend Davis is circumstantial.

We know he’s held events in towns and cities where girls went missing, or where their bodies were later found, strangled and bound in the killer’s signature style. We know King’s parties tend to pop up near megachurches where the reverend is scheduled to hold service, and that the four victims found within Knoxville city limits had previously attended King’s sex parties right there at King’s mansion.

“Mind telling me how you came to know about all that?” I ask, though I don’t expect an honest answer.

“We’ve known about you for a while, Detective Larkin. Every time you show up to one of the reverend’s sermons, we get an even better look at you.”

I’ve been quietly attending Reverend Davis’s events ever since he became a person of interest. Apparently not quietly enough, however.

The last event I sat in on took place about a month ago at the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville. The reverend played to a packed house. At just over a hundred bucks a ticket, I venture to say he did damn well for himself that afternoon.

I can still picture him on stage in his silver suit and tie. See the sheen from the product in his salt-and-pepper hair under the spotlights—almost as bright as the light reflecting off his platinum cufflinks. I stuck around after the service and introduced myself as a high school history teacher with a drinking problem. He shook my hand. I can still feel the impression his chunky gold ring made against my little finger.

The reverend met my gaze, and it was like staring into an abyss. A bottomless pit of greed. He said the moment when all seems lost is the moment when God is truly working. I wonder if he tells himself he’s doing the Lord’s work each time he wraps his hands around a young girl’s throat.

Clyde Davis may have been a man of God once, but somewhere down the line he became a servant to a darker master.

“I’m confident you’ll find a way to forget the things you’ve seen tonight,” King says. “Frankly, it doesn’t matter because you won’t find anyone willing to corroborate your claims.”

“I think those girls out there might have a thing or two to say about it.” I don’t mention the camera or the footage I’ve already caught tonight.

He snickers. “You mean the hookers, the runaways, drug addicts? You think they’re going to appreciate a policeman asking what they’re doing here tonight? Sure, let’s say one or two of them decide to talk to you. You think a jury is going to believe a single word out of a whore’s mouth?”

My hands tighten into fists. I don’t like him talking that way about any of these girls, especially Holly. Their desperation is what draws King’s recruiters to them in the first place. Because nobody gives a damn what happens to poor kids from broken families. High school dropouts. Young girls with nothing left to lose. Except their lives.

It’s a truth that hits far too close to home.

“It’s time for you to go, detective.” King looks to his goons, tilts his head.

The neanderthal guards grab hold of my arms, pulling me to my feet.

“Now, take it easy,” I tell them, raising both my hands. “I’ll go quietly. But I need to talk to someone first.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” King says. “I can’t risk you causing a scene.”

“Oh, I guarantee there’ll be a scene if you don’t let me back into that party.”

King sighs, shaking his head soberly. “Is this really how you want to go out, detective?”

One of King’s guards slides his jacket back to reveal a shiny six-shooter. I envision the play-by-play of brandishing my own weapon, pointing it at King, insisting on him letting me grab Holly and her friend on my way out. Unfortunately, the likelihood that any of us would make it out the door is slim at best in that scenario.

As much as I despise the thought of leaving without her, the majority of the girls who attend these parties make it out alive, if not unharmed. If the reverend isn’t here tonight, then Holly’s life should be safe. This time.

“All right,” I say. “Show me out.”

King’s goons lead me down a hallway and out a side door where my rental car is waiting. One of the guards tosses me my key fob.

I get in and head down the driveway, watching to make sure I’m not followed. About an hour later, I reach the airport where I turn in my rental car, then drive my own truck home.

As soon as I get through the front door, I power up my laptop, load the surveillance program, and give it a second to sync and download data from the wireless camera. The footage I captured plays out on the screen. The audio isn’t as crisp as I’d like it to be, but I can hear bits and pieces of conversation clearly enough.

I fast forward through the worst of it, then resume playing as soon as Holly’s face glides across the screen. I relive the moment we met, our conversation. When she slid down into my lap, I thought I was gonna blow my fucking top off. That’s the effect she had on me.

Between my cock and my gun, the whole time she was sitting there, I was afraid she’d feel something hard and get spooked. Blood rushes to my cock even now as I imagine how wet she’d have been, had I slid my hand between her thighs. The cloudlike whimpers that would’ve float from her lips, like a baby cooing, as I petted her clit.

Even if I had been free to claim her tonight, I wouldn’t have done it there. I’d have taken her far away from that place. From the very real and present evil that lurks there.

I consider myself to be a rational man. I look for clues. I compile evidence. I solve the case.

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