Page 68 of Stay Baby Stay

“Doesn’t matter,” Mike says. “Just thought I’d try and save us a few minutes.”

King’s throat shifts as he swallows. I return my nine to its holster.

“What shall we do in the meantime, counselor?” I ask. “I know. I’ve been meaning to ask you about an event you hosted here a couple of nights back.”

“I like to throw parties,” he says. “I’m a social guy. So what?”

“So, I’d sure like to see the guestlist.”

“You’d have to ask my assistant.” He steals a glance at his laptop. “I don’t keep track of tedious shit. I’m a busy man with many friends.”

“With so many friends in high places, it’s no wonder you can afford such an extravagant house.” I narrow my gaze. “And such fresh, young company.”

He smirks. “My friends and I enjoy the company of beautiful women. That’s not a crime—”

“Holy shit.” Mike whistles. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

King’s face blanches. I join Mike on the couch. He angles the laptop so I can see the screen. Folders. Hundreds of them. Some dating all the way back ten years.

“What’s in ‘em?” I ask.

“Video files,” Mike says. “Hundreds of video files.”

Mike clicks one and a video starts to play. A white-haired man with pimples on his ass is giving it to a girl in what looks like one of King’s guestrooms. A chorus of crackled cries and grunts filters through the laptop’s low-quality speakers.

“Play another one,” I say.

Mike opens another video. Same shit, different room. He closes that one out and tries a newer folder. Another old man, another young girl. Only, this old man looks mighty familiar.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I say. “Howdy, Treasurer Wilkins.”

“Don’t look at that.” King tries to stand up. Jonah and Austin muscle him back into the chair. “You fucking fucks!”

“Hey, Russell,” I say. “Do your party guests know you’ve been filming them partaking in the unlawful solicitation of minors?”

“Shit,” he hisses to himself, rocking back and forth.

Mike opens another folder, starts a new video. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand at attention.

I know that build, that head of gray, that sweaty, twisted expression.

Reverend Clyde Davis.

I turn my gaze back toward King, who appears to be silently praying to whatever devil he worships to get him the hell out of this mess.

“Just how many folks are you blackmailing, counselor?” I ask.

“None. No one,” he says quickly. “I’m just a sicko. A voyeur. I like to watch. Those videos are for me.”

“You’re a sicko all right,” I say. “But I don’t believe for a second that you’re above blackmailing the members of your little club to ensure your own ass stays covered. Figuratively speaking.”

“It’s an insurance policy, okay?” he says. “I’m not blackmailing anyone with those videos...yet. It’s a last-resort measure, for my own protection.”

“Well, at least you’re using protection.” I glance back at the video, at the devil himself, grunting and sweating over a blonde with glassy, vacant eyes. I’d have to zoom in to be sure, but I’d bet the deed to my truck that she’s one of our missing persons.

Vindication surges through my veins like a shot of epinephrine. I’ve been scraping and scrambling for proof that the reverend isn’t the saint he presents himself to be, and here it is, playing out before my eyes, ugly as ever.

With the discovery of this drive, we now have enough evidence to incriminate anyone who’s ever attended one of King’s parties, including the reverend. Admissible evidence, if sent to the station by an anonymous tip.

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