The Devil and DB
“They’ve been looking in the wrong place all these years.” The old man sat across a steel desk in a concrete room. His hands were cuffed in front, and there was just enough freedom to allow for signing paperwork or picking up the cardboard cup that sat before him.
A suit with a slick haircut sat across the scratched and pitted stainless expanse between them. His own cardboard cup was slowly losing steam as the old storyteller was getting underway.
A digital recorder stood silent sentinel in the no-man’s land between coffees. A red light indicated that it was observing each audible detail.
The suit watched, absorbing everything he could about his interviewee. The man was grizzled; his face was a study in the topography of time-travel. No wrinkle was a shortcut, as each crag was a hardship years in the making and decades in the shaping of skin pulled taut and folded over in turn.
“Why do you people still care about this stuff, anyway?” Wizened eyes narrowed as black coffee slipped between cracked lips.
“It’s an urban legend. It’s unsolved. It’s stranger than fiction.”
“Is that right? You’re, what? Thirty?” Another sip.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Forty-seven years. That’s how long ago this was. I killed him about a week after the first search parties started in on where they expected him to be. He nearly killed me; I was lucky to get the best of him. I’ve never been that close to the Reaper’s grip. In the end, I drowned him in the river.”
“So that’s it, then? You’re confessing to his murder?”
There was an uncomfortable silence as the man finished his coffee. The hollow noise of the heavy paper cup echoed as it was gently placed on the steel table.
“Coffee was one of the things I missed most. I had to make do with brewing acorns and chicory for tea. I understand that one of those fancy places down in New Orleans makes a lot of money by putting chicory in their coffee. That seems a crime against a good cuppa, if you ask me.” Hard black orbs beneath bright gray brows stared at the suit, daring the young man to ask more questions.
“Sir, I’m here because the Bureau was led to believe you had information about this man’s disappearance. You just told me you killed him. If this is true, I’ll need verifiable details.”
“Son, even if I explain where his bones are, how will you know I’m telling you true?” Amusement played at the crow’s nests to the east and west of the inmate’s eyes. “Maybe I just wanted a cup of coffee.”
“I refuse to believe you had me drive two hundred miles just because you wanted to have coffee.”
“I’m God-damned, boy. A dead man walking. What you refuse to believe is the least of my fears. The devil himself follows me wherever I go, I can imagine his footsteps each day I’m still alive. I just hope maybe it will take a while for him to catch up to me here. I don’t suppose he’s in a big hurry, maybe he’s still waitin to greet me at the Holler. I’ve slipped past him for decades, barely getting by his scaly fingers. Soon, we all know he’ll get his due.” An uneven smile spread across his face, and the effect was disconcerting to the young agent.
“Sir. I’m inclined to recommend a psych eval. You were found living alone in the hills of Tennessee, the remains of two hikers, partially eaten, were discovered on the property you occupied. We know that couple was reported missing six weeks ago. We know that one of those hikers has been dead for a month, and the girl was killed just last week. These are facts. You’re probably getting the needle for those murders, confession or no. What I’m here for, though, is the information you claim to have about Cooper. So, either get on with it, or don’t. I’m considering writing you off as just another mountain-man whackjob living off the grid, one who starts talking shit when thrown into a cage.” The monologue ended, and the young agent’s face blushed a deep crimson.
Laughter was the old man’s response.
“The hardest part was sneaking across the country. Roads were a pain in the ass, but we were able to travel at night. We bedded down during the day. The secret was a hearse, see. Nobody ever looks suspiciously at a hearse. The one time we had a close call with JohnnyLaw, and likely a bullet in the head, Coop crawled into the coffin I kept in the back. A real-life coffin! He closed it up tight and I talked my way right out of a ticket. You ain’t the only one looks good in a suit, kid. I haven’t always been old and leathery.” With that, the inmate helped himself to the agent’s untouched coffee.
Grimacing, he cursed. “Cold. And creamy-sugary-bullshit. But thanks.”
Leaning forward, the agent tried to get more details from the man in chains.
“Tell me about him.”
“What’s there to tell? He was bold. He was brave. He was stupid.”
“How was he stupid?”
“He trusted me.”
A few heartbeats passed before the FBI man stood. He recapped, “So let me get this straight. You picked him up somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, and you...smuggled him back here? To Tennessee?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“He was on the lam, wasn’t he?”
“But why here?”
“Were you looking for him here?”
“We were looking for him everywhere.” The agent propped himself on the interview table, staring down at the old man.
“Boy. Do you have any idea how many acres of Tennessee mountainland is practically unexplored? The White Man has been here for a couple hundred years, but even with fancy machines and satellites, we have no idea what all is out there. Or Whom.” The man shuddered.
“Why play games with me? Just tell me what you want to say, and be done with it. You’re gonna spend the rest of your life behind bars anyway.”
“I’m 75 years old, kid. My mind is still sharp, but shit’s falling apart neck-down. As far as I’m concerned, you people did me a favor. This place is my old-folks home, my retirement plan. I’m fine out there on my own, I have been for years, but the money ran out a long time ago. Living is hard. Dying’s easy. I’m here to die, and ain’t no Preacherman can save my soul. I’m Hellbound. But at least I’m Hellbound with air conditioning in the summer, heat in the winter, and a doctor on call. Three hots. A cot. Clean clothes. You saw the photos of my shack.”
“How did you end up there? You’re educated. Your family was rich.”
“What can I say, kid? The sixties were crazy. 1971 ain’t that far from 1960-whatever. I was a little crazy. Maybe still am.”
“Obviously. You ate a hiker.”
“Hunger is a motivator. So is sex.”
“Let’s stick to why I’m here. Where is the money?”
“By the time we got to Tennessee, there was about $100,000. You know he lost some, because somebody found it. I understand that was big news. Anyway, we had to use some. Shit happens.”
“So you killed him because ... shit happens?”
“No, boy. I killed him because I was told to watch him drown. Like a perversion of the baptism. You won’t believe me if I tell you the Devil made me do it; told us both He’d side with the one left standing. So, just think on the fact that I wanted the money for myself. You’ll sleep better if you stick with that theory. I used cash here and there, setting myself up on that mountain. Mostly, nobody ever bothered me.”
“Did you ever go in to town?”
“Sometimes. It’s a mountain, not a deserted island.” He grimaced as he sipped the cold coffee again.
“You said you missed coffee. But you had money. And you went into town...”
“Money doesn’t last forever.”
“When did it run out?”
“1994.”
“What did you do after that?”
“Lived off the land. Sometimes I stole things. Sometimes I stole people. Every now and then, I’d find a hunter or a hiker. You won’t believe that the devil himself kept me warm and fed, so...consider this a grim little fairytale about a deranged cannibal lunatic spinning tall tales about skyjackers and stolen money.”
Ignoring what he thought was crazy talk, the agent pressed. “You had more victims?”
“So many labels. Is Bessie the Ribeye a victim on your dinner plate?” He chuckled, watching the agent. “You’ll find them near the man you’re looking for.”
“The Bureau will need you to take us to the bodies.”
“No. I’ll sketch you a map. I’ll draw you a fucking picture. But no. I’m never going back to that Holler.”
“Fine. Tell me where to start looking.” The agent pulled out a pen and a notepad, setting them both next to the inmate.
“Look for the devil. Maybe he hasn’t left yet, and he’s still waiting for me at Barton Holler. You’ll know you’re getting close when you hear him laughing.”