The Devil Walks in Mattingly Read online

  Acclaim for Billy Coffey

  “Billy Coffey is one of the most lyrical writers of our time. His latest work, The Devil Walks in Mattingly, is not a page-turner to be devoured in a one-night frenzy. Instead, it should be valued as a literary delicacy, with each savory syllable sipped slowly. By allowing ourselves to steep in this story, readers are treated to a delightful sensory escape one delicious word at a time. Even then, we leave his imaginary world hungry for more, eager for another serving of Coffey’s tremendous talent.”

  —JULIE CANTRELL, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF INTO THE FREE AND WHEN MOUNTAINS MOVE

  “[A]n inspirational and atmospheric tale.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL STARRED REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

  “This intriguing read challenges mainstream religious ideas of how God might be revealed to both the devout and the doubtful.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

  “Readers will appreciate how slim the line is between belief and unbelief, faith and fiction, and love and hate as supplied through this telling story of the human heart always in need of rescue.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

  “Billy Coffey is a minstrel who writes with intense depth of feeling and vibrant rich description. The characters who live in this book face challenges that stretch the deepest fabric of their beings. You will remember When Mockingbirds Sing long after you finish it.”

  —ROBERT WHITLOW, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHOICE

  “Some stories invite you in, but Billy Coffey’s When Mockingbirds Sing grabs you by the collar and embraces you flat out. Beautifully written with characters made of flesh and bone, Coffey haunts you with truth, compelling you to turn the page. His best book yet.”

  —MARY DEMUTH, AUTHOR OF THE MUIR HOUSE AND DAISY CHAIN

  “[When Mockingbirds Sing is] an engrossing novel on so many levels. A story of mystery, hope, opening our ears in a way we can truly hear, and the choice of belief. Coffey has penned a captivating tale that will linger with you long after the final page is turned.”

  —JAMES L. RUBART, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF ROOMS AND SOUL’S GATE

  “When Mockingbirds Sing is a lovely, dark, fervent tale that grips and won’t let go. At some point, I entered its pages so fully, the sky opened up and gale winds blew outside. It’s that good.”

  —NICOLE SEITZ, AUTHOR OF SAVING CICADAS AND THE INHERITANCE OF BEAUTY

  “When Mockingbirds Sing by Billy Coffey made me realize how often we think we know how God works, when in reality we don’t have a clue. God’s ways are so much more mysterious than we can imagine. Billy Coffey is an author we’re going to be hearing more about. I’ll be looking for his next book!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF TIDEWATER INN AND THE ROCK HARBOR SERIES

  “When Mockingbirds Sing is a mesmerizing tale about believing in the unseen. From the vividly etched small town to the compelling characters—torn between fear and faith—there is much to savor in Coffey’s story.”

  —BETH WEBB HART, AUTHOR OF MOON OVER EDISTO

  “A modern-day parable featuring a cast of colorful characters, [When Mockingbirds Sing] begs us all to step into the Maybe and have the faith of a child.”

  —MARYBETH WHALEN, AUTHOR OF THE MAILBOX, THE GUEST BOOK, THE WISHING TREE, AND FOUNDER OF SHEREADS.ORG

  “Billy Coffey’s When Mockingbirds Sing will touch your heart and stir your soul.”

  —RICHARD L. MABRY, MD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF STRESS TEST AND THE PRESCRIPTION FOR TROUBLE SERIES

  © 2014 by Billy Coffey

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, Colorado 80130.

  THE ENGLISH STANDARD VERSION. © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8824-0 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Coffey, Billy.

  The Devil walks in Mattingly / Billy Coffey.

  pages cm.

  Summary: “For the three people tortured by their secret complicity in a young man’s untimely death, redemption is what they most long for and the last thing they expect to receive. It has been twenty years since Philip McBride’s body was found along the riverbank in the dark woods known as Happy Hollow. His death was ruled a suicide. But three people have carried the truth ever since; Philip didn’t kill himself that day. He was murdered. Each of the three have wilted in the shadow of their sins. Jake Barnett is Mattingly’s sheriff, where he spends his days polishing the fragile shell of the man he pretends to be. His wife, Kate, has convinced herself the good she does for; the poor will someday was; the blood from her hands. And high in the mountains, Taylor Hathcock lives in seclusion; and fear, fueled by madness and hatred. Yet what cannot be laid to rest is bound to rise. Taylor finds mysterious footprints leading from the Hollow, he believes his redemption has come. His actions will plunge the quiet town of Mattingly into darkness. These three will be drawn together for a final confrontation between life and death between truth and lies”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8822-6 (pbk.)

  1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Redemption—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O3165D48 2014

  813’.6—dc23

  2013041041

  Printed in the United States of America

  14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For all who stumble forward by looking back.

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  The End

  Part I: Wake, O Sleeper

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part II: The Narrowing Trail

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part III: The Devil Walks in Mattingly

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part IV: No Home for the Weary

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Part V: Remember True

  1

  2

  3

&nb
sp; 4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Part VI: Settling Accounts

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  The Beginning

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Why is it thought incredible by any of you that God raises the dead?

  ACTS 26:8

  The end of our exploring will be to arrive at where we started, and know the place for the first time.

  T. S. ELIOT

  No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.

  SHIRLEY JACKSON

  Publisher’s Note

  Billy Coffey’s novels are all set in Mattingly, Virginia, and can be read in any order. If you’ve already read When Mockingbirds Sing, you may be interested in knowing that the events in The Devil Walks in Mattingly occur four years before that.

  Enjoy!

  The End

  None but my wife know of my trips beyond the rusty gate; none but my wife ever will. Kate understands why I must endure this long walk through the forest, miles of bearing up under a heavy feeling of being watched.

  “Go, Jake,” she will tell me. She will say, “Mind the woods” and “See if someone’s come” and “Be home with Zach and me soon.” And even though the fear in her eyes begs me stay, Kate never asks me to keep away from the Hollow. She knows I must come to this place. It is my duty both as sheriff and as a Barnett.

  And yet even as I hold my name and station in the highest regard, that is not why I dare enter this wood and strike east and north for the grove. I come to this place of darkness because it is where the light of heaven once touched. I come here for the ones who were saved on a night long ago and for the ones lost.

  I come because heaven is not without the past.

  I walk here now just as I walked here on the night of my salvation—uniformed and holding Bessie at my side. The blood on my old tomahawk was wet then, and a color like deep crimson. Now it is no more than a thin line of dulled brown that glimmers in this struggling sun.

  Aside from that—from me—I find all is as it has always been in this wild and mountainous place. Change may come beyond this wide span of gnarled trees and gray soil, but the Hollow clings to its past and will not yield to the passing of time. It endures. That is why I both loathe this land beyond the rusty gate and give thanks for it as well. It is an anchor to hold the world in place.

  There is no sound here. Neither birds nor crickets sing, and what few animals remain in these thousands of acres are scattered and hidden. The forest is silent—tired. I make for the river and turn back to the forest when I reach the bend. I do not look to the cliffs. I must walk this wood and endure the eyes upon me, but I will never gaze at those cliffs again. It is a place of blood.

  Beyond river and wood lies the field, and here among the stones and brittle grass I find the only track I’ve seen—an imprint of a front paw sunk in the dirt. I bend and place my arm to the ground. The paw measures nearly the length of my elbow to the tips of my fingers. More than the Hollow has survived unharmed. The bear, too, lives on. The print is fresh, no more than a day old. I look up and scan the trees. I feel eyes and hear whispers but see no movement. Though the bear and I have no quarrel, my grip on Bessie tightens.

  The trail waits beyond the mass of thick oaks at the field’s edge to my left. I step there, careful to keep between the two lines of stones that guard its sides, and follow it to the hidden grove beyond. Here, too, little has changed. Swollen vines still grow upon the limestone walls, covering what lies behind. The brittle bush in the back still withers in the dead soil and still offers its fruit.

  And the Hole is still here.

  I do not know that I expected otherwise. If the Hollow has lived on untouched and the bear still roams this cursed land, then the Hole would surely remain. I suppose it always will, and in that notion lie both Kate’s hope and my purpose.

  I stand at its mouth and move no closer, will not. To face this blackness is to find yourself at once drawn and repulsed, and here more than anywhere else I understand that I am not alone. I ease toward the Hole and bend to my knee, mindful of the stiffening hairs on my arms and neck, mindful of what Kate said before I left.

  See if someone’s come.

  There are no marks in the barren earth at the Hole’s mouth. No one and nothing has come.

  What remains now is the long walk back through a forest empty of what life a man’s eyes can see but filled with what a man’s eyes cannot. But I pause here nonetheless, as I always do, and stand facing the Hole. I do this so I may remember. So I remember true. The townsfolk do not know the truth of Happy Hollow and call it a place of evil. I know its truth and call it a place of memory.

  I can still picture all of us here—me kneeling in this gray dirt beside Kate, Taylor Hathcock looking on in despair.

  We were drawn to this place by a dead boy named Phillip McBride, who had haunted my dreams for a month. Even now the people of Mattingly will say Phillip died in the Hollow after throwing himself from the cliffs along the riverbank. Only Taylor, Kate, and I know the truth. There was no suicide. Phillip was murdered. Who killed him was and is an open question, I suppose. Kate would say she ended Phillip’s life. Taylor would say it was me. I would say Taylor had it right.

  Such is my burden still. The wounds I carry are not unlike the Hollow or the bear or even this Hole in front of me—they may lie hidden, but they are always there. My hurt remains with me. I came into this world pure and unblemished, but I will leave it bearing all of my scars. My comfort rests in a grace that will mold those scars into the jewels of my crown.

  In many ways the story of what happened is mine. And yet I can say it is Kate’s and Taylor’s as well. But at its heart lies Phillip. He made no distinction between those who blamed themselves for his death and the one who killed him. He came back for us all.

  Part I

  Wake, O Sleeper

  1

  I sat on the edge of Zach’s bed and stared at the small town of LEGOs and Matchbox cars that covered the floor. Took us a week of evenings to piece everything together—all the streets and buildings and shops that made up downtown Mattingly and the stretch beyond. Everything had to be just right (Zach would have it no other way), and as such we both still considered it a work in progress. But that night I wasn’t thinking of how the courthouse could use an extra layer of bricks or that there needed to be another window on the Dairy Queen. I only pondered what a good father would say next. All I could manage was a weak, “You know you’re in trouble, right?”

  Zach lay there and tried to appear indifferent by holding his red blanket as close to his body as possible. The lower lid of his right eye had curdled to a dark and swollen purple. It looked as though an invisible hand was forcing him into an ugly wink. The cut scabbing the slit that bridged the tiny space between his nose and mouth looked no better. It was painful to be sure, though it wasn’t a busted lip and a black eye that held my son’s tongue. It was whatever punishment I would levy for his getting them.

  Zach said, “He had it comin’, Daddy.”

  “Danny Blackwell.”

  “Yessir. He was on the playground pullin’ on Allie Granderson’s pigtails. I tole him to stop, Daddy. Twiced. But he dint.”

  “So you figured you’d just wallop him?”

  “Nosir, Allie figured she’d wallop�
��m. But Danny’s got a hard head, and Allie started bawlin’ after, ’cause her hand hurt so bad. An’ then Danny understood he’d just gotten wailed on by a girl, so he started tuggin’ on Allie’s pigtails harder. An’ that’s when we tussled.”

  I put a hand on the covers above Zach’s knee and felt my shoulders slump. For reasons I couldn’t understand, lately the shoulders were the first to go. Zach saw that slouch. He said nothing and I pretended nothing was wrong, even if there was no hiding my sagging cheeks and the way the skin beneath my eyes looked like tiny potato sacks.

  “Think what you did was right?” I asked.

  I believe Zach thought yes. He was smart enough to say no.

  “I don’t ever want you to go looking for trouble, son. You go looking for trouble, trouble always finds you. Now I appreciate you standing up to a bully, but next time you go tell Miss Cole before you take your fists out. Okay?”

  “Yessir.” Then, “Is Momma mad?”

  I said, “Your momma was once a girl like Allie,” and left it at that. Sharing how I’d once caught a boy peeking up Kate’s skirt while she was on the monkey bars would serve no purpose, especially since I’d walloped him a good one that day. “Now it being Friday and you being more in the right, the principal said you can come on to school Monday. But I expect you to make peace.”

  Zach pursed his lips. “It was real peaceful when Danny was holdin’ his jaw.”

  I offered a smile filtered through a yawn I couldn’t swallow. “That’s not the peace I mean. Now say your prayers.”

  Zach closed his left eye to match his right and began with his customary, “Dear God, this’s Zach . . .” His words were soft like a lullaby, and sitting there I felt my body grow heavier. I took a deep breath and pinched my arm.

  “An’ I’m sorry I whupped Danny Blackwell, God,” Zach finished. “But I reckon I ain’t a whole lot sorry, because he’s plain ornery and IlikeAllieGrandersonjustfineamen.”

  I smiled again and said, “Amen.”

  Zach opened his eye and winced. He traced a finger parallel to the cut on his lip.