Tilly smiled at the gleam in the older woman’s eyes. “I’m sure it was. But I’m really interested in the local folklore about the area, especially about Midnight Ridge.”
Ester leaned closer. “Okay. The local church group holds prayer sessions there because they believe that the higher you are on the mountain, the closer you are to Jesus. Some insist that they can commune with their deceased loved ones and that they see their faces in the clouds. One woman claimed she saw her late husband’s face and that he whispered he’d been waiting on her. She threw herself off the ridge later that night to be with him.”
The image of that tragic incident made Tilly’s heart ache. “And she wasn’t the only one?” Tilly asked.
Ester shook her head, her bones creaking as she rolled her shoulders. “A sector of that church broke off and decided to perform baptisms there. They knelt at the base of the ridge in the stream and dripped water over the heads of the sinners giving their life to God. Some believe that the ridge is sacred and although other religions think people who commit suicides aren’t let into the kingdom, these folks believe that if you’re saved there, then died there, you’ll instantly rise to heaven.” Ester hesitated. “They call themselves the Believers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about them,” Tilly said. “And you’re one of them?”
“Sure enough am,” Ester said.
Tilly nodded. Some folklore began with religious undertones while others were based on rumors, superstitions, history, mythology and even astrology. Most was passed along by oral storytelling.
Ester fiddled with the collar of her blouse. “My granny was among the first ones to start the group.”
“But suicides increased over the years?” Tilly asked.
“For a while, yes. There were several in one generation. The popularity of it waned in the next generation. People in town were afraid it had started up again about twenty years ago when a woman was found dead at the ridge, but it turned out it was an isolated event and not suicide but murder.”
Tilly’s pulse jumped. “Really? What happened?”
“Apparently some crazy lady dragged her little boy out there and the father ran up and heard them screaming. He tried to intervene and grabbed his son but the woman fell over. The daddy has been in prison since.”
“Why did he go to prison?”
“He confessed to shoving his wife off the ridge.”
“What happened to the child?”
“Not sure. I think he went to a grandmother or relative or something.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Tilly said softly. “Is it true that people hold vigils at the ridge to talk to their deceased loved ones?”
“Yes, in fact there’s several this week. We’re all praying for Minnie Benton and her poor little girl. I hope they find her.”
Tilly made a silent note of the upcoming vigil. It might be interesting to attend. Sometimes killers revisited the crime scene and took pleasure from watching the victims’ families suffer.
FORTY-EIGHT
Bridge Forward
Larry Wheaton’s past would always haunt him. Twenty years in prison had cost him his soul. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, things he was ashamed of, things he hated himself for doing. But his survival instinct had kicked in on day five when he’d been beaten by gang members and had almost died. When he’d come to in the medical ward, he’d realized he’d better learn to defend himself or he’d end up six feet under.
He’d already relinquished his freedom when he confessed to murder, but he’d be damned if he’d go to an early grave.
Being caged had nearly killed his will to live though.
Now he was in this damn halfway house—his parole officer called it an RRC, a residential reentry center—but he knew what it was. A home for ex-cons that still felt like a prison.
Although he didn’t have a toilet in the room like the cell had. He had to share a bathroom with another ex and the house with three others, all convicted felons who were now supposedly being helped to transition into normal life. He had no idea what normal was anymore or how to start over at his age, not with his record following him around like a scarlet letter.
Life for the past two decades had been a set routine each day with minimal time outdoors and no contact with people on the outside. Some guys had visitors, but not one single soul had come to see him.
Because everyone he’d known twenty years ago believed he was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.
His first day he was here, he’d met with a counselor who’d helped him line up a job as a garbage collector. In spite of the stench, which didn’t bother him that much because he’d smelled worse in prison, at least he was outside most of the day and not locked in a six-by-eight box.
Still, his behavior and activities were strictly monitored. He wasn’t allowed a computer although the facility had a computer lab with restricted internet access for educational purposes and job-related searches.
