Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free Page A

Call the Devil by His Oldest Name
Book: Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free
Author: Sallie Bissell
Tags: Suspense, murder mystery, mary crow, Cherokee
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allowed it to affect her work. “And your point is?”
    â€œFrankly, I think the pressure of that and this case has combined to affect your judgment.” Hobson fondled a brass basketball that served as a paperweight. “I can’t believe you would even consider not calling this kid to testify.”
    â€œShe’s a kindergartener, Hobson.” Mary stared at him, incredulous. “That’s coloring books and Sesame Street and—”
    â€œPopsicles?” Hobson interjected.
    Mary stiffened. Dwayne Pugh had used Popsicles to lure little Jasmine into his truck. He would use Popsicles to lure more children if she couldn’t put him in prison. Maybe Hobson and Danika were right. Maybe she ought to gleefully sacrifice one Jasmine to save twenty of her play­mates. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice flat. “And Popsicles.”
    Hobson sat back in his chair, now looking like a triumphant dummy from the forensics lab. “See what I mean, Ms. Crow? I’m beginning to won­der if you have the guts for this job anymore.”
    â€œOf course I do.”
    â€œThen put Jasmine Harris on the stand, and question her as you would any other witness.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œThat’s an order, Ms. Crow,” Mott sliced in. “Jasmine Harris goes on the stand.”
    Mary looked at him, again longing for the sloppy honor of Jim Falkner’s administration. “Anything else?”
    He smiled. ‘’Just win my case, Ms. Crow.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.” With a single withering glare, she rose and let herself out of the office, leaving the new Deckard County district attor­ney counting all the votes he would reap on the back of one five-year-old child.

Two
    Little Jump Off, North Carolina
    October 8
    STUMP LOGAN PRESSED himself against the weathered gray logs of the store. He hadn’t made this particular climb in almost twenty years, and the effort made each breath sear through his lungs like fire. As he waited for his heart to slow and his legs to stop their shaking, he studied the place that had once been his second home.
    Outside, not much had changed. The Little Tennessee River still glittered like a silver ribbon on the other side of the road; the gas pump still cranked out hi-test, though not at the twenty­ one-cents-a-gallon price of his youth. Moths still batted against the small blue neon sign in the window, ultimately tumbling dead on the old porch that still remained silent as he hauled his sixty extra pounds across it. He smiled. It was just as if Martha Crow still lived here. His heart began to swell with the memory, then he heard an angry male voice inside the store. He turned and peered in the window.
    For an instant he wondered if his brain wasn’t short-circuiting again. Jonathan Walkingstick, the best tracker in all the Carolinas, was standing right there, in the prime weeks of hunting season, joggling a baby over his shoulder! He’d shortened his hair from a ponytail into a regular barbershop haircut and he’d exchanged his Army camouflage outfit for a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. Jonathan Walkingstick was looking like a real family man.
    â€œYou’ve pissed off that whole county.” The tall Cherokee pointed his finger at a woman who was kneeling on the floor, writing with a black marker on a piece of yellow poster board. “Those men need those jobs. They have families to feed.’’
    â€œWe’re not asking that they not build the condos. We’re just asking them to build them somewhere else,” the woman replied, not look­ing up from her work. “They’ve got plenty of other flat land over there.”
    â€œNot on that riverbank. And not owned by the governor of Tennessee.” Walkingstick paced faster in front of the glowing fireplace. “You’ll never stop them. They’ve got too much money. Too much clout.”
    â€œWe’ll
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