The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(49)

He went on to add that he’d had plenty of trouble with law enforcement and complaints from the public, but the fact of the matter was he wasn’t harming anyone. It was perfectly within his rights to practice his religion and operate his business. Was it offensive? Absolutely—at least it was to the population of Limite. But being offensive or having bad taste wasn’t a crime.

A woman named Dora Walton was mentioned as being his “second-in-command” or High Priestess. The article wasn’t clear whether or not Eddie was married to her or if she lived in the house. A “Magister Wade Jones,” a CPA from California, was treasurer of the congregation. He had been a member of LaVey’s Church of Satan in San Francisco.

When asked why he chose to establish his “church” in a small town like Limite, Eddie answered, “There’s a sacred spot on the property where I grew up, the house on Chicory Lane. Call it a source, a vortex, or whatever—there is power emanating from it, the power of Satan. It’s had a hold on me since I was a child. I can never leave it.” Where on the property was this source? Was it in the house? “I’d better not say,” Eddie replied. “For my own security.”

Ha—I knew what that sacred spot was, and I had spent much time in it myself.

In closing, Eddie stated that all he wanted was to live and work and practice his beliefs in peace without harassment and discrimination.

I had to give credit to the Observer for presenting the piece without bias or judgment. The story made Eddie sound intelligent and well-spoken—albeit a little like a wacko freak who practiced Satanism in his backyard.

And who was Dora Walton, the High Priestess? What was all that about? Was she his lover? Maybe even his wife?

My curiosity was piqued, but not enough to warrant the trouble to find out anything. I didn’t want to contact Eddie and wasn’t about to ask my father to do any research.

I let it go and forgot about it.

That is, until Christmas of 2005, when Eddie made international news. He was a murderer. The headlines screamed the worst. EVIL EDDIE SLAYS LOVER. RITUAL KILLING SHOCKS NEIGHBORHOOD. DEVIL WORSHIPPERS IN BLOOD ORGY.

It occurred on Christmas Eve. Almost all of the houses on Chicory Lane in Limite were decorated in holiday lights, with front yard displays of Nativity scenes, Santa and his sled, and other common yuletide imagery. One house had no decorations—the black one, the home of Evil Eddie, devil worshipper and Satanist, the blight of the neighborhood.

Just after midnight—so in fact it was Christmas Day when the deed was discovered—Eddie decided to create his own holiday display in the front yard of his house. It was unclear when the actual murder had taken place—most likely just minutes prior—but he considered the final act to be the result of an “artist at work.” Dora Walton was seven months pregnant. After her death, he performed an amateur Caesarean, removing the fetus. He then placed mother and child in the front yard, arranged as if they were a grotesque perversion of Madonna and child. Not only was it bloody and horrific, it was obscene. As the sun rose on the street, the calls flooded the police station.

As my assistant Billy had said, it was pretty creepy shit. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” better than an abattoir in a person’s front yard.

Officers burst into the house. Over a hundred black candles illuminated Eddie’s demonic artwork, which covered the walls. No one was there. The police searched the home and found no evidence of the crime. Then they went outside to the backyard. The bomb shelter door was closed, but they could hear music coming from down below. They opened the steel door, stormed the underground lair, and uncovered the scene of the crime. Eddie, naked, sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of the pentagram, lost in a meditational trance. He was drenched in gooey, coagulating blood. Two large knives lay next to the murderer. The music was Black Sabbath from the seventies.

The cops arrested Eddie, and he offered no resistance. He didn’t say a word.

By noon of Christmas Day, the street was overflowing with news vans, police cars, ambulances, and dozens of curious onlookers. It was a circus.

I found out about it from my father, whom I had called midafternoon to wish a Merry Christmas. It was all over the news, he said, so I booted up my computer and found the stories online. I’m afraid I may have gone into shock. I don’t remember crawling back into bed, but that’s where I was when I opened my eyes at six p.m. that evening. Three or four hours had passed since I’d spoken to Dad. The news stories were still on my computer monitor. I must have been so repulsed that I’d turned away from the desk and stumbled back into my bedroom.

The tears flowed freely. “Why, Eddie?” I called out, to nobody in the house. “What happened? Why did you do it?”

The first thing I thought was that he would be found not guilty by reason of insanity. That was surely a no-brainer. After all, he was supposed to be on medication. Had he gone off of it? What had been the trigger for him to commit such a vile deed? The questions mounted, and I was determined to find out the answers. But what good could I do? I was stuck in Chicago. Eddie was in jail in Texas; he was fifty at the time. Would he be properly represented? Would he be able to afford a good lawyer? It was doubtful. He had no family or friends whom I knew of. Eddie was all alone.

On December 26, I attempted to phone the police station in Limite to find out information about Eddie’s legal status, but I was unable to get through to anyone. All I learned was that he was being held in the county jail until after the holidays and that a public defender was representing him. A public defender. For Christ’s sake, Eddie had no chance!