What’s it doing loose up here?
Odus had walked the Smith fence lines in early August, just before the second cutting of the hay. The wire was in good shape, and locust posts took decades to rot. Goats earned a reputation for breaking boundaries and getting into where they weren’t wanted, but it didn’t make sense for the goat to climb up into the laurel thicket. Laurel leaves were poisonous, and not much else was green this time of year except balsam and jack pine.
The goat didn’t look like it cared for green. The strange, glittering pupils fixed on Odus as if the two were gunfighters squaring off in the Old West.
The goat lowered its head, the scruff of beard pressed against the shaggy chest, showing the serrated grooves of the two brown horns. The animal pawed at the ground with one hoof, like a Spanish bull preparing to charge a red cape. A goat was far more dangerous than most people thought, because its neck was strong and horns hard and sharp. If the horns tore into the horse’s abdominal cavity, the goat would likely pull away with intestines entwined like spaghetti around a twirled fork. The laurels on each side were too thick and tangled to allow escape.
Odus peeked over his shoulder to see if a path led down the side of the cliff, and that’s when the goat charged. It came in low, at Sister Mary’s knees. The horse shrieked and bucked, flailing its front legs in the air. Odus clung to the reins and hunched over the horse’s neck, one boot flying out of its stirrup. For a moment he was weightless, and then he crashed back down into the saddle, slamming his testicles against the hard leather.
Sister Mary reared again, this time catching the goat in the forehead with one steel-shod hoof. The goat let out a gurgling bleat and drew back, a gash opening just above its eerie eyes, blood flowing down the snout. The goat retreated a few unsteady steps and wobbled a moment as Sister Mary hopped forward, not giving Odus a chance to regain control.
The goat fell to its knees, lapping at its own blood with a grayish-pink tongue. Sister Mary took a long couple of strides and leaped over the goat, once again lifting Odus out of the saddle, with gravity doing its work and plunging him right back down.
Sister Mary galloped along the path, branches slapping at Odus’s hands and face. He glanced back and saw the goat was still lapping at its own leaking fluids. They’d traveled perhaps a hundred yards when Odus press his knees against the mare’s flanks and urged her to slow down. At last she came to a stop, panting from the effort. Odus reached into the knapsack and treated himself to a shot of bourbon, his hands shaking. Somehow the encounter with the goat was creepier than the Horseback Preacher’s uninvited stop at the general store the night before.
One thing was for sure, the Horseback Preacher appeared to have a few friends on his side. All Odus claimed was a pinto horse, a half-pint of eighty-proof, and a stubborn streak. He guided Sister Mary higher into the forest, where the tributary springs that fed Rush Branch squeezed from cracks in the gray, worn granite. In the world’s oldest mountains, where the headwaters of one of the oldest rivers leaked like the tears of a tired widow, Odus figured this was as good a place as any to serve as a cradle of evil.
And Odus planned on rocking that cradle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sarah usually closed at six in the evening on Sundays, figuring the second shift at the Free Will Baptist Church would bring in a few customers on the way, those who needed a cup of coffee, Moon Pie, or giant Dr. Pepper to fuel them through the service. She couldn’t understand why some Baptists felt the need to go to church three or four nights a week. She always thought it would be simpler just to do a little less sinning rather than more begging forgiveness. But a dollar was a dollar, no matter the stains on the soul who spent it.
She’d had only two customers in the past hour, loud Yankee fly fishermen who prowled the aisles and hadn’t bought so much as a pack of Wrigley’s, although they’d held up a number of the more esoteric items and laughed in that slick, mean way they taught up in New York.
Too many tourists, and Yankees in particular, had a way of waltzing through her store like it was a museum, as if none of the merchandise carried price tags. Like the whole shebang was there for amusement and not to help feed and clothe a poor old hunched-over Appalachian Jew.
So shutting down early had crossed her mind, because a feeling was creeping up from the soles of her feet that tonight was going to be a doozy. It was almost like the Earth itself was sending up bad vibes, that the billion-year-old rocks and mud of the world’s oldest mountains sensed something unclean was walking over them.
If tonight was going to be a doozy, and the Horseback Preacher found his horse, then going home and worming deep under the quilts sounded like a good idea. Dollar or no dollar.
Sarah was closing out the cash register, figuring to turn over the sign on the door (from “Come On In—We’re Broke!!!” to “Missed You—And Your Money, too!!!”) even though it was only five o’clock. Word had gotten around about her fainting spell, so any regular who dropped by would understand. As for the tourists, like those who rented out the cabins on the hill, let them haul their big white rumps into Titusville and mingle with the Tennessee welfare moms in the Wal-Mart.
She was counting the twenties—not enough of them to suit her—when the screen door spanged open and Mark Draper barged in. He’d been a regular since settling in Solom, and Sarah pumped him a time or two about the goings-on at the Smith farm that night. But he clammed up tight about it even when Sarah hinted that they were neighbors now. She could almost admire his attitude if secrecy wasn’t so god-danged frustrating.
“Howdy, Mister Draper.” She slipped the twenties under the cash register in case he took a notion to rob her. Sheriff Littlefield told her the man had been arrested for drugs, and although he’d behaved himself for the past year, he was obviously capable of killing. Gordon Smith could have testified to that fact.
“You still open?” he asked.
“I’m about to close, but if you need something, go ahead.”
Sarah counted out coins, keeping one eye on him as he navigated the aisles, picking up a few canned goods and a loaf of bread. He came back to the counter and laid his groceries by the register, and then selected a Reese’s Cup from the candy rack and tossed it down as well.
“Weirdest thing,” he said. “I saw horseshoe prints in the mud by the porch steps.”
“People will ride in any kind of weather around here,” she said, totaling up the purchases.
“Day or night,” he said. “I heard hoof beats at 3 a.m. They woke me up. I thought it was a thunderstorm.”
“Was clear last night,” Sarah said, noncommittal. “Little bit of moon.”
“I looked out the window to check. Through the trees, I could see the river road, shining like a silver ribbon. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn there was a mounted rider herding a pack of goats.”
“Sounds like a whale of a dream.”
“Sounds like the Horseback Preacher.”
Sarah punched the big “Sale” button on the register. The bell rang and the drawer slid open. “That’ll be $19.27 with tax.”
He held out a twenty. “I know I’m a stranger here, even after a year. But my daughter’s here, too, and if there’s any kind of danger—”
She snatched the bill away. “I run a trade, Mister Draper. That means something for something. Not something for free.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get nothing until you tell me what happened that night on the Smith farm.”
Sarah kept her gaze fixed on him. He took a paper bag from the stack by the register and snapped it open, then began shoveling his goods into it. “You read the papers like everybody else. And I have a feeling you received inside information from the sheriff, as well as the speculation of all of Solom’s fine folk. I doubt if the truth is half as colorful as the gossip.”
“Try me,” she said. “I know Gordon Smith went crazy, but some folks whisper that the Horseback Preacher was there that night.�
�
“Katy and Jett said so, but I was out of it. Gordon Smith cut me badly with a scythe and I nearly bled out. So I missed the fun part.”
“That’s odd, considering the sheriff has you down for killing Gordon Smith in self-defense.”
“I didn’t see the Horseback Preacher that night. All I saw was a scarecrow. One that turned out to be Gordon in his lunatic costume.”
“Fair enough. I seen the Horseback Preacher myself, here in the store, just the other day. And again last night. Your girl and her mom were here, too.”
His eyes grew distant. “She didn’t tell me…”
“Because you’re not part of this. It’s Solom’s mess. You were just an innocent bystander that got drug into it last time, but now you’d best just go back to your cabin and stay there for a while. Might be wise to lay low until old Harmon Smith heads off into the dark toward his next stop.”
“Not while my daughter’s in danger.”
“Suit yourself. But I can’t help you.”
He reached across the counter, grabbing for her sweater. She stepped back just as the little bell over the door rang. Sue Norwood entered the store, a rock climber’s pick-ax in her hand.
“Are you okay?” Sue asked Sarah, lifting the pick-ax as if she knew how to use it.
Mark raised his hands, palms showing in a submissive gesture. He snatched up his sack of groceries. “I was just leaving.”
Sue looked at Sarah, who nodded. Sarah was bone tired, eighty years of standing up to gravity and worry and fright finally coming down square on her shoulders. Who cared if Harmon swooped in and reaped her? One less Jewish shopkeeper in the world wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference in the big scheme of things.
“Mister Draper?” Sarah said.
He turned back to her, his eyes smoldering with hidden thoughts.
“Your change.” She held out the coins and he took them. Then he shoved past Sue and head outside.
“What was that all about?” Sue said.
“Somebody sticking their nose where it didn’t belong.”
“If he stays, he’ll end up loving it here.”
“I got a feeling he’s making a play for his ex-wife,” Sarah said. “He seems like that sort of romantic fool. He acts like he’s hanging around for his daughter’s sake, but I seen the way he looks at Katy.”
Sue grinned at her. “Sounds like somebody else is sticking their nose where it don’t belong.”
“It’s my town. I keep up with things.”
“This is my town, too,” Sue said. “And I’m ready to fight for it. I’m going after the Horseback Preacher.”
“You and everybody else,” Sarah said. Though she had a feeling they wouldn’t have to do much seeking.
“There’s just one thing about this,” Sarah said.
“Whatever,” Sue said, still clutching the climber’s pick-ax. “I’m already nuts to believe any of this, so just lay it all out.”
“The Horseback Preacher only takes one. He had his shot at me, and I didn’t cut the mustard with him for whatever reason. Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t know if I want to double my odds. And it may be that he’s ready to take on outsiders like you. After all, a soul’s a soul, no matter where it come from.”
“I’ll take my chances. I worked too hard to get established here. I’m not going to run off without a fight.”
“That’s a lot of gumption for a little thing like you. But that pick-ax might not do any good against a dead guy.”
Sue swung the pick-ax handle against her other palm and it caught it with a smack. “It feels right, somehow. Like you’re supposed to use something that’s part of who you are.”
“In that case,” Sarah said. She rummaged under the counter and brought out the twenty-gauge shotgun. She broke down the barrel and checked the shell. The gun hadn’t been fired in five years but the powder had been kept dry. She reached up on the shelves behind her where she displayed ammunition for sale. Pulling down a box of bird-shot shells, she opened it and slipped three of them in her pants pocket.
“If I need more than three shots, the last one is for me,” she said, pointing her thumb to her chin to show she’d blow her own head off before she let the Horseback Preacher gallop her soul off to hell. Except part of her wondered if, by committing such an act, she would be volunteering to play the part of victim.
“So how come you’re ready to take on this creature now, after you’ve lived with it for eighty years?” Sue asked.
“Because I’m dog tired of being scared. I don’t have many years left, but I’d like to be able to sleep with both eyes shut when I finally hit my deathbed for good. What about you?”
Sue shrugged. “I have it good here. I don’t want to lose it. Sometimes that’s enough.”
“Well, maybe this is the generation that breaks the circuit. I wouldn’t mind having that as a legacy.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment, sheepish expressions on their faces. “What now?” Sue asked.
“You got your Jeep?”
“It’s by the shop.”
“Let’s take a ride, then.”
“Where?”
“If you want to catch a mouse, you have to think like a mouse. If you want to catch a contrary preacher that’s a hundred-and-fifty years dead and won’t accept it, then you have to think like one of those, too. And if I was the Horseback Preacher, I’d head for high ground.”
“High ground? You mean Lost Ridge?”
“Can’t think of any better place for a soul to get lost, can you?”
“I’m not sure he has a soul.”
“Turn over the sign on the door and I’ll close out the register. If there’s a chance I’m dying tonight, I don’t want some Yankee lawyer claiming the petty cash as part of my estate.”
“You’re a woman after my own heart,” Sue said.
“Except I ain’t got one.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Maybe we should call Dad,” Jett said.
“No way am I dragging him into this,” Katy said.
“Can you just drop your pride for a half a sec? I see the way you look at him.”
“It’s not that simple, honey. There’s so much baggage—”
“He’s clean now. Both of us are. I know you’re not a Bible beater, but don’t you believe in second chances? Even for yourself?”
“I’ve already had two chances. One ex-husband and one dead husband.”
“Do you still love him?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What can be less complicated than that? It’s the easiest pass-fail test in the world. I mean, I am one hundred percent sure I don’t love Tommy Wilson.”
“I don’t need the drama right now.”
“Our goats are trying to eat our asses, this Horseback Preacher thing is back from the grave, and the people of Solom say everybody he kills comes back sooner or later. That means good old Gordy may shamble back from the grave and try to finish the job. I don’t think a little extra drama would even get noticed at this point.”
As the afternoon sun sank lower, they’d pretended to go through ordinary routines, eating lunch, reading, and even wasting time watching a dumb science fiction movie in which radioactive spiders swelled to the size of Volkswagen Beetles. In fact, Katy was pretty sure she’d glimpsed such a vehicle beneath one of the oversize, mutant arachnids.
But now, with the sun reaching the ridges and spreading a red blanket across the valley, Katy didn’t know how they would fake it through another night.
“Maybe we should leave for a while,” Katy said.
“What? After all your talk about sticking it out and refusing to lose? How you weren’t going to let bad memories drive you away from the one place where you maybe belonged? Don’t tell me we went through all the Gordon crap and police crap and court crap and now you’re ready to just give up the farm?”
“We’ll still have the strongest legal claim to it.”
“Yeah, r
ight. You’ve been bitching about not having any savings left, and good old Gordon spent all his money on researching mountain religions, which puts me in real good shape for college. You may not have noticed, but not everything’s about you. Or do I need to say ‘We’ll get through it together’ one more time?”
Katy was surprised by Jett’s outburst. The stress had been building for weeks despite their little fantasy of a quiet farm life, as if they both sensed a malevolent energy in the air. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Why don’t we just get out of town for a few days? The chickens will be okay, and we’ll get Odus to round up the goats later.”
IF there’s a later.
“Why don’t we just stay at Dad’s?”
“Because he’s in Solom now. I’ll call my mom. A few days of Florida sunshine won’t kill us and your grades are strong enough that you can afford to miss school.”
“Unless those zombie land sharks and sewer-pipe pythons decide to have a party. Can’t be worse than here, though.”
“Okay, pack and meet me at the car,” Katy said. “But hurry. I get the feeling we want to be out of Solom before sundown. I’ll call Mom and Mark and tell them our plans.”
Katy’s mom was delighted to hear from her, especially when she found out she’d be getting her granddaughter as a bonus prize. Mark, however, was guarded.
“I don’t see why you need to leave,” Mark said on the phone. “You said yourself that hanging in there was the best way to protect your claim to the property. From what I hear around here, the court system is pretty much a good-old-boy’s network and they’ll look for any chance to turn it back over to the Smith family. I’m lucky they haven’t filed a wrongful-death suit against me even though I nearly got my neck chopped off by that maniac.”
“I can handle good old boys,” Katy said. “What I can’t handle is all this talk of killer goats. And the Horseback Preacher. We all saw him at the general store.”
“I saw him, too—in the middle of the night. But I believe it’s just another act, like Gordon dressing up in his scarecrow outfit. I think these people love their legends so much they keep them alive however they can.”
The Narrow Gate: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 2) Page 15
