A spray of blood seemed to umbrella the entire area.
Bolton closed his eyes, saw a splash of red against the inside of his eyelids, and heard another shot go off. By the time his eyes opened again, he saw a second explosion of red as Johnny, from up high across the street, took out a second man.
In that moment, Bolton felt a spark of hope. Maybe things would go their way after all. Maybe it would all turn out okay and he’d live to see the sun rise in the morning.
But those hopes were shattered when the next shot slammed into the chest of his long-time friend. Logan teetered on the heels of his boots before falling backwards into a cloudy plume of dust.
Bolton sank to his knees, his legs no longer able to hold him.
He heard the scramble of men cross the plank walkway across the street, no doubt heading upstairs to do to Johnny what he had done to one of theirs. And then they would start going through the other buildings, one by one, looking for others. Sooner or later they were going to find him.
Oh sweet Jesus, they were going to find him.
There was another commotion outside.
Even though Bolton imagined they were coming for him, his curiosity took hold and he forced himself high enough on his knees to peer out through the window again.
Across the way, two men came out of the building, dragging Johnny by the arms. They dumped him in the middle of the street, where Bolton could see a red, oddly shaped stain on the front of the man’s shirt. It glistened in the sun.
Johnny, Bolton quickly understood, had been shot in the gut.
“How many others are there?”
Johnny lay on his back, in the middle of the street, his eyes tiny slits against the sun. His face wore the pinched and weathered expression of a man not only in agony but fear.
“One last time,” said the man standing over him. He was tall and lanky and redheaded, and he appeared to be the man in charge. “How many others?”
Johnny coughed up blood, but remained silent.
“Have it your way.”
Redhead cocked his pistol and fired a single shot into Johnny’s right leg.
A jolt shot through Johnny’s body, followed by an agonizing scream.
“One more,” he said. “Just one more. Bolton.”
“Where is he?”
Bolton had witnessed this all from the mercantile window, but the moment he heard his name, panic overtook him. He climbed to his feet and backed away from the window. The shakes took hold of his entire body. He could barely feel his feet under him.
What now?
What was he going to do now?
Hide.
He had to hide.
Bolton backed away from the window, his mind racing, his heart pounding. The mercantile was a good-sized store. He might be able to find a small space somewhere in the back where he could go undetected, a cubbyhole behind some merchandise or inside an old shipping crate. Or, with a little luck, there might even be an exit in the back.
There was room for hope.
Not much, but at least a little.
Bolton turned to move deeper into the store. As he did, his right knee slammed into the corner of a display table. He muttered, more in frustration than in pain, and tried to save a jar of penny candy from falling off the tabletop.
It was a failed effort.
The glass jar hit the floor, shattered, and sent a wave of round hard candies scattering in all directions.
The sound was loud enough to wake the dead.
Every muscle in Bolton’s body tensed and he stood there for a moment, frozen, as if he were eight years old again and hoping no one would notice the roar of the candies if he didn’t move.
“The mercantile!” someone shouted from outside.
That was more than enough to get Bolton moving again.
He hurried across the wooden floor, almost slipping on the candies but managing to keep his balance. He took cover behind a counter near the back just as two men came through the front doors. Bolton couldn’t see them, but he heard their footsteps stop just inside the entrance.
Silence.
Then, quietly, the footsteps began to move, one pair headed toward the far side of the mercantile, the other pair headed toward his side.
Bolton closed his eyes.
Seconds passed.
The footsteps continued.
A boot heel crushed one of the candies.
Bolton kept his eyes closed, praying—
please, God, don’t let them find me
—and only opened them again when the hammer of a pistol locked into place.
The barrel of a gun stared back at him.
9.
Like every other man, woman, and child who had been placed on the earth, Reverend Titus Willard was a sinner.
He had no misconceptions about this. Despite his station in life, despite the extremely heavy burden the Lord had recently placed on his shoulders, Willard knew he was just as sinful as the day he was born. That was why he had to say his prayers multiple times a day, to communicate as closely as he could with God and ask Him to wash his soul clean of the sin that would then begin to build as a new day began.
He was not delusional, either. He had seen the look in those men’s eyes last night at dinner. They hadn’t believed a thing he said. They thought he was mad. A lunatic. But they had come to believe him, hadn’t they? Of course they had. Seeing was believing (or, in their case, hearing was believing), but that wasn’t how faith worked.
Willard considered himself a humble man. He had always been humble, even as a boy. His father had not been a reverend but a simple farmer, and in the early mornings a young Titus would rise and help his father with the fields. It wasn’t until Titus’s mother died when Titus was eleven that Titus entered a church for the very first time. He knew who the Lord was and had always said his prayers like a good boy, but being in church that day, sitting in the rickety wooden pews among the rest of the parishioners, the young Titus had felt something stir in the depths of his soul.
From that day forward he made it a point to attend every Sunday service he could, despite the five-mile walk it took him. He never actually heard God speak to him, nor had he been given any other sign—not like Moses with the burning bush—but the young Titus knew God was there anyway. And so it was no surprise that, when his father died suddenly two years later, Titus abandoned the family farm and devoted himself completely to the teachings of God.
And honestly, everything was fine and dandy until just about two months ago, when the demons first appeared.
Willard could still remember seeing them off in the distance as the dusk began to thicken, only a few shuffling figures. He had been standing with a few others that evening, enjoying the company, and someone—the name now escaped him—had gotten on his horse and rode out to welcome the new arrivals. And then, quite suddenly, the figures attacked the man and his horse. Even having been five hundred yards away, Willard had heard the combined screams of the man and horse until they were abruptly cut off.
That was only the beginning.
Within days panic seized the town, as the figures returned night after night. There were always more of them. The sheriff—Lloyd Benson—convinced everyone they needed to pack their things and leave. Willard at first agreed this was the right thing to do. But then he prayed to the Lord, asking for guidance, and when he opened his King James Bible the first book he came to was Daniel and he read the verse that went And an host was given him against the daily sacrifice by reason of transgression, and it cast down the truth to the ground; and it practised, and prospered, and Willard knew what needed to be done. He called the townspeople together and explained that to keep them safe they needed a sacrifice. It was clear not many believed him. But he told them it had been revealed to him through God, that to save their town they would need to give the demons a sacrifice, and that only then would their town begin to prosper again. And after half the town left, only to be killed, it became clear to everyone else that Willard
spoke the word of God. They agreed to the sacrifice.
It still pained his soul, thinking about every woman and child they had lost. He hated doing it, to each and every one, but there just wasn’t any other way to save the greater good. A lottery was created, and that was how they chose first the children, then, inevitably, the women.
Except Marilyn.
Willard had always had his eye on the young woman, ever since she was a girl. It was nothing perverted, either, just an appreciation for a striking beauty. And when the demons began to make their nightly visits, when all the children were sacrificed and it was then the women’s turn, Willard did the only thing he could think to do to ensure Marilyn’s safety: he married her.
She refused at first, telling him that was out of the question. Every day he asked her, and every day she refused. Until there were less than a dozen women left—he had purposely kept her name out of the lottery—and Marilyn came to him one day and agreed to his hand in marriage.
Their wedding was quite small. In fact, nobody was in attendance except for Willard, Marilyn, and the Lord. And then afterward? He had not had his way with her. She was his wife, yes, but he was not going to give in to his carnal needs. At least not by force. He was a sinner, but he was not a deviant.
And yet ...
The desire was there, that awful desire of the flesh, and this was what he was praying about today, for the Lord’s forgiveness for this prurient inclination.
He was in the chapel, on his knees before the large wooden cross hanging on the wall, his head bowed, saying his prayers.
He had just finished when he heard the thundering of horses outside. Their hooves striking the earth shattered the midday silence. Normally when Roy and Joe and the others returned, they did so quietly.
Which meant something had happened.
Which meant something was wrong.
Willard was up on his feet and outside in the matter of seconds. He hurried down the street just as the men rode into town, a cloud of dust growing in their wake.
This morning, a group of four men—Joe, Roy, Jacob, and Samuel—had left just as they did every morning, to keep an eye out for the demons and intercept anyone passing through. But now there were three men on horses, leading four horses without riders, and one of those men Reverend Titus Willard had never seen before.
“What happened?” he shouted as they stopped the horses in front of the jailhouse.
Roy dismounted his horse. “We were ambushed.” He wiped at his face, spat phlegm at the ground. “There was more of ’em than we thought.”
“How many?”
“Four, but we managed to take down three.”
“Where are Joe and Samuel?”
Roy just shook his head.
Willard felt himself shaking. Before his body had been tense from the sudden confusion of the moment, but now it was tense out of anger. He wanted to mourn the loss of his two men—he considered Joe his right-hand man, matter of fact—but right now he didn’t have time to mourn. That would come later, during his prayers. Now what he needed to do was to clear his head. He needed to think. But his mind was so overfilled with rage that, before he knew it, he jabbed a finger at the scared man on the horse.
“Get him down from there and inside!”
Roy and Jacob grabbed the man and pulled him off the horse, the man hitting the ground on his side and crying out. They yanked him to his feet and dragged him into the jailhouse, the entire time the man begging and pleading for them to let him go.
Willard was aware that others had drifted out into the street, that some of the men were now watching him from windows. He had acted impulsively and rashly. It was not how a man of God was supposed to act. A man of God was supposed to be in control of his emotions at all times.
He stared out at the men staring at him, took a breath, then turned and strode through the jailhouse door.
Roy and Jacob had just dragged the new man inside, and his begging and pleading had stopped.
There was a silence, and Willard wasn’t sure why until he noticed that the two men from last night were standing at the bars and the new man, the one being held by Roy and Jacob, was glaring back at them.
“What’s wrong?” Willard asked.
The new man didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, glaring back at the two behind the bars. Then something seemed to occur to him, and he blinked and looked at Willard for the first time.
“That man there,” he said, his voice cracking. “He—he—he killed my son.”
10.
The words hung heavy in the air, palpable, a scattering of dark clouds on a sunny day.
For a tense moment there was complete silence.
George and Clay stood behind the bars in their separate cells. George tilted his head slightly to catch a glimpse of Clay from the corner of his eye.
He wondered how this moment was affecting his friend.
It had been inevitable, of course. George had known from the beginning that sooner or later the mayor and the sheriff were going to catch up with them. A good man, an honest man, can’t run from his past and sleep restful nights. Not for long. Eventually, the burden becomes too heavy and he has to stop running. Clay hadn’t reached that point yet—at least George didn’t think he had—but he would have realized it soon enough.
The Reverend said, “Who killed your son?”
“Him.” Bolton raised a trembling hand and pointed a finger at Clay. “That man, Clayton Jessop Miller, murdered his own daughter and my son. And that man, George Michael Hitchens”—now pointing at George—“helped him escape justice. We’ve been tracking them for the better part of a week.”
“Your son was having his way with my daughter,” Clay said. He gripped the bars so tight the veins rippled across the back of his hands. “And you were the one who murdered my daughter. Not me.”
Bolton shook his head sadly. He said to the Reverend, “The man is delusional.”
Clay shouted, “I am telling the truth!”
“Enough,” the Reverend said without needing to raise his voice. The room fell silent. He turned to address Bolton. “You, sir, are in my town now. You have taken the lives of Joe and Samuel, two very good and trusted men who were born and raised here. I—”
“It wasn’t me,” Bolton said quickly. “I didn’t kill them.”
The Reverend gazed at him for a moment, his eyes stern and piercing.
“I am quickly reaching the end of my patience with you. Interrupt me again, and you will be jailed with the others and dealt with on terms that I am sure you will find most unpleasant. Do I have your attention?”
Bolton nodded.
A grin crossed George’s face. He’d never seen the mayor, who was a blowhard by nature and enjoyed nothing more than throwing his power around, humbled before. Bolton’s face remained stoic, though a slight tick wrenched at the corner of his mouth. It was a sight that George took great pleasure in witnessing.
“Now, while I am not a man without fault,” the Reverend continued, “I do my best to be fair and just in my dealings with others. If you have a story to tell, I suggest you tell it.”
“My name is Fred Bolton. I’m the mayor of Providence, Missouri. I came here seeking nothing more than justice. I, and the others who were with me, have been tracking these fugitives since they escaped our jail last week. As I’ve said, in a fit of rage, Clay Miller killed both my son and his own daughter. The other man, George Hitchens, was the town’s deputy sheriff. He helped the murderer escape.”
Behind the Reverend, who stood tall with his arms crossed, the door opened with a creak and Marilyn slipped through. She caught a quick glare from the Reverend and moved to one side with her back against the wall.
The Reverend turned his attention back to the jail cell. “Mr. Miller, I gather you see the events in a different light. Would you care to share your interpretation of what happened?”
“The mayor’s boy tried to have his way with my daughter. I pulled him off. He hit me. I
pushed him away. He tripped and fell and struck his head against a rock in the backyard. It killed him instantly. It wasn’t on purpose. And it wasn’t murder.”
Clay’s hands tightened around the bars again, the veins bulging.
“What that man did to my daughter was murder. He killed her to save his career.”
“Liar!” Bolton shouted.
The Reverend raised a finger at Bolton. “I will not tell you again.”
Bolton bit his lip, his shoulders sagging.
“And Mr. Hitchens?” the Reverend said. “Do you have anything to add?”
George watched all of this with skepticism. People were rarely what they seemed. Reverend Titus Willard was not the fair and just man he claimed to be. And Mayor Fred Bolton was not the honorable, justice-seeking man he claimed to be. One was a charlatan, the other a coward.
“The mayor’s a liar,” George said evenly.
Bolton’s face flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, remembered the Reverend’s warning, and managed to stay silent.
The Reverend nodded to himself and studied the floor, as if he were giving great thought to the stories he’d been told. But George was familiar with the pretentious displays of men who had already made up their minds. This was not a good omen for Clay.
Finally the Reverend raised his head and asked, “Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Bolton?”
“I am.”
“I find your account of the events compelling, particularly in light of your position as your town’s mayor. And I can appreciate your dedication in bringing justice to the situation. I find it equally disturbing to imagine an innocent man fleeing under such circumstances. Very disturbing, I might add.”
George and Clay exchanged a hesitant glance.
“With this in mind,” the Reverend said, his voice soft, his words carefully selected, “I would like to invite you, Mayor Bolton, to join me and my lovely wife for dinner tonight. I understand the circumstances are not ideal, but there are several matters I would very much like to discuss with you.”
Bolton let out a heavy sigh and stood tall again. “I would be honored.”
Walk the Sky Page 4
