“It called me by my name. Through the boy.”
Chester had lowered his shotgun so that the occasional passing motorist wouldn’t see it in the flash of headlights. He said, “Ordinarily, I’d call it a bunch of hippie claptrap and think somebody’s been smoking some funny weed. But I seen it with my own eyes, and ain’t no dope ever filled this old head. But something’s as fucked up as a football bat, and it ain’t just me. They’re like zombie creeps in some picture show.”
“Well, it’s got its ‘mission,’ as you say, Tamara,” DeWalt said. “And we have ours.”
He told her about their plan to dynamite the cave. “We know it’s probably a job for the military or the FBI or whoever has jurisdiction over alien invasions—”
“But it would take days, maybe weeks, before you convinced somebody you weren’t crazy,” Tamara said, the resident expert in being called crazy. “And it’s getting stronger by the minute. I can feel it. It’s learning about the world, growing, getting smarter.”
Chester peered at her with one bleary eye, crow’s feet crinkling as he squinted. “One more thing’s bothering me. Hell, lots of things is. But what’s this ‘shu-shaaa’ business?”
“Maybe it absorbed the sound from some life form in the woods. Something it converted. But the boy tried to talk to me. So it must be learning language. Human language.”
“I expect it already knows tree talk, then. And the talk of pigs and chickens and whatever rot Don Oscar’s head was filled with. Maybe that explains why old Boomer was trying to bark but kept on making them swampy sounds.”
“And the people who have turned, they still have some of their own thoughts, but the thoughts are trapped and mixed in with the parent, the shu-shaaa.”
“I’m no Einstein,” DeWalt said, “but what you’re saying doesn’t really follow what we know about physics.”
“Well, Einstein didn’t know about this thing, either,” Tamara said. “Rules are made to be broken.”
DeWalt thought for a moment and nodded, then looked out the window.
Chester turned to her again. “You say there’s more of these dirt-bag zombiemakers up in the sky somewhere?”
Tamara nodded. “All heading for their version of heaven, nirvana, whatever you want to call it. This may sound corny, but each is like a spirit energy going home, and one day, maybe ten thousand, maybe ten million years from now, they’ll join together and . . . “
Emerland shook his head again. Chester looked out the window at the stars. DeWalt said, “And what, Tamara? You’re preaching to the converted here. You’re the closest thing to an expert we might ever have.”
“They’ll become a god.”
“Shit fire,” Chester said.
They rode on in silence as the pavement sloped up toward Sugarfoot.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” Virginia Speerhorn pressed a polished thumbnail into her palm until the pain helped her control her anger.
“Didn’t think it was any big deal. Just a report of attempted assault. And you’ve got plenty to worry about as it is, what with Blossomfest and all.”
“I might be worrying about finding a new police chief, Mister Crosley,” Virginia said into the phone. She couldn’t use her withering glare, but she could drip the sarcasm. “You know I want to be informed about such matters.”
“Sorry, Mayor. I hate to bother you at home—”
“You’re just afraid you’ll piss me off. Don’t want to rile the Virgin Queen, is that it?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Virginia knew Crosley was rubbing his fat belly with his free hand.
Blossomfest was barely nine hours away, and she wanted to appear fresh and vigorous in front of tomorrow’s crowds. Even though she enjoyed the iron grip she kept on Windshake, she hadn’t completely ruled out a run for state office. Crosley had called shortly before midnight, interrupting her wardrobe reverie.
“And now you have some missing persons reports?” she said, prompting his attention away from his gut.
“Uh, yes ma’am. Kyle Emerland, for one. You know, that bigshot developer?”
“Of course I do.” She made it a habit to know all the big shots.
“His assistant called in about seven o’clock. Said Emerland missed a board meeting and a dinner date with some out-of-town investors. The assistant said Emerland never misses a board meeting. No answer on his cellular phone, either.”
“When was he last seen?” Virginia was glad that the local paper was a bi-weekly and wouldn’t have an edition out until after the weekend. And Dennis Thorne at the radio station would hold any story if he was afraid somebody might give him a bad job reference. No negative publicity until after Blossomfest.
“The assistant says he was planning to visit a fellow named Chester Mull this afternoon to discuss a business proposal. Mull lives out on the top of Bear Claw.”
“That’s outside the town limits. Have you contacted Mr. Mull?”
“No signal on his phone, either. I sent a black-and-white up there to check it out, even though it was county jursidiction. Officer found an overturned vehicle, but it wasn’t Emerland’s. Belonged to a man named DeWalt. No sign of any people on the premises, though. Just the truck. I ran the plates, and it checked out as Mull’s.”
“Something sounds fishy. I presume you’re still searching.”
“Yeah, but we’ve only got three men—I mean, officers—on duty. Two are keeping watch downtown over all the setups. Everybody else has the night off because of having to patrol Blossomfest tomorrow.”
“Call in a couple. I’ll authorize the overtime. Who else is missing?”
Virginia hoped this didn’t turn into an epidemic. Most missing persons showed up the next day with a sheepish grin and a hangover, or sometimes were traced to motels that rented rooms by the hour.
“A Mrs. Tamara Leon,” Crosley said. “Teaches down at Westridge. Her husband says he hasn’t heard from her all day. He tried the university and all their friends, but nobody’s seen her. Whereabouts unknown. Plus there’s a high school kid. But he’s a regular. Likes to take little trips, if you know what I mean. Drugs.”
Virginia allowed herself a sigh of relief. At least those two were nobodies. She wondered if there was a connection between them and Emerland. It seemed unlikely.
“Concentrate on Emerland, and keep an eye out for the other two. But they’re strictly back burner for now.”
“Yes, Mayor,” Crosley said. “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
She listened as Crosley explained the case of the mysterious Melting Man, the one that had “disappeared,” leaving behind only some dirty clothes and a Red Man cap. By the time he had finished, Virginia decided that she was definitely going to have to find a new police chief.
“I’m not in the mood for games, Chief. Call me if you get something.”
“But I saw it . . . uh . . . good night, ma’am.”
She hung up the phone and thought for a moment. Three people missing in one night, when Windshake usually might expect one every six months. Something was going on that was beyond her control. She hated that feeling. She wondered if it would dampen Blossomfest, then decided it wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let it.
She went to check on Reggie, to make sure he had made his eleven o’clock curfew. Surely he understood how important this weekend was to her. She almost wished his father hadn’t died, but he’d been deadweight anyway, holding her career back. The only thing he’d ever done right was giving her Reggie.
She could see from the dark crack under Reggie’s door that his lights were off. She knocked lightly. He was old enough to have his privacy respected. He didn’t answer. He must have already been asleep.
“Sleep well, my angel,” she whispered, and then headed for her own bed.
###
Nettie hummed “Amazing Grace” at her desk in the church vestry. She felt as if she were glowing, like the Madonna in those Renaissance
paintings. She hadn’t felt so wonderfully alive since she had gotten saved at age fourteen. Now she had been saved again, this time from loneliness and unrequited attraction.
Maybe it’s even . . . yeah, you can say it: LOVE.
The day with Bill had been wonderful, her wildest fantasies come true. He had touched her, held her, taken her. His smell clung to her skin, a strong and masculine odor of sawdust and clean sweat. She tingled under her dress as she thought back on their tumble in the clover.
She was having a hard time concentrating on the computer layout she was doing for Sunday’s church program. She’d push her mouse to drop in a clip-art Jesus and then her mind would take off and Jesus would end up over in the birthday announcements. And when she typed “Windshake Baptist Welcomes Blossomfest Visitors,” the event came out as “Bosomfest” and then “Blosomfset.” She would be here all night if she wasn’t careful, and she didn’t plan on being here all night. Because Bill was coming to her place later, before he started his volunteer shift providing security for the Blossomfest arrangements.
She was high, brushing God’s clouds with her mind. She thanked the Lord a thousand times for bringing Bill into her life and heart. She was afraid that Bill would feel guilty afterwards, that he would think she was some kind of wicked woman out to sap his strength and turn him from God. But when their eyes had finally opened after that searing hot explosion, they had looked at each other for a full minute without speaking. Then Bill said “I love you” in his deep, honest voice, and she could tell he meant it.
She replayed the words like a reel-to-reel tape, over and over. And she was still hearing them when Preacher Blevins’s feet crept across the floor. She spun in her swivel chair to face him. She wasn’t going to let him sneak up and put his hand on her shoulder again.
He looked down on her, his lightbulb head brightened by his beatific smile. “Burning the midnight oil for the Lord, Nettie?”
“Finishing up the program, is all,” she answered, watching as his dark vulture eyes did their cursory crawl over her body.
He grinned his beaver grin that now seemed sinister instead of friendly. “Fine, my child. Fine. Ought to have a big crowd this week. And next week, with Easter coming up. It’s an important time for the Lord.”
Nettie wondered if the preacher knew that Easter had originally been a pagan fertility holiday. Thinking of fertility made her glad she was still taking birth control pills, even though she hadn’t had a sex partner in over a year. In the heat of the moment, neither she nor Bill had mentioned condoms. Nor, heaven forbid, disease. She found herself blushing, thinking of rubbers in church.
“Your cheeks are pink, my child,” the preacher said, stepping close so that he was standing above her. “What thought is in your head that brings the devil’s shade?”
“Oh, just a minor sin, Preacher. Hardly worth feeling bad about, but when you’re in the House of the Lord—”
The preacher raised a beneficent hand. “I know, child. We humans are weak. We fall short of the perfection and glory of God.”
He touched her knee with a hot, moist hand. His breath smelled of copper and blood, a hunter’s breath.
Bill’s love gave Nettie courage. She decided it was time to confront him. “Preacher—”
He leaned closer. “Tell me your sin, my pretty one.”
She arched back in her chair, trying to shrink away from his leering face.
“My sin is silence,” she said, her teeth clenched. “I didn’t speak against something I saw was wrong.”
“But the Bible says ‘Judge not, lest you be judged also,’” he said, lowering his voice. The rafters settled in the vast quiet of the empty church, as if the night was pressing heavily upon it.
She hesitated, wondering how to put her doubts into words. “It’s about the money, Preacher.”
“Money?” His eyes shifted like well-oiled ball bearings.
“The missing money. Only one person had access to it before I started working here. Only one person could have taken it.”
“I told you, child—”
“I’m not your child, either. I’m a child of God, and you’re a far sight from God.”
“What are you talking about?” His face creased with confusion, breaking its practiced calm.
“It has to be you taking the money, Preacher. There are just too many discrepancies to laugh them off as honest mistakes. I’ve discovered ten thousand dollars that have fallen through the cracks just in the last year.”
“Oh, my child, my child, the devil has put lies in your sweet little head, cast visions in your bright eyes,” Armfield Blevins said in his smooth preacher voice.
She heard the slight sibilance of snakiness in his delivery. God, had she been blinded by this deceiver all along? Had they all?
“I’ve been hoping that I was wrong,” she said. “But I can’t fool myself any longer. It’s eating me up inside.”
She drew back as he smiled at her. Blevins’s hand clutched her knee as he loomed over her, his form somehow made larger by the way he seemed to soak the shadows from the corners of the vestry.
“Thou shalt not bear false witness,” he said without emotion.
“And thou shalt not suffer false prophets,” she answered. The church would be torn apart, but Nettie knew that God would heal the congregation and make them stronger through the trials and tribulations. And she would make certain that Mister Blevins had his trial. In the court of humankind, that is. God would pass the final judgment elsewhere.
“There’s plenty for both of us, Nettie. It’s part of His plan. Part of my plan.”
The preacher’s right hand rubbed her knee and his other one began lifting the hem of her skirt. “For both of us,” he repeated, voice husky. His breathing was harsh and shallow and fast.
“No.” She shrank away.
“Hush, my child,” The preacher’s raw breath was on her cheek. “Armfield forgives you. You know not what you do.”
“Preacher, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” She was cold inside, dead as stone.
“Why, saving you from Lucifer’s fire, Nettie,” he whispered. “You have gone astray, and I must bring you back into the fold. I’ll show you the path of righteousness. But you must bow to my will. You must open up and let me inside.”
Now his hand was under her skirt, on her bare thigh. She twisted away and tried to stand. His face purpled with rage and he tightened a fist around her hair, pinning her to the chair. His eyes leered with cruel promises.
“Harlot.” He jammed his free hand under her skirt. “I smell the devil on you. I’ve seen the devil in your eyes. I’ve seen you flaunt your temptations before me. You’re an abomination in the eyes of God.”
Nettie strained to push him away, but his lean body was leveraged against her, his knees pinning her legs and trapping her arms between their bodies. He had the strength of a demon. He yanked her head over the back of the chair, forcing her lower and exposing her neck to his frantic lips and slathering tongue. She could only stare at the ceiling, her arms trapped against his chest as he lifted her skirt to her waist.
His face was above her, wrenched and distorted and beet red. Through her shock and horror, Nettie realized that if Satan walked the earth, this was the mask he would wear. A mask of cruelty and mockery, eyes aflame with rancid lust, his breath a foul, soul-stealing wind. As she struggled, she closed her eyes and prayed to God to deliver her from evil.
A low voice filled her ears. “Uhmmmm . . .”
The preacher froze. At first Nettie thought he had moaned, calling out in a fit of possessed passion. Then the voice came again, from the interior of the church.
“Uhmmmmm . . . feeel . . .”
The preacher’s taut-skinned head swiveled, eyes wide with fresh fear. His clawing hand slightly loosened in the tangles of her hair. She held her breath, waiting for a chance to break free, her heart hammering like a dove’s.
The voice came again, louder, from the opening where the da
is led into the vestry. “Uhmm-feel . . .”
Nettie couldn’t see who it was because her head was still trapped against the chair. But she could see the preacher’s face turning ash gray as if he had seen a ghost. He released her.
The preacher backed away from Nettie and spun to face the door. His hands were out by his sides like a gunfighter in a showdown. His slacks dropped around his ankles from the loosening of his belt. Nettie lifted her head and doubted herself for a second time that night.
Because she didn’t believe what her eyes were screaming at her.
Amanda Blevins moved across the room toward her faithless husband. But Amanda was only a small piece of whatever the thing was, as if random bits of her features had been pressed into a dismal green clay. It had Amanda’s henna red hair, but the styling had wilted, leaving damp straws. Her sharp nose protruded from the face—God, can that be a FACE? Nettie thought—like a curving thorn.
Amanda’s clothes were torn and hung from her body in rags, and her flesh was in damp tatters as well. Her skin looked like old meat that had aged in a basement and grown moldy. As she moved, finger-sized chunks of her slid to the ground, leaving a slick trail on the floor as she approached the preacher. One sagging, flaccid breast swung free from her ripped blouse and dangled like an overripe fruit. Nettie’s stomach knotted in revulsion and she tried to vomit, but her stomach wouldn’t obey.
Nettie didn’t know what was worse, the thing’s mouth or its eyes. The eyes were glowing, deep green and translucent, as if rotten fires burned inside the watery skull. But the mouth—the mouth opened, gurgling and vapid, and sharp tendrils curled out like a nest of serpent’s tongues from a pulpy den.
Then it spoke: “Uhmmm . . . feel . . . Uhmfeel . . . kish . . .”
The mouth sprayed viscous lime-colored drops, and Nettie could smell Amanda now. It was the stench of corpses, of graveyard rot and bad mulch, of stagnant puddles and tainted melons. Nettie tried to rise, but her limbs were thick, limp noodles and all she could do was watch in helpless fascination.
“Kish . . . shu-shaaa . . .Uhmmfeel,” Amanda said.
Scott Nicholson Library Vol 2 Page 21
