He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned the last comer before the rectory.
His breath caught in his throat.
The charred remains of the rectory still smoldered despite the dampness from the fire hoses. Thin trails of smoke snaked their way endlessly toward the sky. It now mirrored the destruction of the parish hall, leaving only the church as a monument to Rapture’s failed spiritual community. Tim climbed out of the car and walked over to the remains. Moving along the periphery he saw no sign of anything familiar, nor did he see any sign of the priest.
A heavy bang startled him into drawing the pistol from his waistband and whirling around. He found himself aiming at the empty back door of the church. The morning breeze blew it open and bounced it off the inner wall. Using the remains of the rectory wall as cover from the street, Tim opened the revolver’s cylinder and emptied the four spent cartridges. After replacing them with new rounds he cocked the hammer and moved for the door.
Just inside the threshold he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, at the same time listening for anyone else who might be inside the church. He hoped Father Mike took refuge within, but as he moved slowly from room to room his hopes diminished. He did not find the priest, nor did there appear to be anyone waiting in ambush.
He entered cautiously, pistol outstretched before him. Looking over the pews, then the altar, he saw nobody. Just to be sure he crouched low and peered beneath the pews. At the far side of the church a large wooden object laid on the floor. It looked vaguely familiar.
He got back to his feet and tucked the revolver into his waistband at the small of his back as he walked down the aisle. In the empty space behind the pews he found Jesus. Somebody unceremoniously threw the wooden sculpture of Christ minus his cross face down, displaying the smooth blank mounting points on his back and the backs of his hands, arms, and legs.
If Jesus was here, then…
Tim spun and looked up at the wall over the altar and gasped. Father Mike now hung from the cross, crucified just as his Messiah had been so long ago. His murderers left him nude, his body cut in a dozen places along his face, throat, and chest. Even after his death blood poured from the wounds and dripped down the wall onto the floor. He wept blood from his emptied eye sockets.
Tim sprinted back up the aisle, dumbfounded as to how the women could have raised and mounted him, and even more so as to how he would get the man down.
His stomach heaved bile into his throat. His knees went weak and he collapsed to the ground, pitching forward and catching himself on his palms. He heaved again, struggling to take control of his mutinous stomach. His throat burned with acid and he swallowed hard to quell it. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Dear God,” he muttered.
He went rigid as a snap and dick sounded to his left.
“Not quite.” Fat sheriff McGruder stood in the hallway entrance, leveling a large revolver at Tim. “Now you just freeze right there, fella.”
Tim froze. He felt the weight of his own pistol at his back and hoped his t-shirt concealed it from the sheriff’s view. “Sheriff,” Tim said as calmly as possible. “Father Mike’s been murdered.”
“I see that.” The fat man moved into the chapel, rounding the far side of the altar. “Put your hands on your head.” Tim complied. “You know, Mister Wilder, most people are smart enough not to return to the scene of the crime.”
“Surely you don’t think I—”
“Shut the fuck up,” McGruder snapped. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You’re arresting me then?”
“You might say that.” He withdrew his handcuffs from his belt and moved closer. “Now stand up.”
Tim stood, careful to keep his hands on his head. He considered telling the man about the women and what they did, both last night and this morning. But it struck him then that the sheriff probably knew about it already. In fact, thinking back to the sheriff’s “investigation” at the motel, he wondered if the large man conspired with the witches himself.
“You’re turning me over to them, aren’t you?”
McGruder grinned. “They’re not happy with you, you know. You ruined all their plans for you by running. Then, not more than fifteen minutes ago, you crippled one of them. Probably permanently.” The sheriff moved close and pressed the barrel of his gun into Tim’s spine.
“Take back your balls, man. Don’t you see what’s happening around here? Don’t you care?”
He poked Tim hard in the back of the head with his weapon. “Shut up, boy. They keep me happy. When I came here, I was a felon. Now, I enforce their laws.”
Tim hazarded a guess. “You molest young boys, don’t you?”
McGruder cuffed Tim’s left wrist. “Shut your mouth.”
“I see it now. You keep the people in line, and in return, the witches feed you nice, tight, young boys.”
The sheriff paused in his work. “I said shut your mouth!”
“Ohh, buddy. You must have one small dick to get between those cheeks, huh?”
“I said shut your fucking mouth!” McGruder roared. Spittle sprayed the back of Tim’s neck.
“Or can you even reach your dick around that fat tub of lard you’re carrying around in front of you?”
McGruder roared, slamming his gun into the side of Tim’s head. Blood already trickled down his ear as he collapsed across the front pew. Tim turned to land on his side so the sheriff could not see his pistol. He reached back slowly with his right hand, while he held his left hand to his wounded ear. The free cuff slapped against his shoulder.
“So that’s it, isn’t it?” Tim carefully removed the pistol from his waistband.
The sheriff fell on him, slamming his bulk into Tim and pinning him to the pew. He shoved his pistol against Tim’s nose, the rim catching painfully on his nostril. “You listen here, boy,” the sheriff hissed, his noxious breath pouring over Tim’s face. “You just be damn glad they want you alive and intact.”
Tim blinked, wondering why that could be. But now was not the time for consideration. He took a deep breath, gathered his nerve, and acted. Twisting sideways, he dodged the sheriff’s revolver and raised his own. He pressed it into the side of the fat man’s head and pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. Hot blood and brain tissue sprayed across Tim’s face and chest as McGruder’s heavy bulk collapsed across him.
“You fat fuck,” Tim spat, struggling out from underneath the body. He fished out the handcuff key, removed the cuffs, and dropped them on the floor. He picked up the sheriff’s gun and weighed it against his own. They used the same ammunition, but the sheriff’s looked bigger and bulkier. Tim emptied its cylinder, pocketed the bullets, and hurled it toward the back of the church. His smaller weapon would be more easily carried and concealed, which he favored more than the intimidation factor at the moment.
Tim crossed to the baptismal pool. Stagnant water still partially filled the shallow basin. Tim, hoping he was not committing some sacrilege, dropped inside and cleansed first the wounds on his arms then washed the blood off his face. By the time he finished the water turned a pale pink color. He still had blood on his shirt, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
He moved back through the church carefully, pistol in hand in the event somebody else accompanied the sheriff, but he did not see anybody outside. He sprinted from the church to the car, which he left running. He kept the revolver close at hand in the passenger seat as he turned onto the street. He kept his speed low, not wanting to draw attention to himself. The few passersby seemed to take little notice of his passage. Driving down main street was not the ideal plan, but it was the most direct route out and the only way he knew for sure would take him out of town. Getting stuck in dead ends or cul-de-sacs on side streets was the last thing he needed at the moment.
* * *
Alexandra stood in her dining room, still dressed in her nightgown, staring out the patio window at the trees bordering her back
yard. Gretchen sat at the table behind her, leaning back and absentmindedly bobbing her crossed leg. They waited for news while the twins led the search for Wilder.
“I can’t believe he hasn’t been found yet,” Gretchen commented in her impatience.
“I can’t believe you let him get away,” Alexandra responded.
“We may have had him if not for your interference!”
“Relax, Gretchen. It was just an observation. What’s done is done, and he isn’t going anywhere.”
“Still. I’m not sure Sebastian will be so forgiving.”
“You let me take care of Sebastian. And Wilder. As long as he’s alive, we won’t have any problems.”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.”
For a time they waited in silence. Alexandra continued to stare out the window, and Gretchen fidgeted impatiently.
“The crows are dead,” Alexandra stated. “He’s killed them both.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you feel it?”
Gretchen shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention.” She didn’t dare tell Alexandra she hated projecting into the birds, or even the cats for that matter. She felt a slave to their instincts whenever she did so, terrified she would become too wrapped up in the experience to withdraw again.
“He’ll escape again.” Alexandra turned from the window and sat down across from Gretchen.
“What a pain in the ass this man has become! It better be worth the bother.”
“Don’t worry,” she said with a smirk. “It will be well worth it.”
“It had better be.”
“I’m going up to get dressed.”
Gretchen watched the slender woman leave the room and head upstairs. She sighed impatiently. Why did Alexandra and Sebastian have to be so mysterious all the time? The even kept the other members of the Inner Circle in the dark to their plans much of the time. She hated letting her fate rest in the hands of others. Fortunately, so far she had no complaints.
So far.
But she dared not speak out. Sebastian taught Alexandra things no other witch knew, making her the strongest in the coven. Gretchen could not quite be sure love had anything to do with it, as he didn’t limit his sexual appetite only to Alexandra. She just seemed to be his favorite.
But nobody could understand why. What made her so special. Her looks? Most would argue the twins were easily more attractive. Her mind? Her intelligence, to some, was debatable as well.
She formed a possible explanation from a snippet of conversation the two of them shared in the temple one evening the previous summer. They discussed children, and frequently made mention of a bloodline and ancestry the two of them shared. But far more interesting was Sebastian’s age: over four hundred years old.
She knew Sebastian practiced powerful magics, and no doubt that contributed to his extraordinary longevity. But could incest explain his fondness for Alexandra? Not necessarily, given the vast span of years between their births.
Their practice of infanticide proved an even stronger argument against this theory. Though they worked hard to conceal it from the rest of the coven, even the Inner Circle, most everyone knew Alexandra had at least one child, and probably more.
Nobody ever saw them alive.
Finally Alexandra came back downstairs. Not exactly dressed to kill, she changed into comfortable jeans, a white shirt, a denim vest, and high-topped sneakers. “I planned on a simple summer dress,” she said as she approached the table. “But things have changed. We may be chasing Mister Wilder ourselves.”
“What do you mean?” Gretchen asked.
“Our friends have failed. Give me a hand with something.”
Gretchen shrugged. “Sure.”
She followed Alexandra into the kitchen, where they retrieved a roll of large garbage bags from the pantry. They then went out into the two car garage. Alexandra’s convertible occupied one space, the other empty while the Camaro parked at the curb out front. They laid out the garbage bags in a wide area in the empty space. Alexandra then activated the garage door. With a clank, the chain drive pulled the heavy door up just in time for a station wagon to back into the drive. Alexandra stopped them on the driveway.
“Set her on the bags,” she told the women in the passenger seats.
“Yes, mistress,” Janet replied. She opened the back of the station wagon. Inside young Betty lay unconscious from shock. Her right leg bled profusely from a gunshot wound through the knee. Janet and two other women carried her as gently as possible out of the wagon and into the garage. They laid her in the center of the bags as directed.
Alexandra crouched over Betty and carefully examined the wound. Betty stirred but did not awaken. “I’ll be right back.” She went into the kitchen, leaving the two women to fidget beneath Gretchen’s steady glare.
“He has my car,” Janet informed her. “A gray Monte Carlo. We told our sisters and the sheriff is looking for him as well.”
“How did he get your car?” Gretchen asked pointedly.
Janet averted her gaze. “We were looking for him when the blackbirds found him in the cornfield. We followed him in, Betty stayed with the car. Wilder shot her and hotwired the car before we could get our hands on him.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Alexandra said as she returned. She laid several containers she retrieved from the kitchen beside Betty. Mindful of the blood, she set about the work of healing her leg.
The other witches watched in awe. Another exclusive trick, thought Gretchen. Alexandra’s nimble hands and careful applications of magic and materials helped to close the wound swiftly. The whole process took about ten minutes.
“She’ll be sore but her leg’s fine. Take her home when she comes to and dispose of these garbage bags. We’re going out.” Alexandra opened the other garage door and climbed into her Mustang.
Gretchen took shotgun, flashing a smug smile at the other women. They averted their eyes. “I take it we’re going to look for Wilder ourselves?”
“If you want something done right…” Alexandra stated.
* * *
Tim rounded a corner and saw Main Street meandering through the fields to the mountains. Another block and he would be home free. As he drew up next to the last pair of houses he floored the accelerator. The Monte Carlo responded instantly, the speedometer climbing swiftly. In seconds it neared the upper end of the scale.
“Home free!” Tim shouted out the window into the wind.
His hopes followed his words straight out the window. A tractor suddenly emerged from the corn on one side of the road, dragging a flatbed trailer loaded with bales of hay directly into his path. From the opposite side a massive threshing machine appeared and blocked the other half of the road. A handful of women came wandering out behind each machine.
“God damn it!” Tim cried. He hit the brakes with both feet. The tires screeched, the rubber melting away as the car slid across the pavement at nearly one hundred miles an hour. He got down to forty when the left rear tire blew out, forcing him to wrestle with the wheel to maintain control. The car bounced off the road and down to the field, slashing through row after row of corn. He lost sight of the women but knew they had to already be moving in on him. He reached for the gun in the passenger seat but it disappeared during the rough ride. He didn’t see it on the floor, either, and guessed it must have slid off the side of the seat or fell beneath it.
“Perfect!” he shouted as he burst from the car and dove through the corn. His pocketful of bullets bounced and clinked uselessly. Within seconds he heard the women reach the car behind him.
“Spread out,” one woman commanded. “We’ve got him now!”
* * *
Alexandra and Gretchen watched events unfold from a hillock across the field. Gretchen paced back and forth before the car while Alexandra leaned against the driver’s side quarterpanel, her face pensive. Finally the gray Monte came streaking into view as predicted. The other witches responded with admirable patience
and broke cover at just the right time. Even from their relatively distant vantage point the two women heard the squealing tires and the blowout. They watched him bounce off the road and plow through the cornfield toward them.
“Go,” Alexandra commanded the four ravens perched on her windshield frame. With loud, gleeful caws they flew into the air and fanned out to locate their quarry.
Calmly, Alexandra walked down the hill and motioned for Gretchen to follow. The two women stepped into the cornfield with confidence, Alexandra keeping a close eye on the blackbirds.
* * *
Tim sprinted through the rows of corn, shielding his face with both forearms.
“This definitely isn’t my year,” he muttered. With all the noise he made he was not able to hear the women behind him. He instead relied on pure instinct to carry him safely away. He spotted the birds circling overhead and ducked lower, trying to stay out of their line of sight.
He brushed aside a stubborn stand of corn and nearly collided with a woman with long, dark hair. He dug in his heels to stop, slipped through the loose earth, and fell on his butt. All around him the sound of approaching women closed in. The dark-haired woman stood over him, looking him up and down. A faint smile touched her lips.
“Hello, Timothy. You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.”
His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. He recognized her immediately, the memory of the waiter worshiping her foot (and consequently being kicked) flashed before his eyes.
“Ah, shit…”
Her smile broadened. “Good night, sweetheart.” She raised her hand and he focused on the gesture. A soft, pulsing light fluttered in her palm. It detached itself and floated toward him, enveloping his senses, encasing him in warmth. His body felt distant, his mind hazy, and at last he lost consciousness altogether.
Chapter Nine
Tim came to slowly, each of his senses taking their time to register. His skin prickled into gooseflesh at the exposure to cool, damp air, and he lay on something soft, perhaps a bed mattress. The sheets lay bunched at the foot of the bed. The air smelled musty, but with a hint of vanilla. A sound like soft slaps neared his side. Footfalls? He strained his ears and between his own breaths he heard the soft exhale of another person.
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