by Mike Duran
Tamra watched him intently, as if she were the one intuiting his soul.
“They named me Zephaniah because of the prophet. ‘Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit, says the Lord.’ That’s how it reads in the Bible, in the Book of Zephaniah. Apparently my mother was infertile. They tried for years and finally gave up hope. After much soul-searching, my mother abandoned hope. Shortly after that, she was impregnated with twins. She believed it was a total miracle.”
“So you have a twin brother?”
“Well, I did. He died when he was young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Being an only child ruined me for life.”
She smiled and shook her head.
They stood for a moment listening to the crickets, watching the fog gather under the glow of the street lamp.
“Well,” Zeph rubbed his hands on his thighs, “I suppose I should go.”
“So you’re really going up there tomorrow?”
“I don’t know what else to do, Tam. I’ve done my best to hide, and obviously that hasn’t worked. In a way, I just don’t feel like I have a choice.”
“Like my grandma said, we always have a choice. But if it’s any consolation, I think going up there is probably the right one.”
“Well, if I come back all glassy-eyed and zombie-like—”
“Don’t say that.” Then she opened the gate and started to walk her scooter through it while Zeph turned to leave.
“Hey,” Tamra said.
Zeph turned.
Her hair was shimmering again. “Be careful, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Zeph fired up the truck and watched Tamra walk to the house. He was feeling a little buzzed from their conversation. Yet something else was brewing inside him. As Zeph prepared to drive away, he could hear Dieter from inside the house, yelling with gleeful abandon. “Tamra’s gotta boyfriend! Tamra’s gotta boyfriend!”
But at the moment Zeph wondered whether or not either of them would live to test that theory.
Chapter 44
Zeph arrived home from Tamra’s after 1:00 a.m. The silver moon had arced its way into the western precipice and peeked sporadically from behind a net of slow-moving clouds. The wind had died, leaving the air still and pockets of fog roiling in the shadows. He parked the truck under the carport, got out, and stood listening.
The foothills loomed dark and mysterious, and the downtown lights cast a luminescent afterglow across the belly of the cloud cover. It felt like any other night—the chill of a dying summer, the smell of mold and decaying blossoms, fireplaces springing to life, the barking of toads as they prepared for winter hibernation. Yet the world had changed, changed in ways no one could imagine. He thought about the residents of Marvale sleeping soundly, the deserted streets, the lonely truckers hauling their loads along the 395. Did any of them know what was going on, what lurked in the shadows of Endurance? Perhaps a better question … how many of them were still human?
Zeph sighed deeply. It sounded so loony! He thought about Silverton and Otta’s Rift, once nothing more than legends to him. How could he possibly be connected to these tales? The anticipation of hiking to the old mine in the foothills, and what he might encounter, had diffused a nervous energy inside him. If he had not seen it with his own eyes, Zeph would dismiss it as madness. But he had seen it with his own eyes, which made him all the more confounded.
Zeph walked into the yard, his mind careening under the weight of it all, when a voice sounded from behind him.
“You ever tried her jelly?”
Zeph spun to see two dark figures on the porch, one rocking in the swing, the other leaning against the house.
Oddly, at that moment, Zeph realized it was finally time he fixed his porch light.
“Cactus jelly, in particular, is one of my favorites.” It was Detective Lacroix. He motioned to the area where Mila’s fruit stand stood. “Who knew that such a cantankerous organism could yield such a delicacy?”
Zeph’s heart pounded. He peered at the shadowy forms. Seeing the dark angel had impregnated his imagination with questions and innumerable horrid possibilities. How did he know these men were who they said they were? Zeph forced himself not to look away.
But all he got was static.
“Mila’s cactus jelly’s wonderful,” Zeph said. “And reasonably priced.”
“Yum!” Lacroix smacked his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ like a well-made cactus jelly.”
Zeph did not reply. The other figure on the porch was large. An ornate belt buckle reflected a glimmer from the streetlight. Chat.
Nevertheless, Zeph sensed something had changed about the detectives.
“I don’t know what strings you have pulled, young man—” Lacroix rose from the swing with a grunt. “—but we are officially off your case.”
“What?”
Chat spoke from the shadows. “The Feds got jurisdiction. Took the body and told us to take a hike.”
Zeph shook his head dully, trying to comprehend this information. Was this some ploy, some sort of misdirection? “I–I don’t understand, sir. Why would they do that?”
“Our question exactly.” Lacroix walked down the steps into the dim moonlight. He smelt of liquor—peppermint schnapps—and his cologne had given way to the funk of day-old dried sweat. “Our superiors are mum on the matter. However, this would not be the first time the United States government did something that left me thoroughly baffled.”
Chat harrumphed. “Prob’ly won’t be the last, either.”
Their conversation with Little Weaver about NOVEM and the military’s interest in the electromagnetic anomaly immediately came to mind. Yet Zeph played dumb.
“I don’t—” Zeph ran his fingers through his hair. “Why would they take the body? And what does the government have to do with this?”
“They ain’t sayin’,” Chat growled.
Lacroix nodded. “And ridin’ in on horseback to snatch away such evidence, in mid-investigation, leaves one wondering as to the government’s underlying motivations. Or complicity. Especially when so much else is unfolding.”
Zeph peered at Lacroix. “Like what?”
Lacroix stroked his chin. “Somethin’ along the lines of hysteria has affected a sizable portion of the populace. Seems that not a few folks believe that a relative or significant other,” he glanced at Chat, “has changed. And whoever—or whatever—that person at the morgue actually was, the remains have been taken by a rather shifty-lookin’ agent who thanked us for our professionalism before discarding us like an empty bottle of whiskey. Now all traces of the acquisition of said remains have been expunged from our records. Which means, unless you have a hotline to some bureaucrat or military big-shot and know somethin’ you ain’t sayin’, that thing that went down the other day—” Lacroix shrugged. “—it never happened.”
Zeph shook his head. “I had nothing to do with this, sir.”
The detectives studied him.
“Truth be told,” Lacroix said, “I believe you.”
The detective reached the gate and turned around. “We did, however, manage to salvage one piece of evidence before the Feds snatched John Doe.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a clear plastic bag with a small item wedged in its corner.
Zeph wasn’t sure if he could handle any more revelations. Nevertheless, he approached the detective, peering at the small, round object.
“Apparently it was not a bullet that killed your twin.” Lacroix handed the bag to Zeph. “It was this.”
Even in the dim moonlight Zeph could tell what he was looking at.
“For lack of better words,” Lacroix said, “it is a wooden musket shell, a projectile from a small powder firearm. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Our forensics guys swear that the material comprising this slug,” he retrieved the bag from Zeph and gazed at it, “is not from this planet.”
Lacroix returned the bag to his coat pocket, motioned to his partner, and opened the gate. “A
nd here I was looking forward to a speedy, if not slightly ambiguous, resolution. But as it stands, mass delusions are sweeping our fair city, the doppelgänger at the morgue never existed, and we are back to investigatin’ domestic abuse, cannabis possession, and shoplifting.”
Zeph watched them leave, feeling rather lost. He didn’t know what was worse: having a government official suddenly inserted into this process or having A. J. Lacroix and Chat Chavez removed from it.
As Chat passed, he stopped and eyed at Zeph from under his cowboy hat. “And in case you haven’t figgered it out, someone’s got their eye on you.”
“Someone pretty powerful, at that.” Lacroix squinted. “Roth’s his name. Gotta boatload of credentials and a scowl that could kill a Gila monster. Keep an eye out. Just don’t say we warned you.”
Lacroix held the gate open as Chat ducked under the arbor and left. “And if you would be so kind, young man, as to tell your neighbor over there that I will return to secure a jar of cactus jelly at a future date, I would be obliged.” Lacroix pointed to Mila’s house.
Zeph followed the direction of his gesture and was startled to see Mila Rios standing behind her screen door in her nightgown.
“I–I’ll do that,” Zeph muttered, fixated upon Mila’s presence.
The detectives left the yard and crossed under the lamplight. Zeph had not noticed their car parked across the street. They got in, turned on the lights, and drove slowly back through a growing fog, straying in front of the Vermont before speeding off.
Mila remained unmoving behind her screen door.
A great foreboding grew inside him. Mila was never up this late. By 6:00 a.m. her oven was on, and the smell of pastries greeted the neighborhood. Yet this wasn’t like her. Without thinking, Zeph wandered out his gate, past the white picket fence, and entered Mila’s yard.
Jamie was nowhere to be found.
“Mila?”
She stood ghostlike, her pale figure silhouetted behind the screen door.
“Mila, are you all right?” Zeph wandered past the empty fruit stand and climbed her front porch. He stood at her door, gazing at her.
Mila spoke, her voice but a wisp. “It was like a dream, Zeph.”
“What was like a dream?” He took hold of the handle and drew the door open.
Down the street a dog barked.
“Like part of me just drifted off. Like I was disappearing before my very eyes.”
“Mila, you’re scaring me. “Zeph pulled the screen all the way open. “What are you talking about?”
“I looked in the mirror, just to make sure.” She gazed at Zeph, but her eyes were flat. “And she was gone.”
“Mila, it’s late. You’re tired, or—”
“I’m wide awake, Zeph. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive in my life.” A smile grew across her face, stretching her cheekbones to the point of clownish mockery.
Zeph’s stomach dropped.
“Mila, listen to me. Do you remember yesterday, you said if I needed anything, you’d do it?”
Her smile remained fixed, but her eyes disengaged.
“Mila, right now I need you … I need you to hold on. The shadows, they’re … you can’t listen to them. Hold on. Do you hear me?”
He seized her arm. Its coldness shocked him. The dark angel writhing atop him sprung into his mind. He gasped. Whoever this person was, it was not Mila Rios.
She looked at his hand gripping her and then smiled. “Hold on.” The words seemed nonsensical in her mouth. “Hold on. Do you hear me?”
She was mocking him.
And as she spoke, her breath struck him, vile and foul. A rancid gust of air wheezed from the woman’s mouth. Then she smiled, and her eyes gleamed phosphorescent amber.
Zeph stumbled back. “No! God, no!” He let the door slam, flailing to steady himself lest he topple off the porch.
Mila—or the thing that was her—laughed.
“Hold on. Do you hear me?” Her voice was mocking, oscillating through her vocal range. “Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Hold on.”
Zeph stumbled down the steps and ran from the dark angel.
He stammered through his gate and fell to the dirt, sobbing.
Jamie was howling in back of Mila’s house. Zeph knew what was buried there. He staggered to his feet and stared at his darkened home. What lurked inside? Another demon perhaps, waiting to pounce upon him? The shadows seemed to pulsate pure evil.
He found his keys, unlocked Book Swap, and staggered inside like a drunken man.
Insane with grief.
He turned on the light, locked the door, and fell, crying, as the gray ceiling wheeled overhead, turning his world ever darker.
PART THREE
THE TELLING
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
—SHAKESPEARE
But if I say, “I will not mention him or speak any more in his name,” his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.
—JEREMIAH 20:9
Chapter 45
Mother! It’s not like that!” Zephaniah wrestled the tie loose and whipped it out from under the stiff collar. He hated those starched shirts, but he couldn’t tell Belle that. In fact, there were a lot of things he couldn’t tell Belle Walker.
Like about Kim Daschle.
She was twelve, like Zephaniah, and did not seem fazed by his extracurricular activities. Boy prophet or not, Kim saw Zephaniah for what he was—a boy. That was something other folks just seemed to miss. If they weren’t looking cockeyed at him, they were wanting a performance. Not Kim. Her eyes were blue, like his mother’s. But that’s where their similarities ended.
His mother closed the door to the church dressing room and stood with her back to it. “Son, there’s people out there that have come for God’s Word. We can’t just leave them.”
Steely. Intense. Zephaniah got lost in those eyes. Yet behind them was something else … something he feared.
He dabbed sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Acne dotted his forehead, evidence of adolescence. He had spoken healing to a girl with a fever once. Then there was Lance McGrew, the Archer’s farmhand, whom Zephaniah once watched cough out a spirit of fear. Yet despite these miraculous events, Zephaniah couldn’t keep himself from getting acne.
He did not want to look at his mother, so he turned to the vanity.
“It isn’t there.” He removed his cuff links. “The Telling is not there, mother. I can’t just—I can’t just make something up.”
He looked at her reflection in the mirror.
“Of course not!” She scowled, and then her features softened. “But sometimes, son, you can say what you think it might be.”
Zephaniah peered at her for a long moment, letting that notion register. Finally, he shook his head. “It’s not the same. They’ll think what I’m saying is God’s Word. And it isn’t. It’s … my word. Or somethin’ like it. I can’t—we can’t—go that way.”
She walked over, knelt next to him, and took his hands in hers. Her fingers were long and agile, like those of a watchmaker or artisan. Indeed, she was able to adjust and tinker with the machinery of his soul. She squeezed his hands and summoned his gaze. Belle did this when she wanted her son’s attention. Zephaniah had begun to wonder if it was manipulative, even though he felt guilty thinking that.
“Zephaniah, you know I’m not asking you to lie. I would never do that.” She glanced at the door. “But son, we have to eat. Your father, he … you know we can’t rely on him. You know that. And the Good Lord, He doesn’t want us to starve. Now, does He?”
He shook his head.
“Of course not! Now, look at me. Pastor Wyler is a good man. You can sense that, can’t you?”
Zephaniah nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “He is a good man. And he tends to a good flock. These are hardworkin’ folks. But tonight they’re here to see you. You, Zephaniah. You can’t just walk away
. You can’t just leave them with nothing. You’ve got to tell them something.” She stood and straightened, looking very stately. “Even if it’s not the Telling. Even if the heavens are silent. Somethin’s still got to be said.”
Zephaniah stared, not wanting to concede.
She could sense his resistance. She always could. “Pastor Wyler has to stand up and speak God’s Word every Sunday, son, whether or not he got the revelation.”
“That’s not the same, mother.” Zephaniah pushed himself away from the vanity. “They think I’m … I’m perfect. That everything I say is God’s Word.”
Her gaze flinched, and she glanced at the door again.
“Son, word is going around that the boy prophet has lost his power. We just ain’t getting the folks in like we used to. You noticed that.”
He nodded.
“That church in Red Creek—word is getting ’round that you walked off the stage.”
“What was I supposed to do?” He rose from the chair, nearly toppling it in his haste. “The Telling wasn’t there!”
“Yes, but … but now people are believin’ that you no longer have it. That God has up and abandoned us.” Her voice trembled, and he thought, for a moment, that she might cry. “And that’s just not the case. Is it?”
Zephaniah stared at his reflection in the mirror.
He looked like an old man, as if the ministry had drained him of his childhood. He’d missed playing down at the river and riding his bike up to Lost Lake. And despite his mother’s stern warnings, more than once he thought about Kim Daschle and her strawberry blonde hair.
“Is it, son?” His mother stepped closer, her eyes pleading. “The Telling is still with us. Isn’t it?”
Zephaniah unbuttoned his shirt and, without looking at her, said, “I don’t know.”
Chapter 46
Zeph woke with a start, although sleep was hardly the realm he had left. He was leaning against a bookshelf in the romance section, with his knees pulled up to his chest and fallen paperbacks scattered around him. The light was still on in the Book Swap. He shivered against the cold and worked a nasty crick out of his neck. Kim Daschle was on his mind, and, close by, the memory of his mother’s stern gaze brooded like a ghostly apparition.
