by Anthony Izzo
Glock in hand, he made himself move ahead. He took out the flashlight with his free hand. He opened the barn door. A small dust cloud kicked up. He looked inside and pointed the beam.
He saw the girl’s face, looking at him upside down. Bruised and bloody, the mouth open, the eyes bulging, he couldn’t tell if it was Tina or Maura. The girl’s back arched where the sharpened stick jutted from her belly. There were others. He trained the light on each of them. The other Littles had been impaled on spears, slick fluid running down the poles accompanied by the smells of blood and shit.
He ran to his car and got on the radio. As he sat in the car and called into headquarters, he saw the cloud. Black as the sky around it, rolling backward across the cornfield behind the barn. Never seen anything like that before.
Now, he leaned on his patrol car, which was parked at the end of the Littles’ driveway. He crossed his arms and watched the assortment of news vans parked across the road.
A good looking, dark-haired woman, whose last name he thought was Olivencia, a TV reporter, crossed the road and came toward him. Her skirt was just short enough to give you a glimpse of thigh, and she took long strides on long legs.
“Excuse me, Officer ...”
“McPherson. And you need to go back across the road.”
“Just one question.”
“Please go back.”
She stepped in close to him. She had on some good-smelling perfume, that was for sure.
“If I could just ask one question.”
“You can try.”
“Is it true what the papers are printing? About the way they died?”
Rollie stooped down low, until his head was right at her ear level. “You didn’t hear this from me. They were all impaled, even the family dog, and Ms. Olivencia? If I live to be ninety-eight, I’ll never forget the sight of those little girls with their mouths in a permanent scream.” He stood upright, and glancing at the reporter, he noticed her pretty brown skin had turned a shade lighter.
Dave got up and shut the door to the furnace room. He wished he had his Smith & Wesson with him, but it was at home in his dresser drawer.
The Reverend took off his glasses and hung them on his shirt pocket. “You should get home and check on Sara.”
“But you agree, it was the Dark Ones.”
Reverend Frank stroked his mustache. “It was Them, and yes, they are sending us a message. We have to get to Buffalo. I’ll contact Charles.”
“What will you tell the congregation?”
“Sabbatical. Us ministers work other days but Sunday, you know. We need our rest.”
“I thought that was the greatest job in the world, work one day a week. That and the garbageman.”
Reverend Frank stood up. “We’ll need to notify the others.”
“The Dark Ones will be looking for Sara,” Dave said. “I’ve got the .357 at home, and I could pick up a shotgun for some extra pop.”
Reverend Frank grinned. “You think that will do much good?”
“It will slow them down, draw less attention than the Light.”
“You have any loose ends to tie up?” the Reverend asked.
David thought for a moment. He was so used to moving Sara around the country that he never really had any obligation to anyone but her. Packing up and leaving would not be a problem. “I told Mrs. Hannity I’d replace the trap on her sink, but she’ll have to wait.”
“We could be gone ... a long time.”
“How will Sandra react?”
“Probably worry. She still thinks we have poker games down here and I don’t want the parishioners seeing.”
“She’s never even gotten a hint of what we’re up to?”
Reverend Frank shook his head.
Frank had concealed the true nature of the meetings. David had managed to keep Sara in the dark as well until recently, when Sara had started asking questions about her mother; David told Sara her mother died in childbirth. He kept photos around of Janine Coldgrass, one of his old girlfriends. She had dark hair and blue eyes like Sara, and it wasn’t too far of a stretch to imagine her as Sara’s mom.
“We can take my truck. Meet you here in an hour?” Dave asked.
CHAPTER 2
“When will you be back?” Robbie asked.
Sara Dresser looked at her boyfriend and smiled. She loved the way his hair spiked up in back, the way his varsity football jacket slouched on his frame, the way he kept pushing his glasses up onto his nose. She loved holding his hand and driving in his beat-up Escort, the White Stripes blasting on the stereo. And she hated that she had to leave him.
“Don’t know.” She picked up her bag and exited the glass doors of the bus terminal. Outside, several Greyhound buses were parked at an angle, engines rumbling. She smelled diesel fumes in the air, and every once in a while, air brakes hissed and one of them pulled out.
“What will I tell your dad?”
“Tell him I’m on a bus headed toward Buffalo. By the time he catches up to me, maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for.”
“Sara, I mean, Jesus. It’s dangerous out there. What if some creep on the bus takes an interest in you?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “And why would they do that?”
He smiled and said, “Because you’re so fine.”
She wanted to grab him and plant a kiss on him right now, but it would make things harder. It might make her decide to get in his Escort and drive back home and tell Dad what a mistake she made. “Wouldn’t you want to find your mom if you could?”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Do you care if I find her?” Sara asked.
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“Then you’ll let me go. And try holding off on telling my dad. He’ll call you, though, soon enough.”
Robbie slipped up beside her and put his arm around her. She put his arm around his waist, slid it under the jacket and his shirt, and rubbed his lower back.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Robbie said.
Thank God I could. And I love you for it, she thought. Sometimes she loved him so bad it ached. “Thanks for bringing me.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You know where to find this woman?”
“Got the name and address in my bag.”
A bus rolled into the terminal parking lot and Sara saw BUFFALO on the sign over the windshield. She and Robbie stepped back and the bus pulled into the space. Now, more passengers had crowded around them, among them a tall elderly man with a cane and a heavyset woman who held the hand of a little girl with pigtails. The bus driver, clad in a blue cable-knit sweater and brown slacks, stepped down from the bus. “We board now for Buffalo, folks.”
He proceeded to the side of the bus, where he opened up the luggage storage compartments. Sara rolled her suitcase over and placed it in a pile with other bags. She kept a carry-on duffel that had her cash, some CDs, an iPod, and most important, the printouts and articles she had found on Laura Pennington.
She returned from setting the bag down and now she looked at Robbie, who stood with his hands in his pockets. God, she loved him. It filled her up, ate her up. She thought about him in the shower, before bed, at the breakfast table, and especially in Mr. Montoya’s social studies class, or the vortex of eternal damnation, as she liked to think of it.
She moved in close to him and said, “Thanks for the ticket, too.”
“Be careful. And call me when you can.”
She kissed Robbie quickly and then wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. The wool letterman’s jacket scratched her cheek, but she wanted to stay there. A moment later, she let go and stepped back from him.
“Miss you,” he said.
“Miss you, too,” she said.
She turned around, afraid that she might lose her courage. The bus driver had loaded up the bags and now stood at the door to the bus. Sara handed him her ticket; he looked it over, nodded, and gave it back to her.
She b
oarded the bus and took a window seat halfway down on the right. She set her bag on the seat and took off the suede jacket she was wearing. Looking up, she saw Robbie, who gave her a forlorn wave and then walked toward the bus terminal looking like he had a cannonball on each shoulder.
Poor Robbie. I’ll be back. But Robbie didn’t seem convinced.
Sara settled in to her seat, clutching her bag. So far, only four others had gotten on the bus: the old guy with the cane, the heavyset woman and her pigtailed daughter, and a young black guy in chinos and a Duke T-shirt. They all took seats to the rear of hers, and for that she was relieved. She didn’t want company.
The bus backed out, and she watched the terminal roll away. She had twelve hours of watching brown and green farmland ahead of her, so she decided to try sleeping, but after leaning her head against the window, all she got was a stiff neck. Instead she unzipped her bag and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline read: LOCAL DOCTOR OFFERS SUMMER SAFETY TIPS FOR KIDS. She looked at Dr. Pennington’s picture. That was a beautiful woman. If the boys at Lexington Senior High could see Dr. Pennington, they would forget chasing slutty Gina Trask. They’d probably all willingly get in line for hernia exams if Dr. Pennington was the school doctor.
She supposed she had some of the doctor’s good looks. The blue eyes, the kind of shiny black hair that only seemed to exist in shampoo commercials—although Sara always kept hers in a ratty ponytail. She liked comfortable and casual. Today, she had thrown on a pink T-shirt and olive drab cargo pants. Robbie was always pointing out clothes that he thought would look good, but usually required showing more cleavage than a Pam Anderson poster.
No, she could not completely match Dr. Pennington’s good looks. She tucked the article back in the bag.
It was more than the article, though. it was the letter, folded in thirds and written on yellow stationery. That was what drove her to head for Buffalo. The words in the letter echoed in her mind: Laura must never know that Sara is her daughter.
After locking up the church and bidding David farewell, Reverend Frank hurried through the parsonage. In his bedroom he took out a black suitcase and stuffed in pants, shirts, underwear, socks, deodorant, his toothbrush, his Bible with the gold leaf on the front, and a spare ball cap. He zipped the bag up and set it next to the bed.
The weight of his duty began to hit him. Guardian. Of the earth and God’s kingdom. They had a mission to fulfill: Use the Everlight to kill Engel and prevent the forces of hell from claiming the earth. But could they do it? The Everlight gave the Guardians their power, and it was a formidable weapon, but he still felt small compared with the size of the task ahead. It was a task better suited to angels, but unlike Christ, Frank could not call down twelve legions of them to fight the Dark Ones. It was the duty of the Guardians alone.
He proceeded to dial the number for the Disciples’ Church in Hooverville, one town over.
Samuel Mansfield, the pastor at Hooverville, picked up.
“Sam, Frank Heatly here.”
“How are you?”
“I need a favor.”
Mansfield chuckled. “You ever call me any other time?”
“Can you cover my ten o’clock service?”
“Next Sunday?”
“I was thinking the next four Sundays.”
“Everything okay?”
“It’s a bit of an emergency, family thing.”
“June’s cancer come back? Anything I can do?”
“Nah, Junie’s fine. Back to being a big sister, nagging me about my weight and all. So what do you say?”
“Can I go over the limit, say fifteen minutes?”
Rule breaker. Any more than ten minutes at the pulpit and you’re giving a sermon to zombies. “At your own risk, my friend.”
“I’ll chance it.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
I wish there was. “Appreciate it.”
He said good-bye and hung up the phone. When he turned, Sandra stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She eyed the bag, and then Frank. “What’s this?”
“That’s a suitcase, my dear.”
“I know that,” she said. “Where are you going with it?”
“I have to leave.”
“You won a cruise and didn’t tell me?”
Frank took a steno pad and pen from the nightstand, flipped open the pad, and sat on the bed. “Wish that were the case.”
He began writing a general letter to the parish, which he had composed in his head while on the phone with Sam.
“Come on, Frank, what is it?”
“You’ll need to tell the parish I’m taking a sabbatical.” Sandra stepped forward. She peered over, trying to get a look at what he was writing. “They have to vote on that. Your sabbatical.”
“It’s for emergency reasons. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Are you wearing that hat too tight?” she asked.
“My mental state is undiminished, I assure you.”
“What about services?”
“Mansfield is covering for me. Hopefully he won’t put them to sleep with his sermon.”
Sandra nodded. “He has been known to be a bit dry.”
“Dear, the Gobi Desert is dry. That man is parched and cracked.”
She sat on the bed next to him. “Is it June? Is she sick?”
Frank shook his head.
“Are you sick, do you not want to tell me?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“Your cholesterol is two hundred and thirty.”
“Cholesterol is a state of mind.”
“Not according to your last blood test,” Sandra said.
He signed his name at the bottom of the note, tore the sheet from the pad, and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly and read it over. Then she said, “What will I tell people?”
“Just as the note says. Something urgent has come up and hopefully I will return to worship with them as soon as possible. The church is in good hands. The Elders will take care of things.”
“You still haven’t told me what this is about.”
And I’m not going to, he thought. If he showed her that article about the massacre in Iowa, and then told her it was somehow related to his trip, she would put a padlock on the front door. “Urgent business.”
“You’re not gambling, are you?” Sandra said. “Have you gone beyond poker? You can tell me.”
Frank turned to her. He placed his hands on her bony shoulders. He saw moisture in her eyes and it felt like hell seeing tears and knowing he caused them.
“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”
He leaned forward and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “I love you. And I hope so.”
“Frank?”
Had to be honest, didn’t you? “I have every intention of coming back.”
“What if something breaks, the hot water tank goes, or that roof starts leaking again, you know, near the chimney?”
He patted her on the leg. “Millard’s number is in the black phone book in the drawer. For you, he’ll be here at a moment’s notice.”
“If he answers his phone.”
“Be nice.”
“Will you at least tell me where you’re going to be?”
No harm in telling her that. “Buffalo, New York.”
Her face twisted up, and seeing that stung him. He may as well have said one of the moons of Jupiter.
“What’s in Buffalo?”
He could tell her everything. About the Enemy, about the murders in Iowa and how it connected, about David and the other Guardians, and the girl, but it was too late and he had a long road ahead. Besides, she wouldn’t believe him. She’d think he had seen it on the X-Files and chalk it up to his overactive imagination.
“I hear they have good chicken wings,” he said, and stood up.
Sandra stood, too. She placed her hand in the center of his chest. “Is there—is there someone else?”
Frank sh
ook his head. He was ripping her apart. He had to get out of here. She had that worried look again, the same one that had stayed etched on her face the time his appendix burst and the resulting infection and fever burned through him. But she had never left his hospital bed, and here he was, ducking out with almost no explanation.
“No one else. Just something I have to do.”
With that, he leaned forward and kissed her, and to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his and kissed him long and hard. He tasted apple cinnamon tea on her lips; as she drew away, she said, “I’m scared.”
She worried too much. Every plane trip was sure to end with a 747 going into the Atlantic, every road trip to a neighboring church might turn into a fiery wreck. He needed to reassure her. “I’ll be home before you know it.”
“And that will be?” Sandra said.
“Just as soon as I can.”
Mike O’Donnell took a drag on his Kool and blew smoke into the air. From his Monte Carlo, he looked up at the Hark Company’s warehouse. A forklift was parked out front, and next to it was a stack of pallets. He watched the big roll-up door, now sprayed with green and pink graffiti. He glanced at his watch. He was early for the meeting with Hark. If he’d showed up late, Hark wouldn’t have seen him.
He rolled down the window, tapped ash from the cigarette. The fishy smell from the lake wafted into the car.
The mechanical whirr of an unseen motor sounded, and with a creak the warehouse door was raised. The tallest guy Mike had ever seen stood in the doorway. He stretched, revealing a wingspan like a cargo plane. He approached the car, his slick bald head gleaming. Hark must’ve started hiring movie monsters.
The man reached the driver’s side, and Mike was eye-level with the guy’s waist. The man crouched down. Mike looked into pale gray eyes, as flat and dull as a razor blade.
“Mr. O’Donnell?”
“Yeah.”
“Step out of the car,” he said in a flat tone.
Mike got out of the car, wishing he had his .45 on him, but the piece was in the glove box. Hark would have him patted down anyway.
Mike stood chest high on the guy. Right now he was looking at the man’s red tie. The rest of his outfit was black: suit, shirt, and shoes. Mike looked up and said, “You going to a funeral or something?”
