by Sam Best
She lightly slapped his hand away. “This food ain’t good until it’s been blessed.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table and looked at John. He rolled his eyes and folded his hands as well.
Annabelle seemed to enjoy the gesture and took special care with her fingers as she interlaced them and set her hands in her lap. Ben lowered his head.
“Lord,” said Heidi, “bless this food. Help it turn little Annabelle into big, strong Annabelle.” Ben’s daughter giggled at the mention of her name. “Help it keep John from turning into an even bigger John.” Ben smiled. “And help it make Benjamin irresistible to the right kind of woman.”
“Heidi!” said John.
“What?” she said innocently. “Girl needs a mother. Amen.”
Annabelle said her amen loudly with a meaningful nod and John mumbled his.
“Now,” said Heidi, “the potatoes are ready.”
Ben scooped out a large amount from the bowl. He dropped a little onto Annabelle’s plate before tapping the majority onto his own. There was also pork medallions, green beans, wild rice, and candied yams. Everyone took a little of each except Annabelle, who scrunched up her face at the offered yams.
They ate quietly but comfortably. Ben would occasionally look into the backyard through the large single-paned window behind the table, but the reflection from the chandelier made it impossible to see more than a few feet past the house.
After dinner, Ben insisted that John and Heidi relax and allow him to do the dishes. John went happily, Heidi reluctantly, but in the end they each poured a small glass of wine and sat on one of the couched in the living room while Ben cleared the dining room table.
Annabelle went upstairs and came back down a minute later, dragging her box of toys. She hauled it into the family room to show her Aunt and Uncle all of her various treasures.
Ben piled the dishes next to the sink and turned on the faucet. It took a minute before the water heated up, but once steam rose from the sink he plugged the drain and squirted a little dish soap into the bottom. He scrubbed one of the skillets and let his mind wander back to the woods earlier that day.
He followed Marissa as she ran away from him. She was wearing her favorite perfume; her scent lingered in his memory long after her image faded from his mind.
The faucet sputtered briefly and the stream of water slowed to a trickle. Ben stared at it, waiting for the full pressure to return. As he reached for the handle, the water turned from clear to dull red. It thickened until it looked exactly like blood and flowed from the faucet as if it were paint.
Ben quickly turned off the faucet but the blood continued to pour into the sink, thicker and thicker until it was a heavy stream of liquid shooting down into the soapy water. Ben closed his eyes and opened them but the blood did not disappear.
He tried to keep his voice steady. “John,” he called. “Could you come here for a second?”
John walked into the kitchen a moment later, wine glass in hand. “Make up your mind, kid. Do you want me to relax, or not?”
“Over here, please,” said Ben.
John walked over to the kitchen counter and looked down. Thick blood still seeped from the faucet, oozing into the quickly-filling sink.
“What the hell is that?” He held his finger under the red stream and then smelled the splotch of liquid on his fingertip. “Jesus. That’s blood.”
As soon as he said it, the stream stopped. The last few drops fell from the faucet into the sink. John stuck his hand into the liquid and pulled the drain.
“How does that happen?” said Ben.
John grabbed a hand towel from the counter next to the sink and wiped the blood from his hand. “Something’s stuck in the pipe, that’s all. We’ll take a look in the morning before we go back to find the girl.”
“Stuck in the pipe? Is that even possible?”
Before John could answer, they heard a loud metallic CLANG from the corner of the backyard. Ben froze and stared out the window over the sink. Light from the kitchen reached out over the grass for a few feet but stopped well short of the forest. Everything beyond the light was covered in shadow.
Another noise—the slow creak of a door swinging open.
“Something’s in the shed,” said Ben.
He and John ran into the family room to check on Heidi and Annabelle.
“What was that noise?” asked Heidi. She stood up as John grabbed the shotgun off the wall above the fireplace and snapped open the barrels. Ben lifted his daughter from the ground and handed her to Heidi. “Please take her upstairs and stay there until we come get you. Lock the door and stay quiet.”
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“Just go with Aunt Heidi now, sweetie. Daddy and Uncle John need to go outside for a minute.”
John pulled out an old shell from each barrel of the shotgun. The paper wrapping flaked away in his hands. “Don’t suppose you got any fresh ammo?”
Ben shook his head.
“Daddy, don’t hurt the wolfs!”
Heidi pressed Anna’s head to her shoulder and calmed her as she walked upstairs. Ben heard his old bedroom door close, then the sharp click of a lock.
“Well,” said John, “even an empty gun is something, at least.” He threw aside the useless ammunition and snapped the barrels closed before tossing the weapon over to Ben.
They moved quickly through the house to the kitchen door. Ben opened it as quietly as possible and then stopped. John grabbed the large knife Heidi had used to cut the pork; his knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle. They waited until they heard another noise from inside the shed before walking out into the backyard.
The damp grass cushioned their footsteps as they walked away from the house. The sagging shed sat next to the dense forest treeline and several large branches hung over the roof, shielding the structure from the moonlight and covering it in shadow.
As Ben and John moved closer to the shed, the noises stopped. Ben raised his shotgun and waited while John circled around to the side of the shed and pressed himself flat against the aluminum wall.
The door creaked open all the way and a thin black man stepped out into the yard. He wore reading glasses and carried a pack slung over one shoulder. His dark clothes were streaked with darker blood.
He saw Ben standing before him and turned to run.
“Don’t,” said Ben, raising the shotgun and aiming at the man’s face.
The intruder ignored the warning and ran around the side of the shed. John stuck out his foot and tripped him. As the man fell, John grabbed his shoulder and slammed him down to the ground on his stomach. Ben walked over and rested the end of the gun barrels into the center of the man’s back. John knelt down and pressed one of his knees against the man’s neck and held the knife in front of his eyes threateningly.
“Is this him?” said John. He leaned down and spoke into the man’s ear. “You hear me? You the one taking little girls and killing innocent people?”
The man breathed heavily. Sweat dripped down his face as he struggled against John’s knee. After a moment he relaxed and lay still.
“My name is Moses St. Croix,” he said. “And I haven’t killed anyone.”
18
Moses hadn’t driven a vehicle in more than fifteen years, ever since his first car was rear-ended as he pulled out of a grocery store parking lot. The damage had been absolute, and it would have cost him more to repair the car than it would have to buy a used vehicle. He took it as a sign and either walked, rode a bicycle, or utilized public transportation from that day on.
It bothered him sometimes—the lack of independence—but he found it rewarding in other ways. He never would have discovered the peace that walking in nature afforded if he still owned a car.
As he sat in the driver’s seat of Ben Howard’s Jeep, the business end of a shotgun pointed at his skull, he didn’t consider it a comfortable trip down memory lane. He drove slowly on the long, bumpy dirt road, leaning forward over the st
eering wheel in an attempt to see the path better in the dim yellow glow from the vehicle’s headlights.
Ben was in the back seat, the muzzle of his shotgun inches from the back of Moses’s head. Ben had taken the pastor’s green satchel and held it in his lap.
The phone inside Ben’s house had not yet been connected. Otherwise, he would have called the Sheriff’s Office and had one of the deputies drive out to pick up Moses.
One of the tires hit a pothole and the Jeep bounced up and down. Moses’s foot tapped the gas pedal a little too hard and the engine revved as the vehicle lurched forward.
“Easy,” said Ben from the back seat. “I take it you’re not much of a driver.”
Moses glared at him in the rearview mirror. What a waste of time. People were dying all over the city and now he had let himself get captured by a tourist; a non-resident who wanted to move to Falling Rock and infect it further with his secular nonsense.
“I doubt your weapon is even loaded,” said Moses.
Ben pushed the twin barrels of the shotgun into the back of Moses’s skull. “Take a wrong turn and find out.”
The Jeep rolled slowly up the side of the mountain and out of the valley. Moses’s sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel. He barely kept the engine above idle except on particularly steep stretches of road.
“You don’t look much like a killer,” said Ben.
“That’s because I’m not a killer. I’m a pastor.”
“Pastor? Of that church in the valley?” Ben’s tone was mocking. “You know you got a fire in the woods right next door.”
“It isn’t a fire.”
“No? What is it, then?” Ben stared at him in the mirror.
“You should let me go.”
“Should I?”
“You’re making a huge mistake. It’s out there right now, taking more people.”
“Listen,” said Ben. “I don’t know you. I don’t care if you’re a preacher or a fireman or the Pope himself. The sheriff’s dead and a little girl is missing. You have a lot of blood on your shirt and a nice deputy told me you did it. Shut up and drive.”
Moses drove. He could see the distant lights of Marcus’s gas station at the end of Main Street through the trees ahead.
He decided to try a different tactic.
“I saw the wolf prints outside your home.”
Ben shifted in the back seat but said nothing.
“They were everywhere. All around the house, right up to the porch. Big prints, bigger than they should have been.”
“It’s still the tail-end of wolf season,” said Ben.
Moses shook his head. “Wolves only come when there is game to hunt. When was the last time you saw a deer or even a squirrel?”
“You’re saying the wolves are hunting humans?”
“No. I’m saying they are not wolves.”
“Then what are they?” asked Ben.
Moses watched the road ahead. “Not ‘they’. It. There is only one.”
“Maybe you’d like to explain that a little more clearly.”
“You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself. Needless to say, your family is in grave danger.”
Ben pushed against Moses’s skull with the end of the shotgun. “You stay the hell away from my family.”
“It is not me you have to worry about. The thing that killed the sheriff is still out there, and the longer we wait, the stronger it gets.” Moses looked at him in the mirror. “You don’t believe, do you?”
“In what? In God?”
“In anything.”
Ben looked out the window.
“I believe in taking care of my family. And I believe that bad men deserve harsh punishment.”
“So why don’t you just shoot me?”
“Stop talking now,” said Ben. He tapped roughly against the back of Moses’s head with the muzzle of the shotgun to drive the point home.
* * *
Ben instructed Moses to park parallel to the front of the Sheriff’s Office so that his door opened directly toward the building. Moses did as he was told, then slowly turned off the engine and handed the keys to Ben.
“Stay put,” said Ben. He kept the shotgun aimed at Moses as he got out of the Jeep and shouldered the pack. He walked around to the driver’s door and opened it wide. “Let’s go.”
Moses raised his arms as he stepped out of the Jeep. Ben motioned toward the building with the gun and pressed it into Moses’s back as they walked inside.
Janet Hayes was sitting at her desk and sprang to her feet as soon as she saw Moses.
“You!” she said. She pointed her finger at him as she walked from around her desk. “You!” Her cheeks flushed red and she clenched her teeth and moved her lips as if she were trying to force out more words. Instead, she slapped Moses across the face and walked into the back room, slamming the door behind her.
“I guess nobody likes you around here,” said Ben. “Sit.” He pushed Moses down into a chair and walked over to a weapons locker. He pulled out the drawers of a cabinet underneath until he found a box of shotgun shells. He popped open the barrels of his shotgun near the handle and slid one slug into each chamber.
“It wasn’t even loaded!” said Moses, his face hot with anger.
“It is now,” said Ben as he snapped the barrels closed. He kept the gun aimed at Moses as he fumbled with a pair of handcuffs he found on Janet’s desk. “Put your hands through the holes in the chair.”
Moses put his arms behind his back and stuck his hands through two vertical gaps between supports in the chair. He interlaced his fingers as Ben put on the handcuffs.
“Now,” said Ben. “Let’s get some more of your fans up here so I can go home.”
He picked up the radio receiver on Janet’s desk and twisted the small volume knob on the dispatch radio. He pressed the transmit button and held the receiver to his mouth. “Hello? Anybody home?” He waited a moment. “Hello?”
The static clicked to silence right before a man spoke. “Who the hell is this?”
Moses recognized Walt Foster’s voice. Just what he needed: a racist with a badge.
“This is Ben Howard. I’m at the station. You sound really tired, Walt.” Ben seemed happy to have awoken him.
“Goddammit, Howard. That’s not a toy. Put Janet on the line.”
“She can’t talk right now. But I got someone else here I think you’ll want to have a conversation with.”
“Yeah, right. Who could possibly—” He stopped. Moses could sense the realization sweeping over Foster’s mind. “Are you shitting me, Howard? He’s really there?”
“He’s here. Gift-wrapped and waiting for you.”
“Five minutes,” said Foster. “Don’t you lose him.”
The line went silent.
“Please,” said Moses. “You don’t know how much he hates me.”
“I can guess,” said Ben.
“Not just for what he thinks I’ve done. It’s more than that—it’s beyond rational.”
Ben looked at him for a long moment. “I’m sorry. If you’re innocent like you say you are, then you have nothing to worry about.” He stood and went to the door to watch for Foster. “But, to me, it seems like you had it coming.”
Foster showed up three minutes later, breathing hard as he burst through the front door of the Sheriff’s Office. His shirt was wrinkled and tucked in haphazardly.
“Where is he?” He looked around wildly until his bloodshot eyes saw Moses. He grinned sharply, the corners of his mouth going up until his smile turned into a jackal’s grin. “Well, well. Pastor Moses!” He turned to Ben. “Nice work, Howard.”
“Were you sleeping in your car, Walt?” asked Ben. “I was kind of hoping that Raines would be the one who answered.”
Foster didn’t hear him. He stared at Moses and approached him slowly.
“He was rummaging through my shed,” continued Ben. “This was all he had with him.” Ben tossed Moses’s pack at Foster, who caught it and
opened the flap. He pulled out an old, ragged book and threw it aside. Moses flinched as it bounced against the edge of Janet’s desk and fell to the floor.
“Nothing but a dusty book and moldy clothes,” said Foster. He dropped the pack at Moses’s feet. “You get evicted from your little church?”
Ben grabbed the box of shotgun shells and walked to the door. “If you’re good here, I’m going back to my family.”
“Oh sure, sure,” said Foster without taking his eyes off Moses. “You go ahead. The preacher and I have so much to talk about.” He sat on the corner of Janet’s desk directly in front of Moses. “Isn’t that right?”
Moses watched with no small amount of fear as Ben left the building, got into his Jeep, and drove away. Janet walked back into the room, sniffling.
“Hey, Janet!” said Foster. “Look what the cat dragged in!”
She glanced at Moses and immediately started sobbing, then turned away and went into the back room.
“Look what you did to poor Janet,” said Foster. “Such a nice old lady. What’s that on your shirt? Oh my, that looks like blood! I wonder whose blood it is.” He stared at Moses intensely, then shrugged. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Let’s get you to your new home. We’re gonna give you the suite! No packed storage cell for our star guest, no sir.”
Foster unlocked the handcuffs and pulled Moses to his feet. He shoved him toward the back of the room.
“Be careful as you walk, though,” said Foster. “More than one person has broken a bone on the way to the cells. It gets a little hazardous in the narrow hallway.”
Moses turned back to show Foster he wasn’t scared—even though he was terrified—but before he could make eye contact he was grabbed by the arm and slammed into the wall next to the hallway door.
“Whoops!” said Foster. “I tried to warn you! Better watch where you’re going.”
He punched Moses in the back and threw him into the hallway. Moses’s shoulder hit the brick wall and he fell to the floor. His face bounced off the polished linoleum and he tasted blood.
