The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3)

by Scott Nicholson

  A clatter of stones came from the cemetery.

  “I’m not afraid, Lord,” Mose said.

  Maybe this was one of God’s tests of faith. Same as when he’d bypassed the chance to adulterate with Ginny Lynn Rominger a couple of decades back, or pushed away the bottle when it was offered in his teens. Same as when he took no more than twenty dollars from the collection come Sunday, though he was the one who tallied the bank account. Same as when he’d knocked over a road sign while speeding and had returned the next day and put it back good as new. He hoped he’d passed all his tests of faith, because he wanted to reach St. Peter with a perfect score.

  He stepped out of the sanctuary and waded into the fog, and although he told himself and the Lord he wasn’t afraid, his fist clenched around the hammer handle. The grass was spongy under his feet, the sweet green aroma battling with the cloying stench of the fog. He was midway through the cemetery, somewhere among the Harper and Blevins families, when the shapes came out of the woods.

  They were indistinct bulks for a couple of seconds, a period of time in which Mose’s heart managed a dozen beats. Then the outlines coalesced into silhouettes and gained detail.

  Two goats.

  White with black and tan spots, the goats marched like they had a destination. Their strange eyes sparkled from hidden light, horns curved. Mose almost laughed. That was what had given him a fright? The herd must have busted out of a pen somewhere and smelled the thick grass, flowers, and shrubs of the churchyard.

  He watched as the goats circled the cemetery, hooves kicking at stones as they tramped the wet grass. Mose was within ten steps of Harmon Smith’s grave, but he’d momentarily forgotten the Circuit Rider in the wake of this new oddity. The goats were quiet, heads up, ears pricked and stiff as if heeding a command from an unseen source. When their flanking was complete, cutting Mose off from the sanctuary of the church, a dark figure stepped out of the woods, fog swirling in his passage.

  “Harmon,” Mose said, loud enough so that God could hear, so He would know old Mose stood firm when it counted. “You got business, have you?”

  The figure approached. Mose always heard the preacher was tall and lanky, a description confirmed by Mose’s brief vision of the night before, but he was actually short and squat. And there was no black hat. Why, the legends had it all wrong. All you had to do was give a story a good spin and people would believe any old thing.

  The figure’s footsteps made no sound. The air was still, and the fog grew thicker around Mose’s waist. The birds had stopped singing. The preacher looked back at the rectangle of the church door. It seemed a mile away.

  Would God forgive him if he showed just a touch of weakness, if he bolted for the safety of the church, even if he had to pass those goats with the gleaming eyes? That wouldn’t be as bad as Judas’s betrayal, or Pilate’s washing his hands, or Eve’s seducing into sin. There were a hundred worse failures in the Bible. And Mose was human, after all.

  Except what kind of protection could a church offer? Harmon could walk through walls. The entire Earth was God’s church, and Mose was in as good a shape out here in the fog as he was in the biggest church ever built. Faith wasn’t a place fixed in the real world; it was a golden patch in the heart of a good man.

  The dark figure moved forward, clumsy, almost waddling, not at all as fluid as Mose would expect a spirit to be.

  He figured he would try bluster and bravery.

  “Go away,” Mose said. “You’re not real. There’s no ghost but the Holy Ghost.”

  And he remembered what Odus had said last night, about denying Harmon Smith. That was his second denial. And three was a huge number.

  A number of completion.

  But three also offered some security.

  This was Harmon’s second day back. So no one would die today. Only on the third day.

  Mose summoned his courage to speak again, softening to a conversational tone since the other hadn’t worked.. “I say, Harmon, wonderful morning we’re having. Fog’s a little chilly, but the sky’s going to be as clear as creek water when the sun burns it off.”

  The figure didn’t answer but took a slow step deeper into the cemetery. It was obvious where Harmon was headed: his grave.

  Mose could make out a few more details, and he was confused because Harmon had changed since Mose’s glimpse of the night before. The clothes weren’t solid black and this time he wore no frayed coat. Instead, he had a white shirt and dark suspenders. Did restless spirits have any need to change clothes?

  And where was Old Saint?

  Mose eased back a couple of steps, bumping against a grave marker. It tumbled over, crushing a bouquet of plastic flowers.

  “All right, Harmon, you made your point,” Mose said, keeping his voice low in the vain hope that God wouldn’t hear. “I’m not as brave as I’d like to be.”

  The figure took another two steps forward and the fog seemed to swirl around it, as if caressing its skin.

  Mose forgot all his brave talk and tests of faith. He spun, looking for a path through the grave stones, but the fog had grown thicker and obscured the trees. The goats no longer blocked his way to the sanctuary, but he couldn’t even see the church.

  By the time Mose turned back around, the figure was almost upon him, and he recognized the round, balding head of the Rev. Edmisten of the True Light Tabernacle. Mose almost laughed in relief.

  “Preacher William!” Mose said, ignoring the stitches of pain in his chest as his galloping heart fell into an erratic beat. “Brother, am I glad to see you. Welcome to my church.”

  The reverend stopped at the heap of stones marking Harmon Smith’s Free Will grave. “So this is it, huh, Preacher Mose? Never did come pay my respects here. An oversight I thought I should rectify, given the signs.”

  “That’s it, all right,” Mose said, wiping at the sweat on his face, hoping his trembling hands didn’t give him away. He wondered why the reverend hadn’t driven to the church. The pudgy fellow wasn’t prone to physical exertion. Mose stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and walked over to join his fellow minister.

  “It’s a shame what they say about him,” the Rev. Edmisten said, looking down at the pile of rounded stones. “Yes indeedy.”

  “Such talk is for people with no understanding of the Lord’s work,” Mose said.

  “Yes indeedy. When one servant falls, another takes up the sword and rides on.”

  Mose glanced around for the goats, which had vanished in the fog. Maybe the reverend had just traded for them, and that was why he was on foot. Nobody in his right mind would put goats in the back seat of a fancy Lexus sedan, especially not a slick, showy fellow like William Edmisten. And that might explain why his usually immaculate clothes were stained and filthy. But if he were herding them, why didn’t he have them tethered on a rope?

  “You look a little shook up,” the Rev. Edmisten said. “Might it be because of Harmon Smith’s return?”

  “The Horseback Preacher has gone to his reward,” Mose said. “There’s no ghost here in Solom.”

  As soon as he uttered the words, he realized he’d just denied Harmon for the third time.

  “Well, my brother,” the Rev. Edmisten said, licking his thin lips. “If you don’t believe, then I suppose you don’t mind if I’m the one who takes up Harmon’s sword.”

  The reverend made a quick movement, yanking his arm up from where it had been resting against his hip. The blow took Mose’s breath away, and he looked down to see the reverend’s fist against his belly.

  Not just a fist.

  It had something in it.

  He saw the blood just before the pain sank in.

  The two goats bleated in distress, and Mose fought to suck in air as the gray world reeled around him.

  He collapsed onto Harmon’s heap of stones, the knife handle protruding from just beneath his ribs. Warm fluid trickled over his hands as he felt the opening in his abdomen.

  The Rev. Edmisten knelt beside him with a
grunt of effort, his beady eyes glinting with rapturous joy. “Know them by their fruits, Brother,” he whispered, twisting the knife and spawning a scream.

  Mose was horrified that the sound issuing from his clenched throat resembled the bleating of the goats. He wanted to explain that he couldn’t die because it wasn’t the third day, but then he couldn’t even remember why that mattered.

  “Goats weren’t getting the job done,” the Rev. Edmisten said in a conversational tone, as he plucked the blade free and wiped it against a stone. “Figured I’d upgrade while at the same time eliminate some of the competition.”

  Mose couldn’t make sense of anything, as the rocks seemed to boil and quake beneath his body. But that didn’t matter, either, and he closed his eyes and started looking around for St. Peter and the pearly gates, mentally rehearsing his final sermon.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saturday morning broke bright and moist.

  The corn stalks were streaked with brown from the early frosts, the tassels stiff and dry. Ray Tester worked his way between the rows, checking the ears. He’d grown silver queen, which produced sweet but short ears with small, white kernels. By this time of year, what hadn’t been harvested or nibbled down by cutworms was left to freeze and harden. The crows who hadn’t been around since first planting, when they’d go down the rows like mechanical chickens and pluck seeds from the ground, were now back for fall.

  Some farmers laced loose kernels with battery acid and spread the tainted bait around the edges of their fields. Others would duck down in the rows with double-barrel shotguns, the shells loaded with small pellets to give the most scattering power. Ray figured both of those methods were useless. Crows were too stupid to learn a lesson, and if you killed one then four-and-fucking-twenty would swoop down in its place. No, the best way to handle the black, thieving bastards was to head them off at the pass.

  Which meant a scarecrow.

  Not just any old scarecrow, either. Crows were dumb but they had eyes, and if you propped up something that looked like a sack of Salvation Army rags, then the crows would just sit on its head and shit on its shoulders, laughing in that cracked caw of theirs, a sound that taunted farmers everywhere. No, what you needed was something so close to flesh-and-blood that even humans did a double-take.

  “Wanna see Buck,” Bennie said.

  “Just in a little minute. We got to fill up this bushel basket first.”

  Bennie could barely reach the lowest ears, and the basket was way too heavy for him to drag, but Ray filled Bennie’s little arms full and let him make a trip back to the basket, even though it slowed Ray down. He wasn’t really in a big hurry. Why rush when the next chore, installing a new belt for the hay baler, was waiting either way?

  “Buck Owenth,” Bennie said, hustling back to the basket.

  Ray was a champion scarecrow maker. He’d entered his best creation, named “Buck Owens” after the star on the old “Hee-Haw” television show, in a contest at the Pickett County Fair three years ago and had taken home the blue ribbon and fifty bucks. Buck had an ugly striped shirt and frayed overalls and head that was sackcloth stuffed with old linen scraps. The judges had especially liked the straw boater that was perched atop its head, dented and torn and weathered.

  Ray had been proud of his handiwork, especially since he’d dropped out of school in the ninth grade and had never been mistaken for a genius. But while the scarecrow was on exhibit for the better part of that harvest week, the crows had ravaged his fields and taken up residence in the trees above the farm. His late wife Merlie had a little birdfeeder built in the shape of a church that hung from a wire on the porch. The crows had streaked the church with green-and-yellow runs, proof that the winged rats had no respect for neither God nor man.

  Since then, Ray had never entered another agricultural contest. He kept his scarecrow out in the field where it belonged, a good soldier on sentry duty who didn’t complain and would give its life to defend its home ground. But even a soldier needed an overhaul every now and then, just to keep its spirits up. So Ray was bringing a moth-eaten scarf he’d found tangled in the briars at a county Dumpster site. The scarf had the extra advantage of being plaid, something that would spook even those near-sighted crows.

  He could hear the crows in the forest at the edge of the pasture, cawing from throats that seemed way too long for their bodies. In case some of them had witnessed another farmer scattering their kind with buck shot, he’d tucked a gun in his scarecrow’s arms. It was a rusty old air rifle scrounged from the Rev. William Edmisten at the flea market for a dollar. That helped with the soldier idea, too, even though that didn’t square with the “Buck Owens” name. But a banjo wouldn’t have done a damn thing against those miniature buzzards, unless the scarecrow started twanging it as off-key as did those Christian bluegrass bands.

  The corn was about two feet over Ray’s head. It had been a good year, rainy in the spring and sunny in the summer, and fall had been pretty slow and mellow. From between the rows, he couldn’t see the scarecrow where it hung on a tall oak stake in the center of the field. But he could almost feel its gaze sweeping across the rows, alert for the slightest flicker of black feathers. Ray grinned, his feet crunching in the high weeds and dirt clods. The air smelled of that sweetness the grass and trees only gave off just before winter, when the sugar was breaking down inside.

  “It full, Daddy,” Bennie said, hustling back from the overloaded basket. “Now can we see the ‘carecrow?”

  At the center of the field was a rusty fifty-five-gallon drum that caught rainwater. Ray didn’t have an irrigation system, but the barrel would provide some back-up in case of a dry spell, especially when the seedlings were young and tender. That was also when the crows liked to swoop down, when the green shoots were easy to spot from above. The birds would tug the nubs out of the ground and eat the recently sprouted kernels, roots and all. A few tools leaned against the barrel, and the scarecrow stood sentinel beside it.

  Ray wished there was a scarecrow for little kids, something to keep watch when they were out in the shopping malls and schoolyards. With all the crazies running around shooting up folks by the truckload, the world needed a Buck Owens. Only, one with a snarl and a scythe and a well-fertilized spirit instead of brainless patience.

  “Okay, Bennie-boy, let’s see what ol’ Buck is up to.” Ray eased back the cluster of stalks that separated them from the clearing. The first thing he noticed was the empty pole and crosspiece. He thought at first old Buck had slipped to the ground, blown by a strong wind, even though the scarecrow had been tied in place with baling wire. But there were no rags on the ground beneath the pole. The dirt was scuffed as if someone had been dragging away a heavy load. Ray dropped the scarf and ran to the pole.

  Not a scrap remained of the scarecrow. Ray squinted over the rows of corn to the edges of the field. Some kid was probably playing a prank. One of those Halloween trick or treat deals. But whoever had stolen his award-winning scarecrow didn’t know that most tricks came back to bite you.

  “Where the ‘carecrow?” Bennie said, his voice small and lost.

  “Musta got blown over.”

  Ray looked in the weeds surrounding the barrel, figuring he’d at least find the air rifle or the battered straw boater. He studied the dirt for prints. That’s when he realized that something hadn’t been dragged away, it had been dragged to. There were no footprints, just fine squiggles that looked as if someone had swept the dirt to erase tracks.

  The marks led to the water drum. The stagnant water gave off the scent of rust and something ranker.

  Ray looked in the water. At first all he saw was a reflection of the sky in the greasy surface, the frayed strips of cirrus clouds and a rising sun the color of a rotten egg yolk. But a shape hung suspended beneath the surface. Ray thought of one of those carnival sideshows he’d seen as a kid, back before polite society decided freaks couldn’t earn an honest dollar with their talents. He’d seen the conjoined fetus of Siamese t
wins floating in a milky jar of formaldehyde, two tiny arms complete down to the fingernails, two legs curved like those of a frog. The two heads hung at different angles, one leaning forward with a single bleary eye open. Ray got in plenty more than his fifty cents’ worth of looking before the crowd nudged him along.

  This shape was almost like that, except indistinct. Somehow, the extremities didn’t quite add up. Ray took the hoe from beside the barrel and dipped it into the tainted water. He hooked and lifted, straining from the weight. The odor hit him before his eyes could make sense of what they were seeing.

  “Daddy, Daddy, what that ‘mell?” Bennie said with a groan. “I’m gonna puke.”

  “Move back, son.”

  He definitely didn’t want Bennie to see this.

  It was a goat, at least a week dead, its meat beginning to turn to pink soap. The animal had been gutted and a few ribs glinted in the afternoon light. The head hung by a narrow scrap of skin and the horns had been sawed down to blunt stumps. One leg was missing, and in the lower part of the goat’s body cavity was a furry lump. Ray lifted the hoe higher to get a good look, and the head broke free and plopped back into the barrel, splashing stinky water onto Ray. The head bobbed on the surface, the lips puffed into a grin.

  Ray twisted the hoe handle so he could see what was inside the body cavity. He’d slaughtered plenty of livestock in his time, and he knew that guts were gray and pink and most major organs were ruby red. Nothing furry grew inside an animal. He shook the corpse, expecting pieces of it to slough off and slide back into the water. It held together long enough for him to see what was lurking where the stomach, kidneys, and liver should have been.

  It was another goat head, that of a billy, the horns long and slick. One of the horns had perforated the animal’s skin. Ray let loose of the hoe and it slid into the barrel along with thirty pounds of scrambled goat parts. The stench was stronger now, and Ray wiped at the front of his soaked shirt. He forgot all about Buck Owens as he grabbed Bennie’s hand and made his way into the sanity of the long, straight rows.