He was glad that Glick had reclaimed the original church of Crenson on the hill. Although technically abandoned, the sheriff’s story confirmed that the black masses were once again being held in Crenson under the cover of night.
Sweat broke out on Scott’s back as he trudged through the trails. Funny that it’s harder to hike downhill, he thought. After a time the woods thinned out and a great moon-soaked field appeared before him. He marched through the field for an hour. Finally, he entered the main road, walked the quarter mile to Zeigler Road, and saw the main spire of the church on the hill in the moonlight.
The church sign was old and outdated. That didn’t deter Scott. If the place had looked inhabited, that would have surprised him. Scott pulled open the heavy Gothic doors. The moan of the hinges echoed inside the building and bounced off the high walls. He walked down the center aisle, glancing at the stained-glass windows with each step.
Scott recalled his youth in Crenson. The illness of his family. His dead parents, who he never talked about. The strip mine. The bleary days. Glick had returned fresh from his time on the West Coast. He had a bushy beard, otherworldly speech patterns, and bizarre mannerisms. He had gotten Scott excited about religion, travel, faith, life.
The scandals that followed Glick only deepened Scott’s admiration. Glick was dangerous. That was part of his appeal. Looking back, Scott realized he had chosen to go into journalism because of the ever-present danger on foreign assignments.
He never would have landed the journalism job without Glick’s help. He owed Glick for many favors. Perhaps now was the time to pay up.
Scott walked down the stairs and into the belly of the old church. Knowing Glick, he’d probably be below the surface, in the poorly ventilated catacombs beneath the building. Down one hallway, a dim light burned under a door crack. He walked toward the door and knocked.
The knob turned. There stood Father Glick. A little grayer. A little more gaunt. His beard was gone, but the hard, black eyes were just as Scott remembered.
Scott smiled.
Glick stared for a few moments, and in a flash saw everything that was to come—the shack, the sheriff, the fire.
He returned the smile and embraced Scott.
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
Crunch-crunch—
Dead branches cracked in the darkness. Sheriff Adams stood frozen. To his left, the hiker he called “Tex,” remained silent, as his eyes darted searchingly around the forest. Adams didn’t know about the kid. Is he going to run and blow our cover? Or are we already shit-out-of-luck? Are these crazy cultists just waiting for us to make the first move?
Adams remembered the vats of blood beneath the church. He wondered if his own bodily fluids would soon join the oozing pool.
“Who is it?” Tex whispered.
“Shhhh…just shut up.”
“What do they want?”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” The kid was gonna flip. Adams could feel it. He’d been involved in enough interrogations to know when someone was gonna flip. The throat starts bobbing, the whites of the eyes turn fish-like. That’s how Tex looked now, in the moonlight, in this God-forsaken section of the Appalachian Trail, Tex was gonna flip.
“Just keep cool, man,” the sheriff said. “If we can’t see them, they can’t see us.” He knew it wasn’t true, but he had to tell the kid something.
“Who is it?” Tex demanded, his wavering voice growing louder.
“Bunch of kids. A prank. Like those kids that yelled at you and threw the beer can. Just a bunch of kids.”
“It’s not kids. I know it’s not kids. Who is it, sheriff? Who is it?”
That was it. The kid was getting too loud.
“Alright, I don’t know who it is. Probably the cult. Now shut the fuck up before you get us killed.”
He could feel in the silence Tex considering the information. It wasn’t easy to comprehend such a thing.
“Get me out of here! Get me out of here!” Tex yelled.
Adams smacked him across the mouth, but it was too late.
Three torches flared. Then six more.
“Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!” Tex screamed.
Adams grabbed his arm. “Let’s go!”
They ran through the woods, dodging trees in the dead light. Someone leapt from the side, slamming low into the sheriff’s legs.
“Awww…” Adams went down. The shadowy figure landed on top of him, striking his face with massive blows. The pain felt unreal, old wounds melting into new. He gathered his last bit of strength and shoved at his attacker. His right hand landed on the unmistakable outline of a gun tucked beneath the man’s belt. Adams yanked at the smooth handle, freed the gun, and pulled the trigger. The bullet blasted into his attacker’s guts. Blood poured out of the man’s mouth and onto the sheriff’s chest.
Adams lurched upright, waving the gun around in all directions. Another figure approached. He fired two quick shots. The first smashed into the cultist’s shoulder, the second connected with his skull, slamming the man backwards.
He could feel the crowd subsiding, the torches retreating. He limped through the trees calling, “Tex! Tex!”
He heard groaning straight ahead. He walked toward the sound as he searched for Tex’s flashlight.
He snapped it on, the flashlight flickered, but remained lit. He directed the beam toward the sound.
Adams lowered the gun to his side.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
“Jesus Christ,” Sheriff Adams muttered. Joe Tucker lay sprawled under a tree, hemorrhaging blood onto the dirt. His rib cage was cracked open, like a broken door, and a mess of gore poured from his abdomen. He moaned again. His eyes closed.
“Joe! Joe! Wake up! What happened?”
Joe’s eyes fluttered open and he attempted to speak. More blood trickled from his mouth. “They got me,” he gurgled. “They got me.”
“What happened?”
“Driving down the road.” He lifted an arm, weakly gesturing toward the auxiliary road. “Blocked with torches.” He coughed up more blood. “They came out of the woods.”
Tucker looked down at his own intestines, twisting away from his belly. He attempted to gather his guts in his arms and pull them back into his stomach, but the slippery ropes slithered in all directions. He started to cry, a high-pitched whimper, like that of an injured dog.
“Why’d they attack you, Joe? I thought you were one of them?”
“I was. Then they seen me with you.” His eyes closed.
“Joe! Joe!” the sheriff screamed.
Tucker’s eyelids reluctantly opened again.
“Go away.”
Adams looked up and saw a few torches approaching. He pulled out his gun, aimed at a flame, and squeezed the trigger. An outline collapsed. A torch spun like a flaming Ferris wheel before crashing down to the forest floor. The other torches retreated.
“Joe, how do I get out of here?”
Tucker swiveled his head from side to side. Adams touched his forehead, and felt a thin film of sweat slicking his skull.
“Joe, you need to help me. How do I get out of here?”
“No.”
“Help me for your daughter, Joe. For your reputation. I won’t tell anyone what I saw. It will be our secret. I swear to you, I won’t tell anyone.”
Joe was silent, as though thinking it over.
Adams bent closer and realized that Tucker wasn’t thinking, he was beginning his silent retreat toward death.
“Joe! Joe!” Adams grabbed Tucker by the shoulders and shook him. “Wake up! Wake up!” Adams heard movement in the woods.
“You know these woods,” pleaded the sheriff, glancing around. “Isn’t there a secret way to get back to the parking lot? A way to avoid everyone?”
“A secret way?”
“A way I could get to the parking lot without getting caught?”
Tucker’s eyes shot open, and he spoke with complete lucidity. “Take the blue loop trail to the yellow swit
chback.” He gasped and coughed, then went on. “After the third switchback, get off the path and hike through the forest for a quarter mile. The parking lot will be on your left.”
Adams nodded. “Thank you. Thank you, Joe. I will keep my promise.” He leaned down and grabbed Tucker’s flashlight.
Joe Tucker smiled, but then his gaze went past Adams and his expression changed to one of sheer terror.
Adams turned and covered his eyes.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
She ran. Dodging trees and branches, she ran. Leaping creeks and rivets, she ran. Susan Ginder’s whole body had become a machine of motion. It wasn’t passion that moved her, nor the thrill of competition. It was the most basic of human instincts: survival. Susan wanted to live. Needed to live. She thought of herself. She thought of the baby she would have with Scott when she was safely home and everything was right.
Will that really happen? Assuming she lived, and as she worked her way through the black woods, she admitted this was a big assumption—where did Scott go? Did Martin kill him? She hoped not, but a second, more disturbing idea was the only alternative. Did Scott turn off his flashlight on purpose? Did Scott abandon me?
A hulking black shadow cut across her path. Susan stopped and stared. A bear! Moonlight revealed the coarse bristle of black hair and the twitch of its damp nose. The beast was huge, as big as Scott’s car, and breathing heavily. It shook its mighty head and looked back from where it came, seemingly distracted.
A deer charged past. The bear gave Susan a brief glance, snorted, then lumbered off.
Well, thank God for that, she thought.
Susan walked aimlessly through the woods until she found a series of switchback paths.
Another deer ran past her, its hooves thudding and crackling through the underbrush. Where are they going? Where are all the animals going?
She heard gunshots. Two blasts. Scott? Sheriff Adams? Little bursts of orange light bounced through the trees. Torches. She crouched low as the flames passed to her south. Laughter rang out.
The temperature increased. New beads of sweat popped on Susan’s skin. She wiped her forehead with the side of her arm, and pulled at the back of her tee shirt, which clung to her skin like a bandage.
“Scott,” she yelled, then coughed. The air was thick with something sharp. Her eyes burned. She ran faster, harder, into the death wind.
“Scott! Scott!”
No answer. A cluster of birds swarmed past her head, grackling and squawking with excitement. Another deer bolted past her. The sky glowed orange.
Then she saw it. A fire. A forest fire, red and raging, intent on eating everything with one ravenous gulp. Trees crackled to cinders, as branches snapped and sparked. The smoke engulfed her. Tears coated her face. She choked, coughed, and choked again. She staggered to the right, pulling up the loose folds of her shirt to cover her mouth and nose. She spied a figure through the smoke.
“Scott!” she tried to shriek, but her voice had been reduced to a raspy whisper. “Scott!”
But it wasn’t Scott she saw encircled in the blistering inferno, frantically beating back the flames.
It was Sheriff Adams.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
The flames licked the sheriff’s skin. Welts instantly festered on his arms. He could see the blonde girl, Susan, staring at him through the smoke. She seemed confused.
His eyes burned. Deadly white smoke slithered deep into his lungs. Above the flames he saw arms waving. Susan was jumping up and down, trying to get his attention. He tried to focus on her through the blaze.
She pointed to his left, where the flames burned less ferociously. He saw her hand waving one last time, and then her entire body disappeared behind the wall of flame.
Fire caught along the laces of his shattered shoes. Adams pulled his head into his chest and burst through the fire. Every pore of his body screamed in pain. A hand latched onto his, yanking him clear of the fire. He emerged into relatively cool air, broken, charred, and holding Susan’s hand. He collapsed to the ground and lay there, convulsing in pain. The fire roared on, traveling away from them.
“Thank you,” he croaked when his breath returned.
Susan cradled his head in her arms. Ropes of blonde hair fell onto his face.
“You’re welcome. Are you okay?”
“I think so.” His lungs felt like he’d swallowed a box of nails. Susan’s face was streaked with ash. He thought of his own features. He must’ve looked awful. “I’ve seen better days,” he admitted.
Susan helped him to his feet. His skin screamed. He wanted nothing more than to jump into the cool lake. Maybe even let his body sink to the bottom and never come up. Leave the cult and the woods and this terrible nightmare.
“We have to find Scott. He’s gone,” Susan said. “And we left Alex. We need to find him, too.”
“Who’s Alex?”
“A friend.”
“And you left him?”
Susan looked down at the ground. “Scott thought it would be best if we split up.”
“Best? Best for who, honey?”
Susan didn’t answer. She stared at the retreating fire.
“Okay, we’ll take a look—but we gotta get out of here. You hear me?”
Susan smiled. “Yes, I hear you.”
“Let’s go.”
They trudged through the forest, following the sheriff’s flashlight. A second pocket of fire spread to the west.
“I probably caused this blaze,” Sheriff Adams admitted, “when I shot one of those cultists and his torch hit the ground.”
Susan looked around. “Well, the good news is, the fire company will come and save us.”
“Yeah,” Adams said. If the fire company is on our side, he thought.
They passed another blaze to their left.
“Look!” Susan said. “There’s someone in there.”
Sheriff Adams tried to get to the still figure in the center of the flames, but the heat drove him back. “Goddammit.”
They watched from afar as the flesh melted from Tex’s face.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three
Scott stepped back and studied Father Glick. Despite the frost in his hair and sunken face, Glick still looked in control. Looked stern. Glick’s eyes burned with the intensity of a chess grandmaster, always one move ahead of his opponent.
“Crenson missed you, Scott,” the priest said.
“I’ve missed it here, too. Unfortunately, I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with your job? A reporter, right?”
“A journalist—yeah. Listen, I want to thank you for whatever role you played in getting me that job. I know I wasn’t going to get hired because of what happened in college. They practically said so. Then they called and said I was hired after all, just like that.”
Father Glick chuckled. “Just like that,” he repeated. “Yes, that’s how the cult of Crenson works. We make the impossible, possible.”
“What did you do to make it happen?”
“Well, Scott. You know I don’t like to discuss details. Let’s just say that your boss will never visit Crenson on one of his assignments.”
“And the college thing? The kid I killed? You got me out of that, too?”
Glick nodded.
Scott exhaled, astounded. He looked around the priest’s quarters, which resembled a bomb shelter more than a holy place. There was even the standard stockpile of weapons. A survivalist’s dream, he thought.
He hadn’t been back in Crenson for a long time. The town scared him. He’d grown accustomed to his easy life in the suburbs of Philadelphia, and the thought of rural living was unappealing to him.
Hicks, he had called them. But he was a hick, too. He had spent his entire adult life trying to hide his past, but he couldn’t deny any longer that he was a child of Crenson.
“Dad did tell me to trust you,” Scott said, smiling at the priest.
“And what finally brought you back?”
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It was a good question. What had brought him back? Coincidence? Chance? Murder?
“Life brought me back. How are things going around here?”
The Trail Page 27
