Soon the path brought him to the Allatoona. He stopped and scanned it, enjoying the coolness that rose up from the gently flowing water. Here and there a branch or tree limb rolled over in the current, bobbing up, then sinking down, moving straight for a few seconds, then shifting sideways and submerging again. This was a safe and frequented section of the river. The bank on Charlie’s side came right down to the water’s edge but was still well shaded by the trees, some of which grew half in the water. It was here that Charlie and his son set up their poles whenever they went fishing.
The shallows were farther down, roughly a mile and a half, though, due to the condition of the path that followed parallel to the river’s course, the distance seemed much greater. At best, he could expect to get there just at nightfall. He switched the flashlight on and off twice, to make sure the batteries were still working. Then he took a deep breath and started down the overgrown path.
Fifteen minutes later, he stopped and glanced back behind him. A bend in the river seemed to seal off his return route. The river’s surface no longer showed any reflection of light. The shadows cast by the trees on either side had met. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. Again he checked the river for any object being carried downstream, but he saw only the usual flotsam of leaves and branches. Charlie turned back, but something caught his eye. He stopped and looked at the other side of the river.
Something was slipping over the now dark brown water, gliding along the surface as if buoyed by magic. It was a water moccasin, a big one, seven or eight feet long, Charlie estimated. He glanced behind him to be sure one wasn’t lurking there, too. They were plentiful along the riverbanks, especially the closer you came to the shallows. He looked back to the other side. The moccasin had disappeared. Charlie tried to spit, but his throat was too dry. Ever since he had been a boy, he’d been terrified of the damn things. He still remembered the day he had come down to go swimming with Frank. Charlie had decided to play a prank on his younger brother. Taking a deep breath, he had slid underwater, managing to keep himself submerged for what seemed like five minutes. He could hear his brother’s panicked voice urgently calling out for him: “Charlie... Charlie! Finally, when he couldn’t hold out a second longer, he burst to the surface, gasping. Frank was still yelling. All at once Charlie realized what he had been yelling about: It wasn’t because he was afraid Charlie had drowned. It was because of what had come to the part of the river they were swimming in. There, only inches from Charlie’s face, was the white, cottony mouth of a hissing moccasin, its fangs extended, iridescent scales glistening in the morning light. But worst of all were its eyes. Charlie had never imagined such malevolence.
Somehow, Charlie still wasn’t sure how, he had gotten back to the riverbank. Though according to Frank’s account, he had not merely walked on water but had also walked backward.
Now, just to play it safe, Charlie reached over and picked up a good-sized stick. “Come and get me now, you slimy little bastard,” Charlie said aloud, and continued along the remnants of a path.
He walked for twenty more minutes until he came to the sharpest bend along that stretch of river. On the other side were the shallows. Even if he’d been blind, he would have known where he was. A swarm of mosquitoes brooded over this part of the river, and the stench of the stagnant water blew up with them. He swiped the insects from his face and glanced behind him. The river was already deep in twilight.
How the hell do I get into these situations? Charlie thought, then clicked the flashlight on and pushed aside a huge clump of privet. He took a few more steps and stopped.
Go on, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. But still he didn’t move. Don’t think about it, he went on telling himself. Don’t think about what happened here. And yet he couldn’t help it. It had been just about the same time of evening when he and old Doc had chased Luther to this spot. And right out there was where Charlie had gotten his last glimpse of Luther’s eyes before he had gone down for the final time.
Charlie jumped. He had heard something. It sounded like it was coming up from the river, as if the slow current’s usual lulling murmur had been transformed into one solitary, clear voice. He listened.
Lo, He comes with clouds descending ....
With his flashlight Charlie scanned the riverbank, but it was empty as far as he could tell. “Sadie?” he called out, then aimed the light out onto the water. He was about to call again when he saw a patch of white. Only twenty-five or thirty feet up from where he was, about eight or ten feet out into the shallows. It was Sadie Kline. The river at that point was no more than a foot deep. And yet, in the flashlight’s weak beam, he could see that the water was up to her waist.
She’s caught in the quicksand, Charlie thought. And yet, she wasn’t moving or flailing. It was the worst thing you could do in such a situation, but it was what everyone did. Sadie was perfectly still.
“Oh, there you are,” Sadie spoke. But she wasn’t looking at Charlie. She was staring into the dark water, as if addressing something right beneath the surface. “I knew you were here. You just didn’t want them to find you, did you?”
Charlie ran along the bank, closest to the spot where Sadie was. That was when he realized she wasn’t stuck. She was just sitting in the shallow water, on what he hoped was one of the solid parts of the river bottom.
“SADIE!” he yelled. “It’s me, Charlie.”
Sadie looked up.
“I’m coming out to get you. Don’t move. You understand?”
“It’s Charlie McAlister,” Sadie said, again looking into the water. “Do you remember Charlie? Yes. That’s right. He’s the one. But he didn’t understand, either, just like the Reverend and I didn’t understand. We didn’t have enough faith. ‘Things like that don’t happen anymore.’ That’s what we told little Catherine. We thought she had gone crazy—those things she told us about her angel. But I see so clearly now. It was all part of the wonderful plan.”
Charlie listened. Sadie’s mind was gone. And yet, hearing her words he felt a shudder pass through his body, as if something slimy had just been dropped down the back of his neck. “I’m coming to get you, Sadie. You hear me?”
Clutching his flashlight as tightly as he could, Charlie stepped down to the water’s edge. “Go on, Charlie,” he urged himself. He tried the river bottom with his foot. It seemed solid enough—she had to have gotten out there somehow. But then she weighed only about eighty or ninety pounds to Charlie’s a hundred and ninety. Still, he didn’t have much choice. Charlie held his breath and took a few wary steps.
She was still talking. “Yes, that’s right. He’s Larry’s daddy, she said. “He is a nice boy. Oh? Really? You’ve got a plan for him, too? Charlie? Did you hear that? He says Larry’s going to help, too. Just like my little Catherine helped.”
Charlie stopped. He was shining the light right in front of Sadie Kline. There was something there, submerged less than an inch under the surface of the river, disrupting the slow current around and over it.
A log. That’s what it has to be, Charlie thought. That’s all it could be. Just a—
“Did you hear that, Charlie? He wants Larry. Just like he wanted my little Catherine. Isn’t that good news?”
Who? Ask her who she’s talking to, Charlie thought. But he couldn’t. It was too crazy. And things, right then, were crazy enough. He stepped within a few feet of Sadie. “Here. Take my hand, Sadie. Take my hand.”
Charlie eased a little closer. He reached for the old woman’s bare shoulder but couldn’t quite make it. He took another step.
Suddenly the river bottom gave out from under his right foot with a sickening ease. “Christ!” he yelled as he fell over on his side, his hand going out to break his fall. It shot through the slimy bottom. And touched something down there. Something hard.
Charlie dropped the light and threw his free hand back, managing to grab Sadie, giving him jus
t enough leverage to pull himself from the ooze. Panting hard, he got to his knees and felt for solid bottom.
Come on, Sadie, I’m taking you back home,” he said, standing upright again. He saw where the flashlight was still glowing and stooped down to pick it up.
He stopped, and for a moment felt his head going dizzy.
The beam was enough to illuminate the patch of the shallow water in front of Sadie. In the dim underwater glow he saw something round and white. Large enough to be a human head, to have once been a head. He stared and saw two dark holes that peered up at the sky. Charlie took a deep breath, then reached down and snatched up the flashlight. Again the water went dark.
“You see,” Sadie said, “he’s always been here. The whole time. He was just waiting. Waiting for Newjesus to come back to Lucerne.”
Charlie swallowed hard—it felt like there was a baseball in his throat. He clutched Sadie’s nightgown and yanked her up. “We’re getting out of here. Right now.” Charlie clasped the old woman’s fragile upper arm. “Move,” he said.
“All right, Charlie,” she said sweetly. “I can’t wait to tell the Reverend about the good news.”
Charlie said nothing, and his breath shook when he exhaled. Still holding the old woman, he guided them hack to the riverbank. Except for his light and the moon that was already showing itself over the top of the woods, it was completely dark. Once on dry land, he stopped to catch his breath. He shone the flashlight on Sadie. She was smiling. Her nightgown was wet and slimy with algae and the ooze of the river bottom. Charlie pulled up the one strap that had fallen.
“I hope we can get back before you catch pneumonia,” Charlie said. He took off his shirt, which, though wet, was more substantial than Sadie’s nightgown. He wrapped it around her.
She had started singing her hymn again.
Lo, He comes with clouds descending....
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Charlie,” she said, smiling like an excited girl. “Newjesus is coming.”
Charlie took hold of Sadie’s brittle hand and led her along the dark path. When they got to the sharp bend in the river, Sadie stopped.
“Look, Charlie.”
He turned around. Where the moonlight fell in patches, he could see the swarm of mosquitoes lying like a thick haze on the river. Right where he had found Sadie a small tree was sticking out of the water at an angle, the stump end rising above the surface.
“It’s him,” she said. “Reaching back up. Didn’t I say he was coming back? Tonight. He’s coming back to Lucerne.”
It’s just an old log, Charlie thought. That’s all. Just a log that got upended from the shifting river bottom. What he had seen earlier in the water had probably been just a rock, washed white and smooth in the current. It was too crazy to think anything else.
“Come on, Sadie,” Charlie said, forcibly turning her away. “We got a long walk ahead of us.”
7
Tom Harlan pulled his pickup into the gravel driveway of Doc’s place and parked in front of the wooden shack that served as a garage. From the truck he took the last box of goods and carried it up the steep, creaky back steps. He opened the screen door to the porch and peered into the gloom.
There, sitting right in front of the kitchen door, was the box of groceries he had brought the week before. He set down the box he was carrying and reached into the old one, pulling out a bottle of milk. “Spoiled,” Tom said with a scowl.
It’s not like you, Doc, letting something go to waste like that,” he mumbled to himself.
It was a crazy habit, he knew, but one he had found hard to break. After all, for most of their adult lives, the two men had spent almost every evening in each other’s company. And during the day, when they weren’t together, if Tom thought of something to tell Doc, he would tear off a piece of paper and jot it down, to make sure he wouldn’t forget.
During the first couple of years after Doc had shut himself in, Tom went on in the same way, making his notes and cutting out his clippings, then setting them into a notebook. He even put a title on it: THINGS TO TELL DOC. The idea was that when Doc got all better, Tom could bring it around and show it to him. “See,” he’d say, “I didn’t forget you. Not for a single day.” And it was true. Tom hadn’t. Not for a single hour. And even if he had now stopped actually jotting things down, it was impossible for him to stop thinking. And that was how the talking started. At first he’d catch himself saying things like, “Wait till Doc hears about this,” or “Won’t Doc be pleased by that.” Back then he’d get embarrassed about it. It seemed too much like a weakness, and Tom had never had much use for weakness. Doc even less. But gradually it developed, until sometimes Tom found himself carrying on whole conversations with Doc, usually when he was by himself at night and sitting out on his own front porch, looking over the dark fields of okra and peas.
The only problem was, Doc didn’t talk back. There were times when Tom wanted to know what Doc might think. Other times in his life, before his friend’s decline, Tom would come to him with a problem and, out of the blue, Doc would hit on a solution that would never have occurred to Tom by himself.
Like the night back in 1963 when Doc figured out a way to save the town.
For over a century the Randolph cotton mill had provided the town with its livelihood. Then, without a word of explanation or warning, Simon Randolph, heir and sole surviving member of the Randolph family, issued an order to shut down the mill indefinitely. Two nights later Simon was seen wandering through the empty mill, only hours before a mysterious fire broke out. By the next morning the mill was gone forever and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Simon had done it himself.
Three days after the fire Doc spoke with Tom—who at that time was mayor of Lucerne—about the town’s future. Frankly, Tom wasn’t sure it still had one. Without the mill, there just wasn’t enough work to keep Lucerne going. But Doc convinced Tom otherwise. With the help of a banker friend over in Willard, old Doc finagled some loans, enough for Tom to buy up the stores in town as, one by one, they were threatened with foreclosures. First among these was Trulock’s Drugs, the Matthew’s Farm Supply and Feed, followed by Becky’s Department Store. And, somehow, the town managed to get by, exactly as old Doc said it would. And Tom had in time become the most prosperous man in the county.
“Course, you were right, Doc. Just like always,” Tom said. Tom opened the door of the pickup, then looked back at the house. He used to know every nook and cranny of it. But now he could only wonder, with a shudder, what the place must look like after fourteen years.
There was a time, Tom remembered, when Doc kept every window in the house open to let the light pour in. Doc had a strange, passionate love of light, saying that people always took it for granted, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, whereas to him light was a source of mystery and puzzlement, the key, he once told Tom, to all the other mysteries. Tom could remember Doc sitting out on his porch and holding the palm of his hand into a shaft of sunlight. “If only I could understand this, Tom, I think I could understand everything.” But now all the windows were sealed, heavy drapes drawn across them.
Tom looked up at the attic windows and frowned. They, too, were dark, but darker than the other windows in the house. At first, Tom had not thought much about them. Then, coming by a little early one afternoon, he noticed that while the other back windows were ablaze with the reflection of the sun, the attic windows were still dark. Not just dark. Black.
Eventually Tom figured it out: Doc must have painted them, blacked them out the way people used to do during World War II.
But that was not the only thing that puzzled Tom. One day he had walked over to the garage then reached his hand out to one of the boards. There was a small crack in it, just large enough to look through. Other little cracks in the roof let in just enough light to make out what was inside.
He had told no one what he�
��d seen. Not even Charlie McAlister. After all, ask anyone in Lucerne and they would tell you, swearing by every word of it, that since the night little Catherine Kline was buried nearly fifteen years ago, old Doc hadn’t stepped two feet outside his house.
But they were wrong and Tom knew it.
Doc did leave his house, though Tom Harlan didn’t have the slightest idea where he went and what he did. Ail he knew were the times when he would put his eye to the crack and, looking inside, see only the sawdust floor and the marks left by Doc s car.
Tom leaned over and put his eye to the tiny hole, but it was far too dark by now to make out whether anything was inside. He stepped back and glanced up at the house once more. In a soft voice he said, “If you ever need me, Doc, you know I’ll be there for you.”
8
It took Charlie just over an hour to get Sadie back to her house. Rev. Kline met them at the door.
Charlie tried to keep the conversation to an absolute minimum, mentioning nothing of the crazy stuff Sadie had been saying. After all, Rev. Kline probably had to hear enough of it as it was.
Back home, Charlie was equally tight-lipped with Lou Anne. Sadie had gone off on one of her wandering spells, that was all. Then, when Lou Anne asked him if he was hungry, he shook his head no. “We got any of Frank’s liquid gold left?”
Lou Anne nodded. There was half a bottle of Chivas Regal in the pantry.
“You okay, Charlie?”
“I just need to think some things over. I’ll he out in the tree house,” he answered, filling a jelly glass as he spoke.
Half an hour later, Charlie was sitting in his son’s tree house, his back against the railing. They had installed a light the year before, but Charlie preferred the darkness, sipping every now and then from the glass.
“Dad?”
Charlie looked around and saw his son’s head sticking through the opening in the floor of the tree house.
Deliver Us From Evil Page 5
