Cursed Be the Child (15 page)

But a beat-up Chevrolet was not suitable for an evangelist with his own weekly television show, a minister whose message was slanted toward yuppies. In his rational, easygoing way, Marvin Michelson, head of the Christian Communications Consortium, had explained it to him. And please, Michelson wasn’t suggesting by any means that Evan drive a Jaguar or a Mercedes or a Rolls! Heavens, no! That would be ostentatious, a potential turn-off rather than a turn-on to those people who needed to hear God’s word. But a good, solid American car was needed, a car that subtly reminded people Evan Kyle Dean could relate.

Evan had been persuaded of that by Marvin Michelson, just as he had been persuaded about the need for a fitting house. The Deans simply could not go on living in that mobile home. Why, if nothing else, his wife deserved better. Nor could he very well live in a six-room, tract house. Nothing gaudy, but a good solid piece of real estate. Why $300,000 for a home and three wooded acres was reasonable in this day and age, with the average cost of a single-family dwelling being $117,000!

What hadn’t Marvin Michelson persuaded him of? No, that was not fair to Michelson—or the truth. He had allowed himself to be persuaded, allowed himself to be convinced, to be talked into, to be gently pressured to be flexible in his thinking about so many issues.

He ran a hand over his chin. He badly needed a shave. He would shave and shower—in a minute. He didn’t feel like getting out of the chair, didn’t feel like moving just yet.

He turned his weary eyes to the television set and saw a Mighty Mouse cartoon, with the Mouse of Steel rescuing the Mouseville Symphony Orchestra from the music-hating cats. Mighty Mouse whirled two hapless cats overhead by their tails, then sent them crashing into the kettledrums. He ran another through the strings of a harp, bloodless cartoon slices of cat emerging. He stuffed a cat down the bell of a tuba, then the Mouse’s lungs of steel blasted and the cat went zooming off to the moon

Wasn’t that what people wanted God to be, expected Him to be? God was Mighty Mouse who always arrived in the nick of time to save the good little mice and to beat the stuffings out of those wicked cats.

Mighty Mouse hates cats—and so do we.

And maybe people did envision God as an abstract but infinitely more powerful Mighty Mouse in the sky, but that was not the God whose love once had filled Evan Kyle Dean, not the God of compassion, mercy, forgiveness and healing. That was not the God Evan Kyle Dean had served before he became a servant of the television camera.

The inhuman television camera saw everything, recorded everything and felt nothing. Evan Kyle Dean preached to the camera, acted for the camera, even lived for the camera.

And so he had forgotten people.

He had forgotten their Father and his Father.

Weeping, he pushed himself out of the chair and dropped to his knees. Keenly aware of the painful hammering of his heart he folded his hands in prayer.

“Father,” he said simply, “forgive me.”

— | — | —

Seventeen

She got a wake-up call at eight o’clock Monday morning. Yawning, she propped herself up on the pillows and with the remote control on the nightstand turned on the television. She watched a brief Today show interview with Gore Vidal. Vidal was cosmopolitan, witty, sarcastic, and bitchy—his usual self. She had a sense of displacement, as though she were back in New York. Then there was a break for a local commercial. In fluorescent red pants and a pullover blue shirt that vainly battled a beer belly, a horse-faced man urged, “Y’all come awn down to Joe Billy Keeler’s for once in a lifetime deals on R-V’s. Keeler the Dealer will do ya like yore own daddy would...”

She was centered again. She was in Mt. Franklin, Alabama. She belonged here. She had a purpose. She was going to kill a man.

Today!

The waiting was ended. She knew all she needed to know. She’d done her homework these past several weeks, never trying to ingratiate herself with the locals but staying on the periphery at the stores and the restaurants, so she could hear things and pick up messages from the grapevine without actually being plugged into it.

With Evan Kyle Dean’s not appearing yesterday at True Witness Church, there were already rumors circulating that something was wrong with Mt. Franklin’s own big-time miracle man. That was vehemently disputed by true believers. Nothing could be wrong with Brother Evan, no way. He had not preached because…Well, he had his reasons, and so did the Lord.

Emerald Farmer had her reasons, too.

She didn’t get out of bed until 8:30. She felt no need for haste, showering leisurely. She smiled to herself as she selected her clothing for the day. What was the proper attire for murder? Blue jeans and a too large, badly faded, plaid flannel shirt.

It was Randy’s shirt. Wearing it made her feel as though he were with her.

Damn, she was calm about it, utterly nerveless. She understood that. The trick was to think of yourself not as dying, which she was, but as already dead. Dead, you had total license, complete freedom of action. Nothing was forbidden.

“We belong dead.” The line, spoken by the enduring monster in the classic film,
The Bride of Frankenstein,
had become her philosophy, her mantra, her motivation. Randy was dead. She was dead. Evan Kyle Dean was dead. He did not know it yet, but he was dead.

Sitting on the bed, she took her gun out of her purse. It was a Colt .38 caliber, two-inch barrel, with a grooved, nonslip trigger and a custom hammer shroud to prevent hang-ups when drawn from pocket or purse.

She’d bought the pistol when she enrolled in a defensive shooting course after she’d been mugged on the subway. It had boiled down to a choice between the Colt and an automatic, the Smith and Wesson M61, a five-shot. With hollow-point ammunition, the Smith and Wesson’s man-stopping capability was about equal to that of the Colt, and it was a much more easily concealed weapon, but she didn’t trust automatics. An automatic could jam. The precisely engineered Colt revolver, with its fewer working parts, had no temperament. The cylinder turned, a bullet was chambered, the firing pin struck, and the bullet flew.

She swung out the cylinder and checked it; it revolved easily. The ejector mechanism worked smoothly, unloading the six shells. The gun was clean and ready, Emerald Farmer thought.

She stood at the foot of the bed, seeing herself in the mirror above the vanity at the end of the tiny hall by the bathroom. She casually raised the weapon. She didn’t aim; she pointed. The pistol was not a thing separate from her but an extension of her hand, a stunted index finger. She dry-fired. A hit, she was sure. At 25 feet, she could group six shots in the kill zone every time.

She had practiced and practiced and practiced. In the defensive shooting course she had learned, “If you reach for your gun, you have to be ready to use it for what it was made for. There’s only one reason for pulling a handgun, and that’s because you need to kill somebody. Not frighten him. Not wound him. You need to kill him.”

She needed to kill Evan Kyle Dean.

She dry-fired five more times, then loaded the Colt without a suggestion of a tremor in her fingers. Deathly calm, she thought.

She put on her trench coat. It was inappropriate for the weather, but it was the coat she had to wear.

She stepped out of the motel room into the sun. The door, metallic and heavy, clunked shut behind her.

It was time.

She should get home as soon as possible, Carol Grace told herself, as she rolled the cart down the paper goods aisle at Cor-Mar’s Supermarket. Evan might need her.

But she could not force herself to hurry. It was a relief to be away from home, out in the everyday world, doing something as commonplace as shopping. She picked up a six-pack of toilet tissue, a sale item, noting she was saving 22 cents.

Not that there was any need to practice economy. They had plenty of money now. For that matter, there was no need for her to do the shopping, the housecleaning, or the cooking; they could easily afford domestic help. When they had first moved into the new place, Evan had suggested just that. He even thought it the right thing to do, providing employment for people who…

No, thank you, she had insisted. In their house, she was the housekeeper. Evan had laughingly agreed with that.

Evan, she thought, as she turned the cart into the next lane. He was so tormented, so depressed and despairing.

Trust in God, she told herself. God’s eye was on Evan, as it was on the sparrow and every living thing in His vast and wondrous creation.

God kept His gaze on all his children. She had no doubt He knew her worries, saw her now as she played whatever part in His plans He had ordained.

As Carol Grace Dean reminded herself that God watched over her, the narrowed eyes of an armed woman followed her around the store.

Emerald Farmer put a bottle of soy sauce in her cart. Four products down, Carol Grace Dean took a yellow plastic container of mustard from the shelf. In the breakfast cereals section, Carol Grace selected a box of Bran Flakes; Emerald Farmer got Sugar Pops.

Emerald was certain the evangelist’s wife had no idea she was being followed. Why would she? Who expected to be followed in a supermarket in Hicksville, USA?

She needed Mrs. Preacher.

Carol Grace Dean completed her shopping and went to the checkout lanes. Emerald tracked her, abandoning the cart and regretting the extra work she’d cause the stock boy who’d have to return her items to the shelves.

With Carol Grace Dean at the cash register, Emerald stepped outside and waited. The day was hot and humid, promising to become hotter still as it progressed. In her trench coat, she was sweating and uncomfortable, but the coat had the right kind of pockets. Wasn’t that why motion picture private eyes wore trench coats? They needed a place to stash their gats, their heat, their pieces.

Damn, she felt oily and dirty. In the small shopping center lot, the sun snapped off the few parked cars in brittle diamond reflections. She was nauseated. Her breath was rancid; she could taste it.

She had to remind herself this was all real. It all felt too much like a play, as though she were now awaiting her cue to say words that were not her own, to do things the real Emerald Farmer would never do. Yes, only a play, and what she was feeling was nothing but stage fright.

There was her cue. Carol Grace Dean, carrying two sacks of groceries, walked out of Cor-Mar, and Emerald followed her.

Carol Grace set the grocery bags in the trunk of the Lincoln and closed the lid.

Emerald came up on the right. “Mrs. Dean,” Emerald said quietly.

“You startled me,” Carol Grace Dean said, turning to Emerald. Carol Grace’s expression was puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember… Do I know you?”

For an instant, Emerald wanted to say, “No, sorry to bother you,” and for a simultaneous instant, she wanted to scream every filthy word she knew in the preacher’s wife’s face. Instead, she did what she had countless times watched herself do on her mind’s eye. She moved in closer. A number of individual motions blended into one split-second’s movement. She swung the left side of her trench coat out far enough to shield the sight of what she was doing from any casual observer. She pulled the pistol from the right hand pocket and pressed it to Carol Grace Dean’s belly.

She said. “Unless you do exactly what I say, I’ll kill you.”

Like a stubby divining rod, the barrel of the gun quivered. It was the retreat of Carol Grace Dean’s flesh from the threat of death. The preacher’s wife’s mouth was open in her pallid face.

“No,” Emerald said, “don’t scream.” Her voice was a hypnotic monotone. “Don’t scream, don’t faint, don’t do a damned thing except what I say.”