The Bighead (42 page)

“
Then the lake would
empty?”

“
That’s right, hon. The
whole thing’d empty right down the rest’a the ridge. It’s no
matter, we got other things ta worry about.” Annie glanced far down
the other side of the lake. “I don’t seen ’em no where, Charity. I
don’t know where they could be, an’ I hate ta ditch ’em but we
really gotta git outa here.”

Charity supposed her aunt was right.
“Maybe they’re in the abbey.”

“
Hon, we just done checked
the abbey—”

“
I mean maybe there’s a
basement or something.”

“
Alls right,” Annie agreed.
“We’ll go check one more time but then we leave.”

Charity nodded, turned and followed
her aunt back along the moon-lit edge of the lake when—

They both jumped at the
sudden white light and tumult. No heat lightning this time—it
was
real
lightning, as though the sky were splitting open and shedding
pieces. Charity grabbed her aunt’s arm at the start. The electric
spear from the sky bolted down, exploding at the base of a tall
tree on the other side of the lake. The tree shivered, then
crackled, then fell—

“
Storm’s comin’, hon!”
Annie shouted over the crash. “We best run back to the abbey fer
cover!”

But—

WAIT.

“
Charity! Come on!
What’choo standin’ there fer? We could get hit by
lightnin’!”

Charity didn’t care. The
lake was rippling, a sudden wind whipped her hair, billowed her
sundress. She been told to wait, hadn’t she?
I…will…wait…

But what was she waiting
for?

Annie shrieked, pressed her hands over
her ears. The thunderclap exploded—the sky lit up again.
Ludicrously, the hair on both of their heads suddenly stood on end
in a flux of static electricity, tiny hairs on their arms and necks
too, when this second mammoth bolt of lightning tore out of the sky
and touched down—

Charity, bathed in static, gazed
out.

The lightning stuck the dam-plug just
thirty or so yards away. Petrified stones flew off in explosive
white light—

Then came a great gushing—

A great, mad siphoning
sound—

And then, very quickly, the lake began
to drain.

(V)

“
Don’t be such a baby!”
Jesus leaned over tauntingly. “What kind of a man are
you?”

What a cosmic ripoff…

By now Alexander had come to grips
with the very high order of probability that he was dying from a
massive cranial trauma. He’d been a good priest, he’d tried very
hard. Sure, he’d made some mistakes, he’d cast his share of sins,
but—holy shit!—he’d done his job to the best of his ability. And
now, as reward, he had this:

Jesus Christ, in a black Joy Division
t-shirt, giving him enough shit to sink the Lusitania.

It’s just a dream,
he realized, though that was hardly a consolation.
The brain of a dying man dreaming its last dream.

And he’d dreamed of Jesus before,
hadn’t he?

I’m dying, yeah. This is
just a dream.

“
You’re not dying,
dickhead!” Jesus told him. “Christ, Tom, you’re not a quitter, you
never have been. But you’re quitting on me now? Blow me, brother! I
won’t have it!”

Alexander winced, still paralyzed.
Yes, Jesus stood in the basement hall but, of course, neither of
the two rednecks saw Him.

“
You think you’re checking
out?” Jesus continued to taunt. “What, because some cracker hit you
in the head with a tire iron? Gimme a break! Your skull’s too thick
for that, Tom. Listen to Me, will ya? You’re NOT dying!”

Not…dying,
the priest thought.

Jesus calmed for a moment, reaching
down for the pack of cigarettes on the floor. “Hey, man, can I bum
a Lucky?”

Alexander shrugged. “Yes,”
he said. After all, when Jesus Christ asked for a smoke, there was
only one thing to say.
Yes.
But the priest said more than that. “Tell me,
Lord, I beg your guidance. What should I do?”

“
I gotta tell you
everything?
” Jesus seemed
pissed again. “The first thing you gotta do is find a pair of
balls. I mean, I know you got ’em ’cos I can see ’em. Look at you,
man, you’re lying there on the floor with your
dick out!
Halford would laugh his
wizened ass off. Oh, poor Tommy got hit in the head by big bad
rednecks. Get up! This fucking fat walrus-looking punk is about to
CUT YOUR DICK OFF and you’re not doing shit about it. And that
other asshole? He’s raping that blond bimbo WHILE SHE’S DEAD! Do
something!”

“
Help me,” Alexander
begged.

Jesus held His hands out, the Lucky in
his mouth. “I can’t. You know how it is. I’m just here for
occasional walking around. Believe me, brother, I’d like nothing
more than to help you kick the living shit out of these two waste
products, but it ain’t allowed. You gotta do it
yourself.”

Alexander blinked. “So…
I’m…
not
dying?”

“
No, peabrain! I just got
done telling you that! I’m
Jesus,
for Christ’s sake.
Jesus
doesn’t lie!
”

The fat kid leaned forward, oblivious
to the presence of the Son of Man. He’d already opened the knife,
was lowering it—

“
He’s gonna cut your pecker
off!” Jesus rooted. “Don’t just lie there! Do something! Show him
you got a brass set!”

When the fat kid leaned
down closer, Alexander’s arm shot up, grabbed the back of the kid’s
neck, and pulled. Before the knife could be put to any use,
Alexander was biting Dicky Caudill’s nose, and he bit down
hard.
The fat kid was
screaming, as the priest’s teeth sunk deep. Next thing Alexander
knew he was spitting out the kid’s nose.

“
Balls! Balls!” Dicky was
shrieking like a terrified woman. A fat hand uselessly caressed his
face, as if to stem the copious flow of blood. “The priest done bit
off my
nose!
”

Tritt Conner’s frenetic sodomy ceased;
he glanced over his shoulder, then up to the crying, screaming
Dicky. He stood up, put his dick back in his pants, and
then—

Aw, fuck,
Alexander thought.

—
from somewhere produced a
revolver that could only be described as
huge.
“Yer such a pussy, Dicky. Looks
like I’m gonna have ta take care’a the holy man myself.”

“
Get ready,” Jesus warned.
“This is serious bizz.”

Alexander leaned up, but only barely.
His head rang with pain, and his limbs scarcely responded to his
will.

Jesus, savoring the Lucky Strike
filterless, went on, “Remember that disarm technique they taught
you in the Marines.”

“
I wasn’t in the Marines, I
was an Army Ranger.”

Jesus rolled his eyes. “Marines, Army,
who the fuck cares? Just remember what they taught you, ’cos,
believe, man, you’re gonna need it in about two
seconds.”

The disarm technique that the King of
Kings was referring to was actually brutally simple and very
effective.

Tritt Balls Conner approached, cocking
what looked to be an antique Webley-Fosbery .455 automatic
revolver, something the Brits had invented to take on drug-crazed
natives in the Boer War, or some fucked up war like
that.

“
I’m’se gonna blow yer holy
brain alls over this here floor, priest. Then I’m’se gonna finish
havin’ my nut up blondie’s dead ass. What’choo gotta say ’bout
that?”

“
Blow me, that’s what I
have to say,” and as Alexander said it, his hands shot upward, the
right grabbing the revolver’s rear receiver, the left pushing out
against the barrel. Less than a second was all it took, just like
the drill sergeants at Benning had promised. A quick twist, then,
and Alexander had wrenched the weapon out of Tritt Balls’ hand,
without a single shot being discharged.

“
Good fuckin’ job!” Jesus
celebrated. “Hardcore, man! Out
stand
ing! Shit, even
I
couldn’t have pulled
that off!”

Thanks,
Alexander thought. He rose to his feet as Balls
and Dicky stepped back. Dicky, crying like an open tap, turned and
fled down the hall. But Balls’ remained, knees shaking but still
talking the bad mouth. “Go ahead, priest! You ain’t got the
balls!”

“
Don’t say that,” Alexander
warned.

The grin bloomed within the
satanic goatee. “Look at you, man! You cain’t do it! You’re
a
priest!
Priests
ain’t allowed ta kill folks.”

“
Don’t test me, asshole.”
He had the heavy gun sighted now, one eye closed, the other focused
down the clunky sights. But the kid was right, wasn’t he?
I’m a priest. I’m not allowed to kill people, am
I? Not even sick, twisted murderers like this?

“
Lord,” Alexander asked of
his King. “I beg your permission. Can I kill this guy?”

Jesus looked disconsolate, flicking
the Lucky butt. “I’m sorry, man. It’s all about free will in the
light of the Father. I can’t advise you.”

Shit!

“
Fuck you!” the bearded
redneck spat. Then he turned laughing, and walked toward the
stairs.

Alexander clenched his
teeth, watching the kid’s back disappear in the sights.
Shit!
he thought again.
The kid was gone. Alexander uncocked the hammer and let it
reset.

Then he turned, looked down at Jerrica
with sudden tears in his eyes. She was dead, yes—stone dead.
Alexander looked to Jesus for some answer. “Why, Lord? This is
fucked up!”

“
I know, man, but that’s
the way the cards fall sometimes.”

“
She didn’t deserved to
die!”

Jesus jerked back at the exclamation.
“Hey, bro, nobody does, but that’s just the way it is.”

“
Is she…saved?” the priest
dared ask next.

Jesus Christ gave a
nonchalant shrug. “Don’t know off hand. Can’t tell you. But
I
can
tell you
this. You better get your shit square real fast, because you got a
world of hurt comin’ right down your alley. Bigtime trouble, Tom.
And all you got to fight it is that big piece of shit British
revolver and the two nuts God gave ya.”

Alexander stared,
uncomprehending.

“
Get out of here,” Jesus
said. “Get ready for some shit.”

The priest took His word for it—what
else could he do? He turned to for the stairs, but then Christ
briefly interrupted. “Hey, Tom, hold up a sec.”

“
Yeah?” Alexander
said.

Jesus had picked up the pack of Luckys
off the floor. “You mind if I bum one more?”

“
How many left in the
pack?” Alexander dared to question Jesus Christ the
Righteous.

“
Two, man.”

“
Take one, give me the
other.”

“
Right on.” Jesus stuck one
cigarette in His own mouth, stuck the other in Alexander’s. Then He
lit the lighter, fired up the priest’s.

Alexander stared at the
incredulity.
Jesus Christ just lit my
cigarette for me…

Jesus smiled then, and winked. “Good
luck, Tom,” He said.

(VI)

Annie was on her knees now in the
shoreline mud, bellowing sobs. The lake drained and drained in
rippling moonlight. It only took a few minutes before the slabs
broke the surface.

Charity’s eyes felt peeled to the
scene, the diminishing static letting her hair fall back
down.

Something sat in the lake like angles
of tall stones, a hundred yards around.

A temple…

A temple of slabs of stone, configured
to a something semblant of a pentacle.

“
I want answers, Aunt
Annie,” she demanded. “You haven’t told me everything, but you
know. I
know
you
know! What is going on here! What are those stones in the
lake!”

Annie wept on, hitching.
“Yer right—God fergive me—yer right! I
haven’t
told ya ever-thing—I
lied!”

“
Lied about what? Tell
me.”

Snot fell in strings from the old
woman’s nose; her tears shellacked her cheeks. “That man that raped
yer mama, right here where I’m kneelin’ right now! It weren’t no
man!”

Much more calmly now, Charity deduced,
“It came from that temple in the lake, you mean?”

“
Yes!”

“
What else?” Charity asked,
certain there was more. “What else haven’t you told me?”

More weeping, more snot. “I’m so
sorry, Charity!”

“
WHAT!”