The Burning Time (14 page)

“John, duck!”

Reacting instinctively to Mitch’s shout, he crouched down. A strange yet familiar sound came from above him, almost like someone slapping a hand on flesh, and a flash of light flew past him.

The lead Hound cried out and turned away. Another snapping sound followed, and this time John saw a tiny, glittering object hit the second Hound. It, too, barked in pain and stepped backward.

John risked a look upwards. Mitch stood halfway down the stairs, a metal slingshot strapped to his arm. He loaded and fired again, sending another piece of shiny metal at the Hounds.

“Hurry up,” the boy shouted. “I’ve only got a couple more left.”

Without pausing to ask questions, John bolted up the stairs. Mitch had time to fire one more round and then John grabbed him and carried him down the upstairs hall and into the guest room. He slammed the door shut and locked it.

“Get away from the door,” he said to Mitch as he dragged his valise from under the bed. Using only one arm, it took him longer than he planned to open the case. He was still reaching into the black bag when the first Hell Hound crashed through the door.

The demonic beast knocked Mitch aside with its shoulder and focused its attention on John. Its front shoulders went down as it prepared to leap. Behind it, the second Hound entered the room, black tongue hanging down and steaming strings of foamy saliva dripping from its jowls.

John dug furiously into the dark depths of the bag, sticking his arm in well past the elbow as he felt for the jar he needed. His hand closed on the clay container just as the lead Hound let loose with an unearthly howl and sprang forward.

Moving as fast as he could, John swung his hand at the creature’s face and smashed the jar against its head. Black powder exploded in all directions, coating John and the Hound as they tumbled backward into a wall. John’s scream was drowned out by the Hound’s agonized shriek as it burst into icy cold, neon-blue flames even as its claws raked John’s chest. An instant later, all that remained of the hell beast were a few hairs floating in the air.

John tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He sat up straighter, using the wall for support, as the second Hound growled and crept toward him. Unlike the first Hound, it moved slowly, wary of meeting the same fate as its companion. John quickly brushed as much of the black powder from his hair and clothes as he could, gathering a small handful that he held up to the beast.

“You know what this is. Return to your own world or you’ll burn in this one.” John’s heart thumped in his chest, as much from fear as from his exertions. He had no idea if the remaining powder was enough to vanquish the Hound; if it wasn’t, his last few minutes would be filled with agony beyond belief.

The Hound tilted its head and regarded John with glowing, narrowed eyes. Then, with a final angry cough, it turned around and ran from the room.

John let his arm fall to his side. A wave of weakness flowed over him, and he leaned against the wall. The room spun. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything. He closed his eyes and let his head drop forward, hoping the dizziness would pass.

So tired. Maybe just a quick nap...

The throbbing agony faded to a dull ache as the world receded.

And disappeared.

*   *   *

Billy Ray dropped his tool belt onto his bed and sat down with a loud sigh. First, there’d been the headlines in the paper that Tony Lopez had been shot dead trying to escape from jail. That alone was enough to knock the wind from his sails, although he couldn’t say he was saddened by the news. Then Reverend Christian had run him ragged all day; between setting up the tables for the bake sale and cutting up the big-ass tree that’d fallen behind the church, he’d barely had time to catch his breath, let alone eat or piss or grab a smoke.

“Christ, I could use a goddamn beer,” he muttered. Realizing what he’d said, he looked around, afraid he might not be alone. The crazy preacher had a habit of appearing so silently you’d almost think he beamed in, like on Star Trek. Seeing the basement was empty, he decided to take a quick break before stacking the last cords of wood he’d cut.

“Whole town’s crazy,” he muttered, as he opened his minifridge and pulled out an ice-cold Genesee Cream Ale. The sooner he made his score and bolted, the happier he’d be. The preacher and the chief were bad enough; but lately, the whole town seemed to have caught the religious fever. They walked around quoting Christian’s weird sermons, and half of them had the same dazed look he’d seen on junkies right after they shot up or hit the pipe.

On top of everything, the heat wave still hadn’t broken, and the hellish temperatures were bringing out everyone’s mean streaks. It was getting so that you couldn’t go into town for a cup of coffee and a donut without seeing at least one fist fight. The only good thing was Tony Lopez getting pinched for the murders. And from what Billy Ray’d heard, Tony was in no shape to rat him out, either, which was even better.

Billy rolled the bottle across his neck and forehead, the chilled glass providing a moment of relief. With a groan, he got up, intending to head back outside, but found himself drawn, as always, to the closet at the far end of the basement.

The closet where Christian kept the money.

“I like having it close at hand,” he’d explained, when Billy had asked why he kept all the cash from the fundraisers and collections in boxes and jars.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will steal it?”

Christian had turned and given him a cold smile. At the time, Billy’d thought that if he didn’t know Christian was a man of the cloth, he’d have sworn he stood in the presence of a cold-blooded killer.

“Billy, this is a house of worship. None of my people would think to steal from it. Besides, only you and I know the money’s here. I know
I’m
not going to steal it. Are you?”

An involuntary shiver had run through Billy, a feeling like something was crawling down his spine, something with hundreds of legs and poison fangs.

“No, of course not. I’d just hate to see anything happen to the money, after all the hard work it took to get it.” Billy managed to keep his voice in a normal tone as he spoke, but inside he fought a war with himself. Half of him wanted to shout for joy, knowing how easy it would be to grab the cash and run. The other half was screaming to forget the money and get the hell out of town.

Christian had shut the door and given him a wink. “Don’t worry, Billy. No one’s going to take the money. My Gods wouldn’t like that.”

Billy had no faith in religion. The only things he believed in were the power of money and his own quick wits. However, there was something about Cyrus Christian, and the way he spoke, that almost—
almost
—made you think the Gods he talked about really existed. Vicious Gods, Gods of war and pestilence and blood; Gods that made the stories from the Old Testament, the ones Billy’d read back in Sunday school, seem like fairy tales.

They were not Gods Billy ever wanted to meet.

Even so, he couldn’t help staring at the money. There has to be over four thousand dollars in there, between the jars and boxes and bags of coins.

“Four thousand, eight hundred and thirty, give or take.”

Billy let out a startled yelp and turned around. Reverend Christian stood there, grinning his half-crazy grin, his eyes dancing with merriment.

“Jesus! I mean, holy sh... You scared the hell out of me.”

“Watch your words, Billy. The Gods’ ears are everywhere.” Christian leaned past and looked into the closet. “Was there something you needed?”

His heart pounding from the sudden scare, Billy fumbled for an answer that didn’t sound suspicious. “No, I, uh, like to check the closet every now and then, to, you know, make sure no one took off with the money. A lot of people have been coming in and out lately, what with the bake sale and all.”

Christian shut the door and leaned against it. “No need to worry about that, Billy. I’ll know if anything gets taken. Now, don’t you have some wood to dispose of?”

Before Billy could respond, Christian’s face took on a shocked, angry look, the kind a man gets when he comes home and finds his wife in bed with his best friend.

“Reverend? Something wrong?”

Christian’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Nothing. I have to go.” He pushed past Billy and hurried toward the stairs.

Son of a bitch.
Billy put a hand on his chest. His heart was still kicking a mile a minute.

Forty-eight hundred bucks. I could get pretty far on that; far away from that crazy preacher and this crazy town.

A second voice spoke up inside his head, as if stealing the church’s money was a question for debate. Yes, but think how much there will be after the fair next month. Ten thousand, maybe more. You could go a lot farther on that.

He imagined rolling into Vegas, or maybe LA, with ten grand in his pocket.

I guess I can deal with crazy for a few more weeks.

It made sense. But as headed across the back lawn toward the woodpile, he wondered if he’d made the right choice.

Or if it would come back to haunt him.

*   *   *

Cyrus Christian slammed his office door shut and kicked a chair across the room.

Damn that John Root!

He’d felt it just as he was about to put a little scare into Billy Ray. The Hounds had failed in their mission, two destroyed and the other slinking off with its tail between its legs. Once again, the backwoods do-gooder had managed to thwart his long-overdue demise.

Damn him!

Christian raised a hand to slam down on his desk and noticed at the last moment that smoke was rising from his clenched fist. It took all his willpower to open his fingers and bring his arm back to his side. Only after several long, deep breaths did he trust himself to sit down. Even then, his rage whirled inside him, a tornado of hatred and evil wrath threatening to burst free.

So why not put it to good use?

Christian’s scowl slowly turned into a smile as he closed his eyes and released his malevolent energies into the atmosphere surrounding Hastings Mills.

Immediately, the temperature all over town rose two degrees, bringing more people closer to their personal boiling points.

Christian’s unholy grin grew wider.

“John? John, wake up!”

Something pushed at John, bringing the pain in his arm and chest back to fiery life. He tried to return to the cool darkness, but the voice kept intruding.

“John! You’re bleeding. What should I do? Are those things gonna come back?”

John opened his eyes. Mitch sat a few feet away, an anxious expression on his young face.

“Are you alright?” John managed to whisper, each word sending bolts of pain through him. The boy looked fine, but John had a vague memory of a Hound knocking Mitch to the floor.

“Yeah, just some bruises. But...I think you’re hurt pretty bad, John.” A tear ran down Mitch’s cheek.

John tried to smile. “I’ve been hurt worse.”
But not by much. Loss of blood has me dizzy and weak.
He knew what he needed, but even if Mitch brought him his bag, he doubted he’d have the strength to find the right remedies.

That left only one solution.

“Mitch, you’re going to have to help me. The medicines I need are in my bag, but you’re going to have to get them for me.”

“I can do that!”

Mitch jumped up and grabbed the black bag from the bed. He started to open it but John shook his head. The movement sent sparkling stars across his vision, but he ignored them.

“Wait. Before you do that, listen carefully. I want you to close your eyes and then put your hand inside. The bag is...magic.” He hated to use the word, but couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. “You’ll have to reach in really far, farther than you think is possible. You’ll feel jars and bottles. Be careful not to knock them over. As soon as you feel them, let me know and I’ll tell you which ones to take.”

Mitch gave him a curious look, but did as he was told, closing his eyes and then sticking his hand inside.

“Hey, it’s really cold inside,” the boy said. He frowned as his arm went in almost to his shoulder. “How...wait! I felt something.”

“Be careful.”

“Now what?”

Here came the hard part. Would the boy be up to it? “You need to find a box. Concentrate on it. It’s a wooden box the size of a dictionary, with a metal clasp. Picture it in your head. Can you see it?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Concentrate, Mitch. Pretend you’re searching a shelf. Imagine your fingers touching the smooth wood.”

“Shelf? I—”

“Keep your eyes closed!”

Mitch squeezed them back shut. “Okay, already. Geez.”

John waited, watching the boy’s shoulder move, the rest of his small arm hidden inside the black leather satchel.

“Oh! I Got it!”

“You’re sure?”

Mitch pulled his arm out and opened his eyes. In his hand was an old, dusty wooden box. Generations of hands had worn away any sign of paint or shellac from it, now the smooth surface had the color of old driftwood.

John’s heart jumped. “That’s it. Bring it here and open it.”

Placing the box on the floor, Mitch tipped back the lid. Inside were unlabeled plastic bags filled with green and brown dried herbs. In one corner sat a small jar of clear liquid.

“I thought you said there’d be medicine in here,” Mitch said with a confused frown.

“It’s all medicine. Here’s what you have to do. Take a pinch of powder from each bag and drop it carefully into the jar. After you do that, put the lid back on the jar and shake it.”

“That’s it?” One eyebrow went up and his eyes narrowed—the same look John had seen him give Danni at the dinner table when she’d told him to try the sushi, it tasted good.

“That’s it.”

John watched as the boy mixed the ingredients and prayed Mitch didn’t spill the resulting brown-colored liquid.

“Open it and hand it to me,” John said. He downed the bitter liquid in one gulp. Instantly the pain in his arm and chest diminished, as if a stream of cold water had washed over red-hot coals. A long sigh escaped him at the sudden cessation of his misery. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer of thanks.