The Influence (30 page)

“You guys go back to the house,” Dave told them. “Get yourself some coffee or breakfast. I’ll take care of this.” 

Lita, carrying the gas can, started toward the Big House, motioning for Jill to come with her. 

“Do you need any help?” Ross asked Dave. “Is there anything you need me to do?” 

“No, I’ve got it. I’ll meet you guys back inside when this is done.” 

Ross followed the women into the house, where Lita kept the doors and windows closed to keep out the smoke and put on a pot of coffee. No one felt like eating, not with that horrible smell lingering in their nostrils, so they sat around the table, talking about what had happened, waiting for Dave to come inside. 

Ross looked out the window at the black smoke that had now chimneyed into a plume that rose straight and high into the air, and could probably be seen for miles. He thought of how grateful he’d been to Lita and Dave when he’d first arrived, how happy he had been, after months of stress and insecurity, to actually have security in his life and a place to live.  

Now it was all going to hell. And, as rational and unimaginative as he’d always considered himself to be, he knew that it was because of that
thing
rotting in Cameron Holt’s smokehouse. 

Something needed to be done about it. 

But though they continued to talk about it even after the fire was out and Dave was in the kitchen with them, none of them had any idea what that something was. 

TWENTY EIGHT 

The sun had only just come up, but Tad was already off to his new job with a roofing company in Benson, and Mariah was safely on the bus to school. Alone in the house, Cissy Heath knelt on the floor of the kitchen before the cross on the wall, praying. She prayed each morning, not for material success, not even for health or long life. 

For forgiveness. 

Even now, she wondered what sort of judgment would be passed on her. She’d been a cock jockey in her younger days, had ridden any pole she could fit in her hole, but she’d returned to the church in the 1990s and had led a blameless God-fearing life since then. 

Now, through His angel, she was in the direct service of the Lord. Which ought to count for something. Then again, Tad had been one of the men shooting off guns to celebrate New Year’s Eve, so it was also possible that any gains she’d made were balanced out and she was right back where she started. 

Finishing her prayer, she remained kneeling, eyes closed. She was trying for calmness, inner peace, but there was an old fragment of song lyric trapped in her head, going around and around, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember the name of the tune or who had sung it. After the song segment that was tormenting her, there was a line about the “flat Sargasso Sea,” which made her think it might be “Rock Lobster” by The B-52s, but she knew that wasn’t it.  

The title was on the tip of her brain. 

Flat Sargasso Sea
. 

It was…it was… 

“Mimi on the Beach.” By Jane Siberry. 

Yes. 

The entire song came flooding back to her—melody and lyrics—and while relief accompanied the knowledge, another emotion was stirred by the recollection: sadness. The song made her sad. She remembered when it had come out, remembered how young she’d been, how much future was still ahead of her, how many possibilities the world had held. Her life could have gone in a thousand different directions, and while she was proud of who she was today, the truth was that this was not where she would be—or
who
she would be—if she had her choice. 

She suddenly felt depressed. Where was Jane Siberry? she wondered. Was she still recording music? Where was Selina Choy, who’d been her freshman roommate back then? Was Selina still alive? 

Every path her thoughts took ran to darkness and Cissy opened her eyes and looked up at the cross on the wall, then around at the shabbiness of her small kitchen. She loved her husband and her daughter, and she truly did believe, but every so often she wondered what things would be like if she
hadn’t
gone back to the church. A nagging notion in the back of her mind told her that she might be happier.  

Which was why she needed to pray. 

She shouldn’t have such thoughts. 

Closing her eyes tightly, she offered up another prayer for forgiveness, finishing with three Hail Marys, and told herself that she felt better.  

Cissy had had breakfast with Tad and Mariah, but mouthing prayers had made her thirsty, and she stood, opening up the refrigerator and pouring herself another glass of orange juice. She set herself in front of the sink, drinking it, staring out at the vacant lot behind the grocery store. 

Last night, she’d dreamed again that she was in the smokehouse, only this time she had been alone with the angel and it had…
unfurled
.  

Its new form had been terrible, far worse than its original appearance. It was jet black rather than dark green, and its formerly thin wings were thick and spiky. Demonic. Just like its body, which now had clawed feet, two extra insectile arms and stood twice as tall as a man. But it was the look of insanity and hatred on its wild monstrous face that frightened her to the core of her being.  

The end was coming soon, she knew, very soon, and the angel would reward those who deserved it and punish those who didn’t. She was afraid of that judgment, and she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just avoid it, to escape it, to opt out. 

To kill herself. 

Kill herself. 

The idea was somehow calming. 

The church had always taught her that suicide was a sin, but when she thought of the angel and the way it had looked when it revealed its new self— 

when it had unfurled 

—killing herself seemed like a viable option. 

Cissy had heard about the good fortune the angel had brought some people, the bad fortune that had befallen others, the luck that had changed, and she’d wondered why nothing like that had happened to her or her family. It occurred to her that that was what was happening now. For the truth was that she had been happy and satisfied until today, until this moment. Her past had been something she had been ashamed of and regretted. All of a sudden, it was something she missed, something she had lost, and she wondered if the change in
her
fortunes involved her happiness. 

Maybe, maybe not. The reasons didn’t matter. The fact was that the future was no longer something she had the confidence to face. She loved God, but she was afraid of His angel, and taking herself out of the equation seemed like the easiest and best solution to the problem. 

The only question was: what to do about Tad and Mariah? It would be wrong to leave them alone; there was no way she could do that. It would be better for all of them if she killed her husband and daughter first,
then
took her own life. That way, they would be together. 

She smiled to herself, feeling calm and reassured. Finishing her orange juice, she walked over to Tad’s gun case and chose a rifle. Mariah wouldn’t be home for another eight hours, Tad for ten, maybe twelve, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. She would load the rifle, set up a chair in front of the door and wait. She’d shoot Mariah when she walked through the doorway—in the face, so it would be quick—then she’d do the same to Tad when he returned, and then she would kill herself. 

Maybe, if she was lucky, the angel wouldn’t get them then.  

**** 

Jeri finished her route early, unnerved by the amount of mail that had remained uncollected in various boxes. It wasn’t her place to check up on people—her job was just to deliver the mail—but after seeing the letters, catalogs and bills she’d delivered yesterday and the day before piling up untouched, she had been sorely tempted to get out of the car and knock on doors to make sure everyone was all right. 

Only… 

Only she didn’t really want to. She was
afraid
to know the truth because she suspected that more than one of the mail recipients was not sick or on vacation or incapacitated but… 

Dead
. 

Yes, dead. That was her fear, and she didn’t want it confirmed. So she forced packages and envelopes into overstuffed boxes with no room to hold them and forced the doors closed, wondering what she would do tomorrow if the mail was still not collected.  

She had stopped delivering to the ranches several days ago, but from various points on her route she could still see Cameron Holt’s scarecrows, and even at a distance those things freaked her out. She’d told Don about them, had even driven out with him to so he could see for himself, and he had indeed thought they were freaky. But he didn’t seem to feel the threat that she did, and she wasn’t sure he totally believed her story about the scarecrows
looking
at her, about one of them actually climbing off its pole. Like everyone else, he knew that a lot of weird things had been happening around Magdalena since New Year’s Eve. But he was one of those people who seemed to have been affected
positively
. She had been terrorized by those damn scarecrows, beset by complaints from postal customers, and now half of the people on her route weren’t even picking up their mail. 

Dead 

She hadn’t even been in the mood to have sex for the past two weeks. 

But Don was in great spirits these days. More people had dropped off equipment to be repaired at his shop than ever before, and he’d almost earned enough money to buy that new outboard motor he wanted. Strangely enough, despite his good mood, he hadn’t tried to make love to her, hadn’t asked for sex or even
hinted
about it, and Jeri wondered if he was seeing someone else. That would certainly account for his change in attitude. 

The thought made her depressed and, on a whim, she drove to Don’s repair shop instead of heading home. He wasn’t there; the place was locked up. He wasn’t at the house, either, and Jeri’s heart dropped in her chest. She tried calling him on his cell phone, but she had no bars, so, leaving the ranch mail in the car, she hurried inside to use the land line. She was able to reach him, but he must have had his phone turned off because all she got was a message. She hung up, feeling worried and frustrated. 

For a moment, she seriously considered getting back in the car and driving around, looking for him. But she knew how paranoid that was and thought it would be better to give him the benefit of the doubt, to wait and then ask him where he’d been this morning when she saw him. 

Besides, she had to take out that ranch mail in case one of the recipients came by to pick it up.  

Like Cameron Holt. 

She shivered. 

Getting a quick drink of water from the kitchen, Jeri walked back outside— 

Where there was a scarecrow standing in her yard. 

She jumped, screamed, and immediately rushed back inside, slamming the door behind her. She had seen the scarecrow for only a second, but it was the closest she had ever been to one of them, and she had noticed the specificity of its mud features, the broadness of its nose, the slightly mismatched eyes, the high cheeks, the hint of an overbite in the mouth. Leaning with her back against the door, breathing hard, she wondered who had sculpted that face and how, who had made those oversized clothes— 

Thump! 

Thump! 

Thump! 

There was pounding on the door behind her, strong enough that she could feel it through the wood, and she let out a scream that would have done Linnea Quigley proud. Jumping away from the door, she dashed over to the phone and dialed 911, an automatic response, though she knew there was no police, fire or sheriff in town and the call would go through to Willcox. 

Behind her the door crashed open. 

She should have called a neighbor
. Not daring to look behind her, scrambling to get out of the way in case the scarecrow was right on her heels, Jeri ran through the den to the back door. It took several agonizing seconds to get it unlocked and open—seconds in which she was sure the scarecrow was going to grab her—but then she was outside, in the back yard. 

Where three scarecrows blocked her way. 

Sobbing, she sank to the ground, even while a part of her brain was exhorting her to fight back, call for help, run away, duck, dodge, find a way out. She closed her eyes, hearing rustling movements louder than her own cries, then feeling strong rough fingers of hardened dirt tighten around both arms and pick her up. Screaming now, but unable to resist the urge, she opened her eyes, staring into two deep black holes in a brown mud face, straw hair sticking out far enough to poke into her forehead. 

She had never seen any of the scarecrows actually move, but as she was twisted sideways, as one of them grabbed her legs, as the one holding her arms opened its mouth to reveal teeth made from jagged chunks of rock and broken pieces of bottle glass, she finally did, and the sight terrified her into silence. 

Her last thought was a complete non sequitur:
Who’s going to deliver the mail now? 

**** 

Vern Hastings made himself a ham sandwich for lunch, using the curved knife he’d utilized for the sacrifice to smear mustard on the toasted bread. The knife had been washed several times since then, but he liked to think that there was still some DNA on the blade. 

Putting the knife down, he bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly to enjoy the taste.  

Rose walked into the kitchen. “You’re eating a sandwich? I thought we were going to—” 

Vern picked up the knife and stabbed his wife in the throat. Blood gushed out, but it gushed out cleanly, and a ring of yellow was still visible along the upper edge of the wound where mustard from the knife had wiped off on the skin. Collapsing on the floor, she grabbed her neck with both hands, desperately trying to stem the flow, but blood continued to pour down her neck and seep through her fingers.