The red church (11 page)

The tree barks at me.

Ronnie was doing okay. He had slept most of the time since coming back from the hospital. His face was pale and his nose was lost in gauze and padding. Once he had vomited blood and stained the carpet in the boys' room. The place smelled like carpet-cleaning spray, but luckily it was warm enough that she could leave the windows open.

Linda pulled some hamburger from the refrigera-tor. They had killed their final cow the previous fall. Linda wondered if the dead cow counted as a. sacri-fice. Maybe for the God of cows. Let Archer worry about that kind of stuff.

Tim came in the back door.

"Go wash your hands, honey," she said over the rush of water as she rinsed some potatoes.

"They're sore." Not too much whine in his voice.

"I know. You'll get used to it."

Tim came to the sink and saw the hamburger. "It looks like that guy's face."

"Hush, honey."

"I dreamed about him last night."

"Was it scary?" She searched his face, looking for weakness. All she saw were David's eyes, the stubborn gift of genetics. She moved over and let Timmy wash his hands.

The sink turned brown-red from the dirt. "No. In my dream, the graveyard was sort of dark, but not a bad dark. A fun dark, like a carnival or something. And the dead man was all ripped up and stuff, but he was walking around the tombstones."

"You're a brave boy. That sure would have scared me." Was Archer coming to the boys? Or had it just been the usual trick of dreams?

Tim turned off the taps and wiped his hands on the dishcloth that hung from a cabinet knob. "There was another person, a boy, up at the church. Except the church wasn't a church, it was lit up like a spook-house. This boy was up in the place with the bell, just laughing and laughing and laughing and ringing the bell. And the dead man danced around the tomb-stones, pieces of him falling off the whole time." Archer. It had to be Archer. T
he truth has many faces,
he always said. "Well, you've been through a lot. It's no wonder you had such a weird dream," Linda said, pressing out two patties and placing them in a black iron skillet on the stove. The heat made the meat sizzle, the white noise of energy transfor-mation.

"That dream was nowhere near as scary as talking to the sheriff. Or seeing Ronnie in the hospital." The sheriff. No wonder Tim had thought the man was going to arrest him. The sheriff had stood like an army man in the hospital lobby, asking Tim ques-tions in his deep, patient voice. He was a threat. But he was of the old blood, and had his own debt to pay. Archer could handle him.

The burgers popped as she flipped them, sending tiny sparks of pain up her bare arms as hot grease spattered on her skin. The bell rang on the micro-wave. "Dinner's ready," she said. While Tim ate at the kitchen table, Linda took some apple juice to Ronnie. She turned on the light, and he moaned. "It's okay, honey," she said. "I brought you something to drink." He was feverish and pale against the pillow. His nose was still plumped by packing, and a stray bloody thread of gauze dangled from one nostril.

"N-not thirsty," Ronnie said.

She sat beside him on the lower bunk. As the old-est, he usually slept in the upper bunk, but she didn't want to risk his falling during the night. Archer would want him mended, healed, whole. Not like this.
Why did you have to go and break your nose?
He looked so small, with his hair brushed back and the
Star
Wars
sheets pulled up to his chin. Theo, his stuffed bear, had fallen to the side, the stiff arms providing no comfort.

For a split second, she blamed Archer for the in-jury. Of course, she knew that Archer had taken Boonie Houck, had made the drunkard pay for his sins at the same time Archer rejuvenated himself for holy work. Boonie's worthless life had culminated with a great act of giving. Serving as a sacrifice was Boonie's highest possible purpose in this world. He should have been whimpering in gratitude as Archer took his wicked eyes and tongue and other sinful parts.

Ronnie's accident was only a down payment, she knew. Many innocents would fall so that none of the guilty escaped. That was the Word, that was the Way. She had accepted the testament long ago. Archer warned that some choices would be diffi-cult. But he reminded the fold that earthly love was only another vanity, another sin. All love must be directed to the Temple of the Two Suns. And none of that love could be wasted on the First Son, Jesus.

Jesus, the plague maker. The damning one. The liar. A mask of light and peace covering a devil's scarred and pocked face. Linda shivered, recalling how deeply the Baptists had brainwashed her. And to think that she'd been making the boys go to their
church.

A Jesus trick, Archer had explained. Using David, to trap her. To "save" her. She shuddered and put the apple juice to Ronnie's lips. He strained his head forward and took a swallow, then collapsed back against the pillow. "How are you feeling, sugar?"

"Hurts," he whispered.

"I know, baby. It'll be okay soon."

"I just want to sleep."

"Sure." She kissed him on the forehead, careful to avoid the purpled flesh around his eyes. "Sweet dreams."

Timmy was finished eating by the time she got back to the kitchen. She sent him to wash his face and brush his teeth, and then to bed. She turned on the radio, the local station. A Beatles song was play-ing,

"Strawberry Fields Forever." Sinful. But she was strong. She could withstand this test of faith.
Yes, Archer, I am strong. I am worthy. The music can't touch me, because I know it for what it is.
She listened as the song segued into its second fadeout, the backward-tape effects filled with secret messages. The taunts and seductive whispers of Jesus. Something about burying Paul, the cursed apostle. Dozens of people across the county, maybe hun-dreds, were being exposed to this depraved Christ-worship. She said a quick prayer to Archer for their souls.

Another song came on. The Culture Club, a band she used to like. Back before she met Archer. "Karma chameleon," Boy George sang. Karma chameleon. More sacrilege, more perverted celebrations of the spirit, another false Way.

The boys would be asleep now. She turned off the radio and silently crept out the door. The sky was charcoal gray in the west, where the waxing moon hung bloated and obscene. But the ground, the earth, the mountains were black as absolution. As near Archer's promised peace as one could hope, at least in this mortal world.

Crickets. The chuckle of the creek. The wind soughing through the trees, hiding the noises of noc-turnal creatures.

She didn't need light in order to see.

She needed only faith.

And darkness.

Archer's darkness summoned her, a beacon so righteously black that it was blinding. She crossed the damp meadow and slipped into the forest.

Zeb Potter cradled the shotgun across one flannel-wrapped arm. He shined the flashlight into the belly of the barn. The cows were banging against the walls of their stall, uneasy lowing coming from their throats. The air was thick with the smell of fresh manure.

Something's scared 'em bad.

Zeb had been getting ready for bed, had taken out his chewing tobacco and his teeth and was deciding whether or not he could go one more night in the same pair of long johns when the bawling of a calf filled the night. A calf could wail its lungs out if it wanted, but hardly ever cut loose without a good rea-son. Most people thought cows were dumb as dirt, but they had peculiarities that none of those genius

"agronomists" from NC State would ever be able to explain. A healthy cow, you hit it in that place just between and a little above the eyes with a sledgeham-mer, and it dropped dead on the spot, ready to turn to steak and hamburger. But a sick cow, you had to hit it five or six times before it went down. And why was that? The sick cow was living to get healthy, but the healthy cow was about as well off as it could hope to be. So the healthy cow didn't have as much to look forward to. Cows knew a thing or two about life. So they always kicked up a fuss when they smelled something bad. Though all the big predators had died out, once in a while a pack of wild dogs came over the hills from Tennessee-ways, where people let such things go on. But on this side of the state line, people took care of their problems. They didn't wait for problems to do their damage and move on.

After the first commotion, Zeb had cussed once and slipped into his boots without bothering to find his socks. He'd stopped by the door and put on his hut and collected his twenty-gauge and his spotlight If Betty were still alive, she would be waiting by the door in her nightgown, telling him to be careful. And he would have patted the shotgun and said, "This is all the care I need." But Betty had gone to be with the Lord, and the farm was big and lonely and the house made noises at night. And the damned hound had probably skulked away into the woods at the slightest scent of trouble.

The shotgun was heavy, and Zeb's muscles ached from tension. He flicked the light over the barn, its yellow beam bouncing around among locust posts and old wire and rotted feed sacks. Hay dust choked the air, and the crumbs from last fall's tobacco snowed between the cracks in the loft floor above. Something was moving around up there.

That ain't no damned wild Tennessee dogs.

Zeb clenched his bare gums together and moved as smoothly as his old bones would let him over to the loft stairs. A chicken was disturbed from its nest under the steps and almost got its knobby head blown off when it erupted into Zeb's face. Zeb picked up the flashlight he had dropped. The cows were noisier now, their milling more frantic.

Zeb put a trembling foot on the stairs. "Who's up yonder?" he hollered, hoping he sounded angry in-stead of scared. Nothing but moos answered him.

He'd heard what had happened to Boonie, and there was no way in hell that it was going to happen to him. The sheriff had even been out, asking if Zeb had seen or heard anything unusual. But the only thing Zeb had heard was those damned bells in the middle of the night, what was probably some of them high school kids finding a way to bug as many people as possible.

He thought now about going up to the house and ringing the sheriff's department. Littlefield told him to call if anything "unusual" happened. Littlefield sure liked that word. But Zeb had known Littlefield when the boy was knee-high to a scarecrow, and he didn't want the sheriff to think that he couldn't take care of his own problems. That was why Tennessee and the rest of the damned country was in such a mess. Everybody closed their eyes when the bad stuff came along.

John Wayne never even blinked.

Zeb
played the spotlight into the darkness at the top of the stairs. He put a boot on the second tread, and before he could decide whether he was really going to or not, he had taken another step, then another, and he was halfway up before he even started thinking again. He laid the barrel of the shot-gun over his left wrist so he could shine the light while still keeping his right hand at the trigger. If he fired the gun in that position, with it held beside his hip, the recoil would probably break his trigger fin-ger. That was one worry that John Wayne never had.

"Might have been somebody with a knife or an ax," the sheriff had said. "Either that, or a wild ani-mal." Sure, it could be somebody with a blade. City folks had moved into Whispering Pines, up from Florida or down from New York, come to escape those streets that were full of maniacs with drugged-out eyes and hands that would rather slap you than lift in greeting. But guess what? The city folks had brought the bad things with them. A killer's instinct was as easily packed away in a U-Haul as a fitness machine or a golf cart was.

He'd told the sheriff in no uncertain terms that there wasn't an animal around here big enough to mutilate a man like that. Maybe off in Africa or some-thing, but things were tamed over here. So when Lit-tlefield said Perry Hoyle had mentioned a mountain lion, Zeb laughed out loud. The idea of a touched-in-the-head killer running around was way easier to swallow than believing a mountain lion was on the loose. But right now, Zeb was in no mood to laugh at anything. His stomach was a wet sack of cornmeal, tied closed by the knot in his throat. He had as-cended enough to poke his head into the loft, and the spotlight jittered from corner to corner, too fast for him to really see much.

Hay, stacked crooked like a child's wooden blocks.

The bright metal glint of his tools hanging on the wall by his workbench.

Night, cool beyond the chicken wire that covered the open windows.

Posts, the dull underside of the tin roofing, the hewed stakes where the tobacco hung to dry, the—

The dark thing, swooping, a sudden papery rattle breaking the strained quiet. Zeb jerked the spotlight and his trigger hand tensed.

Bat.

Goddamned no-good mouse with wings.

Zeb exhaled, his heart pounding in his eardrums. A small, warm ache filled his chest.
Easy now, Zebulon. Don't be putting yourself in no hos-pital.

He'd been in the hospital last year, and that was as close to prison as he ever wanted to be. Doctors sticking things inside every hole in his body, nurses seeing him naked, people in white coats telling him when to eat what pills. Couldn't have a chaw, no, sir.
Have you ever had this, this, or this?