Выбрать главу

James was frozen, his synapses hot-wiring his reflexes, beaming an urgent message through the hellish insanity that his visual perception had cursed him with. The message was: haul ass and don't spare the gas.

Except his foot was caught in the godforsaken railroad trestle, hooked in a hollow place in the timber where a coupling joined two rails. He almost snapped his ankle trying to lurch away.

The thing slugged closer, its arms jutting ahead like gnarled tree branches, pungent foliage pluming from their tips. While James worked to free his foot, he got a close look at the thing's head. Closer than he wanted, close enough to guarantee him a lifetime's supply of nightmares. If he even had a lifetime left.

He could see the gill-like ridges in the thing's throat as the thorny flap opened again. Inside was a pulpy mass that looked like a cow's well-chewed cud. Then the flap worked again, and swampy steam rose from the mouth. Worst of all was the Red Man cap perched atop the bristled lump, because it made the horror all too human.

The thing was oozing noise, spraying sibilants into the night air like the blowholes on those whales James had seen on The Discovery Channel. Only this thing was trying to form syllables.

James knelt, tugging at his foot, feeling the skin scrape from his ankle as he twisted. Gravel dug into his flesh, but he barely noticed the pain.

" Shu-shaaa…"

The fucker is NOT talking to me. Please, Lord, don't let it be talking to me.

And now it was close enough that James could smell its tainted raspberry breath, an acrid minty fog. Suddenly his foot came free from his shoe and he rolled over, then was hobbling down the tracks, one white sock flopping in the darkness. He dared a look back to make sure the vegetative nightmare wasn't gaining on him. The thing wasn't fast, but it sure as hell looked determined.

The thing in the Red Man cap misted a final plaintive call after him, like a child left all alone on a playground.

" Shu-shaaa…"

CHAPTER NINE

"Working late tonight?"

Nettie jumped. Preacher Blevins had crept up behind her without her hearing. She thought he had left hours ago.

Her heartbeat pulsed against her eardrums. The preacher always moved with meek, reverent steps, as if noise brought chaos to the House of God. Still, he could have at least knocked on the vestry door.

"Oh, I didn't startle you, did I?" he said, the filament of his smile beaming from the lower portion of his pale light-bulb head.

She put a hand to her chest in exaggerated fear. "I thought it was the devil himself."

"The devil will never touch one as pure as you," the preacher said, resting a hand on her shoulder. He bent over her, his necktie curling out and brushing her hair as he looked at the papers covering her desk. "I was watching television over in the rectory when I looked out the window and saw the lights on. What's so important that it's got you working this late?"

"Just these figures I was telling you about. I can't make sense of them."

"Oh, the money. You shouldn't worry your pretty head about a few missing dollars. I'm sure the Lord's put them right where He wants them."

Nettie could smell tuna and onions on his breath. She said, not turning because his face was so close she would have had to bend her neck away, "Well, since you're here, maybe you can have a look. See here, in the column marked ‘Miscellaneous Charities’-"

She ran a finger down a row of numbers. "I've been through the entries covering the past two years, but almost every entry is incorrect; for example, last June twelfth we have a donation of $1,000 recorded to Windshake Nursing Home's ministry fund. But I was a volunteer there, and I remember the gift being $500. I know because I ordered hymnals and paid to have the piano tuned."

Preacher Blevins nodded gravely, his smooth light-bulb features furrowing.

"And here," Nettie said. "September twenty-third. A $350 withdrawal to pay the Baptist Convention. I checked with their office, and membership dues are only $200."

He peered over her shoulder, and Nettie was struck with the notion that he was sniffing her hair. Then he straightened up and crossed his arms. "I'm sure there were administrative fees and that sort of thing. And a lot of that money is earmarked for little things, like helping out widows and buying refreshments for church socials. It's hard to keep track of every little dollar. And it all comes out in the wash, anyway. The bottom line is that we're a growing enterprise. It's the Lord's will for us to flourish and share the church's blessings."

Nettie's head itched, as if the preacher's breath had deposited nits and fleas in her hair. She turned and looked up at him.

The preacher spread his hands in supplication. "I used to do the books before we hired you. I'm not too good with numbers. The Lord didn't bless me that way. I'm sure I made some errors along the way. But as it's written in St. Matthews, ‘When thou dost give alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth, that thy alms may be in secret, and thy Father who seeth in secret will repay thee.’"

"But so much is unaccounted for."

"Worry not, my child. I'm sure you'll get everything straightened out." He lowered his eyes. "Well, I believe I'd better go say my prayers and get some sleep. Might have a big congregation this weekend, what with Blossomfest and all, plus Easter's coming up."

He yawned and tilted his head back, his pungent exhalation rising beneath his beaver teeth.

"Preacher, can I ask you something?"

"Certainly, honey."

"When I got hired as church secretary, whose decision was that? I mean, was it the Board of Deacons’s?" She prayed that Bill hadn't been involved.

"Well, they made recommendations, but the decision was entirely mine."

Nettie sagged in relief.

The preacher must have noticed. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, is all."

The preacher stepped toward her, hovering, and put his hand on her shoulder and gave it another squeeze. "I think I made a good decision, don't you?" he asked, and again he lowered his eyes.

Nettie felt them roving over her skin as if they were tongues. No, just her imagination. She had been working too long, that’s all, stooped over the church accounts until her guts were tied in knots. All this needless worry had put her on edge.

"Good night, Nettie," Preacher Blevins said, giving her a final pat on the head. "Lock up when you leave."

Nettie nodded at his flashing light-bulb smile and began clearing her desk. "See you tomorrow, Preacher."

"May God keep you and watch over your sleep, my precious child."

"Thank you. Same to you."

She listened for his footsteps as he left, but he was as silent as a mouse, as if he were walking on air. After a couple of minutes tucking papers in drawers, she switched off the light and headed into the worship hall.

A dark church is kind of spooky. She stepped under the hushed arches and walked down the aisle.

"Police Department."

"Listen, I want to report…" What the hell did James want to report?

"Yes, sir?"

"Uh-downtown, I saw… I was nearly attacked."

"In Windshake?"

"Yeah. On the back street, behind the hardware store." He tried to muffle his voice. Not sure just how black I sound.

"ID the perp?"

"What’s that?"

"Identification. Did you see the perpetrator's face?"

Oh, yes. Unfortunately, I got up close and personal. "Yes, Officer, only… I'm not sure what it was."

"Sir, have you been drinking? You're starting to slur a little."

"I'm fine. Listen, could you just take a look?" Because I need to know that I'm not losing my mind.

"We have an officer on patrol. I'll give him a call."