Father Johnstone prays for deliverance. He prays with every desperate fiber in his soul the Lord strike this man down and return Pratt to its former self.
“I can feel that,” Pollux says. He breaks into a small grin, not offended. Seemingly pleased, if the pastor didn’t know any better. “You know what’s interesting about prayer, Father Johnstone?” he starts. “If I tell a congregation I’m praying for someone to develop lung cancer or a brain tumor or to get in a fatal car accident, people get all bent out of shape like I’m approaching religion the wrong way,” he says. “But if I tell them it’s directed at a man that bombed a movie theater or shot up an elementary school—suddenly, it’s okay. That’s the compelling thing that I’ve noticed while traveling around: that deep down at the core of their being, people want their God to be as vengeful as they are.”
“Let us go,” Madeline says.
“And speaking of vengeful, I’d try to get comfortable because you’re not going anywhere for a while,” Pollux says. “Or have you not yet realized how you ended up in that chair?”
“You mean the part where you had me hit in the face with a baseball bat?” she says.
“Sledgehammer. Rubber head. Couldn’t have you blocking it and running off again, could I?”
Madeline leans forward, sneering. “Maybe you need to stop chasing me.”
“Oh, but I have,” he says. “Why do you think I had your house set on fire? For fun?” Pollux glares at Madeline. She doesn’t reply. “I needed to get your attention…give that mutt of his something to track. And you followed, just like I knew you would. You came right to me.” Pollux pauses thoughtfully before looking over to Father Johnstone. “Your friend had been snooping around though, Pastor. Last night’s harvest was important and I didn’t need Dr. Keller ruining it. He needed to be kept busy. So I gave him something to do…something he wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving unattended after the untimely passing of Mr. Clevenger.”
“Helena,” the pastor says.
Pollux nods. “The doctor’s tried calling a few times,” he says, removing the cell phone from his pocket, displaying it for the two of them before setting it down on top of the nearby desk. “And I know you don’t feel things the way we do,” he briefly glances in Madeline’s direction, “but those ribbons Helena put out for you, the pure lust and want dripping off of them…exquisite. She made for a good harvest. Lured our guests right in. A bit old for my tastes, but I think you would have found her cunt adequate enough.” He smiles, and the pastor feels a flush of anger course through his neck and face. Pure gall. He wants out of the chair, wants to level the shotgun to Pollux’s chest and rectify his mistake, and he can feel this. They both can.
“He’s pushing your buttons,” Madeline warns him.
“We just know each other too well, don’t we? Or at least I thought we did,” Pollux amends. “You remember our last day among the Feri, don’t you?”
“I remember you breaking the rules and getting us kicked out,” she says. “And I remember having to say goodbye to my family and everything I’ve ever known because of your ego.” The blood from her cheek fills up the gutters of her mouth again. She spits, telling him, “That’s what I remember.”
“I remember the hunt,” he says. “I remember being out there in the forest for hours…cold, hungry. We would follow hoof tracks and urine marks and trees that had been horned like a trail that might never end. It was inefficient, to say the least.” Pollux sighs, he smiles. “That’s when I realized we could bring the hunt to us. All you need to do is put the scent out and wait.”
“What you did was for spectacle and nothing more,” she says. “You weren’t providing; you were showing off.”
“Maybe.” Pollux gives a non-committal nod of the head, taking a few paces across the room. He briefly checks on the cleric wheezing in the corner. “It worked on you, though. You came right to me. You put yourself exactly where I wanted you.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Madeline retorts.
He scoffs. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Pollux stands over Madeline, leaning over to bring his face closer to hers. He brushes the hair out of her eyes with a finger, slowly, savoring her skin. “Odd, that a woman your aunt’s age would die for no apparent reason, isn’t it?” He pauses, allowing Madeline to soak this in. “Even more odd that she’d leave everything to you.”
When Josephine Paige died, there was no mention of foul play or anything to indicate that she passed on before her time. Most of the women and wives referred back to what Father Johnstone told them: that God has a plan for everyone. They didn’t need to understand. ‘Just take comfort that He is in control. There is a path, and if you follow his Word, you’ll be with Him in the Kingdom.’
Madeline frowns, apparently, more upset with herself than she is with Pollux. Father Johnstone can almost hear her thinking, I should have known. I should have been more careful.
“How?” she asks.
Pollux nods. “I was kind about it, if that makes any difference. She didn’t even know it was happening. It was easy.”
“But you denied her the proper burial,” Madeline says, much to the chagrin of Father Johnstone. He presided over Josephine’s proceedings himself, so he has no idea what she means by this claim. He lowered her into the ground, he prayed, and those that attended the service mourned in her honor.
“I didn’t need another loose end to tie up. She was bait, and I treated her as such,” Pollux says. “Besides, those traditions aren’t mine anymore.” He looks at Father Johnstone, brow furrowing. He smiles and turns back to Madeline, “Your Secondary has no idea what we’re talking about. You really don’t tell him anything, do you?”
“He knows enough,” she says lamely.
“I highly doubt that. If Clevenger were still alive, he could report in person on your unsavory methods of harvesting,” he says. “My scouts saw more than you’d care to know and this town smells it on you. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours. Can’t go anywhere without it all turning to shit,” she says. “Your friend in the corner there is learning that firsthand.”
Pollux makes his way over to the cleric, standing over him, clicking his tongue a couple times. “Such a waste.” He turns to Father Johnstone, telling him, “Picked this one up in Barnes. You remember Barnes, don’t you? Same place you bought that Challenger you love so much. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.” He squats down next to the cleric, picking up one of his arms so that it’s above the shoulder. It drops dead weight when he lets go, slapping hard against the floor. “I’m afraid I put too many miles on this one.”
“He doesn’t need to hear this,” Madeline says, referring to the pastor.
“See, when the Primary and the Secondary aren’t a good fit,” Pollux says, ignoring Madeline’s interruption, “you’re going to see some side-effects. Could be any number of things: exploding white blood cells, cancer, brain tumors. Unfortunate things happen when you try and force it.”
“Stop it! I’m warning you,” Madeline tries again, firmer this time. She’s bucking in her seat now in an attempt to shake the chair loose at the screws.
“Excuse me one moment,” Pollux says, giving the pastor a smile. He makes his way towards Madeline, bending at the waist so that his face is inches away from hers. “If you think you can bolt lightning through here to try and fry us all, you might consider that you and your friend are strapped to metal chairs.”
Madeline smirks before launching a torrent of blood and spit in his face. Pollux smiles back, licking the cleft of his upper lip and tasting it. He thumbs his nose and tongues the print clean, apparently pleased.
“You and that fucking mouth of yours. I missed it,” he says. “Does it miss me?”
She doesn’t answer. Madeline breaks eye contact, staring off to where the sun is pouring through the windows.
“Silent treatment, eh? I can work with that.” Pollux snaps his l
eft hand out, clamping down on Madeline’s face. He digs his fingers into the spot where she was hit, nails digging through the bruise like it’s old fruit. She starts to scream. Madeline screams as the gash on the inside of her mouth grinds against loose teeth, fresh blood cascading down her chin. She’s so loud the pastor’s eardrums rattle. The pastor interjects, yelling at him to stop. He screams at Pollux to let her go, but he knows the gesture is futile. He won’t stop, won’t relent. Not until he feels like it.
“Open,” he says.
“Frrrruk you!” Her words are muffled by blood and palm.
Pollux pulls the scalpel out of his jacket pocket, the one that Dr. Keller gave her in the event she ran into trouble. He places the edge of it so close to her eye it’s flirting with the lashes.
“Want to see if you can push this away before I stick you with it?” Pollux says.
Madeline doesn’t respond, doesn’t blink. Tears run down her face and Pollux digs his fingers into the wound again—hard enough to elicit another scream. He slips the scalpel between the rows of teeth and pushes the blade against the roof of her mouth. Already, the pastor can see fresh blood trickling down the handle and rolling over Pollux’s fingers. He pries down on the interior of her mouth, pushing until Madeline can no longer tilt her head back any further. Veins in her neck pop and strain. Blood from her cheek and the roof of her mouth accumulates in the back of her throat, eventually making it so each breath geysers onto Pollux’s knuckles in splashes.
Father Johnstone prays he yields. He prays for the Lord to send them a miracle.
Pollux sprinkles something into her mouth with his left hand. Not a powder. They look more like food crumbs, if the pastor isn’t mistaken.
“Little taste of your own work,” he says.
Pollux straddles Madeline, very nearly sitting down in her lap. He removes the scalpel from her mouth and pushes on her jaw so it closes, clamping down hard.
“Swallow,” he says.
Madeline groans, chin tilted up and strong hands cutting her breathing. Pollux grazes the blade of the scalpel against her good cheek, eliciting a sharp yelp.
“I’m going to cut off your air now. You’re not going to be able to breathe, so that blood building in your throat is going to become a bit of a choking hazard,” he says. “You ever choke on your own blood before? They say it’s the only thing worse than drowning. They say sometimes the taste of it becomes so overwhelming the person will vomit in their own mouth. I wonder what you’ll do.”
Madeline groans. Screams through teeth.
Pollux pinches down on her nostrils.
“Swallow or I’m going to field dress your friend here, just like back home. I’ll harvest him for parts and then splay what’s left of him up in the fucking streets. He can cook out in the goddamn sun for all I care. You follow?” he asks. “I’ll skip the burial. No casket. No prayer. You know what happens to people like him when they’re denied that. He’ll get to watch what I do to this town from limbo. That what you want?”
After about three seconds, the definitive sound of fluid churning through Madeline’s throat can be heard. Her neck gulps down the blood, the saliva, and whatever foreign substance Pollux sprinkled into her mouth. Hands are removed from her face, immediately followed by Madeline panting—panting hard. It’s strained through the tape constricting her torso, cutting into her breathing. She spits, curses at him.
Pollux walks back over to Father Johnstone, removing a handkerchief from one of his pockets. He proceeds to clean the blade and handle, polishing it. “As I was saying, the Primary—her,” he points at Madeline, “and the Secondary—you,” he nods to the pastor. “That’s a relationship based on many different factors. You’re a car guy though, right? So you know what happens when you put in the wrong parts under the hood.”
Either it won’t run efficiently or it won’t run at all. Peak performance will never be reached. Father Johnstone nods. He knows what this is building towards.
“You get the right pairing together…there’s a lot of potential there,” Pollux says. “Like this instrument, for example: I touch it and I know your friend Dr. Keller has had possession of it for many years, but it’s never left the case. There’s no history. So I come along and I give it one. I give it a reason to exist and I give it purpose. I bring out its potential.” Pollux motions to the cleric in the corner of the room. “That gentleman there. He was a lot like you used to be: alone and unfulfilled…just sort of going through the motions. Then I came along and I brought out his potential.”
Father Johnstone lets his eyes fall on the man. He’s pale. Feeble. Fingers look like white sticks about to break. “He’s dying,” the pastor says.
“We all are,” he says. “As soon as we’re born. Doesn’t have to be that way, though. You’ve read about it. You’ve seen it for yourself.”
Mary. Mary came back. She was dead, and then just as quickly, alive again. He prays for her, prays she got away safe and can breathe clean air again.
“My associate and I are working on something.” Pollux nods to the man in the corner, still toiling away at the desk: dipping the brush, applying the glaze to the page, repeating. Even when Madeline had a scalpel splitting the roof of her mouth, the man couldn’t be bothered to look. “We’d like to bring you in. You could do a lot more with us,” Pollux offers enticingly. “Reach your potential.”
“I don’t see that happening,” the pastor says.
“You sure about that?” He asks this, but not in a threatening way. It almost sounds as if he’s genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. “Maybe you should consider why you’re even in this situation.”
Father Johnstone looks at Madeline. She’s crying, struggling against whatever is coursing through her system, fading away as the miles between herself and reality expand.
“You’re taped up, cut to shit, and exhausted. You’re helpless. And it’s all because of her,” Pollux says, leaning his face towards the pastor. “Do you agree, Madeline? Do you admit this is your fault?” he asks her.
She strains, grunts, trying to contain the words. “Y-yes.”
“Maybe you didn’t know it, but you’re changing already. Blood type, iris pigmentation.” Pollux thumbs down one of the Father Johnstone’s lower eyelids, examining. “I took the liberty of reading your charts while paying a visit to Mr. Clevenger. It’s already underway. Look at your fingerprints.”
Father Johnstone tilts his eyes down, twisting his hands outward against the grain of the tape. Lack of circulation has turned his fingers purple, but the padding remains discernible. In all honesty, the pastor has never familiarized himself with this piece of himself, but he knows what a fingerprint is supposed to look like: a swirl pattern, a circular maze. However, what he’s looking at doesn’t match the traditional model. Wavy grooves span across from left-to-right, uncoiled, in a state of transition. He spikes and Madeline is too far gone to feel it.
“You’re O negative because she is, Johnstone. The more you facilitate her, the more you change,” he says. “Every trait, from your eyes to your teeth.” Pollux smoothes his thumb over the pastor’s. “You’re already losing yourself. You have to know that,” he stresses. “Madeline did. You knew this was happening to him, didn’t you?” he addresses her.
“Yes,” she says. The response comes easier this time.
“It starts like that, and before you know it, you’re losing your hair. You feel sick,” Pollux says. “You can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Not because you don’t want to. Your physical self becomes so thrown out of whack it ceases to function normally. You dry out and decompose, and then eventually, you end up like him.” Pollux nods off to the corner where the cleric lies still, just barely breathing. He’s a little more than a shell of himself.
Pollux takes the now-cleaned scalpel and begins sawing away at the gauze wrapped about the pastor’s hand, cutting it loose. “Madeline has never been particularly good at taking care of her things…more of a ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ kind of
gal.” Father Johnstone looks at his hand, the one that Madeline sliced and placed against the locust tree at Larpe’s pond. The wound is turning green, spoiling around the edges of crusted blood. “This is infected,” Pollux says. “You’re going to lose this hand if I don’t fix this. Would you like me to fix it?”
He waits. Pollux waits for the pastor to give him permission to go to work on him, examining that tinge of pear green spreading on his skin. It’s souring, just like the water and the locust tree and all those once-golden fields. Father Johnstone sighs, nods. He swallows his pride and Pollux caresses his thumb over the gash…once…twice. It’s warm. Scab granules loosen and crumble to the flooring. The green regresses to flesh color. When he’s done, there’s little more than a muted scar to remember it by.
“As you can see, it’s within my ability to still perform Craft,” Pollux says. “But I’m damned, as you’d say. I have a disease. When she and I get too close, it intensifies. In the most terrible ways you can imagine.”
Earthquakes, floods, hurricanes. Now, a plague.
“A lot of innocent people have been hurt over this. Many more are on the fringe,” Pollux cranes his head to the window, the light. “They’re all out there looking for you right now. I’ve seen them.” He turns back, smiling at the pastor like an old friend. “Hundreds of people getting sicker by the minute, scared, and they still haven’t jumped ship yet. It’s because they believe in you. They wait for their preacher to perform another miracle.”
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 35