Scott Nicholson Library Vol 1

by Scott Nicholson

  Nothing in the belfry but a cold, tarnished cast-iron bell. A few leaves skittered in the breeze, caught in the corners since last autumn. Nothing else.

  After a moment she jumped down, the impact jarring her knees. Frank caught her and helped her regain her balance. Their eyes met at the contact and they both looked away.

  “Satisfied?” asked the sheriff.

  “I swear I saw a rope,” she said, failing to convince even herself. Had she seen it?

  Well, at least there was the blood. That was real enough. She vividly recalled the texture of the coagulated flakes. Good, hard forensic evidence, with none of the problems caused by haunted eyewitnesses.

  She brushed past Frank and hurried to the rail. The blood was gone.

  “So where’s this blood?” Frank asked when he caught up with her.

  She stared at her hand, thinking of that Shakespeare play. Out, out, damned spot. Had she imagined it, just as Lady Macbeth had?

  “It was right here,” she whispered.

  “Maybe it was ghost’s blood.”

  From the windows, shafts of sunlight sliced across the church. Golden dust spun slowly in the air. Wood and nails and stone and glass. The building, the walls, waited.

  “Are you ready to call in the SBI?” Frank asked after an awkward stretch of silence.

  “Why? So they can certify me as insane as everybody else in these mountains?”

  She went outside and sat on the church steps, alone with her confusion.

  Linda drove up the narrow dirt road that led to Mama Bet’s house. The driveway became so rutted that she had to park along the fence beside the other cars. She walked the last hundred yards, up the hill to a little glen in the forest. She heard the music before she saw the house. Sounded like a fiddle and a guitar playing “Fox on the Run.”

  Mama Bet’s house was one of the oldest structures in Whispering Pines, and generations of McFalls had been born, grew old, and died behind those warped gray walls. It was a perfect place for a good old-fashioned revival, away from the snooping eyes of the cops and those brownnosers from Barkersville. It was only fitting that the church members congregate here. After all, besides Archer, Mama Bet was the last of her line. Though Linda had always thought the old woman was strange, a little bit haughty and holier-than-thou.

  Lester Matheson had brought his four-wheel-drive truck all the way up to the house. The truck was parked under a half-dead apple tree. Two of the Buchanan sisters sat on the sidewalls, moonfaced and dull-eyed. The oldest wore a red plastic clip in her greasy hair.

  A goat was tied to the apple tree, browsing along the banks of the creek. The goat stared at Linda, its dark eyes knowing and cold. It sniffed the air. The goat’s jaws worked sideways, then it shook the flies from its ears and dipped its head back to the brush.

  Jim Potter and Stepford Matheson continued their counterpoint melody on guitar and fiddle. Vivian, Lester’s wife, sat in a rocker beside them, tapping her toe in time to the music. Rudy Buchanan stood at one end of the porch, nodding his head, though he was about a half beat off the rhythm.

  Sonny Absher leaned against a corner post, smoking a cigarette. His eyes moved to the woods behind the house, then fixed on Linda. “You’re late,” he said, smoke drifting through his ragged mustache as he spoke.

  “I got here as soon as I could.”

  “The reverend don’t like people to be late.”

  “Archer says, ‘Everything in God’s good time,’ brother,” she answered.

  The Abshers were a bunch of inbred ignorants, and Sonny was the worst of the lot. That was one of the things that burned her up about some of her neighbors: they were on the doorstep to heaven here in Archer’s mountains, but instead of reveling in the glory, they lived off food stamps and bootlegging and selling the occasional beef steer. Archer would cleanse them, though. She could hardly wait.

  She entered the house without knocking. Mama Bet sat in an overstuffed armchair, a shawl over her lap. Her lower legs were thick-veined below the hem of her dress. The woman smelled of smoke and salt, like a cured ham.

  “Hi, Mama Bet.” Linda bent and kissed the woman’s cheek.

  “Hey, honey. How’s that man of yours coming along?”

  “Not real good. I was hoping he would see the light and be spared, but-”

  The old woman cut her off with a hard look, her eyes misted by cataracts. “Ain’t for us to decide such as that.”

  Linda lowered her head.

  “Only Archer knows the proper time and place for each man’s death,” Mama Bet continued. “You ain’t the one turned David into a sinner, are you? You ain’t the one packed him off to the Baptist church when he was a boy and too young to know any better. So Jesus is to blame for leading David astray, not you.”

  “Amen to that,” said Nell Absher. Her husband Haywood nodded in solemn agreement. Their daughter Noreen went to the window and looked out over the clouded mountains.

  “Here come Hank and Beulah,” Noreen said.

  “Good,” said Mama Bet. “Is that everybody?”

  Becca Faye Greene came in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. She gave it to Mama Bet and stood beside the old woman’s chair. She flashed a smug smile at Linda.

  Becca Faye was a Potter by blood, but had married and kept the Greene name after her husband ran off to Minnesota. She was part of Archer’s circle back in high school, but had chickened out when Archer asked her to help found the Temple in California. Since Archer had returned, Becca Faye was doing everything in her power to stay in the reverend’s good graces, perhaps to make up for her earlier betrayal.

  Or perhaps for something more. Becca Faye’s blouse was low-cut, and she was flashing enough cleavage to earn her a severe spiritual cleansing. Linda had seen the way Becca Faye had sidled up to Archer at last night’s service. She wondered if the woman had had better luck than Linda in Archer’s parked van.

  Jealousy. One of the greatest sins of all. Forgive me, Archer.

  “Call them on in,” said Mama Bet. She put the coffee cup to her wrinkled lips and took a sip.

  One of the Mathesons went outside, and the music stopped. The others filed in, silent Potters, Abshers, Mathesons, Buchanans, and two Greggs, both Linda’s cousins. One of them met her eyes, then turned away in shame.

  Linda wanted to shout, There will come great trials, cousin. Archer says sacrifice is the true test of faith. Donna needed cleansing as much as anybody.

  But she kept her tongue. No words would bring Donna back from the dead. Except perhaps Archer’s words.

  About thirty people packed the living room, lined along the stone hearth and against the corner cupboard, filling the kitchen entrance. Some of the Mathesons skulked in the hall, looking into the room over Lester’s shoulders. Mama Bet scanned the waiting faces. She worked her mouth in approval.

  “You all know why we’re here,” she began. “The time’s almost upon us. We prayed for the return, and now He’s returned. We have all sinned and come short of the glory of heaven. Our ancestors came unto these mountains to worship in peace, but then their hearts turned hard and cold and went to Jesus. We thought saying ‘I’m sorry’ would make all the old sins go away.”

  The assembled crowd grew silent at the mention of that foul name “Jesus.” Linda’s stomach clenched in anger. Mama Bet nodded in appreciation of their revulsion, then continued.

  “We got away from all the good things we worshiped,” she said. “We strayed from the one true path. We needed the savior to return and deliver us from evil. So God sent Archer into the world of us mortals. And God punished us by making our seed go barren and letting our families die out, punishing the sinners unto the fourth generation.”

  “Amen,” said Lester, and a smattering of others echoed the sentiment.

  “We are wicked,” said Mama Bet.

  “Amen,” said Haywood and Nell in unison. Haywood adjusted the knot of his red silk tie.

  “We deserve God’s wrath,” the old woman sa
id, her voice trembling as it increased in volume.

  Becca Faye raised her hands and threw back her head. “There will come great trials.”

  The woman’s breasts swelled against the fabric of her blouse as she arched her back. Linda sneered, wondering who the hussy was showing off for. Archer wasn’t here, and God could care less.

  The air in the room was electric, thick with the odor of sweat and tension. “Some of us have suffered loss,” Mama Bet said.

  Linda looked at her cousins. They lowered their heads. The Potters also looked at each other. Old Alma Potter, Zeb’s sister, choked on a sob.

  “But don’t mourn those who have gone before,” Mama Bet said, finding her rhythm. “Sacrifice is the currency of God. It’s part of Archer’s work. We’ll all have to make sacrifices before it’s done.”

  Mama Bet’s eyes brimmed with tears. Archer was her son, the last of the McFalls. Linda knew that all the families had suffered losses. But the losses were justified, because all of them, the Greggs, Abshers, Potters, Buchanans, and Mathesons, were touched with sin. All of them had a hand in the murder of Wendell McFall.

  “What do we do about the sheriff?” Lester asked. The room grew quiet.

  Mama Bet clutched the worn arms of her chair. Her fingers crooked as if she were suffering a spasm of pain. “Archer can deal with the sheriff.”

  “There’s others that are against the church,” said Becca Faye, staring at Linda.

  Linda’s face flushed with anger and shame. “He’s my husband. The Old Testament says to honor your husband.”

  Not that you would know about honoring a husband. The only thing YOU honor is whatever big-spending cowboy picks you up at Gulpin’ Gulch on Friday night.

  “What about your boys?” Becca Faye said, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure at Linda’s discomfort. The other members of the congregation looked on with interest. Ronnie and Tim were the youngest descendants of the families that had committed deicide more than a century ago.

  Linda looked out the window, at the trees green in the sun, at the dark ridges, at the creek winding between the slopes toward the river. She wished she had stayed in California. Then Ronnie and Tim would have never been born. But she couldn’t imagine a life without them, even a life spent in Archer’s divine arms.

  “I pray for Archer’s mercy,” Linda finally said. Becca Faye had no response to that simple plea.

  Sonny Absher broke the silence. “They got to pay like everybody else.”

  “But they’re innocent,” Linda said, angry now.

  “Ain’t nobody innocent.”

  Especially you, Linda thought, but she shouldn’t pass judgment on a fellow sinner. All were equal in the eyes of Archer. All were equally guilty, and all would pay the same price.

  No, not exactly the same price. Sonny would lose only his own miserable life. Linda was more than ready to give Archer her life if that was required to complete his sacred work. She even understood that David would have to die if he insisted on interfering. But the boys . . .

  The boys shouldn’t have to pay for sins that only barely touched them. Their blood was nearly pure. But so had Isaac’s blood been pure, and Abraham still had to lay him on the altar.

  Mama Bet tried to stand and fell back into the armchair. Two of the Potter brothers moved forward to help her rise. She wobbled slightly in their grip.

  “Archer be praised,” she said. “Y’all go on now. I’ll see you at church tonight.”

  “Archer be praised,” said Haywood Absher. He had been one of the last to leave the Baptist fold, but he had embraced Archer’s gospel as wholeheartedly as anyone. At least, he put on a good act of believing.

  Linda joined the others in a closing “Amen.”

  The families began filing out, their heads down. Linda thought they should be joyful, but instead they were worried about their own mortal flesh. Death wasn’t the end: death was the beginning of a new life in the kingdom. The coming deliverance was a time of celebration and exaltation, not punishment. God had blessed them by sending Archer to serve as His mighty sword.

  Then why did she so dread giving her boys away?

  Linda waited on the porch for the crowd to thin. Becca Faye brushed past, leaving a trail of dimestore perfume. Sonny Absher flashed his four-toothed grin and nodded good-bye, then took Becca Faye’s arm. He escorted her to his rusty Chevelle, where they would probably spend the afternoon sinning in the backseat.

  “You coming to the church early tonight?” asked Lester.

  Linda chewed at her thumb. “If it’s Archer’s will.”

  “Don’t worry none about your boys. Mine went to God years ago, and I’ve come to accept it.” Lester nervously chewed his tobacco.

  “What if Vivian is the next sacrifice? How would you feel then?”

  “Sins got to be paid for.”

  “Why can’t we just pay for our own sins?”

  Mama Bet was listening from the screen door. “It don’t work that way, child. Sacrifice is the true test of faith. Remember the lesson of Abraham? It ain’t a sacrifice unless you lose something dear.”

  “And what are you losing, Mama Bet?”

  The old woman looked out across the mountains, squinting her milky eyes. A small breeze was blowing from Tennessee, carrying with it the smell of sourwood blooms and pine.

  “Flesh and blood,” Mama Bet finally said. “Just like everybody else.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The last bell rang, and Ronnie ran to his locker, holding his books in front of his face so that no stray elbows would bump him in the nose. The injury throbbed a little, but he’d decided not to take the pain pill. After he’d spent lunchtime with Melanie, pain barely touched him. He felt bulletproof, especially because she said maybe they should eat lunch together every day.

  He was mentally going over the poem that he’d given her last month. He had tried to be funny and sweet at the same time, so that maybe if she read between the lines, she’d see that he thought she was the most beautiful flower in the whole garden. Dripping in the rain. Soaking color from the sun. Flashing beauty in the breeze.

  Plucking petals. She loves me. She loves me not. Well, he’d left out that last part. No way was he going to say love in a poem. Plus, she might think that, since she was the flower, that would mean he wanted to pull her arms and legs off.

  The best thing about the poem was that she didn’t giggle and show it to all her girlfriends. Ronnie didn’t think he could stand that. A lot of the other kids already thought he was weird because he carried around books that weren’t even assigned. He also wore bargain-brand blue jeans and sometimes his T-shirts didn’t even have messages on them. He wasn’t cool: he didn’t play sports, hang around the Barkersville mall, or watch MTV.

  But right now, he didn’t care what people thought or how far out of it he was. All he cared about was that Melanie would sit with him at lunch. He recalled the breathless way she had said, “I promise,” when he told her not to tell anyone else about Boonie Houck and the Bell Monster. His heart was made of helium.

  A commotion in the hall pulled him from his pleasant thoughts. Shouts erupted, and a gawking ring of students had gathered in the math wing. Something was happening, possibly a fight. Most likely a fight. That was about the only thing that drew people’s attention these days.

  “Leave me alone,” came a scared voice.

  Tim! Ronnie fought through the circle. He heard Whizzer Buchanan’s smoky, snickering voice.

  “Tell us about it, goober-head,” taunted Whizzer. “Tell us about the thing with wings and claws and livers for eyes.”

  “No,” whimpered Tim. “Let me go.”

  Ronnie shouldered past the eighth graders in the front row. Whizzer had Tim by the shoulders, shaking him. Tears trailed down Tim’s cheeks. His glasses were on the floor, and books were scattered around his feet.

  “Tell us, Tim,” said Whizzer. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  This drew a laugh from the crowd. Ronnie
threw down his books and shoved Whizzer in the back. The crowd gasped and grew silent. Whizzer turned, all five feet ten of him, jaw muscles twitching. Ronnie imagined the bully’s muscles tensing under his camouflage jacket.

  “Well, well, well,” said Whizzer. “If it ain’t Mr. Hero himself.”

  Whizzer’s eyes half closed, as if Ronnie were a bug that he wanted to squash with one big lace-up boot. Ronnie looked around the looming hulk at Tim, who was pressed back against the lockers that lined the hall. “You okay, Tim?”

  Tim sniffed and nodded.

  “Get your books, then. Dad’s waiting.”

  “And what if I say it ain’t time for you to go yet?” said Whizzer.

  Ronnie looked at the faces in the crowd. Their expressions were eager, expectant, relieved that they weren’t Whizzer’s victims of choice this time. If only a teacher would come. He’d even be happy to see Mrs. Rathbone.

  “We didn’t do anything to you,” Ronnie said.

  “Yeah, you did. You got born, didn’t you?” This drew another laugh, but Whizzer wasn’t smiling.

  Tim stooped to pick up his books. Whizzer kicked them away.

  “Heard you been to church,” said Whizzer. “And you got a little friend there. Something with wings and claws and livers for eyes. Everybody likes a good ghost story, Mr. Hero-Man. Tell us about how you saved Tim from the Bell Monster.”

  Ronnie’s heart lodged in his throat. “Did you tell anybody, Timmy?”

  Tim shook his head, then knelt and found his glasses and put them back on.

  If Tim hadn’t told, then . . .

  Ronnie spun and searched the crowd. Melanie was on the edge of it. To her credit, she was a little pale. She looked away in shame.

  He would not cry. Oh, no, Ronnie would not cry, at least not here and not now. He balled his fists, and a sigh of satisfaction rose from the crowd.

  “Tell us about the rest of it,” said Whizzer, looking down at Ronnie, his smile like a possum’s. “Tell us about your Mama and the temple in California.”

  Temple? California? His mom had never been to California. “You’re crazy, you . . . you—”