Tim blinked at the sudden outburst. He leaned back involuntarily, anticipating another strike.
“That fucking slut they paired him up with curses him up and down with every breath! But he was raised to this shit! He sits and takes it, every time. ‘Yes, dear. Yes, dear.’ It sickens me to hear it! And today! Lord Almighty, today was the last straw! She beat him! Good thing she left before I got hold of her, ’cause when I came upstairs and saw my son, a good, strong man of thirty-six, bleeding on his own kitchen floor, I lost all control! That was this morning. I’ve obviously regained control since then.”
Oh yeah, Tim thought. Obviously.
But what if it were all true?
“You know why?” the old man continued. “Because I still have to accept it. These bitches are in control.” He downed the remains of his mug and hurled it to the floor. Glass fragments scattered in all directions with a loud, tinkling crash.
Tim looked over his shoulder at Fishface. The man’s cheeks turned a sickly pale color, his mouth agape, his watery eyes filled with fear.
“Don’t mind him,” Tanner told Tim. “He’s just one of the sheep. He’ll be running along any moment now to turn me in. Won’tcha, boy?” he called to the bartender.
Fishface, blinking rapidly, snapped out of his terror and stumbled through a narrow door behind the bar. Seconds later they could hear him speaking to somebody in a one-sided conversation.
“I thought he would never leave,” Tanner commented. “Now, here’s the important part. Your savior, Tierney? He’s a good man. He led the Resistance, as corny as that sounds. But he’s lost the will to fight. He’s lost his nerve. Given up.”
An eerie dread crept its way up Tim’s spine. “Who’s the bartender calling?” he asked.
Tanner shrugged. “Who the fuck cares? I’ve known my days were numbered for a while now. You can tell Tierney I’ll be dropping out of the fight for good.”
“They’re not going to kill you?”
Tanner chuckled. “Of course! I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?” He reached into the broad pocket on the front of his overalls and withdrew a few bills. He counted out several and tossed them onto the counter. “That’ll cover our drinks and then some.” He got up to leave, weaving his way slowly for the door. “Just remember one thing,” he called over his shoulder. “Always cover yer nads!” With a last laugh, he disappeared out the door.
Tim stared after him, part of him wanting to call the old man back. But the other part of him, the part that took control of all of his good sense, told him Bob Tanner long ago gave up the battle. He went out to die.
Tim began shaking suddenly. Shaking with dread. He told himself over and over the man must be crazy. No way could even one tenth of what he said be true.
Yet again the images played through his mind: the scene at Hera’s diner; the thieving woman in the motel room; the nervousness and (intentional?) incompetence of the sheriff.
He shook his head.
Impossible.
He remembered all the girls coming out of the school, and the young boy sweeping the sidewalk (“why would I be in school?” his voice echoed).
Fishface emerged from his back room, a narrow smile fighting its way through the fat lips. His eyes narrowed as he looked up the bar at Tim, then out the door. Just to be on the safe side, Tim flipped one of his twenties on top of the stack Tanner left before he hurried out, his eyes locked on the floor.
Once outside he ran for the rectory, keeping to the late evening shadows as best he could.
* * *
Bob Tanner took the long way home to walk off his stupor. He knew what he said at the bar would probably cost him his life, but he accepted that a long time ago.
Time was when he and the priest and a handful of others worked against the coven that took over the small town of Rapture. And they were doing well, too, until Tierney lost hope.
Since then, age caught up with all of them. Now it was too late to do anything. And what did they have to fight for anymore, anyway? His own wife went over to their side long ago, perhaps before they even married. His two daughters, practically raised by the coven itself, would turn him in without thinking twice. His wife even raised their boy (despite Bob’s attempts to the contrary) to be a gutless turd.
Better dead than bowing at the feet of one of these bitches, he thought.
As he walked down the block toward his son’s—well, daughter-in law’s, anyway—house, he saw the sleek black Camaro parked in the driveway.
“ALL MINE,” he muttered, reading off the plates as he rounded the back of the car. No doubt it belonged to one of the witches, perhaps one of rank in the coven itself. He paused beside the car as he fished his keys from his pocket and sorted through them for the house key.
Several keys weighed down his keyring, most of which he would never use again. He hung on to the keys to his old house, the keys for the barn locks, the keys for the garage lock, the tractor, the cellar, two cars he used to own, and still many more. The only one he now used fit the front door of this house. He pulled the house key to the fore.
He looked up at the windows of the house: nobody watching. He looked up and down the street. Satisfied, he took three steps backward to the back bumper of the car. He jabbed the pointed tip of the key into the paint just forward of the taillight, then ran the key along the length of the car. With a satisfying screech of metal he scratched the car from taillight to headlight along the driver’s side. With a smug grin, he went to the front door of the house.
He found the door unlocked, the rooms beyond dark. Dim light washed into the living room from the dining room, where the women no doubt gathered. In that diffuse glow he barely made out his son sitting on the couch in the darkness. He sat there quietly, his hands folded in his lap, his head hung over his chest.
“Hello, boy,” he said softly.
No response.
Bob sighed. Definitely the witches.
He dosed the door hard. Not quite slamming it, but making enough noise to make them aware of his arrival. He went down to the basement to await death.
Memory guided him down the stairs in darkness until he reached the dangling bulb in the center of the cramped room. He pulled the chain and harsh white light filled the room, splashing across the stark white cement walls and his only furnishings, an old rocking chair and rickety bed. A tattered throw rug rested beside the bed, the only protection for bare feet from the cold cement during middle of the night visits to the bathroom. He kept his clothing in a trunk at the foot of the bed. He fashioned a table out of a few boxes, on which he kept two stacks of paperback books he brought with him from the old house. One stack of books he already read, the other the pile he worked through.
He regretted he would not have the time to make it through the unread stack, but shrugged it off when he remembered he read all the books at one point or another in his life anyway.
Without bothering to undress, he sat at the edge of the bed and picked up his current book. I, Robot, by Isaac Asimov. He always marveled at the many ways Asimov’s robots found ways to break, by design or by accident, the basic Robot Laws Asimov himself created. People should live by such laws, he always felt.
He focused on the words, reading paragraph after paragraph as the minutes slowly ticked on toward his death.
Finally, with a squeak of tight hinges, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Already at the end of a chapter, he finished the last few sentences and inserted his bookmark into the crook of the pages. He looked up toward his visitor as he placed the book at the top of the unread stack.
She stood half in the light, her upper body concealed in shadow. She wore tight blue jeans and a pair of red heels with open toes exposing her red-painted nails.
Finally she came into the light, squinting a little from the glare. “Hello, Mister Tanner,” she said in a sultry voice. Her long black hair cascaded over each shoulder. He recognized her immediately. Alexandra DeWitt, a high ranking member of the coven, part of
the Inner Circle and pegged as their leader. Powerful and dangerous, or so a handful of men found out the hard way a long time ago.
“Alex,” he acknowledged her with a nod. He knew she hated being addressed with the masculine diminutive of her name, and spoke it with relish.
A frown dented her smile, but only for a brief moment. “I understand you’ve been a bad boy. Is this true?”
“What of it?”
“You know the price.”
“Fuck you, cunt.” He spat toward her feet. The sooner this little game of hers was over, the better.
“Watch your mouth!” she shouted.
Bob shrugged. “What are you going to do about it?”
Alexandra’s eyes widened and her face burned red, “For starters, how about I go upstairs and play with your son?”
His heart leapt. “You leave him out of this!”
She idly examined her fingernails. “Oh, I think it’s a little too late for that. We’ve already got a firm grip on him. His testicles would make a nice prize, don’t you think?” she said calmly.
Bob lunged at her, cocking back his fist.
Alexandra stepped back and, with a flick of her hands, Bob’s forearm broke and folded down upon itself. With a loud cry of pain, the old man collapsed to his knees, cradling his arm to his belly. Tears filled his eyes as he gritted his teeth against the pain.
Alexandra crouched before him, knocked off his cap, and seized a handful of his thin hair. She yanked his head back sharply, evoking another cry of pain.
He forced himself to look her in the eye. “What’s the matter, whore? Can’t take me on without your magic?”
“You’re not worth the effort, old man. Feel your pulse. Feel your heart racing.”
Her words penetrated, and he felt the surge of blood through his chest and limbs. He felt the swelling as blood pooled in his broken arm. His heartbeat pounded rapidly in his ears.
“Now, feel it slow.”
An instant later, his heart slowly calmed itself.
“Slower. Slower…”
In seconds, it slowed to the point it almost stopped. Panic seized him, but a lethargy overcame him and prevented action. The room suddenly grew intensely cold.
“Slower still, until, finally, at long last, it stops!” she hissed. She released his head and he collapsed.
He gasped for breath and rolled onto his back. He saw the woman towering over him, gazing down at him with a cruel scowl. He turned his head away, looking up toward his bed. With his good arm, he reached for the comfort of its sheets and blanket.
Darkness crowded in all around him, filling his vision and chilling his flesh. His arm dropped to the floor. His last breath escaped slowly, useless without the flow of blood through his body.
* * *
Upstairs in the darkened living room, Danny Tanner listened intently to the events downstairs. He could hear the murmur of conversation but could not make out the words. His wife waited in the dining room. The stale odor of her cigarettes filled both rooms.
The conversation turned to shouting momentarily, though he still could not make out the words. His father’s howl of pain startled him. He flinched hard enough to bump the side of the couch against the wall.
For a few moments he heard nothing. He strained to listen, but nothing came. His heart beat faster as dread crept through him.
The sound of heels clacked up the stairs.
In the dining room, the ashtray rattled as his wife ground out her cigarette.
He stifled a sob as a single tear coursed down his cheek.
Chapter Seven
Tim wheezed heavily by the time he made it back to the rectory.
For the first half of the trip, fear fueled his speed. Fear of what old Bob Tanner told him. Fear of the unknown. Then anger took over. He grew angry with himself for getting into this situation. Angry with the woman who robbed him blind.
Angry most of all with Mike for not warning him.
Now, drunk or not, he planned on getting some answers out of the old priest.
Tim paused on the porch to catch his breath and regain his composure. As he leaned forward, hands pressed to his knees he heard the idle of an engine behind him. Looking back over his shoulder he saw a blue two-door enter the circle of light projected from the streetlamp up the block. It moved slow, headlights dim, its passengers concealed in shadow.
He guessed the driver would be the redhead from the diner. Though he could not make out their features, he could see two passengers. He immediately thought about the blonde twins.
Before they could acknowledge him he turned and whipped the door open, stepped through quickly, and slammed it shut behind him. He locked the handle and the deadbolt. Standing in the darkness, he peered out at the street through the narrow window set into the door. The car passed slowly, turned right at the comer, and moved out of his limited field of vision.
He turned his back to the door, cursing under his breath. The sound of the priest’s snoring caught his attention. Enraged, Tim moved through the darkness and seized him by the front of his shirt and yanked him roughly from the cot.
“Wake up you son of a bitch!” he shouted into the priest’s face. “Wake the fuck up!” He barely managed to restrain his fists.
Reluctantly, Father Mike came to consciousness. His stomach heaved and he barely managed to keep its contents down. He stumbled from Tim’s grip and barely found the edge of his desk to lean on. “What is it? What’s happening?” He fumbled at the switch to his desk lamp.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have warned me!”
Mike struggled with his alcohol-blurred thoughts. Finally he figured out the operation of the desk lamp and it came on. The bright light lanced his bloodshot eyes and he turned his back on it. Shadows intensified the lines of rage on Tim’s face. “Slow down, son. What’s going on?”
Tim bit back another outburst. “I ran into a friend of yours at the bar. Bob Tanner.”
“Tanner?”
“He told me some real scary shit, man! Shit about the women in this town!”
Mike hung his head and rubbed his face with his palms. “Look, Tim…”
“What’s really happening around here? Huh? A few hours ago, you were shouting some nonsense about witches and shooting at black cats! I assumed it was just drunkenness, until I ran into Tanner. Then he starts spouting off about witches! On top of that, he goes off on some sick Freudian tangent about how women can’t fuck, they can only be fucked, and they have one deadly case of penis envy!”
“What do you want me to do?” Mike asked plainly.
“I just want to know what is going on, and how I can get the hell out of here.”
The priest moved behind his desk and collapsed into his chair. “Brew up some coffee. I can’t think through this haze.”
Drawing on his patience as much as possible, Tim went into the kitchen and started up a pot of coffee. He vented some of his aggression slamming drawers and cupboards. As it began to drip he went back into the office. Mike propped his forehead on his fingertips.
“Well?” Tim asked.
The priest sighed and leaned back into his chair. He folded his hands over his stomach. “Look, Tim. I’m sorry. I never thought you would get dragged into all of this.”
“It’s too late for that. Just tell me what I’ve been dragged into.”
“Rapture is a witches’ haven.”
Tim could only laugh. “Christ.”
“It has been for a while, near as I can tell. I came to Rapture in the late sixties, just back from two years in Viet Nam. I was an Army chaplain for eight years. After the death and the jungles, a place like Rapture seemed like a perfect little place to start a new parish. Beautiful land, secluded, and just beginning to grow. I should have taken the hint at all of the building difficulties I was having, but put it off to problems with hippies protesting my military background.
“Anyway, we had a good spiritual community. But I sensed the poison within the first few yea
rs. By the late seventies, a few of us were aware of the truth. We did our best to fight back, against the witches and their influence. They were strong, though. At some points there was actual physical fighting. Certain accidents happened, and a few of my friends were killed. The parish declined, but we continued to fight. It was almost literally war.”
“What about the quote on the sign outside of town? Proverbs, wasn’t it?”
“‘When one finds a worthy wife, her value is far beyond pearls. Her husband, entrusting his heart to her, has an unfailing prize.’ Proverbs thirty-one, verses ten and eleven. It’s a double-edged sword. On one hand, you have newcomers thinking they’re coming into a nice little Mayberry-type town. On the other hand, taken in a different context, it fits their own ideals.
“The church slowly crumbled, and it wasn’t long before the women gained total power. They tolerated the presence of the church, I suspect, to keep what remaining men that weren’t under their control pacified. It’s kind of like when an invader conquers a foreign country he doesn’t mess with their religious freedom. That leads to more trouble. But most of us were getting old, anyway. They burned down the parish hall, and around about that time the sin of my youth found me again. Alcohol.”
Tim listened intently to the priest’s story. He stepped into the kitchen briefly to pour two cups of coffee. When he returned, he took a seat across the desk from the priest.
“From there it all went downhill,” Mike continued. “I had enough. I felt like I was running a mafia. My hands were soaking with blood, and I found it harder and harder to justify my actions to my God. And to myself. I was a spiritual leader, not an avenging angel. What right do I have to judge Rapture the Sodom of modern times?”
“You abandoned your friends,” Tim said, recalling Tanner’s intensity as he spoke of Tierney’s surrender.
“You couldn’t understand,” the priest said around his coffee cup.
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