by Alex Grecian
An old woman screamed “Her eyes are open!” and fainted.
Someone else took up the cry. “She’s awake!” And more people shouted and fell about, excited to see Lou-Ellen’s pretty blue eyes.
Marybeth rushed to her daughter’s side, stumbling on her way up the steps. Those men in the front pew who were not trembling and speaking in tongues could see Lou-Ellen’s lips moving as she spoke to her mother for the first time in eight years.
Bert Holstrom waved at Marybeth to get her attention. “What did she say? What’s she saying, Mama?”
“She said . . .” Marybeth looked at Bert, then raised her tear-filled eyes to the rafters. “She asked me what hit her.”
And Marybeth started to laugh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
When he saw the blue and red lights, Travis almost pulled over. He frowned at the rearview mirror and tried to see through the windshield of the car behind him, but the setting sun reflected bare branches overhead against the opaque safety glass and the driver was invisible, save for a dark human shape with an ungainly hat stuck atop it.
He checked his speed. Fifty-five miles an hour. Well within the speed limit, not far below it. He was reasonably certain his brake lights worked. He had not rolled through any stop signs.
He shrugged and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Jeep leapt forward and the squad car behind him fell back.
Around a bend, Travis shifted gears and pulled off the road, rammed the Jeep into a copse of brush and young trees. A flock of starlings burst from the thicket, beating their wings perilously close to the windshield before taking to the air. The birds were far out over a field by the time the silver patrol car whizzed by. It sped away into the distance without slowing as it passed the poorly hidden Jeep. Travis couldn’t be sure whether the driver had seen him. He waited, surveying the road. A drop of rain hit his windshield and rolled slowly down. He watched it merge with other drops, growing larger and heavier. After a moment he pulled out his phone and typed starlings into the Internet app.
“Ah,” he said. “A murmuration.” He looked out across the field at the faraway formation of fluttering brown specs. “You are called a murmuration.”
Satisfied, he shut down his browser and pulled up his contacts. The squad car had not reappeared, so Travis backed out of the thicket and executed a U-turn. As he headed back the way he’d come, toward Paradise Flats, he punched up Skottie’s number and listened for the first ring.
“But why a murmuration?”
2
“What?” Skottie held the phone away from her face and looked at the screen. She put it back up to her ear. “A what?”
“Skottie?”
She was getting used to the husky whisper of Travis’s voice and didn’t have to strain to hear him. “Yeah,” she said. “This is Skottie.”
“Did your phone just ring?”
“Yeah. Twice.”
“Mine did not.”
“Travis? Why did you call?”
“I have some bad news for us both.”
“Does it involve a murmuration?”
“Ah, you heard me,” Travis said. “I was talking to myself, but did you know a flock of starlings is called a murmuration?”
“Yeah, and a bunch of crows is called a murder, and hippos are a bloat. I have a ten-year-old kid. I get to hear a lot of this stuff. Did you know toads can live forty years in captivity?”
“Toads?”
“Travis, what did you want? What’s the bad news?”
“I believe the sheriff is having me followed.”
“I think he had me followed, too, when I left his office. That white-power deputy of his showed up right on my tail. He beat an ambulance to a fire.”
“A fire? Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Skottie said. “I’m fine. And Bear’s fine, too. I forgot to tell you earlier. Somebody burned a tractor on a frontage road out by the highway. There was someone in the tractor.”
“And one of Goodman’s deputies was there?”
“Had to be nearby. So either he was already in the vicinity or he followed me there.”
“Now I understand what the sheriff was talking about,” Travis said. “Goodman mentioned another body had been found. He seemed genuinely mystified, though, not like he had anything to do with it.”
“Doesn’t let the deputy off the hook.”
“The one following me attempted to pull me over.”
“You didn’t stop?”
“Why would I stop? I ran through the possibilities in my head and none of them favored me.”
“You’re supposed to stop,” Skottie said.
“I evaded whoever was driving the squad car, but as soon as they catch up to me again, things might become unpleasant. I have a difficult thing to ask of you, and I understand if you would rather not do me any more favors right now. I have imposed on you more than I wished to.”
“You want me to hang on to Bear tonight?”
“Would you?”
“Sure.”
“If I go there now, I may be leading these people to your home.”
“I said sure. He ate his steak and he’s having a nap. Maddy’s in love with him.”
“Bear likes children.”
“As long as he doesn’t like to eat them.”
“Oh, my lord, no.”
“It was a joke.”
“I see. I will wait until morning to get him. Perhaps by then this situation will have resolved itself.”
“Resolved itself? How?”
“We are being chased all over the board and people are dying. I think something must be done to drive our villain from the shadows.”
“‘Something must be done’?”
“I have no plan yet. But I would feel better knowing Bear is safe.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Travis.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“I mean it. I’m a police officer. You do something illegal and you and me are gonna end up on different sides.”
“I would not wish that.”
“I’ll take care of your dog. But you have to get him tomorrow. My daughter’s getting attached to him, and it’s gonna break her heart if he’s around much longer.”
“I forgot. You said you have to work tomorrow.”
“The holidays work out so if you work Thanksgiving you don’t have to work Christmas. It’s better for Maddy.”
“How will I get Bear from you?”
“You could pick him up here. My mom’ll be around.” She realized as soon as she spoke that she didn’t want her mother to deal with Bear and Travis on her own. “Or better yet, I can take him along with me on patrol.”
“They allow that?”
“He’s not exactly high maintenance, Travis. I don’t think anybody would even know if I had him in the car.”
“Text me where to meet you. As early as possible.”
“Will do. Earlier is better. It’s Thanksgiving, and I have a lot to get done as soon as I go off shift.” The thought of the holiday meal suddenly made her picture Travis and his dog eating a microwave pizza. The restaurants in Paradise Flats would all be closed. “Wait a second,” she said. “Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?”
“I have a room at the Cottonwood Inn.”
“No, I mean do you have anyone to celebrate Thanksgiving with? A place to go?”
“I have been invited to attend church tomorrow.”
“No, I’m serious,” Skottie said.
There was a long silence. Then: “I will have Bear. We will be fine.”
“Listen, my mom and I are cooking a turkey. Why don’t you come? You can eat some stuffing and mashed potatoes and watch a football game.”
“I am not sure—”
“So you’r
e gonna sit alone in your hotel room?”
“I—”
“Just come.”
“Since you insist,” Travis said. She could hear a smile in his voice. “Thank you for inviting me. I would be delighted.”
JUNE 1992
Gary Gilbert heard the congregation chanting, but at the same time that the reverend was shouting and the choir was singing something about God choosing “the finest from among us,” he recognized Marybeth Quinlan’s voice. She had briefly been a babysitter to his girls before the accident with her daughter had turned her into a virtual shut-in. She was somewhere nearby, laughing and crying and gasping for breath. Barely audible among all this chaos was the small, sad voice of a girl asking where she was and what was happening. No one was answering her, and Gary reached out toward the sound of her, thinking maybe he could comfort her with a pat on the shoulder or a friendly smile, and he dropped his bag. His stomach chose that moment to do a double roll, and he reached for the pocket where he kept a couple of Zofran tablets in case of an emergency, but he was too late. He got his hands up just in time to spew a mouthful of bile and Diet Sprite out between his fingers.
He could smell it right away, bitter and rancid, and he hoped he hadn’t hit anyone with the spray. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt himself trying to form an apology. But he couldn’t get it out. Instead he slid straight forward onto his face and blacked out. He had no idea he was directly in front of the enormous gold lightning bolt that split the altar. No idea that, to the congregation behind him, it looked like he was prostrating himself before that sacred icon.
Gary woke up, to a degree, several times during the rest of that day and night. Each time, he slipped back under before he could speak or move. But he could feel people touching him and, later, carrying him. He felt the sanctuary’s carpet against his cheek, which was replaced by a cold metal surface. He smelled his own vomit, then bleach, and then dust and oil and blood. He heard snippets of conversation from different men in different rooms, but they made little sense to him.
“Praise be.”
“Heal your brother.”
“He’s waking up . . .”
“. . . didn’t work.”
“Gary Gilbert is not of us. You see how . . .”
“Impure stock. This man has lied to you. His blood is . . .”
“Just get him off to the side until . . .”
“What do we . . .”
“Damn, he’s heavier than I . . .”
“Fold up his legs.”
When he finally woke up again it was dark. He couldn’t tell what time it was or where he had been taken. His mouth tasted terrible and he felt dizzy, but his stomach was calm. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were bound to the surface beneath him. His back hurt, and he wiggled into a slightly more comfortable position. He could feel the air against his skin, raising goose bumps, and he knew that he had been undressed. He could make out vague shapes in the darkness, ambient light glinting off glass or metal next to him, and he wondered whether his vision had returned or his head was playing tricks on him. His brain sometimes supplied him with colors and shapes that weren’t really there.
“Hello? Is there somebody here? I can’t move.”
He listened, but there was no movement, no response, just his own labored breathing. He struggled against his bonds, tried to sit up, but eventually gave in and waited. He had no idea how long it took for someone to come, but he had just begun to fall back to sleep when a light flicked on above him. He blinked and gasped. The room he was in was bright and clear, and he knew it couldn’t possibly exist in his imagination. He was lying on an inclined metal table with his feet slightly elevated above his head, and his wrists and ankles were secured with thick leather straps. There was a lamp on a swivel arm above him and two high metal stools, one on each side of the table. His clothes were draped over one of the stools. A rolling cart was positioned near his head, and Gary could see an array of scalpels, clamps, spreaders, tongs, and sponges spread across a stained white towel on the cart’s surface. There were other instruments there that he didn’t recognize. And strewn atop them were items from Gary’s own wallet. He recognized his driver’s license with its donor sticker, his library card issued by the Hays Public Library, and a credit card he hardly ever used because it was almost at its limit and he hadn’t paid it down in months. Across from him was another table like the one he was lying on, this one unoccupied, its straps unbuckled and hanging empty. The walls were lined with metal shelving units like the ones Gary had in his own garage, but the shelves were piled high with medical paraphernalia.
A door opened and Reverend Rudy entered, wiping his hands with a red cloth.
“You’re awake, Mr. Gilbert,” the reverend said. “Good. I was beginning to worry about you.” His voice was soft with a warm undercurrent, completely unlike the harsh spitting rasp he used when shouting from the pulpit.
“Where am I? What am I doing here? The last thing I remember—”
“You made a bit of a mess in my sanctuary,” Rudy said. He pulled one of the stools, the one that wasn’t currently occupied by Gary’s khakis and button-up shirt, closer to Gary’s table and sat on it. “It took poor Liz more than an hour to clean up your sick, and even though we’ve got fans drying the carpet, I think we’re going to have to replace it. I can still smell your vomitus in there.”
“I’m sorry,” Gary said. “But my stomach feels fine now. And I can see. My vision is . . . You really did it. You healed me.”
Rudy tapped a finger against his lips and stared off into the middle distance. “Funny,” he said. “I didn’t feel the tingle when I laid my hands on you. The energy didn’t move through me. Are you sure you feel all right?”
“I . . .” Now that the reverend had cast aspersions on his health, Gary noticed that his stomach had in fact started to feel a little queasy. And his peripheral vision was going blurry again. “Yes,” he lied. “Yes, I feel good. I feel perfect. Could you let me up now? I think all the blood is going to my head.”
Rudy continued to tap on his lips, but he looked at Gary. “You’re in what’s called the Trendelenburg position, heels over head. Named after Friedrich Trendelenburg, a great surgeon. A great German surgeon.”
“Oh.” Gary wasn’t sure what else to say. He wished the reverend would untie him, but he understood he was in a delicate situation of some sort and he didn’t want to push Rudy too hard. He thought it would have been enough to lay him on a couch until he woke up. He wasn’t likely to roll off and hurt himself, so strapping him to a table was definitely overkill.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m grateful, but I don’t understand what’s—”
“Mr. Gilbert, how many fingers am I holding up?”
Gary panicked, realizing the fuzz had crept without warning inward from the edges of his vision. He could still see somewhat clearly, but only within a small area directly in front of him. He wasn’t sure where Rudy’s fingers even were, much less the number of fingers he was holding up.
He guessed. “Three?”
“Interesting,” Rudy said.
Gary heard the stool squeak as Rudy moved. Then Rudy was standing above him.
“You can’t see much at all now, can you?”
“I could for a little bit there,” Gary said. “When I first woke up. Maybe if you try again?”
“The power of suggestion,” Rudy said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with the red cloth. “You tricked yourself into thinking you were healed because you believed in my energy. But only briefly. Without that energy, you’re slipping back into ill health. You need the lightning. My lightning.”
“Please just let me go home now. Let me go home.” Gary could hear the wheedling tone in his voice and was ashamed, but he suddenly realized he could live with his problems. He was used to them, and they were uniquely his. Being strapped to a table whil
e the reverend talked about German doctors was not something he wanted to get used to.
“Tell me,” Rudy said, “do you have any family in Paradise Flats? I didn’t see anyone at church with you today.”
“My wife left. But I have two little girls.”
“Two girls? Where are they now?”
“I, um . . . They’re with my dad.”
“Your father. And where does he live?”
“Well, he’s still in Stockton, actually. But that’s pretty close by, you know. I could call him, if you want. He doesn’t drive much these days, but he’d come pick me up. I know he would. It’s not that far. It’s not far at all.”
“Hush now, Mr. Gilbert.” Rudy smiled at him, put his glasses back on, and tossed his red cloth on the cart. “Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes the lightning doesn’t come, doesn’t flow from me. I used to blame myself. Do you have any idea how awful that made me feel, this notion that people needed my help and yet I couldn’t deliver? How could that be? Why was I able to heal one person and not another? The answer, of course, was right in front of my eyes. And my eyes work much better than yours, Mr. Gilbert. Still, it took me a long time to see it.”
“See what?”
“That the problem wasn’t with me; it was always the other person, the person who had come to me. The lightning did not respond well to those people. Just as it didn’t respond to you. I mean no offense; it’s simply a fact.”