by David Haynes
That was what Pace had said to him before he’d sent himself down into that place. To the between.
The goat-headed icon slid into his mind, pushing everything else aside. The image seemed alive, almost laughing at him with malevolent eyes.
“Baphomet,” he whispered, shaking his head. He looked at Frances. “He wants your soul. He wants all of them,” he said to her.
He jumped up. “No, it’s not real. He’s not real.” He clutched his temples and closed his eyes, allowing yet more images from his internet search to come flooding in.
“No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!”
He was vaguely aware of someone touching his arm but it did nothing to quieten his mind, to quell the onslaught of sights and sounds that made no sense at all. He rocked to and fro trying to latch onto something, to fasten his mind to. He couldn’t go back there. He wouldn’t.
“Frank, it’s me, Louise! Just stop, hold still.” Her voice was soft and reassuring. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, the touch of her hand on his arm. The sound of the monitors keeping check on Frances. The rain on the window, lashing against the glass.
He opened his eyes, half-expecting to see the bleak empty nothingness of that other place. But he didn’t. Louise Hamilton was standing beside him, a faint trace of perfume drifting off her. It smelled of... of daisies.
“Sorry,” he whispered, falling back into the chair. “I’m sorry.”
Dr Hamilton tried to give him something to calm him, a sedative of some sort, but he refused. A sedative wouldn’t help anyone. If Donovan was going through what he was right now then he needed to get to him. He hadn’t seen him in that other place, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there or planning to go there soon.
He wanted to tell Dr Hamilton what he had seen, what he had felt, but he couldn’t. She was a scientist, someone for whom logical answers would always be found. He didn’t think he could bear to listen to her try to rationalize this as a hallucination, an anxiety attack or something to do with his heart.
There was no scientific answer to it. People were killing themselves to escape from something worse than just death. They were putting themselves in that other place just to save their souls from Him. From Baphomet.
And He was here. Right here in Hemlock Mill. In Kennebec Health Consultancy.
The door swung open and Nurse Jones pushed her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt but I’ve got Lucy Beaumont’s son on the line.”
“Can you take a message for me?”
Nurse Jones looked down at Wilson and then back at the Doctor. “It’s... it’s not good news.”
“Oh, no.” Dr Hamilton looked to the ceiling.
“She took her life this morning.” The nurse winced.
Dr Hamilton walked toward the door. She turned just before leaving. “I don’t want you going anywhere until I get back. Got that?”
Wilson nodded, already knowing his gesture of assent was a lie.
*
Rain lashed Wilson’s face and torso as he ran back down the driveway toward the road. He slammed his fist into the gate-release button, cursing as he waited for them to swing open. There was only one place he could go to get answers. Cavendish.
The man was involved somehow. There was no doubt in his mind. What was happening at the hospice might not be down to him, he might not be directly responsible for it, but he knew more about it than anyone else. The Reverend was going to talk, and it wouldn’t be the double-speak he was so apt at using. It would be the truth.
He sprinted across the road without looking if any traffic was approaching and skidded into the picket fence surrounding the church grounds. He barely registered the constant aching stab in his chest, or the way each of his exhalations was the ragged cough of a forty-Chesterfields-a-day man.
He banged on the wooden doors at the front of the church, waiting less than five seconds before running around the corner to the house.
“Reverend!” he shouted, beating the door with his fist. “Reverend Cavendish!”
There was no reply. He looked back over his shoulder at the church and then banged on the door again.
“Reverend!” He could feel anger coming. It wasn’t just creeping up on him, it was hurtling down the tracks and the brakes were out. Hearing about Lucy Beaumont had almost sent him back into whatever place he was in the brink of descending into. The thought of another person hiding in that place, the between, just to get away from whatever it was that wanted their souls was almost too much to bear. The thought that Donovan might be heading there too drove him from Frances Pace’s room into the cold rain with a wilted flower in his fist.
He kicked the bottom of the door, making it shake it the wooden frame. It was more in frustration than expectation. “Come on!”
His raised both fists above his head, meaning to smash the door down. Was there movement inside? He cocked his head. Yes. Someone coming this way.
“Reverend, it’s me, Frank Wilson.”
A key turned in the lock and the door opened.
“Good morning, Mr Wilson!” Cavendish almost sang his greeting. He looked him up and down. “You look... wet.”
“I need you to start talking,” Wilson said. “And I need it now.”
He could feel the Reverend’s eyes boring into him, deciding how he should play this. He hadn’t had much experience with priests, vicars or reverends but he suspected most of them would have just invited him in and asked how they could help. Not Cavendish though, he was different.
“Shall we?” Wilson started, nodding toward the door.
“No, I don’t think so.” Instead of opening his door to Wilson, Cavendish stepped out and joined him in the rain and wind. He looked better than last night but he was still unshod. He appeared not to notice the sharp gravel digging into his feet.
He steepled his fingers and rested them on the point of his chin. “How can I help?” Was he trying to make himself appear genuine? Approachable? Unbowed by Wilson’s aggressive demeanor, perhaps?
Now he was here, Wilson realized he didn’t quite know where to begin. He wanted answers to questions he didn’t understand himself.
“I, err... Can we talk inside?” he said. His mind was racing. He needed a minute to compose himself.
Cavendish looked upward, letting the rain soak his face. “I don’t think so,” he said and then turned his attention back to Wilson. “The rain is cleansing. Don’t you think?”
Wilson shook his head. “I guess.”
“You were saying?” Cavendish said. His smile was back, brighter and more radiant. Smarmier than ever. Last night the man had looked about ready to keel over. This morning he looked like a different person altogether. Everything about him seemed sharper, more intense.
What had he been saying?
“Baphomet,” Wilson blurted out. “What is he?” He paused and then added, “It? What is it?”
The smile slipped, just a minute amount, but because it was normally so beaming it was noticeable. It returned an instant later, accompanied by laughter.
“Have you been drinking, Mr Wilson?” He sniffed at the air like a cartoon character.
“Is he Lucifer?” Wilson continued. “What does it say in the Bible about him?”
“The Bible?” Cavendish pulled an expression of condescension “The Bible does not mention anyone or anything by that name.” He leaned closer. “I can smell something on your breath, Mr Wilson. Whiskey?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”
“What? What are you talking about? I need to ask you about Baphomet, about what’s been happening here. In Hemlock. About Thomas Newsome, Lucy Beaumont about... about Frances Pace. I need answers, you...”
Cavendish raised a finger and put it to Wilson’s lips. “I know what it is I can smell now. It’s Louise Hamilton’s cunt.” He took his finger away and licked it. “Sour,” he said, winking.
Wilson stared open-mouthed at the man. Had he really just said that? It didn’t seem possible.
“What di
d you say?”
Cavendish looked skyward again, poking his tongue out, allowing the rain to patter against it. He groaned with pleasure before turning back to Wilson.
“I said, I’m sorry to cut this short but I have other matters to attend to now.” He pointed over Wilson’s shoulder. “Morning!” he called.
Wilson turned around. A group of fifteen men and women stood waiting at the bottom of the gravel driveway. He couldn’t see their faces but he knew they were Cavendish’s congregation.
Cavendish took a step forward, so he was beside Wilson. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and then leaned in closer. He whispered into his ear. “Baphomet is going to have them all.” His breath was hot and sweet. Sickening. “Every last one of them. And he’ll have your faggot friend too.”
He straightened. “On my way!” he called and walked toward his waiting flock.
Wilson stood where he was, staring at the stones beneath his feet. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.
He dropped to his knees, his head drooping. The rain ran down his neck, following a line all the way down to the base of his spine. He was lost. Donovan was gone.
30
Wilson heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel long before he saw anyone. Who those feet belonged to, he didn’t know. They weren’t the Reverend’s though, he knew that much. The guy was like a cat walking over the stones. He had barely made a sound as he tiptoed toward his congregation.
The steps slowed as they got closer to him. Slowed and then stopped. It was probably Sheriff Taylor come to arrest him. Either that or tell him they had John in custody. Or worse.
He moved for the first time in an age, lifted his head and looked to his left. Rain ran into his eyes, blurring his vision.
A gun. An old-time revolver in someone’s slender wrist. The gun looked enormous and the embattled horse logo told him he was looking at a Colt. Maybe a Peacemaker. He was no expert but he knew it wasn’t standard law enforcement.
“Where is he?” a female voice asked.
He looked up. A hooded figure stood looking toward the house. The gun quivered in her hand.
“Is he in there?” She lifted the Colt and pointed it at the door a second before taking two steps closer.
“No,” Wilson said. His knees had long since stopped screaming but as he stood up, they roared their disgust at him.
She turned around. “I’m going to kill him,” she said, marching back the way she had come.
Wilson put his hand out and caught her arm. “Courtney?”
She met his eyes. They looked as they did on the first day they met – full of anger. “Let go, Frank.”
He shook his head. “I won’t let you do that.”
She swung the barrel around, pointing it in his face. It wasn’t the first time someone had done it. He would rather have this, something tangible to deal with, than what was happening in the town and to his friend.
“I said... let go.”
He kept his eyes fixed on hers. He couldn’t see the desire to pull the trigger on her face but there were a lot of things he was unsure about at that very moment. Still, he held on.
“He’s up there with people all around him. You wouldn’t get close enough to use that thing. And even if you did, I don’t think you’ve ever pulled a trigger before, Courtney. You don’t want to do this. Not really.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes I do.” The gun shook more violently but that wouldn’t matter if she chose to fire it at this range. Maybe that would be for the best anyway. Then he wouldn’t have to think about Baphomet, Donovan, Cavendish or any of this shit.
“Do you know what these are?” She hooked the barrel under her parka sleeve and pulled it back. There were scars, old ones that had been re-opened countless times. But there were new ones too, deep awful-looking wounds that stung his eyes just to look at.
“I know you do,” she said. “I’ve seen you and John look at them. I’ve seen your expressions change when you realized what they were.”
She didn’t break eye contact, not once.
“But you know what? I was getting better. I was working things out in here.” She tapped the Colt’s barrel against her temple.
It wouldn’t have been difficult to take the weapon away from her now, but he decided against trying. She needed to tell him this and he needed to hear it.
“Then he came along and ruined everything. He put me back down in that place. He made me want to be there.” Her voice broke and for the first time in this exchange, she became vulnerable. “Do you know what he did to me? What he tried to do to me?”
Wilson shook his head but he had a good idea.
“The morning you dropped by with John, I was in the kitchen with him. I was on my knees. I was on my fucking knees and he had a cigarette.” Tears rolled down her cheeks but she smiled. “And I burned him, burned a hole in his suit.” She laughed. “If you hadn’t come by...”
“But we did,” he said. “No use thinking about what he might have...”
She shook her head. “No, I was thinking about what I would’ve done. I would have killed him there and then.”
Wilson nodded.
“I don’t know if he had anything to do with what happened to Phil, but I wouldn’t bet against it. Same for John. He knows everything that happens in this town. Everything. I was thinking about all the shit that man is responsible for. Those poor people killing themselves, John, Phil, it’s all down to him.”
She paused and swallowed. “He reminded me of my dad. All the things he said to me, all the insults, the belittling, making me think I’d done something wrong, it was the same way Dad spoke to Mom.” She shook her head again. “And we all know what she did. Like mother, like daughter, huh? I’ve been staring at her photograph all night and when I got dressed this morning, I told her that I wasn’t going to take it anymore. Not one day more.”
“But you don’t want to be like her. You don’t want to end up where she did.” Wilson didn’t know if he’d seen her mom in that place, in the between, but like the others there, she had killed herself. “I won’t let you,” he said.
“Why? It’s nothing to you. This town, the people, the diner. Me. Nothing. You’ll be gone as soon as you find John and you’ll just forget you ever came here. That’s how it works.”
“Not the meatloaf, I’ll never forget the meatloaf.” He thought he saw a smile try to move her lips but it didn’t get very far.
“I’m going up there now,” she said. “And you won’t try to stop me.”
She turned away but as she did, Wilson grabbed her arm, pulling her around rapidly, knocking her off balance. He twisted her wrist and wrenched the Colt free. She howled and used her free hand to punch him in the nose. It was a good punch and brought tears to his eyes, but he stepped back and away from her. He had the gun now.
“Enough, Courtney. Enough.”
He saw it coming and could have dodged the blow but he allowed her to land a right hook on his cheek. It snapped his head to the side. She needed to vent her anger. Better this than the alternative.
He had underestimated her anger though and two more blows, their power diminishing, caught him on his jaw. It was enough to bring him out of the self-pitying stupor he had allowed himself to fall into.
“Stop!” he shouted. “That’s enough.” He could taste blood and spat onto the gravel.
She looked at him with eyes that were full of frustrated rage, her fists balled.
“Just listen to me!” he shouted. Rain lashed against his cheek. He was glad of its cooling properties after her punches.
“Why? Why should I? You’re just like...”
“Don’t you dare, Courtney. Don’t you dare compare me with him or your dad. I won’t let you do this. I just won’t.”
She flailed at him again, but the strength had gone out of her now and her blows were more like slaps than the punches she had thrown seconds ago.
She beat at his chest, slapped his face. “Bas
tard, bastard, bastard!” she screamed.
He knew this was as much about her father as it was about Cavendish. He let her wear herself out. She was crying now, weeping against his chest as she tried to use the last of her strength to claw at him. He held her.
“Let me kill him, please!” she pleaded.
He held her head and stared into her eyes.
“I won’t let you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to kill him,” he said.
“What?” She looked confused.
Wilson looked over her head. “Wherever John is, I know Cavendish is involved. Whatever happened to Moody, Cavendish is involved. And whatever’s happening in the hospice isn’t right and he’s involved in that too.”
He had no idea where to even begin explaining about what he’d seen, heard or felt. Some of it he wasn’t sure about himself. But he knew that Cavendish and his merry men had to be stopped. And if the man wouldn’t tell him where John was then he would die. There was a clarity in the last part of his plan that was a refreshing change.
She pulled away. “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then I’m coming too,” she said.
He didn’t argue. He had a feeling she would be useful to have around if things went as he expected.
As they passed the bottom of the driveway, he noticed the two MPVs parked up at the side of the road. Both had bumper-stickers.
THE CHURCH OF BROKEN PIECES – SAVING SOULS IN A STATE NEAR YOU!
31
Cavendish didn’t mind being barefoot. In fact he had only registered it when one of The Deliverers pointed at his bleeding toes and smiled. It suited him. It suited his new role. It also felt slightly blasphemous. In fact walking into the hospice, naked of foot as it were, with a group of fifteen disciples following behind felt vaguely Christ-like.
He couldn’t imagine the God he had pretended to follow making much of a fuss about it. He never made a fuss about anything, good or bad. He was apathetic. Pathetic. Simple.