In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02]

by Charles L. Grant

  Trask felt his jaw tighten. He had suffered doubters and scoffers his entire adult life, and had done his best to turn the other cheek and forgive them. This man, however, was crude and powerful in ways Trask didn’t understand. So unlike the mother of that child, but very like the other daughter, who couldn’t look at him without some small indication of scorn.

  “Ignore him, Reverend,” Alonse said quietly.

  Trask glanced at him sharply. This comment, this opinion, was against the rules. Neither had Paytrice ever voiced a thought before without a direct request from him. It had been a mutual decision some years ago—they protected his body, and he protected as best his could their souls.

  This was against the rules.

  Unruffled, Alonse gazed at the house, one hand drifting down the lapels of his suit. Then he broke another rule: “It’s the boy, isn’t it, Reverend. We come all this way after Mr. Bannock, and turns out it’s the boy.”

  Trask was speechless.

  “Got to be,” Sebastian agreed. He stood by the driver’s door, towering over the roof. Watching the house. “Got to be.”

  Trask raised a finger to scold them, remind them who they were and who he was, and let his hand fall back to his side, not arguing when Alonse took his arm and urged him to get off his feet, practically forcing him to sit in back, half in, half out. Leaning over to avoid the edge of the roof, hands clasped, forearms resting on his thighs.

  They were right, of course.

  Stories and legends and Scriptures aside, there was no solid affirmation that the Antichrist had to be an adult. And after all, hadn’t the Lord performed his first recorded miracle when He was a child?

  Hadn’t He?

  He stared at his hands for a long time and saw the bloodless knuckles of his thumbs, felt the points of his elbows pressing into his legs.

  Alonse stood with the open door between them, one arm resting on the top. “Are you going to be sick, sir?”

  He nodded, then shook his head.

  Of course he was going to be sick, any fool could see that. His life, his whole preaching life, had been about the Word. Now the Word was here, and he was both exulted and near to panic. He had never doubted. Not once. But O Lord, he had been afraid. Was afraid.

  But he wouldn’t be sick because he didn’t dare to. .

  How could he?

  This was the Time. This was the Moment.

  If he wasn’t strong now, his whole life would be a sham. A hypocrisy. A blasphemy.

  Fear or not, it was given to him to try to save the world. No small feat, given the opposition, and he allowed himself a quick smile.

  But to save the world. . . dear Lord, to save the world, he would have to kill a child.

  * * * *

  3

  Joey steps away from the swing set and says, “Wow, Mom. Wow.”

  The frame had toppled backward, the swings hopelessly entangled, two chains snapped in half and lying snakelike on the ground.

  “Wow.”

  Patty stands by the birdbath, which somehow remains upright, although the water inside is gone, leaving dark stains behind. “Joey?”

  He adjusts his hat and gunbelt, dusts each boot off on the back of his jeans legs. When he takes a step toward her, she takes an involuntary step back.

  “Mom?”

  She licks her lips, pushes at her hair, snatching away a leaf as if it were something disgusting.

  Joey sighs. “Boy, I wish I had some ice cream.”

  Patty starts, then looks toward the house. “I’ll, uh ... I’ll go inside, okay? See if Grampa left you some.”

  “Too late,” he tells her sadly, before she can move.

  “What?”

  “Too late,” he repeats. He seems disappointed, but not surprised. “It’s time, Mom.”

  Tears in her eyes, sudden and bright. She takes another step away, hands fluttering at her sides, one moving to her chin.

  “Where are you going, Mom?”

  She points. “The house. Ice cream. You said—”

  He waggles a finger at her. “Mom, you’re gonna try to call Dad, aren’t you?”

  “No. No, don’t be silly, hon.” Another step. “I don’t even know where he is. Don’t be—”

  “Mom.”

  She stops, rigid except for her eyes, which look everywhere but at him.

  “Mom.” He holds out his hand.

  Her lips quiver. “No, Joey. Oh no.”

  “Mom.”

  The tears slip out, one drop at a time.

  “Joey, please, no. Don’t.”

  “Mom.”

  She grabs onto the birdbath as if it were an anchor, eyes widening, lips pulled away from her teeth.

  “Mom.”

  “Joey, he’s your father.” Her voice is contorted, not like her at all. “He’s a good man, Joey, you know that. Please don’t, honey, please don’t.”

  He lifts his shoulders, lets them fall, and walks toward her. “He is, Mommy, you’re right, he really is.” The shoulders rise and fall again. “But he’s going to die.”

  She whimpers; the tears fall.

  When he reaches the birdbath, he brushes a finger around the rim, looks up at her. And winks. Reaches over and covers one of her hands with both of his. “Mom.”

  She looks away.

  Her fingers release the granite, and he holds her hand.

  Holds her hand.

  Blue eyes dark; blue eyes smiling.

  A moment later, he lets her go and says, “See, Mommy? It didn’t hurt a bit.”

  She holds the hand in front of her face, turning it, examining it, flexing the fingers.

  “Just like Grampa.”

  Turning it. Flexing the fingers.

  “Just like Aunt Dory.”

  Tears dripping off her chin.

  “Just like all the rest.”

  When she looks at him again, he says, “Mom.”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Stop crying.”

  And she does.

  * * * *

  4

  Sharon saw her first, racing full speed up the drive, leaping over branches, waving her arms, wired black hair sticking out in all directions. She looked as if she’d been through a war.

  “Mag?”

  Beside her, Kyle made an oh great face.

  “Stop it,” she scolded, slapping his arm. She didn’t want to leave; she wanted to know what was going on, what made Mr. Bannock look so awful. He, Les, and Deputy Schmidt stood between the stable and the house, talking softly, maddeningly so; they had been there since Mr. Bannock had arrived and Fran took that woman into the house to fix her cuts and do something, Sharon couldn’t catch what, with her hair.

  Something to do with the wind.

  “Come on,” Kyle said disgustedly, “let’s go see what she wants before she kills herself.”

  Mag had tripped over a branch, sprawled, and was on her feet again. Not running this time, but still waving her arms.

  They met her before she reached the house, and she sagged dramatically into Kyle’s unwilling arms.

  “He’s here,” she gasped, her face alarmingly red. “God, he’s here.”

  Sharon went cold and, for a moment, deaf.

  Kyle pushed Mag away but held on to her shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Mag looked up at him, looked at Sharon’s stricken face, and clamped a hand over her mouth as she shook her head. “Oh God, no,” she managed when Kyle yanked the hand away. “No, no, God, no, Shar, not him. God, no, not him.” She gestured vaguely toward the road. “I hitched, you know? Had a fierce one with the Chief, and was so mad I couldn’t pay attention. I mean—”

  Kyle shook her. “Jesus, Baer, who did you see?”

  “Trask,” she said, nearly shouting.

  Sharon walked away slowly, moving under the pines that took up much of the Burgoynes’ side yard. The boughs had been trimmed high to permit walking without bending, the ground cushioned by needles and too-small cones. Cool o
n warm days, a little chilly on days like this, and she hugged herself as she leaned against a trunk, facing away from the house.

  Mag babbled apologies and excitement over by Kyle; behind her she could hear voices in the Burgoyne kitchen through the open window.

  She wanted to throw up.

  “Sharon,” Mag said, hustling over, punching at the hair that wouldn’t stay away from her face. “Sharon, jeez, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Got that right,” Kyle grumbled, trailing. He studied Sharon’s face, rolled his eyes, and poked Mag hard in the side. “Slowly,” he ordered. “No sidetracks.”

  Mag dropped to the ground, sat crosslegged, and plucked at the needles between her legs. “I thought you could use some company, Shar, that’s all. I walked ... walked, you understand, all the way from school, and then that awful thunderstorm or whatever nearly knocked me into a ditch.” She shuddered, looked from Sharon to Kyle and saw only stares. “I saw him, Shar, up at Mr. Bannock’s house. Reverend Trask himself, standing by this humongous limousine.”

  Kyle frowned. “Who?”

  “TV,” Sharon answered flatly, not caring. “He’s on TV all the time.”

  “Right here,” Mag said, stabbing the ground with a finger. “He’s right here in Vallor, guys.” She lowered her voice. “And he’s right up the road!”

  Sharon didn’t know whether to strangle her, or laugh, or climb up the tree and never come down. She couldn’t believe how much like winter she had felt inside when she’d thought Mag had been talking about... him. She should have gone with Phil and her mother. She should be in Chicago now, living in a hotel, watching city cable, letting Phil fuss while Mom went into orbit.

  She shouldn’t be here.

  She didn’t want to die.

  She hugged herself tighter, tucked her chin toward her chest. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  ‘Get what?” Kyle asked.

  “I...” She almost cried and hated herself for it. “I don’t know, but I don’t get it.”

  “Shar, listen,” said Mag, flinging needles left and right, “this is big stuff here, you know? I mean, the Reverend Lanyon Trask is right on your street. Right in—” She stopped, looked over at the three men and jerked a thumb in that direction. “Right in his house. Can you believe it? Do you think he’d talk to me, huh? The reverend, I mean. If I went over there, do you think he’d talk to me?”

  “Oh, right,” Kyle said, practically sneering. “Sure, go ahead. Walk right up to that big-time minister, looking like you’ve been hit by a truck, walk right up and grab his hand, maybe he’ll heal you from being stupid.” He closed his eyes and held out his hands as if cupping them around her head. “Now listen here, Lord, we got this little lady here, she’s—”

  “Stop it,” Sharon said, her voice low and hard.

  “—got a problem maybe—”

  “Stop it, I said.”

  Kyle looked at her, startled, then looked at Mag and the tears forming in her eyes. “Hey.” He pushed a hand back through his hair, “Hey, Mag, I was only kidding. I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.”

  Mag lowered her head, raised her shoulders. “Yeah, well, maybe I forgive you, maybe I don’t. Just don’t make fun, okay? You don’t know what kind of man he is. You don’t know what he can do. You don’t—”

  “You, too,” Sharon said. “Quiet. Don’t start.”

  She closed her eyes and listened: Mag shifting on the needles and Kyle poking at them with his boot; the men talking over there, their voices low, like whispers; Fran in the kitchen, saying something to that woman and laughing a little, as if they’d been friends for a hundred years; a bird singing someplace; her heart thumping in her chest, calm, and aching.

  And for no reason at all, she opened her eyes and looked at her friends and said with a trembling voice, “Something’s going to happen.”

  * * * *

  5

  The little cowboy strolls around the corner of the house, trying to mimic the swagger of the cowboys he’s seen on TV. He ignores Grampa’s call from the porch, pays no attention to his mother walking slowly behind him.

  He keeps his gaze on the silly, not so old man sitting half in and out of the car that’s as big as a boat. He can see the two giants, but he watches only the not so old man, who sees him and pulls himself off the backseat. Pushes his hair back into place. Puts out a restraining hand when the giant by the door shifts as if to move.

  Smiles broadly.

  Joey smiles back as he crosses the lawn, hitching his gunbelt, touching the grip of his plastic six-shooter.

  “Well, young man,” Reverend Trask says, keeping his back straight, trying to look tall. “I see you have survived the storm with no injury?”

  Joey doesn’t answer; he keeps walking.

  “Hey, Patty,” Grampa calls. “Come here, look at Ari. He doesn’t look so good.”.

  “Nothing,” he hears the little really old man say. “Nothing, Patty, it’s nothing. This weather you got out here just took me by surprise.” “Patty,” Grampa commands, “get over here and take a look. Dory is helpless.”

  And Aunt Dory says something really really bad.

  Reverend Trask moves onto the lawn, arms down, hands folded one over the other, and the giant closes the door and stands behind him. “My, my,” the minister says. “I can see by your outfit, young man, that you are a cowboy.” Then he chuckles and shakes his head. “I do apologize, son. That was supposed to be a joke, but you’re too young, aren’t you.”

  Joey stops and looks up at the giant with the beautiful dark hair just like a lady’s. And looks away as if he wasn’t there.

  “What can I do for you, son?” the minster says.

  Joey pulls out his plastic six-shooter, points it at the man’s heart, giggles and says, “Bang, you’re dead.”

  * * * *

  6

  Tony watched his grandson draw on the TV preacher, and with a smile shook his head. That kid, he thought; that kid.

  “Check it out, Dad,” Dory said.

  He looked again, and saw the giants jump when his grandson pulled the trigger a second time, looking for all the world like they wanted to jump on the boy and pound him into the ground. His right hand patted his pants pocket, just to be sure it was there. Nobody, not even those two, would harm a hair on Joey’s head.

  “Yes,” Ari said to Patty’s question. “Another glass would be fine.”

  “You drink too much water,” Tony said, “you’re going to spend the rest of the day in the john.”

  “Tony!” Ari was shocked. There were, after all, ladies present.

  “They’re family,” he answered, feigning a grunt and groan as he settled on the top step. “They know me too well.”

  “All the same.”

  “Next thing you know, you old fart—”

  “Tony!”

  “—you’ll be telling me you want to take a nap, all the excitement’s too much, you gotta lie down, rest your heart.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Your age, my age, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “See?” he said, spreading his hands. “You girls see what I have to put up with every day, all day, every week of the damn year?”

  “I keep him young,” Ari said primly. “He looks at me, he doesn’t feel so old anymore.”

  “I never feel old,” Tony protested with a grin. “Not as long as I have Miriam.”

  “Tony!”

  He laughed, but he never took his attention away from Joey, who had backed away from that phony son of a bitch, who himself actually wasn’t looking so good. He still didn’t know why that guy was here, and he didn’t much care, as long as he wasn’t here very long. Hit the road, he yelled silently; take your thumping Bible and hit the damn road.

  Then Dory hunkered beside him, balancing herself by laying an arm on his shoulder.

  “It’s good to see you, child.” He patted her hand.

  “You, too, Pop.”

  “Don’t call me that.
”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Joey returned his gun to its holster, saluted the preacher, and turned away, and waved. -