by Kim Liggett
She reaches out for me and I pull away.
“Just stay away from me. I’m done. Do you hear me? Done.”
“Clay,” she calls after me, but I don’t look back. I can’t.
38
I PARK front row, center. Fuck Tyler Neely.
Grabbing a work blanket from my truck, I head up to the scoring booth, the last safe haven I have. As I lie there staring at the cobwebs clinging to the damp corners, I try to clear my head. I try to remember what it was like before any of this happened. Before my dad went crazy—before the Devil supposedly came to town—but I’m drawing a blank.
I’m trying to make sense of all this, but I feel so stuck and confused.
Miss Granger tells me all this crap and then cuts me off. I mean, if this is so important to all of mankind, why’s she having “company”? Why haven’t they done the exorcism? I’ve given her every opportunity to come clean and she just keeps feeding me more bullshit. What does that even mean, “a disturbance at the church”? “The priests can’t trust me anymore”? They never even said a word to me … not in English. Come to think of it, how the hell do I even know they were priests? I feel completely insane right now. A part of me thinks I should just check myself into Oakmoor and be done with it, but what if they’re all just fucking with me? What if this is all some elaborate scheme to get me to lose it? Maybe that’s exactly where they want me, where I can’t get in the way. All I know is that I can’t handle this on my own anymore.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and call Sheriff Ely before I have a chance to change my mind. There’s no answer. I leave a message. “It’s Clay. Clay Tate. We really need to talk. In person. If you get this, I’m at Midland High. On the field.”
As soon as I hang up, I feel a sense of relief. I know I’ll be exposing Miss Granger, exposing myself, but I need help with this.
I must’ve dozed off a little waiting for Sheriff to show or call back, because the next thing I know the sun’s starting to rise. I have to get out of here before the groundskeepers start showing up. Don’t want to add more fuel to the rumor mill around here.
I get up and stretch my arms above my head. As I stare out over the field, I catch a glimpse of a strange silhouette on the goal line, like something’s floating between the goalposts.
I know I can get in deep shit for this, but I crank up the stadium lights. The deep hum of ten thousand volts of electricity permeates the air, but that’s not what makes my hair stand on end.
Hovering between the goalposts is a person. I clench my eyes shut and open them again, hoping it’s just another dream or a vision, but the wind blows in my direction carrying the sharp metallic scent of blood, and it hits me like a Mack truck. This is real.
I run down to the field and stumble toward the goal line.
The turf is damp, dark red seeping into my white socks, like slow-spreading poison. A dull dripping sound forces me to look up. There, strung up in a tangled mass of ropes, is Ben Gillman, wearing his uniform, blood dripping from his helmet, piss-stained pants, his black eyes bulging. With his arms suspended to his sides, his feet dangling over the metal bar, I have a flash of the reverend at the Hell House, the priests staring down at me from the altar at All Saints, the crucifixes lining Miss Granger’s bedroom, my father walking into the wheat.
Ben Gillman looks like he’s been crucified. A surge of bile races up my throat, my eyes are blurry with tears, but I can’t unsee it.
Feeling dizzy, sick and powerless, I drop to my knees.
Someone puts their hand on my shoulder. I whip around to see the groundskeeper’s face. “What’s troubling you, son?”
Something’s off. Something’s very wrong. I focus in on him. His eyes are pure black, like endless pits of nothingness, just like the calf’s … just like Jimmy’s … and now Ben’s.
I try to scream, but my tongue feels thick, like it’s choking off my air supply. My head lolls back as a mass of gray static overtakes my consciousness and just like that … I’m gone.
39
I COME to, a mask over my mouth and nose, beeping noises and a strange jostling beneath me. I try to sit up, but something’s holding me down—wide canvas straps.
“Hey, there, Clay.” A doughy face comes into focus as the mask is slipped off my mouth. It’s Larry Parker, former Midland High guard. Calls himself an EMT, but really he just answers the phone down at the courthouse and drives the meat wagon around town. “He’s awake,” Larry hollers over his shoulder.
“Wait!” I crane my head back toward the field. “Ben. What about Ben Gillman … that wasn’t real, right?”
“’Fraid so,” Larry says as he pulls up the gurney, locking it in place. “Shame. He was the only decent tight end we had.”
“Well, look who finally decided to join us.” Deputy Tilford leans over me with a smug look on his face.
“What’s happening?” I ask, gripping the freezing metal bar next to my hand.
“I should be asking you the same question,” he says.
“Excuse me … pardon me…” Miss Granger pushes through the crowd. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. “I’m here, Clay.”
Larry fumbles with the blood pressure cuff. “Hey there, Miss Granger.”
“We need to get him off this field, to the hospital.”
“I don’t need to go to—”
Miss Granger cuts me off by resecuring the oxygen mask.
“No way.” Deputy Tilford steps in front of the gurney. “Sheriff wants him close by for questioning. Besides, he probably just passed out. He’s fine.”
“What if he has a concussion? What if he’s in shock?” Miss Granger asks.
“She’s got a point,” Larry says.
Greg glares at both of them. “Nearest hospital is an hour away. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to tamper with my witness.”
Larry’s looking around like he’s not sure what to do next, sweat running through his curly mullet.
“How about this,” Miss Granger says. “We take him to Midland Clinic, get him checked out, and then he’s all yours. It’s a ten-minute drive. You and Sherriff can come over as soon as you’re done here. Better safe than sorry.”
Larry’s nodding like one of those demented bobbleheads. “That seems reasonable enough to me.”
Greg gets right in Larry’s face. “If he takes off—”
“I don’t understand,” Miss Granger interrupts. “Is Clay under arrest?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Then I suggest you back off and let Larry do his job.”
Greg stands up straight as a cattail, like Miss Granger just threw a bucket of cold water in his face. But he steps out of the way.
“You’re doing the right thing.” Miss Granger pats Larry on the arm.
Larry cracks a dopey smile and then puffs out his chest as he pushes the gurney across the field, toward the ambulance.
I spot two men, dressed all in black, standing against the fence, like a strand of those spooky paper dolls Noodle makes out of crepe paper. They’re dressed differently than they were before, none of that bling or weird hats, but I’d know their faces anywhere—the priests from All Saints.
Miss Granger gives them a tight nod as we pass.
Larry gets the gurney in the ambulance; Miss Granger climbs in with me.
“I’m just gonna phone ahead, tell them we’re on our way,” Larry says as he digs his cell phone out of his jacket and steps away.
I’m trying to say something, but it’s muffled by the mask. Miss Granger pulls it away from my face. “Get me out of here,” I gasp.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. This is our best option right now. Just stay calm.” She tries to hold my hand, but I clench it into a fist.
“Stay calm?” I push against the straps. “Are you fucking serious?” Tears sting the corners of my eyes when I think about Ben strung up there for everyone to see. I want to kill someone, I’m so pissed. “I’m not even sure I believe you
anymore … if any of this is real. You said we could stop this. I did my part. What the hell have you done?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Oakmoor, or Mrs. Wilkerson, but this is very real. The second has fallen. Things are escalating a lot faster than I anticipated.”
“Is that why the priests are here? Are they here to do the exorcism?”
“They’re here because I needed them to see this with their own eyes. Ben’s death was clearly a direct message to the church. They can’t deny it now. This is exactly what we needed to happen in order to move forward with getting the exorcism sanctioned.”
“So you were just waiting for another one of them to die?”
“A small sacrifice for the greater good.”
“It’s not small. These were my friends … people I grew up with.”
“Small in comparison to what will happen if the Devil succeeds.”
“All set,” Larry says as he lumbers back in the ambulance. “It’s getting nuts out there. They’re still trying to figure out how to cut him down,” he says as he resecures the oxygen mask. “Hang in there, bud.”
As Larry goes to shut the door to the ambulance, I catch a glimpse of Sheriff Ely and Deputy Tilford in the distance. They’re staring straight at me as the chaos swirls around them. They think I had something to do with this—with Jimmy, too. And they’re not going to let this go.
40
I WANT to walk into the clinic on my own two feet, but Greg Tilford got inside Larry’s head, made him all nervous that I might take off, like some kind of fugitive.
“As soon as I get you settled in a room, I’ll take off the straps, but you can’t leave until you’ve talked to Sheriff Ely and Dr. Perry gives the clear.”
“Dr. Perry?” I ask. Miss Granger and I exchange a nervous glance. The last thing I need is someone from the Preservation Society in my face right now. “But he’s a family practitioner. He doesn’t even work at the clinic.”
“He’s the team doctor and you’re back on the team now,” Larry says, as he pulls the gurney out of the ambulance. “Only the best for our star quarterback. Enjoy it while it lasts.” He flashes a crooked smile before he wheels me inside and goes off to figure out where I need to go.
“Noodle!” I blurt as I try to sit up. “I need to be there for her—”
“All taken care of.” Miss Granger pushes me back down. “Ali went to check on them this morning. She’ll get her to school.”
“Okay, good.” I let out a sigh of relief.
Larry comes back like an overeager hunting dog who’s bit through the prey. “They’ve got you all set up in room two,” he says as he wheels me down the hall. “Dr. Perry should be here any minute.”
As he finally takes off the straps and transfers me to the examining table, Larry clears his throat. “Miss … I mean, Emma … I was thinking you might want to go to the Sizzler with me on Friday night before the game. All you can eat. I’d love to help you put some meat on your bones.”
“Really?” I sigh.
Miss Granger flashes a controlled smile.
“That’s lovely, Larry, but I have mass on Friday nights.” She twists the Lucite cross around her neck. “I’m Catholic, very devout. You’d have to convert.”
He stands there for a good ten seconds, like he’s seriously considering it. “Maybe another time,” he murmurs, before hunching over the gurney and leaving the room.
As soon as Miss Granger closes the door, I say, “I don’t know what to do. Deputy Tilford is all over me. He’s going to be a problem. And Sheriff … I called him last night … told him to meet me at the field.”
“Why would you do that?” She turns on me.
“I … I needed someone to talk to.”
“Believe me, or don’t believe me, it makes no difference, but no good will come of you getting yourself locked up in Oakmoor. You’ll be trapped inside while your friends die around you. While Ali dies. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want any of this. But if the prophecy thing is true … if I’m the sixth, they need me for something. Maybe it’s better for everyone if I’m locked away until this blows over.”
“Unless it’s not you,” she says with a pointed stare.
“Clay Tate,” Dr. Perry says as he saunters into the room, wearing his golf clothes. He barely acknowledges Miss Granger as he thumbs through a bunch of papers on his clipboard, which is weird because I saw him talking to her at the Harvest Festival the other night.
“Heard you had a bit of a shock this morning.”
“Ben died,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I heard.” He blows on his stethoscope. “Teen suicide is a serious matter. You’ll let me know if you’re feeling depressed, won’t you, Clay?” he says, a little too chipper, as he checks my heart. “’Cause I can give you something for that.”
I hold Miss Granger’s gaze. What did she mean, unless it’s not you?
“But why would you be feeling down?” He says, as he checks my reflexes. “You’ve got the tiger by the tail, huh, QB?”
QB—just hearing him say it makes my blood pressure spike.
“Don’t worry, this shouldn’t affect your game on Friday.”
“Wait … they’re not canceling the game?”
“It’s tragic, but life goes on. Football goes on. Ben would want that. You need to give this town something to believe in … something to celebrate. And give yourself something to celebrate, too. I don’t know what your love life’s like, but that might be just what the doctor ordered,” he says with a wink.
Sheriff Ely barges in and Dr. Perry lets out a heavy sigh. “We’re in the middle of a medical exam, Ely.”
“He won’t mind, will you Clay?” He gives me that easy grin, but his eyes are blazing.
I stare down at my feet, at the blood-stained socks from the field, and I start feeling dizzy again.
“I just need a few minutes with him and then I’ll get out of your hair.” Sheriff Ely leans against the wall.
They’re all staring at me, waiting for a response. I just nod; that seems to be enough.
“We’ll be right outside,” Miss Granger says as she steps into the hall.
Dr. Perry follows. “Five minutes, Ely,” he says as he shuts the door behind him.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” Sheriff says in a hushed voice. “You need to tell me what the hell’s going on, because this doesn’t look good, Clay.”
A part of me still wants to spill my guts, but Miss Granger’s right. She may be lying about a hundred other things, but if I’m locked up, I’ll never be able to discover the truth. Sure, there’s a chance Ely might believe me, even help me, but I can’t take that chance. Protecting my family, protecting Ali, is the most important thing right now.
“I don’t remember anything.”
“If it were up to Tilford, you’d be locked up right now.” Sheriff narrows his eyes. “Talk to me, Clay. I know when someone’s hiding something from me.”
“Look…” I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans. “There are bigger things going on here. Bigger than you and me.”
“That’s strange.” The right side of his mouth twitches. “That’s the same thing the Wiggins kid said to me when we pulled him out of the flames. You know, their trailer blew up hours before your dad went to the breeding barn that night. Even so, Lee told us what your dad was going to do. Told us it was too late, that the Devil was coming for him. Coming for all of us. That we needed to prepare for his coming and rejoice in the blood of the golden calf.”
I try to stay expressionless, but I can feel the blood drain from my face. How the hell would Lee Wiggins know about any of that?
“Does that mean anything to you, Clay?” Sheriff Ely digs.
I shake my head, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“You came over to my house in the middle of the night, talking about cows and blood and the Preservation Society. You said you ran over a calf with the combine and I got to thinking …
maybe all of this is connected somehow. Is that why Jess is hanging around with the Wiggins kid out in the woods behind Merritt’s? Are you in this together?”
“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you’re dead wrong. Jess isn’t hanging around him anymore.”
“You sure about that?” Ely says. “’Cause I just saw them together on Sunday night.”
“Jess’s been home in bed since the Harvest Festival.”
“No offense”—Sheriff adjusts his hat—“but I’m not the one who’s been seeing things, now am I?”
I shift my weight and the paper crinkles beneath me.
“You know, you can talk to me.” Sheriff softens his tone. “I can help you through this, no matter what it is. I was always there for your dad.”
“And look what happened to him,” I say as I look out the dingy window, at an old man putting flyers on people’s cars.
I hear Sheriff take in a deep breath through his nose. “I watched the tape from the field, Clay.”
I look at him sharply.
“You didn’t think Neely’d be keeping an eye on his precious new stadium? You pull in at 3:18 and head up to the scoring booth.”
“I didn’t break in … I have a key.”
“3:24 you call, telling me we need to talk. 3:46 Ben Gillman climbs the goalpost and strings up the ropes. It took twenty-two men to figure out how to get him down. The ropes were strategic … almost like a puzzle. One wrong knot, one wrong length of rope and none of it would’ve worked. Ben Gillman was tough as nails, but not the sharpest. Now, you on the other hand could figure something like that out. You aced geometry, right?”
I try to force some words, even a grunt, but nothing comes out.
“Now, the whole time Ben’s doing all this, he’s staring up at the stands, crying. It’s almost like someone’s giving him instructions. The rope around his neck was so tight, it cut right through his skin, right through his artery. His body’s jerking around, there’s blood spurting everywhere, but you’re asleep. And then two hours later, you run onto the field acting like you’re in shock, like it’s the first time you’ve seen him.”