The Horseback Preacher might have come riding through, but he wouldn’t have any business with scarecrows. He’d never been known to slaughter livestock, either, at least not since he’d passed from the mortal coil. This business was different. As mysterious as the Horseback Preacher was, at least he was a part of Solom, regular, reliable, not given to trickery.
Better the devil you know, Ray figured. But some new devilry was afoot, and he didn’t want to be caught out alone if that particular devil came calling.
“I’m ‘cared,” Bennie said, clinging to his father’s forearm.
Me, too, son. But I can’t show it, not one little bit.
“Well, that just means the scarecrow’s doing its job,” Ray said with a forced chuckle. “Ain’t that so?”
Bennie nodded, although there was a good degree of doubt etched in his freckled face.
Ray glanced back once before they became lost in the corn. A murder of crows had settled onto the naked crosspiece. One of them fluttered down and gripped the rim of the barrel, dipping its head to drink at the sickening soup.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Did you know you snore, Mom?”
Jett scraped the remnants of her oatmeal in the compost bin and put the bin back under the sink. Mom sat at the table in her nightgown, clutching a big mug of coffee with both hands. Mom had dark wedges under her eyes, but Jett figured that was more a byproduct of middle age rather than a truly restless night. As much as Mom had snored, she couldn’t have spent much time awake.
“Nobody else has ever complained about it before.”
“And just how many people have you slept with?” Jett asked, grinning.
“Like I said last night, some things are better off not talked about.”
“Hey, we survived. It all seems silly now, doesn’t it?” Jett tried to say it lightly, but the aura of menace still hung over the farm. She had a plan to get her mom away from the place for a while. Maybe that would help their moods and give them some perspective.
“We still haven’t finished our conversation about your missing curfew,” Katy said. “Don’t think all this supernatural stuff is going to make that go away.”
Jett rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell that deputy about the hoof prints?”
“They’re gone. I looked when I went to let the goats out of the barn. So maybe they never happened.”
“Hayley saw him, remember? We’ve gone through too much to live in denial.”
“That was, what, ten miles down the road? As long as he stays away from the farm, then let him ride all over hell and back.” Katy checked her phone as if the matter was closed.
Jett wasn’t going to let her off the hook easily. “Maybe if you weren’t so isolated, bad news wouldn’t follow you around. Sometimes I think it’s you that’s haunted, and not the farm.”
Katy slammed her mug down on the kitchen table, sloshing brown slop all over her magazine. The reaction was so sudden that Jett realized she’d struck a nerve. Jeez, she thinks the same thing herself.
Then it was doubly important that Mom found a new direction in her life. With luck, she would come to services with them tomorrow, and not just show up for the baptism. That would be a start. “Nothing personal, Mom. I just worry about you.”
“I’m fine. I haven’t seen a single ghost in a whole year. And if you forget about the hoof prints, or accept some logical explanation that I just can’t make up on the spur of the moment, then all the ghosts are gone for good.”
“Maybe we should get a priest in to throw around some holy water and chant some Latin,” Jett said.
“Neither of us are Catholic, and I don’t think Harmon Smith is, either.”
Jett went for the kill. “Then maybe my preacher. Elder Tester.”
Katy tilted her head forward and peered up at Jett standing by the sink. “Seriously?”
“There’s comfort in it, Mom. That’s why I want to get baptized and join the church. At first I just went along with Dad to spend time with him, and then I started hearing good stuff.”
“And suppose I call up your preacher and tell him to help me get rid of another dead preacher? Will he think I’m crazy, or will he think I’m the bride of Satan?”
Jett glanced out the kitchen window at the barn. She’d been afraid to go out this morning and look for more hoof prints. Maybe the Horseback Preacher had watched the house all night, thinking about coming in. If she only knew what he wanted, this would be easier to deal with.
“Well, after being the bride of Gordon, that would probably be an improvement,” Jett said. “Look. I get it. You’re stubborn. You’re too proud to ask for help. But as you like to say, we’re in this together.”
Katy began wiping up her mess, which had now dribbled to the worn hardwood floor. “Tell you what. I need to meet this Elder Tester anyway and talk about your baptism. Your dad should be involved, too, since he dragged you into this. Let me feel him out, and if he seems cool, I’ll mention Harmon Smith and see how he reacts. Then take it from there. But no promises.”
Jett nodded. This was even better than she’d hoped. She expected her mom to talk her out of the baptism and also cut out her Sundays with Dad. To isolate Jett just the way she isolated herself.
Maybe Mom’s not beyond hope after all.
They spent the rest of the morning making arrangements, and Mark Draper was only too pleased to be included. Jett wasn’t sure whether Dad still had designs on winning Mom back or whether he was more interested in bringing Mom into the church along with Jett. Maybe a little of both—if they spent more time together, then Mom would see how Dad had changed and maybe remember why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place. Jett had no real skin in the game; she was glad she got to spend time with each of them and didn’t want anything to strain that delicate balance.
After Katy hung up from calling David Tester, she said, “He was glad to hear from me. He said he’s been meaning to come over but he’s been busy. He didn’t mention Gordon once, so I give him points for that. One weird thing, though.”
“What’s that?” Jett said.
“He can’t meet at the church. Because of the crime-scene thing. I’d forgotten about that. So he wants to meet here instead.”
“When?”
“I invited him and your dad for dinner.”
Jett pumped her fist and said, “Yes!” Then reality set in. “Wait. What are you cooking?”
“I’m not cooking anything. We’re cooking a nice dinner with stuff from the garden. Now let’s get our chores done so we can get ready.”
Jett changed into her work clothes to feed the chickens and milk the stupid goats, but she was determined to finish her chores without complaint so Mom could see how church was now a positive influence on her life. In truth, she didn’t feel all that different, but the Primitives didn’t force you to accept Jesus in your heart the way most other Christians did. That whole concept seemed a little creepy to Jett. If He came in there, could you ever make Him leave? If Jesus loved everyone unconditionally, then why did He demand that kind of surrender? Anyway, these weren’t the kinds of things she could talk about with Dad or Elder Tester.
On the way to the barn, the goats bleated over the prospect of hay and grain, pressing their noses against the fence or hooking their hooves on strands of wire and rearing up to be on eye level with them. Katy stopped in the barnyard and scanned the ground. “Here’s where the tracks were. See? Nothing but goat turds and goat prints.”
“Well wouldn’t a ghost horse leave ghost hoof prints?” Jett asked.
“You’re trying to apply common sense to nonsense, honey.”
Jett scanned the herd, looking for Greta. “Did you count them when you let them out this morning?”
“No. I didn’t think…oh, Jesus.”
“Six. Two more are missing. Banana Split and Queen Elvis.”
Katy stared at the barn as if it had swallowed the animals. “How could I not have noticed?”
Because
the FARM wouldn’t let you. HE wouldn’t let you.
“Maybe now we should call the police?” Jett said.
“No,” Katy said, a little too abruptly. “They might think we’re connected to the grave desecrations. I’d just as soon stay out of that.”
Jett decided to apply some of the moral lessons Mom was always trying to lay on her. “Isn’t that kind of like a lie?”
“Keeping your mouth shut is a sign of good character,” Katy said.
“Well, are we just going to let somebody steal our goats until they’re all gone? I thought you loved these furry monsters.”
“After we’re done feeding and milking, I’ll go out and look for them while you gather some goodies from the garden.”
“You sure you want to go out there alone?”
“It’s my farm.”
And right there was the real problem. This wasn’t Mom’s farm. It was Harmon Smith’s. And it always had been. But before Jett could say anything, the patrol car turned into the driveway and approached at a slow crawl.
“Stay here,” Katy said. “I’ll handle this.”
“No way.” Jett ignored her mom’s scowl and followed her to the where the deputy stood near the porch.
It was the same woman deputy from last night, and she looked as tired as Mom. She gave Jett a smile but didn’t really mean it. But it was better than the half-suspicious look the deputy had shot at her last night. Jett was able to read the name insignia above her left breast: Vreeland.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Logan,” she said to Katy. “But we had a breakthrough on the church vandalism.”
“That’s great,” Katy said, cautious. “But I’m sure you’re busy. You didn’t have to tell me personally.”
“Well, it’s possible you might be linked to them.”
Jett glared at Mom, who shook her head, wide-eyed. “I don’t understand.”
“We’ve arrested Odus Hampton. We have evidence strongly linking him to the crimes.”
“No way. Odus likes to take a drink now and then, but he’s just not…I just can’t see that at all.”
“That’s why I came out here today. I know he works on your farm some, and he worked for your…late husband…for years. And you also raise goats, so I wanted to see if any more are missing.”
Jett couldn’t imagine Odus slaughtering goats like that. For one thing, he’d never waste good meat. But besides that, he loved the animals and preferred eating wild game to domestic livestock. Jett had a pretty good idea who was stealing goats and slaughtering them, but it was somebody the law couldn’t exactly put behind bars.
“No,” Katy said, waving over to the barnyard’s enclosure. “They’re all here. All six of them, as you can see.”
Deputy Vreeland appeared to count them while simultaneously checking out the entire farm with those cool blue eyes. “Have you observed anything odd about the suspect lately?”
“What could be odd about Odus? He’s just a country boy at heart. Hunting, fishing, and drinking.”
“He claims he’s innocent, of course. Just like they all do. But he’s spouting all these weird phrases, like he’s hinting at some big conspiracy. That’s why we thought there might be more people involved, but he’s not naming any names.”
“Do I need to call a lawyer?” Katy asked.
The deputy held up a hand. “Oh, no, Mrs. Logan. I don’t mean it like that. We’re just trying to wrap this up and make some sense of it. He kept repeating ‘You’ll know him by his fruits.’ Have you ever known Odus to say anything peculiar about church or God or religion?”
“I know he does some handyman work for several churches, but he’s never—”
“Odus didn’t do it,” Jett cut in, drawing the deputy’s gaze.
Katy grabbed Jett by the forearm, as if to restrain her from hitting the officer. “Jett, we don’t—”
“It’s about Harmon Smith,” Jett continued, fighting an urge to just launch into a rant about the sinister preacher who haunted their farm.
Deputy Vreeland considered this for a moment, waiting for Jett to finish. When she realized Jett was done, she said, “We know the desecrated graves belong to Harmon Smith. Three churches have graves to honor Harmon’s work as a circuit-riding preacher, and we checked out the third one today. Solom Free Will Baptist, where Odus has been working. We found fresh blood there, too, but we haven’t ascertained its origins.”
“That’s circumstantial,” Katy said.
“Well, the blood was fresh enough for the crime to have occurred while we had Odus in custody, which is why we’re looking for more suspects,” the deputy said. “The other scenes had visible, um…goat parts, but we found only prints at the Free Will church.”
“Sorry we don’t know anything that can help,” Katy said, glaring at Jett for confirmation.
Deputy Vreeland nodded. “Well, thank you for your time. Once again, if you think of anything…anything at all…call me at the office.”
After the deputy drove away, Jett said to her mom, “I thought lying was wrong but keeping your mouth shut was a sign of good character. You did a little of both.”
Katy said, “Sometimes you’ve got to split it right down the middle.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ray Tester was changing the plugs on his Massey Ferguson when he saw a goat moving across his meadow, hobbling as if it had blown a knee joint or gotten a thorn up in between its cloven hoofs. The animal moved between the giant rolls of hay that were still green and moist. Ray recalled the headless goats he’d found in the field. He’d buried the goats behind his blackberry patch, using his tractor to gouge a hole in the ground. The heads had never turned up.
“Hand me that three-quarters wrench,” he said to Bennie.
Bennie picked a tool from the toolbox and handed it to him. “This one?”
“Right size, but I want an open-end, not a boxed-end.”
Bennie handed him the correct wrench, then said, “There’s a goat over there.”
“Pay it no mind.”
“Where you reckon it come from?”
“Smith farm, probably. They’ve never been good about fences.”
“The ‘mith farm is scary,” little Bennie said, hugging himself and giving a big fake shudder. That boy was quite a character. “Ricky Underwood said the ‘carecrow Man lived there.”
“Well, the Scarecrow Man ain’t real, so just quit listening to such foolishness. But that goat is sure enough real.”
“Maybe somebody will chop off its head, too,” Bennie said. “Like the one we found in the field.”
“Don’t be talking that way.”
Ray figured The Horseback Preacher would be afoot tonight. The preacher was toying with them, letting them know he could take one of them at any time. Ray wasn’t particularly afraid of dying and he wasn’t that worried about the fate of his immortal soul. The irony was that all these mountain churches were to blame for this mess.
They all had a hand in Harmon Smith’s death, even the Rush Branch Primitive Baptists that used to number Ray among its congregation and that was now led by his brother David. Harmon Smith’s death wasn’t something the Rush Branch Primitive Baptists were either proud of or ashamed of, it just was. Like that lame goat that made its way between the rolls of hay, making a drunken beeline for the fence. Ray put down his ratchet and wiped his hands on a rag.
As he watched, the goat eased against the wire, its left foreleg twisted as if the bone had snapped. Goats were known for breaking out of any kind of pen, and this one must have pulled a Houdini act once already. But there was no way it would make it over four feet of hog wire topped with two strands of barbed wire.
Yet the goat reared up, put its broken limb on top of the hog wire, and dragged itself up. Then its other leg hooked on a strand of wire, and the rear hooves fought for purchase. The damned goat (a billy, judging by the sac that swung between its rear legs) was climbing the fence like a brain-damaged monkey. It put its chin over the top strand of
wire, puncturing its flesh and sending a dribble of blood down the dirty white fur of its neck.
Then it repositioned its legs and shoved forward until its chest and belly were suspended on the top wire. The barbs must have been shredding its stomach, but the goat didn’t mutter a grunt of complaint. Instead, it worked like it had a mission, wriggling until the bulk of its weight caused it to flop onto the other side of the fence. It stood on shaky legs and stared at Ray, eyes red and leaky. Could goats get rabies?
“Get on to the house, Bennie,” he said.
“I want to watch.”
“Get on.”
The boy jogged about thirty feet before turning to look at the goat again.
“I said get,” Ray said.
The boy broke into a sprint toward the house, his little legs pumping.
Ray looked in his toolbox. He pulled a rusty plumber’s wrench from the depths. It was two feet long and weighed at least eight pounds. Ray swung it before him, testing its heft.
The goat didn’t charge. Instead, it planted its broken leg and took an awkward step, then another, blood seeping from its scored belly. It was heading past the potato patch and up into the woods. Toward the rocky slopes of Lost Ridge.
Ray waited until it was past the spot where he had buried the goat corpses, then followed, keeping a distance of about forty feet. He could track the thing easily from the red splashes that pocked the ground to the cloven hooves in the mud and the dragging little rut made by the crippled leg. It was headed for the top of Lost Ridge and the twists of Snakeberry Trail, where the Horseback Preacher had once paid the final price for his sins.
And on the other side of the ridge was his brother David’s church.
David the big shot, the smooth talker, the holier-than-though hero of the family.
So high and mighty that he paid no attention to the signs. David would never acknowledge that Harmon Smith returned from the dead and still made the rounds of Solom. Until David himself witnessed it, then it didn’t happen. That’s just the way his little brother had always been. Miracles weren’t miracles until he said so.
The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3) Page 10