The Preacher: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 3)

by Scott Nicholson

  And his bullshit was the main reason Ray had left the church. Once you got a little distance, you began to see how the Primitives were sort of a joke. If God had already picked those who would get to heaven, then Ray’s odds were just as good with his ass in a tractor seat as in a church pew.

  So maybe he’d sit this one out. Old Harmon Smith would have no business with him.

  He glanced at the little clapboard house which Bennie had just entered, the screen door still banging back and forth.

  As long as you stay away from my boy, you can take whoever the hell you want, Harmon Smith. Even David.

  Ray grinned.

  ESPECIALLY David.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  David Tester sought to live his life according to the words of the Bible.

  Primitive Baptists didn’t hold with the cross, the crucifix, or even pictorial representations of the Lord. Such things were graven images, and therefore false idols. It was God’s decision alone to decide which souls were taken to Glory, and God might choose all or none. To leave that choice up to the sinner was an insult to God’s power over all things. The best course of a sinner was to live according to the Gospel here in this life and assume God had ample room in the next. As the church elder, David’s life served as an example, and even though he avoided temptation when possible, he knew he suffered the sin of pride.

  Primitives chose their elders from among the congregation. The position required no formal training. Basically, anyone who heard the call of the Lord would stand up and give it a go, and sometimes would preach for years before being officially selected to lead the church. In the meantime, other elders sought the same position, depending upon the passion in their hearts.

  David’s own brother Ray had delivered a few sermons, but Ray didn’t have the gift of oration as his younger brother did. David’s biggest regret was that Ray had subsequently left the church, and David’s biggest failure was the pride he had felt at being named elder. Ray’s chances of reaching heaven were just the same as they had been before, but David sometimes wondered if weakness ran in the Tester blood.

  Because right now he needed to be strong.

  Because Harmon Smith was back, and the only way that could have happened was if the Lord so willed it. David had no magic spells he could invoke, no special dust he could sprinkle, no prayers for strength against enemies. The plain, bald truth of it was God had brought Harmon to Solom for a reason. He almost wished he were a Southern Baptist, so he could believe Harmon was of the Devil and therefore had arrived to work against the Lord’s purpose. The only comfort David could draw was that God’s ways were known only to God and therefore should be accepted. Even if you didn’t have such faith, God was going to do as He pleased anyway, so it was best to be prepared for the worst.

  The question now was whether or not David should try to do anything about Harmon. If the answer was “no,” then David would go about his business, keep his head down, and let his congregation deal with the situation as the Lord so chose. If the answer was “yes,” then maybe the little valley community of Solom had been chosen as the final showdown, the battleground depicted by the apostle John in the Book of Revelations.

  Maybe the signs had already shown themselves, the seven seals broken, the red dragon risen up from the sea, and all that, and the farmers of Solom had been just plain too busy to notice. The charismatic Baptist sects had made a lot of hay over the signs, and it seemed like, growing up, David had heard almost daily that the end was nigh and the Lord’s return was just around the corner. What David could never understand was the fear in the voices of the doomsayers. The Lord’s return was a thing to be welcomed, no matter if it rode in on fire, famine, and spilled blood.

  But what if the Lord had sent Harmon Smith back as some kind of temptation? The Old Testament was practically one long test, what with Abraham being ordered to offer up his son on the altar and Job undergoing terrible trials. Even Jesus Christ had to stand on a desert plateau and turn down the Devil’s offer of a shining city laid out before Him, and if God couldn’t trust his very own Son to do the right thing, then what chance did David have?

  This was an awful time for such a trial. Odus Hampton had been arrested for desecrating his church, and the congregation would surely expect some kind of official position on the crime. The Bible’s main message was forgiveness and redemption, but it was one thing to quote chapter and verse and quite another to live it outside the church walls.

  And then there was young Jett Draper. He was supposed to go over to the Smith farm with Mark tonight to talk about her baptism, and he was afraid. Not of explaining his church to Jett’s mom, or because the mother and father were divorced, or because Gordon had tried to kill them, but because that was Harmon Smith’s home ground.

  Trials, troubles, and tribulations. They weighed on his shoulders like a concrete yoke.

  David paused in his work forking mulch over Lillian Rominger’s strawberry bed. After the killing frosts, David’s landscaping business slowed down, and besides some tree pruning and a side business growing poinsettias in a small greenhouse, he would be scraping by the next few months. Lillian was one of his best customers and kept him busy through November doing odd jobs. She was a Methodist widow, stocky and brusque, but for all that she was attractive and only a decade or so older than David. During the summer, whenever the heat drove him to remove his shirt, she always seemed to pop up with a glass of iced tea. In the autumn, she often worked alongside him, not afraid to get her knees dirty or to bump into him if they were hauling wood or weeding the flower bed.

  Today she was busy feeding the two goats she kept in a pen on her two-acre property. Her place was bordered by two large stretches of pasture but couldn’t rightly be considered a farm, though she had numerous flower gardens, with strawberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and a couple of dozen apple trees. She was a postal carrier in the next county and had to work most Saturdays, though she claimed the federal holidays made up for the aggravation. David rested against his pitchfork and watched her sprinkling hay into the pen.

  The animals mashed their faces against the wire fencing, greedy for food. One of the goats reared up on its hind legs and nipped her hand.

  “Ouch,” Lillian said, yanking her hand back. David could see the blood even from fifty feet away. He jammed his pitchfork into the remaining heap of mulch in his truck bed and jogged to her side. Lillian’s green eyes were wide and startled.

  “You okay?” David asked. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket, thinking he would wrap her wound, but the cloth was sweaty and stiff.

  “Blamed creature about took my whole hand off,” she said. The skin was broken on three of her knuckles, blood dripping onto her canvas sneakers.

  “We’d better get that inside and washed,” David said. The goat that had bitten Lillian stood by the fence, chewing hay with a twist of its bearded jaw.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I think he’s just worked up because he knows I’m going to geld him.”

  “Geld him?”

  She pulled a circular iron band from her back pocket. There was a clip at one end of the hinged band that allowed it to be opened and closed. “You reach under the billy boy and grab that sack and yank down like this”—Lillian gave a demonstration that looked like she was plucking grapes from an ornery vine—”and snap this little puppy up above the twins. The sack rots off in a few weeks, and that musky odor gets a lot more bearable.”

  David blanched at the thought of having that band clamped around his own testicles. He’d been raised in the ways of farm life, but somehow castration seemed far crueler than slaughtering for meat. Back in his youth, there had been few goats in Solom. It seemed the past few years either the goats had been breeding like rabbits or everyone had simultaneously developed an affinity for the stubborn creatures.

  There was another reason: it was sign of his return.

  You will know them by their fruits.

  “Well, I can see why he got a little te
sty then,” David said.

  “Odus Hampton told me you can’t trust goats this time of year.”

  David wondered what else Odus had told her and if he should mention Odus’s crime. “They’ve been acting strange lately. Tell me, why did you buy yours?”

  The goats pressed against the sides of the pen, stomping the dirt with their hooves, as if they were trying to bust out. Lillian wiped her hand on her jeans, then inspected the ragged skin. “Gordon Smith gave them to me back before he…well, you know. Said I could eat them, milk them, or breed them. Said goats made good pets and that everybody in Solom should have some.”

  “I don’t guess they carry rabies and start acting strangely because of it.”

  “Probably could, if they got bit by a bat or bobcat that was infected.”

  The goats retreated to the center of the pen, where Lillian had constructed a makeshift shelter. The billy that Lillian planned to geld lowered its head and ran full-tilt at the fence, denting the wire and jiggling the fence posts. The other goat, the female, which was pregnant judging by its swollen belly and dangling teats, bleated frantically. The billy backed up a few steps and hurled itself at the fence again.

  “Jesus,” Lillian said. “He’s gone crazy.”

  David put an arm around her and pulled her away from the pen. David felt silly fleeing a goat, but something about the mad shine of its eyes gave him the creeps. Lillian’s house was two hundred feet away, so they retreated to David’s pick-up as the goat continued to batter the fence.

  They slid into the cab just as the fence gave way and the billy came staggering over the tangled mesh. David expected it to make a direct line to the truck and ram its horns into the sheet metal. Instead, it stopped where Lillian’s blood had dripped and began licking at the ground.

  “It wanted my blood?” Lillian said, examining the gash on her hand. “What the hell’s going on here, David?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.” He looked in the rear-view mirror. He could probably grab the pitchfork before the goat reached him. But then what would he do? Stick it in the creature’s ribs? The billy lifted its head from the ground and sniffed the air, then looked directly at David.

  “David?” Lillian’s tone chilled him.

  “He’s staying where he is.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She nudged his elbow and he looked through the front windshield. A dozen goats from the neighboring pasture had come down to the barbed-wire boundary and were watching the encounter. David wondered if they had smelled the blood, too, and he thought of sharks in the water being thrown into a frenzy.

  But these were goats, for God’s sake. Livestock. Food. They were technically herbivores, but had a reputation for eating tin cans, wool blankets, newsprint, anything they could squeeze down their gullets. As far as David knew, they had never been carnivorous. Then why was he so afraid that the goats would break through the barbed wire and surround the truck?

  “Do you have a gun?” he asked Lillian.

  “In the house. A little .22 pistol to scare off burglars.”

  That puny weapon would only scare a blind man or a liberal, but it would have to do. “I suggest we head for the house, then.”

  He turned the ignition key, half expecting the engine to grind over and over without firing, like a scene in a B-grade horror movie. Instead the engine roared to life. He jammed the gear shift into first and peeled up two strips of mud as he popped out the clutch and spun the rear wheels.

  David fought an urge to plow over the billy, which stared at him with those oblate pupils boring holes in David’s face, as if marking him for later revenge. David brought the truck to a halt beside the porch, then he and Lillian scrambled inside and slammed the door.

  David peeked through the curtains while Lillian retrieved the pistol from her bedroom. The goats in the neighboring pasture had lost interest and scattered across the grass, grazing as before. The billy took a tentative nibble at an apple sapling, then went back to the pen where its mate waited by the shelter. They lay together in the afternoon sunlight, shaking their ears to drive away flies.

  “Did what I think happened really happen, or am I going crazy?” Lillian said.

  David suddenly felt foolish. Looking out, the scene was almost pastoral, with the dark green grass, the beds of plants and hibernating flowers, the far mountains stippled with autumnal trees. He imagined himself picking up the phone and calling the Sheriff’s Department to report a wild animal attack. He could almost hear the dispatcher’s voice: “What kind of animal? Bear? Dog? Treed raccoon?” He would bet his truck that “Goat” wouldn’t make the list.

  But maybe this explained why Odus Hampton had killed those goats on Harmon Smith’s graves. At least somebody was trying to stop the Horseback Preacher.

  “Let’s get your hand patched up,” he said to Lillian, dropping the curtain on the bizarre world outside, wondering what the Book of Revelation had to say about the role of goats in the apocalypse.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When Katy invited Mark to come over a little early, she wasn’t entirely sure of her motives.

  Her cover story was that she wanted to hear about his experience with the Primitive Baptists, but she could have done that over the phone. He’d spent little time at the farm since the night Gordon Smith had tried to kill them all, mostly just a few awkward minutes at a time waiting in the foyer for Jett to get ready on Sunday mornings. Once or twice Katy offered him a cup of coffee, but he would politely decline and they’d pass the time in the idlest possible conversation—usually talking about the weather.

  She imagined they would have the same type of conversation this evening, cool and distant, two polite strangers. But when his battered Chevy pick-up pulled up alongside her late-model Subaru, she realized just how different this man was from the one she’d married and divorced. As he strode confidently up the steps, she couldn’t help watching through the kitchen window. His drug addiction had left him in an odd mix of gaunt and chubby, soft flab hanging loose from a skeleton. But his recovery combined with his carpentry work had moved his weight back into his shoulders and chest.

  It wasn’t just his musculature, though. He carried his head high, no longer slouching around in shame and deception, and his brown hair had just a touch of scruffiness that made him look boyish and downplayed the hint of gray at his temples. His long-sleeved shirt was rolled up, revealing strong forearms with thick veins that reflected healthy circulation. By the time he knocked on the door, Katy was checking out places she had no business looking at.

  She blushed and fanned herself, regaining her composure by the time she reached the door. It had been too long, that was all. She’d only had a couple of dates since Gordon’s death, and the “crazy man’s widow” vibe she’d picked up from them killed any chance of a romantic dabble, much less a serious relationship. When she opened the door, her face was set in a neutral expression but that didn’t dim his smile any.

  “Come in,” she said, stepping back before he could dip in for a hug or handshake. “Jett’s upstairs.”

  “Thank you for having me and Elder David over,” Mark said. His gray eyes were clear and warm, a man at peace. “I know this is a big step for all of us, and I want you to be comfortable with it.”

  “No matter what, I’m on Jett’s side,” she answered, careful not to brush against him as she closed the door behind him.

  “‘Jett first,’ that’s my motto, too.” He glanced around the house as if he hadn’t seen the interior before. Without looking at her, he continued. “God, I screwed it up, Katy. I’ve already apologized and made amends as best I can, and I know it doesn’t make any difference now, but this wasn’t how I wanted things to turn out.”

  Katy wasn’t at all ready for the heavy turn. “Life happens. It’s okay—”

  “Please.” Now he did look at her, fully into her eyes, perhaps more deeply than he ever had. “Before Jett comes down. Let me finish, and I’ll be done. Promise.”

 
She nodded. Were those the faint glimmer of tears in his eyes?

  He took both her hands in his. “That night…when Gordon attacked you and Jett and I tried to fight him…I thought, ‘If I die saving these two people, then that would be the best thing I could ever do with my life.’ Funny, after the way I tried to kill myself the slow way with drugs and alcohol, I would die a million times just to get one chance to do it right. And God’s given me that chance.”

  Katy’s fluttering heart took a wild detour. She’d braced for a pity party, maybe even a desperate plea for her love, but he was talking about his spirituality. A selfish part of her pouted inside, deprived of the attention, but her higher self was fascinated. He didn’t have to explain the change to her. He was living it.

  “You never got to see that side of me, and I didn’t even know it existed myself,” he said with a calm excitement. “After all those years in the bondage of misery—no, not our marriage, that was wonderful; I’m talking about the prison I built around my heart—it’s so amazing to finally be free. And Jett’s had a taste of it, too. All I ask that you give her a chance to check it out. It’s just a little water on the head and a few words. It’s not like she’s signing up for the army.”

  “Onward, Christian soldiers,” Katy joked, and immediately felt stupid. She patted his hands and pulled away. “Sorry. This is still new. And…well, I’ve got some other things on my mind.”

  “The Lord’s peace is right there for the taking, Katy.”

  She nodded. Now she was ashamed of the desire she’d felt upon seeing him. She’d always assumed that he secretly longed for a reunion. But perhaps she’d enjoyed imagining him running to her at the snap of her fingers. Weren’t pride and vanity sins?

  She glanced up the stairs to escape his earnest gaze. “Jett!”

  “Coming,” Jett responded, her voice muffled by her bedroom door.

  Mark sniffed the air. “Mmm. What’s cooking?”