Risen (16 page)

The means to that evil end was even now pulling up in front of the house. Deputy Haws had wrangled a key to the Rialto out of Merle Tippert, interrupting the evening news to do so, and returned to find the Culler boy's motorcycle gone. Haws played his flashlight around the outside of the theater but found no graffiti, and he checked the inside and everything seemed to be in order. He didn't waste any more time on Tom Culler. He had bigger fish to fry.

Galen heard the car door slam. He snuffed out the joint and tossed it and the ashtray in the Tupperware container he used for a stash box and slid the container under the sofa. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and waited for the inevitable knock. It came.

Galen opened the door and Haws said, "Let's go," and that's what they did. As he walked down the sidewalk to the street, Galen felt as if he were a condemned man marching to the gas chamber. The solemn way in which Haws held open the door to his patrol car reinforced that feeling. Inside, the car smelled like fast food and old farts, which shattered the gas chamber illusion without improving on it.

Haws drove slowly down the dark streets of Anderson. They were deserted, naturally. Cars were safely parked in driveways or garages. Lights glowed from a few houses but most were dark. Main Street and the town square looked like a miniature set waiting for a giant hand to reach in and reposition a tree or move the Optimists' cannon to the other side of the park. The Rialto's marquee was dark. The sole lighted storefront was Cap'n Humphrey's Tavern, Anderson's only bar.

The Captain, as he liked to be called though he'd never sailed any ship larger than a bass boat, had grown adept at turning Clyde Dunwiddey out before he reached the vomitous stage. Clyde was staggering down the street in a style he'd learned from Hal Smith, better known as "Otis" on the old
Andy Griffith Show
, when Haws caught up with him. Haws turned on the flashing lights to catch Clyde's attention and pulled up on the wrong side of the street. Clyde angled their direction.

Clyde collided with the driver's side of the car and leaned in to exhale fumes at the deputy. Galen could smell Clyde's breath even in the back seat. It did not smell like roses.

"Where to, Clyde?" Haws asked.

"Headed for the hoosegow," Clyde's tongue replied by habit.

"I'll take you," said Haws. He unlocked the back door with the power switch and Clyde yanked it open and fell in. Galen gave him as much room as possible, wondering if this was part of whatever torture Haws had in store for him, making him ride with a stinking drunk who'd likely urp in his lap.

Haws drove around the town square and headed along Main Street. He passed the Sheriff's Office without stopping. Galen noticed immediately but fuck if he was going to say anything about it. Haws was calling the shots and Galen knew it. The deception didn't sit well with him, though. Clyde didn't know the difference but at that point in the evening Clyde probably didn't know his own name.

Haws took the access road to the highway and Galen guessed that he was returning him to the scene of the crime. Instead, Haws drove a few miles and then cut the wheel hard and turned onto a dirt road that ran along a windbreak of trees between a pair of fields. He drove another half mile or so and put on the brakes.

Galen saw that Clyde had fallen asleep. He lay with his head on the rear window shelf, mouth open, snoring. Haws turned around and smiled at Galen and asked how he was doing and Galen said he was fine.

"Good," Haws said, and then he produced his police revolver and aimed it at Galen's face. Galen's heart stopped in his chest.

"You wouldn't shoot me," Galen said, not believing a single word.

"Wouldn't I?" Haws asked. "You did a pretty lousy thing to me, kid." Haws rearranged himself on the front seat, rested his gun hand casually on his forearm as he spoke his piece to Galen.

"I never meant to kill you," Galen began, but Haws cut him off with a curt "Shut up."

Haws continued.

"Let's get one thing straight," he said. "You're dog shit. I'd scrape you off my shoe right now if it was up to me. This would be a pretty fair little town without the likes of you and your gangster buddies. I'd pull this trigger right now. Don't move."

Galen was dizzy with fear as Haws stepped out of the car and pulled open the back door next to the drunken Clyde. He held the gun on Galen as he grabbed Clyde's arm and dragged him out of the car. Clyde fell on the ground and woke up and muttered some jumbled syllables of protest. Haws put his foot on Clyde's chest and held him down. It didn't take much effort.

"Get out," Haws said to Galen. Galen climbed over Clyde and Haws backed off a few feet. There was no way Galen could get the jump on him, not with the pistol pointed straight at his chest.

"Can you imagine what it's like waking up in a grave?" Haws asked. "Can you imagine laying there, covered with dirt? Can't move. Can't see. Can't breathe. There's no way for you to know what that's like, no way at all, unless you was to experience it for yourself."

He's going to make me dig my own grave, and then he's going to bury me alive, Galen thought. Well, fuck him! I'd rather be shot!

Haws checked his watch.

"It's time," he said, and he angled the barrel of the gun down to point at Clyde Dunwiddey's head. He pulled the trigger. The gun barked and Galen cried out and bits of skull and hair and flesh flew as a hot slug of lead drilled its way straight through Clyde's besotted brain and planted itself in the ground. Clyde's body jerked once and his jaw went slack and air hissed out as his lungs collapsed, and then he lay still.

Galen backed away as Haws raised the pistol. He lifted his hands. "Don't," he pleaded, and again Haws told him to shut up.

"Is he dead?" Haws asked.

"Fuck yes he's dead!" Galen replied, his voice creeping up an octave.

"Like I was," said Haws. He checked his watch again and Galen thought for a moment about running, but he knew that Haws would just shoot him in the back. For some reason Haws was keeping him alive and it'd be stupid to try anything now. He noticed that Haws was unbuttoning his shirt and Galen thought, Oh, Jesus, he's going to fuck me!

"Look at that," Haws said, exposing his belly. "Not a scratch. Can you believe it?"

From town, the bell of the First Methodist Church began to toll. "Midnight," Haws announced, and he pointed to Clyde with the pistol. "Watch," he said.

Galen looked down at the body at his feet. It twitched a time or two and then started convulsing like an epileptic in the throes of a grand mal seizure. Galen leaped back and yelled out "Holy shit!" as Clyde's corpse flopped around spastically before him.

Then Clyde's body stopped its dance and something even more astounding made Galen's sphincter tighten. The bullet hole in Clyde's shattered skull was closing. Even as Galen watched, shattered bones knit themselves together and flesh grew over the mended skull and hair pushed itself up through the new skin and in a matter of moments—before the church bell had finished tolling—Clyde Dunwiddey was a whole man once more.

Clyde opened his eyes and looked around, stared up at the trees and the sky, turned his head to look out over the dark expanse of field. He felt the cold ground under his palms and registered the grinning deputy and the scared-shitless teenager gawking down at him.

"What's going on here?" he said, befuddled but with no hint of drunkenness in his voice.

"Welcome back, Clyde," Haws said. He clapped Galen on the back. "Let's have a talk," he said, and all Galen could do was nod his head dumbly and walk with Haws back to the patrol car, Clyde Dunwiddey following like some dumb animal.

"Do you know Seth?" Deputy Haws asked Clyde Dunwiddey.

Clyde's mind was muddled. Not from alcohol, for once, but from having made the journey through death. Waking up in the field with no recollection of getting there had been a shock. He was used to waking in a jail cell without remembering the trek from Cap'n Humphrey's Tavern to the Sheriff's Office, but the field was something new.

He was becoming aware of memories that he didn't know he had. Sorting through them was like looking at photos of a family vacation you took when you were a child. That's you feeding the okapi at the zoo or holding up one end of the balancing rock or sitting on top of the stuffed bronco, but you don't really remember doing any of those things.

Clyde didn't remember dying and he didn't have any specific memories of what it was like on the other side. But he did remember meeting Seth and he remembered an impression of transcendent wisdom, of life's truths revealed, of his own inadequacies laid out before him like a Sunday brunch. He remembered an offer of redemption and guidance. Of course he had accepted. Anyone would've.

"Yes," he said with an uncharacteristic clarity that Galen found disturbing, "I do. I do know Seth."

Haws nodded his approval.

"Who's Seth?" Galen asked.

"Seth is the answer," Haws replied.

"The answer to what?"

"The answer, that's all. You'll see, once you've met Seth."

Galen looked at Haws and at Clyde, two men he'd seen die and rise from the dead. He studied the floor of the patrol car.

"I suppose that means I have to die," Galen said.

Both men answered simultaneously. "Yes," they said.

They looked at each other and smiled. Galen recalled something Haws had said earlier, about being buried alive. He'd said that Galen would never understand the horror of it unless he experienced it himself. He'd feared, as Haws marched him out behind the windbreak, that he was going to be forced to dig his own grave. He wasn't free of that dread even now.

"How?" Galen asked.

Haws answered, "Seth hasn't said. Maybe he hasn't decided."

Galen mentally breathed a sigh of relief but kept his eyes glued to the floor. He was afraid, yes, but he was exhilarated as well. Something big had come to Anderson, and he was in the middle of it, and there was a chance that it was not intent on destroying him.

"You should feel privileged," Haws said. "Seth has revealed his work to you. I could've just shot you like I did Clyde, but it wasn't Seth's will. I don't know why, but Seth's chosen you."

"For what?"

Haws shrugged.

"You'll find out," he said, "when it's time."

***

Madge Duffy did not expect to have to clean up after her own suicide. If she had, she'd have done it in the bathroom, in the tub, where she'd just have to wipe down the tile walls with a wet sponge and some Fantastik. She might even have chosen a different method. She might have cut her wrists or stuck her head inside a dry cleaning bag. Now that she thought of it, just about anything would've been better than blowing her brains out all over her expensive pillow—the one with the well in the middle so she didn't get a stiff neck—and her mother's handmade quilt and the sheets and that's not to mention the bedroom wallpaper (though she'd wanted to replace that ugly stuff ever since they'd moved in). She'd chosen the gun because she expected it to be sudden and painless, and it was, and it gratified her that she'd been right about something she'd never done before.

The cleaning up gave her something to do while she sorted through the whole life-after-death experience. John had offered to help but she'd said, "No, it's my mess. I guess you'll have to sleep on the sofa tonight." He'd bid her good-night and left her alone with her thoughts, confident that everything would sift out to his benefit.

And it was doing exactly that. Now that she knew Seth she realized how unguided and random her first life had been. She'd just reacted to one thing and another, like one of those toys that turns around every time it bangs into somebody's foot and eventually ends up in some corner banging banging banging and going nowhere. Knowing Seth meant that she'd found direction. Seth would guide her. All she had to do was let Seth take her by the hand and lead her around life's numberless obstacles, and she'd be fine.

It was very strange, picking up bits of bone and flesh and hair and, she supposed, brain, and knowing they were hers. She didn't seem to miss them. Her skull had repaired itself and her body worked—not like old Mrs. Crenshak whose brain stroke had left her partially paralyzed—and she couldn't even tell, looking in the mirror, where the old skin met the new. She'd seen pictures of the boy who'd shot off his face with a shotgun and even after plastic surgery he looked, well, kind of like Popeye, his features all sunken in. She'd have expected the back of her head to look like that, but it was as round and full as ever. This was truly a miracle.

She'd thought that John had bled a lot when she slit his throat, but his mess was nothing compared to hers. His blood had flowed down onto the sofa and soaked the carpet, but hers had blown all over the place. The bedroom looked like an explosion in an Italian kitchen. Her mother's quilt was ruined and probably the blanket and sheets and everything, clear down to the mattress. It would all have to be replaced, and considering the cost of a new mattress and the sentimental value of the quilt, that was a darned shame. Maybe the quilt could be saved, but she didn't know if the hand stitching would stand up to a vigorous cleaning. Maybe Seth knew a good way to remove bloodstains, since he seemed to know everything else.