The Burning Time (12 page)

John said nothing.

“That was small town justice. He tried to escape. Saves the taxpayers a lot of money. And it helps you, too. Know how?”

When John didn’t answer, the chief continued.

“That was your get out of jail card, Mister Root.” The chief holstered his gun and tapped his fingers against the bars as he spoke. “Turns out he was the one killin’ those girls.”

Showalter waved his hand toward one of the cameras mounted by the ceiling. A moment later, there was an electronic hum and a click as the lock on John’s cell disengaged.

Showalter made no move away from the door, and John remained sitting on his cot, wary of a trick.

“I don’t believe in coincidences, Root. Two strangers in town, one a known felon and th’ other seen with at least one victim. I got to believe there’s some kinda connection.”

“I didn’t know him.”

The chief pulled open the cell door and stepped back, one hand resting on his pistol. “What you say and what I believe are two different things, but I got no choice ‘cept to let you go. Take my advice, though,” he said, as John stood up.

“What’s that?”

“Get your ass outta my town fast as you can and don’t ever come back.”

John slowly stepped forward, keeping his eye on the chief’s gun hand. He stopped at the cell door and looked Showalter in the eyes. “I can’t do that, Chief. I know you think I’m involved in what’s going on in your town, but I’m not. If anything, I’m here to stop it from spreading further. I can’t leave until my job is done.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. John met the chief’s narrow-eyed gaze, knowing he couldn’t back down, couldn’t show any weakness.

Sweat trickled down John’s back, and it seemed as if Showalter’s face grew larger, rounder, until every pore stood out like craters on an alien moon. A stray crumb nestled in one of the deep crevices lining Showalter’s mouth. Beads of sweat dotted his brow like morning dew on a car window.

The chief’s radio squawked and both men twitched.

“Chief? The mayor’s lookin’ for ya.”

Showalter blinked, and John felt something between them snap, as if they’d been tied to an invisible rope. “I’ll be watching you, Root. Now get the fuck outta here.”

John nodded and moved past the chief. He felt the man’s gaze on him as he hurried up the stairs. The feeling intensified when he stopped at the front desk to collect his belongings. He glanced up, saw that several people had paused and were all staring at him.

None of the looks were friendly.

If my welcome wasn’t worn out before, it sure is now.

He exited the building without even looking to see if they’d returned everything. All he wanted was to be outside, free to breathe the oppressive, muggy air of another stifling summer afternoon.

Something struck him painfully on his left shoulder. Turning, he saw Reverend Christian standing there with several small children.

All the children had rocks in their hands.

The reverend pointed at John and said, “And the Gods said to their people, ‘Do not turn away from your enemy, but rather meet it with all your strength. For only by casting the first stone can you drive away that which seeks to destroy you.’”

“Go away,” one of the children shouted. She threw her rock at him. More stones followed as all the children took aim and threw.

“I won’t let you corrupt this town,” John said, holding his hands up to shield himself.

Christian smiled. “I am merely the vessel of the Gods, John Root. You can no more stop me than you can stop the winds or the rain.”

Thunder crashed overhead and the sky grew darker.

“You’ve been stopped before, Old One. I will not let these people die for your dark Gods.”

Another explosion of thunder echoed across the town, rattling windows and setting dogs to barking. The children picked up more stones, but before they could throw them, John whispered three words. The children screamed as the stones turned to spiders in their hands. Dropping the black, hairy creatures, they ran away.

Christian laughed. “You’re good at scaring children, but your homespun magics are no match for the real thing. If you don’t believe me, ask your mother.”

John gasped as his mother, her face dead-pale, stepped out from behind the reverend, still dressed in her black burial gown.

“Listen to him, son. You can’t win. Leave this place to him. Save yourself.” Her lips moved, but the voice came from everywhere, as if it was part of the air.

Tears welled up in John’s eyes, and he let them flow. She’d been gone more than thirty years, but his memories of her were still as fresh as the day she’d said her final words to him.

The burden is yours now, John. It’s a heavy load, but stay righteous and true, and you’ll always be able to shoulder it. God loves you, my son, and so do I.

Thinking of her now, John couldn’t remember one time she’d ever given up or admitted defeat, not even when the very Devil himself had stood outside her door.

Breathing deep of the humid air, John raised his voice to shout over the thunder and the rising winds. “Trickery cannot fool me, Old One.”

With a howl of laughter, the reverend disappeared, taking the children and John’s mother with him. The thunder and wind faded away, returning the day to its previous desultory, stagnant calm.

They were never there. It was all an illusion.

What happens when I can’t tell the illusions from reality?

*   *   *

Sheriff Showalter watched John Root turn and walk down Main Street, his head hung low as if he’d just seen his dog put to sleep. For the past five minutes the man had just stood in the street, looking for all the world like he was arguing with someone.

Man’s crazier than a loon in June, talkin’ to himself like that. Even if he ain’t a killer, he oughtta be locked up in the nut house.

But the words felt wrong even as he thought them. Something about John Root seemed larger than life all of a sudden, and Showalter had a notion that maybe he’d done the right thing setting him free.

And if not, we can always kill him later.

*   *   *

Reverend Christian lifted his head from his desk. Sweat from his forehead left oddly-patterned stains on the green blotter. He sat back in his chair, eyes closed, until the momentary dizzy spell passed. Creating illusions with physical sensation took a toll, but the effort had been worth it.

“He’s no match for me,” he whispered to himself. Strong, yes. Maybe even stronger than his mother had been.

That bitch. She’d bested me that time, sacrificed her own life to banish me.
It had cost him dearly. Each failure weakened him. Each triumph brought more power, power he needed to open the gates.

He’s strong, yes, but I’m stronger.

Christian opened his eyes and stared out the window. Gray cloud banks covered the sky again, and he could almost see the trees and plants dying under the combined weight of the summer heat and the moisture-laden air.

Still, it might be prudent to place another obstacle in his way, now that the damned fool had let him go.

“Tonight,” Christian said to the empty room, “I’ll use his own strengths against him.”

John stood in the lobby of the Chilton Arms. By his feet were his leather satchel and a paper bag containing the meager items he’d purchased since arriving in town: matches, soap, shampoo, and a deck of cards.

“But the police dropped the charges against me,” he said to Marge Chilton. Pink curlers still covered her head, and he wondered if she ever took them out. “Can’t I have my room back?”

“Harbor neither the serpent nor the stranger,” she said, her voice a cold monotone, “for they may be one and the same. In the time of the Second Coming, trust only the emissaries of the Elders, for all others hide blasphemy in their hearts.”

John tried to think of something to say, even knowing he had no chance of changing her mind. He had a feeling she was parroting parts of Christian’s sermons. The Lord only knew what kind of dark readings he was delivering these days.

“You’re not welcome among us, Mister Root, and you’ll find no shelter here, nor anywhere else in town.” She stared at him, as if daring him to argue.

Instead, he picked up his bags and headed for the door. He had a feeling he’d be safer sleeping under the stars than under the same room as Marge Chilton. Before resorting to that, however, there was one other alternative he had to try.

Two blocks down, he stopped at a gas station and dropped a quarter into the pay phone. He dialed Danni’s number and waited.

“Hello?”

“Danni? It’s John Root. Please don’t hang up. This is important.”

A long silence made him think she’d ended the call, but then she said, “Go on.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the chief released me, dropped all the charges. They’ve arrested someone else. I...” He stopped, unsure of what to say next.

A loud sigh came over the phone. “John, I’m so glad to hear that.” Her voice held a hint of its old warmth. “I never wanted you to be guilty, but they said they had evidence, and I had Mitch to think about...”

“I understand. I was wondering... could I—?”

“Come back to work? Of course.” She gave a little laugh. “I think there might even be more for you to do. Mitch and I don’t have a handy bone between us.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you if I could stay at your house for a few days. I’ve been told I’m not welcome at the Chilton Arms.”

“What about another hotel?”

“Apparently there are no rooms available anywhere in town. At least not for me.”

Danni made a
tsk-tsk
noise. “Small town prejudice at work again. I’ll make up the guest room for you. Are you coming over now?”

“Yes, I’ll be there in an hour or so. And Danni...thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. I guess I should have had more faith in you, like Mitch. I’ll see you later.”

After hanging up, John leaned against the hot wall of the gas station and felt something ease up inside him. He hadn’t realized just how upset he’d been over losing Danni and Mitch as friends until now.

You shouldn’t let yourself get involved. Personal feelings will only make your job harder.

“A man can’t help his feelings,”
his mother’s voice echoed in his head, something she’d said to him more than once growing up.

The question was, what exactly
were
his feelings?

*   *   *

“John!” Mitch greeted him at the door. Before John could say or do anything, the boy wrapped his arms around him and squeezed.

John remained still, watching Danni for any sign of annoyance. She wore a bemused smile on her face. “Go ahead.” She mouthed the words at him and nodded.

Relieved, John returned the boy’s hug and then pulled back. “Why don’t you go get my bags from the porch?”

“Sure!” Mitch darted out the door.

Still not sure where he stood with Danni, John said, “If me being here is an imposition...”

She shook her head, and for the first time he noticed the coating of flour on her hands, the smudges of white on her cheeks. More powdery stains dotted her pale blue T-shirt. The incredibly delicious odor of baking desserts filled the air, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in over a day.

“I already made up the guest room.” She paused while Mitch went past. “But as long as you’re here, you can make yourself useful.” She nodded toward the kitchen.

Glancing past her, John saw several mixing bowls set up on the counter. Trays of cookies and brownies cooled on the table.

“Getting ready for the bake sale?” His stomach growled as he spoke, and Danni laughed.

“Yes, and if you help, I’ll fix you a little plate to hold you until dinner.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he said. “What can I do?”

With a glint in her eye, she asked, “How are you at mixing cookie dough?”

At six o’clock, Danni pulled one last tray of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies from the oven and set them on the counter to cool. By then, the kitchen felt like an extension of the oven, even with two fans going and all the windows open.

While John wrapped foil over one of twelve aluminum pans filled with an assortment of brownies, cookies, and homemade fudge, Danni opened the refrigerator and stood there, waving the cold air across her body.

“Oh, Lord, that feels like heaven.”

“It is hot in here,” John said. He was looking forward to a cold shower and then relaxing on the front porch with a lemonade, or possibly a beer.

“And it’s not going to be much cooler in church.” Danni grabbed the pitcher of ice tea and poured them two glasses. “With all the renovations they’re doing, it’s too bad putting in air conditioning isn’t one of them.”

“You’re going to church tonight?” The idea of Danni and Mitch participating in one of Christian’s unholy masses raised gooseflesh on John’s arms.

“Of course we are. It’s Wednesday Mass. You should come too. It might be a way to show the town you’re not such a bad guy.” She said the words in a lighthearted tone, but John saw from her expression she was serious about his attending.

“I—”

“Hey, sis, I don’t feel so good.” Mitch entered the kitchen, one hand on his stomach and the other against the wall for support. His summer tan was gone, replaced by a pasty-white pallor with a hint of green. Dark smudges rested below his eyes. His hair lay plastered to his head and sweat dripped from his forehead.

“You look like crap.” Danni grabbed his hand and guided him into a chair.

“Thanks. You don’t look so great yourself.” He gave her a half-hearted grin.

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” She touched a wrist to his forehead. “You’re warm, but probably no worse than John or I. I don’t think you have a fever.”

“It’s my stomach. It feels like there’s a cement mixer turning around inside me.” As if on cue, a rumbling sound came from his belly, and he groaned.

Hands on her hips and a stern look on her face, Danni asked, “Just how many cookies did you eat while we were baking?”