The Burning Time Read online

  Sonuvabitch.

  Suddenly, laying low in Hastings Mills didn’t seem like such a great idea.

  Chapter 3

  The sign over the Chilton Arms read, “Rooms by the day or week. Laundry facilities in the back.” Beneath it was a second sign, proclaiming ”Vacancies” in red neon.

  The man with the silver hair paused at the door. Across the road, a few small houses sat side by side. A Pizza Hut, several families inside enjoying their meals of greasy bread and cheese, shared a parking lot with the King Cone ice cream shop. Soon there would be lines outside their windows, as children, adults, and couples in love all succumbed to the siren lure of cold chocolate and vanilla on a hot summer’s night. For a moment, a wistful look came over his face as he remembered the carefree times of his own childhood, cut short far too soon.

  A bell tinkled over the door as he entered.

  “Can I help you?” A fiftyish woman sporting a beehive hairdo sat behind the counter, a chicken drumstick in one chubby hand and a soda cup in the other. A small color television blared as a game show contestant correctly guessed the clue to a puzzle.

  “I’d like a room, please.” He set his worn case down and pulled an equally aged wallet from the pocket of his jeans.

  “How many nights?” The woman put down her dinner with a small sigh and opened a ledger filled with names and dates.

  “I’m not sure. A week, perhaps two or three.”

  “Gotta pay the whole week in advance. Since today’s Friday, you can either pay ‘til next Friday or Sunday.” She looked him up and down, her porcine face curious and wary.

  He knew the reason for her caution. Although his clothes had a liberal covering of dust from long days and nights of walking, he wasn’t the sort of person she’d expect to see staying in a run-down boarding house. His face, tanned and lined from years of exposure to sun and wind, made him appear older than the forty-two his driver’s license showed. His silver hair furthered this impression, while at the same time giving him a look of authority and responsibility.

  She’d wonder at his eyes, as dark as night, and his eyebrows, with no trace of silver in them. No five o’clock shadow on his face. His jeans, white button-down shirt, and black boots were neither torn nor stained.

  When he spoke, his teeth would be straight and clean and white, and his breath would have no trace of alcohol, distinguishing him from most of her other guests.

  All in all, he’d seem more suited to a Motel Six than the Chilton Arms.

  “I’ll pay until Sunday, if that’s all right. How much?”

  “It’s ten a day if you pay by the week, and fifteen by the night.”

  “That’s fine. Here you go.” He handed her four twenties and a ten. A quick glance showed only a few singles left in the wallet. First thing tomorrow he’d need to look for work.

  “Sign in here.” She slid the ledger over, and pointed with the pen at the next empty line.

  As he signed in tiny, economical script, the ring on the third finger of his left hand barely shone under the cheap fluorescent lights, the plain band so old and scratched it was almost unrecognizable as gold.

  The woman glanced at his name before closing the book. “Welcome to the Chilton Arms, Mister John Root. You’re in room 12B.” She handed him a key on a large plastic tag. “My name is Marge Chilton. I own the place. You come see me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Marge. I will. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mister Root.”

  * * *

  Mitch Anderson hurried down the steps of Hastings Mills Middle School. Danni’s old Mustang was parked by the curb, little puffs of oily smoke squirting from the tailpipe.

  He wondered if he’d make it in time.

  Question: How can twenty yards seem like a mile?

  Answer: If you’re the brightest kid in your seventh-grade class, and also the smallest.

  He’d bolted from World History as soon as the three o’clock bell rang, but by the time he swung past his locker to get his books, the halls had filled with students and teachers all migrating toward the doors, eager to begin their weekend.

  He was halfway down the steps and thinking he had a chance when the hand came down on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Tiny. Where do you think you’re going?” The hand spun him around to face its owner.

  Ralphie Morgese, resident school bully and bane of all the eight-graders, poked him in the chest with a hairy-knuckled finger.

  “You made me look stupid in history, butt-face.” He slapped Mitch’s books, knocking them to the ground. The boys standing behind Ralphie burst into laughter.

  “You don’t need me to look stupid,” Mitch mumbled as he scrambled to gather his homework papers. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d signed his death warrant.

  A collective gasp rose from the surrounding students. Sensing a fight, the onlookers crowded closer.

  The first punch caught him in the stomach, bending him over and knocking his breath away in a loud ”oof.”

  “Whatcha got to say now?”

  “Blow me,” Mitch gasped. Idiot! Three more days of school and you’d have been free of him for the whole summer.

  “What?” Ralphie held up an over-sized fist. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  His common sense shouted Run! but as he did far too often, Mitch found himself ignoring his own advice. “Fuck you.”

  The punch came so fast he never saw it. Pain exploded in his mouth and nose, and the whole world disappeared behind red and black stars.

  Mitch’s hands moved to his face as he fell to the ground. Something warm and wet covered his palms.

  “You little shit. I’m gonna—”

  “Leave him alone, asshole.”

  Through his tear-filled eyes, Mitch saw a tall, blurry figure stepping in front of Ralphie. For a brief moment, he thought his prayers of a teacher rescuing him had come to pass. Then his hope for a respectable escape plummeted as he recognized his sister’s voice.

  “Aww, look, Tiny’s sister is here to help her widdle brother.”

  Ralphie’s mocking tones changed as Danni Anderson put her hands against his chest and shoved, sending him hard against the railing and then down onto his ass.

  “Hey, cut it out!”

  “What’s the matter, little boy?” Danni stared down at him. “Is the big girl picking on you?”

  “Screw you, bitch.”

  Danni grabbed Ralphie by the shirt and raised him to his feet. She slammed him against the railing again, drawing another shout of pain. He took a wild swing at her, but she stepped back and his fist flew harmlessly past. She grabbed the fingers of his other hand and bent them backward until he cried out.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Holding him in that position, she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Apologize or I’m gonna break your fingers.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Good.” She let go and he slumped against the railing, cradling his injured hand. “C’mon, Mitch. Get your books and let’s go. I’m late for work.”

  Mitch wiped his arm across his face. It came away streaked with red. He touched his nose and felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue, but nothing felt broken or loose. He scooped up his books, never taking his eyes off Ralphie, who stared at him with murderous intent. The other students, most of whom had gone silent when Danni appeared, stepped aside as Mitch started down the steps.

  “Hey, Tiny.”

  Mitch looked back.

  “You’re dead on Monday.” Ralphie drew a finger across his own throat to illustrate his words.

  “Get your butt in gear, Mitch,” Danni called from the bottom of the steps, “or no trip to the museum this weekend.”

  Another burst of laughter followed him down to the car.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

  I can’t wait for summer.

  Chapter 4

  Reverend Cyrus Christian looked up at the knock o
n his office door.

  “Come in.” He closed the book he’d been reading, resting one hand on the worn, brown leather cover.

  Helen Kapinski, the church’s administrative manager, peeked her gray-haired head around the door. “I hate to bother you, Reverend...”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Kapinski. I’ve just been preparing my sermon. What can I do for you?”

  She entered the office, her floral print dress exposing the smallest of spaces above her sensible shoes. One wrinkled hand, pale as a fish’s belly, held out some papers to him. They drooped like dead flowers, victims of the same beastly heat that had the whole town in a funk.

  “The maintenance and financial records you asked for.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.” He took them, gave them a quick glance.

  Two facts jumped out at him immediately. One, the church was long overdue for important renovations, such as a new roof, painting, and other repairs. Second, there was barely enough money in the bank account to purchase office supplies.

  “This is most distressing. Pastor...”

  “Pastor McMichaels,” Helen supplied the name for him.

  “Yes. He didn’t do a very good job taking care of this place, did he?”

  Helen pushed her cat’s eye glasses back up her long, patrician nose. “He did the best he could, Reverend. But he was an old man, and when his wife got the cancer, well, he put most of his energy into taking care of her instead.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s all going to change. I want to raise at least fifteen thousand dollars by the end of the summer. That will take care of all the interior repairs, at least.”

  “Goodness!” Helen’s liver-spotted hand went to her mouth. “How do you plan on getting all that money?”

  Reverend Christian gave her a wide smile, then quickly closed his mouth when he saw her startled expression. “This is an old-fashioned town, so we’ll do it the old-fashioned way. We’ll have bake sales, raffles, picnics, maybe even a fair.”

  He stood up, his tall, skeletal figure blocking the corner lamp and casting a narrow shadow across the desk. “Call the mayor and set up an appointment for me. I want to see what weekends the park is available and find out what permits we’ll need.”

  He picked up the leather-bound tome from the desk and stepped toward the door. “Excuse my hasty exit, but it’s time for services. Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Kapinski.”

  The last strains of organ music faded away as Christian took his place behind the lectern. Afternoon sun streamed through the large, century-old stained-glass windows lining both sides of the church. Dust motes glittered in the yellow and red beams. The congregation fell silent, awaiting the start of the new reverend’s first sermon.

  “Welcome, brethren.” The wireless microphone clipped to his collar amplified his already powerful voice so it carried easily to those in the very back rows.

  “I want to speak today of the Devil. Not the little red imp with the pitchfork who adorns the sides of your processed ham packages. No, I’m talking about the almighty, everlasting, perpetual Lord of Fire. Satan. Beelzebub. The Horned Goat.

  “The Devil, my friends, is everywhere. He is the politician who takes the bribe and the businessman who offers it. He’s the street thug who steals your wallet and the CEO who steals your pension. He could be a small boy or...”

  He paused, letting his gaze roam from one side of the church to the other, catching the eyes of the men, women, and children in the pews and making sure no one’s attention drifted away.

  “Or an old man walking down the road.”

  Christian threw his arms up and allowed his voice to rise in volume. “Beware the Stranger! Beware! The Devil could very well be...here...right...now!”

  He punctuated each word by pointing to a different pew, making people jump in their seats or gasp. His voice ascended to a roar, the syllables shaking the candles on the altar.

  “Fear the Stranger, people. He brings the fire that will burn your town to ashes!” He shook his fist in the air. “You are but sheep before him! Baa! Baa! Your lambs belong to him. The Wizened Goat will rut with your women and cast them away. Your men will tremble before him. His shadow will darken your doors.”

  As if on cue, the sunlight dimmed and sudden thunder detonated in rolling waves, sending vibrations through the floors and wooden benches. Lighting exploded outside, the brilliant white washing away the rainbow colors of the glass.

  Several women and children screamed and more than one man cried out as the church doors flew open with a tremendous bang. A man stood there, backlit by the lightning. His silver hair glowed with each unearthly display of energy.

  Heavy gusts of wind pulled missalettes and event calendars from benches and turned them into a gathering of confused paper birds. The sharp tang of ozone overpowered the comforting scents of incense and candle wax.

  The silver-haired man turned and closed the doors against the storm-laden currents. Papers and pamphlets fell to the floor, flightless once more.

  The silver-haired man’s black eyes and unsmiling face glanced around the church until they locked on an empty seat in the back row. He started forward, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

  A child’s voice spoke. “Mama, is that the old man?”

  Other voices joined in, the murmurs and whispers audible in the cavernous room.

  “An old man.”

  “A stranger.”

  The silver-haired man ignored the comments and sat down. As he did, the lightning and thunder came to an end and weak sunlight brightened the windows again.

  Reverend Christian eyed the man for a moment.

  Is it him? It could be. So many years had passed...

  Christian slapped one pale hand on the pulpit. “People, people. Quiet, please.” He glanced at his notes and wondered if he should try to recapture their attention. Several parishioners were stealing not-so-secretive looks back at the stranger.

  Momentary annoyance at having lost control of the crowd subsided as he realized the need for patience. I’ve planted the seed. Better to move on and save the rest for another day.

  “Before we begin the Offering, I would like to take a moment and ask a special favor of each and all of you. Our church, your church, is in need of repairs. This once-beautiful house of worship has fallen on hard times, which is why we will be organizing several fund-raising events throughout the summer. Next week’s bulletin will have a list. But in the meantime, please feel free to add something extra to the collection plate. Every dollar helps.”

  Opening the Bible to the passage marked for the Offering, Christian began reading again. But his thoughts kept returning to the man with the silver hair.

  Is it him?

  * * *

  Billy Ray Capshaw had been just as startled as the parishioners around him when the old guy walked in late, creating a real scene.

  It had been a nice diversion from the usual sleep-inducing church ceremonies—although this pastor sure knows how to keep you awake. What a voice!—but when the Reverend had mentioned the fund raising, that’s when things had gotten interesting.

  Billy had come to the service simply to see if he could snag a few wallets in the after-church crowd that always gathered by the door. His cash supply was okay, but it wouldn’t last long.

  Now, however, he had a much better reason to stick around. If he could get hired on as a handy man for the church, it would kill two birds: having a job so Showalter stayed off his back and keeping him close to the donations jar. He knew from past experience that, over the course of a few months, a big church like Our Lady of Perpetual Hope could rake in ten grand or more.

  That’d be enough to take him to Vegas.

  Billy waited until most of the parishioners had left before approaching the Reverend.

  “Excuse me, Father.”

  “Yes?”

  Up close, the pastor’s appearance was even more severe than it had looked from the back of the church. His onyx eyes seemed capable of ferreting out t
he secrets hidden in the darkest recesses of the brain, and his humorless mouth with its thin, pallid lips gave the impression of being allergic to smiling. The only thing out of place was his limp, shoulder-length black hair, which he wore combed straight back.

  “I was wondering if maybe you needed someone to help out around the church, especially with all the renovations you were talking about. I’m pretty handy with a hammer or a paint brush, and even though I can’t work for free, you’d save a lot of money by not having to hire carpenters or painters, or whatever.”

  The pastor’s narrow eyebrows furrowed into a scowl, and Billy’s hopes sank.

  Just then, an elderly woman joined them. “Why, if it isn’t Billy Ray Capshaw! I’d recognize Kate Mulligan’s nephew anywhere! Where have you been all these years?”

  Billy stared at the shriveled figure. “Mrs. Kapinski?”

  He couldn’t believe she was still alive, let alone still working at the church.

  She was ancient when I was a kid!

  “Yes! Reverend Christian, would you believe I used to babysit for Billy’s aunt? Kate and her family were all very active in the church. Billy, what brings you back to town?”

  “I’m traveling cross-country, and I thought I’d see how the old town is doing.” The lie came easier than when Showalter had confronted him.

  “Well, I hope you’re planning on staying for a while.”

  “Actually,” the reverend interrupted, “Billy was just asking me for a job here at the church. It appears he’s going to be our new handyman.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, indeed.” A bony hand came down on Billy’s shoulder. “I’m sure we can find plenty for you to do.”

  The long, knobby fingers tightened, just enough to let Billy know they could cause real pain if they wanted to.

  “In fact,” the reverend continued, “there’s even a room in the basement with a cot and a sink. You could stay there. We’ll both be saving each other money. How does that sound, Billy?”