The Burning Time Page 3

  “That’s, uh, great. I’ll bring my stuff over this afternoon, Father.”

  The fingers squeezed a little harder, tips digging into flesh and muscle. Reverend Christian smiled. “Reverend, Billy, not Father. I’m not a priest. Perhaps you need to brush up on your studies.”

  “I’ll do that.” He tried to move away, but the reverend’s grip grew even stronger.

  Jesus! How’d a guy so skinny get so strong? He could already imagine the bruises he’d have tomorrow.

  “Be not the stranger in the fold, Billy. Now that your name is known to me, I can protect thee from he who walks the lonely path.”

  “Uh, that’s great, Fa..I mean, Reverend. Look, I gotta go. I’ll be back later.”

  The vice grip on his shoulder eased. “Excellent. Tomorrow, I’ll show you around, and we can put together a list of chores. I’ll also need you to help me set up for the various charity events we’ll be running.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you later. Bye, Mrs. Kapinski.”

  He hurried down the steps before the old bat finished saying good bye, in case the freaky pastor decided to lock his lobster claws on him again.

  Walking the six blocks down State Street to the Hastings Mills Motor Lodge gave him time to start thinking of a plan. The offer to sleep in the church was a bonus. He’d save money, and he couldn’t have asked for a better way to get alone time in the church.

  Three months of shit work and I’ll be out of town with enough cash in hand to put together a real scam.

  A cop car slowed as it passed by. A round face hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses stared at him from the open driver’s side window.

  “Keeping out of trouble, Billy-boy?” Chief Showalter’s gruff voice mocked him. The car sped up before Billy could answer.

  Three months. All you have to do is keep your nose clean and stay the hell away from Chief Lardbutt.

  As he knew from past experience, both of those were easier said than done.

  Chapter 5

  John Root paused a few feet away from Reverend Christian. He’d planned on asking the clergyman about being taken on as a handyman for the church when the scruffy-looking young man with the impish beard and greasy hair beat him to it.

  They just might regret hiring that one. It hadn’t escaped John’s notice the way the fellow’s blue eyes had been focusing on people’s back pockets. He’d been around enough thieves in his long life to recognize one when he saw him.

  Well, that’s their problem. Mine is I still have to find work.

  He turned away and stepped right on the feet of a young woman standing behind him.

  “Ow!”

  “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. Let me get that.” John picked up the purse the girl had dropped.

  “That’s okay. I thought you were waiting to speak with Reverend Christian.”

  “I was, but that other fellow got the job.”

  “What job?”

  John smiled at her. “With all the renovations the church will be doing, I was hoping they needed someone to do the work.”

  “Are you a carpenter?”

  “No, just someone new in town and looking to make some money. I’m good with my hands and a hard worker, though, if you happen to know anyone who’s hiring.”

  “Actually, I’ve been looking for someone to take care of a few things around my place.”

  John took another look at her. Late twenties, not too thin but not overweight like so many people these days. A pleasant, non-committal smile that showed just a hint of bright-white teeth. Brown hair cut fashionably to the middle of her neck. Dark green eyes, more grass-green than hazel.

  All in all it was a face that had an intelligent look about it, not someone he’d expect to be asking strangers to come work for her.

  Unless she had some type of ulterior motive?

  Don’t be a fool, John! he berated himself. The Stranger never appeared as a woman.

  “Danni, what are you doing?”

  The boy standing with her had more sense than she did, apparently. His close relationship with her was immediately evident, from the hair color and slightly freckled complexion to the shape of the nose and the full lips. But where her eyes were an almost unnatural shade of green, the boy’s were a dark olive color. He wore glasses, thick ones. The top of his head didn’t quite reach the girl’s shoulders. His pale skin and thin build made him look almost sickly.

  “Quiet, Mitch.”

  The boy’s mouth twisted up in a bitter grimace, but he did as he was told.

  “So, can you do the work for me?”

  She stared directly at him, and for a moment, her bright-eyed gaze stole all of his attention.

  “Well, I can come over and see what needs to be done. Then I can give you a better idea of whether or not I can do it, and how long it will take.”

  “What are your rates?”

  He took in her clean but definitely not new clothes. The boy was dressed in similar fashion; the shirt and pants well cared for, but probably from a discount store, one of the ones whose names always ended in Mart. No wedding ring on her finger. A single mother working hard to raise her child? No shortage of those these days, here or back home.

  “I work for forty dollars a day, plus lunch, if that’s acceptable.” He only needed ten for the room, and he could take care of breakfast and dinner on his own.

  “Forty dollars? For a full day?” Her eyebrows, the same shade as her hair, rose up in twin arches.

  “That’s more than enough for me, ma’am.”

  She cocked her head slightly to the right and gave him a calculating stare. For a moment, he wondered if he hadn’t priced himself too high for her budget.

  Finally she smiled and held out her hand. “You’re hired. My name’s Danni Anderson. This is my little brother, Mitch.”

  He grasped her hand. Her grip was firm, almost man-like. The grip of a woman who was used to fending for herself.

  “John Root.”

  “Well, Mister Root, why don’t you follow us to the house right now and I’ll give you the tour?”

  “Didn’t you want to speak with Reverend Christian?”

  She shrugged, a girlish movement accompanied by a quick head tilt that lowered his estimate of her age several years.

  “I was going to sign my brother up for the summer recreation program, but I can do it tomorrow. I’m parked out back. How ‘bout you?”

  “I don’t have a car. But if you give me directions, I can meet you in a short while.”

  “Don’t be silly!” She patted his arm. “Come with us. I’ll drive you home after lunch.”

  “Thank you.” He pretended not to notice the angry glare Mitch cast in her direction.

  “No problem. I hope you like PB and J.” She turned and headed for the slate and cement stairs that led down to the sidewalk.

  “PB and...?” The unfamiliar phrase caught him off guard.

  “Peanut butter and jelly. Don’t they make PB and J sandwiches where you’re from?”

  John felt his lips turn up in a wistful smile. Clara had had always kept jars of homemade peanut butter and various jams down in the cellar. He couldn’t remember how many years it had been since he’d had any.

  “Actually, they’re a favorite of mine. I enjoy pecan butter and almond butter as well.”

  “What are those?” Mitch paused as he opened the car door. He’d put on a sudden burst of speed and grabbed the handle of the front passenger door, leaving John to get in the back.

  Cautious and smart. Good qualities to have.

  John slid into the back of the Mustang, pushing aside crumpled papers, a baseball hat, empty soda cans, and other detritus. The black leather upholstery was hot even through the denim of his pants. Black electrician’s tape covered several splits in the old leather.

  “You can use any kind of nut to make a spread.”

  “I never heard of those,” Mitch said, turning halfway in his seat. He’d put his glasses on, and the thick lenses gave h
is eyes a seen-through-a-fishbowl look.

  “I’ve seen them in the grocery store,” Danni said. She gave the key a twist and the car started with a loud rumble.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Mitch! Don’t be rude.” Danni frowned at him before returning her attention to the road.

  “No, it’s all right.” Better rude than hostile. “I’m from South Carolina, Mitch. But I travel a lot for my work.”

  “What do you do?” Danni asked.

  John raised an eyebrow to Mitch, letting him know he realized as well as the boy did that it was the same kind of rude question she’d just scolded him for asking. Mitch rolled his eyes in return.

  Perhaps there’s more to the boy than I first thought.

  “I’m a historian. I travel the country, speaking with people and gathering their stories and tales of past generations.”

  “You mean like fairy tales?” Mitch was turned all the way around and leaning on the top of his seat.

  “Not exactly. These are more like legends. A good example would be the story of Johnny Appleseed, or Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe. Every locality has its own fables and legends. Often it’s the descendents of settlers and Native Americans from whom I get the oldest, and best, stories.”

  “Aren’t all those stories already in school books?”

  John allowed himself a small chuckle. If only people knew how limited the so-called history books really were.

  “There are so many stories and tales out there that I could fill a library of books. And that doesn’t include the variations.”

  “Variations?”

  “Of course. Here’s a perfect example. Every Indian tribe has a tale of how the world was created. But many of the stories are different. In the Apache version, a tiny bearded man created three other gods, and together they created everything on Earth. According to the Tuskegee, a crawfish and an eagle made the first earth. In the Crow legend, an old man and two ducks created the Earth.”

  “That’s so cool!”

  “It is,” John agreed. He would have continued with more examples, but Danni interrupted him.

  “Here we are,” she said, pulling the car into a long, gravel and dirt driveway.

  The Anderson house was a two-story construction with a wrap-around porch on the front. It only took John one glance to see it needed a fresh coat of paint. The old-style asbestos shingles were faded and chipped. The front porch railing was broken in the middle so that it tilted down toward the dying, yellow grass of the front yard. The steps were warped, and the screen door hung at an angle from one hinge.

  Danni glanced at him and correctly interpreted the look on his face. “If you think this is bad, wait ‘til you see the inside.”

  “She’s not lying,” Mitch whispered as they bypassed the front porch completely and went around to the back door.

  They entered through the kitchen, where peeling linoleum tiles sat over ancient, deformed plywood. The wall paper, a shade of green so hideous it seemed almost demonic in origin, was peeling as badly as the exterior paint. A shoebox filled with bills and bank statements sat on the faded Formica-topped table.

  “Follow me and I’ll show you around while Mitch makes some sandwiches.”

  The rest of the house was in similar shape. To John’s experienced eye, most of the problems were cosmetic in nature. Patching some walls, a fresh coat of paint in every room, and new linoleum for the kitchen would be the main projects.

  “I’d also suggest putting linoleum in the upstairs bathroom instead of replacing the tile,” he said, as they returned to the kitchen. “It’s less expensive and easier to take care of.”

  “Sold. Anything that saves me money is a good thing.”

  Mitch had placed a pile of six peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut in halves, on a plate in the center of the table, along with a large bag of potato chips, three glasses, and a quart of milk.

  “We have soda if you prefer,” Danni said.

  “Milk is fine.” John bit into a sandwich. The sweet and salty combination brought back memories of lunches on the porch with Clara and Jack. Even though the processed peanut butter and overly-sweet jam were nowhere near as good as his wife’s had been, he still experienced a wave of homesickness that nearly brought him to tears.

  “When do you think you can start?” Danni asked.

  He had to take a mouthful of milk before he could reply. “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “That’s fine. Do you need me to pick you up?”

  “No, don’t put yourself out for me. I take a walk each morning anyhow; I’ll just be going in a different direction now. I noticed a hardware store on the main road. I can stop and get prices on paint and lumber for you. In the meantime, I’ll begin fixing your railing.”

  “Summer camp starts for Mitch on Tuesday. Usually he only does half-days, but he can stay the whole day so he’ll be out of your hair.”

  “C’mon, sis, do I really have to? Camp sucks.”

  “You need to do something besides play on your computer all day. Clean the jelly off your face.”

  Mitch raised his arm to wipe a sleeve across his lips.

  “Mitchell Anderson, don’t you dare!”

  John passed him a napkin. “I’ve got an idea. Perhaps Mitch can be my assistant. He can go to camp in the morning and then help me in the afternoons.”

  “You mean it?” Mitch’s hand stopped halfway to his face.

  John nodded. “As long as it’s all right with your sister.”

  Mitch scrubbed his mouth. “Danni, can I?”

  Danni looked at them, unaware of the milk mustache decorating her upper lip. “John, that’s awful sweet but you don’t have to.”

  “Actually, I could use the help.” He handed Danni a napkin as well.

  “Well, if you’re sure...okay.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s still early. If you want, we can stop at the hardware store on the way back to your hotel and you can pick up whatever you need to get started tomorrow.”

  “Can I come?”

  Danni started to shake her head, but John caught her eye and gave her the slightest of nods. “Well, I guess if you’re going to be helping John, you might as well come along.”

  She grabbed her purse from the counter and started toward the kitchen door.

  “Uh, Miss Anderson?” John stood up and held the napkin out to her once more. Mitch giggled behind his hand.

  “What? Oh.” She took the napkin and hurried out the door without cleaning her face.

  John looked at Mitch. “Your sister seems to have a lot on her mind.”

  “She’s a flake,” the boy said. “Ever since our parents died, it’s like she’s forgotten how to relax and have fun.”

  “Raising a child, no matter how good the child is, takes a lot of hard work and dedication.” John held the door open for Mitch.

  “Do you have children, John?”

  “I did,” he said to the boy’s back. “I did.”

  * * *

  A thick mist rolled along the ground, obscuring both the road and the feet of the young woman who walked it. She was nude, her form ghostly in the fog.

  Thick clouds covered the sky, blocking out the moon and stars. The only light came from occasional flashes of heat lightning far overhead.

  River Road paralleled the winding course of the Alleghany River around the south end of town. The single-lane street alternated between crumbling asphalt and hard-packed dirt. Rarely traveled during the day except by the occasional farmer, at night it was deserted.

  The woman walked eastward, heedless of the rocks and broken pavement stabbing her feet. A meandering trail of bloody footprints lay behind her for over a mile.

  At the point where both river and road crossed under Main Street, the woman climbed the embankment and walked out onto the bridge. She stood still for a moment, captured beneath a cone of orange light from one of the street lamps. Her long hair lay limp as wilted flowers in the heavy air.

  Other th
an thin lines of tears running down her cheeks, her face showed no emotion as she climbed the cement riser separating the bridge from the pedestrian walkway. She never spoke, even when she snapped two nails and left bloody finger prints on the concrete.

  In one swift motion, she bent her knees and then pushed off, leaping into the night.

  The woman’s body tumbled and rolled over, like an Olympic high diver who’d forgotten her routine.

  She landed on her side, striking the water with a resounding crack! that was loud enough to cover the brittle snapping of her ribs breaking. A plume of water shot up and then subsided into a series of expanding wavelets that diminished in strength until they lapped gently against the shoreline.

  The surface of the river grew calm again, giving no sign of the horrible struggle occurring beneath.

  At a nearby farm, a dog woke up and began to howl.

  Others joined in, more and more, until the whole town echoed with their mournful cries.

  Chapter 6

  “Christ almighty, it’s fucking hot.” Chief Harry Showalter pulled a bandana from the back pocket of his tan uniform trousers and wiped it across his bull-like neck. The red and white cloth was already soaked, and it wasn’t even eleven in the morning.

  “Radio said it’s gonna be another scorcher today, plus high humidity,” Officer Troy Nelson said.

  The sky was overcast with thick clouds, a weird combination of grays, sickly greens, and ominous purples, but so far no rain had fallen. Random flashes of heat lightning, accompanied by low murmurs of thunder, sparked here and there deep within the idling storm mass. Moisture-laden breezes alternated with long periods of stagnant, tropical stillness.

  “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

  “Good thing there hasn’t been a lot of rain,” Nelson commented as they walked along the river bank. “A stronger current would’ve carried her to the next county.”

  Yeah, too fuckin’ bad, Showalter thought. Then I’d be sittin’ at Rosie’s Diner enjoying a lemonade instead of standing in the goddamn heat lookin’ at a dead body. Fuckin’ idiot.

  Mud and gravel crunched underfoot as they neared the crime scene. Three men, two in uniform and one in a white shirt and black trousers, looked up at their approach.